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Authors: Kevin Kling
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together through “MacArthur Park.”
“Now,” shouted Mr. Sands, “we’ve trained for this.”
He was right.
Woodwinds and horns snapped into place, the low brass moved in for cover, drummers—untucked and defiant—fired steady rounds of timpani, and out front, leading the charge, the giant Q-tip, size fifteen white boots, kicked up to the sky.
I decided not to look down no matter how or what I felt. Mr. Sands kept shouting words of encouragement, and although I couldn’t hear him, out of my periphery I could see his jaw moving like a loose hinge, his face going from red to purple, a big vein popping from his forehead.
We passed the judging area, our heads high.
“ . . . Twenty-five or six to fo-oo-our. . . .”
AFTER THE PARADE, we lay next to the buses in the parking lot. Uniforms from all over the country lay scattered around us—royal blue, gold, red, white, and now mixed in with it all, our orange and black.
“That was the worst,” a veteran member proclaimed. Only the drummers looked the same as when we started.
Mr. Sands came around to everyone individually and told us he was proud.
“You won’t need rockin’ to sleep tonight, Kling,” he said.
“No sir.”
“Next year we might try you on tuba.” Next year. There would be a next year.
I looked down at what was once a spotless spat. “Mr. Sand, look,” I said.
“Throw ’em away son, just throw ’em away. You did good, boy, real good.”
nutcracker
I remember the first piece of art I ever sold. I was in college. One night I saw Audrey, a flute player with the band, sitting at the local pub with a friend. I introduced myself and announced I also had an interest in the arts, that I had shown quite an aptitude in a drawing class. Audrey seemed preoccupied, but her friend wondered if I had some sketches in my room.
“Why yes, I do. I do have some sketches in my room.” She then wondered if I’d show her my portfolio.
“Of course,” I said, and we were off.
When we got to my room I took out my portfolio and to a somewhat surprised Audrey’s friend, I displayed my sketches, especially the human figures, and said how the hands and feet give me the most trouble as you can see by the shoes and mittens. She was impressed. And then, when I felt the evening couldn’t get any better, she said she wanted to, you know, buy a painting.
“Of course,” I said.
Then she leaned into me and whispered, “It feels good to buy art.”
I said, “I know.”
I have never forgotten that evening, the evening I knew I was an artist.
The first performance art I ever bought was a viewing of Mary Gilligan’s appendix scar during recess behind the brick pump house. It challenged me.
I FIRST LEARNED about being an artist during Ms. Keller’s third-grade class. Through the luck of alphabetized seating I was able to watch Robin Johnson create a series of paintings of her house.
During show-and-tell, Robin Johnson showed the pictures she had painted of her house. They didn’t look anything like the place where she lived, but she was a way better artist than the house she had to live in, so we let it go. I loved the pictures, the colors, the eye for detail, the confidence in the composition. I had to have one of her houses. So I paid my lunch money for one. Then I learned how good it felt to own art and to support someone I admired. That lunch money prompted Robin to create more houses she never lived in and in no time most of the third-grade lockers housed Johnsons.
SO EVEN AT THIS early age, I knew I was an artist. It seemed like there were those of us bursting with art . . . and that expanding art looked for the easiest way out of our bodies. Through its flow one determined what kind of artist you would be. A painter’s hand was always moving, a singer’s breath took on the rhythms of the world, and a dancer, a dancer’s whole body got to move.
Every year our grade school held two assemblies. One was a visit from NASA. An aerospace
“Now,” shouted Mr. Sands, “we’ve trained for this.”
He was right.
Woodwinds and horns snapped into place, the low brass moved in for cover, drummers—untucked and defiant—fired steady rounds of timpani, and out front, leading the charge, the giant Q-tip, size fifteen white boots, kicked up to the sky.
I decided not to look down no matter how or what I felt. Mr. Sands kept shouting words of encouragement, and although I couldn’t hear him, out of my periphery I could see his jaw moving like a loose hinge, his face going from red to purple, a big vein popping from his forehead.
We passed the judging area, our heads high.
“ . . . Twenty-five or six to fo-oo-our. . . .”
AFTER THE PARADE, we lay next to the buses in the parking lot. Uniforms from all over the country lay scattered around us—royal blue, gold, red, white, and now mixed in with it all, our orange and black.
“That was the worst,” a veteran member proclaimed. Only the drummers looked the same as when we started.
Mr. Sands came around to everyone individually and told us he was proud.
“You won’t need rockin’ to sleep tonight, Kling,” he said.
“No sir.”
“Next year we might try you on tuba.” Next year. There would be a next year.
I looked down at what was once a spotless spat. “Mr. Sand, look,” I said.
“Throw ’em away son, just throw ’em away. You did good, boy, real good.”
nutcracker
I remember the first piece of art I ever sold. I was in college. One night I saw Audrey, a flute player with the band, sitting at the local pub with a friend. I introduced myself and announced I also had an interest in the arts, that I had shown quite an aptitude in a drawing class. Audrey seemed preoccupied, but her friend wondered if I had some sketches in my room.
“Why yes, I do. I do have some sketches in my room.” She then wondered if I’d show her my portfolio.
“Of course,” I said, and we were off.
When we got to my room I took out my portfolio and to a somewhat surprised Audrey’s friend, I displayed my sketches, especially the human figures, and said how the hands and feet give me the most trouble as you can see by the shoes and mittens. She was impressed. And then, when I felt the evening couldn’t get any better, she said she wanted to, you know, buy a painting.
“Of course,” I said.
Then she leaned into me and whispered, “It feels good to buy art.”
I said, “I know.”
I have never forgotten that evening, the evening I knew I was an artist.
The first performance art I ever bought was a viewing of Mary Gilligan’s appendix scar during recess behind the brick pump house. It challenged me.
I FIRST LEARNED about being an artist during Ms. Keller’s third-grade class. Through the luck of alphabetized seating I was able to watch Robin Johnson create a series of paintings of her house.
During show-and-tell, Robin Johnson showed the pictures she had painted of her house. They didn’t look anything like the place where she lived, but she was a way better artist than the house she had to live in, so we let it go. I loved the pictures, the colors, the eye for detail, the confidence in the composition. I had to have one of her houses. So I paid my lunch money for one. Then I learned how good it felt to own art and to support someone I admired. That lunch money prompted Robin to create more houses she never lived in and in no time most of the third-grade lockers housed Johnsons.
SO EVEN AT THIS early age, I knew I was an artist. It seemed like there were those of us bursting with art . . . and that expanding art looked for the easiest way out of our bodies. Through its flow one determined what kind of artist you would be. A painter’s hand was always moving, a singer’s breath took on the rhythms of the world, and a dancer, a dancer’s whole body got to move.
Every year our grade school held two assemblies. One was a visit from NASA. An aerospace
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