Life After Art

When I was in third grade, my teacher was the one officially designated as the “art teacher” for the entire grade. My mother loved telling her relatives and neighbors that I had the art teacher. What she didn’t say was that Mrs. Sibley was in her early to mid-60s, rarely could remember our names, and told stories so outrageous that even we eight-year-olds knew she was telling something other than the truth.

But art we did. We had two big simultaneous projects. The class was divided right down the middle. The teacher had the janitor tape a long roll of brown paper, roughly three feet wide and forty feet long, to the classroom walls.

We painted murals.

To continue reading, please see my post today for The High Calling.