Stifled Creativity

Mrs. Yoast, that was her name. The Jr High School art teacher I remember, unfondly. In a venue where freedom of expression should be embraced, she placed restrictions on a student's work. To young aspiring artistes, she was Hitler in a pleated skirt. She dictated what could be shared and what should be hidden from eyes. She rejected all of my project ideas. She told me flat out "this is what you will create." Where is the freedom in that? How does that express ME? She stifled my creativity. She put an end to any artistic talent I may or may not posses. At an age where I was just beginning to discover myself, I discovered that I couldn't create within her classroom, her walls. I was trapped in a box and what was inside needed to fly free. But Mrs. Yoast 's lock was tight. There was no release.

When it comes to defining the word "art," it's definition is endless. There is no way you can simply define it. It is undefined. It's open to interpretation. That is the beauty of art. It's what you make it. It's what you see. It's what someone else sees. It's meaning may not always come across the way the artist intended it and their style may not be your liking. But if you can at least appreciate all that was poured into it and be open to various degrees of interpretation, then I think you are further along than Mrs. Yost will ever be.

Form of expression varies. It doesn't matter if you are a painter, writer, musician, whatever. From paint to canvas. Pen to paper. Finger tips to piano keys. It's art. It's personal expression that flourishes when unleashed and suffers when stifled. Placing holds on creative juices is like tying a bird's wings together and demanding it fly. There will be no liftoff. He will never soar. He will frustrate. He will make do with what he has. What he has been held down to. He will crawl because it's impossible for him to take flight.

The piece I settled on was titled "Learning To Fly." A spin-off from the Pink Floyd song. To my teacher, she got what she wanted. A chalk drawing of someone who was suppose to be a influence to me. For me, I turned the limitations she gave me into something that had greater meaning...IF she knew how to interpret my expression. And that, that is something she did not see. She did not see me. For that, I am disappointed in her. For a woman that was suppose to be so in tune with artistic expression, no person could be father from understanding the mere concept of the word "art." And far from understanding me. The real kicker, it was even in black and white for her to see. Literally and figuratively.

I still have the chalk drawing. My Mom has held onto it all these years. It depicts the silhouette of an unclothed man standing with his ankles tightly together, as if they were tied. Eyes closed, held tilted back and arms spread eagle. His toes just barely grazing off the edge of a cliff. A cliff where the bottom was not in sight. He was to fly. Or fall. The only color in the drawing was a very thin red line outlining his being. As with any art, it's open to interpretation. As the "artist," I know what it means. What I meant for it to say when I created it. For Mrs. Yoast, it met the class requirements and nothing more. A-. Not a bad grade, but it wasn't the grade that mattered. I wanted to send her a message. A message that obviously flew right over her head.

I'll let you interpret my drawing. Red representing blood, power, passion, anger, life? An unidentified man plunging off a cliff - a cry for help, a wish to fly, a mere representation of the song's lyrics? A combination of all of these things? You figure it out.

Since her art class, I've lost my will to create like that. I have no clue if I HAD talent, or if I HAVE talent today, because I won't pick up a brush. It's been stifled for over 10 years, but maybe it's time to let it fly?