Thought I’d brag on Sunny for a little bit, even though she and her sister celebrated their prayed-for snow day this morning by sleeping in, while Rocinante and I slalomed through the snowy streets—ten inches predicted by evening—and over a bridge glistening with, apparently, buttered ice to reach the library, because literacy is beautiful and responsible dedication to one’s profession sometimes bites down hard.
But Sunny recently brought home some things from school that have re-established and elevated my sense of maternal pride, so I forgive her. And I’m sharing:
If Jane is my Machiavellian draftsperson—Cupcake Wars, anyone?—then Sunny is my artist.
She doesn’t get it from my side of the family, though I did inherit my mad stick figure skillz from Dad. The Wessons, though, have artistic talent to spare and passed some of it to my kid, who would rather draw and color and decorate than eat.
How many five-year olds color the sky all the way to the ground? How many, when they draw a man standing in front of a tree, draw the man first¸ and then work on the tree trunk, which is set in the grass slightly higher than the man’s feet, because “it’s farther away, mommy”?
I might be biased—well, of course I’m biased—and I’m no art critic, but I like her use of color and perspective and placement.
I want to write the story that belongs to this picture, so I can use it for the cover . . .
Of course, last night, she was drawing a leprechaun for our front window with a pink marker and decorating his waistcoat with flowers, a pink rainbow, and, for some reason, a television set showing a Powerpuff Girl—Blossom, I think, from the color. But he does have a waistcoat.
And he still beats my stick figures by a mile.