Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

the name but I couldn’t explain it to her completely, I said that it “came to me,” but I know the real reasoning behind it.

I unlock the doors and take a deep breath, looking over at Mom. She gives me a thumbs-up and I open the doors, walking in and gazing lovingly at the walls that are soon to be scattered with the paintings and drawings from the students that will fill these rooms.

I flip the switch, the light illuminating the large room with a warm glow, and I know I’m ready to face the day.

My paint-splattered coveralls from the last studio hang loosely from the hook on the wall and I pull them on over my denim overalls, smiling as I think back to the day they became the work of art they now are.

“Before you walk into the studio, I want you to think of something that makes each of you really, really happy. Can you all do that for me?” All six children look at each other then back at me with a nod, grins spreading wide across their faces. “Well, alright then. In you go.”

I wave them through the little entrance and they stare in confusion at the pile of white coveralls I have in the middle of the room, surrounded by paints and sharpies in every color that you could ever imagine.

I smile at their innocent faces and pick a pair up as I speak. “Art makes me really, really happy. Before I walked in here, that is what I thought.” I pause and pull the coveralls over my clothes. “I want you guys…” I point at each of them. “To make me your work of art.”

They stare at me as if I’ve gone completely mad as I walk over and step onto the plastic sheeting that I’d set up earlier. The plastic crackles in the silence of the room, alerting me to the fact that they haven’t moved yet.

I motion toward all of the paints and sharpies, spreading my arms out and saying, “You have your tools, now do your worst.”

They hesitate, looking at each other. I want this to be a place where they can let out any unspent energy and creativity, a place they aren’t afraid to express themselves. I want this to be the safe place they can come and learn different techniques and have the experience to play with different tools, knowing that there is no such thing as a mistake when it comes to art.

That’s the pure beauty of it, nothing is ever wrong. It’s all about how you express yourself and letting your emotions rain down on the page like a thunderstorm, letting it wash away all of your worries and cares like a steady flowing river.

An older looking boy steps out of the group and kneels, looking through one of the several pots of paintbrushes and pens.

“There aren’t any drawing pencils here?” He phrases it like a question.

“What’s your name?” I ask and watch as he looks down and plays with a hole in his jeans.

“Daniel,” he replies sheepishly.

“Well, like Daniel here has pointed out, there are no drawing pencils in this studio, nor are there any erasers. We don’t need to mark out where our creativity goes because with art, there are no right and wrongs.”

There’s a chorus of “ooohhhs” and I inwardly fist pump the air as they all kneel beside Daniel, picking up the paint bottles and squirting a mixture of cerulean and fuchsia paints into the palettes.

Daniel is the first to walk over to me; he hesitantly touches the tip of his paintbrush against my coveralls, painting a wavy line. He stops and gazes up at me for approval, and when I nod, smiling, the other five make their way over to me and each make their mark while giggling with each other about drawing on their teacher.

I revel in the sound of their laughter, watching as the humor of it all drains from their faces and is instead replaced with concentration and inspiration.

A girl of around seven or eight flicks her paintbrush and I startle as I feel the cold splatter land on my face. Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks toward the girl with wide eyes.

“I… I’m sorry. I…” I break out into laughter and she lets out a nervous giggle of her own.

“I bet that was fun, wasn’t it?” She bites her lip and nods, confirming that it was.

“Well, do it again!” I exclaim and she looks at me in wonderment before flicking paint onto my coveralls again.

Soon all six of them are doing it and I make a mental note to give myself a pat on the back later for thinking of such a great ice breaker for them all.

“Okay, now that my coveralls are a work of art, I want you all to each take your own set and decorate them however you want to. Splat them, draw on them, paint an intricate design... it’s your choice.” I wipe my face with a cloth. “I want to know who you are as an artist. For the next ten minutes, I want everyone to be as silent as a mouse and concentrate on your own work. Spread out around the studio and do your thing. Go!”

I smile, thinking back to that day as I stare down at the paint-splattered coveralls I’m wearing, but it’s time for a new chapter in my life.

I step out of them and hang them lovingly in my office before pulling a plain white pair from a box sitting on one of the tables and pulling them over my clothes.

“Easels are out, the plastic sheet is up on the walls ready for the coverall decorating, and I’m on parent watch to make sure they don’t stick around,” Mom says, wiping her hands off on a cloth after opening the paint bottles.

My stomach rolls from the nervous vibrations making their way through my body. “Would you mind if I took five upstairs until the kids are here? Nothing like making an entrance.”

I wink at her, but who am I fooling? The woman gave birth to me.