Something really cute happened yesterday. My adorable (and when I say “adorable,” she really is and I really do adooooore this kid) 7 year old cousin brought her felt-tipped color pens and paper to a family event. Bored by the grown-ups, I started playing around with her pens. I love art supplies but unfortunately, my artistic abilities never graduated past the elementary school level. The height of my artistic collection took place in the 7th and 8th grades, when I created cartoon characters called Woogles or something like that, who had spiky hair (like Lisa Simpson mixed with Sideshow Bob, but this was before I ever saw the Simpsons) and lived on the beach near palm trees topped with fronds that looked exactly like their hair. The Woogles’ universe was populated by Airwalk and Quicksilver stickers in addition to other surf/skate logos and they lived carefree lives that had nothing to do with boring Ms. Kavalnes’ literature class that never kept up with my devouring of books (she finally began supplying me with books the class would get to 2 months later and impacted my romantic imagination by handing over a copy of “Jane Eyre”) and confusing Mr. Arney’s beginning Algebra class that I could never keep up with (“x?” When did “x” become a number?!).
Anyways, yesterday Miss Adorable came up to see what I was doodling, which was nothing in particular. I am the type that yearns to draw, paint, sing, play doumbek, and whose actual attempts are painfully, disappointingly light years away from the beauty I envision in my mind. But with Miss Adorable peering so curiously onto the page, I felt I owed it to her to make a real effort to draw something entertaining. So I asked her if she would like it if I drew her. I was a bit nervous, as Miss Adorable is already a Certified Perfectionist, and I did not want to insult her standards nor her ego with my miserable abilities. I very carefully drew two big brown eyes, to which Miss Adorable astutely observed, “You start with the eyes,” and I realized, yes I do, I always do that. I carefully added eyelashes, eyebrows, and nose, explaining that the little spaces I left open were nostrils. “I have round nostrils,” she said in agreeance with my illustration, and noted the differences between our nostrils. After we analyzed our respective nostrils, Miss Adorable became the first person ever, well, since the time my artwork was refrigerator-worthy, to say, with a hint of awe, “You’re a good drawer!”
If it’s possible to beam on the inside, I surely did. I tend to be the type that is deaf to compliments and magnifies insults. But this compliment welled up inside me and swirled around in ribbons of happiness. I remembered to demurely insist, “No, I can’t really draw.” “Noooo,” Miss Adorable insisted with the authority of someone who spends a good half of her academic life focused intently with a colored pen or pencil in hand, “You are good! You’re really good!”
I then remembered to insert two little lines for divets underneath the nose, and first I touched the corresponding indentation between her nose and upper lip to show her and then she touched it to check. I explained apologetically that I didn’t know what that was called (I've since educated myself) but she seemed happy enough to know I was being thorough in my replication. As I drew her lips in hot pink, Miss Adorable again praised my skills.
Filled with confidence, I tried to draw in each little baby tooth individually instead of making a line across and separating the teeth with little vertical lines. This over-confident attempt was a complete failure and I was feeling rather deflated because I had turned her gorgeous smile into a collection of Chiclets. Yet, Miss Adorable continued to express how impressed she was by my skills. I felt like I was the eager child hoping to please and Miss Adorable was the encouraging adult convinced she was witnessing genius potential. I finished the portrait with generous sweeps of brown curliques on her head (“I don’t have hair growing from the sides of my ears!” she commented as her sole critique. “That’s the hair from behind your ears,” I assured her). I asked Miss Adorable if she would like to help me draw her hair, and she consented, confidently drawing tighter curls across her face and shortening her forehead significantly. When she was done, I signed the portrait and handed it back to her, feeling prouder of this little drawing than I have felt of recent, more grown-up accomplishments. She assessed the portrait again, nodding her little head in satisfaction and saying as she walked away, “Yeah, you are really good.” And I sat there thinking, no matter how accomplished or how much money we make or how much we are loved, we all need to hear somebody say that to us sometimes.
