Art for Non-Artists
Doodling in the Margins
After my senior year of high school, my parents finally triumphed in their four-year campaign to make me clean my room. I’m not gross, or a slob. Just a hoarder who never threw away a single sheet of paper. By graduation, my slowly-growing mass of pages sprawled across the floor and under my bed, far beyond the pile that was born freshman year. All the pencil marks were smeared by time and friction, the edges ripping under shoe prints, the creases collecting dust.
On Psychological Rainbows
One day in my middle school art class, everyone was handed a box of markers and the printout of a circle divided into six segments. We were told to color the segments carefully in order: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. The rainbow we could linearly recite since kindergarten suddenly bent into an infinite loop. And so we learned the color wheel.
