As I sat by my booth at the Arts in the Park Festival in Blueridge Georgia last weekend, I thought I felt somebody’s breath on my neck. I felt her little presence. So I turned my head slowly. “Hello” we each said.
Barely five years old was my guess, and we never exchanged names. She is an artist too. She told me. Watching me practice sketch with some loose left-hand quickies, she thought my art looked a little funny.
“Well, how about the finished pieces I have hanging in my booth. Do you like those?” Like a good critic, she took her time looking them over. (Although most critics do not add pirouettes and twisting dance moves as she did.) “Yes.” She said my work was nice.
I asked her which one had her favorite color. This was a big decision, because her favorite color is turquoise… no, red…. no, yellow. She has a number of favorites. Finally she pointed to what she liked most in my work, and came back over to my sketchbook. She said she liked to draw too. So, of course, I handed her the pen. Right next to my work she added hers — with a little coaching. She said she didn’t draw humans very well. So I suggested she start with just a head. That made sense. Then I suggested adding a body. And some legs. And she did.
Then her Dad reappeared from his visit to the booth next to mine: a chance to show her work and explain about the art we’d been making.
So much good in such a short encounter. My memory of her sweetness. He confidence. Her little dance. That she knows of wonder. That she likes to create.
I have thought of her all week, wishing stars and stars for her.