Rorof in the Somr
Sharing art of the season close to my heart
Many of the ornaments our children created in kindergarten and elementary school have unraveled, unglued, or disintegrated over the years, but a select few stick around — and pull every nostalgic cord around my heart. Decorating the tree without our now-adult children at home tugged hard this year, calling for a little levity.
That’s better.
Now, possibly the most perfect holiday decor ever (and framed to endure):
I found this picture left on the table where my daughter had been coloring during the long, lazy heat of July. I laughed out loud, and I still do, every Christmas it comes out.
Somehow, nostalgia doesn’t complicate this one, perhaps because Rorof appeared outside the memory-laden holiday season. It is lightness and play; a child’s mind wandering to her (still) favorite season, wishing it sooner and imagining where Rudolph might be biding his time.
Behold, the energetic swoop of the bridle looping around Rorof’s jaw and muzzle! The complex branching of antlers, the boldness of that red nose!
The sky depicted as a blue line across the top of the page (a favorite developmental marker):
In pre-first grade, Rose Pickel, the dearest art teacher of all time, knelt down by my child-size chair to look at my picture (with the blue line across the top). She pointed out the window.
“Where does the blue stop, Kate?” she asked, forever transforming my view on the world.
This relatability makes children’s art refreshingly accessible. Many folk art traditions are similar, even as art professionals ascribe them depth and sophistication to secure them serious regard. Too often, though, these narratives dilute the art’s impact. The older I get, the wiser such unstudied instincts show to be.
We know that play is essential for learning and flourishing, not just in children but for adults, too: cards, puzzles, games, and such. But our minds are more than intellect. Play as making music, cooking, gardening, needlework, and crafting, for example, tap into and feed our native creativity without stumbling over the block that the word “art” is for so many people. It’s ironic, and sad, how intellectualizing art to assert its legitimacy is precisely what has alienated so many and disconnected them from vital, creative parts of themselves, too.
I was lucky to grow up in a family where the arts were lifelong pursuits, not youthful entertainments to abandon for the real work of of adult life. Your level of accomplishment was only relevant insofar as it made the playing more fun.
First a litigator and then an Episcopal priest, my paternal grandfather was also a sculptor. I’m not certain when he began, but in the last quarter of life, he made portrait busts, full-body figures, and other creatures using all kinds of media. Most often he worked in gray-green modeling clay, casting some pieces in bronze. The scent of Roma Plastilina modeling clay takes me right back to what was called the Jungle Room of my grandparents’ house (I don’t know why). When I was about four or five, Gramps was using it as his studio. While he worked on a portrait bust of my cousin, I fashioned the mouse made by many children, rolling a long, skinny tail and tiny, round eyes between my plump little palms. I was so proud to see my mouse kept on the shelf next to his work.
Gramps also tried carving in soapstone and wood; he fashioned airy, leaping dancers from bits of screen and wire; and like many of us at elementary school, he took up styrofoam balls, paperboard, and sewing scraps stiffened with starchy paste and spray paint. Two of these creations were favorite Christmas decorations:
The angel on the left stood on the newel post of the front hall stairs in our home, and the praying woman on the right commanded the same place at my grandparents’ home, with pine roping looped about. Now they stand together in my home.
Gramps’ angel and praying woman cue cherished memories of Christmas with family, but like Rorof in the Somr, they carry no wistful sting — only happiness. Their construction, visible on the undersides, is clever and surprisingly durable, considering the rather flimsy materials. It tickles me to think of my grandfather contentedly sifting through crafting scraps to make something beautiful — simply for the joy of it.
These decorations keep drawing my attention this year, as if they have something to reveal I’m only now ready to see. I have a feeling that the whimsical art of my little girl and my grandfather, closer to life’s end than anyone realized, is inviting me to loose my grip on the complex feelings that often come with this season. Let them rest in peace, and take joy in play. I hope you will, too.
Merry Christmas!
