It’s a shame. Almost none of the masterpieces I produced as a child have been preserved. This makes the odds of any kind of retrospective exhibition even less likely than would have been the case had they survived. Forget souvenir tea towels emblazoned with my early sketches of ‘Flash Gordon’ (who was, for a time, my muse) or a set of matching coasters featuring my various attempts to replicate the ‘Ghostbusters’ logo. You’ll just have to make do with imagining how awesome it would be to own your very own tote bag displaying these potent images. I could, I suppose, try and recreate these seminal pieces of artwork but, frankly, I haven’t drawn anything more than a conclusion in the past thirty years and I suspect I could be rusty.
It’s a shame. Almost none of the masterpieces I produced as a child have been preserved. This makes the odds of any kind of retrospective exhibition even less likely than would have been the case had they survived. Forget souvenir tea towels emblazoned with my early sketches of ‘Flash Gordon’ (who was, for a time, my muse) or a set of matching coasters featuring my various attempts to replicate the ‘Ghostbusters’ logo. You’ll just have to make do with imagining how awesome it would be to own your very own tote bag displaying these potent images. I could, I suppose, try and recreate these seminal pieces of artwork but, frankly, I haven’t drawn anything more than a conclusion in the past thirty years and I suspect I could be rusty.
I was not what you’d call ‘gifted’ when it came to the visual arts. Probably more ‘re-gifted’ and, most likely, I was a toaster or juicer that you never really wanted in the first place. For someone who was accustomed to excelling at school, art class was a terrific leveler. In fact, it cut me down to size so effectively that I found myself far shorter than I truly wished to be. First chance I got, I ditched the class in favour of additional music theory. This meant sitting in a classroom by myself for two hours a fortnight, left entirely to my own devices. It was an arrangement that was to the mutual satisfaction to both the art teacher and I.
Now that I think about it, I ought to be outraged. It’s not my job to preserve every uneven drawing and febrile pottery effort. Aside from a chronic lack of interest, there was also the pressing issue of not having enough room. When you’re in your twenties, you can’t very well move into a share house and then insist on dominating the fridge with finger-painting masterpieces you did when you were four. You housemates wouldn’t understand. The very suggestion of such a stunt would see them return your bond and insist on getting another housemate. No, it’s the parents who carry the awesome responsibility that is curating the lives of their various progeny. In this respect, my parents have failed dismally.
When I visit, there’s no visible trace of any of my artistic output. I never ask and they never say anything, but I am beginning to suspect that they are not all simply ‘on loan’ to galleries across the globe. Nor are they in storage or off being reframed. Rather, they have been discarded over time. The only exception to this apparent rewriting of history is found in my father’s study. There on his desk is an empty soup can that is used as a pencil holder. The tin has been decorated with various pictures cut out from magazines that have been stuck to the object with a generous dose of Clag. It is an item from my early mixed-media collage period that lasted through most of prep and part way into Grade 1. Studying the work closely, you can readily ascertain my early influences which – judging by the photos I chose to stick on there – were roast chicken and the TV show ‘CHiPs’ starring Eric Estrada. Some of the pictures are starting to peel away now; a metaphor (perhaps) for the state of my artistic legacy more generally.
All of this would sting far less were it not for the fact that I am one of only five children. Frankly, evidence of their various artistic endeavors greets me whenever I turn around. In particular, my brother Cameron has work displayed at various vantage points around my father’s house. There’s the kettle he made in pottery class that is yet to produce a single cup of tea, but occupies pride of place in the kitchen. Then there’s the gigantic bowl he created after we were told that we were allowed only one bowl of cereal after school. That thing could hold an entire packet of Wheat-Bix. It was the ‘Spruce Goose’ of cereal bowls. There are drawings and other artifacts, all of which make my collage pencil holder look like little more than a tin can with some picture stuck on.
He was always much better at that kind of thing. Perhaps it’s only right that more of his work should have survived the passage of time. Maybe its best for everyone that my efforts remain exactly where they belong: in the past. You can’t take everything with you and it would be unhealthy if you did. Leaving things behind is every bit as important taking things along for the ride. The past is a far more potent thing once you leave it.
Nowadays, we collect new artworks from the younger family members. In our house, we have a number of canvases that showcase the efforts of various nephews and nieces. Just recently, I received a new artwork in that most under-utilized of mediums: Texta on notepad, from my brother’s youngest. Currently, Tyler is fascinated by a particular bodily function and its inevitable results and it’s clearly a key influence on his work. To that, he has added a pair of goggle eyes that roll around whenever the artwork is moved. ‘Unmentionable With Eyes’ currently sits on our fridge, it’s rolling eyes following your every move. Given the artist is currently four, it’s too soon to say whether or not this particular artwork represents any kind of peak. I intend to keep it, though, no matter what.