There was something that I hoped for when I first called you to come and teach art to my children. There was something that I wanted you to share with them, and even now, I'm not sure I can put my finger on what that was, exactly. But it was there, creeping beneath my skin, pushing through my fingertips, searching for a way to come out.
I didn't know you. I had never seen your artwork before I first read the article about you in our little upstart of a local newspaper. But when I read that article...well, let me tell you. I don't believe that things happen by chance. I'm a firm believer in destiny. I am, I guess you could say, a person of destiny. And so, when I read your article, I felt like many stars had aligned in order for me to be where I was. Many butterflies' wings had beaten in order for me to see that article in that newspaper on that particular day.
My son, understand, is an artist. I don't necessarily mean to say that he has this amazing talent that surpasses all other children. I don't mean to say that I single him out above all others and hold a torch for him. I don't mean to say that at all, though I do feel it sometimes--most times--in my mother-bones.
What I do mean to say is that he has the eyes of an artist, the mind of an artist, the spirit of an artist. He even has the name of an artist, given to him as a gift from a man--another imaginer, visionary, creation emulator--who missed meeting my son fresh out of the womb by only a week, the last ragged breaths of the man's pneumonia-stricken lungs sharing oxygen from the same room with my pregnancy-crowded lungs. We shared that air. I borrowed his name. My son carries it with him like a esteemed masterpiece. One artist goes out, one artist comes in.
And so that article, the one in which you shared your story, your path to the acceptance and embracing of your gift, seized me, enveloped me, drew me in, and I knew that you would influence my son's life.
Yesterday, I watched you light his fire. You acknowledged his work, recognized his commitment. You respected him, encouraged him, rewarded him. You inspired him.
And because you took the time to crack open his sketchbook and peer gently yet eagerly into the picture-thoughts he purposed on every page, he took the chance of carefully opening his heart and mind to pay attention to you. Otherwise, he may never have been interested in your message of salvation, of unity, of humility.
Inspiration. Good Lord, I don't know that there is any way to manufacture what you did to him. It's a path towards which I've been guiding him for nine years. And in four weeks, three lessons--truly, in one day--you have inspired him to not just become a better artist, but to become a better person.
There was something I had hoped for when I first invited you into my home, set a table for your art supplies, welcomed you with a handshake. I didn't divulge this information. Perhaps I felt it wasn't fair to put such pressure on any human being. Perhaps I was too afradi to hope. But the truth is, I wasn't looking for just an art teacher, though I knew that art would be the catalyst. I wasn't looking for just a critic or a guide or an instructor. I was looking for something that contained all of those, but included so much more. I was hoping--praying, indeed- for a spiritual leader, a man of integrity, a solid role model, an example of character to which a young boy can aspire.
I was looking for a mentor. You have not disappointed.
No matter how many vivid, perfect, incredible, lifelike portaits you produce in your earthly days, no matter how many visions and dreams you capture with canvas and color, what you created in my son yesterday will always be, in my mind, your finest work.
You have my gratefulness,
The Young Artist's Mother
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