Snowflakes, Coloring, and the Folding of Notes

There are two kinds of people in this world -- people who like to color, and people who don't. As a child, I totally fell into the latter category. In fact, I failed just about every coloring assignment I received. Yes, failed. (Luckily, teachers don't assign coloring after elementary school, so my academic career was spared.) For awhile, though, I was particularly sensitive to my lack of artistic skills. I'd heard many times about my great-grandfather who had an art gallery named after him, and I appreciated art and knew about some different artists, but I just didn't feel I had the skillz. I could never stay in the lines, and I hated that it took SO LONG.

I also hated (still hate) choosing colors. People would ask me my favorite color, and I just got all tongue tied. What do you mean? Favorite color? I don't know? But for some people, this is really important. One girl spent half of a day going through my crayon box, coloring with every crayon, inventing some sort of elimination scheme in order to help me find my favorite color (and to figure out if her own favorite color had changed from the previous week.) I still don't know what my favorite color is. I'd rather figure out my taxes than choose paint colors.

However, when I was five, someone (my mother) made the mistake of teaching me how to cut snowflakes. No choosing colors, no gluing, and so, in my newfound confetti-creating delight, I made about a hundred of them. Now, to give myself some credit, I wasn't really making them just to make them. Yes, there was the consoling repetition beautifully masking its monotony by the creativity of the varying designs -- but despite the nearly autistic nature of cutting a hundred snowflakes, I had a plan. I was going to give them to my bus driver to decorate our bus for Christmas.

But, um, yeah. That part never happened. In truth, I cannot remember why my precious masterpieces never graced the yellow behemoth I called a bus. I kind of suspect that my mom talked me out of it so that I wouldn't get my feelings hurt when the bus driver laughed in my face. But somehow, the snowflakes garnished our own house and tree instead.

The strange thing is that as an adult, I am slowly discovering that I don't mind coloring so much. In 9th grade, I took an art class at school, and didn't even fail it. I even framed a few of the things I did because I liked them so much. A few years later, as a freshman in college, one of my first non-required purchases was a coloring book and crayons. And later, as my children have discovered painting and gluing, I have to admit that it isn't nearly as revolting as it once was. (All praise the inventor of the glue stick!)

So, why bring that up now?

Well, my 5 year old daughter has a new hobby. She colors. A lot. She makes "beautiful" pictures, carefully folds them, places them in envelopes, and delivers them to, well, everyone. If you have been to my house in the past month, you've probably received one. If you live anywhere on my end of the street, you've probably received one. If you're lucky, you even got one with money in it because she has decided that if she gives all of her money away then she'll be rich. ( The "rich" girl was bewildered, though, when one neighbor tried to give the money back, telling her she should save it for college.)

Anyway, I don't even bother putting the markers and paper away anymore. Coloring just makes her so happy. And I can almost say that I understand that pure joy. I look at her letters, and my memory sees snowflakes. I watch her excitement, and my heart remembers the glory of creating something beautiful, giving it away, and seeing how happy it makes someone else.
(One day when I gave her permission to deliver her letters to the neighbors, I even got the "you're the best mom ever" compliment. Wow! Is that all it takes?)

Last night I had a profound idea. What would she think if she woke up and found a letter addressed to her. So I decided to make one. I had a lot of fun making a letter for her, telling her all the things I love about her. Even the coloring wasn't so bad as I thought about how happy it would make her. In fact, my creativity went wild, drawing flowers, ladybugs, butterflies, and rainbows for my girly girl. The culmination, though, was that I decided to fold it. You know, fold it, like a note, like the hundreds of notes that get passed in middle school. A self-contained package of mystery, folded to conceal its very beauty.

And I couldn't remember how to do it. Guess I didn't pass enough notes. My sweet husband had to remind me (with some help from the internet -- do you realize how amazing it is to be able to look up something as petty as how to fold a note? What did our ancestors ever do when they couldn't remember how to fold a note? Now there is art -- computers!) Actually, origami in general, is really quite amazing. Did you know you can fold a note into the shape of a heart?

So, how do you feel about coloring, cutting, gluing, woodworking, computers, paper-folding, embellishing, jewelry-making, drawing comics, machining, writing with funky colors of ink, or using bubble letters? What kind of art makes you smile? Is it the art itself? or the thought of what you will do with it? Is traditional art more amazing to you? Or is it the beauty of well-organized mathematical proof?