All through my early elementary years, I was taught art by the most delightful woman in the most whimsical room. Her classroom was like a dream, materialized out of a film. There were boxes of homeless fabric scraps, a pottery kiln, shelves upon shelves of oil pastels, clay and colored pencils, all illuminated by the windows large enough for childrens' worldly daydreams. Artwork hung from the ceiling, our colorful masterpieces like laundry left to dry.
In this room, I learned to draw a heart. "Your hearts do not need to be perfect", my teacher would say, "Narrow or lop-sided is fine -- the more different, the better." Sheets were filled with hearts and hearts and hearts. Our hearts of paper and pencil were all sizes, any color of the rainbow and almost always uneven.
Uneven was the best way to make them.
