Pokeberries, Coffee, Tea and Me

I suppose it was early summer in 1952. I had wrapped up my first scholastic year and was eager for the summer to begin in earnest. The penguins ran a tight ship in kindergarten. Order, discipline and a healthy dose of catechism sprinkled in with the lessons. They exposed me to color theory (how else would you describe reciting the three primary colors during art class each week). To be clear, art was a component of every Catholic schools curriculum from kindergarten to grade eight. At the tender age of 5 or 6 once a week we were taught about a famous piece of art. Lots of Michelangelo and others up through Millet were featured. 

At the end of the school year, we were armed with exacto knives and given the opportunity to turn a bar of soap into a Mexican adobe hut. What could go wrong? I suppose lots could go wrong, but we were under the “Eye of the Penguin”. We quietly and patiently carved out little bar of dial soap into something that did resemble the model.

Then, school was out. And here I was prowling the backyard in Adams Morgan. I came across this wonderful bush with dark purple berries. I picked some. I sniffed them. I squeezed them. I knew that I could use them. I filled my pockets and headed to my spot under the back porch. Once there, I filled a mason jar with the berries. My fingers were stained, my pants were stained but my mind was in full clear gear.

I went inside and gathered a coffee cup, one of my mother’s makeup brushes and a stack of newsprint my father had brought home from work. Back under that porch, I mixed my first pigment concoction. A little berry juice and some tap water produced a pale purple. Use more berry juice and the color became darker. Voila, I discovered value and didn’t even know it’s name. Another lesson? Newsprint sucks when applying water based colors. I learned less is more. I painted. I painted a picture of a cat and a picture of a rat. Then I did a bat. Feeling happy, I painted an elephant. I added some leftover coffee to my palette. The orangish brown complemented the purple in an interesting way. That morning, almost 70 years ago remains vivid. 

Just as a baby is delighted when they become biped mobile without understanding how that skill would impact a lifetime, I loved turning a blank piece of paper into an image (even if only I knew what it was supposed to be). The artist in me was born. I didn’t know a damn thing. I just liked making pictures.

Pokeberries, coffee, tea and me. More than a journey was started, a joy not found anyplace else took up residence in my heart. 

As I type this, it is early summer and pokeberries are ripening on the vine. Every bush I see in bloom takes me back to that early morning discovery on Lanier Place. No classroom, no instructor, just me and my imagination pushing pigment on paper. I have to say, the penguins opened the door and I ran through it never looking back. A lifetime of creation has followed.