Once upon a time, in my childhood I was led to kindergarten. I can't say I was comfortable there, especially at first. I especially remember my very first lesson of painting. You won't believe it, but I remember that lesson well, even though I was only about 4 years old. I remember the course of my thoughts during the first attempt of creativity, my experiences and feelings, and then - the bitterness of disappointment and resentment. But in order to tell.
That day our nurse seated all the children at the tables, where two cans of paint - red and blue-were placed in advance. Each child was given a brush, a napkin and a sheet of paper. On a large Board the teacher drew a very ordinary flag on the flagpole. The flag was a simple form, only at the extreme end of its side had an inner corner. What could be easier!
As I said, this lesson was my very first experience of drawing (a particular subject) with paints (excluding the vague daub I had tried to draw at home before). All the children began to draw. I noticed that one first began to pole, others have started from the check box. I decided to start with the most simple - with the Flagstaff. What was my surprise when I suddenly realized that the hand does not obey me. Some inner part of me seemed to know and tell me that it is prsto, and that in my past life I drew it a thousand times. But my little inexperienced body was completely unsuited to such a simple action. I drew the shaft with great difficulty, it came out crooked and smeared. When I washed the brush and began to draw the flag with red paint, there was a flow of one color to another and as a result there was generally some BLOB.
I was crushed, lost, and almost crying. While there was a lesson, I tried to correct somehow drawing, something I managed, but in General it turned out only worse. I was desperate. When it came time to collect the work, I saw how the teacher approached each child, smiling and cheering. It seemed to me that all the children's drawings came out very successful, only one I came out that in vain.
When the good nurse came up to me, she looked at my sheet of paper, sat down beside me, sighed heavily and stroked my head. "Well, don't worry - she said - not everyone in life to be artists." And then I cried for real. Sobbing. Then I calmed down a little. The wild inner manger made me protest, I did not want to put up with such circumstances. Puffed up like a badger, I didn't talk to anyone else that day. But then I promised myself that despite all the failures and obstacles that will arise in my way, I will definitely become an artist...
