The bright boy had an art showing at the center he attends. He was so proud of his work. And he should be. One of his pieces will hang framed for a year at City Hall.
Art is something he's come to late. The stacks and stacks of coloring books I bought for him as a little boy were finally used up by his sisters a decade later. The girls are voluminous in their consumption of paper and crayons. The bright boy not so much. Like writing, art is tremendous effort and work. It doesn't come easy. It doesn't come quick, and each piece he's done I still have. Over 20 years (come the 15th), and it would all fit into two small boxes. The girls would have filled several 8 by 10 sheds if I hadn't long ago started letting their art go. They go through 500 pages of printer paper a week. The boy would still be on his first one from 15 plus years ago. Seriously.
Days like these, where I get to see the work my son has done, see him shine, proud of his work, these are good days.
That's him at the far left; all the artists whose work was displayed were lined up to receive handshakes and compliments.