Page 46 of Tanner

“Oh, yeah, and the Frederick Douglass Memorial in the park. That’s art,” Quinton shouts.

With a smile, I nod. “Yes. Rita, what’s art?”

“My little brother’s coloring pages. My mom hangs them all over the house.”

I tap Malik on the shoulder. “What is art?”

“I don’t know. A picture.” He sounds noncommittal.

“What kind of picture?” I prod.

He’s looking down at his desk. “Like the kind you take with your iPhone.”

I shake his shoulders a little. “Yes! That is totally art. Snapchat counts.”

Malik’s head twists around to look at me with a face like he’s wondering why I’m bullshitting him.

“You know this, guys. It’s not a trick question. Naveah, what is art?”

She smiles. “The world. God created the world in seven days. His creation is the most beautiful form of art.”

Not what I was looking for, but, “I’ll take it. Come on, guys. What is art?”

Shawn, a quiet kid who doesn’t participate often in classroom discussion, raises his hand. I try to hide my surprise as I nod to him to answer.

“Art is something someone creates?” Shawn says shyly.

I smile. “Is that a statement or a question?”

“Both?” He laughs.

“Perfect answer,” I say, and he grins bashfully. I go back to the smart board and pull up a collage of various forms of art. “That’s exactly what I want you to consider. Art is an expression. It’s an application of human skill. It can be a painting or a sculpture. It can be the way you apply your makeup or a song you sing. It’s literature and dance.” I pull up another screen, and it’s a watercolor of a landscape. “What do you think of this image?”

Ariella is the first to raise her hand. “It’s beautiful. Very soothing. My grandma has something like that in her living room.”

I change the slide to one of the graffiti images in our neighborhood—another I assume Tanner created. I took it with my phone a few weeks ago. “Malik, what do you think of this one?”

He looks at the dark shadows of the boy who is sitting against a wall with his knees pulled up to his chest and his head bowed. “The kid looks completely lost. Alone.”

“How does it make you feel?” I ask, stepping to the side so that everyone can see the complete image. There’s a dove on the boy’s shoulder. It’s pulling him up by his sweatshirt with a bright yellow light behind it.

Malik turns his head to the side. “It’s really sad because the boy is crying. Like he has no one. But that bird, it’s like it’s trying to get him out of whatever funk he’s in. So, it’s sad, but it kinda makes you feel okay at the same time.”

I grin and continue. I show them various forms of art without displaying anything sexual or overly graphic and elicit every emotion I can from them. When teaching inner-city kids who are left to their own devices most of the time, sometimes, I have trouble getting through to them. But, right now, I see it.

They are thinking, questioning the words that I’m saying.

This is why I teach.

I want to open their minds, so they think for themselves and see the world for more than what they are handed day to day.

“If someone creates something they are proud of, they can call it art, right?” I ask.

The class nods.

“But what if you don’t like it? Is it still art?”

I pull up a Jackson Pollock piece. I hear a few laughs at the image of paint splattered.