Geranium Leaf

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Geranium Leaf

During the 1950's, little was known about dyslexia in rural upstate New York. As an undiagnosed dyslexic I spent my grade school years being promoted because, although my grades were sub-standard, I was little trouble and thought to be putting out some effort.

This all came to an end in the sixth grade when my teacher, Miss Owens, took an entirely different view of the matter. She concluded that I was just plain lazy. There was nothing "new school" about Miss Owens. At around the same time that Custer was crossing Rosebud Creek on his way to destiny on the Little Big Horn, Miss Owens was being born. The dawn of the twentieth century found her graduating from Normal School and entering the teaching profession.

1959 was to be her last year but, as was explained to me, she had taught my father and was looking forward to breaking one last bronco before heading for pasture herself.

Her plan was a simple one, she would use peer pressure to enhance my performance. The old dear would call me to the blackboard to write a sentence or work a math problem and invite the class to join her in the ridicule that followed my inevitable blunders. The theory being, I would learn to perform rather than face embarrassment in front of my classmates. Like many good theories this one proved to have no practical application.

It was tough going at first but I hung in there. By Halloween my endurance was beginning to pay off and by Thanksgiving I could tell that Miss Owens's heart was no longer in it. When I returned from Christmas vacation, still unwilling to conform, the old lady threw in the towel.

She banished me and my desk to the back of the room and proceeded with the remainder of the school year as if I didn't exist. The first week or so was hell but, like any prisoner in solitary, I learned to survive.

Sharing my own personal Elba was a shelf holding a set of encyclopedias with only a few volumes missing. These were beautiful old books with embossed art deco covers. You couldn't say they were current, they left World War Two as a toss up, but they were filled with finely drawn illustrations.

I got hold of a good #2 pencil and pinched several sheets of unlined paper from the school mimeograph room. I would wait until Miss Owens turned to write on the blackboard and then, taking one of the encyclopedia's volumes from the shelf, I would slip it into my desk. The rest of that day, and almost every day for the remainder of the school year, I would spend looking through the encyclopedia and copying the illustrations.

I even got so bold as to stop in other classrooms before the first bell and, using Miss Owens's name, borrow the volumes missing from my set. I stole crayons, colored pencils and a gum eraser from the art cart and began to work in color. When I tired of the encyclopedias I would bring in objects from the playground and set up a small still life in my desk.

Every few weeks Miss Owens would lumber to the back of the classroom with the wastebasket in hand and make me throw my art work and supplies in the trash. It was disappointing when this happened but, like any respectable street corner crack dealer, I was soon back in business.

These were tough lessons to learn but necessary ones. Not only did I become a font of useless information and develop my drawing skills but other, more valuable, lessons were learned as well.

Art is a solitary pursuit. anybody who canít handle the solitude should find another line of work. An artist also needs a thick skin. If you have trouble dealing with criticism, ridicule, and verbal abuse you should consider another profession. By the end of the sixth grade I had a hide like an rhinoceros and could easily work five or six hours a day on solo projects.

An artist should never fall in love with his or her work. I couldn't read Pygmalion but Miss Owens, through the use of frequent purges of my desk, found a way to teach me that lesson as well.

By the end of the sixth grade I had a sound foundation on which to build a career in art. All this I owe to Miss Owens and I truly regret not having the presence of mind to thank the old sweetheart while I had the opportunity


	David Malcolm Rose \| home Geranium Leaf \| Early Paintings \| Farmers Market Mural \| Illustrations \| Stoneware Pots 1977-1978 \| Middle Paintings \| Old Houses \| Arkansas Mural \| Three Dimensional Art \| Delta Paintings \| Watercolor \| Late Paintings \| Woodstock House \| Log Cabin Restoration Geranium Leaf During the 1950's, little was known about dyslexia in rural upstate New York. As an undiagnosed dyslexic I spent my grade school years being promoted because, although my grades were sub-standard, I was little trouble and thought to be putting out some effort. This all came to an end in the sixth grade when my teacher, Miss Owens, took an entirely different view of the matter. She concluded that I was just plain lazy. There was nothing "new school" about Miss Owens. At around the same time that Custer was crossing Rosebud Creek on his way to destiny on the Little Big Horn, Miss Owens was being born. The dawn of the twentieth century found her graduating from Normal School and entering the teaching profession. 1959 was to be her last year but, as was explained to me, she had taught my father and was looking forward to breaking one last bronco before heading for pasture herself. Her plan was a simple one, she would use peer pressure to enhance my performance. The old dear would call me to the blackboard to write a sentence or work a math problem and invite the class to join her in the ridicule that followed my inevitable blunders. The theory being, I would learn to perform rather than face embarrassment in front of my classmates. Like many good theories this one proved to have no practical application. It was tough going at first but I hung in there. By Halloween my endurance was beginning to pay off and by Thanksgiving I could tell that Miss Owens's heart was no longer in it. When I returned from Christmas vacation, still unwilling to conform, the old lady threw in the towel. She banished me and my desk to the back of the room and proceeded with the remainder of the school year as if I didn't exist. The first week or so was hell but, like any prisoner in solitary, I learned to survive. Sharing my own personal Elba was a shelf holding a set of encyclopedias with only a few volumes missing. These were beautiful old books with embossed art deco covers. You couldn't say they were current, they left World War Two as a toss up, but they were filled with finely drawn illustrations. I got hold of a good #2 pencil and pinched several sheets of unlined paper from the school mimeograph room. I would wait until Miss Owens turned to write on the blackboard and then, taking one of the encyclopedia's volumes from the shelf, I would slip it into my desk. The rest of that day, and almost every day for the remainder of the school year, I would spend looking through the encyclopedia and copying the illustrations. I even got so bold as to stop in other classrooms before the first bell and, using Miss Owens's name, borrow the volumes missing from my set. I stole crayons, colored pencils and a gum eraser from the art cart and began to work in color. When I tired of the encyclopedias I would bring in objects from the playground and set up a small still life in my desk. Every few weeks Miss Owens would lumber to the back of the classroom with the wastebasket in hand and make me throw my art work and supplies in the trash. It was disappointing when this happened but, like any respectable street corner crack dealer, I was soon back in business. These were tough lessons to learn but necessary ones. Not only did I become a font of useless information and develop my drawing skills but other, more valuable, lessons were learned as well. Art is a solitary pursuit. anybody who canít handle the solitude should find another line of work. An artist also needs a thick skin. If you have trouble dealing with criticism, ridicule, and verbal abuse you should consider another profession. By the end of the sixth grade I had a hide like an rhinoceros and could easily work five or six hours a day on solo projects. An artist should never fall in love with his or her work. I couldn't read Pygmalion but Miss Owens, through the use of frequent purges of my desk, found a way to teach me that lesson as well. By the end of the sixth grade I had a sound foundation on which to build a career in art. All this I owe to Miss Owens and I truly regret not having the presence of mind to thank the old sweetheart while I had the opportunity