With the recent passing of my lifelong friend, Ken, I started thinking of some memorable times we had together. Ken was an artist and extremely well read. He unabashedly love living in Los Angeles. He knew the city well and was a frequent visitor to galleries, museum shows, and concerts. In high school we both shared one art class together. It was an elective called Art Crafts taught by a rather quirky teacher. In this class we created various projects, some required and some left to our own devices. I remember discovering the tedium and magic of a crow quill ben and India ink in this class. I took a photograph of the bark of a dead oak tree and painstakingly drew a tree whose truck was composed of thousands of little squiggly lines. I got lost in the minute patterns, even writing a message of love to my girlfriend that was hidden in the fine patterns. Halfway through that school year John F Kennedy was assassinated and I vividly recall walking to that art class during the most silent passing period imaginable at a large, 3000 student high school.
But the one project that both Ken and I were required to do was a mixed media self-portrait. Many turned out like Bob Dylan's painted self portrait which later became an album. (Pictured below) However, we were not allowed to use paint We had scraps of wood, yarn, buttons, crayons, and many other "objects" with which to construct our self-images. When completed, we would bring our creations up to Mrs. Norvell, who sat at the front of the classroom. She would evaluate our efforts in front of the entire class, giving out criticism and suggestions. It was during this project that Ken displayed his true contrary nature. She somehow felt that his efforts were not reflective of his ability. She had higher exceptions for him, perhaps because of his innate ability. Ken would do what he was going to do no matter what. After all, this is the guy who wore a coral colored tuxedo to the Jr. Prom while the rest of the guys stayed true to our class colors of powder blue and black.
When my turn came to bring my project forward to Mrs. Norvell, I stood next to her chair as she gave it the once over. Eyes and eyebrows passed muster. Nose, my most sensitive feature being larger than most, was OK. Then came the depiction of my mouth which was rather thin and linear.
"No," exclaimed Mrs. Norvell, "This is not your mouth! You have a wonderful mouth."
Soon I was back at my seat ripping off the offending mouth and wondering what to replace it with and what it might be made from. I went home that day vowing to take a good look at my mouth. After standing in front of a mirror far too ling, I saw that my lips were indeed fuller than what I had portrayed. Maybe my mouth was glaringly different than how I had constructed it. Next day I created what I thought looked like a "wonderful mouth" from strips of leather and yarn. I gave myself a sly smile and Mrs. Norvell approved. But the damage had been done. When she first declared to the class that I had a wonderful mouth, Ken and my other friends in the class wouldn't let me forget it. For weeks afterward, they'd greet me with, "You have a wonderful mouth." Laughter ensued, but in reality, I found that my self esteem improved. The following year, I ran for Senior Class President and won! Could it have been that wonderful mouth?
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