Lessons in Childhood Art Appreciation
"That's not what it is, Mum," and other revelations
When I was a small child, I used to draw a lighthouse. For years, whenever my primary school teachers presented an opportunity to scrawl a picture, or when we drew pictures at home, mine was a lighthouse. Always the same lighthouse, situated on exactly the same cliff in exactly the same twilight. It was a constant motif for which I can offer no explanation. At that age, I had never seen a real lighthouse.
Now I’m old, I can still see that lighthouse in my mind. I can picture every detail. Sometimes I wonder if I was a lighthouse keeper in a former life, or perhaps a sailor whose final glimpse of the world was that hopeful vision, before being swallowed by the murky depths of the cold, cold sea. But that’s a story for another time. This isn’t about my childhood drawings. It’s about theirs.
There is a connection. My memory of repeatedly drawing the same thing meant that, when The Firstborn put crayon to paper, I vowed to keep safe every piece of paper my offspring ever touched in childhood. My juvenile lighthouses are forever lost, but my memory of the feeling behind them remains. So, yes, I am one of those annoying parents who has boxes upon boxes of doodles, drawings, collages, and notes – not because I’m a hoarder, or because I believe my progeny are magical, mystical beings sent to change the world with a profound smudge of their pencil, but because each item provides a fascinating insight into the inner life of these evolving people. They are a window onto the way they experienced the world at any given moment.
I grew humans, and those humans conjured something in their imagination, then reached in, pulled it out, and put it on paper. Amazing. But – plot twist! It turns out that knowing the value of these items and keeping them is not the same as understanding them.
I have two (mostly) grown-up children, so now I have two very different collections, and those collections are both exactly as precious as I thought they would be. For this Substack post, however, I’m going to focus (with his permission1) on the childhood artwork of The Firstborn, because it was a conversation around one of his drawings that prompted a sudden realisation. You see, my children may be in the first flushes of adulthood, but select childhood creations of theirs still adorn the walls of my hallway. There are sea creatures and collages, and experiments in still life. The Firstborn was always drawn to art, to drawing, regularly producing images that told entire stories, as well as rudimentary comic-book strips that used dark humour to create a narrative. Looking at his collection of childhood artwork, it makes all the sense in the world that he is now a film student.
Along with the work of his sibling, these pieces remain attached to the fabric of our home, right where I stuck them the day his infant hands thrust them into mine. This is partly superstition. A little bit of my brain tells me that, like the mighty Tower of London, if these things are removed, the whole place will crumble2. But mostly, it’s because my love for these pieces has grown with every passing year. For the artists, though, they’ve been there so long that they don’t even see them anymore. At least, not usually.
On this particular occasion, something must have changed in the space. Maybe I had moved the coat rack or something. Maybe the light was just different. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been here for months, and he was seeing it all afresh. Whatever the reason, he pointed at a particularly striking creature on the wall and questioned why on earth it was there.
“That’s one of my favourites!” I exclaimed, before turning to another piece of his and pointing it out. “And I also love this one because there’s so much going on. So much detail. I guess this was from your obsession with dinosaurs and dragons, so you’ve drawn people trying to save the world from a marauding kaiju.”
Dragons were his constant motif - from early childhood right up to his Art exam projects. He used to draw the same dragon, over and over again. Perhaps he was an Arthurian Knight in a former lifetime…But I digress.
“That’s not what that is,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Now, join me in the moment for a moment, if you will. This is a childhood drawing. He was in primary school. We’re talking eight or nine years of age, at most. He’s now about to turn 21. This picture has been on that wall for well over a decade, and I’ve always assumed it was inspired by Jurassic Park or something. When I looked at the picture, I saw people trying to shoot a sharp-toothed, rampaging dinosaur-like creature.
“What is it then?”
He went on to explain that, far from being a marauding kaiju, it’s his hair, which is super-powered.
“But the hair has gotten too powerful. All those superheroes and jets can’t take it down, so I’m cutting it at the source to save the planet,” he stated, in a tone that suggested I had missed the very, very obvious.
He pointed to the bottom left of the picture and, sure enough, there was a little person with a pair of scissors and the giant monster rising directly from his head.
Reader, I was stunned. It was as if I were looking at it anew.
I’m sure there are several ways a qualified psychologist might now interpret that image, on the face of it. But I remember how much The Firstborn used to hate the process of having his haircut, and I remember how proud he was of his ‘do. I remember how he used to insist on keeping a large mound of hair longer at the front, which we called his quiff, and how this earned him the occasional nickname, ‘Super Quiff.’ I love the thought of the quiff being super-powered. And there he was in his own picture, willing to sacrifice it all to save us. Not to mention the fact that, all these years later, he remembered all the reasoning behind every detail.
I haven’t stopped thinking about this revelation. Now I’m looking at every other piece of childhood artwork, wondering if my understanding of its content matches the ideas behind it. And I’ve been pondering what the moral of this story could be. What have I learned? Weeks later, I think it’s this: childhood artwork does indeed provide a window onto the way they experienced the world at any given moment, but it also provides a glimpse of the limitations in the way we perceive their experience. That’s an opportunity for excellent conversation, regardless of age.
These kids, gang. Still teaching me stuff about parenting, even in adulthood.
And, as for The Firstborn, yes, his hair is still super-powered and fabulous.
Me: “Remember the other week when you casually explained this drawing to me and it blew my mind? Can I write about it on Substack?
Him: “Of course, go ahead! That’s a classic.”
I do fully intend to get round to laminating them this year, but one at a time, so we don’t tempt fate.
Ah, loved this, Sarah. I think saving it all is a really nice time capsule.
Our boys have both got massively into drawing recently (mostly Pokémon they make up) but it’s lovely to see what they come up with.