Many moons ago, to commence winter break, Sara, Kelly and I traveled over to Illinois Food Emporium to split a cookie and celebrate.  I asked the girls what they’d like to do over break, and Sara loudly announced, “I’d like to paint a Jackson Pollock!”  WELL NOW, OK, I thought.  Look at my educated young lady dropping some art knowledge right there over her apple fritter.  A lady at the table next to me raised her eyebrows, which I completely misinterpreted as “she must be impressed”.  I realized much too late that her eyebrows were saying, “That hayseed Momma has no idea what’s about to happen in her kitchen.”

The kids line up at their t-shirts, pre-event.  Liddybug wasn’t as intent on guarding her work.

Kelly whispered, “I’d rather paint a Matisse.  I’ll call it Snowy Day.”  After the long, brutal winter, Kelly spent a good 6 weeks naming everything “Snowy Day”.  Having had next to zero Art History in my own education, I marched the girls into the art supply store with my mongo coupon, and bought a set of small canvases.  I set the girls up with paint, and grabbed a load of laundry to run up the stairs.  If you are familiar with Jackson Pollock, as I was not, you know what happened next.  Let me put it in layman terms for you: He is the PAINT SPLATTER GUY.

 

Kelly only required a little help with the spray bottles.  She found she preferred purple puff glue.  And purple glitter.  And then she wanted to paint the sky purple.  AH, a girl after my own purple-loving heart.

When I came downstairs a few minutes later, there was paint splattered across most of my lower floor.  I found it from the sink to the fireplace, which constitutes the entire length of the house.  I didn’t take a picture of the canvas to prove the veracity of her imitation art, as I was too busy with a mop and bucket.  When I ran for the table, Sara’s arms high above her head, clutching 2 paint brushes dripping in paint, I yelled, “WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?!”, and she replied rather perplexed, “I’m making a Jackson Pollock, just like I told you!”  At that moment, it hit me…Paint Splatter Guy. I silently shook my head at my decision to not take Art History in college…bad, bad decision.  Hindsight is 20/20; no one ever anticipates 2 things in life: The Spanish Inquisition, and giving birth to your own miniature Picasso.

 

This is Romeo (my name for Brayden) early in his “process”, but even his end product turned out quite classy.  Leave it to Romeo to play it cool.

When I asked the girls what theme they’d like for a play date over Spring Break, Sara said she wished Jackson Pollock had painted clothes.  Our kindred spirits ‘o’ mess united, and my wheels began to turn.  Why not?  Why can’t we make Jackson Pollock clothes?  I announced it to my friends, who just laughed and said, “Sure.  As long as we do it outside!”  You know you have the right friends when you announce you’d like to Jackson Pollock-up some t-shirts, and they are game.  “Romeo” and “Liddybug” came over for some painting fun, and while the weather wasn’t great, the company was stellar.

 

Liddybug (some call her Lydia, but she’ll always be Liddybug to me) might have had some help.  Unless the 1 year old made the heart, in which case, WELL DONE GIRL!

We used decorative rocks to hold down the shirts in the wind, and gave the kids spray bottles with fabric paint, colored fabric puff glue, and fabric glitter.  It was surprisingly not so messy.  It’s fun for small children to actually paint their own clothes; it’s cathartic I suppose.  Unfortunately, I unleashed another Pollock-beast within Sara, and I’ve been unable to contain her inconvenient creativity.  She “decorated” her booster seat in the car last week, after a string of incidents followed by, “But Mommy, I was just so curious!”.  She is on art supply lockdown until she can show some constraint.  I know, I know, I’m sure Mr. Pollock suffered similarly for his creative genius.

 

Sara’s final product is really quite pretty and it washed nicely too.  If I were to name this particular piece of art?  Simple: “Ducky Wigglebottoms: The Pollock Years”.  She’s a keeper, that one, even on her most “curious” days.