My nine-year-old’s most recent art installation is titled “Tape on Pencil.”
Is it suffocating or is it free? I can’t catch my breath, but I feel like the pencil is safe and sheltered from the storm.
If his dream of YouTube stardom doesn’t work out, adhesive artist has a nice ring to it. He’ll be living at home well into adulthood either way, but at least having a gifted creative under my roof will give me street cred in my neighborhood Facebook group.
When he was four, he drew an elephant that was Picasso-esque enough for me to forgive the boogers he stuck to the wall next to his bed.
Around the same age, his one-man finger puppet show that ended in unspeakable monkey on “fishie” gun violence gave me a chill to the bone, but it evoked the genius cinematic work of (pre #metoo movement) Quentin Tarantino, which was extraordinary for a child who wore Pull Ups to bed.
(Video/photos unavailable. Horror etched in my mind forever.)
More recently, “Demented Dora” exhibited a maturity of drawing technique and a deep devotion to savagery.
Now, his exploration of tape with ordinary objects is, well, extraordinary.
This one is called “Tape on Banana on Refrigerator.”
You guys, he ate the banana. As if it weren’t already brilliant.
Here we have “(Duct) Tape On Wall.”
It has clung to his bedroom wall for as long as I can remember. His vision is limitless.
My son’s artistic prowess is both a relief and a burden. A relief because his struggle with fourth grade math is inconsequential. He has way more important things to ponder than adding and subtracting factions! A burden because I must dedicate my life to his creative pursuits. My purpose on Earth is to nurture his God-given talent, water the seeds of his greatness, and create space for his genius to bloom.
(And hide a few rolls of tape where he can’t find them.)
The Runaway Mama by Jen Gregory 