Portrait of the Artist as a (Very) Young Man

The boy is pure magic. He lives in a world where corn husks and sticks become characters and props for a production only he can understand. And the pipe cleaners. Oh, what this boy can do with pipe cleaners. He creates his wares and then lays them out carefully in a makeshift gallery on the front porch. Except for the ones he carries: homemade slingshot and bow and arrow tucked lovingly in the pocket of his navy cut-off shorts, ready for any mischief or battles he may find in the yard.

He sees what others cannot see. I don’t know how he does it. But he fills his notebooks with page after page of sketches and whimsy and creatures. He talks me through them, toothless grin and wild voice and energy selling his soul. I am a willing customer. Drawing was never my thing, and I marvel unceasingly at the way his hand creates upon the page.

His art is larger than life, and not held back by realism or truth. He knows just enough to be dangerous and doesn’t let historical fact get in the way of his creations. His battle droids take on Civil War soldiers, from Great Britain. And the Irish flag is hoisted with the victory. Unfettered by data, this charmer with a Sharpie paints the world with a vision all his own. He will draw on anything: a rock from Achill, some Presque Isle driftwood, and his brother’s stomach if I ever have the audacity to shower.

The entire house is his studio, and I am forever tripping over his ever-growing supply of materials: string, electrical tape, rocks, legos, bits of ribbon and bird feathers and a giant cardboard collection. Did I mention the shoe boxes?! The artist is on duty at all times, grabbing for the empty margarine tub I am trying to recycle or doodling on the day’s newspaper.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t wait to see where his love of the Indian headdress will take him, or his penchant for drawing and creating. Or hat-wearing. He has yet to outgrow his love of costumes, of glue and tape and string and markers, or his desire to be constantly creating. And the gleam in his eye when he picks up his notebook or rescues the perfect material from the recycling bag tells me that he never will.