For the Love of Art

I was summoned out of the lower garden of Anneliese’s preschool because I had a phone call from my dad. I was 5 at the time, and though I immediately puffed with self-importance at receiving my very own telephone call, my imagination couldn’t help but kick into overdrive and assume this call was for reasons nothing short of calamitous. My father rarely had anything to do with my school life and certainly never called.

“You won, Elizabeth, you won!” he said into the phone, his excitement crackling from his end to mine. I paused before answering, clutching the phone in the hallway of my preschool.

“What did I win?” I asked curiously.

“Remember when you entered that art contest a couple weeks ago? You got first place. You’ve won $100!”

Being told you’re richer beyond your wildest dreams is a special moment in a young girl’s life. One hundred dollars would surely buy me candy and a horse, not to mention a new wardrobe and a pair of moon shoes.

Weeks earlier, my dad had approached me with a sack of oil pastels, watercolors, and a pad of high quality paper from Laguna Art Supply. Every year during the holidays, a local Laguna business put on an art contest for kids aged 5-17. This year’s theme was “Peace on Earth,” and as I’d officially made it to the lowest age allowed, my parents thought I should participate. At the time, I would do anything for pastels that weren’t ground to bits, or watercolors whose original shade you could actually see, so I was game and got to work.

The awards ceremony was to be held on Dec. 20, which coincided with the day my family was planning on driving up to my grandparents’ home in northern California. Thinking it shameful to forgo claiming the prize I had rightfully won, my parents chose to postpone our drive and make it a red-eye zip. We would swing by the 6 o’clock reception for the awards ceremony and tasteful refreshments, disrobe from our holiday best, don our pajamas, and finally, grab some burgers and fries to go before hitting the 5 Freeway with gusto.

Surrounded by the dotted lights of the eucalyptus trees on Forest Avenue, my parents, sister, and I walked hand in hand as we had weeks earlier on Hospitality Night. Would they welcome me with a standing ovation, I wondered. Perhaps they’ll want me to give a speech. Now that I was a true artist (and a wealthy one to boot), there was much for me to learn and become accustomed to. Approaching the building, I was blown away by the number of people who had gathered to admire my picture. All this for me?

Walking into the room where I was to receive my award, I was immediately horrified to see a wall filled with artwork, all of which was better than mine. For the first time, I realized I was not the only winner; I was simply the youngest. Worse, in order to claim my prize, once my name was called I had to go to the front of the room and point to my picture. Looking at the wall covered in artistic skill far greater than my own, I spotted my work, the aptly titled “Bird of Peace,” a coarsely done landscape of a girl riding a horse while a bluebird flies overhead. The girl was larger than the horse, and the bird was larger than both of them.

How had I completely misjudged this win? This evening?

Twenty minutes after arriving, the pleasant welcomes and a congratulatory introduction complete, my name was called and I performed the dreaded march up to the display. Without looking up, I smacked my hand on the wall next to the picture, glaringly amateurish compared to my fellow winners. The announcer handed me an envelope and I headed back to my family, all beaming with pride except for my sister who morosely sucked her thumb and played with her ear.

Later, sitting in the backseat of our Volvo in my pajamas, as my mother strapped on my seatbelt, I asked her when I would be able to spend my winnings. “We’re going to put it in your college fund, honey,” she said, as though it were obvious. This was news to me.

As my father pulled away from the curb, and we drove out of Laguna, I watched from my window as we passed the white lights, then the pepper tree outside City Hall, and finally into the dark welcome of the canyon road.

There would be no horse. There would be no moon shoes. But I was an artist- and that was something.

Elizabeth Sutherland grew up in town and graduated from LBHS in 2002, proud to be the last of the Artists. She lives in San Diego with her husband and son and earless pitbull.