The Girl Who Couldn’t Draw

When I was fourteen years old I spent part of my summer vacation visiting my aunt and uncle in New York City. They lived at 468 Riverside Drive with an expansive view of the George Washington Bridge and Grant’s Tomb. I wanted to take an art class.  I called Columbia University, which was just a few blocks away.  I was told that the only art class available was one where I would have to take other courses as well. 

All or nothing. I took it. At Teachers’ College there were lots of teachers from all over the US, sitting in the back of each room, learning new techniques of teaching.  We students called ourselves “the guinea pigs.” 

The art teacher was a tall, slim, dark haired young man, no doubt a college student.  He saw me sitting there drawing tiny pictures.  He said, “I want you to make a mural!”  I said, “Who me?”  (My family had convinced me at an early age that I had no artistic talent.) He said, “I’ll help you.”  So, I painted a mural.

It was a New York street scene with workmen doing something to the pavement, women walking along, children playing.  Later, I heard the teacher talking to someone in the doorway.  He said, “That girl thought she couldn’t make a mural.”  I felt very grateful to my teacher and proud of myself.