In first grade, we drew a lot at school.
That was fine with me.
I liked to draw.
I drew people with wings for arms flying over dairy farms.
It was Wisconsin, what can I say?
My drawing wasn't special,
but mom called me an artist.
And I liked feeling that way.
Because art is something that you do,
something that you make,
something you can show to the world,
or maybe just to your mom,
that she can hang on the fridge for all to see.
Art gives you purpose and identity.
Oh, art is something that you do.
You belong to it, and it belongs to you.
As the winter came, our teacher asked,
when you're all grown up,
what will you be?
There were doctors and Spider-Men,
seven Barbies and a Ken.
We were just seven, what did we know?
But I'd already started making art.
I was an artist.
And at my turn, I said so.
Vanessa Friedman called me a liar.
Vanessa, with her cold black heart.
Vanessa Friedman said that in the first grade,
nothing you make is real art.
I came home in tears, slammed my door,
threw my colored pencils
on the floor.
But mom said something perfect.
I wonder how she knew.
She said, Vanessa can't take this from you.
Because art is something that you do,
something that you make,
something you can give to the world,
or tuck away in a drawer
until you're ready to see if it can fly.
No one but you can see how hard you try.
Oh,
art is something that you do.
You belong to it, and it belongs to you.
I don't do much drawing anymore.
Just the little notes I give my son.
He draws comics in ballpoint pen,
zombies fighting robot men,
boogie men with boogers, what can I say?
He barely pays attention when I call him an artist.
And honestly,
that's okay.
Because art is something that you do,
something that you make,
something that stays with you for years,
no matter what you become,
no matter who tells you how you
cannot win.
That's when it's time to make your art again.
Oh, art is something that you do.
You belong to it, and it belongs to you.
If you make anything,
you're an artist.
It's something that you do.