Griff’s recent post about theft of his artwork made me think of the one and only time I ever took an art class. It was back in the 7th grade, and it was a quarter-long course, part of what was then called the wheel program… in which you were made to take four electives you would have otherwise never chosen for yourself.

I was by that time already doodling little toons on every available blank piece of paper, a habit that had started since the day I was born. People already seemed to like my drawings, so I thought the class would be easy for me, and considering how basic it was (how to shade circles so they look like spheres, etc.), it should have been easy. But it wasn’t.

I wanted to draw cute and funny cartoons. The teacher wanted me to draw boring and realistic still-lifes. I wanted to use bright colors in my paintings. The teacher kept insisting that tree trunks were gray.

It was a wonder that I even managed to get a B for that class, the lowest grade I ever got that year; I could have sworn that the teacher hated my work. All I got from him was criticism. I never heard any praise. After a while, I started to hate my work, too.

There was, however, one piece I worked on that really made me proud. The piece was for the class lettering project.

Today we have computers to do our lettering for us. We choose a font face and size, adjust the leading and kerning, and boom, perfectly lined and aligned instant lettering. Back then, though, it was all done by hand.

I remember that we were given reference sheets with the entire alphabet on them in various font faces. We were supposed to take a blank sheet or canvas, carefully plan out our copy, and lightly sketch in custom grids with our rulers, laying out the lining and spacing of the letters, etc.

I knew exactly how I wanted mine—blue and white speckled Old English letters reading “I BRAKE FOR CUTE BOYS”—and it was the best work I ever did. Everything was perfectly centered, both vertically and horizontally. The letters were consistent, clean, and evenly spaced, and even with the random white speckles the blue color made the copy jump out on the light background.

It was definitely grade A work from my point of view. I gazed at it proudly before stowing it away in my art drawer for the next day.

*Sigh* Big mistake.

When I opened up the drawer to get it out again, it was gone. Stolen. Totally taken away. I imagined that some girl in another class period found it by chance, took a fancy to it, and promptly whisked it away to be posted on her bedroom wall or something. Never mind that it was my property, my creative work. Never mind that I’d be frantic, looking for it all over the class, opening everyone else’s art drawers, hoping to find that my artwork was merely misplaced.

I never got it back; I never found out who took it; and I never saw it since. I’m still bitter about it, and you can tell; I never took an art class again.

Nowadays, only copies of my work can be stolen. That’s just how digital works. It still bothers me, though, when people take without asking. It reminds me too much of my little art drawer and the silly little sign that I made:

“I BRAKE FOR CUTE BOYS.”

Years later, I still wonder where it is.

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