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The elusive act of teaching children how to be creative …

Legal Chimaere

To be creative is a basic desire of humans, all humans. It is a genuine expression of who we are even before we are defined by our social and economic circumstances. To teach a child to be creative therefore seems to me an elusive act. I look at children with a sense of awe, they are still there, right at the origin, and all I do as the teacher I am honored to be at times is to take them on the same kind of  long walk that I had been privileged to undertake with my own grandparents and I simply allow them to discover their world and to collect at will what responds to their own desire of creating this world new. If we’d allow our children more freedom and time to explore their own world and provide them with materials that are not dedicated to specific purposes, we could cut back on many extracurricular activities. Let them venture out there and the artist that lives in every one of us but is acutely alive in our children is ready to meet all the great challenges of art right in our neighborhood.

 

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But is it ART?

English: Butter making woman Français : femme,...
English: Butter making woman Français : femme, faisant du beurre Deutsch: Frau Butter stampfend (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Alternative approaches to teaching ART

Joseph Beuys and the use of butter and animal fat in his work

 

This is a journal entry describing an indirect approach to the question if a certain object as later illustrated by Joseph Beuys “fat corner” is or is not art. Rather than to start by discussing what art might be, I took two sticks of butter and a box to a class of fifth graders. I opened the butter and started squishing it between my hands without explaining what I was doing and why I was doing it. The butter was slightly softened and was growing softer still through handling and it had good sculptural properties. As I worked air into it, it produced disgusting sounds. I walked around the room, talking about art in general,never referring to my activity, still working the butter between my hands. The kids were intrigued, their reaction ranged from mere disgust to laughter, on which i did not comment, but after a while they started to be fascinated by their own responses to the demonstration, how emotional, shocking, entertaining this seemed to them – and why, and so they talked about that. in the end I sculpted the butter into a corner of the box. I picked the box up and presented it to them like a diorama. then I asked: is it art?

 

Out of 21 kids, based on their own experience of the performance, 19 judged it to be art.”

 

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MONSTER Nr. 23

One wild thing: on closer inspection of these canvases you'd find bits and pieces of found objects enclosed such as children cherish. Pieces of beach glass substitute for teeth, small beads, glitter, all children I know love glitter!, keys and bottle caps and lost and found buttons. When did we forget to spin the dream, when did our world cease to hold small promises of meaning and adventure, a life time of stories still to be told? How did we grow up to forget the sensual richness of the world, the intense pleasure we can find only in simple things and moments. When did we cease to live today in order to reach for a tomorrow that we never truly know will exist - and if it does it comes only to be given up and traded in for yet another tomorrow until there is none anymore? When did we start squandering our present moments for squalid projections? When did we tire of that what we have , right here and right now, the word, the discovery of nothing and everything, the breath of boredom and adventure alike? Ask an expert what life could be like, go hunt for chestnuts and bottle caps and pieces of this and that lost and found. Talk to a stranger and as for their story, smile every once in a while even if convention doesn't require you to, lift your eyes up and look at the disorderly lines of roofs and antennas and imagine Karlsson living up there somewhere or go to your knees and pick up something that glitters without whisking out a disinfectant afterwards. Be a MONSTER. Breathe. There is still some life to be had. Laugh without any particular reason. MONSTER Nr. 23

One wild thing: on closer inspection of these canvases you’d find bits and pieces of found objects enclosed such as children cherish. Pieces of beach glass substitute for teeth, small beads, glitter, all children I know love glitter!, keys and bottle caps and lost and found buttons.

When did we forget to spin the dream, when did our world cease to hold small promises of meaning and adventure, a life time of stories still to be told? How did we grow up to forget the sensual richness of the world, the intense pleasure we can find only in simple things and moments? When did we cease to live today in order to reach for a tomorrow that we never truly know will exist – and if it does, it comes only to be given up and traded in for yet another tomorrow until there is no tomorrow left? When did we start squandering our present moments for squalid projections of who we could be if only? When did we tire of that what we have , right here and right now, the word, the discovery of nothing and everything, the breath of boredom and adventure alike?

Ask an expert, a child no older than six, what life could be like if you’d find it again, go hunt for chestnuts and bottle caps and pieces of this and that, lost and found. Talk to a stranger and ask for their story, smile every once in a while even if convention doesn’t require it, lift your eyes up and look at the disorderly lines of roof shingles, chimneys and antennas and in your mind create a stage for a play that involves precarious acts of balance and skill. Think “Karlsson” by Astrid Lindgren.

Go down to your knees, seeking the perspective of a five year old,  and pick something from the ground that glitters just because it catches your eye – without whisking out a disinfectant afterwards. Be a MONSTER. Breathe. Laugh without any particular reason. Be the absolutely unremarkable, remarkable YOU you were born to be. Nothing more, nothing less. MONSTER Nr. 23

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Was ist CIRCUS UTOPIA ART Press?

Was ist CIRCUS UTOPIA ART Press?

Der Name CIRCUS UTOPIA für meine Arbeit in der Schnittstelle “Kunst & Recht” entstand aus einer Eingebung. Der Wunsch, dass Menschen unterschiedlichster Weltanschauungen miteinander ins Gespräch kommen können, ohne ihre eigenen Positionen aufzugeben und doch mit einem offenen Ohr für die Ideen anderer, mag utopisch erscheinen. Aber wir schulden es unseren Kindern, es jedenfalls zu versuchen, ihnen die hierfür notwendigen Werkzeuge mit auf den Weg zu geben. Ich habe ehemalige Schülerinnen und Schüler und ihre Eltern gefragt, was Circus Utopia für sie bedeutet.

Joy Ann Lara, Westfield, NJ, artist, mother of two sons who were taking classes in my studio:

Art is a universal language. Experiencing it with Kristina through her art classes for children has enabled my sons to express themselves at a time when words failed to capture the range and intensity of their feelings. Making art built a bridge that spanned isolation and misunderstanding, and provided a sense of home and safety that mere words–even words coming from those who loved them and tried to protect them — could not. While I love words and treasure their eloquence, I recognize that images (visual art) are somehow more visceral, purer, and can be more powerful in conveying “hard to describe” things. When words fail, art picks up and moves it forward.

Experiencing art is vital to a connection with our innate creativity. It touches all aspects of our lives, not just areas that are obviously “creative”. Art practices the ability to re-imagine and rebuild. And rebuilding, don’t you think, is indeed a daily task that determines the shape and viability of our future.

Alena, 17, Schülerin, Hamburg:

Circus Utopia Art Press ist für junge Menschen die freiwillig Lust haben sich mit Rechten auseinander zusetzen. Ich finde gerade für uns Jugendliche ist es eine tolle Möglichkeit, die Rechte kennenzulernen. Wir sind uns vielen Rechten nicht bewusst, wir haben in den Stunden die Möglichkeiten mit anderen Schülern, unsere Meinungen auszutauschen. Es bringt uns viel Spaß. Ich finde, das dieses “Unterrichtsfach” an allen Schulen unterrichtet werden sollte, denn es ist wichtig, sich mit dem Gesetzen sowie auch mit der Welt und verschiedenen Kulturen auseinander zu setzen. Es ist schwer diese große Welt zu verstehen, doch mit bunten Farben vereinfacht unsere Dozentin uns es. Sie hat ein tolles Engagement und ich würde mir wünschen das mehr Lehrer/in gibt, die Lust haben dieses Fach zu unterrichten.

Rebecca Miriam, 20, Jurastudentin,Leipzig:

Circus Utopia macht es mir möglich jegliche Sprache zu verstehen. Und hiermit meine ich nicht nur Ländersprachen, sondern die Sprachen der Menschen verschiedener Kulturen, verschiedener Weltanschauungen. Schwarz auf weiß, so steht es geschrieben. Wer bin ich? Wer sind die anderen? Wie funktioniert ein Miteinander? Doch in einer Welt, die so komplex ist, reichen Schwarz und Weiß nicht aus. Farben helfen zu verstehen.

Janne S., Schülerin, Hamburg, 19:

Circus Utopia Art Press ist für junge Menschen eine Form sich mit Rechten und Gesetzen auf kreative Art und Weise auseinanderzusetzen.  Innerhalb des Kurses geht es darum, sich eigenen Gedanken zu machen und diese durch andere Aspekte und neue Perspektiven zu ergänzen. Es geht nicht um die Bewertung von Gesetzen, sondern es geht um das Auseinandersetzen damit. So bekommt man einen Eindruck davon, was Gesetze sind, warum sie für uns eine wichtige Rolle spielen und welche Möglichkeiten wir durch sie haben. Nur wer ein Gesetz versteht, kann für sich entscheiden, ob er dieses akzeptiert oder ob er es in Frage stellen möchte. Unabhängig davon wie man ein Gesetz findet, kann man lernen, sachlich und respektvoll seine Meinung zu äußern, ohne dabei einen Anderen persönlich zu verletzen oder anzugreifen. Gesetze sind dazu da, sie zu verstehen und um über das Verstandene dann zu diskutieren. Man sollte froh sein, dass es für junge Menschen die Möglichkeit gibt, sich in dieser Form mit dem Gesetz auseinanderzusetzen, denn es können nur neue und sinnvolle Gesetze beschlossen werden, wenn alte überdacht werden. Innerhalb einer Demokratie ist es erlaubt, Fragen zu stellen, genauso wie es erlaubt ist, zu sagen, dass man bestimmte Themen nicht besprechen möchte. Keiner ist gezwungen sich zu etwas zu äußern, man bekommt aber die Möglichkeit dazu, wenn es einem ein Bedürfnis ist. Sich zu äußern bedeutet nicht, anderen seine Beweggründe mündlich schildern zu müssen, man kann sich auch künstlerisch ausdrücken. Das ist eine Besonderheit dieses Kurses und es gibt introvertierten,sowie extrovertierten Menschen die Chance, sich hier einzubringen. Für mich persönlich ist der Kurs eine Form den eigenen Horizont zu erweitern, um in seiner Persönlichkeitsentwicklung voranzukommen, indem man Dinge versteht. Nur wer selber versteht, kann Anderen beim Verstehen helfen und somit Entwicklung fördern. Unsere Dozentin gelingt dies besonders gut, da sie sich als Person sehr zurücknimmt und somit Raum für neue Ideen und Ausdrucksmöglichkeiten der Schüler lässt. Solche einen Unterricht und dieses Engagement hätte ich mir in meiner Schulzeit von meinen Lehrern gewünscht.

Lotta M., Mode Designerin, NUSUM, Hamburg, 26:

Für mich ist CIRCUS UTOPIA ein Projekt, das Kunst lebendig macht, zum Träumen anregt. Die Welt bräucht Träumer, Künstler, Denker. CIRCUS UTOPIA macht die Welt ein Stück bunter! Ich selbst habe immer eines von Kristinas Monstern dabei und zeige ihm die Welt wenn ich Reise!

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Woe to the unfortunate stranger who should come upon the gate they were keeping

For a brief moment also I did wonder now whether I was still dreaming. Yet the wet sand, the sea gulls of the lake circling overhead, the light on the water, the dark blue reflections of the two adjacent Mountains, Mount Hor and Mount Pisgah, in the misty mirror of the lake on the distant Southern shore, everything had a coherence that was not dreamlike. And yet the situation was surreal, not only because I had fallen asleep on my bed and woken up on a wet, cold beach hundreds of miles away from home. The sun, for example, was incredibly small, too small for our planet, planet earth. In the east the sharp crescent of a waxing moon, greeting the morning with disdain, was accompanied by a second crescent, a twin moon. And the surface underneath me was still breathing. And yet I knew the silhouettes of the twin peaks by heart. My mother used to tell us on warm summer nights, when the sun had already left the sky and only the patient outlines of the rock formations on both sides of the lake were still cutting into the advancing darkness, that the mountains were ancient guardians who were forgotten by their masters and not having been relieved of their duty had decided to keep their post to the edge of doom. Woe to the unfortunate stranger who should come upon the gate they were keeping. Lake Willoughby was an incredibly deep, glacial, water filled ravine, and there was some sparse folk lore about creatures living in the dark, about a connecting underground acquifer between the lake and its twin lake, Crystal Lake, to the West behind Mount Hor. It was a strange place, but being as remote had kept all stories at bay.

I sat still for a while, waiting for the scenery to change or disappear like dream images do, especially if you pay too much attention to the details, but the situation was as real as you can imagine, and not prone to change any more than Ms. Havenshire’s classroom during an especially tedious lecture on a philosophical concept that excited her. I stared around for a while, bravely ignoring the piercing cold, trying to take an inventory of everything. Except for the strange planetary constellations, the lake seemed real. I had never been up here in fall but I imagined it to look as lonely and cold as it did now. It is not exactly a lively place even in summer. And in winter, once the snow started, it would be one of those places that were cut off from the outside world for weeks on end, alas with the local people being prepared for it and not disconcerted by a few inches more or less of snow or even by massive boulders coming thundering down the mountains just like every winter. There was no skiing and therefore no seasonal dwellers in winter. Both, Mount Hor and Mount Pisgah were too steep and fully covered with trees.

I was shivering violently now, my clothes were as damp as if I had actually spent the night unprotected on the beach. When I finally stumbled up to my feet, it took me a moment to find my balance just as it would have on a big gym mat. I tried to disregard the breathing of the surface and made a few gingerly placed steps towards the water. What to do next? What to do if you are suddenly stranded in a place without any preparation or at least warning? Why was I here? In a dream, typically, events keep unfolding and you keep reacting but the lake was quiet with quick shadows dancing over the surface. I stopped at the water’s edge. Little waves arrived at the shore with a sweet sound. Light was dancing silver on the ripples. I was getting colder by the second, shaking most convincingly.

I had to find shelter. There was a colony of summer cottages at the North Beach, they would be boarded up for the winter, but maybe I could find a way in all the same to warm up and think. It seemed a reasonable plan, if you can at all call it reasonable that you have to think about finding shelter in a dream. Again I asked myself what I would do once I got inside. Maybe there would be a phone but even if there was, it probably would be disconnected for winter. Would it even make sense to call home and ask for someone to please come and rescue me? How ever to explain how I got here? And would it be possible to call home even if I found a working phone? I turned around to scan the tidy row of vacation cottages at the North Shore to find one that would suit my improvised plan and I faced an impenetrable row of trees. The cottages were gone.

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Lord of Mischief

English: Wicker man, engraving
English: Wicker man, engraving (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

may the Lord of Misrule not end as a wicker man but be allowed to see to his fields in spring hereafter. barren were the lands of our neighbors when saturn was still allowed his share of the human mind and barren be our own if we allowed this tradition to be continued. whatever name you might attach to the greedy deed – accident, mischief, malevolence – thou shall not partake of the feast and not grudge nor join your neighbors in their well deserved merriment. instead hold in your heart for twelve nights the coming of the light.

 

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lunacy

From that day on my world has been different. Even though I have lost some of the feverishness that I lived with back then, a feverishness that brought on a clarity about which I knew nothing as long as it lasted, I still hold it for possible that at any moment in our lives just about anything can happen. I still know that we are like divers in a deep ocean finding access to different currents and tides, each one of them distinctly different in temperature, clarity and speed. Accepting the reality of the girl in the window I acknowledged that I preferred to be raving mad to inhabiting a world without surprises. A suburban world where everything was designed to be stagnant or at least to create the never to be questioned illusion of stability. Even my free spirited artist mother surfed the tide of that illusion. That day I rejected the comforting hand of a reality created by others for needs I didn’t even knew I might have one day. Instead I allowed myself an unfiltered acknowledgement of the impulses that my brain felt inclined to produce. I did not know whether or not there was anything out there at all, I didn’t know if we possess any kind of objective reality but whereas before that had horribly worried me (along with the question how to prove to oneself that one exists at all outside the universe of our own brain), suddenly I was intrigued by the freedom of it. So what – if this girl in the mirror did not exist, I could still see her bright and clear, she looked like a normal kid.