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Description
One of the most vivid memories from my early childhood was when I was six years old. My friend Jessica was picked by the teacher to be allowed to paint, whilst everyone read, and I was lucky enough to be chosen as her partner to paint with. We scampered over towards the paint smocks, the next fleeting thoughts uncertain. We walked towards the board where the pristine, huge white A3 piece of paper stood, clipped to the board. I remember one of us asking,'what are you going to paint?' And like all innocent children's minds we began painting with bright colours and a vision in mind, until there was a bump of hands, or the running of the paint that ruined the rather concrete but looking ambiguously abstract visionary masterpiece. For a few moments all you feel is the crushing disappointment, but a child's mind changes like the wind and where lay destruction a few seconds before, also came a shimmering white light that engulfed the painting and thinking back was, in its most purest form, creativity.

Picking up the paintbrush, I watch mesmerised as the flowed rhythmically off the brush and onto the paper, its vivid vibrant colour, dancing unashamed in front of my innocent brown eyes, erasing the now forgotten piece of destroyed art.

Whether Jess did no longer like her picture, or perhaps, monkey see monkey do, she too picked up her brush with a different colour and erased her picture. We looked at each other; our smiles ear to ear, silently infected with the same creative muse, and covered the paper with colours. First it was orange, before other colours randomly found their way there. Our giggles filled the air as we rode the gentle wave of inspiration. As the layers were added, the colours morphed into a gigantic blob that can only be described as a dark forest green colour mixed with tar. As the teacher called the class to attention and for us to stop painting, both Jess and I admired our work and only to us be described as beautiful. We took off our smocks and the teacher came over. I remember wanting to proudly show off our work, as I dragged the teacher over. I remember her look of disgust and for scolding me for such a creation. Funny how her words play on silent in my memory but the euphoria so crystal clear as well as my six year old reaction to her words. I did not feel angry or upset, but merely annoyance that she could not see the beauty, or the highly constructed piece of art that it was. It was not her fault she was stupid and clearly very wrong.

The blob still sits feverishly in my mind from time to time, and how well it reflects me, my life and all its confusion and conflict. At first glance, all that can be seen of the painting is this big grotesque, dark consuming blob, an eyesore that battles with your retinas to be registered in your mind and in context how abnormal it is for two six year old girls to create such an atrocity. But if you stared long enough, perhaps at the eye level of a six year old, you would have seen the true life and form of the painting. The grotesque dark blob, was not at all dark, but swirls of colours, some yellow, blue, red and orange too and how they intertwine and dance together to their private tune to create all these different tones and hues. No matter where you looked, there was always something to find, more wondrous and interesting than when you first looked. A painting that can convey every mood and looking back you can always find something undiscovered and new.

Yes I agree with my judgment of my six year old self. The teacher is stupid and wrong and I pity her for all the things in life she has probably missed due to that shallow eye of hers and I hope she has learned to smell the roses in the garden life has planted for us every once in a while. That painting is more than just paint and paper, but a mash of emotions, a clash of personalities and in its very essence, portrayed life.

Description
One of the most vivid memories from my early childhood was when I was six years old. My friend Jessica was picked by the teacher to be allowed to paint, whilst everyone read, and I was lucky enough to be chosen as her partner to paint with. We scampered over towards the paint smocks, the next fleeting thoughts uncertain. We walked towards the board where the pristine, huge white A3 piece of paper stood, clipped to the board. I remember one of us asking,'what are you going to paint?' And like all innocent children's minds we began painting with bright colours and a vision in mind, until there was a bump of hands, or the running of the paint that ruined the rather concrete but looking ambiguously abstract visionary masterpiece. For a few moments all you feel is the crushing disappointment, but a child's mind changes like the wind and where lay destruction a few seconds before, also came a shimmering white light that engulfed the painting and thinking back was, in its most purest form, creativity.

Picking up the paintbrush, I watch mesmerised as the flowed rhythmically off the brush and onto the paper, its vivid vibrant colour, dancing unashamed in front of my innocent brown eyes, erasing the now forgotten piece of destroyed art.

Whether Jess did no longer like her picture, or perhaps, monkey see monkey do, she too picked up her brush with a different colour and erased her picture. We looked at each other; our smiles ear to ear, silently infected with the same creative muse, and covered the paper with colours. First it was orange, before other colours randomly found their way there. Our giggles filled the air as we rode the gentle wave of inspiration. As the layers were added, the colours morphed into a gigantic blob that can only be described as a dark forest green colour mixed with tar. As the teacher called the class to attention and for us to stop painting, both Jess and I admired our work and only to us be described as beautiful. We took off our smocks and the teacher came over. I remember wanting to proudly show off our work, as I dragged the teacher over. I remember her look of disgust and for scolding me for such a creation. Funny how her words play on silent in my memory but the euphoria so crystal clear as well as my six year old reaction to her words. I did not feel angry or upset, but merely annoyance that she could not see the beauty, or the highly constructed piece of art that it was. It was not her fault she was stupid and clearly very wrong.

The blob still sits feverishly in my mind from time to time, and how well it reflects me, my life and all its confusion and conflict. At first glance, all that can be seen of the painting is this big grotesque, dark consuming blob, an eyesore that battles with your retinas to be registered in your mind and in context how abnormal it is for two six year old girls to create such an atrocity. But if you stared long enough, perhaps at the eye level of a six year old, you would have seen the true life and form of the painting. The grotesque dark blob, was not at all dark, but swirls of colours, some yellow, blue, red and orange too and how they intertwine and dance together to their private tune to create all these different tones and hues. No matter where you looked, there was always something to find, more wondrous and interesting than when you first looked. A painting that can convey every mood and looking back you can always find something undiscovered and new.

Yes I agree with my judgment of my six year old self. The teacher is stupid and wrong and I pity her for all the things in life she has probably missed due to that shallow eye of hers and I hope she has learned to smell the roses in the garden life has planted for us every once in a while. That painting is more than just paint and paper, but a mash of emotions, a clash of personalities and in its very essence, portrayed life.