What to do with our children's artwork?
This recent article in the times sparked a debate, (at least between my colleagues and I!).
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/27/garden/27art.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&sr...
As a therapist and as a mother, the question of what to keep and not to keep comes up frequently. Not all art is created equal, and sorting out how to handle a proliferation of art products requires some understanding of the creative process, ownership, and authorial intent.
What's interesting about the article, is that it appeared in the home & garden section of the times, thus signaling that it probably had the interior decor's best interests in mind, over the best interests of the child creating the artwork. But does there really need to be a conflict of interest? That is what I wanted to figure out. My daughter Stella, who is almost 6, is a perfect case in point. She produces a staggering amount of artwork, and will be adamant about keeping all of it. Not that she wants to revisit it or even display it, but rather, because she is attached to her productions because they are a part of herself, came from her, and are often created for someone else, (namely, me or her father), and thus a manifestation of her connection to us, her love for us. Destroying any such gift, in her eyes, would be akin to a rejection of her love.
That is not to say that I don't throw anything out. Far from it! I believe there is a way of paring down that not only controls the clutter, but more importantly, honors and respects the creative process, and perhaps even more so than just keeping everything would. Most artists artist engaged in the creative process, usually make multiple sketches, attempts, and studies before they produce a final piece. I see this process in my daughter's approach too. She will be working on a "theme", like apple trees, or Harry Potter characters, and will draw her subject over and over until it is mastered. Usually, after a while, she will move on to another topic. This is where the selection process can actually accentuate her accomplishment: displaying the "master piece", ie. the one crowning drawing of the series, (which may or may not have been created last), signals to her that I have noticed her efforts and her progress. We can choose together which one should be displayed. The others get sorted into two piles, one to keep in storage, the rest, we both understand, were attempts that are incomplete and do not need to be kept for ever.
This way, her creative process is acknowledged, and she is engaged with me in a dialogue about what she worked on and what she achieved. A younger child may not be able to be involved in this process, but it can be done for them, until they are old enough to partake. Over time, our little artists can develop an understanding of the creative process, value all of its elements, and keep their crowning achievements. This in my view elevates how we value their work, rather than diluting their process in a sea of paper, which will be difficult to navigate and appreciate after the fact.
More tricky are the productions that are made as offerings or gifts to the people she loves. These I cannot critique or destroy, and they are usually displayed indiscriminately until a new one comes to take the place of an older one, and I parse down chronologically, once I feel that her attachment to an older piece has waned, or been transferred to a newer piece. I do this without her input or knowledge, for better or for worse. A lot of times, it seems that the piece's value is at its highest in the moment that it is being offered, and received. It is a little moment of love and connection, which, if played out with both of our full attentions, fulfills the piece's function as a "transitional object", symbolic of our love and connection for each other.
I would just like to end on an anecdote that seems related:
A few months ago, my daughter was having a lot of separation anxiety around going to school in the morning. We tried all sorts of things, including me making little drawings to leave in her school bag or lunch box, usually a drawing of her and me together. She often made little notes for me in the morning before school too, and at school, when she was missing me, would make drawings for me to bring home to me. This is what we call "transitional objects": objects that can be held and that represent the real absent object or person. They ease the separation and help the child's mind hold the image of that which is gone, and give some reassurance that it will reappear again, and is not lost forever.
One day, when she was having a particularly hard time separating, I said to her: "You know, there are invisible threads, that connect my heart to yours when we are apart. We are never completely separated, because our love for each other keeps us connected always." She seemed intrigued by the idea. I asked her what if she could see those threads in her mind's eye, and she said yes. I asked her what color they were, and she told me how she saw them. I asked her to picture them in her mind whenever I seemed really far away, or when she missed me. Then, she kissed me goodbye, and sauntered off to class. I can say without exxageration that that was the last time she had a hard time saying goodbye to me at drop-off time. I understood that she had internalized what we had been trying to express with all those little notes and pictures: that we can hold each other in our minds, and never feel alone.