An Award Doesn't Mean You're Good

My daughter feels a sense of entitlement. Her brush techniques and color choices are described as “wonderful uses of colors and lines.” Techniques that must be submitted for the school district art show. The panel of credentialed and classified judges agrees, “this piece shows Peyton has an eye for composition.” Sure as hell, she better have an eye for something. Your preschool gets way too much of our money. I’d love to get something other than the reams of paper that flood our home. Oh, if you never watched The Office, a ream is 500 sheets. The ones that fall off the fridge every fucking time the door is opened or closed.

It's not hard to guess, Peyton wins the art contest.

This is a problem.

Complete strangers tell her just how very, very good she is, instead of how much better she can improve. So naturally, she tells me she's good. In her eyes, from here on out, any of her art is contest worthy. Save everything, please and thank you.

But, who’s gets to play the role of Bad Daddy? Yeah, me. Art doesn’t resemble a Renoir. I'm seeing no Revival Period. The only reason the one in my hand resembles a Starry Night is the splatter from the blueberry pancake syrup all over this IHOP kid’s menu. Look, I'd be happy to save it if it even leaned toward a Jackson Pollock piece. But, it’s only one of the countless in her collection that makes up a file in the iCloud called Gallery Shit Show.

My girls present a problem. They are simply small versions of my wife. Really, every female has this annoying characteristic. It's called long-term memory. In my case, my girls can sniff out a piece of art at the bottom of a trash can. A lot like our dog, Mochi, can sniff out used tampons and maxi pads. So, there I am, once again, mistaken as an annoying raccoon rummaging through the trash can just so I can put their shit right back up on the refrigerator again. I do that because the art of beauty is everywhere. And, quite frankly, I’m learning to love the abstract beauty of it.