I like to draw robots. Sprawled across every notebook I have had since drivers ed are small 50’s style robots. My robots are simple, usually consisting of a two boxes, antenna, outstretched arms, straight little legs, and some number of buttons and knobs to chose from. My robots are without a name (being one of the few things I don’t name) but are far from without a purpose. The kitschy little critters make me happy; they center me before class and encompass my total drawing ability. Having grown up with robots and engineering they are also reminiscent of something that is very much a part of who I am.
Comparatively, I am not much of an artist. Visual arts like drawing have never been my forte, so to think that my robots could be construed in any way shape or form as art seemed totally preposterous to me, but that is exactly what one of my robots was.
It was a cool evening at the end of summer, I was with my family and a friend downtown for a festival. In one of the centers there were huge lengths of paper spread out with cups of paint and brushes, painting after painting was printed side by side on the paper. Some paintings were very small, but some were as much as four feet long. My brother made a scene, my sister made one of her comic characters, and I made a robot. My robot took up the height of the paper, was proud and smiling. With a flower in his right hand and a speech bubble proclaiming his love to the left, he quickly blended in with the other paintings. At the end of the night the scissors were handed out so the paintings could be taken home. People, mostly children, cut out their own favorite picture. I took a final look over the different works, debating taking one home, when I looked up to see my very own robot getting cut out. A little boy, 7 or 8 years old sliced the edges, carefully singling out the robot finally hold it up in the air and smiling proudly. I watched him show his mom, then his dad, then his sister, exclaiming “look what I found! Its a robot!” with each new person. The response was a usual “that’s nice”, but I could see just how excited he was. My robot, the same robot I have drawn time after time, notebook after notebook didn’t seem quite like mine anymore. It also didn’t seem cheesy, silly, or kitschy, or like a space filler or a time waster. It wasn’t poorly drawn or sloppy, it just was, and it made him happy. The face that I projected on the square frame now was spread across this boys face like it was meant for him. He found something he liked and was excited about, and I made that. I made art.
I am no Van Gogh, Dali, or Da Vinci, but I did manage to make something that made someone else happy and meant something to someone else. I have had much the same reaction to pop song lyrics and dance numbers and splendidly fit dresses, but now I can know that somewhere out there someone made, created and wrote those things that made me smile. Made me fee like it was just for me.
So now I can see that my robots are kitschy, simple, and sometimes plain, but they are not just mine anymore, they are that kid’s too. That robot is just for him, too.
