JOINING THE SKY TO THE GRASS

A stick figure. A sun in the corner. Grass. And right up at the top of the piece of paper, a layer of blue sky.

Who doesn't remember drawings like that? You probably did them. I did, my daughter did, and all the other kids I've been in contact with did: lovingly produced masterpieces that are presented to the happy recipient with a proud smile on a young face. And, of course, they're accepted with praise and pats on the head by parents, grandparents and others. Who wouldn't be delighted or at least touched by these first, colourful depictions of 'life as the young artist sees it'?

But how would these same people feel if, a couple of decades or so later, those same little cherubs were somewhat older, yet still producing those same stick figures and that same strip of sky hanging over that same limbo-like chunk of white?

When does the sky meet the grass?

At some point in a child's artistic life, it happens. Maybe they see other images and eventually realise the white-limbo part just isn't there. Maybe some kind teacher tells them. I expect the whole thing has given a lot of psychologists a field day.

When it comes to writing, a few of these sky-to-grass changes also take place. We progress from "I went to the zoo yesterday and it was nice and I had ice cream and then we went home and I was sick" to "Yesterday, I went to the zoo. It was nice, although the ice cream I ate made me sick." And we could move on to some more detailed description, whether of the cute animals or exactly how sick the ice cream made us.

Most people end up at least being able to string a sentence together, even if their prose isn't exactly purple, or literary, or even elegant. Not everybody can be the next JK Rowling, or Tolkien, or whoever your role model may be.

Others, however, decide to foist their writing on other people even though they've not joined that blue strip up top to the green bit down below.

Perhaps their mums or grans or a few kind friends still pat them on the head and tell them they've done a good job. Some of them may be well aware they haven't created a masterpiece, and don't care. Maybe others think they have done a good job. The green grass might be nicely done with a few daisies. The sky might have a few clouds or a bird.

But it's still not joined up to the grass.

Some creators happily hand these things out, ad nauseam, as "gifts" to a much wider public - one where a lot of people have progressed beyond liking stick men or even pretty daisies below a rogue skyline. Fine: there are delete buttons. Drawings can be torn up. But it's a shame.

Even if we can't draw perfect blades of soft green turf or really get to grips with a semi-colon, we can at least try to do a little better, can't we? It's called self-respect. Or even respect for the poor soul on the receiving end of our creations.

Maybe we should just at least refrain from giving the wretched stuff to those who aren't going to offer instant head-pats. That's self-preservation, in my book - particularly since the encouraging pats can turn into a slap in the face or a fairly blunt (even public) demolition of our offerings. When somebody's no longer a beginner who deserves encouragement but is basically just too lazy to either make the effort and / or to get some help, people can get frustrated. That's human nature.

We may, of course, have actually noticed that other people do joined-up drawings but decide that those are hard and mean lots of effort and time. Getting that pat on the head would take so much longer. Why bother when we can get it instantly for producing the stick men?

Some people, however, know how to help fill that white limbo-bit, even if they couldn't actually come up with the idea of fleshing out the stick men or adding a cloud in front of the sun themselves. They just know how to improve your creation - although preferably, they shouldn't destroy it while doing so. Accepting help - or even asking for it - doesn't make anybody look stupid. It means they care about their work and those on the receiving end.

Would we give people we like knitted sweaters with dropped stitches? Would we cook them a meal that's inedible? Would we simply expect them to coo happily about "it's the thought that counts, and hey, if that style of knitting / cooking makes you happy..."? Well, they might do so to your face, although they may have other things to say once they're alone with a mis-shapen jumper or reaching for the Rennies. They might even tell you that enough is enough, and how about another hobby (and hey, there's a pizza delivery place around the corner if you still feel like getting together over a meal)? Or they might be downright rude. It's the risk you run.

Creators of ill-appreciated stick men and floating skies, or whatever, can do just that - find another hobby and maybe one where they really have a talent. Another option open to them is to flounce off and / or weep on a shoulder or two about the world's failure to appreciate stick men. That happens too.

Or, of course, there's another solution. Grab that picture, get out a crayon and slowly, carefully, start on joining the sky to the trees. With help if necessary. But once you've done that, you'll earn a big pat on the head from me, and probably quite a few others.

2005

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