December already?

And so it goes. Winter is rapidly approaching in time frame, yet not quite in the air. Hardly brisk, tomorrow comes December 1, and I've yet to pull out my down coat, or my heavy-weight hat-scarf-mitten sets. What happens when its December but winter has not yet arrived? The rows of Christmas trees tied up at the Chelsea "playground" (the street plaza out front) makes it difficult for the students to lounge and linger there now, despite the sunshine that begs for their company. As I walk around the classroom, I lean in to converse with some of my favorite students, and ask about their holiday. (It was just Thanksgiving break last week.) Once our conversation is flowing, I interrupt their thoughts with a new one- how does culture play a role at Chelsea? Most are puzzled by my question- some others answer quite abruptly. After all, how does culture play a role in my life? How should culture influence art? Does it?

A diary entry

"I kind of feel like we're reading her diary," a classmate commented. In a sense, they were. As Aileen flipped through the pages of this semester's tangible piece of my soul, the class waited for my stories, the words that might just match the images they saw. At first, it was natural for me. Brandeis taught us to be able to speak about our works, to add wall text, when necessary. But suddenly, it wasn't up to me, which pieces I should or should not reflect on, let alone did I have time to prepare any sort of artist statement. It was totally impromptu, on the spot. Right then and there. The feedback was not necessarily positive or negative, per se. It just was. And at the end? What was left beyond my vulnerability? Oh yes, my sketchbook, and my drawings. Spread open to my latest entry, the secrets scattered around the room, the page only holding a collection of lines. My mind and soul were quickly stripped away, revealing my inner core, my thoughts, to a room full of near strangers. So go ahead, click on. At least when flipping through Margo's Fall Sketchbook here online, you cannot see my embarrassment, or feel my anxiety, you can't hear my obsessive nature, and you can't taste the wonder...the wonder if honestly is always the best policy...

Sing for the Moment

"Miss, Miss! Can you help me Miss?" and I do.

I speak, usually, the student listens.

and watches my face as I talk. We look down at their work, usually a drawing of sorts, and then back at one another. I take their pencil, and when handy, a scrap of paper, and show them what I am thinking. I draw. They watch, they take their pencil, and at first, try to copy.

We keep working together, until their hopes become reality - the few scratched lines suddenly become the color of the iris, the missed white spots shows how the reflection hits their eye.

And there it is- the moment, the moment I sing for,

when my student looks up in amazement at what he or she has made, that their drawing suddenly looks how it does, in this case, more realistic than they could have ever imagined.

There's a different look when the students eyes meet mine this time. It's excitement, it's appreciation, it's thanks- thanks to me for believing in them.

And my smile back, means, my pleasure hun...anytime.