Art, The Mother Tongue
I communicate more effectively with a paintbrush than with
my mouth. Upon arriving in Zambia
last month, the outgoing graciousness of the Zambians and the Americans in our
group left me feeling shy and awkward, incapable of contributing anything of
value to our mission there. "There
must be some mistake- 'them that be well need not a physician'- I NEED a
physician!" I longed to sneak
back into my shell, where I observe the world and offer paintings and
"behind-the-scenes" support.
My bashfulness kept me on the outskirts of conversations,
afraid to join in, ask questions, or share any of my lackluster self. I was disappointed when I didn't get a
"job" like "writer" or "photographer" for the
group, as I would have been more comfortable hiding behind- err, communicating via camera or notebook
rather than engaging.
On the second day in Zambia, we traveled two hours to the
village of Choma, where we had lunch with local children. I saw a little girl who reminded me of
myself. Sitting apart from the
laughing, running kids, she seemed content to observe rather than connect. Though she was only about five, I knew
from the way she watched the world that she was an artist like me. Our eyes met, and we smiled,
understandingly.
After lunch, I started sketching the mangos overhead. As expected, the little girl was soon
at my side in the grass, eager to explore the tools in my little art-making
cache: pencils, pens, a paintbrush with a water reservoir and a tiny watercolor
set. I demonstrated each tool, and
she keenly repeated every motion as she made pictures in my sketchbook. She didn't speak; I was told her name
was Lisa, and that she knew very little English. We didn't need words.
We were two people from very different worlds, with different ages,
languages and backgrounds, who shared a connection through our desire to
express ourselves on paper rather than by conversation.
Holding a paintbrush gives me words that I don't have
otherwise, so when my classes started a couple days later, I easily jumped into
my art teacher role. People of all
ages and skill levels arrived to classes.
Some were professional artists who worked in pencils or seed mosaic, and
others were beginners or children from a local arts academy. The first day I taught color mixing
with a step-by-step painting like I teach in the U.S. People were generally less intimidated
by color or inhibited by their own expectations than students in my classes
back home. Several had never used
paints before, and their enthusiasm was infectious.
On the second afternoon of classes, I turned around and
there was a little girl with a smile I recognized but couldn't place. Someone said, "It's Lisa from the
village." I offered her
brushes, asking, "Do you want to paint with us?" and she nodded,
smiling. I showed her how to
mix secondary colors, and she grasped it instantly. Lisa made beautiful paintings, and took them with her when she
left that day, leaving with me a warm heart.
Sometimes shy people just speak a different language more
fluently. Art bridged the gap
between Lisa and I where spoken words couldn't, even if we'd shared the same
language. The outgoing Zambians
taught me not only to be more expressive and intuitive in my painting, but also
less shy or self-conscious in conversation. I accept that while art is my first
language, I can't use it as an excuse to withdraw from social settings. No matter our limitations, we all have
something of value to contribute, always. Above photos by Emily Eggebraaten of Sioux Falls, SD.
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