Faith Like a Child

My wife Kelly and I were awakened at 3am by our crying almost three-year-old, Annie Rose. Annie is newly potty-trained, and still has the occasional nigh-time accident. On this early weekday morning she had completely wet her bed.

I stumbled into her room, still half-asleep myself. Annie’s window and ceiling-fan were circulating comfortable summer-air. But she was cold, curled in the fetal position and crying…soaked in her soiled nightclothes and sheets. Observing her in this sad state reminded me of how very needy my smart, “independent” little girl is of her father.

I gently scooped up Annie from her wet bed. Her skin was cold and sticky to the touch and her body was rigid. Her long wavy hair was stuck to her round cheeks from tears and pee. She resisted my help, squirming and crying for mommy. We made our way in the dark to the bathroom.

Annie Rose’s cry was sad and fearful. Like any parent, my heart was flooded with compassion, love, and patience. I offered her my assurance that daddy was going to make everything okay. I gently wiped Annie’s shivering body with a warm facecloth and wrapped her in a dry towel. Only then did she stop crying (and resisting).

I put her into clean cloths and sat her on a chair while I changed her sheets. Annie wanted to know if Mr. Moon was out. I looked through her window skyward, then turned back to tell her that Mr. Moon was behind the clouds but she was already asleep. I placed her back into bed and headed downstairs.

Unlike Annie Rose, I was unable to fall back asleep. Each time I closed my eyes I saw myself in that frightened child: curled-up and soiled from sin…resistant to my Father’s help. I thought of how Christ attends to His children in much the same way; with compassion, love, patience and offering an assurance…that by trusting in the Father, He will not forsake me in my times of need…that the cost of my filth...my sins...were paid by Christ’s blood on the cross…and that in Him I am clean.

I am amazed by the things I am learning from my children!

"And calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them and said, "Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

Matthew 18:2-4 (ESV)

Intentionality

Every part of her drawing has intention...you wouldn't think so with a two year old.  Annie will proclaim the color or shape before she draws; "dots, circle, triangle, yellow right here!"  And she uses the entire surface of the paper, corner to corner.  She is probably no more capable than other kids drawing at her age.  I find it interesting how difficult demonstrating, "intentionality" is for many of my art school-bound students preparing their portfolios.  Art schools tend to put this "spell" on kids...an over-emphasis to show their "voice" (in my opinion) at the expense of fundamental mastery of basic design and skill.  I would far prefer art schools to encourage my kids to be Students with a capital "S" over Artist with a capital "A." There is a difference.

Instructor of "Other"

"In what subject did you teach this student?" asks the, "Common App" form on Naviance....the website we upload recommendations written for our college-bound students.  Since, "Art" was not a choice, I clicked, "Other."

A few of the less-common things about school that annoyed me when I was a student:  As a young child I was embarrassed to be the only one using the green-rubber-coated left-handed scissors in the "special" cabinet...so I learned to use them righty.  I was especially annoyed (still am) by those freakin' right-handed desks...and we wonder why lefties look funny when writing!  I won't even get into my loathing for calligraphy, an art form not designed for this lefty.

Truth be told: I generally don't sweat the small stuff anymore.

But something big has been brewing for most of my many years as an arts educator; the need, the responsibility, the calling...whatever...to communicate the value of the arts.  Never been much of a cause-guy, but seems most of academia is still in the Dark-Ages about the arts.  So out of my studio, brush in clenched hand, I shall slither to take up the cause.  I am preparing to speak on two panels; a community college and high school symposium on Teaching the 21st Century Student.

I am also developing workshops tailored to corporations promoting the ubiquitous value of creativity. Corporations, after all, hire graduates, fill high school and college school boards, fund programs and greatly inform educational practices.  Figure I'll start there.

I have been greatly influenced by perspectives on creativity that have made global impacts including those of Daniel Pink, Sir Ken Robinson and my cousin Jon Iadonisi (Check them out on Google).   I am sold on creativity, will pound my chest and carry the torch!  Hoorrahh!  

Okay, maybe I shouldn't channel my inner William Wallace because that didn't end too well for him.  I guess a haircut and shave, clothes that aren't paint stained and some fancy flash cards will do.  Wish me luck!

Jim DeCesare
Instructor of "Other"

Pushing The Value of Creativity - My, 'Why?'

Dear Annie Rose,

I don’t have money, but daddy is still a very wealthy man.  While I adore your mother, the greatest miracle of my life was watching you and Madeline come into this world.  Shortly after you were born I heard Etta James, “At Last,” on the radio and wept:  “My heart was wrapped-up in clovers the night I looked at you.”  God bestowed fatherhood upon me the night you were born, a responsibility and joy still too great to comprehend!

Well, you are now registered for preschool!  Ouch!  You are playing on the doorstep of this great house of education that you will soon be residing-in for many years to come.  Listen, kid, I don’t care what you choose to become.  God gave us the task of loving you unconditionally, and celebrating your unique gifts. We do pray that you glorify the Lord in all that you do.  We will do our darndest to model this for you everyday, but ultimately the choice of how you live your life will be yours.  We just want you prepared.

This house of education I was talking about…its kinda old and needs a few repairs.  When things are broken, Dads seem to want to fix them even if they don’t know how.  You will learn soon enough, Annie Rose that life is neither fair nor equitable.  But if you feel moved by the Spirit to fix something broken (even if you don’t know how), and even if others think you are a nut job, I got your back.

The house of education you are about to enter is water stained and peeling eggshell white. I am not sure if that is even a color, or just a texture?  Anyway, I want to scrape and repaint every room before you get there.  I want to paint the ceilings with a fresh coat of empathy, the floors a durable coat of grit, the walls detailed with purpose, the long hallways covered with discernment…and the whole house illuminated by creativity.  Now that’s a house of education!

It’s insane, I know!!!  I don’t really know where to start, but they did give me a key (he, he).  Yeah, I will start with the parlor on the right as you walk-in…I’ll scrape and paint until others help-out, or they kick me to the curb.  In the meantime I’ll pretend like I am supposed to be there; the old confident-swagger trick.

Before we pack your lunch on that first day of school know this:  I don’t care what you learn as much as I care about how you learn, and especially how you see the world around you…and the way you treat others.  My advice; love the Lord, be a Renaissance woman…be creative.  

And if you see me emotional while listening to Etta James, you now know why!

Love,

Daddy

Putting Things in Perspective

I hate needles.  I have a visceral reaction to needles…I shutter when I am in proximity to one.  I have avoided them at all costs.  Our school nurse Jamie pled her case for me to help protect my family since the flu and infants don’t mix too well. 

I reluctantly made an appointment with her, but not before restating my complete aversion to needles.  I sarcastically asked Jamie if there would be someone available to hold my hand.  She responded with an email showing a Grizzly Bear poking his head through a tent door at a campground.  Her caption read, “WAY SCARIER THAN A FLU SHOT.”

I made an appointment with Jamie to receive the dreaded needle on Tuesday, but completely (or conveniently) forgot.  On Wednesday I manned-up and marched myself down to the nurses office located in the elementary school-portion of our campus.

I felt like a giant of a man striding past the wee-little coat racks and miniature furniture.  I seldom wander from my grown-up size habitat of the high school art building.  The door to the nurse’s office was open, but the light was out.  I peeked in and said, “hello?”  In the dark of the office, behind a screen I saw Jamie sitting with a little boy.  She was speaking softly and rubbing his back while he lay curled beneath a blanket.  Jamie gently indicated that it was ok to come in.

I sat myself down on the adjacent bed and was warmly greeted by nurse and patient.  The young boy sat up, offered a friendly greeting and shook my hand.  Although I had never met him, I immediately knew who he was, and why he was in the nurse’s office.

His name is Logan Schoenhardt and he is a second grader.  Not long after I sat down, Logan said as-matter-of-factly, “my cancer came back.”  Logan has been battling cancer for a few years.  After several remissions, the cancer has aggressively returned.  Our small school community prays regularly for little Logan and his family.

Logan said, “Look, they shaved my head again.”  I had never seen Logan without a hat and his thick bi-focal glasses.  Logan’s slightly-larger-than-normal cranium was marked by a spiraling-scar that ran from his temple to the far back of his head.  Logan was not bothered in the least by his appearance.

Logan asked why I was in the office and Jamie shared that I was receiving a flu shot.  I asked Logan how many needles he has received in his life.  He said with a wide smile, “a hundred, million billion.”  He then showed me the tube under his right arm, and between his ribs where he receives his chemotherapy.  Logan was resting from a recent treatment.

Jamie handed me a form to sign prior receiving the shot.  Logan noticed that I was left-handed like he was.  We talked about art and I shared that I teach his talented older sister in the high school whom he is clearly impressed by!  After a bit of small talk, Jamie sat to my right with the shot.  As I watched her tear the packaging, Logan (unprompted) walked over to me from his bed.  He stood directly in front of me, leaned on my left knee and held my left hand with both of his tiny hands.

I turned to see Jamie, but before my eyes could make contact with her (or the needle) Logan covered my view with his hand and guided my face to his.  He gripped my hand again with both of his, but this time squeezed repeatedly…like a beating heart.  His little hands were surprisingly strong.  Logan looked square into my eyes with his bright, unflinching stare and said, “now just look at me.”

Jamie administered my shot at the very moment his hands squeezed mine, and I truly felt nothing.  Logan softly, and compassionately said, “See that wasn’t so bad.”  Logan, a tiny second grader battling cancer, offered me his bravery, compassion, strength, protection, and love…for my flu shot. 

Logan had no idea of the impact he had made in that moment.  Nurse Jamie and I held-back the emotions we naturally wanted to express.  (Though I could not hold back my tears shortly after I left her office.)  Logan was simply being himself by modeling God’s love.

Well, I did asked for someone to hold my hand for my flu shot.  Thanks nurse Jamie, and thanks Logan! 

I no longer fear needles.

Please contact Joneen Monitto (jmonitto@masterschool.org) to inquire about how to donate to Logan’s extraordinary expenses.

The Procession

"The Procession," 32"x78", Oil on Linen.  

Collection of the artist.

I recently spoke on a panel along with a group of highly accomplished arts-professionals.  For my small, and not so highly accomplished part, I was asked to share with college students a many-hats-perspective of making a living in the arts.  I spoke of teaching high school and college classes, maintaining a private art studio, running a portrait painting business, selling original art, little lecture gigs at local art leagues, etc… Sometimes all of these things are happening at once, sometimes none of them are happening at all!  The point I shared was that an arts-career (for me) is nebulous, not linear! 

What occurred to me after the panel discussion was how unimportant a singularly defined art career is for me now.  I did not long for the amazing careers many of the panelists had.  I am exhausted by the extreme efforts I had made for prestige, to be “known” over the years as an illustrator, or portrait painter, or artist.  I think of my college degrees earned, the countless exhibits entered, and the studio we built.  Lots of moving targets with not real fixed position…no real “why.”

All things are no longer measured in direct relationship to my art.  Purpose has changed.  My purpose now?  To provide for my family.  That is it.  I aspire to all things good about being a Godly husband and father (in that order).  Yes, I frequently fail, but I am working on it.  The target is in a fixed position, and I have not grown weary!

To simply say how diminished the family-unit is within our broken society is a gross understatement.  One does not need to be a psychologist to see the walking-wounded, especially in the classroom: societal destruction caused by broken families…mother wounds, and especially father wounds.

I also see amazing family-units, in all shapes and sizes!   

The Procession is a symbol of our family-unit.  It is a profession of my role as servant leader to my family.  The message echoes the Christian pillars I aspire to model: to reject passivity, to earn an eternal reward, to accept responsibility, and to lead courageously as a man.  All of the sliding, turning, pulling, rolling, carrying, dragging, drifting, sniffing parts proceed toward a common light…in unison.

Today (anyway), I can discern my joy from happiness, my purpose from status.  I know my "why." It is the love of family I wish to share through my art…despite my career!

Goodbye Old Friend

I awoke at 5am this morning in preparation for the six-hour drive in my truck to pick-up my new motorcycle…well, a used one, actually.  A 2007 Ducati Monster 695.  I had searched online all summer for the right make, model, year, and mileage.  One I had “on the hook” was sold from under me last week, but this one…black and red, and pristine was on hold for me in upstate New York!  My precious.  I had cash-in-hand, the blessing of my wife, and a window of time to make the trek. Minutes before I was set to leave, I could not.

Life seems to come full circle.  Motorcycles were, after all, an in trickle part of my upbringing.  I mean, heck, I grew up in Laconia, New Hampshire…home of the oldest motorcycle rally in the world!  As a teenager I rode a street bike to school.  A Kawasaki Ninja 600, also black and red.  At one point or other most of my friends rode bikes. Call it status, call it culture, riding was just what we did.

‘I need an outlet,’ I said to my wife Kelly as she held our eleven-month-old daughter.  ‘I need to aim stress away from my home, to be in the moment, to be balanced, to feel revived,’ Yes, riding meets the criteria of those things. 

Am I selfishly placing my needs before my family's? Am I a petulant child, wanting a toy?  Am I worthy of such a luxury?  Will this really fulfill my need for an outlet?

I left the decision to buy the bike to Kelly.  She spent time processing the pros and cons (and costs) of welcoming a motorcycle into our family.  Kelly has no experience with the culture of motorcycling aside from what I had shared with her, and her visit this summer to Laconia Bike Week.  She recognized the value I had for riding and gave me her blessing to buy it!  Now it is my call…all clear! An easy decision for me, right?

Turns out not an easy decision at all!  We accept the inherent risks of riding.  I know my responsibilities of family, especially to my daughter Annie.  The bike is a luxury, particularly an exotic Italian one like a Ducati which, turns out, is very expensive to maintain.  The costs were an issue, but not prohibitive, not holding me back.

The decision to purchase the bike today hinged upon answering a question objectively:

Why do I feel that I need such an outlet at this point in my life!? 

The “reasonable” outlet of riding had quickly become living-out a fantasy.  The pursuit became too surface.  I had given-in to the seductive impulse of redefining myself with black leather, tinted shades, and decadent, “Ducati Red.” 

After taking a hard look, it seems I have lost my way.  When I put the “outlet” of a Ducati motorcycle in relationship to our beautiful art studio I began to have clarity.  It seems I am escaping from the fact that art has become detached from my roles as husband, father and teacher.  Buying a fantasy was way easier than the complexity of working toward weaving art (and our studio) back into the fabric of family.

There is nothing wrong with black leathers, a sexy motorcycle or the culture of riding!  I painfully must confess that the fantasy of riding was avoidance all along.  A distraction, not an outlet!  The way I need to aim stress away from my home, to be in the moment, to be balanced, to feel revived, is by art-making!

I will reconsider returning to motorcycling only when my priorities are back where they belong.  I am fortunate this lesson did not turn out to be an expensive one!