Joe King
My kindergarten art teacher’s name was Joe King. I remember 3 things from his class:
A boy threw an eraser at me while I was working on a project. Later that day, when I told my grandpa what happened, he said the boy probably liked me. (I learned this to be true, it’s but not a tactic I am keen on.)
I made a purple and green mask out of construction paper that I considered to be—far and away—better than everyone else’s in my class. I was probably right.
Mr. King stood in the front of the class and drew a cartoon man who had a hand on his hip. That day, he explained to us a—literally—elementary concept: the importance of negative space.
Mr. King told the class that the empty triangle under the man’s propped up arm was as important as the man himself. I smile now and wonder if Mr. King was at all charmed by the idea of being the first to explain one of the universe’s underlying truths to a group of young souls. I remember him to be electric, so I am sure he clocked this little joy.
Now, in my big kid years, I am learning and relearning the significance of negative space. Delightfully sneaky, I soak in the reality that the most simple truths tend to stick, nag, and take on different forms as we unpack their hidden complexities.
Today, I sit baking in the sun, studying a literary magazine, doing my best to pry every source of inspiration out of the artists it features. In my current state of desperate restlessness, I crave any drop of endorphins squeezed from the flowery language or colorful imagery.
Today, instead, I am struck mostly with the white space on the pages. The parts without words or color have profound beauty in their quiet—full rebellion in their mark-less-ness. Negative space, turning up as a cocky display of artistic vision. (Much like a cartoon man with a hand placed demonstratively on his hip.)
Today, I find myself at ground zero. I have been stripped of all the art I had worked so tirelessly to curate. That which breathed color into my world, all washed away in a window of just a few weeks. Heart and ego both shattered, my blank slate does not display the stunning intentionality of the white space in my magazine. It gently shows me what it would it be like to sit in this stillness, to not busy myself with panic.
I leaf through the pages and touch the white, hoping it will gift me some of its bravery.
