This piece was my student's response to an invitation to draw a pumpkin. As I was hanging it up to include with a documentation panel, I was struck by just how much of himself was really in this: His choice of color and media. His placement on the piece of paper. His body's movement and energy. His choice of when to stop.
All of that in a "scribble."
It's interesting to me that I rarely hear the word "scribble" without the antecedent "just." I hear adults - parents and teachers alike - grumble about "just a scribble." I hear children point out one another "just scribbling." I always find that one a bit sad. In my experience, children who say that about another's artwork have had their own described that way. As though their scribbling were inferior to other kinds of mark-making.
For many children, scribbling is their first experience with the creative process. Imagine the feeling, for a very young child who is still so largely dependent on others, to be able to make something appear where it was not. Something that doesn't disappear. That exists only because you made it so. Imagine the sense of power, of satisfaction. There is a reason that humans, over so many hundreds of thousands of years, have felt compelled to make a mark. Our marks say, "I was here." They can outlast us. They can make us eternal.
That's a pretty magical experience, regardless of your age.
As children grow, scribbles take on new kinds of power. Their scribbles build the muscles that make it feel comfortable to hold a writing tool. Children begin to associate the marks they make with their thoughts. Scribbles may begin to take the form of shapes, pictures, letters, words. Now, our marks are not just a testament to our presence; they can make our thoughts and feelings visible. We not only exist as humans. We exist as gloriously unique individuals. And marks can capture that.
Long after we've mastered the art of writing, our ability to scribble remains. Scribbling is a release. Scribbling is joyful. Scribbling is therapeutic. Scribbling is human.
Scribbling is beautiful.
Are my students' scribbles honored and celebrated? You bet. Because they deserve to be.
Let's all scribble more.
All of that in a "scribble."
It's interesting to me that I rarely hear the word "scribble" without the antecedent "just." I hear adults - parents and teachers alike - grumble about "just a scribble." I hear children point out one another "just scribbling." I always find that one a bit sad. In my experience, children who say that about another's artwork have had their own described that way. As though their scribbling were inferior to other kinds of mark-making.
For many children, scribbling is their first experience with the creative process. Imagine the feeling, for a very young child who is still so largely dependent on others, to be able to make something appear where it was not. Something that doesn't disappear. That exists only because you made it so. Imagine the sense of power, of satisfaction. There is a reason that humans, over so many hundreds of thousands of years, have felt compelled to make a mark. Our marks say, "I was here." They can outlast us. They can make us eternal.
That's a pretty magical experience, regardless of your age.
As children grow, scribbles take on new kinds of power. Their scribbles build the muscles that make it feel comfortable to hold a writing tool. Children begin to associate the marks they make with their thoughts. Scribbles may begin to take the form of shapes, pictures, letters, words. Now, our marks are not just a testament to our presence; they can make our thoughts and feelings visible. We not only exist as humans. We exist as gloriously unique individuals. And marks can capture that.
Long after we've mastered the art of writing, our ability to scribble remains. Scribbling is a release. Scribbling is joyful. Scribbling is therapeutic. Scribbling is human.
Scribbling is beautiful.
Are my students' scribbles honored and celebrated? You bet. Because they deserve to be.
Let's all scribble more.
