Art As Life: Ode to My Art Smock

I dedicate this article to those who are trying something new. To you, raise a glass and cheer you onwards.

Here are my introductory remarks spoken at the 14th Annual Liberty Museum and Arts Center Poetry Festival held at the Liberty Public Library with a reception at the Liberty Museum and Arts Center. This event was held on September 23, 2023, the summer equinox, a day of transition, that some call a season of change.

Hi. I am Hope Blecher. As an educator for the past 39 years and as a person who gets joy from reading out loud to children and who encourages my students to enter festivals such as this one, I will share that I am a little bit nervous. This is my first time participating in a public poetry festival. Thank you for this opportunity and for the gracious hospitality shown to those who read before me. Being in the line up as the person to read after the county’s poet laureate is a tad nerve-wracking. Here I go.

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That smock,

That extra, extra-large shirt.

White or tan ??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Fit for a large man. ??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

That one I loved,

That fit me like no glove.

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That smock,

The one so large,

No clothes got a splotch.

The one some giggled at

When others got a splat.

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From that pocket on the left,

To the knees below,

That smock,

That extra, extra-large shirt,

You brought me comfort.

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From dots to dabs,

From braces to glasses,

The wipes from my fingers,

Were able to linger,

For art class was my heaven

And the smock my home.

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As years passed,

The school lists grew,

On it always a smock,

‘though never a shock,

That mine was not new.

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What did I wear?

Why do you care?

I will tell you,

And you will see,

Why that smock became so special to me.

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Then, we lost touch,

And I grew into a college gal.

Then a wife, and a mother,

A teacher and a student.

No more smocks for me,

It was aprons upon my knee.

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?Yet, those shirts,

Soon, they began to cover up hurts.

And, still, you would smile and share.

As if you did not mind,

When I asked for a few,

They always looked so new.

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No plastic,

Always cotton

As if it just been gotten.

Ah,

The beginning of a ring around the collar.

Although to me that was not a bother.

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That smock,

The one I wear now and again,

From way back when.

With adult finger prints,

And some colors sharing their tints.

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Today,

Those years so far away,

The shirt in the closet,

The one too big to fit.

It will be just right.

And I’ll pull it out tonight.

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?You see,

The shirt,

That smock

That fits me like a T,

It was a gift,

From my dad to me.

(Note to self: I have read this poem out loud to practice and although this last stanza gets me chocked up each time, it is important for me to forge forward reading it, saying it.)

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After the poets were done, a few people milled around to chit chat before heading over to the museum for the reception. What happened there had me grinning and shaking hands. People, who moments before were strangers, spoke with each other. For me, here's what came next. Two people complimented me on the color of my eye glasses and my boots. Others mentioned the cadence of my reading. One audience member compared two of my stanzas to Dr. Seuss's poetry. A few reached out to put a hand on my shoulder and made comments about their art experiences and others about their fathers.

Would I put myself in this vulnerable position again? I am already thinking of what I could pen for next year, the 15th annual poetry festival. Who's with me in taking another tiny, mighty, beautiful step?

Author’s note originally written when I penned the poem.

Every year from elementary through high school, we would need to bring a smock for art class. Sometimes art class was in an art room, other years, we had art on a cart. The art teacher would bring the supplies on a cart with wheels and travel from room to room.

My dad wore a size 13 shoe and was 6 ft and close to 200 pounds. He was a big guy, especially when you’re a youngster. My art smock, year after year, was a shirt that he would give to me. When I was younger, it would be a short-sleeved shirt, although the sleeves were to my wrists instead of my elbows.

Art was my favorite class. Although I was a good student, well behave and working hard to get good grades, art was where I could get lost in time. From elementary school through high school, it became less fun, at least for me. Talent and college potential took the focus in those classes.

What happened to me? I went to college, got good grades and became a teacher. That career officially lasted 39 years. I became a wife, a mother, a divorcee, a single parent, a remarried woman, a step mom, and yes, a friend, a daughter, a niece, and a hard worker.

What happened to art? My creativity snuck into my work. Sometimes administrators embraced it, yet, other times they looked aghast, and at last, I was let go. That has lead me to today. I have reunited with art. I write, paint a bit, cut, glue, color, and see where things fit.

Thank you for making the time to hear this poem, to attend this event, to read it for yourself.

Thank you for making space for me.

Go grab a shirt,

Play in the dirt and give a squirt.

A dab,

And a hug to someone like your dad.

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Artfully yours,

Hope