Art School Teacher: On Noticing Not Noticing

What to do when finishing a book that has no end?
How to conclude what has no conclusion?

This week, because the weather is so warm, I hold class outside.  

We breath.
We walk. 
We listen.
We write.
We discuss. 

Sometimes, that's all that's needed.
Sometimes, it's not nearly enough.

selection from the rainy day portrait gallery of collaborative kids' drawings

I notice that when I close my eyes and the sun is shining upon the lids, I can see the red of the flesh and the outlines of cells.  I notice that when I blink my eyes I can see faint membranes sliding across my vision and reason that they must always be there, but that I rarely notice. 

I remember first noticing these eye ghosts when I was a child and reporting it to my mom who was at first concerned, but then as I described it, came to recognize it as maybe a dead cell floating on my eyeball. 

I notice a girl sitting in a boy’s lap with her arm around his neck.  I notice the sound of a skateboard and a girl yelling and music coming from a radio.  I hear the squeak of the flag whipping from the pole and the distant roar of traffic that never dies.

I notice the birds chirping and a leaf skittering across the sidewalk and I notice that the sun is in and out of clouds.  I notice a car engine rev and a boy cry, “Eddie!”  I notice that the students are all still writing. 

I notice that some are doodling. 

I notice that I am not anxious about whether or not this is a good lesson.  

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