The Artist's Polygon
By fifth grade, Candace knew she would become an artist. Art suited her spirit – both wild and wise. When her teachers saw her projects, they had the same reaction.
“Candace, you are going places.”
She was.
There was one exception to this praise – Mrs. Harbuckle, the art teacher herself.
Every Friday, students had “free exercise” – a license to create however they pleased. No more birdhouses made of popsicle sticks. No more papier-mâché puppies. Just Candace and her handful of brushes. Most had been gnawed by classmates.
Her father had begun to show her the giants at home – Michelangelo. Picasso. Klee. Miro, her favorite.
One Friday, Candace began to create a flurry of circles. Not Miro’s circles. These were uniquely hers. Oblong. Amoebas. A blue pond with circular fish. Layers of paint created tiny mountain ranges on the school’s thin paper.
Mrs. Harbuckle clopped around the classroom to inspect Friday’s creations. She hovered when she spied Candace’s circles.
“I’ve told you before, Candace, we draw squares. With rulers. They have right angles. Their sides can be divided into equal parts. That’s why God creates perfectly in squares.”
Candace, lost in divinity, offered this: “Did you know that Giotto once drew a perfect circle by hand to impress the Pope?”
“Grommet isn’t here, Candace. We draw squares here.”
With minutes remaining, Candace approached Mrs. Harbuckle’s desk and asked for a ruler and pen. The latter nodded, but just barely.
Candace returned to her chair. With a steady hand, she drew an irregular six-sided polygon with only five sides.
She smiled quietly, knowing that she had left an escape for the air inside the shape to breathe.
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