Every Summer Olivia spends three separate weeks taking an art class called Art in the Garden. If I'm counting correctly this is her seventh Summer. She's now in the "advanced group".
She never tires of this peaceful, inspiring class held in an art teacher's garden. Each day the girls work in a different medium, sometimes choosing their spot to sit and paint or draw what they see, sometimes working from an assigned subject, such as a vase of flowers.
It always seems like two hours of magic for the girls each day: making art in shaded garden "rooms", talking amongst themselves, and sharing homemade sweet treats and lemonade. Their teacher, Lucretia, makes them feel so comfortable and special, and encourages the artist in each of her students.
Olivia wants to sculpt in clay when she grows up. She doesn't think of herself as being good at drawing (at least not compared to some people). Somehow, that judgment seems to have no place at Art in The Garden, or at least I never hear about it. I think it may be because those hours spent amongst the flowers is not about being good at something, it's about the experience and the joy of creating.
I asked her tonight if she was able to say why she loved the class so much. She shook her head and said, "I don't have the words."
"You just love it," I confirmed.