The Annual

Every year at Kiernan's school they do something known as the Annual Project. The kids spend an incredible amount of time creating the year's annual project, and preparing for the moment when they will present said project to parents.  Parents are invited on a specific day at a specific time. They all assemble in the classroom and are educated by their children. Basically it's an opportunity for parents to see what their kids have been up to all year.

Did I mention that parents are invited? When I say above that "parents are invited" I don't mean the school sends out an email saying, "It would be nice if you could come by some time and check this out." No. This is a big freaking deal. It's a one time thing. It's an event. The invitation to attend is formal. Kiernan's invitation to us:

The Art of Nature. I know. It sounds hokey. The point is this. My kid's school did so much work to make art and math and science and language come together that I am a total believer. And I'll make you one too, before your reading of this is through. Yes, I kind of despise something called "The Art of Nature" as a knee-jerk reaction. The Art of Nature. Really? Are we in an episode of Portlandia here?

But it worked. It totally worked. Here's how I know it worked, in a few short steps:

1. My kid has started studying geometry. At age eight. EIGHT for goodness sakes.

2. I was asked to help with a photography project in the outdoor classroom at my kid's school. I readily accepted, and spent a morning helping kids take close-up pictures of plants and rocks.

3. I was told, as were the other parents, that this was for math.

4. Here is my kid's picture:

As soon as I turned in this picture, along with the other ones, I saw what the teachers were going for. There's all kinds of angles in there. You can see that. Anybody can see that. Even a math dope like me can see that.

So the kids worked out math concepts with their nature pictures (Kiernan's picture included a bit on acute angles) and then moved on to explore art concepts as related to studying plants and...well...that stuff plants grow in. Here's an example:

Each page of his annual project art book journal had a poem like this--a poem in a specific style, acrostic for example, or quatrain--backed by art inspired by a specific painter. Sure, I was a bit nervous upon seeing "Inspired by Georgia O'Keeffe" on one of his pages, but I got over it. Last week I was talking to a friend about my kid loving doing art, and teaching him about art. "Do you teach him about Jackson Pollock," my friend asked. "Because any kid can do that splatter stuff."

Fast forward a little bit. To the weekend before Iron Man 3. I decided we should watch the first Iron Man movie before taking Kiernan to the third, and he was up for it. At a certain point in the movie, Pepper Potts comes in and says some guy that wants to sell him a Jackson Pollock has another buyer for the painting. Kiernan says, "Jackson Pollock! We're doing him! Splatter art."

Turns out my friend was right. And I prefer Kiernan's version of the art:

The room was surrounded by huge cardboard murals decorated by the students. It was transformative. Beautiful and intimidating, as if Stonehenge had intruded upon the classroom in cardboard. It was so cool. Upon each mural the teachers had affixed examples of student work. Some of the work was string mathematic symbols I still haven't figured out. Some was the result of research the kids had done on endangered or extinct animals earlier this year, as Kiernan had done on a creature known as the Thorny Devil, an assignment that involved getting his first library card, which I chronicled earlier.  In the course of presenting his annual project, Kiernan systematically led us around the room, directing our attention to every detail. I cannot tell you how excited we were to absorb said details. Actually, I don't have to. This picture will convey it:

As will this one:

What joy it is to take pride in the work of your child. And what pleasure it is now to look back--no, that's wrong. It is a double pleasure to look back and think about the times my parents said they were proud of me, because now I get a glimpse of what that actually means.