A Spectacular Parade

What will make it spectacular will be the students. Artists, actors, dancers, and musicians, photographers, poets, and performers of all types, these ACMA students will collaborate this February to fill our school with an astonishing extravaganza: The ACMA Spectacular!

The ACMA Spectacular is a joint effort between our school and Parent Teacher Organization. Replacing the auctions of yesteryear, The ACMA Spectacular is our biggest fundraiser of the year, with ticket sales for the performance going to help support students and programs, opportunities to purchase artwork at the event, and fun ways to support the school while getting a little something as a prize like live caricatures by our drawing students or copies of our literary magazine or student literature anthology.

At a place where so many departments produce amazing work, this is the one time of the year when everyone works together to celebrate the kaleidoscopic delight that is Arts & Communication Magnet Academy. The ACMA Spectacular will live up to its name.

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…and it will be different. Delightfully so.

For nearly thirty years ACMA has been tucked away on a little campus off of Center Street, and for the past decade most performances have taken place in our beautiful performing arts center. This year that campus is a flat lot, an expanse of dirt the blank canvas on which our new building will emerge. The new building will attach to the PAC, a fact that’s good for kids, but right now means that our most beloved venue is surrounded by chain link construction fencing. It is a reality that invites innovation.

At ACMA we know how to innovate.

So with this time of change in our minds and the energy that comes from improvisation filling our creative soul, this year’s ACMA Spectacular will embrace the notion of upheaval and take as its theme art in motion, a parade.

Specifically, Picasso’s 1917 ballet Parade. A performance of the ballet, complete with ACMA designed costumes and sets, is the starting point and one of three centerpieces of this year’s ACMA Spectacular. 

Parade was actually written by writer and filmmaker Jean Cocteau, with music by “gymnopedist” composer Erik Satie, and surrealistic sets and cubist costumes designed by Pablo Picasso. Their early 20th century collaboration was novel to say the least, and the result left Parisian audiences as confused as they were delighted. 

The story goes that E.E. Cummings was at the premiere of Parade, and dug the surrealist experience. I like to imagine that the show at least helped to inspire his 1924 poem…

Picasso
you give us things
which
bulge:grunting lungs pumped full of sharp thick mind

you make us shrill
presents always
shut in the sumptuous screech of
simplicity

(out of the
black unbunged
Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes
or

between squeals of
Nothing grabbed with circular shrieking tightness
solid screams whispers.)
Lumberman of the Distinct

your brain’s
axe only chops hugest inherent
Trees of Ego,from
whose living and biggest

bodies lopped
of every
prettiness

you hew form truly”

And sure Picasso’s costumes were clunky, made of wood and cardboard, and the set tilted with shapes and angles, the work of a painter, not designer. And yes, the music slips into ragtime during the show (and ragtime ballet is not a rich genre …yet). And yep, the story was about a group of artists struggling  to gather an audience for their show, busking the streets of Paris, trying to capture the attention of passersby. But a century later the idea of Picasso’s Parade is as rich with possibilities as it was on the day before opening night 1917.

Such collaboration and innovation is something we’re proud to do at ACMA, and from the start of this year’s soirée both are evident in the work we’re doing to prepare.

You can see this inspiration finding its first voice in the artwork for the ACMA Spectacular poster. ACMA visual artists were asked to come up with representations of a parade, and shared a parcel of images with our PTO, a creative collective of parents tasked with marketing the event. Wildly diverse, these artistic interpretations reflected our students’ many points of view.

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A clever parent looked at these offerings and embraced the improvisational mantra: “Yes, and…” The end result was a wild mélange that included bits from many of the students’ work. Like so much of ACMA, this parent’s ingenuity embraced the abundance of art and allowed something marvelous and unexpected to emerge.

Last year’s Spectacular was epic, both in spectacle and duration. This year we’re already working on tightening up the show, even as we keep the connections between artistic pathways and representations from each. We hope, like Cummings’ Picasso, to “hew form truly.”

This year, in our temporary home on 118th, three venues will hold that “sumptuous screech of simplicity” (well, maybe not too simple), as one big experience fills campus for two nights of artistic celebration. Dance, song, art, spoken word, and so much more will be on display, some of it for sale. We’ll stage Picasso’s Parade in the large dance studio, with costumes by our visual artists and music by our orchestra and band, and have two other theatrical spaces where audiences can see the artistic power of our amazing students.

This is a fundraiser, so we hope our patrons and friends will give generously as they enjoy the show. Supporting art and artists is a tradition as old as time, and all of our students benefit when the community around them both believe in them and help provide the resources they need to create.

The 2020 ACMA Spectacular will be filled with some surprises, some standards …and all ACMA!

You can purchase tickets now at our PTO website!

“Making your unknown known…”

The poet finished her second piece and looked up at the audience. “I have one more,” she said quietly into the mic. “Would you like me to read the long version or the short version?” The crowd answered without hesitation, shouting enthusiastically: “LONG!” The poet smiled, just a little, her composure strong. “Really?” she asked. “YES!” answered the audience. And it was awesome.

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The whole event was an experiment to be sure, something ACMA hadn’t tried before, at least not this way. Open Mic Nights of recent years past have been marvelous affairs populated by wildly talented students with polished pieces, well organized and planned weeks in advance. Last Friday’s soiree was the equivalent of a pick up basketball game, or one of the guitar pulls famously hosted by Johnny Cash (where Shel Silverstein might try out a piece to an audience including Kris Kristofferson or Johnny Cash might sing a tune to T Bone Burnett). It was a night of having fun, trying things out, and cheering each other on like crazy.

IMG_1526Students arrived at the venue, a rug a the base of some concrete steps set up with a simple mic, a stool, and an upright piano, and wrote their names on a clipboard. We tried to mix it up so singers were interspersed with stand up comedy, dance, and poetry. 

I told the performers and those in the audience something I believe to be an ACMA truth: “Art matters and sharing art with one another can be a positive and transformative experience. ACMA Open Mic Nights are forgiving and kind affairs, and strive to encourage all performers to continue to create art, share their voices with others, and applaud like nobody’s business.” At ACMA we’re in the business of making artists, sure, and also making good audiences.

IMG_1552We started with the philosophy: “Whether you succeed or not is irrelevant, there is no such thing. Making your unknown known is the important thing,” a line from Georgia O’Keeffe.

The night wasn’t only about beautifully crafted pieces, but invited our students to try something that mattered to them. Our school is rich with opportunities for students to audition, rehearse, hone and perfect performances, but Friday invited them to do something different.

There was no backstage on Friday, just people in the audience watching, waiting their turn, and cheering when they saw peers make art. The informal feel of the night complimented the variety of performances: a marvelous song with ukulele, an a capella dance number (really), a very funny standup set on drivers education, and a show stopping pair of songs with piano and voice. Add to that the moving poetry that started this post, an acting scene, and more than a few songs that had the audience humming and wanting to join in on, and we had all the fixings of a great event.

It takes courage to stand up in front of an audience and, to use O’Keefe’s phrase, “make your unknown known,” and on Friday’s Open Mic Night that’s just what these amazing ACMA students did. 

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We’ll do it all again, with Open Mic Nights on November 5th, and December 13th, from 6:30-8:00 pm at ACMA. Come cheer on the kids, allow yourself to laugh, applaud, and be inspired.

Knee Deep in the Hoopla

I could always walk the hall from end to end in five minutes. Starting out in front of the office —after hitting “play” on the morning music— I would go up past the mural of Leonidas, turn the corner and say hello to Mr. Kindblade, who was always standing outside his classroom greeting students to start the day, and walk up the sloped hallway beneath the dog Mona Lisa mural saying good morning to students while managing most days not to spill my coffee. I’d keep going past the Tom Marsh Gallery and on up to the end of the hallway where I’d usually open the doors to the outside and say hi to the students coming out to the music portable. From there I’d retrace my steps, music still filling the halls (as much as our antiquated speakers would allow, too loud in some spots, hardly audible in others) weaving through the thinning crowd as I passed a large mural of Pegasus and our iconic flannel clad Mona Lisa, turned the corner near the student store, and ended up at the doors to the library.

Dog-a LisaSometimes —oftener and oftener to be honest— the music didn’t sound so great. Sure it might be a fantastic tune, a little Billie Holiday or David Bowie, but the PA system had seen its best days end back when Jimmy Carter was president, and all too often it was hard to if the Bangles were really telling us to walk like an Egyptian or Johnny Cash was actually talking about a burning ring of fire.

That said, I loved seeing nearly every student every morning, even if the crowds could be dense, the songs filled with static, and my coffee always just one rolling backpack away from disaster.

Moving to a new building this year, those of us in the front office knew that we wanted to keep the ACMA tradition of morning music in lieu of a first bell alive. Touchstones like that are important as we work to keep our sense of ACMA strong.

We were excited to have a better internal sound system, and we spent the summer working with everyone we thought might help us be sure we could play five minutes of music every morning to start the school day. Herculean efforts by my amazing assistant, whom I’m certain got more than a few sideways looks when she tried to explain to people unfamiliar with ACMA how important it was that the principal be able to play a Starship song at 7:25 AM, paid off, and by opening day we were able to start the morning by explaining to our students in song that “we built this city on rock and roll.”

pegasus.jpgThe song was so clear in the hallways of our temporary campus, and I even heard a student on that first day laughing and telling a friend “I don’t know why, but I love this song.”

Me too.

And as the opening weeks rolled out (to the sounds of Miles Davis, Styx, Ella Fitzgerald, and Buckshot LeFonque among others) I realized that no matter how fast I walked, I couldn’t make it from one end of our borrowed building to the other in five minutes.

What to do?

I tried being equitable, walking the C Hall one day and the B Hall the next. I attempted to circumnavigate from the giant painting of David Bowie outside the front office up the stairs, down the B200s, over the skybridge, down the stairs, and up the C100s. Bob Dylan stopped singing about “Mr. Tambourine Man” before I made it back around.

SpartansIt’s still early in the year and I’ve got good walking shoes. I believe I’ll figure it out.

When we move back to our new campus on Center Street in the fall of 2021 things will be better. There will still be more ground to cover than our original campus, but we’ll be closer again, our doorways not separated by sprawling hallways or empty classrooms, but clustered around an open area ready made for art. 

In the meantime…

I’ll relish walking (on sunshine) the halls every morning, hearing (really clear) music from across the decades, as diverse as Blind Lemon Jefferson and Cher, Chet Baker and Katrina and the Waves, Aretha Franklin and Tom Waits; as diverse as the creative souls who fill our school.

I’ll still say good morning to the kids, still see teachers out in front of their doorways, and still do my best to avoid spilling my coffee. Things might be a little different, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t be as good as they always were, and maybe even better. We’re still together (and now without portables). We still dance when we hear Cindy Lauper or Panic! at the Disco come over the PA, now clearer than ever. We’re finding out way together, building this city on…

Tempest Tossed

“Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.” –The Tempest

We hope to be good neighbors. Honest. We see that the homes around our new campus are close. Really close. Like look out your window and nod at the white cat perched in the sill of the townhouse across the way close. 

We know that this neighborhood has never seen the likes of us; a well ordered cavalcade of elementary school students have tromped through the halls of the campus that we’ll call home for the next two years, a very different crowd than our spirited, quirky, iconoclastic teenaged ACMAniacs. And we hope…

We hope that the neighbors will see in us a celebration of creativity. We hope that they will see in us hope, and inspiration, and fun. We hope that the first time a mom or dad pushing a stroller past our home on 118th Avenue sees us they will notice our multicolored hair, unicorn onesie, furry tail, rainbow backpack, fabulous makeup, Cher concert shirt, hooves… and walk down the hill humming the refrain from Prince’s Paisley Park.

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With just a couple of weeks to go before students fill campus with an energy that is difficult to capture in words, I want to whisper those lines from Caliban to our neighbors: “Be not afeard.”

Because while our metaphoric isle is full of noises, ACMA strives to “give delight and hurt not.” Our twanging instruments and sometime voices, our dance and art and film, our poets and potters, actors and animators all strive to bring dreams to life, to share our creative souls with those around us.

Those neighbors that are so close included.

And as we begin our year it is incumbent upon us to reach out to the homes around us and introduce ourselves. We are the colorful people whose hair on one side is swept back, a wild conglomeration of poetic spirits who are finding ourselves and our place in the world, and who for two years will be plop in the middle of a lovely neighborhood of orderly houses, wide sidewalks, and people walking dogs.

We will sometimes make more noise than an elementary school. We will host big performances that fill our parking lot with the cars of audience members. We will have student drivers.

And…

We welcome you to come see a concert, watch a play, marvel at a dance performance. We’d love to have you come to Art is My Voice or February’s ACMA Spectacular. If you do, we can promise to give you the best art we’re capable of, something that might just inspire you to believe that our world does contain magic, and the future of our planet is in good hands with the youth of today.

Then, two years from now, we’ll be gone like a dream.

Perfect, with Obstructions

For more than a quarter century they made art in imperfect surroundings. Dancers danced in studios carved out of spaces designed as elementary school classrooms, musicians rehearsed in a low ceilinged portable, and actors performed in a Quonset Hut. Strikingly, the results were magical; talent, passion, and perseverance outweigh infrastructure. In the end art wins.

And then we tore it down. We didn’t, I guess, but the construction team did, reducing seventy years of wood, concrete, and plaster to dust and clearing the way for a new campus to open in the fall fo 2021. That building will be designed as an art school, a powerful gift for our kids. In the interim ACMA has taken up residence in the voluminous building that will eventually open as a middle school for more than a thousand students. With our 700 or so kids it feels a little like wearing dad’s suit.

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But this bigness isn’t a bad thing, at least in the short term. Having packed our little art school into boxes and traipsed across town, it has been nice to have enough space for everything, and while we know there will be swaths of the building we don’t use, as a temporary home it’s a pretty terrific space.

I’ve been able to gauge reactions to our temporary campus from the handful of teachers, students, and parents who have stopped by over the summer for meetings. As I’ve taken them on impromptu tours, dodging in and out of boxes and furniture in the process of being assembled, I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the comments and smiles inspired by the building and what we’re doing with it.

Some cheered at the large clean classrooms, others were wowed by the beautiful wood on the walls of the commons, and two students who walked around couldn’t get over how many bathrooms there are. “And they’re huge,” they added. I suppose they are.

This campus where we’ll spend two years will be nice for our creative ACMA family. With more than enough space, the compromises we’ve had to make (like two years without our performing arts center) seem to be working out (thanks to some good old fashioned creative problem solving), and the overall result is almost what one staff member called it, coming back from a tour: “For a rental, this is perfect!”

Ah, perfect.

That line reminded me of a documentary my film teacher recommended to me last year called The Five Obstructions. It’s a film about art and the creative process, and as I got to thinking about it this summer, it struck me as a nice analogy for what we’re about to do as an art school.

Screen Shot 2019-07-30 at 7.49.58 AMThe Five Obstructions takes as its starting point another film, a 1967 short The Perfect Human by Jørgen Leth. The Perfect Human is an artsy meditation on …something. You can see the whole thing here if you like, and if you do you’ll recognize the work a confident artist working in a medium he knows and creating a polished piece that can be classified as art. Visual, creative, and more than a little quirky, there is a whiff of that ACMA spirit about The Perfect Human. It is the kind of film our students would dig.

Screen Shot 2019-07-30 at 7.50.37 AMFilmmaker Lars von Trier certainly dug it, and in 2003 invited his mentor Leth to remake the short five times, each with a collection of “obstructions” that would challenge him to adjust and force him from his original plan as he pushed against the limitations von Trier imposed that blew up his comfortable and familiar way of working.

These obstructions are many and diverse: he must remake the film in Cuba, for example, with no shot lasting more than twelve frames; he must shoot the short in “the most miserable place on earth,” but not show that place on screen; he must turn The Perfect Human into a cartoon.

The results are delightful.

The process, however, Leth describes at one point as “demonic.” And… An oyster without sand under its shell doesn’t produce a pearl, so while Leth complains to von Trier that the constant cuts of the first obstruction (twelve frames is about half a second of screen time) “will be totally destructive,” once done with the film, he reports that “the twelve frames were like a gift.” For an artist, challenges are like that sand in an oyster. 

Now I don’t know what unexpected obstructions will come with our temporary (but perfect) home. In August I can anticipate a few: some of the classrooms won’t have the furniture we expected, using lockers for the first time in our school’s history will be different to say the least, that sort of thing. But for every expected obstruction, I’ll wager that there will be another dozen we can’t predict. Some of these will feel “demonic” and some will lead to artistic gifts.

So thinking about The Five Obstructions, I hope that our response to the obstructions we will face will be not to grouse and stamp our feet on the floor, but to embrace the challenges, look for creative solutions, and remake our approach to making art (and our approach to making meaning in the core academic classes) and use this as an opportunity to do something wildly creative.

Screen Shot 2019-07-30 at 6.48.09 AMThe results? Heck, they could be all over the map. And that’s okay.

Leth’s series of remakes run the range of emotion, imagery, and innovation. His actors, including him as one of his actors, inhabit environments unfamiliar and evocative. Watching The Five Obstructions, and the remakes included within the documentary, is like pulling back the skull of an artist and peering inside.

Screen Shot 2019-07-30 at 6.35.49 AMPushing an artist to work within constraints, limit him or herself to a particular palette, or respond to external complications outside him or herself could suggest that the process or the product would be compromised. And yet…

Looking back at the 1967 film that started it all, modern audiences might notice that the “perfect person” smokes a lot (a pipe for him; a cigar for her), is very white, and seems to embrace the trappings of the midcentury western bourgeois society. Given an opportunity to bring fresh perspective to this point of view, many of our students might come up with something innovative, very personal, and new.

How might that hold true for us as we are faced with the obstructions that come in any move? How might these challenges, and we know there will be surprises that challenge us, inspire in us innovation?

I have no doubt that this big yellow building can be a great home for us for two years. Perfect, even, with obstructions.

Always Choose Kindness

The ceremony was, as it should be, about the kids. Four student acts provided the crowd with amazing music, from classical to Dave Brubeck to an acapella tune from the movie Once. Folks went to a concert and a graduation broke out.

ACMA Grads

If I were a betting man, I’d wager that we were one of the few commencements around that included “Blue Rondo Ala Turk.” So cool.

The student speakers were fantastic too. Three of them took the mic to remember their years at ACMA, thank staff and families, and look ahead to a creative future in which they can make a difference. As Jazanna inspired her peers, “We have already made our voices heard within our school, they are still echoing in the halls. Now it is time to step out and raise our voices even louder for the world to here. We owe it to ourselves, the ones around us, and those who came before to stand up for all we believe in. To speak loudly, even when our voices are shaky, and  to create art that will voice our opinions, inner thoughts and sincerity, while reflecting our society’s truths.”

That idea of change through art is a defining attribute of ACMA, where students who care deeply about making a difference develop the technique and find their voices to make that change. With sixth through twelfth grade on campus, that journey sometimes takes years.

Katlyn, who had played in the orchestra at commencements since she was in sixth grade, shared “nothing prepared me for the shock and realization of today. For the excitement, the sadness, and the fear. The fear that ACMA is no longer the place I will go to in the fall, no longer the place I leave for the summer, the fear of leaving after being here for so long. But this place, it will always be home.”

Home was a word that got used a lot that morning. It was the title of one of the musical pieces, an amazing orchestral cover of the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros tune, and worked its way into both speeches and the choral piece. None of that was an accident; for many, the quirky, artsy, rainbow hallways of ACMA are the first time school felt like home.

Isabel, our valedictorian, described coming to ACMA this way: “I was this twelve year-old with a terrible sense of fashion, who wore knee high socks, shorts over leggings, a side ponytail, and thought it looked amazing. But I was also someone who didn’t know where I belonged in the world, what I was meant to do, or who I was meant to be,” she told the crowd. “But I found this place. I found ACMA…”

There is a magic to Arts & Communication Magnet Academy, a magic hard to communicate succinctly or in a way that is as clear as it should be. It’s a feeling when you walk on campus. The students, the staff, the atmosphere of the school is …technicolor in a world of black, white, and gray. We’re a collection of poetic souls, music makers, doodlers, dreamers, and dancers. At a more conventional place we’d be the outcasts or oddballs; if high school were an ‘80s movie, we’d be the Mary Stuart Masterson character. …and proud of it.

We’re human, and fallible as humans are, and yet ACMA is a place where the default setting is acceptance and our propensity is toward kindness, even if we need to be reminded of that once in a while.

Our faculty speaker caught the adult perspective on how staff contribute to this atmosphere when he turned to an analogy from the natural world and told the seniors: “Right now, I feel like a bird. Specifically, a bird parent. I’m guessing a lot of your teachers, a lot of us in this room feel like birds right now. We  through the years have put in a lot of work to prepare you for this point. You are going to leave this nest after we have spent years watching you grow. Think of your teachers, counselors, administrators and supporting staff as your bird-parents. We have been going out into the world and finding useful morsels, bringing them into the classroom (math equations, chemical reactions, elements of storytelling, basic manners, worms, insects) and lovingly vomiting them into your screaming mouths.  We have watched you break out of your shells and grow to be big and strong. And now you’re leaving.”

But before they left, we had some more music.

That Brubeck tune followed Mr. Kindblade’s speech, and with the audience’s collective toes still tapping it was my turn to speak. Now I know that the nadir of many commencement ceremonies is the old guy yapping at the youngsters, so I’d decided to keep my time brief and heartfelt. I’d already arranged with the quartet who’d be playing the Dizzy Gillespie tune “Night in Tunisia” that they’d be set up as I was walking to the podium and the bass player ready to start up when I finished the ninth and final word of my “Charge to the Graduates” as tradition calls it.

Before I took to the podium I stepped out in front of the class, my back to the audience, bad theatrical form, but time for one last heartfelt message just to them.

It also gave the jazz musicians time to get in place.

If asked, I would have titled the speech “Three Words, Three Times,” and the text was just that. They’d heard everything they needed from me already, so this was just one last time to remind them, and all of us:

Always choose kindness.
Always choose kindness.
Always choose kindness.

Cue the bass. The piano and drums jumped in, and the singer raised her own mic, scatting to bring the crowd to applause. We were back to the good stuff. The kids. The art. What matters.

Into the Sunset

The mural had remained unfinished for 25 years, a panel of the film unspooling above the door of what had been the film room started but never completed. Few noticed it, or said anything if they did, but this year, as ACMA turned its collective attention to the history of our artsy school, conversation sprang up about the unfinished mural in the main hallway.

So rich with possibilities.

It took about thirty seconds to realize that as the building entered its final year we ought to finish this picture. Sure, it wouldn’t be as long lived as the rest of the murals on campus, and…

To lean into a little Robert Frost:

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.”

I took to social media to ask if anyone wanted to pick up a paintbrush and finish the mural. An 8th grader was quick to say “yes.” We agreed that in keeping with that notion of art as experience, and underscoring the impermanence of art that our school is feeling collectively this year (as we prepare to move and see the 1949 building razed to make way for a new ACMA in 2021), we’d set the date for this completion in May.

As artists, we know that making art is where the magic lies, even if the physical life of that art is as impermanent as those first summer leaves. Sure, some of the big ones stick around, The Last Supper, the cave paintings at Lascaux, and such, but paint on a wall knows that its life is limited, and yet as humans we keep painting on walls.

Diego Rivera, the prolific Mexican muralist, recognized that “great art is like a tree, which grows in a particular place and has a trunk, leaves, blossoms, boughs, fruit, and roots of its own.” And while some redwoods tower above all others, other trees provide the wood from which humans have always built houses for shelter, ships for discovery, and the brushes, pencils, sculpting tools, sets, and stages that have given voice to art for eons and continue to do so today.

Rivera talked a lot about the importance of his work as it related to his culture, as true for him and Mexico as it is for us and ACMA. Enter that middle school artist with a box of paint and a ladder.

IMG_1616 (1)Hers would be the last mural at C.E. Mason Elementary, the longest running project in our school’s history, and a nod to art for the sake of art, not simply for longevity.

She decided, on the day she came in with a couple of friends to complete the painting, that she’d end the mural history of this building with a sunset.

“My friend told me ‘nothing gold can stay, Pony Boy,’” she explained to me with a smile, referencing the S.E. Hinton classic. That seemed right. “If you look closely you can see the two figures there watching the sun go down.”

Painting (and laughing and snacking and hanging out) took much of the day, as it had when the first artists pulled ladders to the wall back in 1994. Then, as now, making art at ACMA was both communal and filled with fun.

They even snuck a line from a My Chemical Romance song into another frame of the mural, a perfectly ACMA thing to do.

A quarter century later, that mural looks great, complete, ready for destruction when the school year ends. The destruction of the building, not the spirit of art. …and I like knowing that these same students will be juniors when we move to the new campus in 2021, ready to work on the first mural in the new ACMA. Stay gold, Pony Boy.