A common man paints to relieve himself of tension and work pressure; a child paints because painting is his hobby, or because he is instructed to do so by his teacher. A professional painter paints because it is his job, because he needs money to support himself and his family. Some painters may do it for fame. Whatever the reason maybe, whoever the creator maybe, he will create art. To put it in a better way, he will contribute to art. But not everyone feels so. Everyone does not look upon a piece of painted paper as art. Not in all cases. A renounced painter, for instance, will have a number of admirers even if he paints nonsense. But a child will not get the same admiration and recognition even if his painting is beautiful or artistic. I am the creation of one such unlucky soul; I am a painting made by a child, a child who simply dabbed a few colours on a sheet of white paper. He calls me Smiley because I contain three children laughing and looking positively happy. They are in the playground, two of them sitting on swings and the third one playing in the sandbox. I am assuming that he made me thinking about himself and his friends. He showed me to two of his friends, probably those he had painted in me. I was considerably happy when he showed me to his friends. But I think how boring it must be for those paintings that are made by famous painters. It must be awful for them to have scores of admiring eyes watching them everyday. It would have felt good for a few days maybe, but after that it would have felt stupid. People do not admire the art, the effort put by the artist, or his talent. They admire only the name, the name that has got fame. They envy that name, they long to put their name in its place. At times, artists must have felt disturbed because of the importance given to them. After all, it is not easy to be famous.

Paintings like me might have been jealous of the famous paintings at some point in their lives. I also feel jealous sometimes, when I hear about a Mona Lisa, basking in the glorious attention of so many people. It must be something to be special, copies of you in a store, printings on T-shirts and livening up the living room of thousands. At first sight it seems impossible to achieve all that, especially if you have been made by a child. Then, as you think about it, as you see the child handling you with utmost care, when the child displays you proudly among his friends and parents, your distress vanishes. You feel contented to think that your creator is proud of you. You think of the smile on his little face and feel so lucky. True to my name, I bring smiles to the child’s lips every morning when he sees me tacked on his bulletin board.


This is what every painting should do; think about the love given by its creator. I do not preach; I speak from experience.



Smiley
Made by a loving child.