Keeping the Points

When I was seven my mother bought me a pack of twenty-four Crayola Crayons. Before ever coloring with them I arranged the colors in order—best loved in the front row. My favorite color—magenta. I tried to color evenly so that no side of the crayon wore down first —turning the crayon like a spit. I recall sleeping with the box under my pillow.

Nina lived across the street and she knew how to color in the lines.First she outlined in black and then colored in the selected area. I preferred to eliminate the black. I didn't want to use up the crayon.

Now I own tubes of watercolors, colored pencils, oil pastels, assorted pens and inks and mix up new shades on a palette—sometimes successfully, but occasionally my colors take on the hue of a swamp. Magenta still rates high on my list.

Later on I'd own a box of sixty-four crayons, but the first box was magical. It opened up the world of possibilities. Colors didn't need to conform to what was real. You could construct your own imaginary world with its particular colors.

I had been to Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus at Madison Square Garden with my mother and grandmother several weeks before getting the set of crayons. When my father brought home a roll of white paper I set to creating my own circus complete with a poster. Since I didn't want to use up any one crayon, I used all twenty-four.

What freedom. Aerialists walked on purple wires and green elephants pranced around while ochre tigers jumped through magenta hoops. My grandmother said, "Why not." My mother told my father that I had an eye for art.

My mother's friend Gus wondered if I had trouble seeing colors.