REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK -- Deepa Bharath

Creativity is a word that doesn’t mean much to you when you’re a kid.

When you sing or dance, it’s fun. It makes you happy. When you paint,

it’s kind of funny when you get watercolors on your nose. When you write

-- well, that’s merely a way to blow off steam when people just don’t

understand.

While art may be nothing more than a three-letter word at that point,

every child gets attached to what he or she creates. We take pride in our

creations however insignificant or unappealing they may seem to others.

That’s why it hurts when those objects are snatched away from us.

It happened to seven children in Newport Beach last weekend when their

paintings were ripped off the walls of an art gallery where they were

students.

In those children’s eyes, I saw a melancholic emptiness. As they

talked and smiled, their sad eyes and pinched faces told the story of

their grief, anger and uncertainty.

Their losses cannot be measured in terms of time, space or money.

If and when 11-year-old Claire Kohne becomes a creative director for

an advertising agency on Madison Avenue, she would still be missing two

works from her personal portfolio.

Her first painting -- one she visualized in a dream -- was no longer

there for her to admire. The acrylic work trapped a little girl’s surreal

experience on canvas. It pictured humans battling sea creatures

underwater in a submarine.

For Claire, the work was her first taste of success as an artist. It

was part of a show the gallery exhibited last month and she got rave

reviews for it.

And now it’s gone -- probably forever.

I felt Claire’s pain and that of others I met at the gallery. I had a

similar experience when I was not much older than Claire.

That said, I must confess that I did not possess a fraction of

Claire’s artistic imagination or creativity. If there is an “Art for

Dummies,” I would have been a model dummy.

Allow me to illustrate my artistic incompetence with a scene that is

branded in my memory. For a fourth-grade art class, I made a crayon

reproduction of an unlikely airport with airplanes standing on their

tails seemingly ready to launch into space like rockets.

Not only did the teacher give me an abysmal grade for the project, but

she held up the work and laughed as did the class of 50 students.

I had none of these children’s abilities. I had no sense of dimension

for crying out loud.

But even I hurt when my only piece of artwork -- a large, colorful,

beaded place mat -- was stolen during a class project.

It was the only thing I ever did that could ever be labeled as art. It

was the only piece of handwork where my hands actually worked. It took me

two years to complete the mat, which my mother proudly displayed on our

coffee table.

In hindsight, I think I did it to prove to myself that I could do

something artistic if I put my mind to it. It was important to me on so

many levels.

I feel that loss even today. It all came back when I met the children

at the gallery.

I know that the loss will hover over their heads like an annoying

little insect when they start on their next painting.

The place mat was my first and last piece of artwork. Was it because I

was so deeply hurt by the loss? Or was it because I couldn’t work with my

hands? I don’t know.

But I hope these children find it in themselves to get past this

incident and not let a petty thief get in the way of their artistic

endeavors.

* DEEPA BHARATH covers public safety and courts for the Daily Pilot.