Chet Davis
“I grew up in a small Pennsylvania coal town in the fifties and sixties. Art was not at all part of my childhood. There were two old religious reproductions hanging in my home, "The Last Supper" hung in the kitchen, and a portrait of Christ hung in my parents bedroom. I found very early that I liked to draw, and I was pretty good at it. I would spend hours in my bedroom drawing, mostly from my imagination, on any paper surface I could find. I learned to hide my creations because if my father found them he would tear them up and tell me to stop wasting my time on nonsense. So, for years, I hid my talent, believing others felt the same as my father.
When I was ten years old and in sixth grade we were studying Africa in geography and I found myself fascinated by the wildlife. One day in the recess yard, I found a piece of coal and began drawing African animals on a concrete retaining wall that bordered the recess yard. Most of my classmates came to watch and encouraged me to draw more. I was always a shy, quiet kid so I enjoyed the attention.
After recess, back in the classroom, our studies were interrupted when the janitor came in and whispered something to the teacher. She went to the window and turned and asked who drew the animals on the wall. A number of my classmates pointed at me, simply wanting to give me credit for the cool mural. So I was quite shocked when she came to my desk and yanked me out of my chair by my hair screaming at me for vandalizing school property. The angry janitor drugged me out to the recess yard and made me use a bucket of water and scrub brush to erase my art. I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the wall until there was no trace of the mural, the whole time crying and being verbally abused by the janitor.
When I was finished I was led back to the classroom where the teacher continued yelling and belittling me in front of the other kids. I was made to apologize to the class for my senseless vandalism, I was so embarrassed and broken I just wanted to die. I dreaded what would come next, a long walk home being laughed at and bullied about being a loser crybaby. So I was so scared when I saw a crowd of students waiting for me at the end of the block, with the biggest, toughest kids in front staring at me. To my absolute surprise they all began cheering my name, patting me on the head and back and telling me I was some sort of artistic hero.
Things changed, kids who never bothered with me wanted to be friends, the bullying stopped, and I was constantly being asked to draw things. Some kids even paid me a little to draw for them. For the first time I felt accepted, appreciated for who I was, because of art. I recognized the power of what art can do,
it can make a difference, it can comfort, it can confront, it can define a life or a whole culture. I would continue through the next sixty years with my art manifesting my deepest feelings and concerns. And I never again apologised or tried to hide my creations.”
