Rows of paper squares are strung up along the classroom walls. A mish-mash of crayon strokes are at the center of each square. No, not always the center, sometimes the edge, sometimes only one half of the sheet. At times the strokes are bold, often petulant, or timid, or precise.
Each painting is marked by the name of its creater.
When I look close at her mass of squiggles, at times I can see the narrative or mood.
A close up of a huge balloon strung on a long string, tied to the edge of a tiny bed in the far distance. A tiny person rests her head on a clearly marked pillow. She drew this a couple of days back, sitting beside me while I worked. I could see the story, I knew of the balloons she hoarded after her party, the lovely new pillow sarada gifted her.
And there was the drawing she titled, 'Boy in pouring rain'. A huge work that covered her entire blackboard.
But alongside the rows of paper, I saw only a riot of colours in her piece. I could see how four year olds try and conquer the challenge of a blank page. I could see the distraction of chatter and giggles.
Ofcourse I seek out the unique tale that my child is telling, but I did revel in the sameness of four year olds messing with colour.