Alison's CMA Response

      The Picasso Zoo

      She couldn’t convince her principal that a field trip to the art museum would be a worthwhile endeavor. “Why would seeing art be of any benefit to the third graders of Hillcrest Elementary School?” he exclaimed. “They need to concentrate on science and math. We have important testing coming up. Why don’t you devote your energy to those bulletin boards outside the cafeteria,” he remarked.
      Mr. Garmen, the principal, was a stodgy, balding man dressed in a starchy, tight too white shirt. The shirt was so tight that it emphasized his undefined neck, highlighting one of his more unfortunate traits, which led the other teachers to dub him with the nickname neckface. Neckface always wore a drab brown or black tie- God forbid he add any color to his wardrobe- he might get mistaken for one of those metrosexuals like Mr. Hanson.
      Mr. Hanson, the science teacher was always bugging her with his amateur photos. He’d recently purchased a digital SLR and fancied himself an artist. He took photos of squirrels, deer and woodpecker, any woodland creature he could find sitting still long enough in the national park. He even sold his photos at a fine art show at the Holiday Inn off of Route 18.
      How would she get her students to the museum? They needed to see art, to experience it in person.  Those ratty reproductions of Van Gogh’s sunflowers weren’t doing the trick. Then one Monday afternoon, during her planning period, a strange brochure arrived in her mailbox crammed among the Oriental Trading Company catalogs and PTA flyers. “Bring your students to the Picasso Zoo for a cubetastic experience!” it boasted. “Unlike Calder’s Flea Circus, this tour connects to both science and art content benchmarks.” Below it, in small type she read, “Please book your tour three weeks in advance.” In even tinier text she thought she read,  “The Picasso Zoo is not responsible for any lost, damaged or flattened students.” Ignoring the ominous, tiny type, she rushed to Mr. Hanson and convinced him that a visit to the Picasso Zoo would contribute to the third grade’s study of habitats and ecosystems. Even Neckface approved of the field trip and agreed to act as a chaperone for the day.
      She was so excited to finally take her students on a real field trip that she orchestrated an outfit that combined the stylistic sensibilities of Miss Frizzle of the Magic School Bus and Dora Maar, Picasso’s emotionally distraught ex-lover and muse. She arrived at school bright and early the morning of the field trip wearing a gorgeous a-line dress covered in cubist shapes. After loading her students on the bus, the journey to the Picasso Museum was surprisingly uneventful.  As they pulled into the bus drop off area and unloaded the students, she noticed several souvenir stands hocking berets and black and white stripped shirts. Like a kid at his first concert, Mr. Hanson hastily purchased a striped shirt and threw it on. It did not do his flabby, bear stomach any favors. As Neckface thumbed through a visitor’s guide, she realized that she was left to wrangle the students who were pressed up against the ice cream counter of the museum’s café. “Mommy I want ice cream,” exclaimed one of the children, his initial instinct to tack the name Mommy on to all of his wants and desires. A thin, pale couple rolled their eyes at the motley crew. “Is that Absinthe they’re drinking?” questioned Mr. Neckface with a worried expression.
      After corralling the students up, they led them past the cages. The first animal seemed normal enough. An ostrich peered out at them. Upon closer look, it was covered in beautiful rosy pink feathers and a blue tongue peeked out from its beak.
      They moved onto the next pen, the petting zoo, which was a little stranger. A horse that looked just like the one depicted in Guernica approached the brood.  The kids reached out to pet it and they observed its blocks of black, grey and white cubed splotches. As the horse let out a blood-curdling scream, she thought it would be best to move the group along.
      They approached a huge cage. Before she even got to it she saw her colleague reach out for his camera. Whatever he saw was giving him a major art boner. “This will be one of my greatest photographs ever,” he murmured. Then she caught sight of it. It was a bull with a huge furry face, but it was also a man. It was the minotaur. It was Picasso. People had thrown food at him. The bottom of his cage was covered in bones, apple cores, dead mice and his own feces. He loomed over the crowd of children and peered directly at Mr. Hanson, who had ignored the no flash photography sign. The minotaur sneered, his big snout covered in slobbery venom. He was mad. Slamming his horns against the cage, he reached out with full force and pushed the bars apart. His claws reached for Hanson. As he grabbed the camera, he tore off Hanson’s pant legs, revealing a set of bright purple, flashy socks. The minotaur ran off into the tall labyrinth in the distance, Hanson chasing after him in his striped, purple glory.
      Although she hadn’t expected the performative aspect, she’d finally been able to expose her students to real art. She couldn’t wait for next year’s field trip, but maybe next time she’ll plan something a little tamer like the Norman Rockwell Planetarium.