Recently I was asked if I might respond to some questions regarding my experience as a designer and why I chose to become the often-tormented sort. One of the questions probed brashly my earliest experience as a "creative." The consideration this time took only a moment, compared to my normal over-analyzing, fretting, pondering, jacked processing of an otherwise simple question. Sure, I had creative experiences at a very young age. I use to sit in the church pew at Beacon Baptist Church on Sunday morning and work diligently to fashion twin swaddled baby Jesus' by rolling up my Grandmother Esther's hanky. I would mimic my father as he sat for hours in his recliner drawing his hands, knuckles or wrists. He'd use a range of cool art pencils that had a small plastic cap that I loved to chew off. He'd fan the pencils and erasers out atop his drawing paper taped to his laptop drafting board. He'd shade darker the shadow areas with that rich HB lead or erase back the highlight areas with his art-gum eraser. I'd mimic his movements noticing the small details as best I could at age 6 and render them more roughly with my fatter Crayolas. HR Pufnstuf blared in the background. I was also a genius with a Lite Bright (the yellow pegs paired with the cobalt blue pegs created a sweet spot like no other).
But the earliest and most pivotal experience as a creative soul came when I was around 8 or 9 years old in 1974. My family had just moved from a cramped 3 bedroom house to a sprawling ranch in suburbia (if such a thing exists in the burg where my soul chose to grow up) and we got what was then the new thing—Cable TV. I watched some cable after school—usually Hazel, Gilligan's Island and the Brady Bunch. From watching all those commercials targeted to school-age children (I'd later be labeled a Gen-Xer), only one thing caught my eye: The Sunshine Family from Mattel. I had a rich upbringing of unconditional love that allowed me to be exactly who I was. For a boy to play with dolls was no big deal, particularly since I had five sisters who provided plenty of glittery, mesmerizing dolls for me with which I could fascinate my emo self easily for hours. And I did. So the Sunshine Family was not a surprise when it appeared at the top of my Christmas list that year. Just like most who "suffer" from being the youngest of nine, it WAS under the tree that year. To me, it was the best toy idea ever...a dad (Steven), a mom (Steffie) and, the piéce de resistance, a baby (Baby Sweets). They were small—9-inches or so tall and made in some Asian country of opposable vinyl. I know. How queer. Back then, though, for me it was phh-aat! They were happy to be married, in love and with a cute child to show for it. Perfect in my escapist world devoid of divorce, step-siblings and half-siblings.
I played well with the dolls for a month or two, making a house for them and following the Astrobright-yellow Creative Handbook that came with the dolls was filled with instruction on how to create this like stools out of Aqua Net hairspray lids and macrame planters from jute and toothpaste lids. It must have not been too far in to February 1975 that I discovered just how ridiculous it was for the past six-or-so weeks Steffie, the mom, dressed in her dowdy flowered dress and apron, was content to stay home cooking and cleaning. Steven, on the other hand, was able to go off to work and hang with his office coworkers at the local watering hole—and by this I mean get shoved under the couch while Steffie tended to Baby Sweets and other house work. I decided she deserved an escape. But never in that prairie schooner dress could she respectfully stand by her man.
Just so happens my step-sister, Casey, was quite proficient in sewing and was taking a class in Jr. High. I began sketching the dress options that would be perfect for Steffie to impress Steven's boss and co-workers. I presented them to Casey and we edited the designs down to something that she could make while still accomplishing my particular aesthetic. Together, we came up with a gorgeous green velvet, shoulderless, full length evening dress perfect for impressing Steven's cronies over swank cocktails. Baby Sweets could go under the couch...errr...stay with the sitter.
It was perfect. The dress was tailored by Casey to fit flawlessly on Steffie. She was ready—not only for the cocktail party but...gulp...for me to take her and the gown to 3rd grade Show-and-Tell. And I did just that. I marched out the next morning...it was cold. I proudly had her in my mitt, Six Million Dollar Man lunch pale in the other. All was well until I got on the bus. You can imagine the names I was called. The ridicule I experienced. Right then, on Shelby County School bus #20 driven by Paul Amos, the bus driver, en route to Addison Elementary School it hit me: I
was much different than anyone else around me and life as I knew it was about to change forever. Even my sister joined in on the fun-making. I was crushed. Steffie went directly into the Steve Austin lunch pale, smashing my bologna-and-ketchup sandwich and Ding-dong as I hid deep at the very back of the bus.
I wish the pain could've stopped there. I wanted it to. I wanted to run back home to mom where playing with dolls was just fine and had no judgement attached. I couldn't. The bus door slammed shut behind me leaving no escape and off we went rumbling through the streets of Shelbyville, Indiana. I recall wondering as I sat alone ensuring no one could see anything but my stocking cap, "Why didn't anyone tell me this wasn't cool at home?" How could I be so accepted in the confines of my home and shunned so painfully outside it's comfortable walls?
Once to school, I avoided any direct eye-contact with anyone, hoping the incident would remain on the bus where it rightfully belonged. That was successful until time for Show-and-Tell came along. Veronica Davis shared her new knit sweater, over done with puffy things and shiny objects. Joby Crick fanned out his baseball (or was it football) card collection, pointing to one really groovy new limited edition athlete card he'd just acquired. Tension mounted as I was next. Ms. Wimmer looked to me, wondering why I sat with my face down, hands under my lift-top desk (those kind were seat-and-desk were all in one with a hole cut out for an ink-well irrelevant in 1975). She said with her kind but stern voice, "Well, Stephen?" I looked up with horror on my face. She continued, "What do you have to show us?" I had to do it or I'd suffer her wrath. I fidgeted. She pushed. I opened my desk, fiddled with then flipped the latch on my lunch pale and slowly opened it. A waft of bologna smell came from below Steffie in her still-beautiful gown, now somehow tarnished in my mind. I pulled her out and quickly handed her to Ms. Wimmer. The class snickered. Then, something miraculous happened. Ms. Wimmer turned to the class and glared at them. She told them how many great creative fashion designers are men and that it was a very lucrative discipline. I smiled on the inside. It softened a little the blows I had suffered on bus #20. I had some future ammo, albeit lame, when others called me terrible names. Most importantly, I knew that forever in my life I would be different in comparison and that somehow I had to remain true to my uniqueness. I had to be stronger in all my efforts because of that day in 3rd grade.
I look back on that day. Most of the time when I tell the story people laugh with a slightly pathetic "Awwww" or "Bless your heart" to follow. I've let go. I'm doing what I love to do and working every moment to make a difference in the work that I create. But still, my experience with Steffie's new dress will forever remain seared in my brain, reminding me to be no one but me. And to stick to my passion of making a difference in the world.
Stephen Schaf
Spring is attempting to make headway and Punxsutawyney Phil seems to be correct. Nonetheless, Spring flowers can only mean one thing around Hotbed: it's time to prepare to add some new Summertime creative blood to the Tribe! Internship-style. The suits have pushed the data below my way and it is listed below. Take a look. If you're interested (or know of someone who might be up for the creative challenge), light the match. It's certain to be a creative ball of cerebral yet insane fun.
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