In third grade, I thought it was interesting how so many people lined up for the water fountain after PE class. The line wrapped around the corner as impatient, sweaty little kids eagerly waited to get a sip. The thing is, this fountain was the worst fountain ever—it had zero water pressure, a metallic taste, and a rusted spout that looked like it had survived both world wars. You could be fifth in line and it would still take you several hundred “Mississippis” to get to the front. The water trickled—like a stream so far displaced from its river roots that you were pleasantly surprised it still flowed—and the only way to get any of it in your mouth was to place the spout dangerously close to your lips, then balance your head carefully between catching the next big disease and getting your ears washed. Yet I think, because it was the only fountain there was, at the only time we truly needed one, that everyone still lined up day after day.
This past fall, I went to the Tate Modern while visiting London—mainly to satisfy my Harry Potter obsession—and a particular piece stood out to me. The Fountain by Marcel Duchamp was a porcelain urinal placed on its back with a quick signature near the bottom. Before I even entered the exhibition, I saw wide-eyed museum visitors surrounding Duchamp’s work. I found it strange how something so ordinary—something we hide in restrooms—could draw such attention and praise. Seeing the crowd squish itself to fit more spectators inside the room was even more remarkable. It was almost beautiful how the artist’s decision behind displaying the urinal gave it unprecedented artistic meaning and presence. Duchamp made it seem as if this urinal had something to say: Look at me! I’m worth as much as the other exhibits! — and people were willing to listen. Just placing a urinal in this vast white room changed what people thought they were allowed to see in it.
Interestingly enough, those years ago, it was next to my school’s fountain that I gave away drawings every day. It began when I drew a portrait of my friend with big sparkly eyes, extravagant dresses and accessories (she was practically Fancy Nancy on paper), and exaggerated dimensions—then my classmates wanted one too. Looking back, I don’t really think it was about the drawings. I was the first to dedicate time in creating something that was specialized to each individual; to be clear, I was not good at drawing, but I did have the time to devote to it. In the thirty-minute recess blocks, I would sit down with the communal bucket of colored pencils—pencils that had a 50-50 chance of being broken in half—take several out, and draw. I drew from imagination, so it was a miracle if any of my classmates could recognize themselves. Their faces came out slightly off—the eyes were shifted outward, their mouths were stretched uncannily wide, and those necks (I’m tensing up just recalling the images of the necks) were comparable to those of giraffes. If you stared at these drawings for too long, it was almost discomforting. Even though I colored in every corner, for some reason, these drawings still felt incomplete to me. Nonetheless, the next day, I would stand by the water fountain during recess and give them away. The thing is, as bad as my drawings were, I was treated as if I was selling limited edition Rembrandts—something expensive or valuable—and my third-grader self couldn’t comprehend why.
Eventually, the fountain and I seemed to develop a close bond. It kept trickling out water despite having almost nothing left to give, and I kept giving away drawings despite having almost no real skill. Neither of us was impressive by any measurable standard. But people kept coming back for that thin metallic sip and a portrait that could’ve been deemed abstract art. Standing inside the Tate inspecting the urinal, I then understood what Duchamp had displayed: Where and to whom you present something determines its value. Inside the museum’s grand walls, the urinal was given a chance to be seen from a new perspective. Standing in front of the urinal, I recalled how my classmates kept the drawings with features I never drew right, and then I understood why that was. I realized, maybe because that was one of the first times at school they felt recognized and seen, my peers found value in the artwork by appreciating this new type of attention. Outside the gym, because everyone was thirsty, they valued the only thing that created water, giving the fountain a fulfilled purpose. Creating, I think, only gets us so far but the rest belongs to the audience we present it to. They complete the piece by finding new meaning in it. Duchamp knew it. The fountain showed it. My drawings and I finally figured it out.