A few weeks ago our family toured the DeGrazia Gallery in the Sun in Tucson, Arizona, a small campus of adobe structures and the home of famed artist Ettore “Ted” DeGrazia until his death in 1982. With his own ingenuity and effort, DeGrazia designed and built numerous structures on-site, including a gallery, his house, and an open-air chapel. Behind his house is a shack, now in disuse and clad in boards—presumably one of his original studios. We peeked through a knothole and could see old furniture. One of my daughters spotted a well-baked snake upon one of the tables. On the way back to the car my wife stopped and looked into a ground squirrel hole. She suggested I take a look. I peered in and saw a large snake. Our kids gathered around. They, too, could see the dark mottled skin of a bull snake. For a few moments we studied the snake and then loaded in the car.

Wouldn’t you think that our children, when asked to recount our visit, would at least mention the artwork, the unique structures, or the craftsmanship? How could they not? It was all around us. Yet when telling others about our visit to the gallery, their account begins and ends with the snakes. 

Does this mean my children did not learn anything? Was the outing lost on them? We can mistakenly believe that, because others may not highlight details we deem essential to a subject, they have not learned anything. Many of the groups I work with confront this phenomenon on a routine basis. They are bringing a message of health and wellbeing they dearly want youth to embrace. In the process they include potent facts and data—and may be disheartened when students do not with absolute clarity reflect back this valuable information. On surveys and in focus groups it is common for students to highlight aspects most of us would consider footnotes. We take seriously what students report, and use their feedback to strengthen future efforts. But we ought not be distraught and assume students have learned little when they don’t say what we hoped they would say.

Every one of us is able to articulate only a fraction of what exists in our subconscious. Learning experiences, be they field trips or classroom activities, help create a larger context within the unseen, ineffable crannies of our minds. This context serves a critical purpose, like the background of a painting. A painter typically paints a background first, moving in subsequent layers toward the details contained in the foreground. Diverse and stimulating learning experiences construct a background upon which we can add details through ensuing life encounters. That we cannot articulate in detail the existence and the nature of this background does not mean it isn’t there, or relevant. 

Particulars are important to learning, but they will be most powerful in a context wherein they gain meaning. Imagine how the image of American Gothic would change if skyscrapers replaced a southern Iowa cottage as the background of Grant Wood’s masterpiece. The background gives the two figures in the foreground a particular significance. Our tendency is to invert this relationship, emphasizing the so-called facts that compose the foreground. Though kids may be able to recount such facts with remarkable accuracy, they remain suspended—segregated from a context necessary to provide meaning. 

As a parent and educator I have to be patient as my children and students build their background layers and prepare to add details. Had my wife and I gone into our DeGrazia tour with the strong conviction that “Our children will learn about Ettore DeGrazia and gain an appreciation for his art!” we would have been frustrated and disappointed. Yet, because of the critical role I believe background plays, I’m confident they did learn something valuable upon which they can add detail. Appreciating this larger perspective can help us focus on bringing life and richness to the larger context within which effective learning takes place.