MasonARC, the George Mason University Arts Research Center, is at its core. It is a multidisciplinary project that resulted from an improbable partnership between the university’s psychology department, the College of Visual and Performing Arts, and the College of Education and Human Development. Simply put, the objective is to investigate how children’s and adults’ cognitive and social development is impacted by creative engagement, such as theater, visual art, and imaginative play. Not in a gentle, qualitative manner. in a quantifiable, empirically supported, and scientific manner. That’s a more uncommon goal than it seems.

America’s arts education system has long relied heavily on faith. We teach kids to perform and draw because we have a gut feeling that it benefits them. Relatively little rigorous research has been done to support that belief in ways that meet behavioral science standards. MasonARC is essentially placing a wager that George Mason is the ideal location to close that gap and that the time has come to do so. It’s still unclear if that wager will be profitable.

Dr. Thalia R. Goldstein, a psychology professor who has spent years examining the precise impacts of theater education on children’s social and emotional development, is one of the researchers working on the most intriguing projects within this framework. Her work takes seriously the question of whether learning to pretend to be someone else, hold a character in your mind, and navigate a scene does anything quantifiable to a young person’s capacity for empathy, perspective-taking, and self-regulation. Anyone who has spent time with children acting out plays will understand this type of research intuitively, but it has seldom received the controlled investigation it merits. One gets the impression from reading Goldstein’s work that this field of study has been waiting a long time for someone to treat it seriously and with true scientific rigor.

This push is more credible at Mason than it might be at a smaller school because of the larger institutional context. The university has been actively developing its research infrastructure for a number of years. The College of Humanities and Social Sciences are now housed under one roof thanks to the new Horizon Hall, a $191 million project that completely changed the Fairfax campus. This physical proximity allows interdisciplinary work to take place rather than just be discussed at faculty meetings. Students from 47 different majors attend the Mason Innovation Exchange, which is housed inside Horizon Hall. At the same time, the university is expanding its Grand Challenge Initiative with a $15 million investment across six research areas, funding quantum computing research, and pursuing partnerships with the U.S. Air Force.

MasonARC is a university actively working toward something greater, which fits into that larger pattern.
The most telling signal is probably the NEA Research Lab designation. Mason is positioned as a federally recognized hub for precisely the type of evidence-based arts education research that has been absent from the national discourse, and the National Endowment for the Arts does not award that designation lightly. This may continue to be a specialized endeavor, significant in scholarly circles but unseen by the general public. In ten years, the research being conducted in Fairfax may have subtly changed the way that art is taught in American classrooms. That’s not a promise. However, it’s a real possibility, and it’s the kind of thing that usually goes unnoticed until the work is finished.

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It wasn’t an accident. It was the result of decades of quiet, unyielding, and frequently unappreciated work by a professor by the name of DeAnn Huinker, a woman who dedicated the majority of her career to fixing something that the majority of powerful people refused to acknowledge was flawed.
Huinker, a professor of math education at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, had spent years witnessing the district’s pupils lag behind in math—not because the kids weren’t talented, but rather because the teachers weren’t given the resources they needed to truly comprehend what they were teaching. The fact that we send adults into classrooms to explain ideas they were never taught properly and then act perplexed when students don’t learn is an unsettling reality of American education. When Huinker realized this, she made the decision to take it seriously in the early 2000s.

She received a $20 million grant from the National Science Foundation in 2003, which at the time was the largest in the university’s history, to establish the Milwaukee Mathematics Partnership. Bringing university math experts into direct collaboration with classroom teachers, allowing teachers to participate in training design, creating feedback loops that truly work, and preventing district politics from consuming funds are all ideas that seem almost too good to be true. It turned out to be more significant than it sounds because Huinker was in charge of the funding herself. Districts with limited resources have a method of identifying conflicting emergencies.

The years that followed, roughly from 2004 to 2014, are now referred to by seasoned Milwaukee educators as the “golden years.” There are 120 math teacher leaders dispersed throughout the district’s schools. Test results increased. Proficiency increased. One school saw a 40 percentage point increase in math proficiency, despite the fact that 98% of its students came from low-income families. People began traveling from all over the nation to observe Milwaukee Public Schools. If this had persisted, the city’s current relationship with public education might be very different.

But it didn’t go on. The collaboration with the university ended in 2014 when a new superintendent took office with different priorities. Surprisingly, considering how long it had taken to create what was there, the end arrived quickly. In the words of one of the first teacher leaders, Beth Schefelker, who had spent years negotiating doubtful principals and uncooperative administrators: “They broke it.” Threading that needle required years of labor. Unraveling it took months.

Public schools are susceptible to a specific type of institutional amnesia. Within a few years, a program vanishes, the leadership shifts, and even the building’s remaining employees are unsure of what was lost and why. That’s what took place in Milwaukee. Currently, 41% of students in the state are proficient in math, while only 12% of students in the district are. One former colleague referred to Milwaukee’s math instruction as the “crown jewel,” but it has become silent.

When viewing this story from a distance, it’s remarkable how recognizable the pattern seems. A teacher or researcher fights bureaucratic indifference at every turn while creating something truly effective, frequently with little acknowledgment. It functions. Then years of meticulous work are abandoned because institutional priorities change, funding stops, or a new leader wants to put their own stamp on things. It’s not just Milwaukee. In American public education, it’s practically a tradition.

Huinker never gave up. After the partnership ended, she continued to work with district teachers, training the next generation of math teachers, finding small funding sources, and maintaining the methods in some areas of the school system. Open forums, content-focused learning, and teachers teaching teachers are all features of the current early childhood education sessions. Kayla Thuemler, a first-grade teacher who had always claimed to detest math, discovered that she was actually enjoying a fractions lesson with a number line. She asked her coworkers, half laughing, “Why am I enjoying myself right now?”

Even though it’s a straightforward question, it’s probably the best thing that can happen during a professional development session. It indicates that a genuine message was received. It’s still unclear if the district has the financial means or stable leadership to rebuild what was lost on a large scale. However, those who were present during the heyday of the building are still there, sharing their knowledge. That’s something, at least.

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For decades, the research on this topic has been in plain sight. In 1967, E. Paul Torrance documented what he called the “fourth-grade slump”—a quantifiable, steady decline in divergent thinking that occurs in children between the end of the third and the start of the fourth grade, usually between the ages of eight and eleven. It’s not a secret. It nearly perfectly corresponds to the point at which children enter what developmental theorists refer to as the concrete operational phase, when reasoning begins to feel more fulfilling than creativity. Instead of acting as a buffer against this change, the educational system tends to hasten it. Children are subtly taught to wait for permission before thinking in IRE classrooms, which follow the initiate, respond, evaluate pattern that most teachers were trained in. Many of them have completely given up on trying to be unique by fifth grade.

The cost of that may not have been sufficiently considered by anyone. structurally as well as for the individual kids. Generative AI will be able to write reports, summarize documents, and pass the majority of standardized tests by 2026. What it can’t do, at least not yet, is sit in a room full of perplexed people and come up with a truly original solution to a problem that no one has completely defined. Every year, we insist that the correct response is more important than an unexpected one, which erodes that skill. Tulsa, with its comparatively strong early childhood infrastructure and community-driven creative programming, has been quietly sitting on one side of the growing conflict in education policy between the old metrics and the new reality.

Researchers distinguish between “big C” and “little c” creativity in the scholarly literature on creative pedagogy. Big C is the stuff of history books: movements that transform culture, inventions that alter the world. Little C is more subdued. A nine-year-old comes up with a fresh explanation for why her response differs from the teacher’s. Despite not knowing what “lateral thinking” is, the student uses common household items to demonstrate it. Little C is not a lesser version of big C, according to the argument being made in classrooms that take this seriously. It is a prerequisite for it. Without supporting the other during its most vulnerable years, you cannot reach one.

The conversation about creative education in 2026 feels different from earlier iterations of the same argument because context is bearing down on it from all sides. According to data from a survey of sixteen to eighteen-year-olds, 93% of them said that creative education improved their mental health and well-being. Ten years ago, this figure would have been considered aspirational, but in light of the recent changes to adolescent mental health, it now seems almost urgent. Separately, studies have revealed that schools affected by the pandemic are still recovering in terms of teaching creative subjects in particular, with participation falling even as the need for creativity continues to grow. It’s difficult to miss the irony.

Here, teachers bear the majority of the responsibility, which is where the theory usually becomes convoluted. A teacher who doesn’t back down when a student’s response is unexpected rather than incorrect is necessary to create a classroom atmosphere that truly fosters little C creativity. According to research, a lot of educators have unintentionally picked up preconceived notions about creativity, such as the idea that it entails nonconformity, that it necessitates creating something tangible, and that it belongs in art classes rather than math classes. It is not difficult to modify these beliefs. But a policy memo is not enough to change them. Time, education, and an institutional culture that genuinely upholds its stated values are necessary.

As I watch all of this unfold, I get the impression that the kids in the most innovative classrooms, whether in Tulsa or anywhere else with the financial means to do so, are creating something that won’t appear on any standardized test for years, if at all. the capacity to maintain curiosity when a problem defies simple solutions. the ability to tolerate ambiguity, which is actually necessary for sound judgment. These aren’t “soft skills” in the derogatory sense. They are becoming more and more popular. Additionally, a third-grader may be constructing more of it than most people realize with a piece of cardboard and an unresolved dispute about story structure.

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The official language of grant cycles and budget announcements tends to flatten into abstraction, but that moment, which takes place in the last heat of a New York City summer, captures something significant about what is actually happening at the National Endowment for the Arts right now. The NEA has endured. The agency’s budget and, most importantly, the long-standing mandate that 40% of grant funding go to state and regional arts organizations that reach every congressional district in the nation were preserved when Congress passed and the President signed FY2026 funding at $207 million. That appears to be a clear victory for the arts community from a certain vantage point. Upon closer inspection, the image becomes much more hazy.

The NEA’s use of that $207 million has undergone significant change. Fostering AI competency in creative curricula, commemorating America’s 250th anniversary, supporting workforce development for arts educators, and reaching underserved institutions, such as historically Black colleges and Hispanic-serving schools, are the new priorities of the agency’s Grants for Arts Projects program, which funds public engagement and arts education. There are no longer any individual creative writing fellowships, which used to provide working writers with up to $50,000. It’s not a subtle change from supporting individual artists to supporting institutional initiatives with quantifiable community impact. Depending on your point of view, it’s either a clear indication of whose innovation the federal government believes is worthwhile investing in or a pragmatic recalibration toward scale and access.

As this develops, it seems as though the NEA is attempting to walk a tightrope between maintaining the idea that individual artists are important and proving relevance and reach in a political climate that is openly hostile to cultural spending. Writers and humanities educators have been particularly irritated by the AI competency priority, pointing out with grim irony that the government seems more interested in funding programs that teach people how to collaborate with AI than in supporting the human creative work that AI systems are trained to mimic. This was precisely the point made in Lee’s rejection letter, which also stated that the NEA would “prioritize projects that foster AI competency.” Put another way, replace the writer with the prompt engineer.

The institutional shift may actually increase access to creative education in ways that individual fellowships were never able to. This conflict has always existed for the NEA; 35 fellowship recipients in a nation of 330 million people is, by all accounts, a small funnel. A $50,000 fellowship to a novelist in New York or Providence might never reach classrooms and students if more funds were routed through school districts, community arts organizations, and workforce training programs. The National Assembly of State Arts Agencies has expressed cautious optimism regarding the 40% state allocation that has been maintained, pointing out that it maintains the distribution of federal arts funding through truly local channels. That argument isn’t entirely incorrect.

However, when the federal arts agency disregards individual artistic vision as something worth preserving on its own terms, something is also lost. Alice Walker, Louise Erdrich, Sandra Cisneros, and Percival Everett have all received NEA fellowships in the past. These authors’ works did not neatly fit into any government priority list, but they went on to transform American literature and culture in ways that no committee could have foreseen or planned. The case for supporting artists is similar to the case for funding research in that it’s not always possible to predict what will be important. Cutting a budget line is not the only effect of canceling the fellowships. It shuts a door that was already closed and implies that the government has determined with some degree of certainty what kind of innovation is worthy of public support.

It is genuinely unclear whether the 2026 reorganization signifies a true increase in funding for creative education or a more circumspect retreat into politically viable, quantifiable, and defensible programming. The NEA is still in existence. It continues to write checks. It has just subtly altered the envelope’s address.

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When the Advanced Learning Academy was founded in 2016, it was founded on the idea that all children, not just those whose parents could afford $20,000 a year in tuition, should have access to project-based, design-driven, truly creative education. This idea felt almost naively ambitious. It placed a strong emphasis on STEAM, design thinking, and maker culture, forming alliances with organizations like Trinity University and viewing robotics and innovative problem-solving as essential components of education rather than as extracurricular activities. There was an instant demand. Before the program’s first day of classes, there was reportedly a waitlist.

By 2019, there were about 10,000 applications for the approximately 2,930 available seats in SAISD’s larger network of choice and magnet programs. The figures at ALA and its cousins on the creative track were especially startling. In just the second year of operation, there were two applications for every available position; this ratio has only gotten more competitive since. Speaking with families who have gone through the lottery process seems to completely change their perspective on public education. Some people don’t think a district school could be worth this much work. Whether they were given a seat or not, the majority emerge as believers.

It’s worthwhile to consider what aspects of the program are compelling enough to create this level of pressure. With a similarly stringent enrollment ratio, CAST Tech is another highly sought-after program in the San Antonio ecosystem that emphasizes technology and entrepreneurial pathways. Because of their arts-integrated curricula, Wernli and Bonham academies attract large lottery volumes. All of these programs reject the notion that public education must be passive, uninspired, and standardized. The first thing you notice when you walk into a maker-focused classroom in this network is the noise—productive noise, the kind that comes from kids who are doing something instead of just taking in information.

Here, the larger national context is important. Parents in American cities have been reconsidering the purpose of education, especially since the pandemic upended all preconceived notions about educational settings. Applications for private schools have reached all-time highs in places like New York, in part due to concerns about public systems. A different possible response is suggested by San Antonio’s experience: public schools that are genuinely innovative in their pedagogy have the potential to pull families back—and pull them hard. In a peculiar way, the waiting list functions as a sort of market signal.

This does not imply that there is no friction in the system. Even though lottery-based admissions are designed to be fair, they still raise concerns. Families are still at a disadvantage if they lack information, flexibility, or time to complete the application process. It is significant that the programs serve students who are 82% minority and more than half economically disadvantaged, but it is still unclear if the lottery structure actually reaches the families who might benefit most or if it just draws the most motivated applicants from all backgrounds.

The proof of concept is more difficult to refute. In San Antonio, a public maker education program has become genuinely rare. The way elite private schools create exclusivity through endowments and legacy admissions is not artificially scarce. scarce since the supply hasn’t kept up with the actual demand. Seeing this unfold year after year gives the impression that the city is perched on something it hasn’t fully decided to scale. The waitlist continues to expand. The issue of what to do about it continues to be postponed. And every spring, a fresh group of San Antonio families wait by their phones in the hopes of getting into a public school that has inexplicably become the most difficult to get into in the city.

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The groundwork was laid by the early days of programs like Sesame Street, whose characters modeled kindness, literacy, and numeracy in ways that were remarkably similar to what kids would encounter in school. These days, new shows like Work It Out Wombats! and Molly of Denali carry on this tradition by providing intriguing, culturally rich, and especially inventive plotlines. These shows are very effective tools of creative education because they are not only entertaining but also intended to inspire kids to apply lessons in real-world situations.

In addition, PBS Kids offers resources that are extremely flexible and go well beyond television. Children can play interactive games that reinforce their learning through pbskids.org and mobile apps. Digital play can be turned into hands-on exploration when a child uses the Play & Learn Science app to roll a ball across virtual surfaces. This experiment can then be repeated at home. This link between screen time and physical activity has been especially helpful, demonstrating that when technology is carefully crafted, it can be a very resilient educational partner.

PBS Kids Overview

Teachers and parents receive the same level of assistance. In order to help adults continue the lessons that children see on screen, the PBS Kids for Parents website provides activities, guides, and conversation starters. Teachers, however, have access to PBS LearningMedia, which offers curriculum-aligned resources that are ready for the classroom. By using these tools, educators are simplifying lessons and creating more room for creative experimentation, demonstrating how media can drastically cut down on preparation time without sacrificing quality.

PBS Kids’ emphasis on diversity, representation, and empathy is another noteworthy feature. Children can see themselves and others in inclusive and empowering ways because characters represent a variety of cultures, communities, and family structures. This has proven to be very effective in fostering emotional intelligence, which is a basis that is equally crucial for the development of creative abilities, as well as academic abilities.

Children are assisted in navigating emotions such as happiness, sadness, or frustration by programs such as Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, which are created with emotional development in mind. These lessons are very effective at preparing kids for challenges, friendships, and school. Parents frequently mention that discussions following episodes result in surprisingly inexpensive lessons in empathy, patience, and resilience—skills that are developed through purposeful storytelling but are difficult to buy in schools.

PBS Kids’ mission has been further amplified by the Ready To Learn initiative. PBS makes sure its resources reach even underserved areas by collaborating with neighborhood stations, libraries, and community organizations. This approach has proven to be incredibly successful, much like how business strategic alliances increase impact and influence. PBS Kids turns entire communities—rather than just individual homes—into places where education and creativity coexist by establishing “learning neighborhoods.”

Children who watch PBS programming have much better academic results, according to long-term studies. The effect is consistent across a range of demographics, from improved literacy to better grades. These outcomes are the result of a purposeful process that includes curriculum advisors, educators, and child development specialists at every level of content creation. PBS Kids is especially creative in this regard, fusing in-depth research with captivating entertainment.

The influence of the platform has also been acknowledged by cultural icons. Michelle Obama worked with others on reading programs, and artists such as Lin-Manuel Miranda provided voices and music for projects, demonstrating that PBS Kids is not just for classrooms but has a broad appeal. In keeping with Fred Rogers’ idea of media as a positive force, these partnerships demonstrate how creative leaders regard PBS as a reliable partner in forming the next generation.

For families who are overloaded with options for content, PBS Kids is a dependable source of high-quality programming. In comparison to many other options, it gives parents peace of mind that their kids’ screen time is not only safe but also considerably quicker at providing educational value. Inspiring curiosity today and laying the groundwork for lifelong learning, the programming is incredibly resilient.

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