Looking at the World from Back to Front

"Cloth is rich with metaphors for the body and healthcare. The very act of stitching can be experienced as wounding the cloth or mending it- a stab or a suture. These metaphors are part of what makes fibres so rich to work with - they can hold all that complexity and contradiction and make it whole." -Alison Fox, Art Therapist, Artist and Nurse with the Inuit in Northern Canada

Recently, I began to work on a series of small quilted fabric pieces. Pulling together odds and ends; old cloth napkins printed with zoo animals, pieces of rusted fabric (courtesy of Lisa Mitchell and Jennifer Libby Fay) and snippets of fabric whose original purpose was long forgotten, I created a palette ranging from creamy whites to deep siennas.

I was trying to find a way to describe the series; a response to my art therapy work with very young patients at our hospital, who come to us suffering from abuse or neglect. I didn't want to sound maudlin or theatrical, so Alison's quote was a poignant means of expressing my point.

In the visual work, I want to express the "forgotteness," or hidden side I imagine in many of the children we treat at the hospital. They arrive to receive our care and for complicated reasons, some reasonable, others not, their parents are not at the bedside. Looking anxious, a nurse carries a child into the playroom, where she hopes our staff and volunteers can offer relief--to cuddle, to play with, to divert.

I found myself musing on the romantic notions of childhood; ideas we have about innocence, playfulness and early life as a time distinct from the complicated world of adulthood. For the purpose of this fabric series, I decided that a more realistic image of childhood would inhabit the front side of my pieces.

I also wanted the hidden side of the pieces to be compelling in its own way. I remember an Aikido teacher once talking about the back sides of our body. She noted, we spend so much time concentrating on the appearance of our front that we forget how often people see of us from behind. I wanted my "backs" to tell stories about the part of childhood we don't romanticize, yet when met with awareness and love, is replete with its own kind of wonder.

I don't mean to say that abuse is beautiful. Rather, that when one has the courage to face it, even a person's woundedness becomes part of what we love about them. Those words: "stab wound or suture." Each step we take toward these kids becomes a suture.  Whenever we find an opportunity to hold them, love them, speak to them, sing to them, remember them; those actions become the sutures which begin to heal their wounds.

Is it Failure or Seasons of the Creative Process?

Recently there have been a number of blog posts, books and articles on the subject of failure. One such thread began with a question by artist Lisa Call who asked Artbiz coach, Alyson Stanfield:

“Is failure in your art practice something to be embraced, managed, or forgotten?”

Alyson answered in a follow up post, saying “The only failure is not trying your best.”

Lisa responded with a blog post, Failure Sucks. What happens, she asks, when despite all your best efforts (and perhaps skillful denials), you just get derailed?

"...In my opinion, the interesting part of the failure question: what do you do in between?"

All this talk about failure got me thinking. To a certain extent there are are flops that are best treated by brushing the dirt off your pants and getting back on the proverbial horse.

But often, things just die on the vine. Where does that fit into a culture obsessed with saving time; one that chops time into smaller and smaller bits, allowing us to leap from act to act and achievement to achievement without respecting the time it takes to pass through the stages of the creative process.

We forget to think about the seasons of the earth. There is no way to immediately replace a failed crop of wheat or corn, almonds or oranges. Farmers have to clear their fields, let the soil regenerate and wait for the next planting season.

When a tree drops it's leaves, it doesn't immediately sprout new ones, yet the buds are already in place for when the right time comes. Spring, summer, fall and winter; birth and rebirth, growth, harvest and hibernation.

The creative process is no different. There is incubation, growth and fruition of an idea. And when it doesn't work, sigh, the process needs to begin again. And you wait while an idea, the wave, builds. The time it takes to mature; that's the mystery; the awe inspiring and at the same time totally frustrating part, because we don't know how long it will take or what will result.

Lisa asked what do we do in between? Even though the idea may not have hit the shore, I think we can be skillful. We can cultivate a mindset, a state of mind that invites the ideas in.

The October, 2013, Atlantic article, Losing is the New Winning notes “Why hide deficiencies instead of overcoming them?” asks the Stanford psychologist Carol Dweck in her book Mindset: The New Psychology of Success, in which she argues that a willingness to court failure can be a precursor to growth.

I'm curious. How do you face failure--or do you call it that? What do you do when something you've worked on for some time crashes to the ground?

A Map to Morning

It's mid morning, and I'm in the copy room of our hospital, appreciating the sweetness of my short days while they last. Beginning in September, I'll be going full-time. The knowledge that my half days in the studio are coming to an end is poignant.

Normally, I'm there in the afternoon, and it occurs to me that I should call the playroom supervisor, Margaret* and ask if she'd like me to hold an art group. Most days, the music therapist does a group in the morning, and afternoons are mine, but she's on vacation for the month.

I push the button on my cell phone badge and call Margaret. She's busy, so I call a Child Life Specialist who thinks not, but better check with Margaret who calls back soon after. Margaret is moving quickly while we talk, getting ready for a visit from our university bug museum--yes bugs! Bugs are big here on Peds. "Yes," she says, "I didn't think so, but I was trying to trace a dragonfly for the kids to color in, but I'm needed in 43."  The room number, code for whatever patient is presently staying there.

I've got 5 minutes to consider what to do instead of my usual hour. (Normally  I arrive in my office, check email, study that day's census and charts. In the back of my mind, I'm wondering, "WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO TODAY???" I've got to keep it fresh, both for myself and the patients.

Today, I grab a stack of old maps that I brought from home. We're going to create treasure maps--choose an imaginary destination, draw a path to get there and then crumple and age the paper with plenty of brown watercolor.

It's slow in the playroom and I have time to cut the maps to drawing paper size while I explain the project to an intern Sara* who's holding a lovely baby. Sara loves it. and actually draws out a map to get the feel of the project.  The baby reaches for the edge of the paper, an early map eater.

The kids arrive slowly  and I'm able to explain the project to them. One, confined to her wheelchair, draws swirls of circles on her map, her mind a tangle from infection. I don't think many of the kids have seen maps before, and they're a bit puzzled, so I reference Johnny Depp and Pirates of the Caribbean.

The room is filling and within its confines, there are two in wheel chairs, as well as one boy who's recently recovered from a stroke and needs his paper held down. The baby is unhappy, so I offer to take him and I put on a CD that I think is Caribbean Playground, but turns out to be Taylor Swift.  I gently rock the baby while I hold another girl's paper down for her.

And suddenly, like the swirls on the paper, the room and the group are at capacity. Several kids need individual attention; they get agitated by too much stimulation. It's just myself and the intern for both the group and the rest of the playroom.

A one year old is running around, the swirler begins to hurl crayons. The baby, who has incomplete intestines has a colostomy bag that feels like it's leaking on me. A young boy and his mother are happily working on a map together. She tells me that she used to live in San Francisco and the section of the map she's drawing on is exactly where she lived.

Oh my. Such sweetness and chaos all tied up in one moment. We've tried to calling the nurse for the baby, but she must be busy. Fortunately, several kids complete their project and "oh," another intern comes in. I unplug the baby's IV, try to maneuver the pole with its attachments and the baby out of the playroom.

As I go down the hall, I run into Margaret who helps me to the baby's room. I set the baby carefully down in the crib side wise so he doesn't feel like he's being trapped in the crib. He smiles and his legs kick free. I'm a little wet, but it was just the diaper.

"Welcome to mornings." she says.

*The names of the real people have been changed to preserve anonymity.

Returns, Reunions

I've been stirring an idea around in my head.

Recently, I was offered a real, bonafide, 100% full time art therapy job at the hospital where I work. I would be doing essentially the same job I'm doing now but because of the extra time, I would be able to extend my services to the PICU and NICU, which so far, I serve infrequently.

Knowing that this offer would not likely occur again in my life time, I jumped.

I'd heard it was a possibility, but knowing that the coffers of the University of California aren't exactly flush, it just seemed like a wonderful dream. I also knew that if indeed it happened, it would herald a radical change to my art making practices.

At present, I've been able to spend several morning hours working in my studio, before I hit the road to work. I'm used  to considering, imagining, formulating and then sewing, making collage...creating. With the new job hours starting in September, my morning art routine will be reduced to an hour. I'll have weekends to work out too.

So back to this idea. Many years ago, when my children were young, I worked on several series which were an outgrowth of my meditation practice. I loved the idea that I'd gotten from Japanese American artist, Mayumi Oda, of beginning each day with a mandala.

One of the series was just that, a daily mandala. Another consisted of 5x7 inch wooden panels which depicted the phase of the moon as it intersected my menstrual cycle. Yet another became a series of alchemical flasks, each one holding the ingredients of life that were moving and transforming inside of me.

While I've been skeptical of the concept of self care in the therapeutic profession, as I look forward to a longer work day, I'm seeing it in a new light.

I want to return to the idea of practicing art as a form of meditation, using my hour as a time to make small repairs, adjustments to the soul, so to speak, that will keep me on my way. As the days grow subtly shorter, even here in the midst of summer, I'm looking forward to my own not-so-subtle changes, eager to see what the fall colors will bring.

Socks and STEPS

We have a new program that we are rolling out at Children's Hospital.

STEPS, Supportive Therapies and Enhanced Palliative Care Services,  is a pediatric palliative care program which provides medical, mental health and spiritual services with a goal of helping a child to be as comfortable as possible throughout the full course of her treatment.

At present, we are introducing the program into the pediatric intensive care unit of our hospital.  I'm happy to say that art therapy is an integral part of the STEPS program.

I'm thrilled because I've long wanted to be able to participate in this continuum that begins with diagnosis and continues throughout the course of an illness.

Recently, I've had occasion to watch parents stand in front of their infant's cribs, hesitant to touch their babies, with all the tubes protruding from their tiny bodies. Helping parents to hold their child, no matter what the prognosis, is a challenge.

Art Therapy is about solving these kinds of challenges using creative activities which facilitate awareness and build confidence. What project might help parents to gather the self-assurance required to learn delicate skills, necessary to care for their babies?

In the right hands, the humble sock monkey* can become a powerful vehicle for boosting self confidence. I took up the challenge and created my own example, Oscar. As he emerged under my fingers, I was surprised by how his personality took shape and suddenly, there he was smiling back at me.

I found that cutting, stitching, stuffing and sewing require patience, coordination, imagination and a sense of humor. So I took Oscar and trialed my sock monkey experiment with some parents of young patients.

As I watched the parents sew, some of them stitching for the first time, it was a bit like watching a child take baby steps.  Knots didn't hold, thread slipped out of the needle (multiple times!), but the parents were able to pick up again, laugh at their mistakes and sew on.

Laughing at our mistakes and persisting are some of the skills we employ as parents (those of you who are parents know, there is no shortage of opportunities to make mistakes!) Sock monkeys help parents to experience new skills and their own creativity in a relaxed, yet authentic way.

One of the founders of STEPS, Dr. Theresa Murdock-Vlautin, said that the goal of STEPS is to "enhance care in body and spirit, coordinating resources to provide support, hope, healing and wellness." I look forward to watching the program unfold and the love and wisdom which will grow in the families and in our team as a result.

*For more information about sock monkeys, check out Art Therapist, Gretchen Miller's informative posts on sock monkeys here. For an excellent how-to video, you can look at Art Therapist Kat Thorsen's video here. Many thanks to both Gretchen and Kat for their inspiration and  incredible service projects with sock monkeys.