GO AHEAD - MAJOR IN ART

When you think of art, what springs into your mind? The Mona Lisa? A child's drawing proudly displayed on the front of the refrigerator?  Perhaps music. Or maybe the images of the "starving artist," enjoying his or her craft, even knowing that chances are he or she will never become financially "rich."  

I wonder if many people consider the impact art has on us in our daily lives.  Look around where you are sitting.  Art is all around you: the design of the chair in which you are sitting, photographs of family and friends and places you have visited, the song on the radio, what you're wearing.  All of those things were envisioned and designed by artists. Sadly, though, I believe art is under-appreciated in our society.  My husband, the engineer, is just about to blow an electrical fuse because my younger daughter wants to major in metals and objects (i.e., jewelry). He's more accepting of engineers, lawyers, and doctors.  I know lots of unhappy engineers, lawyers, and doctors. I don't know any unhappy artists.

Turns out, art is making a more positive effect on people's lives than my husband, the engineer,  believes. The medical profession is learning that art therapy is a useful tool in treating patients with all different types of illnesses.  My psychiatrist is particularly enlightened about the positive effect of art for his patients. I wish you could see his waiting room.  It's a gallery of works created by some of them.  It's a wonderful tool for his patients to express things they are experiencing as they struggle to live life with a mental illness.  For some, it's a skill they didn't realize they had until their illness gave them the time and opportunity to explore their abilities to create something for other people to study and enjoy.

As a bonus, the art also has a positive effect on my psychiatrist.  He revels in showing off new acquisitions to his other patients.  It's logical to assume that a happy psychiatrist is a good psychiatrist - we all benefit from that.  Score: art: 1; engineering, lawyering and doctoring: 0. (I know - I'm including the doctors in the zero category after having just made reference to a happy doctor; but, he's inspired by art. Just go with it.)

So what about Parkinson's Disease and the impact of art on those who must incorporate Parkinson's into their lives? From my reading, two particular forms stand out.  

One is demonstrated in a variety of art created by Parkinson's patients that display amazing talents.  It's clear from those pieces that the artists used a significant amount of control and imagination to create their works. Take Leo Robichaud. Leo is a Parkinson's patient who sold paint for BASF for many years. Now he uses paint to create folk art and help him cope with his Parkinson's Disease. (http://www.parkinson.org/Personal-Stories/Artist-finds-Folk-Art-painting-a-good-therapy-for-) Or visit the Parkinson's Disease Foundation's website. (http://www.pdf.org/en/gallery) It sponsors an incredible gallery of Parkinson's art.  There are art presentations for music, writing, painting, ceramics, and photography, just to name a few.  I feel quite small when I look at what these fellow Parkinson's patients have done.

In a more clinical setting, art therapists use finger painting and clay molding to improve the manipulation and control skills of patients.  Studies show that Parkinson's patients who participate in art therapy retain or improve motor and cognitive skills.  They also have improved emotional and mental outlooks.  (See http://www.metafora.org/eng/eng_arterapia_parkinson.html) Personally, I want to be all over anything that helps me retain whatever cognitive skills I have left.

I ponder the prospect of my own art therapy.  I don't know what it would be. I certainly wouldn't want any painting I create to hang on the wall in my psychiatrist's office - the rest of his patients don't need that type of visual trauma. My daughter, the art major, turns the radio off if I start to sing along with a song, so I'm guessing that's not a good direction. Photography probably isn't an option either.  Do you see the butterfly in the photo on the left?  Neither do I, but it was there when I snapped the picture.

I suppose this blog is my art. I'm an attorney and writing comes naturally after years of drafting 401(k) plans.  I love to write. I've heard there are at least a couple of people who read what I write and that's a bonus. (Fortunate for those readers, I have elected to now write sans the references to the Internal Revenue Code that I held so dear when drafting those 401(k) plans.) Often, I write a paragraph or two about whatever issue it is that I want to discuss with Bob in my next therapy session.  He's a captive audience.  I pay him to read what I write.  I'm thinking about getting some Play-Doh to supplement my writing therapy.  I will use it to make a 3-D image of the puzzled look on Bob's face as he reads what I've written.  I'm going to use red Play-Doh.

THE REST OF THE STORY

Last time, I said:

I can get all philosophical about a good news/bad news thing.  Good news: I'm no longer throwing up. Bad news: I'm using more lovadopa than I want.  No news: none of it may matter. Life is like that.  We have to look at the glass half empty or half full.

But.......................please, please, please.  I am not a philosophical sage - far from it.  I learn lessons the hard way - not by contemplating how much sparkling water (my drink of choice since 1/1/12) is in my glass (or, in my case, the La Croix can).  Wondering what I'm talking about?  That is in the next post.

 This is that next post.  


At one time or another, we each have had a good friend who is experiencing a trying time.  I have kids, and have met many of my friends through my kids' activities. Of course, this means my friends have kids approximating the ages of my kids. At any given time, any one or more of my kids might be giving me some sort of heartburn and so it is not a stretch to believe that a good friend's trying time might be attributable to one or more of her kids.  


Such was the case last week. My friend and I were sitting at Starbucks.  Her son was going through some problems and, of course, she was feeling his pain.  I couldn't do anything to help him, but I could listen to her, and that's what I was doing.  She was talking.  I was listening.  Then he called.  He needed her to bring something he left in her car, so we climbed into her SUV and took it to him.  After our delivery, my friend took me back to Starbucks to drop me off at my car. She pulled up next to it and I jumped out of her SUV, still holding my empty coffee cup. Being the "green" friend that I am, I decided to drop my cup in the trash can just over the curb. Then, the fun began.

A concrete tire stopper- not nearly as pretty as the one pictured above - that was in between me and the curb JUMPED UP and hurled me face first into the curb.  My arms never went out to break my fall, so my mouth and nose made hard contact with the concrete.  It was one of those things that happens in slow motion.  As I was getting closer to that curb, all I could think was, "Please, not the teeth. Not the teeth."


Following impact, I crouched on the curb with my head hanging between my elbows for what seemed like a couple of minutes when I heard my friend grab me and shout, "Let me see your face! Are you OK?"  Always the mistress of understatement, I responded quietly, "No." I lifted my face to hers and all she could see was blood coming out of my mouth and nose. (Please, not the teeth. Not the teeth.) She picked me up off the curb and quickly guided me into the store and straight to the woman's restroom.  As luck would have, the door was locked, so we turned, opened the men's restroom door, and fell in.  I grabbed the handicap bar to balance myself while I tilted my face up to stop the nosebleed. (For those of you who do not have Parkinson's, facing up may not be a balance challenge.  For others of us ....)  In the meantime, my friend was soaking paper towels and stuffing them in my mouth, instructing me to apply pressure.  I was grabbing some of them before she could hit her target and using them to apply pressure to my in-the-air nose, all the while shouting, "Do you see my teeth? Are they all there?"

Now, let me tell you something.  You know you have a good friend when she is willing to deal with your blood when it's less than a life and death situation.  One time at a soccer tournament, I tripped over a big plastic box and skinned my shin pretty badly.  Fortunately, I was in charge of the team first-aid kit, which was located in the plastic box.  I was able to crawl to my cell phone, call one the moms who was a nurse, and after asking her if she was troubled by the sight of blood, begged her to come and bandage my leg.  I am such a baby.  But this Starbucks incident, well, this was not a pretty moment. This woman shoving paper towels in my face is a very good friend.


Anyway, as my friend continued to soak paper towels, I pulled the spent ones out of my mouth, and before I allowed her to push fresh ones in, I grabbed her arm saying in my most serious voice, "Wait. Wait. Diane! [Pause] Have I taken your mind off of Zach at least for a moment?" 


I may not have done a great job at setting up the punch line for you, but I can assure you that, standing in the men's room at Starbuck's, still clutching the handicap grip bar as I continued to  pinch wet paper towels against my nose (that was still tilted in the air as I spoke) was pretty funny.  It really was.  That's why Diane and I were laughing.


And that is what I do. There was no glass that was half empty or half full.  There was a 100% empty disposable coffee cup (that eventually I retrieved and threw away) that set into motion a series of unpleasant events that gave me an opportunity to make a stupid joke - a really stupid joke.  I suppose I would say that I look at something that might not be such a great thing at the moment (a glass half empty), and deliver whatever stupid joke that pops into my head, so long as I am the butt of the joke. I stick a straw into my glass and blow bubbles.


G


P.S. My mouth was completely full.  All of my teeth remained in tact.