Healing Arts

The door to Hermione’s room is slightly ajar. Beside the door, on the left hand side, is a very unflattering picture of her, looking up confused at the camera. I knock gently to tell her I am here.

-“Hi there, it’s José. Is this a good time?”

Hermione peeks out into the hall without completely opening the door to her room. She smiles when she sees me, and welcomes me into her space: a simple room with a bed, a chair, a dresser, and a sink. There is a bedside table in the nook beside the bed, and a portable TV table. A large window gives her a view of the yard and the school across the tree lined street. A few plants sit on the window sill. The nightstand holds a collection books, a bible, and pamphlets. A walker stands folded for use, as her back is now hunched over with the ravages of age and weakening bones.

We both sit on her bed, and catch up. Hermione no longer leaves her room much, so there is not much to report. I ask after her son, and her health.

She looks at the bag at my feet.

- “I’ve brought my paints. Are you up to painting or drawing today?”

• “No, no. But I like to watch you paint.”

• “Have you worked on your project at all?”

• “Well, yes”

Hermione takes out a few brown paper towels, the kind dispensed in public washrooms. She opens them, and shows me what she has drawn: the outline of trees, inspired by the tree in the backyard of the house she once lived in with her family, yet modelled on the tree outside her window.

The last time I visited, Hermione told me she would like to make a picture of this tree. I left behind drawing paper and materials. We discussed how it would be: a tall tree on a long narrow canvas. We discussed possible techniques: would she like to paint, collage, or both? At the end of the last visit, her plan was to make a sketch. So here it is.

Now, this time, we discuss the next step. The paper towels could be collaged onto another substrate, but her drawing may not survive. Could we use the paper towels as texture, glued onto a canvas, to highlight the trees on the new surface. Hermione considers this option.

I take out the material I have brought this time: a canvas on which I had demonstrated a technique in one of my workshops. There is medium soaked tissue paper outlining shapes along the vertical canvas, and a round shape in the upper right hand corner. Trees? The moon? The sun?

As we chat, I start choosing colours and playing on the canvas. Hermione watches. I gently pull her into the process.

What should we do here?

Do you like this colour here, or that one?

Where should we take this shape?

What is emerging here?

• “Maybe turn it upside down.”

I flip the canvas, and an entirely different set of possibilities appear.

Brilliant.

We continue working together. Hermione is fully engaged in the creative process, even though she is not ready to paint.

While her attention is captivated by this process, she is entirely here and now. While we talk about art making, her mind is focused and present.

No delusions, no forays into the part of the world that has robbed her of her old life. A life in which she was a wife, a mother, an employee, a home maker, a sister, a friend.

Hermione suffers from late-onset schizophrenia. A series of psychotic breaks led to her being placed in this residence. A soft-spoken, educated and cultured woman, one has to listen very carefully to hear the thread of her thoughts stray into another realm. She speaks matter-of-factly, smiling and nodding, of stories that are cobbled together from her fragmented thoughts. Some are rooted in memories of her old life, others are wishes that never came true, some are made of old hurts. A conversation with Hermione can be an adventure for both of us.

Yet, when she allows herself to engage in the creative process, even as an observer, she recovers the capacity to be mindful. Her hand may not be painting, but her brain certainly is.

I start cleaning up, putting things away. I have been here for two hours, and my parking allotment will expire soon.

• “Would you like a cup of tea?”

I look up, making sure to arrange my face so I don’t show my surprise. A cup of tea involves leaving her room, not something Hermione does willingly.

• “Oh, that would be nice.”

Hermione takes her walker, and heads out into the hall. I follow her to a common area, where there are tables and chairs, a television and a kitchen area. Coffee and tea are available to staff and residents — and guests.

The nurse looks up when she sees Hermione emerge from her room. Her eyes convey her surprise, but she keeps her voice contained and calmed.

• “So nice to see you, Mrs. Forde.”

We sit in the sunny alcove, with a cup tea, two ladies spending the afternoon together. Hermione is clearly pleased with herself. We discuss the possible next step in her tree project, and remark on the mild weather. Hermione hasn’t wanted to go outside in a long time. Perhaps seeing the tree she wants to paint up close would inspire her? We’ll see. Spring is a few months away.

We bid our goodbyes, closing the loop of our visit with plans to continue our project.

As I walk out of the aging building populated by aging people who have lost so much, I realize that we all have a string of light that joins us all as profoundly creative beings.

That light is the one thing that can find its way around the ruins of memories, the pieces of disjointed thoughts, and the blockages made of the pain of it all.

Creativity, it seems, is never really unmanifested. It seeps through everything, and shines a light that can help us find our way to a part of ourselves that remains, strong and eternal, a beacon of hope as long as we live.