Schizophrenia And Art

Thursday, 23 February 2006

Art As Therapy
Mood:

not sure
Topic: email questions
Why you think art works as a therapy?

When I was 21 I had been living in a mental institution in Hartford, Connecticut for almost two years. My situation there was grave. I had not been making the anticipated recovery that staff had predicted when I was first admitted. At that time they put me to live on a ward where the average stay was six months. Now they were reconsidering moving me to a long term unit with the prognosis that I would need to live there for a year or two more.

When they told me their plan I begged them for one more chance to make enough of a recovery that I be discharged to a half-way house. The hospital's criteria for wellness was that I cease being continuously suicidal and that I obtain and keep a part-time job outside of the Institute walls. Perhaps, then, an angel came to look over me for I was able to obtain a job at a prestigious world class museum in downtown Hartford, The Wadsworth Atheneum. At the interview for a position at the museum information desk, I was frank about my situation. I would walk from the Institute to the Wadsworth and then walk back home where I would be locked again on a psychiatric unit. The woman who would become my boss hired me. At first the job was volunteer, with the possibility of paid employment in the future.

To prepare for my job I would wear my nicest clothing and a pair of heeled shoes. I put on make-up. And then, it seemed, I walked down the street to a castle filled with treasure. The Wadsworth Atheneum is the oldest continuing running art museum in America. The main lobby was built with architecture that resembles a castle. Added on to this original wing was a stately hall filled with nine different type of marble and brass inlay, sweeping marble stairs, and a skylight made from Tiffany glass. It had been funded by the wealthy philanthropist Pierpont Morgan and intended to echo the architecture found in classical European buildings. Over the decades many artistic treasures were donated or bought and eventually a dazzling permanent collection formed. Works on display ranged from ancient Sumerian, Egyptian and Greek statues to paintings by Western Civilization's greatest masters, both old and new. And me, little broken institutionalized me, got to walk through the quiet halls and stand in front of some of the greatest achievements of the human mind and spirit. I looked, and the images filled me, leaving less room for brooding emotions.

The Boss lady who hired me occasionally wore a coat to work that had a pin stuck to the lapel. The pin said, "Art Saves Lives". The Wadsworth certainly saved my life. I would go on to work there with pay for the next four years and become part of the volunteer docent program that gave tours to the general public and to school children.

Understand that I made no art while I worked at the Wadsworth. That would come later. What the Wadsworth did was first fill me with pride. It was a job that I grew into, becoming a more valued employee the more facts I learned about the museum history and art. Second, it got me talking to normal folk and had normal folk talking friendly right back to me. The long hospital stay had been demoralizing, in part because I was always being treated like a case to be studied, a walking illness. While staff were certainly humane they emotionally removed from those under their care. Conversations included no personal information and I was usually addressed by my last name. Talking to other patients was more social, but we were all so sick that the topics we liked to talk about were usually sad and traumatic. I remember hearing stories of incest and rape, the past attempt at suicide by hanging or the slashed wrist, and listening to earnest psychotic rambling about devils and aliens and the nurse who was trying to poison us.

In the hospital there was the portent of violence in the air. A light bulb was smashed and a shard of glass used as a weapon. If a pair of scissors went missing we were all strip searched. If a nurse miscounted or forgot to count her needles we were strip searched. Staff was kicked. Staff took down a patient to be restrained so violently that the young man vomited. People screamed incessantly when they didn't get their way. Several held napkins under their mouths to catch the drool created by excess medication. Men and women would sit, their whole body shaking violently, as the Valium or heroin addiction passed out of their blood. I got beat up by my "boyfriend" because I refused to give him blow jobs in the staircase anymore. It was the only time in my life that I have been violently attacked. Sometimes patients succeeded in killing themselves while they were living on the unit. Sometimes they killed themselves right after they left.

Part of the function of art is to present an alternative reality. People who have lived with mental illness desperately need escape from their illness and I think that art can provide such an escape. It is possible to forget many things while you are making art. It is possible to create a more beautiful world in your art.

And in a simple way, art is honorable. It is a high function of the human mind, and society reacts to it with respect and wonder. Mental illness with the disability and poverty it creates makes one feel socially dishonorable. To say, "I make art" gives a person an identity that is a lot better than "I am sick".

After I started working at the Wadsworth Atheneum I rapidly improved. My emotions lifted. I gained a new, healthy identity. My job was to be one of the many caretakers of priceless artifacts. I got a lot of practice having ordinary conversations with ordinary people. And I spent a lot of time quietly looking at art. Part of the damage that the schizophrenic thought disorder did to my mind was to render me unable for about a year to either read or write. The loss of the ability was quite a shock because shortly before my hospitalization I had been a student on the Dean's List at Barnard College in New York City, rewarded with A grades in Philosophy and Religion and English Literature. But there is no doubt that I suffered a loss of the ability to think in abstract terms. The difficulty reading and writing was an extension of this because language is symbolic and is created through the logic of grammar. Logic, rules, and one thing substituting for an abstract concept were frequently just beyond the reach of my disorganized mind. It has taken many, many years of practice to arrive at the writing skills I have today.

Looking at art involves no language skills. Communication through artwork is visceral, immediate, often unconscious, and concrete. There can be ambiguity in what a picture might mean, but there is no ambiguity about what is presented to the eyes. In my opinion art lights up the more primitive parts of the brain that are least affected by the schizophrenic thought disorder. Cave men left behind pictures. Civilization advanced to language later.

Given a choice between writing and painting or drawing I would chose the artmaking activity. The reason goes back to the onset of schizophrenia and how I believe it changed the functioning of my brain. It is now easier for me to think in a concrete manner than an abstract way. I wouldn't say that "easier" is a precise word. A better way of putting it is that making art is less painful than writing or socializing for extended periods of time. The frequent lack of logic necessary to create a drawing or pick a color is soothing. The brush pushes pigment in wet solution around on a flat surface and the act is very concrete. With a flick of the wrist, what you see is what you get and it is no more complicated than that.

I can make a picture that doesn't make sense, that lacks reason and meaning, and this will not dissuade my audience from looking at it. But if my written words are not put in proper order, if they are not arraigned by an abstract system with reason and meaning and logic - how few people would care to be an audience!

Currently I work at making art. Some of my paintings have taken a very long time to make. There were preparatory photographs, preparatory drawings, an underpainting, a study of contrast and color, and finally with a tiny brush, the building up of transparent layers of color. It is a job like any other and eventually an art collector pays me money for my painting. What I sell is worth every cent and in time, it will be worth more.

In all, I have been hospitalized about eight separate times in the last twenty years. In the last 6 years I have done very well and have not needed any psychiatric hospitalization. In my memory there is a big difference between art therapy done in the hospital and the art that I chose to make on my own.

In the hospital art therapy classes were timed and every stop of the project was clearly defined by the therapist. I built a wooden napkin holder and painted it. I filled a glass tube with colored striations of sand and sealed it. I drew a picture of a dog vomiting and a dog house. It was good therapy for us to get our minds working in an ordered fashion. If you are sick enough to be hospitalized then often the mind is very disorganized and broken down and you need to get it functioning well enough to follow instructions and to work with a purpose or goal in mind. Art tasks can build up the stamina of the mind.

Sometimes a part of therapy was that we symbolize our emotions with pictures - I guess that one day I felt like a dog vomiting. The dog also said in a little cartoon bubble that he was going to bark and then eat his own vomit. Don't know what it meant, but it got my therapist so upset that she canceled my pass off hospital grounds for that weekend.

I also remember the art projects that I did on my own when I was in the hospital. Here is a drawing I made with colored pencils of three performers in a circus. You can get very board while you are locked up. I liked keeping busy. And look at the fun and curious world I got to escape to! I remember where the orange double triange and circle pattern came from. When I was first admitted because I felt suicidal my mind was so fragmented that all I could draw was the repetition of the triange and circle pattern. It made what looked like a row of eyes. I filled sheets of paper from top to bottom with the one pattern. I did this activity because there was no other activity my mind could do at that time.

My particular sickness creates a very uneven flow of consciousness. When consciousness was rigid, constricted, and disorganized a simple repeating pattern was neither boring nor unusual. As my mind recovered I was able to place in this pattern more variation of color, of shape and meaning. As my mind mended I probably began to socialize with the other patients at the same time that I was able to draw a human figure.

One of the benefits of making art is that the artist can work when he or she is ready. I only work when my mind is fresh and clear and lacking psychotic symptoms. This gives me a window of about two hours in the morning, and after rest, two hours in the evening. I experience fluctuations in emotions and consciousness every day. It's a continuous rollarcoaster of ability and disability, cheer and despair.

What has aided me enormously in making art has been the simple availability of a place to go and work. Art can be made at home, but isolation of that type is no good for me, and I prefer having the choice to go out and draw in public. Many times I have made art in community centers called clubhouses where the membership is exclusively mentally ill. Sometimes they served lunch. Sometimes they would bring in an art teacher to give weekly lessons. Twice I arraigned for a large art, professional art show at a clubhouse. Artists had to submit entry forms, all work was framed either by the artist or a volunteer, we had an opening reception party with an outside, professional juror presenting awards, and a price list. Both shows were a monumental task, with months of preparation work done by staff and volunteers alike. It was a great social activity for me and others. It involved a lot of responsibility. But in the end, our pride as a community soared. Many of us were shocked at what the sickest in our midst could accomplish.

The activities surrounding the creation and showing of artwork are therapeutic for persons with a mental illness. The illness is isolating but public displays of art gives a person a sense of connectedness with others. Sometimes the sick person is so fragile that they do poorly at making new acquaintances or talking for very long. Art then become a bridge from the emotional inner world to a person outside it - all without needed to talk, or risk one's personal space being violated by a stranger.

In the end I ask a question that should have been asked at the beginning. What is a definition of therapy? For instance, just last week a woman told me that on some days her job was good therapy for her. Working with other people in need helped her keep her own private troubles in perspective. She felt good about helping people. Her job made her feel valuable.

My art had been the key to my recovery. It has been good for my social life, it has aided in the increased integrity of my mind. Every artwork is a mental challenge and I don't doubt that new pathways of health are being created in my mind when I make art. Recovery from mental illness right now does not mean for me a cure. What it means is that my illness does not get worse. Art does not make me sick. I do get tired. But there is always enormous satisfaction for me when I am mentally fatigued and weak after several hours of work. I know that I extended my self to the maximum, no slacking. And a permanent record of my effort remains, to be worked on once more when consciousness coalesces, acts in a harmonious fashion, and symptoms retreat. This chance to go back to the picture always exists after a good night's sleep. I cannot count the number of times I have gone to bed eager to wake and work the next morning. In those moments I know that I live life to the fullest.

Posted by dignifyme at 1:15 PM EST

Updated: Thursday, 23 February 2006 9:03 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Wednesday, 22 February 2006

Personal Profile
Mood:

spacey
Topic: email questions
The question to be answered is a simple profile.

What is your age, your job, situation with marriage and children and where do you live?

Last month, January 2006, I turned 38 and got married for the second time. My first marriage lasted four years and was to man who had a mental illness of the same chronic and disabling nature as my own.

The man I am now married to, Michael, is older than me and has a grown daughter from a previous marriage. He has a management job position in manufacturing and no history of mental illness. We have discussed having children but decided that it is too medically difficult for me to have any by natural methods.

Currently I am a volunteer at the Brattleboro Museum of Fine Arts. In the past I have been a museum docent and worked at a museum information desk. I am also enrolled in the River Gallery Art School, a small non-profit organization that provides me with studio space and informal art instruction.

My husband and I moved from Connecticut to Brattleboro, Vermont last summer and so far it has been a difficult transition. We moved because my mother has rental property in Brattleboro that needed management. This property has also provided us with a beautiful, inexpensive apartment to live in.

We have three pets that all love and demand attention. I trained our long haired german shepherd with the help of a man who trains police dogs. We also have two cats who were rescue adoptions.

Posted by dignifyme at 3:00 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, 22 February 2006 7:47 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

My Inspiration
Mood:

happy
Topic: email questions
Catherine from England asked me this question;

Where and how you get your inspiration?

I have at home an art library with many books in it. There are books filled with the life and works of a single artist such as Picasso, Goya or Van Gogh. There are books that have paintings and decorative objects from a single collection, from perhaps a museum in Russia or Italy. Some books take a single topic and bring together artists from different countries and centuries. Books devoted to a topic such as portraiture, eroticism, the annunciation, american folk art, medieval art, horses, cats, dogs, and angels or fairy painting. There is a final category of books that I term "source books" because they are used by me to draw in a realistic manor. I literally copy the object from the book and insert it into a scene of my own invention. I have books with photography of animals, photography of nudes, photography of flowers and nature, castles, horses, church architecture, and two books with the original Muybridge studies of movement. Not all source books need be photographic. There are collections of artist drawings that are old enough to be copy-right free, often quaint styles of the 19th and early 20th century. A recent acquisition is a book with 16th century woodcuttings of mythical and real animals as conceptualized at the time.

My favorite way to go to sleep is to look at the pictures in a book. The collections of writings by the British celebrity nun Sister Wendy about her favorite paintings is a favorite bedtime read.

When I start a drawing I start with a blank piece of paper and some small idea. One painting I only knew that I wanted a green sky. No matter how complicated the imagery got afterwords, with purple pansies and strawberries and a dancing girl in a couture Victor & Rolf dress it all started with the need to make a sky in my favorite color of paint, light cobalt green. In a previous painting the start was a photograph of a different Victor & Rolf dress seen in a fashion magazine. One painting started with the architecture in a 14th century religious painting and the desire to make a gold sky, the style during that period. Another drawing began with me wanting to tell the story of a man who had a lobotomy who I met in a psychiatric hospital. Once the topic was my vision of Hell. Then I challenged myself to do an accompanying vision of Paradise. When I was first dating my husband drawings from life of his body was inspiration for the development of a portrait of an archangel. The work I am currently involved with started with the simple idea of a boat on a pond surrounded by an orange tree grove.

I had some trouble in the making of that drawing because my mind gave me images that I had to ignore. I saw (in my mind's eye) that on every tree in the orange grove there was an angel that was hanging dead at the end of a rope. I had to ignore the desire to draw such an image because I know that it would be socially offensive and make the final artwork painful for most people to view. Images of angels doing violent things to one another filled my imagination as well, a drowning, a blow from a fist and a kick to the head.

I have long been familiar with the artwork of Henry Darger which depicts little girls in similar violent situations. The Darger illustration above was located by me on the internet and I have never seen it before. Never did I desire to imitate Darger with my orange tree grove. Currently my Henry Darger book is lent to a friend. All I can say is that I must be as mentally disturbed as that man was. Truthfully, one of the symptoms of my illness is a desire to kill myself or the belief that I ought to be killed. The main difference between Darger and I is that he was an artist working entirely in private, all his art and writing was discovered after death. He was a recluse with no reason for self censorship. But I, being far more connected to family and society, have to temper some artistic impulses. The violence never completely goes away, it rather becomes sublimated into images that can have a multiplicity of interpretation. An example would be the playful throwing of an orange, rather the way a snowball is thrown by children. Except I think that if the throw was hard and fast and if you got hit that would sting and bruise your body quite a bit.

As I mentioned, I often see pictures in my head. It occurs entirely in my imagination and I have never hallucinated. If I want I can change the picture in my head, experiment with a different color or style of dress. Part of the allure of making art is the summoning of these pictures, it is quite comforting, and like having an imaginary playmate, they are good company.

Perhaps I should make a final note about my awareness of the Outsider art and Visionary art movements. These are contemporary terms that could be used to describe my art. Instead of getting into a discussion of why I may qualify for one category or the other, I will admit that my library contains only a few examples of such artwork. Maybe part of the problem is that I get too excited by seeing artwork that is similar to my own. Or maybe I am jealous of reading about artists who are now recognized by the art world while I am not.

There was a time when my library contained books about this type of art. I think I donated those books to a charity during a move from one apartment to another. By reading books and magazines such as "Raw Vision" I became aware that the boundaries of definition of style and talent were more flexible than anything I knew before. I became aware that I am not a freak and that it is acceptable by some to make untutored nonacademic primitive pictures. But I think that artists who are like me do not inspire me because in their work there is no mystery. I like to look at artists who can do things that I cannot. I like looking at artists who make me ask, "How did he do that?" and "What made him want to do that?" Similarity is also dangerous because I don't want to copy, steal a bit maybe, but never ever copy. I like to look at artists who are better than me, and perhaps, because of their healthy minds and academic training and social connections can make art that I will never be capable of making.

The best source of inspiration is often nothingness. In such times of nothingness the only thing to do is to summon a dream. Such inspiration won't be easy - dream logic occurs when we sleep for a reason. There are boundaries that thought is adverse to cross over. And don't ever become too attached to what has been done before or what is being done right now. The path to being an individual carries the most grief and mental resistance, it is so much easier to be part of a group than to be isolated and self-reliant.

Posted by dignifyme at 2:09 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, 22 February 2006 3:30 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Artists I admire
Mood:

irritated
Topic: email questions
Catherine from England asked me this question. I wrote a whole essay, and then near the end, mistakenly deleated it. That hurts. So here is a quick version.

What are the artists you admire?

I primairly admire self-taught artists.
Henri Rousseau
Morris Hirshfield (left graphic)
William Hawkings
Jean-Michel Basquiate
And all the paintings by anonymus persons that hang in art museums, often folk art portraits or eccentric landscapes, and then the artwork that was created so long ago that the name of the artist has been lost or at the time was not important to society.

The other artists I admire are;
Giotto
Botticelli
Hieronymus Bosch
Gauguin
Paul Klee (bottom graphic)
Odilon Redon
Pierre Bonnard
David Hockney

Posted by dignifyme at 12:24 PM EST

Updated: Wednesday, 22 February 2006 1:31 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Tuesday, 21 February 2006

The Orange Grove
Mood:

happy
Topic: art in progress

16" x 23" preparitory drawing for an oil painting, paper on masonite board.

Originally I wanted angels hanging from every tree. Hanging by rope wrapped round their necks dead. I also wanted one angel to be holding the head of another angel under water, drowning the second.

I kept such impulses under control.

So when you see play in the drawing, is it mildly dark and violent?

This is a self drawing. The bird bound by leather straps is me.

Posted by dignifyme at 10:28 PM EST

Updated: Tuesday, 21 February 2006 10:29 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Questions from England
Mood:

happy
Topic: email questions
A student in England is doing a 1,500 word paper on mental illness and art therapy. She asked me some questions that I feel others will ask in the future. So, from now on I will answer all email research questions from students in my blog. Thus future students can simply be directed to the blog, and find pertinent facts and opinions under the topic of "email questions". Hopefully every now and then there will be a zinger question that hasn't been asked before!

When you were diagnosed?

Dear Catherine, please be more specific. There are many things any ordinary person can be diagnosed with. I assume that you mean my schizoaffective disorder. But it is always prudent to ask for a history of diagnosis because doctors do change their minds, and even, the during the course of a major mental illness there can be a real change of symptoms - due to age, environmental change, deterioration, or new medical models of diagnosis.

I might also make the case that what I am diagnosed with today may not be what I am diagnosed with tomorrow, as you will see in my final comment. It is my fevered wish not for a cure or a less serious diagnosis, but for simple stasis. If my diagnose changes in the future it can only change for the worse. Part of what keeps my illness in stasis is my artwork, and I will connect to this idea when answering your future question about art as therapy.

When I was in kindergarten I wasn't playing like the other children. I do remember having difficulty making friends. The school took it upon themselves to introduce me to a child therapy specialist who in several private sessions played a lot of word games with me. I assume she found nothing and that there was no diagnosis at the time. What she was looking for, I do not know.

When I was 12 I became deeply depressed and suicidal. My father's marriage councilor began seeing me on a weekly basis for therapy. My emotional trouble seemed to be due to an acrimonious divorce between my parents. What originally began as a quick intervention turned into a several year therapeutic relationship. This depression was my first diagnosis and was treated by therapy rather than medication because in 1980 children were not considered for anti-depressant medication, as they may well be now.

My depression abated during the final years of high school but in it's place I started to have anxiety attacks. For the anxiety attacks, which only occurred during my classes or in other public situations, my father (a doctor) proscribed a beta-blocker medication used to slow the heart beat in cases of high blood pressure. This drug was semi-successful. Unfortunately Dad was not aware of how bad the anxiety attacks were because, well, one isn't always completely honest with a parent. To manage the attacks I simply skipped a good deal of school.

In 1986 I attended Barnard College in New York City. At the end of my freshman year I was diagnosed by a school physician as having depression and started taking an anti-depressant medication. When I returned to school the next year the same physician re-diagnosed me with manic-depression and recommended that I start lithium treatment. I was frightened of this more serious diagnosis and was unable to identify the minor psychotic delusions I experienced as false. Along with these mild delusions I also remember several brief manic episodes where I talked a lot or ran a lot of miles. Because I would not take the recommended treatment the college considered me a liability and asked that I take a leave of absence until my medical condition stabilized. So I went home to live with my mother. Once home I started working part-time at a child day care. I remember being lethargic and very depressed during this job.

In May of 1988 I asked to be admitted to the Institute of Living in Hartford, Connecticut. I was starting to understand that my bizarre thoughts were delusional and I also understood that the fact that I could no longer sleep was very abnormal and dangerous. At my admission the hospital diagnosed me as having major depression with atypical psychotic symptoms. I lived on unit as a patient in this hospital for the next two years. For most of that time my diagnosis held steady, but because I was not making the anticipated recovery progress they brought in an outside consultant. I remember having a lovely conversation with him, and apparently after he quickly diagnosed me as having a schizophrenic thought disorder. I know this because of records ordered form the hospital many years later. However, what I was told at the time was that my diagnosis had changed to a manic-depressive disorder. After discharge I saw an Institute doctor that continued the deception (or error). When he moved out of state and I was assigned a new doctor and together we affirmed the diagnosis of a schizaffective disorder. I researched the criteria of the DSM III or IV and was relieved to finally view the accuracy of my diagnosis. I can only assume that the prior doctor from the Institute believed that "shocking" me with a severe diagnosis would impair recovery by keeping my spirits low, or, that he was doing me a favor by keeping the more socially frightful diagnosis of "schizophrenia" as far and separate from official paperwork as possible.

My final diagnosis was arrived at around 1995, at the age of 27. Frankly, my schizophrenic illness did take a long course and from the onset of the psychotic symptoms at 18 or 19 the illness progressed until it finally stabilized in the form that it is in now. I understand that the prodrome stage of the illness is a slow deterioration of functioning before the first onset of psychosis. However, in my case I do believe that deterioration continued after the initial psychosis, perhaps in part do to my frequent stoppage of antipsychotic medication. Because I am now completely medication compliant, and have been so for many years, the only future mental deterioration that might occur would be in the case of unusually stressful environmental factors.

For example, I saw my best friend in her mid-forties after two decades of stability deteriorate from schizoaffective to paranoid schizophrenic after the suicide of a dear, close, paranoid schizophrenic friend. After Francis died my friend's regular medication did not hold, and she was hospitalized again and again and again. They are still trying new combinations of medication to try to keep her paranoid delusions and voices under control - or at least - in a removed mental distance where she can ignore them.

More of Catherine's questions will be answered tomorrow.

What artists you admire
where and how you get your inspiration
a profile of yourself: age, job, married, children,where you live
How the illness takes over your life
How people treat you
Why you think art works as a therapy

Posted by dignifyme at 9:51 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Tuesday, 14 February 2006

Virus & Interview
Mood:

d'oh
Topic: building business
Got a computer virus today. Have to take my laptop to the computer geeks tomorrow to get it cleaned out. Can't stay on the internet for long. Until I get back, here is an interview just published in the February journal of Clinical Psychiatric News. When I get back online I'll insert pictures of the two drawings that I refer to in the interview.

The interview was done by phone. Now I know what it means to have statements "taken out of context".

Volume 34, Issue 2, Page 33 (February 2006)

The Art of Karen Blair
DEEANNA FRANKLIN (Associate Editor)

Article Outline
The Artist's Reflections

Copyright

The Web site for artist Karen Blair starts out with a striking statement: "All the pictures and all the writing on this site are my own. It is an honest place. My blood carries the template for schizophrenia. Because of what my blood made my brain, I have lived an unconventional life."

Growing up, Ms. Blair would have rejected the idea of becoming an artist. She was known for her ambition and drive, and after admission to Barnard College, she believed that she would become a lawyer, senator, or - as predicted by two high school friends - president.

But schizophrenia destroyed her plans, as she writes on her site, www.schizophreniaandart.com: "I could not earn a college degree, for I perceive the classroom to be a savage place. And when I make an effort my mind falls to pieces after several short hours. So I am poorly equipped for most employment."

Now at age 37, she is candid about her struggles to remain well, which medications make feasible. She is also realistic about what the drugs will never make possible. She is quick to point out that medications may smooth the rough edges of her illness, but the drugs are not a cure.

"Freud said the key to happiness is two things: work and love," Ms. Blair said. "My medications give me enough emotional stability so that I can have relationships with my family and my [husband]. I have love, and I have work, and therefore, I have happiness. Once I gave up some dreams, I was able to find this thing of becoming an artist."

The Artist's Reflections
I went to Barnard College, and I was going to be an English major. I did not start drawing until I was 30. Until then, I was trying to go to school. I was trying to recover, get a degree, work. I was trying to do everything I could to get back into mainstream society. I had been institutionalized for 2 years at The Institute for Living, and I felt that my mind was like a muscle, and all I needed to do was strengthen it. But I kept ending up in the hospital.

I lived on my own, and I used the subculture of the mentally ill. I used food banks. I live in Connecticut, which is a wealthy state, and I always felt that it was very easy to be poor when you're living in a wealthy state. There was big garbage day, and on that day people would put their furniture out on the curbs, so that's how I got furniture and art frames.

I felt I was being savvy in terms of answering the question: "How do I live on this very restricted budget and still have a good quality of life?" I walked everywhere. What was most important to me was a good pair of shoes. I enjoyed the sunshine. Sometimes I enjoyed getting caught in the rain. I was reading Camus' early diaries from when he was poor. He said, "Poor people feel like they own the sky." I'd walk down the street, and there would be this beautiful blue sky, and I was wearing my thrift store clothing, my silk shirt and my Gap chinos and a good pair of shoes. I'd look up into the sky and think: "Yeah, I feel like I own the sky. Camus was right."

In my 20s, I made a choice not to have children. I was seeing people with mental illness having their children taken away from them - sometimes, justifiably so. I could barely take care of myself, so I had my tubes tied so there would be no accidents. It was a very difficult choice, but it would break my heart to give my child up for adoption. I was 27 when I did it.

What you're seeing in [my] early works is a lot of influence of psychotic thought, for instance, use of space. Every inch of the paper is covered. There's lots of little figurines, little people, flowers. They call it compulsive drawing. The themes are very mythological. I'm not using photographs or pictures from real life. Everything is straight from my imagination, and I have no desire to make water look like real waves. There was also no reference really to what things are supposed to look like. There are monsters, mermaids, angels - that's [the impact of] Risperdal.

When I was on Risperdal, I met an art collector, and he loaned me several copies of the magazine "Raw Vision". It's on Outsider artists. It was just such a relief to see people who were making art like me. Eventually, I started wanting to be like the real artists and less like the Outsider artists. I wanted to please the people looking at my artwork. I started drawing from real life. I started using photographs of my own face for facial expressions. On the one hand, I was making art that looked like what I thought real art looked like, on the other hand the process was very slow and painstaking.

I was starting to work in oil paints, and there was a loss of pleasure, but I was feeling more like a real artist. Then I made a conscious decision to go back to my methodology under Risperdal, which is you take a blank piece of paper and a pencil and you just draw from your imagination. "The Beginning of Time" is one example. I'm on Seroquel, and I've had 7 years of being an artist, and I just take a blank piece of paper, and draw and use Cray-Pas, which is the best medium. My use of color and blending color, and indistinct space is much better. I tolerate ambiguity.

Schizophrenics have the hardest time with ambiguity. In other words, we need yes and no; black and white. We need a high degree of certainty in our lives, and if we don't have it we're going to get sick. I need a lot of sameness. My husband, Mike, knows that the sicker I get, the less I'm able to think in abstract terms. He'll say something like: "That guy's ship sailed in" when talking about someone at work, and I'll say: "Why are you talking about ships now," not understanding that it's a metaphor. When I'm sicker, I don't understand metaphors.

Genetics triggered my illness. I've got a schizophrenic uncle and aunt, both on my father's side. My father's a transplant surgeon. He's brilliant. He gives people new organs, but his brother is in a veterans' home. My aunt is schizoaffective; she's more like me. She worked in a laundry.

Mike and I talk about what we call "the myth of recovery." Some social workers and maybe some doctors are optimistic that these new drugs can help people go back to work or school. They think that recovery ends some place where patients are integrated somewhat into society. We call this a myth because there are no stories about the breakdowns that the pressures that going back to school or work cause, and I see this. Mike, who has worked in the health care industry, sees this, too.

In "Noble Vikings" I was on Risperdal. It shows the invention of water. Every bit of space is covered, and it's all very flat and crowded. There are no 3-D perspectives of reality. "The Beginning of Time" shows a maturing artist; it's very atmospheric and more ambiguous. I'm more comfortable with the medium and able to use a sophisticated theory like contrast. I did a study of light and dark contrasts. I learned it from studying books on art and looking at what other artists did. It shows best how I've matured. I used an artist's drawing of a turtle from a book for reference, so that I could better have a "realistic" -looking turtle.

I cannot socialize. This Christmas, I almost had to leave the dinner table with my family because the amount of emotional energy was so high, and I was so sensitive to it. Schizophrenia makes you so sensitive [that] you can't filter stimuli. Luckily, Mike is a homebody. He's an artist, and he loves to read. His lifestyle and mine work well together. I am very fortunate.

As told to Deeanna Franklin by Karen Blair.

Posted by dignifyme at 10:32 PM EST

Updated: Friday, 24 February 2006 8:33 AM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Tuesday, 7 February 2006

The Nursury
Mood:

happy
Topic: art in progress

It's done. It's called "The Nursery". Don't know if it is any good. I can't seem to reproduce the colors in this photograph. In the original the yellow angels pop more and the blue background is lighter, softer.

It looks like outsider art. I wonder if it is outsider art. Maybe just an untutored primitive. I'll bring it to class tomorrow and see what the teacher says. I'm curious the catagory she puts it in.

Posted by dignifyme at 3:14 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Monday, 6 February 2006

A Brunch With Neighbors
Mood:

flirty
Topic: art in progress

Yesterday was Sunday. Mike cooked a lot. We invited the neighbors over for brunch. Mike had set the table the night before with our Jadeware serving pieces. For a wedding gift my mother had greatly expanded my collection, and this was the first time we could put our new pieces to work.

I found out that my neighbor's mother was paranoid schizophrenic and had killed herself. Then my neighbor had to raise her younger siblings. After she told me I asked her, "Was she able to love you?" and the gloom went away from her face, replaced with happiness. It was a good question, and I think that it will always be the first that I ask after such a confession. I have asked it before of an adult child of a schizophrenic. When I asked it before the answer was "No, not really". It is perhaps the first important fact to know about a schizophrenic parent, that is, could they see past their illness to nurture a child. Some can and some can't.

As for the suicide, I said that I could understand why, with the tone of voice implying, "of course". Don't get me wrong about suicide. My paranoid schizophrenic friend Frances killed himself and the fallout destroyed the mental health of my friend - I hate what he did to the people who loved him. But for himself, well, it was his choice given the circumstance he was in. I think I understand the circumstance of this illness very well. The primary reason I take medication is that it dulls the pain of the schizophrenia. Not to think better or work better or be more social. Just a simple run from pain, that is all medication is first and foremost. When my neighbor's mother was alive all that was available was Haldol, none of the fancy stuff I take. And then she had to live with the guilt of who she was surrounded by children who needed her to be well. The guilt of being sick when you are surrounded by those who are well is enormous.

Mike's daughter once said that she wanted to give her younger brother a loaded gun and say, "Make a choice. Kill yourself or not. Right here, right now." See, she and her mother were tired of him being mentally ill and always overdosing on medication and ending up in the hospital. They were tired of him trying to commit suicide. It would ease their minds if he just succeeded - neither the mother or the daughter wanted to see the manifestation of his pain anymore. Well, the girl was being as honest then as when she said on my wedding day, "Now I won't inherit any of my dad's stuff until after you die."

I think that part of my illness is that I can't get comments like those out of my head. They echo through time and taunt me, saying, "See, this is the human condition. This is the truth of the way all people think. They can be monstrous. And are you too a monster Karen? Have you had any such thoughts too, in private, to yourself?"

This is the beginning of a new oil pastel drawing. It has a long way to go. Last week at art class I had just finished the underlying pencil drawing. Now they get to see it with some color on it.

I am motivated to work because I want to show something new and impressive to my art teacher Ellen. Maybe some of the other students will like my drawing too. I want to show progress at each class. Doing the work at home alone is easier because I think about my next class.

It is enormously exciting to be making work that can be shared with other artists. It is fun too to see their work, but, their work makes me a little sad. I wish I could be jealous and envious of someone. I wish I could have a hero in class. Somebody to ask questions to because I wanted to learn their secrets. That would be fun.

The founder of my art school is dying of cancer. He was in intensive care last Wednesday and our teacher Ellen said that family members were gathering by his side. So I wonder if he will be dead by now. Ellen is going to be very sad. I thought that when I show her this drawing I can promise her that her friend is going to be with angels. I won't say that, even though I'd like to.

I'd like to say that being schizophrenic is not the same as being a psychic. Psychics usually don't have a mental illness. So they get to see angels and hear from angels.

Because I'm sick I'm simply wide open. There is no purpose to my contact with the supernatural. No conversation, no communication, just, immersion. Every day is a wandering through forces of good and evil, take it or leave it, my mind lies flat like it is it's battlefield. I am a battlefield. Not the players who fight, just, the ground that is trampled. The ground that is witness. The ground that is unmoving and dumb.

I can tell Ellen that I have a personal angel and her name is Miranda. Her wings are big and white and she is always naked. Her hair is red and she is a warrior type. Her personality is rather fierce. A psychic helped me to meet her, the angel talked to the psychic and then the psychic talked to me. After that it was really easy to form a relationship with Miranda. But schizophrenia was no help in meeting Miranda. Neither does schizophrenia help me to maintain my relationship with Miranda.

I do think that the choice of drawing angels is part of my schizophrenia. Angels are more important than a bowl full of fruit or a landscape. And that value system is definitely pure schizophrenia.

Posted by dignifyme at 3:43 PM EST

Updated: Monday, 6 February 2006 11:41 PM EST

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink

Friday, 11 November 2005

Cinderella
Mood:

happy
Topic: art in progress

This is the latest painting I am working on. It looks rather scary in the first stages. What you are looking at is just an underpainting. I pick 4 colors and paint with them. Naples yellow green, naples yellow red, serves green and indanthrene blue. Those sure aren't colors any art teacher would say to start a painting with.

I am just trying to understand where the light and dark colors will go. And since I am working with photographs (magazine pictures of real clothing or digital camera pictures of feet, facial expression and the Chinese table) as well as a drawing of the entire composition, I am more worried about place of shape than color of shape.

The girl peeling an apple is wearing an outfit designed by Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton.

Her top will be, as Jacobs intended, a sky blue with a white ruffle. The skirt is a hunter's red with black puff netting at the bottom.

Why paint with green and blue when the objective is a red skirt? Good question. All I know is that red alone would be boring. There should be a lot of change in any one solid panel of cloth. Oil paint is often translucent and what you put underneath will receive light. Green will twist that light and then send it bouncing back through the red to your eyes.

If I just mixed green and red right there on the canvass the resulting color is a rather exciting brown. I think. But if each color dries, one on top of the other, then you start getting from your color, what I call, "the sensation of velvet". Velvet is a pile of fibers that capture light like other cloth cant. Velvet is not flat, somehow, it gives us visual clues about that.

Human skin has layers of translucence that light passes through and back. Skin gives its own clues that it is alive.

I never start a painting with the "right" colors. In the end I promise that you will say, "of course the skirt is red". But if I've been successful there will be something delicious about the skirt. Delicious paint? You bet. At some point words start to fail to describe and we pull in description from a cross sensation - taste in the case of delicious. Or velvet paint - a touch sensation.

It is exactly the use of opposite or wrong colors that teases the mind to start talking in terms of nonsense and paradox.

This painting has a long journey ahead before it is finished. I can only work in tiny increments. And I don't know if the sale price can reflect the time and numerous mental choice contained within it's 11"x14" boundary. But this is often the lot of the artist.

Posted by dignifyme at 6:36 AM EST

Updated: Friday, 11 November 2005 1:28 PM EST

Share This Post
Post Comment | Permalink

Newer | Latest | Older

«	February 2006					»

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
			1	2	3	4
5	6	7	8	9	10	11
12	13	14	15	16	17	18
19	20	21	22	23	24	25
26	27	28