the PDF of her book - National Aphasia Association
the PDF of her book - National Aphasia Association
the PDF of her book - National Aphasia Association
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Tales from <strong>the</strong> O<strong>the</strong>r Side <strong>of</strong> Language 47<br />
skill is awesome. Whatever can he be thinking? Over and over I look. I don’t<br />
find anything remotely like my work.<br />
Sheepish, I say to him, “I can’t find what you mean.”<br />
He shows me a corner <strong>of</strong> a painting, simple, messy rocks lying in a<br />
stream.<br />
I am so touched, I stop my flirtation with fragile and delicate, <strong>the</strong><br />
incandescent light <strong>of</strong> a fragile peach, <strong>the</strong> delicacy <strong>of</strong> a bunch <strong>of</strong> leeks, or <strong>the</strong><br />
pattern <strong>of</strong> pink and yellow tulips blended across <strong>the</strong> page.<br />
I begin to embrace bold and move toward messy. Working with less<br />
order and more abandon is hard to do, and it takes me a long time. Meanwhile<br />
<strong>the</strong> pieces <strong>of</strong> paper I work on get bigger and bigger. The flowers get larger,<br />
more voluptuous, and less tied to <strong>the</strong> specifics <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> flower. Now <strong>the</strong>y are<br />
flowers in my mind without a vase.<br />
It is <strong>her</strong>e I begin to follow <strong>the</strong> thread <strong>of</strong> my own seeing. It isn’t a conscious<br />
intellectual seeing. It emerges out <strong>of</strong> my body. Henry is a canny mentor in<br />
this. He sits by me and shows me what my mind’s eye is looking at, presses<br />
me beyond.<br />
The painting has become more than speech <strong>the</strong>rapy.<br />
One afternoon I’m so exhausted I can’t drag my body out <strong>the</strong> door to<br />
class. But I must paint! In my small galley kitchen looking out over silvered<br />
ro<strong>of</strong>tops below, I jerry-rig a place to work. The half-elephant size paper<br />
is beautiful, heavy and coarse to <strong>the</strong> touch. The first gesture, a setting for<br />
everything else, is clumsy and artless. I scrub it out and create more mess.<br />
The paper is expensive, but I begin again with a new piece. I have a vision<br />
<strong>of</strong> swirling patterns, poinsettia leaves with <strong>the</strong>ir tiny, orangey flowerets in <strong>the</strong><br />
center. I paint <strong>the</strong> veins <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> leaves in wide gestures <strong>of</strong> blue-reds, orangeyreds,<br />
purples, splotches <strong>of</strong> white paper showing through. With a carbon pencil<br />
I harshly trace <strong>the</strong> swirls <strong>of</strong> leaves now flowing around <strong>the</strong> coarse paper. It is<br />
<strong>the</strong> vision I had, but wilder and roug<strong>her</strong> in <strong>the</strong> actuality. The next day I put<br />
in a dense vegetative background <strong>of</strong> browns, greens, and black to complete<br />
<strong>the</strong> painting. The background is a new experiment, and it works.