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Tales from the Other Side of Language 49 I come to class left-brain exhausted, and when I leave after three hours, I am rested and exhilarated. Although my speech is halting, my brain feels balanced when I leave… and I am happy. At the heart of this balance is the creation of pleasure, which is the center of this life of recovery. If I love something, I do it. If there is pleasure, then I can persevere into what is difficult. I’m challenging and enlivening my right brain to express beauty in what I can do. My beleaguered verbal left brain turns down its rush to words and finds profound rest. The impairments soften. I take paint and drawing material wherever I go. After a conference in Europe reading the paper, I go to the Tate Museum in London. I have overdone my left-brain at the conference. So I look at all the paintings in the many galleries, again as though quenching thirst, falling into pools of detail. My eyes fill with images of draping: the fall of a cloth from a round table, the draping of a woman’s skirt and shawl in a Victorian drawing room, the folds of a man’s breeches. I find pleasure even in the huge
50 Ruth Codier Resch Without Utterance: voluptuous Renaissance paintings that I usually pass by. I go out into one of those little London parks where groups of people lounge in the summertime grass. Inspired by what I have seen in the Tate, I look at how clothes fall on people’s bodies as they sit in the mild sunshine, at how the clothes are billowy, how the shadows fall on the fabrics. I make little sketches, playing with the details, how the draping defines a body. These are experiments; I haven’t done figure drawing before, but I’m thirsty from the luscious details my eyes and mind found in the museum. At home I do quick sketches of people on the subway. Shoes are wonderfully intimate and unobtrusive to draw. The ones that attract me are worn and scrubby and tell stories of hard living. Sometimes I am a little bolder. I draw the draping lines of a ski jacket. I try to remember later the arc of a woman’s back, a textured, heavy coat shaping itself over her stooping body in an intimate oval. I look at what happens to the flowers in a black printed dress as a woman folds her body down on a park bench. The seeing is what delights me; I am beginning to partner with my brain.
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We must be willing to give up the l
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Weeds, ink dr
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house as sentient. Tales from the O
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is now. Tales from the Other Side o
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lives around him in deep and import
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