My Life in Art

It has been so long since I posted anything…here goes with art. I’ve been painting more than I’ve been writing, and lately I’ve been painting landscapes adorned by fine black lines that make me feel like I’ve been writing. I’m going to share a few here, to memorialize what I’ve been up to. Many are based on a trip we took to the American Southwest–Ian, Erik, Chad, and me–in August 2016, the summer before Chad died. It was a special time even as we lived it, made even more so by memory and loss and longing. I hope you like my paintings. They are somehow a way of telling a story that connects me to my son and a time that will not come again.

Under a ledge at Slide Rock State Park, Arizona

We spent a day at a park called Slide Rock, where we rode down a chute through a canyon.

The River Where You Pulled Me Out

I jumped in the Colorado River when we went rafting in Moab, but then could not pull myself back into the raft. Chad grabbed me by my lifevest and hoisted me back in–not once, but twice, for I do not learn from my mistakes. And it was a hot day.

Shelter

We sought shelter in the shadows of rocks from the heat and the sun. I imagine them now as bright colors and easy places, but they were hard hikes and hot days. Memory transforms everything, doesn’t it?

Poor Pain Management Post Open Heart Surgery

Last March my husband, Erik, underwent quintuple bypass surgery. The surgery went well…the pain management did not. I wrote an essay about it, which ran in the January 2022 issue of The Journal of Hospital Medicine. I am posting the PDF here as a way to keep track of it, and for those who are interested in reading about his experience–and my fight to get him better care.

Poetry for October

It is impossible to write about grief, so instead I’ll write about Chad. His big heart had a short life. He was 24 when he died in 2017; he’d have been 29 this Thursday, October 7. There is no easy life with addiction; there is no easy life when the people you love are gone.

The other day my 7 year old granddaughter was frustrated by the loss of her go0gly eyes into her silver slime. Nothing could be retrieved. She began to talk to her 3 year old sister about “big emotions.” Big emotions…I’d been having them all week. Unable to know them, only to recognize them. Love, grief, anger, regret, happiness, sorrow, longing, resignation….how many more? In the end, I wrote a poem about getting caught in that riptide of language.

Big Emotions Come

Big emotions come like a riptide

before I see what it is, I am under.

I can think of what to do, but not always

follow what I know. I paddle parallel

to the shore and away to the unknown.

My mouth is wide open but nothing

comes out. Just trying to breathe

can take everything out of me.

I have always been so determined

in the face of it all, but these emotions

come crashing when I expect

them least. Still, my legs are so hard

and steady, I imagine myself swimming

forever, sea creatures under me

and behind, everywhere threats and uncertainty

while I move as best I can.

What else is there in the wake

of the big emotions, the ones

I can barely name, my mouth spitting salt

eyes full of tears but the hold

of the current releasing me slowly

and certainly to something less wild.

Framed: Practicing Art, Creativity, and Love in My Home

I grew up in the art galleries of Washington, DC, taken there by my art student mother. We saw most major exhibitions that came to the Smithsonian in the seventies, as well as many that opened at the Corcoran, and I accompanied her to some galleries on Seventh Street, which was then a rundown collection of studios in buildings that had once been the shopping district of the city. We saw a few poetry readings there too, something that nurtured my own growing love of language and a desire to own it with my own poems.

It should have been no surprise to my parents that when the famed East Wing opened my high school boyfriend and I would often skip school to catch the subway to it. We were at a school for gifted math and science students, and our gifts could not be contained by those four walls—we had each other and were full of ideas. One of those was always to see what was at the East Wing. Our other practiced art was each other, a discipline in which we became experts that summer of 1979.

Now my house is full of art: Every wall is covered with art, some with paintings stacked like the Louvre–but those would be walls with my art, naïve paintings that I began to make the year my 94 year old grandmother died and I found my writing voice silenced for the first time in my life. I found that color was the only voice I had, and so I began to draw. At first, I drew cartoonish figures of memories: In my grief, I compiled images of all the things she and I had done together, or that my other grandmother and I had done together. I compiled these little drawings in a collection that I called, What Are Mothers For? but more aptly could have been called, Why I Needed You.

From there I became hooked on paints: watercolors, acrylics, alcohol inks, gouache. My supplies began to appear in rooms throughout the house: my office, the dining room, the living room. Spare surfaces became easels. The closets filled with random art supplies which grew to include beads, wires, tiles and more. The more I made and the more art stores I visited, the more I seemed to need. Watercolor paper, multimedia paper, sketch paper, drawing paper, paper of all sizes. Frames, glass, mats….there is no end to the supplies an artist—no matter how amateur—can amass.

And all of that work needs a place to be. It was not enough for me to fill volumes of sketchbooks and pages of journals with the things I was making. Some pieces that I made were so precious to me that I had to frame them. They represented something new I had created, or some bit of a moment I wanted to record. They marked something I had achieved, or thought I had achieved, in my development as an artist. Never mind that I had not taken a class or read a book…I simply watched other artists, joined an artists guild where friendly artists encouraged my nascent attempts, and I was gone.

When I painted a sunflower that approximated the look of a sunflower? I framed it. A watercolor of my son that almost looked like a boy diving into the river? Framed. A triptych of bright colors that had an impressionistic bent? Framed. Soon, the entire entryway to my house was full of my mother’s art—her beautifully rendered work, the work of a master—and mine, done between the ages of 53 and 58, as if a kindergartener had been set loose with a budget  to frame anything that caught her eye.

On the other hand, the bright works surround me with what I love: color, design, and art, things I have been seen all my life as the daughter of an artist. My walls feature art that my mother, Mary Hourihan Lynch, has created over various points in her long career, starting with a trip she took to Normandy my junior year of high school and she had just graduated from college. She brought back canvases rolled in tubes from where she had painted them in fields along the French coast, a plein air experience that cured her, she says, of ever wanting to paint outdoors again. My painting hangs above my bed, a beautiful impressionistic garden outside a cottage—it is near dark and the flowers emerge in a gorgeous tangle of color and abandon against the white of the cottage. The painting is small, not more than 18 x 24 inches. I have carried it with me from a college dorm in 1980 to my first apartment to the house where I have lived now for 24 years.

Another favorite is a large abstract canvas in gradations of purple and blue with an object about two-thirds along the horizon that might be a sailboat. The painting is actually something she made while painting something else—this was simply a way of cleaning off a palette-full of colors she had mixed and liked.

While these canvases and a few others hang flat like traditional canvasses, most others hang out from the wall, the three-dimensional sculpted or shaped canvases my mother has spent her career inventing and perfecting. On the inside these look the interior of early airplanes, delicate pieces of wood carefully supporting frames of canvas. But this is deceptive because the pieces are strong and sturdy and, once hung, appear to be as strong as any other well-built canvas.

Of these, my favorite is one called Kimono. It is about 4.5 feet tall and, at its farthest points, as wide. It is two pieces that swoop across each other with a belt of sweeping golds and silvers, one with an undulating pattern of wood. The primary colors are shades of purple with muted metallics fanning across, and, behind them, more pieces that fan out in different shades of copper and metal. It is narrow at what might be the waist, but has a gesture of movement, as if a woman is walking away. I have always loved this piece—as much for its movement and architectural finesse as for the fact that purple is my favorite color.

Several years ago I found myself in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, interviewing a just-widowed woman whose husband had been a prominent local figure. I was writing about best practices in end-of-life care and, thanks to that city’s excellent record on advance care planning, her husband had experienced a relatively peaceful end of life. Even so, it was daunting to find myself alone with a newly bereaved woman, asking her probing questions about the final days of her husband’s life and how it had been for her.

Somehow, the story came up of what she had buried him in. Their son had served in Vietnam and on some part of his journey home from that war, he had stopped in Japan and purchased a kimono for his father. The woman laughed. “A kimono! What would his father ever do with a kimono? Where would he wear such a thing?” Apparently, they had kept it wrapped up for thirty or forty years, until the widow had come across it as she tried to decide what to bury her husband in. c

“That kimono seemed just right, it just seemed like the right thing to lay him to rest in,” she said. “People sure were surprised, but there he was, as handsome as could be in his kimono.”

She went on to tell me that she had met her husband when she was a government girl in Washington, DC, during World War II. He was working in the Torpedo Factory in Alexandria, making torpedoes that would be sent down the Potomac to be loaded on to boats and off to war. I gasped when she said this.

“Yes, he even made me a tiny torpedo charm necklace,” she said. “ I wore that everywhere I went for years.”

I happened to have my mother’s business card with me. She has had a studio at the Torpedo Factory for decades, and for many years the image on her card was of the kimono. I took the card from my wallet and explained to the widow that the Factory had long since been converted to artists’ studios where the public could watch artists at work. More than a hundred artists have studios there, I told her, including my mom.

“This is one of her pieces, it’s called ‘Kimono,’” I said.

She looked at it and smiled. “The world is surely full of strange coincidences,” she said, or something to that effect.

I replied,  “I guess God wanted us to meet each other today,” I said. “Something sent me to you.”

She told me more about what it was like to be a young woman in World War II, dancing with a boy who made torpedo necklaces. They were married for more than 50 years. Who’s to say what any of this means. When I got home I finished my assignment, writing about the widow and what it took to fashion a good end of life based on her husband’s wishes. I did not describe his kimono, or my exchange with his widow.

As I write it is the end of Veterans Day 2020. I am looking at the kimono that hangs in my house, thinking about my own grandfather who served in Okinawa for 2 years during that war. The world moves full circle. Art moves us every day. Every piece of art that hangs in my house tells me a story. If I gaze long enough with my eyes clear and focused, I hear the stories. Some people may only see brushstrokes and color, others gaze at art and see nothing; some look and think, “Oh, I could do that.” My foray into art has taught me how much I can’t do. To me, each canvas is a novel. Even my little bits of color in their cheap frames have something to say, if only to me. If the purpose of storytelling is to connect, then the purpose of art is to connect what we see and what we think we know with the emotions and skill the artist presents to us. We must listen closely to hear it. Sometimes we do—and then we are lucky for there are worlds contained in each painting we encounter.   

I Yarn for You

I love to spin a tale. But for months now, I’ve been spun by them. So when my friend sent me a photo of an abstract piece of yarn art she’d seen while in South Africa, I had to smile–and then  make one of my own. When my 28-year old son saw it, he assumed … Continue reading “I Yarn for You”

Photo by Conor Fowler
@Th3NattyProfessor

I love to spin a tale. But for months now, I’ve been spun by them. So when my friend sent me a photo of an abstract piece of yarn art she’d seen while in South Africa, I had to smile–and then  make one of my own. When my 28-year old son saw it, he assumed it was all about stress–but it isn’t at all.

Turn it one way and it’s March, blowing in.

Turn it another, and it’s the bottom of the deep blue.

My son wanted  a picture of me holding it for his new style blog on Instagram, but my hair was a wreck. So I held the canvas in front of my face and called it a self-portrait.

What do you see?

Who would you be?

Have fun with it, or why art at all?

TAGS: yarn bomb, yarn art, stash, Th3NattyProfessor, self portrait, play, March, spring, outsider art

What Does The Giraffe Say?

Since Ian turned 16 on 11/27/17, thought I’d brighten things up my drawing my favorite creature (a giraffe), and that little bird (aka, dodomommy). Enjoy. As e.e. cummings wrote: it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. Forsythia in flower, November 27, 2017 Or as Mother Nature has long told us, expect … Continue reading “What Does The Giraffe Say?”

Since Ian turned 16 on 11/27/17, thought I’d brighten things up my drawing my favorite creature (a giraffe), and that little bird (aka, dodomommy).

Enjoy. As e.e. cummings wrote: it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.

Forsythia in flower, November 27, 2017

Or as Mother Nature has long told us, expect the unexpected. It may be a tiny beauty, or something terrible. Be glad that you are above ground.¥

 

 

Tags: birthday, giraffe, dodomommy, forsythia, November, quotatons, e.e. cummings, poetry, artwork

When Chad Was 24, Grief Came Home

My son, Chad Jameson, was a fearless and loving man. He would have done anything for anyone. But he was not able to do what his own soul needed to end an addiction that he battled for a decade. On Sunday, October 1, he died in a “recovery home” in Annapolis. He was 24. He … Continue reading “When Chad Was 24, Grief Came Home”

My son, Chad Jameson, was a fearless and loving man. He would have done anything for anyone. But he was not able to do what his own soul needed to end an addiction that he battled for a decade.

On Sunday, October 1, he died in a “recovery home” in Annapolis. He was 24. He would have turned 25 on October 7.

If all the people who loved Chad had been able to bottle that love as a cure, he would have been healed and come home again. In fact, any person facing any addiction would have been healed, and no one would have been left to suffer.

And Chad would have been able to come home at last, steady and smart. He’d have banged open our front door and smiled, then grazed through every cupboard in the house and the fridge, eating all food he could find (so long as he need not cook it).

He’d find his little brother, Ian, to wrestle him or arm wrestle or talk so fast I couldn’t understand their words. They would always smile and laugh.

If Gigi, my 3-year old granddaughter were around, he would play with her–or any other child–and make them laugh and feel special and beloved, because Chad himself was still an 11-year old boy, so desperate for the love that vanished when he was three and his mother died in a car crash. How I wish I’d loved him more.

He was so smart and sweet. When he was about four, he heard something about Israel on the radio and said, “Israel? Is Israel real?” He loved the play of words.

I always thought or hoped that when he “hit bottom,” he would come into his own, and touch the lives of children with joy. Instead, may the lives touched by his short life, by his love and, sadly, by his dying, be strengthened. May then know that there is no shame in asking for help. That medication saves lives. That addiction is a disease.

Every life is more than its actions. Every life is the Light it brings to us all.

Please God, let Chad fly at last as the brilliant star dust from which he came, and when we look into the dark and are afraid, let that fearless kid who tried swimming across the ocean to get to Europe that time he was 4 turn his face to home, so that his laughter might lift these heavy hearts. I was not ready for goodbye, nor were any of the broken spirits here, with the holes in our lives. Let his bright Light shine in us and on us. For the ones we love are never far from us. Call their names, pray to them, sing their favorite songs, whisper–they will always come.

Chronic Pain: Living What I Did Not Know

On March 13, 2013, a needle stab or two during oral surgery triggered chronic neuropathic pain, which involves my entire mouth and, on its worst days, my lips, nose, and palate. It is called burning mouth syndrome, a misery I would wish on no one. I’ve spent the years since then trying to cope with … Continue reading “Chronic Pain: Living What I Did Not Know”

On March 13, 2013, a needle stab or two during oral surgery triggered chronic neuropathic pain, which involves my entire mouth and, on its worst days, my lips, nose, and palate. It is called burning mouth syndrome, a misery I would wish on no one.

I’ve spent the years since then trying to cope with life as a person with chronic pain, trying every medication and complementary treatment my doctor and specialists recommended. As Dr. Victor Montori told me–before I myself became a patient–patients have to complete many tasks, and work to regain health. Doctors must consider what else patients have to achieve while conducting the work of being ill.

Nothing ever really helps–or what sometimes helps causes short-term memory loss–and I’ve been forced to adapt to living with a condition that has upended my life. I’ve also developed several autoimmune diseases, which come and go and flare and vanish, a perplexing mix of symptoms and treatments.

Much irony in this, learning to live with multiple chronic conditions as I age. It’s a topic I’ve written about for many years, especially when writing about how to help frail elders and their caregivers. The issues sometimes seemed intractable, and the solutions often appeared to be simple.

I have since learned how tough all of it can be. In December, I agreed to participate in a new patient-centered medical home (PCMH) project. I signed on with relief, for I could no longer manage the dozen or so medications prescribed by seven different providers–none of whom interacted with the others! Even now, when a clinical pharmacist finally completed her review of my medications, with an eye for spotting any that might be discontinued, I have yet to see her recommendations.

It is not that I have not asked–but that her recommendations were apparently faxed to my primary care provider, who then faxed them to my care coordinator, who concluded that I should not see them until my next appointment with the PCP. Meanwhile, agitated specialists have called me to warn that someone has been calling them to suggest changes to my medications!

Whew! Health information technology (HIT)? Not there–the area’s clinicians have chosen HIT vendors whose programs suit the practice’s needs. This means that they might not connect with the records stored by other clinicians, or the hospital, or the diagnostic tests. I am still responsible for trying to convey the complexity of it all to each clinician, and hope that the independent pharmacist who fills some prescriptions (other than those required by my medical insurance to be called in for maintenance supplies) spots potential adverse effects or interactions.

When I voiced these concerns to my care manager, she noted, “Well, you are a highly educated person who is knowledgeable about what should happen. This [program] is still a work in progress, and it will require many tweaks.”

Tweaks? I’m tweaked! What about those whose health literacy is less sophisticated? I’ve found my own sophistication to be no match for the alternatives clinicians suggest to me. Often, I guess–do I like the sound of the medication? Have I seen it on direct-to-consumer ads? Have I tried it before? What do others think of it?

It seems a foolish and expensive way to make such critical healthcare decisions, yet off I go on this road less travelled. Please take some time to follow me for a while, as I chronicle the next few months–and the work I accomplish.

 

Key Words: chronic pain, pain, autoimmune disorders, care coordination, patient-centered, health literacy

What’s Yupo? Learning a New Technique

A few months ago, an artist friend from a Facebook creativity group began to post gorgeous paintings she had made on paper called ‘yupo,’ which is synthetic paper. Among its advantages are that you can wash off what you don’t like, you can blow the watercolors around the page–with your lips or a hairdryer, you can add … Continue reading “What’s Yupo? Learning a New Technique”

A few months ago, an artist friend from a Facebook creativity group began to post gorgeous paintings she had made on paper called ‘yupo,’ which is synthetic paper. Among its advantages are that you can wash off what you don’t like, you can blow the watercolors around the page–with your lips or a hairdryer, you can add gouache and then stencils and who knows what as you create something from very little.

While visiting friends last summer, I gave their daughter $20 to run down to the local art shop, buy 2 sheets of yupo, and get something for herself. Well–the two oversized sheets were $20. (Better prices online, from Office Depot to Blick and  Jerry’s Artarma.) So I chopped the oversized sheets into the 6 x 8 inch pieces I’m more accustomed to working with, and waited a while to figure out what to do with them.

I finally learned, thanks to a class last week with the Muddy Creek Artists Guild, of which I am a happy new member (though I still hesitate to say that I’m an ‘artist’.) An instructor showed us one approach to painting on yupo–clean the paper with rubbing alcohol and, once it has tried, splash a bit of water here and there, and then add up to three complementary colors. You can swirl the paper, or patiently watch the colors swirl. I’m glad I took a picture at this point, because mine was so beautiful that I made it into a card (for sale soon on my Etsy site!).

On sale at JustByJanice on Etsy -- $15 for set of 5!
On sale at JustByJanice on Etsy — $15 for set of 5!

The next step was to pick up the still-damp paper and move it across the room, to set it on the floor with all the other yupo-work, where a fan blew the images dry—and all over the place. I did not have my final one made into a card!

Yupo, large

The next time my daughter came to visit, we took my watercolor pencils and small sheets of yupo, and came up with our own designs–mine, the giraffe with runny mascara and hers the Monet-like abstraction. I may frame them both.

Giraffe with bad mascara and Monet lilies
Giraffe with bad mascara and Monet lilies

The point of all this was that it was joyful, intriguing, and fun. When was the last time you played with watercolors? And why did you stop?

Key Words: yupo, watercolors, Muddy Creek Artists Guild, creativity, learning