identity

On a day where folks get to try on someone else's (or thing's) identity, I realize that I've been living my life like Halloween for quite some time. By drawing Mom, I've almost stepped into the aged skin of one who is wasting away. I understand how the thin skin collapses and settles into crevices around bones, joints and veins.

Lately, I've been working long hours to meet my design deadline of Nov. 1st. The designs are for ski wear geared towards teen-aged girls, to be sold starting in fall, 2009. To get into the mindset of the people I'm designing for, I try to immerse myself in the appropriate culture and life. The ski slopes aren't open yet, but I do have my daughter, Chloe, age: almost 13, to help. Music is inspiring and reading the teen magazines and shopping the stores help.

At 54, sadly I identify with Mom's age more. But I do know all the top 10 groups on the music charts and who Zack Efron is dating. Tomorrow, as I email my designs into the ski wear company, I'll be able to take off this mental costume for another year.

gossamer veils

The Museum of Modern Art is having an exhibit of Georges Seurat's drawings, which I read about this morning. With conte crayon in hand I attempted to draw with no success. But it was enjoyable and I'll continue trying. When I showed Mom the drawing, she said, "I have no idea who that man is". I think that means she wasn't thrilled with my attempt. We're in agreement on that.

Below are some exceptional drawings by Seurat. From the New York Times: The quickness and the command of form, human and otherwise, that emerges from the sketchbooks dazzle in part because so little is known about Seurat. He died in diphtheria in 1891, after barely a decade of mature work. He was only 31. Even artists as famously transient as Raphael, Caravaggio and van Gogh made it to their late 30s. One who died younger is worth noting here: Masaccio, the 15th-century Florentine master credited with nailing down the vanishing point of one-point perspective, thus getting the High Renaissance rolling. Western painting’s ensuing exploration of pictorial space lasted more than three centuries, and Seurat’s art stands as one of its conclusions.

But as this exhibition emphasizes, Seurat first formulated his ideas about color and atmosphere on paper, in drawing, working in black and white. Applying his beloved black conté crayon to the specially textured Michallet paper that he almost always used, he created an impressive tonal range of velvety blacks, gossamer veils, crazy all-over scribbles, porous grids, methodical cross hatchings and uncrossed hatchings.

It could be argued that the future that Seurat helped create for pictorial space and figurative art did not really flower until near the end of the 20th century, when Conceptual art interrupted the linear march of abstraction and reopened all mediums to narrative. It is now more widely accepted that representation and abstraction can coexist within a work of art. Really, they can’t live without each other, and never have, as Seurat so sublimely affirms.



Seurat, Drawing His Way To the Grande Jatte, New York Times, 10-26-07

patchwork

Getting Mom sitting up in a wheelchair is becoming less of an option. Her neck muscles are weakened and she detests being moved in any way. We'll try from time to time, but for now, she will stay in bed.

With this in mind, I rearranged her room so that she is able to look out her window, which she seems to enjoy. And now there is a family friendship quilt hanging on the wall that faces directly in front of her. She soaked it in and spent a considerable amount of time studying it. The love that went into making it (by family and friends in 1939) is pouring out to her, I believe.

make it real

A quick sketch. We're meeting this morning with the nurse from Hospice to readmit Mom. I've learned a lot with this whole on/off process with hospice. With the philosophy of care for Mom to provide comfort, not to drag her to the emergency room once again if she gets an infection of something worse, hospice is the appropriate service. It's a bit unclear why she was taken off but I'm thankful for this wonderful service provided by caring people.

Here's a real treat, so if time allows check out this amazing blog by Richard Johnson. He's a Canadian artist that traveled to Afghanistan for the National Post newspaper. Sometimes it seems like we've forgotten about all the people serving in this war zone and his blog and gorgeous drawings make it real for me. The drawings bring me closer to the people of Afghanistan and the soldiers than photos would.




Here is a link to the blog:

Kandahar Journal

fresh perspective

There is something off in this drawing. I can't figure it out. Usually, if I put the drawing away for a few weeks and look at it with fresh eyes, it becomes obvious. That's true with problems in general. Ah, nothing like fresh perspective.

Last night, Mom lay with her hands clenched, crossed at the wrist on her chest. Like an Egyptian mummy. She's been perspiring quite a bit but running an average temperature. She doesn't look good. I'm worried. But she continues to amaze me with her ability to pull through. If she hadn't smoked a gazillion cigarettes a day, she would have probably lived to be 150. One good thing about dementia, it makes quitting smoking easy. She tried for years to quit, then finally gave up and enjoyed smoking. When she moved in with me, I slapped on a patch and she didn't remember that she'd ever smoked.

slash (some) adjectives

This weekend, the local chapter of Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) held a retreat with the author/illustrator Denise Fleming teaching and working with illustrator attendees. She guided us in slashing adjectives and adverbs from our books in progress and spent hours critiquing our books individually. It was a delight.

Her website has wonderful activities for kids of all ages.

www.denisefleming.com


The illustrations above are from the book I'm working on inspired by Mom. They give a good idea of the theme of the book.

Mom is going back on hospice. We are meeting with them again tomorrow. Today she had a strange look about her. There was something different about her eyes. She had the sweetest smile, it brought tears to my eyes.

the almost moon

Teri Gross recently interviewed Alice Sebold about her new book 'The Almost Moon'. The book has gotten mixed reviews but the interview is worth listening to. Below is a link to the interview.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=15284388




From Publishers Weekly's review of the novel:
'Sebold's disappointing second novel (after much-lauded The Lovely Bones) opens with the narrator's statement that she has killed her mother. Helen Knightly, herself the mother of two daughters and an art class model old enough to be the mother of the students who sketch her nude figure, is the dutiful but resentful caretaker for her senile 88-year-old mother, Clair. One day, traumatized by the stink of Clair's voided bowels and determined to bathe her, Helen succumbs to a life-long dream and smothers Clair, who had sucked the life out of [Helen] day by day, year by year.'

I must confess to feeling rage when caring for and doing unpleasant tasks for Mom. She will lash out at me, calling me names in her humiliation. Even though I know her words are formed in a brain riddled with dementia, the hardened arteries starving her brain of needed blood, even though I know that, old injustices, real or imagined or inflated will arise in me and the desire to exclude her from my life, be done with her is frighteningly strong. So in a way, killing her. Luckily, Mom's foul attacks usually last a short while and she becomes a frail, dear soul, and it's a pleasure to help her.

Using humor can transform Mom quickly. In no time she will announce that she's going to whip our bottoms if we don't leave her alone. Said with a twinkle in her eye.

sigh of relief

After a few stressful days of moving Mom, I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief and settle into a more peaceful, routine life.
There was some confusion with going off of hospice, and on top of the physical act of moving a person in the latter stages of dementia, made the last few days daunting. I'm thankful they are history now.

Hospice doesn't often have people getting to a point where they don't need this wonderful service. Many questions arise because our goal was to keep her comfortable and now that we are looking into an unknown future. Some of the comfort drugs may not be appropriate for long term use. Or are they? Life is scary enough for her, why not make her as comfy as possible.
The trick is to not to over medicate so that she is in a haze all the time. This will take a bit of experimenting.

The previous blog mentioned Mom picking cotton and that reminded me of a postcard I recently bought off of ebay. The family farm was near Altus, so who knows.... the people in the postcard could be kinfolk. The caption on the postcard says 'Gathering Cotton'. Not quite, it's pickin' and sweatin' and back breaking work.

handful of love

Mom has always had beautiful hands with long tapered fingers. She used those hands picking cotton throughout childhood. When I was 2 or 3 years old, she went out and picked cotton to earn enough money to buy me a new pair of shoes.

true grit

Mom will be moving to a new home on the 15th. A husband and wife run it and have experience with hospice and dementia cases and come with glowing recommendations. Getting this set up was quick and fairly painless, unlike the initial decision to get help with Mom and the search for an adult family home. Approaching this task at first was overwhelming, but the more I searched out advice and help the easier it got. Duh! But it's not as obvious as it appears. When a family is taking care of a loved one with dementia, every ounce of physical and emotional energy is spent and doing the research to even find someone to give advice can see daunting. There are so many generous loving people out there working in all kinds of organizations who offer their support and advice.

A funny story that tells a lot about Mom's character: after Dad's heart attack which left him dependent on Mom due to some brain damage, Mom stepped up to the plate and took charge. She was always a strong woman, but knew that she had Dad to fall back on and he was her knight in shining armor, especially in all things scary. Well, they had settled into bed and were fast asleep when Mom heard some shuffling sounds in the front hallway. Our house was small so it didn't take much noise to get one's attention. Normally Dad would have checked it out and being 6' 1" and fearless, we all knew we were safe with Dad around. Of course, things were different so Mom got out of bed and saw a huge man looming in the hallway. Scream? Faint? No, she rose to all 5' 4" of her indignant self and barked, "What the hell are you doing in here? Get out now!". The man quickly stammered, "Sorry, Ma'am. Didn't mean to upset you," and left immediately. Mom went back to bed. I don't think she even called the police. She had some grit, and still does, really.

a devil named Guilt

Today has been hectic because I've been checking out a new adult family home for Mom. It's been a difficult decision to move her in her frail condition. As much as I like the people who care for Mom now, they just don't have the qualifications to deal with Mom at her stage in life. The owner of the home has had training but the day to day caretakers have not, and I've been seeing too many little problems that have started adding up.

Guilt can blind one to the obvious. No amount of logic can knock that little devil named Guilt off my shoulder. No child feels totally comfortable leaving a parent in the care of others. And even though I'm not able to take care of Mom, that little devil will whisper, "People have taken care of their own for eons", or "If you really, really wanted to, you could have made her living with you work out". The blinding part comes when I see a loving caretaker feed Mom by hand, change her feces-filled diaper numerous times a day and all the backbreaking, tedious work but excusing wrong doses of powerful painkillers that knock Mom out. The intentions are so good but the training and experience of knowing when a person with dementia is in pain or is just agitated is just not there at her present home. It's not just one instance, but as I said, many problems. And the funny thing is that I of course feel guilty for basically excusing it all. There are no winners in this neurotic game.

My brother Tim, lives far away in Oklahoma but is always there as a sounding board and stands behind my decisions. Tim is 10 years older and I've always been viewed as the slightly daffy sister. Well, I guess I haven't really changed, but our relationship has since Mom's health started failing, and I'm very appreciative to have a big brother I can talk to.

The new adult family home feels perfect for Mom and comes highly recommended. We're lucky because they accept Medicaid and Mom's money will run out soon. That's a whole other blog, though.

This sketch really captures Mom's expression today. I tried to use very little shading and let the line quality do the work and I'm fairly happy with this one. A drawing instructor once told me to look at Picasso's line drawings to see how subtle changes in line width can show contour in a more interesting way than shading. Isn't it funny what sticks with you from the distant past? Teachers: have heart, we do listen and what is needed, sticks.