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Images & Stories of Healing Art


Lisa (Continued)

My friend, Lisa, who is the creator of this website, is also a painter. One day, as we were looking at her paintings, she told me the story of a particular painting. As we spoke, it occurred to me how often we go through traumas -- large and small -- that need healing. I also realized how often we naturally utilize art and self-expression to work with issues,  even if we don't label or call it healing art.

There is a part of each of us that KNOWS how to re-balance, KNOWS how to remember, and that intuitively follows the broken pieces seeking wholeness. We just have to be ready to listen, allow and follow.  Lisa's story beautifully illustrates its power if we step into the flow.
-LR

My grandfather passed away in 1992. The year before that, he was honored as one of the Red Cross’ top disaster volunteers, having spent more than 200 days away from home at disaster areas across the country.

When hurricane Katrina hit the gulf coast in the late summer of 2005, it seemed that all I could do was stare at my television set in disbelief. The storm itself was of a magnitude I could barely fathom, but the events of the following several weeks frightened and horrified me.

When I was finally able to pry myself away to go into my studio, it seemed I could only stare at the enormous white canvas looming back at me. I had already been working on figurative pieces that explored a dichotomy between adornment and emptiness, and I already had a figure in mind for this particular canvas. But I had no context in which to put her. I was blocked; I felt at once overwhelmed and empty.

I decided to start by choosing colors that appealed to me at that moment. Soon a stormy, somber horizon began to emerge in tones of silver and grey, fading down to lavender and purple. Though a born-and-raised New Yorker, it was as if I could feel the sun setting dismally on the once great city of New Orleans.

When I added the figure, she still looked incomplete & disconnected. I thought about the disconnection on the gulf coast – the fractured families, townships, counties and states. In my mind I saw blue square forms, like glaciers isolating these victims from salvation. I added them. But still, it was not complete.

All the while, I kept thinking of my grandfather. I dug out his well-worn volunteer badge and pictured it proudly adorning his chest in the midst of so many tragedies. My fingers gingerly held yellowing newsprint, the magazine articles that had honored him so many years before. In my journal I wrote:

Today I can’t help but think that while everyone else was rushing out, you would have been rushing in. I miss you, grampa. And today, the world misses you.

I looked at the empty, ghostly figure adorning the canvas. I realized that she was myself, was Katrina, was the city of New Orleans. 

Finally, I knew what she was missing. I placed a red cross – a bandage, a badge, a memento mori -- over her heart.

 

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