A Riot of Art – Barrier Series # 7

 

Riot Art © 2011 Bo Mackison

Riot of Art © 2011 Bo Mackison

“What art offers is a space — a certain breathing room for the spirit. ~ John Updike

This post is the seventh in a series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing. See the introduction and complete series at My Healing Journey

Once I earned the privilege, I worked in the art room every day, often twice a day. The art I created was not beautiful, not worthy of hanging over anyone’s couch. It was dark, often difficult to look at, always meaningful. The art I created helped me deal with the emotions bubbling to my surface so that I did not have to  explain in words. Too raw for words, the art spoke for me – through my paintings, sculpture, and mixed media work.

“Where something becomes extremely difficult and unbearable,
there we also stand already quite near its transformation.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

I was immediately attracted to the woodworking room, a small room divided from the open studio area which was often crowded with other patients working on art or craft projects.

There was a center work table, tools hung from pegs and hooks on the wall, there were bins of building materials. I had no specific goal in mind when I began, but I felt driven to create. El, in her wisdom, always stayed near while I worked here. She’d pull a stool into the corner, and perch there with a pile of her never finished paperwork balanced on a lap board. She both ignored me and kept watch. She answered questions and found supplies I wanted, but otherwise I was on my own.

While many of the clients chose to work on projects they could gift to friends and relatives, diversional projects which fulfilled a need, I chose to let my spirit speak through my hands.

My first project was a sculpture of many layers, and its creation, done over a couple of weeks, was a turning point in my recovery.

I began with several pieces of wood, a saw, a hammer and nails. With great intensity, I cut wood into many lengths. The sawing stage was short-lived. I was anxious to get the hammer in my hands. When I began hammering nails into the pieces of wood, the creation took on a life of its own.

I hammered hundreds of nails into five or six pieces of wood. I made a base, then angled pieces of wood to form a teepee like construction. I pounded some of the nails so many times, only the nail head was visible surrounded by hundreds of hammer-head imprints. Nails protruded from the edges. Nails bent; they were pounded into the wood lengthwise. Nothing was wrong. There were no rules, except those for safety’s sake. Never one who liked to follow rules, I understood the sanctity of the safety rules. I wore safety goggles and aprons. I understood that the misuse of tools or equipment were grounds for dismissal from the workroom. I honored the space, the rules, the tools. I learned to manage my emotions within a set of boundaries.  And I kept creating.

“Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror.
Just keep going, no feeling is final.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

After the hammering and nails stage, I moved into the plaster of Paris stage. The plaster was my sculpting material. I mixed bowls full of the thick white pasty stuff. Then I applied it to my wood structure. Layers and layers of white in globs and streaks. There was nothing delicate or considered in its application. Just the urge to hide the wood and the nails under a volcanic-shaped mass of white.

I added small human figures which I fashioned from bits of clay. I pushed the figures deep into the sculpture. I rolled clay into snakes with open mouths. I pushed them deep into the sculpture.  El continued to quietly observe from the sidelines. Occasionally another patient would use the tools for a leather project, but for the most part I worked alone and in silence.

The sculpture of wood and nails and plaster became the container for my anger, my pain, my wounded self. I asked El if there was paint. I wanted large quantities of black and red paint. El left the room, returned with two 16 ounce bottles of tempera paint – one primary red, one black.

Using a brush more suited for house painting, I slashed streaks of red and black over the white. I again worked in many layers. Paint over paint over paint. I worked in a quiet, self-directed, controlled frenzy. A controlled frenzy, you ask? That is what it was. I could not stop. I did not act out in rage or anger or despair, although those emotions were present within me. But I could not stop. I had to make this wood-nail-plaster-clay figure-paint structure.

For several days after I had finished the painting, I went in the woodworking room and sat with it. Examined it. El eventually handed me a notebook and a few markers – red and black – and asked if I wanted to write a few words. Thirty pages later, I stopped.

We are product of our past but we don’t have to be prisoners of it. ~ Rick Warren

“I’d like to destroy it, that pile of stuff,” I said to El.

“How would you do that?” she asked.

I knew that the act of destroying my art required a safety plan. There were limits and boundaries, there were rules for safety, and there were the other patients to consider.

“What if I did it when there aren’t people around? It might be frightening, the noise and all. I’d put a big piece of plastic on the table so there isn’t much mess. And wear the safety goggles and my apron.” I answered. “I want to take the hammer and smash it.”

El nodded her permission. “I’ll get what you need. You could do it Saturday afternoon, after the department closes for the weekend.”

And that is what we did. I spent several hours on a Saturday afternoon in a cold January destroying my sculpture symbolizing man’s inhumanity towards others. I hammered it into a pile of dust and mangled wood and bent nails. When I was finally weary of the hammering, I hung the tool on its hook and smiled. A very small smile. Then I sobbed and sobbed.

El sat me down, lightly put her arm around my shoulder and sat with me. We sat for a long time.

Finally I stopped crying, found tissues, and cleaned up a bit.

El looked out the window “It’s beginning to snow. Let’s get our coats and go for a walk.”

We walked around the hospital grounds. The new snow-covered the grayed snow in piles on the parking lot. The air was cold and fresh and very clean. I gulped huge breaths.

Art heals. Not overnight. Not in a week. But art, practiced over a lifetime, offers the spirit a path towards healing.

Next: Putting Out Fires

Unlock the Art – Barrier Series # 6

Bisbee Arizona

Art Lives © 2012 Bo Mackison

 This post is the sixth in a series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing. See the introduction and complete series at My Healing Journey

“Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.” ~ Henry Miller

After I’d stabilized and no longer needed the quiet and non-stimulation of the Quiet Room environment, my doctor transferred me to a regular room on a locked unit. This unit, designed for protection of the patients, did so with a minimalist approach. Anything deemed dangerous was contraband. A good rule of thumb – if an item could have posed a danger to a curious, unsupervised two-year old, it was off-limits.

A locked unit in a psychiatric unit, especially one on the sixth floor of a multi-story facility with no access to the outside was a stark existence. Boredom was rampant. Angry outbursts from patients, or the television set or perhaps angry patients fighting over the television set were standard fare. It was the way of the system.

The locked unit was a transition phase prior to transfer to the treatment unit which offered occupational therapy, art therapy, music therapy, and a variety of classes that helped patients transfer to out-patient programs.

Enter my guardian angel in the person of an Occupational Therapist, a woman named El. She looked beyond the angry, confused person that was me, and saw the glimmer of potential. El took me under her wing, and quickly assessed that the best to connect with me in my fragile state of anger and despondency was with massive doses of all kinds of art and writing.

She was right.

“Art is not a part of life, it is not an addition to life, it is the essence of those pieces of us that make us fulfilled. That give us hope. That give us dreams…” ~ Hasan Davis

We began with the simplest of media – paper and glue. Until I earned off-unit privileges, I did projects in the patients’ lounge or in my room. El brought in a stack of magazines, a large piece of paper, and a glue stick. I began with collages – torn pictures and words were a great match for my state of mind. At first, the mere act of tearing the magazine pages into hundreds of strips provided an energy outlet. Gradually I worked to combine pictures and words which provided an outlet for my emotions.

El explained what I needed to do so that I could accompany her to the off unit therapy room – a room offering art of all sorts. I was eager to expand my art opportunities and my privileges to be off unit.

It would prove to be a pivotal experience, one that opened my eyes to the miracle of creating and set me on the road of healing.

– these experiences are based on journal entries, 1990-91

Next: A Riot of Art

5th Annual Photo Alphabet – Part V

R is for Ritual and Routine.

Early Morning Coffee in the Desert

Early Morning Coffee in the Desert © 2011 Bo Mackison

I have an unusual ritual in the Sonoran Desert. Some might think of it more as a routine – brewing the early morning coffee – but when I brew my first cup of coffee after a night of desert camping, it truly is elevated to the level of ritual.

The assembly of the tiny backpacker stove. The measuring of water from my water supply. The finding of the matches — which usually provides a modicum of panic. The boiling of the water. The measuring of the coffee grounds, safely stored in the bottom of my coffee cup/coffee press. The boiling water poured into the coffee press, the cup tightly closed, plunging the press, waiting the ten minutes for the coffee to brew. And finally sipping that first early morning coffee.

If any one is wondering why I might need coffee while camping in the desert, keep in mind early morning in the winter desert is usually 30˚ to 40˚F, often even colder. That first cup of coffee is like a bit of heaven. Routine, yes. And ritual.

S is for Shadows and Self-portrait.

Shadow Photographer

Shadow Photographer © 2012 Bo Mackison

I have a fascination with taking photos of shadows. They might be photos of leaf shadows on a wall, a repetitive fence shadow on a sidewalk, an intricate wrought iron table and chairs casting an abstract shadow on a patio. I constantly look for shadows to photograph.

And sometimes I photograph self-portrait shadows.

I like these self portraits in shadow. Sometimes I am long and stretched out, as in the above photo taken late in the day. Sometimes there is just a head shot, my hat on my head, protection from the desert sun, hiking stick leaning against me, as I balance and set up the shot.

I always have my camera up to my face. I may be alone or with a companion. I like to study these portrait shadows.

They tell me a bit about the photographer I was at that moment in time. By the clues in the photos I can decipher where I was, who I was with, the time of the year or the time of the day. I may even be able to tell my mood by the way I carry my body. I may remember a conversation I had with a person in passing or a particular event that happened that day.

Another way I capture bits of my life as reminders. Like words on a page of a diary or journal, a photo holds that space for me.

T is for Thresholds and Transitions.

Window, Bench and Door in White

Window, Bench and Door in White © 2010 Bo Mackison

Transitions. I think that very word, and a lump forms in my throat, an ache develops in my chest. No matter what type of transition I face, it takes me awhile to focus and gather my equilibrium before I carry on. The transition can be one I dread or one I look forward to — no matter. The very act of crossing a new threshold, or a threshold I am re-crossing, causes me to stop in my tracks.

I’ve discovered that I can approach transitions in different ways. And that is okay!

I may choose to move towards a threshold, decide I am not quite prepared.. OK. I can sit down — that bench is handy — and pause while I consider my next step.

Maybe I approach the threshold and find I need more time to study the new, do a bit more research or soul-searching. Maybe a look through a window, visualizing the next step is helpful. OK.

Or maybe I am ready. I have considered my options, I know that the next step needs to be taken, or I am simply ready. OK. I open the door and walk through, across the threshold.

This photo is a pretty good summary of me working my way through life, whatever it takes at that moment. Approaching transitions in different ways.

U is for the Universe.

Three Self Portraits

Exploring the Universe © 2011 Bo Mackison

The Universe — worlds upon world upon worlds. Bright and shiny — new places to explore.

In each shiny ball representing part of the universe, there is a tiny self-portrait of me, both looking in and looking out.

V is for Vision.

Double Vision

Double Vision © 2011 Bo Mackison

I like this photo – the one I call Double Vision – because the branch in the foreground still has berries and a leaf hanging on it, the branch slightly behind it is bare. It’s a double branch. But there is more. Look into the background, extend my vision deeper into the landscape and I notice the snow-covered river – the river a conduit for travel.

Will it be an easy trip, perhaps on a flowing river in the early summer on a small skiff with a companion? Or will the trip take place during a drought, the water is low, my boat keep getting snagged. I must keep getting into the water to dislodge it, push it along, even portage it? Perhaps the journey is a cold, lonely trek in the winter, traveling alone on skates or ice cleats, or along the side of the frozen river, pushing through the deep snow?

I look at this photograph and I see the past captured — dried fruits and leaves. And it foretells possible vignettes of the future in metaphor — travel on the river. But all the while, it capturing a moment in the present.

——————-

Bo Mackison is a photographer and the owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. The 5th Annual Photo Alphabet ends with  Wonder thru Zen!

5th Annual Photo Alphabet – Part I

In honor of the ending of the year 2012, I begin my annual alphabet today and finish it on New Year’s Eve – in six parts.

I did my very first alphabet in 2008 – it had a Wisconsin theme with rhymes. (Wow, like Dr Seuss!) I posted the 2009 Alphabet the second week in January, including a pseudo-Arctic photograph! In 2010, there was another series –  each alphabet letter was represented with a photo and musings.  Last year’s version, the 2011 Photo Alphabet, began with this set of photographs. and had more photos than words. And now, the end of 2012 approaches.

Presenting…

BO’S 2012 PHOTO ALPHABET 

 

A is for Abstracts, Authenticity, and Art.

Aloe Abstract

Aloe Abstract © 2012 Bo Mackison

I love abstracts, especially macro-photographs of botanicals. And I love to play with them. For those of you who know your plants, and specifically your aloe plants, you’ll recognize this as an upside down aloe in flower. I pulled out most of its orange color, and the result was an aloe of many colors.

When I do the art festivals in the summer, people ask me lots of questions about my photographs. One of the more common questions is “Did it REALLY look this, or did you Photoshop it?” I usually explain that the flower in the garden never did look exactly like the photograph and that I used post processing software (usually Adobe Lightroom or Nik Color Efex Pro 4) to make the flower look the way I saw it in my imagination.

Much of the time, I choose to be authentic to the vision I see instead of the actual flower, and so most of the botanical photographs I show in art fairs and museum exhibits are one part garden flower and one part Bo’s imagination.

B is for Blurring, Balance, and Being.

Maple Abstract

Maple with Motion Blur © 2011 Bo Mackison

I work as a photographer. I also play as a photographer. Some of the time my photography is more work than play, most often when I am doing freelance work and the job requires me to meet the client’s expectations. There’s a time for photo work. But for me, my time spent in photo play is just as important. It’s a balancing act. Work and deadlines balanced by camera exploring and freedom to be me.

One of my favorite play activities with my camera is using deliberate motion blur to create another type of abstract. I did a series of motion blurs with trees — some became swirls of color, but a few retained just enough of the subject. The result? A maple tree with a distinct brown trunk whose yellow leaves form wispy leaf tendrils.

C is for Color, Circles, and Community

Doughnut Plant's Doughnut Bench, Lower East Side, NYC

Doughnut Bench © 2012 Bo Mackison

One of the most important components in a photograph is color. Sometimes color draws you to a focal point, sometimes the colors complement each other and add significant interest, an eye-catching appeal, to the photograph.

I photographed this colorful bench in the Doughnut Factory, a bakery on the Lower East Side in NYC, where most of the available surfaces are painted with bright colorful circles (doughnuts!)  I took note that there were a few square donuts, too – was that a nod to design or diversity, I wondered? There was a line of neighbors waiting for seats – as one group left another sat down, squeezed in, re-arranged, added or subtracted chairs, called to friends and neighbors, began conversations with those of us “just visiting.”

C is also for community. Meeting with fellow photographers and shooting photos together, critiquing photos, sharing information – that is a one of the special perks of being a photographer. And also there are communities not directly associated with photography, but ones that I join because they are photo-related. Walking tours that provide photo ops while learning the cultural history of the area. Botanical groups that share a love of all things nature. Book-making and artist groups that offer opportunities for me to learn how to create art books with my photos.

D is for Details, Darkness, and Dreams.

Abandoned Car

In the Details © 2012 Bo Mackison

There are photographs I take for the details. The above photo has a bit of unbroken glass still in its place in the door frame. In its reflection is a blue sky and the bare tree limbs of late autumn. There is debris surrounding that small piece of window – an abandoned car in a deteriorating garage, fallen pipes, dark shadows. But the window holds a dream, a vision of the unending sky, a tiny piece of the Universe.

Photographs sometimes offer me a message within the medium. Looking at a photograph is sometimes similar to decoding a dream. I look at this photo and understand its message — when darkness creeps in, and surrounds me, when my world appears to be falling down around me, there is always a shard of blue sky if I am open to new discoveries. Perhaps there is a new threshold to cross, a new path to follow.

Amazing thing, photography!

Part II of the 5th Annual Photo Alphabet continues with  Enchantment thru Healing.

 

 

Stretching our Spirits

Sitting in the Blues ©2012 Bo Mackison

Stay here – “sitting in the blues.” Allow emotion to turn everything into a statue, give fear and anxiety permission to darken the view.

Obstacles ©2012 Bo Mackison

Obstacles ©2012 Bo Mackison

Or…study the obstacles in the way. Consider strengths and skills. Make the decision to move forward, knowing that a stumble or a fall precedes standing again and moving forward.

River Passage ©2012 Bo Mackison

Passages © 2012 Bo Mackison

There are helpers on this journey. Find a flowing river with colorful guides to show the way.  Or a bridge to provide safe passage from here to there.

The Brightest World ©2012 Bo Mackison

There will be rough places to navigate, but the brightest wonders are sometimes found nearest the rustiest spots. Keep walking the path. The hardest of challenges grow our souls, stretch our spirits. Determined, we will find our way.

———-

Photos taken at Olbrich Botanical Gardens in Madison, Wisconsin.

Bo Mackison is a photographer and the owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.  Visit her Facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/seededearthstudio