Life As Art

I recently posted on my facebook wall that I was headed home from the hospital as my favorite form of balance: asymmetry. I had to have my left breast removed almost a year to the day I was diagnosed with cancer. All went well, the doctor was confident he got it all. I am now lop-sided and healing well.

The day of surgery, November 29, 2010, I fell apart in the pre-op room. My poor Superman did not know what to do with me, my surgeon walked in on breakdown number three and inquired as to what was wrong. A question I thought to be rhetorical but managed to choke out I was scared after his look of concern lingered. So much for thinking I was strong…honestly I just really hate blood and guts and hospitals.

It is said that life imitates art and vice versus. A year ago I was not willing to except life as a uni-boob, but my path has become an odyssey…

However passionately I feel about a subject, especially the subject I am about to detail. I try to be open-minded. So here is my confession:

Words I thought I would never utter (or type): I have a tattoo. But alas I can say I have two! Now as an artist people often are surprised on my regards of tattoos (and that I didn’t have one afore the prior admission.) Being artsy, yes I can appreciate the artwork and freedom of expression that details a tat. I have many a dear friend and family member that adorn these permanent works of art. But those that know me are aware of my aversion to these marks on my person. My reasons for not (on my own fruition) getting a tattoo are few:

1) I am needle phobic and this past year of constant stabbing has not cured me. Each time the needle neared I would look away and I would hear the mantra of the little clown fish dad from Finding Nemo exclaim, “Find your happy place, find your happy place, find your happy place…”

2) I seriously think of hepatitis when ever I see one.

3) I don’t like pain. Although I have a rather high threshold for pain I would never coherently and willing cross that line.

4) I can’t be stuck with artwork I can’t tweak. I like change or honestly I change my mind a lot. I periodically rearrange my furniture for need of a new scene or because I feel I have found a better use of the space. I constantly think of new ways of doing mundane jobs. I just could not be content with the same marking or I would have tattooers remorse.

Now here is how it happened:

I went to my first radiologist appointment on December 28, 2010. I met my doctor. He thoroughly examined me, described my treatments and the prior to radiation prep (or so I thought.) Then I went from the examining room to the CT machine.

I am lying on the CT table after I had my scan so the radiologist could tailor my treatment to fit my anatomy. The nurse asks if they told me about the tattoo. I give her a sheer, dumbfounded look and stammered a soft “n-noo.” She explains it or so I thought she had because what I comprehended and what happened were on the extreme chasms of each other! I am thinking dots with the sharpie marker as she pulls out this vial of black and dabs a bit on my sternum area. I off-handedly ask if it is henna. She tells me no and says actually it is India ink which I remark on using with some of my life-drawing, wire sketches in college. But as I am in mid recall I feel this sharp prick in the area of the dab. I kept my thought of, "OH shit I really just got a tattoo!", to myself and grimaced in anticipation with the now-full-knowledge of pain with dot two.

The fun part of getting my two little (and I mean minute, tiny) black dots on either side of my mastectomy scar was telling my oldest child about it. The subject (or infatuation) of tattoos started when she was all of three. I have no idea why. I have tried not to scar my kids with tyranny of my own convictions. I try the approach my kid’s curiosities (like their fortified wills) by guiding them, not conforming them. I want them to be aware of their world so when they are old enough to make there own choices they will be informed decisions. So, with the topic of tattoos I have allowed: tattoo-sque markers, stickers that transfer with a damp cloth and pressure for 30 seconds and the occasional whimsy at the tourist-trap-henna kiosks. All this done in hopes their affinity may fade or at least they will weigh their decisions at length.

Another way in which I feel, as of late, that my life reflects art is with literature. My blog is, of course, a crude form of literature for my trek. But assessing my missing body parts, the scars left behind and now going five days a week to lie on a table/bed that is lifted, many feet off the floor to have a high-frequency beam directed at my heart with this huge, bulky piece of equipment; I seem like a science experiment. I feel I am the subject of the infamous Mary Shelley novel. Just call me Frank-n-boobless.

On a more inner-probing note, I have taken up painting again as I have mentioned in previous blogs.

Well, for the fund-raiser my most wondrous friends arranged for me, there was an auction as part of the benefit. I offered to donate a painting that had stemmed from a study of my initial dusting-off of the art supplies. I had gotten a bit of a “painters block” and thought that a deadline would give me some motivation. The friend who was the task-master of the event, forgot about my suggestion until 3 weeks to go. (I just didn’t mention it afterwards because I thought she thought is was a bad idea.) However, she called and asked me about it. I said sure I still wanted to donate it. Now I had to finish it.

So, I got to work. I would paint and look and muse and squint and step back for awhile then paint again. These proceedings repeated, a lot. Finally, I liked it. Just liked it, that’s all. I walked to the other side of my studio (AKA the garage) and inspected it. Since I started this piece, which was of a woman sitting nude looking over her back, I wondered why all of my female subjects (that I draw without an actual physical reference) always seem to have a Nefertiti-like facial features. This particular day I am mulling over this detail again when an epiphany occurs. My “aha” moment was not about Nefertiti but about the woman’s pose. She was looking over her LEFT shoulder. My left breast was the location of the cancer. I had unconsciously made my art reflect me!

I mentioned in the KISS (Keep-It-Simple-Stupid) blog of December that I wanted to give pointers or suggestions in facing or preventing cancer. This blog of the new year I will start with an insight:

Like the paint makes it to the surface of the canvas; it seems our souls have a way of reaching out and touching our hearts too.