In the midst of my gloom-and-doom, deep blue cloudy depression, one lovely surprise shines through like a bright yellow chunk of sunshine. I can still paint!
It had been months since I had tried to even lift up a brush. With the ever-increasing weakness in my hands and arms, I was truly afraid to try. What if I couldn't do it? What if I tried and failed? What if I discovered that one of the abilities that most defines me had been stolen by ALS?
Well, I could, and I did and didn't, and it hadn't. I am still, mentally and physically, a painter
Ever since my ALS diagnosis, my painting style and technique have progressively changed, and this new change is perhaps the greatest. I'm still doing semi--abstracted, quasi-Fauvist self-portraits, still using bright colors. But now my brushstrokes are broader, brushes are bigger, colors are blended directly on the canvas, and technical subtlety has gone right out the window. The paintings are still recognizably mine, and they are still a sharp poke in the eye of ALS.
I now rely on my studio aide – also known as my husband – to position my canvas on the easel (at a much lower height since I can't raise my arms) and lay out my paints (I can't unscrew a cap or squeeze a tube) and wash my brushes (can't do that either). But I figure if atelier assistance is good enough for the Old Masters, it's good enough for me.
I do have trouble with a lot of other aspects of painting, although by and large I have figured out work-arounds and alternatives. It's hard for me to grip the brushes, so I take hold with my left hand while gripping the brush between my right forearm and thigh, making a decided mess on my pants. It is difficult for me to control the brush strokes, so I experimented until I found that backhand is best – extremely awkward, but best. I am making a lot more of what could be called mistakes, but I don't call them that: instead, they are new interpretations of shape and form. Or some such…
I know that before too terribly long my hand and arm weakness will preclude even this adapted style of painting and I will have to find some sort of new technique. Maybe it will be the "My Left Foot" approach. Maybe I'll lay the canvas down flat and finger paint. Maybe I'll be a new incarnation of Helen Frankenthaler, pouring on the paint and letting it make its own decisions. Or perhaps I'll get wired up to one of those high-tech visual communication devices that let you draw using just eye movements (amazing but true!).
And I also know that someday I will not be creating art at all, and a part of me, and important part of me, will be gone.
But until then I'll keep painting as much as I can, changing – as I change other things in my life – to meet the challenges of ALS. Painting is a release and a therapy and the visual declaration that, no matter what, I am still me. It saves me in more ways than I can say.
