Why Art Matters

I recently spent 60,000 dollars, not to mention the last year (or past 10 depending on how you look at it) of my life on one question, why art matters? I have written more papers, read more research and spent more time discussing this very thing than just about anything else. During grad school I grew so weary of this question and the subsequent debates that were certain to erupt amongst my classmates when this question emerged I considered switching paths entirely and going to law school… After all there is no conflict in law school… I was baffled by how difficult it was to find consensus, even among artists on why or if art really mattered. I became frustrated when my peers who were some of the brightest and most talented individuals I have ever encountered would dissolve our classroom discussions into something akin to disgruntled PTA mothers arguing about the best way to go about the bake sale… My own beliefs and idealism would be swallowed completely some days. Regardless of the occasional discouragement, I believe art matters. I know art matters. With the exception of my faith, art is the single thing I believe has the greatest capacity for transforming the human condition. In a way art is how I would name my faith in the secular world. So for the 137^th time allow me to explain why art matters.

My first experience with what I would call “art therapy” came my senior year of high school. I adored a particular fellow and was elated to discover he was planning on asking me to prom. One afternoon this fellow came to visit me while I was sick… a consequence of riding on a roller coaster a time to many… (Turns out brain tumors and roller coasters don’t mix…a story for another day…) We talked for awhile and then he presented me with a quandary… he gave me the names of two girls whom he was considering asking to prom…neither of the names were mine… In a chain of subsequent comedic and painful events I was the only one of my friends that didn’t go to prom my senior year. It sounds absurd! It was absurd that at the time I was so deeply impacted by this. After all by this period of time I had already survived major surgery, been temporarily blind, and lost my working memory. Losing out on my dream date and watching Meet the Fockers on prom night with my family really shouldn’t have been a big deal…

Something beautiful emerged from my devastation. While my friends were dress shopping and deliberating about hairstyles I decided to channel all my energy into prepping for my IB Art show. I completed a year’s worth of work in two weeks! There was something about combining handsaws, spray paint and pseudo feminist themes that healed me. It was one of the first times I remember feeling as though I could carve out a space for myself. It wasn’t dramatic. However, it was poignant as it allowed me to recognize as long as I had the ability to carve out a space, as long as I had the ability to hear myself, as long as I had the ability to be a storyteller, and as long as I had the ability to know someone was listening it didn’t matter where else I fit.

As luck would have it my life continued to unfold in a way that felt incongruent to my peers. While they were choosing their majors or which study abroad to go on, I was choosing a treatment plan and being asked if I had a living will. As mentioned previously, while undergoing cancer treatment I was introduced to the Children’s Art Project http://www.childrensart.org. Art mattered for the pediatric oncology patients at MD Anderson hospital. Not only did their artwork serve as a means to work through trauma it also generated funding to support many children after them who would struggle with the disease.

After completing treatment I dedicated my time to researching the benefits of art therapy for pediatric treatment. The evidence was there. Northwestern conducted a study showing that engaging in arts improved and or eliminated all symptoms experienced by cancer patients with the exception of nausea. After learning this I became interested in the physiological impacts art had on all sorts of trauma. I began to work with youth in substance abuse treatment and youth between foster care placements. I marveled to see how the arts began to take shape in these settings.

If you ask an art educator why it matters you will repeatedly hear the same thing. Though the answers may be slightly nuanced based on the educator’s particular field the list will essentially look like this:

Art promotes creative thinking and problem solving.

Art helps cultivate individuality and self-reflection.

Art encourages civic participation.

Art incites change and revolution.

Art ties us to our humanity.

Art generates dialogue.

Art can be instrumental in coping with stress or trauma.

Art connects us to our past and helps us imagine a future.

Art is a successful tool for creating new neurological pathways in patients who have experienced traumatic brain injuries.

Art can improve learning a second language.

Art helps second language learners remember more of their native language even when predominantly speaking the second language.

Art improves memory and retaining information.

Arts integration deepens learning in other subject areas.

Art promotes increased high school retention and graduation rates.

Art cultivates empathy.

I could go on and on and provide several refutable sources backing each and every of the above listed claims. I have learned to recite this list as easily as I do my phone number.  Even so, I am not sure any one of them fully explains why art matters. Over the years I remember the absolute awe I experienced both living and researching the fruit of the arts. It is hard to distinguish when all these beautiful discoveries became something I recited as though it was an elevator speech.

Over the past couple months it has been my privilege to work with a young man who suffered from a significant brain injury as an infant. His working memory was extremely compromised and remains the thing he struggles with most 20 years later. This has been a serendipitous, lovely opportunity for me as I too once lost my working memory. Working memory is a funny thing because it is everything you store between your past and future. Your long-term memory allows you a permanent hard-wired recall, your short-term memory allows you to remember someone’s name five minutes after they tell you and your working memory is the gatekeeper between them. Your working memory is what gives you the opportunity to remember the beautiful passage read or insightful conversation the day after it happened. When you lose your working memory you almost feel as though you are stuck in the past or can only move toward an immediate present. If you were to evaluate an MRI scan of my brain, you would still observe damage to the region of my brain responsible for working memory. Yet somewhere in my brain I have been able to create a new memory. There is a neurological explanation I will seek to understand for the rest of my life but currently it isn’t really relevant. Understanding everything down to the synapses would be useful but not imperative. I could have chosen to be a neurologist. In fact many of my physicians have inquired why I didn’t pursue medicine after receiving my new miraculous lease on life? And just as I have considered law school when the questions get hard, I have likewise considered medicine. Nobody asks an Oncologist or Neurologist why his or her work matters. But at the end of the day I didn’t choose to be a doctor. I chose to be an artist.

As I have begun to consider how to help this young man restore or even recreate his working memory, I have doubted myself and wondered if I could read his MRI I would be more able to help him. A recent portraiture lesson silenced my doubt and reaffirmed my belief in the ever mystical and allusive art. He was assigned to do a contour portrait. He grew increasingly frustrated both with the principles of shading and what he felt was his inability to translate what he saw, to his hands, to the paper. Hoping to ease some of his anxiety I brought a dark eyeliner and highlighter pencil to our next meeting and asked him to create the light and dark spaces directly on his face. The next time we attempted to draw contour portraits he did so with ease. I marveled as he would periodically make various facial expressions, touch his face and then move the pencil across the paper.

Art matters because it has the ability to inhabit more than synaptic junctions. It matters because it has the ability to permeate our cells. It matters because it has the ability to permeate our hearts. It matters because it has the ability to permeate our spirits. Art is the ultimate storage unit. It allows us to store and retrieve our greatest hopes, wisdom, fears, and insights from the most obscure and seemingly inconsequential spaces. Our fingertips are not as easily deceived as our minds. 

Art mattered when I was an angst ridden high school student devastated by the loss of the perfect prom date, it mattered when I needed to work through the emotional roller coaster of cancer, it mattered when it gave me a purpose and direction after receiving news of my remission, it mattered when I watched it change the lives of the youth I worked with, it mattered in every paper I wrote or discussion I participated in while in grad school, it has always mattered. But the moment it mattered most was when I realized it gave me the incomparable gift of memory. Art has given me the ability to keep, remember and retrieve the things I find most precious. Art has not merely connected me with my humanity but more importantly with my divinity.

The Little Drummer Girl: Lessons Learned at Walden

From the time I was little I had a strong sense of self. Though I was notorious for streaking through the streets, painting the entire kitchen floor, throwing tennis balls out the car window, and smashing porcelain dolls, there is one childhood anecdote I am reminded of most often. One afternoon, during my streaking phase, I sneaked past my brother, went out the front door and took off down one of the busiest cross streets…(from an early age I knew I had somewhere to be and I wanted everyone to pay attention when I got there.) Concerned by the wild, naked, cherub running against traffic, an elderly woman came to my rescue and brought me back to her house. Though I was quite young and barley talking, I was able to tell the woman my name, my siblings’ names, and my mother’s name. With this information she was able to piece together who I was and return me home. Though tales of my naked childhood shenanigans amuse me, that aspect of the story is not what resonates. For me the moral lies in the fact that I knew who I was, where I came from and whom I belonged to. Throughout my life I have found as long as I can remember these three things, I can navigate any situation, detour, or crowded cross street and safely return.

I haven’t lost my way very often. I certainly have evolved through phases (two words: Body Glitter) and encountered hedged up paths but for the most part have been able to know myself well. I have always interpretively danced to my own wacky drum. I haven’t worn a pair of pants since I was old enough to dress myself. Seriously… The only two places I have lived are Utah and Massachusetts and to date I have taken on every winter in a skirt. My hair has essentially been the same color and length since I was 12 (with the exception of when I flat ironed it to a breaking point, and dyed it brown in order to be taken more seriously in grad school… which was useless as I dyed it back before I started school anyway…) I have an opinion about everything. Once as an experiment a good friend and I thought of every obscure topic imaginable in order to gauge if I did in fact have an opinion on “everything.” I did… I have no ability to navigate my life based on common sense or logic. Every decision I make is a “heart” decision. I follow my feelings just as a wild, naked, cherub in a busy intersection should! My friends find me crazy and infuriating 96% of the time. I am the most cautious and careless dichotomy to walk on two feet. If I like a flavor of ice cream, I have no need to sample 31 additional flavors to be sure. I know myself.

There are only two times in my life I have legitimately felt lost. Though cancer changed a lot of my perspective and sucked out a great deal of artifice, I was very sure of who I was, whom I belonged to and where I came from during that time. In some ways I was most sure of those things in that experience than at any other time in my life.

The first time I felt unacquainted with myself was in my first semester of grad school. I was 3,000 miles from everything I knew and loved and wondered why I was pursuing something I felt was making me feel so uncomfortable and lost. I also felt incredibly guilty for having those feelings after finally being in the place I had worked so hard to get to and had desperately desired to be. Sometime in mid October, in dire need of clarity, I decided to venture out of the city and visit Walden Pond. It is hard to compete with Utah’s landscapes so I wasn’t expecting a lot, however when I arrived, I was floored. Walden Pond painted in the colors of a New England autumn should be counted among the wonders of the world. I am not an Annie Oakley. Certainly not by way of an affinity for firearms but also in the fact I am not a garden variety REI Utah native. By default I think living among the Rocky Mountains gave me a deeper appreciation for the great outdoors but I didn’t spend every weekend sojourning in them either. However, somewhere during my first visit to Walden, I became an outdoor enthusiast. I remember standing near the water’s edge close to the site of Thoreau’s hut and feeling the sense of the natural world transforming into a sacred space. It was in these moments I was reminded who I was, whom I belonged to, and where I came from.

Last week I began to feel lost for the second time in my life. I decided in order to seek clarity I would declare it a Walden week and tune out all the excess noise. In order to do this I chose to rid myself of all distraction including television, social media, or too much texting. I was unable to do it. In stead I somehow became more acutely aware of what everyone else was doing. I chose to measure myself against what everyone else was doing, even including fictional Netflix characters. It was the most un-Walden week of my life. By the end of the week I grew so exasperated by my inability to tune out I decided to carve out a couple hours to spend some time in my most sacred space. When I arrived, I had the opportunity to ponder for a great deal of time. As the commotion slowly seeped out, the reassurance of whom I was entered in. I wasn’t given the inspiration for the next great American novel, or led to the brilliant job opportunity that would allow me to pay off more than the interest on my student loans. I wasn’t led to my soul mate or given the perfect answer as to what my next step should be. I was however reminded of everything the streaking cherub knew about herself and what she was running toward. During my time worshipping in this sacred space I encountered a kind stranger who was about my same age. She said assuring words to me almost identical to the ones that had been living in my own thoughts. I thanked her and somewhat dismissed it assuming she only said it because I looked as though I could use reassurance. To which she insisted it was crucial I heard her message, and repeated her words. After repeating her words a second time, the stranger hugged me and walked off. I left that day with ears freshly attuned to my drum and a commitment to listen more carefully.

Walden is often assumed to be the text/place loosely referenced when an elitist, pseudo intellectual wants to illustrate a point about simplifying life. Sometimes scholars even mock Thoreau’s experiment as he only chose to inhabit the woods a short distance from his home. Though I find the lessons on frugality, simplicity and civics offered through the text as useful, it is the listening and solitude that most deeply resonates with me. I think the thing making Thoreau’s experiment most lovely was that it took place without comparison to someone else. How we relate to each other is a beautiful thing. The innovation and technology available to us is a most marvelous connector. On the flipside, our constant self-measurement in comparison to others has an unparalleled ability to drown out our drum. I will always hold Walden sacred as it taught me how to free myself from comparison and listen. I am grateful for a stranger who quieted her own life enough to receive and share a message with a fellow traveler. Though this time of life may occasionally feel aimless and convoluted I am grateful for the hope of safe return ensured through remembering three key things: who I am, whom I belong to, and where I came from. 

The Felicity Effect: Dysfunctional TV Romance at its finest...

I am a self proclaimed CW network (formerly the WB) addict. It is debatable whether or not I have lived my life by divine inspiration or by merely trying to replicate CW plotlines as closely as possible… I recently got in a heated discussion with one of my dear friends about how television distorts our expectations. This friend also happens to be a recent graduate of Stanford Law School so arguing with her tends to be fruitless… however, when it comes to hot button issues such as One Tree Hill, Gilmore Girls, and The OC (which is actually a Fox network show but for our intents and purposes will be included in the CW category) I would be remiss not to throw my hat into the ring! In our argument I made the point that the CW had seriously caused me to adopt some dysfunctional expectations for my love life in addition to causing me to fall for, pursue or stay patient with the wrong man multiple times. My friend argued the CW’s greatest offense was making dumb girls think they could just wake up their senior year of high school, apply to an Ivy League and be admitted without putting in the proper time or effort. As for me I think the only reason I got into Harvard was because Summer Roberts (OC) and Rory Gilmore (Gilmore Girls) paved the way before me… In fact, I would argue Gilmore Girls prepared me for Harvard more than any prior years of schooling… I most certainly would not have had the faintest clue who Noam Chomsky was if it hadn’t been for that blessed show…

With the way media typecasts women (a rant for another day) I am just grateful for the few female protagonists pursuing college degrees in the first place!

I digress. The point is the relationships portrayed on these glorious series are disastrous. If you are a woman between 25-30 who religiously watched Felicity when it first aired and have still somehow managed to be in a functional, healthy relationship, I applaud you! For those of you who did not fare so well may I illuminate how these shows led you astray? And for those of you who lived under a rock or are just part of the younger generation discovering these beautiful gems of television on Netflix may I give a word of caution? This post is sure to offend. Its painfully difficult to criticize the fated fictional characters we all have been manipulated to root for… So here it is… I present to you my list of the most the dysfunctional TV relationships ever.

1.    Felicity Porter and Ben Covington on Felicity

Dysfunctional Relationship Descriptors: Codependence, Communication, Emotionally Unavailable, Fixer Upper, Jealousy, Stonewalling.

First of all the whole premise of the show is about Felicity changing her entire college plan to follow a man across the country after he writes a cryptic message in her yearbook…Neither codependence or convoluted communication are sexy or desirable. Felicity you’re never going to fix that wounded bird, if anything he’s only going to get caught in that mess of hair of yours… no matter how many times you cut it… You most definitely should have picked Noel…

2.   Joey Potter and Pacey Whitter on Dawson’s Creek

Dysfunctional Relationship Descriptor: Fixer Upper, Roller Coaster Romantic, Female Emotional Awakening, Incestuous Friend Groups, Love Triangles.

While I consider Pacey Whitter one of the most handsome and charismatic men ever… he was a relationship mistake. I’m sorry but when your romantic interest is also the best friend of your previous romantic interest, is sleeping with teachers at 15 and holds no ambitions beyond taking aimless nautical adventures you need to send him down the creek. Also why name a show Dawson’s Creek if you’re going to make Dawson the most irritating character in TV history? There is a reason Katie Holmes (Joey Potter) ended up marrying the wackadoo that is Tom Cruise…Life imitates art…

3.   Joey Potter and Dawson Leery on Dawson’s Creek

Dysfunctional Relationship Descriptor: Codependence, Childhood Nostalgia, Incestuous Friend Groups, Love Triangles.

Dawson Leery was so irritating that even producers had to rewrite the story so the fated childhood best friends, center of the whole plot ended up going different directions. The Dawson lesson is this, sometimes you have to accept your past is not your future and if you were to imagine your life was a television series you probably wouldn’t want to date somebody who was so whiny producers had to rewrite your story… Again, why were we surprised by Tom Cruise?

4.   Rory Gilmore and Dean Forrester on Gilmore Girls

Dysfunctional Relationship Descriptor: Fixer Upper, Childhood Nostalgia, Dumbing it Down.

While Rory and Dean were all fine and good in the beginning, no one can contend the entire series went down when Rory rekindled her relationship with a married Dean, losing her virginity to the Willy Wonka song… Dean’s boy next door, simple charm is endearing for a couple seasons but certainly not worth more time than that. One soon tires of listening to Rory explain Tolstoy to Dean. Derailing a future for anything involving Willy Wonka is a no!

5.    Lorelai Gilmore and Jason Stiles on Gilmore Girls

Dysfunctional Relationship Descriptor: Daddy Issues, Fast Talk Emotional Unavailability, Guest Room, MBA.

Jason’s nickname is “Digger...” enough said.

6.   Peyton Sawyer and Lucas Scott on One Tree Hill

Dysfunctional Relationship Descriptor: Childhood Nostalgia, Romance Roller Coaster, Love Triangle, Adrenaline Attraction. Indecision.

While this one pains me most to write about... and they worked it out in a healthy and happy way in the end, their road to serendipity was littered with dysfunctional pot holes. Their entire relationship subsisted on Lucas “saving” Peyton in both literal and figurative ways. If a man attracts that much life threatening drama you better move on quick… Also, don’t let Mark Schwahn (the creator of One Tree Hill) get inside your head…

Case and point, don’t fall for a man you can’t “live” without, don’t move across the country for someone you’ve never met, don’t constantly rotate your boyfriend amongst your friends, don’t date someone just to make your parents mad, trust your instincts when the voice inside your head tells you he’s gay, don’t trust a man who has an affinity for Willy Wonka (or more importantly Michael Buble), don’t hold onto childhood nostalgia, don’t stay in love with the person someone was 10 years ago, don’t dumb yourself down, don’t think you can “fix” or “save” anyone, and MOST IMPORTANTLY do not become addicted to the CW television network at 13 years old…