Painting Sideways

Lucky me cracked an ankle this summer on Friday the 13^th. Friends and colleagues were quick to point out the full moon. On top of everything, it was also my 60^th birthday. “Happy Birthday to me,” I snarled, for weeks.  Engagements had to be cancelled: surprise luncheons, a dinner, and Father’s Day on Sunday where I had planned to buy my Dad a cheesecake. The first week disabled was tough. Overnight, every room in the apartment became long-distance, especially if I forgot something or needed to backtrack after I’d already arrived elsewhere. Dismay grew for how much travel occurred between fridge, stove and sink while trying to cook on one leg— this despite any organization and anticipation beforehand to save time and effort. And crutches…were scary. I fell 3 times in momentary losses of balance—once in a heap across my entrance when I missed the handle I meant to pull and pushed the door away instead. I looked like a dead insect: an assortment of limbs and crutches frozen in mid air. Apart from bruises and aches, sheer dumb luck prevented further harm or injury. Things did improve by the second week; I live alone except for my insouciant cat who doesn’t deign to bear witness to any sort of drama. As such, I had the luxury of being as wholly wretched as possible; curses, tears, all manner of ungracious thoughts and feelings issued from the depths. Eventually, I got bored with my own misery and began thinking up ways to help myself just for variety. The rolling cart that held paints, brushes and other supplies was converted into a temporary walker. It also doubled as a courier for meal trays. My brother brought me a $25.00 chair with casters from Ikea that I used as a poor man’s wheelchair. I spun from room to room, the casted leg jutting out like a battering ram.

What do artists do when the spirit is willing and time is available, but they are physically unable to engage with their creative process as usual? It depends on the kind of work they normally do. If restrictions limit standing, weight bearing, or movement, the main adjustment for some disciplines only requires a reduction in size or dimension of the art product. Accommodations in the studio may be necessary: rearrangements of space and furniture, alterations to equipment, or new purchases made to facilitate easier access and comfort. For other practitioners, it’s an opportunity to try a different, more manageable format, experiment with a variety of materials or techniques they would never have considered if not for their disabilities. The need for assistants or aides becomes more of a possibility. Sometimes though, the greatest challenge is the psychological and emotional despondency that arrives from an inability to do what you love, accompanied by anxieties that involve being physically vulnerable, older and single. People mean well when they counsel or try to cheer up the sick, injured, or otherwise indisposed. But exhortations to maintain optimism, have a sense of humour, or toughen up didn’t help until I encountered first-hand, those who truly were, worse off than I. We chatted in waiting rooms at the Fracture Clinic where there was little privacy. Only curtains separate each patient. Everybody knows what the doctor says to your neighbour. I heard the man next to me quietly weep when he was told he needed extensive surgery and physiotherapy for what sounded like serious damage. I rode with them on Wheel-Trans service to appointments and destinations and realized that not only was my situation temporary—others who coped with permanent disabilities, lived in areas of the city that would breed anxiety even for the fully able-bodied. Seniors on fixed incomes, often pushed empty bundle buggies as mobility aids.

By the 3^rd week, I resumed a method of art-making my physiotherapist told me afterwards, may’ve stressed my back. It was awkward and uncomfortable to work facing the canvas because the foot needed to be elevated. The solution: painting sideways. If I parked myself parallel to the canvas, put the foot up on another chair, the paint trolley could go over on the right. A palette rested on my lap where paint was mixed. I then applied colours left-handed. It did involve a bit of torqueing from time to time but at least some work got done. I also began small explorations with ink on different papers and rediscovered having neither agenda nor ambition—just pleasure in the making.

Despite misfortune, the accident did occur in summer, sparing me additional safety hazards of ice and snow endemic to winter. Paid sick leave is available, even for part-time employees at my job. My brother and mother brought groceries once a week; there are two households of my own personal friends who also live in the co-op, who graciously helped out. Two wheelchair members were the ones who told me about temporary Wheel-Trans, saving me the cost of cabs. I live alone but was never isolated.

On days when art was too tiring to attempt, I went to the park across the street and slowly practiced using the crutches, then took turns sitting on the many benches, some of which led down to the lake. The park staff was lovely to me; they put trash bins closer to the sidewalk because it was easier to dump cat litter there from my 1^st floor unit, than to negotiate a long hall and several doors to the recycling room in my building. They cheered and clapped the first time they saw me without any support appliances and I almost burst into tears. The park was a revelation. Despite living in the neighbourhood for 20 years, I’d rarely if ever, actually sat in it. Most of the time I sprint across the grass, trying to catch the 509 streetcars to work, or else traverse it with an impatience to reach home. Apart from shoring up on Vitamin D, time spent sitting still among trees, gardens and proximity to water, reinstated the joys of seeing. The slender twist of a birch tree, the myriad ways leaves refract light, azure blue above/cerulean blue below—the world around us constantly provides impressions of colour, shape and texture as sources of reference and incentives for delight in our profession. I’d forgotten just how generously available they are to an artist, focused as I am, more often than not, by the struggle and not the gifts freely given.