Here is a talk that I gave today, my penultimate day, in Dundee. I am looking forward to developing the work I did here back in the studio, and also to returning to CAHID next year hopefully to pick up where I left off!

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.

John Donne 1633 (2 years posthumously), Holy Sonnet 10: Death, be not proud

I wanted to begin this talk with Donne’s Holy Sonnet number 10 as I feel it speaks to everything that I have been doing here over the past two weeks. This is my second visit to CAHID and once again the openness and the warmth with which you all have welcomed me into your world has made my time here very special. Besides the chance to be back in Scotland – a country that nutures my soul! – the opportunity to work within all the facilities of CAHID has been a gift of immeasurable value, so thank you; and thank you too for coming today.

So last week some of you heard more of an introduction to my work in general so today I want to briefly focus on the specific work I have been doing here which has primarily been about making a series of drawings and written notes that reflect on the nature of my emotional response to the cadavers I’ve been working with in the dissection room and in the mortuary, especially in consideration of their ‘personhood’ in relation to my own. I’ve put some of the drawings I have made up onto this powerpoint and the originals are all here should you wish to look at them.

My time here therefore has been full of reflection, a creative and productive time during which I have been able to step away, both metaphorically and literally, from life and indulge my profound fascination with the contexts in which we understand death. Donne is complex in his allusions and as in all art forms a lot must depend on how each of us as individuals interpret his words, but for me, the gist of what he is saying is that although physical death may constitute an end, the nature of death itself is not so consummate. As Dylan Thomas, after Paul in the Romans said, ‘And death shall have no dominion’.

I am not religious, and though I like to use words I cannot consider myself much of a poet. I do however have unlimited respect for both. I talk sometimes about the soul but I refer I think more to a sense of ‘being’, an idea of personhood that is indeed drawn from all of my training and philosophical inclination, but most importantly I think from my simply being a human being. It is ‘being’ so that drives me.

As an artist I do not seek perfection with all the vanity that brings with it but I am drawn rather to the integrity of the imperfect, the anomaly, the marginalised, the disassociated and the disregarded. But I have travelled many and often interestingly diverse roads to get here. For my formative Fine Art training I purposefully chose a classical approach to anatomical drawing, and with my fellow students in the ateliers of the New York Academy I struggled with everything I thought I knew in order to render the skeleton and musculature of the objectified human form to perfection. We defined the look in the eye, the ‘humanity’ of the living, breathing model in almost as cold and detached a manner as we drew from the plaster casts that stared, equally cold and unblinking, from perfectly carved corneas, and I learned how to deliberately set aside all sentiment and all my philosophy in the belief that in order to eventually render true subjectivity, the true ‘content’ of the subject with all its imperfections and uncertainties, I needed to understand the object, the ‘form’, in its perfect state.

Nature gave way then, albeit temporarily to artifice, but it was through this betrayal of everything I have come to hold dear that I came then to understand the simple honesty that underlies a true relation between objectivity and subjectivity. I was struggling to achieve the perfection of form and content only so that I would be able to manipulate it and seek the essence of human subjectivity in terms of its discontent; that is, suffering in all its paradigms. Perfection has no real value then, even if it were a possibility rather than just an ideal. Perfection leaves no room for manoeuver, no room for the inevitable errors that must be an innate aspect of individuality and, as such, you could say that perfection leaves no room beyond itself for anything else but levels of suffering. Thus in the work I do now, almost exclusively within the world of medicine where life and death are dealt with on a daily basis, and I look for meaning in the ways that levels of suffering are both borne and are responded to.

While working here this past two weeks I have been able to continue my education in human anatomy first hand, and indeed find some answers, but, perhaps more importantly, I have also had the opportunity to indulge in my favourite combination of creative exploration and philosophical enquiry. Always for me, however many answers I stumble upon, there are always more questions. Questioning is at the very heart of what I do.

I questioned how I would respond to watching an embalming, or yet a brain removal. I was fascinated to discover that I was fascinated! During the embalming process my painters brain went into overdrive…the sheer beauty of the colours I saw changing over the form as it swelled with the intake of fluid was almost overwhelming. I made a couple of quick sketches but in some cases it is better just to experience the moment and commit the imagery to burning memory. The seeming violence of the act of introducing the tubes into the sagittal vein and into the femoral artery was lessened somehow by the respect and the professionalism with which Sam and Clare, the technicians, performed it. Even during such invasion, the stripped, shaven and lifeless body retained the dignity of the person who had lived it and left it only a few hours before. Watching the slow, sometimes gentle, sometimes more effusive purging of original bodily fluid from the lips, from the eyes and from the cut deftly made in the cranium made me consider and question my understanding of the nature of being even more profoundly.

In conclusion I would like to share some brief thoughts that I felt worth recording during my time drawing here. They are thoughts and reflections that give voice to my emotional responses to what I was seeing and hearing and experiencing.

Good morning

How shall I call you?

Shall I call you sir?

Are you afraid of what I will do?

I wield only a pencil

No blades, no sharps

Yet I can damage you

I can erase you as you have late been erased

And…

You are the special one

You are bagged and saved only for research

Only practiced hands probe

The depths of you

But what now

Subject to an artist’s gaze

Did you suffer ?

 And…

The silence is heavy on me

Not the silence of death

No, that silence has already passed into what was

This is the silence of no life

And finally…

I see in him my father’s death

In the sparseness of his limb

In the stillness of his spirit

In the slackness of his jaw

And in the deep quietude that befell him

I didn’t see my father die

I was not there as the cancer raged through him

But here, now, I see in him my father’s death

And all is well

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am in Dundee! As a visiting artist for two weeks at CAHID, the Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification at Dundee University I am indulging my fascination for all things anatomical. I am here primarily to give a presentation and run a drawing workshop for the MA Medical Art and Forensic Art students, and this year we will be joined by members of IMI the Institute of Medical Illustators, but I will also be spending time making my own drawings in the Theil Cadaver Facility. Dundee is the only facility in the UK where cadavers are embalmed in this way and therefore I am very happy to have this unique opportunity. In the words of the CAHID website:

Sadly, although very understandably, Scottish law forbids me to publish here any of my drawings that have been done directly from donated bodies so I cannot post any images just yet. Instead I am posting a drawing that I made some time ago as part of a project I was working on at the University of Texas Medical Branch anatomy department in Galveston. The image is of an ‘exploded skull’ which was a very old specimen and created in an extraordinary way using dry beans which where packed into the skull and then the whole thing soaked. As the beans took up the water and swelled to double their size the 22 separate bones of the skull were forced to disarticulate. The concept of the exploded skull was given us by Leonardo da Vinci in his anatomical drawings but its usefulness  was maximised in the mid-1800s French anatomist Claude Beauchene. Beauchene developed a method of mounting the separate bones on a stand designed to exhibit them at once individually and in context.

 

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exploded skull drawing made in UTMB Galveston Anatomy Department

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an original Beauchene skull

The drawings I am making here in Dundee are of a similar nature to those I worked on in Galveston and I will be using them back in the studio in Cardiff, along with the work I was doing in the Hunterian museum at Glasgow University early last year (see previous posts) to develop work for a future exhibition entitled ‘The Quick, the Dead and the Anatomised’.

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Time:

Its been a while. In between then and now I have traveled back to Tanzania for the Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula project and also to Antigua, Guatemala. Tanzania was as moving as the previous trip – if not more – and very productive. More details about it I will not go into here as it is all on the dedicated site (just click on the link). The three weeks I spent at the end of last year in Antigua were not so much about work, they were more about recuperation (see below). It was equally moving however and I became fascinated by the bloody history of the Mayan culture, the intensity and pain of which is still very present in contemporary society. I am hoping in the near future to put up a couple of the sketches and notes I made there.

So,  I am beginning 2016 having crossed Sontag’s boundary between the King of the Well and the Kingdom of the Sick. I traveled into the domain wherein I have been only a detached visitor since I began working as an artist in medicine some years ago. I experienced first hand the sense of disorientation and of the abject. I have however returned  the much relieved possessor of only half a thyroid having had the other half removed along with the tumour that had grown on it. Suspected malignancy was thankfully ruled out and I am left now with a scar that is slowly healing, an oft-croaky voice but besides that more healthy than I have been for a long time! The experienced has left me even more determined to continue the work I am doing…I have only scratched the surface of what I believe I can do…I just need to continue.

Portraiture:

My work has taken a definite turn towards portraiture, which I like to understand more as a conceptual framework for my work rather than a dictate of genre. Africa has generated much work,  which will be exhibited in New York in May this year (details to follow), and I have just launched a new project working back in the field of cancer here in Wales: doctor : patient : doctor Both these projects involve portraiture and for the latter I have been working on some paintings of people close to me as practice. This post carries an example. ‘The builder’ is executed in oil on canvas and is around life size.

 

Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula

Here are a few pictures from the Cardiff launch of the Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula project. It was a lovely night both inside and outside the venue with the evening sunshine bringing in a good crowd! Thanks to everyone who came and supported us and thanks also to those who have already purchased some of the works. All are on sale and proceeds will go towards continuing to develop the project.

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This is the transcript of a a talk that I gave at the University of Durham last June….it is a piece of ‘academia’ – with all that entails – but it is nevertheless written from the heart (and indeed, after my heart and my confidence in it, I must confess, had taken a knock or two!)

The Abject Artist:
exploring the multidimensional capacity of art to express and communicate the experience of illness

I am a visual artist. My fundamental passion is for exploring the human condition and the way we engage with what we perceive as our world, and, because passion is closer to the surface perhaps in the realm of suffering, I work primarily both within and around the world of medicine. I work directly with patients and with health professionals using language, through conversation and unstructured interviews, and imagery, through sketches and photographs, to inform further work executed in the studio. I therefore use art practice as an explorative process towards expressing and communicating the experience of illness and its overall impact on a patient’s life. I make visual ‘portraits’ of the relation between objective and subjective understanding and experiencing of varying degrees of dis-ease. I try to communicate passion through art in order to promote further understanding and awareness, in the world of the healthy, of what it might feel like to be residing in the world of the sick.

My academic background is in philosophy and the philosophical rationale behind my work is usually tacit in the talks that I have given about the art projects I am developing. But today I would like to bring it to the fore and talk about my methodological approach, especially as I have come to the understanding through my work that philosophy, when considered itself as a practice, is inextricable from the creative practice that is my driving force overall, and especially too because I have given up trying to squeeze my flights of fancy into boxes that purport to assert rigour yet lack the capacity to contain risk. Moreover, where my practice is firmly rooted in the Deleuzean aesthetic I reject the linearity of the taproot and embrace the diverse potential of the rhizome, whose botanical counterpart can be found in the pervasive couch grass.

As a creeping underground stem, couch grass is most often seen by those in the horticultural field as a problem, something to be at best tolerated, at worst eradicated, and similarly perhaps, in the relation between art and medicine, the value of the aesthetic has become, over time, a complex issue wherein the aesthetic is often accommodated as a fortunate, but merely decorative aspect of fantastically accurate technology and digital representation. Sadly, understanding and appreciation of the potentiality of a productive – rhizomic – art-science relation have been steadily eroded at least since the Royal Academy in its wisdom precipitated the rise of natural philosophy over natural history in the in the late 1700’s. I don’t want to stray too far along art history’s tangent here but we might say that artists of that time, in following the perhaps overblown views of Joshua Reynolds, did themselves no favours.

In the aftermath of their disdain for the work of such artists as Jan Van Rymsdyk who made the beautiful and in my opinion emotionally charged drawings for William Hunter’s Anatomy of the Human Gravid Uterus, and in the sometimes harsh light of technological advancement, the contemporary significance of conventional art practice in medicine, now deprived of its historically pivotal role in medical illustration, is slight.

Even so, as an artist living here and now, in health and in the 21st century, I believe that where history and philosophy play their own crucial parts within the tension between artistic and scientific thought and practice, and most importantly between objective understandings of disease and subjective experiences of illness, creativity, the art process itself, has the potential to not only reinstate its crucial and functional relation with medical advancement, but also become an advocate for the reinstatement of the patient, whose distinctiveness as a human being is too often lost within the mechanism of the ‘treatment regime’. I understand the majority of my own work as a fundamental ‘act of empathic witness’ and it is within this concept of creativity that the subjectivity of the individual is prime, and is valued and nutured. Art can in this way shake of the limitations – some might say the shackles – of mere depiction and express that which is far beyond representation in the conventional sense.

Creative ‘acts of witness’ then are directed towards a more complex relation between art and medicine than that defined by medical illustration as we would generally acknowledge it. In philosophical terms, drawing on the Deleuzean rhizome, artworks that I create become what I would call tangential expressions that derive from specific nodal moments of existential experience within the hinterland of a world that is divided by Susan Sontag’s bi-polar Kingdoms of the Sick and of the Well. In the hinterland the couch grass can flourish undisturbed.

I am not saying of course that art could or indeed should ever replace science, only that it can help to humanise the scientific perspective and, in doing so, serve to instantiate the ‘person behind the diagnosis’, the individual whose illness often goes unheeded in the necessity to treat the disease. An evocative example here is that of a woman I recently worked with who had been diagnosed with endometrial cancer and was undergoing the prescribed treatment, which included surgery and radiotherapy. As she talked very eloquently of her feelings of being alone in a place she called ‘no-man’s land’, the profound significance of this was not lost on me. Along with many other allusions to her emotional and physical experience of the overall illness, the ‘no-man’s land’ metaphor signified for her the borderless and empty expanse between the two Kingdoms of the Sick and of the Well, wherein she felt trapped. No-mans land of course is a term associated with trench warfare and, as we all know, allusions to battles with losers and survivors are rife in relation to cancer. I have found that these allusions however, aren’t used so very much by cancer patients but more by their carers. I didn’t get the impression from this particular lady that she felt in any way either warrior or a victim. It wasn’t a battle she was fighting, just a sense of loss of identity, of loneliness in a crowd.

I digress! But positively, for it is only where digression gives way to regression that we have a problem.

It is through practice then that I am attempting to reinstate the credibility and value of art in relation to medicine, and use it to express and communicate the nuanced, and sometimes life shattering experience of illness. I am doing so not through any effort to reprise the historical role of art – this is indeed unnecessary and it has in any case long since been superseded – I am rather by exploiting the potential of imagery created by the human hand, imbued as it is with unadulterated subjectivity, to raise awareness and understanding of the existential ‘lived’ experience of life without full health. As methodology, intuitive creativity therefore takes on, its own right, a crucial role both in the particular and in the general sense with respect to a research process that is situated – if indeed it needs a location – within the remit of the Critical Medical Humanities. The theoretical framework that supports my methodology overall is generative of what I call my ‘autoethnographic stance’. It forms the basis of a profoundly self-critical analysis of praxis.

Since first exploring the methodological merit of autoethnography as part of my PhD, I have been developing my own approach to research through creative practice based on its fundamental concepts, and for me, the autoethnographic stance is not just the most productive basis from which to work, it is also the most credible. Where medicine posits a distanced observer who observes the cultural other and postulates objective truths, autoethnography breaks any barriers between observer and observed, self and other, by conflating all into one person, in this case, myself. As an artist I respond to experience, as a researcher I use tenets of autobiography and ethnography to engender this response. Autoethnographic account and/or expression draws upon and explores experience with a focus more on personal subjective responses than on the beliefs or practices of others and for some this may seem, on the surface, a worrying example of self-indulgence. Such a concept, from an artist’s point of view, is not so reprehensible since creativity and abject subjectivity go hand in hand and art would itself suffer if this were not the case. However, and to satisfy the advocates of rigour, any surfeit of subjectivity and/or descent into solipsism is prevented in this case by the application of a judicious and theoretically rigorous framework that locates me, as subject, within the cultural milieu. The focus therefore is not solely on myself as artist but on my experiences within different medical settings and it is in this acknowledgement of the complex connection between the individual and the cultural that autoethnography is able to accommodate and legitimise the personal context.

The projects I am currently working on are Drawing Women’s Cancer, which is an exploration of women’s experiences in dealing with the impact of gynaecological disease,

Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula, which explores the devastating consequences of maternal birth trauma, working with women in Tanzania, and

Medicine Unmasked, which explores the learning and teaching experience of medical students and faculty during an ‘oncology apprenticeship’. The projects are discrete in their own right but profoundly interconnected, and given my emphasis here is on the philosophical, the crucial point here is that the distinct nature of each, valid as it may be, is ultimately less important than the fundamental relation between them; the overriding and sometimes overwhelming process of creative production, which can be summed up as a form of communication through practice that engenders a profound interrelation of reflection (after the fact) and self-reflexion in the thick of the action. As an artist, such interrelation has always been a part of how I work but it has become increasingly significant as my work in medicine has gained momentum, and, because everything that I do turns on the profound critical analysis of my own role as ‘the artist’, it is obviously very important to consider what that role actually is, and what it means in terms of the outcome. I have discovered, and I use that word deliberately, that it is the concept of the abject, in tandem with the autoethnographic approach that gives the work I do its credibility as research, and hopefully value in terms of changing perceptions.

So, The Abject Artist, is the working title for the overall concept that brings together all of the projects I am developing. Kristeva notes that the abject indicates ‘that which disturbs identity, system, order, and disrespects borders, positions, rules’ and abjection itself occurs at the point where a sense of normal identity becomes indistinct, where accepted meanings become disembodied through loss of distinction between self/other, subject/object, and the narratives we live by break down and become fragmented. For me, this is paradigmatic of both the illness experience, ‘where sense topples over into the senses…[and] Being [becomes] ill-being’, and the creative process. They both embrace in their respective ways that which is in-between, ambiguous and composite, and it is within this fragmentation and ambiguity that my focus on the role of art practice in medicine is defined.

Through immersing myself in individual stories of illness and creating visual imagery from my subjective response to the sense of abjection that these stories often entail, I become myself, in Kristeva’s terms ‘one by whom the abject exists…a ‘deject’ who places, separates and situates herself and strays instead of getting her bearings. I can identify with the idea that the ‘deject’ asks “where am I?” rather than “who am I?” because the space in which I exist as an artist is, as Kristeva describes, essentially divisable, foldable and catastrophic. Indeed the ‘catastrophe’ is Deleuze’s climactic idea of the artist’s final challenge as emotively explicated in his book on Francis Bacon, The Logic of Sensation, and although I argue against him in my own book, Narrating the Catastrophe, I have to agree with the basic idea of a creative process that is essentially irrational, yet full of positive and unending potentia

Narrative, as I hear it during what I call individual ‘encounters’, and as I observe it while on the sidelines of the illness experience – is an important part of the work that I do, but narrative in the conventional sense is too restricted and culturally limited a concept to serve my overall purpose. As such I prefer to think of dialogue as being the key to my process; dialogue between myself and the subject, between myself and the responsive drawing as I create it, and between the viewer and the finished works at the public art exhibitions that serve, on a different stratum, as research ‘outputs’. Moreover, it is the dialogue that the artwork generates outside and beyond itself that is really important. This is what I call a ‘meta-dialogue’ generated in the creative transgression of objectivity. The meta-dialogue is a ‘fractured’ narrative that, drawing on abjection, becomes a form of communication that further transgresses verbal, written and even visual language, and within which the fundamental aim is to engender a viewer’s response to the subjectivity that is inevitably inherent in the artwork in the hope that this will enhance his or her awareness and understanding of the existential experience of the ‘Other’. In this way the meta-dialogue demonstrates its capacity to speak the unspeakable, to articulate suffering across social and cultural boundaries, taboo and stigma, and where the ethical role of narrative focuses on stories of personal experience that form a basis for moral reflection, the meta-dialogue holds within itself the power to influence both practice and policy.

To conclude, it is hopefully clear by now that the creative act, for me, goes beyond mere documentation or representation and even beyond itself in terms of the dialogical relations that it both entails and engenders. In the medical setting, as an act of empathic witness, and in accordance with Arendt’s distinction between pity and compassion, creativity demonstrates the latter through its nature as a practical response. Maybe it is compassion then that drives the work I do, but in any case this is less important than the fact that art becomes both agent and advocate of patient autonomy through its unique capacity to engage viewers’ subjective sensibilities. I understand my role in this process as going beyond Radley’s concept of ‘asymmetric relation’ between artist and ill person; it is more a complete immersion of my subjectivity into the world of ‘Others’, wherein boundaries are blurred between objective rationalism and the passionate human need to co-exist and share experience. I have no regrets over sidelining the safety of transparent rigour in my work because my focus is more on raw emotion than on refined intellect and as an artist I must take risks. I offer then no claims to objective truths, only profound insight into subjective experience that reveals its own truth whilst keeping open the avenues of exploration.

Artists are like philosophers. What little health they possess is often too fragile, not because of their illnesses or neuroses but because they have seen something in life that is too much for anyone, too much for themselves, and that has put on them the quiet mark of death.

(Deleuze and Guattari 1994:172)

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Page1we are launching the Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula project in Cardiff with an exhibition of new work throughout August this year. I hope that those of you who are in the area might get a chance to see it while it is up. On AUGUST 19th, 6.30pm – 8.30pm, myself and Alison Fiander, surgeon and Clinical Lead for the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists Leading Safe Choices Programme, will be at the Waterloo Gardens Teahouse to give a talk and discuss the ongoing development of the project. All are welcome and refreshments will be available.

The Exhibition at The Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, May 2015: Now ONLINE!!

The Private View of the Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula project’s first exhibition took place yesterday evening at The RCOG in Regents Park, London. It was a great night and very successful!  The show will remain at the RCOG until June 5th and if you are in or near London you can find out full details on how to visit here: Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula.

In the meantime you can see images of all the work on show on the Artist’s Blog on my other dedicated wordpress site here: Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula

Here is a small oil piece (approx.15x10cm) that I have been working on as part of the Drawing Out Obstetric Fistula project. It will form part of an exhibition in Cardiff in August this year…more details to come.

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My son lives in Glasgow. His English history has long since been transplanted into Scottish soil and he has set down roots that are strong and spreading. The lilting quality of his acquired accent betrays his allegiances, and he is the reason that the piece of my heart still left in Glasgow still thrives. My son is Finn Le Marinel; musician, songwriter, poet… a tall thin man. He sings about pain and about possibility. His lyrics draw on the raw emotion that resides in the wreckage of broken relationships, and as he sifts through the detritus of these things he raps and taps the belly of his guitar to create percussive undertones that must both haunt and herald a sense of hope.

My son sifts through the archives of my work to find pieces that he can relate to and use on his album and EP covers. We travel an emotional road together. Last night he launched a new EP, Love is Waves at The Centre for Contemporary Art in Glasgow. The event was sold out. Here are the images that this time. for the first time, I made specifically for each of the four tracks.

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