​07/2019: Sometimes I create art as a form of therapy for myself. It can help me confront thoughts and feelings, process what’s happening, and give me new perspective. Right now, the most difficult thing in my life is watching my dad’s Alzheimer’s progress, along with everything involved in being a member of his care team. I have a few pieces of art in mind that I want to create about this, and I’ve finally finished one.  One way we keep my dad busy is by giving him Crayola Color Wonder brush pens and letting him paint. I don’t know what he sees in his mind’s eye as he paints. I think it often has something to do with rail yards. When I ask him about it, I usually get responses like, “You put the thing there, and that’s what goes there.” He doesn’t think about what color something should be or even exactly where it should go on the paper (he often paints off the paper onto the table); he just creates. He paints things in an uninhibited way that I just can’t seem to anymore.  In that way, his art is like that of a young child. There is something interesting and admirable in the work of a child, or in this instance, someone with Alzheimer’s. The way they are able to freely express themselves is so genuine. There are artists who make their work look as childlike as possible, I think, in part, as a way to express themselves in a very free and uninhibited way.  So, I decided to remake one of my dad’s paintings in wool (my current preferred medium). The process couldn’t have been more different than his. I was guided by color and composition. Trying to recreate something so simple was actually complex. The materials were not fluid like paint, the colors don’t naturally bleed together. The process took a lot of time and intentionality. I didn’t have the exact colors. Mine were darker. All of this seems so fitting to my reality. Grieving who he was is harder on his family than it is on him. He is almost always unaware of the sad truth of the matter. So darker colors, with less finished edges and smooth transitions, is more representative of the sadness and difficulty that I face in dealing with his disease.  I think I will call it “And that’s what goes there.”

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