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Art Therapist, Arpilleras Heal Trauma

If Lisa Garlock were to sew an arpillera (story quilt) of her life, it would necessarily be busy. In the upper left, she might start with a scene from her youth overseas, when she wanted to be a scientist. Still on the top half, she might incorporate a print illustrating her education as an artist at the Rochester Institute of Technology and a small painting of her graduate work in art therapy at Nazareth College. In the center, she might place a mandala to represent her recovery from years of osteoarthritis in her hands, which hampered her artistically as it strengthened her spiritually. And in the lower panel, bordered by her vibrant handmade beads, she might show herself leading George Washington University art therapy students to India, where in Chennai, they guide women in telling their tales of gender-based violence using arpilleras. After she finished, Garlock might tack a pocket onto the back to hold a written narrative.

Through arpilleras, Garlock practices art therapy, a field of arts in health. But she wasn’t always interested in mental health. To fund her life as a young artist, she taught printmaking, waitressed, and worked in a gallery. Then, she took a job as an employment counselor to youth and adults. She loved counseling but missed art. One day, she attended a workshop on reducing recidivism in prisoners. On her way home, art therapy popped into her mind.

“The self-focus and almost isolation of being an artist wasn’t enough for me and often isn’t enough for other art therapists,” Garlock said. “I asked,  what can I do socially with art? Also, as an artist I always felt bad about using so many different materials. But art therapists need to know a lot of media. Art and therapy were a perfect match for me.”

Art Therapy and Arpilleras

For the rest of us, art and therapy can be scary. We might not have drawn or gotten knee-deep in glitter or finger paint since we were children. And most of us don’t take time or have money for analysis, self-driven or professionally led. We think we have to withhold every emotion, conquer all tragedy, and produce only perfect art. But we might find art therapy intriguing and fabric surprisingly friendly. It’s tactile and forgiving. Sewing can be soothing. Women, who so often make their families’ clothes, find great solace in quilting. When working in groups, they connect. They share stories of poverty, war, illness, and gender-based violence. Their stress lifts. The fabric holds their tears—to paraphrase Chilean artist Roberta Bacic, as Garlock did.

Arpillera means burlap in Spanish. To their creators and art therapists, arpilleras de adorno are colorful appliqués that heal and endure. They were born of the first September 11, the one in Chile in 1973, when the military overthrew the government and declared martial law. Dissenters, mostly men, were questioned, and many were imprisoned and tortured. Others simply vanished. The Catholic Church intervened to help women produce arpilleras to generate income. In their story quilts, they combined paid work, political resistance, and their own version of talk therapy. To memorialize the “disappeared,” they stitched in three-dimensional figures of loved ones dressed in bits of left-behind clothing. Through the women’s artistry, word spread beyond Chile of the horrors of the dictatorship.

Arpilleras, as art or art therapy, flourish throughout Latin America and in Bosnia, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Laos, Northern Ireland, the United States, and Zimbabwe. The AIDS Memorial Quilt is but one example. But they didn’t enter Garlock’s world until a few years ago, even though she had minored in textile arts. The Latin American crafts gallery, where she had worked years before, exhibited Chilean arpilleras and Guatemalan traditional clothing, which decades of conflict (1960–1996) had virtually wiped out. She became fascinated by the narrative quilts of African American women of Gee’s Bend and Esther Krinitz, a seamstress who wanted her children to touch her personal history forty years after she had escaped from the Nazis. Garlock admired the patterns, colors, and the women’s resiliency, how—together or alone—they had sewn up their lives.

Arpilleras in Prison

She went back to prison. She held her first arpilleras group for women in transition. She confessed she found her task frustrating: “Most had been told they shouldn’t dwell on the bad things, but if you haven’t processed trauma, then it’s going to be hard to stay focused on the positive and move forward,” Garlock said.

They needed to find jobs and housing, stay clean, and reconnect with family. Most had no sewing background and were unfamiliar with art therapy. They could hardly see the connection between art and their health as returning citizens. Some joined the group to learn sewing; others were severely traumatized. Many were unaware of traumatic experiences in their pasts. One stitched quietly, unengaged, and couldn’t finish her arpillera by the time the group disbanded. Another spoke only with Garlock. Drawing in pastels was enough to satisfy one woman, while another put great care into creating the border of her arpillera but couldn’t decide what to put inside. Yet another, who couldn’t physically sew, used sticky tape to connect fabric images to the background of her quilt. She managed to tell a complete story— some of it fantasy, some of it real—remained in the present, and enjoyed the process.

“Art does intimidate a lot of people. It’s a different language, so it takes time to teach the skills. There can be a lot of storytelling going on in a group but not a lot of sewing,” Garlock said.

Rachel Cohen, Garlock’s colleague in Switzerland and founder of Common Threads, introduced mindfulness practices and arpilleras to trained artists and therapists in Ecuador. They, in turn, worked with women who had survived gender-based violence in a frontier town. Although they came from a culture of sewing, most had never worked with fabric. Three or four women in the two twelve-week programs recorded trauma; the others stitched idyllic scenes. Recently, the women exhibited their work in Quito. Cohen and Garlock want to document the results quantitatively.

Current Endeavors, Future Plans

For four summers, Garlock has supervised George Washington University art therapy students on two-week trips to India, where they have worked in schools, hospitals, and a shelter. Last season, Garlock’s students collected bags of beautiful fabric scraps from local tailors. At first, the women in the shelter didn’t want to use the castoffs. But by the last day, they preferred them. An Indian art therapist now uses recycled material in her arpilleras therapy.

This year, Garlock plans to offer a class on sewing arpilleras to her art therapy students at George Washington, and in September in Geneva, she and Cohen hope to hold the first international conference on narrative textiles.

When asked to cite her most heart-warming experiences, Garlock mentioned her work with students and the invitation to show her arpillera, School Field Trip (see photo, above), at the Parque de la Memoria in Buenos Aires. It tells Silvia’s story. One day, leading up to the Argentine Dirty War (1976–1983), Silvia went on a school field trip. As she and her classmates returned to the bus, riot police descended on nearby protestors. Things got ugly. Silvia went into exile, alone, and later became an architect, a nun, and then a social worker. In Garlock’s quilt, wind tears off tiny garments from a clothesline. They disappear, just as so many people did. The little banner is a ribbon from a rally held years later to commemorate the lost. It bears the name of one victim, whose life nobody—not even an artist and art therapist like Garlock—can weave back together.

 

Jargon and Spam Pollute Word Reefs

Thanksgiving is almost here. So the poultry purveyor at my local market wrote to say that he would “defiantly have turkeys.” What a relief! Sadly, obviously, words aren’t his “strong suite.” Nor are they the special talent or concern of most people anymore. No one seems to care that words, like corals, are suffering and can no longer live happily together, whether in twosomes or tomes.

Clauses, sentences, paragraphs, books—the reefs words inhabit—are under attack. In hard copy and online, word pollution is rampant. Bad grammar, misspellings, adjective-noun hybrids, and verbosity threaten the habitats of language. Wherever words hang out, ill-chosen punctuation and emoticons festoon them, like cassette tape on a colony of the Crochet Coral Reef. Even the World Wide Web, the Great Barrier Reef of the new world of words, struggles under our creative runoff and virtual trash.

Two of my pet word pollutants are jargon and spam. The first masquerades as healthy language in print and online; the second floods email and comment balloons.

Jargon, lingo peculiar to a profession or group, obfuscates meaning by puffing it up. Think excessive levels of nutrients from fertilizer fouling pristine bays. Spam (never mind the spiced, potted meat) is irrelevant or inappropriate language on the internet. Envision sewage flowing into rivers and oceans.

Have you looked for work lately? Here’s the sort of listing that makes editors and writers run, not apply:

JargonCorp, a next-generation, growth-oriented company with a fast-paced, deadline-oriented environment, seeks to improve its coordination and facilitation of cause-marketing initiatives and activations and develop multi-channel communications campaigns with brand awareness. We are looking for a dynamic self-starter with cutting-edge insights to join our team of blue-sky, out-of-the box thinkers with end-user perspectives. You will develop a narrative arc for episodic information sharing, as well as tactical strategies and technical implementation to leverage enhanced cross-platform functionality.

What? Are you going to read more of the “role profile” and “accountabilities”? Do you care that they care about “E&D” or want to ensure their “list hygiene”? Goodness, these words are unhappy and individually diseased!

They are only one step away from the web’s effluent, spam. Hundreds of passages like the following opened my site to a hacker and almost killed it before its first birthday:

Penelope [sneaker brand] dvd website cranberries [a medicine for men Americans sent to Afghanistan] trucks stuffing crayons …

Heavens! Not a single comma!

Google buried Sebold Communications half alive. But miracles happen …

And speaking of Thanksgiving, here’s a shout-out to Brian Jessee of Jessee Productions. Since September, he has, dare I say, “securitized” and helped optimize seboldcommunications.com for Google and Bing. Thanks for cleaning up my spot on the reef (errrr, web), Brian!

Asclepius, His Staff and Snake

Spare the rod, or staff, and spoil the child? Not exactly. But Asclepius, who grew up to be the Greek god of medicine, was born into an all-too-human story of domestic violence and could have used his staff before birth to protect his mortal mother, Coronis, from his divine father, Apollo, the sun god. Even after Asclepius acquired his staff and single serpentine assistant, mayhem followed him most of his life. And through eternity, the general confusion between his staff and Hermes’ double-snaked caduceus has dogged Asclepius and his medical progeny—including Hippocrates, the father of medicine.

The birth story goes like this: Apollo went on a trip. Coronis, already pregnant, fell in love with another man. (Never mind, that Apollo and Coronis hadn’t legally married. Gods don’t have to bother with all that decorum.) A white raven Apollo left to watch Coronis told him of his lover’s disloyalty, and—after he singed all members of the Corvus genus black forevermore because the bird hadn’t pecked out the guy’s eyes—he asked his sister Artemis, the goddess of hunting and childbirth (uh-huh), to kill Coronis. As Coronis lay on the funeral pyre, Apollo, full of remorse (what’s new?), asked Hermes, the god of commerce, thieves, and literature (among other things), to cut Asclepius out of her womb. Lest you wonder why Apollo didn’t handle the gore himself (at least in some versions), be aware that he was the original god of healing (indeed!). Apollo couldn’t cope with child rearing anymore than cesarean sections, so he gave the baby to the centaur Chiron, who taught Asclepius the medical arts.

Asclepius’s staff may have been passed down among ancient Middle Eastern gods (and doctors) from “Grandma” Ishtar, the Babylonian goddess of nature (who got a little warlike in her later years). She walked around with a rod encircled by one snake (never two) to represent Earth’s fertility. (By the way, the words “life” and “snake” share the same stem in Semitic languages.) On a particularly difficult medical call, a snake twined itself around Asclepius’s staff to give him some useful herbs. The two became a duo so dynamic that not enough people were dying to satisfy Pluto, the god of the underworld. Eventually, he complained to Zeus, who threw a thunderbolt at Asclepius to kill him. Apollo, again enraged, slew the Cyclopes who made the thunderbolt. But Asclepius wasn’t divine enough to warrant resurrection, so Zeus made him into the constellation Scorpius.

Though officially dead and hanging in the sky as star art, Asclepius visited his temples all over Greece. Sick people lolled about the floors (along with lots of snakes, I’m told), and Asclepius appeared to them in helpful dreams. In 293 BCE during a frightful epidemic  (according to the poet Ovid), the Roman senate decided to summon Asclepius to Rome from his favorite sanctuary in Epidaurus. Some senators didn’t like bypassing Apollo (who could blame them?), so they went to Delphi to consult the sun god. In a kind moment, Apollo urged them to accept help from his son. The senate took two years to call Asclepius (sound familiar?).

As for the staff …

It has been the symbol of healthcare providers for 2,500 years. In the mid-nineteenth century, Americans got a little confused between medicine and trade (somewhat characteristic of us, huh?) and started to use Hermes’ caduceus to represent public health and medicine. The confusion actually started in the fifteenth century when the German publisher Johann Froben, not erroneously (read on Hermes above), used the caduceus on his books, only some of which were on medicine.

And the snake, living or dead?

It went to China to become part of the Chinese horoscope and rule over the year 2013 (actually 4710 or 4711, depending). I’m kidding, of course, but the connection between Asclepius and the Year of the Snake just struck me and brings us, smoothly or clumsily, to the subject of my next post—setting themes.

Blue-Pencil

\ˈbl-üˈpen(t)-səl\ vt

Sometimes when we sit down to write, we realize we’ve researched a topic too much. We’ve uncovered lots of fascinating tidbits. Our heads are jammed with precious facts, like jewelry boxes brimful of lapis lazuli or chests bursting with indigo garb. However we can, we try to fit every detail into our first draft. We just can’t live without seeing all those treasured finds in print. But let’s be honest. We’ve accumulated too much. Some of it has to go.

Time for a blue pencil–wielding (or blue Track Changes–using) blue penciller to blue-pencil our manuscript! We need an editor who specializes not only in grammar, spelling, and punctuation, but also in shortening text or deleting extras that simply don’t belong.

Before posting Blue, the Color, I did the job myself. I’d read tons of material—books, articles, and museum brochures—without even consulting the internet. Blue is a popular subject. The week after I offered my take, the New York Times published an article and a sidebar on it.

Can you guess why I didn’t include the following views on blue?

  • Although blue and green are found in nature, they are absent from Paleolithic and Neolithic art.
  • Fourteen centuries ago, the sculptors of the Buddha of Bamiyan were the first to use lapis lazuli as paint.
  • Probably unaware of native Indigofera species, Eliza Lucas (later Pinckney) had the first successful Indian indigo harvest in the United States in 1744.
  • In 1917, Mahatma Gandhi staged his first act of civil disobedience by supporting Indian farmers who wanted to grow rice, not the indigo demanded by English planters.
  • Only in the late fifteenth century did mapmakers color the seas blue. And even today, as Radiolab made clear, not everyone thinks the sky is blue.

You see? By writing a second post, I got to keep all I knew on blue!

And now I fear we must bid blue and this how-to adieu …

Blue, the Color

The mood. The hue of things Hellenic, Jewish, and Marian. Of Krishna and the Buddha’s peace of mind. Color code of health and health care, the United Nations.

Blues. The music. The “beyond the seas” ultramarine of lapis lazuli and the blue-black indigo of cultivated woad and wilderness weed. Ice, Wedgewood, sapphire, royal, navy, and Prussian—rainbow blues of superstition and awe.

Blue is for sky and water. It describes blue cats, blue sheep, and blue whales. It tints blue spruce and graces blue gardens. In blueberries, bluebirds, and bluebonnets, blue is true. Chicory is blue, too.

It’s the “azure” of Persian that Arabic brought from Afghanistan to France, then Europe, through Andalusia in Spain. In English, there are well-born blue bloods and hardworking blue-collar workers. Once in a blue moon, blue-nosed moralists turn blue in the face when their friends curse a blue streak of blue language.

And once upon a time, a creamy-bright ultramarine pigment came from crushed lapis lazuli. Lapis is a rock (an aggregate of minerals), not a gem. It still hails mostly from nearly inaccessible mines in mountainous Badakhshan, Afghanistan. For centuries, traders shipped deep blue nili, azure asmani, and turquoise sabzi lapis loads down the Indus River by dhow to Egypt, where Cleopatra shadowed her eyes royal blue. Some of the haul travelled along the western Silk Road through Aleppo, Syria, to Venice and the palates of Michelangelo and the younger Titian.

Between lighter shades of blue and violet lay indigo—according to Issac Newton, who placed it on his spectrum of seven colors. Indigo comes from many species of Indigofera, which grow in Latin American and Asian tropics. Indian indigo, after much political drama, displaced European woad (Isatis tinctoria) in the seventeenth century. Indigos and woad are magic. They produce a yellow that turns blue only when it hits the air. They can make blacks blacker and whites whiter, until they turn blue. Anglo-Saxons, Aztecs, Germans, Indians, Omanis, Yemenis, and Yoruba have died cloth, even themselves, shades of indigo to ward off evil from infancy to death.

Some years ago, on a warm winter day in a soup kitchen, I tested the power of blue. Steaming more than the cooking pots, I took off an indigo-dyed Touareg scarf. My neck was perfectly blue, alarmingly so. A beyond the seas, beyond the world—blue.

 

Scientific Names

While rifling through my cookbooks and botanical tomes to find information for the previous post (From Chicory to Coffee), I began to panic. What was the difference between Cichorium intybus and Cichorium endivia? Which did people drink and which did they eat? Was I dealing with a bunch of bitter balls of lettuce or a beautiful blue bloom?  Should the trademark of Sebold Communications have featured a flower around a pen or a pen in a salad spinner? I thought scientific names were supposed to relieve confusion, not worsen it.

Part of the answer lay in two books I inherited from my grandmother a dozen years ago—Eleanor Perényi’s Green Thoughts: A Writer in the Garden and Waverley Root’s Food: An Authoritative and Visual History and Dictionary of the Foods of the World. In short, all endives are chicories, but not all chicories are endives. Both species are members of the genus Cichorium, and both land on our plates. It seems that, over time, Americans and Europeans have disagreed about which edibles belong to which species. Hence, my distress.

What’s clear (kind of like the mud plants grow in) is that C. endivia var. crispa is curly endive, the frisée or “chicory” Americans see in grocery stores, sometimes next to C. endivia var. latifolium, the flatter-leaved escarole. C. intybus, whose roasted root flavors coffee, is Belgian endive in the States. It’s the tightly wound wad of white and pale green leaves that people often sauté in butter. After chicory blooms, enthusiasts dig up the roots and bury them in damp sand in warm, dark cellars until new leaves bud. Less rugged folks just putter over to a purveyor of fancy green goods.

Or fancy red goods. After all, what about red Belgian endive? Well, it’s radicchio, the unforced heart of a C. intybus variety with red leaves. Then there’s speckled radicchio, or chickendive, which came about when C. intybus and C. endivia found—ahem—common ground.

All members of the Cichorium genus belong to the Asteraceae family, which is part of the Asterales order, which falls under the Asteranae superorder, which—yada yada. Never mind that some people call the Asteraceae “Compositae.” We don’t want to get into the weeds, do we?

If you remain confused, consult the Integrated Taxonomic Information System. Worried about how to italicize the scientific names of plants? Follow the examples in this post, or better yet, consult the Chicago Manual of Style.

As for me, I feel a little better. I think.