‘The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls’, as Picasso said. I suppose he was on to something there, but I rather fancy Francis Bacon’s take on it: ‘The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery’. The reproductions that hang on the walls of my office have certainly deepened mine –well, to be accurate, more the patients who comment on them.
Of course not all of my visitors even look at the walls; they’re often too fixated on describing their symptoms, and watching for my reaction. Trust is awarded or subtracted in the first few moments of an interview of course, but once the merit badges have been allotted, and rank assigned, their eyes often wander to more interesting things. For some reason, I can’t seem to monopolize their attention once they have decided to relax. But, of course, art is therapeutic as well -although perhaps less helpful for most gynaecologic conditions than some more hopeful alternative practitioners might wish.
And yet it does provide a certain continuity that my more regular customers seem to appreciate. Some of them have developed unusual affinities for, say, a certain painting hanging on a particular wall. Or the smile of a character in a photograph… I’d like to think that it is actually a recognition of my taste in art, my ability to select soothing yet interesting subjects that reflect my own philosophy of life. In fact, I think Janet, one of my more perceptive patients, described it best. She was biding her time as I struggled to fill out some laboratory forms for her. And to stay awake I suppose, she began to look around the office. I glanced up once, after trying unsuccessfully to correct an egregious mistake on the screen, and saw a puzzled expression writing itself on her face. When she noticed my attention, she immediately erased any traces of concern and replaced them with those of a frustrated teacher.
And then, when she saw my eyebrows raised inquisitively, she blushed as if caught in some secret and embarrassing act. “You certainly have a…” There was a moment’s hesitation as she rummaged desperately for a more neutral word than she was about to utter. “…An eclectic taste in art…” Her eyes inadvertently strayed back to a reproduction that I’d hung on one wall. It depicted two young girls standing side by side looking in opposite directions while only partially covered by some sort of blanket or quilt. Their faces were beautiful, although one looked a bit worried about something. I saw it as, I don’t know, youthful hope, or maybe the puzzle of growing up.
“I was just thinking of an art gallery,” she said, trying to smile -and yet I could almost see the ‘buts’ slinking in the shadows behind her eyes. I sat back, hoping for a compliment. Redemption. “But, you know…” Her eyes darted from one picture to the next like sparrows looking for a roost. “…They don’t seem to illustrate any particular theme. Nothing connects one to another…” She focused her attention on a large photograph of a man holding a baby and indicated her target with a nod of her head. “I mean, you have a man with a baby in this one –nice photograph, I suppose- but then, on the wall behind me, there’s the coloured line drawing of a peasant woman leading a horse…”
I’d never experienced a critique of my art before and I didn’t know whether to feel honoured, amused, or embarrassed. I chose embarrassed. “I…ahh… Well, they just seem to accumulate over the years. I mean, I didn’t choose them to illustrate a particular theme, or anything…”
Her face believed me, and her smile tried to plaster over any unpleasant criticism. It tried to exculpate me from my tasteless choices. Her eyes, however, no longer sparrows, were birds of prey and I could see her fighting with her need to be honest and yet not cast aspersions on me. On my world. On my ability to be her doctor.
“Maybe move the Woman with the Horse to the examining room and the…” She suddenly had second thoughts. “No, I don’t think the IUD picture would be suitable in here…” She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to reconfigure things in her head. “I like the smiling woman –it’s a Rosamund isn’t it?”
The drawing was on a far wall and I had to squint to see the signature. I couldn’t quite make it out, so I was forced to shrug. I mean, who looks at signatures?
“What about that green apple picture hanging in the hall..?” It was amazing how much she’d noticed. “No, actually it adds a light touch to the corridor –sets a mood, as it were.” Her eyes alighted briefly on one of my diplomas, flitted to me, then on to her lap when she saw me watching. I could see her trying to disguise a sigh. She was not successful.
She’d told me she’d come for a consultation on the menopause and yet she was aggressively adamant that she was coping perfectly well with The Change -and she continued to insist this even under what I thought was careful questioning. Apart from a recent and bitter divorce, things were completely under control -better than they’d ever been, in fact. I glanced at my computer screen again, and then accidentally refreshed it, for some reason. There was now a note that my secretary had just added to the referral letter section -her doctor had faxed the information to me a few minutes before before. Janet had requested a second opinion when her GP had suggested she might need to go on hormone replacement therapy for her menopausal symptoms. She’d become enraged at his lack of judgement and his inability to keep up with the current medical literature. She wanted –no, demanded– to see someone who wouldn’t judge her on insufficient evidence and wouldn’t assume that her every foible was attributable to insufficient hormones. Apparently she’d suggested that he needed them more than she did. And he’d assumed she would neither give me an accurate history nor deliver the note he’d written.
She saw me scrutinizing the screen as I started scrolling through it, and a mischievous smile captured her immediately. “Still can’t find his referral letter?” she asked, with what was another uncamouflaged smirk after one more quick look around the room. “He gave me a hand-written letter in a sealed envelope for you…” I studied her expectantly when she decided to prolong the suspense; she was not a happy woman and I fully expected her to unleash the eyes again. “I don’t think he has a computer; and anyway I threw the letter away,” she added in answer to my unspoken question. “I read it, of course, but it was all nonsense.” Her lips parted slightly in what was either a broken grin, or more likely, a sneer. I could see her hands tighten into fists in her lap. “Never trusted the man,” she said, looking again at the two little girls in the picture. “No taste.” She turned to look at the Woman and the Horse on the wall behind her and then sighed loudly.Theatrically -no attempt at a disguise…“Unlike you…”
We both laughed, but I’m not sure at what. Or at whom…