Let me swallow the sunset and drink the rainbow

Colour has always held me in thrall. I suspect I can trace its origins to those pre-recollection times when my mother read to me as I sat pointing at pictures in whatever book she had chosen for my bedtime. I had my favourites, I imagine, but all I can remember from those very early years were the vivid colours. They seemed more important than the words she spoke, or perhaps more accurately, they were the words, alive and beckoning from the page -depictions of things I suppose I was yet too young to understand. But, as the poet Kahlil Gibran once wrote, Let me swallow the sunset and drink the rainbow. And in those days, I think I did.

There are still faint traces of this atavism that linger in the colours I see in numbers, but I hesitate to attribute beauty to the pallid tints afforded to me from a lingering synaesthesia in my doddering years. They possess no magic -in fact, I rather think I’d like to colour them in bolder pigments that would elevate them like saints from their boring lists.

But there I go again -the need to colour things is strong, yet unfulfilled. Although my father tried his best to guide my hand, I never managed to colour within the lines of the many books that called me to my crayons. In looking back to those halcyon days, I suspect I saw the outlines as prisons I needed to escape -early evidence, maybe, of how I saw edges more as links to things around them, than boundaries that brooked no trespass.

At any rate, now that I am in Macbeth’s famous yellow leaf, I have begun to realize the subtle allure of margins. More often than not, they are only beginnings -invitations to explore what lies beyond. To experience only that which is insensibly glued to us is not to transgress, and yet skin is merely the introductory handshake with the world.

Of course, with age comes the inevitable rationalizations of both past behaviours and current epiphanies: things to excuse my inability to confine myself to standard doctrinal crayonal restraints -times when I no doubt felt I could label my obvious lack of talent as youthful exuberance. Seeing what others could not, outside the lines.

But in those almost ante-Gutenberg days, the choices I was offered in the colouring books to which I was privy, were not legion -a few standardized animals, and the occasional landscape which almost always included a house with a smoking chimney. None of these encouraged much experimentation outside the lines without confusing whatever archetypal subject with which I was forced to contend. Indeed, in retrospect I’m surprised that any of the obediently constrained colouring book acolytes ever succeeded in Art or Philosophy -or Life, for that matter- although I suppose there has always been more support for those who obey the rules.

The subject matter has changed however, I’m happy to report. As I was browsing through my Smithsonian app archives, I was drawn (sorry) to an article reporting on new colouring opportunities that promised great things: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/100-museums-transformed-their-collections-free-coloring-pages-just-you-180974116/

Written by Katherine J. Wu, a science journalist, as well as a PhD. in Microbiology and Immunobiology from Harvard, she notes that most classical historical art is preserved and guarded in museums, and is almost never made available to public crayons.

Recently, however, ‘with the annual  #ColorOurCollections social media campaign, the world’s art enthusiasts can try them out. The idea was apparently first launched by the New York Academy of Medicine Library [NYAM] in 2016. People can ‘download, color and reimagine thousands of black-and-white artworks sourced from dozens of cultural mainstays around the world. Currently at 101 strong, the list may continue to grow and is already encroaching on last year’s roster of 114 participants.

‘Among the institutions advertising their contributions are representatives from the academic world, including  Harvard University’s Countway Library and the University of Waterloo, as well as museums like  Les Champs Libres and the Huntington Library. The only commonality shared by the thousands of prints and drawings available on the NYAM website is their black-and-white appearance.’

There is a time-limit for these downloads (already passed, I’m afraid) but ‘this year’s illustrations—as well as a large repository of past submissions—will remain available to download.’

The temptation was overwhelming, and so I risked the ever-present threat of being phished and followed the links. Some of the drawings were just too charming to resist, so I have to admit to planning a trip to Walmart to stock up on crayons -I still feel more comfortable with them than coloured pencils with their oh-so precisely sharpenable points that seem programmed to stop on their own at each and every line they encounter.

I ended up buying a 96-pack box of crayons online, though, since I was there anyway. Do you remember what it was like in a candy store when you were a child and your mother asked you to choose, oh maybe five, from the thousands of specimens on display? I always chose the brightest coloured wrappers, not realizing that what they contained seldom lived up to their appearance. I suppose what I’m getting at is that I should probably have chosen the basic crayon box of 16 (Maybe it’s not in their best interests to sell an even smaller-sized selection) because I really only used the red (for the sundry brick walls and chimneys), blue (for the sky -what else?), and green (by now, I’m sure you can guess) -childhood habits, I imagine. I did colour-shift once or twice though, once I really got into it.

Sometimes a building, or the garden in front of it seemed to beg for what I would now rationalize as an aura and I would grab a yellow and engage in what might seem to be random smears outside the lines. I tried orange and pink on a whim, but they seemed garish somehow -like Parkinsonian blunders. Not at all what I was striving for.

And yet, I’m beginning to wonder if I was actually striving for anything other than proving to myself that there’s still a remnant of the younger me inside. My hoped-for free form seemed contrived at my age. And that which drew gasps of admiration for my extra-linear adventures when I was a toddler, now seemed to bespeak something far more ominous than naïve playfulness. At my age, I suspect it is not seen as a mere idiosyncrasy. Society is harder on its elders than its children for their misadventures, I fear. More suspicious. More circumspect.

It was epiphanous that I suddenly recognized the freedom I had to lose were I to leave evidence of my folly in plain view. Even the crayons might arouse concerns -provoke questions I would as lief avoid. It is perhaps enough to live through youth but once; any return may be judged as an ill-advised trip through the mirror, so I have donated my uncoloured downloads to the community kindergarten. Perhaps I will return some time to see what they have decided to pin on their walls; I’d like to see if they have dared to show any crayonal attempts by their children that stray beyond accepted boundaries. Of course, maybe they only use soft felt pens with sharply pointed edges and raised, built-in borders to colour nowadays -I forgot to ask…

Oh, true apothecary

That we would do we should do when we would, for this ‘would’ changes, says Shakespeare’s Claudius. In other words, do what you think you should when you think of it, or you may never do it…

It seems to me that Medicine has changed a fair amount since I retired. Not only has science advanced, but so has our way of looking at the world. Our way of framing a problem has expanded, and no longer totally excludes extra-Magisterial endeavours.

Boundaries, are dissolving -or at least being redrawn. Who would have thought that we might look to, well, spirit, as an aide de camp? Or exercise as a legitimate medication? I have written about the latter in an essay I published in 2015 about Quebec doctors’ ability to write prescriptions for exercise: (https://musingsonwomenshealth.com/2015/09/12/the-uber-obvious-in-medicine/) but I am pleased to see that the tradition continues -in Montreal, at any rate: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/canadian-doctors-will-soon-be-able-prescribe-museum-visits-180970599

‘[A] select group of local physicians will be able to prescribe museum visits as treatment for an array of ailments… “We know that art stimulates neural activity,” MMFA [Montreal Museum of Fine Arts] director Nathalie Bondil tells CBC News. “What we see is that the fact that you are in contact with culture, with art, can really help your well-being… members of the Montreal-based medical association Mèdecins francophones du Canada (MdFC) can hand out up to 50 museum prescriptions enabling patients and a limited number of friends, family and caregivers to tour the MMFA for free…  MdFC vice president Hélène Boyer explains that museum visits have been shown to increase levels of serotonin, a neurotransmitter colloquially known as the “happy chemical” due to its mood-boosting properties. But creativity’s healing powers aren’t limited to tackling mental health issues; art therapy can also help those undergoing palliative care for severely life-threatening diseases or conditions, like cancer, or suffering from diabetes and chronic illness.

‘According to Boyer, the uptick in hormones associated with enjoying an afternoon of art is similar to that offered by exercise, making museum prescriptions ideal for the elderly and individuals experiencing chronic pain that prevents them from regularly engaging in physical activity.’ Of course, there is the usual exculpatory caveat ‘that the museum visits are designed to complement, not supplant, more traditional methods.’ But still, a step forward, don’t you think? It’s a recognition that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, if I may slightly paraphrase Hamlet.

“Why do you always want to drag me along to these things, Julie?” I was sitting in the warm and welcoming sunshine on the magnificent array of stone steps of Vancouver’s Art Gallery when the elderly couple hesitated near the bottom. The man looked the worse for wear and was leaning on his cane, already out of breath. Both of them were bedecked in grey hair, but while the woman sported a cool red cotton print dress, the man seemed dressed for church -he was wearing a heavily creased brown woolen suit, a white shirt, and red tie.

She stroked the lapel of his suit, trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles perhaps, but more likely trying to get him to smile. “You need to get out of the house once in a while, Edward,” she said, and then gently touched his cheek. “Ever since you broke your hip, you’ve just been sitting on the couch…”

“It’s hard to get around, Julie,” he said, somewhat irritably. “And I don’t fancy letting everybody in the neighbourhood see me with a cane.”

Even from several steps above, I could see her roll her eyes. “Do you really think they care, dear? They’re not exactly glued to their windows waiting for you to come on stage, for heaven’s sake.”

He stared at her angrily for a moment and then shrugged when she failed to react. “I get tired easily nowadays, Julie,” he said in a husky sort of whine.

She reached out and grasped his hand. “You get grumpy easily, nowadays, sweetheart.” I could see her squeeze his hand reassuringly. “You haven’t been yourself since the operation, you know. And it’s not like you to be tired all the time.”

She seemed so earnest and caring, I could see his expression soften. Clearly, they’d been married for a long time. “Well, I…”

“Come on, Eddie we’re almost there,” she whispered loudly and winked at me when she saw me watching them.

“Well, I guess since we’ve already come all this way…” He shrugged and allowed her to lead him slowly up the steps past where I was sitting. “I just hope there’s some place to sit in there…” was the last thing I heard him say as they inched their way ever upwards.

I promptly forgot all about them as the sun warmed my face while I read the pamphlet about the exhibition on current display. I was looking forward to a lazy afternoon of wandering through whatever was on offer this time. I hadn’t visited since the Musqueam artist, Susan Point’s Spindle Whorl exhibition and I remembered standing transfixed, in front of the hypnotic, wheeled patterns of her Coast Salish art.

But the sun coaxed me into staying on the steps and watching the world amble past -on a warm day, the people outside are sometimes as intriguing as the art inside. I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually the need for a coffee and a muffin roused me from my aerie on the steps, and I sauntered into the Gallery Café to see what I could find.

There was a table emptying inside, so I carried my tray over to it and sat down. I was just tucking into the muffin when I heard a familiar voice at the next table and recognized the two who’d been standing below me on the steps.

But Edward didn’t seem as grumpy now, and Julie was smiling from ear to ear. “Well, dear, what did I tell you?” she said, stirring some milk into her tea.

“You didn’t tell me I’d see the original painting of that reproduction we have hanging in the living room wall, sweetheart…” He gazed fondly at her for a moment. “It’s my favourite painting, you know…”

Her smile grew even wider, as if, of course she knew. “Surprise, eh?”

“I’ll say,” he said, his eyes alive and twinkling. “Maybe we could look around for some other paintings by him.” He reached across the table and fondled her hand.

“Well, there’s that place on Granville -you know, the one up near the hospital? They may have some reproductions,” she said, leaning over the table and stroking his cheek with her free hand. “Want to have a look tomorrow?”

“That’s a great idea, Julie.” He stared at his cane for a moment. “Maybe we could walk -it’s not that far, is it…?”

“No it’s not, sweetheart,” she whispered, and touched his cheek again. “No, it’s not…”