As the artist-in-residence at the Women in Military Service For America Memorial/ Arlington National Cemetery, work continues creating a visual history of the greatest generation. The image of the six black women was taken from a photo of this happy display of companionship among some of the 6888th ("six, triple eight") Battalion -the postal unit assigned to France to sort and dispense mail for the US troops. Gladys Anderson, third from the right, the last survivor on the six, died in 2008. What caught my eye while looking with the curator of the women's memorial, was the expressions on these six faces. It was all about camaraderie. Below is an explanation of how this started.
CHASING HEROES: A visual tribute
By Chris Demarest
Chapter One: A picture worth a thousand words
In an old black and white photograph a young man in his khaki shirt and trousers stands on the wheel of a WW II fighter plane leaning against the wing, staring off into the distance. His body language says "cocky". The shot is staged but I'm transfixed by it.
The young pilot is Griffin Holland, now eighty-eight years old and living in Chevy Chase, Maryland. That photo hangs on the wall of his son's house, part of an homage to his father's service in World War II. When I ask Bryan about the photo, his eyes light up as he removes it from the wall.
"My dad flew the P-47 Thunderbolt," he says. "Unfortunately.", he adds. "By the time he shipped to Burma, the war was winding down and most of the Japanese planes had been destroyed or moved to other combat areas. All he did was fly around and shoot at things on the ground." It was an oversimplification to which he quickly added how his father also served in the Korean War moving onto jet fighter planes. "He would love to talk to you," Bryan added after the many questions I was peppering him with. I was fascinated by Griffin's experiences and was already thinking about getting a chance to talk to him one and finding out more first-hand.
Bryan and his family were new acquaintances of mine. With each visit, I made a point of wandering into the den to look at that photo. There were other artifacts from his father's military service in that room. Medals and ribbons neatly framed under glass hung on another wall, a Zippo lighter emblazoned with the squadron's insignia sat on the fireplace mantel. A photograph of Griff from Korea hung nearby. But it was that shot of a cocky fighter jock that intrigued me.
Eventually I met "Griff" and his wife, Mabel, both spry and youthful octogenarians , easily passing for a decade less than their ages. With little hesitation Bryan introduced me to his father asking him to recount some of his time as a pilot in the second world war. Cocktail in one hand, reaching out to shake mine, I felt a strong grip, later thinking that hand had history steering his P-47 through the war.
My father had also been a pilot in the war, in Burma, but his were noncombat missions in the cargo plane, the C-47. He did fly the infamous "Hump" - the route over the Himalayan mountains into China, far from a cake walk. But unlike my father, Griff was more open about his experiences. Though he may not have had encounters with enemy aircraft, he did fly 91 missions which must have presented more than a few hair-raising episodes. Echoing Bryan's recitation, Griff described his missions the same way: "mostly flying around and shooting at things on the ground." He laughed.
"We were constantly reminded of the dangers when we flew," he said. "Below us was the jungle and the Japanese, neither of which we wanted to face. When we flew strafing missions we were told never to break off our target. Sometimes it meant flying straight into a fussilade of bullets. We weren't thinking about the consequences of being shot down during those runs, but when we did have time to think, we were spooked a few times flying over that canopy of green foliage. It wasn't a friendly place to crash."
"But", he continued. "It was a ball. We lived in tents near streams, had hot meals cooked for us and slept in warm beds." Somewhat guiltily he adds that he never experienced what the soldiers faced slogging through the hot, steamy jungles, no fresh food for days.
Griff's cockiness was diminished from the young pilot in the sixty-nine year old photo, but there was still a swagger and sense of humor which I've since seen in many veterans of his generation. He never bragged of his accomplishments. He talked openly about his experiences and answered all my questions that evening. I don't know if it was because he was reaching the end of his life or that it was simply who he was. I did sense that he appreciated having an opportunity to reflect on a time in his life that had great meaning and impact, possibly having the most meaning to his life. It also made me rethink my father's legacy and what the war had meant to him. He had died in 1989 and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery, that being his proudest and last wish fulfilled. I was also feeling a connection to my youth, born only a few years after the second world war ended. My friends and I played "war" in each others backyards, commandeering a few relics from our dads' service: sailor's cap, backpacks and canteens all suffering the mustiness of attic and basement storage. In some ways, I was coming full circle back to a time when talk of World War II was still alive via movies and television shows I grew up watching.
After that evening with Grif I knew what I had to do. I needed to paint that photo of young Second Lieutenant Griff Holland. I immediately called Bryan and asked his permission. He was surprised but giving me the okay, added that he'd also buy it as his father's birthday was only two months away.
In three days, the painting was completed. I posted the image on my Facebook page. The reaction from friends was immediate and thought-provoking. It suddenly occurred to me, the "greatest generation" a term Tom Brokaw coined for his book about the WW II generation, was fading fast and why not pay a visual tribute to them? Immediately I put out the call for photos from friends of their parents in service and within the first week, several jpgs filled my mailbox.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Heroes
HEROES
By Chris Demarest
I had often joked that my hero worship began as a little kid when on Saturday mornings a little cartoon mouse who, with an operatic voice boomed: "Here I come to save the day". And with that, Mighty Mouse, momentarily suspended in mid-air, streaked downward, red cap flashing to deliver numerous knockout blows to the bad guys (in this case almost always mean black cats hitting on hapless mice ). Like the Superman character from the same era, at the show's end, both stood arms akimbo, cape flapping in the breeze -heroes reveling in their glory.
I wanted to be those characters. I envisioned myself in those roles and as I grew older, new television heroes took their places. With the flip of the dial, a different day, the roles changed. From doing battle with bad guys under water in Sea Hunt, to parachuting out of planes into remote regions in Ripcord, to the battles out west on horseback or down south in my coon skin cap, to WW II European scenarios, I saw myself as those men risking life and limb for the cause of righteousness.
I also had a gang of pals with similar visions which helped make the fantasy that much more real. Ricky, Robbie, Paul, Jimmy and I were inseparable. And fortunately for us, our parents encouraged the play by uniting in fulfilling our current wishes by buying, for Christmases and birthdays, the articles we needed. Christmas day was always about discovering if our wish lists had been met. In a mass of torn wrapping paper followed by phone calls, we'd later rendezvous to check out our presents and compare the costumes and arsenals. We marveled that our parents somehow always got it all right. Of course it helped that we were specific about each article, sometimes right down to the catalog page and item number.
For me, it was also more than being a hero, it was the adventure, the danger I found attractive. Like all kids, our fantasies took us around the world and beyond. A family pet was any number of things in our imaginations: the enemy, a sick patient, an alien creature or like another television hero of the time, a smart dog like the collie Lassie on the like-named show, who somehow was always in the right place at the right time to save some desperate soul. And yet, in the real world, all around me were the men and women taking risks daily as firefighters, police, ambulance personnel (pre-EMTs) and the like that somehow escaped my attention. Why I wasn't aware of them or drawn to their careers, I have no inkling. Only years later did that surface and surface big time.
It took moving to a small Vermont town as an adult and joining their volunteer fire department for me to start to see a different picture. I was by this time, an established author and illustrator of children's books. My life of fantasy continued. Joining the fire department was a fluke. My wife and I were out for a Sunday drive with our toddler son when we happened upon an open house at our town's volunteer fire department. Someone dressed in a dalmation suit, wearing a fire helmet stood waving at passersby and we decided to make the detour. We thought our son would love this. How could he resist the sight of big, shiny red trucks? By the time we left, it was me who was the most excited. Three days later I signed on as their latest member and two weeks after that was onto an intensive three month course for my level one certification.
Two years into service, a few structure fires, several car accidents and numerous brush fires under my belt, it occurred to me to do a children's book on what it was like to really fight fires. It wasn't about the bright red, shiny trucks. It was about the smoke and the flames and the sound of one's own breathing from the air pack strapped to one's back as we sometimes moved about in total blackness unsure of what lay ahead. "Scary" was the word I used to describe it. "Fear" was another one which helped keep me focused on what I needed to do. A year later, Firefighters A to Z was chosen as a New York Times Best Book. When my editor had first seen the finish art, her only comment to me was:"Add more fire, add more smoke." I knew she got what I was trying to do.
Two more books on fire fighting followed and then from my editor, came a simple request: "What can you do with water?" With that, a book about the U.S. Coast Guard and then one on the hurricane hunters were published.
For every one of what I called 'adventure books', the research was done first hand. For the Coast Guard book, I spent a year visiting Air Station Cape Cod flying in their Falcon jets and the Jayhawk helicopter, watching the crews perform. For the Hurricane Hunter book, I flew with the Biloxi-base crew of the USAF Reserve into Hurricane Ivan, then a Category 4 storm with winds over 165 miles an hour. I remember my first flight with the Coast Guard, not five minutes after taking off in the rescue helicopter, smiling to myself, thinking what a cool job I had. I was getting to experience life around some amazing people. Heroes in my eyes.
Two years later, now an official Coast Guard artist, I was sent to the Persian Gulf to live aboard their boats and document their lives. Upon returning I spent a year flying with the local trauma hospital's air medical evacuation team in their two helicopters covering patient transport all over New England, also to document in visual terms, their work.
Getting inside the worlds of these people was eye-opening for me. It was not about being heroes at all. None of them ever sought the spotlight. "Just doing my job." was the oft-muttered line for something you and I would think of as super-human. One of the rescue swimmers for the USCG Air Station, almost drowned rescuing sailors off a rapidly sinking sailboat. "Just doing my job," Brian said. Eventually I could see why they all said this. It was their job. As I would explain to school children when talking about these people, they are ordinary people doing extra-ordinary jobs. Simple as that.
And then I met some real heroes. I was asked by the same hospital I'd done the medevac work with to spend time in the children's unit. I wasn't given an assignment. It was entirely up to me. And for the first time, in spite of now all the years of flying and being in a war zone, I was scared and nervous. I didn't know what to expect or necessarily what to do.
How does an outsider break the barrier to talk to what were in most cases, very sick or injured kids and their parents? I had decided that by slipping on a pair of hospital scrub pants I might seem less intrusive. On my first day I walked through the unit a couple of times, casually peeking into the rooms unsure of myself. Tentatively I committed myself and knocked on an open door. Just inside the privacy curtain, a young woman sat near the bed of her young son, a boy clearly suffering from some sort of nervous system disorder. She greeted me with a warm smile. The boy remained frozen in position while his eyes moved from her to my face. That look was almost too unnerving. I pulled up a chair and introduced myself and told her of my idea: a pencil portrait of her son to be given as a gift, something the unit was doing for all the families, I expected her to shut me off to stop me from any further invasion into her privacy. Instead what I got was an even bigger smile and approval. I'd had my camera clearly visible so asking if I could take a photo of her and her son, she crawled onto the bed, cradled him and looking into his face, told him to smile. His face remained frozen but his eyes moved from her face to mine and back. And then back at me. I clicked off several shots which I then shared with her.
"Could you get rid of those lines on my neck," this attractive woman jokingly asked. When I told her it was all pro bono work, I added; "For fifty bucks a line, I'll do it." She laughed. I walked out of that room amazed by her strength. As a parent of a healthy child I could only begin to imagine what super hero strength she had.
And so it went with the other patients and their families. It was a special privilege meeting these families who often openly talked about what was happening with them, their ill child. They wanted to share their situations with me. In one case, a family of eight had a young girl with leukemia. One of the nurses one day told me that he'd spoken with them about my work. He told me of their extreme sense of privacy but that he'd talk to them and ask if I could do a portrait of their daughter.
Two months later I was told by one the unit nurses, the young girl had died. Attending the funeral, she was told the drawing I'd done was hanging in their dining room. I'd remembered going home the day I met them to look at the photos. I'd already had in my mind's eye which photo I wanted to work from. And then, staring back at me was this nine year old, her mother's face buried in the girl's close-cropped blonde hair. When I heard of her death, I thought of her face and the strength it held those three months prior. Her mother's pose was any parent's pose: fear of loss. The daughter's face was all about acceptance.
There were so many stories in the six months I spent in that unit. But what came to me later was that for all the years I'd thought about heroes, wanting to be one ion some level, hanging out with ones I put in that category, this one was not about rank or uniform or medals. It was all about the human spirit and the willingness to accept what life had dealt them. There are, to me, no bigger heroes than these people.
By Chris Demarest
I had often joked that my hero worship began as a little kid when on Saturday mornings a little cartoon mouse who, with an operatic voice boomed: "Here I come to save the day". And with that, Mighty Mouse, momentarily suspended in mid-air, streaked downward, red cap flashing to deliver numerous knockout blows to the bad guys (in this case almost always mean black cats hitting on hapless mice ). Like the Superman character from the same era, at the show's end, both stood arms akimbo, cape flapping in the breeze -heroes reveling in their glory.
I wanted to be those characters. I envisioned myself in those roles and as I grew older, new television heroes took their places. With the flip of the dial, a different day, the roles changed. From doing battle with bad guys under water in Sea Hunt, to parachuting out of planes into remote regions in Ripcord, to the battles out west on horseback or down south in my coon skin cap, to WW II European scenarios, I saw myself as those men risking life and limb for the cause of righteousness.
I also had a gang of pals with similar visions which helped make the fantasy that much more real. Ricky, Robbie, Paul, Jimmy and I were inseparable. And fortunately for us, our parents encouraged the play by uniting in fulfilling our current wishes by buying, for Christmases and birthdays, the articles we needed. Christmas day was always about discovering if our wish lists had been met. In a mass of torn wrapping paper followed by phone calls, we'd later rendezvous to check out our presents and compare the costumes and arsenals. We marveled that our parents somehow always got it all right. Of course it helped that we were specific about each article, sometimes right down to the catalog page and item number.
For me, it was also more than being a hero, it was the adventure, the danger I found attractive. Like all kids, our fantasies took us around the world and beyond. A family pet was any number of things in our imaginations: the enemy, a sick patient, an alien creature or like another television hero of the time, a smart dog like the collie Lassie on the like-named show, who somehow was always in the right place at the right time to save some desperate soul. And yet, in the real world, all around me were the men and women taking risks daily as firefighters, police, ambulance personnel (pre-EMTs) and the like that somehow escaped my attention. Why I wasn't aware of them or drawn to their careers, I have no inkling. Only years later did that surface and surface big time.
It took moving to a small Vermont town as an adult and joining their volunteer fire department for me to start to see a different picture. I was by this time, an established author and illustrator of children's books. My life of fantasy continued. Joining the fire department was a fluke. My wife and I were out for a Sunday drive with our toddler son when we happened upon an open house at our town's volunteer fire department. Someone dressed in a dalmation suit, wearing a fire helmet stood waving at passersby and we decided to make the detour. We thought our son would love this. How could he resist the sight of big, shiny red trucks? By the time we left, it was me who was the most excited. Three days later I signed on as their latest member and two weeks after that was onto an intensive three month course for my level one certification.
Two years into service, a few structure fires, several car accidents and numerous brush fires under my belt, it occurred to me to do a children's book on what it was like to really fight fires. It wasn't about the bright red, shiny trucks. It was about the smoke and the flames and the sound of one's own breathing from the air pack strapped to one's back as we sometimes moved about in total blackness unsure of what lay ahead. "Scary" was the word I used to describe it. "Fear" was another one which helped keep me focused on what I needed to do. A year later, Firefighters A to Z was chosen as a New York Times Best Book. When my editor had first seen the finish art, her only comment to me was:"Add more fire, add more smoke." I knew she got what I was trying to do.
Two more books on fire fighting followed and then from my editor, came a simple request: "What can you do with water?" With that, a book about the U.S. Coast Guard and then one on the hurricane hunters were published.
For every one of what I called 'adventure books', the research was done first hand. For the Coast Guard book, I spent a year visiting Air Station Cape Cod flying in their Falcon jets and the Jayhawk helicopter, watching the crews perform. For the Hurricane Hunter book, I flew with the Biloxi-base crew of the USAF Reserve into Hurricane Ivan, then a Category 4 storm with winds over 165 miles an hour. I remember my first flight with the Coast Guard, not five minutes after taking off in the rescue helicopter, smiling to myself, thinking what a cool job I had. I was getting to experience life around some amazing people. Heroes in my eyes.
Two years later, now an official Coast Guard artist, I was sent to the Persian Gulf to live aboard their boats and document their lives. Upon returning I spent a year flying with the local trauma hospital's air medical evacuation team in their two helicopters covering patient transport all over New England, also to document in visual terms, their work.
Getting inside the worlds of these people was eye-opening for me. It was not about being heroes at all. None of them ever sought the spotlight. "Just doing my job." was the oft-muttered line for something you and I would think of as super-human. One of the rescue swimmers for the USCG Air Station, almost drowned rescuing sailors off a rapidly sinking sailboat. "Just doing my job," Brian said. Eventually I could see why they all said this. It was their job. As I would explain to school children when talking about these people, they are ordinary people doing extra-ordinary jobs. Simple as that.
And then I met some real heroes. I was asked by the same hospital I'd done the medevac work with to spend time in the children's unit. I wasn't given an assignment. It was entirely up to me. And for the first time, in spite of now all the years of flying and being in a war zone, I was scared and nervous. I didn't know what to expect or necessarily what to do.
How does an outsider break the barrier to talk to what were in most cases, very sick or injured kids and their parents? I had decided that by slipping on a pair of hospital scrub pants I might seem less intrusive. On my first day I walked through the unit a couple of times, casually peeking into the rooms unsure of myself. Tentatively I committed myself and knocked on an open door. Just inside the privacy curtain, a young woman sat near the bed of her young son, a boy clearly suffering from some sort of nervous system disorder. She greeted me with a warm smile. The boy remained frozen in position while his eyes moved from her to my face. That look was almost too unnerving. I pulled up a chair and introduced myself and told her of my idea: a pencil portrait of her son to be given as a gift, something the unit was doing for all the families, I expected her to shut me off to stop me from any further invasion into her privacy. Instead what I got was an even bigger smile and approval. I'd had my camera clearly visible so asking if I could take a photo of her and her son, she crawled onto the bed, cradled him and looking into his face, told him to smile. His face remained frozen but his eyes moved from her face to mine and back. And then back at me. I clicked off several shots which I then shared with her.
"Could you get rid of those lines on my neck," this attractive woman jokingly asked. When I told her it was all pro bono work, I added; "For fifty bucks a line, I'll do it." She laughed. I walked out of that room amazed by her strength. As a parent of a healthy child I could only begin to imagine what super hero strength she had.
And so it went with the other patients and their families. It was a special privilege meeting these families who often openly talked about what was happening with them, their ill child. They wanted to share their situations with me. In one case, a family of eight had a young girl with leukemia. One of the nurses one day told me that he'd spoken with them about my work. He told me of their extreme sense of privacy but that he'd talk to them and ask if I could do a portrait of their daughter.
Two months later I was told by one the unit nurses, the young girl had died. Attending the funeral, she was told the drawing I'd done was hanging in their dining room. I'd remembered going home the day I met them to look at the photos. I'd already had in my mind's eye which photo I wanted to work from. And then, staring back at me was this nine year old, her mother's face buried in the girl's close-cropped blonde hair. When I heard of her death, I thought of her face and the strength it held those three months prior. Her mother's pose was any parent's pose: fear of loss. The daughter's face was all about acceptance.
There were so many stories in the six months I spent in that unit. But what came to me later was that for all the years I'd thought about heroes, wanting to be one ion some level, hanging out with ones I put in that category, this one was not about rank or uniform or medals. It was all about the human spirit and the willingness to accept what life had dealt them. There are, to me, no bigger heroes than these people.
Friday, January 1, 2010
2010 and beyond
I'm sitting in bed, January 1st in Bethesda MD on a cold morning. Last year was for me, like many people, a tough one. Financially it was very tough. But my whole life has been as a freelancer and with the highs come the lows. Since connecting with Connie and her world down here, doors of opportunities seem to be opening. One thing I've learned over the the last few years is how much the medical side of life I'm attracted to. Starting way back as a volunteer firefighter in Vermont and then later in Meriden NH, the sense of doing something for a community struck a solid chord with me. When I got to fly with DHART and later work at the children's unit, CHaD, that cemented my commitment to continue using my art in any way to help out.
A couple months ago I was approached by some people at NIH (National Institutes of Health) to illustrate a book on their therapy dog, Vi. That is now in the hands of Scholastic Publishers awaiting a decision. I'm looking to work with MSF/Doctors Without Borders to do some documentary work and of course continue my own book ideas, starting with one on hero dogs, awaiting my good editor Simon's okay. (Can you hear me Simon?)
I watched some members of my family suffer financial ruin this past year through greed and conspiracy. And yet from those ashes, they are rising above it all, certainly wiser but miraculously optimistic toward people and life. I won't editorialize about the selfishness that astounds us all but it certainly cements my conviction that giving is much more soul-satisfying, than receiving.
To all of you, may this be not only your year but the start of more positive things to come indefinitely.
CD January 1, 2010
A couple months ago I was approached by some people at NIH (National Institutes of Health) to illustrate a book on their therapy dog, Vi. That is now in the hands of Scholastic Publishers awaiting a decision. I'm looking to work with MSF/Doctors Without Borders to do some documentary work and of course continue my own book ideas, starting with one on hero dogs, awaiting my good editor Simon's okay. (Can you hear me Simon?)
I watched some members of my family suffer financial ruin this past year through greed and conspiracy. And yet from those ashes, they are rising above it all, certainly wiser but miraculously optimistic toward people and life. I won't editorialize about the selfishness that astounds us all but it certainly cements my conviction that giving is much more soul-satisfying, than receiving.
To all of you, may this be not only your year but the start of more positive things to come indefinitely.
CD January 1, 2010
Thursday, February 26, 2009
This I Believe
Outside of death and taxes, the only other thing that scares most people is 'change". I believe in change. Change can come in two ways: sought out and happenstance. Like most people, I've experienced both, but it's the latter that is sometimes the hardest to adjust to.
For twenty-some-odd years I was a successful children's book author and illustrator, mostly doing funny, cartoon-style books. Fourteen years ago when my wife and I moved to northern New England, I decided to join our town's volunteer fire department. Working from home, I had the flexibility to respond anytime, particularly during the daylight hours which is a rare thing in rural areas when most people have jobs that either take them out of town or limit their ability to respond. A few years into my avocation I chose to write and illustrate a serious book depicting the realistic challenges firefighters face. Two more "fire" books led to using "water" as the theme. In 2001 I started working with the U.S. Coast Guard Air Station Cape Cod to research a book about search and rescue at sea. Several flights and multiple photographs later, the book began to take form.
While I was in the midst of this project, I found out about the Coast Guard art program. I had loved working with the Air Station and wanted to continue exploring this military branch. After being accepted, I immediately began painting everything from search and rescue missions to the mundane duties of preparing meals in the ships' galleys. This stylistic change from cartoon to realism was tapping into something deep within me. It was also a return to a style I'd done as a kid: drawing pictures of my heroes.
Meanwhile, change in the publishing front, threw me a curve. My adventure books were not meeting the publisher's expectations and with the completion of a book on the Hurricane Hunters, I was out. As this reality hit and lack of work followed, I struggled with this change thrust upon me. And then last year, one cold February day, I was invited by the Coast Guard Public Affairs office to spend two weeks aboard patrol boats in the Persian Gulf documenting their work guarding the oil platforms off the coast of Iraq. Manna from heaven. I was thrilled.
Throughout the year, I worked on several paintings depicting the action in the Gulf, recently receiving a public service award from the Commandant. But I didn't do the paintings for that reason. The door that opened many years ago as a volunteer firefighter, began a new chapter in my life that was totally unexpected. I'm not a thrill junkie. What makes me happy is getting to glimpse the lives of the people I chronicle: people willing to put themselves in harm's way in order to save others. Change, in this sense, turned out to be a good thing.
For twenty-some-odd years I was a successful children's book author and illustrator, mostly doing funny, cartoon-style books. Fourteen years ago when my wife and I moved to northern New England, I decided to join our town's volunteer fire department. Working from home, I had the flexibility to respond anytime, particularly during the daylight hours which is a rare thing in rural areas when most people have jobs that either take them out of town or limit their ability to respond. A few years into my avocation I chose to write and illustrate a serious book depicting the realistic challenges firefighters face. Two more "fire" books led to using "water" as the theme. In 2001 I started working with the U.S. Coast Guard Air Station Cape Cod to research a book about search and rescue at sea. Several flights and multiple photographs later, the book began to take form.
While I was in the midst of this project, I found out about the Coast Guard art program. I had loved working with the Air Station and wanted to continue exploring this military branch. After being accepted, I immediately began painting everything from search and rescue missions to the mundane duties of preparing meals in the ships' galleys. This stylistic change from cartoon to realism was tapping into something deep within me. It was also a return to a style I'd done as a kid: drawing pictures of my heroes.
Meanwhile, change in the publishing front, threw me a curve. My adventure books were not meeting the publisher's expectations and with the completion of a book on the Hurricane Hunters, I was out. As this reality hit and lack of work followed, I struggled with this change thrust upon me. And then last year, one cold February day, I was invited by the Coast Guard Public Affairs office to spend two weeks aboard patrol boats in the Persian Gulf documenting their work guarding the oil platforms off the coast of Iraq. Manna from heaven. I was thrilled.
Throughout the year, I worked on several paintings depicting the action in the Gulf, recently receiving a public service award from the Commandant. But I didn't do the paintings for that reason. The door that opened many years ago as a volunteer firefighter, began a new chapter in my life that was totally unexpected. I'm not a thrill junkie. What makes me happy is getting to glimpse the lives of the people I chronicle: people willing to put themselves in harm's way in order to save others. Change, in this sense, turned out to be a good thing.
CHaD
In September 2008, after my exhibit of art documenting the crew of DHART (Dartmouth-Hitchcock Advance Response Team), arts coordinator/DHMC Elisabeth Gordon put out an invitation for me to document other areas in the hospital. "Within fifteen minutes," she told me. "I heard from Jessica Laperle, Child Life coordinator at CHaD (Children's Hospital at Dartmouth). Thus began my new adventure.
Little did I realize the impact this new arena would have on me. Spending time with DHART was fantastic, for the people I covered, the events and of course as I like to say, 'who wouldn't like to fly in a helicopter?" Of course that answer is 'not many', but for me it was fantastic. Now, however, I was going to be doing work, both feet on the ground. How could I get excited about this day after day. And there in lay the awakening.
For several months I've visited the unit meeting with patients, their families and of course getting familiar with many of the staff. As an artist used to walking into arenas unused to someone like myself, I know the skepticism. I read it on faces. But as is my way, I let my art talk. The first patient I chose was an infant being tended to by one of the RNs. As I'd worked in watercolor for the DHART pieces, I continued in this vein. I did two more like this before doing a young boy in pencil. When I shared this with Jessica, her reaction was to stick with this. It was perfect for me because I love the intimacy of pencil which contradicts our modern full-color society. Somehow though, it worked. Thirty-plus portraits completed, the response to the pencil portraits has been fantastic. RN Michael Douglas called me his "hero". I had to laugh, but I got his point. The work I'm doing is another form of medicine. And what's come back to me is the joy I'm feeling, meeting the patients and their families, knowing that something (besides the obvious medical attention) positive is adding to their day, putting smiles on their faces.
Accounts of interactions to come.
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