Myths and Legends
My friend Gale is beaming. She and I have just hung her exhibit at the Theosophical Society of America in Wheaton, Illinois, a hotbed of conservative Christianity that even Rick Santorum would find lacking in evangelical zeal. By some curious circumstance, the Society’s repository of Eastern philosophy , mysticism, esoterism, and world religions wound up on Main Street in Wheaton, a few blocks from a warehouse-sized store of conservative Christian collections.
But the Society’s Henry S. Olcott library is a perfect space for Gale’s watercolor exhibit of Muses, Greek mythological figures and Hebrew legends. Gale has come equipped with a hammer, nails and small cards printed in Gothic type with her name, title and price of each piece. (All are priced at $200,an amount she figures is within reach of visitors who travel the world to browse the Society’s collections.) Gale’s paintings are all exquisitely detailed: a smug Judith hacking off Holofernes’ head;a beguiling Aphrodite attempting to seduce Ares, the Muse of Dance surrounded by a bed of calla lilies. There are 30 watercolors in all, each encased in a plastic box frame that needs some dusting. A few frames are cracked, and we hang these near the bottom of the exhibit so the flaws are less noticeable.
On the 81/2 X 11 sheet of paper that introduces her exhibit, Gale has written about the healing capacity of art.
“Making art helped me recover from a horrible nervous breakdown when a car ran over me while I was a pedestrian and I almost died. Since then my art has not only been my saving grace but my life line back to health.”
Since that horrific accident nine years ago, Gale has lived at Greenwood Care, an Evanston nursing home for people with “chronic mental illness.” Hers is schizophrenia, an illness that distorts her sense of reality. Gale was my best friend from growing up; her home with five sisters was welcome refuge from my own bungalow dominated by rowdy brothers. We had lost touch with each other for nearly thirty-five years, reconnecting when I moved back to the Midwest after raising my family in Massachusetts. During our childhood in the working class town of Joliet, she was always the poet, the artist, the muse.
And now, drinking in her creativity on display outside the Theosophical Society’s auditorium, I can attest to this truth: that art has been Gale’s salvation.
At the Celtic Knot, our favorite Evanston haunt, Gale and I indulge in exotic dessert puddings laced with creme and bourbon. Over a glass of Merlot she does a Tarot reading for me. it’s often the same: I will come into money, an older man will take care of me, a younger man will find me fascinating. None of this has come true, but it makes me feel good, and Gale knows it–because she is my friend.