Laur's Blog, Volume 1: Art is a Survival Skill

The Question

I often find myself wondering is if all creativity derives from illness, from some form of pain. The need to create coincides with my yearning for a cure. The two cannot be separated, interestingly enough. Does all good come from bad? I wonder. Would my favorite creations be the same if it weren't for the state of my body? For the failed aspects of the medical system? Would I have the same drive if I were given a different purpose?

Creative Roots

I've found myself passionate about the arts since I can remember. I started playing the piano when I was three. I've been drawing since then as well. By the age of six, I was writing and illustrating books in my spare time. I was born to be creative, to live past boundaries; to think outside the box. I was born to be free by my imagination, yet I'm still left with the same questions. I still wonder whether creation can be separated from suffering. Would art feel as urgent if my body didn't demand something of me?

My dad taught me how to paint when I was little. You could say that's where my artistic ability comes from. I'm unsure whether this can be inherited. I haven't learned enough about genetics; to be frank, I haven't even met with my geneticists. I am, genetically, a parent's worst nightmare. I am their medical anomaly, their mystery child. We still don't know why everything they carried got passed down to me.

Sick Kid Syndrome

There weren't many signs when I was younger. I had terrible growing pains as a child, ones that would leave me wailing at night. Besides that, I was active. I was always weak, but I was functioning. I was present. When I was ten, though, my knees started locking. This led me to be seen by a rheumatologist. I was told the pain would never get better. I was told that no matter what, it would spread, and it damn sure did.

It then took five years of misdiagnoses and referrals for me to get the right answer: 'Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.' EDS is a connective tissue disorder that alters collagen production. This weakens the body over time. Nothing is considered stable. Everything pops out. Everything dislocates. I mean, everything. By seventeen, I had suffered a severe fall, where I ended up dislocating part of my labrum in my shoulder. This is never, ever supposed to happen. This is not even typical for an EDS patient. However, my body leads creatively, too, somehow. Thinking outside the box; doing things that have never been seen before.

Reconstruction

Nonetheless, this led to the need for a reconstruction of my entire shoulder. This surgery reignited my drive to create, strangely. I was told it most likely wouldn't work. I was told my left arm, my dominant arm, would become a limp limb. I was told it would at least be a year before I could even hold a pencil, let alone draw, paint, or write. I was told I would probably never play the piano again.

On the fifth day post-operation, sling and all, I made it my mission to prove the doctors wrong. I started painting, and for a while, I didn't stop. I would hold my paintbrush in my left hand, with my canvas in the right. I would guide the paint across the canvas to create the piece without moving my left arm much, keeping it stable. I experimented with the colors, with the way the pain medicine I was on altered my perspective of the world. I allowed what I was going through to open up a whole new realm of possibilities through creation. Yet, I'm still left with the same questions. Does all good come from bad? Would I have the same drive if I were given a different purpose?

Within two months, I had made six months' worth of progress between painting and physical therapy. My progress continued rapidly throughout recovery. Art was healing me. I was able to go to college. I bought a craft cart during my freshman year. I continued painting in my free time. My lovely roommates introduced me to different art mediums and media. I explored each, eventually adapting them into my own style. Art became more than just a therapeutic hobby for me. It became my only means of liberation, of salvation, survival, even.

Reflecting

I thank my creator for my current means of functioning each day. I know this is not the end of my surgical career, though this experience has taught me to never take a good standing state for granted. To never let energy go to waste. To live for each day. To be alive. We were meant to form connections with one another, to act upon our urges, to leave room for the human margin of mistakes. We were meant to be sustainable, free, and resourceful. We were meant to be creative.

I am unsure whether or not I can answer my own questions. I am not sure if all good comes from bad, as it could be the other way around. I don't want to claim yes or no. The answer is, I don't know. I'm unsure if I would have the drive to create if I did not have the yearning for a cure. Scientists have determined that creativity doesn't necessarily "derive" from illness, though it is linked to it. If anything, they go hand in hand.

I find the fuck of it all to be the beauty behind it. I've learned that the bad can become inspiration for the good. That pain becomes beauty. Time can heal. That art is a survival skill. Maybe I couldn't answer my own questions, and that is the answer. Maybe there is no answer to them. I will never know. I will never understand what houses the differing forces of good and evil on this plane called the universe, where they come from. Maybe, just maybe, I was never meant to know... Perhaps I was never meant to be healthy. I was just meant to be me.