Landscape

Janey, at 7, had never spoken, she did not make eye contact, she did not tolerate being touched. Loud noises made her implode, curling into herself, to be as small as possible, rocking and rocking the sounds away. Meltdowns preceded an explosion of whirling wild screaming.

I brought her to the studio, because the special ed folks hadn’t yet found a place for her in our rural school. So, in the studio, in a corner she sat with jewel-colored translucent acrylic cubes, spheres, pyramids, cylinders. Janey could sort these for hours, singing nuh nuh nuh. Over and over.

I was painting, a commissioned piece, the kind that paid the rent. Janey was sorting her acrylic jewels. There was a knock on the studio door. Before I could answer, the knob turned and our neighbor poked their head in, followed immediately by her bounding kelpie. My paint table overturned. Canvases strewn. Paint pots everywhere. Janey in the corner frozen in fear or horror or amazement – sometimes hard to tell.

Mind racing: strangle neighbor, leash dog, mop up. So much mopping up. My commission might be salvageable. Dog corralled, Janey neither imploded or melted, I slipped outside to confront a humble, apologetic Jax. Skitters was still a puppy. Can’t be mad at the dog. Jax was inviting us to a barbeque later. Free food, always good.

Returning inside the small studio, I found Janey covered in spilled paint. Her face intent and focused. Her movements purposeful. She was smearing paint on herself and then applying it to a canvas. Body as paintbrush, not a technique I’d ever tried. Her arms, hands, knees, feet were covered with different colors. She had paint in her hair. She used her clothes as a cleaning cloth. She dove in for more color, applying paint to canvas with arms and hands. She’d put her nose up close like she was sniffing her work, then sit back on her heels, then dab her fingers in another color. I was fascinated watching her. I didn’t want to startle her out of her creative zone.

Then suddenly done, Janey retreated to her corner. I stood over the canvas she’d created. Heart in my throat, I looked down at my daughter who had not communicated at all in her seven years on earth. This was a detailed landscape. The view from a tiny cabin where we’d stayed the prior summer, in the eastern Sierras. The small waterfall and creek down the hill from the cabin. Higher mountains looming in the background.

It was the first of many. They sold well at auction. They funded an alternative education program for neurodivergent children. We have a community now, in our rural area.

— Lkai