image from doobybrain.com
My friend turns 50, and right on her birthday she receives a phone call.
It's time, said the caller.
Time for what?
Come over, now.
So she grabs the keys and drives the few blocks to the caller's home, figuring out who it was by voice recognition alone.
She climbs the stairs up to the studio, where she is greeted by her bohemian, painter friend, who says, Come in. You need art therapy.
Obediently, my friend sits down, open to the idea of being healed. From what? She doesn't know, but it seems like art therapy is a general cure-all, so she goes with it. As I am sure I would too.
She gives her a big white board and a bowl full of paint tubes and then says, Have at it.
Wait. No direction? No anything?
In the next 20 minutes my friend reverts back to kindergarten, squirting paint onto the board and massaging it in. No direction. No anything. I channeled Jackson Pollock, she said, as she told me this story last night. And I still have it, along with other pieces I have done since.
I asked if she has gotten more formal lessons from her friend, and she says, No. We just sit there and paint. And she has never called them lessons.
And that sounds like some pretty fantastic therapy to me.