“the experience of cancer” at the leopold

Paul Dorrell, owner of the Leopold Gallery in Kansas City, has been a steadfast supporter of Change the Truth since the day he first heard about it. He donated a portion of the sales made from my Uganda exhibit last spring so five kids could go to secondary school and has helped raise money to fund our upcoming trip back to the orphanage. Now, he has mounted an exhibition to benefit the Cancer Center at the University of Kansas Hospital. If you want to know the definition of the Yiddush word mensch, you could just think of Paul. His most recent effort received nice coverage in today's Kansas City Star.

“’The Experience of Cancer’ Shows the Art of Healing
Tim Engle, The Kansas City Star, October 4, 2007

This art show could be a real downer.

But in addition to themes of suffering, death and grief, ‘The Experience of Cancer’ explores faith, courage, love — and recovery. The show opens with a reception from 5:30 to 9 p.m. Friday at Leopold Gallery, 324 W. 63rd St. in Brookside, and will stay on display through October.

Leopold owner Paul Dorrell is encouraging people with cancer, and cancer survivors, to attend: ‘I want them to be emboldened and reassured.’ The 30 pieces — not all are about cancer — will be for sale. The gallery’s cut, 50 percent, will be donated to the Cancer Center at University of Kansas Hospital.

The show’s 13 artists were inspired by family members or friends with cancer. [Three are mentioned below.]

Eric Dinyer:
‘Last summer my mother was diagnosed with rare and aggressive lymphoma. They gave her two or three months or four at the most. She was treated with two regimens of chemotherapy. The chemo treatments took place every three weeks, but by the end of four months she was so worn down that she refused her last treatment. This was against what her doctors wanted, but having witnessed her overall weakness of both body and spirit, I agreed with her. We didn’t think she’d be strong enough to survive the final treatment.

Today her cancer is in remission. At a checkup just last week, her health looked great. Remarkable, if you had witnessed what she had gone through.

Which brings me to [my] image. I chose the metaphor of water, which can be associated with soothing sounds, birth, baptism, swimming, drinking water, cleansing, healing properties, etc. But water also can be associated with drowning and tidal waves. The ocean can be unknowable, powerful, seemingly endless and unfathomable.

Which, as a witness to both my parents’ trajectories with cancer, is how I felt and how I viewed them. A cancer diagnosis feels like you are standing in the ocean and waiting for the water to either support, nourish and heal you or to wash you away.’

Margie Kuhn:
‘My cousin Bret Williams died recently. He had mesothelioma, which is a lung cancer caused by asbestos. We are still unsure how he came in contact with asbestos. He grew up in an older home in Lawrence that probably had asbestos somewhere, but neither his mom nor his three brothers show any signs of asbestos poisoning.

Mesothelioma is fatal. The projected life expectancy after diagnosis is less than 10 years. Yet Bret seemed positive and was a joy to be around. He maintained his sense of humor and the hope he would survive at least a little longer.

I worked on several pieces for the show, and I ultimately decided what was most inspiring about Bret was his hope. I work with a lot of plants and weeds in my paintings, so I looked for a plant that would suggest optimism. The sunflower seemed perfect — it always turns to follow the sun before it reaches full bloom. The Band-Aids have several connotations, relating to the treatment or cure, or maybe even false hope.’

Gloria Baker Feinstein:
‘My mom was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia when she was 81 and given a few months to live. She hung on for close to a year. During that time my siblings and I made frequent trips home to Kentucky to help care for her and to provide moral support for our father.

Caring for her meant taking her to the doctor for blood work and exams, loading up the freezer with home-cooked meals, helping her put her bequests in order and, later, painting her fingernails, pruning her rosebushes, helping her to the bathroom, brushing her hair. Even later, we were trying to keep her pain at a manageable level, assuring her that we were there with her, calling hospice, sitting by her side.

The night my mom died I was alone with her. My father and brother had gone to get some dinner. She chose that tiny window of time to let go. I don’t think she wanted my dad to see her die. Once I realized what was happening, I just held her.

I got up once, about 15 minutes before she drew her last breath, and got my camera. I made this photograph of our hands. I didn’t really know why I did it at the time. I guess I didn’t want to let her go and figured with just one last photo, I could keep her with me for a long time.’”