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The Artist in Theatre: On the Primacy of the Subjective Narrative by Jac Saorsa

8 Jul, 14 | by BMJ

Drawing Women’s Cancer explores the lived experience of gynaecological illness through a unique interrelation between art and medical science. Based in Cardiff and supported by Cardiff University and Cardiff and Vale University Health Board, the project began in 2012 as a collaboration between myself and Amanda Tristram, gynaecological surgeon. Since then it has produced two major exhibitions and several presentations both national and international.

Drawing Women’s Cancer project builds on the premise that philosophy, medical science and visual art all involve an inclusive, and often passionate form of ‘seeing’, and that they are brought into mutual relation through the equally inclusive concept of language. The concept of inclusivity here emphasises the idea that although language is the root and branch of dialogue, and indeed of narrative, neither of these phenomena are necessarily bound to the word.

As an artist and a writer, my concept of language constitutes far more than simply words, and as such it is the language of practice – and its corollary, process – that most concerns me. Consequently I understand both dialogue and narrative as practices and processes in their own right, both ‘creative’ and both profoundly and intimately immersed in experience, wherein language is evident and influential in all its forms. The Drawing Women’s Cancer project, which constitutes an in-depth exploration of experience, is therefore fundamentally and methodologically driven by a hermeneutic approach that embraces a multidisciplinary concept of language in order to delve deeply into areas of subjectivity that can often be felt impossible to express in verbal form.

Narrative language is a vital part of Drawing Women’s Cancer wherein personal narratives as related to me and transcribed either verbatim or in note form provide the foundation for the research as a whole. These are the bedrock of the experimental approach and, together with written narratives that reflect my own feelings about my encounters with women patients, and my experiences in theatre, they underpin the combination, the conceptual superimposition of word and image, verbal and visual, that is engendered through the creative process – itself unashamedly steeped in subjective experience. The creative process thus reflects and perpetuates the dialogical process that characterises my conversations with patients in a continuing dialogue between myself and drawings as I work on them. At the same time the process also responds to a further dialogue, one that speaks to my experience of the ‘Others’ experience of illness. Narrative here shakes off the strait jacket of monologue. It refuses to be confined to any prescribed spatial and temporal dimension. Narrative here becomes polyvocal and takes primacy as the vehicle by which the project as a whole continues and extends.

When a drawing is complete the story is far from over, indeed it has only just begun, and a drawing’s inherent communicative force lies in its capacity as an autonomous art object to maintain a dialogical character even beyond the relationship with its creator. As a work of art a drawing can simultaneously express and provoke emotional significance in an inter-subjective relation with the viewer, who in turn can creates his or her own narrative on ‘seeing’ in it the voices of those suffering the impact of illness, and this leads, ultimately, to the instantiation of what I want to call the meta-language, a form of communication beyond dialogue, beyond narrative and even beyond itself in terms of the expression of subjectivity. It is on the basis of narrative then, and its dialogical implications, that creative representations of the lived experience of gynaecological cancer can open up a ‘discursive space’ wherein a deeper understanding of the relation between a disease diagnosis and the overall existential impact of illness can potentially stimulate further conversations between patient and physician, between patients and their carers, and within the public arena in terms of awareness and acceptability.

So, in the true spirit of interdisciplinary practice in the Medical Humanities the Drawing Women’s Cancer project offers a direct challenge to the rationale of an uncompromising ‘art-science’ dichotomy by demonstrating that, in practice, neither can be disassociated from our understanding of humanity and the manner in which, as human beings, we engage or disengage with the society in which we are a ‘person’. Art, medical science and philosophy are all inescapably entangled here in a web of our own being and are constituent parts of the same overall human project, but visual art perhaps has the more obvious capacity to ‘bear witness’ to the trials that are often borne in the pursuance of being…in our physical enactment and psychological representation of life. Drawing Women’s Cancer is not only about disease, or medical intervention, or suffering, or the impact of illness; it is about all of these things. It is about, as Radley notes, what it feels like when ‘all sense of normality, and all the expectations of a future that accompany good health, suddenly become less real’. It is about the experience of illness, where that experience overrides all others. It is about creating a language that has the power to speak, not necessarily for the women whose personal stories are taken as the point of departure, but rather because of them, so that they may return.

For the rest of this post I would like to offer one of my own written narratives, an account of a recent opportunity to witness a gynae-oncological operation. I have attended various operations during the course of the project and all of the women who have allowed me to witness this part of their experience do so with the conviction that it will help me understand more profoundly what they are going through. Having, to borrow a term from legal channels, an ‘appropriate adult’ seems also to help sometimes as they try to deal with the natural anxieties that such an experience brings on.

Body in Flux

The image accompanying this post is a painting rather than a drawing. It is an ‘autoethnographic’ image that represents a similar operation to the one that the narrative below refers to. It serves, I hope, to demonstrate how visual language, even where there is no attempt to necessarily create an objective representation of the scene, can nevertheless communicate autonomous and coherent expressions of profound experience.

The painting is called Body in Flux. The narrative is called, simply, The Op.

Twenty minutes ago I was talking with her while she waited to be called down to theatre. She had smiled at me but it was a weak, anxious smile and there was fear in her eyes. We had a brief conversation – she seemed to appreciate the company. Hers is a difficult history, when she began to notice something was wrong she had tried to ignore the symptoms, ‘for the children’. She convinced herself it was just something minor, no need for a doctor, but she got tired of pretending she was OK and in the end she did go for help. As she lives in West Wales, she went to the local hospital and to her relief they told her there that it was nothing serious after all – ‘just abnormal cells’, nothing too much to worry about. They did however organise an appointment for here at the clinic here in Cardiff, for a biopsy. This was unusual, and even though they said not to worry, she did anyway. She worried about being in the city, she worried about her two small children at home, she worried she might die.

It is cervical cancer, quite advanced. She is to undergo a radical hysterectomy. The whole of her uterus and the surrounding tissue, the cervix and the upper part of her vagina are to be removed. The ovaries too, probably.

Reality hit hard a few weeks after the biopsy. It came suddenly, in a phone call. It was the shock! The word ‘cancer’ still makes her cry. She has no partner. She said she wasn’t ‘active in that way’ – not for ages – so she hadn’t been for Pap test for years. She had thought there was no need. She said she felt ‘stupid’ now. She is a primary school teacher; they had called her on her mobile as she was walking the kids to the classroom. They had the results of the biopsy. They told her that she had a tumour, that she had cancer. Now, here, waiting to go down to theatre, her eyes well up as she whispers the word. ‘It was the shock’, she says.

She is asleep now under the lights in the theatre. The lights are not harsh, just very strong. The huge circular structures from which they descend are acutely and disturbingly present, not just here in the room, but even more powerfully in my memory. The monstrous size of them and the pitiless, piercing illumination they provide still haunts me, despite my efforts to exorcise the horror of my own experience in the weeks that followed in paint on canvas.

I am anxious then, for her, for me, for us both. This operation is one that remains very close to the surface of my own consciousness and my presence here has psychological connotations that I cannot ignore or supplant with more rational thought, so deeply are they rooted. This is a test then to the personal limit of my focus on subjective experience. Amanda, the surgeon, knows this. She asked me when we arranged this visit, “Are you going to be OK with this one?” I felt the same way I did when she asked the very first question, the one that kick-started the whole Drawing Women’s Cancer project; she had said “Can you draw what it feels like to have gynaecological cancer rather than just what it looks like?” I knew then that I wanted to try.

Jonathon, the surgeon working with Amanda, reaches up to angle the bulbs. They are covered in their own protective ‘gloves’ so that he doesn’t burn his hands. His hands are so very important. I stand behind Amanda who is pushing paper wadding into the vagina – ‘packing’ it so that it doesn’t ‘move’ during the operation. There is so much paper left over on the floor between her feet. It is to ‘protect the excess’. The pushing, packing, continues and she says, “I pushed too hard once. I was in training and I was so scared of the consultant… we noticed that there was a lot of blood just dripping out onto the floor!”

Amanda goes to a side room to attend to the paperwork and Jonathon is left to make the first cut. Firm and certain. Vertical, from the navel to the pubic bone. He draws the diatherm slowly, painfully, through the skin of the belly and it trembles around the small part of it that is taut and stretched between his fingers. “A cut needs tension”. I am surprised that he uses a diatherm for this initial cut, deep and long as it had to be, so I ask. “Yes”, he replies, “it’s the way we do it now, but some surgeons do still use a scalpel.”

The edges of the cut sizzle and blacken. Smoke and the acrid smell of burnt flesh arise from the wound that becomes bigger, deeper as he works. He cuts down, confidently and deftly through layers of fat. My artist’s eye focuses on how the colours that move through the wound, from the skin, through the fat, to the fleshy muscle, are aesthetically beautiful in harmonious juxtaposition. First the hues of red: crimson, napthol, and the brightest perylene mingle with tiny glimpses of green and blue, the colours of shadows on the flesh, and then on through the spectrum of yellow, from the deepest cadmium to the palest, ‘prettiest’ lemon, the colours of the daffodils that are blooming outside and carry so much significance here in Wales. Cenhinen (kenHINen) means leek in Welsh, while cenhinen pedr means daffodil, or St Peter’s leek. Over the years the two became confused until the daffodil was finally adopted as a second national emblem of Wales. The cenhinen pedr then are blooming today, even as the wound is opened and the fat gives way and melts under the surgeon’s hand.

I think of Chroma, in which Derek Jarman, painter and filmmaker, extends Melville’s view that we ‘learn’ colour whilst not necessarily understanding it. It is understanding that I am seeking here, in subjective form, and in the wound as I watch it open, the red of the initial cut becomes Jarman’s ‘moment in time…quickly spent. An explosion of intensity.’ Further on, as the diatherm moves down through the soft tissuethe red ‘burns itself. Disappears like fiery sparks into the gathering shadow’. Jarman imagined four stages distinguishable in alchemy: the blackening of MELANOSIS, the whitening of LEUCOSIS, the yellowing of XANTHOSIS and the reddening of IOSIS. For me they appear here, but in a different order as I watch the diatherm cut beyond borders, deeper into the body, opening up and invading its private, once autonomous spaces. I feel the sting, but as Jarman says, Painters use red like spice’.

Amanda is back. She brings more even wadding to ‘mop up the excess’. The excess: ‘an amount of something that is more than necessary, than is permitted, or is desirable’. Excess here then, even beyond the metastasising cancer that in itself is excess to the normal cell structure.

I stand on a stool, watching as Jonathon cuts deeper into the muscle. The rectus abdominis yields to the unrelenting diatherm and allows him access to the peritoneum and the abdominal cavity. There it is, the uterus, itself now become ‘excess’. Amanda holds it in her hand. “Look” she says as she gently lifts it towards me, “and here are the ovaries”.

Fat, organs, tissue, all spill over the edges of the now gaping wound. Colours mingle at all levels of the ‘warm’ scale. I am shocked – no, not shocked – more bemused to witness what appears as a mess, a fluid ‘jumble’ of organs that belies the naïve impression that I now realize I have always held that inside we are very orderly and self-contained. Art takes precedence over science here as the boundary between order and disorder becomes confused. Either way the relationship between the two is here emphatically demonstrated through the idea of structure, the structure of the body in this case, which becomes simultaneous with function through the overall concept of process.

Jonathon and Amanda push the organs around with their hands, bullying them into compliance as they try to force them into the chest and pelvic cavities in order to isolate the uterus. But the organs keep spilling back out as if defending, even nurturing the one that is the object of attention. Yet more wadding is pushed in to hold back the tide, up into to the chest and down into the pelvis. Finally, with his arm up to the elbow inside the passive form Jonathon, like Canute, pushes and shoves with a physical force that promises a painful recovery. I am stunned by the seeming violence of it all, the brutality, the deeply and bloodily visceral reality of scene. The edges of the wound are pulled wider open with clamps that grasp the bloodied flesh and become bloodied in their turn. Now, the diatherm, held lightly first in Jonathon’s hand, then in Amanda’s probes and cuts on respective sides of the pelvic cavity, now an empty space devoid of organs and ‘excess’, save the hapless uterus, the one, which is soon to become the other. It sits isolated, bounded by smooth, ‘slippery’ walls that shine and appear translucent and yet opaque at the same time. It looks so small, so vulnerable under the threat of the diatherm, and the ovaries, white and tiny, are hiding, sheltering, in the darkness of the void.

The violence of the procedure is salutary in terms of my understanding. The pushing, the shoving, the manipulation of the bodily structures and organs, bloodied tools that are first discarded, then retrieved, then put into service to cut, to staple, to open and to close, all this is played out in front of me in sanguine ritual. The same blood pools in the crevices on the body and on the floor at Amanda’s feet, small bits of the flesh that it once made red are thrown up onto the green sheet, or down onto the floor. This is not clean, not clinical; this is raw, visceral, almost primeval. It feels… it feels. This is the unadulterated, non-sugar-coated authenticity of surgery; the cutting, the slicing, the pushing and the pulling, the packing, the mopping up… and it is all the raw bloodiness of real flesh, real wounds; nature rent and protesting. The body, once a closed space of quietude and privacy, now wide open, stretched, clamped and ‘mined’ for the tumours that threaten its very existence as they create of the acting Self (that part of being human which here, in this theatre, is absent) Sontag’s ‘non-self’.

I draw nearer to see as best I can while careful to avoid any contact with the green sheet that protects the human being who has become subject to – or is it object to –this therapeutic violation. Standing beside Amanda, I have a clear view of how she works, now with force, now with gentleness, but always with dominance. The body submits. Once the surface and the underlying defences have been breached there is little to resist the relentless subjugation of its autonomy. The chest is rising and falling gently however, normality and regularity at least in this respect confirmed by the anesthetist who watches the fluctuations of his parallel and multi-coloured digital lines.

Carefully now, the surgeons begin to work more slowly and delicately. Brutality is replaced – in the details – by the sensitivity that must dictate the smallest and most intimate of incisions. They need to explore, to single out the pelvic lymph nodes, the arteries the nerves. They are suspicious. The cancer may not have settled only in the cervix, there may be subsidiaries, so, like Selzer’s ‘predators’ on the prowl they move quietly, deliberately, stalking the prey, the obscure ‘lumps’ of flesh that have become firm to the touch and thus differentiated from the soft masses within which they hide.

And so they delve with life-preserving precision into the depths of the body, first one side then the other, moving slowly, constantly aware of how far they can to go before breaching a physical boundary impossible to cross with any hope of returning. The main tumour will be taken coldly and cleanly with the uterus, an eradication of the very taproot of the cancer’s existence, but its morbid potentiality may lie in the lymph nodes. Carefully then they search, steadily and without pity, isolating, feeling, cutting, debating, and moving on. They take various samples, all of which ‘feel’ benign, and then, there it is. A tiny lump of bloody flesh is dropped into a plastic vial and a phone call is made. This sample they are not so sure of, they need to do a ‘frozen section’. The operation has to be delayed while they await the result of the analysis because, they tell me, if it is positive there’s no point in going on. I feel suddenly cold although it is very warm in the theatre. They switch off the lights.

She is under anaesthetic for eight hours. I have to leave, and Amanda does another operation, the next lady on the list, while her first lies covered with the wound open but packed with the endless wadding paper while the sample is sent to the lab. I receive a text later in the evening. The sample was negative and they completed the hysterectomy. They left one ovary.

 

Jac Saorsa

July 2014

Beautiful Science at the British Library: A Review by Isobel Elstob

3 May, 14 | by Deborah Bowman

 

We are delighted to publish this guest review by Isobel Elstob who visited the Beautiful Science Exhibition at the British Library for Medical Humanities. The exhibition is showing until 26 May 2014.

 

Review of Beautiful Science: Picturing Data, Inspiring Insight

Folio Society Gallery, British Library

20th February – 26th May, 2014

 

Isobel Elstob

Correspondence to: izzyelstob@hotmail.com

 

 

How do we represent the material – and immaterial – world visually? This is the question that underpins the Folio Society’s exhibition Beautiful Science at the British Library. The Folio Society Gallery, in which the exhibition is displayed, is a small and awkward space that functions vertically and can be entered from two sides. This is important because such a space has very little to offer the curators in terms of dictating a visitor’s viewing route. The result of this is a non-linear viewing experience that the curators have counteracted through a thematic, rather than chronological, display of objects.

 

The themes that the curators have selected for representation are ‘Weather and Climate’, ‘Public Health’ and ‘The Tree of Life’. Within each of these sections, too, there is less a sense of chronology than the ambition to compare like-with-like pan-historically; in fact, the desire to demonstrate either the accuracy or the usefulness of past methods of visualising phenomena by displaying them beside recent, most often computerised, models. A particularly attractive example of this approach is the inclusion of HMS Rochester Ship’s Journal from the early eighteenth century (1709-12) displayed dialogically beside the UK Met Office’s computerised and interactive two-dimensional globe on which bright pink and blue lines shift and shimmer. These lines represent weather data collected along the spice trade routes between the continents, such as that laboriously recorded by the Captain of the Rochester. This relationship between two examples of data collation and representation demonstrates the intelligent contemporary exploitation of the documentation of information historically. But it reveals something more problematic, too, for an exhibition that seeks to contrast the sophistication of our technology with the originality of our predecessors: the finely-rendered tabulated descriptions found in the Rochester‘s captain’s journal are more beautiful – to use the exhibition’s own choice of word – than the impressive computerised globe etched with brightly-coloured streaks. Beauty is not simply in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is inherently a natural phenomenon, and, therefore, one that exists – and that we will find – in our own, human, creations. The page of the Rochester‘s journal that has been selected for display demonstrates this – beautifully. Perched amongst the looping, precise handwriting of the ship’s captain, that describes ‘Moderate gales of Wind and fair Weather’, sits an ink drawing of a small, speckled bird. The captain, we are told, frequently interspersed his tables of data and description with similar sketches of ships, wildlife and places that he observed throughout his voyages. In such pages, then, are represented two aspects of this man’s – and all men’s – approach to the world: the objective and the subjective. The interaction and relationship between these two ideals permeates this exhibition. Before the mid-nineteenth century the concept of objectivity, as we understand its meaning today, did not exist. Rather than science requiring the removal of human agency in the representation of natural phenomena, it was experience, not self-effacement that had counted previously. We can see this in the words of Edmond Halley, whose 1686 map, An Account of the Trade Winds and Monsoons, is exhibited. Halley writes: ‘It is not the work of one, nor a few, but a multitude of Observers, to bring together their experience requisite to compose a perfect and complete History of these winds.’ The change in attitudes might be traced in Luke Howard’s 1847 Barometrographia, which we are told is amongst the earliest consistent scientific observations recorded, and, more than that, is, in part, mechanically drawn by a self-recording barograph over which Howard subsequently plotted the phases of the Moon. Mechanical objectivity in its genesis is thus displayed.

 

Objectivity today relies on the satellites and the supercomputers that are now at the disposal of scientists. But the representations that such methods produce may well still be beautiful, such as the NASA map depicting the ocean surface currents between 2005 and 2007 that is shown at one of the exhibition’s entrances. One wonders, however, if it is not the subject – our blue and swirling oceans as seen from space – rather than the method of representation, that makes such computerised renderings so appealing. A direct comparison can be drawn between paper and screen within the ‘Public Health’ section, which includes Florence Nightingale’s ‘Rose Diagrams’ depicting the causes of mortality in the ‘Army of the East’. Professor David Spiegelhalter of Cambridge University has taken Nightingale’s engraving and made it interactive to help the viewer better understand its purpose. Such an appropriation is a productive method, too, for highlighting the ‘Lady with the Lamp’s’ work as a statistician in her own right, rather than merely an attendant of wounds. Furthermore, whether it be the Rochester voyaging in gales along the spice routes, or Nightingale sourcing her data from the military field hospital through which she paced, many of the historical documents in Beautiful Science invoke a far wider cultural context than the particular information that they describe. John Graunt’s Natural and Political Observations upon the Bills of Mortality (1662), for example, is a collation of sixty years of London parish records on causes of death. Within the table we find that the number of people in the capital who died due to being ‘Burnt or Scalded’ was three in the year of 1647, and rose to eleven in the year of 1651. Medical conditions such as French Pox, Rickets and Worms are listed alongside causes of death such as ‘Hanged and made with themselves’ and even ‘Frighted’ (of which nine people are recorded to have died in 1660).

 

But it is Beautiful Science‘s exploration of the motif of ‘The Tree of Life’ that is the most poignant section of the exhibition (this is also borne out, perhaps, by the fact that this area appears to attract a far greater concentration of viewers). Interactive technology here, in the form of the One Zoom Tree, allows the viewer to discover the evolutionary links between thousands of species of mammals, birds, reptiles and amphibians. Interestingly, these, very modern, representations of our own – and many other creatures’ – location within the animal kingdom is depicted as a sprawling tree, with branches emerging intermittently from a central trunk. Life on earth has been represented in the form of a tree across the ages and across multiple civilizations. From Mayan to Nordic culture, to the tree from which Eve plucked the apple, this organic life form has functioned pan-historically and pan-culturally as the most apt metaphor for visualising the force and centrality of Life on our planet. Beautiful Science reveals this tendency through some remarkable inclusions. Ernst Haeckel’s The Pedigree of Man (1879) is displayed beside Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection (1859), which is open at the only page within the publication that contains an illustration: a lithograph by William West that depicts the relationships between various species and their descent from common ancestors in what has become known as ‘The Tree of Life’ diagram. At once more problematic and more affecting, cultural attempts to depict the very nature of life will always be more personal to us than representing ocean current patterns or even epidemics of disease. For what is being represented in such imagery is our selves. Beside the historical publications of Haeckel, Darwin and Jean-Baptiste Lamarck is displayed a pair of back-lit black panels that contain a series of brightly-coloured circular diagrams – each one shining with a luminosity that is indeed beautiful to behold. These Circos Visualisations of Genomic Data compare the human genome with those of the chimpanzee, the dog, the opossum, the platypus and the chicken. Within each circular frame these comparative diagrams rise and descend and swirl and ebb like a collection of precise but abstract paintings. Perhaps technological representation is most striking when it represents the essence of us and how it is that we slot into nature’s own material manifestations. In contrast to the evolutionary implications of Haeckel’s and Darwin’s diagrammatic representations of life stemming from a unifying central source, the curators also show us an example of the way in which the relations between creatures had been visualised in Western culture prior to evolutionary theory’s successful claim of the mantle for understanding the natural world. Robert Fludd’s 1617 The Great Chain of Being depicts an hierarchical pyramid encircled by the cosmos, with Sophia the Goddess of Wisdom represented in human form standing for the pinnacle of natural perfection: us. A human-centric model such as this has Aristotelian roots, and monopolised cultural interpretations of the natural realm right up until the nineteenth century. It is not only possible but probable, therefore, that the ‘Tree of Life’ itself will be replaced with what will be considered to be a more suitable model at some point in the unforeseeable future.

 

The question that Beautiful Science most explicitly asks is how have we represented the world around us. But perhaps a more intriguing thesis might be why do we possess the compulsion to represent it at all? It is clear from this exhibition that the motivations behind visualising data and information have been as numerous as the methods invented to do so. The ways in which such visualisations have been accomplished suggests that science is not yet (and may never be) entirely objective. Indeed, Beautiful Science demonstrates, rather, that the human, subjective desire for beauty is as strong as the human, objective desire to possess information, and that our thirst for images is as compulsive, perhaps, as our thirst for knowledge. But let us hope that the technological age in which we live does not alienate us from nature to such a degree that we consider ourselves once more to be Gods of Wisdom, superior and dissimilar to all that surrounds us.

Ayesha Ahmad: Call For Abstracts – Second Annual Western Michigan University Medical Humanities Conference

26 Mar, 12 | by Ayesha Ahmad

Second Annual Western Michigan University Medical Humanities Conference

September 27-28, 2012; Kalamazoo, Michigan

Proposals should be submitted electronically by July 15—in either .doc/.docx or .pdf format—to
medical-humanities@wmich.edu

more…

Ayesha Ahmad: CFP: Comics and Medicine: Navigating the Margins, 22-24 July 2012, Toronto, Canada

14 Mar, 12 | by Ayesha Ahmad

The third international interdisciplinary conference* on comics and
medicine will continue to explore the intersection of sequential
visual arts and medicine. This year we will highlight perspectives
that are often under-represented in graphic narratives, such as
depictions of the Outsider or Other in the context of issues such as
barriers to healthcare, the stigma of mental illness and disability,
and the silent burden of caretaking.

more…

Ayesha Ahmad: Forthcoming Symposium ‘Activating Theatre: people participating, performing politics’ at University of Leeds

13 Feb, 12 | by Ayesha Ahmad

Activating Theatre: people participating, performing politics

A practice-based symposium examining how theatre and performance work to change people and society

Tuesday 6 March 2012, Stage@leeds Building, University of Leeds

more…

Ayesha Ahmad: ‘Looking and Healing Seminar’: King’s College London

10 Nov, 11 | by Ayesha Ahmad

Highly recommended is a forthcoming seminar to be held at the Centre for Humanities and Health, King’s College London by Dr Matha Fleming. Dr Fleming is a museum professional and academic working in the interdisciplinary nexus between the sciences, the humanities and the fine arts: her work over several decades has forged innovative and productive methodological alignments across disciplines.

more…

MASK:MIRROR:MEMBRANE-A Deborah Padfield Exhibition, London 6-16th July 2011

15 Jun, 11 | by Deborah Kirklin

Here’s one for your diary, an exhibition of images by Deborah Padfield, in collaboration with patients & clinicians at University College London Hospitals NHS Foundation Trust, entitled Can you see Pain? Anyone who knows Deborah’s work from her previous exhibition and book entitled Perceptions of Pain won’t want to miss this.

http://www.dewilewispublishing.com/PHOTOGRAPHY/Perceptions.html more…

2011 International Symposium on Poetry and Medicine

17 May, 11 | by Ayesha Ahmad

I recently attended the 2nd Annual Hippocrates Poetry and Medicine Symposium, which was held at Warwick Medical School and hosted by Professor Donald Singer and Associate Professor Michael Hulse. During the day, a group of researchers and clinicians from a variety of backgrounds gathered to explore the role of poetry in the discourse of medicine, including renowned poets, Marilyn Hacker and Gwyneth Lewis.

more…

Medicine Unboxed 2011: Medicine and Values, Cheltenham UK 15 October 2011

5 Apr, 11 | by Deborah Kirklin

Good medicine is more than a set of technical decisions and interventions involving drugs, operations or tests. It demands more of the practitioner – professionalism, empathetic care, moral consideration, insight, an understanding of human suffering and necessarily, wisdom. These attributes are not always prioritised in selecting for or training healthcare professionals, and there is little time or attention given to their authentic development within busy working environments. Further, there is a widening hiatus of trust, understanding and expectation between medicine and society around what constitutes good medicine. This pressingly requires real engagement around medicine’s role and society’s values. A purely scientific answer will never prove sufficient here.

Medicine Unboxed is a unique project and conference programme that engages both the public and front-line NHS staff with a view of medicine that is infused and elaborated by the humanities. Contributors include artists, writers, the clergy, poets, philosophers, lawyers, linguists, musicians, theatre, ethicists, academics and doctors. The results are thought-provoking, inspiring, sometimes funny and often
moving.

Our theme this year is Medicine and Values.

We think of medicine as simply fact-based, efficient and scientifically robust. These arbiters can become the measures of good medicine. However, medicine is infused with judgments of value – individually for doctors and patients but also in medical science, for society, for policy-makers and health economists. Ethics, law and religion inform duties and rights in medicine, through principles and values. The values that define good medicine are not always apparent or agreed upon and there remains the potential for tension between them.

We’d like to invite you to come along to Medicine Unboxed 2011 and join us in uncovering the values that pertain to medical care and debating the ambivalences around the arbiters of good medicine. Our speakers this year include the Rev. John Bell, John Carey, Lionel Shriver, Jo Shapcott, Ray Tallis, Paul Bailey, Michael
Arditti and Havi Carel.

Come to the debate – be inspired.

Sam Guglani, Consultant Clinical Oncologist.

http://medicineunboxed.us2.list-manage.com/track/click?u=040c885489432f9ea79fbd23b&id=f00835b9f4&e=1767bdcee5

“Newspeak (PART TWO): British Art Now is doubleplusgood!” by Dr Jane R Moore

6 Feb, 11 | by Deborah Kirklin

SAATCHI GALLERY 27th October 2010 – 17th April 2011

A few weeks ago I visited the new exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery with my group of 4th year King’s College Medical Students. Visits to galleries, museums and art installations are an integral part of the ‘The Good Doctor’ Special Study Module but I hadn’t included the Saatchi Gallery before.  Modern conceptual art is challenging and I was uncertain how this visit would help in our exploration of medical matters. I need not have worried; our visit was enjoyable, reassuringly accessible and it was easy to make links to the theme of goodness in contemporary medical practice.

Newspeak Two on display in the large bright rooms at the Saatchi Gallery, King’s Road, London continues the showcase of contemporary British Art started in June 2010 with Newspeak One.  All the original exhibits, including the widely advertised Pink Cher by Scott King, have been replaced and the new collection opened at the end of October.  Charles Saatchi’s Sensation! exhibition (Royal Academy 1997) had – sensationally -  brought late 20th century British Art to public notice. This was the outing of Damian Hirst’s shark, Tracey Emin’s unmade bed, Mark Quinn’s blood sculptures, Chris Ofili’s ingenious uses of elephant dung and the Chapman Brothers doing what they do best – shocking us into a reaction.  So what would we make of Newspeak? more…

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