Blog by Beatrice O’ Shea
F. Van Abeelen (1933-2016), a Dutch man with dementia, made the same drawing, of the same crack in a wall, countless times in the last few years of his life. He used coloured pencils or markers, which give the images a childlike nature and simplicity. Little can be found about Abeleen’s life on public websites; however, in the Amsterdam Outsider Art Gallery where his paintings are currently exhibited, the curator informed me that Abeleen hadn’t drawn since youth, until he began drawing the same childhood scene repeatedly in the years before he died. His drawings depict what is thought to be his hiding place, during the Second World War, at his family’s farm.
When I saw Abeleen’s paintings, I was struck by how much they reminded me of my granny’s artwork. She had been a watercolour artist in her youth. She stopped painting when she was first diagnosed with dementia and didn’t paint for years afterwards. However, months before her death, she painted with me on occasion. Compared to her previous pieces, which were elaborate compositions that took her weeks to months to complete, she completed these paintings in less than an hour, since she found it difficult to concentrate for longer than that. Her last works were therefore more simple and childlike. But they helped her reckon with her past, as she painted memories of her recovery from a childhood farm accident (the accident had left her with a glass eye).
People with dementia frequently recall older, strongly emotive memories. Abeleen’s memory of peering through a crack in the wall must have been steeped in fear and anticipation. Reckoning with the possibility of death as a child must have stayed with Abeleen because towards the end of his life it came back once again, despite his cognitive decline. Art gave my granny, as well, an opportunity to work through a crucial moment from the past in the last few months of her life, despite having difficulty recalling her closest family.
I found it difficult to connect with my granny when she was first diagnosed, seeing as I didn’t have many memories of her before her decline began. But when we painted together, I felt like I brought her a bit of good company. She didn’t recognise me entirely and would avoid calling my name— afraid she’d get it wrong—but she could recognise me as somebody who loved her. I had witnessed up close how art can help patients with dementia express themselves and find peace in smaller moments.
After the childhood accident, my granny moved away to live with her aunt, who took care of her and introduced her to painting. For decades, she painted seascapes and farms in Ireland’s West Cork, from Unionhall to Roscarberry, all familiar scenes from her childhood in Glandore. She had never spoken to me about this accident, until she painted with me a few weeks before she died. The first time she mentioned her glass eye to me was to make a joke about having a pain in her neck, saying she’d swap her “phony” eye for a neck that wasn’t quite as arthritic. I was quietly surprised and touched by her admission. In her last days, she had these moments of clarity when her sharp wit shot through, but she was always kind. Granny was a proud woman, and witnessing that vulnerable side of her made me feel that we had finally connected.
Painting and creativity can help patients with dementia reckon with their own past, especially since the memories they depict are often the few memories they can access. Visual art can also bond these patients with family members whom they would otherwise be unable to reach, and therefore help those suffering from this disease feel recognised as people.
Beatrice O’ Shea is a second year medical student at Trinity College Dublin.