For later days—A fulfillment

The Arts in Psychorherupy,

Vol. 15 pp. 251-254.

0 Pergamon

Press

plc, 1988. Printed

in the U.S.A.

0197-4556/88

$3.00 + .OO

REFLECTIONS FOR LATER DAYS-A

FULFILLMENT

MAXINE TOCH FRANKENFELDER,

In response to Harriet Wadeson’s (1987) lament’-“1 find the models for women growing older fail me”-1 offer this account of my four years of group art therapy practice at a psychogeriatric day treatment center. This period covers two years of internship and two years following my graduation from the Pratt Art Therapy Master’s program. I was 73 years old when I began the program, and chose to work with elderly people because I felt more comfortable with them. We spoke the same brand of English and had many of the same memories. My reason for starting a new career at this time was simple: I come from a long-lived family and I did not want to be bored in my old age. Lifelong interests in psychology and art prompted my choice of art therapy as the work I wished to do. My first experience with art therapy was through a series of workshops called “Receptive Listening” at Wainwright House in Rye, N.Y., a center for human development. During these workshops I was impressed with the effectiveness of art therapy. It was there I learned to listen to others and they to me. More important, I discovered the freedom that follows acceptance of the person I really am. My parents had expected me to marry, have children, and to be satisfied with my lot. I was allowed only one year of college. At the Wainwright workshops I was able to pour out the troubles of two failed marriages and a drive to be a professional. The initial *Maxine Frankenfelder gives workshops private practice in art psychotherapy. ‘Wadeson, 177-182.

H. (1987). Pursuit

at Wainwtight

of the image.

Painting

House,

from poetry

MPS, ATR”

support of this experience gave me the impetus to act toward fulfilling my earlier desire, and the love and understanding of my three adult daughters helped to see me through. As part of the Pratt program I was required to find my own internship. I did, and was accepted by a psychogeriatric day treatment center in Westchester, located in a church, formerly a synagogue. With its one large, brightly colored stained-glass window, the building’s religious overtones gave me a sense of protection, and a warm and sensitive staff created a supportive environment. The art therapy group met on a curtained-off stage at the end of an all-purpose room. At my first session, four somber clients laboriously took the three steps up to the stage where a table, chairs, and art supplies were set. In preparation for this, I had shared all activities with them for two weeks, so we were not strangers. However, my efforts at small talk produced silence as did the question, “What would you like to draw?” I searched my own experience for a simple image. A mandala might help. I suggested that, as there was nothing special that they wanted to draw, each one should make a large circle, using their favorite color. I demonstrated drawing a large circle and asked them to use the same motion. Slowly, they tried it. To me, each circle was a small miracle and I praised them. I drew another circle slightly inside the first, suggesting a frame. They seemed interested, but said nothing. I conRye, N.Y. on “Practical in a personal

251

Fantasies

mid-life odyssey.

for the Future.”

She also has a

The Arrs in Psychotherapy,

14(2),

252

MAXINE TOCH FRANKENFELDER

tinued making shapes of color inside my frame and suggested they do the same. They relaxed as they continued to color. One added a small house, another a stick figure. Very little was said, but three of them were smiling. A month later there was enough trust among us to attempt portraits of each other with the emphasis on color of clothes and accessories. The day after Thanksgiving I was hospitalized with a silent heart attack, one involving no pain but extreme exhaustion, and I went on sick leave until February. By April, 9 to 12 clients were coming to art therapy. We attempted our first mural. My greatest difficulty was in convincing them to connect all of the finished pictures visually, to guide the viewer’s eye along the mural. However, I did not press them. There would be other murals and I realized that it would take time to develop the sense of the value of connections. At this time, personal problems developed between me and my supervisor, Jo. She had just returned from a month’s leave of absence, and, because I had enjoyed the freedom of directing the art program, I now resented her suggestions and advice. I was torn between appreciation for her sensitivity to the clients’ and my needs, and irritation-the nearest I could come to admitting anger-at having to take orders no matter how tactfully worded. I decided to face Jo with my problem. As we talked, it dawned on me that I was projecting the feelings I had had toward my strong-willed older sister. My jealousy and resentment of her had tarnished relationships with authority in the past. Confessing this to Jo was difficult, but brought relief. Jo assured me that she understood, that it had happened with other students. Perhaps now that I understood the reason for my feelings, she added, our relationship would mature. In fact, we became trusting friends and confidantes. With the exorcising of that earlier image, I could see Jo as herself and accept her directions. In September, when I returned for my second year, I met the Center’s new music therapist, with whom I was directed to plan a program combining the two therapies. I was intrigued and thought the combination an excellent idea. In one session we had art with appropriate music; in the next we made music as a group. However, the combined therapy program was interrupted when

I was hospitalized again with heart problems. I returned to the Center in March of the following year and, having completed my thesis during my convalescence, was now ready to graduate. When the art group gathered, I learned that Jose, our only male staff member and a supportive father-figure, was leaving. Someone suggested that we make portraits of him. We tried, but could not agree on how he looked, so we asked him to pose. This session was a great success; even the loners participated. Portraits became a favorite feature of our program. Students, staff, clients, and even visitors posed for us. The more regressed clients achieved a stereotyped figure, changing it minimally for each model. As a June graduate, I was now technically a professional. During the winter of my third year at the Center, bus trips for shopping and excursions were often cancelled. No alternative programs were planned, and more clients joined the art group. Because of the additional members, we had to work in the all-purpose room; the stage was now too small. Setting up for our sessions required everyone’s help. I soon noticed that the clients’ efforts in setting up had the effect of stimulating and strengthening their self-esteem. One partially paralyzed client became an expert chair pusher. In late November, Judy, our director, announced at a morning community meeting that Mildred, an older member, had had a heart attack and the prognosis was uncertain. At art therapy, which followed the meeting, I admitted that the news about Millie upset me. Our theme for the day was Thanksgiving and I was not in a Thanksgiving mood. I wondered how they felt? A long pause, then Liz said, “I feel sad too, but I would like to draw a turkey.” The others agreed. For the first time the group felt confident enough to state their feelings and wishes. Had expressing my mood stimulated them and permitted them to express theirs? The art classes were not interrupted during the third winter and the clients’ interest and expertise flourished. I felt that the public would be interested in their work, so I suggested that we arrange an exhibit at the Public Library. Everyone agreed-staff, library officials, and clients. The library allotted us free-standing exhibit boards mounted on three foot bases. Our tallest clients worked long and patiently to hang that

FOR LATER DAYS-A exhibit. From my height of 4’10” I helped with the bottom row. On one occasion my personal life threatened to intrude on my professional attitude with the clients. Intense stage fright at having to address a public meeting at Wainwright House caused the problem. Fear made concentration difficult. Should I tell the clients and risk losing their respect, or bluff it? Bluf~ng was impossible, so I told them about the speech and that it had to do with giving art therapy workshops in a Center for Adult Learning. I explained that I very much wanted the job it related to, and that the workshops were scheduled for Tuesdays when our Center was closed. I then asked them to help me control my fear by doing the following exercise: Make a large circle with your favorite color craypas. In that circle draw something you want very much. Think this over. Make sure that what you want is important to you. This directive seemed to carry weight. Their willingness to help and the expression of their needs helped me to gain the courage and poise I needed. The art class spent a good deal of time making get-well cards during the winter of the fourth year. As many of the clients became ill, I suggested that instead of buying cards we make them. But, as June and July of that year wore on, it became more difficult to keep the program fresh and stimulating. A vacation gave me the distance to realize that it was time to move on. I conferred with Judy, our director, and Jo. They understood, and an August announcement of a mid-September termination was agreed on. Two days later, in community meeting, Judy announced her departure. She had been offered an excellent opportunity in a nearby city. At first the clients were too shocked to react. I was also. They showed curiosity about the details of the job, but did not express their feelings. Dance therapy followed community meeting, and the group stayed seated for sitting exercises, then danced together. Jo encouraged us to stamp our feet in anger and wave our arms to symbolically throw our troubles away, then asked us to be seated again. As we sat, she pointed out that no one had chosen to sit near Judy. This spoke clearly of our real feelings of anger. After that, we talked every morning at community meeting about Judy’s leaving. Our ambivalences were examined day after day ad in-

FULFILLMENT

253

finitum and, to me, ad nauseam. I hoped that my own Ieavetaking would not be so trying. As time wore on, the impo~ance of this te~ination period grew clear to me-by examining and admitting true feelings we develop new strengths to help us accept and cope with change. Judy posed for the art group on the Monday of her last week. The results were portraits that resembled the artists more than the model. At her farewell party we sang with arms around each other, danced together, ended with a conga line, then a friendship circle. It was all very emotional. The prevailing mood on Judy’s last day again was depression and anger, and a larger group than usual came to art therapy. I suggested that they make the saddest pictures they could imagine, but add a ray of hope. The images ranged from a weeping willow with a bit of sunshine to a madonna and child. The folIowing Monday morning in the kitchen, where the clients gathered for a second cup of coffee, their mood was more cheerful than I had expected. The worst had happened: everyone had survived and the program continued. With Judy’s departure behind us, I now had to face my own. I arrived late the day it was announced. An emergency visit to my doctor had delayed me. I had fallen and sprained my ankle a few days earlier, and by Monday the pain was unbearable. The doctor had bandaged it and said that the sprained ligament would heal in a couple of weeks. Although late, I had arrived at community meeting in time enough to be put on the “hot seat.” Why was I leaving? What would I do now? Would I come back? Of course I would visit them. And Jo, an excellent artist, would be there to guide them. The climax came, as had happened before, when we were seated in a circle during music therapy. This time the clients came to me with songs, kisses, gifts, tears, and anger. Emotion ran high. I had never been in such pain emotionally or physically. Knowing that the emotional pain had transferred itself to my ankle did not lessen it. As the doctor’s office was nearby, I left the farewell party to get help for my pain. The doctor’s verdict was: “No break, just sore from overuse.” When I returned to the Center, I learned that the clients had left for the day. I wanted to say goodbye to the staff and apologize for my inap-

254

MAXINE TOCH FRANKENFELDER

propriate behavior. Jo had brought a gift, a perfeet antidote to the emotionally charged morning: small, windup figures of King Kong and Godzilla that sent off sparks as they toddled along. Laughing together at the tiny, ridiculous monsters suddenly put my day back in perspective. I sometimes wonder, “Was it worth going

through all that training just in time to retire?” “Of course not” is the sensible answer. However, the experience has changed the quality of all my relationships. Now, ten years after taking the Receptive Listening workshops, I am repeating them and wondering how they will affect my eighth decade.