There is an article in the New York Times about one of my favorite paintings, Vermeer’s Young Woman Reading a Letter by an Open Window.
In this painting, a sweet-faced young woman stands at an open window reading a letter with a gentle blush on her cheeks. The colours, the balance of shapes, and the shadows all create a beautiful and harmonious scene. I have loved this painting for a long time. I analyzed it in my grade nine art class. The article is about the restoration of this painting, revealing a chubby cupid on the wall above the woman’s head. Experts determined that it was painted over in the 18th century. The discovery of the cupid now makes it explicit that the young woman is reading a love letter.
I’m not one of those physicians who knew I was destined to be a doctor. Unlike many of my friends and classmates, there were no doctors in my family. In fact, most of the women in my family were visual artists. Usually, this artistic bent was expressed as a hobby or after retirement, as the harsh realities of immigrant and first-generation life took priority. Yet, it was always there.
When I left grade school, where I was shy and miserable, I entered high school determined I would be different. I wanted to be outgoing, make friends and not cower in corners as I had before.
My first class at Wager High School was art. I entered the cinderblock, skylighted room where there were easel desks in a ring. Resolved, I turned to the girl sitting next to me, smiled and introduced myself. This small act was one of the bravest things I’d ever done in my life. And I was relieved when the girl smiled back at me and introduced her friend and all three of us began chatting.
Into the room walked an exotic creature. Her hair was long and black, her eyes were dramatically made up, her skirt was short, her heels were high, and her elaborate earrings jangled. She introduced herself as Miss Irgo, the art teacher. By the end of that first lesson, I became her devoted acolyte.
Over the next four years of high school, I was an Art Room geek. I filled copious sketchbooks, did projects of all sorts, and created a giant glass-painted window. As a group, we painted all the bricks in the Art Room with graffiti-based designs. Miss Irgo had rules: we were not allowed to write anything political, sexual or unkind. My friend Janet took a brick and put a P at one end and a K at the other. She then placed an R next to the P and a C next to the K. “Miss Irgo, Miss Irgo!” cried one of the popular girls, “look at what Janet is doing!”
The teacher’s eyebrows rose, but an amused smile played at her lips as Janet filled in the I in the middle of the brick. “You prick your finger, and it bleeds. What’s dirty about that?” she responded to the sputtering student.
Janet, with a flourish, added the lower half circle to the bottom of the P, turning the word into the self-evident and unexceptionable BRICK. It was a moment of subversion abetted by a teacher. Here the truth was hidden until revealed by that final brushstroke. Janet and I shared a giggle.
Carole Irgo was at once a creative, permissive, yet demanding teacher. No excuses allowed for sloppy, lazy or slovenly behaviour. Although being amusing could sometimes get you some slack.
How I think about paintings and what I know about art history is based on those high school classes. Even last week, when I went to the Rembrandt exhibit in Ottawa, I knew a lot about Rembrandt, his techniques and 17thcentury Dutch art in general because of what I learned in her class.
Most importantly, she taught me how to see, so I owe her a great debt. I learned to pay attention to details, think about structure and explore both the surface and the deeper meaning.
When I look at the newly revealed Vermeer painting, I think about so many of our patients: people who hide who they truly are, obscure the very roots of their characters. We have to search to understand the sources of their illness, uncover how they think about their health. Like the art restorers, we have to decide whether these hidden parts of people’s histories are a part of who they truly are, or whether it’s just noise.
Janet, whom I met in art class so many years ago, is still my friend, and still quietly subversive. She is now semi-retired and more an artist than a physician. She remains someone who is wise, someone who sees.
Who obscured that amusing, erotic cupid with a bland and blank white wall, and why? Who are the people I care for with all their complexity? Sometimes I feel like the restorer, gently picking away to help people to their full potential, and sometimes I am just grateful to have learned how to see.