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HIV, Art, and a Journey toward Healing: One Man's Story

Author(s): Julia Kellman


Source: Journal of Aesthetic Education, Vol. 39, No. 3 (Autumn, 2005), pp. 33-43
Published by: University of Illinois Press
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3527430
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HIV,Art, and a Journeytoward Healing:


One Man's Story
JULIA KELLMAN

Some of the territory is wilder and reports do not tally. The guides are
good for only so much. In these wild places I become part of the map,
part of the story, adding my versions there. This Talmudic layering of
story on story, map on map, multiplies possibilities, but also warns
me of the weight of accumulation. I live in one world-material,
seemingly solid-and the weight of that is quite enough.1
I have just reread anthropologist Ruth Behar's2 essay, "Anthropology That
Breaks Your Heart." It started me thinking about several things-the outer
limits of psychic pain, for example, or the relationship of the researcher and
the researched, of bearing witness and giving testimony, and of the "ethnographic experience of talking, listening, transcribing, translating, and interpreting" that forms the core of enquiry about people and their lives.3 What
can I say, I wonder, to touch readers in such a way that they see the indispensable truth in the individual stories that develop from such enquiries?
How can my role as interpreter and witness lead to the understanding that
the buffeting winds of lived experience (those of the researcher and of those
who are researched) are not inconveniences but an essential quality of humanistic research? How can I use the accretion of stories that make up my
research and my life (as if there were a difference), I muse, as I sit at my
computer screen reading a text as "it in its turn reads me," as the writer
Jeanette Winterson4 describes this experience. For over the years, I, too, not
only have come to feel this pulse of the systole and diastole of telling and
being told, but I have also used this alternating relationship to develop insight into the nature of the connection of researcher and researched, teacher
and taught.
There are two main narratives that form the core of this particular undertaking-one personal and the other the result of informal conversations,
JuliaKellmanis AssociateProfessorof both Art Educationand Psychiatryat the Uni-

versity of Illinois. She is a recent contributor to Journalof Cultural Researchin Art Edu-

and CultureWorks.She also has a book manucation,Journalof VisualArts Research,


Art, HIV/AIDSandtheJourneytowardHealing.
script in progress,Shadesof Difference:

Journalof Aesthetic Education,Vol. 39, No. 3, Fall 2005


?2005 Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois

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34

Julia Kellman

formal interviews, casual interactions, social events, and interchanges during the art class for people with HIV/AIDS that I teach weekly at a local
hospital. The stories both probe the mystery of disease, expression, and the
search for coherence, and, in my case, the role of "the wild places on the
map"5 where the researcher/writer adds her witness and testimony to the
narrative to become part of the story.
Individual Experience
Before we begin this discussion of individual experience, art, and illness, it
is important to point out that there are only two general types of humanities enquiry: One enumerates, compares and contrasts, creates and tests hypotheses, reads literature, and/or examines the minutiae of materials or
systems of one sort or another. The other is engaged in exploring the individual, the idiosyncratic, and the unique. Its subject is that which is particular. My research consists of the second type, qualitative to its core, and
deeply sunk in the narrative, personal world of lived experience.
The privacy of individual situations, our utter singularity, is one of the
factors that most marks our lives as creatures. We can share our stories, describe our impressions, explain our sensations, but unless we participate in
an actual experience in which our boundaries momentarily disappear, the
most we can hope for is the simultaneous partaking of similar feelings with
a sensitive, empathetic companion in what philosopher-sociologist Alfred
Schutz6 describes as a We-relationship, an intersubjective experience that
leads to sharing time, mutuality, and growing old together. Thus the ticklish nature of achieving actual interpersonal congruence makes enquiries
into the specifics of actual lived experience difficult. If one is to learn anything useful from such considerations, one must focus on the individual
and the story of his/her particular life journey in an intimate, extended,
multifaceted manner and content one's self with the fact that all one will
ever be able to report about in such an undertaking are discrete events and
single people, never grand numerical accumulations or demographically
significant quantities.
Researcher's Disclaimer
For a reader to orient herself in relationship to what comes next in these
narratives, to understand my perspective and biases as a means of appropriately weighing what I have to say, it is also essential to have insight into
one or two of the personal paths I have taken to arrive at this moment in the
midst of this enquiry. What follows, therefore, is meant to clarify my place
and my proclivities in this ongoing story of the intersection of HIV/AIDS,
art making, and people's lives.

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The author William Styron7 has written of his struggle with depression,
describing his developing private nightmare and his arduous struggle to return from the edge of disaster in Darkness Visible. Others, too, for example,
Sylvia Plath8 and Anne Sexton,9 have written poetry wrung from their
deepest feelings, describing the terror, horror, rage, and powerlessness that
later swept them like an undertow out into the sea of self-destruction. Further, as the psychiatrist Kay Redfield Jamisonl? points out, the list of artists
of all sorts (musicians, visual artists, writers, and others) with depression or
manic depression is extensive. Such depression and its frequent result, suicide, are not just the purview of artists and other exceptionally creative
people, however. It is a disorder that also stalks the rest of the population
with the same terrible results. My own experience is such an example.
It has been ten years since my two-year bout with a profound, disabling
depression, a condition that, in slightly milder manifestations, has dogged
me throughout my life. However, though several years have passed, several moments from that difficult time remain clear to me as individual
events-travel highlights, as it were, from a brochure describing a holiday
in hell. A single event is all that is necessary here as emblematic of all the
other experiences of exquisite and stupefying pain. Perhaps the one I have
chosen will seem banal, but I can assure you that, as an example of pure
misery, it contains the heart of what I am after-insight into the ferocity of
psychic agony and a grasp of my research perspective and the personal nature of my enquiries, grounded as they are in feminist anthropology and
phenomenology. These two characteristics-my research interests and my
philosophical underpinnings-provide the rationale for engaged, intimate,
and profoundly personal relationships with the individuals with whom I
do my research as well as my engagement with their social, psychological,
and physical worlds. Here is my tale.
It was one of those grey, sticky airless days in North Carolina in which
the honey-thick humid air smelled of approaching rain and growing things
gone unchecked and wild. As usual, I was at my desk in my tiny, white,
boxlike study, with its useless slitlike windows through which no breeze
ever found its way, struggling to write an article. Depression was my constant companion that summer, a condition that not only robbed me of sleep
most nights but that accompanied me everywhere-a thick choking cloud
compounded of confusion and unbelievable pain. It wrapped me like a
blanket that morning, too-stifling, colorless, killing.
Suddenly the man next door started his power mower directly under my
study windows. The noise of his engine instantly swamped my few attempts at thought, and what remained of my mind disintegrated under the
onslaught of noise and gas fumes. The longer my neighbor mowed, the
more my agitation grew. Miraculously, however, within a few minutes, the

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Julia Kellman

storm that had been gathering throughout the morning broke. The rain, an
opaque, thunderous wall of water, drove my neighbor indoors.
My mind is blank on what happened next. I don't remember anything
about what impelled me, but what I next recall is sitting flat on the cement
sidewalk in front of my house, legs akimbo, howling like a moonstruck
wolf, water and tears streaming down my upturned face, sodden, obliterated,
unmade.
My personal acquaintance with disintegration is what matters here, for it
ties my story directly to the story of Joe, a member of a hospital HIV/AIDS
expressive art group. He, too, has been unmade (though in a manner far
more complex than my psychological collapse) and then remade, and the
story of his journey to a place of balance and healing must begin at the beginning, with the terrible chaos of a personal world gone mad. Though our
emotional distress had different initial causes (depression in my case and
the diagnosis of AIDS in his), the nature of profound despair offers an assurance that my insight into at least a portion of Joe's misery is as accurate
as possible for another person to entertain, grounded as it is in actual experience. Therefore, though I may seem to flirt with a rationale for a surrender
of boundaries or, God forbid, a type of reverse transference, what I am trying to say here is that I feel Joe's story in the marrow of my bones and that
my telling of it is undergirded by substantial firsthand insight into the
experience of being undone.
What follows then, told in the best way I can muster, is Joe's story-his
struggle with dissolution, then transition, and finally transformation-and
the role that art played in the new, ever developing map of his life.
Joe's Story
Dissolution
As Joe tells the story of his eight-year-long life with HIV/AIDS (now controlled by the HAART regimen-highly
active antiretroviral treatment,
now routinely used for HIV/AIDS treatmentll), he begins at the beginning
of his long and difficult journey-the emergency room of a county hospital
in a large metropolitan area, the narthex to hell as he describes it, or, perhaps, as Joe suggests, one of hell's outer circles. Coughing, feverish, weak,
fainting, and increasingly miserable, he sat in the crowded waiting room,
with its "carnival atmosphere and not in a good sense," a Diane Arbus12
photograph come to life of poor, helpless, and often deeply idiosyncratic
souls whose only access to medical care was to be found in the emergency
room:
I waited forever and finally got back into the triage area and still had
to wait. Then two nurses came in, and one of them says they need to

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get blood drawn (to test blood gases), and like I said earlier, I have a
history ... I can't have blood drawn unless I'm lying down. So, I'm
lying down and I go, so, ok, here's an arm. "Oh, no, that's not how we
do this." She explains to me how its done and that they take it from
your wrist. "This is going to hurt." I'm already in a lot of pain here
anyway, so I don't know if I will be able to feel much more. They both
did it at the same time out of each wrist, like they had been practicing
it. It really hurt. If I hadn't been so weak, I would have jumped up
and yelled.
After they had figured out that there was about 50% of the normal amount of oxygen that a person usually has in their blood, they
put me in isolation. The doctor came in and talked with me and told
me they would be admitting me. She mentioned they were also going
to do an HIV test. That was when it first really popped into my head.
Up to that point, aside from having my appendix out, I had been
healthy as a horse. Anyway, a couple of days later the doctor came
back and confirmed it (a positive HIV test). She also told me that once
I was released, I would be going to a clinic for treatment, but I was in
such a state of mind that I didn't understand what she said. Even
though she explained it perfectly well, I couldn't understand it. I took
it to mean that I was going to the clinic to stay. Basically [it was going
to be] a nursing home/hospice situation, that I was that bad. I remember later that night being in such a frantic frame of mind that I
started looking for scraps of paper to write out my will and then giving
up because I didn't have enough room to write things.
Joe's description of his emotional state when learning of his HIV-positive blood test, nearly nonexistent T-cell count, and opportunistic pneumocystis carinii pneumonia infection (all the necessary markers for a diagnosis
of full-blown AIDS), his lack of comprehension, his terror, confusion, and
pain, as well as the frantic fruitless search for paper to leave a final word, a
last trace of himself, certainly characterize what I have previously described
as a sense of personal dissolution, of being unmade. It is at such a point,
however, that one either succumbs or struggles forward. Joe continues,
"The bright side of all that is, and this is hard for a lot of people to understand, that when you face that situation, and you have no choice but to face
it, you realize you have faced the worst, and everything after that is a lot
easier. So ... " He pauses here for a moment, then continues, "I got better."
The Way Forward
One may wonder at this point where art making fits into Joe's story and
why so much attention is being paid to HIV and despair. The reason is this:
If the true importance of art making for people who are ill is to be understood, art must be seen in the context of the disease/disorder itself. Without
such insight, the truly astonishing value of art for such people scarcely can
be imagined, and the sense of scale of various responses cannot be grasped.
(By scale, I mean the magnitude of an experience. For example, small murmurs of pleasure from a person who is miserable seem, to me at least, to
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Julia Kellman

generally count for more that the self-same soft exhalations from one who is
happy and well, since the healthy person has no pain-induced resistance to
overcome and has far more attention to give to the whole of experiencetheir world not being shrunken and constrained by the effects of enduring
illness.)
At the same time, however, the roots of creation can often be found
pushed deep into the soil of such misery itself. Joe's story again provides an
example.
After his release from the hospital and while reading through a mound
of books and pamphlets on HIV/AIDS, Joe, normally a restrained man,
suddenly became energized by fury at his situation. He hurled the hopeless
texts and depressing compilations across the room with as much force as he
could muster. Even as he threw the offending material, four words-truth,
faith, dream, and desire-swam fishlike into his otherwise roiling mind;
words that were to serve Joe as a talisman of sorts and that were to accompany and sustain him as he navigated the choppy seas of medical complexity. These words were also later to form the content and structure of a delicate graphite drawing, which itself was to serve Joe as a significant marker
in his experience and his art.
Returning Home: Transition
Eventually Joe returned to the Midwest to be nearer to his family. Life did
not immediately improve on familiar territory, however, for, as Joe points
out, "I really think I had a case of depression. And I had no idea. It was just
constant. You get used to it. It started about a year and a half ago, in January." He pauses here for a moment. "God. Time flies." Eventually, however, "I got so sick of myself that I started volunteering at the coffee shop [a
church-sponsored coffeehouse]. It got me out of my apartment and around
other people." He also began attending other community events too, including the annual fall HIV/AIDS conference at the local hospital where we
met for the first time.
Encouraged by my presentation on the role of art in health care, Joe, a
graduate of a well-known art school, decided to join the hospital art class,
too. Articulate, insightful, reflective, and possessing sophisticated art skills,
Joe immediately became a valuable member of the class. His superb artmaking abilities and his sensitivity to the needs of others also made him an
especially valuable model and mentor for the other students. As the weeks
passed, Roger, another class member, was able to coax Joe into taking part
in other activities-movies, meals out, and a variety of social events. The
rest of the class played a role, too, nudging Joe to take part. Carried on the
winds of the art class's support and Roger's charm, Joe flourished. He began to relax and chat. His art also seemed to become more daring, mirroring and reinforcing his life's new direction. Additionally, he began to make
art at home.13
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It is important to point out that although joining the class may have been
the result of an ongoing process of change in Joe's life and not its cause, it is
reasonable to suppose that the positive aspects of the class-its warm, supportive nature and the opportunity it provided to see himself, at least part
of the time, as an artist, not patient, as a creator, not passive sufferer-also
played a role in the changes he experienced. These personal alterations
were not simply my imagination, either, for they were affirmed late one
winter afternoon in class. In the silence broken only by the rustle of papers
and scratching of pencils, Joe suddenly spoke in a voice full of wonder, "I'm
back." "I'm back," he said again to himself, as much as to us. "Welcome
home, Joe," I replied.l4
Transformation
Art educator Marilyn Zurmuehlen,15 in her small but important book on
the value of art making for students Studio Art: Praxis, Symbol,Presence,explains that art class is a place where energy can be realized in action. It is
also a place where students can become originators by combining critical
reflection and action into the practice of art. She further elaborates the value
of art making for the individual. They can be transformers as well, symbolically transfiguring the idiosyncratic meanings of their life experiences into
the presentational symbols of art. They can be reclaimers of phenomenal
presence, attending to what usually is taken for granted, and in validating
their subjective perceptions, they can understand that "seeing" is an aesthetic
determination. We make it happen.16
When we recognize ourselves, she continues, as "originators, transformers, and reclaimers, we participate in the sense of once ... now ... then ...
that shapes our individual and collective life stories,"17 and it is that recognition that ties our experience into meaningful narratives. In Joe's story, we
can see this same pattern of origination, transformation, and reclamation
taking place; and we can see the final outcome as a story in terms of which
Joe's life makes sense, a necessary outcome for creating personal meaning
from the diverse events of his experience.
Art Exemplars:Guidepostson a Journey
Three notable creations mark Joe's return from a depressed state to his
reengagement with the world. These creations also indicate the transformation of his life experiences into the satisfyingly expressive symbols of art
that allow for, first, reflection and then creation of personal meaning and
sense.
The first such exemplar, a shrine, was constructed in a shallow cardboard
box. It depicts Joe's early and complex relationship with a wealthy young
man from Mexico. The shrine contains maps that chart their relationship's

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Julia Kellman

shifting and intertwined geographies, copies of photographs of his companion and the world the two men shared, images from ancient Mexican cultures, and small, personally meaningful objects-a holy medal, beads-all
remnants of the many months the men spent living together. A text in Spanish winds threadlike over the shrine's surface, tying the images and objects
together into a multilayered symbol of the two men's relationship. The
shrine not only marks Joe's first weeks in the art class and describes an
early important experience, but it also memorializes the beginning of his
life as a young gay man in a large city. At the same time, however, Joe's
shrine can be understood to have less literal meanings, too, for it is a physical manifestation of his reflection on, and memory of, an earlier period in
his life (a visual recollection of things past) and his transfiguration of the
ashes of love into a concrete marker of his reconsideration and reclamation
of an important aspect of his life story.
Joe's second creation, also a marker of significant alterations in his life, is
a pencil drawing undertaken several months later. The drawing contains
four images, each in its own square. The squares in turn are arranged in
stacked pairs. The top right square depicts an image of an open hand extended in the Indian mudra, or hand position, meaning "come." The word
"faith" is placed above the image. The left top drawing is of a wide-open
eye labeled "truth." The bottom left square shows a raised hand in the
mudra indicating "there is nothing to fear." The word "dream" lies directly
below the image. "Desire," the final square on the bottom right, portrays
the lower part of a man's face-lips, chin, and the tip of a nose. Through the
center of the complete drawing, between the top and bottom pairs of boxes,
are the words "The Healing Power of Art." This phrase acts not only as a
description of the content of the drawing but as a compositional devise that
pulls the four drawings together into an integrated whole.
There are further structural elaborations, too. The two drawings of hands
contain the image of a portion of a slender, banded snake winding behind
them. The gently S-curved snake, his head at the top right of the composition, his tail curved to the lower left, reinforces the relationship of the two
images of hands, for his sinuous body pulls the viewer's eye on a diagonal
from top right to bottom left. Both have heavy black graphite backgrounds.
The drawings of the elements of the human face-the eye and the full,
sensual lips and nose-are lighter in value (value indicates darkness or
lightness) than the images of hands. They, too, introduce a diagonal based
on content (facial features) and dark/light, a diagonal that in this case runs
from top left to bottom right.
This description allows us see what we might not have noticed otherwise-that the image is an emphatic construction of organic elements held
tightly within an overall framework elaborated with repetitions of solid
girderlike lines. Additionally, the drawing can be seen as a type of mandala, a

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form within a form, similar to a meditative Tibetan Buddhist image. Like a


mandala, it contains the richness of multiple images and shapes that function both as content and compositional elements depicted within a stable
pattern.
Most importantly, however, the composition can be understood as a link
between Joe's past and his present at the same time that it illustrates an aspect of Joe's current life. It portrays in its solid form the words he encountered years ago in a moment of anger and despair, words that continue to
shape and order his experience with their life-enhancing implications. The
drawing can perhaps be understood as a type of visual prayer, an emphatic
image of personal transformation, balance, and healing.
Joe's third and most recent guidepost or exemplar, a star-shaped book
with six double-layer, stagelike pages bordered with black and elaborated
with gold Sanskrit lettering, vegetative motifs, and repeated triangles, includes the whole of Joe's life in a progression of images from childhood to
the present. Most significantly though, it suggests a future as well, not as a
literal, specific place, but as a world inhabited by the great coiling snake of
healing, the elaborate glowing red-gold-faced Barong Ket18-the Balinese
male personification of the sun, of balance, harmony, and restoration-and
his always necessary opposite, Rangda,19 she of the long flying black hairthe female personification of darkness, chaos, and destruction. (Think of
Shiva20 and Kali21 here, or, perhaps, a figural yin and yang.) Integrating
past and present in his elegantly collaged and drawn pages, Joe dreams of a
future, too, a place inhabited by powerful archetypal images of balance and
healing. Joe's star book, his finally completed personal narrative, at last ties
the disparate elements of his life together-childhood, youth, significant relationships, HIV/AIDS, and his hopes and beliefs in a future of harmony
restored.
Taken either as a whole or as individual pieces, Joe's art relates his tale
of "once, now, then" suggested by Zurmuehlen22 to be the essential characteristic of both art making and the creation of narrative meaning. Additionally, his telling in images of the story within which his life's journey makes
sense is to be understood as a critical undertaking for one who lives with a
disease, for as medical anthropologist Gay Becker23points out, narratives
are performative and thus empowering. Stories give voice to bodily experience. And they can "enable the narrator to develop creative ways of interpreting disruption and to draw together disparate aspects of the disruption
into a coherent whole."24 Most importantly though, "it is through stories
people organize, display, and work through their experiences."25
If narratives are a means to create coherence, empowerment, and meaning,
as Becker26 suggests, and art is a narrative undertaking, as Zurmuehlen27
makes clear, then it is the narrative quality of art that lies at the heart of its
special value for Joe and for others who live with disease or disorder.

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However, there are other important qualities in the art-making experience,


too.
A final story will help us here, for it not only fills out the rest of what is
significant for Joe in art, it brings us back to where we began, to the difficulty of examining someone else's experience, of the place of the researcher
in telling another's tale, and of the multilayered, interwoven nature of life
itself. It also brings us to those wilder places on the map where all bets are
off-the researcher-writer-teacher becomes part of the story, and there are
no guides available that are worth hiring.
Last summer, Joe and I were having coffee in a local caf6. As we sipped
gingerly at our two hot cups, Joe remarked, "I was telling my case manager
things had gotten much better in the last few months, and she wanted to
know what I attribute it to, and so I told her about the coffeehouse, and the
other thing is you, Julia. Aside from friendships, the other part of me that
was missing-it really wasn't missing, it was neglected-was art, and its all
because of you and this [art] class." "You are a bridge," Joe says softly, his
voice filled with emotion.
Lest I seem self-absorbed and narcissistic for repeating this intimate conversation, let me explain. It seems to me that it is my role as teacher and
guide, the class itself, and the art making that have formed this powerful
bridge for Joe and led him out of himself into a world made new and welcoming. It is this combination-the meaning-making narrative quality of
art; the synergy of a group of people in an art class engaged in exploring the
wordless, most profound aspects of themselves in images; the close relationships that grow from such intimacy (who can explore her/his inner most
self with a group of people every week for months on end without developing complex, sustaining social bonds with one another?); and the transformation and redefinition of class members as art makers, their empowerment as artists in fact-that leads to a sense of confidence, competence,
balance, and control.
Final Thoughts
What is most important to remember is that we have heard and seen Joe's
story in his own words and images and recognize the extraordinary significance of art making in his life. It is his rich visual narrative that is the heart
of this matter and the main reason for this undertaking in the first place. For
Joe both tells and shows what it means to deal with unspeakable disaster, to
use art to explore and order a world, and to create images to find and mark
a path into the future across a rough and demanding landscape.
Do not forget this last small part either, for this is where the enquirerteacher slips back into the picture-for Joe has added his map to the stack of
maps growing on my desk. Our stories overlap now and intermingle with

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the stories of others. Where do we go from here? What are the rules in those
wilder places where we meet one another face to face? I do not know.
What I am certain of though is that Joe, that miraculous, brave, talented,
and charming man, is carefully watched over by the great gold and scarlet
face of Barong Ket and the sun figure's companion, the dark-haired, fierce
Rangda-and that he will take his drawing book with him on his journey to
record all the wild mysteries of the universe.

NOTES
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.

22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.

JeanetteWinterson,ThePowerBook(New York:Vintage,2000),64.
RuthBehar,TheVulnerable
Observer
(Boston:Beacon,1996).
Ibid.,163.
Winterson,ThePowerBook,247.
Ibid.,64.
Alfred Schutz, On Phenomenology
and SocialRelations(Chicago:University of
ChicagoPress,1970).
WilliamStyron,DarknessVisible(New York:Vintage,1990).
KayRedfieldJamison,TouchedwithFire(New York:FreePress,1994),268.
Ibid.,268.
Ibid.
John Bartlettand Joel Gallant,MedicalManagement
of HIV Infection(Baltimore,
Md.:JohnsHopkinsUniversity,2003).
Diana Arbus, Mastersof Photography,http://www.masters-of-photography.
com/A/arbus/arbus_articles.html.
Julia Kellman,"An ExpressiveArts Hospital Programfor People with HIV/
AIDS,"CultureWorks
9, no. 1 (2004),http://aad.uoregon.edu/culturework.html.
Ibid.
MarilynZurmuehlen,StudioArt:Praxis,Symbol,Presence(Reston,Va.:National
Art EducationAssociation,1990),65.
Ibid.,65.
Ibid.,65.
FredB. Eisema,Jr.,BaliSekalaandNiskala(Bali,Peiplus, 2000).For an image of
Barong Ket the sun god see http://www.spurlock.uiuc.edu/news/2003_0205.html.
FredB. Eisema,Jr.,BaliSekalaandNiskala(Bali,Peiplus, 2000).For an image of
Rangasee http:/ /www.balivision.com/Article_Resources/Barong&Rangda.asp.
ShermanLee, A History of Far EasternArt (Englewood Cliffs, N.J., PrenticeHall, 1973), 171-172.For an image of Shiva the destroyer see http://www.
/ hindu_gods_and_goddesses
/ shiva.htm.
sanatansociety.org
ShermanLee,A Historyof FarEasternArt (EnglewoodCliffs,N.J.,Prentice-Hall,
1973),172.Foran image of Kalithe goddess of time and the transformationthat
is death see http://www.sanatansociety.org/hindu_gods_and_goddesses/
kali.htm.
Zurmuehlen,StudioArt,65.
Gay Becker,DisruptedLives(Berkeley:Universityof CaliforniaPress,1997).
Ibid.,26.
Ibid.,25.
Ibid.
Zurmuehlen,StudioArt.

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