Art as Therapy

                                                                                  

      When Cory painted, she would go upstairs and put on her raggiest t-shirt, pull on a pair of her grandpa's old faded dockers over her jeans, and settle her slouchy knit hat (also grandpa's) on her head and lose herself. She got messy, she used her fingers, sometimes a fork, and if she was feeling really patient that day..brushes. A lot of times she said she didn't like how her work turned out or that she wasn't any good. I always told her she was fantastic (which i'm not sure she believed) and that the important thing was how she felt when she was doing it (which I think she did believe). And once and awhile, I'd catch her standing back and assessing her work with unmistakable PRIDE. She had the look on her face you only get when you have snatched an image out of your brain, whole and squirming, and plunked it down on a piece of paper, canvas, or a paper grocery sack...complete and unchanged. This painting was one of those times. Cory had the amazing gift to be able to take something dark and make it beautiful. And if not what some would consider    conventionally beautiful, then certainly thought provoking. That is talent.

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