Translator: Súlivan Magalhães Reviewer: Maricene Crus
You are probably familiar with this question.
[How are You?]
And you are probably familiar with this response.
[I'm fine. Thank you. And you?]
But how are you really feeling today?
We are so busy.
There is too much to do to stop
every time someone asks us to slow down.
We assume other people can't slow down either.
We ask easy questions
to encourage quick and obvious answers.
But have you ever received a letter
that made you stop what you were doing?
A letter from somebody who cared about you.
A letter that when opening up the envelope
changed how you felt for the rest of the day
because it felt as though that person was sitting next to you,
really talking to you.
As a child, I struggled with making myself heard.
Shy and awkward,
I was too scared to answer adults when they asked me questions.
I felt safer writing words down rather than speaking them.
With letters I could communicate.
I would write letters to my best friend,
to the boy I liked at school.
I would write letters to myself,
letters I didn't need to send.
I could express myself more honestly
without worrying what other people would think.
Braver and clearer, these letters contained a vulnerability
that I could not express directly to anyone.
I lost my fear of exposure within them.
Occasionally, I wanted to share these letters.
I had to convert them, though,
in a way that could be read and appreciated.
I began to make books.
The process of making prints and books
helped me to answer this question.
Often the response has evolved beyond words
and they were written, drawn,
printed, sewn, folded,
pressed, cased and boxed.
I wanted readers to feel
as though they were being written to.
I was not alone in my methods of creation.
For years, artists have made books as a way of communicating
to a wider audience.
The book is intended as the work of art in itself.
Unlike art you find in a gallery,
artists' books can be mobile, tactile objects,
both affordable and collectible.
During the summer of 2009,
I took care of a friend's farm.
It was a particullarly difficult time for me.
Getting up each morning to feed the animals
helped me to find a purpose,
yet I still struggled with feelings of hopelesness.
It was when I picked up a book called
"Good Things or 77 Reasons to Still Be Alive Today"
that my perspective changed.
In this artist-made book was a personal list of reasons to carry on living:
soft boiled eggs,
manual typewriters,
grand pianos,
fresh white linen.
This book spoke to me.
In it I found relief.
I understood
why the artist needed to make it.
I understood these good things to be her coping mechanisms
for when life was difficult,
and it was difficult at that time.
It felt as if she, too, had written a letter to herself
and used the book as a way of asking,
"How are you feeling today?"
In revealing her vulnerability,
she'd made me feel less alone
and less afraid of being exposed.
At this moment, I understood the connection
between making artists' books and reading them.
I wanted to build a bridge between these two experiences.
If I found such a connection with artists' books
shouldn't I explore the possibility that others would, too?
There is a growing culture in the US
of doctors recommending self-help books
to patients with mental health issues.
In the UK, people come together
to read poetry and novels aloud
to help remedy depression.
Bibliotherapists offer people literary recommendations
to help work through particular issues,
but could artists' books also be tools
to help people feel less alone?
Later that summer, I attempted to find out.
I took all the artists' books I had
and put them in the back of the car
and I drove to an abandoned parking lot in Manchester
to take part in an arts festival.
That day, I founded
the Bibliotherapy Artists' Book Library.
As the first person approached,
I asked, instinctively:
"How are you feeling today?"
One woman,
who discovered the library by chance,
when asked this question, seemed surprised.
She gradually began to reveal her suffering
and deep sense of loss.
It was clear
that she hadn't been able to express this feeling to many people before.
I prescribed her a book called
"Exquisite Pain", by Sophie Calle.
In this book, the artist confesses her own deep suffering.
The retelling of her story aids her recovery.
She compares her own heartbreak to that of others
and in gaining perspective she heals herself.
The same seemed true for this woman.
She began to connect her own grief to that of the artist's.
She appeared to feel less alone
in knowing her feelings were shared,
that they were understood,
and that they would eventually pass.
In order to choose the most appropriate artists' books for each visitor,
I organized the 200 works in the library by emotional classification.
Each category referred to everyday symptoms
for modern worries:
a fear of the future;
appearance complex;
time management anxiety;
loss of love.
Many people told me their secrets,
confessed their fears,
and voiced their vulnerabilities.
In being heard, perhaps they could begin to heal.
People's own voices are a remedy
because they are also a reminder.
The Bibliotherapy Artists' Book Library
has taught to over 20 venues around the UK
and prescribed around 150 book prescriptions.
It has connected artists to readers
while providing the space we need
to listen to our own voices.
In turning the pages of a book
and discovering the thoughts within,
we can begin to connect our own lives to the lives of others.
In creating a space for empathy to exist
we can see the healing benefits of both making and sharing art.
By slowing down
and taking the time to engage with ourselves and others,
we can genuinely ask and answer the question,
"How are you feeling today?"
Thank you.
(Applause)