Other kids always came to me in the playground with their problems, though I didn’t have the special life experience of somebody who had “overcome problems”, nor was I the charismatic kid who was everybody’s friend.
At 16 at boarding school, sat in my room one Saturday evening, a face peered round my door – One of the rugby team, which usually meant trouble.
But this time, instead of looking predatory, he looked scared and shocked. When he came in I saw the blood-soaked tissue round his wrists, concealing deep, self-inflicted wounds. I just sat, and listened. “What else could I do?”, I thought.
Listened to how his parents lived in Singapore, and he only saw them in the Summer holidays. Listened to how he looked after himself in their flat in London where he stayed during other holidays.
He wasn’t moaning– this was his frame, the foundations and the fabric of his life. He sprayed his dormitory bathroom with blood, because of an argument with his girlfriend …
But this wasn’t really about his girlfriend – this was about his frame, the things he could never question, in case the foundations of his world fell apart. Often, death seems preferable to breakdown.
Then there were the friends at University who, at unexpected times would tell the stories of how their fathers had tried to seduce them; my friend who told me all about his father’s suicide; and the CPS lawyer who confessed his nocturnal cottaging habit; another friend whose father had thrown her across the room as a child, before raping her; the colleague who suddenly confessed a string of infidelities; the neighbour who confessed his preference for men, worried how his wife might react …
Then there was my grandmother, who just needed someone to sit with her through slow death from cancer; and the celibate Hindu artist who called me her “Father Confessor” and confessed all her lusts.
I’ve sat calmly, acceptingly, through it all – suicide, rape, rage, grief, buggery, lust, depravity, despair, death.
Last week, I thought: “let’s get sorted out, get an Art Therapy qualification. Stop complaining about education: get accredited.”
IATE are the cheapest who offer HPC accreditation (without which it is a criminal offence to advertise as “Art Therapist”), and also have the most liberal entry criteria: Fine Art BA is not required. The course is in 2 parts, Diploma and Masters. Entry directly onto the Masters is possible, but rare. Nonetheless, I can save 7 grand and 2 years if I convince them.
So, I compiled a list of my experience, everything I’ve read, and done. All the tortured stories I’ve sat through non-professionally and professionally; all the mad, sacred and experimental creative projects.
I read through it, and thought: “Right, Jon, you’ve got a PhD, you know what it takes – how does this compare?”. The reading list goes well beyond a Masters, and the hours of group experience are pretty close. “Equivalent supervised client hours” are lacking, but encompass a breadth and depth of human experience that few art therapists encounter in training.
I booked myself on to the group interview day anyway, which was today.
Just after the last funeral, another friend, Rob, died. I was honoured when mutual friends called and asked me to help design, and officiate at, the funeral.
Sometimes, the bereaved want to be alone with their recollections, more often the grief-stricken only want to pour out their memories … a good starting point for designing a funeral.
My friends mostly knew what they wanted – just some details to tidy up, and a suitable form of words to agree for the sacred bits. I’m not the world’s finest poet, but I’m a good enough writer to come up with something moving, and not too cheesy.
The funeral was yesterday. In Rob’s Mum’s words “It was perfect” … and it was.
Rob was a drop-out. Stuff the establishment, stuff accredited qualifications, stuff the rat-race. He worked as he pleased, at whatever he liked – a bit or writing, a bit of accountancy, a bit of woodwork, a bit of building. He died admired and loved by hundreds.
I missed the group interview today. I could do so much in 5 years with 20 grand!
Stuff the HPC … there’s life beyond accreditation, and a much more interesting, satisfying and useful life, at that.
