THE ESCAPE ARTIST
“All art is autobiographical; the pearl is the oyster’s autobiography.” —Federico Fellini
Early on, two paternal aunts died of breast cancer—that caught my attention. Shortly thereafter, my maternal aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer. Then in 1984, my cousin Marlene died at thirty, after refusing to undergo chemotherapy. The younger you are, the more likely you are to have a bad outcome. I began rigorous, annual diagnostic imaging of my breasts.
In 1994, I went in for a routine mammogram, and there it was—ductal invasive carcinoma of my left breast. Paradoxically, I never felt better in my life. Cancer can be one of the most sinister, silent, subversive betrayers of one’s mortality. By the time you feel its presence, it may be too late.
I removed both breasts, even though there was no sign of cancer on the right side. The statistical odds of the contralateral breast becoming malignant is one in five. I reconstructed both breasts with subpectoral saline implants, and underwent high dose short term chemotherapy, knowing the legacy of my cousin Marlene.
Escape Artist by Shelley Lake, digital scene simulation, 2020 (Sam Taylor-Johnson appropriation)
All of this took place in the middle of my educational pursuit as a healing artist in Chiropractic College. I completed my doctoral degree, however, as a wounded healer, the shadow of my near death experience led me back to my obsession with fine art.
When you are fighting for your life under the direction of surgeons, oncologists and mental health professionals, the hospital becomes a sanctuary, an umbrella of security. Shortly after you leave the continued surveillance of the health care system, there is a feeling of free fall. There is no one there to catch you if you stumble, if you fail. You are at the mercy of your body’s innate intelligence. Your body’s ability to heal itself. Like an orphan suspended by inflatables, the false veil of invulnerability is forever gone.