Iris Grace

by Arabella Carter-Johnson

  By the end of the week, Iris was hopping about in the kitchen with anticipation as I rolled out a new section of wallpaper liner. As I taped it on to the table she disappeared into the garden room; she couldn’t stand the sound of the tape as I pulled it off the roll. She waited until it had all gone quiet before she tiptoed back in and then she was by my side. With her small hand in mine she led me to the sink in the kitchen. Her finger was rigid and outstretched towards the blue pot, so I made some up, very watery this time as my hand was guided again and again towards the tap.

  When the painting had dried I leant over as far as I dared, standing on a chair to photograph her work. What lay before me made my heart beat hard: layers of blue and green with repeated shapes and a wash of yellow. She was creating paintings in a way I hadn’t expected from a three-year-old child.

  Sunny Day, acrylic, March 2013

  ‘Have you seen the latest one?’ said P-J, gesturing over to the painting. ‘It’s brilliant, seriously, come and have a look.’

  ‘I know, that’s what I thought. I’ve photographed it. Shall we get it framed?’

  ‘Yes, definitely.’

  ‘She seems so …’

  ‘Grown-up.’

  ‘Yes, different from before. I’m going to keep going with this. I know I have my list of activities but this is going so well.’

  ‘Forget your lists! Go with what’s working. At the moment that’s her painting. You know she even hugged me this morning? Just came up to me and hugged me with a big smile.’

  P-J looked incredibly happy. I knew how much that hug meant to him and how long he had waited for her to be comfortable enough to show her affection like that. It was spontaneous and genuine. Beautiful beyond words. There was an excitement in the air. The positive energy that surrounded the humble pine coffee table was having a massive impact upon our family.

  As I watched her painting in her own unique style I realized that I needed to invest in some better paper as water poured off the table on to the floor. Luckily this was on the other side from where she was standing, but it needed to be remedied. So I bought the best-quality watercolour paper I could find in the exact size to fit the coffee table where she painted. Iris wasn’t a fan of change and I was concerned that this paper with its rougher textured surface would not be appreciated. I did not need to worry, though. She studied it as if it was an experiment: first gently patting it with her palm on the paper, then looking at it so closely that her nose almost touched it. She appeared to kiss the paper but I could see that she was actually feeling the texture with the top part of her lip, just on her cupid’s bow. With her head now turned to the side she rested her cheek and looked straight at me and smiled. This rare eye contact was a striking change in her behaviour. I handed over her favourite paintbrush. With quick flicks high into the air the paper was soon filled with explosions of colour and the cotton rag watercolour paper was happily soaking up all Iris’s watery paint. After the colours were dry she added another layer of white – she didn’t want any water added. By using a longer brush she drew the paintbrush over the paper in a wave-like motion, creating patterns, and then, moving round to the other side of the table and tapping the brush, she created dots of white. I slid her painting table under the kitchen table to let it dry and mopped up the floor. This had been a particularly vigorous session and little splats of colour were dotted all over the place. Then I heard the gate: P-J was home from his trip to London and as he came into the kitchen Iris was there to meet him, beaming at him, grabbing his hand and pulling him over to her table.

  ‘Iris, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Here let me get it out.’ I moved the table back into its position and Iris shared all her favourite parts with her father. This process took a while as she pointed out all the white dots and wiggles.

  As I made some food we chatted. Iris had gone through to her playroom and I could hear books being pulled off their shelf.

  P-J was looking so proud. ‘They really are amazing, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, but everyone thinks that about their child’s artwork, don’t they? I agree there is something very special, but do you think that it’s just us seeing it? I mean, perhaps they seem special to us because of how she is while she paints, how it opens her up?’

  The evening went on with more talk about her painting, why she loved it so much, how easy she was to interact with when she was painting, how it changed her. The more wine we drank, the more excited we got. It was fun to be focusing on something positive rather than talking about the latest problem. What I loved was that it was beyond our control. Iris painted when she felt like it; it was up to her and it came from her. I just needed to stand back and wait for the opportunities to interact and be useful as the artist’s assistant. It was as though a pressure had been lifted and I could breathe.

  Explosions of Colour, acrylic, March 2013

  Unlike most activities where I eventually got pushed away, Iris wanted me close by in the kitchen. I had become an integral part of the process, helping make up the colours she was requesting. I took the chance to use more words and she was responding so well that my mind was busily thinking about how I could harness this latest interest. I decided that I must make a sacrifice and forget about having a tidy kitchen. It had been my one space, a grown-up area that hadn’t yet been a setting for our daily preschool activities. It was where we sat quietly in the mornings, prepared food, had our more grown-up conversations, and on rare occasions even entertained friends, but this was too important. This coffee table would be left out permanently, becoming her painting table for her to use whenever she needed to, even if it was early in the mornings or late into the night. This would be her space to use how she liked. The kitchen table was now squished right up next to the Rayburn looking rather put out and there were a few grumblings from P-J as he repeatedly hit his shin with the new furniture arrangement. I bought many more tools, sponges, brushes and paint, collecting as much as I could for her to experiment with. The excitement of having a new plan with a positive direction was so invigorating that I suddenly wasn’t tired any more. I felt like I could do anything and Iris would do anything. P-J watched from the door as Iris darted this way and that, selecting colours, pausing, taking a step back, evaluating and then back to work on the latest piece. He couldn’t believe how much purpose and thought went into these paintings.

  Rolling Balls, acrylic, March 2013

  The next morning my mother came with more supplies and a vase of flowers for the kitchen table. P-J had heard the gate and had come in too for his mid-morning tea break. We all looked at each other, smiling. Iris was busy at her table, where there was a wash of blue and another of red all merging, some areas pink and others purple. We heard her say ‘ball’ as she dipped her brush in the white and placed it on to the paper. With a stirring motion she created a circular ball on the far right-hand corner and another closer to the middle. She dragged the brush right across the paper, creating a slipstream of white. The painting stretched as far as it could, covering every part of the table – a massive one metre and twenty centimetres long. While we drank tea my mother interacted with Iris at her painting table. None of us were pushed away; she was content and proud of her work as we all talked about it. P-J and I watched, hardly believing it was Iris. She was so confident and assertive, so sure of herself, both of what she wanted and how to show us.

  Iris and I quickly settled into this new routine. I could tell when she wanted another fresh piece of paper on the table: she would pull at the edge of the paper for it to be removed and run off to the office to get out another massive sheet. I would help get the mugs out and prepare the paints. Once that was sorted I busied myself with other duties in the kitchen, but always stayed on hand in case I was needed or saw opportunities for speech therapy. Iris looked at the four primary colours that I had put out on the table, considering each one individually, peering over into the Cornishware blue-and-white striped mugs, to see the colours within. She gently too
k the brush that was beside her and dipped it into the blue, stirring, inspecting, testing. She thrust the mug to me and took my other hand to guide me to the sink, gesturing upwards to the taps, so I dripped some more water in and handed back the mug, which she put on the other side of the table away from the others, the large expanse of watercolour paper dividing them. Then she stirred the blue – still not quite right – and moved along the length of the table with brush in hand and dipped it into the green and then returned to the blue without making a mark on the paper. Once again she stirred, enjoying the swirling green dissolving into the blue and creating a different shade. She nodded once, lifted the brush up and with short sharp upward flicks again and again the paint flew in the air and droplets descended on to the paper. Her action quickening but perfectly in control, a mottled sea was emerging. Pausing, she examined the watery paint making its journey across to spotless paper beyond. Choosing another brush she made her way over to the yellow, wistfully stroking the paper along the sea. Her style of painting was constantly evolving as she experimented with all kinds of tools, household objects and materials. She mixed her own colours by swapping brushes from mug to mug, feeling her way and continually exploring. Sometimes we wouldn’t know which way round the paintings were meant to be as she had painted from all four sides of the table, so we would get her to sit in a chair and I would hold up the painting. P-J would say, ‘Is it this way round?’ Then I would turn the piece. ‘Or this way round?’ She would respond with a frown or a little jig: a basic but effective method that we used many times. Once huddled away with her books deep in the sofa, Iris was now dancing in the heart of the home, with colours everywhere.

  The Story of the Secret Seahorse, acrylic, April 2013

  ‘Glass of wine?’ I wasn’t sure why he even asked any more; our Friday evenings always followed the same routine: some wine and a chat in the kitchen while I cooked and Iris was content with her books next door.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  P-J poured the wine and then stopped as the glass was half full. ‘There is something I wanted to talk to you about, an idea I’ve been thinking of.’

  I felt a sense of dread. I knew something was coming – an idea or an adventure – and I wasn’t sure if I could take on something new. Life was for the first time in a while looking much more positive and Iris’s confidence was growing daily. We had recovered from the preschool disaster. It was as if I wanted to keep still, not wanting to disturb the magic that happened every day in the kitchen.

  ‘What?’ I said with a rather tired tone.

  ‘You know how much everyone loves Iris’s paintings and how our friends thought they were amazing when you shared them on Facebook?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s our friends and family. Of course they’re lovely about them.’

  Patience, acrylic, April 2013

  ‘I think it’s more than that. I mean, the paintings are very good and that last one – Well, look at it.’

  I looked, although I didn’t really need to; I could see that painting in my mind’s eye, with its soft pastels in many layers. It was a mix between a stormy sea and a bluebell woodland, magical and yet so powerful. It was subtle, with some areas of intricate detail and others that were more free. It was one of the most complicated pieces Iris had done up until that point, with many different colours and layers. She had learnt that you could let the paint dry and come back to it later, that a painting could take many layers and be completed over as much time as you wanted, adding more and more details and different colours. She did some and came back to it again and again over two days: at least six hours of painting altogether. She used different-sized brushes, rollers with texture and tiny star printers, splatting, dotting and dabbing. When she had finished she smiled and put down the brush even though there was paint left in the mug and did what I can only describe as jazz hands, grinning at me, and then she ran off, not returning to the table again. I had named that painting Patience as a reminder of how she had learnt so much within its layers of paint. Each painting came to have its own name that connected it to when it was painted: what we thought it looked like or how it had made Iris feel. I hoped that one day she would start to name them herself, but until then I would take on that job and I loved coming up with them.

  I was starting to feel curious about this idea of P-J’s. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Set up a website and a Facebook page, almost like a Beanie gallery, but online, to raise awareness for autism. We could even get some of them made into prints to raise money for Iris’s therapy. You can do the website; you did a great job on your wedding blog. What do you think?’

  My mind was racing at the thought of all this. He was right. It would be such a beautiful site to encourage other parents, to inspire them to think of autism in a positive light. I thought back to when we realized Iris might be on the spectrum, how worried I had felt and how dark everything I read seemed to be. And then I remembered the diagnosis and the doctor’s depressing manner: how I had wanted to read positive stories and to see other children with parents who had managed to find a way to connect with them. It would be brilliant to make others aware of how powerful using a child’s interests could be, how there are gentler methods that work on a child’s strengths instead of their weaknesses.

  There was one niggling problem that stood out above all the others. The one that bugged me most was the thought that I hadn’t actually told that many people about Iris’s autism. Our social lives had diminished and the only time I seemed to see friends was at weddings or parties where it hardly seemed appropriate to launch into that conversation. I had compartmentalized my life, becoming rather removed from others because that was easiest. I didn’t want to talk about autism; I was still only just getting to grips with it myself and my life was filled to the brim with it. And I didn’t like talking about it with Iris around. It seemed wrong somehow. She would need to know about it when she was older, but she was still too young to understand, and it would be easy for her to take what I said the wrong way. She couldn’t even ask me questions about it yet. Instinctively, almost before I’d mentioned it, P-J understood my worries. As we talked it through we realized that this could actually be a good way of letting everyone know: we could include a page about autism so they could read about it without asking us questions we found difficult to answer.

  ‘It would be fantastic if our friends and family knew a little about it instead of us having to explain everything all the time,’ P-J said as he poured me another glass.

  I smiled. ‘OK let’s do it.’ I got up and walked to my office and sat at my computer.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? It won’t take me long; I have all the photos. I just need to write up some text. Don’t worry, I won’t publish anything tonight. I just want to get it started.’

  P-J didn’t say anything. He went to the cupboard, got out some snacks and came through with supplies and we worked on it together. I loved that about him, the fact that we fitted in that way. He wasn’t made anxious by my tendency to leap into our adventures; he encouraged and supported it. Most people want to slow me down, make me consider things in more detail but he knows that then I worry, so it’s best to let me run with it. He knew all he had to do was to sow a seed and I would be off soon enough.

  The next day I had the site ready to go.

  ‘Press publish then!’ P-J was standing behind me grinning.

  ‘Really? I’m not sure now. I know it’s silly. I mean, probably no one will be interested anyway – I can’t imagine we’ll get that many visitors – but it will be out there for everyone to see.’

  I could see how it might help other families and how inspired I would have been if I had seen a site like the one I had created that shined a light on autism, but I still couldn’t press that button. Something inside me tightened, holding me back. Had I got carried away last night? What would everyone think? Why did that bother me so much? Who cares what people think …? Except I did. I didn’t want to, but I d
id. That part of me that was still wanting our lives to fit, for us to be like everyone else in the life I had imagined before Iris had been born. Then I looked through the gallery, clicking from one painting to the next. The images were captivating, the colours alluring, and yet there was a prevailing sense of calm. My body and mind relaxed.

  Bluebells, acrylic, March 2013

  ‘Just press it. I know you really want to.’

  I pressed it, the site went live and our story went out into the world. It was a surprisingly good feeling, exciting and liberating. The next stage of our plan was to find a printer who could take professional scans of the paintings and make Giclée prints. I wanted to print on demand, so we didn’t have to hold any stock. I had no idea if we would be able to sell any at all. There happened to be an excellent printer only five minutes down the road from our house and they worked with me to come up with a range of different print sizes. At first they were amused by my request, but as the weeks went on and more and more paintings were brought in they saw Iris’s style develop and they said it was only a matter of time – people would definitely be interested.