The Air in my Lungs
Why do I draw lungs?
During my childhood and adolescence, my life was dominated by fevers, bronchitis, burning mustard-seed poultices, suction cups pulling at the skin on my back, penicillin injections, and the endless monotony of lying in bed.
My bronchi—those delicate tubes that transport air to the alveoli in the lungs, enriching them with oxygen to nourish our brains and muscles—were often infected. They refused to let in the polluted air of the industrial city where I lived.
I was sent to health homes for children with lung diseases...Places where medical treatments felt like medieval torture. Places where cruel punishments were inflicted for things like wetting the bed. I was rebellious—I refused to eat.
At the age of twelve, I underwent surgery. The surgeon removed a lobe of my left lung. Afterward, I was placed in an iron lung, a machine that helped me breathe. With every breath I took, the massive wound on my back reopened, causing me excruciating pain.
Even as an adult, the story of my lungs remained indelibly etched within me. Sometimes, my breathing becomes erratic, and the air seems to refuse to enter my lungs.
This is why I draw lungs in my artwork: they are symbols of air, of life itself.