“What Are Little Girls Made Of?” Frame 9

Ten years ago, I had an itch: I wanted to create a piece of art that incorporated an X-ray or MRI film in it. At the time, it was simply an extension of my lifelong obsession with the aesthetic of scientific equipment and medical ephemera. I had a coworker who also worked at a hospital adjacent to our workplace, and I asked her to obtain some X-ray films for me. At the time, I assumed that she would procure an old film that was going to be discarded. Instead, she gave me a recently taken MRI film, and that started a now 10-year-long obsession with someone whose brain I have seen, whose voice I have heard, but whose face I still do not know.

Once I got home that night, I took the three large MRI films out of the envelope, mouth agape. They were beautiful: dark, thick plastic with about 20 images on each film. They appeared to be repeating views of a skull, some front views, many side views, all different planes in the skull. There was also a piece of paper in the envelope. I took it out, and my smile disappeared. The piece of paper made it clear not only what the patient had come in for, but the outcome of the exam and their identity too. Clearly I should not have these.

But rather than give them back to my coworker, I kept them. I don’t know why. I wish I could say something noble or good about my intentions, but it’s likely that I simply had a rush of selfish enthusiasm when I decided to still use them. So I mounted them to the lightboxes I had, and displayed them in my apartment. Because the outcome of the MRI had been a positive one, I titled them “******** ******” Is Okay” (for obvious reasons, I can’t disclose certain details of this story, or the patient’s identity).

Also, let’s be clear: I now feel no joy in having these. I think where my headspace was at 10 years ago is VERY different from where I am now. Now I understand the horrifying breach of privacy that occurred, and how sad it is that these were so casually obtained. I’ll probably never know if my coworker even knew that the identifying document was in the envelope. And although I stand by my artwork, I now feel more remorse than curiosity. Anything else would be macabre.

A few years later, I had a different apartment, the piece had matured a little bit into a smaller lightbox, with text behind the X-ray film. Printed on a transparency, the text was taken from an old New Yorker article about the relationship between the brain, taste, and the sense of smell…and then I redacted certain pieces of the text. I worked in a department store at this point, not too far from that same hospital. One day, when alphabetizing customers’ purchases for a sale, I suddenly came across the patient’s name. Startled, I asked the associate who helped them what they looked like. The sales associate gave the vaguest of descriptions, and then I happened to be off when ******** ****** came in to pick up their purchases.

“******** ******” Is Okay” lightbox artwork

A few months later, in the same department store, I was walking near the bedding department when I heard a phone ringing off the hook. I answered it. Sure enough, a voice spoke up “Hello, this is ******** ******, I’d like to order some sheets.” At the time, I didn’t even note the strangeness of the greeting on the phone, I was too busy cramming my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming. I quickly handed the phone to a sales associate to complete the order while I walked away, looking for a paper bag to breathe into.

Which brings us up to date, to this incarnation. I am starting a series of paintings based on the MRI film, called “What Are Little Girls Made Of?” (something not commonly known- until now -is that all of my artwork is named after Original Series Star Trek episodes). I love the questions it raises about privacy, and artists using anonymity responsibly. They’ll be available at the BLCKSMTH Etsy shop to commission.

I know the story isn’t over. I know I will run across ******** ****** again someday. Although truth be told, if I had met this person already, I would never, EVER tell them about this hospital’s breach of confidentiality. Maybe I’ve finally met them.

Is it you?

“What Are Little Girls Made Of?” Frame 1