Commentary

At the age of 61, William Utermohlen, a London-based figurative artist, muralist, and portrait painter, known for his meticulous draftsmanship and complex subjects, learned he probably had Alzheimer’s disease. His was the usual story of progressive forgetfulness, difficulty with calculations, and withdrawal in social settings that family and friends could chart once the diagnosis was suspected. His wife, Patricia, an art historian, recalls the memorable incident in August 1995 that marked the turning point between pre-Alzheimer’s naivete and direct confrontation with the beast lurking behind the shadows. William had been working at his studio on a commissioned group portrait for close to a year. When Patricia and the client stopped by to view progress on the painting, they discovered essentially an empty canvas. For a year, William had gone to and from the studio by rote, but once there had been unable to organize his thoughts and address the task at hand. By November 1995, magnetic resonance imaging and neuropsychological testing, which included several drawing exercises, left little doubt about the diagnosis. Remarkably, William continued to draw (mostly) and paint—after all, that is what he had always done. But now he turned to self-portraits, studying his own image in a mirror. Perhaps painting self-portraits was an effort to comprehend what was happening, to claim self in an increasingly foreign and confusing world in which written and verbal communication were failing him. According to Patricia, William’s portraits were completely self-motivated and were not a topic of discussion between them. While he shared his portraits with his physicians,1 they were not painted on request—they were for and of him. These portraits, then, become his visual narrative of the inner, frightening world of advancing memory loss and uncertainty. Other artists have entered the mental wasteland of Alzheimer’s disease. Willem de Kooning, for example, the Dutch-born, American abstract impressionist, was given the diagnosis in 1989 at the age of 85. In contrast with Utermohlen, however, de Kooning continued to paint only with the help of assistants who mixed his paints and led him to the canvas. While critics now argue over the merit of de Kooning’s Alzheimer’s art, noted for its increasing simplicity and use of primary colors, few would dispute Utermohlen’s unique artistic legacy—the window he has opened to his personal journey (and frequently our own) with this devastating disease. In his stunning series of 15 self-portraits now touring the United States, we bear witness to the innermost workings of William’s mind and soul. We experience with him the anger, fear, anxiety, resignation, isolation, desperation, and sense of fragmentation of self as the disease progresses. We process with him the decision to will his body to science (Self-Portrait with Saw (1997)—not shown here). We observe, as he did, his progressive inability to organize space and balance, to align his own features or render them in appropriate proportion. And as the world he has known contracts around him, the haunted eyes look to the growing emptiness within while the backgrounds to his portraits become increasingly raw and spare in parallel with his relationships with others. Particularly heart-rending is his Erased Self Portrait (1999). Patricia describes her husband laboring over this painting for almost two years, applying paint to canvas and then erasing most of the image only to begin again. He just could not get it right, and he knew it. While he would not struggle with paint again, this portrait stands as an enduring metaphor for the plaques and tangles filling his brain, erasing the functional cells—and the memories. The final self-portrait, Head (August 2000), is an equally moving and evocative drawing on paper, representing perhaps William’s last existential cry for communication and understanding before entering the black hole of unknowable space and time. This month marks the centenary of Alois Alzheimer’s first description of the disease that bears his name. It is a fitting time to contemplate the enormity of the disease’s impact on individuals, families, and society. It is also a fitting time to celebrate the resilience of William Utermohlen’s creative spirit, to honor his artistic triumph over the disease eroding his brain. His legacy is eloquently summed up in the comments written by people who viewed his exhibit at the College of Physicians of Philadelphia in Spring 2006 when the Philadelphia native returned, at least in spirit, to his home town: “Beautiful portraits—the inner life appears more and more starkly—a brave adventurer.” “Of all the descriptions of the disease, this exhibit succinctly conveys the agony and decline of cognition.” “This is a remarkable document of unflinching courage and perseverance.… It is painful, moving, necessary.” “When we think that someone who has Alzheimer’s … has nothing left to give, something as powerful as this exhibit proves us wrong.” “Thank you for the insight—a God-given gift till the end/eternal!” Acknowledgments William Utermohlen resides in a nursing home in London, dependent on a sling lift for transfers, unable to feed himself or communicate with his surroundings. I wish to thank Patricia Utermohlen for the conversations we have shared about her husband, and Sandra J.G. Hobson, MAEd, LLD, OT Reg. (Ontario) for drawing my attention to William Utermohlen’s life and work. Rhonda L. Soricelli, MBBS

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