Sheila Benedis – poet and artist. A Celebration of Life
The Poem below is presented by Russell Evans, Associate Lecturer from the School of Society and Culture:
Sheila Benedis is an artist and poet living in Westchester, New York. Sheila was born in the midst of the Great Depression in the early 1930s to a middle class home in New York, a quiet and observant child. But she knew she was different growing up. She found noisy environments difficult and making friends impossible. She tells how she struggled with people, how to relate to them, in her ‘archive of miscommunication.’
Sheila studied mathematics and art in the mid 1950s in Massachusetts and soon found her own language in colour, shape, and sculpture and became a successful artist, specialising in making her own paper for richly colourful artist’s books. But throughout the decades Sheila struggled with interpersonal relations and some sensory issues, and simply believed there was something wrong with her.
But this changed when she was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome much later in life. Everything started to make sense and she joined other newly-diagnosed adults to share their experiences. Sheila now celebrates her own unique approach to life as an older person with Asperger’s – creating work in art and poetry which leaves her mark on the world in her own way. She truly found her voice.
In the two poems here she describes her life. The first is about her childhood, written in a Japanese form known as haibun, which uses a short piece of prose text followed by a haiku-style section; the second is a poem about her Asperger’s. See her work here: https://bluedoorartcenter.org/portfolios/sheila-benedis
Needlepoint
Sheila Benedis
My family led a comfortable life materially. My father was a lawyer and my mother a teacher; however they lacked cultural interests. They were consumed with making a living and did not introduce me to art or music. They had a different set of values. I deeply felt the lack of culture. I was not allowed to go to concerts. There was no opportunity for creative expression. I felt tension in the marriage. I hardly knew my father. He was there, but not for me. My mother wanted a social butterfly for a child, but I had Aspergers. She couldn’t understand my being a top student and lacking social skills, which she felt was much easier. I felt rejection, a lack of love. I felt it very deeply. It affected my whole life. I had difficulty forming friendships. Those I made; inevitably I lost. I didn’t have art or poetry to relieve the stress. There was no balance in my life. Aspergers took over before I came out of the darkness into the light. Loneliness resonated throughout my life.
My mother was from a poor immigrant family. They Struggled. They bought a building in Hicksville, Long Island on the main street and ran a dry goods store. Above the store was their simple apartment. Her father died young, leaving his uneducated wife to fulfil his dream. Grandma was left to run the dry goods store and sent the three children to college. They would have professions, so they could step up in the world. Her brothers became a dentist and a lawyer. They opened their offices in the front rooms of the apartment and made a lot of money in real estate. My mother, the eldest, graduated Cum Laude, Phi Beta Kappa. She majored in mathematics and became a teacher. She was desperate to get married and she finally found an attorney to marry in Connecticut. She dreaded having to leave her beloved mother, but aspired to a better life. My father bought a house, where my family lived. She detested it since it was too close to the street, a sign of lower prestige. Her grandfather gave her sterling silver flatware. She furnished the unwanted house with Louis XIV furniture and eggplant carpeting to add to the prestige; however she never read a book in this new life. The only person she ever truly loved was her mother. She produced a solitary needlepoint for this new life, a supposed sign of culture. It hung on the wall forever, never mentioned. No sign of art or culture ever appeared in my life. The needlepoint led a lonely existence. I became the needlepoint.
Needlepoint hanging on the wall,
Passed by, but
Never noticed,
Never mentioned,
Led a lonely existence
Asperger’s
(Erasure poem from ‘Letting the Emptiness Become My Government’ by Marcus Jackson)
A slow April rain
Blurring and nurturing a landscape
For Decades I’ve been pipe-dreaming
of finding a life
while compiling
An archive of miscommunication
Many disgraces
Promises to evict the misgivings
Emptiness became my friend
Eventually my hopeful face survived