Taking time to paint in Cornwall, UK
Ashley Cooper/Alamy
Russell stood with his hand on the door wondering if he should go in. It just wasn’t his scene. He was only here because his doctor had told him to come.
It started with a stroke. He had been walking home from work when the blood supply to the base of his brain was blocked and the world turned sideways. He had to learn to walk again, to talk. There had been months of lying in bed staring at the ceiling and panicking about his future. His back had hurt so much that he couldn’t sit up straight. He had lost his job, his relationship with his partner fell apart, he couldn’t play with his son anymore, he put on weight, he couldn’t sleep. When he slept, his breathing stopped, so he had to wear a mask over his head at night, blowing air into his lungs to keep his airways open. His doctors prescribed dozens of pills, but new problems kept accumulating. He felt himself descending into depression.
When his doctor first prescribed eight weeks of art classes, Russell thought for a moment it was some kind of joke. How would art help? But he didn’t feel like he had anything to lose anymore, so he opened the door.
The first class was not as bad as he had expected. He didn’t paint, he just watched the others in the class. But somehow, just being around the paints, the colors and the calming atmosphere had an effect, and on the way home he noticed that his breathing was slower and deeper and he felt a little calmer than he had been going in. The next week wasn’t as terrifying. He recognized some of the other people. Again, he did no art. But that night he couldn’t sleep, so he sneaked outside and sat in the shed in the garden and drew little caricatures of the people in the art group. In the third grade he picked up a paintbrush. Russell still isn’t sure how things escalated so quickly after that, but a few weeks later he found himself standing in front of the art group to announce an idea he’d had: to paint portraits of them all.
I first met Russell at 6am in the basement cafeteria of a Premier Inn in Manchester. We were both waiting to go on TV too BBC breakfast news show to talk about a new proposal to roll “prescription art” across the national health system. Over cups of instant coffee, I tried to grasp the magnitude of the experience he was telling me about.
At the next checkup, Russell explained, the doctor was pleased with his progress. His mood had improved and his pain level was lower. Even his blood pressure was better. Art class gave structure to his week and he looked forward to it. At the subsequent check-up they started to assess his medication, the doctor didn’t feel he needed that many. His sleep was also better.
As his portraits neared completion, Russell approached the Museum of Gloucester to ask if they would allow him to host an exhibition of the paintings in their cafe. He called the exhibition “We’re All Mad Here”. His classmates and doctor were among those who attended. He got his first commission soon after – a nurse who had come to the exhibition wanted him to paint her children. That was just the beginning.
In the decade since, Russell Haines has exhibited his artwork across the UK, from Gloucester Cathedral to the Tower of London. His pieces sell for thousands of pounds (if you can get your hands on one fast enough). He has led his own classes back in the community as well, and his doctor has referred several patients to him. He is not taking any pills at the moment. He hasn’t even had to see his doctor in over a year.
I asked him, “How much of a difference do you think these art classes actually made for you? How much of an impact are we talking about?”
He didn’t miss a beat.
“They saved my life.”
This is an excerpt from Daisy Fancourt’s Art Cure: The Science of How Art Transforms Our Health (Cornerstone Press), read March for the New Scientist Book Club. Register to read with us here
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