10 • Introduction to Art Therapy
Endings in all therapy, including art therapy, are poignant times, full of the potential
for growth that comes with managing a successful separation after a profound attachment.
Lori’s mother, Mrs. Lord, left some of her artwork with me as a transitional object and for
me to remember her; she also took art classes as a way of continuing our work on her own.
Lori was even more open about how hard it was to give up her special times with me and
with Dr. Mann, to both of whom she had become quite attached. But saying goodbye is one
of life’s Necessary Losses (Viorst, 1986). In art therapy, as in any kind of therapy, it is a pow-
erful experience that, regardless of the length of treatment, is best done when prepared for
openly and with the participation of the patient.
Lori’s Last Session Lori began by reminding me that it was her last session, announcing
that she intended to use some of everything in the playroom. After she accidentally spilled
some paint, she played at being a bossy mother while we both sponged it up, saying “Do
what I say! Don’t step in this while it’s wet!” Then Lori said that she didn’t want to “make
believe” that day.
She wondered if I had hidden the ice pick we had used to open clogged holes in paint
shakers. When she found it in its usual place, Lori mimed stabbing me with it, saying that
she wasn’t really going to kill me but was only making believe.
Looking at her reflection in the mirror as she often did, Lori proceeded to put on soap
crayon “makeup” (C). This time she commanded me not to watch, threatening abandon-
ment if I disobeyed. “If you look, I’m goin’ out the door!” When I wondered if she would
rather go out the door herself on her last day than have me tell her it was time to leave, she
nodded and said: “I know this is the last day, and I’ll cry, and I said I’ll miss you and Dr.
Mann. I’m gonna leave here, and I’m gonna drive my own car, and leave my mommy. But I
might lost myself. Then I might walk at your place cryin’, ‘I lost myself!’”
Lori then wondered if I might buy her play clothes for her birthday, and if we could
exchange telephone numbers. She painted a huge, sloppy painting, and earnestly delivered
her farewell address into the microphone of the small tape recorder we used for stories about
Figure 1.8 “A Sad Girl” by Lori.