Monday, November 27, 2006

This is Rich





This is Rich's story.

so there i was at glastonbury 2003; stone circle was full of festival love and we had just arrived to offer our hearts and minds to the beat of the drums.......had been drinking for a few hours at this point - if i told you i knew what i'd be lying, but some local cider seems likely - and jake, charlie, greg, anna and i were all happily dipping into the bag of drugs marked "do not open until glastonbury." rather high, i decided i needed to piss, so ran off to find a suitable spot. it's definately against the rules not to use one of the 10,000 port-a-loos provided, but at this stage of the game, it just wasn't happening. standing against the fencing, i noticed a sign above me with a large stick man doing just as i was, with the following words underneath: "please don't pollute the area." i realise now that getting so excited about a sign with a picture of a guy peeing is really not that special, but trust me. right then i had to have it. so i ran as fast as i could to the tent, grabbed a knife and made my way back to the sign. it was held by a thick plastic bond, and it took a while to get even a little bit through it. slicing as hard as i could, in classic "blade towards face motion" the bond finally broke and the knife continued straight down into my forehead. bleeding everywhere but delighted with my trophy i ran back to afore mentioned friends who couldn't begin to understand why i cared about the sign in the first place. anna cleaned up the gash with the first aid kit i thought one of my stupid friends would end up needing, and back to the festival we went......

And later:

Svea:
Right then, thanks for telling your story. One more thing: what's it like to have that scar? How do people react to it?

Rich:
it's amazing having the scar.

everybody wants to fuck me because i cut myself in the face.

i wish the above were true.



This is Rich's leg scar.






He cut his leg while running in a field. His friend was chasing him.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

This is Doug



Doug had his appendix removed. Waiting for his story.

This is Danielle



Danielle has a scar below her lip from having bitten it as a child. Her brother pushed her and she fell.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

This is Kristen





I'm waiting for Kristen's story.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

This is Dave




This is Dave's story. He was in a car-crash on the 401 about five years ago.


And this is Janna. They are a couple.



Friday, November 10, 2006

This is Rina

This is Rina's story.

My name is Rina and I have a scar on the left side of my abdoman. I got it from sliding down a tree when I was six, trying to impress my parents I screamed "look at me" and then lost my footing and slid. I tell people that I got it from a knife fight.

This is Christine

This is Christine's story.

I have a tattoo that is being removed surgically, it's a bit of a long story, but the short version is that a surgeon from cenral america was here visiting and took half of the tattoo off my right arm.. put a skin graft, and left the rest. It get's a lot of attention when I decide to wear sleevless shirts, or at clubs/bars, because of the type of scarring I have (keliod) it looks bumpy. people thinks it's tribal..

Well I hate it, but if it scares people from making poor desicions when they are 15, then some good comes out of it...

This is Margaret

This is Margaret's story.

I have a scar that is very similar [to Svea's] but rather longer and more worm-like - from exploratory surgery on my 21st birthday. Boy, did they explore! I am 53 now and quite used to it but I think it changed me forever to have a scar like that... It would be interesting [to have my photo taken]. I used to work as a model and actress, so I am used to photographers, although it's been many years. Not sure I want to identify with my scar by looking at it - have never considered it an art piece - to me it's abomination so I'm sure it would be a positive experience to look at it subjectively in another way.

Margaret hasn't come in to be photographed, but I'm still hoping she might. When I asked if I could post her story, this is what she said.

I would like to add the fact that it's been many years since I've felt comfortable about myself when it comes to having my photo taken because I have a secret that has taken away my looking at the camera - inside, in the deepest part of me, I feel scarred...is it the scar on my body or the scar in my heart that won't let me look at myself?

Thursday, November 09, 2006

This is Bahi

This is Bahi's story.

I have to take a deep breath and I feel overwhelmed as I think of my scars.

In the summer of 2004, I had a few painful ankle surgeries to treat OCD, Osteo Chondritis Dissecans in my right ankle. The cartilage around the Talus bone in my ankle has deteriorated resulting in bone and bone friction causing me pain. It all started in the summer of 2003 when I was at the church. I had an excruciating pain in my right ankle and was unable to put my foot on the ground. Since then, the problem became worse leading to this diagnosis. I struggled for a year with this problem. I wore only running shoes with ankle support to help me alleviate my pain. My ankle was swollen with physical activities like walking and standing.

In year 2004, I underwent the first surgery and the Orthopaedic Surgeon, found my condition was "Severe." Then I had to have additional 2 surgeries to remove the cyst that formed around my incision and then to treat the water seeping through the incision not allowing it to heal. It was a very hard and a painful period for me without any help and facing the 4 walls. I cried. I felt sorry for myself. It took 3 long months for me to overcome this difficult time.

One day as I sat in my family room facing the 4 walls having no way out to have fun, I decided to find fun even through this difficult time. I started to laugh at my life. I laughed when I crawled like a mammal to the washroom. I even wondered whether I was moving forward in the cycle of evolution, and thus came a new inspirational writing, "Marriage is the final solution for long suffering." My Orthopaedic Surgeon recommendation was to marry the 2 bones was the theme for my inspirational writing. I laughed. I laughed for the first time. I started to find humour in little things. I laughed at myself.

The humorous writing and the speech got many people’s attention leading to # 1 Humorous speech in the Region of Durham. My scars helped me find creativity to help me cope with my life seeing life in a different perspective. Scars are there to help us examine our lives and to heal ourselves. Sometimes it is not the actual scar that is painful, but the scars that we carry in our hearts for long time. What do you associate with your scars? Scars can be a catalyst for transformation. Believe me, it works.

The day before my surgery, my 2 years relationship ended and I no longer knew what I was grieving about. Was it from the pain from the surgery or the failed relationship? I blamed it on the ankle for failed relationship, which at that time I considered valuable and helped me to live in denial for a short period of time. Scars can tell you a story. Scars have feelings. They are often an unspoken pain that is buried underneath the skin.

It is time for you to identify your scar, tell the story, heal yourself and celebrate their uniqueness. No two scars look the same but every scar has a story. Everyone carries a SCAR, some are visible and others aren’t. Some can tell their stories and others don't know how to.
Searching for the meaning of that scar in your life, making it through and becoming the “STAR” is all life is about. I have scars and you just heard the story of one.

Will you share your scars? Love and Hugs from

Bahi Krishnakhanthan
www.bahikrishnakhanthan.com

Monday, November 06, 2006

This is Miranda



This is Miranda's story.

I got this scar from a rusty nail sticking horizontally off of my house, one day, when I got locked out of the house. I got it a couple of years ago, when I was about 16 years old, in my home town in Alberta. Being locked out of my house, with my arm bleeding, I quickly ran to my neighbours house, where it got bandaged up.
In high school, my friends thought it would be really funny to draw on my scar. By adding eyes, ears, and a mouth around a long nose, or even into a *ahem* penis...it's just as funny to reminisce about it now.
In this picture, the scar has healed to the point where I don't think it will heal anymore. I was probably supposed to get stitches, but I didn't and I guess it didn't heal properly (picking scars isn't very good for it either).
I love adventure, and every scar is like a trophy I carry with me for the rest of my life.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

This is Eli

This is Emily






This is Emily's story.


My scar seems like it has always been a part of me, but if I really think back I can remember a time when what was there in its place was a circular brown birthmark that my mother called my "chocolada." I remember feeling shy about it and not understanding why it had to be removed surgically, at the age of ten. It was removed because it posed a cancer risk. My scar reminds me of the fear, confusion and vulnerability I felt being anesthetized. It used to be a source of shame; a mark of imperfection. It looked rough, like it belonged on a pirate's arm. I used to lie saying it was a result of a skating accident involving a blade. I made it into something impressive to hide my insecurity about it. As I grew inside, my scar grew organically with me. It stretched out like a canvas across the architecture of my mature elbow and arm bones. Through a long inner journey I began to accept myself and embrace the beauty of my imperfections. My scar looks completely different from this new lens. The insecurity and vulnerability has turned into a resistance, beauty and acceptance. This is how it feels in my skin.

This is Jonathon



This is Jonathon's story.


This scar is from a hernia operation 5 years ago. It bothers me, both physically and emotionally...let me explain how. Physically the scar tissue itself hurts to the touch. I have a rare side effect of my surgery known as Post Hernia Pain Syndrome. Both the outer scar and the muscles underneath burn when I've been exerting. Days where I've been on my feet a lot, which are most as I love to walk, will often leave me feeling a pinch there. Sometimes this has been worse, occasionally to the point of not even being able to stand. Emotionally it is a constant reminder of weakness. I remember the trauma of the surgery that caused it, feeling like I couldn't survive another minute on the operating table. Feeling violated by the pushing and pulling as they so eloquently coin the sensation. I got the hernia during a karate class - something that has always been a passion of mine and now will never be an activity I can participate in the way I used to. Sexually, there was a while where I would feel great pain there afterwards, again a slap in the face making me feel weak and less than desirable. Ultimately I've been braving the pain which is less and less by the month, but I won't truly feel complete again until the remnants of the scar are completely gone.

Jonathan Robbins - actor

And this is what he said later: Those images are pretty fantastic. I wish the scar was more prominent, but I guess that's a benefit of doing this project for me - it helps me see how I perceive it much stronger than it actually is. That's a very wonderful thing about the camera - though it distorts and highlights based on the lens and settings, ultimately it does tell the truth, or some vision of it. And it reminds us how our own vision is just one, that doesn't necessarily have anything to do with the way others will see us.

This is Shara








This is Shara's story.

I have one hell of a scar on my back... When I was younger, around age 15 if I remember right! - I had bad scoliosis and wore a brace for a couple years, and when that didn't help my doctor decided to implant a Harrington rod near my spine and also fused some vertebrae (standard cure at that point for this problem). I heard all sorts of horror stories about what my life would be like after the surgery, but I have recovered well.

Often I have to sometimes be reminded there is an actual scar there. Obviously I can't see it all the time unless I really aim to -- if I wear certain shirts, people can see it and actually often will touch it, look concerned, and ask "what happened!" and "does it hurt?", quite a bit. The truth is, I think of my entire back/spine as a disaster area... I am disfigured by both the disease and the cure. When I see people with "normal", non-disfigured backs I get reminded I am all assymetrical and weird. I do like the scar itself in terms of...a conversation piece.

I also liked what you [Svea] said, in reference to your own scar, that it is actually a sign of your parents love for you (I feel the same about mine, actually, they could have said no to my risky surgery!), your personal endurance, and your body's ability to heal. That is quite beautiful.

This is Jeff






This is Jeff's story.

Jeff's wrist was crushed in a skiing accident. To repair it the doctors took bone grafts from his hip and inserted them into the joint; there is now an indent in his wrist, which he describes as 'geographical.'


This is Jeff's X-ray.





This is Jeff's hip.


This is Kevin







Kevin was in a car accident as an early teen. His spleen burst not long afterwards and he underwent an emergency operation. The doctors cut around his belly-button and inserted a tube just to the left of it.

This is Miguel



This is Miguel's story.

scar on my elbow. tried to run from one end of a balance beam to the other with my eyes closed in the first grade. reached the end and didn't know when to stop. broke my arm. shaped like a fishbone.

This is Nicole





This is Nicole's story.

I was washing the dishes when I was twelve or thirteen, when a glass
shattered. The cut it made between my knuckles on my right hand was
pretty deep but because of the hot water, I didn't notice it until
several minutes later. It seems strange to me now that such a banal,
forgettable incident has left a permanent mark on my body.

This is Tamara




This is Tamara's story.

shortly after i was first born, i became unable to hold down milk or water or nourishment of any kind. i would throw it all up, literally puking the milk or water across the room (what doctors call 'projectile vomiting') shortly after i was fed. my small town family doctor couldn't figure out what was wrong but was worried that i would get very ill or even die from not being able to digest any food.
Eventually he contacted another doctor who suggested that it might be a rare condition, which normally occurs in caucasian males, called hypertrophic pyloric stenosis or HPA. in HPA, there is a thickening of the pyloric muscle below the stomach that makes it difficult or impossible for food to pass through - doctors call the thickened pyloric muscle the 'pyloric olive.' the treatment for this is a pyloromyotomy - a surgical procedure where an incision is made in the pyloric olive to allow food to pass through.
I had my surgery at sickkids in toronto, about 2 hours from my home town - it was a success! of course i don't remember any of this; all that remains is a large scar above my belly button that has grown along with me my entire life. i have never thought of it as ugly or abnormal, it has always been there, a part of me. people that have seen it have always thought it was neat. i remember getting my belly button pierced when i was 16, and the technician thought my scar was so cool - but i had honestly forgotten it was even there!
As an adult, i have quite a few digestive problems, and interestingly i cannot throw up at all now, even at my sickest! my scar can also be sensitive at times, especially if my stomach is upset. but all of this is part of me - and the more i learn about my own body the more i learn about who i am...

This is Sandra

Sanda Jeppeson (of the critically aclaimed novel, Kiss Painting -- see http://www.nowtoronto.com/issues/2003-08-28/books_reviews.php ) has just let me know that she is planning to write a piece about this photograph. She is working on a collective 'narrative corpse' to be presented at the May 2007 'Women Writing Reading' Conference in Edmonton (http://www.crcstudio.arts.ualberta.ca/wwr_conference/). I can't wait to see what comes out of it.

This is Omar



This is Omar's story.

Synchronized Stripes

When I was 6 years old, my cousin Hanif and I would walk our bikes up Hickory Court – the steepest hill in our housing complex – and then we'd race down to the bottom, coasting until Hickory Court meets Garden Grove Drive – the main thoroughfare in our complex – at a T-junction. I lived on Garden Grove Drive just a few houses away from the T-junction, and Hanif lived just off of it in a cul-de-sac. The race was a daily ritual of the summer, but after I got my scar (and no more than a scar thanks to an esoteric telegram sent to a military man who acts on these things) the ritual was forbidden. Allen drove a white Volkswagon Beetle and he worked full-time for the complex doing maintenance. When he was put in charge of our communal gym, I happened to be old enough to enter the gym. When he was put in charge of booking the social hall, my friends happened to start having birthday parties there that I attended, and when he was made lifeguard at our swimming pool, I happened to be ready to take swimming lessons. The neighborhood liked him and he was trusted in our complex, which he had called home since he arrived there six years ago in 1978, the same year that I happened to arrive there to set in motion the synchrony of our lives that would give me my red stripe and give him his. Allen was driving down Garden Grove Drive and because our movements were synchronized, we arrived at the T-junction at exactly the same moment in time. I remember the collision in slow motion: The lower part of his Beetle lifted me up off the ground as I slid into his windshield. Once through his windshield, both me and my blue and red banana-seated bike with white-rimmed wheels that was a hand-me-down from the early 1970’s slammed into Allen’s face with such a well synchronized impact that it gave him his broken nose at the exact moment it gave me my cut that would become my scar – marking us both with red-stripe-for-life. I was then pushed out of the car, greeted one more time by the hood of Allen’s Beetle and was sent on my way to the road after I decorated his white hood with a vertical red stripe that continued onto the dark pavement that perfectly matched the one pouring from his nose to his stomach on his white shirt expanding onto his dark pants. I landed about ten feet from the car in an expanding pool of my own blood, leaking out of what is know the scar on the right side of my face. Allen was in his own pool on the driver’s seat. Red on black and red on white for both of us totally synchronized. Hanif - in shock and in tears - ran home to tell his mother – whom I called Aunty – what happened and my older sister, Nafysa, who was getting ready for her soccer practice – it was a nice sunny day – somehow knew that the loud noise outside was her brother. Nafysa and mom, along with Hanif and Aunty showed up beside my body and I saw everything from above in serenity. I saw a white truck with red stripes on it and out of it came uniformed people that were doing something choreographed, I saw my bent bike on the pavement in front of a red-striped white Beetle missing a windshield, I saw my body lying down on the road dressed in my favorite jeans and red plaid shirt that I hoped could be salvaged despite the rips, surrounded by a red circle with my face in the middle of it while a group of people wearing white house-shirts made a circle around the circle standing equidistant as they covered their mouths at the exact same time, while my mother cried; I saw all of the homes in our complex and I saw the streets and telephone poles and the trees and the sky and I was getting away. But while I was above, somebody up there with me told me to get back down to my body immediately. He said "Go back down now! Don't you even think about leaving! You have a lot to get done before you come here, kid!" So I obeyed and went back down to my sleeping body in the middle of a double circle and dressed in my favorite outfit that I still hoped to wear at school the next day despite the fact that it was blood soaked, torn and cut up with uniformed-people’s scissors. In a coma now, I was driven in the white truck with red stripes on it to the nearest hospital to be operated on. My father was waiting at the hospital and he sat to pray for me in the waiting room as the mission to put me back together started – aside from the gash on my face, I had broken a few bones too, just like Allen who had broken a few ribs. During his prayer, my father received an inner telegram that the surgeon working on his son had forgotten something crucial and that I was in danger. He trusted what he felt and being the military-man that he is – he served in the army for two years – he acted on it. My father burst into the operating room and grabbed the surgeon, who was a nervous wreck, by the back of his lapel and guided him out of the room, telling him that he was not to operate on the kid under any circumstances. The surgeon turned pale although he had red stripes all over his white coat and he said to my dad, "Sir, you are right. I am an intern and I don't know why they staffed me on your kid. I wish they hadn’t done that because I am not qualified for this job and I don’t know what to do." Within minutes, a neuro-surgeon was helicoptered-in (the third white vehicle with at least one white stripe on it that I was involved with that day) to look at me and discovered that the intern had neglected to stitch the nerves back together in my face, before he impatiently stitched the skin. The neuro-surgeon was an elderly man with no hair on his white head – not even a strip; he arrived at 3pm and re-operated on me until midnight. Had my dad not acted on his own intuition – the esoteric telegram – I would have the right side of my face paralyzed today in addition to the stripe on my cheek that I have today. I was out of the hospital in ten days. Allen was in the hospital too for his broken nose and ribs, but we never saw him again after that; he left the neighborhood never to return because our meeting gave him a stripe in his head, and it finished our synchronicity. A decade later, at a restaurant with my parents, I got up to use the washroom. As I stood at the sink and looked in the mirror of the dimly lit room, synchronicity started again because an elderly man without a stripe on his head who stood to my right turned to look at the scar on my face and asked me to tilt my head to the left so that he could get a better look at it. "It healed up pretty good,” he said. “I've forgotten your name, but I'm sure glad the helicopter was ready for me when I got your call. Please stop racing your bike."

© Omar Lalani, 2006

Invitation; About the Project

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