
Ron is a natural performer. At our first group meeting he introduced himself by walking across the room theatrically, lighting up the entire space with his presence. Pat prefers to be out of the spotlight. She has made sets, props, and costumes for various community theatre productions that the pair have been involved in over the years. Her quiet yet strong demeanor has lent itself best to working behind the scenes. Ron was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2015. He stopped acting in community theatre when he started forgetting his lines.
One production that had a lasting impact on them both was, My Fair Lady. One visit, we pulled up a recording of “Wouldn’t It Be Lovely,” from the aforementioned musical. Ron rose to his feet and belted out “Wouldn’t it be looooovely…” in a striking baritone. This moment shaped the course of our work together.
Finding pre-existing creative threads was a consistent element in this project. We tried not to introduce new or unfamiliar ways of working and instead encouraged new ways of engaging with the familiar. Pat came into the project, as many did, assuming that everyone would learn how to paint. While painting was familiar and resonant for some, others had different creative threads to pursue.
We later met in Pat’s lush flower garden in the height of summer. Ron seemed unfazed by the July heat, donning a wool jacket and wig from his collection of costumes. With cameras rolling, we tried to recreate the moment of spontaneous song from a few months prior. Ron whistled and hummed along to the recording, stopping frequently to check in. “Was that any good?” “Did we get it?” Then, for a moment, he fell into song, “Lovely, Lov-e-lyyyyy.” While we didn’t recreate the moment, we captured another — one that showed Ron in his element, reminding us of the capacity that music has to connect us with the present moment and to each other.
At a later meeting, Pat left the room with Alana to record a monologue she had written, a text imagining Ron’s perspective of forgetting. Pat had initially hoped that Ron would read the monologue but as his dementia progressed and this became less feasible, she decided to read it herself.
Ron and I sat with my then four-month-old daughter, arranging small pieces of coloured mat-board that Alana had prepared on a solid background. Over half an hour or so we developed a game. One person would make a ‘move’ by placing a piece or pieces on the background. Then the other person made their move by adding, subtracting, or moving the pieces around. There were no rules, just this loose structure; a conversation without words, guided by internal impulse and aesthetic sensibility. The game is reminiscent of one I would play with my father as a child using items on the table while we were waiting for food to arrive at a restaurant. We used to call it Abstract Dominos and it would keep my child-self occupied for many hungry minutes.
Sitting with Ron, the game captivated the three of us for some time. The results were quite striking—abstract arrangements reminiscent of the work of painter Piet Mondrian. Pat took the pieces home and played the game again with Ron when they both felt up for it. She glued some arrangements down while others were left un-fastened as ephemeral collages.
“One night I couldn’t sleep so I got up and started typing… and I just came up with that monologue, out of nowhere.”
– Pat Walton



