There was a remarkable article in the New York Times late last year. The story caught my eye because it linked two subjects with which I have a lot of experience but that I thought were mutually exclusive: the visual arts and mental illness. My beloved Aunt had dementia and my uncle, her brother, had Alzheimer's. They got these diseases, however, late in life, as did my father and the woman I currently guardian, both of whom had severe short-term memory loss. But my mother slid into mental illness when she was in her early fifties.

Author Randy Kennedy, in the October 30, 2005 edition of the New York Times, reported that Alzheimer's patients displayed no anxiety while visiting a Picasso exhibit at New York's Museum of Modern Art. He said that they did not quarrel and neither did they "repeat themselves or lose the thread of the discussion" when they were grouped together to discuss a particular painting. Mr. Kennedy quoted a patient of 88 years as saying of Picasso's Girl Before a Mirror: "It's like he's trying to tell a story using words that don't exist. He knows what he means, but we don't." His sentiment echoes the plight of those suffering the mental onslaught of disorder that is dementia and Alzheimer's.

The article asserted that the positive effects of the gallery tours on the mood of participants lasted from a few hours to days. Mr. Kennedy also wrote that previously withdrawn patients were often more articulate during tours than normal, and more communicative afterwards. "If you met these people back where they lived on an ordinary day, you simply would not see them being this articulate and this assured," John Zeisel is quoted as saying. He is the president of Hearthstone, the company who co-conceived the museum visit program with Francesca Rosenberg of the Museum of Modern Art's director of community and access programs.

I have read every book written by Dr. Oliver Sacks. I am a devoted fan of this fine man who treats patients living with extraordinary symptoms. He sees right through the most debilitating of disorders; he sees and speaks to the soul of his patients. He treats people, not the disease and in many of his treatments, art therapy plays a significant role. In many case studies he shares with his readers, patients of disorders that take away important skills or abilities are often compensated by gifts of artistic genius. "Idiot/savantism" is a fairly well known such phenomenon.

Mr. Kennedy's article quotes Dr. Sacks: "I have often seen quite demented patients recognize and respond vividly to paintings and delight in painting at a time when they are scarcely responsive to words and disoriented…. I think that recognition of visual art can be very deep."

When my Aunt became ill, I read all I could about dementia and discovered that one form of it, frontotemporal dementia, can gift its victims with a rapid-onset of creative skill, an awareness of the talent and a strong drive to use it. These changes are noted by family members of patients who can confirm that there was no pre-existing creative voice. When I read this, I remembered reading that Willem de Kooning became increasingly prolific as Alzheimer's overtook his mind. And I thought of the Vincent van Gogh portraits that almost trace the artist's progression into depression and mania.

Using art as a therapeutic tool has been around for a long time—largely in the form of drawing, painting or making music. Looking at art and discussing it is a relatively new phenomena, as is the partnering of art galleries and mental health care providers. There is a lot of evidence about the value of music as a therapy; perhaps the initiatives of galleries like the Modern and the Fine Arts Museum in Boston that are offering tours to patients of mental illness may yield valuable insights into new treatments that prove the value of visual art as a therapeutic tool. Dr. Bruce L. Miller is the clinical director of the Memory and Aging Center at the University of California, San Francisco. He is quoted in the Times article as saying: "… even sitting and looking at art is much more active than most people assume, and such activity could have positive effects on damaged brains."

Scientists theorize that the creative centre of our brain is less vulnerable to the ravages of mental illness than are our cognitive centres. Our creative centre may lie in an area of the brain that manages "procedural memory" where the knowledge of how to do basic routine skills is stored. It is procedural memory that makes certain skills seem "easy as riding a bicycle;" they are "unforgettable" in the true sense of the word.

An important point made in the article is that these programs focus their tours on representational art. Relatively recognizable and accessible subjects are found to be better at evoking dialogue from patients; they spark memories and stories. However, as the response of the 88 year-old man quoted above attests, it is an abstracted reality that so moved him. What he saw looked like how he felt. He felt understood and sometimes there is no better feeling for a patient.

My mother's illness came on when I was very young and she was institutionalized most of the time we shared together. I remember one time when she was trying to tell me something to do at home that I had already done. When I heard a key word, I interrupted saying, "Yea, yea, I've done it already." But she kept trying to tell me what to do and I wanted to leave. I kept interrupting, "I've done it already!" But on she went. Then I realized that her need was to complete her thought, finish her sentence, not really to tell me what to do. She wanted to communicate with her son, continue to be my mother, to care for me and I wasn't listening. Once I understood, I listened with patient ears until she got it all out. Then I said, "I'll do that Mom."

My experiences with my family members had me wish I had read this article several years ago.