Welcome to Art for Oncologists.
It took 13 years to live through and two years to make. During that time, I have learned my fair share about all things oncology.
Imhotep described what is believed to be the first case of cancer, breast cancer in a man, in 2500 BC. As far as a recommended treatment, he offered only the chilling words, “There is none.”
Atossa, the queen of Persia, had the first radical mastectomy in 440 BC. 2,500 years later, this surgery is still being performed.
I now know why I should know the names Yellapragada Subbarao, Sidney Farber, Mary Lasker and Barnett Rosenberg.
The first patented animal was a mouse bred specifically to be susceptible to cancer. His name is OncoMouse and, yes, he has a ® after his name.
I think I know what the “HER-2/neu oncogene, human epidermal growth factor receptor no. 2” means.
Vinblastine was discovered by drinking tea.
5-FU helped save Shaine’s life, Cytoxan helped save Glenn’s life, Herceptin helped saved Hildur’s life and Gleevec flat out saved Aldo’s life.
MOPP is a chemotherapy regimen consisting of Mechlorethamine, Oncovin, Procarbazine and Prednisone. It is also an acronym used by the military meaning Mission Oriented Protective Posture, which is a type of safety gear used by military personnel during a chemical, biological, radiological or nuclear attack.
There was a movie about Herceptin starring Harry Connick Jr. as Dr. Dennis Slamon, the father of Herceptin. I learned crooners turned actors don’t make the best oncologists.
I also came to the conclusion that Gemzar sounds like a sibling of the Great Gazoo from the Flintstones.
I haven’t come across or used so many big-assed words since I wrote philosophy papers about Hegel back in the early 80s.
Can you say (SP-4-2)-diamminedichloroplatinum?
Can you use (SP-4-2)- diamminedichloroplatinum in a sentence?
Seriously, as a survivor of two cancers, working on this show was an emotional experience.
Duh.
Especially when I made stuff about chemotherapies that saved lives of friends of mine.
Double duh.
Call it enlightened self-interest, but I am fond of having my friends around.
Triple duh.
I guess you could call this show a celebration.
Long live oncologists!
Longer live their mice!
Longest live their patients!
And, yes, even long live their language filled with senseless and really long words.
Actually, despite all its (SP-4-2)-diamminedichloroplatinums and Bis-chloroethylnitrosoureas and BEACOPPs, ChlVPPs, DICEs, MAIDs, PEP-Cs, POMPs, TIPs, VAMPs and VIPs, the core of this language can be translated into a single word:
Hope.
Hope you like Art for Oncologists.
Even more, I hope it gives you a big dose of hope if you or someone you love is dealing with the disease that oncologists were put on this planet to deal with.
Love,
Riswold
BEVACIZUMAB
Napoleone Ferrara invented Bevacizumab with the help of a cow.
In 1989, he found that something in the bovine pituitary gland caused blood vessel cells to grow quicker than normal. He went on to isolate the gene and, like any good scientist, called it something nobody could pronounce: vascular endothelial growth factor or VEGF for short.
It led to an idea for a cancer drug based on a theory by Harvard’s Judah Folkman that had been floating around the cancer world since 1971, namely that since tumors need their own blood vessels to receive nourishment, choking those vessels could, in essence, starve tumors to death.
Ferrara reasoned that if he could block VEGF, then cancer cells would not be able to grow. So his colleagues at Genentech created a monoclonal antibody that would bind to VEGF and stop it from doing its job.
In 2004, 15 years after Ferrara’s discovery, the FDA approved Bevacizumab for combination use with standard chemotherapy for metastatic colon cancer.
A blockbuster was born.
It got a much catchier name: Avastin.
The cancer world, Genentech and Genentech shareholders thought they had a miracle drug on their hands.
(Never mind the first trials of Bevacizumab to treat late-stage breast cancer were complete failures and Genentech’s stock dropped 10% in one day.)
The word cure was bandied about. No less than Nobel laureate James Watson proclaimed that it would lead to the cure of cancer within two years.
The FDA quickly approved it for the treatment of boatloads of other cancers: non-small cell lung cancer in 2006, breast cancer in 2008, metastatic renal cell cancer in July 2009 and recurrent glioblastoma multiforme in May 2009.
Genentech tested in trials for even more boatloads of cancers.
Avastin became the best-selling cancer drug in the world.
It also became one of the most expensive, costing up to $100,000 a year for certain cancers.
But.
It hasn’t work as well as once hoped.
In 2011, after a lot of wrangling, the FDA went so far as to drop its approval of Bevacizumab to treat breast cancer, because while it slowed tumor progression, it did not prolong life or quality of life.
Recently, its efficacy in treating colon cancer and recurrent glioblastoma multiforme has been questioned.
Instead of a cure, Bevacizumab has become a hope and an expensive prayer.
2013 | Manufactured Sculpture | High-density Polyurethane | Resin | Automotive Paint | 15" x 15" x 5.5" | Edition of 5
DON QUIXOTE FIGHTS CANCER
Don Quixote hoped and dreamed big.
Don Quixote is my hero.
It is possible to score 356 points in Scrabble with “quixotic.”
I hope and dream of scoring 356 points in Scrabble with “quixotic.”
Don Quixote is dedicated to every patient of every oncologist ever. After all, as oncologist Siddhartha Mukherjee wrote in The Emperor of All Maladies, “The story of cancer . . . isn’t the story of doctors who struggle and survive, moving from one institution to another. It is the story of patients who struggle and survive, moving from one embankment of illness to another. Resilience, inventiveness, and survivorship—qualities often ascribed to great physicians—are reflected qualities, emanating first from those who struggle with illness and only then mirrored by those who treat them. If the history of medicine is told through the stories of doctors, it is because their contributions stand in place of the more substantive heroism of their patients.”
May they all score 356 points in Scrabble with “quixotic.”
2013 | Color Digital Print | Museo Silver Rag | 40" x 54" | Edition of 10
MON AMI, ONCOMOUSE
Philip Leder and Timothy Stewart are the parents of a mouse.
In 1984, Leder and Stewart created a genetically modified mouse to carry a specific oncogene that significantly increased the mouse’s susceptibility to cancer which, in turn, made the mouse more suitable for testing chemotherapies.
They named their mouse OncoMouse.
In 1988, Leder and Stewart successfully received a patent for their OncoMouse, making the mouse the first animal ever patented.
Exactly 70 years before the birth of OncoMouse, Dr. William Seaman Bainbridge wrote, “Throughout the centuries the sufferer from this disease [cancer] has been the subject of almost every conceivable form of experimentation. . . . Hardly any animal has escaped making its contribution, in hair or hide, tooth or toenail, thymus or thyroid, liver or spleen, in the vain search by man for a means of relief.”
A genetically modified mouse bred to get cancer is certainly no exception.
Thank you, OncoMouse®.
2013 | Color Digital Print | Museo Silver Rag | 10" x 60" | Edition of 10
THE FAIRY GODMOTHER OF MEDICAL RESEARCH
(PORTRAIT OF MARY LASKER)
Mary Lasker was the fairy godmother of medical research.
She was married to an advertising big shot named Albert Lasker. She bemused, “If a toothpaste . . . deserved advertising at the rate of two or three or four million dollars a year, then research against diseases maiming and crippling the people in the United States and in the rest of the world deserved hundreds of millions of dollars.”
She started the War on Cancer with Sidney Farber.
She also dared none other than Richard Fucking Nixon to cure cancer.
In an ad.
On December 9, 1969, President Nixon woke up to a full-page advertisement in the Washington Post that read:
Mr. Nixon: You can cure cancer.
If prayers are heard in Heaven, this prayer is heard the most:
“Dear God, please. Not cancer.”
Still, more than 318,000 Americans died of cancer last year.
This year, Mr. President, you have it in your power to begin to end this curse.
As you agonize over the Budget, we beg you to remember the agony of those 318,000 Americans. And their families.
We urge you to remember also that we spend more each day on military matters than each year on cancer research. And, last year, more than 21 times as much on space research as on cancer research. . . .
If you fail us, Mr. President, this will happen:
One in six Americans now alive, 34,000,000 people, will die of cancer unless new cures are found.
One in four Americans now alive, 51,000,000 people, will have cancer in the future.
We simply cannot afford this.
Nixon listened.
On December 23, 1971, he signed the National Cancer Act.
The War continues today.
This piece is dedicated to my friend Brian Druker. He’s the fairy godfather of medical research. He’s cancer’s cancer. He has won the Lasker~DeBakey Clinical Medical Research Award. All this makes it fairly obvious to whom a portrait of Mary Lasker as a fairy godmother wearing a FUCK CANCER button should be dedicated, don’t you think?
2013 | Color Digital Print | Museo Silver Rag | 30" x 36" | Edition of 10
RISWOLD’S OWIES (CANCER, PT. 2) // 01
I’ve done a lot of work involving owies.
I combined a Frida Kahlo doll with a Skilcraft Visible Woman™ model and a lot of type pointing out the trials and tribulations of Frida’s body and called it Frida’s Owies.
I combined an Andy Warhol doll with a Skilcraft Visible Man™ model and a lot of type pointing out the trials and tribulations of Andy’s body and called it Andy’s Owies.
My body has been through its fair share of owies over the past decade or so including, but not limited to, leukemia, idiopathic interstitial lung disease, a collapsed lung, more than a few rounds of pneumonia, E. coli, prostate cancer and a prostatectomy that, to say the least, did not go according to plan.
A number of friends suggested I do a self-portrait called Riswold’s Owies.
Much to my chagrin, there are no Jim Riswold dolls, the closest facsimile being Mr. Potato Head, to combine with a Skilcraft Visible Man™ model to make an acceptable Riswold’s Owies.
So I used my own body 10 days after the surgery that saved my life from the aforementioned prostatectomy that did not go according to plan. My body was a collection of unsightly bruises, staples, scars, tubes, bandages, catheters and piping hot bags of piss.
Ray Gordon photographed my body in all its brokenness. I could barely stand for two minutes at a time. The entire shoot lasted maybe 20 minutes. It was one of the most cathartic moments in my life. It’s me telling cancer to go fuck itself.
I like telling cancer to go fuck itself, but it does get wearisome.
And my mom doesn’t like all my fucking swearing.
2011 | B&W Digital Print | Museo Silver Rag | 40” x 60” | Edition of 10