A longtime fixture in the Twin Cities theater scene, having worked at the Ordway and the Guthrie, Jennifer LeGrand Reiter made a career shift more than a decade ago, one that matched a shift in her personal life: her daughter was diagnosed with autism. As a disability advocate and a graduate of Partners in Policymaking, an innovative leadership training program created by the Minnesota Governor’s Council on Developmental Disabilities, one of her passions has been helping to develop sensory-friendly arts events—including here at the Walker, where she served on the community advisory group that helped create Sensory Friendly Sunday. In light of these experiences, we invited her to share a personal reflection on the power of art as an expressive tool for her daughter; the need for the right training, tools, and pacing to better welcome visitors with sensory processing differences; and the monthly art event that has quickly become a regular on the Reiter family calendar.
As long as I can remember the arts offered me a way to navigate the world or to express myself when my own path seemed just out of focus. A painting, a poem, a piece of music, or a film were my clearer road in the murkier parts of my life journey. That clearer road was the first place I sought out when my daughter was diagnosed with autism 10 years ago.
She struggled with language, motor, and social skills, among other things. I knew from my own experience that every art form could be a potential source of communication for her—a tool she might use, in her own way and own time, to either create something original of her own or borrow lyrics or pictures made by others to express herself in a way that typical brains could better understand her. We created a miniature art studio in our dining room, paints, crayons, clay, music, and films at ready. In no time, my daughter could pass hours joyfully painting, singing, and dancing. We found we could discover her favorite foods in paintings, her mood in certain song lyrics, and deeper conversation with her via film dialogue.
We say art was the original language she spoke when her own words couldn’t manifest themselves in typical ways. I searched throughout the Twin Cities metro for art classes that would be open to making accommodations for her. While a few places were willing to try, nothing ever worked well. Most of the instructors we encountered had little experience with people with disabilities, and other participants in these class had little patience for the unique ways my daughter navigated class: singing her answers (song comes far more effortlessly for her than typical speech), repeatedly taking breaks to escape the hum of fluorescent lights that are like screaming sirens to her. She was also confused by the multitude of unspoken social norms and the seemingly endless (if well intentioned) corrections by her peers. It was an isolating and frustrating experience.
My daughter reacted by refusing to attend classes where she understood she didn’t fit, saying she just wanted to stay home. Home is a haven of predictability, safety, and acceptance. It was hard for me to have my curious, smart, creative daughter not feel welcomed in the world. I began continuously calling arts organizations and asking about sensory-friendly opportunities. I kept hearing that it was a foreign idea for organizations, but one they were trying to figure out.
Progress came slowly, but over the last decade many opportunities have become regular happenings in the Twin Cities. A few of these I consider head starts: policies where organizations open 45 to 90 minutes early to give people with disabilities a bit of time to beat the crowds and settle into a space. It is a balancing act for arts organizations to find ways to make these opportunities work for their needs and needs of attendees.
These head-start events are helpful, but it wasn’t until my daughter started attending the Walker’s Sensory Friendly Sunday that I fully understood how more organizations need to follow their lead in removing barriers so people with disabilities can have an immersive experience. It can take my daughter 30 to 40 minutes just to get into the lobby due to her auditory and visual sensitivities; navigating a new, large space is like an ant trying to carry a turtle up a hill—slow and requiring serious creative problem solving. In most sensory-friendly opportunities, this can make up the majority of the event time, yet at the Walker that meant we still have two glorious hours to enjoy all the wonders of the museum.
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Sensory Friendly Sunday, November 2018. Photo: Galen Fletcher
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Sensory Friendly Sunday, November 2018. Photo: Galen Fletcher
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Sensory Friendly Sunday, November 2018. Photo: Galen Fletcher
Once my daughter made it down to the Art Lab she had discovered her own personal Narnia. In a room full of new people, she took directions from the resident artists and made a collage inspired by a current exhibition. She sat side by side with people from across generations (it is important to note the need for accommodations is lifelong for some people) and with a variety of abilities amid the gorgeous symphony of sounds familiar to people traveling this journey: the hum of electric wheelchairs; clear, strong voices of assistive technology; the jingle of fidgets; the whoops or whispers of discovery—everyone free from unspoken social norms and reveling in the delicious ability to express themselves in the ways they are most comfortable, without judgement.
I witnessed my daughter let go of her inhibitions and set off to explore the galleries to compare her art to that found in the museum, get swept away in each piece, to find what captured her imagination and what she didn’t connect with (having time to find what doesn’t interest you is just as important as figuring out what does). Such exploration time is especially important for my daughter as it can sometimes take longer for her to process information. She engaged in a conversation with a gallery educator about how cultures view art differently and about what is considered art in our country. It was a 15- to 20-minute conversation—if slightly atypical in spots—with a person new to my daughter, where she could share some of herself willingly, outside her comfort circle, and could tell there was genuine interest in her ideas. This is a rare occurrence for her.
In the next gallery, when the siren call came—an art piece begging to be touched—a friendly staff member materialized and said, “We need to keep our hands off this piece of art because it is so delicate. If you follow me, there is a really interesting piece you can put your hands on.” No shaming, just encouragement, concise explanation, impressive redirection, and a perfect reason to head to the next gallery. We explored every gallery and enjoyed at least 10 viewings of a short film about glass blowing. The experience electrifies her because the lights are dimmed and guests are limited, so she can settle into the experience without fighting with her sensory system. And the impact lasts long after she gets home. Her expressive language gets clearer after a visit to the Sensory Sunday, she investigates artists on YouTube, and she explores new ideas about how she wants to create her art.
The second Sunday of every month she has a found a scale much larger than our dining room table to explore her voice and art. The sensory modifications mean she strides in with confidence to the Art Lab and starts chatting with the artist about the project before I can even catch up to her. And when a piece of art or film moves her to stand up and burst into song, everyone accepts her in all her unique—and sometimes loud—glory. She has mandated that it is a permanent fixture on our calendar. In these times, finding a place of art and acceptance seems vital to keeping our community inclusive and thriving.
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