The Land of the Invisible

(October 2017)

When I first began working with Nicole Stott on The Space Suit Art Project, I felt as if the universe had handed me a sacred assignment. Nicole had given me four art boxes to take to children’s hospitals — each one a small vessel of color, hope, and cosmic imagination.

At that time, my connections were mostly with schools, not hospitals. But I knew this mission was different — delicate, purposeful, and deeply human. I wanted to choose each location with intention.

In Baltimore, I selected Johns Hopkins Hospital, where my father-in-law had been treated for melanoma. It felt right to begin there — a full circle of gratitude.

In Bosnia, I reached out to my dear friend, Edina Seleskovic, who always finds ways to blend art and empathy in her community. Edina has been part of my projects from the very beginning. Thanks to her, I first began working with children. She has always given me unconditional support — and this time was no different. She immediately embraced the mission and helped bring it to life with her signature generosity of spirit.Later, I will tell Edina’s story — because hers, too, deserves to be remembered.

In Ohio, I called Juls Rathke, a teacher I had collaborated with during Projekt Postcard. And in Ecuador, I chose SOLCA, the cancer hospital that had once saved my mother’s life.

But when I reached out to SOLCA, they declined the offer.

At first, I was disappointed. Then, as life often teaches me, that closed door led to the one I was meant to open — Hospital Baca Ortiz, a public children’s hospital in Quito.

My previous visit to Johns Hopkins Hospital was a shocking contrast to Baca Ortiz.

Before arriving, I had already learned how bureaucracy, female machismo, and racism can join forces to block progress. Yet, through friends, I managed to secure an appointment with the hospital’s director.

The director and doctors were gracious and kind — to me, and to María José, a volunteer who works with children battling cancer.

When I was in Quito, I knew only one person who could help me — my childhood friend from Washington, D.C., María José Vélez. Life had brought us together again in the most unexpected way. She was already volunteering with children with cancer, and when I told her about the project, she immediately offered to help.

Her dedication to the project was incredible. She was present every week, engaging with the nurses, doctors, and children until the work was complete. And to top it all off, she personally hand-delivered the finished artwork to Houston, where she met Gordon Andrews at NASA.

She didn’t want to risk the package being lost in the mail — so, incredibly, she took the initiative to fly from Quito and hand-deliver that very special box of children’s artwork herself.

Through her, I received all the updates — the joyful and the heartbreaking ones.

One day she texted me: “This is going to be really tough. "Later, I asked her why.

She told me the children had been painting happily when suddenly a little girl screamed: “The water is cold!”

The nurses were bathing her in freezing water. There was no hot water that day.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about these little warriors — children not only fighting cancer and enduring chemo but doing so in hospitals where even warm water is a luxury.

And yet, I was grateful that SOLCA had turned me away. Because it led me here — to the land of the invisible.

No one is truly looking out for these children because they are poor. But with this art project, we gave them a spark of joy, a sense of being seen. For a few hours, they were not invisible. They were creators, dreamers, astronauts of imagination.

When one of the doctors quietly told me that many of these children would not live to see the finished space suit or receive their postcards, my heart sank. But even then, I knew for a moment, they had touched the stars.

They had become part of something bigger — a cosmic community of hope. And that, I will never forget.