Stevensville, MT - In the studio at his home at the end of an obscure little lane south of Stevensville, Don Whitticar patiently and persistently, almost too persistently, taps away with an engraving hammer and a burrin--a delicate metal chisel--indenting intricate lines into a slab of copper.

The scene taking form in the soft metal is tranquility itself--ducks lifting in flight from a marsh of reeds and cattails with the lofty Mission Mountains presiding in the background.

But the scene inside the artist is not as tranquil. Often Whitticar is wound tight with stress. His intense blue eyes are vigilant. When he greets an acquaintance, he seems to be making an intense effort to remain focused and in control.  As indeed he often is.

Whitticar has a little-understood and rarely diagnosed illness--obsessive compulsive disorder. In some people, OCD, as it is called by therapists, manifests itself as continual hand washing. Others obsessively put all sharp objects out of sight. Some hoard things--newspapers, coins, string. Some continually tug at their clothes, or button and unbutton garments. People who have OCD know their behavior is abnormaland bizarre. They receive no pleasure from it. But despite their conscious desire to stop, they are unable to do so.

With Whitticar, the symptoms are counting and ordering, counting and ordering, counting, arranging and ordering.  "The mind just picks out something at random. Sometimes I can be sitting looking out the window, and I might start dividing it into triangles, and counting the triangles. I could count the number of screws in hinges. I could count the holes in ceiling tiles. I am conscious of it (the counting and ordering behavior). But the best thing I can do is go ahead and let my mind run with it. If I try to cut it off, it creates an anxiety," he said.

Episodes can last for several moments to 30 minutes or more. In extreme cases of the disorder, most of the person's waking hours are consumed with the repetitive activity. In severe cases, hospitalization is necessary. Whitticar, 50, has never needed hospitalization. But the disability has put an intense strain on family life, on social intercourse, and on his feelings of self-worth and self-esteem.

"Because his disability is hidden--hes not sitting in a wheelchair, or walking with crutches, or bedridden due to paralysis--it has been very difficult," said his wife, Sandra. "People find it difficult to understand his disability. They say, Hey, theres nothing wrong with your husband." But there is something wrong.

Whitticar was diagnosed with OCD in 1987. He himself brought the possibility of the condition to the attention of doctors, after he saw a television program about OCD. He hasn't worked for a wage or salary since 1989, when he quit his job at the University of Montana because of chronic recurrences of the malady. Since then he has received Social Security disability payments. Sandra works full time as an insurance agent in Stevensville and Missoula to support the family of five children.

The origin of OCD is unknown. Whitticar believes it may have a genetic component. Scientists are fairly sure the cause is physiological, speculating that symptoms are brought on by a chemical imbalance in the brain. In fact, in Whitticar's case and that of many other OCD patients, symptoms are relieved by medication, as well as behavior therapy.   "He's very severely disabled," said rehabilitation counselor Jeanne Anderson Devereaux, the state Rehabilitation Services Division professional who has worked with Whitticar.

But that is changing. Whitticar's Missoula psychiatrist is using both medication and therapy, and Whitticar said he has noted improvement. He is also on the way to getting off Social Security disability--his goal for the last several years--as he gains prominence as a wildlife artist.

In an unusual collaboration of resources and talent, the state of Montana has become essentially a silent partner in Whitticar's attempt to become self-supporting. The state Rehabilitation Services has spent several thousand dollars during the past four years to purchase special engraving tools to equip Whitticar's studio, to buy a printmaking press and other equipment needed for the engraving and printmaking process. The state agency also sent him to engraver's school. All told, the state has about $5,000 invested.

Whitticar and Devereaux said that the rehabilitation program mapped out for him was a collaborative one. When they first started working together, shortly after Whitticar began receiving Social Security disability funds, they inventoried his skills, talents and disabilities.

"When Don first came to me, he was concerned and confused about what he could do," Devereaux said. "He has many talents, and he wanted to get into the work force. He decided that engraving is something he wanted to do, and that led to bigger and better things. As an engraver and printmaker, now he can work at his own speed in his own studio and develop his creativity."

Whitticar spent the first two years after his schooling developing his style and technique, and produced and sold a few prints. From that modest beginning, he has branched out to commissioned work. His prints are becoming recognized as unique contributions to wildlife art.

One mentor is Robert Koenke of Minneapolis, publisher and editor of Wildlife Art News Magazine. With 55,000 subscribers in 63 countries, the magazine is perhaps Americas premier publication devoted to wildlife art.  After seeing Whitticar's work, he volunteered to take examples of engraved, hand-colored prints made by Whitticar to major wildlife art shows across the country. A deal is in the making in which Whitticar's prints may be used by a major wildlife calendar publishing firm. And he has limited numbers of his custom, hand-colored prints available by special order from his studio in Stevensville. He is also negotiating with art publishers, who may market his work nationally.

Engraving, notes Koenke, is almost a lost art, because it is so laborious. Each of Whitticars prints is unique, because of the hand-coloring process. And an edition of prints is limited to about 100 copies, because the soft copper plate essentially wears out after about that many printing impressions. His prints sell for $600 to $800 when they are available.

Engraving seems to mesh very well with Whitticar's obsessive-compulsive disorder. He can work alone, at his own speed, and avoid many of the workday stresses that seem to bring on the chronic symptoms of counting and ordering things. It is an outlet for his creativity and active mind. And the disorder seems to complement, not hamper, the engraving task. "Engraving meshes so well with the disorder itself, and it provided a really good stepping stone for me to move into other areas," Whitticar said.

Whitticar lays much of the responsibility for his artistic success right at the doorstep of the state agency that subsidized his training and equipment.  "It shows what can be accomplished through some of the social services that are catching so much flak right now," he said.

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