I finished up the weaving projects today and took a crack at the first eyeSnowScape collages. One piece, a very melty one which always strikes me as very melancholy gave me a bit of a pang but otherwise I didn’t feel sad about taking scissors to the prints… especially not when I saw the pieces beginning to emerge. I’m so happy with them! It’s really fun working on them and I think they’re quite striking. It also feels like I’m in the thick of collaborating with my dad on an art project again, which was my hope. So—all in all a pretty great art day around here.
eyeSnowScape
Pain in the age of mechanical reproduction /
I have many eyeSnowScape prints in my house. Some are very special to me—the ones from our first Popsicle! show and the ones from Woolf’s Voices—those that were in my dad’s presence.
For Popsicle! II, held in memory of my dad, I made the selections and printed the images. The selection wasn’t arbitrary. I chose the pieces my dad had in a binder of his favourite works, and which he’d share with any art lover he met. I didn’t show his copies—I printed new copies from the digital files. I added a special touch—a black border with my dad’s art signature at the bottom which is something he’d asked for. I have the digital files of these as well.
Prepping for our next Popsicle! show I wanted to do something new and special—a way of collaborating together despite us not being physically together, so I’ve begun using the prints from Popsicle! II in weaving pieces… here’s a little sneak peek:
This first piece uses a very special eyeSnowScape piece—one of my dad’s absolute favourites. I cut it up and made two new pieces out of it very happily.
I then started to take the others out of their frames and had a deep pang. Like I was planning to destroy my dad’s art. Like I was mistreating it. Of course I can’t be sure if he’d think what I’m doing is cool or not—I hope he would. But I’m definitely doing it with love—as a way for us to make something together.
Why the pain? While these particular prints are special in the sense that they are of my dad’s art and I made them thinking of him, that’s no different than what I plan to do with them now. And I can so easily make a new one if I want. The photos are backed up over and over, and I have a photo printer at home. So I could have a new copy in about a minute if I wanted. So why is the thought of transforming these copies causing me this strange wave of guilt?
I don’t really have a point with this post… probably because I don’t fully understand why I’m having this feeling. Grief is weird, it comes in fits and starts, and it doesn’t make sense. I can remake these prints—there’s no rational reason to feel weird or bad about it. Maybe it’s that art is imbued with meaning, and sometimes it doesn’t matter whether or not it’s an original or a print or a copy. It can still have an aura.
The Freezer Chose For Me /
With Father’s Day just past it seemed like a good time for a post about art and my dad and grief, and about life or fate or whatever solving an issue for me.
The main reason I began this website was to share the eyeSnowScape pieces I made with my dad (followed by the secondary reason of “I think as an author I’m supposed to do this”). I’ve been steadily sharing the pieces on Instagram and on here, offering them for sale, and putting on the annual Popsicle shows with my family. Continuing this makes me feel connected to my dad and had been a productive part of the grieving process for me.
The eyeSnowScape works are made of painted ice, with the photos being the final art. When my dad first dreamed up the idea he made the paintings outside in the snow, so they melted away when the weather warmed. The ones we made together, though, were made in clear plastic containers so that I could bring the ice and snow inside to work on with my dad who couldn’t easily go outside at that time.
One day my dad suggested popping a finished piece in the freezer so we could see what might happen. It created new interesting textures which we rephotographed. Then I stuck it back on the freezer.
One piece we made at the hospice the same thing—he asked me to re-freeze and rephotograph it, so I did a year later as a way of marking the first anniversary of that time, and as a way of working together still.
In addition to those I had some snow from the ground of his shop in Bonnybrook, and some icicles too. I also just had a stash of snow I gathered for us to work on which we never made our way to.
The freezer in question is my mom’s old downstairs freezer.
I’ve wondered since my dad passed what to do with the frozen pieces. I thought I might take them to his resting place and let them melt there, maybe making a film of this as another art piece, but in truth I felt somewhat self conscious about doing that and also just sort of sick at the idea of disposing of them. These objects contain some really beautiful moments, and the idea of letting them go was painful. I knew, though, this was a very difficult material to preserve. The longer they sat in the freezer the dimmer the pigment became, and they felt less like a joyful reminder the way the photos feel, and more like a puzzling and unresolved point of confusion and indecision.
My mom told me a few time’s we’d have to figure something out as she thought the freezer needed defrosting so I pondered it a bit bit took no action. And then… the freezer either built up so much frost or popped open or one of us accidentally left it slightly ajar and every melted before we noticed.
I was surprised that this didn’t deeply upset me. The burden of having to figure out how to preserve art made of ice was lifted. The material that had lost its lustre, unlike the photos which still gleam bright, was gone seemingly of its own accord. The unused ice which I felt I’d have to make into pieces all alone, an aloneness I anticipated I’d feel noticeably, was gone too.
I suspect that I would be devastated if I lost the eyeSnowScape photos. I have them saved and backed up on drives in more than one house to make sure they survive a fire or flood. If I lost my dad’s paintings or sculpture I’m pretty sure I’d be super upset. But the ice it turns out was different. Frozen into it was a pain of the first months of grief—when I was desperate to realize every plan we made together, as though I would feel we weren’t together or that I’d be letting him down if I didn’t do so. A time when I thought I might forget him and that I had to hang on to everything we did together, even if it felt more like a frozen bit of indecision, rather than a potent burst of happiness and remembrance.
As time has passed I’ve realized that I, of course, will never forget him. If I lost every photo and piece of art and object I would be deeply upset but I would still never forget him. As time has gone on too I’ve realized that as my parent, and as one who brought me to museums and encouraged me in my art, he’s with me whenever I make something. My life and art are all part of my relationship with him to some degree or another. I continue to work on things we made together but that particular cup of snow scooped up with the intention of making something with him isn’t the most significant part of that—the intention and relationship is.
I wasn’t ready to get rid of the containers of painted ice or the bags of unpainted snow. I might never have been. They were too loud in my mind, too fraught and difficult for me to approach. But the freezer chose for me. I won’t say I’m glad it did, but it did, and I accept it. I feel like I needed fate to make a move, and so it did. It has released me from a problem I couldn’t solve myself. That delicate, vulnerable ice ached in me, reminding me of when I thought my memories of my dad and our relationship might melt away. But those things aren’t vulnerable, and the freezer’s helped me confirm it.
I feel like my dad would be put out at the loss but was also always onto the next art scheme. So it’s the same for me. I look forward to continuing to share eyeSnowScape pieces which brings me joy, brought us joy, but I also look forward to the next scheme. I know he’ll be with me.