I’m thrilled to be speaking as part of Nickle Gallery’s Nickle at Noon series on Thursday, November 26. I’ll be reading from my book Magyarazni, and sharing items and memories related to the book’s writing and my memories of my dad. It’s a free online event - you can sign up via Eventbrite here, add the Facebook event here, and check out the Nickle’s website here.
For those who can’t tune in live, the talk will be recorded and posted on YouTube later.
More about the book can be found here.
Today we watched 1917 which was tragic and riveting. I tried as hard as possible not to learn anything about the movie before seeing it, and indeed I didn’t even know it was shot to look as though it was filmed in one take. I’d definitely recommend it, and if you’re not as worried about sneak peek’s as me here’s a behind the scenes look at how they accomplished the one-take feel in this complex movie, filmed over such a huge and varied terrain.
I’m afraid my NaNoWriMo plans have come to naught! After an initial blitz of writing I’ve fallen back into my lack of productivity in that department. However, today I did have the pleasure of getting some weaving done. Here’s a peek. I’m trying to decide if it wouldn’t be best to weave a diamond pattern into the middle or no. I suspect I won’t, but I’m mulling it over.
COVID has completely changed my outlook on, well, life I suppose, but particularly in how productive I think I need to be. I’m much more likely to do unproductive things with my free time now - sort stuff, exercise, have a bath, rather than careening through projects. But - I’m in a mulling mood right now. I’m trying to choose what to get working on next. I tried doing NaNoWriMo four years ago and was on track and then the US election made me so depressed I gave up. I remember ordering an inordinate amount of comfort food and just… not writing. I think I’d like to pick that project up and will be doing a poetry blitz in November too. The thing that really appeals to me about NaNoWriMo is it’s anti-perfectionist attitude. Write fast, no judgement, no editing, just words on the page. Most of the things I’m mulling over now I’m stuck on because I have a mood I want them to have but I’m not sure how to execute it and so I’m tied up worrying I’ll do it badly. And really what on earth does it matter if I write some clunky poems? NaNoWriMo seems like a great way to jumpstart those projects so, for now I’ll nap and mull over which to choose, and November 1 it’s on!
Finally got around to watching In the Mood for Love tonight. I’ve wanted to for months and hadn’t made the time but this was a rather achievable dream so I did it. Oh—it’s such a beautiful movie. If you’ve been waiting to watch it do it. If you’ve been waiting to do something else do that.
It’s getting to be indoor/dark early season here so it seemed like a good time to revive the Shelf Tour series. As I’ve written before I’m not very arty in the summer but I’m back at it now that it’s fall, looking for crafts to do. This book I got at the 17th ave Fair’s Fair before they closed is one I’ll pick up now and then because I think “oooo making fancy books how cool” but nooooo. This isn’t a book for the casual crafter such as myself who wants to make a couple neat little chapbooks. This is the real deal, for those who want to make hardcover cloth or leather-bound books and it is hardcore. I suppose I might use it one day but I really doubt it… I’m much more dilettantish when it comes to book production. It feels cool to have this though… it’s neat to read about how it’s done even if I’m never going to do it myself.
I have a small handful of random poems I wrote a few months pre-COVID that I really like. They’re not for any project—just one-offs—and they’re some of my favourite recent work of mine. Rereading them now makes me realize how working away at poetry as though it is work—a task, and practice, a goal, etc—prevents me in writing in this way that I actually quite like and usually nets some really satisfying results. Often when I think of a line or an idea rather than writing it down and letting the moment take me I think “ok I’ll have to sit down and flesh that idea out” and then I never write it at all because of the usual adult being busy stuff. There’s a balance point between approaching writing professionally and embracing it emotionally that I want to tip a bit more into the emotional. When I was younger I wrote a ton—all over my arm if I didn’t have paper. Much of this was not amazing stuff because I was practicing—getting started. All passion and love of language and a desire for expression. Then after university I became anxious about writing and way too over controlled. I never wrote because I thought it had to be super thought out ahead of time and this perfectionist sentiment led to a drought of words on the page. I have a fairly balanced approach now. I’m not anxious about writing nor am I churning out reams of pages that are only kind of working for me. But I think I can balance it better. Making time for those one-off poems is in a way making time for myself. Making space for whatever I’m feeling and allowing that to be important just to me, just for a minute. It’s a tiny little shift this sort of decision—giving oneself just the littlest bit of purely uncontrolled leisure to be introspective and expressive, but it’s the sort of thing that feeds the soul. It’s a method of practicing self-acceptance. I’ve been enamoured with writing my whole life. Why when a line pops into my head don’t I write it down? Why not take that opportunity to just be myself and do what I’ve always felt compelled to do? It’s the littlest thing, but I think those random poems stand out to me because they’re so open and expressive and bare. The planning and the channeling energy and ideas and the editing and all that bigger stuff is also an important part of my writing life, and those skills are central to making my writing practice function. But I want to give a little more space for the teenager writing on her arm while waiting for the bus whenever she shows up, instead of always saying “ok ok later” and then never showing up for her in return. A little more time for the girl writing in her journal, a little more time for the child scribbling on paper before I could write so it would look like writing because I wanted to write so badly. To embrace those moments rather than trying to control them. To let them be.
It very suddenly seems like it’s dark so early. The tree across the street is getting yellow streaks in its big green bows. The grass is crunchy. I put socks on for the first time in months the other day. Fall is approaching.
I mentioned before that I’m just not that artsy in the summer. It doesn’t spark creativity in me… just a desire to go for bike rides. I can now feel that feeling returning. It’s exciting and welcome.
It’s especially welcome in COVID times. I find myself demotivated and aimless a lot these days. The shuttering of literary and artistic events and spaces has taken a toll on me in that way. It’s reassuring to feel the usual autumn motivation and inspiration blowing in on the slightly cooler breeze. With everything that’s changed these past months it’s comforting to know this cycle of artistic motivation is still unfolding in me.
I started this blog in large part because before COVID I suffered from a constant “I’m not doing enough art!” feeling, when in fact I was doing a lot of art. Things have definitely slowed down for me. Without the feeling of the world turning and churning at its regular pace I no longer feel the same urgent drive, though I still feel a strong consistent drive to make things—minus the more panic-inflected tone it had before. I find my sense of when I started and complete things is getting wonky, though. There are some things where I think “argh I’ve let that project sit for so long!” but then notice that I actually worked on it two days ago, and then I’ll discover I’m three months late returning a personal email. As the nights get longer and the grass outside gets roasted in the sun my natural inclination towards creativity is coming back as it does every year. I’m not sure I’m going to have daily blogging as a goal going forward because of the more subdued pace of life these days, but I will aim to keep it up regularly to anchor my sense of my artistic practice.
Last night I made the first of the large-scale eyeSnowScape collages, blending photo pieces with construction paper. In a continued effort to not buy any new art supplies that I don’t need to keep going, like film or glue, I’m using things I have like the construction paper I bought many years ago. It feels good to be putting this stuff to use. I’m not sure the art supplies here would ever get down to zero, especially since it’s nice to have something on hand for when inspiration strikes, but it feels nice to be engaging more appreciatively with my hoard of paper. In digging out the construction paper I also reacquainted myself with a few sheets of fancy paper I’d forgotten about too, so now that those are top of mind maybe I can make something with them as well.
Anyway, here’s the first big paper piece!
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.
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.
I just noticed how long it’s been since I posted! Amongst the stress and turmoil of this year lately I think I’m now just doing stuff for it’s own sake, or stuff that needed doing. I cleaned the yard. I cleaned my mom’s yard. I watched all of Sons of Anarchy in three weeks, then began rewatching it. I’ve gone for a bunch of bike rides. I cleaned the windows. All stuff that really isn’t of interest to anyone but me. Yesterday I went to a nearby lake with my mom after work and we just watched two loons swim around for 45 minutes. It was great.
I must admit summer is my least artistic season. In fall, winter, and spring I usually get a lot done, but summer doesn’t usually spark much in me in the art department. With the world so vastly different this year this hasn’t changed, indeed the massive social changes have probably deepened my feeling of spending summer just doing things for their own sake, not to share or to try to sell or anything. Just - watching birds, doing laundry, reading a magazine.
I did, however, feel one strong click. I finished the manuscript I said I was nearly finished back in February. I’m pretty happy with it. Will post about that some other time . . . watching a Fast & the Furious movie and listening to the birds outside tonight.
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.
A little reading from Magyarázni to pass the time.
Today was quite out of the ordinary—I went. To a place! The mechanic (shout out to Economy Auto). To maintain social distance I waited outside at the picnic bench behind the Mr. Lube while the car was being worked on. And just as I got to go on a big outdoor adventure so too did one of my books, and so I read Amy LeBlanc’s wonderful “I know something you don’t know.” Again these aren’t meant to be book reviews but I’m gonna gush about this one anyway.
I really love death metal and feminist witches and creepy Victorian things and corsets and stuff, but I’m also squeamish and don’t like gore, and this book really perfectly matches my interests which are hard to hit. Most stuff that is creepy is too gross for me but this book is absolutely perfect for me when it comes to that balance. It reminded me, just a little bit, of movies like Practical Magic, Stigmata, and the show Charmed—a great blend of contemporary, mystical, feminist, and historical vibes that is just the best (ok I don’t know how any of these would hold up to my sense of what feminism is nowadays or even my taste but I just like grrl power witches is what I’m saying if you get me). The tone and directness of IKSYDY reminds me a bit of Atwood’s The Journals of Suzanna Moodie but less bitter and harsh.
LeBlanc’s writing is absolutely seamless—effortless and evocative, in a way that uses deceptively straightforward phrasing to deliver strange and beautiful images and build an irresistible immersive mood and world to sink into. I read it in less than an hour and know I’ll be reading it repeatedly in years to come, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. The back of the book actually describes it quite nicely—more so than whatever I’m writing about here (eggs and Mr. Lube and Charmed?)—I’m posting a photo of that below.
This is the first Gordon Hill press book I’ve owned I believe, and it’s nice. Nice paper, nice design, lovely cover. Is “hand-feel” a thing? Like mouth-feel? If so I’d say this book had good hand-feel. One more reason to make it a permanent fixture on the shelf.
Ok I can’t help but make a joke. There’s a bit in the book where someone contemplates whether an egg should be boiled for eight minutes or ten. This is the only thing wrong with this book. The answer is neither! An egg should be boiled for six minutes for the yolk the way I like it :P I only just figured this out! I’m very excited about boiling eggs in 1” of water for six minutes right now. I have had many delicious eggs lately.
Anyway, here’s some photos of me and the book’s field trip.
I have a habit of repeatedly writing out the list of major projects I’d like to complete—manuscripts and art series. I do this… every few days depending on my mood. These begin as “today” or “this week” to do lists because I’m always convinced I will finish multiple manuscripts in a week, weekend, or even day depending how I’m feeling. This is a strange habit quite divorced from the repeated reality of my days, but it’s a very cheerful habit, and one that keeps me excited about the art and writing. So odd but nice.
I notice recently though that I keep forgetting one project—Glass Clouds. It seems bizarre that I do so. I’ve put an enormous amount of work into it and have had a great deal of help from family and friends on it, and I’m really happy with it. I’ve completed 50 poems (paired with the photos that’s enough for a book) but plan 250 more to go with all my favourite photos that might be shared in some alternate way, as that’s probably too hefty for one book! But I haven’t been writing those poems because it keeps slipping my mind which is very strange for me.
There are two possible reasons, I think, for why it keeps slipping my mind. First—I don’t talk about it much. This is because if it takes a long time to expand and/or to have published I don’t want everyone to already be sick of it. This might be an unsubstantiated concern. I can’t recall ever getting bored of hearing about someone’s forthcoming book even when they talked about writing it for ages. Partly this might be the visual art, though. This project is in many ways one of my first big professions steps in my visual art, as I received funding for the project, and I’m not sure if I should be sharing the photos so early in the process, or how many I should share, or if there’s any reason to hold them back. I’m not sure what exactly I’m unsure of but I think I have a latent sense that I’m not totally sure what I’m doing but that I do want to get it right…
These are bogus reasons when it comes to the memory thing though, I think, because I never talk about the other projects I keep listing out. Some I haven’t mentioned to another human in ages if ever.
I think I might just be at peace with the project. Just sort of happy with how the first leg went in a deep and pleasant way. It was such an incredible struggle to get there for so many reasons—most of them personal not artistic reasons—but that hasn’t marred the work for me. When I think of it I feel quite content. Maybe this is the reason I forget it—because it already feels like an accomplishment. It’s the only reason that seems likely.
But I definitely don’t want to forget about Glass Clouds. I am really fond of it and it is really significant to me and holds so many important life moments in it for me. So maybe I’ll start talking about it more as I go. If it brings me peace maybe it’ll do the same for someone else.
I’m not especially clumsy—in the sense that I don’t think that’d be one of the things people would say when describe me to someone they think had met me but had then also forgotten my name—but I’m not especially non-clumsy either. Some people never drop anything. I drop my phone, walk into the occasional door jam, etc. Pretty medium on the clumsy scale.
When it comes to my nails though I’m pretty bad. Even when I played classical guitar and was really trying to have one hand of good nails I could maybe manage to keep two intact. I keep them trim for that reason. Aside from the fact that I’d crack or rip them if I let them get long I’m also afraid I’ll scratch myself or poke my eye out by accident. Don’t want to medium clumsy around with one’s eyes…
Anyway, apparently I’m less of a nail destroyer at home because they got long without me noticing while we’ve been here social distancing. In the scope of the nail length that many people rock all the time they weren’t that long, but for me this is super long and I felt quite fancy once I noticed what’d happened. And like with the classical guitar I found them actually pretty useful for art reasons.
I was painting some tiny air dry clay pieces, and I could hold them in my nails without risking mucking the paint up. And fixing some of the permanent warp/warp starter threads in my loom was way easier with the nails… I had to pick apart multiple knots in little threads and they came apart super quickly.
But I just can’t do it. The sensation when I scratch myself is just too creepy, and once I noticed how long they were I became too aware of them and conscious that I might break one which is unpleasant. Despite the art gains of having long nails there are also drawbacks… I got a bunch of paint in them yesterday for instance, and I can only imagine the mess I’d make when I get back into the clay.
So goodbye quarantine non-manicure. Thanks for the help with the picky weaving task. Scratch ya later.
I haven’t been good for much this past week but in an effort to get something done I’ve been sorting the photos on my computer… the 56,000 photos. I’ve sorted about 20,000 now. First backed up en masse, but now in orderly folders on a portable hard drive. It’s the sort of thing that probably would have always remained a burden if not for the COVID confinement, and now that I’ve mucked up my ankle and can’t go for a bike ride, I really need a low-attention task to occupy myself. Doing this while listening to the Wolf Hall audiobook. Anyway, my travels are now neatly grouped, my art projects are neatly sorted, and photos of finished pieces ready to share are in their own folder too. Rather than an endless oppressive scroll of this an that all mixed up this is really nice. It’s also gratifying to see how many art projects I’ve done. It seems strange in some ways that I always think of myself as just arriving, just arriving at visual art. The photos show that I’ve been very regularly at it for five years, and that’s only as far back as this computer goes. Similarly I feel like I haven’t “gotten anything done” during isolation, but here too the photos show several pieces begun and finished. It’s a strange thing, this feeling of mine about my art. Not sure what that’s about, but it is incredibly persistent.
Anyway, here’s a photo from 2017 I like. It’s been fake spring in Calgary forever in the way that makes it feel like we’ll never have a proper recognizable season again, so the idea of a true fresh breath of cold winter air seems appealing and decisive right now.
Today is my birthday and it’s almost Mother’s Day, so this is already a celebratory time, but during non-pandemic times another very significant event occurs around now—the CBC Booksale. I feel like annual events are very popular in Calgary… Seedy Saturday, the bike sale, and this book sale. I just felt a real pang thinking about how it’s been cancelled this year. It’s an amazing event where you get to paw your way through a seemingly endless mound of books in a curling rink, often while listening to local bands play, the books are very reasonably priced, and all the proceeds go to charity. Definitely one of the cancelled things I am missing this year.
So anyway, this book is from the CBC book sale, as many of my books are. I suspect my mom grabbed this one out of the pile for me, though I’m not 100% sure. Side note—when I started these blog posts I assumed I knew the provenance of each and every one of my books but my memory is murkier in some cases than I thought. Hmm. Anyway… my mom would have known I’d love this because when I was little we went to Heritage Park, and in the upstairs room of the Wainwright Hotel there was someone making lace. I just thought it was the coolest thing and still do. Aside from the magical quality of making, the tools themselves are so beautiful and ornate and medieval looking—the pillow and the fancy bobbins and the delicate threads. This book actually doesn’t show how to make pillow/bobbin lace, but it does show a number of other methods, all of which look horrifyingly difficult to me. I can crochet and weave but reading patterns of either is something I find scary… I just look at the pages and go “Ah! No! I just wanted to do something by feel while watching TV!” So anyway… this book contains both frightening patterns and a history of lace beginning with Ancient Egypt. It’s in black and white but nevertheless the photos are quite beautiful, and the paper and single ink of the book are very harmonious and enticing. Going over this book today did make me interested in bobbin lace again. I’m still on my “No new art supplies!” resolution, but I wonder if I might either use something from around the house or maybe make a birthday exception and order a kit if safe to do so. Hmm… I do have a handful of wooden dowels in my art bin that I might be able to repurpose…
But I digress again. Here are some photos of the book itself. I keep it not because I’m definitely going to make lace using it’s instructions, but because it makes me think of multiple nice times in my life and time spent with my mom. Hoping it will be safe sooner rather than later for us once again to share our old books with each other and congregate around them. Maybe by the time that happens I’ll be making lace bookmarks (or maybe not… ha!). Happy birthday to me.
