"Our mood was gone, a restless night, unfulfilled desires.. morning came clear and brilliant. I will do some heads of you today Zinnia,. The mexican sun, l thought, will reveal everything, something of the tragedy of our present life may be captured. Nothing can be hidden under this cloudless cruel sky. And so it was that she leaned against a whitewashed wall, lips quivering nostrils dilating, eyes heavy with gloom of unspent rainclouds. I drew close. I whispered something and kissed her. A tear rolled down her cheek and then l captured forever the moment. -edward weston photographing tina modotti 1926
Mexico City...history built on history. I was given a canada council grant in the nineties, travel to mexico city for two months. They (Fondo) gave me a home, some money and the rest was up to me. It's hard to write of my trip there, so much, it's like a thousand souls entered my body, like the Sahara, sands being whirled about, moving, changing, coming together.
My home was in the district of Cayoacan and l walked the streets every day. The green tent, this was my treasure. I discovered a big green tent on the sidewalk outside of a paper factory, tarps, couches, tables, a stove, a light. The tent ladies, they had been on strike for a year, and l visited with them every day.
I brought them goods, baked goods, pop, and a deck of cards. We played rummy, they would make me hot corn drinks, none of them spoke english, maybe a few words, "hello, goodbye, love" But it didn't matter, we communicated through laughter, gesture, doodles on a note pad, and just plain knowing. It's like the "dancer in the dirt", when you are honest, sincere, natural, and just "being", then we hear, we see, we feel.
The tent ladies were always an enigma to me, l didn't understand everything, like shadows that floated behind me, just catching a glimpse of them but never able to grasp them.
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Jose - l met Jose in an alley, he and his wife lived in a tiny cement room, a bed, a dresser, and walls filled with photographs, crosses, and symbols of "the virgin of guadalupe". Jose and l would just chat in the alley, share smokes, grasped at words that sounded familier.
I met her in an ice cream shop, and in her stumbling english she asked if l would teach her english, she would teach me spanish. Sandra was different than the tent ladies, where as the tent held a darkness, a sadness, Sandra was light, joyfull, "Oh ken ken ken" she would say with laughter.
She helped me navigate mexico city, took me places, even to her home for dinner and to meet her parents. She was more spanish then mexican. She was so lovely.
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Rosa- it was Rosa that l attached myself to at the green tent. She seemed to be in charge or perhaps just more respected, she guided me as l guided her. We passed yellow notes back and forth like kids in grade school. She was a dark chrystal.
...l digress, this is a painting of rosa, of mexico, of my loves back home, memory, past and present, roaming around in my body, my soul, painting is always so much more, so many lives go into a painting, so much history.
"it always smelled of rain"
I would walk Rosa to the subway most nights, around midnight and in that mile there were so many scents. ...close your eyes and smell what is around you. It was assaulting, but in such a delicious way. It was like the earth made love to you.
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...silence is how l should sum up my stay in mexico city. My beautiful friend Ron wrote the following for me and next to silence it says it all...
"Aquaintance with a great white turkey sums up a wonder l feel. The ugly beauty of this abused bird speaks to a dark light in me. This unlikely creature confirms how utterly strange life is. It is a strangeness which shocks, amuses and comforts. The white turkey of Cayoacan heals our alienation. Suddenly, we smile in recognition of a greater belonging. It is this amused earthy wholeness l would have us remember."
...we are moving from the shores of the west coast to the shores of the east coast, close to bear river, nova scotia. I will be driving very soon, with Cedar and a truck of belongings 6000k's. I may not post for a couple three months, but l'll return.
I was going to leave you with edith piaf but have chosen this wonderful video of Small Faces (itchycoo park) as it just seems like better driving music.
well the road is out before me and the moon is shining bright what I want you to remember as I disappear tonight today is grey skies tomorrow is tears you'll have to wait til yesterday is here -tom waits
...like a good carny player gone bad, my hands are empty. No story, no post as l am off to the U.S. with my lovely family for a week and a half. So l leave you again with a couple of snap shots and a little running brook.
...a long time ago, while drinking one night at the "rocking horse" pub, l noticed something. There was a couple dancing. She was pretty, wearing a nice country dress with flowers, she was precise with her dance. He was roughly dressed, hair askew, it's like someone just kicked him in the dirt like a stone. But his dance, he dances like he has no secrets. He doesn't know how to dance like her, he doesn't know how to dance at all, but he does. He dances beautifully wild like he doesn't care... It's like Christopher Alexander's book "the timeless way of building", "Care but don't care"
This is how we should build, how we should paint, how we should write, how we should live and how we should love.
and her knees up on the glove compartment took out her barrettes and her hair spilled out like rootbeer and she popped her gum and arched her back -tom waits
before l go please take a look at "apollinaires tattoo" He works hard, he lives in Cape Breton and you have to work hard to live there. There is a beautiful sadness to his blog, a loneness, something deep, like the ocean, or like a endless field.
"A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know." -d. arbus
You may never see a crow's nest. I feel fortunate that the crow's built a nest in our trees. But l'm sad that somehow the baby's ended up on the sidewalk in front of our place, they died after a day or two, except one. Now l generally don't interfere with nature, well there was that once l help my cat kill a rabbit, oh and then there was that time l had to shoot a wounded deer on the highway, but usually...
A friend took the last sickened baby crow, but he didn't make it.
"When beauty and Beauty meet All naked, fair to fair, The earth is crying-sweet, And scattering-bright the air... -rupert brooke
I am not a veteran of the heat. I am a fall kind of guy, summer is complacent. I am putting a new roof on this little home, so no story this week, maybe you'll come back late next week and l'll will show you something.
lovely with abandonment, You seem to be swayed by a wand, A dancing serpeant. -Bouldaire
...do you remember who taught you to frenchkiss.
I am going to keep you in the nineties for awhile longer, l have a few more stories to tell.
I use to think that only the young and the old were worth talking to. Those in between too busy, running around like a nosebleed that won't stop. The young have a power, a magic mystical, untamed and raw, ready to lick the blood from your neck.
"...when the story of the hero's wound is made part of the story of desire, when the weaving activity of the soul, the work of memory and imagination, the weaving of one's story, is informed and suffused with the hero's violent spiritual flame."
-eileen greagory(summoning the familiar)
I met Sean in the nineties, he came from a program for lost punks. They asked if l would take him in my studio, mentor him l suppose. He came to my studio, hung around, rambled poetic lyrics, and he brought with him, his family. A family of hooded punks, black cloth, spiked collars, with dreams of a fresh new world. I photographed Sean one night, with his girl Claire - here
and he says that he loves me even though its not his baby and he says that he'll raise him up like he would his own son and he gave me a ring that was worn by his mother
-tom waits
Sam was pregnant. She was a tad older than the rest, and with growth in her belly she was somewhat of a guide to them, perhaps she glowed with a secret light.
Christie and Killie, two more beacons that danced quietly through this time.
Although they seem to carry a heaviness, they carried your concerns, your burdens, your wishes, they carried what you lay in bed dreaming of.
"a period of rest before the coming" ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Willie Mae... makes me smile thinking of her.
She could make the world smile. An endless flame, a shinning star, the drop of dew on a blade of grass. She had cancer, they took her leg off at the knee.
She would come to my studio now and then, help me with the painting. I told her to write something on the painting. She found a quote on my wall and wrote that;
"the ocean doesn't want me today, but l'll be back tomorrow to play" -tom waits
Char- I lived in a little shack in Parksville and beside that shack was a wood shop of some sort. I would see her drive up on her bike. Loud , maybe a harley, clad in the blackest leather. I didn't know if she was boy or girl. I couldn't tell but l wanted to photograph her. So one day l ran into her and with the flapping of wings in my tummy l asked her. "Can l photograph you" Slammed against the wall, one hand on my throat, a fist to the groin. Well that is what l expected, but no, yes, out came this beautiful sweetness, "why yes darling, that would be nice"
I photographed her at night in my studio, we talked for hours. Her life in a small town, it was hard for her, being gay in this town, being inside a body that she wanted to change.
Am l lucky to have met these people, damn right. They all burned, burned with a fire, a fire that was true and deep.
But you know...it's there, in you, in all of us.
"How many years ago Were you and l unlettered lads Mad as the mist and snow"
the silence of the dead comes nearer to it, being wisest in the end. What word shall hold the sorrow sitting at the heart of things. The majesty and patience of the truth. Silence will serve; it is an older tongue: The empty room, the moonlight on the wall. Speak for the unreturning traveller. -john hall wheelock
For a handful of years in the nineties l worked with people who needed assistance. The first job was in a woodworking day program. I loved that job. A group of men, a pile of tools, we made picnic tables, doll houses, and little wooden nicknacks that have probably ended up inthrift stores. My favorite person was Bob, Bob couldn'tspeak but knew a few signs. One of them was "fish",which we all practiced because he could sort of say the word. The sign was wiggling your hand back and forth,like a snake, or like a belly dancer on her side.Then l worked in the semi independant living program,these guys lived on their own and l was there to offer assistance with, well you know, life skills.
Kevin... I liked kevin, he was funny and he seemed to enjoy my company. My boss always seemed more concerned about kevin's hygene, and whether or not his dishes were done, but l kind of felt it more important to go fishing. We would drive up the old northwest bay logging road, a secret little lake that made you feel holy. We would cast off of shore, worms and bobbins, catching fist size trout. Keving was stubborn, when they discovered that he had diabetes, well it was very rough on him. FIfty years of drinking soda pop and licking dairy's cone and suddenly your suppose to eat like a bunny, it was tough. A couple years later, riding his bike on a beautiful sunny day, Kevin suffered a heart attack and died.
Lori... Lori was tough, strong and would always help you if you needed. He liked to collect things, lots of things, bikes, cars, radio's, tv's, any thing you could take apart, he was like the guy from "back to the future". Lori had an unkemptness to him that was appealing. One year l offered him a shed in my yard, "a place to store a few things", It didn't take long...he filled it to the roof, he circled the shed with broken cars, and late at night, when even the owls close their eyes, l would sometimes hear loud voices. I thought maybe Orson Welles was right and it was the war of the worlds but no it was just Lori and his coat hanger wrapped cracklin radio.
I also worked with the beautiful Hugh and have written about him before, here...
I just want to feel "right as rain"
"Of course compassion condones suffering in that it recognizes, yes, suffering is life." -j campbell
fern and gary...
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"Sexual intimacy begins with acknowledgment of and respect for the mystery and madness of the others sexuality, for it is only in mystery and madness that soul is revealed." -t.moore
Brenda and Alan... Like two different flowers, on two different seasons, one open, one closed.
Alan is fast, quick, they use to call him "speedy". He had spent some time at Tranquille before they closed down, and like any big institution, it probably left a imprint. Brenda was softer, slower, steadier perhaps, they made a good pair.
I photographed their wedding...
I took Alan and Brenda everywhere, camping, hotels in the big city, art shows, walkabouts... I don't know what l was trying to do, l guess l thought it was useful, important, real.
This next image got me into a lot of trouble...
...now you can whip me or love me, l've battled it in my head, but there is no right, no wrong. Brenda and Alan trusted me, they invited me in, l wanted to acknowledge this, to acknowledge their intimacy, their love...
"In this state of life, however, I remained some time, uncertain what measures to take,and what course of life to lead. An irresistible reluctance continued to going home;and as I stayed away a while, the remembrance of the distress I had been in wore off, and as that abated, the little motion I had in my desires to return wore off with it,till at last I quite laid aside the thoughts of it, and looked out for a voyage." -(Robinson Crusoe - Daniel Defoe)
As l mentioned, l'm in a group show at the Evergreen Cultural Centre Alternative Identities...we were to take on a different identity and well, make some pieces with that in mind. You know, l fantasized of being a spy when l was young, l would dream of wearing a long white overcoat, having a little leather kit of tools, the kind that gets you into any locked door. So l don't know why l didn't pick that identity, anyways l decided on Robinson Crusoe...
This is a box l made with a large lens that you peek through and inside, two figures, a man and his dog. Here is a little detail of what you see.
...and the painting l made
I tried to be Robinson Crusoe, or to feel, quiet, secluded, wandering alone in my head. I tried to think of what l would miss... I worked quietly with my hands, picking up things that laid around, stitching, little pieces of wood, little frail pieces of fabric, building a memory.
La',tout n'est gu'ordre et beaute', Luve, calme et volupte'. (All in simply order and beauty Generosity, calmness and sensuality) -baudelaire
“Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places
of the soul” - Plato
music...it started in grade 7 for me, dancing with Nelly Kazenbroot to the guess who's"american woman. At home l listened to 45's my parents had given me, Johnny Horton,"Battle of New Orleans", Elvis, a song about someone kissing dina in the kitchen, and my favorite "Mr.Bojangles" by Jerry jeff Walker.
He shook his head and as he shook his head I heard someone ask, please Mister Bojangles Mister Bojangles Mister Bojangles, dance.
l found a video of Sammy Davis Jr. singing Mr.Bojangles, . I had pants like sammy davis jr., slightly flared at the bottom, l loved those pants, probably why nelly wanted to dance with me. But here, you might want to watch/listen to don mclean singing "Vincent"
It's the passion, the passion in the singing that thrills me, that inspires me. In my studio l listen to Jacque Brel, Nina Simon, Tom waits, and thrown in there l have Johnny Horton's Battle of New Orleans, Mr. Bojangles, Blinded by the Light by Manfred Mann. They remind me of my childhood, passionate punk. They make me feel good, it's funny how we are shaped by our childhood.
"Friend, when l am dead Make a cup of the clay l become. and, if you remember me, drink from it. Should your lips cling to the cup, It will be but my earthy kiss." -Mexican folk song
When l finished college, l wandered back to the island, my home, then l wandered back to calgary, then back to the island. I was like a gerbil circling his cage, never realizing that the door was open. I was my own worst nightmare. Finally l decided to be still, physically and emotionally. I started painting... photographs can sometimes be perfect, blameless, especially to the purists, but l wanted more from my photographs, l wanted to feel what l had photographed.
So l took a large one and started painting over it, gluing bits and pieces on it, like a crow dropping nuts on the road. Caring but not caring. It was the start to my bricolage (early 90's) I used and still do, old tent canvas, it is cheap, strong and the smell reminds me of my childhood. I glue the silver prints on with archival glue, l use to have to get it from a library supplier in ontario, but now it's like water, you can get it anywhere.
For years I fought with myself, (a good fight) about what l was doing, photographs, paint, really is it art, is it fair. But really who cares, along as you do it with passion, with love , with your childhood.
"This is a deep, permanent human condition this need to be loved and to love"-annie proulx
I'm in a group show, at the Evergreen Cultural Centre in Coquitlam, bc. It's a persona show, each of us taking a different persona. Mine...robinson crusoe here is a very small detail of what l'm working on for it.
... okay, bye one last thing though, maybe check out this blog, she is a young photographer, poet, hell she probably can sing and dance... Sarah
Workin hard hardly workin, hey man you know me" -t.waits
I've been busy under the house, building a foundation, cementing, lifting beams, eating bugs. Well Cedar is kindof like those saint bernard rescue dogs, you know, a barrel of grappa under their chins. So l'm hoping that when the house falls on me, he'll be dragging me out and tending my wounds. Anyways, l'll post something in a few days.
The power to make things beautiful lies in each of us already. It is a core so simple and so deep, that we are born with it.
-C.Alexander
I use this quote at the beginning of every class. Photographic arts, doll making, assemblage and bricolage, l'm like a traveling magic show. It takes me a day to load my truck, old canvas, fabric, some stained, some smelly, dirty rusty tin, banged up wood, blocks of beeswax, needles and thread, and sometimes my sewing machine.
If it were the middle ages, l'd be tortured and hung up for my alchemist ways. I taught a couple of two day workshops at the Denman Island Arts Center, doll making and assemblage. l'm always scared when l go to denman island, it's lawless you know. The people on denman don't just grow potatoes and corn There are lots of artists there and they care. So l have to be prepared, l have to satisfy them. If l don't, who knows, l'd probably wind up on the shore of the mainland, my limbs sewn together, covered in beeswax, looking like a kewpie doll.
(to all of my students, sorry for the lack of names, if you have a name or website, let me know and l'll post it.)
Wells, BC. - I've taught a few times at the Island Mountain Arts Center I've also stayed a winter or two there, out in Stromville. In a cabin, woodstove and lights powered by car batteries, sometimes l felt like a hairless dog curling up tight to keep warm. Wells is a magical place and l like teaching there. Last time l taught for five days, the first two days are the honeymoon, the third day, it's over, people are sick of working eight hours stitching and sticking and listening to my banter about the importance "of caring". Some even wished they had taken the calligraphy class down the hall. I bribe them with cookies, fortune cookies and chocolate cookies and if they make it to thursday, were okay. The last day is the best, were all comfortable with each other, things are just beginning to develop, in fact that's when the five days should really start.
Doesn't matter what class you take with me, l get you to make a fabric doll.
"If a child died, Ojibwa Indian women made a "doll of Misfortune" creating it from feathers and placing it in a cradle, the mother cared for the doll just as if it were a real baby. She would take it on journeys, talk to it and give it presents for one year, until she considered the baby old enough to reach paradise on its own."
Before making a doll, l ask the students to write for ten minutes non-stop starting with words "I remember". This zen practice of writing is borrowed/inspired from Natalie Goldberg The students are brave, most read what they have written, some tearfully, some with laughter, all with courage.
Metchosin, BC - I taught a five day class last summer at the Metchosin International summer school of the arts. This place is beautiful, it's like summer camp without the bully's. You sleep there, you eat there, and you create. I start this class by making pinhole cameras out of old record covers. Self portraits, transfers, rusty tin figures, fabric dolls, encaustic, and collage. The pinhole images are beautiful,
it takes awhile to make the camera light proof. lots of black tape, lots of frustration, but once done, it's like you just made friends with Joseph Niepce. The act of building this little crooked box. The act of building, so important, working with your hands, feeling and fumbling. Like peeing in a ditch, you can't miss. It's almost primitive, and very real, you just want to dance naked around a big fire.
And there's one thing you can't lose And it's that feel It's that feel -t.waits
Red Deer, AB - I am teaching another five day class this summer at Red Deer College. Last summer l had a wonderful group... even a couple who had returned second year in a row, l guess l didn't explain myself clearly enough the first time. (Thank you Paul and Glynis, and
of course thank you Erika and Gillian who always support me and try to come to nearly all workshops.)
And me and Molley Hoey drank Pruno and Koolaid and she had a Tattoo gun made out of a cassette Motor and a guitar string and She soaked a hanky in 3 Roses And rubbed it on the spot And drew a rickety heart and A bent arrow and it hurt like hell -t.waits
A “bricoleur” is a kind of handyman who enjoys adroitly drawing upon all sorts of everyday things - whatever is at hand - to attend to those things that make the good life.
What has changed is my way of seeing, l am learning how to look at pictures, what has changed is my capacity of feeling. Art opens the heart. -j.winterson
Winter has passed... still a little cold...
but were warm...
I listen to him almost every day, and because Renee at Circling My Head needs some wailin and moanin, here is Jacque Brel
In life, change and forgetfulness may give the impression that relationships are temporary and conditional by the events of time, but to the soul, remembrance and eternal connectedness are more important. -t.moore
continuing from my last post...
I took a trip - third year of college l won a 1000.dollar grant and l was going to travel across Canada. I bought a 30 day via rail pass, could get on and off when and where l wanted. I bought fourty rolls of black and white film 400asa. My instructors told me that l was very fortunate, the landscapes across canada they said. Little did they know.
My first stop was Swift Current, Saskatchewan. I stayed at the Imperial $9.45, a room, bath and washroom down the hall. Met Charlie Butcher- lived there all his life, 74years old and had farmed grain for 36 yrs. Lives in town now, his parents homesteaded in Swift Current.
I met the mayor who instead of the key to the city gave me a swift current pin and keychain. I gave my cheese buns and five dollars to Luis and Mercy who were from New York, lost in swift current. Bob, Bunk, Erwin, Mrs Peters then l met Floyd. He told me that he had been in "mental wards" three times and his brother was in the kingston pen, "he was framed", says Floyd. Floyd talked to me about "jerking off" and god. "People don't believe that they can get back in their mother's womb you know." "My father choked to death, my mother had a miscarriage." "Animals believe in god you know, everday down at the zoo people are talking about god and the animals hear, you know."
As l left to board the train, Floyd gave me a stubbly bearded kiss on the cheek. There was a thunderstorm going on that night, maybe one in Floyd as well. Arrived in Brandon, Manitoba early the next morning. Stayed at the Crystal
motel for $18.00. Wandered Brandon, weary from the train. Took pics of Vern in room #9 of my hotel. He's been there six years, 17 years in Brandon. Moved from Winnipeg where he had a dry cleaning business which folded when his wife left with the kids - "she got everything." Vern gave me a polaroid of himself which a friend had taken and he was going to tear up.
I lit a wooden match; I let it all burn down I've broken every rule; I've wrecked it all down There are no words in the wind, the trees are all bare Life's mean as a needle; but why should I care? -tom waits Took pics of Jane who had on a "Smile - Pass it on" patch on her jacket. Brandon was strange to me, hard, dry, but l recognized warmth there...
On my way to Toronto where the train stops for a night. The actual train ride was okay, slept in my seat, wandered to the bar car every now and then chatting to people in my still and quiet way. I bought bagels or buns whenever l stopped, and munched on them, scrunched in my seat like a raccoon with a secret. Stayed at the youth hostel in Toronto for $14.00 and like the other cities, wandered, shuffling along unsure of what l was really doing, peeking here and there, down alleys, in churches, cafe's where l could get toast and coffee. I had to be careful as l didn't have much money. Took pics at a church, built in 1849. There was a strawberry luncheon going on in the back and in the front l met Joe, Mike, and Frank. None of them had whip cream on their faces so l guess they hadn't been invited.
Frank was hungry and was checking out the donation box inside the church. My journal from this trip is so embarrassing, l rant and rave about churches, l whine and fight with myself over what l'm doing.
All your cryin don't do no good Come on up to the house Come down off the cross We can use the wood Come on up to the house -tom waits I met Private Smith, use to be in the army, seven years he told me He'll be 60 in a week. He got to go to Copenhagen
"where the girls and the booze where for the taking". He was such a nice man to meet. I hung around union station like a lost traveler, i sat on benches, switching every now and then so it didn't look like l was thinking. I met a wonderful man name Bill which l wrote about early on in this blog...Here You know, one of the first things l learned, not long before this trip while l ventured the alleys of Calgary, well it was that l could approach anyone. It didn't matter if they looked hardcore, disturbingly cold, or disenchanted, gruff or gross. There's this human inside of us all, no matter the ventures we've taken, it's there and wants to be touched. I traveled to Halifax after Toronto. Headed straight to Dartmouth when l arrived. Met Douglas Mysers in a hallway of a rooming house, dark, a single uncovered bulb hung over his head like a noose.
It was unsettling, he was unsettling. I stayed at the ymca for $16.50. The next day, traveled up to Sydney, stayed at the Cliefden house hotel for $24.00. Wandered, wandered, wandered, and wondered. Went into the Irish club, not many people, very dark, very quiet, met Jimmy. Jimmy use to be on skid row in Montreal. "The french are great people."
"I,m an alcoholic, use to fish out of Nanaimo, had my steam ticket, fuckin liquor, lost it, but l knew my ships." Jimmy had a fantastic face, he should be in the mafia l thought. Traveled to Digby, met Stacy Rogers on the train. 16 next week she tells me. Lives with her mom who loves harley davidson's and Bob Dylan. Stacy ran away once to
Halifax for three days. She wants to be a lawyer or a singer, she's been smoking since she was 10. Arrived in Digby at 10pm, not much money so l stayed in a all night pizza joint until the ferry to Saint John was to leave at 5am Saint John , like a dusty old chest of drawers, clothes flung in, some dirty, some stained, some even clean.
I passed through Toronto again, it's unavoidable. I decided l wanted to go to Niagra Falls. I met the most wonderful couple having lunch there. They were from a small town of 800 people just outside of London, ont. They came to the falls
39 years ago on their honeymoon and have come back every year since. Back in Toronto, "Have l begged from you before," he asked me. Pics of Lynda, i was attracted by the gold glitter on her chest. She wore alot of crosses, goes to three churches. "Have to pleae everyone," she tells me. When she got out of the hospital as she had a bio chem breakdown, she started writing.
She has certain powers and when they got too great she had a breakdown but now can control them. Back on the train heading to Edmonton. Bits of conversation float down the aisle, breaking like bubbles over my head. "Stop it or l'll pull your dink," says a little girl to her brother. "Maybe l'm not fit to be a security guard." says George to Marg.
I drift, sleep, waking myself shouting my own dreamlike words "That's Nice" Edmonton, Jasper, Prince Rupert where l sleep in the front seat of Chet's van. My trip peters out in Princeton. How do l end this- l guess l don't, it goes on, a walk through this fog, grasping at what is human, trying to be human.
Because of all these tears, these eyes can't hope to see, the beauty that surround them, isn't it a pity.
I have come home and l'm looking through the window... I am looking back into a world gone forever. Thinking of a time that will never return. A book of photographs is looking at me. 25 years of looking for the right road. Postcards from everywhere. If there are any answers. I have lost them. -Robert Frank
I am scrapbooking, a hundred or more paintings, finding their images and stories. Bear with me...
It started so many years ago now. I was a punk, my head and body almost transcluscent. It was my first year at college and l was listening to Joe Cocker. English 101 and we were told to do a presentation - on anything. I decided l would do a piece on the homeless, men on the streets. So one morning l borrowed a cheap plastic camera and headed downtown (calgary) on my "excalibur". Yes my ten speed was called excalibur, a canadian tire special, gold in color, and l felt like a knight.
It was was wintery cold, minus something, l bought a styrofoam coffee and just stood on the street and waited. Eye contact, cigarettes, l offered him a sip of my coffee. He was short, spoke with an accent and his name was Meitro. I spent the day with Meitro, we had bus station sandwiches and we walked and walked. He showed me the bins behind safeway, lots of broccoli, not so green. He constantly checked telephone and newspaper slots for spare coin. He showed me where to go and what to do. Our day together was slow, meandering, and gentle. When l left Meitro that day, l was filled with such joy, l had survived the round table.
And so it went...My second year of college and l spent it taking pictures of people on the street. I can't describe the feeliing, l was scared, l had butterflys in my stomach, l was excited. Those feelings when you know you are truly alive.
I photographed everyone, l was on a binge, l bathed in it. I pimped my smokes for hints of conversation. I was champagne in a bucket.
I was still a punk, l was still transcluscent, but...
I started to question myself.
Afraid to die alone, afraid to die unloved. Maybe l needed to care and to be cared. cont...
When we are no longer children, we are already dead. -Brancusi
I have to go climb scaffold for two weeks, till then... Check A Painter's Room, a sacred celebration. and passion of earth; The Waxing Moon
Amid a place of stone, Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult -w.b.yeats
The lamb that ate itself to death... Years ago l spent a winter on a cattle farm in Rolla, bc. I lived in a cabin and worked on a painting. The farmer and his wife were so gracious and so lovely. I would help bring in calves when they were born. Frozen white ground and wind that would rush through you tearing at your flesh as it left. I remember having to pull a calf out of it's mother. I pulled so hard, the farmer and l pulled and pulled, l thought l would turn the cow inside out.,
I helped skin a dead calf, used a utility knife. We wrapped the hide around another motherless calf in hopes the cow would smell her's and let it feed. I drank beer in the rolla pub and listened to the farmer's sons sing, sing, their music was like passion - ferocious.
Huge round bales of hay stretched out on the farm, stacked two high. One day l noticed a lamb eating at the bales, all alone, biting, chewing, tearing, all day she ate. The next morning l found her, dead. She had eaten way too much in one spot, in one sitting, and the top bale had fallen on her. There was beauty on the farm. You don't die when you live on a farm you just become part of the earth's mystery and secrets.
when the road's washed out they pass the bottle around and wait in the arms of the cold cold ground cold cold ground tom waits
I"ve been ready to ka boom for a week Put on your stockings and your powder and blush Keep it all on the hush, hush, hush
-tomwaits
I have a love/hate relationship with "The old school house art gallery. ...but if your looking for cheap art, it's the place to be feb 1st to the 6th. They are having a become a art collector deal, only 250. for any of the work. I am giving them this piece above "the dragonslayers return" So take a trip to Qualicum, buy some cheap art, it's really not a bad way to spend money.
"This beauty is within us at the bottom of memory. It is the beauty of a flight which revives us, which puts the dynamism of one of life's beauties within us. In our childhood, reverie gave us freedom. It is striking that the most favorable field for receiving the consciousness of freedom is none other than reverie... it is in reverie that we are free beings. A potential childhood is within us."
-Gaston Bachelard
...like a carrot still in the ground over winter, check fucoid
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