Category — Art

Home is asking to be wrapped. Rooms wait ready to spill out door, into arms of strangers, onto trucks, into cardboard, buried in storage, carted on boat. Too many bins and boxes for my little head: what to keep, what to store, what to sell, what to bring to Bowen, what to ship out east, what to give to family, what, where, how, when…

But I know life sits out of hand. In arms a billion star courses wide. And I take her hand, now one-year-old, and walk our path to smiling eyes. Sit in her chair at our coffee house. Visit our park, swing our swings, dip in our wading pool, visit our friends, roll all over green carpet thick, laid out under our trees, eat sushi where they remember our alaska rolls and our names.

Soon, together three, we will light new paths, grieve old ones, sit huddled in front of burning hearth, welcome friends at ferry dock and feed hungry mouths, rest weary heads in our island home. We hear the Voice who’s laid out our mornings, years, seeking Face that tells our story. These six months will set a course, I can feel it.

There is much ahead. Family to forge. Words to write. Poetry to spill. Schooling to ingest. Home to make.

I met a friend while visiting in-laws last week who told me her story. Of her travels to Romania, working with Gypsies, igniting a call to international law. She’s running toward it. This relit my heart to study more: media’s impact on democracy — how our incessant ingesting of information shapes our understanding of citizenship. Perhaps a Masters in Toronto, time and prayer will tell.

Much is afoot in my little writerly life. The book, the one about women who seek Jesus but don’t all look like suburban mammas, edgy, world-changing gals who rock tats, paint up storms, influence politics here and overseas, is out as a proposal… seeking an agent / publisher. I’ll post some pages so you can see. Poetry is being submitted, I’ll share as it makes its way onto pages. I hope to start having others share their poetry here. I’ve been inspired by my friend Emily’s imperfect prose Thursdays.

My sister-in-law, Brittany, and I have a crazy idea of starting a little onesie company, using my husband’s adorable old Scouting badges: Badge of Honour onesies on Etsy. We’re setting up shop as I type.

For now we take the days as they come, living them full, here in our home in Burnaby… Thank you for sharing this adventure with us.

A few of my words appeared in ‘print’ this past week.

A poem: A Prayer in catapult’s Arms are for Hugging issue

An interview: Wax Poetic in Comment

And my first profile in Sweetmama: Overhaul the Coveralls

Also, I entered a full-length poetry manuscript into a 1st book competition on Monday. Fingers and toes crossed. 

Have a happy weekend, Everyone!

Make It Productions has stepped up the craft fair circuit. They’re not alone. The handmade revolution has taken North America by storm in the past five years. They DIYers even wrote a book about it.

I grew up within the walls of a fully operational art gallery. I shared my bathroom with clients perusing oil canvases and iron toilet paper holders. Family trips were spent visiting current and prospective painters and potters, equal parts bonding time and sourcing ventures. At the age of 14 I was on a first name basis with some of Vancouver’s most prominent artisans. (On an aside, my high school boyfriend was often mistaken for an artist in attendance at gallery openings. It was his safety pin earring and five o’clock shadow, I think.)

It’s obvious, then, that buying handmade is second nature to me.

Buying art can be expensive. I have been blessed to have many creative friends (and a gallery owner mother) who have filled my shelves and walls with gifted work, but you don’t need to ‘know someone’ to be surrounded by the same. 

Fairs like Make It bring us affordable, high quality art. They’re in major cities everywhere. At a show last weekend I discovered the stunning work of Calgary-based photographer Amy Victoria Wakefield. I bought an original as a birthday gift for a friend and took home a couple of her prints. At the same show I picked up two hand-stitched journals and a large hand-printed poster by Edmonton-based Bird on Wire, all for under $30. I’ve framed the poster and its clean black and white lines now lean atop my writing desk. I met the women who crafted these pieces. I praised their work. They smiled and told me stories. Now I see their faces in my home.

Art carries memory. 

I have a favourite piece of art. It’s a small painting of the Fathers of Confederation my husband and I chose to take home from our honeymoon in the Maritimes. It hangs in a hallway where you’d likely miss it. It’s not the prettiest picture but, every time I pass by (about two dozen times a day, en route to the baby’s room) I am reminded of this first moment as husband and wife.

Do you have a favourite piece of art? (A clay bowl your child made in art class twenty years ago, perhaps?) If so, what is it? Does it carry meaning? Does it too have a face?

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Posted yesterday on the After Hours blog.

How do you do it all and keep time for creative pursuits? 

This was my first question for an occupational therapist mother-of-two I befriended earlier this week, who also happens to paint professionally. It spurred a half-hour discussion as our six-month-olds happily swung, unaware in the brisk March air, nearby.

My friend Brian Harskamp, Director of Development at the Hamilton-based think tank Cardus, is a brilliant cook. When, I wonder, does he find time between his work, civic involvements and other extracurriculars to peruse St. Lawrence Market and other local grocers for just the right ingredients? 

Me? At this stage it’s a three hour window every second Sunday, sitting in a lakeside arts centre in the company of six others, penning lines of poetry. I usually polish off my bi-weekly creative stint circling the perimeter of the lake on an early evening run. The rest of the time I scribble lines on scraps of paper as they come to me. Post-its. Backs of envelopes. Napkins. At the end of the day I write them in my journal or, more often, paste them in, ready for an article or a piece of yet-to-be-written prose. Sometimes I escape to a coffee shop between 6 and 7am to sit alone and read and journal. The occasional evening, after the dinner dishes are done, my husband is at his laptop and my daughter is tucked in bed, I scribble ideas on canvas (in pastel) for painting at a later date. 

So, dear reader, I’ve been wondering: When do you find (or, more accurately, make) time to create? 

[Adapted from this week's post on the After Hours blog]

Christmas card, 2009 by Christina Crook

I’ve been wondering why I haven’t been writing on here a heckuvalot lately. For me, blogging happens in bursts. Sometimes I am spilling with things to say, and other times I’m not. I don’t want to fake it.

Plus, it has been busy. Christmas is around the corner. (Literally, I can see him peering, wiley, from behind our apartment-sized tree.)

This year’s Christmas baking included the tried-and-true: shortbread (with a red and green twist,) a newcomer: orange-laced date bars (I’ll post the recipe tomorrow,) and the kick-ass: the chewyist brownies you’ve ever laid your teeth into (I took the liberty of adding cranberries which, as Michael can attest, was a spectacular choice.)

I’ve also been back at the crafting. 2009 marked a new tradition — the inaugural year of homemade cards. Not cheesy scrap-booky-kinds but collage-y ones hacked out of magazines and pasted on beautiful cream papers from Granville Island’s Opus. I likey.

Here is one of my favourites:

Also, I made a ton of my little magnets. I love sorting through bins of paper and meticulously cutting circles… It’s a little bizarre considering the fact I normally hate this kind of monotony.

Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.

“One Voice” by Calgary artist Connie Gibbens. Read her artist’s statement, where she describes her Circles theme, here. 

“We love wherever we can love, and the power of that love spreads until the circumference of the circle of love grows wider and wider. At least that has been my own experience, even though I know to my rue that the circumference of my love is still much too small.” 

- Madeleine L’Engle, The Irrational Season

“When I think of the incredible, incomprehensible sweep of creation above me, I have a strange reaction of feeling fully alive. Rather than feeling lost and unimportant and meaningless, set against galaxies which go beyond the reach of the furthest telescopes, I feel that my life has meaning. Perhaps I should feel insignificant, but instead I feel a soaring in my heart that the God who could create all this - and out of nothing - can still count the hairs of my head.

Our tininess has nothing to do with it. The peculiar idea that bigger is better has been around for at least as long as I have, and it’s always bothered me. There is within it the implication that it is more difficult for God to care about a gnat than about a galaxy. Creation is just as visible in a grain of sand as in a skyful of stars.”

- Madeleine L’Engle, The Irrational Season  

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I started dabbling with paints this past year. Here is one of my first attempts, in process. It was inspired by the sense L’Engle describes above.

Brilliance from the Wooster Collective.

In the artist’s own words:

“these days it seems shoes and clothes just aren’t enough anymore.

i’ve always loved working in different mediums on the street - stencils, pastes, stickers, cardboard, wood, etc.. over the years you watch your works disappear no matter what the medium - from weather, other artists, property owners, etc.. anyone that does this for a while starts to realize that with more thought out placement, things can last a long ass time, a lot longer than pieces placed haphazardly. so lately i’ve not only been choosing my locations more wisely but have been doing things that attempt to blend in with the existing surroundings. i’m sure these alterations go mainly unnoticed for the most part but for me it offers the same satisfaction as the other things i do on the street - it’s all about altering the outside world no matter how subtle”

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P.S. We decided not to move. It’s a faith thing.

Tonight I welcome friends in through my doors, into my heart. We join in creating — dream boards, calendars, paintings, poetry. Where will the evening take us? Into ice cream sandwiches and typewriters and onto balconies and into each other’s stories. 

Welcome friends, let’s be makers.

I am spending part of this sunny Canada Day writing my next fashion column for Comment.

I often find myself asking the question: what’s the point of writing about fashion? (Or about any topic for that matter, be it strollers, art, bike rides — just a few of the articles I have in process at the moment). And then I stumble across a bit like this that reminds me that all things in life, if seen in the right light, have value, importance, even spiritual significance.

Syliva Plath seems an unlikely source but, then again, God’s great legacy is using the broken of us, right?

“…I wrote a very clever essay ostensibly in praise of style in all its forms as a religious devotee of style, defining it is that order, line, form, and rhythm in everything from the sonnet to the whalebone corset which renders the unruly natural world to becoming bearable.” - 

Sylvia Plath in Letters Home

Happy Canada Day everyone!