young women in old dresses

Young Women in Old Dresses:
As someone who has worked in theatre most of my life, I've accumulated all kinds of vintage dresses and costume pieces. They're stored up in the attic in a wardrobe and every once in a while I take them out to admire. Most don't fit but I still delight in the quality of the fabrics and the uniqueness of the styles. I confess that over the years, I've also snipped off bits and pieces to add to a quilting project or to embellish a blouse.

During the holidays, while my family were visiting, I asked my nieces to try on some of the dresses and we all had a wonderful time taking photos and dressing up. When I was a girl, like most girls, we played 'dress-up'. Our costumes amounted to an old torn crinoline, my mother's abandoned navy blue nurse's cape, some worn pumps, and a few broken umbrellas. Those few scrappy items provided hours of endless play.

Lately, I've become very interested in the idea of play among children; and how computer screens/ i-phones / computer games have had an effect on play. I'm convinced that children do play differently, just by virtue of the fact that most children's toys come with 'scripts' of one sort or another. There's a big difference between playing in an old field and playing a computer game, complete with characters, setting, and so on. In our imaginations, our field became everything from a meeting ground for snowy owls to a place where we might find deeds to land worth millions! I don't want to sound entirely old fashioned, but I do think some things may have gotten lost in the race into the age of technology. With so much pizazz, is anything left to the imagination? (I do see the irony in this, as blogging is one of those 'screen' technologies I've embraced.)

However, I do appreciate that for one short afternoon, we all neglected our lap tops and 'screens' and dressed up. Here are some of the photos.

Young Women in Old Dresses

New Year's Goals and an Imperfect Mary

New Year's Goals and an Imperfect Mary

When I was a girl, we had a crib with all the Christmas story figurines. One of the shepherds had a lamb propped over his neck, like a woolen scarf. Two angels were propped up on top of the crib and a large silver star hung at the peak of the open creche. My father used to 'hide' the baby Jesus up high in the cabinet and surreptitiously place it in the manger before we got out of bed on Christmas morning. Over the years, with seven children playing with the ceramic figurines, they naturally got chipped and broken and lost. Some of the figures were so damaged with chunks of plaster gone so that we could see the wires at the centre of the figure. Eventually, the entire set dwindled down to only one sheep, one shepherd, one cow, two of the three wise men, one angel and of course Joseph, Mary and Jesus. But one year, we could not find Mary. I suppose she just couldn't sustain the wear and tear of our household. Baby Jesus still arrived on cue but it just wasn't the same without Mary.

The following Christmas, the creche was set up again but this time my mother had found a 'spare Mary' to complete the Christmas scene. However, because Mary had been scrounged from elsewhere and was not an original member of the set, she was quite a bit larger than the other figurines. In fact, Mary on her knees still managed to tower over Joseph who happened to be in a standing position. At the time, we were simply glad to have Mary back and it made no difference to us that she didn't 'match' the set.

Now, in retrospect, I am so grateful to have grown up in a family where things didn't match, where china was often chipped or cracked, where stairs creaked and windows rattled and where the gooseberry bushes overran the garden. I think our generation is obsessed with perfection. We want the best of everything. Few of us would glue up a broken figurine or replace a broken clasp on a bra or take apart a toaster to attempt to fix it. When we paint a room, we want things to match. There's even a name for these small items we place in the newly painted room: accents. When did 'accents' become something that everyday people had to worry themselves about? Personally, I love beautiful things. I am an artist, after all and aesthetics mean a lot to me. But do I love perfection too much? Is there some wisdom in the way I was raised? Where perfection was an ideal only to aspire to only in terms of developing character traits such as kindness and 'doing the right thing'.


This new year, I am going to sit down and write out my goals, as I always do. It's fun to think about what this next year might bring. But I am also going to include something different in my goals. That is, I'm going to include a “make-do” attitude. In certain areas in my life, I am going to be okay with imperfection. Not only am I going to be okay with it, I'm going to celebrate it. Why not? It's going to be a 'yes' kind of year: yes to hope, yes to kindness and yes to living in this imperfect world.

Salvation Army Kettle Drive and the Snow That Came to Stay

The Salvation Army Kettle Drive and the Snow That Came to Stay

Each year it's the same thing. In November, I resist digging out my winter clothes. I delay and delay until it's been minus zero for over a week, and then finally I relent and I open up the dreaded 'box'. This year, as I unearth my winter things, I notice the slightly musty smell of the wool, the coolness of the attic and the snow gently falling. All of this releases that valve of memory from previous winters in Northern Ontario. And suddenly, I see myself at sixteen in January, wandering into the “Famous Shoe Repair”on Simpson Street.

As teenagers, my best friend and I often promenaded along the sidewalks of Simpson Street frequenting 'The Ukrainian Book Store', 'The European Bakery' (with the most amazing poppy seed bread in the world), 'Cherry's Corner', 'Morrows' Pianos', 'The Venice Grill' and, of course 'The Famous Shoe Repair Shop'. I remember how Gerry, the shoemaker, hummed to himself while he worked and his fingers were permanently stained. I loved that Gerry named his shop “Famous” and that he took the time to chat with us. And even more wonderful that his shop doors remain open to this day, as does the European Bakery!

As I reminisce, I slowly dawn my winter clothes. I am about to volunteer for the Salvation Army kettle drive and realize I may be stationed outside or near a drafty doorway. As I gently ring the bells throughout the afternoon, I remember a line from a play by John Books‒“The snow that came to stay, fell this night.” I wonder if 'this night' will be the snow that comes to stay. As I watch the snow, dozens of people stop to talk with me. One woman tells me the story of losing her brother in an industrial accident just following the war. “He survived the war, only to die back here in Canada.” A woman drops a twenty into the kettle saying, “Salvation Army saved my life so many times. Literally. I don't mind giving. I don't mind.” I have no explanation for this surge of conversation with strangers, other than the fact that the Salvation Army makes our communities kinder, gentler places. And it's snowing. Perhaps snow is our common thread. And as the months of winter fly by, I discover that this November day was indeed “the snow that came to stay.”

Gratitude from the ashes of worry

Gratitude from the Ashes of Worry

The older I get, the more fragile I come to realize that life is; and the more gratitude I feel. Granted, I sometimes am grateful that no great disaster has befallen me or my loved ones that day. But I am also grateful for the smaller, almost invisible blessings. Like the fact that I saw a red ship floating in the harbour mist yesterday morning, or that my mother is still well enough to live in her own home, or that the winter clothes I put into storage last April have not been eaten by moths. I have an idea of what cultivates gratitude but I don't always pay attention to what devours gratitude. And many things devour it. Worry, for example. I have had a lifelong relationship with worry. I know its many faces and its many voices. It calls me from my sleep and sings a siren's tune. Worry has a huge appetite and the more you feed it, the more its appetite grows... or so it seems.

Case in point: one day last week, I had two things happen within a time space of an hour. In the first incident, one of my co-workers was unhappy with me and had corrected me. In the second incident, a different co-worker sang my praises. My immediate response was to sink into a worried, depressed state over the co-worker who was unhappy with me. Would this affect my reputation at work? Would I come across as someone incapable? I went up into my room at home and literally shut the lights and slumped into a chair. I tried to snap myself out of it. What did it matter if one, single person was unhappy with me one afternoon out of the year? I can never arrange the world in such a way that everyone is always going to always be happy with me! Never! In fact, I can never arrange the world, period. And what about that other co-worker; the one who sang my praises? Why has her compliment been relegated to the back recesses of my mind? Why am I sitting in a dark room in a chair?

When I was working in sculpture a number of years back, I created a worry chair. I asked people to write their worries onto the chair. Underneath it, I sewed a rug with an image of a woman and a window above her head; light streaming in from the window. (The artist part of me knows that it's better to open a window, rather than shut out the light.)

Sometimes, I question the little tidbits of activity I do around the home to bring in the “light”. I call it 'little art' because it is art-in-transition; art that is here today and likely gone in a few days or weeks. This week, I filled a cream pitcher with mountain ash berries and also stems from a white berry bush (that the nursery has mistakenly sold me as a gooseberry bush). I also found an antique postcard of a little girl reaching up to touch an angel (from Italy) and I framed it in an old frame I had sitting in my attic. For a few weeks, each night I drank warm milk with freshly grated nutmeg and black pepper, crushed star anise and cinnamon sticks. It tasted heavenly. I don't always have time to invest into making a piece of art. But I can always continue puttering with these small, seemingly insignificant pastimes. And as I work at this or that, I seem to also burn off the residue of worry from the day, making room for gratitude.

Empty Nest and a 21-day Conversation

Empty Nest and the Healing Effects of a 21-day Conversation

My friend came to visit me, rather unexpectedly. And instead of staying for two days, as was originally planned, she stayed for eleven days. A week later, she returned and stayed for another ten days, totally 21 days If she had called first to discuss this, I probably would have discouraged her from such a lengthy visit. I would have said that I hadn't been feeling well (which was 100% true) and that perhaps another month would be more suitable. But somewhere in the cosmos, she was scheduled to visit me on that particular day during that particular time when I felt so sick and utterly unprepared for a visitor. And she was meant to stay for exactly 21 days. You see, what I was experiencing was no ordinary flu, but rather, a sickness of the heart. I was facing most days with complete emotional and physical exhaustion. I was also waking up at night with heart palpations; not to mention a sense of weight pressing down on my chest. Eating almonds in the middle of the night helped a bit. Hanging my head forward and shaking the tension out of my shoulders helped a bit. Calling Tele-health at regular intervals to put my mind at ease that I wasn't having a heart attack helped. Sort of. But nothing, absolutely nothing came close to the benefits of that 21-day conversation with my dear friend.

Our visit began with a pot of rose-petaled tea from Turkey and a conversation about our lives.

It continued day after day, cup of tea after cup of tea. In the beginning, I used pre-packaged tea bags. But as time evolved, I began concocting my own tea mixtures, almost as if the tea had to be as unique as the conversation. Long, lingering thoughts. Silences following bursts of conversation. Ideas floating in the air around us, like silent chimes. And then, a thread of an idea would be picked up from the previous day and explored once again. We covered it all; the big issues like death and religion and our vocations and beauty and what beauty is and why it's seems so out of fashion in the art world. We talked about our propensity to spend endless hours in creating art, but not always taking that final step of sending it out into the bigger, wider world. (This part of my artist's life is something I prefer to avoid entirely.) As we talked endlessly, Alanna and I scribbled out our ideas as they came to us, grabbing the closest scrap of paper to write out our new code of life.

Slowly, in between the days and evenings and mornings of conversation, my life came back to me. One evening, I made squash pie. That night, we whipped up some heavy cream and ate pie, warm from the oven. Before Alanna's visit, I had felt too busy to cook; too overwhelmed with absolutely everything in my life. I began to realize that the sickness I had been experiencing has a name. And the name is 'empty nest'. 'Empty nest', I now realize, can knock a person for a loop, clean around the block. The condition, I feel, needs stronger words to describe it. 'Empty nest' sounds almost sweet. But after spending 27 years, where a huge part of my identity revolved around mothering, this was and is a massive life change. And it felt good to say it out loud.

When Alanna first arrived, I thought I perhaps I might need heart surgery or some sort of heavy-duty medication to snap me out of my anxiety and my un-wellness. What I actually needed was 63 pots of tea (three pots per day), a conversation that never ended with a trusted and dear friend, an abundance of fresh garden produce from the market, phone calls with my three children who all live far from home, easy walks at a slow pace, and my big box of collage papers to make cards. That's what I needed. That was my healing.

Since Alanna's departure yesterday, I continue to marvel at the gift of her serendipitous visit. It was heaven-sent. How often, I ask myself, are other gifts placed at my feet, yet for whatever reason, I am unwilling to reach down and pick up them up. Sometimes a bout of sickness, even heartsickness, is the perfect per-curser to open my eyes to the gifts of grace.

Unknown Destinations

....Marigolds in summer.......day becomes night...

Our lives are built on a foundation of unfinished projects, it seems.... the winter quilt I began five years ago, the drawings I intended to render into paintings, the ingredients lining the basement shelves meant to be made into pies and cakes, the mosaic pieces of broken teacups and bowls meant to adorn a tray.... all unfinished projects And there are also the 'completed' projects that are not truly complete until I give them wings and send them into the world. Shall I be haunted by these unfinished creative shapes that hide in the corners of my house and heart? Or be inspired by them?

I've always identified myself as an artist but perhaps I am more an explorer than anything else. Perhaps I am not an artist after all, but a mapmaker. I make complex, emotional maps, complete with legends and directions; where to find this or that; what kind of terrain to expect; protective clothing to wear; gear that may come in handy. Maybe my purpose in life never has been to accomplish things but rather to map the process of the creative journey‒ 'When did I feel rattled to my core? When did I thrill at the discovery of a new view? When did I find myself injured and when did I find myself healed? When did it make sense to step out into a boat and explore the oceans and when did it seem necessary to remain on safe, dry land?' These are the relevant questions of my arts practice. Sometimes I reach my destination, sometimes not. Either way, I've left markers on the way for others who may wish to set foot onto similar territory. (Keeping in mind that those 'others' may find it more useful to create their own maps).

However, as I write this, I do have to wonder if this notion of map-making is actually an avoidance or an excuse for avoiding the hard work of pushing something out into the world. But what about those times when pushing something out into the world resembles a bulldozer smashing trees and wildlife and anything else in its path? In that case, is it not better to keep something close to home; safely stored in my pocket? At least I can be assured that I have not placed myself or others in harm's way.

...an unknown destination... open eyes...whispering dreams.

Under the Pearl Moon

What happens when an eleven-year-old urban girl is forced to live in a remote cabin with an eccentric aunt? And what happens when that same aunt– a long time activist and a woman driven with worry for the environment– chooses to live a no-garbage lifestyle. Years ago, I visited a friend of mine in Atikokan who had taken on that very task. She had reduced her garbage down to one small plastic bag a month. At the time, I was so inspired by her dedication that I, along with composer Lise Vaugeois and performer Jennifer Garrett, wrote and toured a theatre piece, then titled “Under the Moon with Aunt Birdie”. (Incidentally, this will be produced this season by the Thunder Bay Symphony Orchestra).


During our performance run, we invited filmmaker Sonja Obljubek, to film archival footage. She thought it would make a great premise for a film. This percolated in the back of my mind for years until one day, I picked up my pen and wrote a film script, (well, not all in one day, naturally), re-titling it “Under the Pearl Moon”. Once I could think and create in a visual language, the story expanded to include neighbours, a boy with a bit of a chip on his shoulders, a woman with vision loss, and an ancient pine tree. Out of necessity, this eclectic group becomes Pearl's community. And in the end, it is Pearl who discovers a true and lasting relationship with the natural world, rather than her aunt.

Children, I fear, are not sometimes not encouraged or given opportunities to develop connections with the natural world. It is my firm belief that without this connection, we are all deeply deprived. It is one of our most basic human rights; to have access to the natural world. Only then will any of us have the passion and desire to truly become responsible stewards of our earth.
)

If you want to contribute and be a part of this wonderful project, click here.

Late last summer, we filmed a demo scene of Under the Pearl Moon. As this has been developing for years, other components and community people have become part of this project. Filmmaker Sonja Obljubek will co-direct the piece with myself. Lise Vaugeois will incorporate some of the music she originally composed. Eco Superior Thunder Bay has contributed to the educational component of this project. As well as producing the film, environmental-arts lesson plans have been developed for teachers to use in classrooms. As funding comes into place, these lesson plans will be delivered by artist educators throughout the province. As well, an educational package and website will be made available to teachers across the county. The film itself will visit environmental film festivals worldwide.

It's a tall project with a tall order. Our message, in a nutshell is, “come play and be inspired within the natural world”. We have some funding but we are striving first to complete the film, and secondly to delight and inspire family audiences everywhere. And to do this, we need additional support. Will you invest in this vision? Ultimately, it is our way of giving back to this extraordinary planet, and encouraging stewardship for all.