the terrifying act of art brought into the public eye

Art is a lovely, cozy kind of an act when a person is alone in his or her room, with the cat quietly purring or the tunes playing or the soft breeze of summer floating in through an open window. Yes, in those situations, art-making is a relaxing, breezy delight; the process of creating something without the disturbing thought of sharing it with "the public". No critic to deconstruct or criticize or minimize its worth. I know that there are books galore that expound on how to deal with the 'inner critic' and it's true, we all have an inner critic that sometimes needs to be silenced. But in fact, there are external critics as well. (Or perhaps worse, there are those who simpy do not care a fig about art or artists.) This is the place I struggle; the place where I must move from the little room in my mind and bring it out beyond the borders of the safe place where that story or art piece was first born.

Today I did just that very thing. I took something which, until lately, has been kept safe in tea rooms and conversations with one dear artist friend. And now I've opened it up for others to participate and join in. Interestingly enough, creating the invitation itself was a joy. (There's nothing more fun than collage.) But the moment I began sending it out through all those various "social networking" sites, I felt an anxiety creep into my mind. Oh, don't I know it so well, this anxiety. However, I will welcome it, this nervous fluttering of the heart. I will add it to my ongoing list of what a creative process involves. I can't all be warm summer breezes. There has to be the odd blast of cold air to keep us all awake!

My Year of Seclusion and Charlotte Bronte's Villette

Over three years ago, I lost my father. This had a huge impact on my tolerance for the stumble stones of life. Prior to his passing, though I could not have named it, I felt a sense of confidence in my choice of vocation as an artist. Like so many things in life, only when his day-to-day presence was withdrawn, did I understand thoroughly what he had given me. He was, among many other things, my emotional patron. You see, as an artist, I could do without many things; I could live on a modest income; I could squeeze blood from a rock, if I had to. So I wasn't really on a search for a patron of the arts, in the usual sense of the word. Yet, with him gone, I came to the realization that he was and always had been, my emotional patron. And with him gone, and that emotional patronage removed from my life, I experienced a serious loss in confidence. Why had I chosen this artistic path? What made me think I could or would succeed at something which, for many, is viewed as a triviality. My reaction to this loss of confidence was to seclude myself. And though I continued to create art daily, I shared it with no one. I made no motion towards offering my supposed gifts to the world. This may seem, by some, to be a selfish act; to create but not share. But at the time, I just could not conceive of doing it any other way. I had to create; this kept me from drowning in my own grief. But there was no law to force me to share what I created. This self imposed privacy began eventually to impact, not only my artistic career, but also my personal life. I had no wish to see people, beyond the necessity of being in the work force during the perfunctory nine to five window. (With the exception of those few people nearest and dearest to me.) But most every night, at least six nights out of seven, were spent in isolation as I wrote, or hand sewed, or cooked, or tidied up the house or watched another episode of The Gilmor Girls. My husband works nights and his schedule suited me quite perfectly. I began to feel awkward and strangely out of place whenever I did occasionally find myself in social situations. I began to feel that I had no social graces, no eloquence, nothing of value to add to the conversation.

Something eventually came along to catapult me out of this hermitage. And that is all well and good but until reading Charlotte Bronte's Villette, I thought of myself as flawed. Otherwise, I would have not let this happen. How could I have let myself go so far and so long in isolation? I would have picked myself up by the bootstraps and embraced life, the way it is meant to be embraced.

Thank goodness for my friend Alanna (who is herself an artist and creates exquisite paintings), who recommended that I read Villette. How could she have known the impact that book would have on me? In the novel, the narrator is the voice of Lucy Snowe, a young woman who struggles with her own dark corners and her own depression. She is also wise, this Lucy Snowe. She observes and writes her interior world with a ruthlessly honest pen. Lucy Snowe has given me a fresh view into my own year where I closed the windows and bolted the doors to the bustle and business of life.

I admit, somewhat reluctantly did I begin to read Villette. I thought nothing could ever or would ever compare to Jane Eyre and I was prepared for disappointment. Villette drew me in slowly but ultimately, with just as much force and depth as Jane Eyre. Allow me to share one small excerpt from Bronte's novel Villette; the excerpt that helped me view my year of being a hermit in a new light.

“Those....whose lives have fallen amid the seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of their friends, the denizens of a freer world..... The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance, comes no more. Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but knew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand and the wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestones- that same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants with hurry for his friends. The hermit- if he be a sensible hermit- will swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be comfortable; make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life's wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season. Let him say, “It is quite right; it ought to be so, since so it is.” And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring's softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds and singing of liberated streams will call him to kindly resurrection.”

Tea in Rome

Sadly, I think this may be my final (or perhaps second to final) entry telling tales of our trip to Italy. By our last day in Italy, we were a bit worn out and needed an easy day. For me, an easy day always involves a tea room and writing or drawing in my journal. In fact, this is the fuel for an imaginative life; whether at home or in Italy... a book with blank pages, something to write or draw with, and a few hours with no other obligations (or a few hours outright ignoring other obligations). No matter what my mood may be; whether I'm battling a headache or facing a deadline, that combination of tea and journal-writing is always the perfect elixir. For a few minutes, I am able to take some simple observation of my external or internal world and place it within the confines of a page. A page has edges. A page is generally small and manageable. A page does not demand much from me... a few scribbles, a few words. Yet I consider what it gives back to me; perspective, delight, calm. It gives meaning to random events. It captures a moment (like cameras are supposed to do, though too often cameras rob me of my moment). So that is what our last day of Italy consisted of. We made our way by city bus to the Spanish steps. It was Monday morning, and we were to leave by that evening. We entered a tea shop named Babington's. The tea was divine, the scones tasted as if they were baked in Bath, England. The waitresses were dressed in robin's egg blue (linen) skirts. The girls reminded me of my own daughter, who is about that age and sews linen skirts by the dozens.

After tea, only metres away from the subway station, we noticed a Roma (gypsy) woman by the entrance to the subway. She was kneeling on the cobblestones and had a cup in front of her with a picture of the Madonna on the cup. She was not imposing in any way on the passerbys. She was praying continually and my assumption was that, if we contributed to her, she would include us in her prayers. I did drop something into her cup, as I cannot think of a more difficult way to spend a day under the hot sun. Please understand that my intention in drawing an image of her, is meant as a tribute to her. It is, in no way meant to comment in a negative way. She has her story too. We all have our stories. And all are valuable. And who knows, perhaps it was her prayer that got us home safe and sound. I like to think so.

Rome in a day (or two)

It's been said you can't do Rome in a day but I think we came pretty close. We walked for five hours, from site to public bus to site to public bus. When we stopped at Trevi Fountain, I followed custom and threw a coin over my shoulder into the fountain. When we arrived at the fountain at the Spanish Steps, I also threw a coin into the Fontana della Barcaccia (If you look closely, you'll see me in the sketch). Now, it seems, I must return to Rome, now that I've scattered my coins everywhere. After that, we found a narrow alleyway (one of hundreds) and sat on a bench to cool off and enjoy some gilato. While we sat, we watched a handsomely dressed young man attempting to woo passerbys into the restaurant where he worked. He smiled and flirted with the crowds of people, young and old, and in the half hour that we sat across the lane watching him, not once was he successful in his attempts. But was he upset? He wasn't fazed in the least. A half hour before that, we wandered into the Pantheon, a notable experience because at that moment, a concert was just coming to a close. Never before in my life have I heard such incredible acoustics. I felt bathed by the voices of the singers. Out in front of the Pantheon, there were people selling tickets to the opera- La Traviata by Verdi. I couldn't resists. That night, we entered a marvelous, tiny opera house that seated no more than 150 people. Most of the audience members sat sipping wine during the performance. It was a first time opera for my husband and I must say, I was impressed that he only nodded off twice.

A traveler's gift and Kathy's goodness

This will be a brief entry. As I have been logging my travels in Italy, something quite surprising and sad came up a few days ago. One of the women I met while on my travels in Italy passed away suddenly. Her name was Kathy and whoever came into contact with Kathy, I'm sure found her to be kind and gentle. I only spent six days with Kathy but it never occurred to me that her life would be ended so soon. I'm sure she didn't realize it either. But she certainly added goodness to this earth. On our last evening in Rome, a large group of us went out to dine together. It was a jovial night with a jovial group. The restaurant was called Pinsa Buoi, and they are famous for their 3-grain pizza, their wines and I will add, their service and hospitality. Not to mention the most amazing mixed greens I have ever tasted. That night I had neglected to go to a 'bankomat' to get out funds to pay for our dinner. So when we were breaking up the tab, I offered to pay our portion with credit card, as I was three or four Euros short. Kathy quickly offered to pay the difference and added "It's a traveler's gift". I received many traveler's gifts, but that generous spark in Kathy is one I will always remember.



I took this photograph as we were waiting for our streetcar, after our dinner out. I realized afterward that the shadows cast on the ground were the shadows of the group of us who had dined that night.

Gems of Assisi

When I travel, I notice certain things and take photographs but when I arrive back home, these are not necessarily the things that stay with me. Memory is strange that way. It surprises us with what it clings to and what it discards. Today, I will share a small morsel of what clings to my mind about our time in Assisi. We began our day by visiting the Basilica named Santa Maria degli Angeli. An impressive church, but the real gem is the tiny little church-within-the-church, named the Porziuncola, dating back to 1200 and connected to St. Francis. I entered the tiny church, seating capacity of perhaps 40 people, and just as I sat, a young monk entered, knelt before the alter and began chanting. As he sang, the bells (so many bells) rang and it was then that it dawned on me he was singing the Angelus. When we were very little children, the church bells rang at noon and my mother would have us stop to say the Angelus, so it was a sweet moment for me, that I just happened to be there at that moment.

From our hotel, it was about a 4 kilometre climb to Assisi, and a steep uphill incline every step of the way. By the time we arrived, I really did feel like a pilgrim. Assisi feels like a city of peace, every though it is crawling with tourists. And I am sure there are troubles there, just as there are hidden troubles almost everywhere, but there is such a strong intentional force that speaks to peace; it is almost palpable. There are cloaked men and women everywhere (often chatting on their cell phones), but also just making their way through the winding, cobblestone streets. The Basilica of St Francis is massive and all I can say is that I am truly glad we had a guide to take us through it, to explain the frescos and to give us the story of St. Francis. I won't relay it here, but it is an inspiring story and one that I knew little of prior to my visit there.

In Assisi, I have, never in my life, seen so many shops with so many religious objects.... rosaries and triptychs and thimbles and lace and statues and baking and chocolates and paintings and the list really is endless. I visited some of the shops and in truth, I felt badly for the shopkeepers because even though there were hoards of people, very few were entering the shops. And this was confirmed when I spoke with a few of the local shopkeepers. They had such lovely items, many of them locally made. I purchased a few embroidered linen items that will make lovely gifts.

I will conclude by sharing another one of those stay-with-me moments. We had returned to Assisi the next day early in the morning. It was a very different town early in the day as it was still quiet. We visited the Basilica of Saint Clare, which was completed in the year 1265. I loved being there. I loved the quiet and the hush that seemed to encircle the space. Also, there was a bit of a museum with artifacts from her life. Saint Claire was a highly skilled textile artisan. On display was one of her woolen cloaks, a cream piece with simple and yet intricate design that Saint Claire had woven. I can't help but admire her attention to detail. On our way home, we were walking along a street and passed by an open doorway to a very unassuming building. There was nothing notable about this building, but for whatever reason, I felt drawn to enter it. When we stepped inside, we found ourselves inside a very tiny chapel. Paintings adored every wall and a few rows of kneelers were stationed in front of the alter. The entire chapel was smaller than my livingroom. Again, the place resonated with a marvelous and awe-inspiring energy. We sat quietly for ten minutes or more before we realized that very close to us, knelt a nun silently praying. It's as if she appeared as an apparition. Her stillness was so perfect that she was almost part of the chapel itself.

The hidden chapel door along a side street.

A Choir Window in an Alleyway

Two things struck me while traveling through Italy... food (of course), and music. Everywhere we went, music was present: two girls with skipping ropes singing as they skipped, choirs practicing with four and five part harmonies, a young priest singing with a voice as smooth as olive oil, a drunk walking home at night and humming out a tune. One evening in Gubbio, as we were walking home after dining, we heard a choir practicing through an open window. Our tour guide, Elisabetta, and I and Gary stood in the alleyway, and we had our own lovely concert. Free of charge.

This perhaps, is a good time to mention, our tour guide. Elisabetta and twelve of us spent two or three hours together each day. (Though for the first few days of our trip, we were on our own.) We had booked a week through a tour company that is environmentally responsible and socially ethical. Their tours are simple, small groups, give lots of flexibility and free time. Do I sound like an ad for Intrepid? If I do, it's only because I was thrilled with this tour company. And, well, there simply is no replacement for Elisabetta. She went far and beyond in the attention she gave to each of us. And if it weren't for her, we would not have discovered so many little, out of the way, family-owned restaurants with amazing food.


We spent one day in Spello, which I've named the "medieval city of flowers". I have never, in my entire life, seen so many flowers, aside from flower shops. Flowers literally poured out of the windows and selfishly took their place in the narrow streets and alleyways. There wasn't one unadorned doorway. There wasn't one spot that wasn't a perfect place to snap a picture. Also in Spello, we went to a wine tasting event at a lovely spot called "Enoteca Properzio".
Now let me say that I am not a wine drinker. As I'm sensitive to sulfates, I rarely let wine pass my lips. But... well, this was an experience I could not pass up. I pictured a few snacks, perhaps some bruschetta, to accompany the wine. I could not have prepared myself for the foods that were placed in front of me- each meant to be taken with a specific wine. At first, local olive oil was drizzled on bread and that alone was enough to make me want to move to Italy. Following that came various selections of cheeses, meats, salads with aged balsamic (the real thing), not to mention desserts of every variety. We spent three of four hours there and I could not have felt more satisfied. Every part of me was delighted.



I especially loved one of the desserts. It had a very thin layer of pastry and the mixture inside was a unique combination of walnuts, raisins, chocolate, anise seed and apples. And it wasn't overly sweet. In fact, the raisins may have been the only sweetener. I'm going to try and recreate it in Canada. The tasting was completed with a glass of port. And for me, the port was the icing on the cake, or should I say, the encore after the performance.