Here
Here
Little sliver of sand
tucked in beside
the crooked boathouses;
waves lapping, rolling, roiling,
as the lake changes her moods.
Sun cresting above the
far forested horizon,
scattering a thousand
diamonds on the blue bay.
Tall, lightning-scarred pine,
bared roots grasping the striped granite
like the talons of a prehistoric beast,
presiding over jumbled stone ledges
dipping, slipping under and away,
into a bowl of indigo.
We stand there, you and me,
breathing the evergreen scent
of peace and clear water.
Wherever I may go from here,
and when our ways do part,
this place will remain ours.
Your shadow, mine, the pine’s,
forever together, secret vestiges etched
in the strata of our beloved shore.
On da beach
A recent painting of Soleil and Arwen, based on a photo taken a few years ago now, when Soleil was in her prime and Arwen was just a sprite.
It was fun to capture their exuberance, matched only by the energy of the waves.
SJ
I mentioned to a close friend recently that two of the artists who have had the biggest influence on me both took their own life. One had been struggling openly with depression and shot himself in the parking lot of his psychologist's office, while the other one simply disappeared. His backpack was found on a high cliff overlooking the sea.
On a certain level, I find it incomprehensible that two people with so much talent and apparent success could be so down on themselves. They both were recognized, celebrated and collected artists : in financial terms, they were successful. And money seems to be the primary measure of success to many people.
However, for creatives, it's not quite so simple. I think that there is a constant hunger that gnaws away at the creative person, a sense of inadequacy that taunts and undermines. Looking at their own work, the creative is likely to see only the imperfections and faults: a dimension that is off, or a shadow that is wrong, or a rhyme that just doesn't sing. They're constantly comparing themselves to others or worse, to their own visions and expectations, and feeling that they fall short. This insecurity is both a gift and a poison. Used well, it becomes a motive, a force that drives a desire to do better, to continue onwards in hopes of one day getting it right. Conversely, it can also fuel feelings of unworthiness, frustration and worse. I grapple with this myself on an ongoing basis. It's like having your own personal demon sitting on your shoulder, telling you that it's just not worth it, you're just not worth it.
This flux of emotions is embedded within each and every work an artist embarks upon, no matter where they are in their career. You begin with a vision of what you want to paint, whether it is a scene before your eyes, a photograph, or an image from your imagination. You throw down paint excitedly and see the essence of your vision transferring to the canvas. So far, so good. But every single painting goes through an ''ugly stage'', where you get to the halfway point or so and step back and realize that it looks nothing like what you'd envisioned, and it seems hopeless to continue, impossible to salvage. It takes grit and determination and a sprinkle of pure, unadulterated optimism to get past this and persevere. Most of the time, something beautiful does emerge in the end. However you have to commit to the roller coaster in order to get there.
I found some of the few remaining images of one of these artists and decided to spend some time with them. In attempting to replicate them, I hope to absorb some of the light and inspiration of a brilliant artist who left us wanting more.
Gail
I lost a friend this past summer. We'd drifted apart after we both moved, but I still considered her a mentor and a force of life.
She was the person who took my love of dogs to a whole other level. She introduced me to the world of retriever training, and we spent many a morning laughing and freezing and watching our dogs streak across a stubble field or swim around in the pickerelweed. She later went on to become a respected field test judge, known for her warm and encouraging character.
She was small but feisty, and she had a huge character, wearing her heart on her sleeve. She would literally give you the shirt off her back. I remember one summer weekend when my parents were away and I took the dogs to the creek for a swim, and Tanna trod on some broken glass and cut her paw very badly. I could not stop the bleeding, and I called Gail, who drove over to our house and took us to the emergency vet clinic in Hamilton then sat with me in a nearby Tim Hortons with all of the rest of the nighttime denizens of the city core, as we waited for the dog to be stitched up. That's just who she was.
She lost her son, who was about my age, about a decade ago, and in spite of that enormous burden of grief, she was brave and strong and always there for others.
She died at home this past June. I went through some photographs of her and found one that spoke to me, that said this is who she is. I painted her as I will always remember her, earthy and vibrant, with a dog at her side.
