It's late summer, with no art studio classes scheduled until the fall. So, in the meantime and whenever I can, I play with my stash of textiles. I am happy to say that my pile is now significantly reduced, and at some point, I may feel compelled to build a new one (but not just now). A few bags of fabric are dropped off with EcoEquitable, an Ottawa based organization that supports new Canadians (especially women) through training in sewing. This latest quilt is a touch quilt, and Mom suggests Sarah, a nurse at the Hospice at May Court, put it to good use there, along with all the lovely touch quilts donated by others. Art with heart and purpose.
During this studio class, we mostly observe the human figure and make paintings using oils. For our final painting though, we create another self-portrait, no rules attached. This time, I use acrylics (they dry quickly), and then paint four loosely represented figures — because I am one of four sisters. The quilt is actually made of canvas that is cut, pieced and then appliquéd onto the paint canvas using thread, and painted with water crayons (yes, that's right, water crayons). Using some gel medium, I also collage some of the stray canvas fibres onto the figures.
I am out with Will and we are in search of a keyboard and monitor. Along the way, we meet up with these birds and, I arrange them (just so) on the counter as we leave. They are stuffed toys (perhaps?) and when you press down on their heads, they make a noise. It's nothing I understand or recognize (though I have played Angry Birds, don't you know). Outside of this installation, is their purpose for these stuffed creatures?
Truth is, I love to make things. Last summer, à temps perdu, I cut and pieced some squares and shapes using fabric from my stash of found textiles. At the end of that summer, I put it all away. In April, our beloved and wonderful Dad passes, and a few weeks later I bring out the stash. The time I give to making, is a time to reflect and remember him, to feel joy. Different textures and a discordant mix of colours that should not work, is how I like to play. Here is the finished quilt with some faces that are made using a mix of pieced and appliqué shapes. The back of the quilt is also pieced and appliquéd, and the colours are cacophonous.
And Today I Shall Sew with hands on woven cloth refuge from the shrouds of snow is my intention Then Piece by piece I remember It's time to play in the world of black and white film photography. (At my age, popping a canister of film into the camera and cranking it until the right number appears is actually a familiar experience. After that though, everything else is new). I shoot countless rolls of film and develop them first into negatives and then prints. Things can go wrong at every stage of the process, and things DO go wrong. For this particular project, we are asked to choose a work from a known photographer and then respond to it. Salt market, from Bridgegate (1868), is one of thirty-one photographs from Thomas Annan’s series; the Old Closes and Streets of Glasgow. Annan’s purpose is documentary — he was commissioned in 1868 to chronicle the tenement district of Glasgow, Scotland that was slated for demolition. His black and white photograph shows a grimy, grey commercial street. Taken at street level, our eyes follow the long scape of buildings as they disappear around a corner on the horizon. At the foreground, people face the camera as they gather on both sides of the street. The details of the architecture and streetscape are rendered with detail throughout, but the figures remain blurred. He uses photogravure techniques that involve printing plates and transferring the image onto paper using inks. The set up and actual exposure required significant time; enough time to draw a crowd captured as a blurred presence standing around him to watch. Unintentionally, the picture’s narrative is transformed by the presence of this obscured congregation, shown in their element for all of us to see. They are strangers to us; banished from the landscape and fated to disappear with the buildings and streets around them.
My own first photo is taken at the entrance to the grand hall at the National Art Gallery (a wink and a nod to the fact that Annan’s original photo is on display here). Our eyes follow the scape of columns, then return to the shadowy figures in the foreground. Like Annan, the sharp details of the buildings stand in contrast to the blurred and ethereal human forms. The second photo is taken from my office. It shows the wall of an old building I see each day. I like this view because it could be from any place in the world. A faint image of the photographer (me) can be seen as a reflection in the window. When I show Jack the photo, he tells me the graffiti is by the artist Berzerker. The name “Berzerker” is appropriate — since he would have clambered up five stories to leave his mark where no one sees it. Except me of course, every day from my office). I also visit some local neighbourhoods to take some more photos. Because of the quality of some of the housing, 100 years from now those buildings will likely not exist. Every where I go, I am made to feel welcome. A camera is not an unusual object these days and there are no assembled crowds. Instead, I find children’s faces are popping up and down in front of me, asking to be photographed. My third photo shows two boys with their plastic guns. They ask to see their pictures. “It’s a film camera”, I tell them. They learn that I will first need to develop the film, print the image, and then scan it to create a digital file to send to them. Say Whaaattt? I like to doodle - who doesn't though? Sometimes a moment calls for more than a doodle. This is a quick sketch from a visit with Dad. He eventually sleeps, bundled up and warm under his bed covers. His new favourite chair is nearby. The lights are dimmed and the room is quiet.
This is a photo taken during one of our visits to the National Gallery (it's often said that Ottawa is a small town for such a grand gallery. I am grateful). In this photo, Jack is seen taking in the Leaves of Grass by Canadian artist Geoffrey Farmer. All part of the show Shine a Light: Canadian Biennial 2014. This particular installation is created with pictures from magazines published from 1935 to 1985. Dad and I visit the exhibit on another day, and he spends time observing the countless images. Most are familiar to him, with a connection to his own life experiences as a young man. Along the way, we stop to observe and ponder the monumental Voice of Fire by Barnett Newman, and I tell Dad the story of controversy when it's first purchased by the Gallery.
So, our last painting this session is abstract. The National Art Gallery is running the Canadian Biennial 2014 exhibit, a show that includes recent acquisitions from their contemporary, photography and indigenous art collections. So for some inspiration, Will and I visit the National Art Gallery to take in the entire Canadian Biennial 2014. We are enchanted. The next day, I return with Dad and we spend time with the Group of Seven. We are transported. And then, we're back again, this time with Jack to see the Jack Bush exhibit. We are mesmerized. To start we choose a figurative painting as a reference for our abstract painting. I pick something by John Singer Sargent and it's a painting of four sisters. It so happens I have three wonderful sisters (and together we make four). Well, after an hour or so, the Sargent is fleeting, and the painting is now my own. The picture must be flat with no depth — a complete turn from our previous work. After a morning of piling on the paint, we take time to observe each other's work. When I ask some of my fellow students what they will do with their paintings, they tell me it's for their Mom at Christmas. Nice.
Time to "activate" our cast sculpture (aka: My Right Foot). First, it's put in a location where it will be discovered. I place it at the front entrance of our home. When my sons and their friends wander in, they have a favourite spot for their shoes. It's next to a vent, where their sneakers cool down in the summer and boots dry in the winter. I see it as a place where the footwear gathers, arriving in pairs and dressed for the occasion. My plaster cast of a solitary, chalk-white and unshod foot appears on our threshold — as an uninvited, somewhat familiar, and not unwelcome guest. Continuing with the same theme of activation, we now present our plaster piece as sculpture. First, I build two lidded wooden shoeboxes, and make them the exact size of the real thing (and by the way, the practical part of me knows those boxes will be useful later). Then, the plaster foot is sheathed in a clear silicone cast I make of a running shoe. An open box with the foot now rests on top of closed shoebox, just like it does in the shoe store.
Well, after many weeks creating objects with paper, wood and metal, and hours of sawing, cutting, grinding, hammering, bending and welding -- today, we are invited to play with plaster. The thing is; making things with plaster is a quiet sport, and we're all just thrilled to get our hands dirty. We learn how to make moulds using different materials including clay and silicone and I choose to make a cast of my right foot using plaster. I am surprised by the details, like veins, bone and toenails. With a little sanding those air bubble disappear.
Time for a landscape. But not the get-out-there-and-paint-what-you-see kind of landscape. Nope, no way. Instead, we collage images taken from magazines, old books, etc., to inspire a landscape painting. Once again, we are coaxed from our comfort zone, and the purpose is to help us think about composition, content and form. What emerges is a landscape that shows the different seasons of the year. There a boy ventures out into the world; a path undecided as his journey unfolds before watchful eyes. Despite my own imagined narrative, the viewer decides the story.
We begin with something made from paper, (our reference has to be small enough to hold in our hand, and from our everyday life). Then, we are to make it life-size, and build it to scale. I decide to make a super-size box of President’s Choice Mac and Cheese. Listening to the radio, I learn that Canadians consume more prepared mac and cheese than Americans. It's a cheap, convenient and conventional meal of choice. After some quick calculations, I construct and paint a REALLY BIG BOX using pieces of cardboard, and it's a lengthy process. Frankly, I never imagined building an oversized box of Mac and Cheese. When done, we take a photo of our work, installed somewhere on campus. In doing so, the idea is to assign it new meaning — a take on the work of artist Marcel Duchamp (who famously calls a urinal Fountain, and presents it as art). At the time, that's hailed as unconventional; today, not so much. Above is a photo of my box standing next to a sign with the word "conventional" (by the way, I crop out the "un" part of that word). It's a blustery day when I take this photo and to keep the box from taking flight, Jack holds it steady (he's unseen, but definitely present). Thanks Jack.
So, today begins my journey in the study of the fine arts. It starts out in our painting studio, and we are asked to make a still life. In the middle of the room, our instructor gathers together some commonplace objects, and then invites us to make a picture. We can include the whole scene, or any part of it — it's our choice. We set up easels, crack open paints and brushes, and busy ourselves with our canvases. There are fifteen painters, each working from a different location in the room. Ninety minutes later, we put down our paint brushes and walk around to have a look at the other pictures. They're all different, each and every one of them interesting.
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