The United Church...(#31)

One block east of The Bay. The beautiful facade of this church was buried behind a row of retail shops for decades. (Montrealers, you remember Dapper Dan's?)

Right below this rose window is a panel of carvings, including likenesses of rabbits, owls, deer and lots more. I think that steeple on the left looks some kind of a Gothic-Space Agey rocket about to take off.

The view from one of the studios at United Yoga Montreal, which until recently was located in one of the new glass wings abutting the church, but is now in the second floor of the old Jacob office building right across the street.

Case in point: The Bay

I pass The Bay (short for The Hudson's Bay Company) frequently, but as often as I've seen it, I still find myself wondering how it looked in years past. The majority of the window archways have been boarded over, including the one you see on the lower right and most if not all the ones on the side and back of the structure. I still find it to be a stately, grand old building, but when compared to the earliest photo I've featured here, it's easy to see why it's often overlooked. From far away, you can see its 'good bones," but amidst the jumble of shops and mall entrances and signage that now clutter and dominate St. Catherine Street, it doesn't stand a chance. And if you're on the sidewalk in front of it and look up, all you're going to get is awning. The small trees that lined the sidewalk are no more and the sky around it has been filled up with apartment building balconies. Air, light, grass, stones that show slightly different tones one from the other - all of this was invisible to passersby a century ago...

Follow the Bixis and you'll find The Bay!

A beautiful building, with residences to the left and the United Church visible to the right. (I'll post a more modern shot of that steeple for you soon).

Montrealers celebrating outside Morgan's (now The Bay), V.E. Day, 1945. If we tried, could we still detect the street car tracks on St. Catherine?

On Old Buildings (and What They Would Tell Us)

Facade of an abandoned jute mill, Cornwall, England. If you look carefully, you'll see leaves through the windows...

Women pausing from their work at one of Dundee's jute mills, the first of which came into existence in the 1820s.

Abandoned jute mill, Dundee.

A few months back, I listened to a BBC program about the Scottish town of Dundee - "known for jute, jam and journalism"- the economy of which relied for decades on the importation of jute to be woven into mats, rope and sandbags. (They did big business on the latter during World War One). One generation followed another into the mills - about sixty of them at the peak of the industry - making these factories the focal point for individuals, as well as familial and community life. The last generation to remember life as it was then, before the jute industry collapsed, are retirees now and they spoke about the central role these factories played in their everyday lives. When the factories began to close, community traditions once seemingly set in stone changed, as friends, family and neighbours were forced to move elsewhere to seek work. Today, many of the remaining factories lie in disrepair, while others have been renovated for use as housing in ways that respect the historical beauty of the buildings.

I often see old buildings here in Montreal that, while not typically beautiful, are beautiful in ways that set my mind to wondering about them. In many cases it’s a towering structure that lies empty; the flour mill that once featured hundreds, if not thousands of workers and floor upon floor of deafening machinery. Other times it’s a low, red brick former knitting mill that’s now apartments, a faded hat and scarf set adorning the facade beneath a resident's window sill. And lastly, sometimes it’s just an artistic flourish spotted on a cracked facade that hints of former beauty, of a time when someone was proud to live there. I wonder about these buildings, about what roles they played in peoples' lives and on the landscapes of the neighbourhood. What stories can they tell me?

(More on local buildings later...)

Thank you, Hurricane Irene!

Branches collected in the 'hood. A passerby asked me if I was building a nest.

Irene was seriously bad news for a lot of people; flooding, power outages and much worse. But I am grateful that just when I decided to attempt that branch and crystal chandelier I admired in the shop, nature came through. Be careful what you wish for!

The Volcano...

Just so you'll know I wasn't' making it all up.

One Thing Leads to Another (Monkey Mind)

A few years back, I had a yoga teacher who described the way the mind wanders as 'monkey mind.' I thought, "That's it! Fantastic!" Except while I was in class, trying to think about what I was doing, I became extra aware of how my mind wandered. I decided my wandering thoughts could best be described as 'barrel of monkey' mind, with one hooked to the other and the next and the next. First, I'd find myself contemplating the almond croissants across the street at Premier Moisson, heavy with marzipan and dusted with icing sugar and slivered almonds. Then I'd think about how I shouldn't be thinking of that, how contemplating the fiiiine taste of almond with a swig-of-coffee chaser was not doing my balance any favours. (Unless tree pose is supposed to represent a tree in a wind storm, in which case I was spot on). From there, I would think about the fact that, come to think of it, I was low on cash and shouldn't I go to the bank? Oh, and I need cat food and, and... All to say, monkey mind, yessiree, I got ya.

At times when I want to focus on the task at hand, I can find this monkey mind o' mine a bit of a burden. In other instances, however, I have come to welcome it, or at least relax and enjoy the ride. I figure with my particular Pam mind, it's just part of the deal and actually, it's pretty entertaining. To be specific - not a moment too soon, you're all thinking! - take Rupert. When I adopted Rupert, he had been named Sea Moon by the lady fostering him. I couldn't get my mind around that, so tried calling him Simon, which is a name I like. But he just didn't seem like a Simon to me. So my sister suggested Rupert and bingo, that was it. Distinguished, cuddly, the colour of Scotch caramel and a cat who if given the opportunity, could no doubt carry off a fine tweed cap. Rupert, indeed! But ditching Simon didn't seem altogether right, so he became Rupert Simon. Rupert Simon McGillicuddy. But wait, it doesn't end there, because sometimes I call him Rupert Demon Seed, which naturally leads to me calling him Demon Runyon. And because he can be a handful, I occasionally call him Crackpot. Crackpot becomes Cracky, Cracklin' Rosie, Crackhead (sorry, but true), Rupert McCrackindale and finally Krakatoa, after that 19th century Indonesian volcanic eruption. (I mean, duh!). I could go on, too - I mean really, really go on.

If you, like me are waiting for a point, a denouement then you, like me shall be left wanting. I can't provide, my peeps! Only to say that sometimes my barrel of monkey mind can be a good way to blow off mental steam - it's silly and refreshing and raucous and what comes naturally. At least to this monkey.

Making Something Old New Again

I came upon this sweet wire-back chair at the St. Lambert United Church Antique and Rummage sale last summer. This sale has been happening each May for almost 50 years, and it remains one of the few unchanged things about my hometown. As long as I can remember, the volunteers have been labelling the tea room sandwich baggies (i.e., Tuna, Ham, Egg) in 24 point Times New Roman font. This year and last, the gentleman wearing the security badge was the 75 year old named Ed, and the fella who sold me my tomato plants two summers ago and made me laugh non-stop was back again for more (as was I). Many of the faces I see there are what I call "St. Lambert faces" - people I didn't know by name, but saw at this sale every year since I was a kid. On my first time back at this sale after having lived away for many years, I was struck by how these faces had aged; then struck immediately by the knowledge that if they'd gotten older, so had I. The hard work and camaraderie, the sense of community - and did I mention the Lazy Daisy cakes for sale at the Country Kitchen nook off the main hall? - all of this is heartwarming and reassuring to me.

But, I digress. I'm here to write about that chair. I paid $7.00 for it (after hesitating a few minutes, yes, but after that I never regretted it). I rather liked the pink corduroy seat cover, but as it had a bit of paint on it, I knew it had to go. I brought it home and, as I am wont to do, tried a couple of different 'fat quarter' fabric samples on it. I hemmed and hawed, took pictures, then hemmed and hawed some more. Finally, I borrowed a staple gun from my friend and got the job done. I couldn't like it more. Even better, I saw an identical chair (with different fabric) in a Westmount vintage store window for $75.00. Sometimes my ideas are so good I just don't know what to do with them all...

I genuinely like salvaging old pieces of furniture. Sometimes they're not terribly practical - say an old bureau with narrow, sticky drawers - but time after time I have found pieces that fix up beautifully. I don't always feel like dedicating the elbow grease, but when I do it pays off with something unique and often pretty striking. And unique! Who else has this exact chair, or a soft green bureau with lily of the valley painted on the top and sides, or a robin's egg blue kitchen hutch? Nobody, that's who. And another plus is that in most cases, this stuff would have ended up as landfill. How someone didn't see the possibility in these pieces, I'll never know. Admittedly they're not everyone's cup of tea, and not to say I wouldn't appreciate some fine new piece now and then, but overall, this just works for me.

Branching Out

I have been contemplating this beautiful light fixture I came across in a shop called Lola & Emily last week. I'd never been in before, stepped through the door and Woa! this blew me away. I stood and stared at it for a few minutes before asking them if they minded if I took a snap of it. "Not at all!" they said, adding that they had watched with fascination not long ago as the woman who'd made it put it up.

I have had branches on the brain for about a year now, wondering how I could incorporate them into my surroundings (indoors, as I figure mama nature has the outdoors covered). I often see clusters of branches bundled for pick up along with other yard refuse and have been sorely tempted to pick them up. But what to do with them? Do I have to soak them to make them pliable? What's the best way to bind them together?

As fate would have it, I have also been sequestering a shoe box full of crystal chandelier drops for about five years, moving them with me from NDG, to St. Lambert and now back again.

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Alexander McQueen Does Grinling Gibbons

Woa! Just woa.

The Creative Spark

There’s a popular presentation on TED by writer Elizabeth Gilbert, who talks about the mental blocks individuals and society can have surrounding creativity. She points out that when a person announces that they want to be an engineer or an accountant, nobody warily suggests that they might want to take up a less risky profession. But if a person announces their intention to be an artist or a poet, there’s a great chance that someone is going to say “Aren’t you scared?” or “Maybe you should consider taking some business or computer courses as a back up.” I don’t think people mean to be discouraging when they say stuff like this; I do think they’re scared, which to me is understandable. It’s as though having predominantly creative talents is seen as something of a negative, at least from a practical point of view. And while I can certainly see that some professions offer better financial renumeration, if that profession is truly not what you’re suited for, it will likely take more away from you than it gives.

Following the monster success of her book 'Eat, Pray, Love' a lot of people asked her if she was terrified to write her next book, the suggestion being that the chances of her topping, let alone equally the insane popularity of that book was nil. I guess that could be a kind of paralyzing place from which to embark on your next creative endeavour, on the other hand, it might be kind of freeing. If you consider that that kind of lightening indeed probably doesn't strike twice, what the hell? You may just as well lean into it, because what have you got to lose? The alternative would be to not proceed with doing something you love and that doesn't seem like a viable alternative.

Gilbert said one more thing that stayed with me and that is that all you really have to do is just show up for your piece of the puzzle, the little creative piece you're meant to contribute. And that for that alone a person deserves an Olé - an expression that traces its roots to the Moorish 'Allah.' To me, wether or not you believe in the divine is not really the point, as long as you believe - in my humble opinion - that your creative spark is something that deserves to see the light of day.

Historical Events in Fashion

Madame Pompadour - Rococo perfection

Marie Antoinette at her most regal.

Holy cracker! Marie Antoinette wearing what came to be known as the 'chemise a la reine' - getting all antiquity and Rousseau-like on us. (With a dash of creole maiden). And did she get in dutch for this one! What kind of queen poses for her portrait in her nightie and one made of foreign fabrics, to boot? Poor woman really couldn't catch a break.

By the Empire period, the waistlines could not get any higher. The feathers and turbans were part of a craze for all things eastern. The fur was a nod towards a famous Russian battle.

I'm back! Were you worried I'd run out of things to write about? (OK, me too, a little). But the fact is I had friends in town and then for the last two days have been experiencing laptop woes. I didn't forget about you, I just had no technology.

I haven't thought this one out too much, I just know I don't want another day to go by without posting. So here goes...

I'm thinking about the role the past can have on design, specifically in fashion. Even as a kid I loved fashion and loved drawing people in cool clothes. (OK, girls in Go-Go boots). I remember very clearly a grey jersey knit outfit displayed at a downtown department store - it had a small red cherry patch sewn on to the bodice. I thought then how nice red looked on a soft grey - so smart! I also clearly recall deciding that navy blue and green did not look well together and even ran this past my Dad. (He agreed). In retrospect, I hadn't considered how smart a nice pine green looks paired with navy in a tartan, but then I was probably only about seven years old at the time.

What's my point? Oh yes, the point is I've always loved clothes, but I didn't really love fashion per se until I discovered fashion history. I couldn't really care less about fashion trends (unless they're drawing on something from decades or centuries past) or how to 'get the look for less.' Unfortunately, the vast majority of fashion coverage these days is concerned with how to wear a trend, who's wearing the trends, who can afford the stuff and where you should rush out to buy it. But the minute I come across information that puts fashion into some kind of context - what else was happening at the time these fashions became popular? Who was wearing them, what kind of statement were they making and why? That's when my ears prick up.

In terms of the 20th century, I think the late '50s through the '60s is fascinating - between Britain and the United States the sub-cultures and looks are ever-changing. But if I had to go further back in history, I'll take 18th century France and England. By the 1730s, the 'go to' dress for court was the silk robe a la Francaise - mile-wide panniers, pleats hanging from the shoulders, heavy trimmings of ribbon, lace and net - best worn with a towering hairstyle. Add a fan and a beauty mark and you're good to go! (Or not, I mean how could you move?)

The English were associated with a slightly less cumbersome style - the robe a l'Anglaise. No crazy panniers or pleats, but a sizeable rump that when worn with the corset of the day, gave a much-desired pouter pigeon silhouette. As the century progressed, the fashions became easier and lighter - many have referred to it as a democratization of fashion. So what happened? A bunch of things, that's what. The discovery of the ruins of Pompeii awakened a fascination with antiquity - the simple symmetrical beauty of ancient Greece and Rome. Suddenly every smart English garden required a temple. Women of taste began to eschew Lyon silks for layers of precious, light-as-air English muslins and by the turn of the century, they were mimicking Greek statuary by wearing white, Empire-waisted gowns. (Yes, that Napoleon Bonaparte was all about the Roman Empire and so were the fashions. They just didn't know those statues had originally been painted brilliant colours). Then there was the Anglomania - a craze for all things associated with the English outdoorsy way of life and a political system considered more democratic than the one across the channel. The writings of Rousseau, extolling nature and reason, as well as Diderot's Encyclopedia, which brought knowledge to the common man (or at least a commoner man than just the elite) - all these things led to an easiness in fashion. Oh, and last but certainly not least is the French Revolution, during which a a colour or an accessory could speak volumes. Consider yourself a citoyenne? Then cotton is your fabric, as silk would suggest an allegiance to the Ancien Regime.

S'all crazy, but so, so interesting, methinks...

It's Only Rock n' Roll, (but he loves it).

I recently listened to all 20 discs of Keith Richard's autobiography "Life" and loved it. How the man remained as musically productive while battling a heroin addiction for as many years as he did is fairly mind-blowing, but what is truly impressive is his pure love of music. He received his first guitar in his mid-teens and before long began developing an encyclopaedic knowledge of American rhythm and blues. This infatuation became the basis of his friendship with Mick Jagger, who grew up not far from Richards, but in a much better part of town. Different classes, same love of the blues.

What really kept me hooked on Richards' story was not just the escapades - the over-zealous cops in Arkansas, the Anita Pallenberg years, and the drug binges - followed by numerous punishing attempts to kick the habit before he finally did - it was his clear love of music and respect for musicianship. At his core he's a working class guy who's made it extremely good and knows it, but his values and work ethic remain very grounded. For lack of a more interesting way to put it, for Richards it really is all about the music. He remains curious and (surprisingly, because this is Keith Bloody Richards!) has even experienced doubts about his ability to succeed at new aspects of music. Specifically, it took him nine months before he gathered the courage to try his hand at songwriting. Once he did, it was apparent he had a talent for it and it became for him a major means of self-expression. "It was sheer pleasure and an unexpected gift I didn’t know I had" he says about songwriting. The fact that this super-human musician would be reticent to try anything new - so he is human? - was a great reminder that anyone, at any stage of life or level of success, can experience doubts about their abilities. I'm thinking this is a good thing to remember if you keep yourself out of the running before you even begin because you're not "one of them." "Them" being one of those "sprinkled with fairy-dust, they must have something I don't" kind of people, the likes of which stop you from trying something you really ought to try and soon. Like, now.

Working with Wood.

Raised pulpit in the beautiful St. Patrick's Basilica, Montreal.

The work of master carver Grinling Gibbons (Born Rotterdam, 1648- died London, 1721).

Genius artist with a rockin' name!

Finehomebuilding.com

I have been pondering what to write about woodworking and carpentry, besides the fact that I find the idea of them very beautiful. Be it liberating ornate, three-dimensional shapes from a block of oak, or the construction of a clean-lined pine deck, I'm really moved by the connection some people have with wood. With carving, my fascination lies with how the artist can envision, then release leaves, acorns, claws, rounded cheeks and so much more from what appear to be a shapeless, unyielding mass of matter. In the case of carpentry, a connection with the natural, an understanding how one wood will yield where another resists, how the properties of one may serve the end purpose better than the next - this is wonderful to me. And the patience and precision it takes! The working and reworking, the - roughened fingers crossed - smooth final assembly of the pieces, then the treatment. An altogether lengthy process, but an enjoyable one if you love what you're doing. And once it's completed, there's the end result - the bench, the cabinet, a deck overlooking the yard - that will provide years of enjoyment and satisfaction. Useful, beautiful and between the crafter and the crafted, absolutely unique.

A Buzz Buzz.

Nature can be creative, too, no?

I have been contemplating the effect a large wasp's nest - size of two human heads large, thriving suburb of stingers large - can have upon my state of mind. Overall my take is that if I leave its inhabitants alone, they'll leave me alone. And yet. And yet, I see this basket-weave-of-a-nest growing (and growing) outside my living room window and I am none-too-comfortable with it. I marvel at the beauty of it, sure, but the purposefulness with which those wasps crawl about the surface strikes me as a bit too...focused. I'd much prefer the drowsy demeanour of laid-back October wasp, or even a bad-ass John Belushi kind of bee. The latter might appear a little threatening, but at least I'd know what I was up against.

On a totally tangent note, the shape of this wasp's nest reminds me of the bulbous heads on those annoyingly single-minded aliens in the original Star Trek episode. (Was anyone else reminded of a person's bum upon seeing them?).

I suppose in the chill of late autumn the nest will be abandoned, but until that time, I shall cast a wary eye towards that sagging branch. Trying hard to banish persistent thoughts about how cool it would be if it were a piñata!

Memories (the bittersweet kind) as Inspiration

I spent a good chunk of today transcribing an interview conducted last fall with a lovely woman, a retired psychologist and amateur poet. Throughout our time together, she shared her memories of growing up in Beaurepaire Village, which for all intents and purposes is known today as Beaconsfield. Beaconsfield is a suburb of Montreal and fully built up now, but when she was growing up there in the '50s, it was country. Summers were spent weaving forts from tall grasses, dodging red-winged black birds, swimming in Lac St. Louis and learning to milk a neighbour's cow. Wintertime meant skating on the frozen lake and tobogganing down local hills. This idyllic childhood instilled in her an unshakeable need to be around nature. For years she had a home in NDG and loved it, but only "survived" it because she could escape to the country on weekends. Today she lives further out of the city and her backyard is filled with marshes and racoons and birds and sunsets.

She and her sister moved into the house her parents' built sometime around 1947, and though it was a modest Cape Cod cottage, they lived on about a half-acre of land, on which her Dad tended vegetables and roses and trees of all sorts. Her parents sold the house when she was in her late teens to a couple that kept up the garden, but the house was sold again and a few years ago when the house was on the market, she visited it. She wandered through the house, saying goodbye to each room and later was given a tour of the grounds. "But where are all the flowers? Where are the trees?" she asked the owner. He explained that he had taken a back-ho to the land, clearing it of all the gardens. She told me she knew then it wasn't home anymore.

Not long after, she was giving her first public poetry reading and as it happened the venue was a cafe located on the corner of her old street. She decided to stop by the house beforehand to see what had become of it. But then the house was boarded up, abandoned because of a badly damaged foundation. The address was gone, replaced by a piece of paper stuck to the door, which was half covered by enormous drifts of snow. It was the saddest thing in the world, she told me, but added that it prompted her to go home and write one of her best poems, which she called 'I Wasn't Prepared."

I was very moved by her story and felt privileged then as now to have been on the receiving end of her memories. Hearing the interview again, I got to thinking about what it is about some of our most painful, or at least bittersweet, memories that allow us to produce work that can be so satisfying. I don't think it always works out that way, but there are times when the feelings are so clear and clean that there seems to be nothing between them and the paper or canvas. At those times, it's all you can do to keep up with what needs to come out of you. I'm not sure if it's because in those moments, there's no tolerance for hesitation? The memory is so visual and acute that it's in one place - your head and heart (OK, that's two) and what it needs is to be put somewhere else, figured out, held up to the light for a closer look. It's hard to put it into words, but if you've been there you know exactly what I'm trying to say.

And so, memories of pink stucco houses and gardens, and rose bushes and towering weeping birch, and attics that hold bikes that come down only when there's no snow lining the curb. Rhubarb dipped in sugar and chives yanked and eaten, tanning with water, tin foil and Bain de Soleil. Sore throats painted with blue tincture. TVs with the "works in a drawer" and no remote and one dial phone between seven people.

Yes, let's!

Artwork outside Museum of Fine Art, Boston.

This is how we'd kick off each improv class last winter, with a game called "Yes, let's!" (Saying 'yes' to something in a scene is one of the basic rules of improv, because a 'no' shuts it right down). Doing improv was probably some of the most fun I've ever had - I mean, ridiculous fun, laughter bubbling forth like a babbling brook kind of fun. The simple premise of Yes, Let's! is that someone in the group suggests we do something; "Let's act like we just ate a whole wheel of cheese and it's disagreeing with us!" to which everyone responds "Yes, let's!" and then we stumble around the room acting out our interpretation of what that would be like. Then someone makes another suggestion, say "Let's say we're martians who have just learned to dance the watusi!" "Yes, let's!" If in the first class this doesn't help you shed a few inhibitions, not much will. Stumbling about like a drunkard, rolling on the floor, scratching like a chimp - these are what I call ice breakers.

Improv is about a lot of things. It's about spontaneity, but it's also about making your partner look good. It's about listening as much as it is about speaking up. It's not about being funny, but often it ends up being very fun indeed. One thing I struggled with the most was trusting myself enough to jump in a scene when it was running out of juice. If your friends are up their floundering, you've got to support them by jumping in. Say anything, but don't stay on the sidelines! I would literally rock in my chair - jump in, but what are you gonna say? jump in!!" I also had the nasty habit of apologizing if I felt I'd screwed up (but I knew going in that was going to be one of my demons, so no surprise there).

Building a scene, a character, a rapport, trusting your instinct, a willingness to experiment and make mistakes, the joy of feeling a scene take off - all this to me is very creative. It's ongoing and joyful and telling. There's an expression I like in yoga, that you "meet yourself on the mat." To me, this means you encounter your way of thinking - your self-judgements, your competitive streak, when you feel inadequate or crave a little stroking. It's revealing and the same goes with improv. You learn a helluva lot about yourself up there - not all comfortable realizations, either - and you witness change, too. It's fascinating and risky and open-ended and can be hard, just like life, but you're forced to jump in, one way or t'other. It kicks your ass, but sometimes that ain't all bad.

Stylish French Women in Occupied Paris

These images pertain to the post directly below. Am I right, or am I right? Chic en maudite!

New Fave Frock

Alright, I actually finished this dress a couple of weeks ago, but the elastic across the back needed shortening. I opened up the casing, grabbed the elastic and snap - I did something I swore I wouldn't do. I let go of it. "No problem" my sis said. "Just undo the casing." I envisioned undoing the whole damn thing, but it hit me this morning that I really only needed to undo a couple of stitches where I could feel the elastic, thrust a safety pin through it and tug. Done!

I wore it to the pool today - quite proudly. I admit I fantasized that some woman would leap from her chair and ask me where I got it. I'd look shyly down and admit that I'd made it, and gee thanks, because this is my second sewing project, and, well...and then she'd say "Seriously? Would you make me one? I'll pay you whatever you want. Come to think of it, can you make one for my daughter, too? Hey, Mona - this woman made her dress. Can you believe it?" By the time I realized this exchange had not yet taken place, I was leaving the pool, at which point I started walking a bit more slowly. Surely somebody wants to compliment me on this dress, right? Because it totally rocks! I remain stymied...

The dress is pictured here with the wonderful yellow shoes I bought on sale shortly before moving home from NYC. Way on sale, I might add, because they're what you call 'designer shoes." Designed to be both fab and expensive. (They were 70% off). I have not worn them once this summer and that must be rectified. I call these my "French woman on a bicycle in occupied Paris" shoes because these cork-platformed cuties are similar to the styles worn by women in the '40s. Cork wasn't rationed, but gas was and French women, though forced to make their way 'round by foot or bike like most people, did so in a ridiculously stylish way. If you looked closely, you might have noticed some frayed edges, but it remained a great way to bolster morale while thumbing their noses at the Germans.

Yeesh. This post is all over the place. If you've made it this far, you are indeed my friend and I 'high five' you.

Do it, Do it 'till your satisfied (whatever it is)

Every time I finish a creative project - be it sewing, or sketching, or figuring out what to put on a blank canvas (see blog entry "I have no idea what I'm doing...") I feel a flush of satisfaction, but also a pang of anxiety. I think it amounts to 'Quick, where's the next high?" It's occurred to me that choosing the fabric, taping colour swatches and staring at the empty space on the wall (for a couple of months, because I dig taking my time) is as enjoyable as getting the thing done. The above canvas went through several incarnations, but I actually enjoyed those false starts along the way. Kind of discouraging, yeah, but then...what the hell, let's just start again.

The projects waiting to be started - the chair that needs recovering, the fabric stacks on the armoire, the just-bought pattern I ought to read through - much as they add an element of pressure, I'd feel less energized if they were missing. Too much and it's clutter, not enough and it's quiet...too quiet. I don't always achieve that balance, but if all else fails, I can hide a few things until I'm ready to take them on. Or not.

Steal and call it yours...

Love this.

Thanks to Colin who shared this a few months back. I stole it from him.

Animals as Inspiration

"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened" Anatole France

I never cease to be amazed at how loving an animal has changed me. I'm crazy about dogs and have always considered myself a "dog person," but fell hard for cats, too sometime around 1997 when I adopted Noah and Clement. How much I grew to love them is still kind of a revelation to me.

Crazy this very real bond that exists between species who don't speak the same language, but grow to love and know one another beyond words. I just know this, I'm a different person than I was before I loved an animal.

I'm not sure if there's a direct link between loving an animal and creativity, but I think the tenderness and silliness they awaken in a person can certainly contribute to it, or at least set the tone. Tenderness, silliness, fascination, vulnerability - these are all things that animals bring out in a person. And I sense I'm more likely to trying something new, to be open to trying, when I'm feeling that way. Cats and dogs (and ferrets and gerbils, I imagine) just are - there's no pretense and no agenda (unless we're talking food). Even their guile seems guileless - hey, they just want what they want. That in and of itself - the ability to just be and then be some more - is pretty inspiring to me.

On being loosey-goosey while you make your way...

Making my mark with a bold choice of colour....

Someone reminded me of something important last week; “You are not your degree.” I realize that doesn’t sound terribly insightful, but when I heard it - and I had to hear it more than once - it struck a chord. I think I feel like I flipped and flopped through so many jobs in so many cities and felt like the squarest peg in the roundest hole in so many instances, that teaching history of fashion has felt like a gift. This work makes sense to me! I can synthesize all those bits of art and design and film and pop culture and world history and, and, and it all makes sense to me, and better still, people seem to like it! Let me tell you, if you’ve chastised yourself for daydreaming through staff meetings, found yourself shouting “why aren’t you printing?” at the Zerox copier or been told by a none-too-sympathetic older sibling that you’re "flighty, you know, a flibbidyjibbet" - discovering work that you feel comes naturally to you is an enormous relief. So is there a sense of unease about possibly inserting myself in to a situation that may make me feel inept? That plays into a label I was given by someone - one that hit a tender spot - years ago? I’m thinking maybe yes.

So this is where nimbleness comes in, a word I’ve used previously, but one that warrants repeating. I’m thinking if I cling to an idea of what I should be, or who I am, be it out of fear or some misguided sense of responsibility, I’m seriously stuck. Petrified. Screwed. But if I can play it loose and easy, maybe keep an eye open for those hard and fast takes that only serve to paddle my behind (who is that taskmaster, anyway?) I might be relaxed enough to hear that small voice inside that says “Try this.” Or “you love that.” “It makes you happy - do more of that and see where it takes you.” Anyway, maybe this all a bit too esoteric, I dunno. But I am struck by how that taskmaster voice can shake even the most talented, successful individuals - people you’d never expect would second-guess themselves or be afraid to try something new. (More on them soon). I guess the point is to trust your instinct about what makes you happy, what lets you live by your values and the stuff that makes you feel estranged from it. That’s all.

No Idea What I'm Doing With This...

Something tells me I need to get outdoors and clear my head. Take a walk. Go to the pool. Go buy that huge set of red floral wall stickers I had in my hand yesterday. Stop taking this so seriously, all of a sudden.

Thanks for listening! As you were.

Life Ain't No Damn Bowl of Cherries

Nor is it a purchased-only-yesterday, golden glass seashell ashtray of cherries either. I say this in reference to day-to-day put on yer pants and get going living, but more specifically about how life seems to require a lot of nimbleness. If you are wondering what that statement has to do with creativity, you're not alone. (Ha! Just kidding!) No seriously, I think creating, fashioning, crafting - you name it - your life takes nimbleness. And dexterity. Patience (with yourself, mostly) mixed with perseverance. Hope.

This is on my mind because I'm now committing myself to figuring out what else I want to do, besides teaching. I'm working on this with someone - and what a find she is - talking about past jobs and interests and writing lots of crap down. (The good kind of crap). Also as of yesterday I'm reading a book called Finding Your Own North Star and based on the introduction alone I'm reminded that a lot of people, if not most, hit a point where they feel they've gotten off track completely or at least feel estranged from what they were meant to do with themselves. And that's a really painful place to be. Panic-inducing, discombobulating, stymieing. The book begins with a quote by a guy called Dan (age 41, but he could be any age, or a chick* for that matter) and goes as follows:

"Right in the middle of my life, I realized that I wasn't where I wanted to be. It was like I'd wandered off the right path into a very, very bad neighbourhood. I don't even want to remember how scary that space was - makes me feel like I'm gonna die or something. I'm only telling you about it because a lot of good came from it in the long run. So anyway, I don't even know how I ended up so off course. I felt like I'd been sleepwalking."

In reality, Dan is Dante Alighieri and this is from the first few lines of his The Divine Comedy, 1307. So let's just say that this kind of confusion has been happening to people of all ages since at least the Middle Ages. I don't know about you, reader (assuming someone will read this), but I find this comforting. I also take comfort in the fact that Dante did find his way out and that though the journey can be hard sometimes, it's also very (very) rewarding. This according to author Martha Beck, but I tend to believe her. Better still, that you need not reinvent yourself from scratch, indeed that the answers you seek, the talents and skills - some even transferrable! - are there already. You might need to hone them or rely on something or someone outside of yourself to help you get there, but the foundation is there already. (Didn't I warn you that this post would be rambling and wordy? No?)

I am not sure how to wind this up, but just to say that I like the notion that finding 'home,' or your stella polaris, or purpose - of living your life and yes, meeting your responsibilities is something that you fashion. It's ongoing. You won't be good at everything, but you've got to be bloody good at some things. Go there.

* I don't find chick to necessarily be a put-down. Depends on how it's used, is all.

PJ Bottoms (AKA Project #3) Done. Done, I say!

Super groovy PJ bottoms finito! (Too hot and crabby to write anything more. Thank you for your continued support).

Creativity Below the Radar

Dancer, 1932, Martin Munkacsi

I'm fascinated by hardworking, journeyman actors. Even when I was a kid, I read and re-read coffee-table books about golden-era films and movie stars. Because my parents were older than that of most of my contemporaries, I developed an early love for films from the '30s, '40s and '50s. I was probably one of the few kids who knew that Veronica Lake's hairstyle spawned a wave of imitators during the war years, that Louis Armstrong was also known as Satchmo and that in the '20s, Clara Bow was known as the 'It' Girl ('it' being sex appeal).

My friend Leah cracks up because of the crazy amount of minutia I know about old film, TV shows and performers. I'm not sure why that stuff stays with me, but it does. I love nothing more than spotting a bit player on Perry Mason from 1964 and placing them in some obscure (or not so obscure) movie or TV show. Right, IMDB has made this much easier, but still I spend half the time watching the show and thinking "I know that person from somewhere..."

Besides enjoying making the connections, I also really just like that the entertainment industry is full of people who make a living by acting. And by that I don't mean movie stars, I mean people who have made a living playing secondary characters or sidekicks, who started by playing ingenues and ended their careers playing matrons. I think I first became aware of the legions of talented working actors when I covered the entrance on Sundays at Seattle Reparatory Theatre. There were incredibly talented, regular actors who I'd buzz in and out of the theatre on a rehearsal day. One in particular ended up being a regular on ER for a few seasons and most recently had a recurring role on Mad Men. I worked and interned at a few theatres and met so many incredibly gifted people, some of whom I'd see on local TV commercials, but none of whom were ever approached for their autographs.

One evening that really brought this home to me happened many years later, while I was living in New York. I went to see the Broadway show Spamalot - one of three I got to see in my five years there, so don't get all jealous - and needless to say it was fantastic. It starred David Hyde Pierce (hey, he posed for a picture for me, but I can't find it in time to post it here) and Tim Curry. Tim Curry's stand-in - I don't remember his name - took his place that evening, and he was brilliant. In fact, everyone was brilliant - these actors sang and danced and had an entire Broadway theatre audience laughing and applauding our asses off. And while everyone was waiting at the backstage door for the stars to exit, I noticed this one young actor exit, smile and wave and head out into the night. He'd had a huge part, totally charmed the entire audience, but was making his way through midtown Manhattan carrying a backpack, wearing shorts and tube socks, probably heading to the nearest subway entrance home. He actually looked kind of goofy. And not one person who passed him on the street or sat next to him on the C train would ever had guessed that he had just had an entire theatre on their feet, clapping.

I guess my point is - because Perry Mason is on in a minute - that our society places a big premium on the creative people deemed successful. The stars whose faces or life stories sell magazines, the ones who make 15 million a picture, the chefs who have reality shows, the artists or designers whose retrospectives break museum attendance records. And it makes me wonder if there are a lot of people out there who feel like they shouldn't even consider pursuing their talents because they'll never make a living out of it - and that is a possibility - or they'll never be a success. I don't really have an answer for that, but I hope we can find ways to nurture our interests and creativity and dreams if for no other reason than the doing of them makes us happy.

Sew Brain Dead

You know those days when everything runs smoothly and you feel you're making great progress? Not only that, you think maybe you have a genuine talent that's been lying latent and all it needed was a little prompting in order to burst out and change your life? You know what I'm about to say next, I bet - that today was not that day. I mean, not to say I'm not happy that the PJ bottoms are sewn together, because that's actual progress. However, if I learned anything in today's sewing lesson, it was simply that learning a new craft takes time. It takes time and patience. The bobbin will run empty, the machine will unthread itself, and you'll realize it only after you've been "sewing" a few minutes. You'll become acquainted with both the small and large stitch ripper and you'll remember that there are lots of ways to get creative with the word "F***er!" - and that it really does help blow off steam.

One of your cats will chatter non-stop, attack the tape measure, and roll on the fabric until banished to the bedroom. You'll feel brain dead at the end of the day and have no desire to make dinner, not that you ever really do. You'll remember that slogging through is necessary if you're ever going to get better at something and that even if you get to be really good at something, you'll probably still need to slog through many times. You hope you really do remember that so you don't throw up your hands and say "F***er!" so often that it loses it's lustre, or give up new craft altogether. You blog when you feel you have nothing important to say, when you think

nobody is reading and then you eat that last piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie.

On Watching Stuff Grow

The last couple of summers I've taken advantage of having a full-sun balcony to grow cherry tomatoes. I like choosing the small plants and then transplanting them to a bigger pot with better dirt. This summer, better dirt - which sounds like an oxymoron - meant mixing in a bag of earth that came with manure already mixed in. What a stroke of genius! For about a buck more, your potting soil comes complete with cow poop. Someone told me that adding crushed eggshells to the mix was also a good idea, so in they go. Pansies, or what's left of them after the squirrels have had their way, a temperamental hibiscus that sprouts both yellow and pink blossoms, a basel plant and a couple of other varieties I can't remember round out my mini-garden. All to say, tending to and watching them (mostly) flourish gives me a great sense of satisfaction. I like the fact that they need my tending to, but not so much that it feels like work. I like that I can water them, deadhead them now and again, and that the rest is out of my hands. It's like watching spring buds burst uncontrollably after a long, grey winter - you wouldn't want to force that genii back in the bottle even if you could. (Have your way with me springtime, work your magic!) Watching the changes that take place in my summer plants slows life down to a pleasant pace. Growing something feels like I'm contributing something good, albeit it on a tiny scale, to the world. At a time when violence, cynicism, rhetoric or celebrity banality feels pervasive - and strangely fascinating at times, I'm sorry to admit - there's something timeless, tender and hopeful about helping something along as it grows.

Past (im)Perfect

I took an improv class last winter, which is something I'd hankered to do for a very long time. And like a lot of things that one really wants, it also scared the shit out of me. If I have to think about why that’s so, there’s the fact that performing would mean I would be putting myself front and center, in essence saying “Look at me!” If you’re going to do that, you’ve got to own up to the fact that you take a certain amount of pleasure in getting and holding people’s attention. (Do nice people do that?) That and that whatever’s coming out of your mouth is worth listening to, even if it’s not thought out or clever. More on improv class another day, because now I want to write about...perfectionism.

Perfectionism - that son of a sea cook. A sentence that has long stayed with me comes from the book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life written by Anne Lamott. “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor,” she writes about pushing through the fear of putting first words down on a blank piece of paper. Perfection can be a fine incentive, but - and I say this from personal experience - it can also be crippling if it prevents you taking a stab at things. And whose standard of perfection - whose voice - are we talking about, anyway? Your own? A parent’s? Spouse’s? Sibling’s? I’m going to let Anne Lamott tell it:

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.”

And a few pages later...”So go ahead and make big scrawls and mistakes. Use up lots of paper. Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist’s true friend. What some people (inadvertently, I’m sure) forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here - and by extension, what we’re supposed to be writing.”

The title of Lamott’s book stems from a time when she was a kid. Her brother had put off starting a school assignment on birds until the night before it was due. He sat head in hands, feeling the way you feel when you’re in grade school and you know you’re in serious trouble. He told his Dad that he didn’t know where to start and by way of advice his Dad replied, “Take it bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.” I LOVE that. I love the kindness, and the clarity and the effectiveness of the response. It’s OK. Just. start. it.

I think accepting that you have made and will continue to make mistakes, that you are human, a slob, a messy, brilliant and ongoing piece of work, an example of unique wackitude - imperfect, but still worthy of love and respect - is the Holy Grail. You fail a lot, you get back up, tenderly. True in both the creative process and life in general. I don’t think you ever quite get there altogether, but there are moments that you recognize as being very good indeed.

It's a Start

After years of collecting fabric, I have recently taken up sewing. I had my machine tuned up this spring - key to getting it to work properly, while exponentially lowering my (creative, I must say) swear quotient. I even took a few hours of lessons from a fab instructor. (Nicole Picard, that's you). I can't tell you how many times I stopped and started, both here in Montreal and back in Hoboken, NJ shoulders hunched over machine. Thread clustered into fist-sized jumbles, tongue curled over top lip as I followed the instructions and retraced the threading channel on my kick-ass Pfaff. Such inspiring fabric, with colours and patterns that make me want to gather it up and bury my face in it, so beautiful that I became afraid to cut into it. Damn, what if I ruin it?

My grandmother MarieAnne (Daigneault) Kelahear was a fantastically-talented seamstress. My Mum has told me how she loved beautiful fabric and how before each project she undertook - not for pleasure, mostly, but because they needed the income - she would wash the floors before laying out the fabric to cut it. So part of this is a way to connect with a grandmother I have but one or two memories of, but whom my sisters recall with great fondness.

So what changed? Well, I got tired of carting all this fabric around every time I moved. I found it ridiculous to continuously be that afraid to make a mistake - in and of itself, that became unacceptable. I asked for and got assistance. I loved every bloody minute of it - the instruction, the hum and satisfaction of guiding the fabric beneath the needle. Seeing something take shape before my eyes. Feeling that same joy of discovery and accomplishment, mistakes be damned, that you get when you're a kid, before the adult in you starts to reason away your impulses. (OK, some impulses need to be curbed, but not all).

I finished the dress last evening, from a fabric I bought in NYC six years ago before I left, one of those fabrics I like so much I wish I could eat it. If you look too closely at the frock (great word, frock), you'll find mistakes - so just don't look too closely! Lots of wasted thread and soothing swear words and now one new dress. I like this momentum.

Thirty-One Thoughts on What?

So what am I thinking about? What are the thoughts or articles or photos that lead me to pop open Facebook so I can share with someone? Anyone? What longings make me antsy, squirm, furrow my brow without realizing it, wake with me at four in the morning, make me want to divert my mind? Sad, uncomfortable. Ah, yes - bastards. Most of these thoughts, I sense, deal with longing. Longing for someone who for whatever reason, physical or otherwise, can’t be with you. And longing, too for parts of yourself that feel illusive - slippery, evasive, MIA - dreams, talents, raucous laughter, a sense of home, and hopes that now seem too scary to hold on to lest you disappoint yourself. I don’t know about you, but the vast majority of my longing springs from a desire to be creative, to live a creative life, to reach my potential. I want to take the vivid ideas in my head - colours, memories, images, words, sounds - toss them together and see what lands. The end result is often satisfying, but more and more I realize the process is what’s exciting. Challenging. Telling.

So what’s the problem? Why the longing if you’re free to do whatever the hell you feel like doing? That’s where the discomfort comes in - the ‘inconvenient truth’ that indicates that, for the most part the distance between myself and action is self-imposed. (It’s also the gift because in the end, I know where the options lie). And I think it’s the distance between the two - longing and action - that bedevils me the most, that bedevils most of us. I’m going to take as my jumping off point, for these thirty-one entries, creativity. And yeah, that gives me a lot of leeway. My own need to create, yes, but also what stymies, fascinates, moves, and perplexes me. Thirty-one entries for a month with thirty-one days. And because some days invite inspiration more than others, there may be a couple of entries on one day and none on another. Some long, some blink-and-you’ll-miss-them short. And what I hope is that any of you reading this stuff will use my posts as a jumping off point to comment about whatever comes to mind, because what the hell is the point of musing if you can’t bounce ideas off someone? And if you just want to read and not comment, that’s cool, too. In fact, thank-you for whatever you do here, for caring enough to spend a few minutes here. xo