Oct
21
You Lyses
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Years ago a friend once told me to never be apologetic for what I do, or who I am. He said, if anyone pressed me about my success, work, or livelihood at one of the many social gatherings I avoid at all costs, that I should just tell them I’m a writer, or a painter, or a baker, or whatever it is that I do. Just like that. No thinking, no holding back, no nothing.
He told me, for anyone interested, he would simply tell them he was an artist. No apologies. No way. If after that, the person didn’t know what to do with his response, then they were absolutely free to excuse themselves from the conversation, and find their investment banker, broker, IT manager friends, they came to the party with and re-enter the safe haven of the narrowed perspective (Happy hour Fridays, cottage weekends, training for marathons, house renovations) of their own making.
My friend’s response is obvious is it not? Nothing to argue with there except for maybe the not-so-obvious declaration an artist’s statement entails. Confidence. Read more
Sep
29
A-von it all.
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On the same day, I learned of two bits of news that were related and un-related all at the same time, leaving me with mixed feelings. One, I learned that Riitta Immonen, one of the founders of Finnish textiles and clothing design, marimekko, had died, in late August. Two, I learned that institutional American door-to-door makeup company, Avon, had partnered up with marimekko to create limited-edition eye shadow and all-over face, fall palettes. The obit was reported in The New York Times; the product PR, tucked in the pages of Lucky. Two publications talking to two sides of my multi-faceted personality. Confusing? Not really, but I couldn’t help but feel bad, guilty, happy and hopeful all at once.
The obit made me sad about life in general. How often do we hear of one’s life until it comes to an end? And how often do we only get the highlights and not the in-betweens, the things that were done before and after the bigger strokes the individual painted? All the scraps and bits that are usually on the cutting room floor of how that person was shaped, was changed and became one’s own aspiration.
But then, how does one find acceptance? Particularly, how could I be appeased by the news of Riitta’s death with a picture of a compact? How can a material good be the closest thing to understanding a human being? And why is there guilt in trying to reach such a creative gesture, a worldly gesture, in coveting a little pressed pigment?
This is silly, isn’t it? And yet I can’t help it. Read more
Aug
7
I wrote the following article last year, after a spectacle I witnessed, really betrayed me on how I felt about Gay Pride. I thought to submit the article for the back essay section of Jane, only to find out, that the mag was holding out for two more (already galleyed) issues before folding.
On a whim, I did submit it to the “Facts and Arguments Essay” back-page of The Globe and Mail realizing the point of view I took in my writing was more political than personal and therefore highly unlikely to be picked. So, like other posts published previously (and many others to follow that have been written but have yet to encounter an audience) I’m including it here for your review. I know there’s a lot of grammar issues, and I’m sure it could use much massaging and tightening up, but the subject matter to me is so pressing, that I feel, for now, a polished draft will have to suffice. (The writer thanks you for your patience.)
And so, without further ado.
May
2
Springs Falls and Leaves
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As I get older, spring has long lost the adage of, “April showers, bring May flowers.” Even with the prospect of gray weather, the buoyancy of what spring is suppose to bring doesn’t really exist. And in reality, it’s just not that simple to do either.
During spring, flowers struggle to kiss the sun’s rays and colour and beautify the earth as the way we all want to hold on to the world all year long; full of colour, hope, beauty and honesty. But, somehow the clovers and dandelions race to suffocate the crocuses and lily of the valley in the annual awakening of life, which I have now come to realize what spring is really about: re-growth, not rebirth. Read more