studio - behind the scenes
Ranch craft
As I’ve been writing about my father’s ranch, I also worked on a project for Tristan, whose grandparents’ had a ranch near Edmonton. This is a hide from one of the last of their herd that Tristan wanted put to some use. Working with leather appeals to the senses; it is has scent, it is tactile, it defies machining, it has a strong connection to the earth, it is at once forgiving and uncooperative to work with, it is humbling. Have a groovy birthday, Tristan!
Artist’s Date
Did you know that Leonard Cohen only got 77 in Grade 9 Literature? Did you want to know that? Did L. Cohen want us to know that? Vicky and I went on an Artist’s Date to the Art Gallery of Ontario, where we took in the Leonard Cohen exhibit. How do you mount an exhibit of a song-writer/poet who was only incidentally a visual artist? Why, you scour his shelves and drawers, sort through and frame his scribblings, much as one’s mother might celebrate her child’s finger-paintings. It is a) creative b) unfortunate c) exploitative d) all of the above, that he is being used to get folks into the Art Gallery. DO GO to the AGO to see David Ruben Piqtoukun’s exhibit, Radical Remembrance. Then go home and listen to Leonard Cohen. And wonder at how they each in their own beautiful way made the universal particular.
My Peace Project – more slow art
armed with memorable massacres I look for peace without really knowing what it looks like
I dip in and out of a project on peace which I started around the 75th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Christmas seems like the only time most of us truly give some thought to peace on earth. And it’s a switch from my memoir, a rockier road to navigate. The Peace Project has become large enough that I’ve decided to carve it into three pieces. First is an assemblage centred around this altered book, the product of countless hours and a fortune in blades. I envision a set for an absurdist play, made in the round, illustrating a poem without beginning or end about peace. From that poem I hope to pull a closing tercet or couplet for a sestina on war and peace. A sestina is an ambition that might only be achieved in a winter of snow days (we are off to a good start this winter!) Then there’s war. I see that poem taking the form of stage directions for my “set”. After all, what could be more absurd than war?
And always, outside, the storm rages. Pax vobiscum. Peace be with you.
Honouring the holiday in multiple media
Still Life with Snowball
Listen to my reading my poem Advent on today’s Word on the Hills radio show…
...or read it to yourself, silently. Advent The coming starts with the going of the geese in noiseless flight, solemn thoughts about the broad, black-shouldered night, and the long shadows even at noon. With a sigh we sink into the earth’s brown study, cocoon in duffel wool, count the days until the advent of… whom? what? A smile, perhaps, at first soft snow, pure sugar-coating, while under our mittened hands the first snowman rises to lead the charge with a broom. A time to sweep, perhaps, and polish, shake out, decorate the room, bring in the out of doors, the ever-living greens, the silver sparkle of the stars, red apple happy children’s cheeks. Who arrives? For whom do we open the day’s doors? Come we to them, or they to us? Exciting packages and cards appear, scents of baking rise to warm the house, at every turn we hear choir-song and silver-tongued bells, as each evening falls around us candles bow and curtsy, curtsy and bow. And then… on the last long night we arrive with grace at clear, bright understanding of how our own newborn halos are still ablaze, our own gift is love until the end of days.
Memoir writing
Is that what I’m doing? I’ve collected many stories from many people – about my father, about the ranch – and am puzzling about how to get at the truth when it’s different for everyone. It’s like having a pocket full of nickels. You put your hand in and they all feel the same, but when you pull them out and examine them, you see slight differences in age, lustre, abrasion, sometimes country of origin. The oldest of them have twelve edges, twelve angles! But you have asked for them and they’ve been proffered with the expectation that you will take them at face value. Getting below the surface is the challenge! I am more accustomed to “Ars Poetica”, writing that is “Dumb/As old medallions to the thumb”.
a cross country writing retreat
Via Train 2 between Kamloops and Jasper
Blue River Dawn – a diversion
When I first raised the blind in my sleeping cabin the darkness outside was complete. One and then two logging trucks slid past in the distance, like jeweled ships. Slowly the grey serpentine form of the train became discernable, meandering along the Blue River through the black and white landscape. The candy coloured train signals came and went. The train’s yellow headlight is dimmed by the dawn. Now I see that the clouds have come down to meet the mountains.
