“It takes a very long time to become young.” ~ Pablo Picasso.

The consensus among the educated seems to be this:  You must learn the rules first, then you may begin breaking the rules.

Pose this concept to an uneducated person and you will get an entirely different perspective on the matter. To the uneducated, the idea of postponing expression (particularly in the arts) until one is “sufficiently educated” sounds like the worst case of inequality. Essentially, the “education-first” concept grants an exclusive right of expression to the privileged of our society, and at the same time, puts a lid on expression for the rest of us common-folk. If you can afford an education, good for you, express all you want. Everyone else gets a muzzle.

I know it’s good to speak from experience, and I can assure you that this perspective is entirely first-hand. When I was a teenager, the only path I wanted to take with my life was to be an artist in some capacity. I dreamt of going to college or university to learn the art of the arts. My dreams were lofty. That was twenty years ago. A life-time has passed since.

The past two decades have been fine enough, so please don’t hear me complaining, that’s not what this is.  Many would view my previous title “Florist For Events” as a dream job … something to envy. A lot of people would like to believe I chose that line of work because I had a passion for it. While it’s true, I always had a certain passion for my work, I did not choose it. The simple fact is that I needed full-time work when I was 18. Working with flowers was my only prospect at the time … and I had bills to pay.

It’s been one year since I closed up shop and put my floral knife in the drawer, and I find myself in a curious situation; I’m not properly qualified for practicing any of my passions (according to the above rules, that is). Since I’m not big on rules, I do it anyway, posting on my blog and painting large pictures … but often with a sense of dread, as though I’m truly not allowed to be doing what I’m doing.

I have a secret to tell you … I haven’t learned the rules. But, you probably knew that already.

I take heart when I think of what Picasso said about it taking a very long time to become young. Sounds like Picasso had a whole bunch of unlearning to do.

Here’s a very big and scary question … what’s the value in learning rules in the first place if it takes a lifetime to unlearn them? 

I have another secret to tell you … I was never properly educated as a florist.

True, I took a few night courses and worked under a few mentors who taught me some valuable skills … but only for a short time. When I started my business, I hadn’t the slightest clue what to do and how to do it. But, I did it anyway and managed to create a thriving niche market business for 13 years. For the most part, I have been self-taught in every aspect of my floral career. Some may find this dirty little secret surprising. (Perhaps others saw through the veil the whole time). In any case, the point is this: at some point in practicing my floral career, I transformed from being “uneducated” to “experienced” and eventually (to my own surprise) became a leader in my field. No one has ever been more shocked about the “leader” bit than me.

This is the story I run in my head when I feel intimidated by my current amateur-ness. I tell myself the story about that time I began a career at the bottom rung, sweeping the floor and cleaning buckets … and eventually became an expert. All without school.

These days, I share my work publicly, even though I’m not a professional by any stretch, for two reasons.

The first is quite simple; I like to share ideas with people. Some artists create for themselves and don’t feel the need to share. I’m not like that. I create with a goal of sending my work out into the world. It’s how I’m wired. It’s my hope that, no matter what stage I’m at, it can bring some joy or positive thought to my community. I’m hoping for connection at some level, to not merely be some kind of entertainment in a Facebook feed.

The second reason for sharing my work is to inspire. In this time of editing on editing, we rarely get a glimpse of a person’s process. How often do you get to see behind the curtain? How rare is honesty? It’s my hope that, in sharing my amateur work, you might find a spark of inspiration and say to yourself “If she can do it, maybe I can too!”

In this world where one feels almost apologetic for embarking in a new direction, I hope you can hear me saying “Go for it. Just try.” These are words we would say to encourage a child.

Why on earth do these words disappear when we become all grown up? As though we don’t encouragement anymore.

Think about this for a moment. Lets say you and I decide not to create or express ourselves because we believe it’s a job for “professionals only”. What kind of world would this be without all that beauty in it?

When you start something new, whatever it is, you are like a child looking up at the clouds, a whole world of potential above you. Anything is possible. Success or failure. Like a child, I want to see my dreams soar into the boundless blue sky like a bunch of colourful balloons, just to see what will happen. They might just take me away.

I’d like to not be afraid of falling or failing. Instead, I’d like to just create.

Like a child.

That she had been there, too, struck me as both strange and beautiful, since none of it had been planned. The moment simply arrived, then fleeted away, leaving me with a deep impression of having travelled around a circle.

Since that moment, I have been reflecting on circles, in a neurotic, obsessive kind of manner. I’ve been writing about them and have started painting circles and swirls on very large canvases in my studio – sometimes in the middle of the night.

The circle has become my muse. No doubt about that.

I had been traveling around a circle, and only now saw it for the first time. Or had the circle had come to meet me, spinning and swirling, revealing all of my life, what had transpired, so far.

Now that it’s so clear, the circle, I mean, I see it everywhere – in the seasons as they spin round from year to year, faithfully returning.  I see the circle in the way the earth moves around the sun, bringing a new sunrise and sunset with each cycle. The moon, hiding and revealing, always circling.

Rainbows are circles, I saw one over a waterfall where the hoop of a rainbow came to meet me at my feet. Where did it begin and where did it end?

I thought of the garden, when a seed goes into the ground to die and becomes a new creation. Each ending is a new beginning. This is the circle of life.

I notice tracks all over these tangled, overlapping circles. I’m aware that I’ve become a part of another’s journey, not just my own. These familiar footprints are my mother’s, I’m sure of it. I see their shape revealed in the dirt, the sand and snow, in the garden, pressed into the green grass. In this way, we share the journey.  I follow, amused and curious to pick up the crumbs and clues she left along the way. But, she’s always one too many steps ahead. I fear I will never catch up.

I now look for her in these circles and wonder what is to be learned?  I feel my heart expanding as the universe does. Molecules moving outward, getting ever more spacious. I am struck with the notion of forgiveness in the stories I encounter along the way.

Circling, spinning, swirling … this is the motion of a circle. Going back, I move forward. Healing, always healing.

These old stories, dusty relics from the past, they offer an invitation.

And, so I open my ears and my heart.

I listen.

I revisit. I redo. I renew.

I circle.

Acadia University 2014

Acadia University 1965 (ish)

I made a basket!

… and have been floating on a cloud of happiness since I completed it.

It’s a beautiful basket … but not a perfect basket. The handle is a wee bit crooked and the rim is a tad uneven due to noncompliance with some of the rules in basketry. All in all though, including a few errors, I am immensely happy and, yes, even a bit proud of myself for what I accomplished in creating my very own homemade basket.

We have become inseparable. Unofficially, I’ve named it my “book basket”, but a wide variety of items have already been nestled inside, not just books.  We’ve been to the park, out for dinner, the shopping mall, a soccer pitch, on many car rides and even the memorial service for my Aunt Martha. I don’t know how I ever managed without it. And, yes, obviously, it’s grand for picnics! Incidentally, my basket has become a wonderful purse replacement.

I’ve decided when I die, I’d like to be rolled up tight and tucked into my basket. We’re that serious, me and my basket.

It features two varieties of willow and is woven in a style called “double french rand”. It’s (mostly) round with (somewhat) straight sides and has a short handle at the top.

I was recently showing it off and asked my friend how long she thought it took me to make.

Her answer, “One hour?” She was guessing and thought she was being generous with the estimation. Not even close. It’s an honest mistake that I can easily forgive. I have made that mistake myself.

True confession: I thought a basket would be easy to make.

Here’s the shocking truth: I spent a day and a half making this beautiful basket.

Before you get all like “What kind of fool spends a whole day and a half to make a silly basket?!”  on me, you need to know this: that day and a half was pure joy.

Weaving is a very rhythmic, mindful, relaxing and tactile experience involving all the senses. Small fact -  willow has the most wonderful spicy scent. Lately, I’ve told many people (rather forcefully) to Smell my Basket! 

Most people are delighted when they do and say, “My, that basket smells lovely!” I know… I smell it all the time. True story.

In case you’re interested, there are many steps involved with traditional basket making.

First, is the “slath”. This is the foundation of the basket – a cross-shape at the base. From the slath, you weave out, adding in stakes which create the structure for the bottom, sides and rim of the basket. (Make a mistake here and you will pay dearly later on as I discovered.) Then, there’s more weaving, whaling, chasing (which is a fancy way of saying weaving) more whaling and then the rim.

Oh, then the handle.

Easy peasy.

On the second day of basket-making, as I was getting really serious about my rim and handle, trying to make them perfect, I realized how far I’d come, what I’d learned along the way. I started out with just a few strands of willow and was getting very close to achieving the great, monumental task of completing a whole basket. My excitement was palpable. I had a blister on my middle finger.

The pride I feel for having accomplished the basket took me by surprise. Perhaps that’s why we are inseparable, me and my basket. I am reminded of just what I can do, when I put my mind to it.

For me, weaving is thoughtful, even meditative, at times. It’s an experience which can be more than just making a basket, if you allow. Weaving was a way to get my mind off of myself.  There’s just something about working with raw and real nature – there’s a healing effect. You’d have to try it out to see what I mean.

Lene (our instructor) says that weaving is addictive. I won’t argue with that … I‘m already dreaming about my next basket project.

Who wants to join me?

For basketmaking lessons contact Lene Rasmussen – Basketmaking teacher, extraordinaire.  www.lakeshorewillows.com

To read Part One of the basket story, go to “The Abstract Project: The Fence That Changed Everything” on the blog.

All photographs by Nataschia Wielink 

Enter Maddie – an adorable eight year old, cuter than pie with a set of sturdy Mennonite genes to make my zweiback-baking mother proud. We signed her on in a heartbeat and promised to pay her in dried cherries.

I have a few pictures of my mother, Monika, from the 1940’s and in all of them, which span several years, she is wearing the same dress, as though she didn’t grow at all in that time period (which might be true – that’s what happens when one is malnourished).

Both my mother and grandmother were seamstresses and, most likely, my grandmother sewed the original version of this dress.  The nostalgia factor from having the dress hand-sewn by me (daughter and granddaughter) was obvious and therefore an absolute must. I jumped on my sewing machine immediately.

Monika,10 years old with her friend, Heinrich.

The next day Maddie was wearing the dress. It has gathered sleeves, a gathered waist and some giant pockets on the front that could potentially hold a lot of cookies. I explained to her that she may not like the plain old dress – it’s not fancy (post-war) … no sparkles … but before long she was doing twirls and smiling from ear to ear. I put her hair up in a roll at the top with two braids and she was set.

And there you have it! The making of Little Monika. It wasn’t long before we were traipsing through the pathways, trails and brooks around my home with one simple set of instructions for Maddie. Be cheerful and little bit mischievous. Oh, and steal a few cherries, if you don’t mind. 

The whole day, Maddie indulged us with being her lovely, cheerful self. She skipped and ran through the forest. She waded through a creek over slippery, mossy rocks. She sat on a log for us, her feet dangling in the brook. She stole a whole bunch of dried cherries and in doing so decided that she definitely prefers dried ones to “real” ones. Stolen treats always taste better than respectfully procured ones – that’s my experience.

Even though our filming with Maddie is mostly done, we haven’t seen the last of that dress. I have reason to believe a certain very excited 8 year old girl will be dressing up as Little Monika for Halloween this year.

Adorable.

It all started when Lene Rasmussen travelled to her home in Denmark one summer. While there, she stumbled upon an extraordinary fence, hand-woven from natural willow. As she admired the willow fence, it became a divider, separating the time before and the moment after. Her mother’s recent passing had given Lene a refreshed perspective and this willow fence suggested a way to put thoughts into action – a way to close a door to the old life and a step out onto the path of something new.

The willow fence was breathtakingly beautiful. It was long and sweeping, a piece of woven art, serving both form and function. Lene dreamt of making this fence in the future, maybe even crafting it for somebody … around their home or in their garden. She envisioned this in her mind and decided then and there, that she would learn how to make a willow fence. It became a goal. A beautiful dream.

The very nature of a dream is that it is surreal… often wildly impractical. Sketchy. Over-the-top amazing … and often unreachable. The beauty in a dream is not only in the achieving, but in the trying. And this is what Lene set out to do. Shortly after discovering the willow fence she attended a basket-making class. Then she set out on the journey to make her dream a reality.

I think it’s fair to say that a romance was sparked while in that Danish basket-making class a decade ago. She still has her first basket, and I am impressed with the level of her skill, right from the start. It’s a really nice basket!  Talking to Lene today at her willow farm on Lake Erie, I practically see hearts and stars in her eyes when she talks about making baskets. The air is filled with the spicy scent of fresh cut willow and I pause the breathe it in, nearly pressing my face into the stacks of branches to get as close as possible.  Spring snow is crusted on the bottoms of the bundles here and there and in the corner there is a table heaped with piles of finished willow work. Baskets of every variety, bird-feeders and the cutest willow purses I have ever seen. Nataschia and I might end up in a fist fight to determine who gets to take a purse-basket home.

Walking through the field, we step over – or rather, through – a large puddle which seems to be part of a small river winding it’s way through the grasses. Then the mudwater begins to seep into my socks. No turning back now. I was warned to wear rubber boots but opted for fashion instead. Mud is speckled all the way up the front and sides of my leather boots. This is what happens when you walk in a willow field by the lake … you get dirty. Really dirty.

Lene leads us to a patch of yellow willow at the back of the field. Cutters in her hand she holds the branches and snips the base of the plant almost down to the soil. This is the third step in what I think is a long and tedious process in the art of basket making. As we slug through the soaked field, the wind chaps my hands and my face. I try not to complain as Lene tells me that she’s been out here harvesting in the cold for many, many days already. Being a basket maker requires dedication and a very strong back.

I have noticed something curious about Lene’s work process. She’s the only craftsperson I can think of who has not involved any outside sources to produce her work.  No materials have been sourced or purchased at any point along the process. Think about that for a second. It’s quite impressive. These baskets are as handmade as they could possibly be and couldn’t be any more local.

Lene is a grower of over 30 various varieties of willow. She started out with 250 willow plants in the clay earth. Now, she has 15,000 plants in two fields and has cultivated most of them from her own cuttings. I have done a bit of rough math to figure out that in one spring alone, Lene cuts at least 150,000 stems of willow. By hand. (well, actually, they just bought a harvester this year, which will cut the job of harvesting in half, time-wise… but seriously… that’s a lot of willow cutting!)

After cutting, she bundles the branches by tying them with a piece of willow and sets them in a large upright pile on the north side of the barn. It’s an incredible sight to see… all that willow in tidy bundles stacked on itself – awaiting creation. Before they dry out, the bundles have to be manually sorted. She does this by dropping the branches in large bin to pull them out according to size, starting with the longest and ending with the shortest. Then she bundles them one more time, leaving them to dry. Before any weaving begins, the willow is soaked in water to make it pliable. Finally, it’s ready and Lene can make a basket.

Phew! What a job!

I will never look at baskets the same way again. I had no idea. 

Lene’s dedication to her craft astounds me. It inspires me. She started with a dream – a vision of the future. It was a leap of faith sprinkled with impracticalities and obstacles. It was both a letting go … and a holding on. And after a whole lot of hard work and literal sweat, it’s a dream come to fruition. She is a creator of baskets from her own willow.

Wait a second… that’s not what her vision was! Remember the fence idea? That’s how this journey began – a dream of building a willow fence. Since that epiphany in Denmark, Lene has revised her plan, re-sketched her vision, re-dreamt her dream. It turns out that fence-worthy willow takes 5 years to grow while basket willow takes only one season.  Aaaah.. even a dreamers have to be practical sometimes.

While she’s not the fence-maker that she originally intended, she is satisfied. In fact, I would say that she’s very happy, indeed. I admire that she stepped out to make the first step on the trek toward becoming a willow fence-maker. If she hadn’t, she would never had discovered the joy in making baskets.

As they say, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. And what a beautiful journey it has been.

——————————————————————————————————————————————–

By the way, Nataschia and I will be visiting Lene once again in mid-May so she can demonstrate her basket-making skills. Also, she has promised to teach me how to make one. I absolutely can’t wait!

——————————————————————————————————————————————–

All photographs courtesy of Nataschia Wielink photo + cinema  for people madly in love

This blog post brought to you by….

The Abstract Project: Exploring head-space and studio-space of Niagara artists.

A project created by photographer Nataschia Wielink and artist/writer Jennifer Elliotson which endeavors to expose the heart behind the work of artists in the Niagara region. It involves many curious and probing questions, thoughtful answers, amazing art (obviously), and lots of coffee.

It is our hope that you will join us in this adventure and send the love back to our artists with support and encouragement as they continue to SHINE!

Above Johann’s work table, where she does her glazing and hand-building, is a tiny picture of her grandmother. In the photo, captured at one of the very first Balls Falls shows, her grandmother is wearing a bright red scarf tied around her hair and is posed in the midst of many pots and mugs. I love that this photo is right there in Johann’s workspace – a constant reminder of her own beginnings as a potter. A visual memory of weekends spent in her grandmother’s blue shed as a child, being shown how to work the clay for the first time. Formative creativity.

Johann’s grandmother has such a strong presence in her home, you’d swear she was here. On the side table in the dining room, sits her last creation. It’s a hand-built clay sculpture of a woman hunched over, working at the wheel. As I lean in closer, the intricate details are a pleasant surprise … right down to the tiny little tool for cutting the pot from the wheel! It strikes me as beautiful for many reasons, but mostly because it’s a self-portrait.

Johann Munro, a Niagara born-and-raised potter, is walking Nataschia and I through her workspace and, presently, we head to the sunny room at the back of the house that features two potters wheels, side by side. One is newer, a gift from her dad, the other is inherited. “It’s the Cadillac of potter’s wheels”, says Johann about the older wheel. She’s fortunate to have it. It was her grandmother’s. I love all these sentimental mementos scattered throughout the house.

Johann suggests that we play with some clay for a little bit and try to make something. The two of us practically squeal with delight!

Straddling the wheels, Nataschia and I are given some simple instructions and a ball of red clay. In no time at all, the wheels are spinning and our hands are wrapped around the cone of wet clay. Big smiles plastered on our faces like we’re school kids. I already have dirt sprayed across the front of my apron. We’re playing in the mud!

“It’s a full body experience” says Johann. I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I would say it’s even more than a full body experience. It’s an emotional, euphoric experience. No kidding. If you have ever played with clay, you would know this to be true, too!

Later in our visit, we sit at the dining room table. Johann and I chat about her relationship with pottery – now that she’s a full-time potter I ask her how she feels about it. “I’m happier”, she says.

As we’re chatting, I notice that the word “happy” pops up several times, largely in relation to the positive change she’s experiencing since focussing on creating pottery on a daily basis.  This makes wonderful sense to me, since doing what one loves should increase happiness! Johann’s grandmother used to say that pottery was good for her head. A meditation. I’ll bet she is a happy person, too.

After our visit, I came across a curious fact about clay and how it relates to happiness. Here’s what I discovered:

Dirt has a special bacteria in it called Mycobacterium Vaccae. This bacteria has been found to trigger the release of serotonin, which in turn elevates mood and decreases anxiety. Seriously. Perhaps this little bit of scientific geekery explains why, when Nataschia and I got our hands dirty, we felt so amazing. We were transported and delivered to a land of bliss!

It’s not all mud-pies, perfect pots and blissful days in the world of pottery. On top of being creative, it takes incredible skill, strength, focus and rock-solid steadiness to be a potter. When working with the wheel, the most important step is the first one. The clay must be perfectly centered.  An experienced potter will be able to do this with ease. If the clay isn’t centered, you will most certainly find out later on, when centrifugal force becomes your enemy. You’ll know this when your precious creation suddenly collapses or spins out of control or ends up looking a little off.

Isn’t it true, that finding your centre should always be the first step?

In her sunny studio, Johann centres her clay, pulls up a cylinder and shapes it into what looks like the beginning of a mug. We watch in admiration, as she works with ease and confidence. Even though Johann has long ago mastered the skill of centering, she still battles with the clay, from time to time. She even admits to getting angry with it, although it’s hard to imagine sweet Johann cursing at the clay. It’s at times like these when she has learned to quiet herself and let go. Maybe that’s part of the process.  Work out aggression through the clay, find the centre, release some serotonin, get happy and move on.

Johann’s finished pieces are displayed on a pile of old crates by the window. I see nature in her recent work – trees, fields, grasses and flowers. She adds these details by etching, glazing and painting at the table in the front room.  It’s been a long, white winter and lately, her muse has been stark landscapes, trees reaching toward sun, dormant fields. White glaze, speckled clay and texture are a reflection of the world that surrounds her. She’s been breaking old patterns and rules – tossing out perfect symmetry in favour of purposefully squeezed cylinders and uneven edges. She sees perfection in imperfection and mirrors this in her latest works.

Firing in the kiln is the last and final step in the process of creating pottery. It’s also the longest. After carefully loading up the steel beast, Johann seals it up and sets it to 2200 degrees … and waits. All told, the process takes 19 hours – 7 hours for firing and 12 hours for cooling down. It’s hard to sleep when she’s bursting with excitement and anticipation. “Kiln day is like Christmas Morning!”  says Johann, her eyes sparkling. When firing is done she heads downstairs to crack it open for a sneak peek.

We decide to check out the kiln, a hexagonal beast of a machine. It is aged but capable and was also inherited from Johann’s grandmother.  Alongside it, a table is covered in recent work, pulled out to cool. We pause to admire these new pieces, freshly baked.

An eclectic collection in varied styles and finishes, a few pieces catch my attention -  they’re prototypes for local chef, Adam Hynam-Smith (El Gastronomo). The plates will be featured in his new cookbook planned for release this year. Johann is working with the Adam to find a design that will be perfect for his vision.  I love what she has done!

Johann’s business name is “shed pottery”. Naturally, I assumed she has a shed. She surprises me with her sentiment when she explains that the name is in memory of her grandmother’s blue pottery shed. The very shed where Johann had her first experiences with clay and the potter’s wheel. One day, she will have her own shed. Maybe it will be blue.

Much as it was in the past, Johann’s future is in pottery. In it she sees the endless possibilities of a constantly evolving expression which involves many artistic skills she holds dear – drawing, painting, sculpting – as well as a bucket full of techniques, processes and finishes. It could take a lifetime to explore all of it. I hope it does.

I know her grandmother would be proud.

You can find Johann’s wares at her home on weekends this coming summer as well as these 2014 shows:

1) Spring HandMade Market, May 9/10 Thirteenth Street Winery, St Catharines.  

2) Fall HandMade Market Sept 12/13 at  Thirteenth Street Winery, St Catharines.

For more show information or to purchase pottery see Johann’s Facebook page www.facebook.com/shedpottery and Instagram @shedpottery

Johann is offering 8-10 week classes in her studio, starting this spring. Email for more information:  <shedpottery@gmail.com>

All photographs courtesy of Nataschia Wielink www.nataschiawielink.com  photo + cinema for people madly in love

“Mr. Potato Head. That’s the only piece I wish I’d never sold.”

The moment after she spoke this revelation I could tell from the look in her eyes that the loss of this piece still bothered her. It made sense to me – how could an artist sell any painting without feeling a great sense of loss? Consider not just the time spent, but also the emotional investment. Tamara Jensen’s paintings are more than just random brushstrokes on a canvas. Especially Mr. Potato Head. That one brought her an immense sense of satisfaction and joy. It’s long gone now … sold at a gallery show in Ottawa. To a stranger. For money.

I have to admit, I was a tad bit confused. Up to this moment I was under the impression that it was good news to sell a painting. I hadn’t given much thought to the pain of letting one go.

Tamara (artiste extraordinaire) was giving Nataschia (über photographer) and I (curious interviewer) a tour through her home, her studio and her paintings. I’d like to think I also toured a little bit through her brain.

She has the most lovely art studio in her house. A converted bedroom … her creative space. Paintbrushes, paints, an easel, finished and unfinished paintings propped up here and there. Beautiful. It was as though I had walked right into her head when I stepped into this space.

“How do you know when a painting is complete?” I asked.  I could imagine that it might be hard to know when to stop. To put down the brush and say “It’s done” and walk away.

“I know it’s done when I can’t stop looking at it”, she replied.

Tamara recounts the completion of a recent work. “I went downstairs for a while, but I just had to go back up to the studio to look at it again”.

It made her happy, that’s why she went back.

I imagined her there, sitting on the edge of the quilt-covered bed. Smiling. Perhaps a forgotten glass of bourbon nestled in her hand. Peace. Bliss. A contented sense of accomplishment.

That’s when I realized how this painting thing was working for Tamara. Every artist has a “reason” for their art – the impetus behind their need to create. Without a reason, the art simply wouldn’t happen. Some artists put their feelings out onto the canvas. For example, the famous turn-of-the-century Russian abstract artist, Kandinsky. The purpose for his abstract works was to show his feelings by quite literally expressing them in colours and shapes on a canvas.

I put this this theory forward with Tamara to see if she could relate. It didn’t fly. Tamara has a different process and purpose altogether.

To gain a better understanding, I asked her to walk me through a painting, explaining her process to me. The piece that we looked at next was bright to the extreme – pink, blue, turquoise, peach, red, grey, and yellow … a myriad of colours represented in sweeping, scooping motions. All at once, it was both relaxing and exciting to look at. “A vibrant, happy painting” was how Tamara described it.

As it turns out, it’s so much more than just a “happy painting”. She then went on to explain some very big concepts to me, important stuff that you learn in university art classes, such as balance, movement, tension and process. I could see that Tamara was a very thoughtful, cognitive painter.

Impressed so far, I asked Tamara if she has a specific idea in mind when she starts.

For this painting, she knew what colours she wanted to use. Beyond that, she simply allowed the painting to reveal itself to her as it came to life. For Tamara, a self-proclaimed “control-freak”, it would seem to be a very contrary, almost dangerous idea to allow the painting to have a say in it’s own creation! But, perhaps that’s the beautiful thing about the process – the artist becomes an observer, humbly taking cues from the work in progress rather than asserting so much control. A letting go of sorts. A collaborative effort between Process and Painter.

As we walked downstairs, we passed by a framed photographic print of the long-gone Mr. Potato Head. The original work was much larger, measuring 4.5 feet x 4.5 feet. This photographed version is a faint reminder of the original piece. 8 inches square. I had to lean in to get a good look at it and observed a noticeable difference in style from her abstract work. While still very colourful, the signature airy wispiness is entirely absent in this piece. Much more control was exercised and it was comprised of clean, smooth lines instead. Very cartoon-like, actually. Bright colours. Playful. Bold. Tidy. This is the other style that Tamara is known for. Pop Art.

It so happens that Tamara is a cartoon and comics enthusiast. Her obsession is quite apparent in this facet of her work. An extensive collection of Archie comics sits on the shelf nearby. Inevitably Betty and Veronica are featured in a handful of paintings in the living room.  Nataschia and I look at these and can’t help but smile in response.

Tamara seems to move back and forth between these two styles of work (Abstract and Pop Art) as each has it’s own set of delights. They are so opposite in style that I wonder if perhaps each is somewhat of a relief from the other.

Still on the tour of her paintings, I wonder aloud about what inspired Tamara to paint in the first place.

If her painting is an expression, that supposes there must be an impression to spark to inspiration. I posed this scenario to her.

“I’m inspired by life” she says. 

I love this. When one is inspired by life, it means that there’s is an ebb and flow. Living and painting … then living again. Breathing in. Breathing out. Intake and outtake. Filling up and letting go. To me, this sounds incredibly beautiful and natural.

This also supposes that, just like breathing out after breathing in, painting for Tamara is a necessary part of ‘being’. I asked her to imagine her life without painting.

She quickly replied with one word: “Restless”.

It’s as though she’d be all bottled up with ideas and nowhere to express them if she couldn’t paint. Holding her breath.

She explained to me that once a painting is complete, the restlessness is gone. (Or could it be the other way around? Once the restlessness is gone, the painting is complete?)

There’s one other important aspect of painting she mentions to me … the anticipation of happiness when a painting is finished. Whether that happiness is for her or the future owner, it doesn’t matter. She is happy to share (most of the time!). I have a suspicion this is the reason why the disappearance of Mr. Potato Head still holds so much regret for her. Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t know if it’s making anybody happy. I wonder, if she could know that one thing, could she let it go?

As for the location of the mysterious Mr. Potato Head painting? Tamara can only imagine it was sold to a man (or a woman) who collects paintings (or maybe not). Perhaps it has pride-of-place in the gallery room of a mansion somewhere in the Ottawa area or maybe it’s hidden in a stack of paintings in a bungalow in suburbia or collected and now leaning against a wall in a dusty attic. The best she can hope for is that the painting that she pines after is loved and that it is making someone happy. I hope so, too.

Tamara claims she’s content to let the location of Mr Potato Head remain a mystery. I don’t believe her at all. Or maybe I don’t want to. Perhaps, one day I’ll have to convince her to track it down. I’m just too curious to let it alone!

P.S. Tamara does custom paintings. Contact her at <info@elgastro.com>

To see more pictures of Tamara and her art go to http://www.nataschiawielink.com/blog/entry/the_abstract_project_tam

———————————————————————————————————————————————–

This blog post brought to you by….

The Abstract Project: Exploring head-space and studio-space of Niagara artists.

A project created by photographer Nataschia Wielink and artist/writer Jennifer Elliotson which endeavors to expose the heart behind the work of artists in the Niagara region. It involves many curious and probing questions, thoughtful answers, amazing art (obviously), and lots of coffee.

It is our hope that you will join us in this adventure and send the love back to our artists with support and encouragement as they continue to SHINE!

Photography by Nataschia Wielink .

In the spirit of this blog post, I thought it appropriate to share one of my paintings “in progress”.

Dear Artist,

A cheer for you, the amateur or expert, who doesn’t always get paid what you’re worth.

You, who may, or may not yet, be great. Still, you persevere. Not because of the notoriety or fame that you might get or have gotten, but because the art must be made. Made or else you are not being true. Not being who you were made be.

A shout out to the musician who picks up his guitar and plays with the band, baring his soul on a small stage, offering his notes as a gift to the listener. No polished studio recording. No auto-tuned, over-produced, over-dubbed piece of work.

It’s a raw, heartfelt, gut stretching, leave it all on the stage, all-or-nothing offering. You have emptied yourself. An offering for my ears. For my heart. For my hands and my feet. We are the same people, moving to the same beat. My interaction is also his music. We are one.

He does this because he needs to. If he doesn’t, he will surely spiral into a slow and steady death of spirit. He would not be well. I encourage him to be healthy. In his spirit, in his body. I won’t squelch him or diminish him as I sit and watch from the safety of my chair on the sidelines.

A round of applause for she who chooses to dance, as though no one is looking. Or maybe because we are looking. It brings her joy to know that the movement of her body has brought a smile. A feeling of contentment. Happiness.

Who am I to sit in the lounge and silently accuse her of basking in the limelight while I look on? She is entertaining. She is beautiful. Her moves have not been learned in a class or studied from a book. Her beauty is found in wearing vulnerability on her sleeves. I won’t judge her.

She has laid down her weapons. And so should I.

Three cheers for the singer who opens her heart and her mouth at the same time. It is only her bravery that allows her to share her voice loud enough for me to hear. She is scared. She is revelling in the ears turned and tuned in. Her notes riding on sound waves. Being received.

She wants to sound just as beautiful as you want her to. She is practicing. She is performing. I give her space to expand the notes. Not to shrink back. Not to hold it all in.

Holding in. That is how bombs are made. An attempt at keeping something too big inside something too small. A small jab, a push, a fracture … and then … explosion.

Instead, I encourage her voice to move. To move me. To expand into my space. Into my being.

I am open.

Perfect doesn’t always equal beautiful. I lift my head to her voice. I let it in. The notes breathe into my body and they resonate.

I have let her in.

Praise to the painter who moves his brush in the silence of his studio day and night. Quiet evenings, stars dotting the dark blanket of sky. Honing a skill, searching for a feeling, a colour, an expression from a collection of hairs on the tip of a wooden stick. He who paints regardless of the showing or because of the showing. An exercise for his own soul. He has hopes of forging a connection from his soul to yours. From your soul to someone else’s. He has been accused of selfishness. Seeking attention. Approval as an official stamp.

He is painting for himself. Painting for you. Creating beauty. Or chaos. Skilled or unskilled. He is a child of the Great Creator. He is being himself.

He doesn’t need a certificate to show his work. I will let him be. My space is open to his expression. I’m not scared about whether I will like it or not. That’s not important. He has moved his feelings onto the canvas and let me into his world. To be changed. Challenged. To feel as though I myself have been understood, finally. Or not.

The beauty is found in the chance the he takes. The risk is the beauty.

A Standing ‘O’ for the girl who sews her own clothes. The girl who is filled with equal parts excitement and fear. Excited for the thrill of accomplishing her own design. Fear for sharing it. Fear for showing it. Her clothes don’t bear a recognizable brand name. They have the markings of her own signature. Perfect and imperfect stitches, combined together. She looks unique. She cannot be boxed in. I don’t fear her. I don’t fear the style which can’t be named, hung and organized in a store. She is strange. She is beautiful.

She is herself.

Put her in a factory-fast-fashion outfit and she shrinks, becoming less and not more. I will allow her to be more. I have space for her in my world. I will enjoy how her style comes out to meet mine, clashing or collaborating. Her look has become entertainment for me. I will allow myself to be amused. I will admire what she has been brave enough to create. I see the beauty – she is wearing her work and has removed her armor. I won’t judge her. She doesn’t look like everybody else. That is exactly what I love.

To all the artists, who, in the leftover scraps of the day, muster up the energy to have more output than input … I have left space for you in my world. Your work is personal, crazy, organized, disorganized, true, revealing, thoughtful, messy, impulsive, honest.

Here is some space for you to expand … I have moved over to let your work into my world. Not just to hang on my wall, but to pin to my heart.

When you have reached out and reached me, I am glad. We are rich together.

I am the consumer, the spectator, the critic. What about me? Will I die a slow and steady death of spirit, if I scorn or criticize from my comfortable chair?  Will I begin to shrink if I close myself off to your artistic expressions? Will I be afraid to take risks if I don’t allow that for you?

If I shut my eyes, close my ears and block my heart, will I become unwell?

And so, Dear Artist, you must shine.  For when you shine, you brighten both of our worlds. You enlighten me. We are well together. Beautiful, content, brave, expressive and honest .. together.

I lay down my weapons. It’s safe here. We are just beginning to understand each other.

I have room for you, Dear Artist.

I am open.

In a few short months we’ll be flying over the Atlantic Ocean and landing in Hamburg, Germany with a whole lot of filming gear in tow. From there, the train will take us further north to stop in a town called Eutin. Surrounded by rose bushes and linden trees, there’s an old white and blue painted station to greet us when we hop off the train.

It’s in this town, we’ll take our time to set up the story that I have been piecing together for well over a year now. It comes complete with a town centre, a church tower with bells that ding on the hour and a castle on the lake. Oh, and they brew beer there, too. Sounds like paradise, right?

This past year and a bit, I’ve been sifting through old papers, digging up files, reading letters and interviewing family and friends who knew my mother. I have traveled to Germany, California, Winnipeg, and Montreal. It’s been quite a whirlwind of jet-setting and train rides! Still, I have a lot of unanswered questions about the story of my mother’s childhood – specifically, the 3 years that she and her mother spent there as refugees after WWII ended. I have discovered that it’s much more than the amusing tales that my mother used to tell my sister and I. It’s not just about skipping school and playing by the lake water. It’s more a story about loneliness, tragedy, and loss. Interestingly, that’s not the impression I got from my mother – this is what I have realized from my research.

This project has been and continues to be a gateway to get to know my mother the way that I believe she wanted me to. Knowing her as a child, informs me of who she was as a woman.

Knowing someone’s story is the portal to understanding. 

Sometimes, to get to know a story you have to live it, feel it and smell it – basically walk in their footsteps. That’s the heart of the Cherries in the Sun project.

The full length documentary will take some time to create …  but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy this little tease.