A full lunar eclipse illuminated the Halifax sky on the night Sheri and David fell madly in love. Earlier, there was a cafe, two cups of tea, a mutual friend and words that would set the wheels of love and life into motion.

His words were, “I would change the course of my life for that woman”.

Later, under the light of the giant moon, there was a lazy stroll that lingered into the wee hours of a maritime morning. As the stars dimmed and the sun rose, sparks flew. As tumultuous love stories often go, the pair parted; he left for New York while she remained in Halifax.

Through mailed letters and a whirlwind wedding, Sheri and David managed to merge their separate paths into one, eventually planting roots in downtown Toronto.

Together. In love. Happily ever after.

This is the “Coles Notes” version of the almost unbelievable love story they shared with me.

Sheri and David are co-owners of Wildhagen Hat Shop, a wife and husband team with a love story to beat all AND the most fabulous creators of handmade hats.

You can find their shop tucked in amongst a flurry of fabrics and sewing machines on Queen St. West in Toronto. At the top of a tall flight of stairs, their loft-style studio has giant windows looking out to the busy street below. Every wall in the shop is adorned with rows of breathtaking hats with the best names, ever, by the way. Juniper, Chico, Belmondo, Skipper, Lupin, Cocteau Cloche, to name just a few. The hat I fell head-over-heels for goes by the name “Sandrine”.  Admittedly, I am weak when it comes to hats, so was easily smitten – especially when I was told I could choose any fabric and weave combination that I wished!

I was in hat heaven.

Together, Jess (my hat consultant) and I deliberated over the best combination of materials for my custom order. All decisions made, my heart was a-pitter-patter with excitement and anticipation.

Back in Niagara, waiting for my hat to be created, from time to time my mind would wander and day-dream about it a little bit. I thought about the brim which would be made of two fabrics: waxed, waterproof cotton on the top and a colourful striped English wool designed by Paul Smith  on the underside.  There would be a lovely band at the point where the crown meets the brim, made in a Danish wool, woven in two colours (referred to as having a ‘warp and weft’.)  My chosen wool warp and weft were in apricot and indigo. The crown would be Panama straw, hand-woven in Ecuador using a technique which will soon be Unesco protected. Finally, the band of ribbon on the inside would be from Mokuba, a tantalizing ribbon shop just one flight down from Wildhagen.

In the Wildhagen studio, a curtain was all that separated retail-space from work-space. A large, round hole was cut into the curtain and, whilst peering through, I was reminded of the Polka Dot Door. Through the magical hole and beyond the mysterious veil, all was revealed. Hat elves were working away! Sewing machines whirred, scissors snipped and the iron puffed out big clouds of hot steam.

In total, beyond the Polka Dot Hole, there were three elves. Sheri (pattern designer and developer, sewer and doer of extra complicated things), David (straw shaper, blocker and sometimes ironer), Jess (cutter, sewer and doer of a little bit of everything). These three rub shoulders (literally) in one of the most efficient work spaces I have seen. They work as a team, passing hats around like batons, communicating pertinent details along the way.

Hanging above Sheri’s sewing machine are two rows of original paper patterns. It’s an impressive array.  I paused to let the beauty of them sink in. I can’t even imagine the time it took to develop these.

I asked Sheri how this hat-making business got started, anyway.

One day 12 years ago, Sheri decided to make a hat. Just like that. While in New York, she had worked for Calvin Klein in the alterations department, which was basically boot-camp for all future endeavours involving fabric and pattern making. At the time that Sheri decided to try her hand at hat-making, there was little support or education for millinery so she went to the Toronto Public Library and educated herself. Then, as she told me “I decided to apply what I knew about textiles … to something I didn’t know anything about.” 

She has developed her extensive collection of patterns through the time-tested method of trial and error and has never been to “hat school”.  I think it’s precisely her “unschooling” which gives her patterns an originality that can’t be labelled.

I appreciate her fearlessness of stepping into an unknown world to just give it a whirl – to see what would happen.  Had she played by the rules or waited for a certificate of approval – some kind of permission – perhaps her designs would have been different or much less noteworthy. Perhaps she wouldn’t even have tried at all.

As I look at my new hat, I see reflections of Sheri’s former textile world. My Sandrine is sassy with a brim cocked out to the left as if to say “Yeah, I have some attitude!”  (At least that’s how I feel when I put it on!)

Sheri and David are an inspiring team. Married for 17 years now, the hat business is an equal joint venture, even though people still refer to it as “Sheri’s Hats”.

I am inspired by their mutual respect. It seems as the hat business grows, so does their love.

All photographs by Nataschia Wielink 

To visit Hat Heaven go to: Wildhagen Hats 

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 

unfinished

Lately, I’ve been wandering around a lot.

Not in the metaphorical sense, but actual wandering. And standing and pondering … looking into the green space of the yard at absolutely nothing for any uncounted amount of time until I hear a voice saying “Did you forget where you’re going?”

Yes. Perhaps I did.

I’ve been in a state of transition for approximately 15 months now and am tired of floating in this giant pool with no edges. I wish to find a place to climb out, dry myself off and start what I long to start. Lacking dry, firm ground to stand on I feel rather helpless, non-directional and well … floaty.

I never thought it would be so emotionally exhausting to shut down a business. But there it is, I said it. It is. In one sense, it’s freeing. Totally. Every day I’m thankful for the opportunities that await me. But I never imagined getting off the merry-go-round could be as difficult as it has been. Suppose I follow the metaphor a bit further – one must slow down in order to safely step off the wheel. Otherwise, centrifugal forces quite literally fling you out into the park, possibly sustaining several injuries including a big blow to the ego. Slow is good. But it takes so much patience to make a graceful exit.

I realized today that, unbelievably, I have been cleaning my studio for over 9 months. Not nine months straight (I’ve done some other projects too)… but actually, truly, I started the cleanup one day after my last wedding in the fall of 2013. Now it’s August and I’m still scrubbing, sweeping and painting. I might resemble Lady MacBeth saying “Out Damned Spot! Out I say!”

I’m starting to feel neurotic. Maybe so.

“I want my new creative space to feel sacred.” This is the mantra I repeat. I want it to be Clean. Washed of all that commercial-based business that went on in there for over a decade. It could be, even with all the washing, scrubbing and brushing layer upon layer of fresh paint, my space will never be never rid of the “ick”.

Perhaps the space isn’t the problem and it’s really just me.

I know imagery is helpful so I’ve been trying to envision myself as the butterfly, growing wings and then flying away on a cloud of creativeness. But I keep forgetting that the cocoon is first.

I so want to be out of the cocoon.

I long to start doing what I have set out to do when I decided to shut down my business. I’m searching for that creative girl who I used to know. She was about five foot two with blond, curly hair. Totally imaginative.  She was brave and courageous – willing to take chances and risk disappointment. She was experimental. Twenty years ago she was just getting started when she got shut down by the importance of survival. Bills. Mortgages. Hourly wages.

Has anyone seen her? Occasionally, I see glimpses of her but she’s still hiding. I can see her eyes peeking out from inside a cocoon. I think she’s afraid to let herself be seen. She needs coaxing. She needs to know it’s safe out here and that expression is welcome. That survival actually depends on expression, and not production anymore.

Instead of having my old self give the “young me” advice about how to live life, I wish it were the other way around. I’d like my little kid self to tell “the old me” about being free. Running risks. Being totally absorbed in creativity. I suspect she knows a thing or two about being artistic.

Lately, I’ve been attempting to channel her (my inner child) in some painting. She’s coming out slowly and tentatively, little by little. She shows up in playful birds, flying butterflies, balloons, rainbows and wild geometric scenery. She’s beginning to understand how to speak. It’s slow, at best. But it’s also a start.

Spinning a cocoon is a lengthy process. Cocooning requires time and so much patience. It depends on rest and peacefulness. Finally, wisdom to know when to emerge.

As for me … I’m still waiting for my wings. ]]> http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/growing-wings/feed/ 4 http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/the-fence-that-changed-everything/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=the-fence-that-changed-everything http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/the-fence-that-changed-everything/#comments Thu, 15 May 2014 00:14:38 +0000 Jennifer http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/?p=735

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.

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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!

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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

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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.

My first oil painting circa 1990 (24 years ago!). (Inspired by a Thomas Kincade original)

In the autumn of 1990 when I was in grade ten, my mother surprised me with a question. Out of the blue she asked “Would you like art lessons?”

Me: What?!

Her: Art lessons!

Me: I thought we were broke?

And we were broke, but she insisted, and anyway, it was only fair because my sister had piano lessons, I should have lessons too, she reasoned.

A logical conclusion.

Still, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. But that was my mother … logic didn’t always apply.

At that time, I had a bus pass for getting around the city, which I appreciated greatly since our 1984 Hyundai had recently experienced a horrific and painful demise. Cause of death: A seized transmission. Reason: No one wanted to talk about that, but it had something to do with fluid – or lack of it. My mother cashed it in for scrap metal and from that point on, my sister and I became well acquainted with public transportation and highly skilled at “bumming rides”.

Then my mother got some bad news from the doctor. The cancer was back and it had travelled since it’s first visit 10 years earlier. This time, it made residence in her bones, settling in for an extended visit. The four of us – my mother, my sister, the cancer and I – had no car, no money and a whole lot of bad news to distract us from feeling sorry for ourselves. So we kids did what anybody would do in our circumstance – we focused our attention on piano and painting, while my mother put all of her extra energy into lunch dates and musical concerts with her friends. I wasn’t entirely sure that this was the smartest thing to be doing, but it did make us feel a little better.

I really didn’t need much time to think about the art lessons. I had heard that local painter Ann LeFrancois taught privately. Immediately, I began Thursday night classes. At the time, I didn’t compute that the $40 per lesson rate was equivalent to our entire weekly grocery budget!! (That’s about $75 today!).

Sometimes, I walked the one hour distance, but when the sun was low in the sky and the sidewalk snow-covered, I used my bus pass to get to Ann’s basement art studio. I never missed a class. Nothing could keep me away from the bliss of being there. Using oil paints for the very first time, my easel and canvas propped in front of me, paints and brushes to my right, it was nothing short of heaven.

I had asked my mother what she thought I should paint and she suggested I attempt to replicate a Thomas Kincade painting of an english cottage scene with a stone pathway, gate and lantern surrounded by a sea of wildflowers.  It would seem that the english cottage was a dream of hers and this was her best shot at realizing it – by having her 15 year old daughter attempt to paint it. On a canvas. For her, dreaming of a better life was serious business – especially when charming cottages and fields of blooms were at stake. I said I would do my best and that it would be for her.

The giant white canvas that I was given in my class was very intimidating and I have to admit that I was pretty scared to touch it. I worried that dipping my paintbrush into the paint and pressing it to the pristine canvas would sully it. We might all be better off if the canvas stayed white, clean and perfect.

Still, I dipped and brushed. Soon I found myself in a beautiful rhythm, a bubble of space and time where it was just me, my brush and that canvas moving in unison toward a common goal.

Every now and then, Ann, my teacher, would stand beside me to give valuable pointers. She was a woman of few words, but what she spoke I can still remember today.

In her French accent she said, “A painting is made from many tiny brushstrokes. Pay attention to each one and make it beautiful.”

At first I didn’t fully get what she meant.

As the sun continued to sink into winter weariness, I was traveling to and from my class in darkness. Gradually though, an understanding was dawning. The awareness that each time I mixed the colour, dipped and brushed that little blob of paint onto the canvas, it was IMPORTANT. The detail of each single brush stroke mattered very much. Each one needed to stand on it’s own merit.  It’s as though the painting would collapse if it didn’t have proper support from the details.

At the same time, I had to mind the big picture. I shouldn’t let myself get so wrapped up in the details so as to forget to take a step back. She directed me to squint my eyes a little bit to make the picture hazy. Fuzzy-like, I would see the colours and balance in a very different way. Less judgmental, perhaps. That was important too.

Ann drilled these ideas into me during my lessons. Week after week she would repeat the same words to me until it began to sink in. Mind the details. Mind the big picture.

The details WERE the big picture. 

A little pebble in my pocket, I have carried this bit of advice with me into my adult life and working career and have found it to be an eternally applicable concept. Her words have come to me quietly while creating countless floral bouquets and centrepieces. In moments of frustration or lack of focus, I hear her voice – the end result is only as strong and as beautiful as the details. Knitting, sewing, painting, gardening … even life. Whatever the practice or however insignificant the moment may seem, Ann’s advice resonates and continues to be fresh and poignant. I truly need those words … and that’s precisely why I remember them.

Ann’s guidance was definitely worth the $40 per week that my mother sacrificed.  Honestly, I don’t know how she afforded those lessons, but I’m certainly glad she did. At a time when she had every good reason to be more prudent with money, she splurged. It didn’t make sense, but that’s exactly what makes my mother’s actions so beautiful to me. I see her love for me in the nonsense. She cared enough to nurture my artistic passion to the point of senselessness. She also had her own experiences. Or lack of them. She knew first-hand what was at stake when when creativity was oppressed.

When the snow melted and the daffodils were starting to push up in little mounds by the sidewalk, my work of art was dry and ready to travel. The painting and I voyaged together one evening on the city bus. My mother had no idea what to expect since I hadn’t brought it home once in all that time.  When she finally saw it, her heart nearly burst open with pride. Maybe she even forgot about the cancer for a split second. Her english cottage was finally a reality and, for her, it was perfect.  She had it framed and hung it in the most prominent place in our house – the front foyer. My mother made it her mission to immediately inform everyone who passed through the front door about the picture hanging on the wall and the fact that her daughter had painted it.

I still have the painting and while it’s never going to hang in a museum (or even a prominent place in my own home), it continues to brings me joy. Mainly because it reminds me of what I learned when I painted it.

Empty canvases. Tiny brushstrokes. Ticks on a clock. Moments added together, gradually becoming something beautiful. My life, a work of art.

I wonder what Ann, the art teacher, would think. Twenty-four years later her words continue to impact me both creatively and philosophically. It would seem that the money was spent wisely after-all.

I can hear my mother saying “Well, that was good bang for the buck!”