I am inspired by artists who have recorded what is going on around them, telling stories in words and pictures, such as Emily Carr, Rockwell Kent, and William Kurelek. My memory drawings are inspired by Heinrich Kley, Toulouse-Lautrec, Daumier, Forain, and Goya who left sketches—quick drawings—showing the gesture of the figure, or figures together, and their environment, with the place, figures and objects thought of, and seen, as a whole.
I started in 1998 and have done one sketch from memory more or less done every day for 12 years – that works out to somewhere in the area of 4000 sketches. Here’s a selection of some of the drawings that once a week I sent out as Sketch-of-the-Week...
It’s the dead of winter, and the air over the Northwest Arm is frozen, lifeless and still. I am walking along the seawall and out of the corner of my eye catch a slight movement. I look. Nothing. A few moments later, there it is again! I stop and stare hard, and slowly, every so slowly, a massive sheet of ice silently separates itself from the shore and moves away. It takes an endless minute or two to drift out about two meters. It stops and gathers itself, and almost imperceptibly eases back in again, like the living, breathing bellows of a giant beast.
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She is cradled in her daughter’s loving arms. She was there in turn for her mother when she died, who was there for her own mother before then. For generation upon generation going back to time immemorial, the daughter holding the dying mother. A simple filial love song, a timeless mother/daughter dance. Esther died peacefully in her sleep last night at 7:35, just after her daughter’s last goodbye.
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One city, two worlds. From my house in Halifax I can walk in one direction for 10 minutes and I’m at the corner of Quinpool and Vernon Streets. There are four lanes of traffic wheeling through slush and pedestrians navigating towering banks of dirty snow. Ten minutes the other way and I’m down by the Northwest Arm watching two men working on a Cape Islander fishing boat with a flock of seagulls wheeling in a giant vortex above their heads. Guess where I’d rather be…
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I like kids, and love enthusiasm, but today they are bouncing off the walls. They are going ballistic. I’m at a point in the project where I have to take them aside one at a time and focus on them individually, engage them directly, work with them personally. Some are like feral cats though, and won’t be contained. Others seem to really appreciate the attention. One boy looks right at me and for a moment our eyes meet. I look deep into them and he seems to have connected with me. It happens so rarely that I am almost shocked. Did I reach him? Am I making a difference? I like to think so.
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“I am walking on the sky!” From his point of view the boy is right side up and striding with giant steps over the cosmos. Everything else -- earth, people, buildings -- is all strange and upside down. He pedals the upper atmosphere puffing up clouds, and his head swings low through thin air. Sky walker looks up at his feet and lets out a yell, while his buddy stands and stares.
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I am struck by the juxtaposition of the two men. One is a down-to-earth-looking kind of guy, and the other is the painted portrait of an early colonial governor. The live man is sitting with his arms crossed. His hat is pulled low. He looks a little lost. The governor, for his part, was utterly ruthless in forming Nova Scotia 250 years ago. He looks like he was used to getting his way. There is irony here.
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From the depths of the forest the woodland stream churns and bubbles down to the lake below. Little waterfalls punctuate its flow. Fresh green ferns gather along the edges. Around an outcropping of moss covered rock the stream picks up speed and tumbles, rushing past on either side. Upon the rock, dignified and graceful, a young woman perches, accompanied by a small dog. Botticelli would have been very pleased.
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In the hospital the waiting room is empty but for a couple sitting close together on a couch. She holds a small brochure in one hand, studying it, while her other hand is tucked under her collar at her neck. She looks worried. He reads over her shoulder. They’ve been there a long time waiting for someone, a loved one, to finish with their test or treatment. They look at the clock. It’s taking a long time and the concern and nervousness is evident on their faces and in their posture. They are there when I get there, and still there when I leave.
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On a speck of sand almost 300 kilometres off the coast of Nova Scotia the sun drops from sight. Colours fad through the spectrum to dark monochromatic hues. The beach shrinks to a patch of warm sand under my back. A fresh breeze off the Atlantic Ocean washes waves ashore. They hush and shush…slowly, rhythmically. There’s salt in the air, and on my lips. The night sky begins to fill with stars, first a few, then dozens upon dozens and more and more until the entire universe opens above me. I feel awe in the face of the Milky Way sprawling monstrously, horizon to horizon. Shooting stars streak lazily through constellations of stellar splendor. My body shrinks in time and space, and Sable Island feels like the most special place on Earth.
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The shoreline at Prospect Bay is made of rocks and boulders of every size, shape and hue. Cracks run through them like power lines. Unlike Sable Island, composed entirely of sand, the bones of the earth here are laid bare, pounded and smashed eons ago by glaciers, then rounded and smoothed by the endless action of the ocean. An incoming tide sucks and gnaws at the craggy shoreline. Waves heave through narrows and fan into coves. The sea throws itself against the rocks, spewing crystal plumes high overhead.
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Down by the seashore lives a great, big porcupine. A veritable butter ball with spines, he contentedly gorges on greens in anticipation of a long, cold winter. There will be little then for him to eat but bark. Methodically, he munches his way through patches of beach grass. Sensing he is not alone, he stops mid-chew and rolls back onto his haunches, all round and pudgy, and peers around nearsightedly. “Not now,” he seems to say. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
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I like cats. I really do. They make great pets, responsive and affectionate, and provide excellent companionship and entertainment. They are remarkable, beautiful animals. What I don’t understand is why so many cats are allowed to roam free in the city. And it’s not just a few cats either, but lots of them. There must be more than a dozen on this one street alone. At night I hear them fighting, getting hurt and spreading disease. I see them crossing busy, dangerous streets. They creep into the gardens, stalking and killing wild birds, insects, snakes, any and all small creatures. They mark their territory, defecate and spray. I’m sure they would be better off indoors, safe and sound, but they are not, so I just chase them off.
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Cutting my hair he becomes quite animated. He came to Canada with only twenty bucks in his pocket and has done quite well for himself. He is very passionate about his original home, but the history of his country is one of continuous war, and he was lucky to get out when he did. As a young man he had two friends, brothers, who were orphans. They got out too, but one brother was lured back with assurances of a better life. He returned with his family, promising to write. When he got there he found that things were bad, really bad, horrible in fact. He couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t even write to warn his brother not to come because the mail was heavily censored by the state. There were consequences for telling the wrong kind of truth. He wrote his brother and said life there was wonderful, it couldn’t be better, everything was great except for one thing: the winters were long, cold and damp and if the brother came with their aged parents then their health would suffer because of those winters. By this the brother knew not to come. After all, they were orphans and their parents were long gone. Snip. Snip.
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It’s the day before Christmas with snow falling and I am blissfully, perhaps delusionally, at peace with the world. At the towing company (to get some things from a friend’s car), there’s a man out in the lot having a conniption, waving his arms about and muttering angrily. Upstairs, the people in the office are jabbering and pointing, displaying violent body language, with lots of teeth showing. Taken aback and feeling like I’ve walked into a psychotic episode, a woman finally walks in waving a set of keys, and sings out, “I found them!” Everyone laughs, rather nervously, and the tension breaks.
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Tearing along the trail for perhaps the last time of the season I round a bend and am confronted by a crowd of leaf-watchers with children and dogs in tow. Way more than I’ve encountered all summer long. I slow to a crawl and gingerly wind my way through them.
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Walking along Oxford near Coburg two bicyclists pull up in front of us. They are both wearing big backpacks and inside one of the backpacks a cell phone can be heard ringing. The cyclists stop and together perform an acrobatic exercise of finding, reaching and extracting the phone. After a minute of coordinated effort one of them pulls the phone out and answers it with, “Zuppa Circus”.
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Driving my bike under the overpass I am overtaken by a flight of pigeons. It’s great to get out after such a long winter and feel muscles working and fresh spring air. The birds flap noisily past me and I am impressed by their willingness to cohabit with us city dwellers.
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It might be the bright, cheerful jester hat bouncing on his head, or the silly, over-sized gloves he's wearing. It can't be because he sees me looking toward him with a broad smile on my face. He could just be really excited about something simple, like going out with his family. Perhaps the young lad doesn't need a reason to be skipping along on his parent's arm, grinning happily and waving greetings as he goes.
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The moment is magical. Alone, under the entwined pines up on top of the hill, they dance together with the music. In fact, the whole weekend is magical. It's Stone Soup Festival in Moser River, genuine Eastern Shore County, and it's the real thing, home-grown warmth, hospitality and incredible talent at its very most neighbourly. You should have been there.
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On the edge of the swirling water they look like herons, improbably graceful, physically poetic. The weight and dynamics of the all parts joined and linked together -- body, arm, rod, line, lure -- waving slowly overhead, casting way out, ker-splash, reeling in, nice and easy, over and over. We don't mind that we're not getting any bites, they say, our supper is waiting for us at home in the fridge.
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Through lush foliage and rows of tombstones, slanting sunshine throws off long, cool shadows. The canopy of deciduous trees holds within it the morning's golden-green light, and the old city cemetery glows like a halo. In the midst of it, unnoticed, two men work quietly.
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He's buccaneered my canoe and he's off on a wild, fantastic journey. The buck standing on the back of the boat makes for an odd juxtaposition and evokes in me a curiosity of associations. It's the beginning of a creative response and, savouring the feeling, I take in the unusual sight of the goat on the boat.
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Great party. Was going to stay half an hour and have just one drink. A couple hours later and now standing around the beer barrel joking about finishing it…. It's the opening of Laughleton Gallery's annual Surf Show on the Shore Road in Chezzetcook. Interestingly we're talking about international development at the grassroots level, away from the prying hands of greedy bureaucrats and middlemen. Sunyata is 23 years old and has formed a foundation to collect and distribute basic materials -- crayons, pencils, chalk -- directly to needy children overseas. People going there anyway take a small package of items and put them straight from their hands into the hands of those in need. Small hands making a big difference.
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Such joy, a small boy chasing a big goose. The boy is soon reined in, but for a few seconds I experience again the sensation I felt as a young boy myself when close to animals, the look and feel of them, their smell, how they behave, the richness and variety. This goose could actually hurt the boy, he's too young, but for a moment he's given the freedom to run and chase, to herd and exercise the natural ability within us all to hunt and kill.
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Rolling farmland bulldozed and built over. Fields of wildflowers now parking lots. Deeply wooded glades, shaded creeks teeming with life, filled in and paved over. Moving smartly the voracious machine chomps another mouthful of unsuspecting land, and then another. The excavated earth is good rich soil, deep and black with no rocks. With frightening quickness the hole is widened, deepened. Soon it's surrounded by big piles of chewed-up dirt, a gaping pit where the house will go.
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Get the ladder straight, watch out for the power lines, scrabble carefully up the steeply inclined shingles, a leg over the pitch and shimmy over to the trouble spot, nail it, caulk it, job done. Now is a good time to admire the view. Back up, turn around, unfurl to full height, look up and -- sharp intake of breath -- gone are all the everyday words and thoughts. I feel as though I am standing in the open hand of God.