A moment

A child melted in my arms last night. And then he laughed at me and raised his eyebrow. He is three months old.

And for a moment, there was nothing else; no sushi restaurant, no laughter of friends, no chair at my back, or swish of aprons, or worry. It was calm.

And I realize I look for moments like this. Always.

I look for them in art, in long drives, in books, in nature, in myself, in the eyes of friends. And I have found more moments than I deserve. I have found them in a man. In caring for animals. In my family. In baked goods.

These moments I look for are where all else falls away and everything is as it is and I think: "I could die right now and that would be alright."

Those times when there is so much contentment inside myself, and reflected there and only there and for me only, that the fear of getting enough from this world is made unnecessary, because I have felt -- genuinely -- enough.

I wanted to put this down because while these moments frequent me, as soon as I am outside of them, or them outside of me, the world returns to the clatter it can be. And I think it appropriate to mark the fact that I, at some point, recognized that I was lucky.

And to that end, this: a moment on film I can return to. We are not always so lucky.

New work

Amidst reading your entries for this, I worked on this.




It always takes me a while to let a piece settle before I can perform a final squint and get distance enough to see if I really like it. I mean, really like it. It's early still but, so far, this one gives me that subtle and wide feeling that, yes, this might be one of those.

Texture and detail: volume five

People are leaving
Cats are twisting
Dogs are peeing on feet
Airport plans are made
Cedar burns
Basil wilts
Blisters are healing
I cut a man's hair
Kentucky bourbon is poured over ice that smells vaguely like the freezer

Nothing is ruined. A focus is placed on the small things and an otherwise difficult day gets got through.

Vegetables from the garden: the first, broccoli

This is our broccoli from the terra cotta planter on the terrace. I am very proud of it ... even though it looks a little sad all gangly and knob-kneed. But, oh my, does it taste like broccoli. It tastes more like broccoli than any previous broccoli in this home.

A testament to having surprises and good things on the inside. A testament to being a surprise and not judging a book by its cover or a broccoli by its size.

Not buxom with pesticides, not shiny with wax. It may have worked some racoon pee into its system and been nibbled by skunks. But I'm okay with that.

Little sayings: volume eight

WHP giveaway: three of twelve (flowers!)

Enter to win this 8 x 8 giclee print of a WHP original; printed on textured canvas with faux-polaroid borders. (Frame for demonstrative purposes only. I'm a demonstrative girl.)

This month: purple flowers. You like?





To win:

* The contest is open from 12PM June 25th until 12AM June 29th.
* In the comments section, submit one sentence to finish the story excerpt below. (To read the full up-to-date version of the story, click here.)
* Be sure to leave your email information along with your sentence.
* For an extra chance to win, become a follower of this blog. But only if you like, please.
* Check back the morning of July 1st for the announcement of the winner.

The excerpt:

"She holds the orange cat’s tail, keeping the arched body balanced between the heat of the kitchen and the air outside. She feels for the scissors on the counter and snips a small patch of hair from the very tip of the tail. She rubs the orange down between her fingers until it bunches and holds. She paperclips it together and places it in the waiting envelope. The envelope contains one other item: a note with the words “there is missing happening here.” She scrawled the words in her very best and most natural handwriting so he would know that it was her. ____________________________."


So: scribble, please erase little, and submit to me ....




[edit: comments are now closed. Thanks for participating...next giveaway is July 25th]

A river of ice

I kept my legs in the river today until they were pained by the cold. The cotton floated down the river, off from the trees and took itself the rest of the way with the current. Not being absorbed by the water. Resting lightly.

There is dessert waiting on the counter, warm and concave now after the heat of cooking filled the kitchen. The windows open, catnip rubbed into the carpet. The cat flips and flips; she has no spine.

little sayings: volume seven

Cargo with an h

While selling my work is not my focus, connecting with people who are interested in what I am doing and meeting artists that interest me keeps me lively.

I sold my largest stretched-giclee print to date last week. It was an expensive piece to purchase and I knew the buyer would have had to have a serious taste for the work. Of course I'm curious as to who this person is that brought home a piece of me in their trunk.

I asked the gallery owner if she knew anything about the buyer and she smiled a broad and boastful smile and painted this picture: A woman meanders throughout the gallery, inquires about product they don't have, purchases some gift cards, and then meanders some more until she lays eyes on my canvas, at which point she announces to the owner "I have to have that."

And so while selling is not something I require, the importance and power of making something out of nothing that a stranger trusts will improve the enjoyment of their day/mornings/life is not lost on me. I'll continue to tinker with avenues to sell; avenues to connect with strangers without ever meeting them.

So I'm trying something new over at Cargoh. Vancouver-based, international in scope. Still in beta, but looking pretty good.

And after one week, they've made me a featured seller on their home page. So, thank you Cargoh.

Five days until WHP contest

Yup, you heard me....

Le chocolat for le sanity

I have a sweet tooth that is rarely satiated. Probably because I do my best at ignoring it. Also because it is just too damn demanding.

There are, however, times when it won't be ignored. And so I walk to the store for a package of cookies, or a tin of ice cream, or if I'm terribly desperate, I pour my baking chocolate chips into yogurt. I'm revealing a lot here.

But. I have found a way to keep chocolate in the house, not indulge to the point of needing a rest, and fulfill a craving.

Cocoa Camino mint chocolate. 67% cocoa. Fair trade. Organic. One piece is enough.

I don't understand it, but I swear, a bar lasts near a week in our home. I barely believe it and I'm living it.

Little sayings: volume six

Because it's Friday and we can all use a little extra oomph to get through to the luxury of the weekends.

Me, head down to the computer making appointment after appointment, then a hike through the forest above Deep Cove with dogs scurrying like squirrels, then a martini in the late sun on the patio.

...Inspecting my lettuce and strawberries while sucking on Stoli-plump olives.

Boy this girl is curled

The more I photograph horizontal lines (yes please, more more more) the more I realize how wonky my 17-85 lens is at the widest settings. I know distortion is to be expected, but these make me feel as though I'm on the balcony of a ship. In a storm that knocked my boots off.

Learning to love imperfections more than perfection: getting easier. And sometimes: natural. And sometimes: I scoff at perfection.

Landscape. Leftover. Loved.

It's hard to keep up when days go so fast.

Little sayings: volume five

I love most teas. I do.

I want to love all teas, I do. But it would seem I'm going to have to work very hard to make this so.

I drink a lot of tea (not as much as my mother, mind you), but at least a mug or two a day. And rarely a week passes without me trying seven different teas. Green (of varying qualities), powders, fruits, buds, loose leaves, overpriced shaped bags, black, medicinal, vanilla.

The ceremony of placing just the right amount of sugar and milk, or honey and lemon calms me. I drink coffee and don't think about it. I drink tea and I notice when I bring mug to mouth. Any ritual that consistently makes me pause and smile is one I aim to love forever.

And so, after we visited Silk Road (a mandatory visit) in Victoria, I was elated to bring home three new tins of hand-gathered teas. One we chose together. And then we each chose another. And this is how Lapsang Souchong came to be in our home.

Note: I did not choose it.

If you know this tea, you already know what the apartment smelled like for the next 12-24 hours. A little bit like a fire. A fire where all your animal rugs and fine furs were engulfed. And then rained on.

This tea is touted as the mystics's black tea. It hails from China. The loose leaves are smoked over pine. It tastes like ash.

I will culture my palate, I will culture my palate. I will I will. And until I can be in the same room as the tea pot that held this offensive cousin of the black tea's I love, I will look at pure things. Like white flowers in small drinking glasses.

Victoria

Settling back into a routine. Familiar bed, known noises, palatable tap water. And the man who walks our midnight alley on the eve before recycling day gathering bottles while his white cat follows the rumble of his shopping cart and dragging of his pant hems.

Alleys and alleys they walk together and I watch their consistent and receding backs and wonder just how far a cat would follow a man.