A Story About Us

I awoke to the sound of the wind whistling and realized it was just you, relentlessly blowing into my ear. I shook you away and sat up on the cool grass. The summer had not shifted since I closed my eyes and yet an eternity seemed to have passed. Something was different.
-Had a nice sleep? You asked.
-How long was I out for?
-Fifteen minutes.
-Whoa, it feels way longer than that.

You shrugged and took a sip of your blue Slurpee. I wondered if grownups ever had Slurpees anymore. And when did they stop? I guessed at some point someone realized that it was too hard to be taken seriously with blue teeth. I could only imagine that courtrooms would never be the same with Slurpee machines.

You poked the purplish bruise on your knee and then scratched it. It was definitely the same summer I fell asleep to.

-Okay, I got a question for you.
-Shoot.
-So, I’m making this box...
-That’s not a question.
-I’m getting to it. Just shut up and listen to me.
-You do this a lot. You ask me things that you don’t actually want me to answer. It’s like you want to reaffirm what you’ve already decided.
-Forget it. You know what, forget it.

I would’ve said I had already forgotten it, but you were looking away from me then as if some kind of monumental wall formed in the space between us. You looked up at the tree, through its branches, and off to a distant place, where surely my comments weren’t welcomed.

-No, no...
I decided to humour you a bit. Maybe the tension would ease and things between us would be simple again. Not so destructive.
-Tell me. What’s the question?
-No, it’s not important. I just wanted an opinion. It’s just a box after all.

Now picking at grass and tossing the bits in a pile to your right, you sighed. It felt heavy and tired. Your thoughts were elsewhere and surely, no box was in sight.

-Come on, think positive.
-It’s a question about a box! Are you for real?
-I don’t get many box questions and besides it could be pretty damn significant.
-I dunno, doesn’t matter. It was a stupid question, anyway.
-You’ve never asked a stupid question before. Now tell me what it is so I’m not thinking about it all night!
-All right, all right. It’s not going to be very interesting after all this talking about it.
-It was really about a box?
-Maybe if we never mention the box again...
-Just say it!
-But… okay, so this box I’m making…
You hesitated in that second but I didn’t realize it then.
-I’m not sure if it should have a flappy lid or –.
-Okay, I was wrong, you do ask stupid questions.

A strange silence passed between us, one I couldn’t recognize.

-Wha’d you think it was about?
-Honestly? Like seriously honestly? I assumed it would’ve been a helluva lot more profound than deciding box lids.

Then came another shrug, another slurp, and more scratching your knee.


The day ended with our thoughts drifting in opposite directions. Somewhere between bruised knees and 7-Eleven Slurpees, a gap stretched between us. With this growing gap, came the overwhelming desire to be closer. This led to an inescapable truth. Walt Whitman wrote it in the poem “Song of Myself,” “For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” We are the same. Our summer was a story of separation and belonging, a need for each other that is both devastating and indifferent, and most importantly it’s a story of improbable change.

Vancouver Aquarium

Lookin at this stuff makes me want to save the world.

Finally, thesis show...

Shown at Studio 561 |561 Bloor St. West

on surrealism

"After Dali" 2006, 9" x 12" watercolour pencil on paper

I suspect there is a Dali in me... But remembering a quote by Frida Kahlo makes me reconsider this.
"I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality." Andre Breton declared her a surrealist but she retaliated and said something of this nature: " They are so damn 'intellectual' and rotten that I can't stand them anymore....I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those 'artistic' bitches of Paris."
I've stopped dreaming about a what-if kind of life and have accepted the present and all of its nuances.

The piece above is a watercolour pencil study that is a different version of the original by Dali.

there's something romantic about thorns

OK, so I've decided the theme of these paintings is going to be l o v e.

So this is... POW. It's about a love affair gone sour. A reality check occurs in the form of a punch to the face. The guy transforms through space and colour and why not, even time. He realizes he needs to get over his bullshit because there are consequences. Lesson learned.








I imagine a place where life is actually peaceful. We say how we feel and there are no underlying motives. Of course there are problems everywhere, but I imagine a quiet place worthy of sitting on a balcony for hours doing not much at all. Sleeping, eating, reading...
This is my love of escape.






Finally, the expression of love and all its complexities.

a new beginning: book arts, part 1

To catch up, in the next while or so I'm going to put up some bookarts and other work that I haven't posted. otherwise, I am enjoying this current idleness.

"Table" 2008,
I used this interesting brown fine-ribbed paper with some fancy red (snakeskin texture) paper bought from Aboveground. I was inspired by the texture of the materials used in ArtDeco like shagreen and those fancy veneers. Ruhlman made some great furniture too.






3 years, 2008
I suppose I needed to make this book. Maybe it's the embarrassing moments that you need to laugh at as a way to find closure or knowing that by holding these memories in this small book, you can remember an old side of you just so you never truly forget.

An excerpt from the pages open:

"The Year of Forgetting," June 1, 2006 (left)
...the flies have had their feast and the crows have gone
her fur has worn away when the year of forgetting comes.
The winters pass... and I think of her
afraid that the cold winters will make me forget
And here is spring to wake the old and weary of the beasts
and though they've forgotten your loss that week
I'll always remember what you've done for me.


"Guffaw," July 10, 2006 (right)
Guffaw: The noise we make when laughing aloud. From our stomachs and out our mouths. Guffaw, guffaw.



and some other quotes:

"Threadbare," November 1, 2005
Unravel the snakeskin flesh that devours the impalpable soul
I want to be threadbare and honest again.


"Leftovers"
Who will learn to love an inconsistent door?
Open. Close. Close tight. Open wide.
Like a wave moving from shore to shore
Like a breath through the cold dark night...

I've learned that I don't want to be that girl who tries to keep
leftovers by hiding it buried under a tree
Because ultimately,
I imagine he'll just dig his way out and leave.


"Endless Prose," August 15, 2007
Life falls back into this endless prose and it weakens, I weaken
as I pour a bit of this soul from my half-empty drawer
and it fills a sound n this dream, dreamt years before...

Waves, 2008
I used different kinds of handmade paper such as sisal & abaca, and gampi. Also lithographs for illustrations throughout. The wrap is handmade with a geometric design 100% cotton fabric and cotton rag paper.

The quote in the book is from The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu:

"Though weary of life,
seasoned by salty winds,
I am not able to leave this shore behind."