Venus winks

"Venus winks" digital imaging by Ron Greenaway inspired by the poem "Koksilah"" written by Rojan Zét.

Vancouver Island passions

This story first appeared in the summer of 2005. A few years later, Luna the Killer whale, was killed in a collision with a tugboat. It is a sad story...

Carving by Doug LaFortune © City of Duncan Photo by Ron Greenaway

It was a small totem tour, only two visitors, probably in their twenties, who said, when introducing themselves, they were from Japan. They were, as I was later told, attending a university in Kamloops and studying English and Journalism.

We were well into the tour and I was telling them about a totem pole carved by Doug LaFortune. It shows an Eagle above a Killer Whale. In the fluke of the Killer Whale is the symbol of the Owl. The Owl is believed to be the spirit of a deceased person. The combined carving of the Killer Whale with the the Owl tells us about the Northwestern Coastal people's traditional belief that a Killer Whale seen from shore is the spirit of a deceased person returning to pay a visit.

I began telling them a current event story about "Luna", a Killer Whale, separated from its pod and living alone in Nootka Sound. He had been off the west coast of Vancouver Island for three consecutive years.

Nootka people living there believed that Luna embodied the spirit of their recently deceased chief, Ambrose Maquinna, returning to visit.

Killer Whales are highly social creatures and Luna was looking for things to interact with. Boats were about his size and he was known to disable and play with boats in Nootka Sound.

The federal government made attempts to pen the whale in order to capture and return it to its pod. First Nations people prevented that from happening. On "the news", all across Canada, people saw a group of Nootka people paddling a canoe out to deep water, away from the nets, to where he could not be captured. It was, I said, an amazing thing to see a massive Killer Whale swimming alongside their canoe to safety.

I was making the point that beliefs of the past were alive today, when a voice came from just beyond our little tour group. The voice was emphatic and angry, and said "They should have shot the bastard!". A man, in his early sixties, that I had not noticed before he spoke, immediately turned, stepped off the curb, and crossed the street away from us.

I am glad that at the time my guests from away displayed a great generosity of spirit. We seemed embraced and protected by the positive stories and energy of the poles. He had no affect on our enjoyment of the moment. But later, it made me think...

Chemainus, a poem by Rojan Zét

Chemainus

Under a bridge where late one night,
our first date here well out of sight
you touched me there; our bodies closed
and flowing with me indisposed, you
languished gently soft and sighing,
slipping down through trees belying
spirit movements, reminiscing
carnal-knowledge-silver-kissing;
under me you seemed to hover and
now again you are my lover. Passing
by that way I feel a faithful friend
runs over me with constant mem'ry
sometimes tragic, giving me a taste of
magic making my ride worthwhile by
bringing to my face a smile that
gets me humming quietly each time
I cross triumphantly.

Rojan Zét

Simple-minded dreck

“In conceptual art the idea or concept is the most important aspect of the work. When an artist uses a conceptual form of art, it means that all of the planning and decisions are made beforehand and the execution is a perfunctory affair. The idea becomes a machine that makes the art."
~ Sol LeWitt

Ode to Jackson Pollock II
by Ron Greenaway

The image above was created at: www.JacksonPollock.org

* JacksonPollock.org, one of the most famous works of Internet Art, is made by Miltos Manetas in 2003.
* Introducing the new Apple's Tablet Computer Named IPad, Apple CEO Steve Jobs said: "JacksonPollock.org" is one of the best websites to experience the iPad and "Jackson Pollock by Miltos Manetas" is definitelly the coolest application for the iPad. (link)
* JacksonPollock.org is People's Voice Winner of the Webby Awards
* Time Magazine listed JacksonPollock.org on the Top 50 coolest websites
* JacksonPollock.org is a Neen artwork

RandomPollock by Miltos Manetas is just published as iPad app and it works also with ipod and iPhone


In case you want to print out Pollock, there is a way to save it in vector! You need to have Adobe Acrobat installed (the program not just the Reader) and then you choose to print as a PDF. Try it! You can also simply "Print Screen an save it in an image eiting program like photoshop.

"It has been my observation that some of the younger curators embrace these examples of poorly thought out simple-minded dreck because, it provides them with the opportunity to expound on work that is confusing in its self-befuddlement, and so light weight and unedited that they, the purveyors of culture, can wax at length about the artist's "much deeper intentions." They suggest, without saying so, that these "artists" are savants; and that is why the Curator's task is so difficult... they must enlighten the rest of us. True, it's hard to come up with something about nothing. These charlatans passing themselves off as conceptual artists are poseurs. 99% of today's conceptualism should be destined for only two locations- the furnace or the dump. The other 1 percent should take its rightful place in the galleries, museums and collections at the zenith of the art world. It seems, these days, that the art world insists upon celebrating too much talentless jive; in this whirlwind of mediocrity, too many truly great artists have been lost."

~ John Aaron

Koksilah, a poem by Rojan Zét

Koksilah

At our feet this river flows,
reflecting concentric rings
radiating energy from an edge
where our bodies crouch side by
side, the irregular grid of curved
waves meeting evening's approach
from below and above, looming
trees into darkness.

Interference patterns: Venus winks
from a deepening blue sky to watch
bats circle and swoop eating their
weight in small insects. Where is the
moon? Where is the sun that once
watched on another shore, another
day, one afternoon, butterflies
circling us just so...

our blood feeding the dance of butterflies
and roses, and the mosquito that feeds the
bat. Next to your skin, lace under a blue top
loose at the throat, your bare legs white against
mine, a river of blood lighting this evening's flow,
your skirt sliding from your leg, and those
naked toes curling into my sand.


Rojan Zét

Slam Dunk

Digital image visioning by Ron Greenaway, 2009
"Slam Dunk" poem written by Terry Una Lee

Crystal Heath receives People's Choice Award

Poppies and lavender by Crystal Heath
photo by Julie Nygaard

Crystal Heath's "Poppies and lavender" was chosen for the People's Choice Award by visitors to the Spring Arts Show & Sale extravaganza held April 21 - 25, 2010 at the Quw'utsun Cultural and Conference Centre in Duncan.

August 15, 1945

“OUT OF THE WATER, EVERYBODY!” Mom shouted from the lakeside door of our rented cottage on the shore of Lake Muskoka. “Supper’s ready.” She retreated inside and the screen door slammed shut.

A hubbub ensued as, one by one, family and guests filed into the cottage, passing the battery-operated radio near the door. They dried themselves but left wet footprints on their way to the bedrooms or to the loft to change. It was a hot day and I was sorry to leave the water.

Since it was the middle of the week, Dad was at work in Toronto. I would miss sharing the major event of this day with him. There were Mom, my brothers Wilf and David and various Canadian and American relatives and friends. About thirteen people shared the cottage, and many of us had to double-up. We were part of the annual summer exodus from the hot city to the relatively cool countryside and were fortunate to have found this cottage on the water’s edge.

Mom and her sister, my Aunt Ray, put a cold supper on the table, stacking bowls, plates, cutlery and napkins at one end. In spite of August’s warmth, I knew that after supper, the adults would have hot coffee or tea, followed by the usual after-dinner liqueur. Of course, none of us children were allowed any of that.

Supper started at five o’clock and by 5:30 the kids were finished. We all wanted to go back into the water, but the rule was to wait for an hour for the food to digest; then we could swim without fear of developing cramps. To pass the time, we children washed the dishes, getting water from the pump on the counter.

There was no electricity in the cottage; we used kerosene lamps and flashlights to see at night and the radio to keep up with world news. Mom made sure there were spare batteries.

Not enough time had passed since supper, so after helping with the dishes, I talked with a family friend, my piano teacher, Mildred Spergel, while the other children played board games. “Mildred,” I said, “I can make up tunes in my head all the time, like this.” I hummed in four-four time. “Ever heard that before?”

“No I haven’t, Manuel. I think it’s just yours, alone.”

“I can make melodies in waltz time, too,” and I hummed in three-four time. Mildred listened and smiled. “One day, I want to learn how to write them.”

“I believe you will,” she said.

At 6:30 on the dot, all of us kids ran to the water and jumped in. We shouted, squealed and splashed, and the time flew by. Mom ordered everyone out at 7:30. The water was quite warm and, like the others, I didn’t want to leave it, but Mom’s tone meant we had better, right now. I didn’t want my swimming privileges cut off.

Joining the others in the main room, I heard a man’s voice drone from the radio. None of the adults was speaking. Some of them sat, unmoving, their faces like stone; others stood like statues, their cups or liqueur glasses perfectly still. They could have been a display in a museum, except for an occasional blink that revealed the life beating within.

“This is Matthew Halton of the CBC,” said a voice from the radio. I thought it might have something to do with the end of the war.

It was a few minutes before eight o’clock. The voice said, “The Japanese have just surrendered unconditionally. The war is over!” The adults smiled and raised their cups and glasses and shouted, “Hurray!”

I looked at Wilf. He smiled, then laughed. At fifteen and in high school, he knew what the war was about. I was aware, too: I was ten and could read the maps in the Toronto Daily Star and follow the progress of the conflict. I knew that Hitler’s suicide on April 30, Mom’s birthday, and Germany’s defeat on May 8 meant we Jews were safe, once again. The war that had just ended was the one against Japan.

Matthew Halton interrupted our celebration. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I have just been informed that the previous announcement was in error. The war against Japan is not yet officially over.” The adults groaned, lowered their arms and looked at each other, but no one said anything. The radio played music while everyone stilled themselves, seemingly suspended in time.

Again Matthew Halton reported that the war with Japan was over and hooting filled the air. Time advanced a few seconds. Then he said this announcement, too, was false, and moans saturated the cottage. The air took on a heavy thickness. The clock slowed once more. Time felt elastic, as if it were being stretched again and again.

The mood of expectation was palpable. Silence pervaded the room; hands held cups and glasses but no one drank, as if they were afraid the sound of liquid being swallowed might cause them to miss the news from the radio.

I walked over to Mom and sat by her. She put her arms around David and me. Wilf stood behind her. No one else moved. The other children had already joined their parents, sitting on their laps, on the floor or on the arms of chairs. We were serious and quiet; even I could not be my usual boisterous self. The radio played music; no one spoke or moved.

In a few moments, Matthew spoke again. I felt I was getting to know him through his voice alone. There was a certain tone in it, an expectancy perhaps, that his audience shared.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and stopped. I felt he spoke directly to us – to me -- in that room in the cottage. If he had materialized from the air, I would not have been surprised. Tension rose, if that were possible. The silence felt like an immoveable object surrounding my head, pressing, pressing.

“This is not a false alarm. I repeat: this is not a false alarm. The war in the Pacific is over. I repeat: the war in the Pacific is over.” For the first time, the radio played “God Save the King.”

The cottage remained quiet. The anthem finished. The only sound was the hissing of the kerosene lamps. I didn’t turn my head, but stole side-long glances at the adults. They sat like tree stumps. An announcer said we would be returned to the program in progress.

Someone reached out and turned off the radio. The sharp click signaled the start of a new era and the room erupted in shouts of joy and uncontrolled laughter. Tears trickled down the cheeks of virtually every person. I think it was my mom’s brother, Uncle Barney, who picked up David and me and pranced around with us under his arms, then put us down. He crouched to our height and said in a conspiratorial voice, his eyes shining and his face beaming wide, “Never forget this moment. Never forget!”


© 2006 Manuel Erickson

Cowichan Valley "City of Totems" private tours

Private totem tours are available of downtown Duncan, the City of Totems, in the heart of the Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada.

A one hour walking tour of the City of Totems downtown for a group of any size can be arranged for $50.

Walking at a comfortable pace and taking time to take photographs, this tour will take just over an hour. Available year round.

Hear legendary stories carvers of these poles were inspired by when creating these artworks.

You won't be disappointed!

To arrange a private tour with a knowledgeable "City of Totems Tour Guide" send email to cowichanartist@gmail.com.



Carved by Harold Alfred and © City of Duncan
Photographed by Ron Greenaway

Vancouver Island visitors come to the "City of Totems"

Duncan is located in Canada on the South East Coast of Vancouver Island halfway between Victoria and Nanaimo, in the heart of the Cowichan Valley.

It is well known for the its totem poles found all over the city but many of which are in the four square city blocks of the downtown core.


Maori carving by Tupari Te Whata and © City of Duncan


Totem carving by Francis Horn and © City of Duncan

Created by First Nations carvers of the Northwest Coast these totem poles symbolize a revival of this ancient art form. The people indigenous to this area, the Coast Salish, have a long tradition of carving and their contributions are among other totem poles, some of which were created by artists as far away as New Zealand.

Take the guided or self-guided tour of totem poles carved by Pacific Northwest Coast First Nations carvers.. Footprints are painted yellow on the downtown sidewalk and start in front of the "train station", or connect with Duncan's Totem Tour Guide from Monday through Friday 10-2pm (May-September) from the "train station". Hear about stories carvers had in mind when they created these commissioned artworks.

Cowichan Valley Pin Wheel, by Julie Nygaard

lots and lots of incredible colours...............

Pin Wheel, 2009

digital photography by Julie Nygaard

Ode to Earth Day 2, by Susan Christensen

Mother Nature

Like the wind or the sun’s rays
This subtle balance is now forced
To reconfigure life’s backdrop.

Standing at the forest’s edge,
She surveys the acid streams
Soon to be muddied beyond life.

She weeps continuously
From the ominous clouds
Relentlessly sogging the plains.

Whirling into reaction
She rearranges mankind’s toys
So smugly raised on the deltas.

She blazes over the farm lands
Drying riverbeds into jig saws,
Strange patterns of parched earth.

Rendering down the icecaps
She freshens salty oceans
Soon to be emptied of life.

She curls behind a dune
That’s shifting deeper, farther
Into former habitats of life.

Never to be beaten,
She’s a shape-shifter;
The ultimate survivor.


by Susan Christensen

Ode to Earth Day, by Susan Christensen

Take Warning

Flames of incarnadine sunset sear the dusk,
Stark smoke stacks boldly silhouetted.
Oh, the glory of the auroras of the setting sun
Purpling the undersides of atmospheric haze.
Shifting, fading into dusky pink,
Sheening on to the dark thunderheads above.

With our rose coloured glasses,
We see it all as nature’s treat:
Mother Nature sporting a maiden’s blush
As if never minding the tell-tale stain
Of an overly heated globe.


by Susan Christensen