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Vancouver Island Ravens

During a totem pole tour with a group of visitors in the streets of downtown Duncan, the "City of Totems", a curious thing happened.

I was talking to them about a totem pole that had a Thunderbird above a Killer Whale. This Killer Whale, though, was special. When it was carved, this Killer Whale's fins were made in the shape of a Raven's head.

The Raven is known to the carver of this pole as the "trickster" and the "transformer". In this case the carver had created a "Raven-finned Killer Whale". The kind of Killer Whale that might come alongside your boat and give it a good nudge or splash you, just for fun, to play a trick on you.

Just as I was explaining this to my tour group, a young First Nations woman, who I did not know and had not noticed walking by, quietly stepped up behind me and gave me a quick squeeze at the waist... she laughed and said out loud "Just like this!".

Now, this both startled and amused me and my tourist friends. And with a smile, she turned and kept on walking down the street.

What a mischievous thing to do!

And when I stop to think about it, she did have raven-coloured hair......

Brian Clark, multimedia

Profile of an Artist

A self-taught sculptor who realizes work inspired by nature in stone, wood, and metal, as well as traditional drawing and painting media. He now works at his art in Mill Bay, on Vancouver Island, BC.

Owners of his work include HRH Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, kd lang, David Suzuki, and many individual and international collectors.

The earliest involvements with art began as a child while growing up in the northern community of Ft. McMurray, Alberta. A lack of community workshops or training facilities resulted in many self-creative activities such as making toys, creating games, taking care of pets and playing with friends helped develop a sense of accomplishment in self-expression. Depictions of many childhood events were captured using pencils and crayons as a medium; this was a beginning for forming the basics to express visual and emotional perceptions into an art form.


School provided more sophisticated tools and materials in the form of drafting and basic art, which helped transform rough and unpatterned works into structured and geometrical sequences that balanced and stabilized the raw creative energies. Many forms of graphic posters and sketches were created in high school, highlighting concentric and exacting patterns graphically illustrating social activities.

Music by Brian Clark Turn up your speakers and click on MP3 button and then click "Play", close window when finished.
Don't Blame Me -
That's Alright -
Empty Bottle -
No Soul -
Try -
Two Shots -
Reil -

This helped seed the development of a "personalized signature and style" that is apparent in all the artworks today. An ongoing interest in astronomy inspired many oil, pastel and acrylic paintings during the late 1960's and early 1970's. These interpretations of the mysteries of unexplored deep space strengthened mental perceptions of three-dimensional imaging from any focal direction.

In 1982, the need to attempt sculpture arose after failing to express a sense of wholeness and movement in some still life paintings. Constructing homemade chisels and aided by library books for guidance, four low relief pinewood panels were completed with considerable success. Soon larger and figurative works in wood followed, depicting native cultural objects and implements. A mentor gave tools and materials and criticism to begin in soapstone carving in late 1982. A respect for the indigenous peoples artworks and crafts instilled the sense of simpleness and quality into each new work.

Visit Brian Clark's website at: www.brianclarkartist.com

Cowichan Bay

Sight -
My sliding sidelong glance caught
your eyes at the windows of my soul
and there I stopped - on yours,
brown and moist land against
the blue sea, mine.
I felt your glance, surprised to
find it there. Amazed that I could
see where once I bumped my way to
walls, to trees, to open air
apprehending my surroundings.
How your tongue found its way to
my eyes I cannot say; how your saliva
healed me I do not know, but now
I marvel at your perfect teeth and
leap my way home to put a mirror
on my ceiling.

Her Name -
Muse me, move me, use but don't abuse me.
Yours for a month, to see and do, one
August is pleasure for me with you.
As sure as winter, we'll say goodbye
but never forget what you did for my eye.

Suggestive -
I suggest you take your pretty face
with your perfect teeth and bring them
to my table so together some friday night
alone until sunday's french toast melts in
your mouth we can dine and dine and
dine.

Closing Time -
Evening darkens, lights come on,
musicians play their final song
while patrons take their leave and
fly to homes and families nearby.
Coffee's poured, the door is locked,
dishes stowed while boats are docked,
cars unpark and drive away, I
take my things and go my way.
Lights in the harbour nod and wink,
our feet step upward while we think
of summer and the setting sun
- a moment that has just begun.


Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island Wishes

"Wish" photography by Julie Nygaard, 2008

define wish: Classically the wish provider is often a spirit, Genie or similar entity, bound or constrained within a commonplace object (Aladdin's oil lamp for example) or a container closed with Solomon's seal, or a Vancouver Island dandelion. Releasing the entity from its constraint, usually by some simple action like a puff of air, allows the object's possessor to make a wish. The Vancouver Island dandelion may be grateful to be free of its constraint and the wish is a thank-you gift. Or it may, by its nature, be unable to exercise its powers without an initiator. Many believe such wishes can only come true if you keep them a secret from other people and you find a suitable Vancouver Island dandelion.

Closure

© 2010 Manuel Erickson

I hope you live into the Twenty-first Century, Dad, I often wished to myself. Not only would it have made me proud to have had a father who lived that long, it would say something about my own longevity. Long life is in the genes, but genes do strange things. They can jump over the next generation and benefit only the one after, so I have no guarantee that I’ll live to my father’s age. Many people have lived to one hundred and beyond; but ninety-five years of life is pretty good.

I heard about my father’s death directly from my brother, Wilf. It was just after seven in the morning on Monday, October the twenty-seventh and Martha was almost ready to leave for her high school teaching job. I was in the bathroom and thought I heard a voice on the answering machine, so I went to the kitchen to monitor the call.

“It was very peaceful for him,” I heard Wilf saying. My hand flew to the phone, then hesitated; I didn’t want to break down over the phone. Wilf continued, “The lady in the next bed said he didn’t suffer.” My hand rested on the phone, but didn’t pick it up. I trembled. Wilf’s voice changed from a reporting tone to a deeply personal, concerned one. “I hope this news doesn’t upset you too much, Manuel.” Then he was gone.

Martha came into the kitchen, smiling. “Oh, here you are! I thought you were in the bathroom.”

“My father died.”

“Oh, Manuel!” and her arms were suddenly tight about me, holding me, protecting me, soothing, loving. “Oh! I didn’t know! Oh, Manuel!” she sobbed.

“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s all right; don’t cry… He lived a long life…” I hugged her back, kissed her lightly on the neck and stroked her hair. It was not a good way to start her day, but in a few minutes she drove off to school.

The last thing I said to my father before he died in 1997 was not vocalized, but written. I had sent him a birthday card with a verse I wrote that spoke not about love, but about how much easier it was to write my own message for him than to search for a suitable one in a commercial shop.

I don’t know if doing that, or if searching in a shop until my feet ached, would have been the greater act of love. Was the easy way -- doing it on my computer -- a loving act? The card did have my handwriting on it and a hand-drawn heart, but I didn’t really know if I meant it when I typed “All our love, Dad, on your 95th birthday!” Now that he had died, I felt a sense of profound loss, not just because he was my father, a personal link between me and the larger family, but also that a connection I had had with the Twentieth Century -- from the Wright Brothers to the threshold of a new millenium -- was severed.

My father’s death wasn’t unexpected. Daily, he had been getting more frail. Afterwards, the doctors discovered the reason for the progressive frailty (like shutting the barn door after the horses have bolted): liquid had been leaking into the region around his heart for some time, perhaps for years, making it difficult for the organ to pump. Finally, it simply stopped.

Strange, isn’t it? My father believed that if he ate healthfully and exercised regularly, he would live to at least ninety. Soon after his ninetieth birthday, however, degeneration seemed to take hold. It became a chore for him to walk. Over the next few years he became short of breath after only a few steps. His memory, which showed signs of deterioration after Mom’s death thirteen years before, became weaker. Dad was becoming a wisp of what he had been -- physically strong, quick-witted, temper-ridden and argumentative.

Four days before he died, my father apparently decided to phone for an ambulance because he was not feeling well. He went to the Toronto Western Hospital where the staff knew him from previous visits. They placed him in a room with an older female patient who told Wilf what happened. The day before he died he sat up in bed, making strange movements.

“What are you doing, Mr. Erickson?”

Dad smiled at her. “My exercises,” he answered as he slowly extended his arms straight out from his chest, then swung them sideways.

Wilf told me that the following day the other patient and my father were talking animatedly, when he grew quiet.

“Mr. Erickson?” No answer. “Mr. Erickson!” Wilf said that she looked at his monitor and saw the horizontal line across the screen. Almost instinctively, she pressed the help button. Dad’s head lay on the pillow along his shoulder. No family member had been present. He died alone, exemplifying what he thought was his lack of friends and his family’s nonchalant attitude. All his siblings had died, so he was the last of his family’s generation.

I didn’t want either of my parents to die alone, any more than I want to. But they did, both of them. My mother’s immediate family and circle of friends was large, but they all pre-deceased her, so she died alone. Dad felt that he had few, if any, friends. His lonely death seemed to prove his point.

How forlorn I felt for him -- for both of them! Dad had lived in Toronto, the central city of the far-flung metropolises that housed his three sons: Ottawa, London and Vancouver. I was the farthest away.

My wretchedness and guilt were pervasive. I didn’t realize Dad was in the hospital or the seriousness of his illness. Had I known, would I have gone to see him? Probably, but now I’ll never know.

*

One of my earliest memories of Dad, when I was a pre-teen and he was arguing with my mother, was his grief-filled cry that he made friends with painful difficulty. Despite that, he would often divest himself of friendship when it did come his way. An example was Brian MacConnell.

A retired gentleman of about sixty-five or seventy, Brian lived with his wife, Emily, on Glenholme Avenue, a short walk from Dad’s house on Lauder Avenue. Since Dad had trouble walking, Brian visited him. They would sit on the verandah and chat about science, politics and history. Wilf told me the story.

One day Brian said, “You know, Harry, I’m worried about you.”

Knowing Dad, his ears probably picked up like a cat’s. “Oh? Why?”

“Well,” Brian explained, “here you are living alone in a two-storey house. What if something happened to you? Suppose you fell down the stairs? Who could come over and help you?”

“Well, I don’t know… There’s the Piazzas across the street, but they don’t have a key.”

“Exactly, Harry. No one has a key to your house. I think you should give me a key so I can come in and help you if you need it. I would only do that if I couldn’t get hold of you.”

Unsmiling, Dad looked at him. His eyes narrowed. “I’ll think about it.” With that, he got up, went into the house and shut the door, leaving Brian alone on the verandah.

Shortly after, he had all the locks changed, and Dad’s relationship with Brian was severed.

If my father had not been so distrustful and secretive he might have made many friends. With only a grade eight education, he set about learning a trade and how to run a business. At first he worked alone, but as his reputation for quality spread and his business grew, he took on help and moved into a building that he had had constructed and which, in later years, he doubled in size. Dad was, in effect, a self-made businessman. By itself, the experience would have been enough so that others would have found him interesting, but he told me that he felt he lacked the formal education to attract friends. So he started to read. He read voraciously in the field in which he was mainly interested -- socialism. I often perused his bookcase, where he kept a many-volumed collection of the works of Karl Marx, published in English in Moscow. Reams of books on his favourite topics -- socialism and science -- added unusual weight to the bookcase. Sometimes I would suggest to my father that he was a self-educated person who knew more about his field than most people, and that he likely had the equivalent of a B.A. if not a Masters degree. In answer, he would suppress a smile, manufacture a frown and pretend to scoff. He did not accept praise easily, a trait I learned from him.

Many people came to my father’s funeral. Most were from Toronto and its immediate surroundings, but some came from as far as Chicago, Calgary and Vancouver. Dad felt he had few friends, but the forty or so at his funeral put the lie to that.

Again, it was Brian MacConnell who so humorously illustrated Dad’s bastion of secrecy. After Wilf, David and I and our spouses arrived for the eleven o’clock graveside ceremony, the rabbi, before conducting the service, gathered us together in my cousin’s minivan. There, we spoke in soft voices with the rabbi. He asked many probing questions about the history of our family, Dad’s upholstery business and, not least important, the relationships of the family members. Reminiscences flowed, eyes misted and sobs were choked off.

Before it ended, Brian arrived. He asked someone when the ceremony would begin and someone said, “After the rabbi has finished speaking with the family.”

“Rabbi? Why is a rabbi here? Come to think of it, why are we in a Jewish cemetery?”

“Because Harry was Jewish.”

“Jewish? I never knew that.”

The truth is that my father was an anti-Semite, an attitude which began, he told me, when he had a disagreement with his father, Philip Isaacson. My father, then a young, working teenager, entered the living room where Philip was reading the Toronto Telegram, a newspaper known even then as a right-wing publication. (When it shut down, it morphed as the Toronto Sun.)

Perhaps because of a story he had just read, my grandfather commented, “This paper, the Telegram, is on the side of the workers.”

My father was aghast. “On the side of the workers? It most certainly is not! It’s an evil, capitalist paper!”

Enraged, Grandfather ordered Dad to sit and to extend his hands palms down. He took a ruler, stood up and struck my father hard across the knuckles of both hands. Needless to say, his action ended any possibilities for discussion between him and his growing, social activist-thinking son.

As my father gained work experience and trained as an upholsterer over the years, he listened to and watched the members of Toronto’s Jewish community, including his own siblings. He concluded that most of them did not care about real social change, and that they despised Soviet communism which he championed. After marrying, he attended Holy Blossom Temple synagogue services only to appease my mother’s desire for her sons to have a “Jewish” education. He listened to the rabbi and conversed with other members of the synagogue, but felt that most of Toronto’s Jews were of the same ilk as his father and siblings: against social change and despising Soviet communism. He began to dislike these Jews and applied the same tarnish to Jews around the world.

Yet, Dad knew that some Jews were different. Joseph Salsberg led the Canadian Communist Party for many years, a fact that he ignored. Emil Gartner, a distinguished Canadian musician and conductor of the Toronto Jewish Folk Choir, was once barred by my father from visiting us at home because the maestro was, in fact, a communist.

How did he rectify his treatment of these two community leaders with his championing of Soviet communism? By then, Dad was running an upholstery business from the basement of our house. He did not want the business to suffer because of possible rumors that a communist had visited us; being Jewish was hard enough. It was a double standard, of course, but Dad either didn’t recognize it or chose to ignore it.

Dad told me that when he started his upholstery business, he wanted his older brother, Wilf, to help financially. Uncle Wilf was a pharmacist and a successful drug store owner who, in later years, merged with another drug store. The merger eventually became Shoppers Drug Mart. My father didn’t say why, but he was unsuccessful with Uncle Wilf. So he approached his younger brothers, Nathan and Sam, neither of whom would buy into Dad’s business, perhaps because their incomes were so small. Upset and feeling let down, Dad harbored a grudge against his brothers for the rest of his life.

The first nation to recognize Israel upon its founding in 1948 was the Soviet Union. My father could not help showing his pleasure. Here were two socialist states, the older one helping out the newborn. It did not matter to him that David ben Gurion had been a member of the Palmach (a group fighting for independence against the British Mandate) and Menachem Begin the leader of the terrorist Stern Gang, or that the USSR’s main interest was to gain a toe-hold in the Middle East.

In 1956, at age twenty-two, I decided to live in Israel for at least a year to determine if I wanted to “make aliyah”: to emigrate there. By then the United States had become Israel’s closest ally, and the Soviet Union one of its fiercest critics. Diplomatic relations with the Soviets had broken off. Not surprisingly, Dad became anti-Israel, anti-Zionist and even more anti-Jewish.

My decision to go to Israel just after the 1956 war was probably the first of many disappointments my father experienced with me. He advised me to stay home, get a good-paying job and save to buy a home. My only interest at the time was to answer what I thought was a call to visit that land of profound history that meant so much to the West in terms of its religions and civilization -- the land that bore the Jews who had had a disproportionately large influence on world affairs (and still do), the land which both Arabs and Jews claim as their own. I knew my journey would also take me to places I had read and studied about: Barcelona, Milan, the Corinth Canal, Venice, Crete. I couldn’t stay home and get a job -- I had to go!

The day before I left, encouraged by my mother (“Gieb’m, Harry, gieb’m! -- Give to him, Harry!”), Dad doubled the amount of money I took with me. I had the wonderful sum of five hundred dollars for a year’s journey. I don’t think he ever forgave Israel for stealing my heart.


~ © 2010 Manuel Erickson

Peace Lily

"Peace Lily", photography by Julie Nygaard, 2008

Peace Lily, photography by Julie Nygaard, 2008

... my favorite plant / flower
~ Julie

Abrupt Departure for School, by Susan Christensen

Awe, edged with fear, swooped down from the leaden sky
onto the uneasy surface of the forested lake.
Children pelted down to the shore;
Crows raucously scattered to the skies. The silver wake churned
as the plane taxied slowly towards the pebbled beach.

Men with moon-lit and yellowed hair secured their craft
while belatedly shy but curious small faces peeked,
bright-eyed from behind the brush.
Elders eased forward, protectively shoving the young ones back.

Gifts! Sweet hard rocks to melt on the tongue.
Small metal bowls with carrying handles. Treasures!
These aliens understood courtesy. What would they like in trade?
Deer hides? Newly dried fish?

They must be fed; they must be feted.
Menfolk, with quiet dignity, led the way,
introduced the fair-haired visitors to the settlement.
Womenfolk built up the fires. Meat was set on to cook.

The smiling newcomers loved the little ones.
This was obvious; this was good.
The village slurped the hard candies with gusto.
Elders stared from the sides of their eyes at the strange foreign laughs.

With a few words and many encouraging gestures,
the little ones were invited to see inside the plane.
None could resist the silver vessel afloat upon the lapping waves.
Elders smiled worriedly as the boys and a few bold girls
went giggling into the belly of the float plane.

Coiled rope in hand, the silver-haired stranger
stepped up on the float, swung into the doorway, and
slammed the door.
Startled elders roared, then plunged into the water
grasping ineffectually at the slippery wet metal.

Their cries were muted by the spluttering engines
which soon revved to a deafening pitch.
The vessel turned into the light wind
and drew away from shore.

Engine shrieks out-blasted children’s cries of fear.
Elders’ screams were muted by the winds.
Small eyes, round with terror,
peered down from small portals.

Their last sight of their shrunken village
was of figures, with mouths wide
Shaking fists up at them.


~ by Susan Christensen
(The break-up of a culture; the start of the residential school experience. Alienation.)

Snype Drumming

"Snype Drumming", painting with light by Ron Greenaway. Inspired by the poem "Snype Hunting" by Rojan Zét

"Snype Drumming", painting with light by Ron Greenaway

Snype Hunting, a poem by Rojan Zét

Snype Hunting

Seldom seen, rarely heard, near Chemainus
there lives a bird said by the natives
to be nocturnal, very lovely when observed.
But sightings few and far between give
rise to rumours undeserved that the wily
Snype undocumented cannot be real, must
be invented.

So just for the record let me say, I
think I saw one yesterday. Out on the
marshes, between the reeds, not far from
where the heron feeds, a movement across
my vision blurred and I glanced where I
saw something stirring, a flash of red
and brown was whirring. Right before
my eyes this bird, not seen in any skies,
drumming strong and strumming long its
dance amid strange goings on.

And then it came to me - last summer,
near the ferns above the river - heard
one night while I was humming, this same
drumming, the self-same strumming. Now
displayed without disguise, this bird
before my very eyes, its plumes arrayed in
radiant glory telling me its untold story...

long ago in times of old those wings once
flew its glory - big, strong, and bold.
Gigantic flocks obscured the sun but now
it hides because it's sorry. Something
happened long ago but what it was, I
still don't know.

Bobbing its head as though in fright,
bowing and turning left then right, low
to the ground, its eyes downcast, tail
feathers tall, erect and trusty, bright
with colours looking somewhat rusty,
this dancing bird said something funny
while something else smelled, old and
musty.

Entranced I watched - mesmerized - and
in a moment, hypnotized. The next
second I awoke and thought I'd heard
a bird that spoke, but to this day
I can't recall if there was anything
it said at all. They think this bird
is mute and does not fly, more research
will be needed to discover why.

Rojan Zét

The Snipe

Turn up your speakers and click "Play".

Paul Fletcher, fotographer

Profile of an Artist

Artwork by Paul Fletcher

As a traveler I am always searching for the image. I thirst for this experience, the discovery of a new image, one that is etched in my memory the moment it is seen or the moment the shutter is pressed.

Sometimes I see something that is not quite there, a visual enticement that does not show itself fully. Sometimes I have to search with my bare eye, or sometimes with my eye pressed tight to the viewfinder. Doesn’t matter, it’s all in the seeing. The sub-conscious guidance to the perfect visual end has to be trusted without physical intervention. This is when the magic happens and the inner voice whispers Now!, and I trip the shutter. There is nothing to review to confirm the certainty of success. It is already known.

Please share my joy at www.fletcherfoto.ca

Daniel Deschamps, multimedia

Profile of an Artist

Daniel Deschamps

Daniel Deschamps is native to New Caledonia, a South Pacific Island. In 1989, during a time of civil war, he and his family immigrated to Canada.

Daniel is Metis; his multicultural heritage has gifted him with a unique cultural and religious upbringing. This is reflected in his art which displays a rich layer of tradition. His work is inspired from his roots, contemporary life and from history. His love of God is often reflected in his work.

Oracion, artwork by Daniel Deschamps

Daniel is a talented and prolific artist. Ranging from illustration to stone work and pottery, Daniel has an obsession for art. He will re-purpose many found objects to satisfy this need. At times, he will paint on cardboard, sculpt in foam, or draw on his arm simply to satisfy this obsession.

His thinking is that function precedes form and so, form can be transformed to suit a new function. For example, he once converted an old bed frame into three easels for his studio.

Daniel recently won an Award of Merit for a pen and ink illustration titled "Oracion" in the Cowichan Valley's 2010 SASS-e Spring Art Show Sale and Extravaganza.

Manuel Erickson, writer

Profile of an Artist

Manuel Erickson photo by Brian Dickinson

Writing, I think, is much like photography, painting, sculpture or music: the subject matter is infinite, the meanings, profound – all because of the intricacies and myriad forms of life on our planet. My talent, such as it is, is pretty much confined to writing, though I love to photograph the nearby woods and to play my piano. Painting and sculpture? I can’t do either, but I can certainly appreciate good works.

As with all forms of art, writing helps to reveal our spirit and emotions to others. I admire writers who succeed so well at this and I try to learn from them. Shakespeare comes to mind, as do Margaret Atwood, Richard Bach, Jared Diamond, Arthur C. Clark and a host of others. They write in the gigantic book that is the Earth. They are my mentors and I am inspired by them.

There is something to learn from each book I read, whether it’s an autobiography, novel, or non-fiction. I’ve learned that detail makes a piece of writing come alive on the page because it draws the reader into the words. Detail is akin to a multi-coloured painting or a complex composition by Bach or Beethoven: it holds our interest.

At the same time, simplicity, the antithesis of detail, can be emotionally explosive, especially black-and-white photographs of people or landscapes hung over by rain clouds. So, too, can a colour photograph of a single, tiny, five-petal flower, mesmerizing the viewer with its beauty.

Where does a writer get ideas? That’s the common question. The answer is – from Everywhere; from Anywhere; from inside oneself; from conflict among humans or in Nature; from situations; from newspaper articles; from bland descriptions that can flame into a story... Never has there been a single answer.

As does a good photographer, painter, sculptor or musician, with any piece of writing I am trying to tell a story in the best way I can. Yet it is often a mere snapshot in time, catching a momentary situation on a certain day or in a particular year or over several years or decades. I think my steam train stories, published in the anthology, Through the Window of a Train, are like that.

Subject matter is infinite and I wish the days were longer, my energy unlimited, and my writing ability, too! There is so much to say.

~ Manuel Erickson


Moderator's note: Manuel Erickson is a contributing author to the Cowichan Valley Arts Café. Find a list of his here.

Manuel Erickson publishes steam train stories

Cowichan Valley writer and Arts Café contributor, Manuel Erickson, has written 5 stories in a just-published anthology about trains.

photo by Russ Watson

"Through the Window of a Train: A Canadian Railway Anthology" contains stories and poems by thirty authors who love trains and what they stand for.

"This journey begins in Craigellachie, amongst the verdant mountains of British Columbia, where the famous last spike was driven home. The reader is then transported to Vancouver Island and across the Prairies to Nova Scotia, and from the era of steam to diesel-electric trains. Relive hilarious, hazardous, and historical moments as you peek through the window of a train and into the past. Meet gandy dancers, a rookie running out of steam, lost immigrants, and women entering the male-dominated world of the railway. Experience asbestos snowball fights, boxcar classrooms, and silk trains as they blur by your window."

For more information and to purchase the book visit The Borealis Book Publishers website.



Moderator's note: Manuel Erickson is a contributing author to the Cowichan Valley Arts Café. Read his "Profile of an Artist" or find a list of his contributions and a link to his personal website here through which you can contact him directly.

Vancouver Island summer is here!

"Kyle", photography by Julie Nygaard

"Kyle", artwork by Julie Nygaard, 2007

Courtesy of By Brush And Pen, August, 2007

Password, by Rojan Zét

Password

The presentation that evening leaves me cold but standing at the door you return alone for a moment with eye contact and I ask, "What's the password?" The reply directed to me is, "Love!" accompanied by the warmest, most genuine, and spontaneous smile I've received in a long time. How deeply this reached into my heart leaving an immediate sense of joy and rejuvenation, and new understanding of life. Without thinking I replied, "You've got it!" discerning almost immediately that communication had occurred, a door opened and access granted without even knowing the right question or the correct answer.

Known or not, the pass-word concept correctly used responds with invitation; it represents inclusive attitude of congruence and agreement in principle between parties, allowing entry to relationship and signalling a level of potential trust. Even an action such as gently removing a spider and placing it outdoors can be a "pass-word" creating such an opening. Often we find the concept of password misused for screening, exclusion, and for identification purposes. Correct understanding and recognition of passwords represents more than just a key or ticket, it is the main show itself. It signifies not a secret code, but an attitude of shared values.

Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island magic

It's my 31st wedding anniversary and it's a beautiful day. The sun is shining and the sprinklers are on in Hoey Memorial Park in downtown Duncan, the "City of Totems" in the heart of the Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island.

The grass looks extra green, a city works crew is planting flowers and the air is filled with a sunny disposition. I'm feeling good and I'm ready for storytelling.

Photo by Ron Greenaway Carving by Harvey Alphonse and Nelson Canute © City of Duncan

I'm wandering around Duncan's original train station where my "Totem Pole Tours" sign is at the corner. I'm watching the daily island commuter train arrive. Leaving from Victoria in the morning, this train passes through Duncan on its way up island to Courtney and again on its way back to Victoria in the afternoon. It's 9:35 in the morning, and everything in my world seems pretty much on schedule.

Down the tracks, I can see red lights flashing and hear the clanging at the crossing. Blasts from its air horn announce the arrival. A train has stopped daily at this location since a farmer named Thomas Duncans allowed the railway to put this passenger stop on his property in 1886. The train commanded attention even within the buzz of cars and people on this particularly busy Monday morning at the corner of Station and Canada streets.

While this old passenger train comes to a rest, the conductor confidently hops off and places a small platform on the ground to assist people getting off and on.

A few people get off and I see a couple walk over to admire a totem pole I know to commemorate marriage.

I walked over and introduced myself as the City of Duncan's Totem Tour Guide. They were a married couple from Oklahoma, undertaking travels to celebrate, as I was told, 43 years of marriage today.

As we chatted, the gentleman disclosed he had had cancer but after treatment was recently declared "free" of the disease. "This is another reason we're celebrating", he said. He appeared in good health and I spontaneously said so.

I tell them, "The totem pole you're looking at is a pole that celebrates marriage. It was carved by Harvey Alphonse who was Chief of the local Cowichan people".

I point out the two eagles, one above the other, and the fact that eagles mate for life. "That's why two eagles were chosen for this pole. First Nations people believe marriage is a sacred and eternal union. The eagle at the top has wings wrapped around a human and is protecting that person in a state of marriage and the eagle at the bottom is standing on and supporting the partner in that relationship. It teaches spiritual values of marriage ", I said.

Well.... both the lady and the gentleman turned and faced one another. He looked at her, put his arm around her, she smiled at him, they kissed, smiled into one another's face and then looked back at me. I saw their eyes sparkle. They asked me to take a photograph of them, arm in arm, by the marriage pole. They were so happy they glowed... in a special shared moment.

It seemed appropriate, at least to me, that I share with them that "today is my 31st wedding anniversary". They broadly smiled and shook my hand and insisted on taking a picture of me by the marriage pole!

By 9:55 am, I've said goodbye to my visitors from Oklahoma, the train has pulled away and a magical shared moment had left me feeling spiritually connected.

...and... ready to tell another story.

Self Love Introduction

Turn up your speakers and click "Play".

Neil Fatin, photographer

Profile of an Artist

What I enjoy most about photography is the endless supply of subject matter and the ability to capture special moments that offer themselves to anyone living on this planet.

"Infeliz Nina" by Neil Fatin

We live in a truly remarkable world and if you know where to look, or stumble on a unique situation, you can use the camera to share those moments with others.

I continue to be inspired by the work of other photographers and what their eyes see. In addition, I always remain awed by what artists also interpret from the larger canvas of life and nature. Overlaying all of this are the subtleties of lighting throughout the course of the day, the weather and the seasons and the huge impact they have on the subject matter on offer.

The composition of the picture comes from the subject matter itself, there are aspects to a scene that just look right to the observer and over time one attunes themselves to this. There almost always seems to be a better way to present what one sees and sometimes this comes from a keen interest in what other photographers do.

So what do I interpret the term photographic art to mean? Having obtained the image, is there a better way to present it and overlay one's interpretation of the image that hit the negative or the sensor in the camera. Just as an artist will provide his or her interpretation of the image they have seen in reality or in their mind, the photographer can do this with processing as much as the artist uses mixes of colours and interpretive brush strokes to provide a final image.

At the end of it all, what I am trying to achieve is an image that I find interesting, will tell a story and will be captivating enough for others to take notice and enjoy. That is, to move from being self indulgent in ones work and hope the image is received by others with enjoyment or any other reaction other than a reaction of indifference. If the latter is the response, then I consider it a failure. Therefore, in essence the term photographic art to me means, using photography to obtain a reaction from the viewer. The snap shot is just that; it is a shot of something in front of the camera without the story telling, i.e.. a photocopy of what was in front of the lens.

One of my regrets is that I did not have the time during my working life to engage in photography in a more serious way.

There are countless possibilities with modern technology and the learning curve can be quite daunting, but as daunting as it is, it is also challenging and rewarding. It is one of the meanings of life...

~ Neil Fatin


Other artwork shared by Neil in the Cowichan Valley Arts Café includes:

• Chemainus Railway
• Walk in my Shoes

Learn more about Neil Fatin visit www.neilfatinphotoart.com

Karen Nelson, painter

Profile of an Artist

Karen discovered her artistic talents while doodling on her cast after she broke her ankle horseback riding in 2002. Her favourite mediums are watercolour and acrylic, used to create heart-warming pieces of imagery.

artwork by Karen Nelson

Karen appreciates the peaceful nature of Vancouver Island and it's abundance of birds and flowers. Viewers benefit from the healing properties of her artwork. Her talent is divinely guided and she appreciates the opportunity to channel the spirit world as she paints her visions into compositions. She continues to develop her style and technique by attending a variety of workshops. Gardening is also a source of great enjoyment for Karen.

Karen was born in the city of Calgary amidst the prairies of Alberta. Her background as a Registered Nurse and Healing Touch Practitioner have contributed to her spirituality and understanding of mankind.

Karen Nelson is known for her original paintings on the book covers of "Messages of Hope and Healing" and "Make It Happen! Use Your Intuition and Positive Spirals".

Halo Creations
Spiritual Art
(250) 710-0276
Mill Bay, B.C.
Email: karenshalo@hotmail.com
Website: www.karennelson.org

Vic Nadurak, glass artist

Profile of an Artist

SEAFIREGLASSWORKS is located on Vancouver island. This ocean side studio is located mid island in the town of Ladysmith.

artwork by Vic Nadurak

Vic Nadurak is a retired shop teacher and the artist behind Seafireglassworks.

"I love working with glass. Sometimes you follow the glass serpent, other times you take it by the tail and drag, push pull it to conform to your rules. Such a journey, following your imagination, into the glass universe."

Vic's artwork can be found at Imagine that! in Duncan, on Vancouver Island... an artisans co-operative.

Workshops are offered.

All glass products are made on site, with colours from Northstar glass, Momkas, Glass Alchemy, and Tag glass.

For more information visit Seafireglassworks.

Cowichan, a poem by Rojan Zét

Cowichan

By the bridge below Tzouhalem,
where the native lore is learned,
a cart track leads past edges burned,
through farmer's gate, the bolt returned. 

An eagle flies above unseen while
twitter in the trees and green of
scrub and brush this afternoon
gives song to sun with me. 

The butter church stands high above
abandoned like forgotten love; behind
a vagrant hedge the river swishes
rolling stones forever down to
unknown edge or destiny  -
into mud or deeper sea. 

Turn away just at a bend,
go down where this path comes to end
and reach this river's bed, see how
mud traces cover fields of stones
left lying here for now. 

I reach the edge of where this body
flowing steady, always ready for
what lies there in its path, takes
away the aftermath of drunken
parties, burning fires, and
detritus of old desires. 

Quiet now, I stand in worship,
solitary in my purpose, slowly
take off all my clothes and
enter there where no one knows. 

Sun above and Earth below, I
dip my head, bring myself low,
immerse this body, fully sink
and rise again. 

Running by and flowing over,
caress me here my only lover;
my cold nakedness and yours
is warmed in sunshine at your shores. 

Risen: left behind one life. 
Witnessed: left behind all strife.

Though memory still remains of dog,
long lost homes, miscreant wife,
wash old away, bring new life risen -
with a Cowichan baptism.

Rojan Zét

Baptism

"Baptism" digital imaging by Ron Greenaway inspired by the poem "Cowichan" written by Rojan Zét.

Clare Carver - silk painter

Profile of an Artist

I took a water colour painting class with my son when he was in middle school. We both love this medium and continued in the class for a couple of years. Ben moved on to art high school and I continued painting for fun, when I had the time.

In 2004, I quit my work as a clinical counsellor in Ottawa and moved to Vancouver Island to start a different life. I took art classes at the then Malaspina College and learned how to draw. I experimented with charcoal (lovely) and chalk pastel (gruesome) and then went back to watercolour. It's sometimes hard to go back to something when you have tried other things, and I found that I wasn't as excited or motivated as previously In spring 2008 I went on holiday to Bali and, while there, took a course on batik with a water colour artist......I was hooked!

When I got back to Canada, I started by using the traditional batik method. I melted wax and, with a tjanting tool, I drew my picture. My mum, years before, had sent me silk paints and, as I discovered when I eventually found it, yards of silk. Since then, after much research and frustration at the few places that deal with silk painting supplies, I moved on to a water based resist (instead of wax) and then to silk dyes which, although more work, in that they have to be steam set, are more vibrant than the paints and longer lasting.

artwork by Clare Carver

I am enjoying finding new things to paint in silk. At present, I am painting cushions, wall hangings, scarves, purses. ties and moving to painting shawls and sarongs. I am a member of the Visions Art Tour and their Cowichan Valley Art Trail. My cushions are being sold at Imagine That Artisans’ Designs in Duncan, where I am a member, Lobelia's Lair in Nanaimo and the South Shore Gallery in Sooke.

My studio is located in Cowichan Bay at 1840 Koksilah Rd, phone 250 597 4506.

Visit my website at www.pillotalk.ca

Money DOES grow on trees....by Julie Nygaard

Spring Blossoms, 2008
artwork by Julie Nygaard

Well, this morning I had my daughter remind me that "money does grow on trees..."
The conversation was started by my son who constantly is in the "want" mode - I have tried to explain to him that we all have "wants" though we have to deal with "needs" first....basic, everyday stuff - bills, food, etc.....I tried to explain to him that money does not grow on trees and that it is good to "want" things (Lego, games, etc..) and if he saves his allowance and does his chores his "wants" will be reality. My daughter was very quick on telling me in her biggest voice - "Mommy, paper is from trees...so, money is from trees...there are alot of trees right Mommy?" - now, this was a "lets put my foot in my mouth moment"...how was I suppose to answer back to my 6 year old? I did tell her that she was right......I guess money does grow on trees, we just have to find one!

~ Julie Nygaard

The Invasion Has Begun - A Vignette

© 2003, 2005 Manuel Erickson

It was Monday, June the fifth, nineteen forty-four.

In the living room of our Lauder Avenue home in Toronto, my six-year-old brother, David, and I played a game of war. Small model soldiers, tanks and aeroplanes substituted for our version of World War Two. Mom and Dad were out for the evening, leaving Wilf, our fourteen-year-old brother, in charge. Taking a break from his homework, Wilf came in and said, "Time for bed, David." Being older, I was allowed another hour. Then I went to bed and slept almost instantly.

The upstairs hall light created a beacon through the crack of the slightly open door, nudging me awake. I heard someone climbing the stairs. The door opened to the room David and I shared and Mom entered. She sat on my bed and touched my shoulder. I turned onto my back, lifted my lids and smiled at her.

"The radio said the invasion of Normandy has begun," she whispered.

"Then will the war be over, soon?" I asked.

"Yes, soon." She said the last word with a choke.

"That's good, Mom," I said, yawning. "I'm glad." I sat up and hugged her. The scent of her perfume lingered a moment, and I smiled as I breathed in its sweetness.

She squeezed my shoulder. I thought she dabbed at something in her eye as she left the room. She went downstairs and put out the hall light from there, and I fell asleep.

It was just after midnight, Tuesday, June the sixth.

Both Mom and Dad knew I had been following the see-saw progress of the world conflict in the Toronto Daily Star. At only nine years of age, I could read the maps and knew what had been happening overseas, especially to the Jews. I knew about the German dictatorship and about the concentration camps and the crematoria. I understood that if the Nazis won, all the world's Jews, including our family, would be murdered.

It's hard to speculate - more than sixty years later - about why she woke me with this news. My guess is that Mom knew that I knew Hitler had to be defeated.

- Approx. 355 words

A Place for Deer, by Susan Christensen

The arid, parched soil clings to life;
No laughing breezes tickle its humour;
Few misty, moisty morns refresh its growth--
Just a dried out soul praying for relief
Withering from lack of attention.

The thunder clouds roll in
Lightening the dark with lightning energy
Meeting no resistance as its shards of pain
Ignite the tinder left unattended--
Seemingly waiting for the conflagration.

Fire storm.
Panic and pain.
No place to hide, to escape the heat;
The blistering invader lays waste to all
Stripping every superfluous speck of chi
From a once supportive life-force.

So cruel. Such devastation!
Such broken symbiotic connections.
Gone forever is the illusion of security and content.
The blackened stillness,
So stark in its soot and ash;
All life forced out,
The soil rests under its cauterized surface.

Pandora’s hope springs eternal!
Six months later
With delicate green tendrils peeking forth,
Life,
different, but life it is,
Makes a resurgence.
The soul of the forest is reborn.
This time -- with a place for deer.

By Susan Christensen
(Musings on recovery after trauma, both personal & environmental.)

Paradise in Canada

"From the Valley" by James D Clement

The Cowichan Valley: A uniquely beautiful part of the world, with its untainted nature reserves, its crystal winter snowfalls, its glorious collection of totem poles, and its trips through time by steam train. Within this collection of Canadian poetry, you will discover what a majestic valley it is. Author J.D. Clement, with his deep, meaningful verse and his beautiful imagery, takes you on a journey through this part of British Columbia and everything it stands for.

Turn up your speakers and click "Play".

Available at www.lulu.com

"City of Totems" and Copyright Act

On August 15, 2007 the Cowichan Valley Citizen published a newspaper article entitled "Duncan introduces totem toll".

It reported that a new City of Duncan Totem Copyright Policy stated the City "holds the copyright policy on the totem collection," and that "the use of the totem images in any form requires approval from the City of Duncan," and "Furthermore, the City of Duncan reserves the right to levy a copyright charge on a project by project basis."

I believe in the protection of copyright but I also believe in defending my personal rights and freedoms. As outlined in the Canada Copyright Act, and noted below, it is not against the law to photograph public art nor is permission required to take photographs.



Canada Copyright Act

Permitted acts

32.2 (1) It is not an infringement of copyright

(a) for an author of an artistic work who is not the owner of the copyright in the work to use any mould, cast, sketch, plan, model or study made by the author for the purpose of the work, if the author does not thereby repeat or imitate the main design of the work;

(b) for any person to reproduce, in a painting, drawing, engraving, photograph or cinematographic work

(i) an architectural work, provided the copy is not in the nature of an architectural drawing or plan, or

(ii) a sculpture or work of artistic craftsmanship or a cast or model of a sculpture or work of artistic craftsmanship, that is permanently situated in a public place or building;

---

This website contains digital collages that include photographs of totems. In all cases the carvers of these totems are identified along with the respective image at the time of posting. None of these images are offered for sale and they serve only to promote all artists and the Cowichan Valley.

In an article titled "Copyright law offers poor protection for aboriginal cultural property" David Spratley reported about the City of Duncan's claim to copyright in The Lawyers Weekly. He wrote "This policy is most likely unenforceable from a copyright perspective, but it highlights the disconnect between Canadian copyright law and aboriginal culture." Read more... .

Read something more about this at "Do you have a permit to take that photo?".