Sweet Sorrow

"Sweet Sorrow", painting with light by Ron Greenaway. Inspired by the poem "Gone" by Rojan Zét.

Sweet Sorrow

Digital painting by Ron Greenaway

Vancouver Island inspiration

If I hadn't learned to sing, I might never have aspired to improve my ability to express myself in writing.

When I was a young teenager, you couldn't get me to sing at any of our big family gatherings, not even carols at Christmas time. People tried, especially my dad, but I didn't want to be embarrassed. I couldn't hold a tune if my life depended on it and I knew my "embarrassment" would kill me.

Over some years I learned to play guitar and to sing along. Now I play and sing for friends, family and strangers whenever I get a chance, and they tell me I'm pretty good!

It came to me later in life that a person has to sing to learn to sing. And I'm glad I did because singing makes me feel good! By living in the moment, by being brave and exploring my relationship with the world through music and song, I get satisfaction..."if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need".

I always thought of myself as being 'a pretty good writer', although I suspect I may have occasionally misinterpreted my enjoyment of writing as evidence of being "good" at it. My girlfriend's overwhelming ambivalence to my early poetic indulgences spoke volumes. My guess is that, as with singing, creative writing improves over time, and the rewards from engaging in the process are intensely personal.

As a teenager I wrote poetry... all very philosophical and painfully romantic. Later, I wrote mostly about academic, technical and corporate matters... creative, but definitely not romantic.

Whenever I write, I choose my words carefully and strangely enjoy editing and revising the written word. It is a creative process wherein the more engaged I am, the more satisfaction and enjoyment I experience. This is the same as with singing, so I know what I have to do.

Landing In Paradise
digital painting by Ron Greenaway

I write about my experience of where I live. They are brave literary attempts to capture impressionistic moments in time. Short vignettes that are fun to write, and take risks. Although, to be sure, I am not as easily embarrassed as I once was.

The Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island is picturesque at every turn of the road, and a safe and beautiful place to wander year round. The Valley has the greatest concentration of people who describe themselves as being "artists" in all of Canada and the local arts community plays a big part in my life. It is, on average, the warmest place in all of Canada. It didn't snow here in Duncan last winter and for a guy from Winnipeg that's like a miracle.

I live in one of the best places in the world. It is an island paradise.

Ron Greenaway

Barbara Sobon, designer

Profile of an Artist

Whether your retail store needs a new display or a room in your home needs a full makeover, consider SobonDECOR for…

• Colour consulting, decorating with flair, space planning with balance in mind, clearing clutter using Feng Shui principles, lighting, display, art consultation, staging homes for sale, project consulting - from the drywall stage to finishing touches.

As a design consultant, Barbara Sobon brings a playful attitude to projects and possesses a gift for creative colour and space design solutions, pulling together projects to find a unique expression of style for each, individual client.

Create artful living spaces that perfectly reflect your personality and compliment your lifestyle.

From weddings, fundraisers, art openings and workshops to special birthday celebrations, Barbara brings the gift of artful space design and a practical sense of organization to every project.

Barbara's art media are flower arranging, specifically Ikebana, paper making and clay hand-building. She creates these pieces using her own papers and mostly natural and recycled materials.

With a BFA from Emily Carr Institute of Art & Design and a lifelong passion for the creative arts, Barbara shares her talents with many clients, friends and students of all ages – teaching, creating artwork and designing spaces that are balanced, beautiful and functional.

For more information visit www.sobondecor.ca

Gone, poetry by Rojan Zét

Once again supper's done,
easy to do if just for one, I
did it well but who could tell -
no one here to eat with me, just
four walls for company. What does
it matter, the food was good, corn
on the cob, steak, two baked spuds,
greens from here and there out of
my garden, from Saturday's fair.
Peppers red and onions white,
food for the soul my heart's
delight, and with it last year's
blackberry wine. The fresh baked
pie went down just fine and
coffee too better not forget,
real whipped cream to keep it
wet, imagine you sitting right
there, across from me in your
own chair. Now that I'm fed,
the cold ice cream out of my
fridge gets me wondering, what
was it, something I said?

Rojan Zét

Suzan Kostiuck, multimedia

Profile of an Artist

The idea of being an artist has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I’ve always enjoyed the process of working with my hands, whether it be painting, drawing, coloring, or building, Growing up in northern BC in a very remote area and having the opportunities to live throughout Western Canada has given me a wide range of ideas and perspectives to develop.

I used wax crayons as a young child, pencil crayons in elementary school. Ink doodle creations on the edges of pages in high school. And then college was a blur of mobiles, computer programs, illustration board, conté and charcoal. University was slightly more conceptual and allowed a freedom of thinking. The use of these different mediums are simply tools for me to get my ideas into existence. But throughout my life, I’ve always had the box of crayons somewhere around to play with.

Today, I work mainly with photography and acrylic painting. They are the tools that fit my lifestyle right now. Acrylic paint dries easily and cleans up fast. A camera can be toted around and I can use it to either create or capture an idea. Life is full with art, two children, a flexible husband, and work. Like many mothers, I found that the stages of family life are precious and I use my camera to help remember those stages, which is the main reason I’ve decided to work with maternity and family photography.

Painting allows me to simply enjoy the process of painting as itself. My days are very full right now, so at night I can relax, pick up a brush, and enjoy the fluidity that emerges. Recent paintings reflect this idea of movement and flow, usually interrupted with spots of concise forms. I use colors that tend to be calming or warm, with flashes of energy here and there to add some fun. Because, ultimately, my art does reflect my life.

Suzan can be reached through her site, www.blackenwhite.net, or can be visited at the CVAC office a few days per week.

Clouds

"Clouds", painting with light by Ron Greenaway. Inspired by the poem "Clouds" by Rojan Zét

Clouds, poetry by Rojan Zét

Looking out from Earth today I saw
two clouds like heads facing each other,
easy to miss, gazing, almost touching,
perhaps approaching for a kiss.

I watched and as I looked saw slight
movement toward each other, yes, eye
to eye, nose to nose, lips to lips,
and then they touched.

Carefully I tried to see myself and
you caught in that clasp, right there
for anyone to see and then as though
embarrassed, they merged to white
and turned away.

Now, looking up from Earth where
once were clouds, I see the sky is
blue but still I think of you and
wonder what's become of me.

Rojan Zét

In the Sky, photography by Julie Nygaard

In the Sky

Photograph by Julie Nygaard, 2007

Carolyn McDonald, painter

Profile of an Artist

Carolyn McDonald grew up in a small town in the countryside of Jamaica. As a child she loved to paint and draw, and has always delighted in the vibrant colours, varied textures and rhythms of the tropics.

She obtained her B.A in Fine Art and teaching certificate in Ontario, Canada. On returning to Jamaica to teach and paint, she had several exhibitions, and was influenced by the rich artistic traditions on the island.

Carolyn then moved back to Canada, making her home in British Columbia where she has continued to teach and paint. Her art is often inspired by her travels and also by the play of light that transforms everyday scenes and landscapes into special and imaginative interpretations.

Her paintings invite the viewer to fill in the stories of special places that may seem familiar and yet hold a sense of mystery. Her work is distinctive for its bold use of colour, simple shapes and movement.

Carolyn has exhibited in B.C, Jamaica and Puerto Rico. She has given workshops on teaching art to children, and with Art Starts, she works as an artist in the schools. She taught art at high school, college level, and in her studio.

Carolyn now lives at Cherry Point with her husband, has retired from teaching, and is able to devote more time to her art.


Artist's Statement:

"There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain"
~ John Lennon and Paul McCartney

It is the feeling I get when I am in a place that makes me want to paint. This emotional response is what starts me on a painting and is what I want to interpret. As a result, I often stray far from the original idea, the painting takes over, colours, shapes and rhythms assert themselves. I love to play, experiment and change things and so my paintings do not always follow the same rules. I allow myself this freedom, and yet in the end certain aspects of my style seem to come through—I don’t really know how.

Places that inspire me have something to do with people—that have gone before or in the present. The connection that people have to the place is something that I want to convey—either with a figure, an object, a house, a road……and, yes I do love roads and paths that will take us to that place.

I do believe that a work of art must be unique - not only or necessarily, decorative, and I work towards that.

Ferris

Creaking groaning
yielding to cry of
desire riding in
buckets suspended
by structure bearing
echoes and voices
the knock and clang
of machinery below
this girdered silence
this construction of
frames and paint held
by rivets and bolts
rusty with trail of
some spoor unfixed in
time yet referent to
an upward climb with
echoing voices the
knocking and clanging
until distant from
scratched earth this
constructed silence
thrusts toward open
sky the surety of
ground.

Rojan Zét

Canopy Curses, by Manuel Erickson

© 2010 Manuel Erickson

"IF THERE’S ONE THING I HATE about flyin'," grunted the old man, "it’s puttin' that bloody canopy on at the end o’ the day! I mean, well, jus' look at that thing. See how it's put t'gether? The thing's got flaps stickin' out all over the place. Who the sam hill's got time fer such a piece o' junk?"

The old pilot stood about five feet eight inches. Thin-bodied, his face showed every wrinkle when he was angry, as he was now. A dark, greasy, battered baseball cap sat on his head, thick white hair trying to find daylight around its rim. It melded into his white beard, which almost covered the entire face and seemed to flow down his cheeks, stopping at a round point an inch or two below his chin. With his tongue he continuously moistened the bushy, overgrown mustache, which hid his upper lip. He wasn’t bothered by his luxuriant, still black eyebrows that grew both up and down in front of his eyes.

His clothes matched his cap. Here and there a tear showed in a sleeve. His jacket's frayed cuffs and spotted front indicated a lack of laundering since he'd bought it. A casual observer would have said the same about his pants and shoes.

It could be said that this man dressed shabbily; however, he had received many compliments on his flying. "A smooth flier,” said some; “He lands his plane beautifully,” said others. "He keeps it very clean, inside and out." He was often hard on himself, not able to accept compliments easily: he would hang his head and not look a person in the eye.

Suddenly he tore the uncooperative canopy from his plane, rolled it up into a ball, opened the pilot's door and threw it into the back. He slammed the door, the sound echoing off the nearby hangar walls.

Now, that's no way to treat an aeroplane, you mad jackass, a voice said.

The old man jumped back, looked around, his eyes wide with fear.

You apologize to this beautiful aeroplane, said the voice. After all, it just brought you home, safe and sound. You should be grateful.

The old pilot felt himself calming down. "Yer right," he said with an embarrassed softness so no one might hear. His breathing had slowed. A thought occurred to him.

"Y'know what I think?" he mumbled. "This bloody canopy oughta be re-designed. It shoulda been made in three parts, not one. The first part should cover the topa the plane; then the side flaps shoulda been designed so's they can be zippered at both ends, not jus' at the front, right here." As if he were showing someone, he pointed to the front and rear of the windows that the side flaps would cover. "Then there'da been no trouble atall, atall. See?"

That, dear friends, is exactly what happened. The crusty old fool took the canopy to an upholsterer who gladly sewed an extra zipper into each of the side flaps.

The old guy tried it out and, over time, grew to love the canopy.

"Why didn't I thinka that before?" he asked himself, removing his cap and scratching his head. "Can't do withoutcha, now!"

Note: Any resemblance between the "crusty old fool" and the writer is purely coincidental.
-- M.E.



No it is not ;-) L.R.


Courtesy of Manuel Erickson

Peter Spohn, painter

Profile of a Cowichan Valley Artist

"The paintings of Peter Spohn are works of thoughtful and beautiful design. They show the hand of a skilled draftsman and are finely composed, but mostly they convey a delight in light and a keen interest in place." Rick Cepella (Canadian landscape artist)

Born in Vancouver, Peter Spohn received his formal art education at the Banff Center of Fine Arts and at U.B.C. Later he received a B.F.A. with honours from Haverford College, Pa. and an in 1976 a M.F.A. from the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, N.Y. He spent twelve years studying and teaching art in New York and Pennsylvania where he could be close to the great art museums and fully absorb the tradition of western painting.

Peter returned to Vancouver in 1985 where he was married and had children. For twelve years he taught children at the Sunrise Waldorf School in Duncan, B.C. In 2003 he retired from teaching to return to painting fulltime. He now lives and paints in British Columbia, the U.S.A. and Mexico.

Peter's work is held in private and corporate collections locally and internationally. He has exhibited in commercial and public galleries and had many open studio and home shows. Currently most of his work is purchased directly from his home gallery, Sacred Mountain Studio in Duncan, B.C.

To contact Peter or make an appointment to visit his studio call (250) 746-4130.

You may visit his website: sacredmountainstudio.ca

Scar, a poem by Rojan Zét

A sharp knife, my strong hand, your name cut
into a tree on this land marks that moment,
all those years, one moment in time, when my
heart was yours and I thought you were mine.
Seven years later our bridges are burned, this
tree has grown bigger and when I returned put
my hand out to figure those letters I carved
but this bark still growing had covered your
name and nothing is showing not even a letter,
the trail of a line, but I knowing better feel
a knot in my gut and my bark that now covers
the scar from your cut.

Rojan Zét

Vancouver Island Totems

Dzonoqua, Wild Woman of the Woods
Painting with light by Ron Greenaway
Carving by Oscar Matilpi
© City of Duncan

Clipped Wings, by Susan Christensen

I'm gunna be Superman.
I can fly!

I gots to be King of the Castle
'Cause I’m the best!

They'll choose me for Captain, Mom.
They just will, you'll see!

I plan to be a Doctor, Sir.
I'm already saving my money.

They made me Supervisor, yesterday.
That's a start, I guess.

I've got a new computer game.
I get so into it, I even dream about it.


by Susan Christensen

Formation, a poem by Rojan Zét

Summer milkweed fluffs
lift off - the sharp tearing
wrench, delicious pain -
dandelion puffs afloat on
a breeze merciless in its
wooing... or does the flower
just give up, persuaded to
yield, and release the seed
to rise, to separate, leaving
a stem stark against the sunshine
drying slowly into Winter's
outstretched claws?

Rojan Zét

CVAC

Visit the new Cowichan Valley Arts Council website

Sponsored by Ron Greenaway

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.