A community of artists living and working on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada
Friday, March 2, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
To Be
Everything you see here
has a meaning and a purpose,
nothing is wasted, not one
thing is irrelevant.
Ask me what it means -
you are a visitor and
I am the God (not only)
of this Earth. I will
tell you, I will explain
what it means to sit in
this world and experience
my creation if only you
will look and listen,
watch and wait.
Open your mind, try
to understand this
meaning, how I see,
what I am. Here.
In some worlds, I am
a bad boy, but now,
listen to me and pay
attention to what
I'm showing you.
Learn to receive the
gift you're given -
life and consciousness.
What you will do with
this is yours; what's
in your brain is in
the universe.
Can you see it?
Now live, and if
you are any good,
learn to live well.
This and this alone,
pleases me.
Rojan Zét
has a meaning and a purpose,
nothing is wasted, not one
thing is irrelevant.
Ask me what it means -
you are a visitor and
I am the God (not only)
of this Earth. I will
tell you, I will explain
what it means to sit in
this world and experience
my creation if only you
will look and listen,
watch and wait.
Open your mind, try
to understand this
meaning, how I see,
what I am. Here.
In some worlds, I am
a bad boy, but now,
listen to me and pay
attention to what
I'm showing you.
Learn to receive the
gift you're given -
life and consciousness.
What you will do with
this is yours; what's
in your brain is in
the universe.
Can you see it?
Now live, and if
you are any good,
learn to live well.
This and this alone,
pleases me.
Rojan Zét
Friday, February 24, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The Innocent
© Manuel Erickson
"HERE," SAID ARCHIBALD, GIVING ME A FROZEN BURRITO. "You deal with it." He stomped off into the bush somewhere, his boots breaking dry twigs.
"It" was a slug-like animal and it was beautiful. It was about six inches long with four short and slender legs, each ending in four toe-like appendages. It had a narrow slit for a mouth and the beginnings of lips. Its eyes were in the front of its face and they had no lids. Its body was plump, fleshy—a lovely mix of black, green and red spots and stripes on a matte yellow. There were no ears that I could see. Its back end tapered gracefully to a blunt point.
I sat on the ground beside it.
The animal's head moved slightly from side to side, then up and down, as if it were saying “no,” then “yes.” The movement repeated a number of times.
I knew that Archibald expected me to be done by the time he returned.
I picked up the burrito and held it in my right hand between my thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t comfortable, so I moved my hand to another corner. The fourth corner was easier to hold.
The animal started to move forward. I raised my arm and brought the sharp edge of the stiff burrito down onto the head of the animal. It looked at me as if to say, “You want my attention?” and continued forward.
I repeated the movement, harder, then harder and harder. At last I made an opening in the animal's skin that, for him (her?) was deep. Its blood was the same colour as my own: bright red.
The animal stopped and covered its face with its toes, spread out. I felt like a murderer.
Again and again I struck—again and again. Finally, the animal was dead still.
I fled before Archibald returned.
~ by Manuel Erickson
"HERE," SAID ARCHIBALD, GIVING ME A FROZEN BURRITO. "You deal with it." He stomped off into the bush somewhere, his boots breaking dry twigs.
"It" was a slug-like animal and it was beautiful. It was about six inches long with four short and slender legs, each ending in four toe-like appendages. It had a narrow slit for a mouth and the beginnings of lips. Its eyes were in the front of its face and they had no lids. Its body was plump, fleshy—a lovely mix of black, green and red spots and stripes on a matte yellow. There were no ears that I could see. Its back end tapered gracefully to a blunt point.
I sat on the ground beside it.
The animal's head moved slightly from side to side, then up and down, as if it were saying “no,” then “yes.” The movement repeated a number of times.
I knew that Archibald expected me to be done by the time he returned.
I picked up the burrito and held it in my right hand between my thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t comfortable, so I moved my hand to another corner. The fourth corner was easier to hold.
The animal started to move forward. I raised my arm and brought the sharp edge of the stiff burrito down onto the head of the animal. It looked at me as if to say, “You want my attention?” and continued forward.
I repeated the movement, harder, then harder and harder. At last I made an opening in the animal's skin that, for him (her?) was deep. Its blood was the same colour as my own: bright red.
The animal stopped and covered its face with its toes, spread out. I felt like a murderer.
Again and again I struck—again and again. Finally, the animal was dead still.
I fled before Archibald returned.
~ by Manuel Erickson
Friday, February 17, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Life Is Art In Cowichan Bay
Smooth-sanded and oiled,
this marine varnished morning,
the sea still as glass,
Cowichan Bay
reflects the encircling
enchantment of wooden boats,
hand polished and painted,
bright in the early sun.
Reflected mast and boom, cable,
hull, cabin and spar,
still upon the water,
shimmering, a retreating dream,
at once clear and remembered.
From my window
in a cheese and soup shop
on a pier built out over the water,
I see houses on floats
every plank, shutter, and painted planter,
window and wooden latice reflected
in the mirror.
Sea gulls pose
as porcelain angels,
statues of themselves,
on pilings rising from the water,
traditional, well tended
wooden boats, old retiring fishermen,
nuzzle wooden wharves, sleeping
each with his double.
~ by Charles Van Gorkom
this marine varnished morning,
the sea still as glass,
Cowichan Bay
reflects the encircling
enchantment of wooden boats,
hand polished and painted,
bright in the early sun.
Reflected mast and boom, cable,
hull, cabin and spar,
still upon the water,
shimmering, a retreating dream,
at once clear and remembered.
From my window
in a cheese and soup shop
on a pier built out over the water,
I see houses on floats
every plank, shutter, and painted planter,
window and wooden latice reflected
in the mirror.
Sea gulls pose
as porcelain angels,
statues of themselves,
on pilings rising from the water,
traditional, well tended
wooden boats, old retiring fishermen,
nuzzle wooden wharves, sleeping
each with his double.
~ by Charles Van Gorkom
Monday, February 13, 2012
A Vancouver Island Valentine
Raven love, mixed media by Ron Greenaway
We wish a day of love & peace for all from the Cowichan Valley Arts Café
Friday, February 3, 2012
Jane Wolters, Vancouver Island Potter
Profile of an Artist
Born in England, Jane has lived on Vancouver Island most of her life. She has been a professional potter for over 30 years, working mainly in stoneware and porcelain. She finds the tactile quality of clay and the act of throwing on the wheel irresistibly seductive. The vessel form appeals to her as the ultimate in abstraction; its parts are even named after the body: lip, neck, shoulder, belly, foot.
Although technically "self-taught", never having gone to art school, she did take wheel-throwing lessons in the beginning, and since then she’s been fortunate to have attended many valuable workshops with outstanding potters from all over the world, and has taken courses in various subjects including portrait sculpture.
About 10 years ago she began learning to paint in oils in an effort to find a creative outlet that was not so physically demanding. In the process she has learned a great deal of art theory, history, and design. Oil on canvas is currently her favourite painting medium; the sensuous feel of the paint coming off the brush onto the canvas, the way the paint smells, the look of the thick oil paint building up on the surface, all feel right.
"I feel incredibly lucky to be an artist. There are always new ideas, new paths to travel along, and there are never enough hours in the day to explore them."
Learn more about Jane Wolters at www.janewolters.com
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Although technically "self-taught", never having gone to art school, she did take wheel-throwing lessons in the beginning, and since then she’s been fortunate to have attended many valuable workshops with outstanding potters from all over the world, and has taken courses in various subjects including portrait sculpture.
About 10 years ago she began learning to paint in oils in an effort to find a creative outlet that was not so physically demanding. In the process she has learned a great deal of art theory, history, and design. Oil on canvas is currently her favourite painting medium; the sensuous feel of the paint coming off the brush onto the canvas, the way the paint smells, the look of the thick oil paint building up on the surface, all feel right.
"I feel incredibly lucky to be an artist. There are always new ideas, new paths to travel along, and there are never enough hours in the day to explore them."
Learn more about Jane Wolters at www.janewolters.com
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Margot Page Vancouver Island artist
Margot Page's beautiful enamelling on steel work comes in a wide variety of sizes, shapes, and custom designs.
You can see a wide variety of her work at the Imagine That! artisans' design shop in downtown Duncan, the City of Totems, on Vancouver Island.
You can see a wide variety of her work at the Imagine That! artisans' design shop in downtown Duncan, the City of Totems, on Vancouver Island.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
SEO AN T’AITE MU DHEIREADH The ultimate place (Gaelic)
you were the soft sad music tangled in the branches
quivering in the deep shade of alder and birch
beneath Ben Nevis
you were the sun slanting through clouds
spinning mist on the hills
steaming from the nets coiled by Loch Coruisk
you were the sharp scent of bog-myrtle
the silver shimmer of reeds in the marsh
the jewels of primrose and tormentil scattered through the meadow
the ridge is dark and desolate now
the burn a jagged scar slashed into granite
its cold life seeping into the peat
now you are gone
cattle are lowing in the glen
restive for the uncropped sweetness of the highlands
the herring fleet is hostage in the harbour
the savage ransom of the sea refused
now you are gone
there will be no respite of grain
there will be no satisfaction of salmon
the hearth is dank and grey
like thrift to the cliff face
I cling to the vision of your homecoming
grief foaming 'round fingers of rock
my spirit reckless as the gannets
plunging through sea spume
soaring over the headlands
~ by Yvonne MacKenzie
quivering in the deep shade of alder and birch
beneath Ben Nevis
you were the sun slanting through clouds
spinning mist on the hills
steaming from the nets coiled by Loch Coruisk
you were the sharp scent of bog-myrtle
the silver shimmer of reeds in the marsh
the jewels of primrose and tormentil scattered through the meadow
the ridge is dark and desolate now
the burn a jagged scar slashed into granite
its cold life seeping into the peat
now you are gone
cattle are lowing in the glen
restive for the uncropped sweetness of the highlands
the herring fleet is hostage in the harbour
the savage ransom of the sea refused
now you are gone
there will be no respite of grain
there will be no satisfaction of salmon
the hearth is dank and grey
like thrift to the cliff face
I cling to the vision of your homecoming
grief foaming 'round fingers of rock
my spirit reckless as the gannets
plunging through sea spume
soaring over the headlands
~ by Yvonne MacKenzie
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
The Westray Lament, by Manuel Erickson
© 1992 Manuel Erickson
To my parents, Nellie and Harry Erickson, and to coal miners everywhere
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do-
And twenty-six miners died.
Inside the Westray mine lies disaster,
Coal dust an'methane wait there t'blow;
Friends, brothers, husbands go down t'gether,
Fear grips their hearts when they're b'low.
One Friday night the miners descended
Into the coal mine two miles down:
They'd felt the last of sunshine's caresses,
They'd heard the last of love's sweet sounds.
Deep in the mine the coal gas is workin',
Hissin' an' sizzlin' inside the veins;
Men are destroyed where they stand a-workin'
Others are killed where they had lain.*
Twenty-six friends, brothers an' husbands
Lie in the Westray shattered an' torn;
Fifteen the draegermen haul to the surface,
Ten an' another stay unfound.
Inside the Westray mine lie eleven,
Quiet an' still like the darkness within;
Flood all the tunnels to make it safe! but
Eleven men ask: "What? Again?"
Now that the Westray mine is a-flooded,
No one can see the bad errors made;
Evidence gone an' no answers given-
Buried where eleven laid.
Twenty-six ghosts from inside the Westray
Say to the bosses who decide:
"You didn't listen to our warnin's,
Loved ones're alone now that we've died."
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do—
And twenty-six miners died.
* When working in a small space, it is sometimes necessary to lie down.
~ by Manuel Erickson
PS. Manuel has composed music for his ballad. To receive a copyrighted copy, please email him with your request at pilot80@shaw.ca
To my parents, Nellie and Harry Erickson, and to coal miners everywhere
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do-
And twenty-six miners died.
Inside the Westray mine lies disaster,
Coal dust an'methane wait there t'blow;
Friends, brothers, husbands go down t'gether,
Fear grips their hearts when they're b'low.
One Friday night the miners descended
Into the coal mine two miles down:
They'd felt the last of sunshine's caresses,
They'd heard the last of love's sweet sounds.
Deep in the mine the coal gas is workin',
Hissin' an' sizzlin' inside the veins;
Men are destroyed where they stand a-workin'
Others are killed where they had lain.*
Twenty-six friends, brothers an' husbands
Lie in the Westray shattered an' torn;
Fifteen the draegermen haul to the surface,
Ten an' another stay unfound.
Inside the Westray mine lie eleven,
Quiet an' still like the darkness within;
Flood all the tunnels to make it safe! but
Eleven men ask: "What? Again?"
Now that the Westray mine is a-flooded,
No one can see the bad errors made;
Evidence gone an' no answers given-
Buried where eleven laid.
Twenty-six ghosts from inside the Westray
Say to the bosses who decide:
"You didn't listen to our warnin's,
Loved ones're alone now that we've died."
Chorus:
They said it was a good thing t'do,
To go down the mine in ninety-two.
To cut the coal's a good thing t'do—
And twenty-six miners died.
* When working in a small space, it is sometimes necessary to lie down.
~ by Manuel Erickson
PS. Manuel has composed music for his ballad. To receive a copyrighted copy, please email him with your request at pilot80@shaw.ca
Remembering the Westray Mining Disaster
Robert Benoit sings and plays guitars and bass on the Merle Travis classic, Dark as a Dungeon. The photographs are of various North American coal mining disasters including the Westray Mine tragedy of 1992 in which 26 miners lost their lives in Plymouth, Nova Scotia.
Read more about the Westray Mining Disaster at Wikipedia
Read more about the Westray Mining Disaster at Wikipedia
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
New Year! poetry by Charles Van Gorkom
Who goes there?
Twenty Twelve, you say,
and how do you come?
do you come with flames
or with flowers?
Are those your people rioting,
your guns blazing,
your missiles streaking,
your drones assassinating,
your bombs exploding?
Or do you come quietly in peace,
your children playing safely in the streets,
fear and hunger banished from your families,
fathers working and mothers bearing
another child of joy?
Twenty Twelve, you may pass
with clean hands and a pure heart,
with a voice that sings
with the stars, with the dawn,
and with love in sun's rising.
I know,
I can't stop you however you come,
but I will sing,
my peace will bless,
I will embrace you with hands that are clean,
a heart that is pure,
and with love in sun's rising.
~ by charles van gorkom
Twenty Twelve, you say,
and how do you come?
do you come with flames
or with flowers?
Are those your people rioting,
your guns blazing,
your missiles streaking,
your drones assassinating,
your bombs exploding?
Or do you come quietly in peace,
your children playing safely in the streets,
fear and hunger banished from your families,
fathers working and mothers bearing
another child of joy?
Twenty Twelve, you may pass
with clean hands and a pure heart,
with a voice that sings
with the stars, with the dawn,
and with love in sun's rising.
I know,
I can't stop you however you come,
but I will sing,
my peace will bless,
I will embrace you with hands that are clean,
a heart that is pure,
and with love in sun's rising.
~ by charles van gorkom
Monday, January 2, 2012
Life is not art
"Of course, life is not art: it is not the perfect photograph, the idyllic landscape, the majestic brush stroke or the clear delineation of hues. It is a sloppy, complicated obstacle course run by less-than-perfect individuals who can't control their environment or those in their orbit, and inevitably lose their tempers when they cannot maintain control."
~ Phil Hall
Life is not art, collage by Ron Greenaway
~ Phil Hall
Life is not art, collage by Ron Greenaway
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Mission Aborted, poetry by Susan Christensen
We’ll all make it, now.
Our raging river’s lure is strong now.
Its restful, clear, upstream beds beckon us on.
Through the wilder eddies at the water’s edge,
Too tired and beaten to brave the deepest current just yet
As it surges around the bend, we slow a while. But,
The storm swollen torrent tries to pull us back towards
Mother Sea.
There! Over there! The eddy seems quieter, gentler
And the surface of the threatening sky is barely broken.
A brief haven before the last energy-draining mile.
Destiny draws me on.
Just a little further now.
I know it in my bones.
Just to make it to the home stream.
Just to make my life-giving deposit.
Then forever rest.
Fulfillment lures me.
Just a few minutes of calm water. Surely the danger is past.
Vague watered-down memories lurk near my mind’s surface.
Mammoth netted ships pirating our juveniles on the high seas;
More blockades of nets seining us as we milled around,
Awaiting the right timing to dart to our deaths.
Huge denizens of the deep,
Orcas, herding us-- scooping up my brothers
As we closed on the river’s mouth.
We understand about safety in numbers. But,
Our numbers have been decimated.
This last frantic dash through the river
Has a naked feel
As we doggedly strive upstream.
Eagles, now, join the gulls. Forced near the surface,
Senses are jarred by their ravenous shrieks.
This ancient river path has been scoured and gouged
Making smoothed boulders with whirl hollows down here.
Deceptively, deeply quiet down here.
Even the gulls no longer jeer us over here.
I feel it strongly now. My few brethren and I,
Drained by hunger, drawn by destiny.
Our mission.
Our reason for being.
Pass on life.
Carry life to safe shores—that we might live again.
The cycle closes in on us.
Onwards! Back into the rapid froth. It’s time!
Time to struggle upstream. I’m not finished yet.
The dark-visaged man with his toque pulled down
And his collar pulled up, sharpens his focus
Against the water’s glare. Ah!
A good big one. This one won’t get away!
With a smooth, practiced swing of the long handled net
He raises the unsuspecting fish
Just as it skirts the curve of the boulder.
This one is a good size. And full of life, thrashing
As it hangs suspended in the air.
Taking extra care with his footing,
He clambers over the wet rocks with his catch held high.
This makes seventeen this morning, he smiles,
Thwacking it over the back of its head;
He throws it onto the pile of still twitching dead.
The family will be pleased.
~ by Susan Christensen
Our raging river’s lure is strong now.
Its restful, clear, upstream beds beckon us on.
Through the wilder eddies at the water’s edge,
Too tired and beaten to brave the deepest current just yet
As it surges around the bend, we slow a while. But,
The storm swollen torrent tries to pull us back towards
Mother Sea.
There! Over there! The eddy seems quieter, gentler
And the surface of the threatening sky is barely broken.
A brief haven before the last energy-draining mile.
Destiny draws me on.
Just a little further now.
I know it in my bones.
Just to make it to the home stream.
Just to make my life-giving deposit.
Then forever rest.
Fulfillment lures me.
Just a few minutes of calm water. Surely the danger is past.
Vague watered-down memories lurk near my mind’s surface.
Mammoth netted ships pirating our juveniles on the high seas;
More blockades of nets seining us as we milled around,
Awaiting the right timing to dart to our deaths.
Huge denizens of the deep,
Orcas, herding us-- scooping up my brothers
As we closed on the river’s mouth.
We understand about safety in numbers. But,
Our numbers have been decimated.
This last frantic dash through the river
Has a naked feel
As we doggedly strive upstream.
Eagles, now, join the gulls. Forced near the surface,
Senses are jarred by their ravenous shrieks.
This ancient river path has been scoured and gouged
Making smoothed boulders with whirl hollows down here.
Deceptively, deeply quiet down here.
Even the gulls no longer jeer us over here.
I feel it strongly now. My few brethren and I,
Drained by hunger, drawn by destiny.
Our mission.
Our reason for being.
Pass on life.
Carry life to safe shores—that we might live again.
The cycle closes in on us.
Onwards! Back into the rapid froth. It’s time!
Time to struggle upstream. I’m not finished yet.
The dark-visaged man with his toque pulled down
And his collar pulled up, sharpens his focus
Against the water’s glare. Ah!
A good big one. This one won’t get away!
With a smooth, practiced swing of the long handled net
He raises the unsuspecting fish
Just as it skirts the curve of the boulder.
This one is a good size. And full of life, thrashing
As it hangs suspended in the air.
Taking extra care with his footing,
He clambers over the wet rocks with his catch held high.
This makes seventeen this morning, he smiles,
Thwacking it over the back of its head;
He throws it onto the pile of still twitching dead.
The family will be pleased.
~ by Susan Christensen
Friday, December 23, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Vancouver Island Simple Abundance
This is a photo of some kelp I saw up at Tofino last month. I saw
Sarah's quote in her book "Simple Abundance" and thought it fit very nicely.
I wrote and asked her if I could use her quote and she graciously agreed-nice huh?
You never know until you try!
Merry Christmas!
…… Susan Miller aka "Beach Hauntress"
Sarah's quote in her book "Simple Abundance" and thought it fit very nicely.
I wrote and asked her if I could use her quote and she graciously agreed-nice huh?
You never know until you try!
Merry Christmas!
…… Susan Miller aka "Beach Hauntress"
Monday, December 5, 2011
Charles Van Gorkom, on Vancouver Island
After 43 years up north in the Smithers area, we have moved to Chemainus to spend the last years of our lives. I am a bootmaker/poet.
hikingbootshandcrafted.com and my poetry blog is www.rainforestsoul.blogspot.com. My graphic arts are in remission, Never-the-less, I have joined the Cowichan Valley Arts Council. I am impressed with the world-class quality of all the arts in this valley!
My first time living on the Island, I have written a poem giving my first impressions, and if you deem it worthy, I would like to post it on the cafe blog.
Impressions Of Vancouver Island
Rough unfinished wood,
rain forests mantled with thick green moss
encircled by the Pacific.
Art hanging everywhere,
world class crafts on shelves tucked
into every crook in the narrow roads,
murmuring voices of sea and wind,
Live acoustic guitar,
smells of coffee and baking
in coffee shops with live music,
on an island world to itself
seceeded from the mainland
more than a hundred years ago.
Who knew?
No one could be told who
would care anywhere,
so the secret government
by acclamation went unspoken,
unelected, undefined by declarations,
orations and constitutions,
defended by the isolation,
the winters with no tourists,
and expense of ferry trips
off island.
Unheralded, but accepted,
since it has been mutually agreed
a casual association with the rest of Canada
can be advantageous for secret trade.
~ Charles Van Gorkom, bootmaker/poet
Other poetry shared by Charles in the Cafe includes:
I cannot thank you enough Charles for your poetry contributions to the Cafe. These shared moments on nature and the nature of things always fascinate me.
Ron Greenaway
hikingbootshandcrafted.com and my poetry blog is www.rainforestsoul.blogspot.com. My graphic arts are in remission, Never-the-less, I have joined the Cowichan Valley Arts Council. I am impressed with the world-class quality of all the arts in this valley!
My first time living on the Island, I have written a poem giving my first impressions, and if you deem it worthy, I would like to post it on the cafe blog.
Impressions Of Vancouver Island
Rough unfinished wood,
rain forests mantled with thick green moss
encircled by the Pacific.
Art hanging everywhere,
world class crafts on shelves tucked
into every crook in the narrow roads,
murmuring voices of sea and wind,
Live acoustic guitar,
smells of coffee and baking
in coffee shops with live music,
on an island world to itself
seceeded from the mainland
more than a hundred years ago.
Who knew?
No one could be told who
would care anywhere,
so the secret government
by acclamation went unspoken,
unelected, undefined by declarations,
orations and constitutions,
defended by the isolation,
the winters with no tourists,
and expense of ferry trips
off island.
Unheralded, but accepted,
since it has been mutually agreed
a casual association with the rest of Canada
can be advantageous for secret trade.
~ Charles Van Gorkom, bootmaker/poet
Other poetry shared by Charles in the Cafe includes:
I cannot thank you enough Charles for your poetry contributions to the Cafe. These shared moments on nature and the nature of things always fascinate me.
Ron Greenaway
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Doors, poetry by Rojan Zét
Late evening, calling done, supper
cold, music stopped, silent house,
I open Door to dark night.
Moon stands in half, black between trees,
Car's sound moves east, Light marks positions,
Dark whispers, "Come." Air wraps cold arms
around me, carries me down Ladder, sets
my feet on Ground.
Deer rustles up Bank, Trail gathers me and
I am blinded moving only my feet toward the
water, only my feet, my feet moving toward
Water, across Pavement, touching Sand, and
Light's sharp glance stabbing off a wave
almost fells me. Stumbling, I move along
Beach to the shelter of walls under Dock and
to the leaf-hidden stair of fifty-seven steps.
The silent habitations of neighbours pass by
marking each pace's distance from my own not
paying attention, letting nature find a course
for me. Only one outcry from behind some wall
and I am at mailboxes where I stop to pick fennel
and maybe think of her once, then back up Ladder
to where the fridge hums and I stand stripping
seeds from small branches, collecting them in
an empty film canister behind closed doors.
Rojan Zét
cold, music stopped, silent house,
I open Door to dark night.
Moon stands in half, black between trees,
Car's sound moves east, Light marks positions,
Dark whispers, "Come." Air wraps cold arms
around me, carries me down Ladder, sets
my feet on Ground.
Deer rustles up Bank, Trail gathers me and
I am blinded moving only my feet toward the
water, only my feet, my feet moving toward
Water, across Pavement, touching Sand, and
Light's sharp glance stabbing off a wave
almost fells me. Stumbling, I move along
Beach to the shelter of walls under Dock and
to the leaf-hidden stair of fifty-seven steps.
The silent habitations of neighbours pass by
marking each pace's distance from my own not
paying attention, letting nature find a course
for me. Only one outcry from behind some wall
and I am at mailboxes where I stop to pick fennel
and maybe think of her once, then back up Ladder
to where the fridge hums and I stand stripping
seeds from small branches, collecting them in
an empty film canister behind closed doors.
Rojan Zét
Friday, December 2, 2011
Judi Pedder, painter
Profile of an Artist
Judi Pedder takes inspiration from scenes witnessed while traveling in Canada and England. They reflect her strong connection to earth and its natural beauty, and her need for wide open peaceful spaces. Born under the sign of Pisces, she has a particular affinity for beaches, the ocean and smaller bodies of water, which frequently appear in her work.
House plants and gardening offer a closer and intimate perspective of nature's wonders. Her flowers are never shown in formal arrangements - she prefers the 'before picking' state and frequently starts with the main subject, adding/growing the leaves and buds as she sees where they are needed. Many of her 'flower portraits' have evolved from various garden and studio tours as well as from her own garden.
She works in watercolours and finds pure joy in the flow of water plus pigment - "there's no other medium that can do what watercolour does best - if you are brave enough to let it! The variety in my work often comes from my intent, my choice of support, or paper, for that particular piece.
My work on Masa paper is acknowledged, widely recognized and always brings questions, hence the recent production of my DVD “Preparing and Painting on Masa Paper” - a complete step-by-step workshop with 3 paintings shown from drawing to signature. It is available on line, from my gallery/studio in Comox, or by mail."
Judi began her formal art training with a scholarship to the Ipswich School of Art, England, studying a diverse range of subjects. She moved to Canada in 1966 where family and employment took precedence over pure art pursuits until the 1990s when Judi decided to indulge her admiration of watercolours by studying with several accomplished instructors. Her work has been exhibited since 1995 and hangs in Johannesburg, Chicago, Budapest, Calgary, Albuquerque & many Ontario & BC cities.
Judi Pedder arrived in Comox on Vancouver Island on May 1, 2006 where she set up a gallery/studio for the dual purposes of painting and conducting classes or workshops.
Contact:
317 Torrence Road, Comox, BC V9M 1A6
Phone: 250-339-7081
Email: judipedder@shaw.ca
See more information and artwork by Judi Pedder at: www.judipedder.com
Moderators note:
Judi has given permission to publish some pictures of her art work on the the Cowichan Valley Arts Café.
To date this includes:
Judi Pedder takes inspiration from scenes witnessed while traveling in Canada and England. They reflect her strong connection to earth and its natural beauty, and her need for wide open peaceful spaces. Born under the sign of Pisces, she has a particular affinity for beaches, the ocean and smaller bodies of water, which frequently appear in her work.House plants and gardening offer a closer and intimate perspective of nature's wonders. Her flowers are never shown in formal arrangements - she prefers the 'before picking' state and frequently starts with the main subject, adding/growing the leaves and buds as she sees where they are needed. Many of her 'flower portraits' have evolved from various garden and studio tours as well as from her own garden.
She works in watercolours and finds pure joy in the flow of water plus pigment - "there's no other medium that can do what watercolour does best - if you are brave enough to let it! The variety in my work often comes from my intent, my choice of support, or paper, for that particular piece.
My work on Masa paper is acknowledged, widely recognized and always brings questions, hence the recent production of my DVD “Preparing and Painting on Masa Paper” - a complete step-by-step workshop with 3 paintings shown from drawing to signature. It is available on line, from my gallery/studio in Comox, or by mail."
Judi began her formal art training with a scholarship to the Ipswich School of Art, England, studying a diverse range of subjects. She moved to Canada in 1966 where family and employment took precedence over pure art pursuits until the 1990s when Judi decided to indulge her admiration of watercolours by studying with several accomplished instructors. Her work has been exhibited since 1995 and hangs in Johannesburg, Chicago, Budapest, Calgary, Albuquerque & many Ontario & BC cities.
Judi Pedder arrived in Comox on Vancouver Island on May 1, 2006 where she set up a gallery/studio for the dual purposes of painting and conducting classes or workshops.
Contact:
317 Torrence Road, Comox, BC V9M 1A6
Phone: 250-339-7081
Email: judipedder@shaw.ca
See more information and artwork by Judi Pedder at: www.judipedder.com
Moderators note:
Judi has given permission to publish some pictures of her art work on the the Cowichan Valley Arts Café.
To date this includes:
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Juniper Islet, by Yvonne MacKenzie
the cure for sadness
is to embrace all existence
like the beloved
at Juniper Islet the heart cries out in delirium
oh my love
as frosted lips gently brush the forehead
sea wind loosening the clasp of winter’s wrap
and slipping back the hood so the land can kiss your eyes
at Juniper Islet
cedar limbs shiver in the crystalline silence
shrugging powder-white robes
onto a pillow of emerald moss
the scriven track of geese on a snowbound log
is the first stanza of a poem taking flight
an invitation
to open your arms
and join the dance of earth and sky
skirts of light sweeping over the waves
revolving in the stateroom of the soul
pulling you closer to center
is to embrace all existence
like the beloved
at Juniper Islet the heart cries out in delirium
oh my love
as frosted lips gently brush the forehead
sea wind loosening the clasp of winter’s wrap
and slipping back the hood so the land can kiss your eyes
at Juniper Islet
cedar limbs shiver in the crystalline silence
shrugging powder-white robes
onto a pillow of emerald moss
the scriven track of geese on a snowbound log
is the first stanza of a poem taking flight
an invitation
to open your arms
and join the dance of earth and sky
skirts of light sweeping over the waves
revolving in the stateroom of the soul
pulling you closer to center
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Cara McCandless, Singer, Songwriter
Profile of an Artist
Here's the Story…
Cara's musical beginnings were in her family's kitchen on cold winter nights in Southern Manitoba. With a group of musicians jamming late into the night warmed by a woodstove and by the sound of music. Those beginning's lead her to British Columbia's Cowichan Valley for inspiration and to be closer to her family. Cara is the daughter of charismatic Celtic Tenor and banjo player Chuck McCandless who raised Cara on bluegrass, traditional Celtic, folk, blues, and rock & roll. Cara's ear was being exercised even before she began walking. Cara played clarinet in concert band from grade 3 to grade 12 all the while following her Father from town to town, show to show, festival to festival, slowly getting a feel for her future. It wasn't until after graduating high school that Cara picked up a guitar and soon after wrote her first song, which has lead to a repertoire of 70 plus original songs. Cara's folk/grunge style is deep and edgy so don't let her bubble gum looks fool you. Cara will reach into your soul and the lyrics she sings will invite you into hers. Cara's self-taught guitar style is unique and combines flawlessly with her "sultry-soul thick voice" -Monday Magazine, Victoria. Cara's original compositions are true stories penned through life's experiences and accompanied with musicality that creates a picture in the listener's mind.
So Far in the Biz…
Cara has toured Western Canada as a backup singer for "YellowbellY" and has fine-tuned her stage presence since her first show 20 years ago. In 2000 Cara was a winner of 100.3 The Q's radio contest, "Rocktoria" that enabled her to record three songs with a producer and gain radio airplay to a "pop" audience. Staying true to her roots, Cara has returned to folk music and is back where she belongs. Cara is currently playing bass with "The McCandless Family Band" and is waiting the release of their debut recording "Up Yer Glass" which is due out in late 2010.
What's on the Horizon…
Cara is going to continue to perform and gain exposure for the release of her own debut album "In the Sun" coming soon in 2011. Cara plans to tour Folk Festivals across Canada and with those experiences Cara will continue to write songs of loss, love, and longing. "Cara's Beth Orton/ Natalie Merchant style is as radio ready as it is challenging."-Mike Devlin, Times Colonist, Victoria.
Learn more about Cara McCandless and listen to more of her great tunes at www.reverbnation.com/caramccandlessinfo
Contact: caramccandless@hotmail.com
Here's the Story…
Cara's musical beginnings were in her family's kitchen on cold winter nights in Southern Manitoba. With a group of musicians jamming late into the night warmed by a woodstove and by the sound of music. Those beginning's lead her to British Columbia's Cowichan Valley for inspiration and to be closer to her family. Cara is the daughter of charismatic Celtic Tenor and banjo player Chuck McCandless who raised Cara on bluegrass, traditional Celtic, folk, blues, and rock & roll. Cara's ear was being exercised even before she began walking. Cara played clarinet in concert band from grade 3 to grade 12 all the while following her Father from town to town, show to show, festival to festival, slowly getting a feel for her future. It wasn't until after graduating high school that Cara picked up a guitar and soon after wrote her first song, which has lead to a repertoire of 70 plus original songs. Cara's folk/grunge style is deep and edgy so don't let her bubble gum looks fool you. Cara will reach into your soul and the lyrics she sings will invite you into hers. Cara's self-taught guitar style is unique and combines flawlessly with her "sultry-soul thick voice" -Monday Magazine, Victoria. Cara's original compositions are true stories penned through life's experiences and accompanied with musicality that creates a picture in the listener's mind.
| Turn up your speakers, click "Play" and listen to "No Escape" by Cara McCandless |
So Far in the Biz…
Cara has toured Western Canada as a backup singer for "YellowbellY" and has fine-tuned her stage presence since her first show 20 years ago. In 2000 Cara was a winner of 100.3 The Q's radio contest, "Rocktoria" that enabled her to record three songs with a producer and gain radio airplay to a "pop" audience. Staying true to her roots, Cara has returned to folk music and is back where she belongs. Cara is currently playing bass with "The McCandless Family Band" and is waiting the release of their debut recording "Up Yer Glass" which is due out in late 2010.
What's on the Horizon…
Cara is going to continue to perform and gain exposure for the release of her own debut album "In the Sun" coming soon in 2011. Cara plans to tour Folk Festivals across Canada and with those experiences Cara will continue to write songs of loss, love, and longing. "Cara's Beth Orton/ Natalie Merchant style is as radio ready as it is challenging."-Mike Devlin, Times Colonist, Victoria.
Learn more about Cara McCandless and listen to more of her great tunes at www.reverbnation.com/caramccandlessinfo
Contact: caramccandless@hotmail.com
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Guardians of the North, by Susan Christensen
Panic in the air.
Did you hear that?
What do you mean, Don't be silly?
Hey! Why're you slapping at Me?
Ohhh, God! Run! Get in the truck!
For heaven's sake! It's only a few
Black fly bites! Ooow!
What's that thundering?
Look! On the horizon, over there!
It's caribou.
Stampeding...
Running for their lives!
What a God-forsaken land.
Not fit for man nor beast!
No. A pristine wilderness
Untouched by man.
A delicately balanced ecosystem.
Guarded from despoiling
by God's
tiniest
warriors.
~ By Susan Christensen
Did you hear that?
What do you mean, Don't be silly?
Hey! Why're you slapping at Me?
Ohhh, God! Run! Get in the truck!
For heaven's sake! It's only a few
Black fly bites! Ooow!
What's that thundering?
Look! On the horizon, over there!
It's caribou.
Stampeding...
Running for their lives!
What a God-forsaken land.
Not fit for man nor beast!
No. A pristine wilderness
Untouched by man.
A delicately balanced ecosystem.
Guarded from despoiling
by God's
tiniest
warriors.
~ By Susan Christensen
Monday, November 7, 2011
Micki Findlay, Vancouver Island photographer
Profile of an Artist
Micki Findlay is an award-winning, freestyle 'photo-artist' who has a passion for the arts which include the theater, music and computer graphics. She was to discover, later on in life, that she possessed a love for photography after receiving a digital
camera from her husband as a gift.
With a keen eye for artistic detail, and putting her graphic art skills to work, she lovingly pours hours into her craft to perfect it, while bringing a contemporary, unique, artsy feel to her images. She has a knack for bringing her images 'to life' with her post-processing techniques and use of vibrant colours.
Photography runs in her family…her mother was, at one time, the official photographer for the Canadian Armed Forces. Micki recalls having to pose for hundreds of photos until her jaw hurt from smiling.
Her late and great Aunt Ella had been a professional black & white photographer, back when colour film had not yet been developed, so to speak.
Micki feels very blessed in life, appreciating the talents God has given her and the magnificent beauty in the world He created. She believes it a privilege to capture some of that beauty and to share it with others for their enjoyment. Living on breathtaking Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, she is never at a loss for inspiration.
Micki is known as 'The Singing Photographer' due to her ongoing involvement in music. At six years old she was performing and competing in music festivals as a vocalist and pianist and continued to do so throughout her teen years. At 17 years of age, she was chosen to compete at the BC Finals where she won first place two years consecutively. She was then chosen to represent Canada in various competitions throughout the British Isles with The Royal Conservatory Choir from Victoria, BC.
She runs her own singing telegram business called 'Tickleberry Telegrams'.
Micki is co-creator in an online shop called A2Sea Creations. It features unique, beach-inspired treasures, handcrafted on the west coast of Vancouver Island, BC.
Micki Findlay is an award-winning, freestyle 'photo-artist' who has a passion for the arts which include the theater, music and computer graphics. She was to discover, later on in life, that she possessed a love for photography after receiving a digital
camera from her husband as a gift.
With a keen eye for artistic detail, and putting her graphic art skills to work, she lovingly pours hours into her craft to perfect it, while bringing a contemporary, unique, artsy feel to her images. She has a knack for bringing her images 'to life' with her post-processing techniques and use of vibrant colours.
Photography runs in her family…her mother was, at one time, the official photographer for the Canadian Armed Forces. Micki recalls having to pose for hundreds of photos until her jaw hurt from smiling.
Her late and great Aunt Ella had been a professional black & white photographer, back when colour film had not yet been developed, so to speak.
Micki feels very blessed in life, appreciating the talents God has given her and the magnificent beauty in the world He created. She believes it a privilege to capture some of that beauty and to share it with others for their enjoyment. Living on breathtaking Vancouver Island, BC, Canada, she is never at a loss for inspiration.
Micki is known as 'The Singing Photographer' due to her ongoing involvement in music. At six years old she was performing and competing in music festivals as a vocalist and pianist and continued to do so throughout her teen years. At 17 years of age, she was chosen to compete at the BC Finals where she won first place two years consecutively. She was then chosen to represent Canada in various competitions throughout the British Isles with The Royal Conservatory Choir from Victoria, BC.
She runs her own singing telegram business called 'Tickleberry Telegrams'.
Micki is co-creator in an online shop called A2Sea Creations. It features unique, beach-inspired treasures, handcrafted on the west coast of Vancouver Island, BC.
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