Venus winks

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

Vancouver Island passions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chemainus, a poem by Rojan Zét

Chemainus

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

Rojan Zét

Simple-minded dreck

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

Ode to Jackson Pollock II
by Ron Greenaway

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

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

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


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

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

~ John Aaron

Koksilah, a poem by Rojan Zét

Koksilah

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

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

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


Rojan Zét

Slam Dunk

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

Crystal Heath receives People's Choice Award

Poppies and lavender by Crystal Heath
photo by Julie Nygaard

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

August 15, 1945

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I believe you will,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


© 2006 Manuel Erickson

Cowichan Valley "City of Totems" private tours

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

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

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

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

You won't be disappointed!

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



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

Vancouver Island visitors come to the "City of Totems"

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

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


Maori carving by Tupari Te Whata and © City of Duncan


Totem carving by Francis Horn and © City of Duncan

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

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

Cowichan Valley Pin Wheel, by Julie Nygaard

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

Pin Wheel, 2009

digital photography by Julie Nygaard

Ode to Earth Day 2, by Susan Christensen

Mother Nature

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


by Susan Christensen

Ode to Earth Day, by Susan Christensen

Take Warning

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

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


by Susan Christensen

SASS~e, Spring Art Show & Sale

The Cowichan Valley Arts Council (CVAC) presented SASS~e, the 4oth annual Spring Arts Show and Sale extravaganza from April 21 - 25, 2010.

The annual spring art show featured over 100 acclaimed artists of the Cowichan Valley, showing over 200 recent works of art.

2010 Award Winners

People's Choice Award
Crystal Heath, Poppies and lavender

Award of Honour
Joel Blaicher, Lurking Caiman
Tom Faue, Little Big Man, for Joe Fard
Sonia Galbraith, Take The Ribbon From Your Hair
Crystal Heath, Untitled Abstract
Sirius Hickling, It's not a Penguin
Tammie Hunter, Daydream
Betty Locke, Beautiful Things
Jo Ludwig, Landed
Heather Martin-McNab, The Response
Gayle McIvor, Cloak of Cosmic Consciousness


Award of Merit
Dennis J. A. Brown, Andrew's Influence
Daniel Cline, Ascending
George Cruickshank, Holocaust Suitcase
Daniel Deschamps, Oración
Angus Galbraith, Igloo
Jennifer Hedge, Past, Present
Peter Lawson, Howe Sound
Heather Martin-McNab, Ascending
Bernadette McCormack, Woman Divine
Edie Miller, Cats' Night Out
Françoise Moulin Durham, Woman's Paintbrush in the Forest
J. Neil Newton, The Last Message
Julie Nygaard, The Walls Unite
Maria Raynor, Basket Study
Susan Whyte, Contrast #2

Hiking on Vancouver Island

Totem pole carved by Oscar Matilpi, 1985 © City of Duncan

Beware venturing off alone in the woods outside the City of Duncan on Vancouver Island.

Dzonoqua is known as the "thief of souls and children", the "cannibal giant" and the "wild woman of the woods". This black, bushie haired giantess cannibal wanders the rainforest making whistling sounds to attract lost children, and others. She rubs pitch in their eyes to blind them and tosses them into a basket made of snakes that she carries on her back.

Dzonoqua is strong enough to tear down large trees and make the earth tremble with her voice. She takes her captive innocents to her home deep underground where she and her husband might dine on them but more likely use them as slaves.

At the end of Kenneth Street, in "The City of Totems", is a pole carved in 1985 by Oscar Matilpi showing Dzonoqua carrying "coppers", symbols of wealth and prestige.

Still, you must never lose hope. It's said "those who escape her slavery and make their way home become wealthy".

Never hike alone in a rainforest!

River, a poem by Rojan Zét

River

At morning light,
moored water-skin wavers white
while beaded, billed web-paddlers cite
inspections.

In mirror-ripple mirrorings a
river-lilting transom sings
silver-silent murmuring
reflections.

Flower blossoms drop in sight
littering this river's flight
casting grey with shades of white
rejections.

Evening shadows by a boat
in blackness water-petals float,
birdsong glistens from some throat's
inflections.

Supple darkness full of night and
sweeping current, throws its might
below us seeking right
connections.

Rojan Zét

Cleo's Heron, photography by Julie Nygaard

Cleo's Heron, 2009
digital photography by Julie Nygaard

Finally.... I have a photo of a heron......... every time I see them, I of course, forget my camera at home and by the time I get back to where I saw them, they are gone! I had my friend Cleo with me on a fun photography afternoon! The universe brought me my heron..... with my camera in hand this time!

~ Julie Nygaard

Shadow Rider, a poem by Susan Christensen

Shadow Rider

The poem "Shadow Rider" written by Susan Christensen and printed on a self-portrait by her daughter, Daphne Christensen

Thoughts, Once Uttered, by Manuel Erickson

Thoughts, Once Uttered

© 2003, 2006 Manuel Erickson

They walked along a trail into the dappled light of the forest, her husband beside her. They shouted at each other, hands and arms gesticulating with each point of their argument. He limped from an old accident and she noticed the scar on his left cheek glowing red. It always grew red with his anger.

“You don’t understand,” he said.

“Yes, I do. You feel I haven’t supported you because I don’t want to move up here while you paint.”

“Right, and your lack of support makes me wish I could run away.”

She let out her breath. “So, run away, if you don’t want to live with me any more.”

He looked at her, his brown eyes welling up.

“Maybe I will,” he said.

“Why here?” she said. “There’s nothing here but trees!”

“Yes. And they’re gorgeous, but you can’t see that. It would be wonderful to live among the animals and trees.”

They penetrated deeper into the forest. Though absorbed in their quarrel, she noticed small animals fleeing across their path and birds taking flight before their loud voices.

She walked ahead, then asked him a question and turned for the answer, but he was no longer with her. He always gets distracted so easily. He’s probably looking at a flower or something. She felt uncomfortable being alone in the forest.

In a trembling voice, she called, “Where are you?” She ran back the way they had come. Perhaps he had fallen because of his leg. She reached the trailhead, then dashed back into the forest, still calling.

Ahead, the bushes rustled. She stopped, breathless and frightened. A handsome bull elk stepped onto the trail, blocking her way. It stood motionless and looked at her, its large brown eyes slowly blinking as it took her in. Its huge rack of antlers grew like trees from the top of its head.

“My god,” she whispered, “you’re beautiful.”

So as not to alarm it, she edged closer. It stood perhaps five feet at the shoulder and stretched seven or eight feet in length. Its coat was mainly brown, with short, narrow, horizontal streaks of black, speckled with flecks of gold, making it sparkle.

Beside it now, overawed, feeling its warmth, hearing its breathing, she felt calm, safe.

She put out her hand to stroke the fur and the elk lowered its head so it was even with hers. She withdrew the hand.

The bull extended the tip of its tongue and licked her cheek, then gently rubbed the side of its head against hers. She gasped and took a step back. She felt at once thrilled that a wild animal would do this, and horrified that she might catch something.

The bull gazed at her. Its eyes welled and a tear dropped to the ground. It backed away, holding her gaze. The left cheek had a scar. She gasped. He turned and limped into the forest.

Individualism

"Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known."
~ Oscar Wilde

Individualism digital painting by Ron Greenaway

A Common Bond, by Manuel Erickson

~ To the Memory of Bruce Daffe

I don't know you who shares the air with me as you fly through;
You don’t know me who shares the air with you.
But there's a common bond between us as you go your way:
Your plane and mine, the love we show today.

I know that if I were to fall you’d search for me 'til night;
Were you to fall I'd search with all my might.
The common bond that flyers have is made of solid steel:
Your plane and mine; it's just the way we feel.

Even flyers don't know what it is that urges us to fly;
It’s not enough merely to climb high.
It could be what we see when we rise above the Earth:
For every time we fly, we give birth:

We give birth through our eyes and let our feelings soar;
We start to sing and dance and what's more,
We feel the common bond between us as we fly away:
Your plane and mine, the love we show today.

---

* Bruce Daffe was a pilot who suffered a massive heart attack as he flew his private aeroplane. He was dead before his plane reached the ground. At fifty-nine, he died while pursuing his favourite activity.

© 2001 Manuel Erickson

Manuel Erickson

Manuel Erickson was born in Toronto and educated there and in Waterloo, Ontario, receiving his B.A. from the University of Waterloo. He says that his political science degree only taught him how to write; it never opened a career door. Manuel has written on and off since his teens. He has published articles in the Ottawa Citizen, Canadian Aviator magazine and in various anthologies, including five creative non-fiction stories in Through the Window of a Train, published by Borealis Press of Ottawa in June 2010. He has completed a book about steam trains that is ready for publication.

Manuel Erickson has graciously agreed to provide readers of the Cowichan Valley Arts Café with postings of creative writing.

This is a list of his submissions to the Café to this point in time.

• A Common Bond
• An Alien's Brief Introduction to Earth
  
• August 15. 1945
• Between Thumb and Forefinger
  
• Canopy Curses
  
• Closure
• Damned
• Dan's Axe
• Deuce
• First to Vancouver
• The Innocent
  
• The Invasion Has Begun - A Vignette
  
• Thoughts, Once Uttered
• Westray Lament
  

See also:

• Manuel Erickson, Profile of an Artist
• Manuel Erickson publishes Steam Train Stories.

Net, a poem by Rojan Zét

Net

What strange understanding
separates those who love,
throws together those who
love not, casts love to
the winds, and keeps love
from those who desire it?
I am a stone hugger; I
kiss them, and they love
with no understanding.

Rojan Zét

Upright Driftwood, by Susan Christensen

Upright Driftwood
(Musings on the alpine meadows of Mt. Washington)

Lightning blasted or feasted on by beetles,

These limbless skeletons

Stand tall amongst the alpine blooms--

A testament to the endurance

Of strong roots and communal support.

These afterlives are the monoliths of the past

Filling a present purpose.

They are the upright driftwood fixed in the swampy earth,

Old sign posts of history proving

An integral part of vibrant growth—

Giving substance to the young,

Hosting, sharing and sheltering

The myriad lives of the meadow.

This alpine scene, seen only by rare intruders,

Is complete unto itself.

Quietly, glorying in the cyclical seasons,

Ancestral arboreal remains

Stand starkly

Smooth as weather-stripped barkless bones

Bearing witness to the past,

Punctuating the green present.

Here, an individual makes his mark

By simply being.

There is no need for some unnatural graveyard

Of neatly filed remains with stone engravings

And artificial flowers.

There is no need to travel far from home

To make one’s imprint on future generations.

by Susan Christensen

The Poetry of Trees Gone By, by Susan Christensen

The Poetry of Trees Gone By
(Musings on Campbell River's shoreline)

Driftwood, nature’s recycled artwork
Gnarled, twisted, tangled tree bones washed upon the shore.
Temporary landmarks on the beach
Having a newly picturesque life
So totally removed
From their still standing forest of fellows.

After eons of tossing
In the perpetual motion of waves,
Debarking, shedding their dead skin,
Reduced to timeless silvered skeletons
They reveal an incredible individuality
Not evident in their first lives
As just one more tree entwined into the evergreen forest.

Now, roots and all, the bleached, heavily grained surfaces
Rest like poetry in the sands.
No longer functional, practical entities.
No longer statically rooted in place,
But honed like thoughts,
Metaphorically, they present new points of view
Sparking the imaginations of future generations
By laying bare fundamentals of the past.

by Susan Christensen

Susan Christensen

Susan Christensen has graciously agreed to provide reader's of the Cowichan Valley Arts Café with regular postings of creative writing and imagery.

This is a list of her submissions to the Café to this point in time.

• A Place for Deer
• Abrupt Departure For School
• Ask Cousteau, He Knows
  
• Clipped Wings
• Guardians of the North
• Mission Aborted
  
• Mother Nature
• Shadow Writer
• Take Warning
  
• The Poetry of Trees Gone By
• Upright Driftwood

Spectator Art

“It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors”
~ Oscar Wilde

Spectator Art, digital visioning by Wilde Raven

The Lost Sock, by Julie Nygaard

Have you ever wondered where those missing socks end up?...

Well......I was in Cowichan Bay recently with my children and we just happen to come across this lonely forgotten sock........
My children had many questions about this sock and how it ended up being there on the fence, all alone..........who put it there, was it to mark something, did someone lose it? My son Kyle thought it might be Raymond's sock for Raymond has socks here, there and everywhere.
My son thought that maybe we should send it in to the Lost & Found at the local newspaper. Someone could be missing this special fuzzy worn out sock!
You just never know.....the sock may have some history, walked with someone in their shoes, kept their feet warm and dry and knew very personal information......there is alot of emotion for this sock.
We left the sock on the fence. Maybe it is a symbol that all is not lost for hanging on the fence is definitely a way to get noticed!

Julie
March 2010

Running with wolves

Turn up your speakers and click play to listen to "Wolf Song".

"The body uses its skin and deeper fascia and flesh to record all that goes on around it. Like the Rosetta stone, for those who know how to read it, the body is a living record of life given, life taken, life hoped for, life healed. It is valued for its articulate ability to register immediate reaction, to feel profoundly, to sense ahead..."

- Clarissa Pinkola Est'es, Women who run with wolves

March Blues, photography by Julie Nygaard

Winter Storm, by Julie Nygaard, 2010

I have been feeling "not myself" lately...... it seems with all the drama our daily lives fill us with and the routines we all follow, we can become unattached, maybe insensitive at times to the world around us. There are times when the world just seems to be not following things according to how our agenda is laid out. With looking for a reason to grumble, a reason for my "moment of self inflicted despair", the caffeine finally kicked in. I realized that I am looking forward to the beginning, the start of the upcoming season, an unfolding of new events in my life and the process of letting go of the cold of winter's grasp.

Julie Nygaard, 2008