My dear friend Carla had a milestone birthday this year. One of her chosen ways to celebrate was with a weekend in the quiet of the backcountry with some of her favourite pals. I was thrilled to be invited.
Six women. Two great days of snow and x-country skiing. Whiskey sours upon arrival at the lodge (thank-you, Karen!) A tasty four-course meal prepared for us. A resurgence of enthusiasm for ping-pong ... well, that was really just Carla. And a late night sauna excursion I only wish there were photos to document. Thanks for a great weekend, gals. I created these images over the course of the past week borrowing from the palette of colour offered up by the Pacific Northwest, a melange of earth, water, and foliage.
A Saturday spent on Granville.
I think I'll make use of Erwitt's mantra for this post, “The whole point of taking pictures is so that you don’t have to explain things in words.” – Elliott Erwitt Saturday's assignment was this: go out there, into the street, and take portraits of people you don't know. Talk to them. Photograph them. I was anticipating resistance. Both from myself in the discomfort of an unsure social scenario, as much from the folks I was asking to snap portraits of. But I found neither. People were amazing. Each of them took the time to talk with me, allowed me to graciously photograph them, and in doing so offered a point of conversation and connection. My hesitation quickly faded. This was different than anything I have used my camera for in the past. This was shooting people as they were - as my perceptions see them to be in the world. This was an afternoon of talking to strangers, of sharing little moments with new friends, telling stories, and in some instances, exchanging contact information. Thank-you to the lovely faces below for sharing a part of yourself with me. This is Tim. He's Irish. He plays a mean harmonica. And has the kindest blue eyes. John was curious, with of all the people hanging out downtown on a Saturday afternoon, why I had asked him for a photo. I told him I liked his bike. His response to this was a story, telling me how he had owned this yellow beauty since he was 13 years old. Meet Ron, a coast Salish artist who makes and sells art near Robson Square each Saturday. Stop in and say hi. This is James. He was putting in a long day of work to keep the food cart crowds happy and well fed. These four were a group of German friends temporarily living in Portland. They had come to Vancouver for a weekend visit and were scouting out the city on bikes. I regret that I didn't grab this guy's name. But he was as friendly as his dog and the two of them were enjoying the Saturday sun. A friendly Montrealer, visiting a friend in Vancouver for the weekend and filling up on street-side hot dogs. Adam is a photographer and gifted creative with an upcoming exhibit at the Beaumont Studio on February 20th - check out his work! And this is Ivan. A musician and sound engineer who also happens to be a very cooperative model. A huge happy birthday to this guy who was waiting for some pals to join him downtown to start celebrating his bday. As I was about to pack it in I saw this colourful crowd. Yes, a gang of unicorns. They all proved to be good sports at the request of a friend asking everyone to come dressed like unicorns for a birthday celebration. This is the most fun I've had with my camera in a long time.
The human beings we walk by each day are so interesting, so beautiful. I challenge you, get out there, find more ways to talk to strangers. Our bathroom fan conked out a week ago. Every shower since has resulted in a curtain of moisture hung on the inside pane of our apartment windows - and I've been documenting them.
The patterns of diffused light, the enhanced colours, the distorted shapes and textures - they coalesce briefly and paint a moment on the window. These are the ones I've witnessed so far: I spent Thanksgiving here:
Among the trees; beside the sea; in the quiet company of some of the people I love most. A weekend of the clock set to island time; long mornings of drinking coffee; days of hiking and sea-side wandering; and evenings of warm meals and too many glasses of wine. The only thing I would have added is my parents and my sis to have the whole fam in one place. My God, we have so much to be grateful for. Growing up in a town that is close to nothing, driving is a part of life. Not commuting or traffic or congestion, just driving. I grew up spending hours in the car. I may have been less enthused as a kid to sit for extended periods of time, but now, it is one of my favorite things to return to. Some of the best conversations I’ve had with my parents, friends, and my sister have happened on these roads. There’s not always cell service, freeing us from the distractions we too easily answer, and the spaciousness of the landscape seems to slow things down. This past August I spent a lot of time on the road again. Some in good company. And some alone. I find it soothing to be on those roads alone again. The motion satisfies my need to be on the move, in constant pursuit of getting somewhere. And with that part of myself occupied, the rest of me settles down somewhat. It provides a similar meditative quality that I find in running or cycling – the movement brings stillness. It forces reflection really, you can’t get away from it when 3 hours of open road sit before you and you have only yourself and the landscape to talk to. Call me crazy, but this trip I found myself in conversation with the landscape often while driving. I was particularly intrigued with the spaces left behind. You don’t have to drive for long in this part of the country to come across abandoned houses, barns, or old sheds. Some sit in plain view on the highway; others are tucked away on back roads, mostly unseen. I can't get enough of them. I love the flaking paint. I love the rusted doorknobs and nails, and broken windows. I love the objects left behind. I love the way the grass grows through the cracked bits of the foundation, how the earth begins to blend with, and reclaim, what has been built upon it. Mostly, I love the curiosity that meets me here. I wonder what these spaces once held. Who were the people that lived here? What did their lives look like? Where did they go? Do they ever revisit? These are a few of the abandoned spaces that invited me to pull over the car and have a conversation.
Perhaps they'll speak to you as well. As part of an assignment I was working on for class this week I needed to take a photograph that commented on my relationship with time.
I thought about how much I dislike the sound of a ticking clock. I hate it, actually. It causes me great unrest. I don't want to be reminded each second that another has just passed. And so, I decided on this. A self-portrait. I'm not conscious of it most often, but those small hands have a mighty hold on me. They make an awful racket in my head, telling me there will never be enough time. And "time for what?", I wonder. Time for doing and loving and seeing and tasting and reading and talking and learning and laughing and walking and feeling and ... whatever other wondrous things this life offers us. But none of these joys are held by time. And I'd like to shake its hold on me as well. My driving record is far from perfect, but my Uncle Bob and Aunt Sandy seem to be rather trusting when it comes to letting me take their prized automobiles out on the road.
This time around we had time for a portrait sesh' of the two. What beauties. And so much fun to drive around on a summer's eve! A month ago I woke to a page of Saturday's’ Globe and Mail waiting for me on the kitchen table (thanks, Kiki). The title of the article: Six Billion Photos and Nothing to See. I was intrigued. Those of us who call the lower mainland home and frequent the use of BC Ferries know that travel of this sort often comes with headache. Sure, the crossing is beautiful. It’s spectacular. But the task of getting to the terminal on time, and subsequently securing a spot, is rarely simple and often enough to make a lunatic of me. Friday morning I left the house more than two hours before the 9am sailing time in order to avoid a repeat of another missed ferry. Still, I barely made it, sprinting the final stretch of the 17A on my bike to get to the ticket window for 8:58. Thankfully the attendant took pity on me and allowed me to board. While the ‘getting there’ is often somewhat of a spectacle, the unhurried cadence of the island is enough to ease the stress acquired in transit. Well, usually… Friday I arrived at Fulford Harbour on Salt Spring just in time for a downpour to hit as I was cycling to the campground. Cold, wet, and miserable, I sat in the rain for two hours waiting for the forecast’s promise of ‘overcast with 0mm precipitation’ to arrive. Finally it did - and so did good company - turning a miserable start into a spectacular weekend. Ocean front camping.
Miles of hearty cycling. Star stuffed skies and the sound of waves pulling us to sleep at night. Salt Spring's Saturday market. Island grown eats and a lavish feast at camp. The company of lovely friends. And another dose of gratitude for the playground offered to us by the west coast landscape - however inconvenient it is to get there ;) My friend Kalen is quite the lady!
Full of brains and stimulating ideas for the world, she makes for one heck of a dinner guest. Besides that, she's a rockstar consignment shopper, and an overall gem of a human being. As it turns out, she's ALSO a great model for some spring-time portraits. Thanks for the shooting, pretty lady! I have followed my best friend to the near ends of the earth. Or so it has often felt. Ange and I have been bff’s since the age of seven. We grew up able to walk to one another’s house in 5 minutes – or, meet halfway in 3. We still remark that Castor has to be one of the best places to be a kid. The town is small. Fewer than 900 people call the place home. There is no movie theatre. No mall. Not a single traffic light in town. But there’s also no lack of things to do when you’re a kid. Our playground was expansive. We had acres of open space; an endless grid of gravel roads fit for riding bikes; a creek that ran through town and an old canoe that we could hardly wait to get in the water each spring. While we were both sensation seekers, I credit Ange as being the more inquisitive of the two of us. Every few weeks she would discover some new ‘thing’ that she couldn’t wait to rush in to, and I would happily tag along. For a year or so, it was pig farming. Yep, pigs. There was a farm just outside of town; close enough we could pedal there after school, and the family that owned it happily let us stomp around in rubber boots and explore. I don’t actually remember what we did while we there. I just remember a lot of fat sows laying in the mud and the sound of squealing pigs. Aside from the cute baby pigs, I hated it. I really did. I can still feel the sweet, poignant smell of pig shit meeting my nostrils (pig shit is the worst of all animal excrements – this is the mark of growing up on the prairie, you can differentiate, and create a preferential order, of horse, cow, and lastly, pig shit). I would prepare myself for the wave of air that would hit as we got closer; but I was never ready. Never. I tried a number of techniques to keep from smelling the stuff - breathing through my mouth, breathing through my shirt, not breathing at all. None of them worked. But while I continued to hate it, Ange loved it, she really loved it, and that was reason enough to tag along. Twenty years into our friendship, I still tag along. I think the reason the two of us continue to be such incredible friends is that we are both fanatics. We share this obsessive nature about whatever thing it is we’re interested in at the time. Our individual interests differ now and then, but we continue to share this manic intern makeup. I remember reading Donald Miller’s words years ago, “I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside Bagdad Theatre in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes. After that, I liked jazz music. Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.” While I am still not that fond of pigs, Ange has shown me the way to loving many things. Her latest infatuation is cycling. I never quite understood how a bike could be ‘sexy’, her choice word, when showing me the latest frame that she was drooling over in a bike catalogue. But I’m starting to get it. About a year ago, she walked me through the steps of selecting a bike; made a detailed list of all the gear I would need; and eventually, introduced me to the road. Ange and her partner, Sarah, are finely tuned athletic machines. The first time they took me out, I was aching – and, totally in love. I don’t remember how long we rode for, but I remember my body hurting in the absolute, best kind of way. I was hooked. In the last few weeks we’ve managed to get out for some incredible rides. The island roads continually leave me jaw-dropped; one minute we’re weaving through thick greens of forest, the next, alongside a lake, a farm, the sea. It’s spectacular. Yesterday was gorgeous, we were itching to get out for a ride since the morning. About an hour in, we were outside the city on a quiet road, and we were climbing! The incline was steep, the road wrapping slowly - and painfully - up the mountain. Legs heavy, breath heavy, the road teasing us at every turn as we thought, this has to be the final ascent, but nope, there’s another, and another, and ...
That was the worst taste I’ve had in my mouth since getting on my bike. Which brings me to the second reason why Ange and I are likely best friends – we both love pain and discomfort. Well, not all pain and discomfort, just the type that precedes the feeling of being at the top, of finishing the climb, the hike, the swim. It’s a juicy, delicious pain. And it also means something good is coming – the descent. Without effort, we were flying down the other side of the mountain, intensely aware of every gesture of the road, and of our own, our bikes tracing the lines on the asphalt, leaning into every curve, feeling the road, appreciating it. It was as gracious and euphoric as I imagine flying to feel. For every pig barn experience, Ange has given me a hundred or more of these. And she sits through my ‘pig barn’ spasms as well, attending public events that I care SO MUCH ABOUT, when she’d rather be at home; listening to me ramble my face off about some new book I’m reading, a lecture on transitional justice, or... whatever other thing I care about fanatically at the time. It's amazing how much one person can expand our world. Thanks Ange, you continue to grow mine. I'm not all that resilient when it comes to change. Even the changes that come after years of asking for them.
I struggle to let go - both of place, and myself, in those places. Here's to loosening the grip. Spring has begun to show itself on the west coast. For almost a month I've been adoring daffodils and crocuses. Last week I began to notice tuffs of green budding out from the trees. The whole city is covered in hues of pink cherry blossoms. It's spectacular. One almost forgets that the rest of the country is still under snow. Yesterday I called to chat with my mom and she is still shovelling the walk and fighting the cold. Ick. It did however prompt me to take a look at the shots I took during Christmas, which I had nearly forgotten about. Here are a few to offer a farewell to the winter-scape and welcome spring. It's interesting to me, whenever I return to my hometown I find myself documenting familiar places, the landmarks that are most known to me. I love the roads that lead to town; and those that leave it. I love the grain elevator; the sky-scraper of the prairie, proudly bearing our name. I love the abandoned houses that developed stories as we walked by them as kids after school. And sometimes wandered into... And Andy's. The café my grandparents would take me to as a kid. My grandpa would tell me how the prices had changed just slightly on the menu board over the years, but everything else was the same. I imagined him and my grandma eating here, looking young, as they did in the wedding photo that hung on our living room wall, sitting on the same chairs wrapped in orange vinyl, the ones that were now cracked and split from age. I love passing the Cosmo. The local drinking hole. Coffee shop, restaurant, bar. And I love this grain shed, the house my grandfather and his 11 siblings lived in when settling on the prairie. My sister and I always come here. We talk about how small our parent's house seemed for just the four of us at times; we try to imagine a time when these walls held 13 lives. We think of our grandfather, here, as little boy, certain he was equally mischievous and every bit as loveable. Now it holds grain. And stories. When I return now there are polished new buildings and developments, but these are the parts I love best. The well worn. The known. See you in summer, snowy town. Without the snow, of course. This picture was taken at sundown over the Tuscan hills last June. I can still taste that light.
This Easter weekend is proving to be filled with an equal quality of light and beauty. Divine. Two Saturdays ago we packed the car and headed for the Juan de Fuca. It was a day of summer in the middle of January; heat in the air, surfers out in mass, tents and campfires, children and dogs frolicking through sand and rock and water.
It was perfect. Scouring the beach for firewood, reading in the sand, cooking dinner on the fire, watching the sun fade on the water, huddling under a big dark sky with two lovely friends (well, with Scout, three), and letting the movement of the water and the sky lull us to life. So much beauty. It is many things, isn't it. Scary. Exhilarating. Uncertain. Full of hope and fear and trust that the things you yearn for will come; that your days of grinding and hard work, your invisible efforts, your untameable desires, that they're taking you somewhere. I know it occupies my head space all too often. But tonight I found these words from the Italian writer, Carlo Levi, and it has hushed my forward-thinking brain and left me with a darling and present peace. Carlo Levi
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