Moment of Witnessing is a series of reflections and paintings captured on my travels in 2023, where I come face to face with the effects of climate change. These effects do not impact me in the way they do to the people who live and work in these plaes. I was in a role of witnessing, both in my art and in my observations. Last summer was my first dip into travel since COVID-19. For those of you who remember your first trip after isolation, I am sure you can relate to my feeling of wrongness as I embarked on the airplane. A large part of my eco concerned self had embraced the idea of staying home and exploring my backyard. The artist in me had found that there are infinite textures, patterns, and new light to be found within walking, biking, or skiing distance from my house. This strangeness of being back on the road persisted throughout my trip, as I came face-to-face with the various ways that climate change is shaping our world. My trip itself was interrupted at many points for a variety of reasons, including the forest fires that were burning in British Columbia and the North. Painting for me is a practice of acceptance. I try not to decide what to paint after the initial choice of position has been made. I try to bring to the paper what the changing light and scenery present to me. Often times this process involves catching a moment of wonder, those changing moments in nature when the lighting or a fellow creature in the forest do something unexpected, and altogether glorious. But as a meditator would know, we are not seeking those pleasant sensations, rather we are here to observe them. The flipside of this involves bringing the same equanimity to the moments of discomfort. When painting, that might mean cold or rainy hands, watercolour freezing and raindrops splattering artwork. This might also mean creations that look nothing like what I am seeing, or colours that end up feeling all wrong. What is amazing is to see how these seemingly wrong moments are often met with delight by other observers. I cherish the work captured in these moments. What might be lost astetically is gained as the art takes on larger meaning. Last summer, my travels brought me face-to-face with this kind of acceptance. My initial plan was to head to the Northwest Territories for a canoe trip down the Keele River. Since I was going to be out west, I decided to visit many of the people on the West Coast that I had not seen in a while. Acceptance began even in the moments of trip planning. I joined my friends on the plans that they had already made. So it was that shortly after landing in Vancouver I found myself in the most beautiful and meaningful location: a friend’s family cottage on Gun Lake in the Chilcotin mountains. The water was blue and icy cold. The mountains dwarfed the little babies of Quebec in stunning proportions. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be in this place. In many ways, the cabins history reminded me of my own grandfather who built my family cottage back in Ontario. But the threat of fire was altogether new. The forest fire that was closest to the cabin had all the locals very attentive. On our first night, we watched planes flying back-and-forth from lake to smouldering forest. My imagination was captured as I learned some of the details of the reality of living in forest fire country. Despite the smoke, we managed to enjoy paddle boarding, icy swims, hiking, and the gentle rhythm of cottage life. My paints were out, and I was fascinated by the misty - foggy feeling of forest fire smoke at Sunset. The next day we spent a lovely afternoon picking berries on the mountain side, wondering where the local bear was, and when we might run into him. Our fears were assuaged by the cheerful singing that accompanied are berry picking. I was utterly amazed by the bounty of the fruit. Like with mountains, the West Coast does berries big time. I will never forget turning around to see a mass of smoke rising up from the side of the mountain. While I knew it was forest fire, the most appropriate description was volcano eruption. We didn’t have to speak to understand that the berry picking was over. We made our way down the mountain in due haste, even dropping one of our berry baskets in our concern. Returning to the cabin, we learned that the fire had been whipped up by the winds. Despite strong feelings that it was time to leave, we spent the night packing. Witnessing my friend preparing to leave this special place that had been in her family for three generations really hit home. Despite the strong emotions, and sense of urgeny, we still took time to appreciate the beauty of the smoke rising above the mountain. This time there was no illusion of mist. I was seeing colours in the sky that I had never seen before. When we left, I felt my companions acknowledging that they had given in. There was nothing the three of us could have done to fight that fire, but leaving still felt like giving up. I know that the reality is that these changes we are experiencing go beyond any one human. We are handed these climatic events, the best we can do is try to adapt Descending down from these mountains, it was almost surreal to breathe clean air and watch crystal clear water flow across granite cliffs. I left those mountains only a tourist to climate change, so grateful that my family cottage back in Ontario was not under threat. I know this too is a matter of time. These are moments of witnessing. Thank you for your presence.
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40 by 60 painted on left over canvas from a canoe rebuild, this painting is all about finding new life in old bricks, and the little bit of light that peaks out from behind the dark clouds.
first sketches were captured on canvas live in the automne of 2023 around sunset, as the hills illuminated with the final rays of the sun catching. my mode of transportation to the factory was by bike, canvas rolled up and strapped to the bike. Rolly rolland is a reminder to take it slow. 🐌 peinte sur un reste de toile provenant de la reconstruction d'un canoë, cette peinture a pour but de trouver une nouvelle vie dans de vieilles briques, et le petit peu de lumière qui émerge de derrière les nuages sombres. Les premières esquisses ont été capturées sur la toile en direct à l'automne 2023, au coucher du soleil, alors que les collines s'illuminaient des derniers rayons du soleil. mon mode de transport jusqu'à l'usine était le vélo, la toile enroulée et attachée au vélo. Rolly Rolland est un rappel à la lenteur. Translation par Marc Boudreau Depuis longtemps déjà, tu ne résistes plus à ces pulsions qui t’invitent à partir. Cette fois-ci, elles t’ont conduite dans les brumes spectrales du petit matin. Les particules de lumière que transporte l’air saturé illuminent le tapis de feuilles d’une étrange façon, évoquant les splendeurs d’un monde révolu ou encore à venir. Une mince couche de matière végétale couvre le sol, fatiguée, broyée par l’incessant poids de la neige des derniers mois. Ainsi donc, tu marches où te conduisent tes pas. Des cerfs te précèdent. Tu distingues le sémaphore de leur queue au moment où la brume les absorbe. Tu progresses avec lenteur et assurance, effleurant de tes paumes des lambeaux immatériels et diaphanes jusqu’au lieux où l’immobilité règne. Les berges t’ont toujours attirée. Le rivage est chargé de mystères. Les arbres, bien que seigneurs des lieux, sont à demi visibles. Une aura d’éternité nimbe toute chose. Ne plus respirer… Ne plus bouger… Le tableau te fait captive, nul autre endroit n’existe. Comme ta vision s’adapte, tu perçois l’infime mobilité de choses aux apparences immuables. Une lente et murmurante rotation du socle tout entier et de tout ce qu’il porte. Les grands érables ne savent plus si ils doivent, ou non, exister dans ton regard. Un garrot laisse, sur la surface du lac, la trace évanescente de son passage. Tu laisses cette translucidité mise en superposition conduire ta conscience puisqu’elle occupe tout l’espace disponible. Soudainement, les arbres, les rochers se multiplies. Comme si on avait retiré le papier de soie dans lequel tout était enveloppé. La fluidité des lieux se retire et le règne du tangible, du palpable reprend ses droits. Le vent (quel vent?!) secoue les branches et le grand rideau se déplace. Ici et là, le ciel est maculé d’azur. Puis, le canevas se déchire subitement et expose à ton regard les caps et les falaises qui chantent sous le souffle doux d’Éole. La lumière assume sans partage son rôle et bombarde les eaux du lac de ses millions de fragments embrasés. Avant d’abdiquer totalement, la brume accroche ses derniers lambeaux à tout ce qui fait saillie sur la paroi. « Quels océans, quels rivages, quels gris rochers et quelles îles? » (Ainsi résonnent les mots de ton enfance, murmurés par T. S. Eliot) Tu griffonnes pages après pages, tentant désespérément de capturer les nuances, les teintes, les trames visuelles. Secouée par la mouvance de cet instant qui t’échappe. Puis, tu réalises que tout, toujours, n’est que changement. Perceptible ou non… Une matinée ensoleillée de printemps célèbre la beauté au lac Paradis. Beauté dont tu n’as pu saisir qu’un fragment… À tout le moins, sur papier…
Avec les lumières naissantes du jour, tu es là. Les couleurs saturées de l'automne rendent les lieux dramatiques. En silence, tu descends la pente douce qui mène à l'eau. Tu retrouves la toile là où tu l'as laissée la veille. Les reflets matinaux transforment la surface du lac et tu pagaies vers le lieux où, il y a quelques heures à peine, tu te trouvais. L'éclairage provient, ce matin, de l'horizon opposé et toute chose se présente sous une autre identité; différente, par son jeu d'ombre et de lumière, de tes perceptions de la veille. Arrivé à l'emplacement précis où tu te rendais, tu appuies ton kayak contre le tronc tombé au sol il y a plusieurs décennies. Tu t'installes confortablement. Avec lenteur. L'étrange ambiance de cette matinée te séduit. Sa douce quiétude pénètre ton âme. Tu es ICI. Rien d'autre n'a d'importance. Quand le son des éclaboussures attire ton attention, tu reste présent. Lentement, tu te retournes pour identifier la source de cette commotion. Quelques secondes te sont nécessaires avant que tu ne réalises, à ta grande surprise, que ton bruit est plutôt un orignal qui traverse le lac. Sa tête portée fièrement. Ses oreilles secouant les gouttelettes d'eau comme autant de perles splendides. La représentation même de la force tranquille. Il y a toi. Il y a cet élan d'amérique à la surface du lac. Libres dans la lumière de ce jour nouveau. Rapidement, il disparaît dans les buissons. Laissant dans ton esprit un sillage magnifique, éphémère et précieux. Mille mercis pour cette interruption inespérée, cher monarque de nos forêts. Traduit avec l‘aide de Marc Boudreau Tu descends dans la vallée, laissant les sentiers derrière toi tandis que tes pieds te portent avec force et assurance. Tu entends le bruit de l'eau, de plus en plus distinctement, jusqu'à ce que tu découvres la source qui coule délicieusement sur les rochers arrondis. La vallée est un endroit sombre, un endroit secret. Tu suis la rivière en descendant le cours d'eau. Avec une habilité naturelle, tes pieds choisissent instinctivement un parcours sur les rochers. Une séquence de pas. Tu es à l'aise sur la surface irrégulière et accidentée de ces lieux que tu aimes. En équilibre d'un rocher à l'autre, tu danses parmi ceux-ci comme l'eau que tu côtoies. Tu te laisse séduire par eux en essayant de les imaginer transformés sous ta toile. Leurs détails te paraissent infinis et tu sais que tu ne pourras en faire qu'une représentation incomplète. Finalement, tu détectes un endroit qui retient ton attention. Aussi majestueux que tous les rochers que tu vois, et tu t'approches du bord de l'eau. Une dépression naturelle dans la roche te sert de siège. Une couche plutôt ferme mais tout de même bienvenue. Tu es si bien caché que les randonneurs de passage, qui ne s'aventurent jamais aussi loin, ne te remarquent pas. Ainsi lové dans la pierre, tu deviens immobilité et tout mouvement existant appartient maintenant au monde qui t'entoure. Au ruisseau qui coule, à la lumière qui change, aux oiseaux qui volent. Ton immobilité révèle le mouvement. Multiplie sa dynamique. Ton immobilité PERMET le mouvement. Tu t'imprègnes du paysage, tu en caresses les silhouettes, en esquisses les contours jusqu'à le reconnaître. Tu passes à la couleur, en t'affranchissant des limites strictes de la toile. Lèves les yeux pour apercevoir une gamme de vert, tu l'ajoutes. De nouveau, tu reviens pour voir une autre couleur manquante sur ton papier. Tu l'ajoutes encore. Il n'y a plus de rochers, d'arbres, d'eau. Ta vue, la perception que tu as des lieux est devenue floue, alors que tu continues à absorber ce que tu vois. L'espace visuel est vivant avec des tons. Tu es vivant dans ces tons. C'est ainsi que lorsque le soleil apparaît, il n'apparaît pas sur les rochers. Non, le soleil éclaire le paysage de ton âme et tu es illuminée. "Tu es belle", te murmure la brise Ce n'est que plus tard que tu te rendras compte que, de tous les moments où le soleil a frappé les rochers que tu as vécus, tu n'as pas eu à te demander ce qui rendait celui-ci spécial. N'oublie pas de passer du temps avec le monde qui t'entoure. Attarde-toi. Tu trouveras alors la magie dans les petits moments. You make your way into the valley, leaving roads behind you as your feet carry you strong and sure. Sounds of water meet your ear, growing ever louder until you discover the source racing deliciously over rounded rocks. The valley is a dark place a secret place. Only you and the lonely breeze that blows.
You walk along the river, following it down. Your feet niftily pick out a plan, you are at ease on the ever-changing surface. Balancing from rock to rock, dancing among the boulders like the water you walk beside. You are taken by the rocks as you try to imagine them transformed under your canvas. Seems endless and you know you can only make a paltry impression. Finally, you find a spot that captures your attention as majestic as any rock you see, and so you approach the waterside. The rocks themselves from your chair , rather hard but welcome hammock. You are tucked away so well, the passing hikers that never venture this far anyways would not have seen you. So you take your seat and movement leaves you, is transferred from you into the world around you. Your momentum is transferred into the running water, the changing light, the flitting birds. Your stillness reveals the movement . You embark into the landscape , seeing shape, sketching shape, until shape begins to be known. You move on to colour, letting go of the strict confines of the canvas. You look up glimpsing a range of green, so you add it. Again, you return to see another colour missing from your paper, again, you add it. There are no more rocks, trees, water your vision has gone into soft focus, as you continue to take in what you see. The visual space is alive with tones, you are alive in these tones. So it is that when the sun peaks out., the sun is not peeking out on the rocks. No, the sun peaks out onto the landscape of your soul and you are illuminated. “ you are beautiful.” You whisper on the breeze Only later do you contemplate that of all the moments of sun hitting rock you have lived, you do not have to ask yourself what made this one special. Don’t forget to stop and sync up with the world around you, when you do, you will find magic in the little moments. “Send me back,” I cried, hoping my voice would be heard among the shouts. I was fighting my way desperately through the crowd. If I could get to Ray, then he might be able send me back. But the crowds were too loud, and I could not be heard. There was no way I could go through with this. The masses were already flowing in through the chapel doors, the courtyard and church must be overflowing. I knew what was going to happen next. I had been here before. And I couldn’t do it again. I needed somebody from my team. Anybody who could send me back. But Ray had been swept away with the crowd. Riley was probably not even here, and who else had mastered the ability? As the crowd brought me through those stoney doors, I had made up my mind. I could not live through this day again. I felt my face tensing in anticipation, and attempted what I had never attempted before. I ripped open the door of time and stepped through.
Creating beauty can be so satisfying!
And finding out who you are and who you want to be is so crucial. Without that knowledge you can never judge if your are following your heart But it is finding truth that is exhilarating! It can be heartbreaking, joyful, even hilarious. It can hurt more than anything, or change your life for the better. But no matter what it does, finding truth can is always worth it 💕 You were clear when we met this was going to be a long haul. When we met, you made it clear how long the hall would be. All that time I was not listening. I did not stop listening to the sound of the brook running away. Now I am here and you are not. I want to talk to you, trapped on a train that cannot run away. I want to run away with you. Instead, we are trapped in a train of thought not of our own making. It is unbearable. My heart squeezed into chambers too small to fit. It is unfathomable, my heart expanding to fit spaces I didn’t know existed. Unbelievable longing, butterflies exist in my stomachs cavity.
Whoever knew they were the same butterflies? I always knew there was only one butterfly. It is not my fault if I cannot stop seeking it. It is not the seeker who finds fault in the perfect petals. Wings flap against the night sky. I wouldn’t bother with those things now. Now I know the night sky is a perfect way to open the flap to the other side. Long ago, you told me you accepted this outcome. This outcome you could never have foreseen so long ago. Only a minute now, only a minute. If you return to my heart, all the next moments are only a minute. If, never returning to my heart, you are lost, one minute will stretch out to infinity. It is impossible to know before that futures undecided moment what I have learned. What I have learned will depend on what I have lost. I refuse to except any loss except the loss of lovein my heart. That had not been lost. You know that at any moment you could pick up the phone , that no distance would exist? I know that no distance is contained by broken telephones. What sounds would I show you if I had all night? Have you heard stars falling? I would show you, again. Have you heard of fire flies dancing? This too, I would show you. I stop to remember these ideas bring you discomfort. The pressure is not what you think it is, though it is immense. I remember to stop thinking about your discomfort or at least that is the idea behind this. I recall the fire in your eyes as the sounds of the night show you how to dance with the stars. I always knew how good it was for the soul to break, reform and break again. It always broke my soul to reform, anew, again. In the most simple of moment, everything is clear. It is clear that the simple moments are the most pure. Why wait for anything? Waiting is to be avoided by shifting the state of the mind. Anything you are waiting to state shifts you to avoiding the why? Speak the truth. I seem to sigh but all the moments bleed
I seem to sigh indeed I grow weary I grow thin This cap is bald, my voice is tin It’s not possible to think : I stared into your eyes once It is not possible to dream anymore of love Only possible to live each day for tin of paint a musical note They voice the sounds birds want to sing They take away the lock They throw away the key Still joy peeks through, how is it so? At times I am sick The stomach wants to overflow The heart seizes and the mind can’t grasp But joy peeks through, how is it so? Hope for mercy hope for me
This hope delays, not meant to stay The lights fade out, but oh so slow You stop to watch them go You see the midnight glow And still you hold your spirits high You crave a gentle kiss, a sigh You tell me there is time for this You tell me all the ways to see Delightful in a forest glen to sit with you another day Precious moments fade away why do we string them out so far Bring them close don’t let them linger, weary and unattended Hold the moments close at hand I’ll wait all day Eat my broccoli first Until I realize broccoli is the feast I’ve held out so long I forgot the song I forgot which way I ought to go The dessert taste sweet and sick in my mouth I would spit it out, but there’s crowds who watch Instead, I wonder what went wrong when sugar taste like death upon my tongue Your voice begins to darken all the songs I have sung Your eyes don’t light me like they did Your charm has faded as it would I’ve waited so long the waiting has become the answer And the questions I ask have all changed their tune These whispers This fading moon The body delights on answer such as this Wait long enough and you’ll soon be dead |
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