April 6, 2009
Memory of an object, as told by L.
We were camped by Lake Mississippi. One morning we woke up early at our own accord. All of us. W was the leader, the oldest cousin. It was almost magical. “Let’s catch a fish!” said W. We found one and caught it but it was too big. The line snapped and we felt bad to know that the fish was swimming with a hook in its mouth. I became aware of the mud at the bottom of the lake and I grabbed some. I formed it into a ball, poked a face into it and left it by the side of the lake to dry. It was ready the next day. I kept it by my desk. I don’t know where it is now. Must be in storage in Richmond (BC).
April 6, 2009
A man-made object of nature. A piece of brick, found on the Scarborough seashore. Black on one side. A brick imitating a dalmatian.
Where did you come from? What structure did you form? How did you get to Lake Ontario?
A man-made object of nature, sucked in by the Lake and spat out again. Making your edges smooth and a little bit sparkly.
You are the size of my thumb (which is dwarfish). How did you break off? Where is the rest of your brick? Or is this it? A brick from a doll house. Constructed with a thimble-sized mason’s trowel.
You are man-made, but you remind me of nature. You remind me of the Lake and of the few times I’ve seen an uninterrupted horizon. You are an icon of the power of water, sucking in, breaking up and spitting out again.
March 10, 2009
A) A pod of a honey locust tree (Gleditsia triacanthos)
M is crazy about tree identification. As we walked past this tree on the edge of Kensington Market, M picked up a pod and shook it. Low and behold: music! Better than maracas. Longer than my outstretched hand, chocolately brown and curvaceous.
Shck shck shck!
B) A gourd
He was quiet at the party, milling around with his plate but not joining in any conversations. In his turquoise shirt he stood out like a thumb. Then, some musicians gathered. Accordion, trombone and drums. Low and behold, Mr.Turquoise had a whole slew of instruments, ones to be shaken and flicked at and blown through. Among these, two gourds, dried on the inside. When shaken, they made the most gentle noise. Barely audible, perfect for the more timid musician in the group.
Both instruments from Mother Nature’s percussion section. Both instruments reminders of the simplicity of sound.
March 4, 2009
Cast off in the corner, alone and ignored. I do not work and cannot wilt.
Outshone by the more efficient LEDS beside me.
Where did I come from? Who do I belong to? Nobody seems to know.
This house was the manse of the cathedral next door. Was I the priest’s practical joke? His 4 foot souvenir from Holland?
Or did he long for Spring? Am I a sign of Easter? My leaves outstretched like Jesus on the cross?
Pay attention to me!
Give me the gift of halogen lighting so that I may shed my good cheer and optimism on all.
February 26, 2009
IA, whose name is always preceded with the adjective “cute” (because of his glittering squinty eyes and big smile), recently moved into a new home near Ossington station. Transplanted from Wisconsin, IA has lived in Toronto through his undergraduate degree and beyond. Every time he moves, he brings his Ansel Adams posters. And everytime, they hang above his bed. The images were oringinally acquired from an old calendar of his father’s.
Above this bed frame, they are especially appropriate. IA points to two knots in his head board. “They look like two suns, one rising and one setting,” he explains.
Very appropriate for a man who, I feel, strives for a closer connection to the land. Like a rosary kept under the pillow, IA’s posters and knotty headboard ensure peaceful sleeps.
February 8, 2009
This yarn was left outside of the textiles studio at school. I gathered it up not because I had a project in mind for it, but because it reminded me of two things I missed: moss and seaweed.
I grew up in British Columbia’s temperate rainforest, with moss growing beneath my toes. It crowded out grass in our backyards and appeared in the cracks of sidewalks. Gentle and unassuming, creeping and covering when no one was watching.
Swimming in the Pacific, I was always a bit afraid of seaweed under my feet. I ate sea lettuce once or twice, but the feeling of it brushing unpredictably against my skin was more than I could bear. In our family photo album we have a picture of two of my cousins, age 12, on the dock on Bowen Island. Hunched towards the camera, they are in their bathing suits, salt water dripping from their limbs. Seaweed is draped over their shoulders like a shawl. It’s in their hair and falling to their feet. Their nonchalance terrified and impressed me. The way the yarn droops over my supplies box reminds me of the photograph.
I embrace the yarn as reminders of BC. Toronto is not the place to find moss or seaweed. Luckily, I have my very own replica.
February 4, 2009
M “liberated” this log from a certain University’s research megaplot in the Haliburton Forest. Bending down to tie his boot, he slipped it into knapsack. I was taking a woodworking class at the time and he hoped I could make a project out of it. I could not bear to cut into it. I described the small Yellow Birch log to my wood teacher. “What should I do with it?” His first suggestion was to make a dam.
My basement apartment is no dam, but this log does have a special place on my dresser. I’ve only seen a live wild beaver once, yet I hold an affinity for this indexical object. Under the delicate, shimmering outer bark is a surface as orange as the animal’s teeth. The beaver’s craftsmanship is surely OCAD quality. I had such difficulty learning to whittle, and here was my role model. The symmetry! The consistency! Perfection.
January 27, 2009
Mysteriously, we came upon an exposed collection of snail shells. And then another. And another. And then we saw the hill. One among many, this snail shell and his companions slid down the hill to their final resting place: Stone Road, Guelph, Ontario. On the hill, their bodies left tiny skid marks in the otherwise untouched snow. “It looks like they’re skiing!” remarked N. They were emptied out by racoons or skunks and discarded throughout a tunnel in the snow bank. The piles of skeletons are revealed in bootprints. And now one of these shells has a new home. A shell for the shell; the living inhabitant long gone. Because of its recent acquisition, the final collecting place for this item is undetermined, but the location in which the shell is photographed would be appropriate. Behind it, strings of joyful roses. Underneath it, solid wood. Both are perfect reminders of many humans’ unconscious desires to bring the outside in.
January 21, 2009
You are a technicolour dream map of geography. In beiges, greens, blues, maroons and oranges, you describe Ontario’s terrain in an overwhelming legend that includes escarpments, spillways, clay plains, sand dunes. Your legend, stranded in Lake Ontario, struggles to define these distinctions. On land, your adornment goes further with sections of bumps and squiggles along with crisscrossing township boundaries.
Why are you here? Who cares that Toronto is situated in a lemony yellow glob, indicating sandplains? Sand in Toronto? Impossible. A small conundrum for such a large poster. At four by four feet, you demand attention. In your presence, we ground ourselves in our geography. In you, we see the big picture.
January 20, 2009
We are acorns that sit in a dish in M’s room.
We were plucked from Queen’s Park in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
M is learning to grow trees from seed. We are his experiments.
Some of our seed colleagues are in the freezer, experiencing a simulation of winter.
We are not doing so well here in the heated room.
We gaze out the window, longing to be planted again.
Beside us on the decrepit stool are an empty green plastic planter and a cracked glass full of soil. Together we form a community of rejects in the corner of the room.
We are caked with mud and have crumbs in our small crevices.
Though the walls of the room are a comforting shade of forest green, we long for the outdoors.
Hold on, we tell ourselves, do not rot in self-pity. Have hope.
