The Potato is a Root Vegetable.

"Nothing is so soothing to our self-esteem as to find our bad traits in our forebears. It seems to absolve us."

-Van Wyck Brooks

  It's humbling to finally accept that you are the result of something much older and much grander than you originally anticipated. I suppose the curse of immigration is the loss of genetic discourse. It can be almost as confusing for children to be the first in an immigrant family to grow up in a country where they have very little direct genealogy, as it must have been for the immigrant parents themselves. When all you have to stand on is a shrub in a forest of giant redwoods, it's hard not to feel unsupported, ignorant, that all the pressure to grow your leafy green sapling is on you and your siblings. The answers to questions about your appearance and talents were fragmented or lost when your branch was severed from it's ancestor tree.

  Such were the answers I expected to simply absorb and piece together when I set foot in Ireland on December 14th. As if by walking where the rest of my bloodline had walked, a door would open in the back of my head and reassuring stories about a distant relative that also liked to paint, or had lips far too big for their face would spill out and pat me on the shoulder. Of course the idea was ambitiously romantic, but so are the rest of my ideas, so it's justified.

  In Ireland, I didn't find a painter in the family, or any direct relation to Steven Tyler. What I found was undoubtedly positive, but completely indefinable (and I really did try to get that damn door to burst open). The morning I arrived in Ireland, sitting on a bus on its way into Dublin city, I was a little disturbed. I hadn't prepared myself to bare witness to so many....Irish people. I remember actually laughing a little out loud as I imagined my face on the heads of my fellow passengers and it not looking entirely abnormal. It was as if Ireland was my personal ending to "Being John Malkovich" and it made me a little uncomfortable.

  It wasn't until my second week that things began to change. I found a piece of a family I had always known about, but had never met. For the rest of the trip I was able to spend one on one time with men, women and children that belong to the trees that my mother and father left behind. I had never experienced similar unconditional welcome. All they needed to know was that I was the child of their brother, sister or aunt and I was immediately a member of their family. I dug a little into the past, visited childhood homes and looked for evidence of relation in the way my family looked and acted. Let's not call it creepy, just curious.

  It was something close to pride that I felt as I sifted through boxes of old photography with my father's sister and her daughter and as I walked along the shores of Blackrock where my mother grew up. I had no idea what my grandfather looked like until I was given an old photo from one of these boxes, and was embarrassed to ask for certain how many siblings my father had. But all aside, that's the charm of the family.

  I think after all this, I've started a mission. I've always loved meeting the siblings and parents of good friends for the first time, just to look at their faces and find family features. I love the idea of being an aesthetic product of genetic information and even more so when that information extends beyond parents and into distant ancestry. I expected to look at an old photo of a great grandfather of mine and maybe see my face, but I left uncertain. I need to find what part of the tree I stem from beyond that of my parents. I can see what my parents have given me, but is there an individual I relate to the most in my family's past as well? It's either that or I start looking for mailmen. 

The Patron Saint of What no.

"First you will hate Peter. Then you will hate the day you were born."

-Peter Porcal

Passing it on.

  I was thinking the other day about how Maestro Porcal could very well be one of the last remaining scholars on earth. At least one of the last that has devoted his life to sharing wisdom with the peasants rather than lining up in the patent office. Peter says often, to the immediate discomfort of his students, "Peter will die soon. But you, beautiful children, will never die." 
  This is a ruse. I wouldn't be surprised if he had lived through the renaissance itself, conversed with Michelangelo ("Mike" as he calls him), or lectured in greek to a group of budding philosophers. We all love the posh way he dresses but I think he's more suited to a toga when he stands proud in front of his bright-eyed pupils.
  Peter Porcal has been a part of the Florence program since it began about 36 years ago. My high school art teacher was taught by this man in Florence the year I was born, yet she still finds every opportunity to speak highly of him. There's something to be said about a man who chooses to remain in the company of individuals that have such an interesting and sometimes volatile relationship with their emotions. I just don't know what that thing to be said happens to be.
  I do know that he cares for people. Not just the people he's being paid to care for, because I don't think that he gives a flying fart about how much he's being paid, but anybody that could appreciate what he has to offer. 
  We were in Venice for a weekend in October to absorb the history of a sinking city. Peter took us on quite the hike from cathedral to cathedral with barely a seat in between. Most of us are in our early to mid twenties and were exhausted, but Peter kept his composure in spite of the limp he was walking with.
  I remember I was  leaning against the railing on a ferry heading across the canal on the way back to our hostel when he baffled me. He was closer to the middle of the "standing room only" and there were about three passengers between him and myself. One of the passengers was a young blind man of about 25. He seemed to be handling the sway of the boat but you could tell it strained him more than was comfortable. I'm not going to lie and tell you I would've helped him. If he had fallen I would have caught him of course but I must've assumed he was used to being troubled with balance on the ferry and stood aside, cautiously watching, making sure not to stare. This was all in a few moments. Peter reacted so quickly. He was somewhat unstable himself yet in a blur of greyish hair and polite requests, he stabilized the man with a friendly arm. This should have made us all look bad but that's not Peter's style. In fact, I may have been the only one to notice (purely by chance) his subtle act of kindness. I watched as Peter's presence and conversation put a smile on the man's face. My little understanding of Italian told me they were strangers to each other, engaging only in small talk. But I think Peter knows that for some people, small talk can do big things. 
  I hope I don't betray his modesty in writing this but I thought that those who know him would enjoy that simple, character reinforcing story of Peter. And for those that don't know him, it might be nice to know that there are a few people out there that don't abuse their influence. There are people who respect the power they have as a mentor to young people in transition. Even after 36 years of being worshipped.

Everyday on our Knees.

"We have met the enemy and he is us"

-Pogo

Reconsidering rosaries.

  Mass is in service in the congregation of creative people. A church that gives certain sects of christianity a run for their money in number of tears shed and minds lost. There is no priest. There are no pews. Not even a confession booth or delicious little wafers. Only desperate newcomers and somewhat less desperate veterans searching for that sweet moment when inspiration hits. Their bodies convulse and they fall to the ground with hands stretched out, scraping along a canvas or notebook. They may speak in tongues but that's usually a result of a bit too much sacramental wine (A popular ritual). This moment is so fleeting. It's cruelty incarnate. 

  But have you heard the good news? Two men, in the early 1990s wrote a book. It has been my bible as of September 2010, passed on to our Florence community by another David Bayles and Ted Orland witness. The name of the book is "Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking" and it is good. 

  If your art is an obsession and a lover like it is to most of us, then it would be safe to say that your process doesn't follow reason. Your art is an abusive spouse but it's way too good in bed for you to leave it. Fortunately though, Human rights do not yet apply to your art (however sentient it may seem sometimes) and it is generally accepted to gag and bind it until it meets only your needs. This book is a supportive friend with a knack for tying knots. 

An excerpt from the introduction:

  "THIS BOOK IS ABOUT MAKING ART. Ordinary art. Ordinary art means something like: all art not made by Mozart. After all, art is rarely made by Mozart-like people--essentially (statistically speaking) there aren't any people like that. But while geniuses may get made once-a-century or so, good art gets made all the time." 

-Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland

Walking on Eggshells

"Artists don't get down to work until the pain of working is exceeded by the pain of not working"

-Stephen DeStaebler

Eggshell.
Acrylic on masonite 19x22"

  About 10 minutes ago I sat with a panel of two distinguished painters and an art historian to discuss my work over the past few months, which immediately became a discussion of my work over the past few days. As I sat, delivering what by definition would be an artist's statement, but what i would describe as "Why I only like two of my pieces", the three other sets of eyes in the room fluttered over to the piece I whipped together at the end of last week. 

  Continuing with my recent discovery of the almost certain benefits of uncertainty, I painted Eggshell because I needed to capture something, not because I needed to say anything in particular. The apparently misinformed designer in me was baffled by the concept of painting an image that simply cannot be justified with words, But the resurfacing artist in me could feel that I captured what I needed to capture for me and not for anyone else. Yet this thing, that I made for me alone, stood out the most to three individuals that know me the least in our community. This type of critique was so surreal to me. I felt something close to shame in narcissism as they drew meaning from something so personal. I suppose I received a taste of what it feels like to be a commodity as an artist as opposed to distributing a product made of paint and wood. And man does it make me feel guilty.

  I read somewhere that making art is like masturbation; pure self fulfilment. Whereas design is like intercourse. If you're skilled at it, you know that the satisfaction of your partner should come before your own (which is why it's important for designers to masturbate on the side once in a while). Which explains why so many successful artists in every field are said to be profoundly narcissistic. How hard would it be to resist loving yourself if you heard applause every time you finished doing the deed?

The Gift of the Gab.

"Other people have a nationality. The Irish...have a psychosis"

-Brendan Behan

Bar "Service"

      A friend of mine has a way of defining Canadian nationality to the people we meet in Europe that seems to always confuse the inquirer. Of course it sounds more charming coming from a girl with the remnants of a stereotypically Canadian Cape Breton accent, But her point usually circles 'round to say that most Canadians will label themselves as anything but (Until they make it to Europe sporting patriotism in the form of a backpack patch).   
  I remember the bewilderment on the face of a Yugoslavian (an Italian at first introduction) when he was told that generations didn't matter as long as it set you apart. That in Canada, stating that your father's cousin was born in Germany and came to visit one summer is acceptable evidence for an exotic status. 
  I leave for Ireland in about 14 days, for 3 weeks, which is why I've begun to question my own "exotic status". I was raised in Canada, granted by Irish people with Irish values (whatever those might be), but aside from my pasty skin and hints of accent picked up from my mother, I'm pretty used to the cold and end my exclamatory sentences in eh. Still, I remember my own entitlement to nationality as a grade schooler to feature subtle rejections of Canadian things. I can count the times I've been ice skating on one hand and how many times that included a hockey stick on a fist. In grade 3 I was very intent on never truly singing "O Canada". I would stand silently, Lip-syncing only when I was in the teacher's sights. Never anything boisterous, only little things to convince myself I was special.
  I'm in Limbo. I don't feel Canadian, my 9 year old self made sure of that, but I don't feel Irish either. Especially around those travelling from the island itself. I figure then, it'd be best to be good at being both. At least if I spend time with the family that only knew me by name and diaper in Ireland, then I can feel more comfortable convincing myself of what I would have fought for before hitting puberty. And why not milk the Canadian reputation in Europe? I passed my civics exams after all.