Phil Irish

Ah: some stolen moments to read a novel!

I found this book compelling, with amazing perspectives on major historical events. It brings the bombing of Hiroshima and the Holocaust into the same narrative, shaping the characters and their relation to each other. It was amazing to read from the point of view of a Japanese girl, Emiko, who lived through the atomic blast. Her stoicism, her anger, and how she was treated as she travelled to the US --- particulalry the TV show --- were amazing.

To bring this character together with Anton Böll, one of the designers of the bomb, brought such complexity and tension to the tale. Neither character is a stereotype: each has their internal conflicts and unresolved issues. And then, the ending is great... I'll say no more ; ) The ethical quagmire of the tale, brought home so personally, left me contemplating the tangled mess of decisions in our broken world.

Oh: another element that gripped me: Sophie (married to Anton) has lupus. A disease that has also touched my family. It was striking to read a fictive account of this disease, that is so close to home for me.

Beautifully written, the book is full of structural parallels and powerful recurring images. The words will sit within me for some time.

I spent the entire weekend camped out at the Nidus Festival, at Bingeman Park, Kitchener. Sean Howard was my co-adventurer --- thanks for a great weekend!

Nidus (latin for "Nest") brought diverse streams of the Christian faith together to explore God, seek justice, and celebrate rich cultural expression. This was no cliche thing. I was blown away by the wisdom, the grace extended to all, and the creative freedom. My fav musician was Miranda Stone --- not only for her concert, but also for the tea hut she built -- where she served tea, free, non-stop, for 3 days. Her exotic hut became the relational hub of the whole festival, where people met to talk and be together and share.... for me, it was a physical embodiment of grace. Thanks Miranda. The best speaker, for me, was Shane Claibourne. He really challenged my imagination --- to think about community and politics, justice and creativity. Jesus was so unconventional in his love: why then do his followers blend into the masses so smoothly? We need to free our imaginations to envision another way of living (and be willing to go to jail for it? -- Shane's protest stories are great).

I brought an expanded version of the Cartographers' Lounge -- walls to accomodate 5 paintings as well as the usual. Here's the thing: the results were FANTASTIC. I think the reason is that people were already there to lead reflective lives. Perhaps my lounge became another spiritual tool, like the Labyrinth in the next room, to opens one's life to possibility.
Whatever the case, I got a lot of great maps with practically no song-and-dance from my end. For instance, a US military deserter; a healing garden after Kosovo; a bike accident at Hilton Falls; ... and so many more. Stay tuned for painterly results.

I really hope Nidus happens again next year.

I just finished reading this book by John Terpstra: "The Boys, or, Waiting for the Electrician's Daughter" (Gaspereau Press, 2005)

John actually read some of his poetry at one of my exhibitions, a few years ago --- a night of poetry and chamber music, for the exhibition "Altar" at Loop Gallery... it was a great night, and I've kept an open ear to his work since then.

Thinking of him as a poet (undoubtedly oblivious to his other preoccupations) I was captivated by this book. Grounded in fact, in the particularities of family, relationships, and compromised health. It's not poetry as I'd normally think of poetry.

The story follows his wife's family, focusing on her three brothers - Neil, Paul, and Eric - who ALL had muscular dystrophy. The book centres on their last year of life, for they all died in the same year. We see the stretching, coping, and celebrating of this family. John, falling in love with Mary Ann, is also changed by these boys. He finds a place in the family rhythms, in-jokes, care-giving.

Here's what intrigues me, and also where it intersects with my painting practice... He is working in a mode of documentary --- describing, listing, noting times and dates. And yet the listing happens in the form of lyric poetry. Somehow the totally banal and the richly significant are bound together.

I felt such depth behind the words, knowing that they find their source in real lives that he is trying to honour. A great deal goes unsaid. The text has a caution, or a discipline, that is tied to the real discipline of caring for others.

The dignity of these boys comes through loud and clear. Dignity, despite their dependence and their pain. Dignity that many "outsiders" would deny them. Their rich personalities who show that struggle cannot put out the shared laughter.

The book has given me a lot to think about. And feel about. And somehow, paint about.

Last week, after teaching, I got together with Scott Sawtell. (Scott makes politically provocative paintings -- see his work here.) Following dinner, we went to visit Emily Carr at the AGO.

It was interesting to see how populated the early works are: the First Nations villages are thriving with children and canoes and people making stuff. The vibrant Gauguin-induced colours only add to the sense of life.... so is this a romanticism akin to Gauguin's tahiti?

But then, the modernist Emily is painting dense forests, and totem poles, with no sign of people. The people are gone. So is this a modernist "take out the narrative" abstraction? Or did the villages see marked decline in the intervening 20 years?

The dense forests, full of rippling rhythms and illusionstic paradoxes, were my favorite bits.

The end of the show felt depressing. The wall texts were going on about the luminous skies of Theosophy... but all I saw was the decline of the forest to wimpering lone trees. Paintings about decline, but not the howling rage of decline... rather, the wimper of helplessness.

Looking for a way to immerse ourselves in the Easter experience, we borrowed a "Pysanky" egg dying kit. Drawing the lines on with a wax resist, a few of us circled around the burning candle flame... it was a beautiful experience.

It's quite addictive, adding colour after colour without knowing how it is turning out. It evolved to a point of being a ball of blackened wax, dipped in black dye. Then, gently removing the wax coating, the vibrant colours were revealed. Revelation indeed. A poetic process. Anna and I became addicted. I've now ordered my own kit, to be ready for next year.

Pictured is my fav egg.
Instead of the traditional pattern, this egg has a meditation on one of Christ's "words from the cross." I like the way you have to keep turning the egg to discover all the elements. There is something true about this turning, discovering, unfolding.

I am smitten with this sculpture. At the Art Gallery of York University, (after squeezing by the hip revelers at the bar,) this piece reached out and grabbed me. Perhaps that has to do with my obsession with Ukrainian Eggs (see my previous post...) but it's much, much more.

Created by Anitra Hamilton, it is titled "Who's gonna tell Jesus there's no Santa Claus."

It is a real bomb (how did she acquire that?) covered in smashed Ukrainian Eggs. As you stand next to it, you can see how each egg had fit together. She told me that "I made 20 dozen psanky eggs for that project, it took 8 months, never again."

This beautiful decoration, concealing this tool of violence and destruction, proves to be a compelling and irreducable provocation. I keep asking myself what the relationship between these elements might be...
Are the eggs complicit in decorating violence?
Or are they offering a fragile alternative to violence and domination?
What is the power in brokenness?
There is something powerful in the fact the eggs are broken. This broken, suffering beauty is a critique of the violence of our empires (or within ourselves).

I also enjoyed Kristan Horton's show... it was fun, witty, campy.
But it's the egg-bomb that kept exploding in my head on the drive home.

Doug Kirton The Cadillac Palace Theatre in the Rain, 2007, Oil on canvas, 106.5" x 84"

I've admired Doug Kirton's paintings for many years. In fact, at University of Guelph, he sparked a breakthrough in my approach to painting. He was a masters student at the time, and I was taking my first painting class with him. I loved the way he spoke of the physical properties of painting --- about the transparent glaze interupted by the chalky scumple, the hard edge diffusing to a blur, or the optical buzz from layered colours.
At the time, I was very driven by subject and narrative in my work. A short visit to Doug's studio convinced me that just as much "meaning" is held in the multiplicity of ways paint can be coaxed onto a surface.

So, I really enjoyed seeing Doug's new show last night. Hypnotic compound spaces, where city lights reflect and refract through glass and rain. Each work is a visual puzzle, both illusion and abstraction. There is a fascinating tension in these works --- the imagery would have lent itself to a wet treatment of transparent glazes and drippy marks. Instead, the glistening lights and reflective surfaces are made from thick stringy scumbles of opaque oils.

Beyond the visual play of these works, there is a sense of melancholy. I found myself alone, in a hotel loby, in a city far from home. It is a place that purports to be glamorous, but is found to be empty. The dark blues and un-nameable grey tones create a profound and beautiful sadness.

Perhaps there is a critique of the glamorous metropolitan streets. But it is not cynical. These works are made with too much subtlety and ambiguity. The painterly attention, its quietly throbbing energy, demands our attention.

Doug Kirton's exhibition, "Still Water and Rain," at the Kitchener-Waterloo Art Gallery.
There's on online publication about the show here.