Seasonal Balls

Nothing says Christmas like seasonal balls I always say. And since I just had my annual holiday studio event, I thought it appropriate to offer up this cheery set of colourful rotundities.
It was a lovely affair in the studio, with many paintings finding homes and almost all of the snacks also finding corporeal domiciles.

The remaining new works have been posted to my website. Go here for small works, and there for the larger ones.

Too Little Too Late

According to Carlotta C. Greer, author of Your Home and You, a 730 page homeconomics tome published in 1955, "A quart (of cow's milk) a day, either as a drink or in foods, may help send a girl on the road to popularity". p. 52

This news comes tragically late for me, a recently committed vegetarian with strong vegan leanings. I can only hope that all my years of drinking milk will stand me in good stead in the popularity department, as I soldier on in the social trenches without benefit of bovine assisted esteem.

Camels File Class Action Libel Suit

This is from a 1947 book on women's posture called Your Carriage Madam (John Wiley and Sons, New York).

"If you've been sitting in a very low seat or on the floor, don't get up like a camel, hind end first. It's hard work and it's unbecoming - even to the camel."

Really.

Girlfriend can you spare a dime?

I was in Victoria last week for my Blank Canvas presentation at Vancouver Island School of Art. I know it's not ladylike to blow one's horn, but the show did sell out.

But that's not the subject of this blog entry.

The VISA carries on its business in an old elementary school which has been left pretty much untouched from the days when it served the young boys and girls of the area.

I have a real fondness for old institutional buildings. Perhaps in a past life I was a caretaker in a castle.
Anyways, I found the girls bathroom to have a particularly charming patina about it. For one, the stall doors are so short, you could carry on a complete conversation over them. I suppose it's not so much that the doors are short, but that everyone I know is tall.

But it was the Kotex dispenser that really caught my eye and warmed the coggles of my heart and other regions too intimate to mention here.

It brought back a rush of sentiment for the days when we would strap on these huge and unruly pads, and then go about our business trying to ignore the fact that something the size of a compact car was wedged between our legs. And to think it only cost 10 cents. You can hardly break wind for that price anymore.

But that was before pads had wings.

Maybe it's the wings that pushed the cost up.

Turning of the Table

I have been busy working my way through my plethora of vintage tomes aimed at women as I continue research for a new book Dangerous Curves and I came across this description of a practice that used to be known as the "Turning of the Table". It is from page 197 of Emily Post's Etiquette (1960 Funk and Wagnall's, New York) and it goes like this:

"The hostess would turn from the man on her right to the one on her left, and each woman at the table was supposed to notice this and switch at the same time."


Well, clearly something has gone awry in the photo above. Our hostess in the forefront has turned to her right but apparently the signal was missed by the other two female guests who are continuing on in a blatant disregard for the protocol established by the lead woman.

We can be thankful in today's modern world, where women have come such a long way baby, that the demands on a hostess have been scaled back so that she is no longer responsible for the conversationally directional tendencies of her dinner guests.

cover girl

I am very thrilled to say that I am now, finally, officially, a cover girl. The rag in question is FOCUS magazine (Victoria BC), and I am Miss November, which I suppose is better than misbehaving, although I might rather be misbehaving.
The occasion that sparked my appearance in/on the magazine is my participation in a group art show at the Vancouver Island School of Art called "Rare Birds" which opens in Victoria tomorrow night (friday Nov 12) and runs (or flies) until Dec 6th. The other avian-obsessed artists are Roy Green, Dianne Kremmer, and the dynamic duo of sculptors Kimm Nightingale and Joke Mensink.

But wait. There's more! I am presenting my slide show "I Never Met a Blank Canvas I Didn't Like" in Victoria on thursday November 18th. Details about both events can be found here.

Victoria's poet laureate Linda Rogers, a regular contributor to FOCUS magazine, and brilliant Canadian scribe, has written a fabulously insightful article about me and my artistic/performative antics. You can download the PDF and read all about it here.

I am on page 12. Not too far in, but in decent enough.

Check your face at the door

This is from p. 231 of Family Circle's Complete Book of Beauty and Charm (1951):
"Check your facial expression as many times a day as you can. Then make the effort not to return to a frown, a worried look, a displeased expression, or whatever you have been wearing instead of the pleasant, expectant look that is the mark of a charming woman".

All I can say is, our girl pictured here is in trouble. Clearly she has not been checking her facial expression as much as she ought to.

tooth fairy refuses pickup

I was at my dentist a while back and she reported to me that one of my upper rear molars was in need of crowning. As it is, I have more crowns than the entire British Royal family combined (not counting the corgis). Further, the tooth in question had been operating more or less in a decorative capacity for some time now since its corresponding lower berth companion was removed a few years back.
My dentist reluctantly agreed to extract the molar, and thus it appears above, alongside a regular strength tylenol tablet for purposes of illustrating scale.
I tried to put it under my pillow last night, but it was so bulky I had trouble sleeping. The tooth fairy left a note...something about excess weight/height and union regulations.

The Homemaker and Nervous Strain

In Family Circle's Complete Book of Beauty and Charm from 1951, there is a chapter called "Special Beauty Problems of the Homemaker":

"The beauty problems of the woman in the home fall into four general categories: hands, complexion, diet, and nervous strain. Surely the homemaker has a variety of tasks to perform. If you let them get the better of you, you are inclined to be tense; sooner or later the marks of this tension will show on your face. A great deal of the beauty of the homemaker depends on her attitude toward the important job that she does."

Speaking for myself, I make it a habit never to let my household tasks get the better of me. It's an integral part of my beauty regimen.

A Horn by Any Other Name

So the other day one of my wild turkeys got close enough for me to kiss and being a woman of proper breeding (we had not been formally introduced), I of course did not. But even so, at such proximity I couldn't help but notice the amazing (and only mildly suggestive) protuberance rising pretty much straight off her forehead.
Oh I'd seen this feature before, but there was something about being so close to it that gave me pause. And whilst pausing, I remembered that only last year, I myself was host to a startlingly similar protuberance which I took to our local doctor who sent me to an eye surgeon who told me that what I had was a cutaneous horn.
"Of all things" I said to myself whereupon he draped a sterile cloth over my face with a hole cut out just big enough to accommodate the horn, and then set out to remove it all the while chatting with his lovely assistant as though I were not there, under the cloth, awash in a swirl of relief that I would no longer have to explain to people why I was knitting such a tiny toque.

I think wild turkeys have a plethora of admirable traits but I must say, I hope this is the end of my attempt to emulate them too literally.

flaunting it

So with (Canadian) Thanksgiving weekend bearing down on us, you would think that any turkeys running free would want to remain thus, and toward this end, would assume a discrete profile.

Not so the wild turkeys who frequent my yard. These birds appear to be flaunting their lifestyle, parading their free-range capabilities for any and all to see.

Perhaps these turkeys have been reading my blog through my patio glass door, and they know they've taken up residence with a freshly minted vegetarian.

Nothing safer than a new, lentil thumping convert.

And speaking of Thanksgiving, here on my island (Gabriola) we celebrate the long weekend by throwing open the doors to over 50 artist studios and inviting the public to come and see what we have been up to. For more info, check here.

some things never change

pass me the tofu

I've been making a slow approach to vegetarianism for a long, long time and the train is finally pulling all the way into the station.

A cocktail of circumstances has guided me here, but at the top of the list is the simple fact that I can no longer keep myself divided up like a side of beef so I can remain asleep to the reality of the lives of the animals destined for my plate.

I am now weeping my way through the books I was always too afraid to open:
- Matthew Scully's Dominion; the Power of Woman, the Suffering of Animals, and the call to Mercy

- The Pig Who Sang to the Moon; the Emotional World of Farm Animals by Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson

- and 101 Reasons Why I'm a Vegetarian by Pamela Rice.

If one of the titles sounds a little off, it's because I gave Matthew Scully's "Man" a sex change; because of course when we use one gender, we mean both, but that's another blog entry altogether.

I've had Rice's book for over five years but it has sat on a shelf keeping time. As Matthew Scully puts it "...consciousness of the infamy won't go away: most people have it ticking away inside them somewhere" (p. 85). The last time I heard banging this loud was when my biological clock went off in 1988.

It's funny because for years, people have assumed I was vegetarian. It's the one 'mistake' that people consistently make when attempting to locate me on the political/social/environmental spectrum. Maybe they knew something I didn't.

Today, one of my wild turkeys (they're not really mine, they just grace me with their presence) hopped right up onto the chopping block and set out to preen herself.

Maybe she knows something too.

Pillbox saves the day

Here I am, plugged in and ready to go at the recent BOLDfest conference in Vancouver, a conference for the older, bolder lesbian set. Well, you don't actually have to be old, bold OR lesbian to be there. It's not like they checked our ID for date of birth, or interviewed us about our social orientation. It's a self-screening sort of thing.
But since I am relatively old, and getting bolder by the minute, and all the while, a card-carrying second-wave, pre-post, feminist lesbian, I more than qualified to attend. I performed my Charm, Beauty and Poise show for the girls and a decidedly raucous and inappropriately ebullient time was had by all.
It is a little known fact that as much as 87% of all good breeding escapes through the top of the head.
Hence the pillbox.

Photo by Carole Finnegan.

Here's a terrific exercise for the aging muscles of a gal's neck and chin. It's from page 66 of Reduce and Beautify your Figure (1954):

"Speak slowly the letters Q and X. Repeat 20 times. Make faces at yourself, twisting your mouth and chin, stretching your mouth and lips, using all the different muscles you can think of."

A Simple Cure for Dissatisfaction

I came across this bit of wisdom in Today's Clothing (J.B.Lippincott Co., 1949 page 292), one of my many vintage Home Economics textbooks. I especially love it that the image was originally published by Better Homes and Gardens, the people who are still bringing us, well, better homes and gardens.

But who knew? Here I've been trying meditation, psychotherapy, hot baths, positive thinking, gratitude, volunteering, visualization, somatic experiencing, behaviour modification, 85% dark chocolate, yoga, and kissing my dog on her lips when really, all I need to do to improve my satisfaction is take proper care of my hat.

Life was obviously simpler in 1949.

Finally a caloric explanation

I just found an interesting factoid in one of my vintage Home Economics Books, Family Meals and Hospitality from 1949. I mentioned in an earlier post, that I am hard at work on a second book - working title Dangerous Curves (my first was Storm Clouds Over Party Shoes, Etiquette Problems for the Ill-Bred Woman). As part of my research, I am obliged to scour my vast collection of old books aimed at women. It makes for some very interesting reading to say the least.
Anyways, in amongst the many chapters in Family Meals and Hospitality which cover such topics as entertaining on a post-war budget, feeding the convalescent, and preparing appetizing yeast breads, was a little chart showing how many calories are burned while engaged in various household chores. For example, mopping burns one and a half calories per pound of weight per hour. Scrubbing comes in somewhere between two and three. Hand sewing provides a tragic one half calorie per hour per pound of weight.
Now, without doing any math or running a white-gloved finger across my horizontal surfaces, you can safely surmise that there are very few of these type of calories being burned here in my home. My only hope against the ravages of menopausal weight re-distribution (unwanted chin hair alone must account for some of my gains in the past few years) is that typing rapidly burns one calorie.
I am working as fast as I can.

it's a jungle out here

I didn't mind so much the mouse making a nest in the engine compartment of my 1985 Toyota Tercel, a car so old that Windows 1.0 was still a glint in Microsoft's eye. My local mechanics discovered the nest when I brought the vehicle in for servicing. They of course would not disturb it, and recommended we summons a HAZMAT team. Mice droppings are the new black when it comes to disease, at least the droppings belonging to the deer mouse. The deer mouse, largely rural, is grayish to light brown on top, with a white belly, large ears, a furry tail and eyes that appear to “bug out.” Of course, I didn't actually see the droppings leaving the mouse in question, so I can't be sure of their pedigree. But I do live on a rural island and so it's safe to say that these droppings did indeed come from a deer mouse.
But I digress.
As I said, I didn't mind so much the nest being under the hood, but when she decided to take up residence in my favorite hat, it was a nest of a different colour. Imagine my surprise when I grabbed the hat from my glove compartment, flung it onto my head, and was promptly showered in a gentle rain of multicoloured fluff, flecked with the aforementioned dreaded droppings. The situation could only have been worse if the mouse had been home or -god forbid - entertaining at the time of the incident.
Where is the HAZHAT team when you need them?

Measuring Up

Every summer, my favorite art maven here on Gabriola, Kathy Ramsey who owns ARTWORKS, hands over the same item to an entire possee of artists, and asks us to create something from it. I love the challenge. One year, we were given a box of kleenex so - inspired by my years as a less than buxom teen - I found a vintage lethal weapon pointed bra, stuffed it full of every tissue in the box, and then mounted it on a wooden plaque with an engraved sign reading "Best rack 1963".
This year the object was a wooden ruler and I extracted head to toe criticisms about women's bodies from my collection of old books and assigned them to the corresponding body parts on an old photo. I realize you will not be able to read the text easily unless maybe you use a magnifying glass, but trust me, the comments are brutal. Here's the statement I wrote to go with it:

Women have been trying to measure up to some impossible ideal or other ever since Eve asked Adam if her fig leaf made her look fat. Primitive cave drawings have been discovered recently which clearly depict women using crude seaweed straps to cinch in their waists.
OK so I made that up.
What I didn't make up are the passages of text in my piece. They were lifted from my vintage charm, beauty, poise, and etiquette books.
According to the Canadian Women's Health Network, girls as young as 5 and 6 in this country, are engaging in weight control measures.
Post Feminism my foot.

practical palmistry for women

I found this odd little book the other day...all about palmistry, or chiromancy as it is also known; the art of characterization and foretelling the future through the study of the palm. And I thought to myself, wouldn't it be more useful if the interpretation of our palmar features helped women predict what trouble areas we might encounter down the road, say like, down the old age road. I mean, wouldn't it be great if we could know right now, what we might expect to encounter in our golden years so that we could target our current beauty intervention with more efficacy. I mean, what if your get too fat groove ran like an arctic pipeline clear across your hand. Wouldn't you want to see that now and make the requisite caloric adjustments?
So I took the liberty of altering the book cover and, well, you see the results above. Apparently the practice of chiromancy is generally regarded as a pseudoscience and I suppose I have only added to that tendency.

A little photoshop is a dangerous thing.

dog meets bird meets dog

I was working away at my computer the other day when I looked down to find my little dog Rosie, lying comfortably on the small brown mat near my feet. This is quite common, her lying on the mat. What was uncommon was the large wild turkey lurking a foot or so away and separated only by a sliding glass door. They seemed as mesmerized by each other as I was of them. Of course, I felt a distinct urge to wax anthropomorphic and so I did. In my mind, the conversation between them ran like this:

dog: where's your back legs?
bird: how do you preen that mess?

OK so the bison was stuffed.

Alright, so the bison story was bogus; a hoax, a swindle, a ruse. But this baby is the real thing. And that shadow you see here? That's me, asking permission to take the photo. I thought maybe (as is the custom in other parts of the world) some underprivileged child would rush out of the woods to collect a fee or offer to take my picture with the animal, but it didn't happen. As far as I can tell, there are very few underprivileged children in Banff. I think there's a by-law about that sort of thing.
Anyways, I appreciated my brush with wildlife, such as it was.

Artist Almost Mauled by Banff Bison

I was walking in the town of Banff this past weekend (for my opening at Canada House), minding my business as it were, when suddenly I was confronted by the monstrous hirsute creature pictured above. I was trying to remember everything I had ever learned about what to do in such an instance. Sadly, all the information I could glean from the recesses of my mind, pertained to bears. But it was all I had...so I ruminated just the same. However, in my panic, I quickly became confused, about whether it was the black bear or the grizzly that could climb trees. And one of them you are NEVER supposed to look at in the eye. I was awash in uncertainty as regards protocol, a tragic situation for any girl. And just when I thought things might take a truly tragic turn, the voice of the Parks Canada attendant broke through, reminding me that I had not yet paid the museum entrance fee.

Phew!!

be afraid. be very afraid

It should have been a routine operation, an excursion into the fridge as part of my usual preparation for dinner. I was reaching for a potato when I drew my hand back.
There it was, as plain as the quest for women's equality is long. The face of satan. Those perfectly symmetrical horns. That expression....well, it was a little blank.
It had to be a red potato too.
I couldn't look away. There was something in his gaze, even though it was well, sort of non-descript.
But still, taking no chances, I quickly closed the door and ordered takeout.

Girl Power (or not)

I was listening to CBC radio this morning in my car and in the course of a mere 2 hours, I heard three distressing items about the sorry state of affairs for the female gender. First off, the Federal Government has just announced the 19 successful candidates for the Canada Excellence Research Chairs program, a program designed to woo high-powered scientists from all over the world. All very well and good I thought until they mentioned that no women were selected for the jobs. Next up, I hear that of the 19 films (what is it with #19?) being considered at the Cannes film festival this year, not one of them was directed by a woman. And then as if to add insult to injury, it was reported only this week, that female dogs are earning just 86% on the male dog's kibble for tricks of equal value.
Well, OK, that last one is bogus, but seriously, the other two are true.
My only solace lies in knowing that Mattel Corporation recently unveiled Barbie's 126th career as voted on by her fans from all over the world. . Yes, Computer Engineer Barbie will be released in the winter of 2010.
Perhaps the tide is turning afterall.

Part Your Lips and Breathe in and Out

So as part of my research for a book which I hope to publish down the road (working title Dangerous Curves), I am reading every one of the 102 vintage books in my personal collection. These books are all about etiquette, charm, beauty, grooming, sewing, home economics etc. and - as you might expect - are aimed at women because apparently men come fully-formed into society and are in need of no improvement whereas women require constant correction. Wasn't there a hippy tea by that name in the 1970s?
I am sure by now you have noticed the pug above, and may be wondering if perhaps I have inserted the wrong image for this blog post. Please stand by.

These old books are just chock full of tips for women, and I mean every square inch of her, and it occurred to me tonight as I was extracting yet more of them from the toxic slag heap of instruction, that it could take years for me to disseminate this material, and in the meantime, women are going without the valuable information that I could be making available to them right now. Therefore I've decided that when I come across a particularly salient nugget of guidance, I will post it here on my blog where women in need will be able to find it.

And still you say to yourself, what could this pictured pug possibly have to do with this blog entry?

Well, it will all become clear as tonight, I bring you your inaugural tip # 546-a which comes to us from Debbie Drake's Easy Way to a Perfect Figure and Glowing Health, p.104, Prentice-Hall (1961) and reads as follows:

"To renew the youthful characteristics of deep breathing which keep the voice firm and resonant, practice this simple exercise: Pant like a dog. Part your lips and breathe in and out rapidly. Repeat often. "

It's always good to be reminded to repeat the breathing in and out. I intend to make it my personal practice right up until I die.

There is so much we can learn from dogs.

another single mother

As if to illustrate the deep and enduring meaning of Mother's Day, one of my girls, my wild turkey girls that is, has hatched in the past few days, a crop of tiny turkeys. I can only assume this one single mother must have gotten a little wilder than perhaps was advised, and now she is paying the price, forced to raise a large family on her own. Turkeys raising turkeys!
The sting of illegitimacy has driven her out of the pack and into my backyard where she can be seen here scratching out a living with a few of her brood.
Where was family planning? And will she be able to turn her life around despite having taken this reproductive detour?
My mind goes to these and other burning questions.

The rank and file

So I heard someone on the radio yesterday talking about book rankings on Amazon.com and I got curious about where my little tome - Storm CLouds Over Party Shoes, Etiquette Problems for the Ill-Bred Woman - was fairing in the pecking order.

2,550,202

That's exactly the sort of curiosity that killed the cat.

Turkey Has Let Herself Go

She showed up yesterday on the railing of my back deck, walking around without a care in the world, seemingly indifferent to the tragedy unfolding in and on her person. She is a figure accident waiting to happen, and the real heartbreak is that she may not even be aware of how perilously close she has veered to the cliff's edge. Apparently she has never heard the disparaging term 'turkey neck' and the concept of waddle has completely eluded her.

She has let herself go and she clearly doesn't give a damn.

60 is the new 40

Well, a lot has happened in the past while. For one thing, I turned 60. Who knew this could happen? I had a swellegant party and we ate the most magnificent cake (pictured above). It was pretty funny too because in all my considerable prep for this party - including learning how to use an MP3 and creating playlists of all my favorite disco tunes - I failed to supply forks for my many guests and we were forced to eat this cake with our bare hands.
That's one way to stay young.
Fortunately for me, there were no finger-painters in the crowd and the cake stayed pretty much where it belonged.

ceramic couples hold group wedding

I had a valentine's event called "HEARTSPEAK" in my studio this past saturday (you can see the remaining works here). The whole affair was supervised by my collection of forever-together ceramic couples who were taking part in a group ceremony. One of my grooms had lost an arm, and the best man turned out to be a penguin...but other than that, I think the whole arrangement was a fitting tribute to love and betrothal. I am not certain how the tiny bowling pin and looming canine fit in, but sometimes, ours is not to question. Love works in mysterious ways.

Taffeta

In one of my many vintage etiquette books (Margery Wilson's Pocket Book of Etiquette, 1941) Margery writes that "the thin woman has a great friend in taffeta". Now, why an etiquette book should be concerning itself with the size and fabric compatibilities of a woman's body and not adhering strictly to matters of decorum is the subject of another book, one that I am working on. But since she has, and since I happen to own a taffeta dress, and since I was seen making rather a spectacle of myself wearing it just last night at the Port Theatre in Nanaimo where I was performing my Charm, Beauty and Poise show, I thought it fitting that I picture it here, hanging in Dressing Room A, waiting for me to put it on. There was no star over the door of Dressing Room A, no champagne on ice, no post-performance flowers flooding in, but I have to admit I was a little thrilled to have a room of my own.

And though I am not particularly thin, I know what Margery means. I love my red taffeta dress and consider her a great friend even if she never picks up the tab. But perhaps what is most exciting for me as regards this taffeta dress is when I tuck my vintage crinoline under it and my hemline circumference becomes a force to be reckoned with, flaring out and taking up the equivalent of a small parking space.

This is when I feel the true power of taffeta.

Rare sighting of four-legged turkey

There has been a sighting of the extremely rare and elusive four-legged wild turkey. The bird was spotted today on the property of S. Norgate of Gabriola Island BC, Canada. Apparently it has been making its way across the continent, sheltered by vegans and vegetarians, all part of an elaborate underground railroad aimed at protecting the bird from exploitation by American Thanksgiving enthusiasts and in particular, dark meat lovers.
The bird, who agreed to be photographed on condition of anonymity, had no comment.

Why did the corvid cross the road?

This is the number one canvas completed as part of a series of twelve which are destined for a three-person show at Canada House Gallery opening on June 12th. That's a lot of numbers I realize. 1, 12, 3 and then 12 again.

I love birds. Some days my affection for birds rivals that of my love for dogs. The two species each have their areas of expertise. Birds specialize in singing, dazzling beak work, and of course, flight. Dogs on the other hand, specialize in sticks, loyalty and bad breath. I should clarify that bad breath is not a given. It depends on the dog and the agility of its guardian(s). For example, my sister and her partner have two rescued greyhounds named Albert and Ruby. They are small horses really. The jaws and teeth on these dogs are so expansive, and the dogs so willing, that my sister and her partner are able to lift their sizable cheek flaps (the dogs' I mean) and insert a fully operational electric toothbrush. This would not be possible for me because my dog Rosie's teeth are microscopic and her mouth opens only wide enough to allow in the smallest of biscuits. Besides, she believes that personal grooming devices are wasted on her and my efforts should instead be focused on preparing her next meal.
Which brings me back to birds. I wonder if they have bad breath? I've never been allowed close enough to be able to tell. Even if they did, I could forgive them anything in exchange for their song.

This was the scene a few days ago at the Nanaimo Art Gallery in - just as you would expect - beautiful downtown Nanaimo BC Canada. The occasion was the opening for a group show opened called "Art and the Message". I had been invited to participate and I was very happy to offer up for the occasion, four of my favourite freudian slips.

Not all of the work I do as an artist is intended to have a 'message', even though text can be found reliably strewn about. Sometimes I am quite simply having the time of my life. Sometimes the message is meant for me, and viewers 'overhear' this conversation I am having with myself. At still other times, my feminism rears its strident little head and I clearly set out to make a statement. This one (below) represents all three of these conditions. You probably can't make it out, but the little note collaged onto the canvas bears the lyrics to Brenda Lee's "I'm sorry". I am sure he is.

still life imitating still life

I was preparing lunch yesterday when my compost container caught my eye. It was so beautiful an arrangement of vegetable waste, I thought for sure it had been created by an elf, or sprite. Perhaps the angel of everyday kitchen miracles. See for yourself.

Artist's Work Dazzles Critics

I have just been paid the highest compliment on record, as regards my ability to render. And I don't mean to reduce, convert or melt down fat. Nor do I mean to deliver or pronounce formally as in "the jury rendered its verdict". I am also not referring to rendering assistance, rendering thanks, or rendering an apology. It's not that I haven't rendered in all of these ways. I even served as a juror once. We found him not guilty in case you are wondering.

I mean render as in "to represent in a drawing or painting".
Let me explain.
I was busy in the studio yesterday evening when a great ruccous could be heard originating from the living room. I had just given my dog Rosie her all-time favorite treat in the entire universe: a green plastic ball into which a collection of tiny kibbles had been inserted. That's my job, inserting the kibbles. Rosie's job is to then move the ball about the house in as strategic a manner as possible, so as to eject the tiny morsels and make them available for her consumption. Sometimes the ball gets lodged under a piece of furniture or it rolls into a tight corner, at which point Rosie begins pleading her case in a very vocal way. It's a very specific, "Timmy's in the well" , "something's gone horribly wrong" kind of thing. So like the thoroughly-trained woman I am, I went in to render my assistance. What I found there is what you see below.
















Rosie is not visible in the photo because she was at the time, maintaining a generous margin of safety between herself and the offending other 'dog' who she believed was real enough to be a threat.

Now that's rendering.
And they said I couldn't draw.

The Blank Canvas

Well....here they are. A fresh batch of tabula rasa, or maybe the plural is rasai. I have a 3-person show coming up in June at Canada House Gallery in Banff and I am expected to provide 12 new canvases. Here they are, lined up nicely, posing for the camera. I suppose this could be considered the 'before' shot. Each one will undergo a makeover of sorts. It's always an exciting time for me since I don't know what I will do with them until I get started. I don't know what I will say to them, or - more importantly - what they will say to me. I suspect birds will be involved somehow. They are never very far away.
I've been thinking these days about the expression "having her work cut out for her". Apparently it goes back to the early 1600s and is connected to tailoring. So I guess it's true. Afterall, these canvases are cloth and somebody cut them out for me.

Canine Positioning System

This is me and my left hand, heading down the highway today with my CPS (canine positioning system) clearly working for me, scouting out road conditions from its location there on my dashboard. Sometimes the vibration (the ride in my 1985 Toyota Tercel leaves something to be desired) causes the little china figurine to slowly swing around so that occasionally the dog is looking at me and not the road ahead.
Oh well, it is a fairly primitive system which unlike the more precise GPS, doesn't have 24 to 32 satellites in medium earth orbit. Nor is there a Master Control Station, an Alternate Master Control Station, or a host of dedicated and shared Ground Antennas and Monitor Stations providing positioning, navigation and timing services to users on a continuous basis in all weather, day and night, anywhere on or near the Earth.
I like to think that my system involves the spirits of all the dogs big and small, biters and droolers alike, who have come and gone on this earth, and now enjoy their celestial retirement, offering casual guidance and road-side assistance to motorists who are open to receiving what they have to offer. I am someone who is. I take my help wherever I can get it.