i n . b l o o m

My mum loves gardening. While I was still living at home, she would often try to persuade me to come outside and help her tend to her plants; she would (and still does) joke about paying me fifty cents to weed.

Even though I love flowers as a visual concept (as explained here), I was never very keen on the concept of gardening; one (among many) of my most dreaded summer phenomena was the experience of being dragged along to an open air garden centre; the heat and inevitable swarms (or so it seemed to me!) of bees and other bugs were unbearable to me. I was also always nonchalantly adamant that when and if I ever had a garden of my own, I would simply throw hand-fulls of seeds onto the earth and let nature take its course.

It's a mystery to me, but so far this summer I feel like I'm obsessed with plants; I keep pausing when I pass by beautiful gardens in bloom and can't resist capturing them on camera.

*

When I was little and we lived out in the county, there was a giant peony bush on the corner of our property; I remember staring in morbid fascination at the lush blossoms swarming with gigantic black ants.

c a k e . d a y !

Today is my birthday! I've always been the kind of person who loves their b-day (as you might have guessed from all of the exclamation marks thus far!). I love the sensation of knowing that on this day, how ever many years ago (it's 24 today) I came into existence; my mum usually calls me at 6:12 am to remind me. I love the feeling of specialness that pervades today; June 28 belongs to me. It's hard to explain, but my birthday feels like a hug, all warm and wonderful.

This birthday feels especially excellent because I know that I'm going to be surrounded by people who love me; I jam packed my weekend to make it so. In the past, I might have felt crushed when people didn't pay attention to me today, or when people that I thought were my friends showed their true colours; as wonderful as birthdays should be, they can sometimes be awfully lonely. This year however, I vow to only surround myself with positivity. I won't place my happiness in the hands of anyone else.

*

In preschool, when my mum rented a giant bouncy castle for my friends and I to jump away the afternoon; when I turned 13 and had an co-ed party with spin the bottle (and felt pretty cool for once); in England on my 16th, when my Uncle bought me a selection of mini-cakes; my 19th, when my best friend told me the beach was too lame for a party; my early 20s, spent in Argentina, visiting the zoo and going to midnight movies; last year, when I spent my actual birthday alone, with pizza, Netflix and my cat, Rory (a sad one).

*
I am enamored of "baby" pictures lately; see me, below, rockin' a seersucker dress (made by my gramma, who also used to make me amazing birthday cakes) as I swing the summer away on my Cookie Monster swing-set. Be free, little Sam.

c y n d i

At the moment, it's approximately a thousand degrees inside my condo; I'm sweating underneath my laptop, cursing the fact that the night's passed by too quickly. I also feel a cold coming on.

While I work, background noise is an absolute necessity (otherwise, in the silence, my mind wanders to strange places and things can get a little too intense). Usually it's video looping around, familiar character voices and story lines filling the void; there are shows and movies that I've probably played hundreds of times (I once watched Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire four consecutive times to stay in the zone while painting). Once in a while, however, I'll switch over to music.

Tonight was a Cyndi Lauper kind of night; once I saw her name, I had to listen. She reminds me of childhood and freedom and excitement; I want to be like her, channel that spirit of intense individuality and openness and passion.

*

I've been caught too, thinking about the past and playing the melancholy "what if" game. I'm happier now in life than I've ever been, but it's still impossible not to look back and sigh a little bit sometimes.

*

I just wanna have fun!

p r o g r e s s

I'm excited to share a sneak peek of my newest series, Fangs. I've been busily editing scans for the  past few days and it's beyond satisfying to have some new work under my belt! I'll be sharing the full versions in the next few days, so stay tuned.

g a r d e n . p a r t y

Yesterday, I spent the better part of the afternoon out on my quaint condo patio doing an impromptu photo shoot. Taking photos of my work for Etsy is a job that I'd been putting off for a while; those who know me know that I'm a perfectionist and not the most confident photographer (a dangerous combination!). The sunlight and warm air were alluring though, and I found myself enjoying the act of capturing my work (and some other things too!). I like that I'm starting to appreciate plants and nature much more than I did in the past too.

g a r d e n

f l a s h b a c k . f r i d a y . 2

Lately, it feels like all I think about is the girl in these photos: the versions of myself that existed once, long ago. I imagine them still out there somewhere, preserved on alternate plains of reality; in memory, I jump from self to self as easily as flipping through photographs, remembering.

She is me and I am her, but she's gone forever. I must finally be an adult now, mourning my childhood as if that little girl really did die.

b o n e s

Recently, while browsing through photos of old work, I came across this beautiful specemin. (It was amazing as well to rediscover so many pieces from years past that I had completely fogtten about).

When I was in the second year of my Fine Arts Undergrad, my drawing class was given an assignment to create a piece of work using a bone as a reference. Cool. What made it even better, however, was that we each got to take (and keep!) our reference bone home with us for the two week duration of the project. Some of the bones, as my Prof. explained, were plaster replicas, and some of them were real human bones. While this freaked out a couple of my classmates, I was beyond excited.

(I realize that this makes me sound like a creep).

Overachiever that I am, I wanted to challenge myself and sought out something complicated; I ended up choosing an entire (real, human) foot, with all the little parts held together by wire. I wrapped it up in a scarf and carried it with me everywhere over the duration of the assignment. I couldn't get over the idea of having real bones in my purse; I was in heaven. 

I remember the weight and delicacy of that foot when I held it, studying its contours and design; I remember the incredible way that the parts moved together, tiny pieces of an amazing machine, identical to what was in my own body. It struck me, while I was studying them, how wow the concept of each of us having our own set of bones, hidden away inside, was. I tried to imagine the person who had possessed those bones before I did , what their life was like; it was surprisingly intimate, holding a piece of a stranger in my hand.

Skeletons are hardly secret, but I appreciated my own so much more after that experience. There's something terribly romantic about bones (in the old sense of the word); they belong to the individual, are vital for life and yet remain unseen. They're beautiful and vaguely frightening all at once; they are life and death. 

*

Recently, I've been paying more attention to how my body works and trying to better care for it; I've started eating clean and focusing on nurturing muscle growth and optimal digestion. In the past when I've tried to "get healthy", I failed because I didn't understand the mechanics of what was going on inside me. The body is an amazing device and I marvel at how the systems work without explicit commands from "me".  Now I'm focusing on how I feel instead of how I look; I want to be strong and healthy -- not just pretty. 

*

I'm a collection of bones and muscle and memories.

s k e t c h y

No matter where I go, I always keep a couple of notebooks in my purse (one for sketching and one for writing). I've always been a sketching fiend; I absentmindedly doodle the faces and forms of ladies, jot down colour combinations and plan out projects. I have to admit that my memory can be a bit fuzzy at times, so it's beyond satisfying to be able to look back at sketches and know exactly what I was so excited about at any given time. Lately, my sketches have been all about the ladies; maybe it's time to challenge myself to branch out a little?

p o o r . b a b y

I used to compalin, a lot.

After some reflection, I understand that this was a side-effect of internalizing my feelings. If I was forcing myself to be quiet about big things the majority of the time, then once I was around someone I felt able to talk to, I unleashed a constant stream of negativity. It was an ugly trait, something that I'm ashamed to admit doing.

There was a day several years ago when I vowed to resist complaining for an entire day; surprisingly (or perhaps not) it was one of the best days that I'd experienced in a while; I realized that by being negative, even if only jokingly, I was only perpetuating more negativity and cheating myself out of happiness. I often think back to that day, reminding myself to quit whining unnecessarily.

There are still times though, when I need to vent: when the streetcar short-turns in the rain and I have to walk home, when someone takes advantage of me or is mean, when reality falls short of my expectations. I need to try to remember though to keep my problems in perspective, especially when what I'm complaining about is myself.

It goes like this: I set goals, don't achieve them, get upset, reflect and say to myself, poor baby, how awful for you. It's self-deprecation, which isn't really that much better than complaining.

What I really need to do is push myself harder to achieve the things that I set out to do. I want to continue to push myself to be the kind of person who has nothing to complain about.

w o r d s

I seriously miss renting movies. 

I grew up in a small town. We lived in a little farmhouse with a pond and raspberry bushes in the spacious backyard.

We didn't have cable, so renting videos was always a favourite treat for my younger brother and I. My mum would often take us into town to the general store where we were each allowed to pick out a movie. The store was located in the main floor of a white house with a pillared front porch; I called it The Pumpkin People because they put pumpkin-headed scarecrows out there on Halloween. I remember there being candy, ice cream, crafts and a wall of VHS tapes.

Almost every time we visited that store, I choose the same movie to take home: Serendipity. The story centered around a little boy who, while exploring the arctic with his scientist parents, gets trapped on a iceberg which floats down to the tropics. When the ice melts, he finds a giant pink polka-dot egg, which hatches into a fuchsia and green sea-serpent named Serendipity. They live together on an island with a melancholy mermaid-princess with purple hair and annoying fantasy creatures and battle a mean, old sea-captain. I was completely obsessed and played it on a near constant loop. Having re-watched it as an adult, I seriously admire my mother's patience in allowing that to happen!

It's colourful, nonsensical and slightly annoying, but still absolutely magical to me (and the theme-song was super catchy!)

l e t s . b e . f r i e n d s

 

 

Today was a melancholy day; things that I thought were going to happen have been pushed out of my immediate schedule and I've been feeling aimless and unproductive.

When I'm feeling down, looking at my Tumblr Archive always makes me feel calm and inspired. These tiled images create a perfect little world full of serenity and adventure and I love how easy it is to escape from reality and drift away when I look at them.

You can follow me on Tumblr here.

p h o b i a . g i r l

Everyone has fears: situations and objects that inspire uneasiness or full on panic. 

f l a s h b a c k . f r i d a y

I. Made. This.

While recently exploring some older folders on my laptop, I stumbled upon this embarrassingly amazing gem; my family didn't have a computer until I was about thirteen, but when I did, boy did I make up for lost time. (Remember when not having a computer wasn't such a big deal?)

In true geek fashion, I spent hours combing the internet for desktop themes, icon packs and wallpapers of my favourite characters; I was like a little digital-hoarder, saving and organizing anything that caught my magpie eye.

Rainbow Shells! The Mist Dragon! Alfador!

I can't stop laughing.

h e a r t a c h e

I feel the need to explain; I feel slow yet chaotic, tired and low.

Empathy: the thing that, at times, makes me feel as if I can't breathe, can't function. It's the distracting pang of sadness for a stranger I've never met, the lingering worry for the fate of someone whose path I've briefly crossed. I imagine the places where I was while they were suffering and can barely think of anything else.

I say I'm sorry often, not because I feel guilty for the pain of others, but because I regret their unhappiness, their discomfort, their anguish. I'm sorry means I wish this wasn't happening to you.

At times  it's overwhelming, this way I feel. I see people shrug off the troubles of others and can't fathom how or why. While I'm exhausted from dwelling, they're brushing past.

I feel it now, that heaviness, and it's touching everything I do. 

I'm helpless, but I'd rather be like this than feel nothing. I'd rather care too much than not at all. 

w o r d s

When I was young, I wasn't exactly a fan of the outdoors.

When Alia Shawkat's character in Whip It said, "I didn't have a Barbie-roller-skates phase; I had a fat-kid-sits-inside-and-reads-a-book phase", she was speaking about me. Surprising, I know.

In grade-school, my brother and I would trek up north to the Bruce Peninsula and spend weeks of our summer vacations living with our cousins on their farm. It was the kind of place where children were encouraged/expected to play outside for most of the day, which would have been fine if I hadn't been so afraid of nature. Their tall, white farmhouse stands out in my mind like a beautiful, cozy beacon, the sole refuge in a vast expanse of windy forest, field, mud and angry chickens.

They also had a cottage on the lake where we would swim, catch frogs and crayfish, explore islands. I always had this vague feeling of not belonging there; I was the awkward, round girl who just wanted to be quiet and inconspicuous, constantly homesick in a dull way. I wasn't outgoing or fun; I felt like someone who had to be tolerated and taken care of. I wanted to escape from that idea of myself, to hide away from the uncomfortable reality that I was facing...so I begged my aunt for books to read.

She gave me A Spell for Chameleon, Piers Anthony's first Xanth novel; I remember looking at the paperback's golden-brown cover and not expecting much. Over the next few days, I sat sideways in an old armchair and read, read, read and (again) fell in love with a book-world full of magic, bravery and puns. It was there that I was introduced to words like scintillating and I readily latched onto the concept of elegant synonyms that evoked more vivid meaning that their commonly used counterparts.

Over the ensuing years, I devoured that series and have since reread many of its volumes. They became a part of me, a piece of the collection of items and ideas and experiences that have shaped me; it's interesting for me to think back, as if I'm still that insecure little girl, longing for an escape and finding one there in the pages of someone else's book, someone else's home. That discomfort and anxiety that I felt as a child has translated into a cherished part of my psyche.

Remember: positivity can grow from negativity.

o r d e r e d . c h a o s

t h a t ' s . m y . f u n . d a y

How was your weekend?

t i m e . & . p l a c e

w o r d s

When I was about 13, I fell in LOVE with a book by Eve Forward called Villians by Necessity, which my grandmother had bought for me at an everything for a dollar, going-out-of-business book sale. It was a fantastic tale of good and evil, light and dark, magic and criminals; the main characters were an assassin, a thief, a druid and a twisted lady-vampire. I literally carried it with me everywhere for a long, long time, drew on all the pages, marked off all of my favourite parts, lent it to my friends (aka, insisted that they also read it) and memorized passages (which I still remember). I also drew some pretty terrible fan art.

This book inspired me to create my first character, a blonde, blue-eyed assassin named Nick Macabre--except that, because I was 13, I pronounced it Maca-bray and thought it sounded like some kind of bony stingray. I went through a serious assassin phase after that (what is that?); I even asked the same grandmother who had bought me the book to sew me a black cloak for Halloween (and I felt excellent skulking around the darkness wearing it and Doc Martens--I suppose it's no wonder that I later also went through pseudo goth phase).

In reality, I'm a BIG believer in non-violence (and always have been), but there was something so terribly romantic about a thoughtful, articulate man, well educated in the ways of weapons and poisons and snuffing corrupt political figures. I guess that was just my teenage bad-boy phase; instead of crushing on punks in leather, I was into medieval anti-heroes.

f l a s h . b a n g

Thunderstorms: in my childhood, I dreaded them.

The heralding humidity made my skin prickle and my habitually nervous stomach churn into overtime. I remember the summer sight of heavy pastel evening, the sky a low canopy of clouds, cotton soaked in ink. Once the storm started, the rumble and abrupt BANGs were always cataclysmic to me; I felt as if I was the only one on earth who realized that this event was the apocalypse.

My mother loved them, and would celebrate their coming by opening the house's windows to listen to the rain and the low BOOMs. Once, when I was about ten years old, the anxiety that this caused me was so terrible that she had a friend on the phone tell me that he was a meterologist and that no, thunderstorms wouldn't kill me, and that yes, it was alright to open the windows during them.

When I was a few years older, I devised a sort of coping ritual; in the muggy heat of summer vacation, I decided that thunderstorm time would be art time. Along with my younger brother, I spent those nightmare evenings in my bedroom, watching cartoons on my tiny tv and drawing. I created a comic character named Mr. Olive Head; he was a news reporter who was basically an olive with a hat and a microphone.

By the time I was in my 20s, I should have been able to fully cope; this wasn't the case. Once upon a May sunset, I was caught out near Spadina Ave. underneath ominous clouds. The date whom I was with was completely nonchalant; every CRACK of thunder or bright flash made me flinch involuntarily and his comments made me feel ashamed of my reaction. I walked towards shelter as quickly as possible, wondering why I wasn't allowed to be afraid and beginning to question the lack of validity that others gave to my feelings.

w o r d s

Words words words. I love beautiful language, when words are carefully
selected and vivid and delectable.

For me, certain words evoke very specific mental images. For example:

m y s e l f

A few years ago, I decided that, as an artist, the only subject matter that I could truly express and feel comfortable doing so was myself. I was (and still am) young enough to realize that I was seriously lacking in lofty world-views and cultural opinions; I felt at the time that any social message that I attempted to express or explore through my work would end up being too transparent or half-formed, and the piece would suffer. So, instead of looking out at the world for inspiration, I looked inward.

Self-portraiture pleases me for several reasons:

I. Documentation of fleeting personal changes and brief moments (as pictured above)
II. Expression of secret thoughts, desires and opinions
III. Exploration and the search for a personal place in the world

It's just the same in the general process of living; all that I have to offer is myself. I can't be any more or less than who I am; I must act in accordance with what makes me feel whole and calm and good. I want to be exuberant and giving and electric; I want to create and capture those feelings in my work.

...


I like to think that all work is self-portraiture; the artist's experiences, beliefs and choices influence their work so that it becomes a reflection of their person, regardless of the work's subject matter.

I began to think about this in my second year of Fine Arts at UW, when my class was assigned the challenge of presenting Drawing as both a verb and a noun.  My group and I devised a project in which our classmates were given inkblots and then asked to draw what they saw in the images; as predicted, each participant created a different piece in response to identical inspirations. This supported our hypothesis that each person's life experiences would shape their perceptions and influenced their output. Simple.


Every girl I draw is me; every word I write is a reflection of my own mind.

s u m m e r . t i m e

I have a love hate relationship with summer time.

On one hand, I love the beach and lovely fresh produce; on the other, I hate getting sunburnt, being chased by bees, sweating profusely, thunder and lightning... (Anecdote: when I was about five years old and living out in the country, I once played outside for hours during a heatwave wearing my snow suit because "the bugs were bugging me").

But June also happens to be my birthday month, which always makes it feel a little bit extra special to me; this year I'm going to try and harness that positive energy so that I can carry myself through the heat with a smile on.

So far this summer I've gone camping hit up a couple of garage sales (one of my all-time favourite things to do!). Here are a couple more of the things that I'm gunning to do this summer:

 I love making lists and I can't wait to start ticking items off of this one!

And I'm curious to know, what fun things do you have planned this month?

h e l l o

Well, it's been a while!

My instinct right now is to sheepishly apologize for my absence and say something lame and self-deprecating in order to save face. A year or so ago I would have done it, but today I'm fighting it.

This is because, basically, I've finally given myself permission to be myself.

This sounds silly, but let me explain; when I was a little girl I was strong-willed, sure of myself, and vocal. If I wanted something (or didn't!) I would let it be known without hesitation. I knew what made me happy (reading quietly, drawing, cats, etc.) and what didn't (pickles! bugs! thunderstorms!) and I'd always let the people around me know. I don't think that I was rude or mean (at least not any more than everyone is at that age) but I was decisive and confident and polite, which I think is excellent.

"I'm a Terrible Person," Became My Mantra

As I grew up though, somehow the confident and decisive parts fell away and I was left quiet and polite; I became the girl who always followed the rules and did what she was supposed to do. I evolved into thinking that my own wants and needs were secondary to those of others. I focused on making people happy in a toxic way, believing that speaking up was rude, that my opinions didn't matter, that I wasn't as good or important as everyone else was(and that I didn't deserve to be). "I'm a terrible person," became my mantra and I constantly felt anxious and downtrodden; the more worry piled onto my heart, the more silence seemed like a refuge, and the more I felt trapped in my own psyche. I was stifled, nervous and unsure, regardless of how many people told me that I was sweet, lovely, thoughtful etc.

As an artist, this was devastating; I compared my work and my presence to my peers and felt that I came up far too short. Progress and practice seemed pointless; self-promotion felt obnoxious and hollow.

And while all this negativity went on inside, I remained that quiet, submissive girl who was convinced that speaking up about her anxiety and expressing herself would cause her to drive the world (and job opportunities) away. My truth was shameful and my real self seemed worthless. I was torn between who I was, who I wanted to be and who other people said that I should be.

I Have Something to Say

I'm not entirely sure what the breaking point was, but this past year (my lowest lows and some pretty excellent highs) has inspired massive amounts of personal growth and change. I've rediscovered the powerful little girl that I used to be and her brightness drives me on. I see now that my own happiness should be the top priority in my life; I'm speaking up more often and find that simply expressing my opinions (big and small) is an immense relief of pressure. My new mantra is "I have something to say," and it makes me feel strong, in control and excellent again. Instead of agonizing over what people think about me, I realize that the only person I need to satisfy is myself. I do what I want to again, and it's exhilarating. I can still be quiet (sometimes) and polite, but now because I want to be, not because I have to be.

And so, here I am, ready for action! 

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