l a d y

I generally don't consider myself to be photogenic; I have a tendency to stand in unflattering positions or make weird faces when I try to smile.

Josh took these photos of me over the weekend, and we were both thrilled with how nicely they came out! "I'm so glad to finally have some nice pictures of you," he said. But as soon as we got home and he took a proper look at them, it soon became apparent that I'd had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction... (fall weather plus busty girl deciding not to wear a bra equals, well, you can imagine).

I'm laughing it off; to be honest, I'd rather have decent photos of myself with visible nips than pristine ones with me making an unintentionally silly face.

i n t o . t h e . w o o d s

s u b t e r r a n i a n . w a y

When I think about how much time I spend underground, I feel a little weird; on a daily basis, I spend countless hours down in the darkness, speeding through dark tunnels and waiting idly with strangers on the edge of platforms in hollow spaces dug below earth and concrete. 

-

One of my favourite books takes place primarily in the New York subway system: The Sword of Maiden's Tears by Rosemary Edghill. It's a dark tale of an elvish lord running around underground Manhattan searching for a missing magical sword and the cannibalistic monster which it spawned; it's mysterious and witty and romantic and makes me swoon. (I'm a sucker for fantasy, especially urban fantasy, and extra especially urban fantasy starring elves).

Often when I'm on the car, I look out into the passing darkness and think about things like the aforementioned people eater or Clive Barker's Midnight Meat Train (a movie about other tunnel murder monsters which I'm simultaneous morbidly fascinated by and too afraid to watch). 

s p l a s h

Well, it took all summer but I finally made it to the beach! (Albeit, it was only for a fifteen minute post-work walk). 

•

Water water water.

My favourite movie growing up was The Little Mermaid; I lived in the bathtub, played, read and even ate meals in the warm water (with bubbles); I wanted to grow my hair down past my bum like a mermaid princess; I spent summers in the pool with my cousins, playing elaborte role-playing games.

I look into the glittering depths and wonder after the mysteries contained beneath: a swirling and secret realm of shadows and scintillating sunbeams, of floating freedom. The dichotomy of water is endless: the Waves hold the potential for life and for death, for both tranquility and violence, for calm or chaos.

b y . t h e . r i v e r

Last weekend was spent exploring a litte city by the river, Stratford. We found some excellent street art, visited an organic outdoor market, ate lots of delicious food (mostly sweets!) and hung out with a bunch of happy ducks (they were fearless and waddled right up to around my ankles; they also kept chasing after one another and picking feathery fights).

c o m m u t e

h o m e

Home is: being greeted at the door by a ginger cat and a grey pug; lazily chatting on the back patio; a well stocked fridge; treadmill running in a retro laundry room; sleeping late, nestled in a sumptuous bed; verdant streets and yards, wide open spaces.

Home is: nostalgia; famaliar faces and voices.

Home is love and it's heartbreakingly hard to leave.

v i c t o r i a

This past weekend, I took a trip back home to Kitchener to celebrate my birthday; while there, my boyfriend Josh and I paid a quick visit to Victoria Park. We went on a whim after dinner, to the sprawling lawns nestled in the heart of downtown, with its murky waterways and arching bridges. 

It was just before dusk when we arrived; families with young children were winding down their playful days and the sun was setting slowly in a cotton-candy coloured sky. We wandered past small copses of flowering trees and over the lazy curve of an aforementioned bridge; the wooden planks beneath our feet clunked with each step. In the distance, a lone swan was hunkered down on the shore of the small island in the little lake. We stepped casually closer along the edge of the dark water in hopes of snapping a photo of the bird, which had been drawn to the bank by a little girl throwing bread crumbs.

Eventually, the swan drifted over to where we were standing; it stared at us with black, glistening eyes, gliding to and fro. While Josh crouched down to photography the gigantic beauty, I began to panic; I was convinced that the swan would suddenly hop out of the water full of squawking rage and attack. As Sue Townsend repeatedly reminds in Adrian Mole and The Weapons of Mass Destruction, "a swan can break a man's arm".

*

Once near Christmastime, I went with my family to Victoria Park after dark to see the holiday light displays. Driven by tween logic, I wore shiny, impractical shoes that night; I slipped on ice, ripped my tights and cried.

*

I met a date on the playground there, two New Years Days ago; it was a secret rendez-vous, a naively optimistic rebound. The park was deserted, the city quiet and closed. We met, hugged and shuffled awkwardly along the damp wooden structure in unseasonably warm winter mist; we talked nervously while wandering the park because there was no where else to go.

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.

w a l k i n g . o n . t h e . m o o n

"I hope my legs don't break...walking on the moon."

Rock pier, Mar del Plata, Argentina, 2010.

d i f f e r e n t . t h i n g s

Argentina, 2009.

o l d . t i m e

Like a faded film star.

n o r m a l . p e o p l e

Self-portraiture, trying to capture an elusive feeling. The feeling I feel when I listen to melancholy notes of movie soundtracks: wistful longing.

. . .

I blame the "Water for Elephants Soundtrack".

i . s p y

I spy with my little eye...
A lot of pictures of me actually. Me: in a pretty baby contest; nuding it up at the beach; posing with William Wallace; decked out in authentic Native garb; being stoic in self-portraits; wearing a tablecloth as a veil.