d a m p

g o g g l e s

I have a carefully (aka randomly) curated personal repertoire of quotes that I sound off to myself at poignant points in my life. The above gem is from Ned Kelly (Naomi Watts : "Don't make me mourn you"; Heath Ledger : "I ain't dead yet"); excellent movie, check it out.

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I've been a little absent from cyber-land lately, mainly because real-life has been extra-hectic. I'd kept it under my hat, but I did a big thing: my lovely man Josh and I have made the big leap and moved back to our hometown of Kitchener-Waterloo from Toronto. It's been a crazy and frustrating past few months; all of my things have been in storage since mid-September and I spent a few weeks drifting between friend's couches and living out of suitcases. That being said, I'm beyond excited to finally be moving into our new place on the first.

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A few weeks ago I spent a night out with my two favourite people: Josh and Marta. We saw Thor (shirtless sponge-bath wishes granted), hung out at a great little turkish-cafe on the Danforth and then had excellent midnight-snacks at Square Boy (most amazing little burgers and fries). While waiting in line for our food I tried on Marta's new glasses and pulled a Sam-face; they look excellent on her, like swim-goggles on me.

b r i g h t

Winter in Canada can be, at times, seriously depressing. Once daylight savings has passed (when we jump our clocks back an hour in order to have more morning sunlight) the sun sets at approximately 4:00...When I leave work around 5:00 and it's as dark as midnight, it feels eerily like being in a time warp. What's even stranger is how this seems to bother me now, whereas in years past I could have cared less (and even relished the darkness more than the light).

[The night is dark and full of terrors].

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Last Halloween was the first one that Josh and I spent together; we'd been dating for a little over a month and the party which we attended was the first major event where I would meet all of his friends. I made Josh's requested costume: a sunflower/dandelion. He wore green tights and a green ladies t-shirt from Joe Fresh (which I got to keep, hooray!) and the lovely headdress pictured above. I glued plastic flowers all over a decapitated hoodie hood for him; the hat is incredibly, surprisingly snuggly and we both joke about wearing it for a winter hat.

It's objects and memories like these that help me through the darkness.

c r i s i s

I found myself dealing with a minor crisis a few mornings ago. I've already mentioned my erratic sleeping patterns as of late; on this particular day, lack of rest caused me to sleep in later than normal. So, having overslept by five minutes (which is saying something, seeing as I habitually only leave myself a 20 minute window to shower, get dressed and run out the door in the morning...oops) I, stumbled briskly through my morning routine until finally I attempted to pull on a pair of tights (as per usual, uniform = dress, cardigan, tights!). I chose a grey pair which someone had given me and were the wrong size; the clock was ticking down as I struggled to pull these tight tights up my legs and they got all twisted and weird and I realized, panic stricken within two minutes of my necessary departure time that there was no way I could survive the day wearing them but no way that I could change them before leaving.

I stuffed another pair of tights in my purse and ran out the door; with every step I took they rolled a little bit further down my bum and wiggled down my legs...and let me tell you, there's no discomfort like being wedged into an overcrowded morning commuter train with sausage casings pinching you.

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.

s n a p s h o t . i n . t h e . d a r k

u n - p o k e r . f a c e

I've been told that I have an expressive face: scowls, smiles, pouts, stares, squints. As much as I'd like to sometimes, I can't hide my feelings. I can't really understand people who embrace the "poker face" mentality, although I suppose that I do appreciate it. 

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.

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. 

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.

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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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".

s w i p e

o r a n g e . p o p s i c l e

 Upped contrast for collagability. I like orange, what can I say?

o r a n g e . p o p s i c l e

New Photos to be collaged. I like doing this work, but it makes me feel vain and vapid.

g h o s t

April was a dead month, I'm sorry.

Surprise-result photos. At what point does something like this pass from lame to art, and vice-versa. Am I a fraud for practicing "photography"?

Suddenly I have a plan: reworking, adding, subtracting, blowing up. Stay tuned.

b l u e

Cutouts n' fabric.

m o s t . b r o k e n

What's the most frequently-broken bone in the human body?

The clavicle, apparently.

p e a r l s