A homage to my mother, the poet

I have never felt like I needed to hide much from my mother. A combination of her acceptance of life's challenges, of difference and variety, her observant nature, and her appreciation for even the mundane allowed me to develop uninhibitedly. It's easy enough to say these things and praise people with such abstractions but allow me to provide some examples.

Little kids often make quick judgement of others and need to be socialized not to point and make a spectacle of their honesty and innocence. Whenever I would see "strange looking" people and ask questions, mom would say, "Every body is different".

In the closet in our family house, there's a cupboard and in that cupboard is a little, thin yellowy-orangish book with people in gorilla suits on the front. It's a poetry book called, "And People Come Up to Me and Ask Me What's So Funny." It was never really something she boasted of, but this was a poetry book she wrote when she was in her early twenties or so, and it is absolutely brilliant. I think both my brother Michael and I have been equally fascinated with her words at different points in our lives. I'm not sure if mom realizes how creative she is, but she is quite the wordsmith. Her poetry is abounded in humour and sarcasm.

Beyond the poetry book in the cupboard, mom was constantly listening to great poets, or lyricists. Mom always has some poet playing in the backdrop of her daily chores: Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison, John Denver, John Lennon, Neil Diamond, and the list goes on. I think if we had to chose a an artist associated with our mother, it would be Leonard Cohen.

Mom's youth, or early adulthood, was pictured for me in black and white photo albums full of images of longhaired, bellbottom wearing, flower power carrying hippies. When asking my mother is she was a hippy, she always answered, "Maybe a little, but a responsible one." She took a liking to students from the local arts school and eventually moved into a commune sort of situation with a bunch of them in a tiny house where they spent many hours "just being". The images of her friends and their adventures always intrigued me. Now looking at these pictures, I think I am surely my mother's daughter. I think is she would have grown up in my generation, she would be doing quite similar things that I am. I think she had a bit of a wanderlust spirit. There's some pictures of her on a beach somewhere where she and her friends slept in a handmade, driftwood hovel on a beach. She picked tobacco to pay her way through a Canada cross country trip, working with all men. Apparently her boss said that women were better tobacco pickers and that mom "picked fast and clean"- I think it was mom's perfection that enabled her to pick that way.

There's a picture of my mom standing next to a train and she's wearing knee high socks and she looks ever so artsy. I wish I had a copy to post here.

These are just a few minute examples of my mother, the artist. Of course she has been the most influential artist in my life, along with my brother. I don't think it is a coincidence.

Well, I urge my mother to write now that she is retired, because her words are full of wisdom and laughter (just as she is).

Love you mom!

Mirroring Passerbys

Wandering the streets of Brighton and Hove today, listening to some of my favorites - Arcade Fire, Ben Harper, Leonard Cohen, The Cold War Kids, Bob Marley - I felt completely intuned. Each and every passerby seemed to me to be alive and well today, and the amount of people I made contact with was fascinating. I never really accepted that there is an etiquette of avoiding to look at strangers. I find it most uncomfortable to see someone up ahead that you wish to smile at, and then when they get within close enough proximity that we should look at the ground or off to the side ever so slightly seems unnecessary. It's as though it was okay to see them from a distance, but when strangers crossing on the street get within a few metres, it's only right to make one another invisible. Never could I wrap my head around that one. I find I often have no choice. I see someone, I look at them, I sometimes smile with my eyes. I don't smile at all passerbys, only the ones that appear harmless.

I think most people want to make the simple things in life, like a walk in the streets listening to music, a meaningful and contemplative event. I can't see myself from the point of view of the person passing, but I know that they are thinking some of the same things about me as I am about them. I am not just looking at that strangers eyes, but that stranger is looking at mine. And, when I realize this, I can see that the mirroring we partake of in daily life mimics that of the art appreciator.

Artists everywhere

Since I have started to consciously explore my personal connection to art, I am beginning to see how many artists I have been in contact with throughout my life. Instead of looking at artists I do not know personally, I will attempt to find how I have been influenced by those in my life, celebrating their artistic genius. It's challenging not to censor the way in which my relationships with these people have unfolded, how I have come to know these people, and their quirky nuances. I will try to depict these people in the most realistic, least incriminating manner. In fact, I will spare any real names and places unless i have permission.
Let's face it, it is almost impossible to speak of an artist without unfolding some aspects of his/her life that have thus influenced their art.
I am starting to see that I have been surrounded by artists my entire life. I am not sure if I have been drawn to them , if i have been aware of them, or if my energy has attracted them. It may also be that we are all artists and their happens to be a level of awareness, perhaps spiritual of some sort, that requires pursuing understanding or meaning in life. I say, that's without a doubt!
Religion and science are the closest material perceptions we have to being aware and finding truth, or at least thinking we have what it takes to do so. I am quite content with believing that we cannot explain, that chaos prevails, and that art may be our only outlet.
I invite all of my friends, family, acquaintances and to-be-familiars to respond. I hope that we will see our own lives as art.

First Impressions of Art

In trying to discover where I ever developed a curiosity for art, I need to start from the beginning. I received my first painting as a newborn from my brother, Michael James Joyce. Later on in life, I came to wonder if it was just a coincidence that his middle name is James and that he was my first "portrait of an artist", not as a young man but as a young woman. He painted me a picture before I even knew what paints were and when I looked in my baby book as a child, I knew that he was a true artist. Not only did he go out of his way to paint an elaborate piece, but it was incredible for a young boy of five. I don't have the picture with me at this time, but its impact remains. Michael went on to draw. He drew what looked like Dungeons and Dragons figurines and painted them, too. The detail of colour and texture always drew me in. I would often go through his work when he was not around, making sure not to leave any traces of a snoop. Really, I just admired his genius. When he got to be in his teens, for whatever reason - perhaps to attract young women - he started drawing Disney characters and a variety of animations. Venturing into adulthood and through his ventures into different arts schools (KSA, Capilano, Emily Carr, and UCC), Michael developed into a brilliant artist. Of course, my understanding of his work also developed as I grew up with his works. By the time I was in first year university, he was painting his life. I am not sure if he had always been painting his life, but it was at this time that I could really see his life in his art. We lived together that year. He spent all hours in his studio while I would meet him for breaks in between my first year intro course studies at UCC. I watched his brush strokes, listened to the music that inspired him: mostly Radiohead and The Hip. In 2000/2001, Michael and I became friends. I think that my appreciation and meaning of art would not have been shaped without my brother Michael's genius.

What makes an artist?

For starters, I am trying to find the essence of the artist. Along with feeling the need to capture the human experience, the artist is someone who truly has little choice about whether or not to pursue their rightful creative genius. The curiosity of the artist is something that is insatiable, sometimes irritable and occasionally wide awake and calm. Some artists are lucky to really find their outlets, whereas others just live their lives searching for it and never find a way to encapsulate, to put their finger onto what is beautiful about life or what is disgraceful about humans. The artist often creates drama and fractures him/herself in the process, bounding from sanity to insanity, from love to hate, from hunger to starvation over and over and over again. I myself find that it is the artist that attempts to see life as though it were a piece of art, something to moulded and caressed, adored and critiqued.

The Blog's topic

The topic of my blog is going to be about artists and their works.
The closest thing to making life into a piece of art is by creating your own.
After a long overdue hiatus from writing, my intention is to re-engage with my passion for life's stories by exploring art through writing. Hopefully, it will inspire me to create something of my own, and if not, at least
I will have made the attempt to create some meaning out of my own existence.