Posts from September 2024

after hours

September 30, 2024

James Maroon is the pool cleaner for the 9/11 Memorial. I only know this because documentary filmmaker Josh Charow’s chose to make a film about him. Charow’s beautiful portrait made me think of all the millions of night workers paving roads, mopping floors, wiping turnstiles, baking bread that we don’t know about. All the quiet, unsung heroes of the night, the ones we never see and rarely think about, the ones who take care of schools and museums and airports while the city sleeps. Sometimes, in the depths of Winter I wake up and listen to the scraping of snow in the laneway behind our house and I know that tomorrow the path will be clear. “It gets dark in there sometimes, and you can lose yourself in there,” says Maroon of the reflecting pools. “But it’s pretty beautiful to see the sun come over the wall. It’s something that most people don’t get a chance to see.”

the birds

September 21, 2024

Everywhere I turn, I see dead birds. Last week I found a dead Finch with a flash of yellow feathers flat on its back in our garden. I buried it under a pile of periwinkle. And this week, I’ve seen three pigeons –– rats of the sky –– splat on the sidewalk among the early Autumn leaves. Are they an omen? A reminder to get a pap smear? Wait, when does my passport expire? Anyway, I’ve been thinking about birds and along came Isobel Harvey and her gorgeous feathered friends. Harvey’s birds are very much alive. Her style is exuberant and childlike (I can see her paintings illustrating a kid’s book of nordic myths) and there really isn’t a painting of hers I wouldn’t hang in my house.

seaworthy

September 12, 2024

Noriko Kuresumi’s ceramic sculptures remind me of breaking waves. Makes sense given the artist’s fascination with the ocean and sea life. I also see ruffled fabric and spilt milk. “Don’t cry over it,” my Mum used to say. Spilt Milk, that is. Move forward. I find Kuresemi’s work vital and exquisite. She works in porcelain –– translucent and strong –– and she’s never taken a sculpture class in her life. Wow.

hands

September 2, 2024

The first (and only) time I sat down at a potter’s wheel my fingernails were painted a vermillion red. “Those won’t last very long,” is all my teacher said as my hands scrambled to centre the lump of wet clay enlarging before me. I’ve since learned that a manicure is wasted on a potter’s hands. Too much water, too much mud. I cut my nails short, and once in a while, I slap on some Egyptian Magic. That’s my manicure. I like my hands. They’re weathered from the sun and from washing dishes and bathing babies and dipping sponges in clay water. They’re weathered from planting marigolds in the summer (to keep away the squirrels) and forgetting to wear gloves in the winter. I like these photographs of makers’ hands by Marilyn Lamoreux. Drafting, drawing, painting, weaving. There’s toughness and tenderness in each image.

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