Vija Celmins is a California based contemporary artist whose pencil drawings of oceans, spider webs and skyscapes are so intricately drawn that they could be mistaken for photographs. It was her ocean drawings that really captivated my attention, and how different they appear from a far, versus way up close. “My work lies between intimacy and distance,” says Celmins. Somewhere in between they are neither drawing nor photograph. The medium is irrelevant. All you see is miles of ocean.

One of the things I love about concerts, theatre, lectures, any large spectacle, really, is taking in the audience. I love to watch people’s expressions as their favourite ballad comes up, or as the speaker shares a personal anecdote. The range of responses –– how people react to joy, sadness, shock ––  within a communal experience intrigues me. I’ve talked here before about John Mayer, and what his music means to me. It’s hard to go to a concert of his without feeling a spectrum of emotions. But you wouldn’t have known that last night, watching me watching John. I wasn’t on my feet dancing, or reveling. Instead I stood quite still, and listened. A young couple to my left didn’t stop smiling from start to end. A woman to my right cried big tears during Gravity. Another woman, well into her 70s, wearing a crown of flowers and fairy lights, danced to every single song like she was at Woodstock. We all respond to emotion, especially in a public forum, in different ways. And I find that as compelling as the act on stage.

Artist, Abigail Doan calls these collections of finds –– seeds, shells, dried flowers and sand –– walking libraries. “The idea of preserving subsequent finds in a library or archive came from my need to gather, decode, and organize materials into a language that might highlight organic relationships, new hierarchies, spatial pockets, and the connective threads of place. The tactile nature of this practice is also an immersive way of identifying solutions for future systems, with walking serving as the facilitator for deeper interaction and examination.” There’s something quiet, meditative, moving about these works. They remind me of a collection of twigs, papers, snail shells, and other ephemera unearthed by an artist in Kensington Market, in an effort to preserve a piece of her neighbourhood’s history. She arranged her finds in small paper boxes. Works of art. Classification. Have a walk through, when you have a moment.

I came across this charming site, with botanical drawings, vintage posters, paintings and photographs of garden life, that’s really a gardener’s dream. Just look at all this fabulous topiary, and these perfect pansies. This is exactly how I’d like to look while watering the roses.

Tu mi manques, means literally, “you are missing from me.” As a child, I spent long chunks of time away from my Mum. And my Dad. As a teenager, I moved away to Italy, and then university and spent years travelling between London and Toronto to be with Jason. And for the last twenty years, I’ve lived with Jason and our family on the other side of the ocean from my parents and siblings and oldest friends. I’ve spent most of my life missing someone. Sometimes, that feeling has manifested as a giant void, or a longing, saudade, as the Portuguese call it. Other times, it’s physical pain, like I’ve been turned inside out. But most of the time, it’s there, like the scar on my chin, and I’m barely aware of it. The people I love are so rooted within me, that it doesn’t matter how far away they are. I feel them when I need to. And when I don’t — sometimes we just can’t access that part of ourselves — I trust that I soon will. This is what I explained to Iole just before she left us today for camp. We are the sum of our parts, and our family (and by family, my definition is broad) will inform our choices, support us, and guide us daily regardless of where in the world we all are.