Last night, I organized another a creative workshop, this time at the studio of textile artist, Tania Love. I’d been racing around all day, so her studio –– white, bright and loved –– was a delightful place to be. Tania works with botanical dyes and inks, made from leaves, berries and barks that she’s foraged in and around the city. Her work is inspired by nature, and her style is simple and sensitive. It’s tricky to socialize and host –– there was plenty of Prosecco and Tania prepared a lovely spread of food, including chocolate made-from-scratch –– and follow instructions at the same time. So, by the time it came to painting our scarves, I drew a blank. Literally. At the end of the evening, I tried winging it, with haphazard painterly lines, but the result was more mess than Motherwell. I binned my scarf when I got home. But I loved the experience of spending the evening with wonderful women, and I appreciate the reminder to slow and down and focus more. I woke up this morning, with a dozen ideas and an urge to go back to Tania’s studio for a one-on-one workshop.

I was looking at the work of American abstract painter, Shirley Jaffe this morning –– colourful, geometeric, full of vim –– and I was inspired to read that she painted up until her death at 92. “I have done a lot of work,” Jaffe told the New York Times at her last solo exhibition in 2015. “I do work practically every day now, but a lot less, which disturbs me. But I do try to keep to a rhythm of doing at least something every day.” The idea of a person’s work satiating, steering and balancing them until their end, is very inspiring to me. “To the end, she retained the power to surprise,” wrote the Times in her obituary.

My fascination with collections and people who collect steered me to Ettore Guatelli, a school teacher from Parma who amassed a collection of everyday tools and objects –– pincers, hammers, spades –– vast enough to warrant its own museum. Please have a look at these artfully curated displays; one room contains hundreds of baskets hanging from the ceiling, while another features a wall of shoe horns arranged in a beautiful fan. “The beauty of the everyday life events we have always neglected and their inner value that we have not recognized, they were disclosed to us by a simple man from the Parma’s countryside. His name is Ettore Guatelli.” –– Werner Herzog.

One of the many things I love about our worn, torn, lopsided little house are the windowsills where our Shnautzer, Cecil used to stand on guard. They’re scratched down to the wood, and even after all these years, we choose not to paint them. The windowsills are the last remnant of our sweet, bonkers, fierce little dog. The children ask about him all the time. Iole remembers him in her life. Jason and I often wonder whether he would remember us if he saw us again. Giving him away was very hard, but we like to believe that it was the best decision for our family, for Cecil, especially. We like to believe that he is better off where he is, with room to roam, no children to protect, and no postmen to attack. We like to believe that he is alive, and that he is happy. That’s what we like to believe.