Seven Ridiculous Things!

Seven Ridiculous Things! (Nothing to do with Nest Building, but never mind)

It was my birthday earlier this month and, although I am far from ancient (in my mind, at least), I am old enough to decide that there are certain things in this world I need never be bothered with … for example:

1. Glow-in-the-dark diapers … ideal for a generation of children for whom every activity, event and moment must be fun-filled and entertaining. How about reminding them/us that there are a few things in life that simply must be done—toilet training is one of them. So, come on, pull up your big girl pants and find your fun elsewhere.

2. Tweeting … I thought this blog was self-indulgent enough, but tweeting is clearly over the top. Who cares if you are wandering the supermarket aisle squeezing melons, or standing on a street corner waiting for a bus? How about spending more time doing what you're doing and less time broadcasting it. The only thing worse than tweeting is following other people's.

3. Botox … swollen lips, stiff brows and horror movie ghoulishness! Come on, we've all seen those frightful women on TV whose faces got stuck—just as my grandmother promised, although she said it would only happen if the wind changed. Beauty is in the eye of the one who spent the most money … fat lips and frozen foreheads.

4. Pet rocks … (the fact that I even remember these ridiculous things probably gives you some clue as to my age!) I think the inventor of pet rocks was one of the pioneers of exceptionally well-marketed foolish products and the madness has only continued from there. I wonder, as he stands beside his lonely rock pile, is he proud of what he set in motion? 

5. Jeggings … what is really frightening about these stretchy hybrid pant/tights is that, as always, the wrong people are inclined to wear them. Perhaps it is time to establish specific weight and size restrictions for certain fashion fads?

6. Doggie strollers with cup holders … first of all, dogs don't want to lie in strollers and scare passers-by who happen to peer in expecting to see a cute little baby … there's no dignity in that at all! And, secondly, what is it with this cup holder obsession? There are cup holders everywhere these days … cars, grocery buggies, armchairs (except those in coffee shops), etc. People strolling about with their precious cups and water bottles in hand always make me think of insecure children unable to relinquish their soothers and bottles.

7. Last, but not least … tanning beds. Paying money for a leatherette hide and a place on the fast-track to cancer completely baffles me.

However, here are a few things I am willing to stand up for:

Landlines, Lego, grammar, real books, record players, Google, caller ID, world peace (of course), the Beatles, slinkies and Coronation Street.

Yard Sales

Last weekend our entire block held a multi-household yard sale. It was a lot of work and a lot of fun and I think each of us made a respectable heap of change.

Of course, there's plenty to be done before the big day: gathering up the goods, overcoming the guilt associated with tossing out some hideous item given to you by a friend or relative, pricing everything (not based on value, but what's it worth just to get it out of your life), organizing, advertising, and so on and so forth.

On the actual day you hover, somewhat self-consciously, beside the no-longer-loved contents of your home artlessly exposed for all to see. Before you know it, cars are driving up and hoards of people you've never clapped eyes on before are picking through your stuff.

Most of the early birds are 'professionals'; that is, people in search of particular items or people who buy at garage and yard sales only to re-sell the items the following week. The 'regulars'—like repenting gamblers—arrive with their 'garage sale money', a pre-set amount to prevent them from acquiring too many fondue sets or cupboard hinges.

It doesn't matter how low you price an item … genuine Wedgwood ashtrays for seventy-five cents … the punters want a better deal. And there you are at eight o'clock on fine a Saturday morning debating with some large burly man over twenty-five cents.

The exchange can volley back and forth several times until eventually one side or the other gives up, or, if you're lucky, the voice of reason whispers in your ear: 'you don't like these wretched things, remember? Are you really going to dig in your heels defending the long-deceased Josiah Wedgwood for twenty-five cents!'

And then there's the smartass who spills his coffee on a lampshade and asks if the price on the lamp is now going to be lowered. Are you kidding me!

At the end of a very long day (is it really only one o'clock!), only a few unwanted oddities remain.

'Funny, I really thought those bi-fold doors would be useful to someone … and no one picked up that floppy disc holder'.

My rule is that nothing is allowed to come back into my house after failing to launch at my yard sale. So, the first plan of attack is to park the leftovers on the front lawn with a huge 'FREE' sign beside them. This can provide a couple of days of entertainment as you discreetly watch people picking through the items. Often they seem fussier when it's free then when they have to pay for it, spending considerable time examining each item, consulting their companions, putting it back, picking it up, putting it back, picking it up … and eventually driving away.

There are also those who think post-yard sale pick-ups are like a drive-thru. These are the guys in large diesel trucks who cruise by, slowing down just enough to examine the detritus on the roadside from the comfort of their air-conditioned cabs. While their noisy, smelly engines run on, they stare critically at the offerings and, occasionally, extend a lazy arm through the driver's side window to grab something … oh darn, can't quite reach it … drive on!

And so, come Sunday night, after trying and failing to give it away, there's only one other place it can go: the dump.

Do not let it back into the house while it awaits its final destiny. Seriously, you haven't fixed the broken wings on that Christmas tree angel in seventeen years … what makes you think you're going to do it now in the middle of August!

… a few months later … whatever happened to that little pottery dish I used to rest my tea bag on? I can't seem to find it anywhere …

Jury Duty

Standing in a small alcove in my suite, Nippon, by Helmut Becker

This past July, I spent the better part of a week in Sorrento/Blind Bay, BC as one of three jurors invited to judge art submissions at the annual Shuswap Lake Arts Festival.

Sorrento and Blind Bay are two adjacent communities on beautiful Shuswap Lake just off the trans-Canada highway west of Salmon Arm. Normally, the population swells during the summer months, attracted by the exquisite beaches and holiday resorts … this year, it was the lake that swelled and the beaches all but disappeared.

However, none of this appeared to 'dampen' the spirits of the Shuswap Lake Festival of the Arts Society, the group of dedicated and hard-working volunteers and artists who put on this annual event. In 1984, John Edgar Patterson and a group of local artists formed the Society and part of its mandate was, and is, to promote public awareness of the arts and artists in the Shuswap Lake area.

Three jurors were invited to judge the artwork submissions: Glasgow School of Art graduate, Alan Wylie, award-winning BC artist, Janice Robertson and me.

We come from different backgrounds and work in different media: both Wylie and Robertson are painters from Fort Langley and I am a fabric artist from Nelson.

Having visited both Wylie's and Robertson's websites I was, initially, a little intimidated by the calibre and talent of my esteemed colleagues but, after I met them both, I realized we were going to be a great team.

We had one day to judge 219 pieces of work … everything from fine wood carving to glass beadwork … professional painting to amateur photography. Out of these entries, we could award up to 33 ribbons. It was both a daunting and exciting task as we moved around the displays assessing the composition, presentation, creativity, technique … etc of each and every piece.

After a brief and restorative lunch break, we soon devised an efficient system, the result of which allowed us to agree upon and assign 31 ribbons to our 'favourite' pieces. All 31 selections had a minimum of two juror endorsements. It worked out well and we were clearly on the same page with most of our choices.

Meantime, when I wasn't teaching a workshop or judging art, I was enjoying the luxurious accommodation I had been assigned, a two-bedroom suite at Ingrid's Bed & Breakfast in Blind Bay. Owned and operated by Ingrid and Helmut Becker, the accommodation was exquisite, my hosts were attentive and fastidious and I enjoyed a gourmet three-course breakfast each morning.

Helmut Becker is also an artist working mostly in plaster and clay and has been a ribbon winner at the Shuswap Arts Festival several times over the years. A number of his three-dimensional pieces were displayed in my suite and each morning was like waking up in an art gallery.

Despite the flooding, a disabled ferry and some intense heat, this was a marvelous experience, made all the richer by the generous and delightful people I met. Thank you Sorrento! I'll be back.

Am I My Kitchen?

A couple of blogs ago I spoke about my kitchen renovation and how I was moving to a more 'grown-up' version of the domestic hub … well, it's finished now and I absolutely love it!

It's only when I see pictures of my former kitchen that I experience tiny pangs of sadness—after all, what I had before was clearly one-of-a-kind. 

Now that the vibrant primaries--blues, reds and yellows--have been unceremoniously carted off to the local landfill site, many people are finally admitting to me that they're pleased it's finally gone, or that they couldn't believe I'd put up with it all these years. I think there may be some who wonder how I'd managed to feed my family with those cabinet doors as the backdrop to our meals, or whether I'd every had real adults over for real dinner parties. 

These are the same 'friends' who used words like 'interesting' and 'different' to describe my former kitchen and who used to say flattering(?) things like: 'this kitchen really suits your personality'. Now I have to wonder what they really meant by that? And does a custom-fitted, cherry wood kitchen with a tumbled stone back splash and a sink that no longer leaks still 'suit my personality', or has my personality changed too?

'It must be great to have a proper kitchen now,' remarked a not-so-distant relative; I don't know how to respond to that … after all, I have the same refrigerator, the same oven, the same questionable wooden spoons, the same sticky recipe books and, definitely, the same culinary abilities. If I'm perceived as now performing in a more credible setting, am I expected to produce more credible 'n edible food to boot! Time will tell.

Meantime, I'm really enjoying the new space and spend quite a bit of time twirling contentedly on my fabulous new counter stools amazed that it's really all mine and that I'm not simply a guest in someone else's grown-up house.

'Value' is in the Heart of the Beholder

Earlier this month, I, along with three other talented artists, decided to get together, empty out our studios, slash prices and make our work more attractive and available to loyal patrons and new customers at a special two-day sale event.

The public response exceeded our expectations leaving us, the artists, with the space, confidence and motivation to begin new work projects as soon as possible. For our fans and clients, it was a fabulous opportunity for them to see and/or purchase our work at attractive prices in an upbeat and happy environment and to take their purchases home to enjoy for a very long time—a win-win situation many would say.

However, among the artist population, there is always a discernible wriggle and a squirm when someone suggests 'discounting' art prices. Several artists, who declined my invitation to participate, felt that a 'sale' event would devalue their work. I suppose that if 'value' is measured only in dollars, they would be correct, but that would represent a very narrow and limited point of view.

The experiential value of art cannot be weighed or measured. There is the immense value of the work from the artist's perspective … the creation, the execution, the satisfaction and the sheer delight experienced when someone else also appreciates and loves the work enough to make room for it in his or her home.

Those who attended our sale and bought work marched out of the venue with one, two and sometimes even three new pieces of art and smiles on their faces knowing that the enjoyment of their new acquisitions was only just beginning. I doubt anyone went home feeling they'd chosen something of lesser value simply because the number on the price tag was lower than usual.

Not only that but we, the artists, got to meet and chat with the new owners of our work and they in turn had the opportunity to engage with the artists while enjoying a fabulous selection of professional art in a very relaxed setting. I highly doubt that many of our patrons would have purchased multiple pieces of 'full-priced' art in one fell swoop under normal circumstances and, even if they had, I'll bet the experience would have been fraught with considerably more angst and trepidation.

Even for those among us who can't help but see 'value' as an accounting entry, let's not forget that in a small community, once our artwork has done the rounds from gallery to café to doctors' waiting rooms and finally all the way home again, our marketing options are geographically and logistically limited. Where's the value in artwork propped up against the wall in one of our personal studios where no one else can see, enjoy or experience it?

Of course, an artist can always market his or her work further afield. However, the costs in terms of time, energy and dollars spent to promote it, line the jurors' palms with silver, manage inventory, pack it, ship, or deliver it and fork out sales commissions are obviously added to the price tag of a piece of work, but this rarely contributes to the artist's bottom line and definitely does nothing to elevate the intrinsic 'value' of the work.

We four artists had a great time putting on this event, getting to know one another as well as interacting with clients and potential customers. Our combined talents, passions and respect for the value of our work made the Second (Non-Annual) Fantastic Art Sale the rewarding experience it was and at no time was the intrinsic value of our work or dedication to our craft compromised or diminished in any way.

Thank you to everyone who supported the event! Stay tuned for new and exciting work from Kate Bridger, Sue Parr, Marilyn McCombe and Tea Preville …

Time For a Grown Up Kitchen!

My house is undergoing a bit of a cosmetic make-over at the moment and I have come to realize that it coincides with a shift in my own personal attitude. I believe this represents the natural organic nature of my sense of home rather than my unwitting surrender to the pressures of a media machine pushing all things new and trendy. I certainly won’t be tossing out functional white appliances to make room for stainless steel just because I’ve seen it done on TV.

My need for change is internally motivated, not externally coerced. I bought my house after my divorce; it was not a particularly horrific event as divorces go but, nonetheless, it was extremely sad. When I moved in, the interior was completely white ... white walls, white ceilings, white trim, white lace curtains, etc and, although I absolutely LOVED the house, the colour scheme—or lack thereof—left me cold. I desperately needed a place my sons and I could come home to where we would feel energized and cheerful, so I splashed saturated colours on practically every vertical—and even some horizontal—surfaces to wake the place up.

It was—and is—a happy place. But now, it doesn’t need to be quite so vocal about it. My children are both grown up and living their own lives elsewhere and, having finally got used to the quiet they left behind, I feel ready to bring my newly acquired sense peace and acceptance to my home. I still want plenty of bright and cheerful colours, but I’m ready to tone them down a few decibels.

I’m also at a stage in my life when I’d like to de-clutter somewhat—both literally and figuratively. I no longer feel the need to load every surface with a project or work-in-progress in order to justify my place on this earth and I no longer fear the silences that often fall between projects. I still have plenty of projects and ideas for future projects, but now I’m strong enough to enjoy the quieter spells in between.

Currently, my kitchen is an explosion of op-art primary colours ... every cabinet surface painted in a different Vasarely-esque design. It's been quite the conversation piece over the years and was a good tonic for tired old plywood cupboards and a weary and worried divorcee. But now I’m ready for a ‘grown-up’s’ kitchen. I want smooth, clean surfaces, functional drawers and efficient, accessible storage. I’ll still need splashes of bold colours because that’s who I am, but I’m sufficiently settled now to be comfortable with a few neutral beats as well.

Our inner selves are at their best and most balanced when our living and working environments support, reflect and nurture us. And that, quite simply, is why I have listened to myself and am prepared to go to all this trouble. This represents yet another new chapter in my life whose time has come; it's natural evolution and, as always, a great ride!

A Murder Mystery

I am an avid reader of British murder mysteries. One of my favourite authors is P. D. James who has brought the indefatigable Commander Adam Dalgliesh to life in many a spellbinding tale.

Who would have thought that this fictional character, so focused on tracking down murderers and seeking sinister clues, would also be a poet and gentleman philosopher in his free time? Perhaps that is why, in A Taste For Death, while searching the home of a possible murder suspect, Commander Dalgliesh makes this remarkable observation on the nature of 'home':

"There are rooms designed to be got away from, bleak anterooms where the armour is buckled on to confront the real world outside. There are rooms to come back to, claustrophobic refuges from the arduous business of work and striving. This room was a world in itself, a still centre provisioned with economy and care but containing everything necessary to its owner's life …"

In my book, Nest Building, I talk about the role of 'home' as a safe haven: "a place that offers sanctuary from all that has gone on during the day". It is also a place that "provides relaxation and the promise of restoration so that tomorrow you are ready to do it all again".

Commander Dalgliesh, however, takes it a step further and talks about home as a world in itself; in other words, a destination in its own right, complete and satisfying. It is a place to enjoy and experience as considerably more than a comfy layover to rest in, or prepare for battle in, en route to somewhere else. I think that is a very important observation and a reminder to all of us to make sure our living places are not only relaxing and restorative, but also stimulating, challenging, entertaining and fulfilling.

This is the sense of 'home' I aspire to: a place of completeness without sacrificing flexibility or succumbing to complacency.

Unequivocally Misquoted!

Admit it ... we’ve all done it. It’s a slow day at work and we start by ‘Googling’ our friends and then, finally, we cave in and ‘Google’ ourselves. Usually when I resort to this form of entertainment, the predictable websites and references to my artwork or Nest Building book pop up. Most recently, however, a new Kate Bridger bio came up attributing all sorts of ‘unequivocally’ ludicrous statements to me by virtue of the fact that the words are housed in quotation marks.

This was a rather timely discovery because I had just finished reading Bill Bryson’s The Mother Tongue. In Chapter 14, Bryson discusses the often ludicrous and nonsensical results of direct and literal translation from one language to another where subtle expressions and idiom are not transferable. We’ve all experienced it when we struggle to understand assembly instructions for some item manufactured in Japan or the Philippines – the results can be hilarious, albeit not very helpful.

Excerpts from the article that follows have given me a fresh insight into my life and work. For example, until now I unequivocally had no idea there was a basement in our English home and that we spent much of our time living in the trees, nor did I know anything about the drugging and exportation of Brits, trafficking in Nelson and my ‘murderous’ tendencies!

So, here you go:

Ever given Kate Bridger was a child she desired design …

“I used to make Lego villages that took over a household, or finished things with boxes,” pronounced Bridger. “One of a things we unequivocally remember as a child in Britain is that we had a tiny basement — a basement to us didn’t meant a tree installation yet we’d go into a timberland and build this tiny place … we consider we had a unequivocally early nesting instinct.”

“My family changed for work … All these Brits were being drug over to work in Canada ….”

“By a time we was a teen we was portrayal my walls …. When we went to university we complicated landscape architecture … it morphed from there,” she said.

Design edged a approach behind into Bridger’s life when she became a owners of a tiny gallery and home taste emporium in a Nelson Trading Company.

It rambles on like this page after page, mercifully coming to an end with:

“My thought with interior pattern is to find a client’s style … it’s unequivocally unequivocally unequivocally critical that we learn to promulgate good so that a customer understands your ideas. … This is unequivocally wrong. … That unequivocally murderous me.”

Maybe the same author will translate my entire Nest Building book … unequivocally I cannot wait!