The Highest Form of Hope

Songs I can't get enough of:

Jigsaw Falling Into Place - Raidohead, In Rainbows
Next Train - Miracle Fortress, Five Roses
Boy With a Coin - Iron and Wine, The Shepherd's Dog
Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard and Marketa Iglova, Once
TV Show - Martha Wainwright, Martha Wainwright

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The coffee table is a piece of furniture I revisit daily. I feel I’m picking up books tossed aside by a beefy nineteen-month-old at least ten times a day. A futile task indeed… and just a small part of the never ending work of a stay-at-home parent. Tonight as I rearranged the books and magazines once more, I stopped to look. It is interesting what our coffee table says about us – each one of us – in the Morgun household.

There is the Hockey News – a staple. Especially considering one comes every week. What do I do with all these Hockey magazines, you ask? Just look in the overstuffed basket beside the couch. Eventually Noah will get to them and put them out of their misery! This was a subscription I bought Paul for Christmas one year. He and I sometimes do the crosswords together (amazing that I can even help in this department!). There’s a Herald or two in this pile – just reminders of the vocation he’s bravely chosen and the pastime that consumes the few hours left in the day.

Then there’s The Donkey’s Christmas Song: Noah’s favorite book, a gift from Auntie Jessica. Noah is a child who has cherished items; his dinosaur toy, his trucks and his Donkey Book. He never gets tired of crawling up on the recliner and settling for a good reread. Sometimes he’s so possessive of it that he won’t even let me hold the book while I’m reading it to him! Steadfast, stubborn, decisive, Noah. I dread the day he’s too big for me to tickle him as the Donkey loudly braes for the baby in the manger.

Under the Hockey News is a large picture book about China. This is Sasha’s department. He’ll probably be a world traveler. He’s fascinated by maps, different foods and cultures. Plus, I enjoy looking through these large picture books with him – I poured over my dad’s National Geographics when I was little. His imagination grows bigger each day, I wonder if the vast expanse of the earth is enough to contain it. He’s consuming all he can about Egypt and Rome, China and Japan. Perhaps he’s inherited the same adventurous spirit as my brother – hopefully he’ll remember to call me when he crosses the border between China and Tibet, or when he’s standing atop the Pyramids.

My black-bound sketchbook lies at an angle. It has many resting places around the house, and as such my children have both “collaborated” in its contents. Not too long ago, my contribution to the coffee table collection would have been a series of textbooks and disorganized notes. It was a loyal study partner during the month of exams. It seems like a long time ago, when my family and I were juggling full-time University and a two year old. It’s funny how sure I was that I’d be less busy by this point in my life!

So many other events have happened around this table. How many mugs of coffee or tea (mostly tea in our household) have rested on this table with or without coasters? How many kids have sat on these couches looking for help, encouragement or just someone to listen to them? How many times have I found friendship sitting here? How many times have I enjoyed being alone sitting here? How many fingerprints have etched the surface of this cheap Superstore special?

Just one piece of put-it-together-yourself furniture, but for one evening it has become a conduit for endless numbers of events and conversations and milestones for me...

I better not do anymore cleaning tonight!

Labels: books, furniture, life in general, music

As a few of you are already aware, I'm not the most athletically inclined person in the world. I don't know what exactly possessed me to sign up for the twenty-four hour relay for Easter Seals, but I did. Needless to say, there will be more walking than running.

I'm running for "Caleb's Crew". Caleb is a little guy who was on my son's hockey team who suffers from mild cerebral palsy. He's quite the sweetheart - he really enjoys hanging with Noah and his attitude at hockey this year was awesome! He is a one neat little kid. The team is still looking for more walkers/runners for the relay and of course we are also trying to raise money. Our goal is $2500.00. If you want to sponsor me go here to do so (it's a very secure and reputable site).

I know that many of you out there know Caleb and what a wonderful little boy he is... So if you do, consider joining our team! You can email me for details.

Labels: 24 hour relay, easter seals

Here's some self promotion if you're up to it... I've recently been highlighted on Terribly Poetic. The first draft of my artist statement is up there along with a couple of pictures of my recent work. If you want to see more feel free to check out My Sketchbook. I just added some better quality pictures from my "Beautiful Distance" series. This title is not completely decided on and I'm definitely open to suggestions. I also don't mind answering questions about this series as my thought process if finally coming to some conclusions. My artist statement will be up there shortly as well, I'm also up for suggestions on that.
Anyways check out Terribly Poetic... As a bonus there's a picture of my new haircut for those of you who were asking. Someone told me I look "dark and brooding". Sweet.

Labels: art, hair, life in general

Noah's had a rough couple of days... He had a nasty bout of the flu and lost a couple pounds (not that you can notice much!). But yesterday in between rounds of diaper changes he saw it proper to outfit his favorite dinosaur with a centurion helmet from Sasha's Playmobil (possibly the best toy ever created). Now the dinosaur simply can't go anywhere without his headgear, which is problematic because the helmet doesn't stay on his head. Constant frustration aside, the Centurion Dinosaur was very cute and a welcome sight after days of barf and... yeah, other gross stuff.

Labels: family

Near the very center of the stacks is a large, rectangular arrangement of tables. I liked to work there best because I had the room to spread out my drawing paper and my other materials. Sometimes I felt a little overexposed being the center of the room. But few people sat there and the stacks, though always populated, were never busy.

Today seemed to be an exception. As I sipped my now-cold tea before preparing to unload, I glanced around the deserted room. The stacks were oddly empty. This was not unwelcome, especially in the mid-morning. I set down my thermos on the table and my backpack on the chair. I opened my sketchbook and stacked my books one on top of the other. Then I removed my pencils and charcoal from their plaid carrying case. Unconsciously or consciously, I did this slowly. Slowly my mind transitioned from my adventure that morning to the vast amount of work I had to accomplish during the rest of the day.

And I was stuck. I had yet to finish the drawing that remained trapped under the gaze of my mentor in the student-run studio. I didn’t know how to finish it. After this drawing I had yet another to complete the series, but at the same time I was questioning the six other drawings I had already completed. The more I pictured them in my mind, the more flat they became. This was getting more and more frustrating with each passing deadline. I had something to say, but my words had fallen flat.

Even the idea of “saying something” filled me with guilt now and again. It would seem arrogant to assume that my scribbles would have any authority to speak to anyone. Some artists don’t even want their work to speak. They refuse to give titles, or to explain themselves… I wondered often if this was because of laziness or arrogance. But the more I think of it, the more I realize that it is a cry to be known. How wonderful it would be to have someone look at your work and immediately understand it! I suppose one could make a simple idea seem very clear at the first glance, albeit the temptation to use visual cliché or something rudely shocking would be great. But if you wanted to say something more complex, something that might be beyond your grasp of language… then the cry to be known would surely fall on deaf ears. I’ve never experienced that feeling, that somebody “gets” my work just by looking at it. I guess it’s a rather unrealistic, not to mention historically-naive dream.

When art suddenly became solely about “expressing oneself” (which perhaps only truly happened in the minds of the masses), something was lost. Listening and seeing was no longer required, we no longer felt that we were to be taught and shaped by art. We used it as a mirror and saw only ourselves in the canvas. Then eventually we saw nothing. We saw a meaningless and endless sublime, as vast as the sea. There was no beauty left to attract us to it.

When I told my mentor that I wanted my series of drawings to be beautiful, he stopped and took off his glasses. Then he sighed deeply and said, “If you want to make something beautiful, go into Design. Pure art is not overly concerned with beauty.” Since arguing with my mentor was a fruitless venture, I said nothing.

I felt like I was going behind his back, pouring over books on aesthetics looking for inspiration. I should have been able to plumb the depths of my mentor’s experience to help me on my way, but he had disregarded my opinions too many times. By doing so, he made his resources remote to me, so I looked elsewhere.

Books were not the only things I searched. In truth, they were secondary to the scrapbook of images I had collected in my own personal visual database. I looked over my favorite drawings again and again. There is something about a drawing that is far more intimate than a painting or photograph. You can see the artist’s hand moving. You can see her at work; you can clearly see her process. A few years previous, a traveling exhibition of drawings came to the university gallery. Among them was a small sketch by Klee. I stared in awe of the little angel which resembled an unearthly beautiful version of connect the dots. And then I cried, because I felt so close to him. If I were to touch it I would be a mere ninety years away from his hand. I saw his hand. I saw what he did first and last; I saw his process.

The process is beautiful, I concluded. This gave me encouragement too many times to mention. However, the process had not yet fully come to life in my drawings. They remained flat. I remained stuck.

Labels: fiction

Thanks to my sister Amy, I've been introduced to an awesome design website with lots of ideas for interior decorating - it's called DesignSponge. Amy is dictating this post as I write. She wants full credit. So here you are Amy, full credit for the website your friend facebooked you.

Labels: crafts, design