Playing Outside

I just got back from Toronto, where I grew up.  I always come back feeling emotionally drained.

I didn't make any art when I was home, but I did look at a lot of art.  My art.  From when I was 4 or 5 years old.  My mother kept a box of my drawings from kindergarten, and boy was I a prolific artist back then!  Out of respect for my mother's careful archiving I took a photo of each one, kept a few favourites, and then recycled the rest.  We're in the process of cleaning up the house.

I love love this one.

Throwing things away is one of my favourite things to do.  It can be very liberating.  But it is also very emotional at times.  Not throwing things away is also one of my creative parameters, to reuse, to give new life to items full of memories and meaning.

I didn't draw anything when I was home.  But I looked at a lot of art.  My parents' house is full or art.  Art by so many people - my mother, father, grandfathers, auntie, friends, and myself.

It's funny to be able to look at your own works and marvel at it.  And wonder, who was that person, that little girl?  How did she get to be me?

She just loved to play outside.

Late Bloomers

I went to go and see the artichokes on 7th Street today.  If you don't know, I'm kind of obsessed with them.  (Previous blogposts here.)

I was surprised to find some blooms amongst dried up flowers on one of the plants, because I think they normally bloom in the summer.  Hello late bloomers!

I very much relate to late bloomers.

Wikipedia says, A late bloomer is a person whose talents or capabilities are not visible to others until later than usual.

And may I add, not just to others, but to the self?

I remember learning in my art class that the painter Henri Rousseau was a late bloomer - he didn't start painting until he was in his 40s.  Interesting that I held onto that tidbit of info...  Looking him up now, I found this painting of a bunny!  Rousseau claimed he had "no teacher other than nature."

Here is the classic, "The Dream."  I wonder if he liked artichokes...

Toronto Subway Memories

I went home to Toronto a couple of weeks ago.  Riding the subway, passing through the stops led to blobs of memories.  Chester, Woodbine, Dundas...  Some bigger blobs than others.

Falling asleep that night, I scribbled this down:

As a child my brain was always full of wishful fantasies.
As a young adult through my twenties and early thirties I was preoccupied with paranoias and worries about what people thought.
Now my mind is full of nostalgia.