Ducks & Froggies

17 October 2019 – Well, that’s misleading. There are no ducks or froggies in this post.

But it’s only initially misleading. Think of it as my preamble.

When I was little, and the rain came pouring down, my mother would chant some nursery doggerel in my ear that began, “I don’t like the rain / But the ducks & froggies do…” and went through a long list of Good Deeds done by rainfall to conclude, “So I am glad there’s sometimes a rainy day / Aren’t you?” My dad would discreetly roll his eyes, but, see, the sentiment has stuck with me, if not the specific list of watery Good Deeds.

Still, you only have to look around to see candidates for the list.

Happy plant life, for example.

Fern fronds, new & old, glow in the pearly light …

So do these pieris leaves, new & old …

And this rhodo, with buds already set for spring …

And this yellow rose bush, not to be outdone, with buds popping into bloom right now.

And then, and then …

And then, even though there’s not a duck or froggy in sight, I can at least offer you some orange giraffes.

As good as a rainbow, yes?

Your eye follows rain-dark Main Street north-north-north right to Burard Inlet, and smacks into those dazzling cranes, set afire by a shaft of sunlight that — just for a moment — finds a gap in the clouds.

 

 

Water & Woodland

3 October 2019 – We’re in Stanley Park, that 400-hectare bulge of West Coast rainforest where False Creek swells into English Bay, Burrard Inlet and beyond that the Strait of Georgia, all of it part of the Salish Sea.

I get dizzy trying to grasp all that, but I don’t have to. We’re firmly on land, in the Park, and we have a more-or-less plan: Seawall for a while, then up onto Merilees Trail where we can overlook the Seawall and Burrard Inlet, then … ummm … then probably forest trails around & back down.

Which is pretty well how it works.

Fresh, breezy fall day, bright sun, sparkling water, then into the forest. It is terrific.

Somewhere past Second Beach, heading towards Fergusons Point, this circle of stones in the water. Not a random act of nature; too deliberately placed for that. Perhaps someone’s tribute to Don Vaughan’s Waiting for Low Tide installation in False Creek?

From mute, stationary stones to a noisy, busy dog. He is splashing furiously through the water just off Third Beach to chase — yet again! — the stick thrown — yet again! — by his patient owners. Another, lazier dog watches from the shore; we watch from our viewpoint high on Merilees Trail.

We stick with the trail, thank you, despite the passing (male) hiker who crisply informs us it is “boring” and we should immediately drop back down to the Seawall. Our choice rewards us, and eventually, with a bit of hacking about, here we are at Prospect Point Lookout.

We can look down-down-down to the water, and we do. We can look up-and-to-the-right to Lions Gate Bridge, and we do. We can also look straight overhead to watch a seaplane arc through the sky.

And we do.

Now we turn inland, away from ocean views to follow first Prospect Trail and then the Bridle Path, curving down through the heart of the forest.

It is quite, quite magic.

Nurse logs everywhere, their decaying old growth feeding voracious new growth in the forest’s endless cycle of regeneration.

They come every which shape. Sometimes a craggy island of stumps, rising from a sea of forest litter all around …

Sometimes a single shoulder-height remnant of trunk, silver-tipped …

Sometimes horizontal instead, smothered in mossy green …

with luminous white mushrooms glowing nearby.

Oh… I don’t know they’re mushrooms. Maybe they’re toadstools? I wasn’t rude enough to tip one over and check its gills (brown-to-black in a mature true mushroom, still white in a mature toadstool).

But maybe it’s just as well we keep our ungloved hands to ourselves. Later on, one online photo of Death Cap mushrooms — now proliferating in Vancouver, reports tell us — looks suspiciously like our guys. Though maybe not: Death Cap seems to have a silky smooth cap; ours are ruffled.

So I don’t know, and I don’t much care, because I think they’re beautiful, and all I want to do is admire them, not eat them. (Still, if you can identify them, please do.)

By now we’re obsessed with nurse logs, playing spot-the-hidden-nurse-log as we walk.

And look, there one is. A huge mound, a long-buried nurse log surely, with its new growth, now mature trees, rising triumphantly above.

There is a whole lot of “rising triumphantly” going on in this forest.

What’s the scale? you ask; how high would a human being rise against that vee?

This high.

Getting pretty far down the Bridle Path by now, soon we’ll hit Lost Lagoon and begin to rejoin urban bustle.

One more soaring tree before we go  …

and we finally emerge from the trails into the noise and parking lots — but also the amenities — where city streets butt up against parkland near Second Beach.

Into a brew pub! And into big bowls of clam chowder.

 

The Rough with the Smooth

26 September 2019 – Some days, you get it all.

We encounter the rough while walking westward through Thornton Park, just in front of Pacific Central train station  …

and later on I encounter the smooth while walking eastward again past David Lam Park on the north side of False Creek.

This is one of my favourite sculptures, Marking High Tide by Don Vaughan, and look — rising tide is just beginning to lap across the lowest of the stepping-stones.

A Loop Beneath a Rain-Rich Sky

14 September 2019 – Rich more in promise than delivery, though, as I write this, rain is pelting down.

Earlier, the sky is merely lowering, luminous grey, the air heavy with its cargo of rain. But I am now a Vancouverite, am I not? I put on my jacket, tuck a mini-umbrella into my backpack, and off I go.

A loop, I tell myself: down to the eastern end of False Creek, west up its north side to the Cambie bridge, over the bridge, back east to Creek-end once more, and home.

I’m not the only Vancouverite. Waving-cat Maneki-nako stops waving, wraps his paw around an umbrella instead, and turns into rain-cat.

Luminous sky means darker darks & punched-up colour, this rain-filled trench in a construction site suddenly a turquoise pond.

Site equipment rears dark against the sky …

as do hydro poles in a nearby alley, their attendant crows somehow even blacker than  usual.

Down on False Creek, an inukshuk seems to huddle against the chill …

and tide height turns rock tips into dark islands in the glittering waters.

A woman stops beside me, also contemplating the rocks. We chat, her small dog with butterfly ears yips at a passing gull. “I named him Napoleon for good reason,” she sighs. “Small Frenchman with big attitude.”

Just before the south-side ramp up onto the Cambie bridge, I pause again. A kid & his skateboard take a breather beside the mural with its large “Stay in school” message. It’s Saturday. He’s legal.

Over the bridge, and, starting down the spiral staircase at the south end, I hear music.

I look over the edge.

Some passer-by has pushed  back the protective tarp, and started playing the public piano that lives here on Spyglass Dock every summer. The music swells; the pavement murals glow in the mist.

A little farther east, I watch crows fly in to join their fellows in a favourite staging tree. Come evening, they’ll take wing for their nightly migration to the next municipality over, Burnaby. Night after night, they swirl past my balcony, dozens at a time.

 

Mist has turned to drizzle; drizzle is thickening to rain. One more line of hydro poles, as I cut south-east toward home. No crows here, just one bright saw-tooth line of pink warning flags.

And now… rain! I scamper.

(You’re right: this is not the post I semi-promised you last time around. This one seemed more here-and-now. That one comes next. Yes! I promise.)

Love That Dude

8 September 2019 – This is a love story …

about this Dude.

In 1991, the Vancouver Parks Board installed a handsome new cedar sculpture, Reclining Figure, in Guelph Park — a not particularly large or widely known park in the Mount Pleasant neighbourhood, bordered on its east side by Guelph Street.

By 2017, as you can see in that Georgia Straight photo above, the wood was busy repurposing itself. Just fine for the planet as a whole; not so fine for lovers of the sculpture. The Parks Board paid to have it returned to the artist, Michael Dennis, on Denman Island.

And then… what to do, what to do?

Because, you see, this wasn’t really about Reclining Figure at all.

It was about The Dude. And Dude Chilling Park. And a community icon.

A little back-story:

  • November 2012, local artist Viktor Briestensky, in tribute to the sculpture, puts up a hand-lettered sign renaming the park, “Dude Chilling Park.” The Parks Board removes it.
  • February 2014, after an online petition gains some 1,800 signatures, the Parks Board thinks, Why not?, and puts up a Dude Chilling Park sign next to the Guelph Park sign. The park is still legally Guelph, but has dual-sign status.
  • The park’s alternate name gains international media attention; the “Dude” sign keeps being stolen as a souvenir; lots of people visit the park; and on we go.

And then it’s 2017, and the Parks Board finally removes decomposing Cedar Dude from the park, and reunites it with its creator. Guelph/Dude Chilling Park has lost its soul.

What happens next is a grassroots campaign to “Save the Dude.”  The Mount Pleasant Community Centre is a driving force in the campaign, local media get behind it, people and various societies chip in, Michael Dennis adds support — and, finally, there is money to back the public will to save The Dude by casting it in bronze.

Mid-August this year, Bronze Dude is triumphantly installed. (But I only catch up with it today…)

We love our Dude!

Fibre-art on the park’s tennis court fence proclaims it.

More fibre-art, twined around nearby tree forks, illustrates several more reasons why people love this park.

One reason, the park’s large community garden, visible behind that tree.

Spin about, sight along one of those two wrappings for another reason.

See? There to the left? People laughing and story-telling around one of the park’s many benches.

Just chilling with The Dude.

 

PR, Right & Wrong

4 September 2019 – I’ll start with Wrong, and work up.

Wrong PR

Prince Rupert is the wrong PR. When I described and showed you my 2 km walk along the Salish Sea (previous post), I took great pains to sort out Malaspina Strait / Georgia Strait / Salish Sea … and then calmly located it all in Prince Rupert.

When, of course, I meant Powell River. That PR. I really did know where I was, I promise you, and I was not floating on any interesting substances at the time.

I put it down to “a fit of absence of mind.” If this explanation is good enough for John Robert Seeley, when describing how England came to conquer half the world (The Expansion of England, 1883), it is surely good enough for me.

Right PR

PR now in the sense of follow-up publicity for Silver Donald Cameron’s book, The Living Beach.  He wrote it after a conversation with a Canadian coastal geologist about beach behaviour caused him first to exclaim, “You talk as though the damn thing were alive!” — and then go learn a whole lot more about beaches, and share it all with us.

Never mind those other online sources: go to Silver Donald Cameron‘s own website, check out the book, buy it if you wish, and start exploring what else is on offer.

A long-time author and activist, Cameron is currently the first Farley Mowat Chair in the Environment at Cape Breton University, and host and executive producer of The Green Interview — the online home for conversations with “thinkers, writers and activists whose ideas and work are leading the way to a new era of sustainability.”

David Suzuki on the west coast, Silver Donald Cameron on the east: lucky Canada, to have the country bracketed by such a lively, thoughtful and enjoyable pair of environmental thinkers and communicators.

How about one last Powell River beach photograph? Seems only appropriate. Here we are,  overlooking Willingdon Beach, a-glow with the setting sun.

 

I am now back in Vancouver. (And, I think, my mind is back as well.)

 

 

2 Km Along the Salish Sea

2 September 2019 – But let us be more precise.

(Deep breath.) The Powell River Sea Walk Trail runs for 2 km south from Westview Wharf along the intertidal areas of the adjacent Malaspina Strait, which lies between Texada Island and this mainland coast and is a subset of the Strait of Georgia, which (another deep breath) in turn and in combination with the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound, comprise the Salish Sea.

One more bit of commentary and then, I promise you, I’ll get on with the walk. I never thought about intertidal zones or what truly constitutes a “beach” until I read Silver Donald Cameron‘s remarkable book, The Living Beach. First published in 1998, it’s still available (check the usual online sources) and if you’d like to know why you should try to seek it out, read this review in Quill & Quire. Whatever the date of the review (not given, tsk tsk), the analysis is not dated.

On with the walk!

I very slightly already know Westview Wharf. I stood here several evenings ago, transfixed like other strollers by the late-day sun as it began its descent to the ocean below.

But now it is today, and noon-ish, and the blazing sun is having a high old laugh at the weather forecast that promised clouds.

There has been habitat amelioration along the first part of this Trail, notably to enhance the eelgrass beds and the salt marshes. Shore grasses and wildflowers have that late-summer, exhausted look about them…

The Trail pamphlet urges me to watch for Harlequin ducks, Great Blue Heron and Harbour seals, but makes no mention of vigilant pussycats.

I do later see one GBH, but no seals and only generic (to my ignorant eyes) duck-ducks, no identifiable Harlequins. Mind you, I get to watch a black & white stand-off, gulls vs crows, much squawking and flapping as they argue some choice bit of carrion.

There’s another wharf mid-way south, a marina offering more private docking. I see, overhear & chat with some of the visiting mariners, some strolling the Trail and others briskly returning to their boats with provisions.

The beach becomes rockier, gradations from sand to boulders, no more marshland.

Many benches along the way, most strictly utilitarian (wood on metal frames, sturdy & comfortable), but with a few stand-outs, including a trio by First Nations carvers (Tla’amin or Shishálh, I don’t know which).

One is brightly coloured …

and the other two incised but unpainted, giving the design itself that much more impact.

I look north again across the trio, my eye shooting past the heart of town, right up to the mill at the far end, with its plume of smoke rising to join those cloud-puffs on the right. (And we know, don’t we, that The Hulks are up there as well, a necklace of protection for the mill and its activities.)

Rocky beaches always mean inukshuks.

No surprise there should be one right here, along with the driftwood “gate” …

at the end of the Trail.

 

 

 

 

PR Fauna (Visible & Invisible) and a Candle

1 September 2019 – This was not the plan. I meant to be up in Lund today, truly end of the road, soaking up sights & thoughts to share with you in a post to be so-cutely entitled, “197 Km from Home.”

Turns out Info-Centre Lady was wrong. She had assured me I was just in time: today would be the last run this summer of the seasonal Sunday bus service to Lund. No. My unrewarded vigil at the bus stop proved that when the Transit authority said it was a July-August service, they meant literally that. And today is September, isn’t it?

So (in my very best mature/philosophic traveller way) I thought to myself, Never mind… let’s just see what Powell River wants to offer me today instead.

It offered me fauna, visible & invisible, and a candle.

By “fauna” I do mostly mean animals, and I bet you’re waiting for at least a bear. Maybe no cougar, no elk, not here in town, but at least a bear.

I will show you an invisible bear.

You can’t see him, and neither did I.

But while I was taking this photo at the Log Dump the other day, a couple stopped their car long enough to tell that that I was standing exactly — exactly — where they had seen a bear just the day before. I thanked them politely, and later wondered whether they’d been hoping for a more excited reaction than that.

On to the invisible wasps.

A practically invisible warning, too, thanks to the day’s intermittent showers. Still, I appreciate the City’s efforts to prevent any collision between human skin and wasp stingers.

Enough invisibles, on to the visibles.

Polecrows! (If we can have Polecats, why not polecrows?)

Speaking of cats, a cat named Spot …

and a dog named No! …

and a … ummmm … an owlcat.

Beak of owl, ears of pussycat, all we lack is the pea-green boat. But, look, owlcat is pea-green. So Edward Lear would approve, after all.

On to the candle.

To my delight, the Powell River Forestry Museum is open today, down there on Willingdon Beach.  I go in, not just to see what they have, but also to tell them how much I enjoyed the trail through the forest (another project of the Powell River Forestry Heritage Society) and all that it taught me about the history of the industry and the equipment that has been part of it.

So here I am, walking around, and I meet a candle. The Swedish Candle, sometimes aka The Finnish Candle, or even, The Canadian Candle.

You will suspect me of showing you an invisible candle, out there somewhere with the bear and the wasps, but no … that log is the candle.

Lund would have been a whole different day. But this one was just fine.

 

 

170 Km from Home…

30 August 2019 – It’s the start of a holiday weekend, so I join the exodus from town.

I’m on a B.C. Ferry run from Horseshoe Bay to Langdale — first hop in a ferry/bus/ferry/bus trip that will take me those 170 km up the Sunshine Coast to Powell River.

Powell River was all about forestry, is imprinted by forestry, and still produces newsprint and other specialty papers. The Powell River Company began building a pulp and paper mill here in 1909, started production in 1912, and at one point was the largest pulp mill in the world. The mill was built on the unceded lands of Tla’amin First Nation, whose people were summarily relocated without compensation. Logging practices were equally cavalier, and equally accepted, in the spirit of the day.

The day has changed, old practices and arrangements have changed, are changing, but — here as elsewhere — aboriginal/logging/environmental cross-currents still swirl. I am aware of what I don’t know and choose to step aside from judgment, and simply see what I see.

First full day in town, down to Willingdon Beach Park, heading for the forest trail that will launch my walk to the Historic District. I’m clipping through the park at speed — I have places to go! — and I stop in my tracks. Just look what young Eli Hueston has done.

Clever-boots Eli, and clever the team that turned his design for an octopus bike rack into the real thing. (Well, no, not a real octopus…)

And onto the Trail — a nature trail since the 1920s, when the logging railway ties and rails were removed.

It’s a little over a kilometre in length, and I don’t expect it to take up much time, or occupy much mind-space. La-la, great tall trees and cedar path and glimpses through the trees over the gravelly beach to Malaspina Srait. A joy, all of it, but I’m moving right along.

Ah but, you see, there are signs all along the way and I am a sucker for signs. (Ask Phyllis or Frances, bless their patient souls.) So I am impressed to learn that the gravel mixed into the ground beneath my feet, up here at a higher level, is Pleistocene-era, originally deposited at sea level but stranded when the glaciers melted (some 10,000 years ago) and the land rebounded.

No sign for this uprooted giant tree, but I stop to gawk anyway. My attitude about this Trail has definitely shifted.

Mind, there are lots of signs about the trees and plant life: Western Redwood Cedar (B.C.’s official tree), Sitka Spruce, Douglas Fir, Western Hemlock, the Grand Fir, Sword Ferns (which always make me expect a dinosaur around the next bend), Salal, Oregon Grape…

I read all this, but what really stops me, again and again, are all the pieces of old logging machinery, now on open-air display here in the forest. (And where better?)

A boomboat, for example (used in the booming ground to sort logs into booms) …

and a 1940s Track Logging Arch (towed behind bulldozers to elevate one end of a turn of logs being skidded to a loading area or a dump).

Like huge mechanical children, playing hide-&-seek in the forest.

Here’s another — a 1941 steam shovel that had been converted to a log loader.

I move in close to this example of a Spliced Eye. Sounds gruesome, but we’re talking about logging cables …

their wires interwoven to shape and secure an eye.

And here, oh look, the wonderfully named Steam Donkey, creating the steam to power the winches to spool the cables.

I reach the other end of the Trail, marked by this High Frame Hammer. I don’t know what it did, when it was active, they don’t tell me, and I don’t care. I’m charmed because it looks like a puppy-dog, paws up and begging for a treat.

End of the Trail, and polite, law-abiding citizens are supposed to peel off to a designated road. Because, if you go straight ahead, you are on a private industrial road, in active use, and You. Are. Trespassing.

I trespass! Somewhere back there on the Trail, I met Bruce R.V. (as I dub him), Bruce-who-lives-in-an-R.V. and comes here a lot. He tells me how much more interesting it is to carry on down the private road — “Just watch for trucks” — and visit the Log Dump, and on from there, for a first glimpse of The Hulks, and eventually turn right and wiggle up into the Historic District.

So I do.

I reach the Log Dump, look out into the Strait where busy little boats take the dumped logs and shape them into booms. (Oh! They must be boomboats! A word I just learned minutes ago springs to life!)

While here I fall into conversation with Raven Lady — well, I muscle in on her conversation with friends, and they don’t object. She’s telling them about the raven duo that stay around her home, and how much she enjoys them. Suddenly she points into the water: “Baby seal!” Yes, she can tell that little head is a baby, not an adult — partly by comparative size (practice has given her that skill), and partly because babies only partially raise their heads, while adults lift them clear of the water.

Raven Lady suggests that, once I hit the Historic District, I head for Townsite Brewery. “And if you don’t care for beer, order a kombucha. They have that on tap as well.” I promise.

I carry on. Passing crows on this side …

and a whole wall of murals on the other side …

as I leave the Log Dump. Imagine that, I walk right past a whole wall of street art.

And I walk and I walk. And then I stop, because, ohhhh, it’s my first glimpse of The Hulks.

See? Floating concrete boats, forming a breakwater for the mill. (I don’t know it, but I’ll see them again, much later in my walk.)

Finally I hit the edge of the Historic District, and I am tired. I still plan to follow my self-guiding tour (pamphlet in hand) around the District, but… oh… I am so relieved to see the Veterans’ Memorial Park, with its welcome benches and fountain ringed by spitting lions.

I long for that kombucha.

I wonder where Townsite Brewery might be. It’s not on my little map. I spin 360-degrees at the next intersection — and there it is! I march in, plonk myself at the bar, order my drink, and am delighted to overhear the cheerful barmaid chatter with the couple next to me and their little girl. Barmaid: “And which beer do you want, miss?” Little girl, in fits of giggles: “I don’t drink beer! I want … mummy, what’s it called?” Mummy supplies the magic word, and little girl gets her very own kombucha.

Such a family-friendly bar, and surely this explains the door frame.

Yup. Children’s heights, one after another, each with the child’s name and date he/she grew that tall.

I do a really truncated self-guiding tour, because Self is getting tired. I keep the Patricia Theatre on my hit list — founded in 1913, it is now the province’s oldest continuously active theatre — but I stop to read this Garage Sale sign before I cross the street to visit it.

The sale has items you probably wouldn’t see in an urban setting, a cement mixer being one of them.

Almost out of the District, with a detour to look at St. David and St. Paul’s Anglican Church — but I’m stopped first by this bus-shelter bench in front of the church.

Shaped from mud adobe-style, as you can see, and with a wooden hatch door. I open it. It’s a Little Free Library.

Is this not wonderful? No signage, so I can’t give appropriate credit.

The church sponsors a community permaculture project called Sycamore Common, which also includes a labyrinth.

I am delighted that the sign for the labyrinth quotes the same Antonio Machado reference I use on my blog home page (“Paths are made by walking”).

Finally onto Marine Avenue — parallel to the waterfront, but above it — to start the walk back to my part of town. Pure highway at this point, and not that appealing, except that it’s leading me home, which begins to seem awfully attractive.

Then I am rewarded: a lookout point for The Hulks.

One last look …

And on down Marine Avenue I go, tromp-tromp.

I’m startled to discover that I’m not allowed to cross the street …

while deer are allowed to leap all over the place. (See that yellow sign with the black symbol, farther down?)

I have so had enough! Tromp-tromp.

Eventually, of course, I hit my stretch of Marine Avenue — where I fall into the first café in sight. Time for a reviving latte. Through the window I notice a wall mural opposite, featuring a very large blue crow.

Nicely re-caffeinated, I check out the wall before the final sprint home.

Very nice blue crow. But I like the cat even more.

(He’s there. Keep looking.)

 

Floating Blue

26 August 2019 – “Pleasure craft” is now the official designation, but it has taken almost 100 years for officialdom to lay successful claim. This floating cabin lived a long life in a squatters’ community moored between low and high tide in Dollarton, North Vancouver, before becoming home/studio to artists Al Neil and Carol Itler in the late 1960s.

(Yes, the same squatters’ community once home to Malcolm Lowrey, but no, not his cabin. That one burned down.)

By 2014 the cabin (“the blue cabin,” for obvious reasons) was the last remnant of that community — and slated for demolition. That’s when a whole consortium of public/private sector cultural interests came together to  restore it, and turn it into a studio for a floating artist residency.

And now there she sits in north-east False Creek, right next to the brand-new living quarters that completes the facility.

The historic Blue Cabin was restored by artists Jeremy & Sus Borsos; the 500 square-foot, off-the-grid living quarters was designed by artist Germaine Koh and architect Marko Simcic.

It’s public-take-a-free-tour day, and we’re there, you bet.

“Restored” is exactly the right word for the Blue Cabin: all those multi-coloured pieces of wood, thrown together in one houseboat, are stabilized but otherwise lovingly preserved, right to the chips & scars.

From electric blue exterior walls …

to interior walls & ceiling …

floorboards …

and the bevelled glass mirror in the door to what we guess must have been a medicine chest, in that battered yellow wall.

The work in both buildings is in its final hectic stages. Both will have what’s needed, without excess and with maximum flexibility: each artist will be able to reconfigure the bits to fit individual needs & tastes.

We troop across the dock to the adjacent living quarters — severely, elegantly, rectangular-minimalist. Once we climb up into it, we imagine how much the artists will enjoy those panoramic views across False Creek and into the busy life that fills the Creek.

Eastward toward Telus World of Science (aka “the Golf Ball”) …

and westward toward and beyond the Cambie Street bridge.

Once finished, and with a rather more elegant ladder, this overhead hatch will offer access to a roof-top mini-garden and very mini-deck. “Room for a tiny table and a chair,” says our guide.

We learn that for the first year, priority will be given to indigenous artists. (The Cabin, like the rest of us, resides on the unceded and ancestral territories of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tseil-Waututh nations.) Regional artists Angela George, Janice George, Buddy Joseph and Debra Sparrow have already completed a research term with the Cabin, and will take up residencies later in the year.

First 6-week resident artist? Vicki Couzens, a First Nations multimedia artist and cultural leader … in Australia. Our tour guide isn’t sure what the focus of her work will be, but points out that Couzens is central to the reclamation of the possum cloak story and language.

Later, I look up the Australia Council for the Arts involvement in this project — the only overseas partner — to learn their rationale.

This prestigious opportunity ensures that Australia’s highly respected First Nations’ arts, culture, and stories continue to be shared with new audiences across the world, and strengthens our deep connections between Australian and Canadian First Nations peoples.

I like it.

 

  • WALKING… & SEEING

    "Traveller, there is no path. Paths are made by walking" -- Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

    "The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes" -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

    "A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities" -- Rebecca Solnit, "Wanderlust: A History of Walking"

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