** I've heard said that English is the hardest language to learn and I'd guess that to be true, especially if it isn't your 'mother' tongue but what I agree with is the propensity in this particular dialect of communication to have words that are either spelled the same but mean different things or sound the same and are spelled differently. Such is the case with the title...I had to go to my trusty falling apart and held together with duct tape dictionary to get it straight.
But I digress...
Now back to our story:
On Friday the group of dedicated souls of the Pacific Rim Arts Society (PRAS) of which I am the humble (ok roll eyes) leader, went on a field trip. This in itself is worthy of note because in the whole of the 42 years the society has endeavored to bring arts and culture to this wee bit of Canada, that has never happened before.
Well, it was a resounding success as a group of 8 of the loyally devoted folks that make up the PRAS board convoyed across island to visit a prominent and hugely respected Canadian artist Ken Kirkby. It had been suggested by one of our members to do this as a way to acknowledge Ken and also a great way to mix art and pleasure. The weather was superb, the car resounded with laughter and the visit was just plain old fantastic. We royally dined at the local eatery run by Ken's lady which was chock-a-block full of art from locals. Then we hopped over to Ken's home and studio and spent 2 + hours yakking art and listening to Ken's stories and sitting right on the beach.
SWEET, as the kids say.
The highlight of unexpected-things-to-happen was when Ken turned to us all, looked at me and said "So, when are we gonna trade paintings?"
Well knock me over with a paintbrush Emily Carr!
I stupidly reply "Are you talking to me?" (seriously, I am gifted with the witty response - not)
In my defense I say this because I don't consider my style to appeal to men, certainly not honored men artists painting landscapes of Canada.
So what you see above is my Ken Kirkby painting. It now resides in my bedroom right where I can look at it when I fall asleep.
I'm still feeling slightly '... what happened ...' about it.
I got 'turned on' (oh, puh-lease) to this book by a young friend who travels to Wells for the annual ArtsWells festival. She knew of my past history as part of the early incursion of Hippies up to Wells and wanted me to know there was a book out and she bet I was in it.
So I ordered it off the Internet site.
Imagine my delight to get it and have the flood of memories rekindled from the tales within.
Was I in it?
Well; and here's where I'm going to sound like my ego is the size of the Sistine Chapel; I get 2 little mentions and both without my full name. Eesh.
I guess what is so disillusioning about this is that one of the main characters interviewed in it for their stories was my old boyfriend at the time - the one I built the tree house with, the one who brought me up to Wells actually. Did he ever talk to me about this book or wanting to be involved? Nope. Did he make any allusion to me being special in his life at that time? Nope again.
I feel really ridiculous for letting this bother me! Who cares really - most of the folks who will buy this book will either know me or not and what does it really matter if they do or don't?
* * *
I am too sensitive for my own good.
And somewhere down in that murky place I carry around inside of me, lies the little kid who feels left out and not worthy to be included in the sandbox - ah boy. Cue the wah wah wah soundtrack. And bring on the box of cookies with a carrot cake chaser.
OK - the Ken Kirkby painting came without a title. I call it "Inner Landscape" just because it seems to take me down all sorts of pathways of though while I look at it. Jeez, what a gift!
The Book is available from Harbour Publishing www.harbourpublishing.com