This morning, I sat with coffee. Soon after, I told Max that I’d get dressed for a walk. And, this is what happened. (The LOOK ON HIS FACE!)
While I was downstairs, digging out the next pair of track pants, I tucked away a Christmas box in the closet and came upon my sketchbook…1968-1972. Oh my goodness! I propped myself up on my bed and took a look and all sorts of memories came up. For one, at some point, my sister signed every one of my drawings. She was just a wee little girl and she must have held me in some sort of esteem…or, the drawings. As I think about my former Junior High art students, I think these sketches are very rudimentary. There’s nothing at all impressive about them. What’s with the solid contour lines? They look like colouring book drawings. Hmmm….f
I wrote little poems along the way…sentimental poems…what were they about? I guess I’ve always been a dreamer. Sketches and thoughts from 52 years ago…
So my trip down the rabbit hole began. And Max, patiently waited.
A beautiful walk and picnic today at Many Springs with my dear friends and family. Throughout the hike, I was thinking about our sister-friend, Wendy, who died this past year. I also thought deeply about my brother, John. His son was able to join us on this Father’s Day and I felt such heart ache for him. I didn’t talk about anything that was going through my head though, and instead, made a real effort to frame my thoughts around internal monologues such as,
Wendy would say…
“This day is incredible.”
She would say…
“This picnic is fabulous.”
My brother would say…
“Thank you, Sis.”
I held a lot in today, but that’s alright.
In past years, whenever one of us would pop our heads out of the shade of some bush, asking, “What is this one?”, Wendy would come back quickly with the name of the flower, or would look it up in her reference information.” We are always going to miss this and so much more.
I’m grateful for the rituals that we share and for the many memories we have collected, as friends and family. While I didn’t allow the emotions to surface, I felt them all and that too, is very special.
Some of the brilliance of this day is captured in these photographs, but not all. We all missed our friend, Darlene, today. She was also in our hearts.
In 2013, the great flood occurred and my mother died after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. I went home in June in order to stay with my father through the following months. I watched the news of the flood from Belleville, Ontario.
We didn’t spot any Western Wood Lilies today or Bracted Bog Orchids.
Yellow Lady’s Slippers
Dodecatheon pulchellum, commonly known as pretty shooting star, few-flowered shooting star, dark throat shooting star and prairie shooting star, is a species of flowering plant in the primula family Primulaceae.
So many gestures have been made for me and my family the past while. I don’t want to forget any of them. As I set out on the journey of another day…the journey of an hour…I am taking pause for reflection. I am saying, Thank You.
When everything slows down…becomes more simple…I notice more. I see the love and the detail that goes into simple things and simple gestures of love; right down to the way a package is wrapped.
Donning my orange shirt, I got Max out for a quick walk on city sidewalks, dropped him home to a delicious breakfast (yeah, right?) and hopped in the car for a road trip to Claresholm, Alberta. My friend-descendants of British Home Children were gathering for a display opportunity in the Claresholm Exhibition Hall and I really wanted to join them. Yesterday was the first National British Home Child Day and I felt very pleased for the recognition and the remembrances that were shared yesterday by descendants who had grown up with mystery, secrets and shame around their ancestry. I think that the disconnect from any roots at all is likely the most upsetting aspect of growing up in home child culture…very few children ever found solace in a relationship with siblings or Mom or Dad. There was a helplessness there, a disconnect and a sense of true abandonment, often in powerlessness against abuse of all sorts.
In Canada, so many years later, families are hard at work, trying to unearth unspoken histories and share narratives that have been revealed via contact with the people who continue to house the files and reports on our ancestral family. At a price and with great patience, piece by piece, we are all discovering who our people were, though most will discover that, at a point, the information will drop off. Never did our ancestors show up on a Canadian census unless they were working as domestics in very wealthy homes. I know that I have not found my great grandfather on any binding document between ages 13 and 21. Those eight years are gone, although the families under which he was employed are well-documented in the foot prints of time.
On a lighter note, I was so pleased to find Bruce and Connie, Hazel and John gathered before a beautiful display. Hazel worked very hard to establish our representation at the open house and I have much gratitude for her efforts and her lovely display. I appreciate that Bruce collected both Connie and John for the afternoon drive on such a cold and blustery day. And I thank Bruce for the lovely addition to our Western Canadian collection, the poster featuring our new logo. Excellent.
Although I have other photographs of my four friends, I enjoy the fact that John Vallance’s true personality is showing through here and that Connie is taking it all in. If any of you would like a more formal photograph for your files, just contact me.
At a point, Bruce, Connie and I went for a cup of tea in a neighbouring restaurant and we enjoyed a very yummy lunch. It was nice to catch up with Bruce and Connie. They are great people and I am so happy that they are in my life, with a common interest of family research and history. I also had the opportunity to wander both the exhibition hall and the museum. There is nothing like a focused wander through a museum, especially one with an RCAF display! I enjoyed conversations with two ‘hookers’ who produce amazing works in the tradition of East Coast hooking and a lady who descends from family in Norway. Very interesting stories and generous contributions!
When I pulled out of my parking spot to head home at 4:30, I could still hear the ringing of beautiful music coming out of the concert tent. Today was a perfect day and I’m grateful for the opportunity to enjoy another Alberta Culture Day.
Off the top…a great book recommendation made by Bill MacDonnell, Landscape and Memory by Simon Schama.
From the section of Streams of Consciousness Chapter 5…this preface by Gaston Bachelard.
“I was born in a country of brooks and rivers, in a corner of Champagne, called Le Vallage for the great number of its valleys. The most beautiful of its places for me was the hollow of a valley by the side of fresh water, in the shade of willows…My pleasure still is to follow the stream, to walk along its banks in the right direction, in the direction of the flowing water, the water that leads life towards the next village…Dreaming beside the river, I gave my imagination to the water, the green, clear water, the water that makes the meadows green. …The stream doesn’t have to be ours; the water doesn’t have to be ours. The anonymous water knows all my secrets. And the same memory issues from every spring.”
― Gaston Bachelard, Water and Dreams: An Essay on the Imagination of Matter
These summarize my general sense of landscape and more specifically, place.
Just as I think that our narratives inhabit objects, and without materialism, contain our affections and memory, I believe that particular places do the same.
On Labour Day, my son and I headed to Magrath, Alberta to say good-bye to a house…my Auntie Ruth’s home…because on September 15, it will be possessed by a new family after all of these years. James and I listened to CBC radio programming all the way south to Lethbridge. It seems to me that a story on whistle blowers in places of employment kept us engaged for most of the journey. The miles, as is usual, went by quickly. Once traveling the 23 across from Claresholm, Barons was just around the corner and then, with coulees in sight, I felt as though I was home.
Rolling into Magrath, the first stop was the old house. My cousins have been sorting and downsizing and cleaning…a very difficult experience, as I recall from the days when my parents went through the same process. As I stepped into the house, all of the memories of childhood and adulthood rushed back to the surface. There’s just no stopping that particular experience. I snapped a few photographs…while Auntie Ruth had already moved…she was still absolutely present to my experience of memory and love.
Last week, my cousin wrote that he had found a package of negatives in among Ruth’s things…and much like I do at such discoveries, he set out and had them developed. Here, is a scan of one of those photographs. My parents, in 1954, brother John, a year old and one, a photograph of my Grandfather, John Moors, with his dog at Greg Lake.
“His use of architectural phenomenology lets the mind loose to make its way, always ready for what might emerge in the process. The house is ‘the topography of our intimate being’, both the repository of memory and the lodging of the soul – in many ways simply the space in our own heads. He offered no shortcuts or routes of avoidance, since ‘the phenomenologist has to pursue every image to the very end’.”
If one does not move carefully through a house/home, one might not capture these bits of magic or ephemera that remain silenced by time and circumstance. I’m grateful to my cousin who discovered those negatives, flattened amid the bric-a-brac.
Our footsteps echoed in the house, as James and I traveled room to room. And while memories flooded my walk, my son James had a completely different experience of place and quietly uttered the words, “This is so sad.”
I remember the front door always being open or unlocked. Family came and went.
My father asked me to take a photograph of the front door. Several times repaired or renovated, my father had recollection of an incident from his childhood in this part of the house. I’m publishing that recollection, here, as it was written.
“Well the problem is Kath this new door had the hole above it fixed. Anyway my dad and his buddies came home from hunting birds one day in Magrath Alberta . Of course they were half cut (as dad told me years later”if you are going to drink just drink good scotch and you will never have a hang over”. Well that day Dad left a shell in his single barrel 12 gauge shot gun. I being an inquisitive young lad wanted them all to know ( Mom and the whole family was in that little living room); anyway I lined up the duck flying above the door cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.. BAM you should have heard the screems and the shot about knocked me on my butt but there was a neat round hole firght through trim at the top of the door which appeared just seconds after a big guy way over 6 feet had walked in. Dad was the only one who got supreme heck for having a loaded gun in the house. Now I have bared my soul to all those interested.PS I was about 7 or so when this happened..”
I remember fried eggs and bacon cooking….the smell of toast freshly-popped. I remember my mother’s laughter in this kitchen. I will always remember where my Auntie sat.
The back room…I remember the ceiling being lined with cardboard egg cartons. I remember my cousins and drumming and laughter. I remember the door from this room out to the back, always open. I remember summer.
I remember Linda. I remember sleepovers. I remember lots of quilts and pillows.
I remember food supply.
Objects of the every day.
I remember the gardens…the lilies…the geraniums…the hanging baskets.
More than anything, I remember my Auntie sitting on the front porch.
From the house, James and I went for visits with both his Great Aunties…Ruth and then Eleanor. We are so blessed to have these women in our lives, as well as my Auntie Jackie and Auntie Mary. I lift up prayers for all…for their health and their safety and that we keep memories such as I enjoyed with my son, close to our hearts.
Just this morning, and the reason for this post, I interviewed Auntie Ruth over the telephone, about her home.
Back in early 1940s, my Gramma and Grampa moved to Magrath, mostly in an effort to help their young daughter, Ruth, fight the symptoms of asthma. The humid air in Ontario seemed to really irritate her breathing and my grandparents were willing to try anything.
The first home they lived in was rented from a Ukrainian family. I am in the process of researching their name. Water was manually pumped from a well on the property. There was an outhouse and bathing happened in the middle of the kitchen floor in a round tub. Auntie Ruth remembers the water being heated in a kettle on a wood/coal stove.
Magrath had two stores at the time, the Trading Company and Louis Stevenson’s store. There was a black smith shop on main street, as well as a show house. There were no sidewalks in the town.
When Ruth turned 16, she remembers that the family moved into a white stucco house, the very house that James and I visited on September 1 of this year. She remembers that Eleanor, Margaret and Johnny went off to school in the town, located where today’s school stands but, of course, a much smaller building. During the war, Ruth worked at one of the blanket-making machines in the Golden Fleece Woolen Mill. I’m posting a photograph of that particular mill here…it is not to be confused with the Woolen Mill that my grandfather opened up some years later.
Many contracts came in to the Magrath Golden Fleece Woolen Mill during World War II 1939-1945. My Auntie remembers working there.
A booklet published by the Magrath History and Museum Association and written by John Balderson, explains…
“When in full operation, the Golden Fleece Woolen Mill ran three 8 hour shifts, 24 hours a day. Twenty-five men and women were on each shift making seventy-five individuals in total. Two hundred and twenty five army blankets were made each day using 1,000,000 lbs of wool each year.”
Whenever my Auntie speaks about that time, she mentions the Canadians of Japanese descent who shared her machines with her. She also talks about the shame she feels at how they were treated. She explained to me this morning that eight Japanese-Canadian women were pulled off the Sugar Beet fields, to work in the mill. They were all University educated and lovely, however, shy women. Auntie Ruth said that their housing was comprised of sheds lined up on the far edge of town, rows and rows of sheds where these beautiful and hard-working people were treated as prisoners-of-war. My Auntie will never forget the women she worked with on her shifts.
In terms of the house, my Auntie remembers very good and also, difficult times. She dated my Uncle Roy for four months when they got married and moved to Lethbridge, Uncle Roy worked for Western Drilling. Ruth was 20 at the time. Auntie Ruth will always tell you that the Korean War finished off her husband. And all these years later, having read about the war and discovered the exposure these soldiers had to Mustard Agent and Lewisite as well as the bizarre view of PTSD at the time and the irresponsible treatment of these veterans, it is absolutely no wonder that he and his family, struggled upon his return.
I remember vacation days in both Magrath (at my Auntie Ruth’s and at my Grandparent’s place in front of the mill) and Raymond (at my Auntie Eleanor and Uncle Ted’s place). In fact, I regret that I didn’t have the chance to grieve the farmhouse in Raymond like I did this house. I remember much family laughter. I remember the smell of a slow-cooked blade roast in the oven. I remember my Grandmother’s laughter. I remember the smell of wool.
This past weekend, I said good-bye to a place. That does not mean that it does not remain with me…always.
I signed the guest book at the entrance and turned my face toward the front desk. Our eyes met and in unison, we squealed and ran toward one another. Such a blessing to meet my friend in this amazing historical place. I was overcome. I was weary and elated, all at the same time. Within an hour, Ramona had filled me in on the power of the site. It was so nice to be with her. I met Preston, Anna and Maria. I was blasted by good will and hospitality. The volunteers and employees of the Big Hole National Battlefield come from all over the United States. It is a rich melting pot of individuals who care that truth and history be revealed to all who visit. I was really impressed by the professionalism, as well as the variety of accents!
We went home from the visitor center to a slow cooked meal of pork tenderloin, apple, sweet potato and onion served on a big dollop of mashed potatoes. Before the light set, Ramona and I did a very reflective walk on the battlefields. It was as though the earth beneath my feet was vibrating…such a history.
Anna gave up her lovely room to me for the evening and took the couch for the night. Such North Carolina hospitality! Such loveliness. It just happened to be Anna’s last day and the completion of her Master’s degree.
I felt very blessed as I ‘didn’t’ drift off to sleep. As the light of day began to make its way up and over the ridge and the birds began to sing, I passed out and woke some time later to the smell of coffee and swedish pancakes. Yummers.
Click on photographs to enlarge.
I hope that some of my readers can take the opportunity to visit this location. There were no International borders at the time of these battles…these came with colonization. Instead, the peoples who lived on the land journeyed land by seasons and by availability of food. For those who wish to, follow the link to the following article posted in the Great Falls Tribune.
This is a very brief post that serves only to express gratitude for the recent and generous connections I have made related to my Great Grandfather John Moors (1876 – 1918). What a wonderful thing it is to have cousins discover my writings and research and to respond! These Paternal relations include Charlene, Jacqueline and now, James. Thank you, for your connection. For about 15 years, I’ve been fanatically engaged in research on both my mother and father’s sides of the family.
Some would ask, “Why does it matter?…or… “What does it all mean, anyway?”…but, there is something innate within me that wants to know who my people are. It is a weakness.
Long-story-short, I have always looked for a photograph of my Dad’s Grandfather, in uniform. Every Remembrance Day, I was disappointed that I had only the image of his wedding day. He died and is buried in Etaples, France. He was lying in General Canada Hospital #51, when during the night, a bombing raid orchestrated by the Germans, decimated most of the location and killed John Moors. I’ve thought that he should be remembered. Don’t get me wrong. I was happy about having the wedding photograph…but, imagine my excitement when, randomly, Charlene sent a photograph over the internet from her home to mine…and to, in a flash, have my Great Grandfather’s visage appear face-to-face with me on a screen in 2018. GAHHHHH!
Enough said…first, our family’s single archive up until now…my Great Grandmother Mary Eleanor Haddow Moors in the center front and my Great Grandfather John Moors back right.
I took this photograph of a photograph that my Auntie Eleanor had hanging in her home. When it comes to gathering family history, I’m not super fussy about archival quality of images. It’s a simple blessing to have moments of history sustained and easily available to as many family members as is possible and as quickly as possible. I think I’ve written about this before…that ‘in the day’ how would family members even include one another in these histories? We are sooo blessed!
Here he is! My Great Grandfather! What a handsome man! My father said he had striking red hair, much like my own Grandfather Moors did and now, my own beautiful daughter.
I’m hoping that Betty Silver’s daughter has an opportunity to see this as I know that she was on the look out for the very same image, saying (as other relations remembered) that a large framed photograph of John in uniform hung in the family dining room.
Second to this, Charlene shared what looks like a younger image of this John.
He looked dapper. I try to imagine as I look at this image, that here is captured the 13 year old who came by ship, on his own…a British Home Child who worked very hard on at least three farm placements including Elora and two outside of Guelph. This was likely taken during his Hamilton days.
And finally, a family photograph including my own Grandfather John Moors, his young brother Robert (Bob), his sister, Grace and his mother, Mary Eleanor Haddow Moors. Mary Eleanor had striking dark eyes and hair…I see a lot of my father in her. This would have been taken some time after the passing of their father and husband John Moors.
And finally, something that I just received tonight…icing on the cake! My first cousin once-removed, James, has provided photographs of front and back of John’s military medal. I’m so grateful that unlike so many families, this object has been cared for and cherished so that now, so many years later, all can enjoy. Blessings on my family for their generous work. My cousin, Teddy Witbeck, has been doing a remarkable job working on our family tree on Family Search. As we continue to piece together our history, his work can be accessed. Trust me, you will have a great head start that way!
Love you all.
I’ve written away and had much support attaining John’s military record…this medal assignment was included there.
I came into the house, after visiting the Nickle Galleries at the University of Calgary, yesterday, and looked deeply at the painting by Joane Cardinal-Schubert that my then-partner and I bought on December 7, 1995 from the Master’s Art Gallery. It wasn’t as though we could ever afford to collect art, but, we were determined to collect art…we were always buying something and we did it in a disciplined way because each month we made an allocation of a specific amount of money toward our art budget. A lot of people at the time, and still today, don’t realize that they can invest in art over time. Ordinary people don’t have access to a budget that covers the entire value of many of the pieces that they grow to love. This is how I was able to be a collector.
After seeing the amazing retrospective, The Writing on the Wall, I couldn’t help but see Joane’s work differently. Appropriate that on December 1st of 2017, I should enjoy all of this and more.
I just went upstairs and snapped a couple of photographs…the first, the painting that greets me each day as I enter my home, Protectors of Dreams.
And next, the book that I purchased as it relates to Joane’s narratives about the various works…and her practice. I’m so looking forward to reading this.
The exhibit was so powerful that it hit me in the gut. I sat down at every opportunity to process the messages of the work and to take it into my spirit. I read every wall plaque and words, as best as I could, on every painting. I’m just going to post the images and spare a great commentary.
Joane fought tirelessly against the building of the Old Man Dam and we reconnected once again in Maycroft, as well as at the Masters Art Gallery, for another exhibit. At that show, she took the time to chat and to sign my poster, collected back in the fundraising days of the Friends of the Old Man meetings.
Joane came to visit with my students in 1980, right before I took them down for their tour of the Glenbow Museum. During those years, I worked very hard developing curriculum for urban Metis and Indigenous students in my care. Our School District was aware that there were huge gaps in content for these students and that generally, many were struggling with attendance and performance on standardized tests. Visits from Elders and people like Joane created a sense of role modeling that my students could not get from me. She showed them slides on a slide projector of her sweat lodge images. All these years later, I will never forget her generous heart and her painful remembrances. Yesterday, I felt my hand in hers. I am forever-grateful for our connection.
Tomorrow, I attend a friend’s funeral service. One piece that really touched my heart was this one, Remembering My Dreambed…I stood before it and thought of my friend’s battle with cancer.
Remembering My Dreambed Joane Cardinal-Schubert 1985 recollections of invasive medical procedures related to cancer treatment.
Below…Homage to Small Boy: Where Were You In July, Hercules? 1985, Joane Cardinal-Schubert. The colour is not near true…the blue is the most amazing ultramarine blue, in this piece.
Letters to Emily Carr…birch bark letters. I loved reading the words…
The Lesson Joane Cardinal-Schubert
Where the Truth is Written – Usually first installed 1991 Joane Cardinal-Schubert
I have not yet included all of my references, but again, Max needs his walk. I need to pull the decorations from out of the basement. The roast needs to get into the slow cooker. I want to end with a bit of music. Last night, a friend and I attended A Tribe Called Red. I want to insert the images here.
Photo Credit: Michael Collett
Photo Credit: Michael Collett
Photo Credit: Michael Collett
It was such a powerful experience. The visuals, the dance and the music combined to speak deeply to the heart. I feel changed.
Alright…so, I threw my meatballs together and when they were piping hot, packed up my wine glass and my bottle and my meatballs and headed for Custom Woolen Mills. There was a big accident south bound on highway 2…I did a bit of a rubber neck there, but once that was long gone, I couldn’t believe it when I kept driving north on the highway, past the Carstairs turn off. For a moment, there was panic…I didn’t want to really drive so far as the Didsbury exchange, but, finally resigned myself to going north for a bit and finding my way back to the mills on country roads. When I go on a road trip, I find it so relaxing. There is nothing better than enjoying the landscape and the wide open sky of Alberta.
Light was fading, but still there, as I headed east on whatever-its-called. I knew that I needed to find the 791 to go south. Hmmm…overshot that by a good 20 kms…but, not before my Spidey senses told me to go south anyway, on some range road or other…I asked myself, “How bad can it get?” These range roads are all numbered…I’m sure I’ll zig zag my way there, eventually. In the meantime, I enjoyed viewing a beautiful owl and many grazing deer, some with very large racks…I even considered pulling off for photo-moments, but thought, “No, you really have to get there…” I spotted a sign for Linden somewhere on the way. “Now, that sounds like some place I’ve heard about before…” And on and on I went, feeling like Milo in his little car, lifted right out of the pages of The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster.
Never mind…dangit…the sun was slipping down fast. It might be that I have to do that thing I don’t like doing. “I need to back track.” Heading west, the sun was blinding, as it peeked out at eye level from behind the pink clouds. I thought to myself, “Now, don’t race…watch your way…you can find that 791…just notice.” And I did…some miles later, I turned east again and then just needed to hook up with 272. That, too, was a little shaky….the cattle, munching away to the north of me seemed to be snickering. But that was likely all in my imagination. From a distance, on the narrow (soft) dirt road, I saw the familiar silhouette of the mill on the horizon…I saw the warm lights…and said out loud, “I’m home.”
Entering in to the mill, Ruth’s voice was reaching above everything. The audience was spell bound. Displays of woolen things were to the left. Lots of people were knitting. “I love this place. I love the smell.” At the edge of the display created with works by Artist-in-residence, Sylvia Olsen, sat a Golden Fleece wool blanket, brought as a gift to Fenn by my new friend, Leah. I felt nothing but happiness about being at the mill, bathed in love.
I poured myself a glass of wine…rustled up a plate of pot luck food (nothing better) and snapped a few photographs. This morning, as I think back, I’m grateful for life and love and friendship. Thanks to all of the folks at the mill for hosting such a wonderful event.
How wonderful to share an exhibit of works created by notable female artist, Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun (1755-1842), with my two young nieces, Eliane and Ainslie. The National Gallery of Canada produces the most exquisite spaces that showcase exhibits, with perfection. A contrast to the Chris Cran show, this exhibit immediately captured the sensibility of the period. We were enveloped in a warm and ornate environment. I felt hugged by the space.
The first images posted are the sculpted terra-cota bust of Vigée Le Brun – 1783 sculpted by Augustin Pajou (1730-1809). The piece is visiting from the Musee du Louvre. The artist, Augustin Pajou, enjoyed a long and continuing success as a portraitist spanning the Enlightenment, the French Revolution and the Empire. He was Louis XVI’s official portraitist and he completed many psychologically penetrating portrait busts of some of the greatest and most interesting figures of his age.
While I thought I would pass by the written captions that were placed within proximity of each piece, they were so absolutely interesting and well-written, that I became pulled into the history of this brave and prolific woman’s journey. I was in awe of the technical aspects of her work and so amazed by her determination within the context of historical events of the time. I was proud of my young nieces for their shared admiration. We shared in some very ‘smart’ conversations.
I won’t approach this post like an art history article, but I do encourage my readers to explore this artist’s story. A revolutionary figure, literally! I was reminded of the strength of women when I toured this exhibit. I was also overcome by the detail and expertise evidenced in the works, themselves. At a point, it was impossible to separate the paintings from the relationship of the artist with Marie Antoinette and to say to myself, “Wow, this artist was in intimate contact with and documented the life of this historical figure.” The works transported me, the observer, into a different time.
Initially, I was a bit snap-happy, but then became absorbed and overcome by the shear numbers of paintings of royalty…I also had my ‘hand slapped’ by a security guard once he noticed I had taken a photo of a painting that had not been exhibited since 1982. He was gentle with me, however, and explained that a no photos icon was posted at the base of the caption…subtle, but worthy of noticing. There was one woman carefully documenting each painting multiple times and I was somehow irritated by that. The gallery was well-attended, given that it was the long weekend and the exhibit will have its close tomorrow, on September 11.
As Ainslie, Eliane and I approached the final two rooms, we stood and stared at one another…I said…”Are we cooked?” and we all agreed we were on Art OVERLOAD at this point. Some of you will understand what I’m saying. I remember this feeling in the Musee d’Orsay, the Louvre, the Uffizi, the National Gallery of London, the Tate Modern and even in the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art. I do want to note here, however, that of the great art museums of the world, I am very proud of our National Gallery. This exhibit was stunning. I feel grateful.
If you are reading this and living in Ottawa, sip your last bit of coffee, pack up your newspaper and off you go! Thank you to those involved with sharing this exhibit.