This past spring the local British Columbia artisan community came together to create an art exhibit from recycled materials. I had so much fun participating! The exhibit was hosted at the Langley Centennial Museum and I was honoured to be able to capture these pieces during my visit. I hope you find this work as lovely and inspiring as I did.
A few years ago, I investigated the long-stemmed roses in front of our new rental house. I'd never been much of a gardener, and I believed that if the plant didn't produce food, it wasn't worth my effort. There were six bushes. Aphids and powdery mildew covered the buds and leaves, yet the stems looked strong.
It was a dark time in my life; I'd been experiencing debilitating depression and anxiety-driven blackouts. I needed something to distract my mind from the pain and fear I felt. I found a rusty pair of shears and scoured them clean with steel wool.
I decided I couldn't make things much worse.
I had no idea how to care for roses. I began by cutting away the diseased and mildew-covered parts. I washed buds with water, knocking and shaking all the aphids to the ground. I cleaned my shears and did it again the next day, and then the next.
My beautiful roses exploded. I harvested the blooms and filled our house: roses in the kitchen, roses in the entranceway, a bouquet on the dining room table, vases in the bedroom. I carefully cut the blooms, clearing the way for new baby buds and coaxing the bushes to grow in attractive shapes.
The roses didn't need any special knowledge to bloom. Their roots were deep, and the oldest stems were wooded and robust. They just needed someone to care. I visited my plants daily, checking the leaves, trying to understand.
When I couldn't get out of bed for me, I would get out for my roses. I needed to check on them. The summer came with forest fires, toxic air, and the most severe water restrictions I've ever experienced. I saved dishwater and fed the roses by hand. Even through the wilting heat, the blooms continued.
And then a week or so went by where I had no time to prune. Rose blooms bobbed on stems up to six feet tall, wild and gangly, waving in front of the windows like cheeky toddlers. My human children needed me and the days slid by without giving me a chance to work in the garden.
Finally, I made it out one early morning. I walked down the little path that spans the width of our house, and a vice gripped my heart. Where there had been roses, wild, brazen, and thorny, laden with heavy crimson crowns, there were now only stumps.
Clusters of torn leaves and woody stems, hacked to about a foot off the ground were all that remained.
Shock blacked the edges of my vision, and then came a wave of horror. Next, I felt stomach-turning guilt. This was my fault; the roses had grown too wild. My landlord must have seen the untended roses; he must have wanted things to look neater. Maybe he thought he was helping. A sense of rage and helplessness washed through me. He was in the right; it WAS his yard... but I'd loved them.
I wept that day. I ran into the guest room, locked the door and closed the curtains. I knew they were just flowers, but we'd grown together. I'd healed them, and they'd coaxed me out into the sun.
I sobbed harder than I'd cried in recent memory. The hacking of those stems shattered my heart. And yet--strangely--the experience felt good. Whenever my tears slowed, I would dredge up another painful thought and cry some more. Soon I wept not just for the roses but also for myself. I cried until there was nothing left to cry for; until there was nothing left but the raw truth I'd known all along:
That the stems were strong, the roots were deep, and the blooms would come again in spring.
And they did.
I have been doing a lot of soulsearching lately. I'm trying to understand who I want to be as an artist. The plan is to gain a clear vision of what I'd like to communicate through my art in this season of my life. I will then take that vision and channel it into my projects for 2021. I've got some fantastic ideas! If you're interested in getting the inside scoop, I'd be honoured to have you sign up for my monthly newsletter!
If you are already a subscriber, thank you so much! Your love and support mean the world to me, and guess what? This post will be review for you. Can I offer you an alternative? My poor YouTube songwriting channel REALLY needs some sweet love. Click here to listen to a song or two and tell me what you think.
So,
my soulsearching ended up looking like this:
In summary, I've discovered that I create art (use symbolism) because I want to encourage healing by restoring relationships.
Pretty much everything else grows out of this central thought. I have this idea that first, we need to heal the relationship we have with ourselves. 'Healing within' means finding wholeness and balance between our physical, mental, and spiritual needs. I have found that when I make my personal health a priority in all these areas, I have more to give to those around me.
So that leads me to my next thought: the healing of relationships within society. It starts with our close friends and family. We need to extend the grace we give ourselves to others. In other words: the more consciously accepting I am of my imperfections, the more I'm able to cut those around me a little slack (hint: laughter is key). And guess what? A healthy support system that gives and receives grace provides us with the strength to reach out to our communities. In my head, I see a picture of ripples of grace, expanding outward in widening circles: like when a rock is thrown into a pond.
Finally, as we heal ourselves and recognize the humanity that we all share, we also need to understand that human beings exist within a larger natural ecosystem. We are a part of this world. Nature and her systems aren't something that exists 'out there' beyond the comfort of our homes and cities. We are a part of the natural world, whether we recognize it or not. Unfortunately, our relationship with nature is, more often than not, destructive.
We need to reintegrate into this world's ecosystem by accepting our place within it (not lording over it). I would love to see a city with porous concrete and rooftop gardens. I wish to see human civilization embrace the filtering and recycling systems of nature, rather than destroying these systems and then discovering to our shock that our environment is becoming toxic.
I think I saw a meme once that said: imagine if trees gave free wifi rather than just clean air: there'd be a forest in every yard.
Thanks for sticking with me this far! You're a true friend! I know it's a lot. Welcome to the busy chambers of my brain!
Okay. Check this out.
It's a model of the universe presented by Johannes Kepler, an astronomer from the 17th century before there were proper astronomers.
Basically, Kepler took the mystical study of the heavens at the time and added, well, math. He built upon the ideas of that heretical crackpot Galileo (the guy that dared to consider that the earth might NOT be the center of the universe) and improved on it. Kepler used mathematical equations to describe the movement of planets around the sun. In doing so, he set the groundwork for Newton's description of gravity.
Consider all of this against a backdrop of Europe smack in the middle of the Dark Ages: warring fiefdoms, starvation, and smallpox everywhere! And yet, Kepler's ideas set the foundation for the "Age of Reason" about 100 years before it bloomed and bore fruit.
It's a story that gives me hope. I won't deny that our world can look bleak right now, but I am encouraged by the idea that today's creativity might sow seeds for a new age of reason tomorrow. This concept is why Kepler's model has become the inspiration for my new totem/logo.
My logo speaks to a few ideas at once. It represents both interconnectivity and innovation. It touches the past and inspires me to look to the future. Kepler was driven by a sense of childlike wonder that he carried with him throughout his entire life. It's a gift I'd like to give through my art.
With love,
Charity
