Chimére de Notre-Dame de Paris by Alan Tigoulet
Famous actress? Check.
Famous actress wearing a white tank-top paired with blue jeans? Check.
Famous actress wearing a white tank-top paired with blue jeans while staring joyfully up at the sky? Check.
There must only be one way to advertise water (from the September 2014 issue of InStyle Magazine):
The other day while strolling with Monty along our regular noon-hour route, a vehicle caught my eye. For starters, it was a jalopy, the likes of which aren't really seen in transit anymore. But more importantly, it was the make of car: a Mercury Zephyr. Had never heard of this type of vehicle prior to seeing it stationed on 4th Avenue, the midday autumn sun illuminating its ubiquitous rust in spectacular fashion.
As I studied its long, bulky, aesthetically displeasing exterior, I was immediately brought back to art school.
"Deborah Clack...Deborah Clack, are you here?"
"Uhm, it's pronounced Clague"
"Clague. Noted…"
Zephyr.
It was the first time this word was introduced to my vocabulary but I didn't let on, choosing instead to feign intellect until I could get to the library and research its meaning. I suspected most of the class would do the same. I also suspected that my instructor used it as part of this introductory Basics of Form, Level I assignment to showcase their own linguistic prowess and intellectual hierarchy over the group of young and inexperienced artsy-fartsy misfits laid out before him. I was eighteen, heading into my third week of classes, and the only insight into creating great art and design I felt I had acquired from Mr. White was how to dress: his all-black attire fitting the stereotype of how someone in the field should present themselves. There was little instruction. Little constructive criticism and feedback. It felt like we were going through the process of being judged fit for inclusion into the magical world of salaried artistic expression, rather than obtaining an actual education.
Welcome to college, I thought to myself.
At least I was learning what a zephyr was.
"Deborah Clog...Deborah Clog, are you here?"
"It's Clague, actually. Deborah Clague. Present."
"Clague" he lowered his voice and wrote something on his notepad. "Noted."
The most important things you will learn in college do not come from instructors, they come from fellow students. These are the people possessing the unbridled passion and vision that will revolutionize the future; their enthusiasm and daring not (yet) waned by post-secondary politics or ego. I realized this early on, tuning out from listening to Mr. White ad-lib lectures relating to former glories and choosing instead to study the work of my peers. We listened intently to each other as processes were described and rationales explained. We mutually fed off each other's earnest ambitions creating a culture of creativity that is often elusive outside of this environment. We wore colour.
I'm not sure at what point in life one loses this spark.
I worked on the assignment – a visual interpretation of a word using only typography – for days. My sketchbook containing numerous executions, both serif and sans, that eventually evolved into something I felt showcased the subdued puissance of a zephyr. It was the first time I used gouache and I was mesmerized by its opaque velvety texture. It's not a forgiving medium, but trial-and-error is part of the process. There would be a lot of this in college. There's even more in real life. Upon completion, I was proud of my work.
After nervously presenting the poster I painstakingly crafted, I waited for feedback from my instructor.
All I got was a look that could best be described as a blank stare. And an eventual "D".
"Deborah Clay-goo…Deborah Clay-goo, are you here?"
"Present".
Designed the second infographic in a series detailing the symptoms, risks and treatment options for various types of cancer. To view the first for esophageal cancer, click here. These may be distributed freely with credit. If you have any of these symptoms, please consult your doctor immediately.
To view/download the full-res version, click here.
Some of the most compelling art I've experienced in life was influenced by the macabre seduction of mythological provocateur Medusa. This piece incorporates another artwork of that narrative, "Perseus With The Head of Medusa" by Italian artist Benvenuto Cellini. Located in Florence, Italy it is one of the most beautifully intricate sculptures I've seen.
Medusa (©Deborah Clague)
Perseus With The Head of Medusa by Cellini (©Deborah Clague)
The long drive home to Saskatchewan last July presented a sense of finality that other, more seemingly sombre, events had not. Moments of routine like this have become trivial rather than comforting because they, more than anything else, allow my mind the mental stagnation to drift into thoughts I'd rather repress. When an unexpected life event occurs, I wonder how many people decide to make their own grandiose changes just to spite the universe? At times I think I'd love to just walk away from everything and move to France. It would be stupid and impractical at the moment…but then again, so is losing your father and best friend at a time when life seems to be just getting started. The mental gymnastics I use to justify a boldly revised trajectory prophesize that things couldn't get worse, they can only become "different". Uncomfortable, awkward perhaps…but definitely not worse than they are right now. For what it's worth.
And then, again, another curious instance of what I believe to be fate as I arrived in Regina: the vehicle in front of me – an older model well-suited for this kind of wanton defacement – with the words "Fuck Cancer" on the back window, the typography large enough to see 100 yards away.
No asterisks or other less abrasive alternative characters to soften the vulgarity. The letters laid out in all-caps for the masses to experience and be jolted by in full.
You have to wonder how angry at the universe someone would be to vandalize their own vehicle in this way.
Before hitting the highway, I took my mother to run errands at one of the numerous big box retail hells in south Winnipeg. This was formerly my father's role but with the current vacancy, I would have to fill an Acting position. My parents were married for 34 years and had dated for nearly a decade on top of that. That's a long history with someone. Based on my calculations and estimated life expectancy (which, because of the poor genes I've inherited, may be abbreviated as well), I will never experience that type of romantic relationship. Not to say that it was always easy; it never is regardless of tenure. But it's a sad realization nonetheless. Even though I've contradicted this sentiment, I wouldn't mind growing old with someone.
As we walked out of the Wal-Mart Supercentre, I glimpsed something out of the corner of my eye that made me believe I may not grow much older myself: a blue Ford Escape raced towards us, failing to stop or even remotely slow down at the pedestrian crossing in front of the store. My mother shrieked in fright and lept to the side of the road as hurriedly as she could. I stopped dead in my tracks bracing for impact while defiantly raising my hand up in the non-verbal universally understood plea to stop. The vehicle did. And thus the middle-aged male behind the wheel began to curse at me. At least that's what I assumed he was mouthing; he never did roll down his windows but I got the non-verbal universally understood salute of an aggressively pitched middle finger.
I have no excuse other than the extreme stress that I'd faced for nearly eight months finally finding an appropriate setting for release but I went off on this motherfucker in a way that my actual mother was horrified by (but my father would have been secretly proud of). One need not be overtly sensitive to the fragility of existence to find this lack of regard for human life appalling. I remained in front of his vehicle and didn't move. I couldn't have cared less if he ran me over. At least then his identity would have been revealed to all and shamed in newspaper headlines and the subsequent court proceedings for vehicular manslaughter. I started yelling at him. Loudly. It was my attempt to draw an audience. I wanted everyone within earshot to know that this idiot valued human lives less than his right to race into the Home Depot next door. He continued to yell at me too, although he never did have the balls to roll his windows down.
Unsure exactly how far this would escalate but feeling more powerful than Xena in the moment, all I could think of as I stood my ground was "I can take this fat, middle-aged ****".
That word definitely needs to be censored.
Carrying the weight of stress and depression can manifest itself in a variety of ways. Thankfully I have someone who is willing to help me treat them in as many attempts. In addition to replenishing my wine rack with new and flavourful vintages on a weekly basis, the same close friend has also introduced me to reiki, an alternative medicine practice that is based upon the transfer of positive energy. I had my first treatment last week. Whether placebo effect or actual science, it managed to reinstate a sense of calm that didn't lapse even when I returned to Wal-Mart.
My dad and I
My mom and I
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité (©Deborah Clague)
There was chaos on the streets. People running, screaming a language I didn't understand. I wasn't sure where I was exactly, but it was in Eastern Europe and it was a country on the precipice of war. I hid for a moment in an alley, observing the frenzy, unsure of what to do and regretting whatever stupid decisions had brought me here. Life is like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, I told myself, and sometimes you have to face an untimely "The End". As I mentally prepared for this, I heard the voice of my father say:
"I'm always with you, even though I'm far away".
And then I woke up.
It wasn't anywhere close to the time my alarm normally goes off but it didn't matter - five a.m. and I were now forced to get acquainted.
Everything felt too real. I assumed the scenes of Ukraine's current crisis subconsciously infiltrated my dream as a result of all the mass media I consume but wasn't sure where my father's words originated; ever since July 3, I have been hoping - praying, even though I'm agnostic - for a sign from him telling me that he was alright. His last days in this realm were so full of struggle and strife that I desperately need to know if at one point he accepted his fate. Did he find the peace that we primitively envisage the afterlife provides? This may have been the cosmic reassurance I require … or it could be nothing at all. The previous night, I had a dream that Jack White was sleeping on my couch and I don't know what the fuck that could have been about.
Next July I'm climbing a mountain. Mount Fuji, to be exact. During his first hospital stint, I told my father I would celebrate his birthday in 2015 by doing this and he gave me the most epic side-eye I'd ever seen, knowing full well I'm ambitious but also incredibly lazy when it comes to physical activity. I now feel I have to prove him wrong. How hard could it be? Thousands of people climb it each year with little to no training. The real challenge will come in 2016: this is when I plan on traveling to India.
My father always wanted to visit India; its kaleidoscope of humanity proved intriguing. He would talk about it often, always with the postscript "I need to do it before I get too old and sick". How little we knew that time was more finite than imagined. There were always reasons to put it off…travel to India seemed less a holiday and more of an experience that one must be in the right frame of mind to appreciate. He was never ready. I was never ready. Now I am. And I'm taking him with me.
The Funeral Director warned me that India has very strict rules about bringing remains within its borders. Special certification needs to be obtained. Approval must be granted. After a few false starts in trying to obtain the necessary information, I've been redirected to and have initiated communication with the Ministry of External Affairs of India. It seems like it will be a slow process but I have almost two years and am confident my wish will come to fruition. I hope to spread a portion of my father's ashes on the Ganges at Varanasi, the most sacred spot of the river according to Hindu religion. It is believed that the dead will quickly ascend to Heaven when their ashes are spread upon the water. I may be ambivalent towards faith but if I'm going to do something, I'm going all out.
My father WILL visit India.
The Eastern European schism wasn't the first time I had a dream about my father. A week prior, I dreamt that he was standing next to me. When I reached out to lovingly embrace him, I was jolted awake the moment my fingertips touched his flesh. Again, it felt real. I was disappointed that it wasn't. Reality remained askew. Staring at the ceiling at 3:00am, partially illuminated by a new office building across the lane, I prepared for another long night as melancholia set in.
The importance of seemingly simple things becomes clear after loss. Back in May, I visited my favourite bakery in Winnipeg to purchase some cinnamon buns for friends before heading back home to Saskatchewan. Making small talk as I searched my wallet for change, I noted to the cashier how much I loved their goods and that I'd probably be back over the summer as my father had terminal cancer and I would be returning to care for him as the condition worsened. She expressed sympathy and related her own experience with parental loss. She was honest. It wouldn't be easy. Afterwards, she came around the counter and gave me a hug.
I don't know if she will ever realize how significant this simple, genuine act of empathy and kindness amongst strangers was to me.
I need to get black-out drapes.
I've added two new sections to this website – Downloads will contain files that can be freely distributed with credit and Recommendations is a compendium of things that I love.