Created the following animation based on a stanza from the poem Auguries of Innocence by William Blake:
What It Is
There's a stack of books sitting on my living room floor. Mostly art and design-related, with a few on the subject of dealing with grief and belief systems pertaining to the afterlife. They've been there since Spring. I only move them when I vacuum. They get upgraded to my bookshelf once read but this can take awhile.
I have a serious problem buying books and then letting them sit for months (occasionally, years) before I am fully ready to open their covers and immerse myself into their worlds. It's not for lack of interest but rather an abundance of. When reading a good book, I want the moment to linger. I give weight to every sentence. Life to every metaphor. Imagine how long it takes me to get through a truly great book. This is a truly GREAT book:
It's not a children's book, but every page is lavishly illustrated.
It's not a how-to manual, although it does provide ample advice and inspiration.
It's not something to read; it's something to experience. An exploration of life, the creative process and breaking free from monotony. Lynda Barry is an author, artist, mage.
Highly recommended; buy "What It Is" here.
Over the Hills and Far Away
The last time I visited a bar, I was 23. I remember the evening vividly. It wasn't my regular haunt; instead, my friends and I found ourselves at a cheesy club in a cheesy hotel near the edge of Winnipeg's cheesy suburbia. That's a lot of fromage.
We hadn't gone drinking and dancing in ages and it seemed like the default thing to do to temporarily eradicate our adult onset ennui. After paying the cover charge and entering the palm tree laden, faux tropical environment, I was quick to note that we didn't fit in. It wasn't even subtle; the fine line between generation next and whatever marketing catchphrase we were defined by was boldly highlighted through fashion, level of enthusiasm and acceptance of irony. I was one of the oldest individuals there. A remnant of history to these "kids". I imagined the girls were all named Britney and the boys were all named Justin (and I probably wasn't far off). We left after 30 minutes.
I'm sure there were bars where everybody would know my name, but I never bothered to seek them out. At 23, I retired from the scene to become a spinster.
I was too old for this shit.
On Saturday evening, I emerged from retirement and agreed to hit up a local bar. My decision based on the notice that a Led Zeppelin cover band would be playing. I wasn't particularly enamoured of spending my evening in a confined space surrounded by drunk riff-raff, but I could at least appreciate a good 70s Gibson riff.
The joint – a total dive in an otherwise trendy, gentrified neighbourhood – held a diverse crowd ranging from those who were around to purchase Led Zeppelin IV on eight-track to millennials who may have never even heard of that recording method. I surveyed the landscape feeling like a wallflower narrator in a National Geographic special: observe as the inebriated cougars perform a mating dance, bosom and buttocks on prominent display in the hopes of securing a mate; cautiously heed the cries of the dudes in full biker regalia as they mark their territory with spilt lager. I was the only one there without a visible tattoo.
This place is beer.
I am wine.
And I have aged.
I can't help feel that no matter where I am, I'd rather be somewhere else. At 23, and now a decade later.
We departed after the second set, partially deaf and craving midnight McDonalds. Upon exiting, I stepped over a puddle of vomit and thought to myself "I am too fuckin' old for this shit."
Chimére de Notre-Dame de Paris by Alan Tigoulet
We'll Always Have Paris
Only One Way to Advertise Water
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):
A Still Life
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.
Zephyr (noun): a very slight or gentle wind.
"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".
INFOGRAPHIC: Breast Cancer
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.
Medusa
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 Storm Before the Calm
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.
FUCK CANCER.
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
