Still Life, Still There

Still Life (the first one)

Hunting MacFarlane

When I was 5 or 6 Grannie brought back from Scotland the material to make a skirt for my mother and a kilt for me.  The tartan was the clan of her father and in the green version (to blend in with the woods).  It's called Hunting MacFarlane.

My mother drove me downtown on a Saturday morning to Richardson's on Yonge just south of Wellesley.  There I was measured for my kilt and some time later we went back to pick it up.  I can see myself in the car with my mother and at the store wearing the new kilt.  I didn't quite know what to make of the kilt at first.  For one thing it was quite long allowing for me to grow.  Eventually we had it taken up.

Perhaps needless to say -- but a skirt made especially for me is something that's happened just the once.  In addition the skirt was a Scottish kilt made with real Scottish tartan bought by Grannie in Scotland and brought home for only me.  No wonder Scotland has such a strong pull for me still.  I wore that kilt until I was bursting the seams.  I had a white blouse with a bit of a frill that I wore with it -- mainly to church or family dinners.  I remember where I was in church when I became aware that the blouse was a bit see-through and that there was starting to be something to see on my chest.  That's about when I stopped wearing that outfit.  But I still have the kilt.

Calling out in the silence

It may have been when I was in kindergarten.  It may have been that same week when my parents were in Florida.  Or not.  Anyhow, one Sunday I went downtown with Grannie to her church.  I was just a little girl in my Sunday best.  My white gloves were neatly folded together and tucked inside was my nickel for collection.  Grannie must have felt confident that I belonged enough to attend Sunday School.  In any case she sent me with the other kids out of the church and up a winding staircase.  On a table at the top was a wicker basket for collection.  But I'd left my gloves in the pew beside Grannie.

I ran back down to the church and rushed inside calling out for her.  Of course by then the hymn was over, the children were all gone and the minister was starting his sermon.  Silence.  I don't remember the reaction apart from knowing that I'd done a bad thing.  I do have the impression that Grannie shooed me away so that I went back up those stairs with my nickel.  I probably thought I was paying for my cookie.  But by this time the classes had started.  The hallway was empty.  I didn't know where to go.  I don't remember anything more.

Life Drawing

Last set -- "One twenty and then whatever's left"which last night was ten minutes.

Life Drawing

Fourth set -- "Two fifteens"and then a fifteen minute long break.

Life Drawing

Third set -- "One ten and one fifteen."

Life Drawing

Second set -- "One five and two tens." And then another break when he collects our $10.

Life Drawing

I went to the TSA drawing session again last night.  I might be addicted!  Here's how the sessions work.  At the start time, the guy running the night says something like, "Ten ones and three fives."  Then there's a short break.  I won't post all the one minute gestures, but these are from that first set.

Still Life, Still There

Still Life Blue

Still Life Glass

Life Drawing

After a break we started back with one minute gestures and then two fifteen minute poses.

Life Drawing

Here are two five minute and four ten minute poses.

Life Drawing

I went to the open drawing session last night at TSA.  The model was new to me.  He was incredibly strong and almost acrobatic in many of his poses.  This made the evening challenging and fun.  Here are some one minute gestures.

Kindergarten

On my first day of kindergarten, the boy who lived behind us turned up at our back door to walk me to school.  Billy was going into grade one.  His older sisters might have been with him.  I don't think we'd planned for him to come by.  Anyhow I wouldn't go with him.  I didn't want to go at all.  My mother walked me to the end of the path leading to the Kindergarten door.  I cried.  I didn't want to go.  I never wanted to go to school.

Later that fall, perhaps it was in November, my parents took a trip to Florida.  This was pretty unusual and may even have been their first vacation since they got married.  Grannie stayed with us, my older brothers and me.  I may be mixing up various times but the story is the same.  During that week when my parents were away I wet my pants at school.  There was a puddle on the floor and the teacher asked who did it.  I didn't speak.  She came around feeling everyone's pants and I was found out.  She took off my underpants and hung them on a radiator to dry.  I had to sit with bare skin on a piece of paper towel.

Of course I told no one.  I was afraid to speak so how could I ask to leave the room for the bathroom.  I was also afraid I might do something horrible once there.  A five year old girl afraid of doing something unforgiveable.  Horrible.

Towards the end of Kindergarten I was sitting at a table colouring one day when a visitor walked in.  The visitor was looking for art work to display at the Ex.  Whoever it was looked at my picture and was thinking of using it but then they chose the picture of another girl.  After that I knew that the girl they picked was artistic and I wasn't.  I still have the picture.  Looking back now, I can imagine they were probably after something more representational.

Turnip

A painting from a watercolour class I took last spring.  Turnip.  I prefer the sound of the word rutabaga but I don't think it's correct in this case.  We often had turnip at home with mashed potatoes on cold roast beef night.  If we were lucky there'd also be gravy.  My mother could make gravy out of almost nothing.  Many people hate turnip.  I even like it raw.  I can see my mother chopping up the turnip and putting it in the water in the pressure cooker.  That's when I would steal raw pieces and she'd say stop, there won't be enough or stop, you'll spoil your dinner.

Cats

Even the word gives me the creeps.  I wrote earlier that I'm terrified of cats but it's not so simple.  For one thing it should be the other way around.  Cats terrorize me.

Cats are repulsive.  Loose fur over the solid body underneath.  And I'm particularly worried by dead cats.  In nightmares cats are often dead and dismembered.  Horrors that cannot be explained by known experience.  I can't really think of many cats in my childhood.  My cousins had a cat.  We visited their house once a year on Christmas Day.  I remember dogs walking by.  Jessie from the street behind, for example, was some kind of low-to-the-ground beagle.  He waddled through our yard much like Toby at the cottage who was even lower and fatter.  I don't remember cats.

Once in high school English, a cat came in the open door of our portable.  The teacher asked if anyone was afraid of cats.  Of course I didn't speak up but I was stunned that someone would ask.  Could ask.  It was possible to say that I was afraid of cats.  So I still say that I'm afraid of cats -- which explains nothing.

Life Drawing

Fifteen minute poses and then one at twenty minutes.

Life Drawing

Five and ten minute poses.