Last summer was my first dip into travel since COVID-19. For those of you who remember your first trip after isolation, I am sure you can relate to my feeling of wrongness as I embarked on the airplane. A large part of my eco concerned self had embraced the idea of staying home and exploring my backyard. The artist in me had found that there are infinite textures, patterns, and new light to be found within walking, biking, or skiing distance from my house. This strangeness of being back on the road persisted throughout my trip, as I came face-to-face with the various ways that climate change is shaping our world. My trip itself was interrupted at many points for a variety of reasons, including the forest fires that were burning in British Columbia and the North.

Painting for me is a practice of acceptance. I try not to decide what to paint after the initial choice of position has been made. I try to bring to the paper what the changing light and scenery present to me. Often times this process involves catching a moment of wonder, those changing moments in nature when the lighting or a fellow creature in the forest do something unexpected, and altogether glorious.

But as a meditator would know, we are not seeking those pleasant sensations, rather we are here to observe them. The flipside of this involves bringing the same equanimity to the moments of discomfort. When painting, that might mean cold or rainy hands, watercolour freezing and raindrops splattering artwork. This might also mean creations that look nothing like what I am seeing, or colours that end up feeling all wrong. What is amazing is to see how these seemingly wrong moments are often met with delight by other observers. I cherish the work captured in these moments. What might be lost astetically is gained as the art takes on larger meaning.

Last summer, my travels brought me face-to-face with this kind of acceptance. My initial plan was to head to the Northwest Territories for a canoe trip down the Keele River. Since I was going to be out west, I decided to visit many of the people on the West Coast that I had not seen in a while. Acceptance began even in the moments of trip planning. I joined my friends on the plans that they had already made.

So it was that shortly after landing in Vancouver I found myself in the most beautiful and meaningful location: a friend’s family cottage on Gun Lake in the Chilcotin mountains. The water was blue and icy cold. The mountains dwarfed the little babies of Quebec in stunning proportions. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be in this place. ​

The next day we spent a lovely afternoon picking berries on the mountain side, wondering where the local bear was, and when we might run into him. Our fears were assuaged by the cheerful singing that accompanied are berry picking. I was utterly amazed by the bounty of the fruit. Like with mountains, the West Coast does berries big time.

I will never forget turning around to see a mass of smoke rising up from the side of the mountain. While I knew it was forest fire, the most appropriate description was volcano eruption. We didn’t have to speak to understand that the berry picking was over. We made our way down the mountain in due haste, even dropping one of our berry baskets in our concern.

Returning to the cabin, we learned that the fire had been whipped up by the winds. Despite strong feelings that it was time to leave, we spent the night packing. Witnessing my friend preparing to leave this special place that had been in her family for three generations really hit home.

Despite the strong emotions, and sense of urgeny, we still took time to appreciate the beauty of the smoke rising above the mountain. This time there was no illusion of mist. I was seeing colours in the sky that I had never seen before. ​

I know this too is a matter of time.

These are moments of witnessing.

Thank you for your presence. ​

painted on left over canvas from a canoe rebuild, this painting is all about finding new life in old bricks, and the little bit of light that peaks out from behind the dark clouds.


first sketches were captured on canvas live in the automne of 2023 around sunset, as the hills illuminated with the final rays of the sun catching.


my mode of transportation to the factory was by bike, canvas rolled up and strapped to the bike. Rolly rolland is a reminder to take it slow.


🐌


peinte sur un reste de toile provenant de la reconstruction d'un canoë, cette peinture a pour but de trouver une nouvelle vie dans de vieilles briques, et le petit peu de lumière qui émerge de derrière les nuages sombres. 




Les premières esquisses ont été capturées sur la toile en direct à l'automne 2023, au coucher du soleil, alors que les collines s'illuminaient des derniers rayons du soleil. 




mon mode de transport jusqu'à l'usine était le vélo, la toile enroulée et attachée au vélo. Rolly Rolland est un rappel à la lenteur.

Tu descends dans la vallée, laissant les sentiers derrière toi tandis que tes pieds te portent avec force et assurance. 

Tu entends le bruit de l'eau, de plus en plus distinctement, jusqu'à ce que tu découvres la source qui coule délicieusement sur les rochers arrondis. 

La vallée est un endroit sombre, un endroit secret. 
 
Tu suis la rivière en descendant le cours d'eau. Avec une habilité naturelle, tes pieds choisissent instinctivement un parcours sur les rochers. Une séquence de pas.

Tu es à l'aise sur la surface irrégulière et accidentée de ces lieux que tu aimes. 

En équilibre d'un rocher à l'autre, tu danses parmi ceux-ci comme l'eau que tu côtoies. Tu te laisse séduire par eux en essayant de les imaginer transformés sous ta toile. Leurs détails te paraissent infinis et tu sais que tu ne pourras en faire qu'une représentation incomplète. 

Finalement, tu détectes un endroit qui retient ton attention.

Aussi majestueux que tous les rochers que tu vois, et tu t'approches du bord de l'eau. Une dépression naturelle dans la roche te sert de siège. Une couche plutôt ferme mais tout de même bienvenue. 
Tu es si bien caché que les randonneurs de passage, qui ne s'aventurent jamais aussi loin, ne te remarquent pas. Ainsi lové dans la pierre, tu deviens immobilité et tout mouvement existant appartient maintenant au monde qui t'entoure. Au ruisseau qui coule, à la lumière qui change, aux oiseaux qui volent. 

Ton immobilité révèle le mouvement. Multiplie sa dynamique. Ton immobilité PERMET le mouvement.

Tu t'imprègnes du paysage, tu en caresses les silhouettes, en esquisses les contours jusqu'à le reconnaître. 
Tu passes à la couleur, en t'affranchissant des limites strictes de la toile.
Lèves les yeux pour apercevoir une gamme de vert, tu l'ajoutes. De nouveau, tu reviens pour voir une autre couleur manquante sur ton papier. Tu l'ajoutes encore. 
Il n'y a plus de rochers, d'arbres, d'eau. Ta vue, la perception que tu as des lieux est devenue floue, alors que tu continues à absorber ce que tu vois. 
L'espace visuel est vivant avec des tons.
Tu es vivant dans ces tons. C'est ainsi que lorsque le soleil apparaît, il n'apparaît pas sur les rochers. 
Non, le soleil éclaire le paysage de ton âme et tu es illuminée. 
"Tu es belle", te murmure la brise 

Ce n'est que plus tard que tu te rendras compte que, de tous les moments où le soleil a frappé les rochers que tu as vécus, tu n'as pas eu à te demander ce qui rendait celui-ci spécial. 
N'oublie pas de passer du temps avec le monde qui t'entoure. 
Attarde-toi.
Tu trouveras alors la magie dans les petits moments.