MOMENTS OF WITNESSING Part 1: Memories of SUMMER 2023

Moment of Witnessing is a series of reflections and paintings captured on my travels in 2023, where I come face to face with the effects of climate change. These effects do not impact me in the way they do to the people who live and work in these plaes. I was in a role of witnessing, both in my art and in my observations. ​

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. ​

In many ways, the cabins history reminded me of my own grandfather who built my family cottage back in Ontario. But the threat of fire was altogether new. The forest fire that was closest to the cabin had all the locals very attentive. On our first night, we watched planes flying back-and-forth from lake to smouldering forest. My imagination was captured as I learned some of the details of the reality of living in forest fire country.

Despite the smoke, we managed to enjoy paddle boarding, icy swims, hiking, and the gentle rhythm of cottage life. My paints were out, and I was fascinated by the misty - foggy feeling of forest fire smoke at Sunset.

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. ​

When we left, I felt my companions acknowledging that they had given in. There was nothing the three of us could have done to fight that fire, but leaving still felt like giving up. I know that the reality is that these changes we are experiencing go beyond any one human. We are handed these climatic events, the best we can do is try to adapt

Descending down from these mountains, it was almost surreal to breathe clean air and watch crystal clear water flow across granite cliffs. I left those mountains only a tourist to climate change, so grateful that my family cottage back in Ontario was not under threat.

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I know this too is a matter of time.

These are moments of witnessing.

Thank you for your presence. ​