No. 64 – Sojourn in Van-Coo-Coo
A dinner, an art show, and more sketchbook work
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A few weeks back we went to Vancouver see the Shary Boyle exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery, plus catch up with some friends and generally goof off. The trip coincided with my birthday so we made a reservation at Lupo, a very good, very expensive restaurant on Hamilton Street. The entire trip represented an opportunity to take a break after a super shitty year, and a long-overdue chance to throw down some money that we don’t have. Hence Lupo.
Lupo is situated in a house—it’s understated and it’s quiet. The service was near-perfect and the food was out of this world, though there wasn’t quite enough of it. The only points lost for service were due to the “charming” Italian waiter whose charm withered and went stone cold when it became clear that we were wrapping up and the money tap was closing. We were dead to him after that.
When we arrived I noticed another table for two by the window, just to the left behind my husband David’s back. There was an unopened bottle of wine on it—clearly someone’s regular table, and they were on their way. The couple arrived and they appeared to be, let’s say, uber-rich. The man was wearing a suit, but he was too outside my field of vision to examine without outright staring. The woman however was very much in my field of vision; I was able to surreptitiously gather information without bald-faced staring. She on the other hand was not at all shy about looking straight at me, which for her meant turning her head sharply to the left. But more on that later.
She wasn’t young, but she was well preserved. Not in a puff-lipped, skin-yanked-back kind of way. More in a finely-cracked, invaluable ancient porcelain vase kind of way. Her clothing was an interesting mix… it became showier as it went from head to toe. Her brown hair was cut in a pageboy and she sported black heavy-rimmed statement glasses. She wore a somewhat conservative, long-sleeved blouse of (by my reckoning) heavy brown silk. The pants were black leather. And her feet were crammed into the nastiest, pointiest, highest black patent stilettos you can imagine. They had some metal detail on the toe like a hood ornament. Think Darth Vader’s dominatrix piece-of-work mistress he keeps on the side—she would wear these shoes.
And yes, several times during dinner I could see in my peripheral vision (she was right behind David, to his left) that she had turned and was openly gazing at me. Strangely, it didn’t bother me—I felt no malice in it. I willingly offered myself to her so that she could gather whatever information she needed. Yes, take it in, here I am! A perfectly regular person relishing my food and laughing with my husband! My clothes aren’t worth much! My boots are flat! The skin on my face is shifting dangerously and melting off my head! Enjoy!
Anyway, that was my birthday. I recommend Lupo if you have some unneeded cash you want to part with.
I hesitate to say anything about the Shary Boyle exhibit for fear of sounding foolish—no art critic am I. I realize I need to be able to talk about these things, but after doing my degree in Fine Art 30 years ago I developed a severe allergy to artspeak, which made me hesitant to speak about art at all. Artspeak seems to be predicated on the misguided belief that making something difficult to understand renders it more meaningful or important. Or that it’ll at least fool people into believing that to be true.
Of course, plain talkin’ t’ain’t no guarantee neither. But here goes. I love Shary Boyle’s work because to me it’s very alive. It’s witchy and mythological and spiritual. Her particular world and the visual language she uses to reveal it feel very present and real. It speaks to me. I feel it. And while it also makes me think, it’s the feeling that’s more important to me. Plus her skill is through the roof with everything she produces—drawing, painting, ceramics and performance (of which I’ve only seen pictures). She has complete command over her materials. This is my third or fourth time seeing her work in the flesh, and I’m always in awe.
A tiny sampling of the show:
I’m trying to find these rare moments where you feel completely illuminated. Facts never illuminate you. The phone directory of Manhattan doesn’t illuminate you, although it has factually correct entries, millions of them. But these rare moments of illumination that you find when you read a great poem, you instantly know. You instantly feel this spark of illumination. You are almost stepping outside of yourself, and you see something sublime. —Werner Herzog
Shary Boyle: Outside the Palace of Me is at the Vancouver Art Gallery until June 4th.
LIFE’S WORK, THE GRAPHIC MEMOIR
The sketchbook work continues. To be clear—as it seems it wasn’t perfectly clear in my last post—this is not the actual graphic memoir. This is me trying out brushes, working out ideas, getting used to drawing again, and generally just moving forward to see what reveals itself.
The subject matter in this section gets a little less fun. Please know that in the memoir as a whole there is definitely levity and humour—redemption even. Just… not in this section. On the flip side, I’m aware that what I reveal about my childhood is far from sensational. It’s very run-of-the-mill neglect resulting from an ill-equipped parent who drank too much. It just so happens that for whatever reason, I grew up hell-bent on breaking the cycle and finding ways to be less crippled by the toxic waste that was thrown my way, and that became my story. It’s not an uncommon story. It’s just my story.
Mind you, it’s my story from my memories… which aren’t true. Every time you retrieve a memory, your brain messes with it a little—this is called memory reconsolidation. I can’t be sure that I’m remembering things correctly—in fact I’m most certainly not. Sure, it’s my story—but in a very real sense it’s also just something I’ve concocted unwittingly. Yes, it’s mine—but at the same time I try not to identify with it to an unreasonable degree. I try to keep an open mind about my past, and what it thinks it’s saying about me.
The graphic memoir is broken up into sections, the first of which is called “The Beginning”. You can see the sketchbook work towards that section in last month’s post:
The second section is called Not Good:
While these are, as I mentioned, “merely” sketchbook explorations, I’ve decided there’s no reason I shouldn’t use any images I like for the actual graphic memoir. Why not, sez I?
JIMBO AGAAAAAAAIN!
I know, I’m sorry, I’m always dragging out this painting (drag, get it? DRAG!). But Jimbo is at it again—now he’s on Season 8 of RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars. And as usual, he stands out as being the most original, natural, and funniest of them all—as well as being the most daring and accomplished designer. I may be biased. But it’s true!
I painted Jimbo’s portrait in the fall of 2020 after being blown away by him on season one of Canada’s Drag Race. I was truly inspired by his fearlessness and his unapologetic ability to be 100% himself in the moment. He came for a studio visit and I surprised him with the humble beginnings of his portrait on my drafting table—when he looked down and spied it he screamed. I wish I could bottle that moment.
Below is a three minute film made by Nice Lady Productions a few years back (pre-Drag Race fame)—it always makes me feel a bit weepy with wonder.
THREE THINGS
Wherein I present to you… three things
I get the newsletter from the Public Domain Review and it’s always filled with the most weird and wonderful stuff
The Public Domain Review is dedicated to the exploration of curious and compelling works from the history of art, literature, and ideas – focusing on works now fallen into the public domain, the vast commons of out-of-copyright material that everyone is free to enjoy, share, and build upon without restrictions.
My Favorite Thing is Monsters—an incredible graphic novel drawn entirely with ballpoint pen on lined notebook paper. For pics look here.
In the future, we won’t be serving robots. We’ll be serving mushrooms.
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Gosh, loved all of this. Bookmarking to return to later. Your art is so powerful!
I love how you wrote about how you willingly offered yourself to the gaze of the woman in the stilettos. I found it moving to read for some reason. Humans humaning. ❤️