“Nightmare Tracks” by Catherine Raine, 2010
I wasn’t sure what I was doing with this piece. I had no plan, just a ladle and a desire to dollop wax on the substrate. Later, I added smaller blobs with a brush and applied fake-jewel stickers.
“Nightmare Tracks” by Catherine Raine, 2010
“Nightmare Tracks” by Catherine Raine, 2010
Inner Map (Non-Political) by Catherine Raine, 2010
“Sushi Wax Cake” keeps on giving! This current piece, “Inner Map (Non-Political),” was inspired by the huge pile of shavings from the wax cake. I simply arranged the shavings on the support and melted them down again. Much was the scraping, scratching, ironing, re-shaping, and heat-gunning. I also did a little brush work here and there.
Inner Map (Non-Political) by Catherine Raine 2010
Inner Map (Non-Political) by Catherine Raine, 2010
After more than six years of service, I recently resigned from an organization that helps survivors of torture and war. It was a tough decision, and I’m going to miss my students a lot.
I’d like to dedicate the following poem to them. I wrote it in 2007, and it was published in the Winter 2009 edition of First Light Journal: Canadian Centre for Victims of Torture.
Trauma lives in your skin
an invisible twin,
a script of scars that freeze
silent horror scenes on replay
The demons that stalk you evade photographs
and only you can say where they keep the keys to your cell.
But an attentive friend can apprehend,
around the corners of conversations,
pale threads of the shroud that veils your suffering.
Your shadow reveals his choices
when you sit where you can check who enters the room,
when the words loss, lost, have lost
and death, dead, have died
pitch you into a private hell.
A tragedy we read in The Toronto Star
sets the ghosts to whispering “Remember, remember!”
what you want with all your strength to forget.
Quick to take offense,
your pain flashes out in bitter responses
that the sensible call extreme
but the sensitive know
arise from the depths of your rage
at the cruelty of dogmatists, thugs, criminals in uniform.
Trauma haunts you but also gives courage a voice,
exhaling stories that pull you to the surface,
intact and shining with resilience.
Let me introduce you to “River Beast.” This painting was my first attempt at encaustic art, and recently I tried to improve it. The central blue beast has many layers, including bits of textured paper covered by melted wax shavings from “Sushi Wax Cake.”
“River Beast” by Catherine Raine, 2010
“River Beast” by Catherine Raine, 2010
My encaustic class has finished, so I’ve been spending some time doctoring up the seven pieces I started there. Here’s the latest one, “Tropical Mermaid.”
“Tropical Mermaid” by Catherine Raine, 2010
For the outline of the wax mermaid, I placed a magazine picture of a reclining model on the beeswax-coated wooden base. Then I traced the photo in black wax and pulled the paper away. I filled in the mermaid with green, red, and brown.
“Tropical Mermaid” by Catherine Raine, 2010
For the sun’s rays, I used curls of wax that I’d shaved from another piece, “Sushi Wax Cake.” The flower petals and the base of the mermaid’s crown also originated from former shavings. Finally, I rolled up more yet shavings into little blobs to make the wavy shapes and the nodules on the crown.
“Tropical Mermaid” by Catherine Raine, 2010
“Tropical Mermaid” by Catherine Raine, 2010
I was sitting in my armchair putting stickers on a parcel when my husband told me about the cross-bow attack at Main Street Library. Shocked and sickened, I had difficulty comprehending that such violence could happen in a place of learning, desecrating its peace.
When I visited Main Street branch for my library blog project three months ago, I took pictures of a quilt, an attic window, and a lobby lined with strollers. Now, cognitive dissonance confounds my mind, for even though innocent images like these cannot possibly co-exist with the site of a murder, I am also aware that terrible events do occur in sites that should be safe. The traumatic story behind the patricide is devastating, and I am sad for the witnesses who saw what nobody should ever have to see.
“Sushi Wax Cake” by Catherine Raine, 2010
Would you like to eat this cake? Tempting, but not recommended!
“Sushi Wax Cake” by Catherine Raine, 2010
To make the poured wax piece, I constructed four walls for the border (using strips of wax), made some barriers in different shapes in the middle, and then poured in mixtures of paint and wax. Later I ironed the surface and scraped some layers off the top. (Shavings shown below!)
Pile of Wax Shavings from “Sushi Wax Cake”
In addition to the wax heap, I was fascinated by the individual curls of wax that the scraper produced.
Wax Curls!
“Grief Gator,” Catherine Raine, 2010
“Grief Gator,” Catherine Raine, 2010
I sewed Grief Gator in the basement cafeteria at the Art Gallery of Ontario. My friend Ellen was with me, and she made an amazing fish-like creature.
“Cosmic Sunrise Tadpole,” by Catherine Raine, 2010I had a lot of fun pouring the wax and paint mixture and then dabbing on lots of blobs.
Here’s a true story that gave me goosebumps. It features a community-made quilt in a library, a random question, family bereavement, and serendipity.
About six weeks ago, I visited Main Street Library and was entranced by a large quilted tapestry hanging on the east wall of the attic. Created in 1984 to celebrate 150 years since the founding of Toronto, the Sesquicentennial Quilt warmed the space with its well-crafted charm. At the bottom of the piece, I noticed the name Hilary Rowland written in thread. I assumed that she had designed the art project, which featured 35 individual blocks in rows of five.
Curiosity about the quilt led to a Google search for Hilary Rowland. No on-line information was forthcoming, so I called Main Street branch to see if the staff had any recollection of her. The person who answered the call couldn’t help me, but she promised to leave a message for Susan Truong, the branch head.
Later that day, Ms. Truong called me at home with the news that none of her colleagues could remember anything about Ms. Rowland. After all, it had been twenty-six years since the quilt was completed.
A few more weeks passed, and then I received another communication from Ms. Truong. Her e-mail stated that she had received a call from Hilary Rowland’s daughter, Susan Plummer, entirely by coincidence. Susan had called Main Street branch to see if the librarians were interested in Sesquicentennial Quilt postcards and posters that she had unearthed while sorting through her late mother’s effects. When Ms. Truong mentioned my query about the quilt’s creator, Susan was touched that someone had shown interest in her mother’s work. She gave the branch head her phone number and said she would be glad to talk to me about the quilt.
When I spoke to Ms. Plummer a few days later, she confided that she had only recently been able to face opening the box containing the Sesquicentennial Quilt’s promotional materials (or any other boxes). Tragically, Susan lost her mother in May and her father in July of this year.
Sharing personal stories with stranger at a time of grief takes courage and emotional generosity. When the memories came tumbling out, it felt like being present with Susan as she opened the box.
Back in 1984, Hilary Rowland was the coordinator for the Beaches Sesquicentennial Committee for Ward 9. As part of her duties, she recruited approximately 90 volunteers to sew a commemorative tapestry that depicted Beaches images. Each panel was a visual answer to the question, “What do you think of when you think of The Beaches?”
Hilary selected 25 different background fabrics for the quilt, but she left each block’s artistic interpretation up to the person working on it. Hilary must have been a persuasive woman because she managed to convince Beaches residents with variable sewing skills to contribute to the project. Abilities ranged from complete non-sewers to fancy quilters who could pull off reverse appliqués (as seen on the Fire Station #17 block below).
Susan’s mom even got her whole family to join in the quilt’s co-creation. Her husband made the train station panel, and the green diamond represented his perspective as a child looking through the fence at the station. (He had grown up in the Beaches, and so had his future wife, minus the first six years of her life spent in England).
One of Susan’s sisters sewed the lifeguard panel, and the other one made a cloth rendition of Main Street Library.
Susan herself, who was 19 at the time, created the seagull square. Her grandparents were responsible for the Woodbine Racetrack block. And Hilary did the Fox Theatre segment in addition to the design and coordination work for the entire project.
Once all 35 blocks were finished, Susan’s mom experimented with different arrangements before deciding on the final composition. Like a collage artist, she spread all the squares on the floor and studied the colours and themes. She ended up choosing a navy blue border to pull the entire piece together.
Then the quilt was put on a frame in the living room of a woman named Carol Wilkie. The rest of the work was completed by hand on the frame. Carol would leave her door unlocked, and volunteers arrived in shifts. “They’d come in, have tea and cookies, and quilt for an hour,” recalled Susan. (I love the concept of “Come on in and quilt!”).
Susan’s pride in her mother, who had “taken a quilting class and got excited,” was apparent in her voice. She also fondly remembered the community spirit that animated the Sesquicentennial project. Out of the 90 volunteers, she personally knew the ones who had worked on 20 of the 35 blocks.
I’m grateful to Susan Plummer for narrating the origin story of a one-of-a-kind quilt that both enriches Main Street Library and serves as a priceless legacy to Hilary Rowland’s memory, her family, and the Beaches community.
On a personal note, connecting with Torontonians like Susan Plummer and April Quan (the creator of the Deer Park Woolen Castle) has been an unexpected benefit of writing a library blog. If I hadn’t blogged about the Woolen Castle or Main Street’s Sesquicentennial Quilt, I would never have learned that April fashioned the castle from a secondhand wool coat or that Susan discovered historical treasure in a box that was painful to open.
This morning I went to Mount Pleasant Library to hear Hedy Bohm tell her story of survival. A quietly charismatic woman with a vivid orange scarf, Hedy didn’t waste a moment of the pre-talk waiting time. She greeted two classes of grade 7 and 8 students and passed around large photos of Auschwitz-Birkenau as it looks today. She also showed us a memory book which dates from her school days in Oradea, Romania before the war. Later she told us that her aunt, who was married to a Christian man and escaped deportation, had managed to save the book for her.
Hedy’s storytelling style was deeply engaging, and she had a gift for recollecting details that helped the audience visualize scenes from her past. The smell of fresh wood shavings in her father’s furniture shop. The grade 10 assembly where she and her classmates learned that schools for Jewish children had been closed. The single window with barbed wire on the cattle car. Fanning her mother with a hankie because the car was so stifling. The single pail that served as a toilet for 80-90 people trapped for three days in a dark box on wheels.
Most excruciating of all were Hedy’s final moments with her parents. When the train stopped at Auschwitz, the German soldiers immediately began separating the people into groups. Hedy’s father was sent to the left and she didn’t even have time to say good-bye. Her mother was ordered to the right. When Hedy tried to run after her, a soldier blocked her way with a loud “No!” She started to cry and then yelled her mother’s name. “She turned and looked at me. I’ll never forget it. She didn’t seem to know where she was. Her face is seared into my memory. Within a few minutes, I became an orphan.”
At Auschwitz-Birkenau, Hedy endured chronic starvation and the terrifying uncertainty of daily “selections” from line-ups. Eventually she was sent to a former Volkswagen factory in Germany that had been turned into an ammunition plant. As an enslaved labourer, she worked on V-2 rockets and landmines for twelve hours a day and often had to hide in an air-raid shelter. To raise morale during bombings, Hedy and her companions would recite poems, sing together, and exchange recipes. “One woman told us the secret of her stuffed cabbage recipe. She used a little bit of caramelized sugar that she burnt on the stove.”
The final segment of Hedy’s wartime nightmare occurred when her group of munitions labourers was sent back to a concentration camp, where they went a week without food. Much to the inmates’ disbelief, this camp was liberated by the American army, and they were allowed to go into the local village and take what they needed from the textile shops and grocery stores, even the candy shops. Hedy smiled when she recalled the material she picked out for a peasant skirt, “which was very fashionable at the time.”
Ms. Bohm’s passionate mission to share her story shone through every single word she uttered. When she said that she had kept silent about unspeakable experiences for 50 years, I was struck by the courage it took to wrench words from a place of anguish to help others comprehend what she suffered. What caused her to break silence was outrage at Holocaust denials and the imperative to speak now for the sake of future generations.
Near the end of her testimony, the entire room was electrified when Hedy looked all of us in the eye and said, “I want you to remember what happens when good people do nothing. From now on, you be my witnesses.” Encouraging each of us to stand up and speak out against discrimination, she had us on our feet when the talk finished. The schoolgirls sitting to my right had tears in their eyes, and they waited patiently in line to speak to Hedy. She was busy receiving warm hugs from some of the other kids, shaking hands, and inhabiting the centre of a huddle of students who wanted to talk to her. My throat constricted as I witnessed so many young people responding to the presence of a truly beautiful and resolute spirit.
During the 30th Annual Holocaust Education Week, I attended an unforgettable afternoon talk. In Deer Park Library’s program room, 85 year-old Helen Schwartz testified to the loss of her entire family and “everything that was dear to me.” In the face of monstrous cruelty, she survived the Bialystok Ghetto in Poland, numerous concentration camps, starvation, beatings, and two trips to the crematorium. She said it was her natural chubbiness which saved her both times; the Germans said she still had enough “meat on her bones” to work.
Many of us in the audience cried as we listened to this petite great-grandmother remember the Germans “packing (Jews) like herrings in a synagogue and torching it,” having to hide her younger brothers in boxes, and carrying out the bodies of the dead at Bergen-Belsen. She can never stop hearing the typhus-stricken girls calling for water.
In attendance at the talk were about twenty adults and a group of middle-school children sitting on the floor. Towards the end of her testimonial, Ms. Schwartz addressed the children specifically, although we all need to cherish these words: “Be good to each other. Respect your mother and father. Be good to your brothers and sisters. I would have given anything to see my family after the war.” She almost broke down and then apologized, saying it happens more as she gets older.
I loved what she said at the end of the talk. “Anybody wants to ask me something? I’m still here.”
A couple of Saturdays ago, Stewart and I raced to catch the ten o’clock Ward’s Island ferry. After we’d safely launched ourselves on the boat, I caught my breath and noticed a singular vehicle occupying the exact centre of the ferry. It was one of the TPL Bookmobiles! I liked how its presence was whimsical yet purposeful, with books destined for a beach excursion while providing essential library services to the resident islanders.
After the strollers, bicycles with shopping wagons, and camera-laden day-trippers streamed off the ferry, the Bookmobile exited last. Then it trundled along Cibola Avenue, stopping in a grassy patch just north of Algonquin Bridge (the wooden footbridge that arches over a narrow stretch of harbour and is off-limits to rented bicycle surreys).
With twenty minutes until opening time, I settled down in a heap with my notebook on a nearby sidewalk that led to the boardwalk. It was a gorgeous autumn morning, and I enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my hair.
At 10:30 on the dot, two patrons climbed aboard the Bookmobile, and by 10:35 approximately eight people were inside, their bicycles leaning against the front and side of the bus. Other bikes were strewn at random on the grass, prompting me to ponder how liberating it must be to hop on a bike and fetch your books without having to worry about traffic, subway steps, or bike locks!
When I stepped up into the mobile library around 11:00, I noticed how different the vehicle seemed in daylight. Compared to my previous evening’s visit at Queen’s Quay, the Ward’s Island stop seemed more leisurely and relaxed. The radio was playing from the dashboard, and the view from the back window was leafy and harbour-scenic. (Perhaps it’s not fair to compare the two bookmobile sites because it’s hard for a crepuscular parking lot to compete with a restful island site).
The Bookmobile wasn’t overly crowded, which made for a congenial environment. For example, there wasn’t the competitive huddle next to the DVD shelves that I observed at Queen’s Quay. However, like their urban cousins across the water, the Ward’s Island patrons appeared to relish bookmobile visits because they provide a reliable opportunity to catch up with fellow book-loving friends.
Even though the driver-librarian had to process the materials by hand due to a computer problem, patrons waited patiently in line with their armfuls of books. Meanwhile, a mom was asking her two young children for feedback on the week’s selection of picture books. She would read a line or two, show some illustrations, and see if the kids showed interest in the book. When she’d gathered up all the books that had passed the interest test, she showed off some of the titles to a friend, who exclaimed, “Look at the eyes on that lemur!”
Eventually, I made my way to the front of the bus to check out a book on Vermeer. When I commented that the driver’s job seemed fun, he said, “The people are nice, and it’s never a dull moment!” Indeed, Ward’s Island residents of all ages seemed happy to see him drive up and spend a few hours dispensing a wealth of printed information, entertainment, and good cheer.
For the second time in as many days, I descended the Bookmobile steps and emerged into the outside air. I located Stewart, who had been taking pictures of the exterior of the bus, and he suggested lunch at the Rectory Café. Very little persuasion was required, and after a meal of lamb burger (Stewart) and salmon and bagel (me), we went for refreshing walk along the boardwalk. It was the perfect activity to cap a wonderful outing. What a joy to visit Ward’s Island in the company of Stewart and the Toronto Public Library!
Fighting Blue Demons of Disconnection (2010)
I made “Fighting Blue Demons of Disconnection” for the Octopus Project’s May Exhibit at the Distillery District. The challenge was to use the shades of only one colour. As for “Triangle Web,” it was a personal experiment in the use of thread to create geometric shapes.
Purple Triangle Web (2010)
Here’s how this wrapped collage looks on the outside.
Partially unwrapped.
Fully unwrapped.
Collage Centerfold!
Close-up!
Recently I visited the Bookmobile stop at Queen’s Quay and Bathurst, meeting TPL Communications Officer Ab. Velasco in the parking lot of the OMNI Television building. Through no fault of its own, the Bookmobile was late that evening, its scholarly goods held hostage to rush-hour traffic. I asked Ab. if he thought bookmobiles should be classed as emergency vehicles, and he suggested they should at least have a dedicated lane. Then he briefly left the conversation to apologize on behalf of the library to a small group of expectant patrons.
Fortunately, the eagerly-anticipated vehicle soon came into view. After negotiating the parking barrier, the bus positioned itself in the southeast corner of the lot. Once it was fully parked, a suspenseful pause reigned over the tarmac while we waited for the door to open and the ladder steps to lower.
A collective sigh was released as the last obstacle to the traveling library was removed, spilling a rectangle of light onto the darkening parking lot. About a dozen people had gathered by then, mostly older ladies and a mother with three kids. They clambered up the steps and formed huddles by the shelves of children’s materials, the DVD shelves, and Adult Fiction area. I was impressed by the quantity and variety of items available in such a compact space, including large print books, romance and graphic novels, plus magazines in Chinese, Tamil, Spanish, and Russian.
Taking a moment to fully appreciate the Romance section, I sat down at the back of the bus on a red-carpeted bench. My two favourite titles were Along Came a Husband and Lock, Stock, and Secret Baby. I have to say that Sex and the Single Earl had a certain something, too.
The more time I spent inside this marvel of library outreach, the more I observed the community fellowship it has created. The Bookmobile’s Friday visit appeared to be a social highlight, so I could see why patrons might have felt antsy when the vehicle was ten minutes late that evening.
Everyone seemed to know one another. As the bus gently swayed from side to side in response to the constant shifting of weight on the ladder, patrons greeted each other by name and provided family news updates. When an elderly lady climbed up with her cane, another woman inside entreated her to be careful not to lean backwards. Not far from her, a child was exclaiming, “They have fairy books!”
The driver seemed to be enjoying his job. He was handing out large pieces of stiff paper which folded up to create a model of the Bookmobile. When one kid said he didn’t want one, the driver said (in a kind tone), “Are you too cool for it?”
The captain of this library ship served as its librarian as well; he wore the two hats with ease. He processed the DVD I’d selected, My Brilliant Career, and chatted with me for a bit. I asked him about the Bookmobile’s capacity limit and he estimated about twenty people. He added that the adults tended to “self-regulate,” adjusting their comings and goings to the crowd-level. As for the kids, nothing could stop them from getting at the books!
Realizing I was taking up valuable space, I didn’t spend as much time at the Queen’s Quay stop as I normally would at an immovable library. However, I descended the steps into the parking lot with a strong sense that I’d just experienced something truly special. This lovely library on wheels was tangible evidence of TPL’s commitment to reaching all Torontonians. This is a city where books come to the people if the people cannot easily come to the books.
This shadow box is the result of a collaboration between my husband Stewart and me. The box itself was the former home of Korean biscuits. Stewart took the picture of Hester the deer last Christmas when we were visiting a conservation area in Springfield, Missouri.
“Forest Wolves” by Catherine Raine 2010
“The Princess and the Sedimentary Layers” by Catherine Raine, 2010
For Riverdale Library’s 100th Birthday Party, two rosy bouquets greeted the crowds who streamed into the recently renovated branch. While a large audience was gathering around a portable podium, regular library-users were weaving through clusters of listeners and dodging photographers in their struggle to reach the shelves and relocated check-out desk. (The old desk had been moved to the opposite wall, creating space for a larger computer lab and reading lounge).
I soon drifted away from the lengthy speeches to check out other changes Riverdale Library had undergone since my last visit in June. In my travels, I noticed that the entrance to the Children’s Section was more colourful, thanks to a new sign supported by two columns constructed from enormous building blocks. Also, a new set of red tables showed evidence of learning engagement, and shiny purple shelves provided incentive to investigate the books resting upon them.
Following up on my previous account of Paddington Bear’s condition, I can report that he has been released from his taped-up high chair. At the Birthday Party, he was reclining in luxurious freedom on top of a purple shelf. He also appeared to have been freshly laundered. On the shelf to the bear’s left was a lion who looked equally comfortable. He was well-positioned to see the readers on the window-seat as well as the street scene beyond.
The tree that had once sat gathering dust in the program room with a “Do Not Move” sign on it (which I had mistakenly thought said, “Do Not Remove”) was on display near the window-seat in the Children’s Room. Having sprouted new green leaves, it looked refreshed.
With impeccable timing, I returned to the main part of the library just as refreshments were being served in the community room. As I waited in line, everybody started singing, “Happy Birthday, Dear Riverdale” to the spirit of the branch. Once I reached the buffet table, I became more enveloped in the friendly chaos of the crowd. Folks were sitting, standing, pushing forward, retreating, and searching for missing implements to their meal. I handed a fork to a man who’d missed his chance to grab one and marveled at the pig’s head resting inside a platter with chunks of pork. A patron standing across from me commented: “That’s a vegetarian’s nightmare!”
Veering around groups of eaters who impeded the progress of in-coming revelers, I reached the drinks table. City Librarian, Jane Pyper was standing beside jugs of ice water, handing out cups to the guests. I complimented her on the renovation, and she said how pleased she was with it, especially with how the building was more open to the street now. She wished me luck as I set off to photograph the cakes.
After taking a few more pictures, I left the community room and made for the exit. It made me smile to see patrons leaning against CD carrels and bookshelves with plates of noodles, pork, and cake. Riverdale Library, thank you for celebrating your 100th Birthday with such style and spirit! It was an honour to be part of your special day.
When I was writing a post about Main Street Library, I phoned a librarian there to ask if she knew the exact year the front entrance was added to the building. She wasn’t sure but promised to pass the question on to the branch librarian. Sure enough, I received a call this evening and learned the correct date: 1977. I was so impressed that branch librarian had taken the trouble to make sure I had the necessary information to make the Main Street post as accurate as possible. Hooray for librarians!
Noreia’s Birthday Sufi (2008)
Divine Grief (2010)
