Grandma Penny goes big

In July of last year I met a little girl named Uma at the splash pad in Montreal's Mile End. We got to talking about our grandma's and Uma told me she had a Grandma Penny. For reasons unbeknownst to me, the name stayed in my head for weeks like any good ideas or imagery tend to do from time to time.

Ode to Grandma Penny. Later that week I came across a portrait from some database or other of an old woman who suited the name to a tee. Thus Grandma Penny came to be in stencil form. She has been a work in progress over the course of the year (no idea why I stick with some projects like the plague and abandon others) and yesterday I made the biggest stencil yet measuring in at 4x6'. 

Uma--where ever you are--this one's for you. I almost threw the whole lot in the garbage after going a little heavy handed on the spray adhesive. Thin paper, lots of delicate pieces, a shit tonne of glue and a mid air flip equals disaster. I had to take a rooftop BRAIN BREAK and remind myself not to get angry over such a trivial mistake considering the beauty of making art in my home on the floor at twenty six without a care in the world. What a luxury. Regardless and as always, it felt good to lay yet another project to bed. In the stencil process I ended up totally marring the original positive resulting in a one off. This one is for my home. 'Hope Lisa likes it, it's humungeous. 

Stencil hell to finished product! Grandma Penny stencil on muslin. July 2012/ Winnipeg.

KINDERMANN

Collaborative art. Photo date unknown. Stencil April 2012/ Winnipeg.

Nashville Skyline on repeat for hours and hours. Currently walking around the house in age old glow-in-the-dark boxers and a giant hat. Pint sized G&T. That sounds small. Too hot for cool. Selfish twenties, you'll be but a dream one day. Today I am in the thick of it, the self serve of this decade of age. Making and doing at my leisure, sweating to the oldies of Bob Dylan on the turntable in my studio. When I say studio I mean bedroom. Perhaps one day I will find the path to move my work out of my sleep space. For now it works. Going through my notes from a recent Concordia art history class, I found some sketches smack dab in the middle of an artist profile on german Industrial Photography duo Bernard and Hilla Becher. Apparently their work was a far cry from captivating--considering the lack of doodles elsewhere in the notes.

From aimless silhouette to aimless stencil, a new direction. Now which President was this again? Lord knows.

Silhouette of a mystery. July 2012/ Winnipeg.

The art of unfinished work

A new house midway through. Combination india ink and beach house fantasy. Tiff, consider this a warm up. Sorry I am operating as slow as molasses. It's coming. Index finger click the house for large scale size. Print. Write a letter to someone who needs one. Voila! Poorman's stationary. Now if only I had a printer...

Step one. Draw bones.
Step two. Let dry.
Step three. Pick up quill. Continue. 
Step four. Guzzle iced coffee for inspiration.
Step five. Shut off computer.

Puch lookbook

Recent development. Back into color's arms I fly, for faith is restored once again.  Love / Hate; color vision. These three photos shut the doubt right out and confirm that color film has its place. Pictured is Craig. He makes me laugh like nobody else.

Photos were made en route to the Winnipeg Folk Festival on a hot July morning using Ektar 100 film stock and the old faithful Kiev 60 (which coincidentally we each own in slight variation from the other).

Buddy guy brought his Nikon Super 8 out for the trip and we made a little movie while riding through the back forty and also while people watching contentedly from a bench. Tie Die vision he had. I always have to laugh at what he zeros in on. We both shoot, but he is better.

59er pitstop with Creme.

Myself and a pair of Puchs.
Photo. Craig Dueck.

Magnum in da back and Maxi in da front.

OV Picnic

4:11 am report. Sleep? Who needs it. Got a good 24 hour sleep in after a single day at the Folk Festival.  Cashed and mushy brained, there was no choice but to sleep Saturday away in it's entirety after riding home from Bird's Hill. Somehow Creme and I made it out of the hub of it all and despite the cool air of dawn whipping all around my body, the scenic route home was the best part of the trip.

The darkest part of the night hangs around even though the birds have long risen for the day. Four treeplanters sleep in tents in my little yard. Two in my bed and one (the permanent Maxi resident) just down the hall. Six strong on the stoop they rang the bell over and over until I hopped to it and answered, bewildered. Treeplanters. Visions of the recent woods life came rushing back as shop talk is unavoidable with reunions of this variety. Pizza in threes, OV by the dozen, whiskey by the texan and eight pairs of bare feet on the concrete, we sat and laughed; my kind of picnic.

Before the circus arrived on the stoop, Craig and I pulled in after a great day on the road and a hearty BBQ. Food coma quiet, just the two of us at the Maxi house. We had a hell of a day. One worth writing home about. Before the party cam flew off the ass end of the truck while sailing through an intersection (don't worry, a lovely man on a bicycle scooped it up and rode after us to return it unscathed), before the BBQ dinner, before hustling through Super Store on a hamburger mission, before all that we rode. From morning to night we rode. My god it feels good to rip beside Craig, trying to anticipate his moves while navigating through the flow of traffic. 

We make a good pair. 

Creme and I woke to a brunch invitation. After guzzling the coffee and tossing the poach waters back where they came from, we hopped on the Maxi and the Magnum and hit the road. Jessica Alba leans forgotten in the dust (I do ride her daily). The moped just trumps every mode of transportation these days. It's too easy to do a running start, hop on in the nick of time, hold on for dear life and ride the hell out of that thing in traffic. 

I think there's a woodtick making a home for itself in my skull. 

Trains rattle the house but no one wakes.

I wish I was riding.

In my own time

From Biggie to the bush, here is some fruit of the Kiev's labour. A medley, if you will. Time to put on the biggest hat I own and skip to Parlour for a coffee with my girl Chanel.

Erin and Biggie.

Izzy and her Aunty Jenny.

Izzy and her Grandpa Jim.

Rookie baby still early on in the Ktown spring contract.

Whack exposure that I love. I smell a lettering project.

Boots in nature. I thought I was shooting color here.

Driving northwards.

Tom, you sexy beast.

Back Forty

A hefty portion of the last entry was wiped clean, so be it. Here is a display of photowork from the woods to fill in the blanks. Nothing to write home about today as I am home. Sick, but home nonetheless. My filled ears are throwing off my game. Craig is in the garage tuning while I soak up the cool wind billowing through the Victor House. Photos are unedited straight off the process counter as per usual, but the color slides are even better! No point in digitalizing slides, they speak for themselves up on the wall. Mounting begins this evening with a slideshow to follow. Stay tuned if you care to.

Bush Soup

Home at last.

How lovely to write from this familiar haunt, the desk. Things are in their place for the most part. Time in the woods was swift. Hard work, many lessons learned. Big winds carving lines in the faces around. With no reflection staring back and no place for vanity, characters began to bloom along with the foliage. 

The daily act of filling the turtle tanks with water brought great joy to my life while working as a planting cook. Weird applications of therapy. When the kitchen became too crowded I would make for the river. No place for planters in the little space beside the water intake. Solace making a lazy brown path around our makeshift home. Delicious water that made great river stock. A great escape from the haggard and tired of the early morning, the familiar walk down the river path to bring the pump to life was welcomed. Watching the foliage grow and grow and grow around our camp on the Wenasaga logging road as the seasons changed hands was comforting. Time changes us, we change with time. Those buds made their way in no time at all. Gone was the snow. Then came the rain. Morale dipped up and down like a lawn bird and it was challenging to rotate the food in such a way that could possibly bring it back up again. Cheese helped. 

What a strange job. 

Got over the hesitation of cooking meat. Mastered the roast beef. Pork shoulder. Stew. Chili. The standard slop fare, you know. Horseradish came into my life with a bang. Thank you for that Leblanc brothers, where ever you may be. Daily those gargantuan twins would bound into my kitchen space (one with pep, the other with bitterness and both with beauty) and beg for the stuff. Planters are easy to please. D'accord. Garlic every day. Ginger by the pound. Pepper pepper pepper. To sit and reflect now seems odd as that life lies only an arms length away. The arrival of photowork always fills in the blanks. The pictures. 

Looking forward to a roll shot from the back of Maya's quad on the last day of the spring contract. That was the day my constant companion--the Kiev--flew from my grip into the lap of the Block just as I caught Stevie throwing spears into the treeline of his piece. What a sight. An odd duck look tucked away with the mind's eye. Pictures revealed themselves through the doorway of the kitchen daily. Pickles. A man named Pickles with cauldrons for eyes hooked my contrast vision daily. Portraits on portraits on portraits of those eyes. There were many characters to learn. The job offered little to no idle time which was fine for the most part. Lisa, bless her, made me laugh daily along with the rest of the clowns. Highballer rookie, Lisa King. Well done woman, proud to know you.

View from my tent at Strecker Farm; Kenora. May/ 2012. Shot with a Voitlander Bessa rangefinder from the 30's.

Desert Boots

Found me some desert boots this morning in a basement of trinkets. They were probably pulled off a dead man somewhere with feet the size of nine. Now I am ready. I can feel the outline of his phantom feet as my own make themselves at home. Some purple foamy sandals would top the list, but beggars can't be choosers. Two pair of work boots? High baller move. The Bush List is pages long, though nothing is really written down to strike through. I think I am ready.

Oh the list of things to be missed! Hand around the back of a neck while driving. Cozy bed, comforts of home. Skin on skin. The flare of fire for a night time cigarette against my favorite face. Things like that.

There is a draw to the woods that I can't really explain. It sits in me like hunger. Dear muscle memory, please carry me through, please knock my reservations down like bowling pins. It has been two years since I planted anything. My shovel feels awkward. My arms are noodles but my legs are strong.

I will be planting for two weeks beside my friend Lisa and cooking for six under the guidance of a stranger named Emily. This entire operation was birthed quickly providing little time to fret over all the things I do not know. Going in blind with desert boots!

If anyone is interested in corresponding with Lisa or myself, you are welcome to write. I will definitely respond. No laptop in the bush this year. Typewriter and ink only. I imagine my cooking schedule will leave minimal room for sleep or relaxation, but I intend to do my best in the correspondence department on slow afternoons.

Looking forward to waking up to Lisa's laughter and birdsong. Yellow light of early morn. Listening to Sonic Youth on the way to the Block, splashing coffee from rough logging roads carving rivers into my filthy body. I am ready.

Here is the HQ address:

PRT Frontier-- Bram's Camp
c/o Meg Kroeker
Box 757, 75 Pollard Rd
Dryden ON
P8N 2Z4

Queen of the Road! See you in July.

ps. In other news, Craig and I took the mopeds out for the inaugural ride of the season. Whoa. Finally tasted the nectar of speed. Now I know what he was talking about. Just as I am getting the hang of riding, it is time to leave. Something to look forward to. Oh the places we will go. There are no words to describe such thrill.

Bathgate of WPG

Gut rot Friday.

The photos in the series below are from a roll shot in a single evening. Perched on a wide sill seven floors up, the southeastern vantage point was striking at magic hour. Feels good to shoot these days. While working through the roll, I thought I was shooting color and was surprised when the camera back revealed the unexpected contrast. Does your eye take in color and contrast differently? Mine does. In this case, color vision translated well.

Ultimately at peace with the decision to leave the very place I thought I was destined for, my mind drifted to the short stint in art school as my body drifted in and out of sleep. The last ten or so rolls received back affirm said choice and show much improvement in exposure. All thanks to Scott's light meter. Thanks McLarens, I owe you big.

World of a difference. This is a small part of Winnipeg from above looking down and out.