Sparky the studio cat.

Of course we always hear it repeated that for an artist it's the process that matters, not the end result. I'm reminded again of how true that is. I finally had my five pieces from the Mourning series fired. One piece exploded in the kiln. Gail thought I would be devastated but I was completely sanguine about it. It was the piece I liked the least and so it was no great loss. But mostly, it was done already and I had moved on.

I've moved into the English Potter studio in Lakefield and started work already. I rent three days a week (which includes a pottery class) and have my own space for storage. I share the workspace with Gail. We work well together sometimes bantering, sometimes commenting or questioning and often we're silent. The pottery class is to learn pottery techniques that I can carry over into sculpture. Gail is trying to teach me to throw a pot, which I find really difficult. I will keep on trying. It requires a sense of balanced pressure that keeps eluding me. I'm weaker on the right side and still don't know how to compensate for that at the wheel.

Gail is warm and funny and we share most values. Her aesthetic is light, whimsical and beautiful. Mine is heavier, expressionist and sculptural. I don't believe in waste and like to recycle failed pots into comic sculptures. I'm saving my failures to see how I can reinvent them later. Now Gail is experimenting with her failures too. Lost and found art we call it. We can learn a lot from each other.

I've been tidying up the fired pieces readying them for finishing and I started on a new piece yesterday. It has always been my way to work on more than one piece at a time. That way I don't have to face the fear of starting something new.

How do I feel? Like sleeping beauty, only the prince doesn't wake me - the muse does.
I head up to Lakefield with a happy heart, full of anticipation, settle in at my bench and get lost in the work. Not since I shared a studio with Julie in the 1960s, have I felt this way. It's an incredible gift to find my hands and my spirit again at age sixty-nine. Gail has no idea what a catalyst she has been in this process.

Sparky,the cat mentioned in the heading, is Gail's very obese Tortoise-shell cat. I mean OBESE. She is very sweet and loves company, but exerts no energy whatsoever. She likes to look out the window and sit on the door sill. She talks to the birds but they know she is powerless to catch them. Gail has her on a diet which seems to be pointless. Sparky is loving and very present like warmth in a room. So I include her in my cat diary because she marks a new stage in my life.

When does an Artist stop being?

By Claire Hogenkamp - October 13, 2009

When an artist stops exhibiting, is she no longer an artist? If nobody is looking does art cease to exist? That is like the Zen question “if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is there, does it make a noise?"

My immediate response is what does it matter? In the case of the artist I might add who cares? Such is the state of Art in Canada that most artists go unrecognized and unnoticed. They just keep on working but don’t give up their day jobs.
The Art elites keep discovering new trends and making new declarations about the status of Art calculated to be radical, outrageous and “new”. Hence members of the public who are interested, are constantly rendered old fashioned and out of step. The public is generally excluded and if art becomes popular it is suspect. I believe this is a defense mechanism that has become a reflex against years of state and popular neglect of the Arts. It’s like saying “they’ll hate me anyway so I’ll show them I can really be hateful”.

This leaves the way clear for the cognoscenti (academics and critics) to toss out declarations like all painting is dead, the landscape is irrelevant, the Group of Seven is passé and thus turn away from Canadian greats like the late Goodridge Roberts (painter); Anne Kahane (sculptor); the late Robert Langstadt (printmaker) and they are not even included in the lexicon of Canadian Art anymore. Their work exists and is important, but if exhibited at all, critics don’t even bother to look at it.

If the art has been created on paper, board or canvass, with paint or pastels, carved or cast in traditional materials it’s not important enough for serious consideration. But if the art is created with meat, by feet, with hurled spit, or exploded shit, it is “compelling, edgy” and very “now”. I don’t object to Art being edgy or now providing we remember who we are and where we come from. We have a tradition in Canada and we neglect it at our peril. Students should know the Group of Seven opened our eyes to our own landscape; Emily Carr is our spiritual art mother; Goodridge Roberts painted with uncompromising honesty, Anne Kahane brings humanism to wood and aluminum with exquisite finesse and Robert Langstadt brought Expressionism to Canadian printmaking. They are important benchmarks for their métiers, and every art student can become better from seeing them.

As for the opening questions, I can say that I have been working away quietly these past forty some years creating landscapes, taking photographs, and recently returning to sculpture, without exhibiting and acknowledged only by close friends and family. Have I ceased being an artist? Possibly, but I continue to make art. It’s not the title that’s important, it’s the process.

I dropped off the Art Map in Canada very abruptly in 1970 when I was awarded the second of three Canada Council Grants. I moved to New York to study Film and TV production at Columbia University. I had been a sculptor and printmaker of national stature but was growing more interested in film making. It provided a means of earning a living that sculpture couldn’t. I needed to earn a living. Poverty does not make better art.

Living in a Manhattan apartment in the 70s didn’t provide a work space for sculpture so I had to let it go and concentrate on my documentary film career. I was hired in 1973, after graduation, by Lawrence Solomon Productions as his assistant editor where I learned the editing craft and the film business. I assisted on many films, was promoted to sound editor, editor and later production manager on projects ranging from WNET’s Children’s Television Workshop, to the Pele Pepsico project and a regular series of documentary films for CBS “Eye on New York”. I won film awards at several documentary film festivals for my own independent films as well as craft awards for company productions. I was, as the saying goes, “making it in New York”.
I married in 1976, had a baby in 1977, bought a house and launched my own post production company so I could work from home. I taught film production and animation at Adelphi University on Long Island from 1977 – 1981. From 1978 to 1982 I was filmmaker in residence with the New Jersey Arts Council, teaching a semester each year in New Jersey inner city high schools.

Every summer I came back to the family cottage in Quebec’s Laurentians to introduce my daughter to cottage life and country values. Each summer I painted landscapes for pleasure and so it continued for over forty years.

I moved to Toronto in 1983 and then to Peterborough in 1996 and worked in the communications area of the Ontario government. I designed media campaigns, promoted policy initiatives, and worked directly with First Nations on consultation and communication strategies. I won more awards for effective government communications but throughout, I kept on painting my private vision. My husband died some years ago and my daughter is embarked on a life of her own in London Ontario.

I’m retired now and still painting and taking pictures. I have been a champion of the Arts and an advocate for more Arts funding and recognition. There are all kinds of excellent, talented people here in Peterborough that are eking out tenuous livelihoods as artists or working in unrelated day jobs to support their art. If my volunteer work has helped in some small way to keep the creative fires burning, I’m happy. But now it’s my time. There are some sculptures I need to finish and more paintings to do. I will soon be seventy and time is not on my side. I feel the need to open up my quiet world to let people see my creative process. Perhaps an exhibition will shed some light on my Zen question. “If an old woman paints and sculpts in solitude all her life is she an artist?

Chester - my Peterborough cat.

The cat you see as you enter my blog, is Chester. This is my all-time favorite cat. There was never a cat like him before or since. He adopted me when I moved to Peterborough in 1996. He actually moved in in 97 and lived with me until 2008 when died from intestinal cancer.

When I say he adopted me, it's true. I had two cats Placi (from Brooklyn) and Melody (from Toronto) who had moved to Peterborough with me. We were contented and happy that first winter when a grey striped tiger with a white face and bib started to hang around and watch us. It was really eerie because this cat was outside peering in my windows. When I moved from room to room in my house, I would look at each window and there he would be on a tree branch, on a window sill or on a chair back, just looking in. He moved around outside the house following me inside.

He looked to be in good shape so I assumed he belonged to a neighbour. It was a couple of months later that I realized he was roughing it. Nobody was caring for him because he was much thinner and had started eating the bread under the bird feeders. So I began putting food out for my silent watcher. He would only eat if I went back inside and if I came back out he ran away. For a cat that was studying me so carefully, he was very cautious and wouldn't approach me. So we continued through the winter and into the spring of 1997. By April he would allow me to stay while he ate. Then he would rub my legs when I emerged with his food, but I couldn't touch him. I was fascinated by this careful but devoted cat.

I had begun the spring yard work so I was outside a great deal. Wherever I was working, he was about ten feet away watching. It was clear now that he was a stray and very wary of human beings. He completely disappeared when another person came into the yard. By June the weather had warmed up and I was enjoying the early summer sun on a recliner behind the house. I was dozing off when I spotted Chester (I had named him by then) making a beeline across the lawn toward me. To my utter astonishment, he jumped up on my knee and started a tentative purr. I didn't move a muscle while he turned a couple of times, lay down and went to sleep. I don't know how long we stayed like that - it could have been an hour. I had become stiff from not daring to move. If your not a cat person, you'll think I was mad. If you are a cat person you'll understand because you have done it also - been so still in order to not disturb a special cat. The cat that has honoured you with it's trust.

It didn't take too long after that before he came into the porch to eat. But before he could come into the house to meet the other cats, he needed to be Vet checked, have his shots and then eight days later, he was neutered. I felt like I was betraying him but I knew the perils of a Tom cat's life would bring him to an early and brutish end. I discovered he was about eighteen months old, in good health and I wanted him to remain healthy. Besides, it is impossible to live with a full Tom. The odor of testosterone in a Tom's urine is unbearable.

The most surprising discovery was that Chester was not just a stray, he was a feral cat. He had never been socialized to be with humans. Strays usually were some one's pet once. A feral cat is born in the wild from a feral mother who teaches the kittens how to survive without humans. So Chester had no understanding of the normal human/pet interactions. When I scratched his ears or rubbed his back he grew confused. He had no idea how to respond. The feeling was pleasurable but at conflict with his danger signals. So we took it slow and easy. He was allowed to go out at will, because that was where he felt safe. He was terrified of thunder storms and if he was in the house when a storm started he was desperate to get outside to hide.

Chester got along very well with my two resident house cats and he understood his place in the hierarchy. He was deferential to Placi who was much older, and he was respectful of Melody's moods and space. There was not one hostile incident with the other cats throughout their lives together. One thing was very clear, I was his person. I have never enjoyed such absolute love from a cat as I did with Chester. When Maya came home he liked her too but not as single mindedly as his love for me. Maya said Chester loved one and 1/2 people. We had become bonded. As I was winning him over, he was also winning me. He knew me better than any other cat, could read my moods and anticipated my actions - but then he studied me for six months before permitting himself to be adopted.

I was given a book one Christmas called "A Cat is Watching" in which the author (forgot the name) describes the necessity of keen observation to a cat's survival. The more observant and cautious the longer the cat lives. He claims that cats are watching us quietly and invisibly all the time. They make their choices and time their moves based on the information they have processed, and God help them if they make a wrong decision. I always saw Chester as a prime illustration of that thesis.

It's been said that a feral cat makes a poor pet. There are challenges to overcome like litter box training, irregular hours, absences from home, and territorial marking, but patience and a mutual desire to be accepted does work wonders to alter behavior. I don't recommend a feral cat for a family with children, nor can it become an indoor cat only. If you have a strong need to win, be dominant and control, a feral cat is not for you. In fact, get a dog and avoid cats altogether. I never had a cat more devoted, loving and interesting than Chester. That feral cat was the best cat I ever shared my life with.

The last word after all.

I mentioned in the last entry that my mother finally spoke up to contradict her father when she set the record straight about my achievements in high school. But she did find her voice once before and fiercely stood up to him. My grandmother was still alive, so it must have been when I was about thirteen. I was not the catalyst that time. What follows is my father's account.

My dad had a good friend and colleague, Harold Cohen. They enjoyed each other's company and one summer Harold was invited to stay at the cottage for a few days. Harold had never visited the Gatineau so he drove us up for our annual vacation and stayed for a brief visit.

My grandparents were very welcoming and Harold had a good time. Once he left, Grandpa took Mom aside. He was icy cold when he warned her "never, ever bring the likes of him here again". Mom was stunned and asked what he meant by "the likes of him"? "Those people, Jews" was his answer.

Now you have to realize that there was no hint of disapproval evident while Harold was there, so my mother was shocked. Her reaction was quick and spontaneous. She lit into her father for his antisemitism and reminded him that a lot of "our people" gave their lives to save "those people" from the Nazis and that his own family had barely survived a war started by people who held his views. It must have been a pretty impressive response, because my grandfather was much more cautious around my parents after that. There was never another negative word about Jews spoken in her presence.

A year thereafter my beloved grandma died. The glue that brought the family home lost its bond. My grandfather hired a housekeeper and changed his life very little, but for his children and grandchildren life changed a lot. There was no longer that strong pull to the cottage. Meech Lake became a destination rather than a home. Uncle Watson bought his family another cottage on the Rideau River, and Uncle Ken was married to Rosemary by then and their first child Jayne was born. So we all stayed with my grandfather at different times. To make matters worse, my grandfather decided to sell the family cottage to The National Capital Commission.

That decision more than any other changed the family dynamic. What he saw as a chance to capitalize on the push to make Meech Lake a Park, we saw as a betrayal. He signed an agreement that permitted his use of the cottage for life. Upon his death, the property went to the NCC and his children were out of luck. He exercised his ultimate control.

This was done to spite Watson for buying his own place. Grandpa forgot all about his other two children and his grandchildren. The place that had been the hub for his family, no longer promised any future. The family began to pack their emotional bags in preparation for the end. Though we still spent our vacations there till he died five years later, we viewed the place as tenants would a rental. Once he died, we were allowed in briefly to remove personal effects only, the locks were changed and eventually it was torn down to make a public beach and picnic area.

The ultimate irony was the name: not Balharrie but Blanchet Beach (after a neighbour from New England). A French name looked better on a Quebec map than a Scottish one, even if the Blanchets didn't speak a word of French. The vindictive pride of an old man and the politics of the time erased our family history from Meech Lake.

My Three Perky's

Memory, I'm told, is selective. I am having a terribly difficult time writing about my Meech Lake days and my mother. Don't get me wrong, I did love my mother a lot. I also adored being at the Balharrie cottage every summer. So what's the problem?

It was the period in my life when I grew aware of the dark side of life. I was getting older and beginning to see the complexities in people. My mother was a huge influence on my development. She was bright and sunny but over time I noticed her mood swings. She and I shared a bunkie and that was fun. When we were alone my mother was interesting and fun and even loving. However, when we were within her family circle I experienced a much harsher and more critical mother. I never could do anything right.

I would try very hard to not be a disappointment but somehow I always failed. It took me years to understand that my mother was viewing me through her father's eyes and trying to bend me to his standards. It was a fools game that always cast me as the loser. Since my grandpa didn't like me very much, he rarely approved of me. Hence, I was a constant source of tension for my mom. She could be harsh and exacting. She sometimes got carried away with discipline and was no stranger to using corporal punishment. Looking back I often wonder why? I wasn't a bad kid. But I was headstrong, anathema to my grandfather. I guess it was all about control. My grandmother would intervene and take my side or remove me from view. She would ask me to help her or set up a new game in the cottage that we would play. My grandma was my champion.

Somewhere in the course of events I came to believe that Mom didn't love me. So, I fixed my trust and affection on my father who I didn't disappoint at all. In fact, to him I was a source of pride. The years between seven and thirteen were my growth years, physically and emotionally just as with every child. I learned to be more wary and defensive. My innocence was wearing down. The problem of course, was that my father worked and was not always around to protect me.

I had lots of amazing and really good experiences too. My early childhood in Holland was so filled with love, it had given me a strong enough emotional base to withstand the Ottawa chill. Years later my mother would muse about how different our lives might have been, had we stayed in Holland. She often said that she loved life in Holland in spite of the hard war years.

These were the Perky years. From age eight to thirteen, we had three cats in succession, called Perky1, Perky 2, and Perky 3. They died or disappeared while we lived in the Snowdon area of Montreal. Perky 3 was not allowed to go outdoors and he lived a very long life, moving with us to Lakeside Heights in Pointe Claire. Perky 3 joined the family when I was eleven and lived well beyond my parents till he was eighteen.

Around thirteen I realized that my mother had mood swings. For many weeks she was fine and then she would become super energetic, stay up all night, start ambitious projects that would continue for several weeks until she crashed. On the way down she started to get super critical, fly into rages, be petty and vindictive, and eventually close down. I feared her most during the super energy periods because I could never be sure when the anger would begin. As an adult, I was asked by a counsellor I was seeing what emotion I remembered most from childhood. "Fear" I replied without hesitation. Fear was my dominant memory.

Today I know that my poor mother had a form of Bipolar disorder and suffered from crippling migraine headaches as well. At the time her condition was not named. She was described as having spells. The worst spell happened when I was sixteen. The depression stage lasted for nearly a year. My mom was tranquilized and spent the year as zombie. My dad and I looked after her and the household. He food shopped and did the exterior work while I cleaned, did the washing and ironing and we took turns cooking. At the same time, he went to work and I to school.

I wanted to have a normal teens life, dating and going to dances but not successfully. In the end I failed the school year. The Principal of John Rennie High Mr. R. Dixon was perplexed because he knew I was bright. In those days the teachers and principal actually knew their students. He mentioned his concern to his secretary Marian Griffiths, who was my best friend Pat's mother. This dear woman broke confidentiality (it was a matter of pride not to speak of the problems at home) and told him what had been going on in my life over the past year. He immediately passed me conditionally. I and several others in difficulty, were placed in the same class with a really caring teacher. The purpose was to focus on a stress less academic environment where we could catch up. It worked so well that I graduated high school at the top of my class with a full Fine Arts scholarship to Sir George Williams University (now renamed Concordia).

My mother recovered and never was so sick again. My parents were proud of me and my grandfather was sorry that "I never achieved much". For the first time my mother set the record straight and told him that he was mistaken: I had achieved a great deal.

There, I've written about this painful period after all, but I won't dwell here. It's time to move on.