Art Island- Growing Up On Art
Are you familiar with the expression, bred in the bone?
It means “to be firmly instilled or established as if by heredity”.
That’s how art got in me. It’s like that.
For the uninitiated this blog post will offer you a brief glimpse behind the curtain of another culture- west coast island culture. And for those of you who grew up on the islands…you will be well acquainted with what follows.
What in particular makes island life unique? Well for starters everyone seems to be a musician, craftsman or artisan of some kind.
Of the kids I grew up with, almost all had artists for parents, including me. We just thought this was normal. We had no idea this was not the standard upon which small town North America was built.
Allow me to paint you a little picture of what this looked like…
” There was a dark side too- it was as unstable as a world full of artists could be. With that many creatives in one place it was bound to get messy. At times chaotic.”
I remember going to one friend’s house, I was about twelve at the time, and his father (a soapstone sculptor), pulled me aside and advised me to improve my art practice by drawing large pictures by “feel”, meaning with my eyes closed.
At another friend’s home there was a huge painting her father had made in the living room, a life sized vividly coloured figurative work- depicting some kind of murder in progress! Needless to say I often had a difficult time looking away from this painting when visiting my friend.
Another childhood friend’s family ran the local community hall, in those days the bands were mostly reggae, folk or ska. During gig nights my friend would invite me for sleepovers. We would go to the hall in the early afternoon for “set up” and stay till 2am when “tear down” typically took place. I recall waking up the next day and tip-toeing over sleeping bodies, the exhausted musicians would be sprawled out everywhere. They came to play at our little wooden hall from all over the world! The feeling of creative joy in that home was palatable.
I understand now that few communities are built like this. Most are a little more practical- based on raw commodities. Their reason for existence is different.
However our town decided to go it’s own way. Long ago in the early part of the 19th century we had, for some reason or another, stopped producing commodities. There was a time when we sold lumber, charcoal, and produce, like apples. I have been told we were famous throughout British Columbia for our apples! However in time this economy slowed then stopped all together. Somehow we were reborn as a center for tourism. And local artists were encouraged to draw in visitors with their eccentric lifestyle and works.
This was the economy I grew up in.
Every year our island swelled. For a few blazing summer months the tourists would come, this was a busy time for the artists. In many cases families really needed those sales made during that time.
As you can imagine, this short tourist season made for slim pickings and meant everyone had to have one or two other jobs just to get by. Many worked on the B.C Ferries, the grocery store, hospital etc. Then during the summer they worked the local Saturday Market, selling their wares to the enthralled visitors.
I look back now and admire these clever families. They were resilient. They were creative people who found creative solutions to their problems.
My parents were like this. I watched my parents solve a lot of problems. They could build, solve and create anything it seemed. They never whined. They just got to work creating solutions.
What a rich environment to grow up in!
Us kids had no idea how cool our folks were. In our homes and in our village, everywhere we saw creative people at work. There were woodworkers, painters, sculptors, fine jewelers, landscapers, musicians, poets, dancers and gardeners.
It was inspiring.
There was a dark side too- it was as unstable as a world full of artists could be.
With that many creatives in one place it was bound to get messy. At times chaotic.
For better or worse it’s the stuff of which we island kids are made.
Literally made. Bred in the bone.
I realize now that it’s a part of me. Art I mean. It’s not going anywhere, though I have sometimes wished it would take a hike and leave me alone.
I have often wished for a more practical set of talents. I can see the utility and freedom there. But that’s not what I am made of.
Now from midlife I look back and find that I have seen things of such unworldly beauty. Things I would be heartbroken to take to the grave with me. I pray I will have both the skill and time to paint them all.
I have seen such wonders! So that sometimes I imagine we are made by our creator to stand and witness that glory.
I have seen a dying woman gasping her last breath- her friends and family drawn close to her bedside. While slender maidens clad in nothing more than evening light harvested herbs in the garden to lay to dry before the fire. And all around the woman’s deathbed and throughout the house many strong voices sang of the cycle of life.
My eyes saw that there on that island. That means something and needs to be painted.
I hold these tender memories in my mind in the hopes someday I can share them with you.
Such a strange place to grow up. If you know- you know.
It’s bred in the bone.
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