Eight Months, Nineteen Days: Just a Shadow of Us

The triptych Calista gave her mother Christmas 2011. The clear message was "Time is Running Out"
The three photos hang in our living room today; the sands of time are purple.



"I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time"  Bansky, English graffiti artist and political activist.

"Like sands though the hourglass, so are the days of our lives" opens every single viewing of the longest running soap-opera of all time, "Days of Our Lives". Roni watched that classic American daytime drama nearly every day since she was a young teen-ager.  I used to heartlessly make fun of the silly show; I would make the most tasteless, crude comments about the characters and their endless outrageous and intricate affairs and she would pretend to be offended. The last time she watched "Days of Our Lives" was probably May 17th; she used to record the daily episode and watch it as she put herself together for the day ahead. Roni stopped watching "Days" when Calista's hourglass ran out.  I asked her about her sudden change of habits just once, around the time of Calista's memorial service in June; she bluntly told me that she had enough drama in her life without suffering through Hollywood's incipient plastic version.

It remains one of my favourite pictures of Roni. I was seated across
the lawn from her with a telephoto lens on my venerable Canon 35mm.
She didn't know I was shooting; she would have run inside if she had known.

Roni and I have reacted so differently to Calista's death. Roni has mourned our girl in what I guess would be called the "traditional" path: holding tightly on to the memory of our girl and cocooning inside our house as much as she can without completely abandoning me and the clinic. On the other hand, I have immersed myself in this journal and, as far as I can see, have managed to deny completely the reality of my life. I seem to have convinced myself if I record enough memories of Calista, publicise her art widely and put enough money toward her memorial scholarship fund I can "make" her live once again. In truth, I am just desperately trying to stave off her second death; the death that occurs when her name is finally said for that last time and the world forgets her forever.

Calista was still pre-school and Roni was unemployed.
They never wasted a day though.

Unfortunately, it is becoming progressively more obvious that the truth will rear its ugly head no matter how hard one tries to turn away. The truth taps quietly in the back of your mind, then drums on your forehead as you ignore it's insistent prodding, finally hammering at your very core until you have to give way and admit reality. For me, the hammering has come in the form of my failing health; one problem after the other has chipped away at me and finally, I have to admit that my own mortality is on the horizon. As I sit here, my leg draped over the cane I need to walk more than a few paces, I know that Calista is indeed gone and one day, probably sooner than later, I will be too. I am a shadow of the man I once was. This journal entry is a cautionary tale for everyone that faces great loss; allow yourself time to mourn properly because, if you don't, your body will force you to take the time. And the end result won't be pretty.

Throughout my teens I was all about swimming. I was pretty good, but realistically I was never a champion. My last coach, Paul Savage, had it right when he called me, bluntly, a "wannabe that gets lucky once in a while".  I was never going to make it to any of the big championships much less the Olympics; I am too short, have poor lungs and tend more toward blubber rather than muscle. My only saving grace is that I am stubborn and I periodically rise to the occasion. When I finally came to my senses and quit swimming, it probably came as a huge relief to both my coach and my team-mates, but I missed the routine desperately.

After swimming I dallied with body-building; I actually spent about five or more years trying to mold my body into an artificially enhanced mass of muscle and sinew. Most people have the absolute wrong opinion of body-builders; they are not the self-centred narcissists they are typically portrayed as.  Most of the body-builders I met (myself included) had severe body image issues and were trying to literally recreate themselves completely. It is a sport of youth; most body-builders understand they are cutting many years off their lifespan in exchange for pathologically exploring the edge of their physical envelope. I now regret those years pumping iron; body-building was never my sport (I did mention that I tend towards fat like an old Labrador Retriever, didn't I?) and the time I spent doing that could have been spent doing my one great love: martial arts.

I came to martial arts in a round-about route. Typical of all my life stories, there was a woman involved.  This woman was named Susan, about ten years my senior, who was particularly taken with me and was quite attentive for many months. She was involved in Tai Chi Chuan and convinced me that I should be interested in Tai Chi Chuan too. So I started training with the university Tai Chi club every week.  I'm not sure how I learnt anything because throughout each session I only had eyes for Susan. To this day I am not sure who the head instructor was.  Steve or Ken or Dave or Mike...or some name like that.

I must have absorbed something from those sessions because I eventually became quite proficient at the Yang Family Long Form of Tai Chi Chuan.  I still perform that long exercise nearly every day (when I don't need my cane or my back isn't sending me to the hospital) and I actually considered teaching Tai Chi through my old karate club at one point.  Unfortunately I never stuck with the Tai Chi club after Susan quit and returned to Ohio or Nebraska or wherever she was from. (Ok, I never bothered learning where she was from or even her last name; I was 21. What do you expect from a 21 year old man?)  There are all sorts of forms of Tai Chi Chuan and yet I only know that one twenty-minute routine. I just know it really well.

Tai Chi Chuan is basically a choreographed martial-arts exercise program. Properly done, the forms should be one flowing action from the beginning to the end without pause. Its about maintaining a focused mind-body connection. When you are first learning the "form" ("kata" in Japanese) it really helps to have a good memory. Once you have the basic pattern memorised you can start learning to flow through the exercise, eventually being able to perform the routine in a state the Japanese refer to as "mushin" or "no mind". The goal is to allow the physical action to become automatic so the performer can apply his mind to the "why" of the action rather than the "how". While the West has embraced Tai Chi Chuan as some form of new-age fitness regime with mystical properties, in the orient it remains a serious martial art. Certainly, the version I was taught was all about combat rather than developing mystical "chi" powers.

Old style "Single Whip"
Few modern stylists have a
stance that long anymore.

One of the original Yang Family.
Note how uniform the style should be.

Tai Chi Chuan: "Snake creeps down"
The white hair is about right for me, but my
knees and back are never going to do that again.

I played around with Tai Chi Chuan while still deluding myself that I could still be a body-builder, so it was not until I was 28 that I found Shotokan Karate. This was actually such a pity, because in karate I found a hobby that involved everything I wanted out of my pass-times. Karate engages the mind completely while giving the body a demanding, hard-driving physical work-out. It was everything an ageing "jock" needed to fulfil his "Peter Pan" Complex. From the moment I started karate I knew I had finally found my sport; unfortunately I was over ten years past my prime for sports. Certainly anybody can start karate anytime in their life, but the people that are truly proficient in the art started no later than adolescence and stick with it into adulthood.  I did eventually earn my black belt, but I was never going to go much beyond that point and I certainly was never going to be an instructor of any repute. I was just too late to become a natural at karate.

I know this looks impressive, but I can see several glaring errors.
I was performing the kata "Gankaku". Pure hubris for a 45
year old man to perform a kata of this difficulty at his first
and only national championship.

Throughout all our years in Regina I trained down at Midwest Karate, a well established dojo that occupies the entire third floor of the venerable old Fur Building at 1100 Broad.  While I was never going to be a "head instructor" (that would be just ridiculous for a guy who had only attended three tournaments in his life and had never won even a pat on the back at any of them), I eventually ended up teaching almost half the adult classes. I was a perfect example of "those that can't do, teach" and I believe I was a pretty good instructor.  I know that I eventually developed a very loyal bunch of students, though I never did get much respect from any of the experienced tournament karateka. The senior belts knew a "poser" when they saw one. In karate the term is a "paper tiger".  On the other hand, I did my typical "total immersion training system" and I doubt that anyone, anywhere could question the depth of my knowledge about karate.  If I studied art with dedication, I studied karate with a pathological obsession. I collected books fanatically, cultured connections with leading instructors all over the globe and actually became recognised as a knowledgeable aficionado despite my relatively low ranking.

As Calista grew up my involvement in karate transitioned from a dedicated club-member to a nearly professional instructor. Through one two year period I was down at the dojo four nights a week for up to three hours each night.  It was during this same period that I discovered swimming again.  I was frequently rising at 4:30 am to get Calista to swim work-out and swimming up to 5000 meters myself while she trained,  working all day and then turning around and teaching karate until 9 pm at night.   During this period I was as fit as I had ever been in my life. My weight plummeted from a robust 220 pounds down to a cadaverous 179 lbs; friends started enquiring about my health at that weight. By the time I was 46 I was sporting a classic "six-pack" for the first time in my life and I was swimming work-outs that even the age-group competitive swimmers found impressive. As far as I could see, I was forever young.  I felt great, had boundless energy and could physically dominate practically anyone brave enough to challenge me.


For the first time in my life I was actually proud to doff my
shirt in public. I was lean and it was the summer of my life.
And she was with me.

In 2010 I had an opportunity to publish a series of karate articles in my favourite magazine of the moment "Shotokan Karate Magazine", known as simply "SKM" within the close-knit karate culture. The only burr in the blanket before the editor would publish my articles was that I needed to produce some photographs to accompany the articles.  I needed a good professional photographer with a good camera; I drafted a great amateur with a great camera. Calista became the official photographer to Bryce Fleming DVM, internationally published writer. 


I didn't have to tell anyone that we were not getting paid for the articles and I had to practically beg John Cheetham, the publisher, to include the short essays on training.  I realise now that I probably ruffled more than a few feathers within my little community by having the audacity to publish anything while many instructors  far senior to me satisfied themselves with short letters in the provincial newsletter.

My articles were certainly nothing to phone home about; they were basically some pretty pedestrian technical essays detailing a series of training drills for sparring. On the other hand, the combination of the clearly written technical articles and the candid action photographs set a new standard for the magazine. Prior to my articles few writers had submitted any publishable technical articles (lots of history, interviews and philosophy though) and practically everybody tended to submit rigidly posed photographs devoid of any imperfections of form or action. Calista's photographs were extremely well received because they caught all the action of the sparring drills and, of course, many personal idiosyncrasies of my own technique. The editor loved the "reality" of the photographs after years of sifting though artificial, posed photos.

I found this in her "portfolio"file.
she must have liked something about it.
Maybe it was because I was taking a
pretty hard hit right at that moment.

But payback is always fun.
Sorry Mike.

There is a mistake here. I was coming up
in my stance. It's bad, but we published it
anyways because it was real.

I am extremely proud to say that my daughter, Calista Jasmine Fleming, has been published in an internationally circulated magazine. Maybe she was never paid and maybe SKM is not all that widely circulated, but that magazine remains the only magazine  on Earth solely dedicated to the art of Shotokan Karate.  Copies of the five issues to which Calista contributed have a place of honour both on my book shelf and in a corner of her bed-room. She might of not have taken the assignment too seriously at the time, but I do notice that those magazine issues were stored away in pristine condition in her room.


Lean, fit and focused. I cannot remember ever having that
much intensity, but here is proof that I once did.

Here we are almost three years later. I knew when I left Regina I was likely going to have to change my rigid fitness routine dramatically; you cannot run a successful business and expect to dedicate up to four hours each day to physical endeavours. Swimming was a challenge since access to the local pool is really quite limited and karate was going to be almost impossible since there were no "Shotokan" clubs in the local area. On the other hand, I can be quite creative when faced with a challenge and I managed to maintain a reasonable level of fitness while juggling the demands of being a business owner.  And then came May 17th. How the world can turn on you.

When Calista first died it was obviously a brutal shock to both Roni and I.  Certainly our world came apart, but we endured, we survived. We understood that there was a long road ahead of us, but we assumed that we had  already come through the very worst of it. We thought we had passed through the Valley of Death and had seen the evil it held. It must have been the shock we were in that allowed us to delude ourselves; the evil was not over. Like every ancient military siege, the fall of the city was just the beginning of the pillaging and raping.

About a week after Calista died, I received a phone call from a very special person. Mel Zajac Sr., who established the "Mel Jr. and Marty Zajac Foundation", a worldwide organization dedicated to helping special-needs children and seniors called me on my cell phone as I returned to Powell River from the ghastly task of collecting my Calista's possessions from the RCMP evidence locker. He had established his foundation after surviving the horrific loss of both of his wonderful sons in separate tragic incidents. He gave me the first and best advice I have garnered over this last eight months. I would love to call these "Mel's Survival Rules", but he wasn't really that insistent. I doubt Mel is that kind of guy.




The miracle of Mel's call to me was that I have never met the man.
I barely knew his son Mel Jr.: he was a friend and team-mate to my
brother Ivor but I was just the kid-brother back in those days.

The first thing Mel told me is that the first year was going to be the worst. The reality of your child's death is going to consume your every moment. Only when you are completely focused on a difficult task are you free of the horror, but you will pay for it later with guilt over those few moments of forgetfulness. Mel warned me that the second year and every year after will be slightly better, but you can expect to get caught by grief and remorse suddenly, completely out of left-field.  He warned me that I was going to have to learn forgiveness because people were never going to understand unless they had lost one of their own children. Friends and Family, well meaning people, are going to say and do terribly insensitive things that will hurt you in ways they cannot imagine (because they have never walked in the shoes of a parent that has lost a child). Mel warned me that the grief of losing Calista was going to hurt me in ways I could not imagine.

I am beginning to imagine the power of grief. It has touched every aspect of my life. While Roni has been far more visibly crushed by Calista's death, she has managed to maintain a healthier, more balanced outlook than I have. Thank goodness, otherwise there would have been nobody around to drive me to the hospital and stop me from completely coming off the rails. The value of a level-headed, strong wife cannot be over-estimated.

Physically I am essentially a cripple. I have been battling chronic anaemia for over a year, predating Calista's loss, but my lack of energy and ambition goes well beyond simple anaemia. Less than four years ago I was truly "a man in motion", while now an ambitious day amounts to leaving the couch to walk fifteen paces to the bathroom. I have tried to keep a fitness regime up, but much of the time the entire point of the effort flies over my head; the maintenance of fitness would suggest I want to live a long and fulfilling life. In truth, my goal for this life is to fill that scholarship fund up and then get the whole mess of living over with. Living seems so exhausting these days and no matter what future plans I make, nothing I do will survive much past my death. Without a child, there can never be any grand-children and thus it all seems so pointless. This lack of ambition is really showing up in all aspects of my routine.

Whereas I once wrote extensively on karate, corresponding with experts all over the globe on a daily basis, I have not written much more than "how are you" notes to any of my numerous contacts since Calista died. I have dispersed my entire book collection, keeping only a few books that were gifts or written by friends. The rest of the hundreds of books and articles, some of them quite rare and expensive, were disposed of by package post or dropped off at various homes, stuffed in banker's boxes or recycled Amazon mailers. Researching, writing about and debating karate seems like such a mundane, useless chore now I find it hard to believe I wasted 25 years of my life on the topic. I feel like some crazed comic-book collector that finally realized he was fifty,not fifteen, and has to grow up and leave his mother's basement.

All those hours over all those years wasted in the dojo; that was time that could have been spent being a better dad. Time that I can only wish I could get back now.

It might be sold soon. Too expensive to drive and really,
too nice to be wasted on a depressed old man.

My treasured cherry-red drop-top Mustang is parked most of the time. The car is too expensive to drive as transportation and, really, if you are not going to enjoy the ride anyway, you might as well commute in the more utilitarian VW Beatle. I might keep the pony car as long as next summer to see if the joy of cruising in a convertible returns, but if the world remains grey and overcast even on the sunny days, the scholarship fund will get another large donation. One issue there is that the Mustang has become the only car I can actually comfortably drive for more than a few minutes. Both of the other cars just kill my back.  My stress always appears in my back.

In early November my lower back started to give me a little heck; nothing too horrible, just a little twinging in my right hip flexors and spinal erectors. Enough to make tying my own shoes moderately uncomfortable, but nothing worth going to the doctor over.  Roni and I took Calista's little Smart Car down to Nanaimo for servicing in mid-November, around the time of Calista's birthday.  I found the two hour drive challenging and generally suffered the entire way. I was starting to think I might have to visit a doctor over the issue, but felt no immediate urgency.  Unfortunately, the drive back to Powell River became a tour-de-force as we had to re-route due to ferry issues and drive home the long way, up through the Sechelt peninsula. The drive resulted in nearly 12 hours stuck in the Smart Car cruising over winding roads at night during a pouring deluge. By the time I got home to Powell River I was practically crawling. Roni rushed me to hospital in the middle of the night 36 hours later when I woke screaming in pain due to overwhelming lower back spasm. We ended up trapped in emerge for over twelve hours, me hooked up on a IV fluids with my blood pressure bottoming out from pain induced shock and completely unable to stand much less walk. Finally after a day filled with tests and more tests, the final conclusion was that I was only suffering from severe muscle spasm and just needed pain relief.  That was how I found out I was allergic to many, if not most, standard pain relievers.

Twenty four hours later I was back in hospital with a blistering rash over much of my body. The emerge doctor's most intelligent comment of the day was "Oh my!". The visit was pretty much a waste of time; the drug reaction did not respond to the intravenous anti-histamines and, to really complicate matters, the doctor decided to give me a second dose of intravenous pain relief.  I guess the rather spectacular reaction from the first dose was just not good enough, the clinician thought he should really get the ball rolling by doubling up. By the time I was discharged the very roots of my hair were burning and itching and the blistering was spreading up my back. Over the next month I sloughed the superficial layer of skin from everywhere on my body; I looked like one of the zombie undead from the hit show "The Walking Dead" (but unfortunately, Hollywood never called). On a positive note; by the time I could go out in public without being covered in something akin to a burkha my back had healed enough that I no longer needed a cane to get around.

If you think that is ugly, use your imagination to picture an entire body peeling
like that all at one time. Roni never lost me in our home; she merely needed
to follow the trail of "snake skin" dropping off me constantly for three weeks.

In those few weeks after my little emergency visit my wife's doctor decided to take me on as a patient; that is a small miracle in the province of BC. He pinned down the massive skin reaction as a Stevens-Johnson reaction. I thought that was great until he told me that we had to start tracking my kidney and liver enzymes; there was every likelihood that the pain reliever injections had put a little dent in their functions. Wonderful. In the end I got lucky: kidneys made it through unscathed, mostly due to the aggressive use of intravenous fluids while I was in the emergency ward. The liver was not so lucky. If I had been planning on drowning my sorrows in a bottle, that path is now a pretty quick road to liver failure since the doctors have already put me half-way there. On the other hand, my new doctor did diagnose the back issue and got me headed down the right track to getting it fixed.

Typical of me, I ignored the numb
tingling radiating down my legs for
months. The pain: only a zombie
could ignore that little joy.

And everyone thought that the word "ass" referred
only to my personality.

I have something they call "piriformis complex".  I guess the underlying problem is that the piriformis muscle that surrounds my sciatic nerve is in spasm, swollen and putting the squeeze on the nerve. It was the underlying cause of all my pain. The good doctor put me in touch with an excellent physiotherapist who is slowly fixing the issue, one long needle at a time.  To tell you the truth, I think there might be a very fine line between "physiotherapy" and "S and M": those needles have all the essence of sadism and none of the pleasure of masochism. I am actually terrified to tell either the doctor or the physiotherapist that, now that my back is feeling a bit better, both my knees are swollen and burning like they have acid in them. So far I have been able to keep it covered up, but it is going to be hard to hide my cane on my next visit to either.  I shiver to think how those two will cure my aching knees. (I will just defend myself from the needles with my trusty cane since karate is out of the question. I will look like an eighty-year old pensioner but likely will be less mobile and less effective.)

Professionally I remain focused. The veterinary work allows me to escape my reality with justification for nearly 10 hours each day.  I immersed myself in the medicine and surgery and try to remain excited about my career. Unfortunately the constant pain of the various health issues tends to distract me, especially during surgery where the required immobility for long periods exacerbates the back spams and lock-up the knees in ways only a torturer from the Spanish Inquisition could appreciate. On the other hand, my empathy for some clients has all but disappeared while my appreciation for others has multiplied. Many of my clients have been superb; they have been sensitive while showing their clear concern for the welfare of Roni and me. A very memorable few have ignored Calista's death altogether and one or two somehow felt the loss of their pet was somehow comparable to the loss of my child.  I must admit, I try to understand, but I just cannot get by the fact that a twenty year old pet is exceptionally old while a twenty year old daughter is still just a child. There is no comparison. I like to believe those few mistaken souls are sent my way to teach me Mel's forgiveness. They have not walked in my shoes and I hope they never will.




The Roni I remember, at her proudest moment:
Calista's High-School graduation 2009

Roni and I are as close as we ever were, but our marriage has changed. There is an understandable sense of pointless drifting; we just keep living because we continue to wake up every morning. We go to work because it's there, we eat because it's dinner time, we sleep because that's what you are supposed to do after a certain time at night.  Roni forces me to go to the doctor but neither of us really care what the results of the examination and tests might be. Of course I dread getting any really bad results back from the doctors, but only because a chronic, debilitating disease would interfere with my ability to earn money to support the scholarship fund. Our conversations lack much variation or animation these days; we can discuss work, the weather or how much we miss Calista. With the exception of the last topic, nothing much holds our interest anymore. It's like we are living in a dreamworld where things are happening all around us but we are just third party observers.  It's pretty hard to care when you understand that nothing you do really matters because when you finally die, there will be nothing left behind.

I know lots of people would like to read how Roni is holding up, and I really hate the fact that this journal entry is really all about me. The problem is that I really don't know how Roni is doing.  Grief is such a personal issue and there is such thing as being too open and too candid about your feelings.  Roni has never been verbally communicative about her feelings; I have always had to read her body language to gauge her moods on any subject. One thing I have noticed is that her appetite remains spotty at best, her weight continues to hover somewhere between skinny and skeletal. She is far more reactive to the little stresses of life than she ever was and she is far less tolerant of my numerous little quirks. We don't argue or bicker much (we never really did), but we also don't bother with the harmless, friendly teasing and banter that used to be part of our typical routine. That sort of thing would require interest and energy, and that's something we really don't have anymore.  Roni is not thrilled over my relentless marketing of Calista; every piece of art and memorabilia needs to be checked, turned over, and inspected for a long time before she can let anything go. Her grief is a very private affair and I respect that; we have a lifetime to find our compromise position.

While this weeks journal entry does seem, even to me, to be quite "Bryce" centred, it really was just meant to be a caution to anyone that does lose a love of their life. Like Charon, the ferryman at the River Styx, grief demands a toll of the living before they can move on. Neither Roni nor I are willing to move on yet, but I am paying the toll regardless.
And, as if I had not enjoyed the emergency enough, I enjoyed two days in the Powell River Emerge just yesterday and today. Kidney stones. Those define pain; and they have not passed yet.



Calista's title for this was "Poison"
Grief is a form of poison; the stress unmasks all your little health
problems one after the other. Enjoy!!

Eight Months and Change:"for one more day"

Vancouver Art Gallery, the old courthouse.

"Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever? If so , then you know you can go your whole life collecting days and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back."  Mitch Albom, "for one more day", Hyperion Press, New York, New York.  2006

"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride" is a favourite saying of mine; every time I get dreaming about all the "what ifs" in life, I usually chastise myself by repeating that little truism until I finally understand that dreaming and wishing are best left for other people. In my life, it is best to just accept the reality that I am not terribly handsome or talented, I have not one ounce of charisma, and my daughter is never coming back for even a moment, much less a day.

 Still, in the wee hours of the morning, when the house is nearly silent, so quiet that the background noise of the filters on the fish tanks becomes a virtual waterfall to my vigilant ears, I sometimes ask myself "what if?".

There are just so many days with my daughter I would pick for a "do over". In fact, right now I would take any and all of them. On the other hand, if I had to make a choice, it would have been one of our "museum" days; those were all ours and ours alone.  On each of our museum days there was a sense of timelessness; the outside world and and its constant rush to the next new thing just disappeared. We two were an island unto ourselves, comfortable just to enjoy the art, artifacts and each others company. 

We fell into having museum days early on, just after we moved to Regina.  I was temporarily unemployed at the time; I had foolishly decided to pack veterinary medicine in and join the RCMP to follow my teenage dream. I had moved the entire family to Regina without any "plan B" (typical of me back then) and, as a result, I had gained three things quickly: a new home, a large mortgage, and all sorts of free time as the RCMP pondered whether I was worthy of their attention. I did not gain a job, and, as it turned out finally, because the RCMP finally decided I was not appropriate for their organisation.  "Too decision oriented" was their final decision. Anyway, I had to fill those days with something, so I explored Regina with my faithful side-kick Calista.

What do you do with a busy four-year old and tons of time on your hand? You visit the Royal Saskatchewan Museum...repeatedly.

As Calista grew up we kind of fell into a pattern of taking in every art show at Regina's Mackenzie Art Gallery on South Albert, just a few blocks away from the provincial legislature.  All our trips there were planned weeks in advance and were special days just for us; Roni did not have much interest and was just as happy to have her own special days with Calista.

 Now, the question becomes, which  day do I select out of so many?

 I don't: I create my own special day because this journal entry is all about "what if?"

 On the other hand, I do need some basis for reality, so I will borrow from two days spent at the Vancouver Art Gallery. In 20007 Calista and I took in the special showing of "Realism through Surrealism" or, easier to say, "Monet to Dali". It was a big show covering the pivotal years in art from the last quarter of the 19th century into the first quarter of the 20th. Paintings on display included many from masters recognisable to everybody; even convicts on death-row know the names of Monet, Van Gogh, and Salvador Dali. They might get Monet mixed with Manet, but that's OK; they were practically contemporaries.  The second show we enjoyed at the VAG was the 2009 show "Vermeer, Rembrandt and the Golden Age of Dutch Art". Again the show was extensive, covering both art and artifacts of the Dutch masters of the seventeenth century, with numerous works by Rembrandt and Vermeer. It was not until just now, as I prepared this journal entry, that I saw how these visits influenced my "darlin' daughter" (now there is a term stolen directly from Kelvin Orr; the older I get the more like my father I become).

"Morisot" by Manet. He was
a "Realist" who sometimes did
"Impressionist" style paintings.

"Low Tide at Pourville, Near Dieppe" by Monet.
He was an "Impressionist" who sometimes painted
"Realist" style paintings.

The Vancouver Art Gallery occupies the impressive old neo-classical former court-house seated right in the heart of Vancouver's downtown core.  While certainly not as visually stunning as the Arthur Erickson designed glass and concrete mountain that now serves as the provincial court-house, there is a real sense of history and grandeur about the hundred year old domed building that houses the art gallery.  I suspect that both criminals and witnesses alike approached the old building with trepidation as they mounted the long, stone stair case and entered the imposing front doors. In truth, our visits to the art gallery were as much to enjoy the impressive old building as they were to take in the art.

Of course, when Calista and I visited any art gallery or museum, there was always the problem of what to do with the rest of the family.  Roni, while refined and artistic in her own right, would rather visit a dentist for a root-canal rather than stroll through a museum. She just does not like "old" and enjoys photographs of art in books as much as seeing the real thing. I could explain to her all day that they just do not compare, but she just smiles and nods, sure that I am just trying to talk her into another tedious three hour tour. In 2009 we had the added issue of Calista's current boy-friend  being with us in Vancouver (a real mistake for all you parents of teen-aged girls; never take boyfriends anywhere with your family.  Maybe to the taxidermy shop to have them stuffed and mounted.).  Our solution was pretty simple that year: the boy got left behind to sleep, eat and entertain himself (easy to do; watching paint dry was probably  breath-taking for that genius) and Roni came with us as far as the Eaton's shopping centre across the street from the gallery. There is nothing like a little retail-therapy to stave off boredom.

If Roni were writing this journal, her perfect day would have been the exact reverse; I would be sent by myself to the museum while she and Calista shopped the mall barren.  We, of course, would then meet at Starbuck's after to exchange tales of the hunt, their stories likely much better than mine...at least from Roni's point of view. Calista always remained neutral. She never really chose between Roni and I; she was always true to both.

At the core of the old court-house is a traditional rotunda that extends up to the top floors of the museum. Around this core lies the old stairwells, now filled by escalators, that gave access to each floor. In 2009 the centre of the rotunda was occupied by what I guess could be called a sculpture; "ought apartment" by Reece Terris. It was a multi-level series of apartments each depicting a different decade starting about 1950.  Calista loved it but I found it a little disturbing: half the furniture in the exhibit could have come right out of any of the homes I grew up in.  Heck, I am sure one of the light fixtures from the "seventies" apartment came right out of my parent's cabin by Okanagan Lake.  I think that is the first time Calista looked at me as "old"; my life had been included in a museum.

In 2007, the Vancouver Art Gallery was filled with paintings from the Realists through to the Surrealists. Calista and I had a prior history with the "Realists" and the "Impressionists", having taken in smaller shows featuring both of those movements back in Regina.  At one time Calista could name almost all of the famous painters from the "Impressionist" movement, though by 2007 the only name she could immediately recall was Monet, the original "Impressionist".

An unappreciative art critic of Monet's era had coined the term in a disparaging critique after the unveiling of Monet's painting "Impression: soleil levant". The "Impressionists" departed from the earlier art standards by dispensing with details and hard lines and concentrating on the interplay of light and colour within the scene they are trying to depict. The paintings, typically done out-of-doors, were done quickly with bold, short, heavy strokes, thickly applied ("impasto") brightly coloured paint. Calista loved the bright colours; she adored Monet and treasured a poster I had given her for Christmas years earlier.  We still have that poster dry-mounted and hung in our spare bedroom. A framed art card of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" still decorates her bed-room (Van Gogh, strictly defined, was a "Post-Impressionist", but why split hairs?)

One of the "Waterloo Bridge" paintings done by Monet during
his London years. This is the poster that hangs in our spare room.

"Ink Nation HDR" by Calista: Impressionist painting by
camera; its about colours and light.

                                                                                 
The designations of Realists, Impressionists and Post-Impressionists are so arbitrary that each painting has to be judged independently rather than just assuming that a painter  can be comfortably grouped with one movement or the other.  While Calista probably had an idea of what each group stood for (she was the one who pointed out to me that Van Gogh was properly called a "Post-Impressionist"), back in those days the only painting I knew was "Traditional", "Impressionist", Salvador Dali and Picasso.  Everything else was pretty much a mystery. I now realize that most modern painters have had a go at any one of a number of styles and the entire grouping system is pretty much a sliding scale rather than a definitive pigeon-hole.

 As a rule of thumb, the Realists painted common subjects as realistically as possible, a departure from the idealized, symbolic paintings of the traditional past. The "Impressionists" went one step farther and tried to catch the transient nature of this world by painting quickly to get the overall "impression" of the scene.  The "Post-Impressionists" pretty much diversified into any number of quite different styles as they tried to re-invent painting altogether. For me, it all was a moot point: I had two categories: art I understood and art I didn't understand. Calista liked it all.

Probably the most memorable paintings of the 2007 season were the Van Gogh paintings. They proved to me that looking at a photo of a painting is not looking at a painting.  The bright vibrant colours of Van Gogh are diluted and the thick, impasto texture of his broad brush strokes disappear in a photograph. Calista must have stood for ten minutes in front of Van Gogh's "The Poplars at Saint-Remy" as she absorbed the vibrancy of the master's painting. Both of us could have enjoyed those moments in silence much longer, but time and tide waits for no man and the gallery was crowded that day.

Van Gogh's "Poplars". This photo does not
even come close to the real thing. Never pass
up a chance to see paintings in person.

We had our humorous moments too, punctuated by a derisive snort by my little princess. In the Surrealists gallery, towards the end of the tour, was a painting by Chaim Soutine called "Still Life with Ray fish".  I recognized the subject and blurted out that it looked identical to a still-life painting done by Chardin over 150 years earlier. The American tourist standing next to me was suitably impressed and must have thought I actually knew my topic. Calista looked at me out of the side of her eye and asked if I had read the index card right below Soutine's Surrealist homage to Chardin.  I swore I hadn't, but I'm not sure she believed me since it was about the only intelligent thing to come out of my mouth all day.  I had already made an ass out of myself by loudly exclaiming that I finally understood what Picasso's "Blue Period" was all about. As far as Calista was concerned, she could dress her dad up, but you just could not take him anywhere cultured.



Chardin"s variation of "Still Life with Ray fish

Soutine's version as seen "through the looking glass.



Picasso's "La Vie": Ok, so now
I know why it was his "blue" period.
This was before he started painting while
wearing a kaleidoscope.

Of course Salvador Dali is probably the best known example of the Surrealists. Calista liked his work but felt that it was more "comic book" than painting.  It's kind of funny though; reading about Dali you realize that he was a bigger than life cartoon character; pretty much like that girl I knew and loved so much.  We spent a fair bit of time in the Surrealist gallery, at the expense of most of the "Avante-Garde" paintings and all the sculptures (with the exception of a variation of Rodin's "The Thinker"; I was disappointed until I realized the small version on display was just one of many copies Rodin completed in his career). One of the Surrealist paintings Calista and I really laughed at was a homage to Manet's "Le dejeuner sur l'herbe" by Max Ernst; it involved a scantily clad flat-fish with big, nasty sharp teeth and an egg plant.  Both of us assumed the artist had smoked a lot of herbs while painting that piece.




Manet's "Dejeuner sur l'herbe"
Since Manet was a Realist, we
must assume women actually
dined naked in France back then.



Max Ernst's version "Dejeuner sur l'herbre": maybe he smoked
some herbs?

Calista's version of Surreal: Time Travel

Time Magazine's "Dali". Done "old school" with black and
white high speed film, many, many takes, a patient bunch of cats
and a crazy Salvador Dali.

In 2009, Calista and I enjoyed paintings from the other end of the spectrum: the master works of the golden age of Dutch Art. The subdued palate, the extreme life-like detail and the ultra-smooth texture of the Dutch works were such a departure from the previous showing.  At the time I thought all I was doing was exposing my daughter to history and great art, but now, with the 20/20 vision that a retrospective view affords all of us, I now see that she was learning classic composition and attention to detail that appears in so much of her own work. This one trip, of all of our museum visits, shines through in her photography and I am just so glad we took that time.  Even if it cost me a fortune because Roni was enjoying some aggressive retail therapy over at the mall as we toured.



Willem Claesz-Heda 1634.
 "Still Life with Beer Tankard"

Calista Jasmine Fleming 2009: Still Life with
Wine Glass and Grapes.




Meindert Hobbema 1666
A Watermill




Calista Fleming 2011
A Waterfall.

Rachel Ruysch 1716
Still Life with Flowers.

Calista Fleming 2009: Still Life with Rose Petals. It's a photograph.

Vermeer's "Delft" 1661

Calista's Vancouver 2009.  This would be her "Blue Period"....or it was just cloudy that day.  I have this framed in my office.

Gerrit Berckheyde 1672 Town Hall on the Dam,
Amsterdam

Calista Fleming 2009: Parliament Buildings on the Lawn
Regina.

Rembrandt 1661Self-Portrait

Calista 2011 Self Portrait.  Way prettier than Rembrandt and
almost 500 years younger.



Jean Baptiste Greuze 1800 (French)
"L'oiseau mort"

 

Calista Fleming 2012
"Why is a Raven like a Writing Desk"

While actually seeing paintings by Rembrandt and Vermeer (and lots of others too), perhaps the most exciting thing at the gallery for Calista was the full sized "Camera Obscura" the VAG had created at the end of the tour to demonstrate one way the Dutch masters had achieved such realism in their paintings.  Calista had actually experimented with a simple camera obscura in her introductory photography class back in Regina so she understood completely how the technique worked. Since many of her own paintings in her art classes were traces using a modern version of the camera obscura (a projector) she did not consider the technique "cheating" in the least. Opinions differ, but both Rembrandt and Vermeer are still considered the pinnacle of the Dutch Golden Age while nobody remembers their detractors anymore. Calista spent nearly half an hour examining the two rooms that formed the "camera obscura". I just played and did goofy poses trying to get a laugh out of my serious young daughter. She finally forced me to move along elsewhere while pretending she didn't know me.




Camera obscura. That's me, dancing on my head.

In 2009, once we left the main exhibit, we toured the rest of the Vancouver Art Gallery. I never felt I had properly visited the gallery unless I had spent some time with the Emily Carr collection. I find some of Ms. Carr's depictions of the wild BC coastal forest to be so vivid that I can practically smell the rotted cedar and the salty air. While I now live in the middle of that rain forest, at the time we were simple prairie folk and there was almost a mystical, religious feel to the Carr exhibit. With Calista in mind, I also wanted to take in the photo exhibition by Anthony Hernandez, a street photographer famous for catching the urban blight that was Los Angeles through the seventies and eighties with candid shots of the city dwellers.

Mr. Hernandez has a message and I am sure Calista understood with her photographer's eye and artist's soul, but for me his work fell into the category of "art I don't understand".  It's kind of like most of the Avante Garde school of art or anything by Jackson Pollock: it's all really good, but just not for me. I am kind of a caveman; I get the charcoal paintings of buffalo on the cave wall because it's  a simple statement: catch big critter, kill big critter, and then eat big critter.  For my art, you need to keep it simple because I just not that complicated. Calista, on the other hand, was complicated and becoming more so with every passing month.   I still believe her art would have hung on the big gallery walls somewhere if she only had her chance. But then, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.

If I had just one more day, I would see all those art pieces again with my Calista. We would gaze in wonder at Van Gogh, laugh at Dali, covet Monet and excuse ourselves for mistaking him for Manet. Calista would once again analyze and re-analyze the camera obscura as she built one for herself in her imagination.  We would discuss the composition and lighting of the Dutch masters and dream of being able to compare them to the Venetian masters in person, in Venice, together. I would talk to her one more time about how I would just love to see the Caravaggio in the Irish National Gallery and she would remind me that I was talking about a different nationality from an earlier era. I would just love to have my Calista back for just one day, if only to hear her tease me again about what a hopeless red-neck I can be from time to time.

We would finish that "one more day" by meeting Roni at the Starbuck's in the Eaton's Centre (now a Sears I think, but we would make it Eaton's again, because in my "one more day" everyone gets a mulligan).  I would pretend to complain and maybe have a fake heart-attack over all the money Roni had spent shopping, Roni would rant at me for having bought yet one more art book (two in this case, since we decided to have both the 2007 and the 2009 exhibitions in our "one day"), and Calista would sit between us, never taking a side but being absolutely loyal to both. Things would be as they should be and all would be right in my world.

But wishes aren't horses and beggars can only walk.  Dreaming is for dreamers and it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Calista tried to teach me that, but it was a good lesson that fell on deaf ears.

 

It was a cold day in Powell River, Catmas was just a few days away and she wanted to get sun-rise at the airport.
She found frost on the Smart Car instead and then came back to bed.