Summer Projects

It's been almost a month since I last posted, and in that time, summer has come. I'm waist-deep in exciting projects, which means less time to post here at the moment, but I wanted to point you towards on particularly Edmonton-related project that I'm working on. I got a research grant from the UofA to do some work on desire lines this summer.Desire lines are unsanctioned paths worn only by frequent footsteps. They can be seen cutting across grassy fields on a diagonal, wandering down steep slopes in the river valley, or lining the side of the street where there’s no sidewalk. I'll be blogging regularly about my research as the summer goes on, so please feel free to check in and see what's new! The project website is desirelines.edmontonpipelines.org, and you can find the blog under the heading "field notes."

I'll leave you with this unrelated but cool mural that I saw downtown while walking to my study site - enjoy!

Sunsets and Other Shining Things

Sunsets have become a cliche. But there's a reason for that, isn't there? Something about the way they can turn anything to gold, without King Midas, or Rumplestiltskin, or any sort of magic, save for a certain angle of the sun. A sunset is one of the few things that happens every day and still makes me stop and take notice. Why not other things too? The golden brown colour of fresh toast in the morning, or the first word on an empty page, or the reflection of a stranger in the bus window. Everything we see is dependent upon a certain angle of the sun, a certain quality of light. 

A few photos to stop time...

... if only for a moment. 

I haven't posted in a while - I'm a university student, and it's end of term. That's the way things go. But I do want to take a minute today to share some photos with you that I took recently on a walk around my neighbourhood. 

Pussy Willows

I've been reading a lot of Shawna Lemay's blog lately, and one of the things I love about her work is that she always gives a set of photos - multiple angles or perspectives on the same scene. Usually, I force myself to narrow it down to one photo for one object - although I always take multiple to begin with. But sometimes a series gives a more holistic impression, I think.  

I took these photos late last week, on a particularly springy day. Finding pussy willows at sunset. 

When I was younger, we always collected pussy willow branches in the river valley for Easter. We'd place them in a vase, and they became an Easter tree. 

We'd hang eggs on the branches, but since the pussy willows were so delicate, first we poked tiny holes in the shell at either end of the egg, and blew the yolk out into a bowl. 

We made omelettes with the insides, and dyed the hollow shells in bright colours. 

After Easter was over, I used to pinch off the soft buds and save them in a jar, so that I could feel the gentle down all year round.

After photographing pussy willows, I sat down to read some Oscar Wilde and watch the light fade. He seemed to be talking about our Easter trees.

"We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless." ~ Oscar Wilde

On the Hustings

This is a guest post by Edmontonian Ellen Taylor. Interested in contributing to Journal Edmonton yourself? Check out the submissions page!

Door-knocking
photo by Erika Luckert

With the provincial election campaign in full swing, candidates and their representatives are appearing at my doorstep, seeking support. My thoughts turn back to my time as a door-knocker during the 2008 provincial election campaign.

The weather was very cold for most of the campaign period during the winter of 2008. Although I had bought shoe liners developed by NASA to keep my feet warm, they didn’t do the trick, so I resorted to my skidoo boots that I had used for work in the north. Armed with brochures highlighting the candidate’s background, web site and position on the key issues of the time, I’d diligently walk up an icy sidewalk, ring the doorbell and wait for the door to open a crack. I’d introduce myself, say a few words about the candidate I was representing with fingers crossed that I’d be let in for just a few seconds of warmth and the opportunity to briefly engage those at home about the election. If it went well, I would ask whether the candidate could count on the support of household members, so that they could be called during election day to get the vote out. It was a bonus when I scored a lawn sign location for the candidate, and even a bigger deal when the home owner of a corner lot near a busy intersection agreed to a large fence sign emblazoned with the candidate’s name.

What are some of the memorable things that happened during my foray into door-knocking four years ago? Shock when a guy answered the door buck-naked and said “I don’t have any clothes on”. Trying to keep a straight face when a woman answered the door with only her eyes and mouth showing through a clay facial mask. The frightening feeling when the door opened to 2 or 3 barking dogs restrained by their owner (this happened many times). Struggling to keep my balance walking on icy sidewalks but wiping out anyway. The woman who asked me to put the candidate’s brochure on the ground and to pass it to her with my foot to avoid contact with my germs. The widows and widowers tearfully telling me that they had lost their life-long partners when I referred to the outdated voters’ list from 2004. Meeting Harry Strom’s charming widow, who said “it didn’t last very long being the Premier’s wife” and “Harry watches over my shoulder to see how I vote.” Trying not to take it personally when people smirked, recoiled or were openly hostile since they clearly did not support the candidate I represented. Being asked if I was a Christian as if it were a deal-breaker. Being caught in the middle of a fight in homes where the husband and wife supported different political parties. Encountering people I had crossed paths with at different times of my life, in High School, University, and through work. An English professor who had taught me as an undergraduate student remembered me. So did parents of children who had gone to school with my kids.

I discovered that a lot of people didn’t care at all about the 2008 election. I heard comments like “First politician on my doorstep gets my vote.” “I’m neutral” (meaning “I don’t vote”). “I’m not voting since Jesus wasn’t involved in politics.” And then there were the women who said that they vote for the candidate that their husband tells them to vote for. Some people clearly didn’t understand that Canada has three levels of government.

It seemed that people who had tuned in to the election were, for the most part, pretty satisfied with how things rolled in the province, and weren’t too jazzed about party policies. The facts surrounding the political issues of the day didn’t seem to matter to them. Instead, the positive or negative feelings toward party leaders (“there’s something about him I really like / don’t like”) and how they felt the candidate’s party aligned with their personal convictions in areas that touched their lives held more sway.

When candidates and their representatives appear at your door during this election campaign, consider engaging briefly with them on your doorstep. If it happens to be freezing outside, consider letting them in for a moment to warm up and do their pitch. And think of a question to ask them about an issue that matters to you. The answers you hear might get you hooked on this election.

Sketches: part six

this post is the sixth and final in a series of responses to a child's notebook found at the Edmonton Reuse Centre

A pen, or at least that's what I make it out to be. I've been saving this one, waiting for an idea to strike. At first, I thought I might write about the Broadus lectures that I attended at the university, where one of my professors, Ted Bishop, spoke about the social life of ink. But then I gave up the idea, because I couldn't think of anything to say that hadn't already been said better by him. So I left the sketch for a while longer. 

Today, I'm posting the pen mostly because I'm ready to be on to something new - this will be the last in the series, and I already have some photos lined up that I'm eager to post next. But I wanted to say goodbye to this little notebook first, and a pen seems a fitting finishing note, despite the fact that all the drawings are done in pencil. The pen, as it were, has been my instrument in this collaboration, and the pencil the instrument of the artist child. I don't know if we struck more chord or dischord, but it's been fun having another artistic mind to meet with, even if only on the page. My favourite part of this sketch is the line that trails off to the left - it doesn't come from the pen's nib, but rather from its clip, so it cannot be a line drawn by the pen itself. And yet it somehow suggests its own writing all the same. Reminds me that I should be writing too. Not just final papers, though it is that time of year, but other words, smaller words, that mean more. 

Sketches: part five

this post is the fifth in a series of responses to a child's notebook found at the Edmonton Reuse Centre

It's feeling pretty springy these days - every day I step outside in the morning, I feel a little bit brighter. It's amazing what a change in weather can do to your mood, or at least to mine. Still, I'm experiencing the same thing I do most springs in Edmonton - the feeling of dissonance between the signs of spring I see in the shops and those I see in the streets. Spring in my neighbourhood doesn't look like this sunny sketch. It doesn't look like the picture books full of budding blooms and green sprouts. Despite the warmth and the bright skies, there's a dismal quality to the slushy streets, and slogging through them. Here's a poem written yesterday, on my way home.

Cut Flowers

Lay her i’ the earth:

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violets spring!

from Hamlet

There’s a dead squirrel in my alley this morning.

It lays there –

stoic

on a sheet of ice.

Coming home in the afternoon, I see it again.

Soggy.

This is what spring looks like –

wet and bedraggled

and even more dead than the winter it ends.