Babyzilla meets the Nigelator

Postcards from Limbo

2009-01-23T14:14:00.004-05:00

lim⋅bo [lim-boh]
–noun, plural -bos.
1. (often initial capital letter) Roman Catholic Theology. a region on the border of hell or heaven, serving as the abode after death of unbaptized infants (limbo of infants) and of the righteous who died before the coming of Christ (limbo of the fathers or limbo of the patriarchs).

2. a place or state of oblivion to which persons or things are regarded as being relegated when cast aside, forgotten, past, or out of date: My youthful hopes are in the limbo of lost dreams.

3. an intermediate, transitional, or midway state or place.

4. a place or state of imprisonment or confinement.

Eleven weeks. That's how many weeks classes at York University have been suspended since the CUPE 3903 union initiated a labour strike against the university. As you may know, gentle readers, I am currently enrolled in the MFA in Visual Arts program at York. I hesitate to use the phrase "am currently enrolled" as it's beginning to feel more like a "was enrolled". Myself and 50,000 other York students languish in academic Limbo, waiting to return to our studies. Everyone's frustrated. Everyone's tired. A resolution to this labour dispute must be forthcoming, right? Right???

*Sigh* Oh well. Back to playing Scrabble...

Reposting of essay from Her Circle ezine

2008-05-02T17:18:00.008-04:00

An essay about my art practice that I wrote for an online women's art journal Her Circle Ezine. This covers the scope my work from just after my graduation from undergraduate studies to my last body of work entitled "Gravid".

"The primary focus of my art practice has been to address gender-related issues and represent the experiences of women. Inspired by the second wave feminists, who coined the phrase ‘the personal is political’, my work reflects my personal experiences filtered through the lens of art history, mythology and popular culture. Many of the female figures that appear throughout my work are, in fact, self-portraits. I have observed that large numbers of women artists have embraced the self-portrait as a means of representing their own histories and experiences as being distinct from those of men. While I cannot claim to be an art history or feminist philosophy scholar and therefore can't verify that this is a practice seen more often in the work of women artists, informally it does appear to be the case. It is unquestionably a feature of my own work.

My earliest work, however, did not involve the use of self-portraits but rather drew on images appropriated from outside sources such as anatomy textbooks. This work was monochromatic and very minimalist in approach. During this time period ( 1992 - 98 ) I created “The Three Graces” and the “Objects of Desire” series. This work would be best described as highly academic in nature, as it was greatly informed and influenced by the anti-pornography writings of such 80s feminist luminaries as Andrea Dworkin and Catharine MacKinnon. These were the years immediately following my graduation from university when I was still fuelled by the political radicalism of youth. While I still self-identify as a feminist, at present I would describe myself as more of a liberal feminist than a radical one.

In the interest of clarification, I would like to briefly outline the difference between liberal and radical feminism. A liberal feminist seeks to abolish gender inequality through the use of legislation and societal reforms. In essence, they chose to work within “the system” in order to change the system. Radical feminists, however, view this same “system” as the problem. Radical feminist theory views most societies as based on patriarchy—a societal construct that privileges men over women. Gender equality, they argue, is impossible within the framework of such a society and therefore the society must be fundamentally altered. The writings of Andrea Dworkin and Catharine MacKinnon were instrumental to the development of radical feminist theory, and in particular their criticism of pornography which they linked with rape and other forms of violence against women. The anti-pornography writings of Dworkin and MacKinnon were core reading in the Feminist Philosophy class I attended while an undergraduate student at university and as such held a great deal of influence in the formation of my feminist views.

Over the course of my early art practice, however, I experienced a conflict between the anti-pornography view of radical feminism and the strong anti-censorship beliefs I held as an artist. While I did perceive a causal link between certain types of pornography and the subjugation of women, I was not—nor am not—against pornographic images as a whole. Sexually explicit imagery belongs to the spectrum of human experience that an artist may chose to depict, and this depiction should be free from the limits of censorship.

Additionally, I observed that on certain key issues—pornography and the legalization of prostitution being two of these—that the radical feminist left and the socially conservative right were often in agreement, and this was an alliance with which I was greatly uncomfortable. Therefore, over the years my feminist beliefs have adopted a more liberal leaning and include what is now termed “sex-positive feminism,” meaning that I oppose legal or social efforts to control sexual activities between consenting adults.

While my early work was inspired by feminist influences, it also quoted from the classical texts. For instance, the triptych entitled “The Three Graces” took it's name after the famous art historical grouping of three female nudes that stems from classical mythology. Artists of no less stature than Raphael created their own versions of the Three Graces, mainly as an excuse to render the female nude threefold in one composition. In my version of this subject, I appropriated images of naked women from anatomy textbooks and imposed a “black-bar” of text across their eyes, the type of black bar one used to see across the eyes of women in pornographic material. The thought behind this action was to make explicit the essentially pornographic exchange between the nude female subjects and the imagined viewer.

My work frequently uses self-portraiture as a creative point-of-departure. I often adopt the role of characters from classical or biblical texts in these self-portraits. The process of inserting myself into the role of a character creates a level of displacement from what is often psychologically challenging subject matter. In the case of “The Bitter Seed” 񢉏񮖠), I combined family photographs of myself as a child with the ancient Greek legend of Persephone as a means to address my personal history of childhood sexual abuse.

Persephone was the Queen of the Underworld in ancient Greek mythology. She was a tragic figure who was abducted by Hades and forced to remain in the Underworld as his queen after having eaten the seed from a pomegranate. Hence, the pomegranate fruit was initially incorporated into my artistic lexicon as a potent symbol of sexual subjugation. (I have continued to use the pomegranate as a repeated symbol in my work but have since removed the initial negative connotation. It now represents a more positive, female sexual energy). The displacement of myself into the role of Persephone allowed me to exorcise my victimhood as a child without literally representing my own story.

Two years after the completion of “The Bitter Seed,” I returned to the same subject matter with the series “St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins” ( 2002 - 03 ), in which I masqueraded as thepatron saint of schoolgirls. In this new series, I no longer represented myself as a victimized child but as an adult returning as a conquering heroine. I borrowed from the tradition of St. Ursula as a protector of schoolgirls and embellished her character until she more closely resembled a superhero or an avenging angel, replete with sword and angel wings. The series played out as a sort of spontaneous psychotherapy and apparently struck an emotional chord with critics and audiences alike.

The “child brides” featured in the “St. Ursula” series are symbolic ofthe innocence, coupled with a burgeoning sexual curiosity, inherent in prepubescent girls. The image of the young girl dressed to receive her First Communion is a potent—if culturally sublimated—sexual image. The white dress and veil, reminiscent of a western bride, and the receiving of the “host” are all psychologically and symbolically weighty.

The red that frequently accompanies these young “brides” is not the symbolic blood of Christ, but the literal blood shed by girls and women: the blood of menstruation (i.e. sexual maturation), the blood that is often shed at the loss of virginity, and the blood shed at childbirth.

My version of “Salome” also belongs to the “St. Ursula” series. According to the Christian texts, Salome was the step-daughter of Herod who was instructed by her mother to ask for the head of the imprisoned John the Baptist. There is an apocryphal tradition of this story that implies an incestuous longing on the part of Herod for his step-daughter and includes an erotic dance performed by Salome to manipulate Herod into accepting her morbid request. Hence, the character of Salome has been granted the ultimate femme-fatale status in Western art history. My version of Salome is loosely based on Oscar Wilde's play “Salome”, in which Salome is enamored with the Baptist and places a posthumous kiss on the lips of his severed head. My version takes the macabre eroticism of Wilde an outrageous step further, blending a sense of playfulness with a legitimate expression of female rage.

The change in the aesthetics of my work, from my monochromatic early work to the brightly-coloured works from the “Bitter Seed” and onwards, was one that came about more through my work as a graphic designer than through any sudden shift in feminist/academic philosophy. In my “day job” as a graphic designer I was often called upon to create bold, eye-catching designs with bright colours. It was only a matter of time until the commercial art I created during the day seeped into the personal artwork I created at night. My signature “stained glass style” which employed the bright blocks of colour and thick black outline of the figures, like the leading found in actual stained glass, was first developed in the “Bitter Seed” series. Stylistically, this series recalled the art of the Pre-Raphaelites, an artistic movement of the latter half of the nineteenth century that included the stained-glass window in its aesthetic milieu. The tragic Greek heroine Persephone, whose character I adopt as my own in the “Bitter Seed”, was also a favourite subject of the Pre-Raphaelites. The stained-glass style remained a feature of my work for two subsequent bodies of work, including the “St. Ursula” series. As this series involved my impersonation of a Catholic saint, the continuation of the stained-glass style throughout “St. Ursula” was highly appropriate. The body of work that followed “St. Ursula”, a series entitled “Gravid” ( 2003 - 06 ), was an exploration of pregnancy and motherhood that was driven entirely by the birth of my first child. As this new content did not warrant the continuation of the stained-glass style, the black outlines soon vanished.

My last series “Gravid” continued my diaristic approach to image-making with an exploration of motherhood from the viewpoint of a professional artist. While the decision to have a child is invariably a momentous one, this decision is made more complex when the woman is also a professional artist. On a broader level, “Gravid” presented an honest, unsentimentalized view of motherhood that challenged the clichéd images often found in the mainstream media.

“Me & My Doll” ( 2004 ), which is a drawing belonging to the “Gravid” series, makes reference to a 1940 self-portrait by Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. This drawing was created in response to the ambivalence I felt with regards to parenthood. As is often the case, I chose to embed my personal experience into the visual language of art by recreating the historical painting of Kahlo (although the compositions of the two works differ slightly). The woman depicted in the drawing (myself) finds herself at a crossroads in her life where she experiences the transition between having responsibilities only to oneself to having the responsibilities of childrearing."

-- Apologies for the rather abrupt ending. This essay was cobbled together from a series of Q&A e-mails which I had with the art editor of the ezine. It was late in my last pregnancy when I wrote this, and I simply grew tired of working on this essay.

The wind under my wings?

2008-03-25T13:58:00.007-04:00

"What a caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly" -- Richard Bach.

"What's this?", I hear you say, "Jen is quoting from Richard Bach?!" Richard Bach, the author of the quasi-spiritual book "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" that is so beloved by the New Age community? The same Richard Bach whose inspirational quotes -- along with accompanying signature image of a seagull soaring against an azure blue sky -- decorate everything from coffee mugs to computer mouse pads?

To tell you the truth, I'm as shocked as you. I've always been fond of the above quote, but until I Googled it only a moment ago, I hadn't realized where it originated. Correction: I had forgotten where it had originated. I had a boyfriend several years ago who was a devotee of Richard Bach (back before Bach's absorption into the folds of New Age philosophy) for whom this was a favourite quote. To be honest, I've never read the guy.

What brings me to this quote at this particular point in time is the massive transition that my life is presently experiencing. This is a transition which is both timely and much welcomed. I've recently received notification that I have been accepted into the Master of Fine Arts program at York University, a two-year full-time program which commences in September. As a result, my life over the past week-and-a-half has been topsy-turvy with preparation for this momentous change.

Allow me to backtrack for a moment so I can place this life-altering transition into greater perspective. Approximately three-and-a-half years ago, I left my full-time job to give birth to my first child, Ridley. At that time, I'd been gainfully employed in the graphic design industry for nearly ten years, working on my own artwork in the evenings and weekends. While this was never an ideal arrangement, it was the only arrangement I'd known. When I left to begin my maternity leave, knowing fully well that I'd not return, I felt like the carpet had been pulled out from underneath my feet. Everything and everyone I'd known vanished in an instant and there I was left, holding the baby. Literally. I found myself cast in the role of the caterpillar, unable to see the transformation enacting upon me.

And then something curious happened. I fashioned a new life. New friends in a new environment and a new, different rhythm to life. This time, life crept by at a slower pace. Through a magical combination of the stars and planets in the heavens, I managed to receive not one but two art council grants during this time, which enabled me to work on my art part-time while being the stay-at-home mother the rest. It was a wondrous, if temporary, balancing act of career and parenthood.

And now, nearly four years later, I find myself leaving this world of parks and playdates and entering the world of academia. It will be horrendously challenging. I've steeled myself for that. But I embrace this transition wholeheartedly.

However, don't expect to ever see any soaring seagulls on my coffee mug. I hate that shit.

Sure, but they love me in Portugal...or not?

2008-02-20T21:31:00.002-05:00

The Vanity Google, part III

In earlier posts I've written about what is colloquially known as the "vanity Google". For those unfamiliar with this term (and possibly living under a rock) it refers to the common practice of entering one's own name into the popular search engine Google to see what exists out there with your name (or your namesake) attached to it. I perform this act with some frequency as I often stumble across some very interesting and, at times, curious use of my art in the public domain.

This evening I discovered a blog written in Portuguese that features several of my images along with some sort of discussion of my art as it relates to contemporary feminist theory. Or rather, I think this is the case. I confess that I don't understand Portuguese, and therefore am at a considerable disadvantage to discern the intent of the blog's author.

Just for fun, I decided to enter the Portuguese text into one of those notoriously bad online translators. As you might imagine, it yielded some fairly entertaining results:

(Here's the original Portguese text)
"Jennifer Linton, que tenho agora em exposição, é uma artista canadiana que se afirma feminista. Não feminista no sentido histórico do termo, a atitude quase bélica e exagerada que se tornou cliché e em que se pensa com desdém e troça, mas um feminismo reactualizado e presente: as mulheres continuam a não ser iguais em todos os cantos do mundo, a maior minoria.

O seu próprio corpo, a sua cara, são por onde passa tudo o que faz. As imagens refletem a vida: a vida como mulher, o corpo, a moralidade, os valores, a maternidade, a infância e os seus mitos. Aspectos da vida quotidiana, leia-se anti-épica, normalmente associada às mulheres, mas que se infiltra hoje na arte e na escrita de homens que tomam para si essa nova visão do mundo, possível apenas muitos milhares de anos decorridos no caminho da evolução.

Posso dizer que Jennifer Linton não é genial, nem a vejo assim. Mas gosto das cores, gosto de algum desenho, gosto dos retratos e os seus temas são os meus."

(And now the English "translation"):
"Jennifer Linton, whom I have now in exhibition, is an artist canadiana what affirms feminist. Not feminist in the historical sense of the term, the almost war and exaggerated attitude that became a cliche and about that one thinks with scorn and ridicules, but a reup-to-date and present feminism: the women keep on not being the same in all the corners of the world, the biggest minority.

His body itself, his face, they are where it passes everything what it does. The images reflect the life: the life like woman, the body, the morality, the values, the motherhood, the childhood and his myths. Aspects of the everyday life, be read anti-epic, normally associated to the women, but what permeate today in the art and in the men's writing that they take for you this new vision of the world, possible you punish many thousands of years passed in the way of the evolution.

I can say which Jennifer Linton is not brilliant, do not even see it so. But I like the colors, like some drawing, like the portraits and his subjects are mine."

Ah huh. Regardless of the intent behind your post -- which may forever be shrouded in mystery -- I'd like to take this opportunity to express my gratitude to the unknown Portuguese (or possibly Brazilian) author.

Muito obrigado!

A rant from your favourite enfant terrible

2008-01-08T21:49:00.000-05:00

Have you ever encountered one of those parents who publish a family newsletter which they mail to family and friends who are doubtlessly aquiver with anticipation to thumb through this compelling missive? You can just picture the Christmas-time newsletter, all festooned with clip art elves and decorative snowman borders? Got it? Well, I'm not that sort of parent. I am the antithesis. The anti-Mom. I don't scrapbook. When no one's looking, I chuck the art projects that Ridley creates at playschool in the paper recycling bin. (Well, okay, I keep some of the better paintings that I know he's created himself without too much help from his playschool teacher).

It's already a couple of weeks into January 2008 and I have yet to write my customary Christmas/New Year's blog entry. Of course, no one is pressuring me to post in my blog. I feel a certain responsibility, however, to continue to document both the progress of my children as well as to assault your senses with my random musings and rants.

Such as this rant: Christmas stresses me out and I'm frankly relieved when it's over. Yes, yes, Merry Christmas. Happy New Year, too. Thank you for your present. Here's yours. Now get out of my house.

Sorry. The winter tends to make me a little grumpy. Let's just leave it there and I'll post some pictures of the kids. They're cute, nice kids. Not (usually) grumpy like their old lady ;-)

Making art out of dead things

2007-12-11T14:08:00.000-05:00

Last night, I was listening to one of the Alan Cross "Ongoing History of New Music" shows on my iPod whilst drawing in my studio. The topic of discussion was the seminal rock band Radiohead. One of the arcane facts that Cross unearthed in this program was that the video for the Radiohead song "There There" was greatly inspired by the dioramas of a nineteenth-century taxidermist named Walter Potter. One of the anthropomorphic dioramas for which Potter is best remembered is Kittens' Tea & Croquet Party, in which thirty-seven kittens enjoy tea and mouse tarts at a garden party. That's thirty-seven dead and stuffed kittens. Having tea.

So, this has me thinking about making art out of dead things which, as it happens, is a well-established and time-honoured tradition. One of the best known examples of this is the church of Santa Maria della Concezione in Rome, in which the bones of thousands of Capucin monks were used to decorate the vaulted walls of this Baroque church. Richard and I made a special pilgrimage to this site when we visited Rome, and it remains one of the highlights of our trip. The impression that I came away with was just how baroque the skeletal ornamentation appeared which, when you consider that almost all art forms are based on shapes found in nature, really should come as little surprise.

Contemporary examples of "dead things in art" abound as this macabre media appears to have undergone something of a renaissance. Most notable in this category are the bisected and formaldehyde-preserved animals of British artist Damien Hirst. The plastinatized human bodies of German artist Gunther von Hagens received a great deal of media attention a couple of years ago. My personal favourite in this most rarefied of art forms, however, are the exotic bugs of American artist Jennifer Angus's exhibition A Terrible Beauty. Not surprisingly, Angus draws heavily on the art of the Victorians and their taste for the "exotic yet grotesque". Her work is nothing short of brilliant.

It's a pretty grim life, actually

2007-12-04T15:09:00.000-05:00

As the Christmas season arrives, the television networks trot out all the usual suspects in their programming such as Frank Capra's 1947 "It's a Wonderful Life". While this film continues to be one of my perennial favourites, it is also one which -- rather than wholesome and life-affirming -- I've always found frustratingly bleak. Evidently, I'm not the only one who has reacted this way to Capra's rather dark film:

"Even in his purportedly wonderful life, George Bailey lives in a town mostly owned by Old-Man Potter. He is saddled with a loser of an uncle, and he is forced to give up his dreams of seeing the larger world and succeeding in a creative career. One of the movie's most visually stunning shots is when George, informed that his brother won't be taking over the building and loan, turns away from his chosen destiny to live up to his obligations at home. He knows Bedford Falls is a trap, and it ultimately drives him to suicide." (from http://www.interestingideas.com/ii/capra.htm)

Thank you! So, you see, it's not just me. Ba-humbug.

In memorandum: Harry Rogers Linton

2007-11-25T22:14:00.000-05:00

September 10th, 2007 marked the one year anniversary of the death of my father Harry Rogers Linton. At that time, I considered writing a post to commemorate this sad event, but found myself uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Which is not to say that I haven't thoughts to share on the subject, only that I am reluctant to share such intimate and personal thoughts on a blog. Believe it or not, I actually do believe that there are some things which should remain private.

What I will share with you, my Blog Confessor, are some lasting impressions I have of my father. Though he possessed only a high school education, he was an articulate and natively bright man with a quick wit and astounding memory. Up until the very last years of his life, when chronic illness finally dulled his formerly sharp mind, he could clearly recall the telephone numbers of every household in which he'd lived in his seventy-seven years.

He was also possessed of an impressive vocabulary, with which he frequently, though playfully, taunted me in my childhood. I believe I was in early grade school when I finally consulted the dictionary to learn what the word recalcitrant* meant, as it was one of his favourite adjectives for me. How prescient (sly smile).

I will leave you with a photograph of my dad from happier, healthier days. This photo of my parents appears to date from the 1950's, long before I was born.

*recalcitrant= "resisting authority or control; not obedient or compliant; refractory."

Aaaarrrr me maties, it's Halloween 2007!

2007-11-01T09:58:00.000-04:00

Uh-oh. I'm beginning to suspect that parenthood has really brought out the cornball in me, what with a cheesy blog post title such as the above. I'd blame sleeplessness were it not for the fact that both my little guys are fabulous sleepers. Either way, I fear that my artsy-urban hipster status may be under siege. ;-)

Ridley was dressed as an undead pirate in a costume that was doubtlessly aimed to capitalize on the whole Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. He is captured here in all his undead-pirate glory, his mouth besmeared with red dye #72 or whichever chemical is used to give Doritos their characteristic toxic red-orange colour. Nigel, for his part, looked fabulous in his Halloween cowstume.*

All in all, it was a successful deployment of Halloween festivities. Ridley chose not to trick-or-treat for very long, as his dislike of the dark won out over his love of candy. I suspect that next year, the candy will win.

Incidentally, you can click on any of the photos to see them at their full size. The artist/designer in me continually gripes over the layout limitations and lack of creative control experienced when using the Blogger templates. Grumble.

*This pun ©2007 Karen Johnson. Used with permission (?).

Britney Spears is...

2007-10-23T15:39:00.001-04:00

a)... a victim of the manipulative, greedy and soulless pop music industry?
b)... a talentless bimbo whose ride on the celebrity gravy train is nearing completion?
c)... so dirty than any further discussion of her pantiless escapades would require a tetanus shot?
d) all of the above?

Ah, poor Britney. I'm not a fan of her genre of music, but I do kinda feel sorry for the messed-up kid.

Intervention, anyone?

"Don't it make my brown eyes blue"

2007-10-14T22:42:00.000-04:00

Ah, the mysteries of genetics. Have you ever wondered how a man and a woman, with brown and hazel eyes respectively, can spawn children with blue eyes? Well, Richard and I have wondered the very same thing. Barring any questions of paternity of which, in this case, there are none as I'd be the first to boast had I a lover of blue eyes and fertile loins tucked away in some private love nest, we must then work with the available data of a brown-eyed father.

In my quest to solve the mystery behind heredity and eye colour, I discovered a very interesting web site called, appropriately enough, What Color Eyes Would Your Children Have? This site boasts an "eye colo[u]r calculator" into which you can enter your information and generate the different probabilities for eye colours amongst your hypothetical children. You are instructed to select the eye colour closest to your own. I chose green. Little did I realize that hazel eyes, which I possess (see photo at the beginning of this post for proof), are the wild card of the world of eye-colour probability. Unlike the phenotypes of green, blue and brown eyes, which are composed of a solid colour, hazel eyes are a combination of different colours. Mine, for instance, are a greenish-gold with a small ring of brown around the pupil of the eye. Incidentally, my mother's eyes are also hazel, whereas my father had brown eyes.

According to the calculator, the probability that Richard and I would produce a child with blue eyes is approximately 16.5%. Ridley is approaching his third birthday and his eyes are an indisputable blue-grey colour. Nigel's eyes are also a similar blue-grey colour, though he is only 5-months of age and eye colour can spontaneously change upwards of two-years of age.

Interesting stuff, huh? Now I only wonder whether anyone will inherit my curly hair...?

*Many profuse apologies, but I couldn't resist quoting from the sappy Crystal Gayle song for the title of this post."Don't it make my brown eyes blue" played on the radio ad nauseam when I was a kid in the late seventies and it is only today, several years later, that I've picked up on the double-meaning with the word "blue". Duh.

I submit, therefore I am

2007-10-11T10:50:00.000-04:00

Hmmm, there's a provocative blog post title for you. While this title would seem to suggest some major kinkiness taking place in my life, the reality is a whole lot more mundane. The "submitting" to which I refer is to art councils, artist-run and public galleries, and last but certainly not least, to graduate studies. Ugh. The balance of family life and career is, indeed, a tricky one. However, if I want some cash to help pursue my goal, and/or an exhibition in the next two years, and/or a piece of paper which places three more letters (MFA) after my name, then submit I must. I've cast my net; now we'll just have to wait and see what I fish out over the next couple of months.

Was back working in the studio last night until 1 a.m. Tired, but feel no remorse.

Kids are good. Will post more photos soon, once I upload them off the camera. To tell you the truth, my Blog Confessor, I talk about my children all day with other stay-at-home parents and therefore feel more than a little fatigued writing about them here.

(Nigel's awake from his morning nap, anyway).

Enter...the Nigelator

2007-10-02T15:33:00.000-04:00

He's big, he's bald and he's 18 lbs. of drooly, flatulent fun. He's also sleeping soundly in the baby carrier as I type this blog entry.

I've nothing of great profundity to relate at this moment in time. My Muse has not only left the building, she's disappeared up the road and permanently parked her inspiration on a bar stool at McCartney's Irish Pub. Damn fickle wench. Oh well. I'm content to wait out this creative dry-spell whilst occupying myself with the chores of motherhood. Yippee.

2007-09-18T15:10:00.000-04:00

52 Signs that Jen's Totally Bored...

...she's amusing herself with stuff such as this:

1. The phone rings. Who do you want it to be? SOMEONE OFFERING ME A LARGE SUM OF CASH WITH NO STRINGS ATTACHED. ODDLY ENOUGH, I'VE NEVER RECEIVED SUCH A CALL.

2. When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart? ALWAYS. I'M A CAPRICORN AND THEREFORE HATE DISORDER.

3. In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener? TALKER. DEFINITELY TALKER.

4. Do you take compliments well? VERY WELL. PILE 'EM ON.

5. Do you play Sudoku? HUH?

6. If abandoned alone in the wilderness, would you survive? YES, BUT ONLY OUT OF SHEER STUBBORNNESS.

7. Do you like nipple rings? ON A SEXY BUFF BODY, HELL YA. ON A SOFT FLOPPY BODY, NOT SO MUCH.

8. Did you ever go to camp as a kid? MY PARENTS WERE FOREVER SENDING ME AWAY TO CAMP. DON'T KNOW WHY.

9. What was your favorite game as a kid? DOES DUNGEONS & DRAGONS COUNT?

10. Could you date someone with different religious beliefs than you? PROBABLY NOT.

11. Do you like to pursue or be pursued? TO BE PURSUED, BUT ONLY IF I LIKE THE PERSON DOING THE PURSUING.

12. Any songs make you cry? ONLY WHEN I'M HORMONAL.

13. Are you continuing your education? HOPEFULLY GRAD SCHOOL IN THE NOT-TOO-DISTANT FUTURE.

14. Do you know how to shoot a gun? NO!

15. If your house was on fire, what would be the first thing you grabbed? MY KIDS.

16. How often do you read books? AT LEAST TWICE A DAY TO MY ELDEST SON.

17. Do you think more about the past, present or future? ALL THREE, BUT MOSTLY THE LAST TWO.

18. Favorite children's book? WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE.

19. What color are your eyes? HAZEL.

20. How tall are you? 5' 5"

21. Have you ever taken pictures in a photo booth? SURE.

22. When was the last time you were at Olive Garden? EW. A VERY LONG TIME AGO WHEN I WAS TOO YOUNG TO KNOW BETTER.

23. Where was the furthest place you traveled today? TO GERRARD AND BACK TO DROP RIDLEY OFF AT PLAYSCHOOL.

24. Do you like mustard? ONLY DIJON-STYLE.

25. Do you prefer to sleep or eat? SLEEP

26. Do you look like your mom or dad? DAD.

27. How long does it take you in the shower? 15 MINUTES MINIMUM.

28. Can you do splits? HELL, NO.

29. What movie do you want to see right now? THE SIMPSONS MOVIE, BUT WILL WAIT FOR THE DVD.

30. What did you do for New Year's? I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER. NOTHING MUCH, THOUGH. WAS PREGNANT AT THE TIME.

31. Do you think The Grudge was scary? YES!! I LOVE THAT MOVIE, THOUGH I'VE ONLY SEEN THE ORIGINAL JAPANESE VERSION.

32. Do you own a camera phone? NOPE.

33. Was your mom a cheerleader? HELL, NO.

34. What's the last letter of your middle name? E. WHAT KIND OF A QUESTION IS THIS? STUPID.

35. How many hours of sleep do you get a night? ABOUT FIVE-SIX HOURS OF UNBROKEN SLEEP.

36. Do you like care bears? IF I COULD, I'D DOUSE THEM ALL WITH LIGHTER FLUID AND STRIKE A MATCH. (EVIL LAUGHTER).

37. What do you buy at the movies? POPCORN ALWAYS.

38. Do you know how to play poker? NO.

39.Do you wear your seatbelt? YES.

40. What do you wear to sleep? UNDIES, MAYBE A BIG T-SHIRT.

41. Is your tongue pierced? NOPE.

42. Do you like Liver and Onions? EWWWWW!

43. Are you in love? YEP, WITH A NUMBER OF FELLAS. ;-)

44. Do you like funny or serious people better? A LITTLE OF BOTH MIXED UP TOGETHER.

45. Ever been to L.A.? NOPE. I WOULD LIKE TO, JUST ONCE.

46. Do you steal or pay for your music downloads? IS THE CIA LISTENING IN?

47. What do you and your parents fight about the most? CAN'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME I HAD A FIGHT WITH MY FAMILY.

48. Are you a gullible person? SOMETIMES

49. Do you need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy? NO, BUT HAVING A REGULAR SEX PARTNER DEFINITELY TAKES THE EDGE OFF ;-)

50. If you could have any job (assuming you had the skills) what would it be? FILMMAKER.

51. Are you easy to get along with? AS LONG AS I GET MY WAY, I'M COMPLETELY EASY TO GET ALONG WITH.

52. What is your favorite time of day? WHEN BOTH KIDS ARE IN BED.

There. I feel like we've grow a little closer together, don't you? '-)

2007-09-11T16:01:00.000-04:00

There's nothing like procreation to make the months of summer speed by at an alarming pace. When was my last blog post, June? Under normal circumstances I'd say that was sheer laziness on my part, but these circumstances are not normal -- they're very, very tired circumstances indeed. Two kids are not twice the work of one, they're ten times.

Both Ridley and Nigel are big, burgeoning and extremely active, and their parents all the more tired for it. Just thought I'd throw a couple of recent photos on this blog, as I've received the occasional request, not to mention the odd complaint or two, from people who are not on Facebook.

It appears that Ridley has poured the entire contents of his juice cup onto his shirt in the submitted photo. Invent your own narrative if you find this one too banal. Ridley after an all-night bender, perhaps? Be creative.

2007-06-22T13:08:00.001-04:00

Alas, my poor neglected Blog, cast aside like yesterday's news for that flashy new kid in town, Facebook. Oh sure, Facebook may have the novelty factor and all the sexy bells & whistles. But you, my patient, long-suffering Blog, have been there from the start and possess much more depth and analysis. You knew I'd come back to ya, right?

(Okay, now I've squared things with Blogger...)

As those of you who read this blog may already know, I've recently had another child. For the one or two of you who are not on Facebook, here's a recap: Nigel Antony (yes, that's correctly spelled without the 'h') Linton-Martin was born at 4:20 a.m. on May 24th, 2007. Delivered at home by two wonderful midwives, Esther and Tracy, he arrived into this world weighing 9 lbs. 1 oz.

Yes, that's correct: "delivered at home". This fact tends to elicit a great number of shocked expressions, often followed by an exclamation of "wow, you're brave!" or "did you plan that?" Therefore, I would like to take this opportunity to respond to all of your Home-Birth Frequently Asked Questions.

Q: Was your home-birth planned? Did you have a midwife?

A: Yes. Statistically, a planned home-birth attended by a trained midwife is as safe as a hospital birth. There's a mound of research available that compares the outcomes of home vs. hospital birth. Google it if you're interested. One must bear in mind, however, that in order to be a candidate for home-birth, the mom-to-be must be healthy and the pregnancy considered low-risk and without complications. While I truly believe that home-birth is an excellent alternative, it's clearly not an option for everyone.

Q: Did you have a natural birth? Didn't it hurt?

A: Oddly enough, I don't have an anesthesiologist working out of my house so, no, I didn't have an epidural nor any kind of pain-management drugs. Did it hurt? Fuck, yeah. I admit to possessing a certain female machismo in my ability to birth without drugs. Call it a "Darwinian pride" in my reproductive abilities.

Q: Wasn't it messy? What did you do with the placenta?

A: Yeah, birth is a messy process. You can buy fitted vinyl sheets that protect your mattress from stains. Needless to say, you don't place your best sheets on the bed, either. A cold water wash with rock-salt removes stains surprisingly well. With regards to the placenta, you can opt to bury it -- with or without an accompanying New Age or neo-pagan ritual -- or take the less sentimental option of tossing it in the green recycle bin. We chose the latter.

Q: Weren't you scared?

A: Not really. During the last few weeks of pregnancy I would experience the occasional twinge of anxiety and imagine some great tragedy of operatic proportions befalling either myself or my child. These anxious fantasies were always fleeting and in general no more remarkable than the usual tragedies of operatic proportions that swim through my head on a regular basis.

There. Now you know.

2007-04-04T21:32:00.000-04:00

For many years now we've all known that it's "not easy being green", but a nihilistic, drug-addicted Kermit the Frog crooning Trent Reznor's ode to self-destruction, the Nine Inch Nails ballad "Hurt"? Whereas the dark side of my personality -- which is, admittedly, substantial -- revels in this type of black humour, my inner child laments the fact that I'll never be able to view Kermit in quite the same way again.

2007-04-01T13:43:00.000-04:00

The primary reason why we don't have many recent photos of Ridley is not that we are wholly neglectful parents, but rather that Ridley is a massive camera hog. The very instant that Rid catches a glimpse of the camera -- whether it be SLR or video -- he immediately launches himself towards it in an effort to wrestle said camera out of our hands. See evidence below.

Is he a frustrated photographer/filmmaker trapped in the body of a toddler? Perhaps, though I'm cautious not to project my psychological baggage onto him (being a not-so-secretly frustrated filmmaker myself).

2007-03-14T13:14:00.000-04:00

Approximately 9 weeks remain until the arrival of my second child and my brain is officially ... mush. I am acutely aware of the fact that I am slowing down, both mentally as well as physically. What remains of my dwindling facilities are hyper-focused on all things child-related. From a purely evolutionary point-of-view, it makes perfect sense that an expectant mother will focus all of her resources, both mental and physical, on the impending birth of her child.

The irony is, of course, that I've never been busier careerwise. An essay on my art practice will appear in the 'Featured Artist' section of the Spring 2007 edition of Her Circle, a very professional "women in the arts" e-zine based in NYC. Additionally, I received a phone call two weeks ago from Anna Camilleri (a well-respected Canadian writer & performance artist), inviting me to participate on the jury of the Riverdale Art Walk. And finally, last Thursday I was the guest speaker at SUNY (State University of New York) in Fredonia. (No, I'd never heard of Fredonia, either. It's in Upstate New York about 45 minutes southwest of Buffalo). Oh yeah, and in-between all of this art-related hooplah I continue to work on my Alphabet series. Whew.

The students from the Women's Studies department at SUNY had invited me to speak about my art because apparently I'm some sort of poster-girl for contemporary feminist art -- a fact which had, until recently, eluded me. Richard, Ridley & I were treated to a pre-talk dinner and spent the night in one of the elegant bed-and-breakfast-type guest rooms of the SUNY Alumni House. As an artist who spends a great deal of time sequestered away in her studio, it's a strange and wonderful thing to be treated like a rock star on occasions such as these. I'm repeatedly surprised to learn that I act as a "mentor" or "role model" for some of the young, artistic women of today. Me, a role model? I shudder to think of it (grin).

This whole strange, wonderful experience got me thinking: who are my mentors? Well, not surprisingly, they are mostly (though not exclusively) older, established women artists. Some have long since shuffled-off this mortal coil, but many are contemporary, still-practicing artists.

1. Frida Kahlo. Mexican painter famous for her strange, surrealistic self-portraits, and her unibrow.

The Two Fridas, 1939, Oil on canvas, 67" x 67", Collection of the Museo de Arte Moderno, Mexico City.

2. Cindy Sherman. American contemporary fine art photographer/filmmaker. Also created a number of staged "self-portraits". Sherman liberally sprinkles her photos with imagery culled from classic cinema (often with a French New Wave feel to them) as well as from pornography and horror films.

3. Nancy Spero. American contemporary artist who works primarily in the media of drawing and printmaking.

Elegy, Handprinting and painted collage on paper, 1983.

4. Betty Goodwin. Montreal-based Canadian contemporary artist who works in a variety of media, though I'm especially fond of her drawings and etchings. It was Goodwin's large-scale mixed-media drawings that first gave me the idea of working with Mylar as a substrate.

Moving Towards Fire, Painting, 1983.

4. Shary Boyle. It bugs me to no end that this rising-star of the Canadian contemporary art world is four years younger than I. But ya know, this girl has got the goods and works hard at her craft. She deserves every ounce of praise.

2005. Porcelain, china paint. 20cm tall. Collection of the National Gallery of Canada.

5. Attila Richard Lukacs. The still-reigning enfant terrible of the Canadian art world. Sure, he almost self-destructed on crystal meth in the Berlin gay scene, but shit can this guy paint.

Range of Motion, 1990, oil, gold leaf on canvas, 103.5 x 73 inches.

2007-02-28T14:35:00.000-05:00

The Phenomenon of the Yummy Mummy

Gone are the days when expectant mothers concealed their burgeoning bellies beneath the tent-like folds of demure maternity dresses. The frumpy, matronly pregnancy frock that your mother was obliged to wear has, thankfully, disappeared. Similarly banished are the Grandma-sized undergarments that were offered to pregnant and nursing mothers in only two colours: clinical white and "let's face it, you're never having sex again" beige.

The procreating woman of today proudly displays her baby bump like a contemporary Venus of Willendorf clad in fashionably form-fitting black or animal print maternity wear. Even the lingerie industry has addressed this new trend of the "yummy mummy" by creating functional nursing bras in sexy, push-up bra style, complete with matching nursing pads. (Impractical, sure, but since when has fashion been about practicality?) The lingerie label PassionSpice Maternity even offers a negligée that enables the expectant couple to bask in the sexy glow of their successful mating.

So, to all my fellow breeders out there, I say this unto thee: as you confidently stride down Queen Street East clutching your $200 Fleurville diaper bag whilst pushing your fashionably-clad offspring in the $1000 Bugaboo stroller (café latté safely nestled in stroller's cup holder) en route to your Baby Pilates class ... do you ever pause to consider our less fortunate foremothers and wonder "geez ... just how am I gonna pay for all this crap?"

2007-02-11T15:21:00.000-05:00

Over the past week I have been composing an essay on my art practice for the 'Featured Artist' section of an arts e-zine.* While I certainly appreciate the publicity for my work, I have to admit that the writing that frequently accompanies this publicity is not my favourite part of the job. In this instance, it's not a matter of having to research the subject of the essay, but rather forcing myself to bang away at the keyboard on a Sunday afternoon when I'd rather be....oh....watching vintage '80's music videos on YouTube.

(sheepish grin)

I know, I know. Major work-avoidance behaviour. Here's a video gem that I unearthed during my bout of essay-procrastination: Laurie Anderson's surprise pop-chart hit from 1982, 'O Superman'. It's difficult to imagine an offering from an experimental media artist such as Anderson ever finding it's way into the mainstream in today's musical mediocrity.

Unlike the majority of '80's videos, this one has aged surprisingly well. While I wouldn't describe her as a singer, Anderson's melodic, sing-song speech sounds as hypnotic as when I first encountered it back in those heady highschool days. Anderson brilliantly evokes a menacing sense of calm.

*more on this at a later date.

2007-01-24T21:39:00.000-05:00

23-and-a-half weeks of nasal congestion, nausea, headache, backache and exhaustion ... and counting. Oh yeah, I forgot to add foggy-headed forgetfulness to that litany of complaints. Evidently, the medical establishment has failed to warn women of childbearing years that fetuses are, in fact, parasitic brain leaches who covertly drain all your mental facilities. I quietly live in fear of the day when I completely forget my whereabouts or even my own identity.

Just keeping it real for ya, folks.

Otherwise, I'm in good health and the unborn baby is thriving. I sport a big, round baby-bump, though I have no "belly shots" to share. Perhaps I'll spare you that.

What I will share within these bloggish pages is a photo of myself with straight hair. Truly, an historic occasion as it's doubtful I've ever had straight hair, nor will ever again. The straightness began to rapidly disappear after giving Master Ridley his nightly bath. Hence, I decided to document the new 'do while some semblance of straightness remained.

2007-01-21T21:27:00.000-05:00

I fear that, rather than abating, Ridley's pacifier habit has increased twofold. See incriminating photos below.

Is there a 12-Step Program available for pacifier addiction?

2007-01-15T21:49:00.000-05:00

Has your old religion lost it's otherworldly glow? Shopping around for a new belief system? Look no further than the Belief-O-Matic, brought to you by the good folks at beliefnet.com. This brief, 20-question quiz promises insight into your personal spirituality, or lack thereof.

Here are my top-ten possible choices for a belief system as suggested by the Belief-O-Matic:

1. Unitarian Universalism (100%)

2. Secular Humanism (98% -- yeah, I most closely agree with this philosophy.)

3. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (87% -- this one has me baffled. Whereas I am most assuredly liberal in philosophy, I have to imagine that my complete & utter disbelief in a Supreme Being would rankle my fellow Liberal Christian Protestants).

4. Liberal Quakers (86% -- a what?! Would I have to wear a big white bonnet and pepper my language with words such as "thy" and "thine"?)

5. Nontheist (71% -- basically an atheist or agnostic, which kinda conflicts with that additional 16% of me that's Liberal Christian Protestant.)

6. Neo-Pagan (69% -- nah, that neo-pagan stuff is interesting but ultimately pretty goofy).

7. Theravada Buddhism (68% -- I have way too much ego to ever become a Buddhist).

8. Bah'ai Faith (63% -- Heard of it but have no idea what the belief system entails.)

9. Christian Science (54% -- Ditto.)

10. Reform Judaism (53% -- Just call me Esther).

2007-01-11T23:00:00.000-05:00

Ridley’s first joke:

R(idley): Knock, knock
M(e): Who's there?
R: An owl
M: An owl who?
R: Whooooooo!

During the first exchange Ridley & I had of this preschool joke, I wondered whether his punchline of "whoooo" was a mere mimic of the word "who" I'd just spoken. However, he's since repeated this joke to me four times over two days, so I'm beginning to suspect that there's actually humourous intent on his part. Amazing.

2006-12-31T15:11:00.000-05:00

Christmas 2006!

To summarize:

1. Birthdays for the Christmas Kids: Ridley turns 2 and his Mom ...um... suffice to say that she's considering a bulk discount for hair colour.

2. Trucks! Cars!

3. Ridley had a great time at his Grandma Pearl's as he engaged in a prolonged wrestling-match with cousins Ethan and Emma. No children were harmed during this spectacle, though I suspect one cat was deeply traumatized by the ensuing noise.

4. Trucks! Cars! TRAINS!

5. Within one-hour, Ridley learned both the word and concept of "present", as in "Christmas present". Any wrapped box or decorative bag that crossed his path was enthusiastically greeted with a chorus of "Out! Out! Out!" (the word "open" has yet to join his vocabulary).

6. The fact that Ridley is obsessed with all toy vehicles with wheels -- be they cars, trucks, trains -- was widely circulated throughout the family as he received enough of these to open his own mini-car rental agency. You need some Hot Wheels? He's got 'em. Thomas the Train? No problem.

7. Never leave a box of chocolates within reach of a toddler. Really, just don't.

8. The stop-motion animated version of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" that I watched as a kid (the one from the 1950's with the in-the-closet gay dentist elf) is actually quite frightening to a 2-year-old. It was the Abominable Snowman, and not the aforementioned gay elf, that caused Ridley to cry with alarm.

9. If our next child is a boy, we won't have to buy him any trucks. If our next child is a girl ... she's gonna hafta like trucks. ;-) (No, we didn't inquire after the gender of the baby during the ultrasound). The irony that an individual such as myself, who is very cognisant of gender-stereotyping, should become parent to an über-mensch such as Ridley has not escaped me. Further proof, I suppose, that genetics play a major role in shaping personality and preference.

10. No matter how many toys, books, etc., a child receives for his birthday or Christmas, he will always exhibit a much greater fascination for the laptop computer.

2006-12-31T14:20:00.000-05:00

Three curious Google searches that three curious strangers performed that -- curiously -- brought them to this blog:

1. werewolf transformation of feet
2. theron eyebrow piercing
3. mistress milena / feet

A big "shout out" to my friend Milena (a.k.a. Mistress Milena the Foot-Fetish Queen*) for giving me the idea for this post.

*I can neither support nor deny this claim.

(grin)

2006-12-22T16:02:00.000-05:00

A curious story as seen on today's CBC News web site -- Jen:

Woman with 2 wombs gave birth to triplets, says hospital in Bristol, England

LONDON (AP) - A woman with two wombs has given birth to triplets, in what is believed to the first case of its kind, a hospital official said Friday.

Hannah Kersey, 23, gave birth to three girls in September, said Richard Dottle, a spokesman for Southmead Hospital in Bristol where the babies were born. The children spent nine weeks in the hospital.

The girls, identical twins delivered from one womb and a third fraternal sibling from the other, were delivered by Caesarean section seven weeks early, the British Broadcasting Corp. reported.

Kersey and her partner Mick Faulkner said they were "over the moon" at how healthy and happy the girls were.

"They are three lovely and incredible children, all with very different personalities," the BBC quoted Kersey as saying.

"There haven't been any similar account where three healthy babies are born of two wombs," said Yakoub Khalaf, a consulting gynecologist at Guy's and St. Thomas's Hospital. He said that multiple pregnancies tended to be risky, and that delivering triplets under such abnormal circumstances was even riskier.

Separate or partially joined wombs are uncommon, although not rare. About one woman in 1,000 has them, according to Khalaf.

The condition would have occurred before Kersey was born when the two sides of her uterus failed to completely merge. The condition mean the separate wombs tend to have a considerably smaller volume and their contractions are weaker, said Michael Heard, a consulting gynecologist at the Royal Hampshire County Hospital in Winchester.

Pregnancies are possible, although they tend to result in premature birth more than half the time. Heard said that in the case of a Caesarean two operations would have to be performed.

Simultaneous pregnancies in two separate wombs are almost unheard of, and Khalaf said he had identified only 70 cases over the past 50 years worldwide. The delivery of triplets from two wombs has never before been recorded.

"This lady was extremely lucky," said Khalaf.

Kersey was not immediately available for comment on Friday but the Southwest News Agency based in Filton, England, said it had bought the rights to her story. It would not disclose the amount.

2006-12-07T21:21:00.000-05:00

"Ya mon."

The above expression perfectly encapsulates the feeling of Jamaica. Laid back. Easy going. People as warm and sunny as the climate. As the Rastas are fond of saying: "No problem".

Our vacation in Jamaica was sublime. Sure, we has some rainy days, but even these were quite warm and the rain often short-lived. It's a tropical climate, after all. We stayed at FDR Pebbles, a resort located 30-minutes outside of Montego Bay which caters to families. This all-inclusive resort offered many family-friendly attractions including a "vacation nanny"; each family is assigned their own nanny to provide one-to-one care for your offspring so that Mom & Dad can relax.

Our "vacation nanny" was a delightful woman named Sheryl. Here's a photo of myself, Sheryl and Ridley sitting inside of the Yellowbird Kiddie Centre (imagine your basic neighbourhood drop-in centre) on a rainy morning. Ridley seems too preoccupied with the video camera he's holding to acknowledge Dad taking his picture. (What is it with the male gender and electronics, anyway?)

This is the first vacation that Richard & I have ever taken to a resort. We're not your typical "resort people". We're more your "grab your guidebook, backpack and go" type of travellers. As you can imagine, this was quite a different experience for us. However, as travel with a toddler is challenging at the best of times, a resort-style vacation made sense. Granted, you're isolated in a little turista American-centric bubble. But, hey, the beaches are beautiful and the ocean warm and inviting.

We did manage a couple of day-trips off the resort. The first of these was to the nearby town of Falmouth, reputedly the oldest town in Jamaica. Perhaps not surprisingly, it also appeared to be one of the poorest towns, too. Stray dogs. Street kids. Visible signs of poverty. This is the Jamaica that most tourists don't see. Prompted by our shuttle driver, who assured us that "it's safe, except by the market", the two of us ventured into the town. The photo of the old women and the blue shed was taken during this small exploration. We wandered into a local shop to purchase two toddler-sized white t-shirts (for tie-dying back at the resort) and boarded the shuttle once again. The driver then delivered us (pun intended) to a very old Anglican church where an elderly matron beamed with pride as she told us about the restoration of this lovely old building. We deposited some dollars into the collection box and were off back to the resort.

The second day-trip was a bit of a naïve blunder. We took the free "shopping shuttle" that the resort offered into Montego Bay, realizing that the shuttle would usher us into the most outrageously-priced tourist trap. What I hadn't counted on was the fact that this tourist trap would be located in a strip mall in the suburban outskirts of Montego Bay and no escape into the city would be feasible. Ah well. There ain't no free ride, as they say.

The photo to the left was taken from the balcony of our suite at the resort. That red-roofed structure was the Oceanside Bar & Grill and the swim-up bar (the pool is in the foreground). Incidentally, the ocean water was always much, much warmer than that of the pool, so we tended to confine our swimming there. Richard mostly confined his consumption of beer to the Oceanside Bar & Grill -- regrettably, I was (and still am) pregnant and therefore sans alcohol.

To wrap up this rambling post-vacation post, I'd just like to summarize some of the interesting things I learned whilst on my Jamaican adventure:

1. "Calaloo" really is spinach (I've long suspected).

2. "Malta" is a malt, hops and molasses-based drink that should be disgusting but is actually quite tasty.

3. If you complain* enough, the manager of the Pebbles resort will arrange a special "ackee and saltfish" breakfast for you.

4. The most interesting, friendly and genuine people you'll meet in Jamaica are Jamaicans. Go figure.

*Our only real complaint during this trip was the scarcity of good, authentic Jamaican food. Sure, the Grill served a rather tame jerk chicken (if you asked for jerk sauce on the side, you got the real spicy deal) and the Dining Room dished up acceptable Jamaican fare on Saturday nights, but there was a significant lack of Jamaican food in the daily buffet. We didn't travel all the way to Jamaica for pasta anymore than we would fly to Rome to sample the Oxtail Stew.

2006-11-09T13:31:00.000-05:00

If you're a person of a certain vintage and your childhood years were spent plopped in front of the television, then you will no doubt remember "Schoolhouse Rock". These little animated shorts instructed us in important subjects such as grammar, mathematics and U.S. politics. Okay, perhaps that last topic wasn't so pertinent to us Canadian kids, but who can forget those catchy tunes that accompanied the lessons?

It's a great injustice that "Schoolhouse Rocks" is no longer aired on TV, but fortunately you can still find all the animated shorts on DVD. There's a 30th Anniversary edition available through Amazon.com. Yes, it was over thirty years ago (1973 to be exact) when "Schoolhouse Rock" first aired. Scary.

I managed to find one video clip on YouTube.com: http://youtube.com/watch?v=hOaty7FpwMI. You can learn all about pronouns, just in case you need a little grammar reminder.

2006-11-01T10:29:00.000-05:00

Halloween 2006!

It's the same costume as last year, but now worn by a much bigger kid. This was the first time that Ridley officially went "trick-or-treating"; a custom that was not entirely grasped by our 22-month old but one which he appeared to enjoy nonetheless. Any event in which people are giving him stuff -- especially if the stuff is candy -- is considered a good time by Ridley.

I made the tactical error of feeding Ridley one mini-chocolate bar. Just one. Note to parents: not an advisable move to feed your toddler a chocolate bar just one hour before bedtime. The resultant sugar-buzz had Ridley bouncing off the walls for the following hour-and-a-half. What was I thinking?

2006-10-27T12:38:00.000-04:00

In anticipation of Halloween, I decided to compile my "Top 15 Horror Flicks of All Time". Being a big fan of the horror/dark fantasy genre, it was a significant challenge to whittle the list down to just fifteen. Why fifteen? Simple: ten was too few, but twenty would be too time-consuming.

You will note a preponderance of North American films in my list. This is a situation which I hope to rectify in the near future, as there are many excellent films from around the world belonging to the horror genre. I deeply regret having missed Italian director Dario Argento's Suspiria (1977), which is a film that appears on many critics top-ten lists. It's on my list of "must sees" along with last year's The Descent (a.k.a. "Chicks in a Cave").

These films are not ranked in order of best-to-least best. And, yes, I am a total film geek. Here's proof:

1. The Exorcist (1973). William Friedkin's masterful supernatural thriller. Not only is it an excellent example of the horror genre, but it's a brilliant film, period. This film offers fully-realized, believable characters and a storyline that allows the tension to build slowly and gradually. When the supernatural events finally do occur, they are experienced as a big pay-off. Avoid the "director's cut" version that was released a few years ago. This version adds 12-minutes which are not only unnecessary but threaten the slow build plot that's so effective in the original theatrical release.

2. Alien (1979). Ridley Scott's best film (Bladerunner is a close runner-up) which arguably created the "science fiction-horror" genre and spawned countless imitators (and couple of ho-hum sequels). Similar to The Exorcist, this film builds the tension gradually. Scott is astute enough to keep his monster artfully hidden in the shadows until the last minutes of the film. German artist H.R. Giger provided the uniquely gothic designs for the Alien monsters and spaceship, and his detailed creations are both exquisitely beautiful and profoundly creepy. Alien was also one of the first films ever to feature a strong, self-sufficient female protagonist in the character of Ripley (Sigourney Weaver).

3. The Grudge (2003). Director Takashi Shimizu (Japanese title Ju-On). I haven't seen the English-language remake starring Sarah Michelle Gellar (a.k.a. "Buffy"), perhaps because I'm such a fan of the original Japanese film. What do the ghosts of this film want? Why do people continually enter this boarded-up, haunted house? Why doesn't someone just bulldoze the place? These questions are never really addressed, but the ride is so much creepy-fun that the details hardly matter. The Grudge is an exercise in effective editing to pry all those screams and jumps out of it's audience. The scene where the spooky ghost-child suddenly materializes beneath the bed-quilt -- and on top of the bed's occupant -- is classically creepy.

4. George A. Romero's zombie trilogy Night of the Living Dead (1968), Dawn of the Dead (1978) and Day of the Dead (1985). What can I say about a guy who singlehandedly created the sub-genre of "zombie film" that hasn't already been said? Romero's films are campy, excessively gory fun counterbalanced with black humour and subtle social commentary. My favourite of the three films is Day of the Dead with it's unlikely anti-hero, the zombie named "Bub". There's a final, signature "zombie feast" at the finale of the film that is so over-the-top gory that it's hilarious. The latest addition to Romero's zombie mythology Land of the Dead (2005), while not as much fun as his previous efforts, did offer one gloriously campy moment where the rich industrialist bad-guy (played with aplomb by veteran actor Dennis Hopper) chomps on a cigar and intones the classic line "I hate these fuckin' zombies".

5. An American Werewolf in London (1981). Director John Landis creates a unique sort of creature feature: a werewolf movie that's equal parts scary, gory and funny. I recently rewatched this film on television at few night ago, and the famous werewolf transformation scene (created without the benefit of contemporary computer-generated graphics) still stands up as exceptional. Griffin Dunne turns in a hilarious performance as Jack, the murdered -- and thus undead -- friend of werewolf David who keeps turning up in an increasingly advanced state of decomposition.

6. The Shining (1980) is director Stanley Kubrick's intense, epic, gothic horror film masterpiece - a beautiful, stylish work which distanced itself from the blood-letting and gore of most modern films in the horror genre. The film bears little resemblance to Stephen King's 1977 novel -- which is a good thing (I've always thought Stephen King was a hack). Kubrick deliberately reduces the pace of the narrative and expands the rather simple plot of a domestic tragedy to over two hours in length. Tension builds slowly and finally snaps with sudden, violent force when Jack (in a career-defining performance by Jack Nicholson) completely loses it ... with an axe.

7. Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979). Werner Herzog applies his signature blending of truth with fiction to his remake of F.W. Murnau's silent film Nosferatu (1922). Similar to Kubrick in style, Herzog's camera is still and steady with the scenes revealing themselves at a deliberate, slow pace. The film's resulting atmosphere is heavy and brooding, charged with a slowly building undercurrent of impending doom. Klaus Kinski's Count Orlock is a sad, shuffling creature more strongly associated with a disease-carrying rat than a sensual seducer as seen in other interpretations of Dracula. Herzog's anti-romantic concept of the vampire is one of the Black Death that slowly infiltrates the picturesque beauty of a quiet Gothic town.

8. The Blair Witch Project (1999). The low-budget mock-documentary cinema-verite phenomenon of the late nineties that worked on the time-honoured truth that a monster you can't see is much scarier than a monster you can. While it's documentary-style hand-held video was not a new concept in the horror genre (see 1993's Man Bites Dog), it was used to great effect in this story of an ill-fated trek into the woods by three young, aspiring filmmakers. This film plays on our innate fear of being lost -- never mind that you might have a witch and/or psychotic child-killer tracking your every movement. Creepy.

9. Eraserhead (1977). Although not generally classified as a horror film, director David Lynch's feature-film debut is a masterpiece of the macabre and grotesque. Reportedly a reaction to the news that he was about to become a father, Lynch's film follows a sensitive young man as he struggles to cope with impending parenthood. Apparently Lynch's view of parenthood is an impossibly bleak one, as "the baby" born in this film isn't exactly human, but a deformed creature more closely resembling a lizard. Eraserhead contains all of the trademark attributes of a Lynch film: haunting visuals, an ethereal score, unsettling sound design, and, most notably, a black sense of humor.

10. Hellraiser (1987). Author/director Clive Barker blends torturous sadomasochism with nightmarish gore in his creation of the creepy Cenobites. The film involves a mysterious puzzle-box (which serves as a gateway to Hell) and copious amounts of blood and guts. Stunning, if stomach-churning, visuals.

11. The Ring (2002). While this remake of the Hideo Nakata's Ringu (1998) owes a great debt to the pacing and visual style of the Japanese original, it is ultimately a superior film. Naomi Watts stars as the intrepid reporter who watches a cursed videotape; a seemingly innocuous event which will result in her death in seven days. A weird, unique storyline with a satisfying -- if predictable -- twist ending.

12. Carl-Theodor Dreyer's Vampyr (1931) is a surreal meditation on fear. I had the great fortune of viewing this rare film at Cinematheque Ontario a few years ago. Moody and atmospheric, this film has little dialogue but many indelible images. An early sound film, it was originally shot as a silent film and had small amounts of sound added later in post-production. The most striking image of the film is the death scene of the evil Doctor, who gets his eventual comeuppance by being buried alive within the chute of a mill. This scene is achingly slow, as the audience witnesses every last shriek and gasp of the dying villain. Horrendous.

13. Doctor Terror's House of Horrors (1965). Campy B-movie starring Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee, and Donald Sutherland. Effectively creepy horror flick with five men aboard a train who are told their fates/fortunes by a spooky doctor's Tarot cards with a quintet of tales of the macabre; the best is "The Hand" with Lee as an art critic who gets his comeuppance by an artist's dismembered hand. The latter is a story that appeals to me for reasons which should be obvious.

14. Cauldron of Blood (1970). Original Spanish title "El coleccionista de cadáveres". Starring horror-film legend Boris Karloff who portrays a blind sculptor working on his magnum opus, unaware that the skeletons he has been using for armatures are the remains of the victims of his evil wife and that he is the next target.

15. Shaun of the Dead. (2004). Director Edgar Wright. Bloody, gory and incredibly funny, this film is a loving, respectful send-up of the zombie movie genre. And when was the last time you heard the word "twat" uttered quite so often in a film? Those wacky Brits.

2006-10-09T14:14:00.000-04:00

The Linton-Martin clan is taking a well-deserved vacation next month to Montego Bay, Jamaica (whoo-hoo!). In preparation for this momentous event, I've had to arrange for a passport for Ridley. The photo above is his passport photo, which possesses more than a passing resemblance to a baby mugshot. I include it here for your enjoyment.

2006-09-28T12:42:00.000-04:00

I happened across this web site purportedly run by the Saatchi Gallery in the UK. There was an interesting Q&A with famed British gallerist Charles Saatchi. I enjoyed reading this last part of the interview so much that I've copied it here for your reading pleasure. Not surprisingly, his assessment of the characters who populate the art world is gloriously -- and humourously -- accurate:

"Q: What do you think of the art world?

CS: David Sylvester [the late critic] and I used to play a silly little game. We used to ask ourselves, which of the following - artist, curator, dealer, collector or critic - we would least like to be stranded with on a desert island for a few years. Of course, we could easily bring to mind a repellent example in each category, and it made the selection ever-changing, depending on who we ran into that bored us most the previous week. Anyway, we pretty much agreed on the following:

Dealers
An occupational hazard of some of my art collector friends' infatuation with art is their encounters with a certain type of art dealer. Pompous, power-hungry and patronising, these doyens of good taste would seem to be better suited to manning the door of a night-club, approving who will be allowed through the velvet ropes. Their behaviour alienates many fledgling collectors from any real involvement with the artist's vision. These dealers like to feel that they "control" the market. But, of course, by definition, once an artist has a vibrant market, it can't be controlled. For example, one prominent New York dealer recently said that he disapproved of the strong auction market, because it allowed collectors to jump the queue of his "waiting list". So instead of celebrating an artist's economic success, they feel castrated by any loss to their power base. And then there are visionary dealers, without whom many great artists of our century would have slipped by unheralded.

Critics
The art critics on some of Britain's newspapers could as easily have been assigned gardening or travel, and been cheerfully employed for life. This is because many newspaper editors don't themselves have much time to study their "Review" section, or have much interest in art. So we now enjoy the spectacle of critics swooning with delight about an artist's work when its respectability has been confirmed by consensus and a top-drawer show - the same artist's work that 10 years earlier they ignored or ridiculed. They must live in dread of some mean sod bringing out their old cuttings. And when Matthew Collings, pin-up boy of TV art commentary, states that the loss of contemporary art in the Momart fire didn't matter all that much - "these young artists can always produce more"- he tells you all you need to know about the perverse nature of some of those who mug a living as art critics. However, when a critic knows what she or he is looking at and writes revealingly about it, it's sublime.

Curators
With very few exceptions, the big-name globetrotting international mega-event curators are too prone to curate clutching their PC guidebook in one hand and their Bluffers Notes on art theory in the other. They seem to deliver the same type of Groundhog Day show, for the approval of 50 or so like-minded devotees. These dead-eyed, soulless, rent-a-curator exhibitions dominate the art landscape with their socio-political pretensions. The familiar grind of 70's conceptualist retreads, the dry as dust photo and text panels, the production line of banal and impenetrable installations, the hushed and darkened rooms with their interchangeable flickering videos are the hallmarks of a decade of numbing right-on curatordom. The fact that in the last 10 years only five of the 40 Turner Prize nominees have been painters tells you more about curators than about the state of painting today. But when you see something special, something inspired, you realise the debt we owe great curators and their unforgettable shows-literally unforgettable because you remember every picture, every wall and every juxtaposition.

Collectors
However suspect their motivation, however social-climbing their agenda, however vacuous their interest in decorating their walls, I am beguiled by the fact that rich folk everywhere now choose to collect contemporary art rather than racehorses, vintage cars, jewellery or yachts. Without them, the art world would be run by the State, in a utopian world of apparatchik-approved, Culture-Ministry-sanctioned art. So if I had to choose between Mr and Mrs Goldfarb's choice of art or some bureaucrat who would otherwise be producing VAT forms, I'll take the Goldfarbs. Anyway, some collectors I've met are just plain delightful, bounding with enough energy and enthusiasm to brighten your day.

Artists
If you study a great work of art, you'll probably find the artist was a kind of genius. And geniuses are different to you and me. So let's have no talk of temperamental, self-absorbed and petulant babies. Being a good artist is the toughest job you could pick, and you have to be a little nuts to take it on. I love them all."

2006-09-17T22:50:00.000-04:00

Adolf Hitler was a vegetarian.

In his post-war memoir "The Enigma of Hitler", Belgian SS General Léon Degrelle writes that the madman who orchestrated the genocide of 6 millions Jews was a dedicated vegetarian "...because it meant the death of a living creature."

Wow. I scratch my head at this massive, inexplicable contradiction. An enigma, indeed.

2006-09-08T14:59:00.000-04:00

Oh, c'mon. Admit it. You've got one.

Whether you're a swinging singleton or happily coupled, you've got a list secretly compiled in your head. You know the one I'm talkin' about: the List of People I'd Like to BLANK [insert euphemism for sex here].

Perhaps it's not as straightforward as fantasy blanking. You may have placed this fantasy figure on your List because you feel they'd be an interesting person. You may imagine engaging in thoughtful conversation with this witty, charming and charismatic Object of Desire. And then you'd BLANK.

I realize that some of the people on your List are people you actually know ... your neighbour, your best friend's boyfriend, etc., ... but I'm not referring to those people. I refer only to the pure, unattainable fantasy figure -- the celebrity -- whose image and/or public persona is so compelling as to inspire those lusty thoughts. Of course, you don't have to be Freud to understand that the object of your desire is a mere screen onto which you project all your deepest, sublimated desires. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Save it for the couch in your therapist's office.

I thought I'd share mine with the world, for no reason greater than it'd be a fun exercise. Incidentally, I've already shared my List with Richard, and his with me. Charlize Theron topped Richard's List, in case you're curious.

This is in no particular order of Blankabilitiy.

1. John Cusack. "Guy I Most Wanted to Date in Highschool". The American actor Cusack's made a career out of playing the loser. The motor-mouthed smartass. The deluded, immature boy-man. He's the classic Reclamation Project, and female moviegoers just eat it up. Cusack was introduced to audiences in the big-hair decade of the 1980's in the teen romantic comedies of "Sixteen Candles" (he had a small cameo), "The Sure Thing", "Say Anything" and one of my personal favourites, the dark-humoured "Better Off Dead". It was the latter film that truly endeared this actor to me, and I've had a not-so-secret crush on him ever since. Though he may not be classically handsome nor totally buff through his body, that fact alone seems to be a great part of his appeal. Cusack's persona is one of the smart, cynical rebel that you might've known in high school. He feels quite accessible.

2. Tom Waits. "Guy With Whom I Can Imagine Getting Completely Annihilated". Genius can make you sexy. Take singer/songwriter/actor Tom Waits for instance. He ain't pretty, not by a long shot. Waits himself acknowledges his lack of conventional good-looks with characteristic self-deprecating humour in Goin' Out West: "Well my friends think I'm ugly, I got a masculine face" and in the song's classic chorus:

Well I know karate, Voodoo too / I'm gonna make myself available to you / I don't need no make up / I got real scars / I got hair on my chest / I look good without a shirt.

Yeah, baby. Waits' is totally hot in my books. I love his poignant, "been drinking cleaning products all night" poetics and trademark deep, gravelly voice.

3. James Marsters ("Spike" on the now-defunct TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer). "Guy With Whom I'd Most Like to Spend a Cursed, Undead Eternity." Ever since Bram Stoker penned "Dracula", the fable of the vampire has been associated with both sex and death. To date, there have been a number of serious scholarly examinations into the cultural phenomenon of the vampire and their apparently timeless sex appeal. The fact remains: vampires are damn sexy. The sexiest of these fanged hotties is the character "Spike", played by James Marsters. Marsters' postmodern interpretation of the undead includes the requisite all-black goth attire, bleached-blond hair and eyebrow-piercing. Even the fake British accent adopted by Marsters for his character (undead eurotrash) sounds sexy.

Sexy people are represented by all nationalities, races and ethnicities. Why limit oneself when there's a global buffet of hotties in the world? The only group of people with whom I'd pass the harsh judgment of being wholesale ugly are the aboriginal people of Australia. I mean no offense to any Australian Aborigines who read this or any you may know personally. But seriously ... WOOF!

4. Tony Leung Chiu Wai. "Guy With Whom I'd Most Like to Share a Bowl of Noodles." Often referred to as the Clark Gable of Asian cinema, Hong Kong filmstar Tony Leung first came to my attention in the visually stunning martial-arts epic "Hero", where his hapless character is repeatedly stabbed (by way of retelling the same story) by the object of his affections. My favourite film in which Leung has appeared, however, is the fast-paced crime drama "Infernal Affairs" where the actor sports a black leather jacket and scraggy facial hair. While Leung's signature "sad-eyed, doomed lover" expression makes an appearance throughout this film, it's the scenes in which he lightens-up and cracks a mischievious smile where he is at his most charismatic.

5. Aamir Khan. "Guy With Whom I Might Consider Sitting Through a Cricket Match". One of the main heartthrobs of Bollywood, I first encountered Indian actor Aamir Khan through his roles in Deepa Mehta's "Earth" and the Oscar-nominated film "Lagaan". Although I enjoyed the film less than "Earth", Khan appears his most lean and buff in "Lagaan" where he portrays a poor man who plays for the honour of his village (and the Indian people as a whole) in a cricket match against those wicked, arrogant British. A heavy-handed "brown people good, white people bad" film, but the interspersed Bollywood-style musical numbers are toe-tappin' fun.

Oops .. sounds like Ridley has just awoke from his nap. I'll continue this (no doubt) fascinating List later.

2006-09-04T12:49:00.000-04:00

Call me a shoe fashionista. Call me vacuous, vapid and frivolous (though I wouldn't advise you do so in my presence). The ice caps are melting. War is raging. Injustice runs rampant. However...

...I just received my first pair of Fluevogs. See photo above.

When you are fashionably shod, life can't be all that bad.

2006-08-28T23:18:00.000-04:00

"Is it possible to work yourself to death?

The answer is yes. In fact, this cause of death has a name: karoshi in Japan; guolaosi in China. Both translate to "death from overwork," and the diagnosis is no hyperbole in Asia, where it's a serious public-health problem.

But surely, our enlightened Canadian economy doesn't drive workers into the grave . . . right?

Maybe. Experts say that while the situation in Canada is not nearly so dire -- people aren't dropping like flies at their desks -- our careerist culture is causing a slow-motion karoshi epidemic, in which work-related stress takes a gradual and deadly toll on our health."

The text above appeared in the August 26th Globe & Mail in an article entitled "The Graveyard Shift". Apparently, we Canadians are slowly, methodically working ourselves to death.

Do you find yourself irresistibly drawn to your e-mail? Can't fight the siren call of your cell phone/pager/wireless device? Take this quick little quiz to find out just how much time you have left on this planet:

FOR EACH OF THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS, GIVE YOURSELF A SCORE FROM 1 TO 5:

Never = 1

Rarely = 2

Sometimes = 3

Often = 4

Very often = 5

1. How often have you felt overwhelmed by how much you had to do at work in the last month?

2. How often have you felt that you didn't have time to step back and reflect on your work?

3. How often have you felt overworked in the past month?

4. During a typical workweek, how often do you have to juggle too many tasks at the same time?

5. During a typical workweek, how often are you interrupted during the day, making it difficult to get things done and get out of the office?

6. How often do you talk to (or BlackBerry or instant-message) co-workers, managers, or clients about work-related matters outside normal work hours?

7. While you are on vacation, how often do you do any work related to your job, such as calling into the office, checking e-mail, packing projects, etc.?

RESULTS

7-10: Margaritaville. Congratulations, you seem to have a good handle on the demands of your job -- or maybe you're retired.

11-14: Cottage Country. Keep up the good work. You are managing your career in a way that minimizes feelings of being overworked.

15-20: The Backyard. Although you're experiencing only average levels of being overloaded, there is still room for improvement.

21-25: Traffic Jam. You're are more overworked than most employees, and you know that can't be good. Stop and smell the roses, already.

26+: Sweatshop: Your non-stop working may have seriously negative consequences -- for your health and job performance, not to mention your sanity and your social life.

2006-08-18T19:38:00.000-04:00

Richard, Ridley & I paid a visit to my family in Oakville last weekend. My brother Jeff and sister-in-law Nuala happened to be visiting from Ottawa, so it was a good opportunity to hook up and show off young Master Ridley. Here's a couple of snapshots, courtesy of Jeff. The first image is myself flanked by my Mom (left) and Nuala (right). Next we have the Linton-Martins. And lastly, the young Master Ridley himself, workin' it for the camera. Again.

2006-08-16T22:52:00.000-04:00

Dear Blog,

So sorry to have neglected you over these past few weeks. It's not that I don't cherish our time together. I do. I just felt like we needed a little time apart.

It's not you, it's me.

Jen.

Theatrics aside, it truly has been quite a while since I've contributed an entry to these bloggish pages. To what can I attribute this laziness? Perhaps the heat of the Toronto summer? (I never could get a handle on those sticky, humid days of late July - early August.) Maybe. Or perhaps there just wasn't much happening in my life on which to report? Nah, definitely not that. This summer -- more so than many previous -- was a busy one indeed.

Firstly, there was my solo exhibition in Toronto at the Justina M. Barnicke Gallery. This opened June 22 and closes next week. The JMB is a fairly prestigious venue which, regrettably, is often sparsely attended as it is tucked away in the bowels of Hart House and thus well off the beaten track for most Toronto art patrons. Ah well. Yet another notch on the bedpost of my art career. (Ha! I wish! Likening my art career to a bedpost sounds more salacious than it is true ... it more closely resembles a slow-moving oxen cart than a notched bedpost).

At the end of July, my second solo show of the summer opened at Alternator Gallery, an artist-run centre in Kelowna, British Columbia. This exhibition featured the work from the "St. Ursula" series which I created 3-4 years ago. I flew out to Kelowna to attend the opening reception and deliver a brief artist's talk on the work. (Yes, the photo at the beginning of this post is a panorama of Kelowna ... I bet you were wondering when I'd get around to explaining the significance of that image.) Of course, the actual artwork didn't arrive in Kelowna until the day I left home for Toronto, but that's a long and frankly uninteresting story.

For me, Kelowna was four days of relaxation and respite from my motherly duties, as husband and child remained at home in Toronto. Highlights of the trip include swimming in Lake Okanagan and lying on the adjacent beach (see photo of beach above), listening to the conceptual sound art piece which was performed live at the reception, attending the Duotone arts festival/exhibition/live band schindig, and last but certainly not least, hanging out with Katherine, the exhibition coordinator of Alternator, and Bernard, a Belgian artist and one-half of the conceptual sound-art performance duo. They are both pictured on the left. The three of us attempted to visit an Okanagan winery, failed to do so (another long story) and instead held an impromptu barbecue of west coast salmon.

2006-07-20T22:47:00.000-04:00

Sue recently forwarded the URL to this fascinating and extraordinarily courageous blog that features the very personal photographs of women who have elected to share images of their postpartum bodies. As a society, we need to see these images much more often.

http://shapeofamother.blogspot.com/

2006-07-11T21:05:00.000-04:00

Often the legend which surrounds a pop-culture icon is far greater than the actual achievements of the individual. This cultural myth-making is readily apparent in the legend of ex-Pink Floyd frontman Syd Barrett, who died recently. Below is a news snippett I gleaned off the web:

"Syd Barrett, erstwhile original frontman of prog-rock behemoths Pink Floyd, died aged 60 last Friday at his hideaway in Cambridgeshire, The Guardian are reporting.

The iconic figure - who joined Pink Floyd in 1965 only to leave three years later - suffered from diabetes, and it is thought that complications relating to this condition finally put paid to what had often been a strange and tormented life.

Although he didn't perform as a part of Pink Floyd after his 1968 departure, and effectively contributed to only one album (The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn), Barrett - born Roger Keith Barrett - enjoyed limited solo success, and his former bandmates' 'Shine On You Crazy Diamond', a live favourite, was penned as an eulogy to him. "

Poor, mad reclusive Syd. Was it the toxic combination of fame & drugs that caused his fragile artist's mind to splinter? Perhaps Barrett was just another victim of the excesses of the late 60's.

Traditionally, humanity loves stories of fallen heroes. The brilliant rising star who overextends himself and ultimately plummets to the earth, Icarus-style. Frankly, these stories always seemed a bit smug to me.

Tonight, I commemorate Mr. Barrett in these bloggish pages. Oh sure, he only contributed to one-and-a-half Pink Floyd albums before he went completely la-la, but his story and legend are truly compelling. I did, in fact, own a vinyl copy of Barrett's solo double album 'The Madcap Laughs'. He was a crazy ol' fuck, but I dug him.

Here's wishing you a safety passage into the great beyond, Syd. Seething wet we meet in fleck.* Pass the bong, please.

*lyrics from Syd Barrett song "Rats"

2006-07-09T20:08:00.000-04:00

Two weekends ago, the Linton-Martin clan primped, preened and then trotted off to have the first of -- what will undoubtedly prove to be -- many professionally photographed family portraits. Thanks to the tireless efforts of friend and photographer Lauren, the experience was not quite as painful as anticipated. Needless to say, Ridley completely stole the show.

In keeping with the whole kitsch tradition of posing naked babies on bearskin rugs, we arranged for a few candid barenaked photos. Note Ridley's expression of utter surprise in the photo above. Did the sudden appearance of the camera surprise him? Did he inadvertently sit on something pointy? We'll likely never know.

Here's another cute barenaked shot. Baby beefcake. The bumps, bruises, scratches and scrapes on Ridley's knees and legs speak volumes about the rambunctious nature of toddlerhood.

There were a few good shots of the three of us -- a difficult feat indeed! Here's a fun action shot of Richard hoisting Ridley aloft for a succession of shots. Fatherhood .. it's a real workout.

And lastly, a decent photo of Richard & I. Can you tell that we don't like to have our picture taken? I do happen to like this shot, though it does verge dangerously close to American Gothic. All we need's the pitchfork.

2006-06-30T11:09:00.000-04:00

By way of addendum to my last posting on the topic of the "vanity Google" here's a curious tidbit I discovered during an egosurfing session:

Jennifer (nee Linton) and Joshua Brugger
Kaiden Monteith Brugger - 25 December, 2005
We had a son on December 25th, 2005. Christmas Day! Kaiden Monteith Brugger. He weighed 6 pounds, 11 oz...19 1/2 inches long.

I've happened across this particular Jennifer Linton in the past. I find it a remarkable coincidence that this person, with the same name as myself, also had a son born on Christmas Day (though a year later than Ridley). Now, if this new mother was also born on Christmas...I shudder to think of the cosmic ramifications.

Six degrees of separation, folks.

2006-06-28T23:04:00.000-04:00

The Vanity Google.

I confess to having committed this most heinous of cybercrimes. Repeatedly. I've typed my own name into the Google search engine and closely examined the results.

In defence of this seemingly vain practice I offer this agrument: I am a public personality. Of course, I'm certainly no major celebrity. Heck, I'm not even a minor, B-list Canadian celebrity. However, I am a professional visual artist who actively exhibits throughout Canada & the U.S. and about whom articles are written -- often without my knowledge. Hence, I make use of the "vanity Google" to uncover these hidden treasures that refer to myself and/or my art.

Here's an interesting factoid I recently unearthed:

"Probably everyone who ever used a search engine at once entered his own name. "Vanity Google", as US people call it. There's practically always some information. If you play in a chess club, you'll find tournament result lists. There's photos of class reunions, quoted University papers, and archived commentary from newsgroup discussions. Exactly where your own name turns up is out of your control."-- Ansbert Kneip, Die Google-Jagd auf Libby Hoeler (Spiegel Online), May 12 2003"

The vanity Google has excavated newsgroup postings I had written over ten years ago. I've discovered online versions of newspaper reviews of art exhibitions I held over six years ago. Never would I have guessed that these writings would live on in apparent perpetuity in the transient world of cyberspace.

The moral of the story: be careful what you write, 'cause that shit will stick.

2006-06-25T11:25:00.000-04:00

It's official. I am now a fully-fledged initiate into the world of the experimental art film. On Saturday, June 24th I viewed David Lynch's cult masterpiece Eraserhead for the very first time.

The synopsis for this film that appears on Zip.ca (online DVD store to which Richard & I subscribe) reads as follows: "Surreal, nightmarish psychological horror film set in neo-Gothic industrial wasteland. Art-house cult favorite is compulsory for fans of non-mainstream fare in mood for bizarre, disturbing film."

Yep, pretty much. The photography in this film is gorgeous; remarkable when you consider the shoestring budget on which the film was created. In his director's commentary, Lynch speaks at great length on the expert lighting techniques of his Director of Photography (whose name now escapes me). Sadly, this lighting wizard met an untimely early death, as did a couple of other crew members. Kinda makes ya wonder, huh?

I did enjoy this film very much. Strange, yes. It unravels before your eyes like Lynch's very private nightmare world. Like a true artist, Lynch sets up a complex vocabulary of symbols and then just lets them interact.

I never did see a "Lady in the Radiator". I did see the radiator glowing with this unearthly light, and something that resembled a soggy mass of hair piled at the base of said radiator. But a lady? Nope.

I felt a great pathos for the inconsolable cries of the monster baby. Poor little fetal-calf-looking creature, isolated as it was on the table across the room from the parental bed. No wonder it cried so much. (Perhaps this is just my maternal urgings talking, though.)

2006-06-05T22:09:00.000-04:00

At the tender age of 17 months, Ridley Linton-Martin launches into an experimentation with the technique of "automatic drawing". Inspired by the scribblings of American abstract artist Cy Twombly, artistic protegy Linton-Martin conveys his existential angst over the impermanence of life with forceful, unmediated drawings in that most transient of media: chalk on blackboard.

2006-05-18T21:08:00.000-04:00

Name: Ridley Michael Linton-Martin
Age: 16.4 months
Gender: male...and I've checked. More than once.
Weight: 27 lbs.
Height: Not sure, but damn tall. As tall as most 2-year olds. So that's damn tall.
Temperament: Easy going (see photo) until you try take away my bottle/my toy/Dad's cell phone/your car keys/this fork that I'm poised to jab into my eye...and then I unleash the Beast.

Likes: Milk (otherwise known as "na-naaaah"), Dad's cell phone, Dad's Blackberry, the t.v. remote, the cordless phone, toy trucks, cars and basically anything with wheels, standing on my head, being upside down, Indian food (especially Tandoori Chicken and rice pudding), terrorizing Billie the Cat, when Mum sings the "Meow-Mix" song, having my photo taken.

Dislikes: Sitting still to have my photo taken, Mum wiping my snotty nose, carrots, diaper changes, having my autonomy challenged by that relentless b*tch who continually thwarts attempts to jab self in eye with fork.

2006-05-15T21:37:00.000-04:00

Is it ghoulish to routinely scan the pages of the newspaper obituaries for one's own namesake?

Though it's misleading to use the word routinely, I confess that I have on more than one occasion perused the columns of Births & Deaths looking for another Jennifer Linton amongst either set. I haven't, as of yet, discovered one -- either newly arrived or dearly departed.

That is, until now...

"RE-APPEAL FOLLOWING DEATH OF JENNIFER LINTON
27th October 2005

This is an update into the death of Jennifer Linton, the 29-year-old woman who was found dead at an address in Kent Close, Aldridge on 17 October.

The 28-year-old local man previously arrested for murder has been released without charge today.

DCI Balgeet Sidhu, said: "We know that a number of people visited the address between September 15 and 20 and we are in the process of identifying these individuals.

"We urge these people to come forward and we want to hear from anyone who has any information about the incident or the people who visited the address over this six day period."

I feel vaguely ill at ease that Jennifer Linton's murderer is still at large, a fact which suggests that I am superstitious as well as ghoulish.

2006-05-14T16:06:00.000-04:00

Driving home this afternoon after an impromptu Korean lunch in the Pacific Mall, Richard launched into an enthusiastic rendition of the French song Alouette. (I have no working theory to connect the teriyaki beef consumed by Richard to this curiously Gallic response). Although the point of the singing was to momentarily amuse/distract/befuddle our overtired toddler, it prompted a discussion between Richard & I as to the meaning of the song. My regrettably weak grade-nine level French recalled that alouette was a bird (a lark, specifically) and that tête meant head. Well, thanks to Google...

So what do we have here? A song about a lovely lark. Getting plucked.

Alouette, gentille Alouette,
Alouette je te plumerai,
Alouette, gentille Alouette,
Alouette je te plumerai,
Je te plumerai la tête,
Je te plumerai la tête,
Et la tête, et la tête,
Alouette, Alouette,
O-o-o-o-oh,
Alouette, gentille Alouette,
Alouette je te plumerai…

…and in English translation:

Lark, lovely lark,
Lark, lovely lark,
Lark, I’m going to pluck you,
Lark, lovely lark,
Lark, I’m going to pluck you
I’m going to pluck your head,
I’m going to pluck your head,
And the head, and the head,
Lark, lark,
O-o-o-o-oh,
Lark, lovely lark,
Lark, I’m going to pluck you…

Oh, those morbid Frenchies. With their children's songs shaded so dark, it's little wonder that they all smoke so much.

2006-05-01T20:35:00.000-04:00

Confessions of a Shoeaholic.

I love shoes. No, I love shoes. When I use the word love to describe my unabiding enthusiasm for footwear, I'm not alluding to some weird sexual kink in the fetishistic sense. I am merely a self-professed footwear aficionado. Not any kind of shoes, of course, but shoes which reflect my projected self (to borrow a phrase from Jungian psychology). Shoes which are quirky and playful. Shoes which are a work of art. Shoes which possess certain characteristics that differentiate themselves from the purely functional and run-of-the-mill sort of shoe.

The elegant white shoe showcased at the beginning of this post is what started this whole fascination with footwear. The singlemost expensive shoes I've ever purchased, I paid over $400 for my Peter Fox shoes with the silk-satin ribbon and have worn them exactly once ... on my wedding day. I'd wear them again were it not for the fact that they look like bridal shoes.

Next in the line of "shoes I own and love" are my red Camper Twins which I purchased for 90 Euros (at that time, roughly $150 CDN) in Barcelona during a vacation in 2003. I had never encountered shoes possessed of such a conceptual playfulness before I'd laid eyes on these asymmetrical maryjanes. I'd gladly own a few more pairs of these artful shoes were it not for the fact that Campers generally retail for over $200 CDN in Toronto. Incidentally, the embroidered text reads: "He loves me..." and on the companion shoe "He loves me not..." with the white petals of the daisy blowing across the red canvas of both shoes. Who'd guess that footwear could be so poignant?

Fortunately for us footwear aficionados, funky shoes can also be found at bargain prices if one is willing to search through consignment shops. I found a pair of scotch-tartan shoes by the UK label Swear for $35 in a consignment shop in Kensington Market. Comfy as well as stylish.

As recently as last week, I discovered this unholy marriage of punk sensibilities in an athletic shoe: the skull-patterned All-Star Converse. How much fun are these, huh? I've been wearing them pretty much non-stop since last week and, yes, Converse shoes are still as uncomfortable as I remember them to be.

Lastly, I have a photo of some shoes that I'd love to acquire were it not for my perpetual state of poverty. Fluevogs. Gorgeous, sexy, wild & funky Fluevogs. Yum-yum. I am especially attracted to the Goth-meets-Lolita quality of these black, triple-banded maryjanes. I even own striped tights similar to those pictured.

Okay, 'nuff about shoes. Before ya'll think I'm a vapid, superficial kinda girl, I'll end this post to peruse some Kierkegaard before retiring for the night.

(Just kidding about the Kierkegaard.)

2006-04-19T22:42:00.000-04:00

First Haircut for Master Linton-Martin.

When your young child's hair begins to recall the trademark scraggy mane of Neil Young, you know it's time to have it shorn. Okay, I exaggerate somewhat in my description of Ridley's pre-coiffed hair for dramatic effect. [As I post this picture of Ridley to the immediate left, Richard sits behind me in the office and offers this opinion: "It looks like a mugshot". Okay, fine. Yes, it does kinda resemble a police photo, Mr. Martin. Smartass.]

Just keepin' it real time for ya, folks.

Ya know what? It's late and I'm tired. I'm just gonna throw up a couple of recent pics of Babyzilla -- showcasing spiffy new haircut -- upon which all of you can marvel. Enjoy.

2006-04-12T22:51:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, Richard & I placed the DVD of David Cronenberg's "History of Violence" into our player, fully anticipating to be amazed yet again by the Canadian auteur director. How completely and utterly surprised we were when the film turned out to be so ... disappointing.

Did we see the same film that everyone else purportedly saw? We felt that the dialogue was trite and the plot contrived, resulting in something that felt more "movie of the week" than an artful exploration into mankind's relationship to violence & aggression. Sure, this film had the classic Cronenberg touches: splatter, comic book gore and unconventional sex. William Hurt's rather baroque portrayal of Richie Stalls was thoroughly enjoyable. Ed Harris was equally effective as the wounded baddie who badgers Tom & his family. However, the rest of the film just didn't hang together.

Frankly, I've always felt that Cronenberg has more "misses" than "hits" in his oeuvre. Yes, he's a clever guy. He was unquestionably on the cinematic vanguard with such offerings as "Videodrome" and "Naked Lunch". I loved "Spider", too. But "History of Violence" falls way short of the mark. I understand fully why this film was shut out of the Oscars.

Let's not forget that Cronenberg was also a very, very B-movie director in the 70's, responsible for such cult classics as "Rabid" and "Shivers". These schlocky films are fun, but they're a long way from good. Case in point: the lead actress in "Rabid" is 70's porn star Marilyn Chambers. I mean, c'mon...

Sorry, Dave. Love ya, but this ain't one of your better efforts.

2006-04-12T21:39:00.000-04:00

In Canada, we cultivate our hockey fans early. In this photo Ridley wears his Toronto Maple Leafs jersey, a gift from his uncle Dave. The Leafs have not won a Stanley Cup since ... 1967? Before I was born, never mind Ridley. And yet, Toronto fans are loyal to this sport franchise like members of some deranged cult. I don't get it.

2006-03-30T09:56:00.000-05:00

Dolls for adults. Everywhere I look these days I find these arty, quirky dolls which are clearly created for an adult market. (No, not that kind of adult market, you perv). A couple of weeks ago, while walking in the Queen & Spadina area, I spotted a store window chock-a-block with such curiosities as the Living Dead Dolls and even a Tony Montana doll (Al Pacino's character from Scarface).

Okay, I admit it. Were I a childless hipster living in bohemian T-dot, it's entirely likely that I'd stuff my Queen West loft with items such as the Frida Kahlo doll (see photo). Who can resist the charms of a doll with a unibrow?

2006-03-28T23:03:00.000-05:00

It's 11 p.m. on a Tuesday night, but I'm too wired to sleep. I've just emerged from my basement studio, where I've spent a large portion of the day drawing an image of my bare breast. You wouldn't think I had that much breast to occupy hours of drawing, would you? Somedays my pencil goes over... and over... and over an area trying to acheive that perfect blend. The good news is that the sought-after perfect blend was finally, painstakingly acheived.

I'm working on a big drawing featuring myself nursing Ridley. It's perhaps a little surprising that it wasn't until after I bore a child that I felt the need to create semi-nude portraits of myself, stretch marks and all. An unexpected outcome of motherhood has been a much greater appreciation of my body, ultimately resulting in an improved body image. The fact that my body delivered a new life into this world, then manufactured food for said new life, is completely empowering. I am woman....yattayattayatta... Perhaps the experience of childbirth itself, with it's loosening of boundaries as far as the "intimate" areas of your body are concerned, prompts one to reexamining previously held notions of one's own body. The experience of public breastfeeding certainly calls into question societal notions of "decency" -- or, as I refer to it, prudishness. We should celebrate the acheivements of our bodies, not cover them up as something shameful.

Sheesh, ain't I sounding like a hippie-dippie granola-eatin' Earth Mama? I'd better get a handle on myself before I leap into the garden to perform some sort of pagan moon dance.

Speaking of earth mothers, can you believe that Ridley's 15-months old and I'm still nursing him? I surely didn't plan to be nursing a toddler, but things just worked out that way. I'm certain that the day Ridley indicates he wants to wean, I'm going to be totally bummed. Yet another aspect of motherhood that I didn't anticipate.

Life, man, it's just one big classroom.

2006-03-23T21:56:00.000-05:00

That kid of mine just keeps popping up in my artwork. Here's a recent intaglio print entitled "Ridley dismantles Mondrian", for reasons which I believe are self-evident.

Who's Mondrian, you ask? Piet Mondrian was a Dutch modernist painter, best known for his highly structured, grid-like paintings that he dubbed "neoplasticism". I thought it'd be crazy, whimsical fun to imagine a small child pulling the modernist grid apart like so many brightly coloured building-blocks. 'Cause you know, that is precisely what a toddler would do, given the opportunity.

2006-03-16T17:05:00.000-05:00

How old is Robert Smith? My guess is close to 50 years old. The Robert Smith to whom I refer is, of course, the frontman of The Cure. If you still haven't a clue who this individual is then a) you didn't attend highschool in the 80's; or b) you've been sequestered away in a cultural vacuum for the past 25+ years. In either case, you'll probably want to skip this post.

The reason for the above question is The Cure's official web site which I stumbled across the other day. Like all good surfing experiences, I'm not completely sure how I arrived there. Ah, memories! Robert, you make-up wearing, impish Goth boy-man! What a crush I had on you in highschool. What exactly was your appeal? Was it your compelling androgyny? Was it the fact that your shrieks and moans sounded every bit as miserable as I felt? [insert ironic wink here]. I have to admit, though, I was never quite sure whether I wanted to smear your lipstick ever more so with passionate kisses or to hand you a lipliner and give you some tips on achieving that flawless pout.

Robert, I sincerely apologize for not including your album "Disintegration" in my "Top Ten Pop Music Albums of All-Time" list from several postings ago. Clearly, this was an oversight on my part. You're in good company, however, amongst other glaring omissions such as The Clash's "London Calling", Kate Bush's "Never For Ever" and just about anything from Nick Cave. Guess I should've expanded the list to a top 20. "Disintegration" contains my three favourite Cure songs: "Fascination Street", "Love Song" and "Lullaby". "Fascination Street" has one of the best bass lines in a pop song ever, second only to Radiohead's "National Anthem". I'm even willing to overlook "Pictures of You", which, imho, is one of your lamest songs.

Just one thing, Rob. Now that you're approaching the age of a pensioner, I'm not certain that the whole messy-hair-and-smeared-cosmetics thing is working. Nothing personal. I only mention it 'cause I care ;-)

2006-03-10T13:18:00.000-05:00

Recently, I was invited by a "sex-positive feminist collective" called The PeepShow Collective to submit some artwork for an exhibition they are mounting (pun intended) in a Detroit art gallery. Previous to this invite, I was vaguely familiar with the term "sex-positive feminist" and understood only that it's philosophy opposed the anti-pornography feminism of such 80's luminaries as Catharine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin. However, I was curious to learn a more specific definition, and delved a little further.

Here's the definition as given by Wikipedia:

"Sex-positive feminism, sometimes known as pro-sex feminism, sex-radical feminism, or sexually liberal feminism, is a movement that was formed in the early 1980s. Some became involved in the sex-positive feminist movement in response to efforts by anti-pornography feminists, such as Catharine MacKinnon, Andrea Dworkin and Dorchen Leidholdt, to put pornography at the center of a feminist explanation of women's oppression (McElroy, 1995). Other, less academic sex-positive feminists became involved not in opposition to other feminists, but in direct response to what they saw as patriarchal control of sexuality. Authors who have advocated sex-positive feminism include Susie Bright, Betty Dodson, and Pat Califia.

Sex-positive feminism centers around the idea that sexual freedom is an essential component of women's freedom. As such, sex-positive feminists oppose legal or social efforts to control sexual activities between consenting adults, whether these efforts are initiated by the government, other feminists, opponents of feminism, or any other institution. They embrace sexual minority groups, endorsing the value of coalition-building with members of groups targeted by sex-negativity. Sex-positive feminism is connected with the sex-positive movement.

Gayle Rubin (Rubin, 1984) summarizes the conflict over sex within feminism:

...There have been two strains of feminist thought on the subject. One tendency has criticized the restrictions on women's sexual behavior and denounced the high costs imposed on women for being sexually active. This tradition of feminist sexual thought has called for a sexual liberation that would work for women as well as for men, The second tendency has considered sexual liberalization to be inherently a mere extension of male privilege. This tradition resonates with conservative, anti-sexual discourse.

The cause of sex-positive feminism brings together anti-censorship activists, queer activists, feminist scholars, sex radicals, producers of pornography and erotica, among others (though not all members of these groups are necessarily both feminists and sex-positive people). Sex-positive feminists reject the vilification of male sexuality that they attribute to many radical feminists, and instead embrace the entire range of human sexuality. They argue that the patriarchy limits sexual expression and are in favor of giving people of all genders more sexual opportunities, rather than restricting sexual expression in the form of pornography (Queen, 1996). Sex-positive feminists generally reject sexual essentialism, defined by (Rubin, 1984) as "the idea that sex is a natural force that exists prior to social life and shapes institutions". Rather, they see sexual orientation and gender as social constructs that are heavily influenced by society.

Sex-Radical feminists in particular come to a sex-positive stance from a deep distrust in the patriachy's ability to secure women's best interest in sexually limiting laws."

Here's the link if you're desperate to learn more: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sex-positive_feminism

2006-03-04T22:00:00.000-05:00

The reason why it isn't advisable to leave a bottle of moisturizer within reach of a toddler...

2006-03-04T20:50:00.000-05:00

Yes, it's early March in Toronto. Yes, it's cold. Nasty, bitter cold. And yet, stalwart parents that we are, we braved the lingering Canadian winter to bring entertainment and an educational experience to our young son by taking a family trip to the Toronto Metro Zoo.

Well, okay, the trip wasn't so much for Ridley than for us. For a number of reasons, we've been housebound for a long period of time. Thus, we were desperate for a daytime family outing in the sunshine, and not even frigid temperatures were going to thwart us. Did Ridley truly appreciate the trip to the Zoo? Difficult to measure. He did point and babble at some of the animals, and even giggled at the exuberant hopping of the kangeroo rat.

Here's a photo of Ridley and a couple of orangutans. It appears to be a mother orangutan with a baby. Awwwww. This photo was difficult to get, as the warmth & humidity of the Malaysian Pavilion caused the camera lens to fog. Incidentally, the bluish-purple blob in the lower-right corner of the picture frame is Ridley's head (with hat) and the bluish blob on the right is his mittened hand knocking against the glass.

The next photo is Ridley and a Mandrill ape (a type of baboon). Neither look too impressed by the other. So young, and already so bored.

Next is a cute photo of Rid and his Dad, hanging out by the Tiger cage.

Then, Ridley and I check out some sort of peacock-like bird (look carefully amidst the flora).

And lastly, me and Rid just kinda hanging out.

2006-03-02T15:12:00.000-05:00

My pink hair comes courtesy of Jerome Russell's Punky Colour. The name of the hue shown in this photo is "#1412 Flamingo Pink", though if you ask me the colour is more magenta than pink. This is my first time using Punky Colour, as prior to this my funky hair colour of choice was Manic Panic's "Hot Hot Pink". The word on the street is that Punky Colour lasts longer. We'll see. It sure as heck stained everything in my bathroom a lovely, toxic shade of magenta/pink.

Admittedly, taking a picture of oneself in the bathroom mirror is rather goofy -- not that goofiness has ever curtailed my actions in the past. I wanted to document my pink-streaked locks before the colour fades, and my regular photographer (i.e. Richard) has been travelling and/or working late and so is unavailable. Necessity is the mother of invention, they say.

2006-02-26T22:19:00.000-05:00

Life versus photography.

Have you ever noticed how effective photography can be in capturing all the small nuances of life? All those subtle changes that we simply don't observe in daily existence because we're too busy existing to notice?

Photographs of children are a prime example of this phenomena. Due to the fact that very young children change so rapidly over a relatively short span of time, one can more easily document these changes in photos. I have observed Ridley for every day of the 14 months that he's lived on this planet. Logically, I know that he is growing and changing daily. And yet, I will look at a photograph of him from only a couple of weeks ago and remark "Wow! He's changed a great deal in only this short time!" Amazing. It boggles my mind, anyway.

Speaking of photos, you've no doubt observed that I've added two recent ones of Ridley to this post. No longer the chubby, bald-headed, toothless baby of months ago, he's transformed into an active, lean and perpetually curious toddler. One who enjoys his pasta, as evidenced in photo number two (see below). Now if only he could score a glass of chianti to wash it all down, life would be perfect.

2006-02-08T20:27:00.000-05:00

SPAM. The canned meat product, not the unsolicited e-mail variety. Never consumed it myself, but it appears that many people feel a strong attachment to their "chopped pork shoulder meat with ham meat added". So strong are their feelings that they have generated a web site of Haiku poetry dedicated to -- you guessed it -- SPAM. Check out: http://stuff.mit.edu/people/jync/spam/archive.html

Here's some of the SPAM Haikus (known as SPAM-kus) that stand out for me:

Empathize with them
Cut your finger on SPAM top
Pigs must feel that too.

and...

Pink porcine passion
Unzip the can, give it here
Wham! Bam! Thank you SPAM!

and more still...

Cold and congealed, ugh
Add some heat, now nicely browned
Much better to eat.

2006-02-06T13:20:00.000-05:00

I am the anti-Mom Mom. I rarely manage to make it out to the local drop-in centres or playgroups, mainly because I'm bored with discussing baby-related matters with other mothers. I cringe at those e-mails from BabyCenter.com that supposedly contain helpful parenting tips but are thinly disguised marketing devices for the purposes of flogging consumer baby products that you just don't need. Listening to The Wiggles makes me want to puncture my own eardrums to escape the mind-numbing torture (sorry, Cindy). You'll never catch me forwarding on one of those cloying, sickly sweet e-mail chainletters that jammer on about "how motherhood is the most rewarding job you'll ever have". Yuck!

I lovelovelove my little guy, but ooooooh boy do I ever look forward to those days when he's in daycare and his Mom can concentrate on her work. No, Ridley is certainly not deprived of interaction with other children, as I do regularly attend a mother's group on Friday mornings. He also receives heaping portions of social contact at his daycare. I cannot imagine being a full-time stay-at-home Mom. I'd go bananas. It's called balance in life, folks.

2006-01-26T12:11:00.000-05:00

Does anyone remember Meryn Cadell, the Canadian singer and performance artist who rose to public prominence back in 1992 with the radio-friendly spoken word hit "The Sweater"? (Buried in a box somewhere in my parents' basement lies an abandoned cassette of Cadell's album "Angel Food for Thought").

Today on CBC Radio I heard an interview with Cadell, and I couldn't help but notice that her once lovely, lilting voice had deepened remarkably. Apparently, in 2004 Cadell came out as a transsexual man (i.e. female-to-male).

Huh. It's a funny old world, ain't it? Well, my hats off to her, ummm, him. That takes guts.

Here's a link to Cadell online journal, if you're interested: http://www.meryncadell.com/journal/

2006-01-22T16:51:00.000-05:00

Ah, Michael Moore. I truly am an avid fan of your documentaries, though sometimes even I wish you'd shut the f*ck up. However, when you're on you're really, really on. Case in point:

(from Michael Moore's web site http://www.michaelmoore.com)

"Friday, January 20th, 2006

Michael Moore Statement on Canadian Election

Michael Moore is currently in production on his next movie. As an avid lover of all things Canadian, he has issued the following statement regarding Canada's upcoming election on Monday:

Oh, Canada -- you're not really going to elect a Conservative majority on Monday, are you? That's a joke, right? I know you have a great sense of humor, and certainly a well-developed sense of irony, but this is no longer funny. Maybe it's a new form of Canadian irony -- reverse irony! OK, now I get it. First, you have the courage to stand against the war in Iraq -- and then you elect a prime minister who's for it. You declare gay people have equal rights -- and then you elect a man who says they don't. You give your native peoples their own autonomy and their own territory -- and then you vote for a man who wants to cut aid to these poorest of your citizens. Wow, that is intense! Only Canadians could pull off a hat trick of humor like that. My hat's off to you.

Far be it from me, as an American, to suggest what you should do. You already have too many Americans telling you what to do. Well, actually, you've got just one American who keeps telling you to roll over and fetch and sit. I hope you don't feel this appeal of mine is too intrusive but I just couldn't sit by, as your friend, and say nothing. Yes, I agree, the Liberals have some 'splainin' to do. And yes, one party in power for more than a decade gets a little... long. But you have a parliamentary system (I'll bet you didn't know that -- see, that's why you need Americans telling you things!). There are ways at the polls to have your voices heard other than throwing the baby out with the bath water.

These are no ordinary times, and as you go to the polls on Monday, you do so while a man running the nation to the south of you is hoping you can lend him a hand by picking Stephen Harper because he's a man who shares his world view. Do you want to help George Bush by turning Canada into his latest conquest? Is that how you want millions of us down here to see you from now on? The next notch in the cowboy belt? C'mon, where's your Canadian pride? I mean, if you're going to reduce Canada to a cheap download of Bush & Co., then at least don't surrender so easily. Can't you wait until he threatens to bomb Regina? Make him work for it, for Pete's sake.

But seriously, I know you're not going to elect a guy who should really be running for governor of Utah. Whew! I knew it! You almost had me there. Very funny. Don't do that again. God, I love you, you crazy cold wonderful neighbors to my north. Don't ever change.

Michael Moore

(Mr. Moore is not available for interviews because he now needs to address the situation in Azerbaijan. But he could be talked into it for a couple of tickets to a Leaf's game.) "

2006-01-15T20:48:00.000-05:00

As the old saying goes: if you can't dazzle them with your brilliance, you can baffle them with your bullshit. This statement can be applied most notably to the "artist's statement". For those not familiar with this format, an artist's statement is generally a one-page explanation offered up by a visual artist to give context to a body of work. As most visual artists are horrendous writers incapable of identifying the subject of any given sentence, the artist's statement has become the bane of curators and art juries alike. Here's an example that found it's way into my inbox the other day. The names of the guilty parties have been removed:

"Nameless Artist's new series of paintings at Nameless Gallery explores a relationship between figurative and abstraction in an attempt to meld archetypal probing and emotional automatism with a meditative figural base. His figures seem situated in some brightly coloured realm that is both landscape and mindscape. Iconic strawberries and near invisible scrawlings of a lucky Chinese cat blend with globs of pastel coloured drips and homages to Vermeer and Ingres. Reflective gazes shine out from atmospheric tints toward colour fields, graffiti-like paint stick smears, and varied brushstrokes."

Ummmmm....wha? Surely this artist's statement alone is proof that this poor painter desperately requires better ventilation in his studio. Inhaling all those nasty solvents has clearly taken a toll.

2006-01-06T22:44:00.000-05:00

Friday night in early January. Baby is sleeping soundly in crib, so no chance of going out. Nothing on the idiot box but fat, bored, middle-aged married couples with cellulite getting flogged. No, seriously. This is the new low into which television has sank. Hey, I'm all for sexual emancipation, but couldn't the sexually emancipated (on TV) be slimmer, younger and lacking in bum acne or cellulite? Is that so much to ask?

Ah well. I'm feeling kinda ... blech. I suspect that it's these unrelenting grey, overcast skies contributing to the general malaise of my soul. Oooohhhhh, I like the sound of that -- malaise of the soul -- sounds like a phrase borrowed from a nineteenth-century romantic novel in which some unfortunate heroine dies of consumption or goes mad and wanders about on the moors.

Shit. I must be bored. Here's something that's sure to lift my spirits: a photo of my kiddo. Oh yeah, I can hear ya'll groaning behind your respective keyboards. I don't care if I've transformed into one of those parents who brattles on obsessively about her child. Shut up.

Ridley in his Che Guevara bodysuit. I wonder what Ernesto the Marxist revolutionary would make of the fact that I shelled out $35 for an article of baby clothing emblazoned with his image? Ironic? I'd say. In fact, I came across an interesting article that addressed the controversy felt by Cuban-Americans surrounding the pop culture use of the Guevara image. Here's an excerpt:

"Ernesto "Che" Guevara's face is a familiar one around the world, stamped on shirts, hats, postcards, lighters and other items. To some, the famous picture of the revolutionary with the beret, long hair, scraggly moustache and faraway gaze, symbolizes idealism and rebellion. To many Cuban exiles, however, he's a ruthless killer who helped establish a totalitarian regime in their homeland."

Hmmm, seems like they have a valid point. Still, knowing what I know about Guevara (which admittedly is more than most, but still not much) I chose to buy this baby bodysuit. Evil capitalist swine that I am.

While pushing the stroller along Queen Street East the other day, I came across a t-shirt in a store window with the familiar Che Guevara image. This particular t-shirt took the irony a step further with a caption underneath Che which read: "I don't know who this is". It just killed me.

2006-01-03T16:02:00.000-05:00

Babyzilla ushers in the year 2006 with a snowsled ride. Although this photo may not entirely testify to this fact, but beneath those many layers of winter gear, there sits a happy and contented baby. He may not be able to move his limbs too much, but he's happy.

2005-12-26T16:23:00.000-05:00

Christmas at the Martins. My sister-in-law Lisa and her husband Dave were kind enough to host Christmas at their house this year. Ridley was the recipient of many, many presents. Thanks to everyone for their generosity. Amidst the mounds of toys and torn wrapping paper, some Banana Chocolate Fudge Birthday Cake was consumed. Well, actually, it was mostly rubbed into the carpet, clothing, and furniture, but I believe some of the cake was eaten. Ridley expresses thanks to his gourmand Dad for supplying the cake. Aunt Lisa supplied the ice cream.

From left-to-right we have Lauri, Richard's step-sister, Himself, Grandma Pearl, and Ridley's cousin Ethan.

2005-12-23T21:35:00.000-05:00

The official photo of Ridley's 2005 Christmas. As it has been pointed out to me innumerable times by those whom I would describe (with utmost respect & humour) as sticklers for details, this is, in fact, Ridley's second Christmas. He was born on December 25th in 2004. It is, however, truly & undeniably Ridley's first birthday. I was merely attracted to the symmetry of "first Christmas-first birthday". Now get over it.

There's a curious legacy of Christmas Babies in the Linton family. This phenomena began with the birth of my cousin Sorena. I followed exactly three years later on Christmas of 1968. Then, 36 years (gulp) later and -- voila! -- Ridley Linton-Martin is born! What are the odds?! Beats me. Mathematics and I haven't been on speaking-terms for several years.

Advantages of Being a Christmas Baby:

1. Novelty factor. Having your birthday on a major holiday sets you apart from all those boring, mundane, ho-hum birthdays. My parents always placed a positive spin on my Christmas birthday, telling me how "special" I was to have my birthday on such an auspicious date.

2. It is most likely that you will find yourself in a gathering a people on your birthday. These people may be largely composed of your family, but it can't be all that bad, can it? (Note to family members: kidding).

3. There will likely be a whole bunch of food lying around, much of which you neither bought nor made. Bonus.

4. You have the option of celebrating an "unbirthday" on whatever date you prefer. Mine has always been September 2nd, as this was my maternal grandmother's birthday.

Disadvantages of Being a Christmas Baby:

1. You've never had your locker decorated at school.

2. There is the potential of getting jipped on your presents. Be vigilant and make sure this never happens.

2005-12-22T13:46:00.000-05:00

Christmas at the Linton family household happened on December 18th this year. In our mad rush to get out the door with baby, parcels and ourselves, we managed to forget our camera. Oops. Many thanks to my niece Catriona for documenting the event for us.

Pictured on the left is my nephew Conor holding Ridley. In the group shot below we have (from left-to-right) my niece Catriona, nephew Conor, my Mom (the Linton Matriarch, if you will), and Conor's wife Maggie.

Next, we have (from left to right, beginning in the back row) my Mom, Dad, sister-in-law Nuala, sister-in-law Linda, (middle row) Amy's husband Fernando (what relation does that make him to me? My nephew-in-law?), my niece Amy, (front row) my niece Courtney, Amy's son Noah, and my brother David. Whew!

Lastly, we have myself and Richard and our progeny. This is one of those "just looked up and someone snapped my picture" photos. Good thing that at least Ridley appears to be photogenic.

2005-12-14T11:05:00.000-05:00

SPAM: the most obtrusive, vulgar and abominable reality of our modern times. No matter how many filters I create in my e-mail application, the stuff still sullies my inbox.

And yet, today I received a spam e-mail that I would classify as almost poetic. I don't quite understand the reason that anyone would send out this e-mail. There's no suspect gif file or other attachment waiting to wreck havoc on my computer. The body of the e-mail simply read:

"The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.
A myth is a religion in which no one any longer believes.
If I had only known, I would have been a locksmith."

How obscure, yet kinda thought-provoking.

2005-12-09T13:39:00.000-05:00

Children can inspire us in many different ways. As an artist, Ridley has inspired me to create art that addresses my feelings towards him, as well as to motherhood in general. It's not always pretty -- life never is -- but it's as honest as I'm willing to be on paper.

The first image that featured Himself was an etching entitled "Ridley's first vision of his ancestral mothers". The title says it all. If you're not already familiar with my work, then let me offer this one crucial fact: the reality that my work conveys is one that's filtered through layers of mythology, art history, fantasy and the odd alcohol-induced stupor. I do not strive to reflect the real world, but to improve upon it as I see fit.

In "Ridley's first vision..." I'm thinking of all those myths of the Divine Child. Jesus wasn't the first, by the way. It's an ancient story that exists in the legends of many disparate cultures.

Further to this myth of the Divine Child is the second work I created featuring Ridley: "Year of the Monkey (Ridley's birthmark)." Yes, Ridley was born in the Chinese Year of Monkey (as was I). Not that he's Chinese, of course (neither am I), but I'm not politically-correct enough to hesitate borrowing the stories of someone else's culture. I'm not Greek or Roman, either. Heck, I'm not even Catholic (see my web site to understand these references).

Ridley has this interesting birthmark on his lower back/upper hip area, commonly referred to as a "strawberry mark". I imagined that, instead of a shapeless blob, this birthmark actually resembled a monkey. Not just any monkey, but Sun Wu-k'ung the Monkey King. Again, this idea harkens back to the whole Divine Child, "behold, he bears the mark" kinda fantasy-based stuff. Hey, just setting my kid up to have a massive Christ Complex later in life.

2005-11-29T23:41:00.000-05:00

Today, November 29th, 2005, Ridley Michael Linton-Martin was unquestionably the cleanest baby on Bowmore Road.

I'll give you the backstory. For the past four days, Ridley has been wracked with the pain of teething. As a result, he has been an uncharacteristically poor eater and sleeper. The morning nap essentially disappeared. Baby food went uneaten. The only thing that this baby would accept into his mouth without much hesitation was my nipple. Hence, the majority of his nutrients were coming from breastmilk.

Now, those among you who have breastfed an infant (or are the partners of breastfeeding mothers) will know that an exclusively breastfed baby produces an unique type of bowel movement: mustard yellow, sometimes frothy, often very wet and runny. In a very young infant, these yellow BMs are frequent but generally not too massive in quantity at any given time as the baby is not so large.

Now imagine that this exclusively breastfed infant weighs over 25 lbs. and is nearly one year in age. Ah huh. We're talkin' spillage, folks. Massive amounts of wet yellow poo oozing out of every nook and cranny of the hapless, overloaded diaper. Thus, on November 29th Ridley had three changes of clothes, I had at least two, and yes, Ridley had three baths in one day.

Like I said, the cleanest baby on Bowmore.

2005-11-17T12:21:00.000-05:00

2005-11-16T16:11:00.000-05:00

Podcasting has saved my sanity.

I begin this post with what may be a shocking revelation to some: that working from home can be lonely. I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to pursue my passion, namely my art. However, as with many other creative vocations, it's one that you perform in solitude. Well, okay, periodically I rent the facilities at a printmakers' studio in downtown Toronto and actually hold conversations with other artists. Most of the time, though, I'm puttering about in my home studio.

The one thing, and indeed the only thing, that I miss about my last place of employment is the camaraderie I enjoyed with my co-workers. The radio helps ease some of the silence of solitude because, though it is not a two-way conversation, at least it's another voice in the room. For years I've been a devotee of CBC Radio One. However, lately I find that the ol' CBC is just plain boring -- at least during the daytime. I mean, how many gardening tips does one really need to listen to? I abandoned commerical radio many years ago, as it's simply a morass of mediocrity. (Can someone please explain to me why Madonna is a big celebrity when she can bearly carry a note?).

And so enters podcasting. Ah, salvation! Finally, something with a little content. Here's some really, really great podcasts that I recently discovered:

The Radio Adventures of Dr. Floyd http://www.doctorfloyd.com/blog/rss.xml
Cush - Things I Say http://feeds.feedburner.com/CushthingsISay
Reel Reviews http://reelreviewsradio.com/podcast.xml

Enjoy!

2005-11-10T21:50:00.000-05:00

CBC Radio has become obsessed with the making of lists; specifically, the cobbling-together of lists of the "Top Canadian Songs" or the "Top 50 Songs of All Time", and the like. Judging by the popularity of these programs, it's not just the old hippies at our national public radio who are list-obsessed. Everyone's jumping on this bandwagon.

I blame Nick Hornby. He penned the now classic "High Fidelity" and created the immature yet lovable list-making rogue Rob Fleming. After the traumatic break-up from his girlfriend, Rob takes comfort in the company of the clerks at his vintage vinyl store, whose bantering compilations of top-five lists (e.g., top five Elvis Costello songs; top-five films) typify the novel's ingratiating saturation in pop culture.

Ah, but I digress. Somewhat. Lists and pop culture, they go hand-in-hand. It all smacks of the broody seriousness of adolescence, this compiling of lists such as "Top-Ten Favourite Pop Albums of All Time". I'm well into adulthood now, with the big 40 looming on the not-too-distant horizon. I have no excuse. And I offer none. Here's my list, in no particular order:

1. Radiohead. OK Computer. Tough call. Doubtless, it's a brilliant, flawless album. It's just difficult for me to pick just one Radiohead album. Honourable Mention to both Kid A and Amnesiac.

2. The Smiths. Louder Than Bombs. Is this one actually an album, or another Smiths compilation? I can never tell, there are so many compilations out there. This one still lives in my 5-CD platter.

3. Ani Difranco. Dilate. Accept no substitutes, this woman's the real deal. The double-CD live album Living in Clip receives Honourable Mention. Ani is amazing in concert.

4. Underworld. Second Toughest in the Infants. I recently "acquired" this album again, after having lost the CD on a flight back from Amsterdam. Solid.

5. Led Zeppelin. Fourth Album. Ya know, the one without a title, just those four symbols. Yeah, that one. Again, tough to choose just one Zep album. Classic. I pick this album not so much for Stairway to Heaven (good song that became waaaaaay overplayed), but for the ultra sexy cover of the Memphis Minnie song When the Levee Breaks. Still gives me shivers.

6. Pink Floyd. Dark Side of the Moon. Yeah, first Zeppelin and now Floyd. Gettin' way old skool. Dark Side still remains a perfect gem of an album, though. Honourable Mention to Wish You Were Here and Meddle, which contains the gorgeous, scintillating, 26-minute-long Echoes. Ah, many an acid trip was embarked upon whilst listening to this song. (Don't try this at home, kids).

7. AC/DC. Back in Black. Kicks Ass. 'Nuff said.

8. Tom Waits. Nighthawks at the Diner. Tom Waits live and in top storytelling form.

9. Nick Drake. Time of No Reply. This one is a posthumous compilation, with unreleased material. Drake's voice is so soft and vulnerable that you'll be close to tears. Hauntingly beautiful.

10. Depeche Mode. Violator. What?! Hey, it can't all be moody doom-and-gloom. Mmm...yeah, actually it can, 'cause this DM album is moody and gloomy. But David Gahan's voice is sooooo sexy. And it's all very danceable.

There. Now you've learned so much about me. Glad we could share this moment ;-)

2005-10-31T22:19:00.000-05:00

One may claim that the reason they embarked on parenthood was to continue the family dynasty, or for the less grandiose reason of nurturing a little being just for the fun and experience of it. Yeah, but I ain't buying it. The real reason that anyone would have a child is to dress he/she up on Halloween and document the whole thing with a plethora of pictures. Heck, I was so excited about Ridley's first Halloween that I rushed out to purchase a costume back in mid-September.

Ladies & gentlemen, I present: Ridley the Great Pumpkin.

Okay, it's getting late and my usual sharp wit is waning badly, so before I turn into a pumpkin myself (see what I mean about the impaired wit?) I think I'll just throw up the pictures with minimal commentary.
.

From left-to-right we have Marnie and Jonah, Ridley and myself.

Ridley & his Pa.

2005-10-21T09:56:00.000-04:00

Recent photos of the Boy Wonder. He's standing and cruising around the room, propping himself up with the furniture, with people ... with anything, really, that gets in his path. On October 25th, Ridley will be 10-months old. I haven't the faintest idea what he weighs at the moment, but I do know that he's wearing 12-18 months baby clothes. Hey, we don't call him Babyzilla for nothing.

2005-10-19T09:57:00.000-04:00

"[Feminism is] a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practise witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."
- Pat Robertson, Republican National Convention, 1992

Leave my husband, kill my child and become a lesbian?! Nah. I think I'd just prefer to kick the living snot outta psychotic right-wing nutcases such as yourself, Pat.

2005-10-14T12:36:00.000-04:00

Is there something in the water that causes Aussies to act in the manner in which they do? I ask this question in response to a cute little factoid that Cindy brought to my attention, involving garden gnomes, artistic expression and (I suspect) large quantities of beer. Cindy writes:

"My sister sent me a note from Australia the other day describing that Canberra holds a yearly garden gnome festival in which Australians submit thousands of hand painted garden gnomes which are then displayed on the parliamentary lawn. Attached is a pic of my sister's fave - two gnomes painted to resemble band members of KISS. I'm showing my heavy metal roots here, but I think they're Gene Simmons and Ace Frehley*. You've got to appreciate a culture like this."

*Cindy, your heavy metal roots are showing ;-)

2005-10-08T21:48:00.000-04:00

Saturday night on Thanksgiving weekend -- and bored as hell. Richard's watching Hockey Night in Canada downstairs. I hate hockey. Stupid, stupid sport. *Grumble*

Started to work at my drawing table (new drawing started...looks good so far...thanks for your interest) but was soon distracted by the computer. All of the sudden I felt it imperative that I Google lyrics to Radiohead songs. I mean, just what the hell is Thom Yorke moaning on about, anyway? What I discovered was this nifty Radiohead web site/blog, with Himself (the aforementioned Mr. Yorke) posting on a fairly frequent basis. The guy's a brilliant songwriter, but he has yet to embrace grammar. Call me old school, but I bristle when I see a sentence which lacks any sort of capitalization. It's called a shift key, Thom. It won't hurt you.

Anyway, the URL is http://www.ateaseweb.com/

No, this doesn't have anything to do with Babyzilla. What, you think my whole life revolves around my kid? :-)

2005-10-06T19:58:00.000-04:00

Goofing around with Babyzilla. If you look carefully, you can spot the incredibly long rope of spit dangling from Ridley's lower lip. Drool literally pours from his mouth these days. He's every sign of teething, except teeth. Not that I'm in any big hurry to get chomped on, ya understand.

2005-09-29T13:22:00.000-04:00

Artists. We're a funny bunch.

This is a listing that I noticed in Akimbo* today. I suppose it's best described as a joke on the Toronto art community, which has gone a little overboard in recent years with glitzy, self-congratulatory award ceremonies:

"The Anonymous Art Awards, 2005 presented by Miklos Legrady and OCAD Student 2225233, along with Those Who Remain Anonymous.

The Anonymous Art Awards 2005 will celebrate and honor those artists who have shown excellence this year but wish to remain anonymous. The art community, while an endearing crowd, like all groups will enforce their own sense of social conformity. Some artists on the other hand are shy, socially inept, or badly confused.**

Anonymous art could be more interesting than art history; it's a known fact.This is an opportunity to let your imagination soar to what those anonymous works could be, would be, if we knew about them. Awards will be given in all categories of work. Unfortunately, since the work could lead to indentifying the artists,no work may be entered in the competition or shown to the public.

Since the winners will wish to remain anonymous, there'll be no need for prizes, no walking up to the podium under the glare of spotlights. In fact, since the winners won't show up at all, there's no point in expensive award presentations,which have been very successfully cancelled.

Thank you all for participating."

Yeah, whatever. Those OCAD students must be sniffing solvents again. Jokes which are at the expense of the art community always amuse me, though admittedly it's a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

*Akimbo is a web site and e-mail list that informs an interested public about cultural events throughout Canada, most of which take place in Toronto.

**Oh, wow, no stereotype here. And for the record, I'm not badly confused. Only slightly dazed.

In other news, I have some of my artwork appearing in a radical feminist anthology called "Red Light: Superheroes, Saints and Sluts". The book launch in Toronto takes place next Wednesday, October 5th. Richard & I have arranged the babysitter and am looking forward for a (radical) night out. Hopefully, Richard won't feel too emasculated by the time the evening ends . There's more information on the book at the publisher's web site.

2005-09-23T14:09:00.000-04:00

As of September 16, we have finished with the orthotic molding helmet. At least, we've decided not to continue with the 18-23 hours/day wearing of the helmet -- am still considering whether Ridley should wear it at night just to preserve the "new and improved" shape of his head. It's been 12 weeks since he first wore the Helm of Molding, and the change to his head is remarkable.

Just to backtrack for a moment: at about 4.5-5 months of age, Ridley exhibited a rather noticably flattened back of the skull, caused by a "condition" called Positional plagiocephaly. I placed parenthesis around the word condition, as the flattening of his skull was not caused by a disease or anything such as that, but rather as the result being placed on his back to sleep. The flattening that occurred did not impact his brain development, but it did produce an oddly shaped head that would not (entirely) correct itself over time. Hence, the use of the orthotic molding helmet to reshape the head.

I know, it seems rather medieval to strap a baby into a helmet for nearly 24 hours a day. Believe me, I wrestled with the decision to go ahead with this treatment. "Is there anything wrong with a differently shaped head?", I pondered. "Was this merely a tyranny of the majority, insisting that we all conform to the notion of a conventionally-round head?" And then I decided to leave off the philosophical arguments and just help my son's head look a little less misshapened. He may want to shave his head one day, after all.

Here's a photo of the plaster cast that the orthotist at Sick Kids created of Ridley's head. This cast was used to create the custom molding helmet:

And here's Ridley's head, taken after 12 weeks of wearing the helmet:

There more information on Positional plagiocephaly on the Hospital for Sick Children's web site.

2005-09-20T14:44:00.000-04:00

Many thanks to Milena for posting this on her blog. I nearly peed myself laughing when I saw it: http://www.churchsigngenerator.com/

The one above was created by Milena. I simply couldn't think of a funnier one:

2005-09-20T11:45:00.000-04:00

"If you want an autograph, speak to my publicist."

2005-09-20T11:31:00.000-04:00

Richard & I took Ridley out for his inaugeral bike ride this past weekend. As evidenced in the photo above, it wasn't an overwhelming success, but neither was it a complete disaster. We think his harness may have been a little too tight -- which would make anyone cranky.

2005-09-20T11:08:00.000-04:00

Barbara Walters deserves to be bitch-slapped.

Today, whilst waiting in a local coffee shop for my lb. of french roast to be ground, I flipped through a copy of Glamour magazine. (Feminists can still read Glamour magazine ... we just do it with irony). What do my eyes alight upon but an article addressing the hot debate taking place south of the border on the topic of public breastfeeding, sparked by a comment made by Ms. Walters. On her show "The View", Walters stated that while she and her hairdresser were on a flight, the woman seated next to them breastfed her baby on board. She then claimed that this made her and her hairdresser “uncomfortable”.

Oh dear, Ms. Walters. Fine, you have a right to voice your opinion. You even have a right to be uncomfortable. However, we nursing mothers are not about to skulk back into the smelly shadows of some public washroom as if we were performing some perverse act. My baby needs to eat. Breasts provide his nourishment. That's what they're for, incidentally, Ms. Walters. They're not merely ornamental.

By now, half of the population of The Beaches (where I live in Toronto) has caught glimpses of my breasts as I nurse my baby in public. So what? I'm discreet ... or, at least, I'm as discreet as I can be with my generous bosom.

Anyway, here's more on the debate:

http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art32659.asp

2005-09-14T09:04:00.000-04:00

Rescue me from the potent siren call of "ironic baby wear". What is it that compels new age parents to adorn their children with anarchy symbols and the like? Is it because it's so funny, or is there some Freudian projection going on here? Who knows. It's just plain cute.

http://www.babywit.com/

Pictured are two of my personal favs.

The other day I came across some good breastfeeding information on the web from good ol' Dr. Jack (Newman), the Canadian guru of lactation. Ridley's turning 9-months in less than two weeks, and we're still nursing. I recall, back when he was 4-months and still being exclusively breastfed, that I wanted nothing more than to stop nursing. Now, however, it's no big deal at all. Easy, in fact. I'm willing to take it to a year, and then reassess. If he wants to continue to nurse into his toddlerhood, I'm okay with that.

Of course, he hasn't cut any teeth yet...

http://www.thenewparentsguide.com/breastfeeding-myths-1-drnewman.htm.

2005-09-07T09:38:00.000-04:00

Wednesday morning, and the entire Linton-Martin clan has been levelled by a late summer cold. The phlegm is running thick and fast. (Not exactly...I just wanted an excuse to type the word phlegm...twice!).

Ridley's napping away at the moment. A big holla out to the makers of infant Dimetapp. Poor little puppy.

I just updated the "Links" section of this blog (see right hand margin) with links to some other, really nifty blogs. Everyone and their grandmother has a blog these days, it seems. These ones stand out, however. They are all art-related as many of you know that this is my big passion. Kudos to Kevin E. who directed me to the Drawn blog of contemporary illustrators. I just love that stuff.

When Ridley naps, I've been thumbing through one of my latest acquisitions, an anthology called Modern Arf which looks at the "unholy marriage of art and comics".

2005-09-02T14:09:00.000-04:00

Geez, those disposable cameras sure suck. Remind me to never bother with one again. These photos have more grain than my breakfast cereal.

Here's a nice photo of Cindy and Ridley, both demonstrating how well they can sit-up without support. Impressive.

I brought a bunch of Rid's toys with us but, of course, the thing that amused him the most was the plastic changing pad. That, and sticking his hand into a glass of water, as seen in the photo below. The hand-in-water thing had him laughing for quite a while. Babies...who can understand the subtle nuance of their humour?

Yesterday, I had Ridley weighed and measured at the doctor's office, more for my own curiosity than anything else. He's 23 lbs. and his height & weight are still off the top of the charts. No wonder my back hurts.

2005-08-29T15:21:00.000-04:00

Arrived home safe & sound, though a little ragged around the edges. Traveling with an 8-month old infant is a challenge, but possible. The flight there and back were remarkably uneventful. Ridley handled this new experience with characteristic calm. It was like he'd done it all before. I tell ya, this kid is definitely destined for greatness.

I forgot the digital camera at home (duh) so I bought one of those disposables and took a couple of snaps whilst in "Canada's Maritime Playground". Cindy & Terry were delightful hosts (as always) and I'm ever appreciative of the opportunity to visit. Highlights of the trip include Terry's phenomenal seafood feast, lunch at a Japanese restaurant where I consumed the absolutely best sushi outside of Asia, and a successful trip to that greatest of Maritime establishments Frenchy's, where I purchased two pairs of jeans (for me) and two shirts (for son) all for the princely sum of $10.

We also came to the conclusion, after watching my DVD of the 1985 cinematic classic "The Sure Thing", that John Cusack has indeed made an entire career out of playing the exact same character in every single movie he's appeared in...okay, save for the puppeteer in "Being John Malkovich" who was a completely unsympathetic jerk.

Will post pics once they're developed.

2005-08-29T15:18:00.000-04:00

2005-08-17T13:39:00.000-04:00

Ridley & I are flying out to Halifax tomorrow a.m. to visit with Ms. Cindy Lou Who. I don't know about Rid (his interior life still remains a mystery) but I'm soooooo looking forward to the change of scenery, not to mention visiting with one of my oldest and dearest comrades. I'm packing my DVD of "The Sure Thing" so we can have a retro-Cusack-girlie night.

Found these photos on my harddrive today. They date from February of this year, so Rid would be only 2 months old.

After having vacated my second-floor home studio, I had to be resourceful in my artistic pursuits. Here I'm pictured working at my drawing table which, at that point in time, was located in my dining room.

I'm working on one of the panels of "Homage to Van Eyck" in these photos. Visit my web site (see profile) for the completed drawing. Jeez, I really, really miss my studio. I need to have a creative outlet to feel like a happy, well-adjusted, balanced individual. This blog is a case in point. For those of us with the art "calling", it becomes an addiction. Okay, perhaps addiction is too strong a term -- we'll say a requirement. It's difficult for people who are not involved in the arts to understand.

Ridley is such an important part of my world -- and I'm not saying that because I think that I should. That being said, I can't wait 'til he starts daycare in the fall of 2005. I'll miss him, no doubt. However, I need my artwork. Hell, it'll just be nice to think about something not relating to babies for a brief period of time.

Sheesh, listen to me whine. Sorry. Will post pics of my trip when we return. Ciao dahlinks.

2005-08-12T14:07:00.000-04:00

A wiser person than myself once spoke these sagely words: be careful what you ask for, you may get it.

A dark and drizzling Friday afternoon. I'm sat here behind the magic glowing box that is my computer monitor, whilst Ridley has his afternoon nap. Several weeks ago I worried, I fretted, I complained about Ridley's inability to nap for a length of time greater than 30 minutes. After perusing various baby-related web sites and spending some cash on Marc Weissbluth's "Healthy Sleeping Habits, Happy Child" (the book-du-jour for overtired infants and their frazzled parents), I've managed to get Rid to nap successfully, sometimes for 2-3 hours at a time. The result of which, however, means that between his 2-3 daytime naps and feedings, I'm trapped -- hopelessly, desperately trapped -- inside the house. Sigh. Well, he is, indeed, a happier baby for the extra sleep, so it's a small price to pay.

Other than the rain, though, today's been a good day. Two days ago, however, was a very bad day indeed. At least, we'll classify it a dramatic day. Ridley fell from the changing pad WHAP! onto the hardwood floor in his bedroom. I was stood right there, clean diaper in hand, and he suddenly heaves his body off the table. Shit. I know, I know, I should've had the little changing pad strap on him. I generally do these days, as he's become very physically active, twisting and writhing like a little fish. Mea Culpa! Thankfully, Rid was wearing his molding helmet (see earlier post below), so his head was protected.

Naturally, I rushed him to the Emergency Department at Toronto East General, wringing my hands with shame and worry. The doctors saw him almost immediately and, yes, he's perfectly fine. I was expecting a lecture from the doctor on securing babies to changing tables, but received none. In fact, they even joked about the fact that he was wearing a "football helmet", as they referred to it.

Childrens' Aid workers have yet to appear at my front door, demanding that I hand over the child due to my obvious lack of parental competency. Perhaps it's a good thing, then, that we're laying low on this rainy afternoon.

Ah, I feel the burden of my guilt lift ever so slightly off my maternal shoulders. Thank you, my Blog Confessor.

2005-08-10T11:31:00.000-04:00

ATTACK OF THE FIFTY-FOOT KID!

2005-08-08T13:23:00.000-04:00

Achieving balance in one's life is crucial. This past weekend was a case in point. After weeks of peek-a-boo and Pat the Bunny, Richard & I were delighted to receive an invitation to Milena's combination birthday blast/bon voyage party, where we indulged in some more adult entertainment. Much fun was had by all as we wished a fond farewell to Miss M. and Chris as they jetset over to Denmark to live amongst the world-weary eurotrash crowd.

That's Richard in the foreground, and Chris second from the left. Apparently, he and Richard shop at the same eyeglass store on Queen St. West ;-)