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A boxer, being pummeled mercilessly, hears the bell and stumbles to his corner. As he flops down, exhausted, trying to find the energy to go back out in the ring again, he hears cheering through the ringing in his ears. Those cheers motivate him to continue the battle. When I was first challenging myself to move from watercolour to acrylic, learning the new techniques necessary for success, I spent money I couldn't afford to attend a workshop. The instructor was not only a personal artistic hero of mine, but his knowledge was (and is!) exemplary. We were given the opportunity...

It's strange how we take things for granted, especially as children. We live for the moment and only realize the significance of some things we have experienced decades later. Montreal welcomed the world to Expo '67. I was five, so have only a few memories. My "job", the day I attended the wonderful event, was to remember that my family had parked in the camel section: the parking areas were all drawings of animals rather than numbers and letters what wouldn't have been inclusive to ALL languages. I also have a vague memory of riding the monorail with my Mom, who...

It seems that there are always bits of paper in my hands so I can make a list. It's not only the groceries that are needed to stock the pantry, but notes to myself in real time conversation. I'm still kicking myself that I used a GOOD calligraphy pen to scrawl my library card number on my desk blotter in my impatience of having to look it up yet again. A list enables me to write the idea down so my mind is free to create; finding the mixes of the shades of green I need for a painting, or...

This weekend, I attended a quilt conference; five YEARS had passed since the previous one in this area of the Rockies. It was humbling, to see the love in the room: of the craft, of the art and also the love between all of us who share the same passion. It was amazing to see the presentations from the various guilds and of course the heart stopping beauty of the quilts themselves. In the room, we all became emotional hearing about the quilters who had passed on--it had been five years after all. We noticed how much we had all...

My Dad was an executive and always looked his best. Being impeccably dressed was a must, and our family made frequent trips to the One Hour Martinizing shop (we never said the dry cleaner), at the top of our street. He must have looked the part in his blindingly white shirt at the early morning meetings. As an artist, I owe a debt of gratitude to the One Hour Martinizing shop. Every shirt that was picked up was folded firmly around a perfect piece of unbent cardboard. There were stacks of them in the house, available for me to decorate...