
by
fillière
Categories: UncategorizedTags: Art, Beauty, Creativity, Dream, Image, Photography, Poem, Poetry
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Very early in her writing career it was obvious that Margaret Atwood didn’t write from any predisposition to themes even mildly mawkish. Nor were they romantic, sentimental, or nostalgic.
That, along with the titles of her early works, inclined me to think of her as an incomparably fearless and ruthless author with the truths of her tale-telling.
I made this drawing about 1980, quite before the printing of her ferocious “The Handmaid’s Tale”, and by which time she had gathered around her a clutch of early distinguished titles that would secure her place amongst Canadian and international authors.

Searching, reading the tea-cup leaves of memory.

A recent sculpture I made of a friend of mine whom I think of as a River Warrior: each summer, for decades now, he chooses a river, sometimes close by, sometimes in far outlying areas of Canada, and sets off to conquer it in his canoe. His preference of travelling companion is a little armful of over-eager positivity, a white Scotty Terrier named Kate. The agenda this summer is a Great Bear Lake tributary to the Mackenzie River in our Arctic Circle.


A patch of my garden currently looks like this and this morning triggered pic/poem.
This monoprint, created two decades after I knew the woman in the poem—and wrote the words, has always seemed to address the content of her inner life so directly that now the one always evokes / embodies the other.



If you count the edges of the chopped segments of abstract markings you can find a dozen pieces out of which this image was assembled and pasted down. I think of it as an innovation on a kind of centaur. Great fun to do such a wild compositional search-and-find assemblage.
