Art and War(planes)

In this artist residency at Ricklundgarden in Southern Lapland, I've been writing a lot and painting and the days pass in a dreamy state of creativity. It's a disorienting place for the quiet and the beauty and the endless daylight. The sun rises shortly after 3am but it's never really dark so my body is unsure what time it is. It can't form a rhythm. And in that disorientation, I feel I'm moving as though in slow motion through another world where there is no time. I paint, I write and I sit dreamily watching the clouds slowly glide across the rounded snow-covered mountains beyond the lake outside my window.

This is such a silent place. Even though I live in the countryside in Ontario, this is a more silent silence. I am moving into it. Yesterday morning the sky was grey with heavy low rain clouds. I was painting in my studio when all of a sudden, a loud booming, rumbling sound came from the sky. I ran outside to see what it was. I couldn't see anything. If it was thunder, it was much longer in duration than normal, or if it was an airplane, it was much louder and longer also. The sound finally died away and I returned to my studio, puzzled, but thinking it must have been a low-flying airplane.

I forgot about the incident.

In the afternoon, my friend and fellow artist resident, Rebecca Crowell, and I got a ride with the local taxi/school bus service out to Fatmomakke, an ancient Sami gathering site about 25km north west of Saxnas. We spent part of the afternoon at this site where Samis have gathered since prehistoric times to meet with their family and friends to trade and to celebrate. They met at mid-summer (solstice), and again in late August before the winter came. In the 1700's missionaries moved into Sami territory and eventually a church was built at Fatmomakke. While I don't know the history of that transition and the struggles involved, in the end, the Swedes and the Samis came together, each building their own style of dwelling, kåtor and log cabins, side by side. They come together to celebrate mid-summer and live in peace.

I learned on the drive home from Fatmomakke, that the sounds I heard in the sky were NATO fighter planes. The news on the internet said that Russian President Vladimir Putin had ordered four days of air combat readiness testing, the third major military exercise staged by the Kremlin in the past three months. This surprise test coincided with NATO-led military exercises over the Arctic region that are part of the Western alliance's response to Russia's stepped-up manoeuvres over the Baltic and Northern European regions.

A flexing of muscles. The silence and beauty and tranquility of this remote region feels violated.

I think of the day we just had in the small village of Fatmomakke. I think of the peaceful coexistence of the Samis and the Swedes and how they continue every year to meet there to celebrate the seasons together.

The warplanes have brought me back to earth very quickly. I feel helplessly small in this military display of strength. But it also makes me feel more determined than ever to do my small part to bring beauty, joy and peace into this world through my art.

Liminal Time

The word liminal comes from the Latin, limen meaning threshold. an in-between place, a place of transition, a time of waiting and not knowing. Dawn and dusk are considered liminal places. Crepuscular animals, like foxes and coyotes are most active at this time of day, a time that is considered a magical time in Celtic spirituality and to Indigenous people which is perhaps the origin of their designation as tricksters. As I write this, the northern hemisphere has just passed the vernal equinox, where day and night are of equal length.We are in a liminal space between winter and spring right now, unsure if we will have one more storm or snowfall before spring finally settles in. We're also in a liminal place as we live through this pandemic with the anxiety and discomfort of not knowing. A time of great transition for the entire world, wondering what we've learned from this and what lessons we'll carry forward. Author and Fr...

Lessons that Stone Walls Teach

Dry stone wall in the Burren, Co. Clare, Ireland I've just returned from teaching a Workshop in Wild Places class in the Burren in County Clare, Ireland. Writing this post, I'm reminded of another post I wrote after visiting Inishmaan, the middle of the Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland several years ago. Stone walls crisscrossed the island in tight webs like a fisherman's net. I wrote then that the web of stone walls made me think of the idea of putting limitations on our painting as a way of exploring more deeply and how walls give limits against the limitless. You can read that article here. As our group hiked in the Burren with our guide, Marie McGauran we learned that the walls are stronger because of the holes in them. The wind can pass through. The oldest stone walls, estimated to be 3500 years old are at Skara Brae, a Neolithic site in Orkney. Most walls were built in the 18th and 19th century, marking areas of private ownership and resultin...

Am I Too Old to Change? Embracing Life

Photo by Miguel Á. Padriñán from Pexels I'm in the process, at last, of working on the book that came to me in a dream seven years ago. It has circled my head all these years, demanding I get at it. It's called: We're Not Done Yet: Coming to Art Later in Life . It has actually hung in the air a couple of feet behind my head, attached by a string like a helium balloon, like a cartoon cloud, waiting for me to get to it. Some of you will know of it because I posted a request on Facebook in 2019 asking for artists who have come to art later in life to reply to me if they'd like to answer a questionnaire. I received 168 responses plus earlier interviews I did before the put out the questionnaire. There was some overlap, and some didn't respond after they'd offered to. All in all, I received 128 responses. By a huge majority it was women who responded to my questionnaire. By the time we get into our 60's we bring a rich life experience to our work: m...

Janice Mason Steeves

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