Speechless @ Body Worlds
December 27, 2006

As I stood there frozen in one spot, sketchbook in one hand, wearing my blue museum temporary pass for artists, only my hand and eyes moving rapidly back and forth across the page to the miniature hands, feet, eyelashes before me, I felt like time stopped. I could hear words around me and feel the presence of others but I was intensely focussed.
It was not what I had expected. I heard voices speak of someone they knew who was born prematurely. They guessed at the number of weeks so they could make comparisons. There might have been thirty people, maybe as many as sixty people who passed by during the 90 minutes I spent in that small room with those six glass cases. I heard in their comments what I was thinking and feeling as I drew. Not a single one made an inappropriate comment, not a single joke or smart remark. There was no fear, disgust or disrespect.
I have felt this in front of moving works of art by Rubens, Rembrandt, Jordaens, Escher, Akpaliapik. I have never experienced this in a museum like this before. Where is this situated in terms of museology? or in terms of the Exhibition of Cultures? Science and art have come together here to create a new knowledge system.
There are moments that artists experience while drawing from life, even still life. A detail reveals itself as if it was not there a moment ago. It’s just the way the eye automatically eliminates ‘noise’, the confusion of details that prevent us from seeing the whatness of things. But when you take 30 minutes, an hour, three hours to draw one thing, those hidden details become unforgettable. Suddenly I could see — with complete clarity — fingernails, the balls of the toes, wrinkles like a faint pencil mark creating baby frowns . . . I could imagine the shape of the womb.
I asked myself if the mother or child grieved to see us before this portrayal. No, it was more like a skillfully carved sculpture than an irreverent glance. It was after all created by the hand of God, before it was prepared for this place by scientists, technicians, artists and inventors. I actually silently prayed to see if there was any disrespect in the process of creating or exhibiting these forms. I wanted to feel the presence of a lost soul if there was any. The only souls I felt were living and like me, they were in awe.
Science World, Vancouver, British Columbia where I visited the exhibit and the Institute of Plastination, Heidelberg, Germany where inventor/artist Gunther Von Hagens has his headquarters, require that all artists wear a special pass while drawing in the exhibition space and that they send a copy to them within two weeks of the museum visit. This is the first of four drawings that I will be uploading to fulfill that requirement. The original sketches were done in a sketchbook c. 10″ x 6.5″ using a 0.5mm Pentel P205 pencil. I completed four drawings in c. 2 – 2 1/2 hours.
For more information on Body Worlds 1, 2 and/or 3 and the inventor/artist Gunther Von Hagens (b. 1945) see below:
Von Hagens, Gunther. Body Worlds http://www.bodyworlds.com/en/pages/home.asp
Body Worlds 3 http://www.scienceworld.bc.ca/whats_on/Body-Worlds/overview.htm
Affluenza: Aflicktion
December 14, 2006
I think my family caught affluenza in the late 19th century. That might explain why my great-grandparents were personal aquaintances of Prince Albert but their son Albert, worked as an electrician on the Canadian National Railway. Fanny and Charles spent a good part of their married life on transatlantic trips. According to on-line ship’s records they made at least one of these with the Governor General of Canada, the Marquis of Lorne (1878-1882) and his wife, Princess Louise. Fanny Peake, the daughter of James Peake, one of the 19th century entrepreneurs who built fortunes on ships and shipping, grew up in Beaconsfield, a Victorian mansion designed by Harris, brother of the artist Robert Harris, RCA. We grew up with these stories which seemed so incredulous; they seemed more like fiction that reality. My mother Fanny loved to tell us about her father, who a few years before his death, literally gave away the vestiges of his portion of the Peake-Leigh. During the Depression the tenants could no longer pay their rent. He gave the renters the deed to their homes.
Sail past, Cowichan Bay, BC
December 10, 2006
Onboard Fisher Boy II, Apollo, the German Shepherd looked on a little puzzled as two friends slowly waltzed to a Christmas classic. They glided by along with about a dozen others to the delight of the small but enthusiastic crowd of onlookers on Government Wharf, Cowichan Bay. George Week’s retired Fisheries boat was like all the others, bedecked and be-dazzling . Was it my imagination or did the pilot actually look like Santa Claus? We sipped hot chocolate provided by volunteers from the Maritime Centre as we watched the sail past, a new tradition in Cowichan Bay. (New compared to the First Nations canoe races held each summer in Cowichan Bay since the late 1800s.)
Apollo wasn’t the only dog enjoying an evening tour of the bay. Paelo seemed to be alone on the Vesta but Kevin was probably in the cabin.
Someone threw a friendly snowball to a friend on a boat. It was made from one of the last piles of snow from the brief but dramatic snowfall on Vancouver Island last week. But on this evening it was only slightly cloudy and it was about 6 degrees, a comfortable temperature for being on the water.
I really missed my camera so I pieced this collage (digitage) together with Adobe Photoshop 7 when I got home. There really were two little boys there but not this one. I was trying to capture the way the strings or red Christmas lights glittered along the stays of the splendid sail boat owned by Chris who also owns the pub. It took on the shape of an enormous Christmas tree reflected in the bay water. (I inserted Mount Tzuhalem, Skinner’s Bluff, Separation Point and Saltspring Island in the background.)
We almost missed this! Fortunately Dave looked out over the bay from the patio and saw the lights. We arrived at the Wharf just as all the boats swung by for their second or third turn. Imagine regattas, canoe races and orcas in August and a Christmas parade on the water in December all from our living room window.
One of the more unusual boats was the Meleet, a Chinese Junk Rig owned by Nick and Jana. Nick poked fun at one of the local stories creatively using a survival suit and the mast. (Apparently the name, Meleet was inspired by a character from a children’s storybook, the favourite of the previous owners. Jana thinks it refers to a story about a First Nations’ dug out canoe.)
A sailboat from Maple Bay had lights strung in the shape of huge stars. A small brightly decorated Christmas tree shone from the top of the mast of the Lazy Dazy.
Afterwards Dave and I strolled past the Masthead, Holly’s Cow Bay video store (2 for one tomorrow evening), to the Cowichan Bay Maritime Centre open late this evening to host the sailors when they came in. One of the volunteers, Sherry, who has lived in one of the Cow Bay boat houses for many years, provided me with some information but also invited me to stay and talk to the boat owners.
We’ve lived here less than a year. I feel like I’m home.

Each painting seemed to open into a virtual space like Escher’s print gallery offering infinite possibilities of alternate space-time continuum. During storms, or on the quiet days entire rooms full of Baroque treasures were mine alone. I accumulate hours in front of particular paintings returning again and again. Good art never stops answering back. Bad art just stays there repeated how pretty it is. It took years but eventually I could conjure individual works of art in my mind, then entire rooms and finally after ten years, the entire gallery. But that wasn’t enough for memory work. I taught myself to go inside certain paintings, through a detail, perhaps just a reflection in a glass where the blue skies and brick buildings across the street from the studio appeared in miniature, complete, unexpected, like a secret painting within a painting. The more I learned about social histories the more that seemingly inconsequential details revealed links to expanded pictures behind the easel. Without knowing the theory at the time, I was breaking through the Hegelian linear history of art into a more rhizomic web of inextricably linked stories. Eventually the absent became so forcefully present that at times the artist’s intentions were completely subverted. His hero shape-shifted like a trickster and the conquered started to speak.
Only recently I read about the story of Matteo Ricci who wrote A Treatise on Mnemonics (1596) in Chinese for the governor of Jiangxi Province. Ricci lived in China as a Jesuit missionary from 1582 to 1614. I am not sure where the concept of the memory palace as mnemonic device began, perhaps in ancient Greece, but it was developed in medieval Europe. Although I began with an actual building, the National Gallery of Canada and its permanent collection, it became my mnemonic device. By systematically building a virtual architecture in which each element is associated with a fragment of memory, any memory can be restored by taking a virtual walk through its hallways and rooms.
Spence, Jonathan. . The Memory Palace of Matteo Ricci.
Remembering Jennifer Naglingniq (1989-2002)
December 8, 2006

I don’t remember when it started. But I know that after this it got worse. A few days after Jennifer was killed my class was canceled because the RCMP had shut down the entire capital of Nunavut — well, they told the taxi service to no longer take calls. Later we found out that someone with a rifle on a snowmobile was riding around town shooting randomly in the air. We were told there was no danger. Jennifer’s murderer was not found during my entire stay that term. When taxis were back in service we would sometimes drive close to her home surrounded by the police yellow tape. An RCMP officer came over to chat with the taxi driver. My route was no where near but taxis are shared in Iqaluit so you never know where you might find yourself. I was not afraid for myself since the violence in Nunavut is Inuit against Inuit. But I was afraid. The death as described by so many people was so violent. It was more like an unpaid drug dealer’s cruel and cowardly threat to someone else. Jennifer was chosen as the victim. There was no explanation. I began to understand why Inuit youth from Iqaluit listened to Tupak and related to the violence described in his rap music from the Hood.
We all sat there in the overcrowded auditorium in Inukshuk High School. We held candles, remembered the women victims of violence in Montreal but everyone thought of Jennifer. In the background was a stretched seal skin, a cultural symbol of the community. Paututiit, the Inuit Women’s association used this as a symbol of unity where each peg serves the purpose of stretching the skin evenly. Each is needed. each has equal value.
If Jennifer had not been so violently killed she would probably not be part of my everyday life years later. There are some images you cannot forget, at least I cannot.
Meda coverage:
For multiple media bookmarks see here. This Globe and Mail article is particularly moving.
On Friday, Dec. 6, 2002, 13-year-old Jennifer Naglingniq, of Iqaluit, Nunavut, helped her teacher hang Christmas decorations. A few hours later she was dead, xxx murdered in her home. Her mother, CBC Iqaluit program clerk Nicotye Naglingniq, found her body when she returned home shortly after midnight.
Wende Tulk, Jennifer’s home room teacher at Inuksuk high school, says Jennifer was a special student – bright, with high marks and a natural leader. “People listened to her. You know when she graduated she would be doing great things.”; She was an enthusiastic soccer player and just bought new soccer shoes the day before she was killed. Tulk will be haunted by Jennifer’s dyed-orange ponytail, her beautiful voice and her positive attitude. “She was always singing, always happy.” She said that Jennifer – and her final act of helpfulness – won’t be soon forgotten. ” We’re going to leave those Christmas decorations up all year now.”
xxxx, 24, was charged with Jennifer’s murder but was released from Baffin Correctional Centre a few days later, when the charge of first degree murder was stayed.. The Crown decided the case against xxxx wasn’t strong enough to proceed at this time. The Crown has one year to reactivate the case. The RCMP say they are continuing the investigation. Police are not revealing how Jennifer was murdered, saying that only them and the murderer know how she died.
Please support the Jennifer Naglingniq Memorial Fund. A memorial fund has been set up to create an annual award in Jennifer’s name for a student at Inukshuk high school who contributes to making Iqaluit a better place. Donations can be made at the CBC Toronto Credit Union in the Jennifer Naglingniq Memorial Fund account 9879 or through the Bank of Montreal in Iqaluit, account 3635 8040 108. You can also send your donation to: The Jennifer Naglingniq Memorial Fund, P.O. Box 490, Iqaluit, NU X0A 0H0. Please give generously. The deadline for donations at the CBC Toronto Credit Union may be expired (Source 2002?).”
Allison Brewer. 2003. “Troubled ghosts of our sisters.” The Globe & Mail. Saturday, December 6: A19
A year ago, as we in Iqaluit prepared to commemorate the Montreal Massacre, one of our own was added to the list of victims of violence against women. Dec. 6, 2002, dawned cold and clear in Iqaluit. A community not unfamiliar with the subject, it had for years recognized and honoured the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women. Last year, the 13th anniversary of the Montreal Massacre, was no different. As I made my way down the hill on a morning walk to work with Maureen Doherty, the event organizer, there were the usual worries. Had enough coffee and tea been ordered for the expected 50 or so people who usually show up for the event? Would the change of venue from the Arctic College campus to Inuksuk High School work? All matters that seemed of great importance that morning (Brewer 2003:A19).









