SEPARATED AT BIRTH: The Sequel

A very valuable lesson I learned from Ivaan early in our friendship was, "Never say you're going to do something until you've already done it. This will greatly enhance your appearance of being successful." I should have thought of that before I wrote, in the post before last, that I was going to cast the Separated At Birth ring in sterling silver and set the stone in the silver version.

I've been working at it ever since.  It is still not done, but barring any unforeseen eventualities like the stone shattering (may it not come to pass), the ring is now within sight of completion.  It is at this precise stage that I should have written, "I think I'll cast it in silver and set the stone in the silver version."   Grrrr.

"Si j'avais su" often seems to be a recurring theme in my life, and it certainly was in this instance.  Had I known it was going to be half this much work to cast the master in sterling silver and set the stone in it, I would simply have set the stone in the bronze master, given it a good polish, and gone for a manicure, secure in the belief that I had carried out Ivaan's wishes.

Instead, my hands look as though I've been coal mining, the ring isn't finished, and neither is my term paper on Italian Sociolinguistics.  And who can write an academic paper with fingernails like these?

Here are some photos of the work in progress.  I've still got some work to do, mostly on the strands that connect the band to the bezel, but chances are I will get it finished this week.  I'm still not sure what the stone is, but it's possibly ammolite:  time - and Tamas - will tell.

BACHELOR LIFE, CIRCA 1989

In the summer of 1989, Ivaan's friend Len bought a new video camera.  One day he decided to pay a visit to Ivaan.  He was filming when Ivaan opened the front door.  Here's a clip of the film Len made.   My heart still pounds every time I watch this.  The mess is breathtaking, but it's beautiful to see a young Ivaan again.  This was at the very end of his bachelor days....and judging by his standard of housekeeping, not a moment too soon.

SEPARATED AT BIRTH? A Vintage Ring And The Stone Around Which It Was Made

A couple of days ago, I was sorting through some bronze masters (originals) of rings Ivaan had made.  Many of them were vintage rings and some of them were quite spectacular.  One in particular caught my eye.  It had a large, unusually-shaped bezel on top.  A bezel is a metal border that folds over very slightly to hold a stone in place.  I was mystified by the shape of the bezel, and wondered if Ivaan had intended to have a stone cut to fit it.  It didn't make much sense, but I set the ring aside, planning to do some research into stone cutting and polishing.  Here are two photos of the ring, which appears to date from the late 1970s or early 1980s:

Yesterday, I was sorting through a bag of gemstones.  The bag looked like it might have been recovered during a salvage operation on the Titanic; that's how bashed up it was.  I had just finished sending an email to Ivaan's former partner, Tamas, who is extremely knowledgeable about gemstones, asking if he would help me figure out which (if any) of the stones were worth keeping, when I noticed an oddly-shaped crystalline stone shaped a bit like a kidney bean.

I've often marvelled at how many rings Ivaan had that required stones, and how many stones he had that didn't fit any of the aforementioned rings.  If an oval stone is required, it has to be the exact shape and size.  Rectangular stones are the worst to fit.  I guess that's why they are usually in a claw setting. So I wasn't optimistic when I picked up this crystalline stone and went in search of the ring I'd found the day before. I'd be better off buying a lottery ticket than expecting a random stone to fit a particular ring. I popped the stone into the ring.

It fit like a glove.  (You could see this coming, couldn't you?)  For a few moments, I marvelled that Ivaan would have gone out of his way to have a stone cut to fit this ring.  It didn't  make sense.  It wasn't a particularly exciting shape, and Ivaan was acutely sensitive to how things were shaped. Suddenly I had a revelation:  Ivaan had acquired the stone first, and had made the ring to fit the stone.  This, of course, doesn't explain why the ring has sat for 30 years in one plastic bag and the stone has sat for 30 years in another plastic bag, moved seven times from one studio to another, shared the same closet for the last two years and have never - until this weekend - been reunited.  It's a bit like having been separated at birth from your twin, and eventually meeting as adults, only to find out you'd both gone to the same school.

I know what will happen next:  I'll be leafing through one of Ivaan's journals and I'll find the original drawings for this ring. Ivaan's journals will be the subject of an upcoming post.  They are so interesting: a combination of drawings, diary entries, clever ideas, phone numbers, random thoughts, plus descriptions of many of his techniques.   So here's the ring:  I think I might cast it in silver and set the stone in the silver version.  Stand by for further developments.

A BRIEF PICTORIAL HISTORY OF IVAAN

During their internment in a forced labour camp in Nazi Germany, one of Ivaan's family's deepest secrets was the fact that Dad owned a camera.  It was not only a prized possession but it was also the source of great fear.  If its existence came to light, there could be repercussions.  But for that camera, however, there would have been no early photographs of Ivaan and his sister Nadia.

Ivaan and Nadia, 1945

The first photo of Ivaan and Nadia was taken a few months after the liberation. He had fattened up considerably, and his head had been shaven for a couple of reasons:  head lice and tradition.  It was believed that shaving a baby boy's head would ensure he would have a good head of hair as an adult. Notice his eyes? Anyone who knows Ivaan well will recognize him by his eyes. I used to describe them as two currants in a loaf of bread.

Ivaan, circa 1959

Ivaan's interest in photography stemmed from the time he started high school at Harbord Collegiate.  He must have been about 15 when this photo was taken.  I don't know who took it.  Perhaps he took it himself or maybe it was taken by another member of the Camera Club at Harbord.  It's an excellent photo, though, and he treasured it.

Ivaan, by Helen, circa 1961

I think this photo was taken by Helen Poliwka, who was Ivaan's first serious girlfriend.  Ivaan and Helen were the cutest couple imaginable  - both with movie star good looks and personalities to match.  Helen remained a lifelong friend and Ivaan always treasured her as one of the favourite people in his life.

Ivaan, Helen and friends, circa 1962

I don't know whether it was for a school play or a dance or some other reason, but Ivaan and his friends dressed as beatniks for this photograph.  That's Ivaan in white, in the middle of the photo, and his girlfriend Helen is directly to the right of him in the photo.

Ivaan with some cheerleaders, circa 1962

I think the glasses were just for effect.  Ivaan didn't actually need glasses, yet he wears this pair in several photographs, so I can only speculate it was to give him that certain "je ne sais quoi". 

Ivaan as "Jesus", circa 1973

Ivaan took this photo of himself in about 1973.  There are a million photos of Ivaan but this is the one most of his female fans swoon over.  I think he took it just before he cut his hair and shaved his moustache.  I only have one copy, and I can't find the negative, so I really prize it.

Ivaan christening his goddaughter Mariana in 2001

Mariana looks far less worried than she ought to be in this photo:  Ivaan had just suffered his first stroke a few months previously, and  his right arm was still  quite paralyzed.  He was terrified he was going to drop her, so this photo was taken in a hurry. For the remainder of the christening ceremony, Mariana was held by her godmother Anna (also a goddaughter of Ivaan's).

SWEEP

The Portland House: Before Sweeping

The Portland House:  After Sweeping

In September 2008, two and a half months before his death, a special collection of Ivaan's metal art was exhibited at KUMF Gallery (The Canadian Ukrainian Art Foundation).  Entitled "Sweepings:  Treasures from the Atelier Floor", this was an exhibition of the metal art that Ivaan made for no purpose other than the joy of creation.   The title of the exhibition was pure Ivaan, and pure tongue in cheek.  On the one hand, it referred to the fact that the pieces on display were made in between commissioned works, and were literally swept aside when the need to commence a commissioned work became pressing.  At the same time, it was his affectionate tribute to the understated role I played in his artistic life since he suffered his second stroke in 2002.   People often asked us how much I participated in his metal art.  I'd always answer, truthfully, "Not at all".  Ivaan's more humorous (but equally true) response was invariably:  "She's really, really good at sweeping."  What we both meant was that, although he borrowed my hands from time to time, we only ever used his brain.  He had no instinct for order and neatness; I have no creative impulse.    He created; I swept.

As I've previously mentioned, Ivaan was totally oblivious to the domestic aspects of married life.  Ivaan never mowed the lawn, never shovelled the snow, never took out the garbage, cooked, vacuumed,  loaded the dishwasher, or did laundry.   He didn't even recognize that these tasks existed, thus never expected that anyone would do them. So it's fortunate that I enjoy running a household.

Our house on Portland Street was built in 1855.  It was a fabulous house, shaped like a shoebox tipped up on end:  three tall storeys, with the kitchen on the third floor.   As much as I have ever experienced the joy of creation, it has been through renovating the Portland house.   Fortunately, there was no shortage of potential for renovation; a lot can go wrong with a house in 140 years.

Early one Saturday morning, I awoke with an idea:  I decided to remove the wall that separated the narrow front hall from the living room.  I knew it wasn't a load-bearing wall, as all the supporting walls ran north to south.    I knew that removing a lath-and-plaster wall would be a surefire way to ruin a perfectly good weekend....unless I could find someone to help me.

Ivaan had an Achilles heel, and it was in the form of a genuine phobia for clumsy people, or for someone using the wrong tool for the job.  It drove him crazy.

You may wonder why a vegetarian even had a steak knife in the drawer, but it was with a steak knife that I made the first cut into that lath-and-plaster wall. Having removed the first segment of plaster, I kept diligently sawing with the steak knife, dropping the small pieces of severed plaster into a wastepaper basket until I'd excised about a square foot of plaster.  By this time, Ivaan was awake, and his curiosity had gotten the better of him.  He came part way down the stairs, peered around the corner and asked, "What on earth are you doing?"   All innocent, I replied, "I'm taking down this wall" and held up what was left of the steak knife.  At that moment, several million years of evolution began to evanesce before my eyes.  Ivaan headed for the back porch and returned carrying a crowbar and a sledgehammer.  "Stand aside", said Homo Sapiens.

Ten minutes later, the entire wall lay in ruins on the floor.    Homo Sapiens put down The Correct Tools For The Job, and with an imperious wave of his hand in the general direction of the debris, uttered the one terse syllable that came to represent our life together in metal arts:  "Sweep."

And that, dear readers, is how Ivaan renovated the Portland house.

ANNIVERSARIES

April 1, 1996: Our first anniversary

For a man who was in no particular rush to get married in the first place, Ivaan could top anyone when it came to planning a memorable anniversary.  It wasn't a difficult date to remember, as we were married on April Fool's Day.  (We joked that if things didn't work out between us, we could claim it had been an April Fool's prank - albeit an expensive one - not an actual wedding.)
The morning of our first wedding anniversary, Ivaan announced that he was taking me on an all-expenses-paid shopping trip.  Our destination was to be a surprise, however.  We headed out by TTC, Ivaan leading the way, and about 40 minutes later, I found myself being led not into Holt Renfrew as I'd hoped, but into Home Depot.
I wasn't disappointed, but I confess to being slightly surprised.   However, I was part way through renovating our house, so I decided to make the most of the opportunity.  I began by selecting some wooden mouldings to frame doorways.    Now, just to be perfectly clear, when I say that "I" was part way through renovating our house, I don't mean "we" were part way through renovating our house.  No.  You see, Ivaan was not a renovating type of guy, and for Ivaan, even snow shovelling, lawn mowing and taking out the garbage all fell into the category of "renovation".
It's lucky that I enjoy renovation, in the widest sense of the word, because with the exception of one notable occasion - the subject of an upcoming blog - renovation was solely my responsibility.
I had selected enough wooden mouldings to trim all the doorways in the second floor hallway when Ivaan mentioned the sole condition he was imposing on this all-expenses-paid anniversary extravaganza:  whatever I chose, I had to carry home by myself on the TTC.  Wooden door mouldings are heavy.  They also come in eight-foot lengths.    In case you are wondering, it is rather difficult to  manoeuvre an eight-foot length of lumber through the front doors of a TTC streetcar.    When one is carrying eight of them, it is next to impossible, but I managed somehow.  Once on board, Ivaan suddenly began to pretend he wasn't with me.  He rolled his eyes and exchanged disapproving glances with the other passengers.   On one occasion, he muttered loudly, "SOME PEOPLE..."  It  was impossible to carry the pieces of moulding vertically, as they were too long.  I didn't want them resting on the floor where they would get dirty and trip people, so I had to balance them on the backs of several seats, rendering those seats inaccessible for other passengers.
Ivaan took a photograph of me and my lumber after we disembarked at the King and Portland streetcar stop. I still have the picture.  For some reason I was smiling.  Perhaps I was wondering what he would dream up for our next anniversary.

The morning of our second anniversary, Ivaan announced that once again he had a surprise in store for me.  We headed out early in the morning, Ivaan leading the way.  After a fairly lengthy walk, he stopped outside a blood donor clinic. opened the door and motioned for me to enter.  If you've been a blood donor in the last couple of decades, you'll be familiar with the detailed questions that potential donors are required to answer aloud before their pint of blood is extracted.  I've never been able to get through answering the questions without laughing, which often starts the person asking the questions laughing as well.  
Ivaan sat in the waiting room with a magazine while I donated blood.  Once I was finished, he took my arm and escorted me to a nearby coffee shop.  I sat down while he ordered a couple of coffees, then beckoned to me to peruse the baked goods in their display case.  "That lemon poppyseed muffin looks good.  They're baked right here on the premises", he said.  "Why don't you order it?"  "No, thanks, I'm not hungry.  Coffee is fine", I replied.   Several times he tried in vain to get me to order the muffin, until I became slightly irritated and suggested he order it himself, if he felt so strongly about it.
Ivaan sighed deeply.  With a pained expression, he asked me, "Why do you always have to have the last word?  Can't you just agree with me for once?" The sales clerk was watching us intently, probably wondering if we were about to have a huge argument.  I began to feel slightly embarrassed.  Biting back a stinging retort, I suggested we share the lemon poppyseed muffin. After all, it was our anniversary, and I wondered if his criticism were perhaps justified.    The sales clerk put the muffin on a plate and brought it to our table with a knife so I could cut it in half.  I was careful to cut it right down the middle, so Ivaan would feel like he had won.   Part way through cutting through the muffin  I heard a decidedly un-cake-like clunk.
Now, I'm very familiar with bakeries.  My brother is a baker.  As a teenager, I used to work after school in the Harbord Bakery, which is coincidentally where I first met Ivaan.  I once sliced through an entire cigarette embedded in a loaf of light rye bread.  I've heard all the urban legends about lumps of aluminum foil, stones, and even small rodents being found inside loaves of bread.  (Note to the legal profession:  none of these instances occurred at my brother's bakery.)
That un-cake-like clunk sounded to my experienced ears like metal hitting metal.  I put the knife down and opened the muffin with my fingers. Baked inside the muffin was a beautiful heavy gold ring by Ivaan.  The poor sales clerk looked as though she were going to collapse.  She'd had to keep a close  eye on that lemon poppyseed muffin all morning, to ensure that no one else bought it before we got there.
Up until that moment, I'd have said that nothing could have surprised me more than the morning Ivaan proposed to me (on one knee, in his dressing gown, on the living room floor) but I think the anniversary muffin incident probably takes the cake.

IVAAN AND THE SHOES ON HIS FEET

I'm saving Ivaan's red shoes.  They're quite well worn, despite the fact that he didn't wear them often.  He bought them in the late 1980s and was still wearing them, on occasion, in 1995 when he opened his studio on Queen Street West.  Ivaan liked the way they looked, loved the colour, which is much more red in actual fact than in the photo.  He took good care of them, as evidenced by the fact that they've obviously been to the shoe repair more than once.  Even at size 45, though, they were two full sizes too small, and definitely too narrow, which was no impediment to the pleasure he got from looking down and seeing them on his feet.

Ivaan had a complicated relationship with footwear.  He loved beautiful shoes and boots and he didn't just collect them; he wore them too.   In 1993, he went with his sister Nadia and her family on a trip to Ukraine.  As footwear for the trip, he insisted on taking a beautiful pair of black cowboy boots I'd bought him for his previous birthday.  Knowing they'd be walking a lot, I suggested he take some comfortable shoes as well.  Ivaan demurred.   He loved those cowboy boots and he was determined to wear them.  I was fairly certain he was making a mistake, so I bought him a pair of canvas espadrilles and hid them in the bottom of his suitcase.  He didn't find them until he was already in Ukraine.  Disgusted, he promptly gave them away to the first person they fit.  Two weeks later, when Ivaan returned from Ukraine, he insisted vehemently that his cowboy boots  had been the perfect choice of footwear.  It wasn't until years later, when one of the friends he had made in Ukraine came to visit us, that I began to hear stories about Ivaan's boots.  Apparently, they had hurt him so much that he was obliged to take taxis everywhere.  In Ukraine, those boots became the stuff of legend.  Frankly, he might as well have left them in Ukraine, because he never wore them again.

After we were married, I started exerting not-so-subtle pressure on Ivaan to buy shoes that actually fit.   It was a short distance from discovering the pleasures of well-fitting, stylish footwear to discovering the pleasures of spa life.    Our wedding reception had taken place at The Elmwood Club; soon afterwards, it became The Elmwood Spa.  Initially, it wasn't easy to persuade Ivaan that he might actually enjoy a massage, but one visit to The Elmwood Spa was sufficient to convert him. Henceforth, many of our vacations were spent at a spa.  He became famous at The Hillcrest Spa in Port Hope for booking two 90-minute massages, back to back.

As his series of strokes began to permanently limit his mobility, Ivaan reluctantly agreed to let me give him a weekly pedicure.  I can't honestly say he enjoyed them; he was so inured to the memory of his toes hurting inside too-small shoes, and he worried that I might hurt him.  But one day at his rehabilitation hospital, Toronto Rehab, one of his therapists, having removed his socks and shoes for a therapy session, marvelled aloud at how beautiful and well-kept his feet were.  Ivaan was delighted, cherished the compliment, and never complained about pedicures again.

As for me, I cherish the red shoes.  They're a reminder of a younger Ivaan - the man who was so "form over function" that he'd suffer pain cheerfully for the pleasure of looking down and seeing a handsome pair of shoes on his feet.