ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

Everyone who knew Ivaan really well knew how connected he felt to animals.   Except for dogs, whose company he never enjoyed, Ivaan loved all God's living creatures.  He was a veritable St. Francis of Assisi.

A traumatic event in his boyhood was the pivotal event in developing his compassion for insects, birds, rodents, cats and pretty much everything that moved.  His father had made him a bow and arrow.  Ivaan went out into a wooded area near their home in Cabbagetown and took aim at a little creature.  I can't even remember what it was, because whenever he recalled the incident he became so inconsolable that he could hardly speak. Suffice it to say, he wounded some small creature, but did not kill it, and he was so disgusted with himself that he broke his bow, threw it away and vowed to atone for his unkindness for the remainder of his life.

When I first met Ivaan, he had a polydactic kitten named Thumbs.  It was a very sweet little cat, a very dark grey, and he was deeply attached to it.
Here's a photo of Ivaan and Thumbs.

I never met  his next pet, but I heard about it frequently.  Her name was Peggy.  She was a Praying Mantis with one leg.  Ivaan, who had recently started working in metal, was worried that Peggy wouldn't thrive with just the one leg, so he carved down a toothpick, and using jeweller's wax, attached the wooden leg to the stump of Peggy's missing leg.  He must have done a good job, because Peggy went on to have a surprisingly long and active life.  Her name, Peggy, derived from the fact she had a peg leg, not because of any certainty that she (or he) was a female.

Sadly, no photos of Peggy have survived.

The longest-surviving of Ivaan's animal companions was Pinky.

We found Pinky on the garage roof in June 1991, chirping like a baby bird.  He looked to be about three months old, so we assigned him a birthday of March 31st.   Pinky wasn't a bird; he was a cat. We wouldn't have named him Pinky if we'd known he was a boy, but I had heard that Benazir Bhutto, later the first female Prime Minister of Pakistan, was nicknamed Pinky, and our cat had a little pink nose.  By the time we had lured him off the garage roof with saucers of milk and he became part of our household, we began to suspect he was a boy.  We felt it would be too traumatic for us to change his name, as he was already answering to the name Pinky, so we called him Pinky at home, but if we had to call him in from outside the house, we gave him the street name of Ned.

Here's me and Pinky, looking like we were getting our passport photo taken.

I remember when Pinky bonded with us.  A large black feral cat in the neighbourhood was bullying Pinky.  Ivaan's protective nature took over.  He borrowed a humane trap from Animal Control and set it up in the front yard, baited with a can of sardines.  In the middle of the night, we heard a yowling sound as the feral cat walked into the cage for a sardine snack, realized he was trapped and began to complain loudly.

Ivaan brought the cage inside, lay it on a thick pile of newspapers and we went to bed.  Next morning, little Pinky was luxuriating on the floor, just beyond the reach of the large black cat's claws. Pinky felt like the Big Man on Campus. He looked gloatingly at the black cat, as if to say, "I had salmon for breakfast today.  What did you have?  Oh...nothing?"  After Animal Control came and took the black cat away, Pinky was so bonded with Ivaan that nothing could keep them apart.

They had their own language.  Ivaan taught him tricks.  They were a team. When we moved into our new house, Pinky was very upset and kept on walking back to our old house, until he realized that he actually wanted to be wherever Ivaan was.

Pinky was a cat with a personality.  As he got older, he developed the persona of a bachelor uncle, and his identity was fleshed out with a surname, McBinkey, and an imaginary family back at his ancestral home in Bonehead, Sussex.  Our own nephews became the McBinkey nephews:  Oliver, Lionel, Angus and Ivor McBinkey.  Our niece Nicole became Lucy McBinkey.

The only thing Pinky was unsure about was the nephews.  If they came to visit, Pinky moved to the back yard and wouldn't come back in until they went home and we stood at the back door and said emphatically:  "Pinky! There are NO NEPHEWS!"

Pinky lived to be 14 and a half.  He died on October 13, 2005. Ivaan was so upset that he had to go out for a long drive with his friend Mike, and he didn't come back into the house until I had already conducted funeral rites for Pinky in the back yard of our house.  Pinky was the last pet Ivaan ever had.  They were really attached to each other.  Like Ivaan, Pinky had had a rough start in his early life, and they recognized a kindred spirit in each other.

As Pinky's obituary read, "RequiesCAT in Pacem".

THE REVEAL

When people are having their home renovated by professionals, there comes a time when the designer shows them the finished product. It's called The Reveal. All the reno mess is removed, all the dust is vacuumed up, everything is in place, and the whole house gleams.

When I am restoring or completing a piece of jewellery, we also have a reveal.

In my last post, I told you about the 1978 IVAAN ring that had been purchased at an antique store.  Here's what it looked like.

When I first saw it, it reminded me of the ring we call the Connie ring, which was quite a coincidence, because the name of the new owner of this vintage ring happens to be Connie as well.  Here's a Connie ring, made in yellow gold, so you can see the resemblance.

The Connie ring is about one third of the size of the vintage ring, but there's definitely a common thread, and I can't help speculating that the vintage ring was an early prototype of the Connie, which was made in 1980.

I have just finished restoring the vintage ring, and I am rather thrilled with the result.  There were some small holes in the side of the ring top, so I decided to drill them out and set three cabochon garnets in them.  Just like three little punctuation marks.  Now, I'll bet you don't think my efforts were a total waste of time, do you?  So, to the "new" Connie, and her husband Nik, who gave me such a thrill by buying the vintage ring in the first place, and then by letting me restore it, a very big thank you.  I hope you wear it in the best of health for many years to come.

And Nik took this phone of the lovely Connie and Lola, their daughter,  with me when they came by to pick up the restored ring.  Nik and Connie have a wonderful vintage shop in Hamilton called Vintage Soul Geek, in case you are ever out and about in downtown Hamilton.

Photo by Nikola Bulajic2017

HOW TO RENDER ME SPEECHLESS

People often get in touch with me to say they've acquired a piece of jewellery by Ivaan, and they are curious to know more about it.  Mostly, they've

inherited it from a relative, and almost invariably it will be a production piece: an item of costume jewellery made of non-precious metal.  Very rarely, someone will send me a photograph of a piece of Ivaan's jewellery that will be so astonishingly rare that my head starts spinning and I can hardly type a coherent response to them.

One such instance occurred a couple of weeks ago. A woman, coincidentally named Connie, who lives in Hamilton, emailed me to say she'd just bought a very unusual ring by Ivaan in an antique shop in Cambridge, Ontario, and she wanted to know more about it.  She sent me a photo, and explained that the ring was engraved IVAAN 1978 STERLING 1/1.

It was hard to tell from the photograph exactly how large the ring was, but I was extremely anxious to see it, because it reminded me a lot of a famous ring by Ivaan that we call the "Connie" Ring, and I wondered if by any chance it was the prototype for the Connie Ring, or a missing link that Ivaan made before making the Connie Ring.  One thing I was certain:  I had never seen this ring before.

My curiosity was killing me.  I emailed Connie and asked her if I could send a courier to pick it up, as I'd love to see it, photograph it, and restore it to its original glory for her.  She kindly agreed, and it arrived this morning.

©1978 IVAAN KOTULSKY

It's a mark of how excited I was that I had to forbid myself to touch it for several hours, until I calmed down.  I didn't want to do something impulsively that might have damaged it.  Silver is a soft metal and this ring is - as the inscription says - a "one of one".  There is no mould. I thought for a moment that perhaps I should make a mould of it, but quickly realized that if Ivaan had wanted a mould made, he'd have made one himself.  He clearly intended it to be an original, and I don't second guess him....unless he's wrong!

Here's what I know about it:  it's a size 7, which is a medium-size ring for a woman to wear, or else a ring for a man's little finger.  But it's far too big and heavy for a little finger.  Connie told me she asked if the antique shop owner had any other pieces by Ivaan, but sadly this was the only one. I'd been hoping she'd bought some estate jewellery that perhaps included other pieces by Ivaan.

Here is another angle:

It looks as though the ring has not been worn much, as it's not very battered looking, but it is exceedingly tarnished and in need of some love.

So I've started to undertake some restoration.  Here's where I've gotten so far:

Stand by for further developments.  It shouldn't take me long.  It's a proud moment for me, being able to bring a genuine original work of art by Ivaan back to life.

LAB RAT

During his illness, Ivaan agreed enthusiastically to any public speaking opportunity, accepted every invitation to attend professional conferences on some aspect of his medical condition, and volunteered as a subject for any research project under way.  To say the least, he was not a passive patient.

One year, when he still had enough clear speech left to make himself understood, but not quite enough memory to deliver a speech unaided, he was asked to speak at an event to raise funds for the expansion of Toronto Rehabilitation Institute.  I helped him write a speech detailing how important Toronto Rehab had been in his recovery from the strokes that affected him so profoundly, but he couldn't see clearly enough to read written text.
So we devised a plan where I'd sit in the front row and give him some key words from each section of his presentation, and he would expand on
what I'd given him.  When he paused, I'd cue him with some more key words from the next section, and off he'd go. It was a terrific speech, and was well received.

On another occasion, his Speech Language Pathologist asked him to attend a conference with her, to demonstrate a technique the two of them  had developed to aid stroke patients in swallowing without choking.  This technique was developed by the traditional practice of Jews at a Passover Seder, who would have a cushion at their chair and recline to the left as they were eating, in slight imitation of earlier generations reclining in comfort on soft cushions on the floor during the Passover meal.  I'd mentioned to Ivaan that they always reclined to the left.  He found that by tilting his head to the left and tucking his chin in, he could swallow with less risk of choking. He mentioned this to his Speech Language Pathologist, who asked him to demonstrate the "Kotulsky Tuck" to a conference of her fellow SLPs.

Many of the research experiments in which he took part involved electrical stimulation of the muscles of his right arm, which was his paralyzed side. Ivaan was so certain that with enough electrical current going through his arm he could overcome paralysis that when the researcher's back was turned, Ivaan would adjust the intensity of the electrical stimulation (well, he referred to it as torture) to its maximum level.  He also bought an electrical muscle stimulation machine for use at home, and tried to get me to administer electrical shocks to him. When I demurred, he had the researchers draw the ideal location of the electrodes on his arm with permanent marker, so I'd know where to attach them for maximum effect. I usually tried to get out of aiding him with his unscientific experiments. He became such a fixture at Lyndhurst Hospital, where research was conducted, that he regularly dined with the professional staff at lunchtime in the cafeteria.  He had become just part of the crew.

Sometimes he'd volunteer me as a co-participant in research projects. It was very interesting when they'd ask him a series of questions about something, and then ask me the same questions, to find out how I predicted he would have answered. It's surprising how much I learned about him from these research projects.

After Ivaan's death, I decided to continue as a research subject in the Neurology Research Department at Toronto Western Hospital, as a way of expressing my appreciation for the excellent care he'd received there since his first stroke in 2000.  Eight years later, I'm still a "lab rat", mostly acting as what's called a Healthy Control in studies related to Parkinson's Disease.  Over the years, I've seen PhD students and Post Doctoral researchers cycle through the research lab, marry, have children, continue their careers and participate in exciting new research projects.  I've learned that I am surprisingly good at tasks involving memory, that I share with Ivaan a real pleasure from undergoing MRIs, and I have pictures of my brain on my computer at home. It's quite a nice brain, actually.  One of the researchers told me it was a dense brain, and I admit I was a bit offended until I realized a densely packed brain is a good thing to have, and she wasn't saying I was an imbecile.

All this to say that if future generations are ever leafing through my yearly appointment calendars and they see the words "Lab Rat" written, it's code for the fact that I spent that morning at Toronto Western Hospital with a bunch of nice people I've come to know well, and that I undoubtedly went to my grave with coloured permanent marker on my scalp, drawn at the places where electrical shocks were administered.

Here is an image of my brain, in case you want to admire how dense it is.

30 PIECES OF SILVER: THE SECOND DRAFT

I've always heard writing a book is hard work, and if it isn't hard work, then it's probably not much of a book either. Perhaps my job in writing 30 Pieces of Silver was easier because of this blog, as I was able to work out the kinks of each chapter via blog posts, but honestly, it has not been hard to write the book at all.

Further, the book is not a work of fiction, so most of what I've been doing is selecting representative pieces of Ivaan's work and telling the story of those pieces from my perspective.  Oh, yes, and then brutally slashing my narrative to fit the chosen dimensions of the book.

Another important decision was to scrap my photographs.  It was like performing battlefield surgery, because I had taken photos to illustrate what I was writing about.  The result was a series of photos that weren't horrible individually, but there was no nexus, nothing to link them together and give them a cohesive appearance.

Then I began to doubt my initial decisions about which pieces to include.  In the end, I decided to swap out a couple of pieces of jewellery and sculpture, and I think it was a wise choice, because it enabled me to substitute a couple of extremely interesting pieces of jewellery that were important in Ivaan's creative path.

So I focused on what I do best  - providing a narrative for each piece that told a story and sounded like me speaking to the reader - and left the photography to the experts.  I also got some professional advice (and I am not good at accepting advice) about the layout and dimensions of the finished book.

Two more photos remain to be finished up and then I think we'll have a final draft. But the front cover is going to look something like this.  It's a very exciting time for me.

©2017 Eya Donald Greenland Kotulsky

THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

©2008 Donald Doiron

In 2008, we had a visit from our friend Donald Doiron, who is a sculptor and knifemaker in Messines, Quebec. Ivaan made beautiful knife handles and Donald made beautiful knife blades, so it was no surprise that they had a lot in common. Even though Ivaan was within a few months of the end of his life, he enjoyed socializing with his fellow artist and hearing about what Donald was up to.

One of Donald's specialties was working in Damascus steel.  If you've never seen Damascus steel before, it's the puff pastry of metalsmithing: two or more kinds of steel layered against each other, heated and hammered, folded, heated, hammered and refolded so you can see the pattern made by each of the types of steel.  It takes a lot of skill to make Damascus steel.  Donald's knife blades are exquisite.

About a month after Donald's visit, a heavy package arrived in the mail, addressed to Ivaan.  We tore off the brown paper wrapping.  Inside was a box for a computer printer.  We set the box aside, wondering why Donald was sending us a printer.  I offered to phone Donald that evening when he got in from work and ask him about it.

In moving the box, however, I noted that it seemed unusually heavy for a printer, so I opened one corner of it, pulled out the packaging, and was amazed to discover an incredibly beautiful Damascus steel sculpture inside. We were both stunned into silence, watching the light hitting the sculpture and marvelling at the design and artistry.

It was mounted on a whitish, rough-hewn stone base, and if I were to describe it, it was like the curved tail of a fish above the surface of the ocean. On one side was a flourish of different kinds of steel, as if the fish had shaken a spray of water from its tail into the  air.

This is no small, lightweight sculpture.  It's tall and heavy and has an extraordinary quality that is typical of Ivaan's work, in that it is beautiful from every vantage point.  Ever since 2008, it has had pride of place in our home.

These days, it is usually displayed in the window of Atelier Ivaan, where the light is best.  It attracts a lot of attention, particularly from passersby who are fascinated with metalsmithing.  Every time I see it, Donald's sculpture makes me catch my breath and say a silent thank you to him for his generosity.  He must have realized that this would be the last piece of art Ivaan would acquire in his lifetime, and he wanted to make it magnificent.

EIGHT YEARS

Every imaginable emotion comes to the surface in the weeks leading up to December 6th. I remember when Ivaan died, it wasn't a sudden event. It was a slow withdrawal from the world that started on December 2nd when he underwent a pioneering neurosurgical procedure to close off a damaged artery in his brain and reroute the blood flow through a newly constructed blood vessel.  It was incredibly risky, and he knew that.  He knew the chances of survival were no more than fifty per cent.  Even if he survived, he knew he might not have a functioning brain.  He wanted to have the surgery to contribute to medical knowledge, and to be the first in Canada to undergo the procedure.  If he'd be left without a working brain, he was clear: he didn't want to stick around.

In the end, there was no choice to make because he suffered a massive stroke during the surgical procedure.  We waited a day or so to see if he was going to regain consciousness.  He underwent a further procedure to drain fluid from his skull to relieve the pressure on his brain.  When he was disconnected from the machine that kept him breathing,  he unpredictably started breathing on his own.  It was agony, not knowing what was going on in there.  After days of no sleep, I was finding it hard to think rationally and I needed someone to do the reasoning for me.    Yet  it has always enraged me when someone says, "Ivaan wouldn't have wanted...." or "Ivaan would  have wanted..."  Honestly, when that happens, I can barely contain myself.  Ivaan lived according to his own wishes till he married at the age of 50.  Even after he was married, he was a pretty independent thinker.   He wasn't big on asking others for advice. So I just look at people who try to tell me what Ivaan would have wanted, and say, "And you speak for him?"  

Technically, his heart stopped beating on December 6th.  His brain seemed to have shut down on December 5th. So for me it was a matter of interpretation and I am fairly sure it would have been a question over which Ivaan would have struggled.  But December 6th marked the National Action Day on Violence Against Women, and it was hard to associate that dreadful day with the death of my beloved Ivaan.  So for the immediate purpose of his funeral, we called it December 5th.  With the passing of time, I've come to accept December 5th as his "public" day of death, and December 6th is the day I privately mourn.

Every time I see this photograph of Ivaan, I say a silent thanks to our friend Slava Lukashenkov, who took the photo in the August before his death. It's art imitating life.  At the very right of the photo, I'm just walking into the frame carrying a plate of food to Ivaan.  Slava captured Ivaan exactly as he looked, and whenever I see this photograph, it's like having Ivaan in the room.

For me, it's off to the cemetery today, to cover Ivaan's grave with a blanket of evergreen boughs.  Got to keep my boys warm for the long, cold winter ahead.  Je ne vous oublierai jamais.

я кохаю тебе мій чоловік дуже дуже дуже. вічна пам'ять.