When I announced that I was moving to a rural community, the second thing people said to me (after the bit about needing to buy a lot of furniture) was, "Aren't you going to feel isolated?"
I'd usually laugh and reply, "I'm hoping so", because I love solitude, but I wondered if I actually had any neighbours and if I was going to meet them and like them. Even before I officially moved into my new home, I was here once dropping things off when I saw a little car pulling out of the long driveway across the street. The driver looked at me for a few seconds and I realized she was probably wondering who the stranger was, loitering around, so I waved and ran across the street to introduce myself.
She was very friendly and helpful about answering a couple of questions I had. And that's how I met Liz.
I later learned that Liz and Linda have lived in their house since about 1987, and between them, they know everybody. They know the former owners of my house, and they knew the owners before that.
A couple of weeks later, there was a knock on my door. It was Liz and Linda, who had arrived with a housewarming present of muffins, chocolate and flowers. I gave them a tour of the house and we chatted away like we'd known each other for years. They invited me to the Erin Eco Film Festival, about which I'd been reading. The day of the first screening, Liz dropped by to remind me (as if I'd forget!) and I learned that it's unnecessary to run right away to answer the door, because if your car is in the driveway, people know you're home, and if they don't get an answer at the door, they just look around the property to see if you're outside. In Toronto, if someone comes to your door without a formal invitation, either your building is on fire or they'll just tap timidly on your door and leave if you don't answer immediately.
At the second screening of the Erin Eco Film Festival, Liz introduced me to Phil, who owns a small brewery called GoodLot, not far away. Chatting away with Phil, I learned he's an admirer of my friend Dave Bidini, knows the West End Phoenix, and loves Dave's band The Rheostatics. I told him about our upcoming West End Phoenix Retreat and promised to have GoodLot beer in the fridge for the occasion.
So I was starting to feel like part of a community. I've been making a point of being extra friendly to strangers, saying hello to people and taking extra care to thank sales staff in stores for their help. Sometimes people's friendliness takes me by surprise. Once, walking down the main street, I was very taken aback when a man walked up to me and delivered a friendly vote of appreciation for the look of my jeans. Okay, they're red jeans, but still....
He asked if I planned to go dancing with him. I was quite startled. In Toronto, an unsought-after opinion about my fashion choices or physique, loudly expressed by a stranger, would have earned him a fat lip. But I'm not in Toronto, so I laughed and let it go right over my head.
Yesterday, I noticed that the tire pressure on Clyde, my beloved motorcycle, had dropped quite low. I wasn't totally comfortable driving into town to the nearest gas station with low tires, because the road I live on has a posted speed of 80 km/hr, so I picked a time when traffic was likely to be minimal, packed my mobile phone, CAA membership and a wallet full of cash, and headed into town. Clyde and I got there just fine. I filled up the front tire, no problem, but when I got to the back tire, it was next to impossible to get the nozzle of the air pump into position to pump up the tire. One dollar, two dollars, three dollars in the machine. I felt my irritation rising. I saw a guy in a pick-up truck pull in to the service station to fill up his tank. When he returned to his truck, I asked if he could help me. No problem, he said, and he pumped up that tire in no time at all. I thanked him, sincerely, and went to start up Clyde for the ride home. Hit the ignition....nothing. Tried two or three times and the battery seemed dead.
I rolled Clyde out of the way, called CAA and was waiting for a boost when a guy came over. "We were watching you out our window", he said, by way of introduction. "Looks like you're having trouble. Do you need a boost?" I told him I was waiting for CAA. He said, "We'll give you a boost", pulled out his phone and called his wife. "Bring the car. She needs a boost", he said. One minute later, she rolled up in an old Pontiac.
Together we put the booster cables on my battery, Scott hit the ignition and Clyde roared into action. Immediately, my phone started to ring. I had my motorcycle helmet on, so I passed the phone to Sandy and asked her to answer it for me. It was CAA. "Thanks, we've got it started", she told them. I went for my wallet to give Scott and Sandy some money by way of thanks, and in unison they firmly declined. I offered again. "People in Erin look out for each other", they said, so again I thanked them sincerely and shook their hands.
Clyde and I roared home without further incident, and I have added Liz, Linda, Phil, Scott and Sandy to the list of good neighbours who have made me feel welcome.
Saturday, May 4, 2019
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
ONE MONTH IN
Today is the one-month anniversary of my having 'bought the farm'.
So far, it's been brilliant. I could blather on forever about the fresh air, the delicious, clean well water, the silence and the utter darkness at night.
But frankly, I'm too busy learning the many new things I'll need to know, not merely to survive here, but to thrive.
I vowed before I came here that I'd approach this new chapter of my life with humility. I'm not aware of having much big city attitude, but after half a century in downtown Toronto, I've probably got my share. So, rule #1: none of the baggage I came with will necessarily serve me well. This includes all my beautiful leather boots. Rule #2: ask, nicely, for advice or recommendations, and if it's not immediately forthcoming, let it go. No one owes you anything. Rule #3: if you come here looking to pay other people to do stuff you ought to know how to do yourself, you might as well have stayed in Toronto.
The first night here, I almost froze to death. I arrived the day before my furniture arrived, but I had brought a chaise longue from my roof garden, and several wool blankets. I didn't know how to operate the propane fireplace, so I slept in my clothes in front of the fireplace, just in case it took pity on me and magically started working during the night. I had no phone and no internet, and boy, was it dark, but I survived and the hot shower I took the next morning made me feel human again.
Two of my nephews pretty much saved me on Day One. Ivor, from his nice warm townhouse in Ottawa, hacked into my email for me (we're close that way) contacted the former owner, and between them, they figured out how to get my landline up and running. Angus and his partner, Sara, drove up from Toronto and while Angus installed some new phone jacks, Sara started wiping out the kitchen cupboards so I could unpack my dishes. When the movers arrived, I was delighted to see how good my furniture looked and fit here. It was as though I had chosen it precisely for this house. See what I mean?
One of the oddities of this house is that there are two basements: the "old" basement and the "new" basement. The old basement is the finished basement, and the new basement is the one with the concrete floor. It also has the steepest staircase in the world. It's like descending a cliff. Angus took one look at it and installed a landline at the bottom of the stairs, on the assumption that I'd eventually fall down those stairs, break a leg and need to call 911 for help.
Everyone who knew I was moving to a large house told me the same thing: you need to buy a lot more furniture. I'm pleased to say, I didn't. Yes, I bought a huge green leather sofa before I moved here, and it has turned out to be very useful. Although I inherited some furniture and art with the house, I've opted to sell most of it, so the net furniture I've acquired is a gate leg table, two small armchairs, two nesting coffee tables, an architect's desk, some bookcases and a twin bed frame.
My good friend Natalka Husar gave me my choice of one of her sketches, framed, for my dining room.
Some paintings came with the house and I have come to like all of them, one very much indeed.
Perhaps the best thing that came with the house is a rowboat. I've named her the good ship Louise. She totally looks like a Louise. I've been out sailing on the ponds twice, and I love it, though family members have pointed out that a black leather motorcycle jacket is not a life preserver.
Clothing-wise, I've acquired a pair of work jeans, work gloves, a plaid flannel shirt, and some knee length rubber boots. I am a bit worried that my feet are going to take on the size and shape of those rubber boots, because they're all I've worn since I bought them. I'm hoping to find an Amish men's straw hat. Yesterday in the tool department of a hardware store in Georgetown, one of the older guys who works there called me "Sir". I took it as a compliment. So...none of those finky women's straw hats for me.
Three days ago, I had my first bonfire in the fire pit. Before you can have bonfires, you have to get a Burn Permit from the municipality. There are rules to follow, including that you cannot burn things when the winds are over 10 km/hr. I have a Burn Permit. And I had a mountain of twigs. So my bonfire was burning nicely and I leaned over to add some twigs to the top of the pile. The breeze suddenly shifted, and just as suddenly I smelled that distinctive odour of burning hair. If you've ever smelled it, it's not something you forget. My hair is generally short, with a long lock on top. At least it was. I clapped my hands on my head but the damage was already done. I didn't bother going inside to look in a mirror. That night, I had a long, hot shower, applied an entire vat of conditioner, and I have to say, my accidental hairstyle looks pretty good. Especially that black streak where the long lock used to be.
As I say, I came here to learn.
So far, it's been brilliant. I could blather on forever about the fresh air, the delicious, clean well water, the silence and the utter darkness at night.
But frankly, I'm too busy learning the many new things I'll need to know, not merely to survive here, but to thrive.
I vowed before I came here that I'd approach this new chapter of my life with humility. I'm not aware of having much big city attitude, but after half a century in downtown Toronto, I've probably got my share. So, rule #1: none of the baggage I came with will necessarily serve me well. This includes all my beautiful leather boots. Rule #2: ask, nicely, for advice or recommendations, and if it's not immediately forthcoming, let it go. No one owes you anything. Rule #3: if you come here looking to pay other people to do stuff you ought to know how to do yourself, you might as well have stayed in Toronto.
The first night here, I almost froze to death. I arrived the day before my furniture arrived, but I had brought a chaise longue from my roof garden, and several wool blankets. I didn't know how to operate the propane fireplace, so I slept in my clothes in front of the fireplace, just in case it took pity on me and magically started working during the night. I had no phone and no internet, and boy, was it dark, but I survived and the hot shower I took the next morning made me feel human again.
Two of my nephews pretty much saved me on Day One. Ivor, from his nice warm townhouse in Ottawa, hacked into my email for me (we're close that way) contacted the former owner, and between them, they figured out how to get my landline up and running. Angus and his partner, Sara, drove up from Toronto and while Angus installed some new phone jacks, Sara started wiping out the kitchen cupboards so I could unpack my dishes. When the movers arrived, I was delighted to see how good my furniture looked and fit here. It was as though I had chosen it precisely for this house. See what I mean?
One of the oddities of this house is that there are two basements: the "old" basement and the "new" basement. The old basement is the finished basement, and the new basement is the one with the concrete floor. It also has the steepest staircase in the world. It's like descending a cliff. Angus took one look at it and installed a landline at the bottom of the stairs, on the assumption that I'd eventually fall down those stairs, break a leg and need to call 911 for help.
Everyone who knew I was moving to a large house told me the same thing: you need to buy a lot more furniture. I'm pleased to say, I didn't. Yes, I bought a huge green leather sofa before I moved here, and it has turned out to be very useful. Although I inherited some furniture and art with the house, I've opted to sell most of it, so the net furniture I've acquired is a gate leg table, two small armchairs, two nesting coffee tables, an architect's desk, some bookcases and a twin bed frame.
My good friend Natalka Husar gave me my choice of one of her sketches, framed, for my dining room.
 |
| Sketch for "Bite" by Natalka Husar |
Some paintings came with the house and I have come to like all of them, one very much indeed.
 |
| Lady Birds by Jillson Evans Rolland |
Perhaps the best thing that came with the house is a rowboat. I've named her the good ship Louise. She totally looks like a Louise. I've been out sailing on the ponds twice, and I love it, though family members have pointed out that a black leather motorcycle jacket is not a life preserver.
Clothing-wise, I've acquired a pair of work jeans, work gloves, a plaid flannel shirt, and some knee length rubber boots. I am a bit worried that my feet are going to take on the size and shape of those rubber boots, because they're all I've worn since I bought them. I'm hoping to find an Amish men's straw hat. Yesterday in the tool department of a hardware store in Georgetown, one of the older guys who works there called me "Sir". I took it as a compliment. So...none of those finky women's straw hats for me.
Three days ago, I had my first bonfire in the fire pit. Before you can have bonfires, you have to get a Burn Permit from the municipality. There are rules to follow, including that you cannot burn things when the winds are over 10 km/hr. I have a Burn Permit. And I had a mountain of twigs. So my bonfire was burning nicely and I leaned over to add some twigs to the top of the pile. The breeze suddenly shifted, and just as suddenly I smelled that distinctive odour of burning hair. If you've ever smelled it, it's not something you forget. My hair is generally short, with a long lock on top. At least it was. I clapped my hands on my head but the damage was already done. I didn't bother going inside to look in a mirror. That night, I had a long, hot shower, applied an entire vat of conditioner, and I have to say, my accidental hairstyle looks pretty good. Especially that black streak where the long lock used to be.
As I say, I came here to learn.
Saturday, March 30, 2019
APRIL FOOLS
It started with a table: a large black oak dining table from the early to mid-1800s that had been in our family house since the 1970s. When we sold the family house, commonly known as 84, in 2016, our brother-in-law Gary had asked if he could have the table for his vacation home near Collingwood. He was quite sentimental about it.
It's a table with a long and interesting provenance, having come from the home of the great-niece of a famous psychiatrist, writer and mystic, Dr. Richard Maurice Bucke, whose life and work was immortalized in the film Beautiful Dreamers, starring Colm Feore. The American poet Walt Whitman had dined at that table on more than one occasion. Mrs. Seaborn, the great-niece, had inherited the table and some other furniture from her great uncle, and sometime in the 1970s our father, who idolized Dr. Bucke, was able to buy these pieces from her.
It took four of us to load the table into the back of Gary's pickup truck. Two years later, Gary had changed his mind about the table. Bringing it here to swallow up ATELIER IVAAN made no sense. I offered it to the new owners of 84, but they were in the middle of a reno and the timing was not right, though they loved it, and subsequently regretted not having jumped at the chance.
So I started emailing around: who between Collingwood and Toronto would like, appreciate and respect a large black oak table with so many leaves that you could re-enact The Last Supper at it if necessary? A woman I know about half way between these two points offered to take it. She lives on a farm. Gary said he would drop it off at her place. It was a very rainy early summer and taking a huge table in the back of a pickup truck in the rain was not a wise decision. But Gary needed it moved, rain or shine. Sometimes the shortest distance between two points is to do it yourself.
So I rented a large cargo van, recruited my nephew Philippe to help me, and we headed north to Gary's. We loaded the table in the van and headed south toward Sandra's farm. I drove, Philippe navigated, and part way there I said to Philippe, "I can breathe out here". I realized the asthma which often beset me in the city was completely absent. I felt uncommonly well (although part of that might be attributed to spending a day in the country with an exceedingly handsome and charming 20-something nephew).
En route to the farm, we passed several rural properties that were for sale and I started wondering what it would be like to breathe freely all the time. I was beginning to feel like one of the people the Statue of Liberty spoke of - those "huddled masses yearning to breathe free". I started fantasizing about finding a manageable rural property within an hour of Toronto. First I envisioned moving ATELIER IVAAN to the country, so I looked for places that were zoned commercial.
The first one that caught my eye was in the Town of Erin. The house reminded me of another house where I'd lived in my early 20s, but this property in Erin has a 10 foot waterfall in the back yard. It was on the main street and it was overpriced and neglected, but I was intrigued. It took me a month or so to rule it out.
I started to think I'd like more acreage, with lots of trees on the property, and I found a 49 acre rural property southeast of Erin. It had been on the market for some time and had just sold conditionally, but the agent for that place alerted my agent to another place he had for sale: five acres just south of Erin. I went to see it.
I loved the land but was daunted by the scale of the house. It seemed massive. But the property had three ponds, a boat, a swimming pool, loads of trees, and so many amenities that I kept on coming back to see it. In January I made an offer which was accepted.
I'm two days away from moving. I've named my property "5 Acres". I've come to really like the young family who sold it to me. I have a lot to learn from them about rural living. I'd better learn it fast, because they are moving to Australia. But as far as I'm concerned, "5 Acres" will always be their home too. They've entrusted a remarkable legacy to me and I mean to do my utmost to be a good steward of the land, to use and enjoy it every day, and in particular to come to the country with humility: not one of those city slickers who thinks they know everything and who lives like a country squire.
I do want to get a plaid flannel shirt, though, but I won't be wearing it ironically. I'm here to learn. I'm well aware I'm moving on April Fools' Day.
It's a table with a long and interesting provenance, having come from the home of the great-niece of a famous psychiatrist, writer and mystic, Dr. Richard Maurice Bucke, whose life and work was immortalized in the film Beautiful Dreamers, starring Colm Feore. The American poet Walt Whitman had dined at that table on more than one occasion. Mrs. Seaborn, the great-niece, had inherited the table and some other furniture from her great uncle, and sometime in the 1970s our father, who idolized Dr. Bucke, was able to buy these pieces from her.
It took four of us to load the table into the back of Gary's pickup truck. Two years later, Gary had changed his mind about the table. Bringing it here to swallow up ATELIER IVAAN made no sense. I offered it to the new owners of 84, but they were in the middle of a reno and the timing was not right, though they loved it, and subsequently regretted not having jumped at the chance.
So I started emailing around: who between Collingwood and Toronto would like, appreciate and respect a large black oak table with so many leaves that you could re-enact The Last Supper at it if necessary? A woman I know about half way between these two points offered to take it. She lives on a farm. Gary said he would drop it off at her place. It was a very rainy early summer and taking a huge table in the back of a pickup truck in the rain was not a wise decision. But Gary needed it moved, rain or shine. Sometimes the shortest distance between two points is to do it yourself.
So I rented a large cargo van, recruited my nephew Philippe to help me, and we headed north to Gary's. We loaded the table in the van and headed south toward Sandra's farm. I drove, Philippe navigated, and part way there I said to Philippe, "I can breathe out here". I realized the asthma which often beset me in the city was completely absent. I felt uncommonly well (although part of that might be attributed to spending a day in the country with an exceedingly handsome and charming 20-something nephew).
En route to the farm, we passed several rural properties that were for sale and I started wondering what it would be like to breathe freely all the time. I was beginning to feel like one of the people the Statue of Liberty spoke of - those "huddled masses yearning to breathe free". I started fantasizing about finding a manageable rural property within an hour of Toronto. First I envisioned moving ATELIER IVAAN to the country, so I looked for places that were zoned commercial.
The first one that caught my eye was in the Town of Erin. The house reminded me of another house where I'd lived in my early 20s, but this property in Erin has a 10 foot waterfall in the back yard. It was on the main street and it was overpriced and neglected, but I was intrigued. It took me a month or so to rule it out.
I started to think I'd like more acreage, with lots of trees on the property, and I found a 49 acre rural property southeast of Erin. It had been on the market for some time and had just sold conditionally, but the agent for that place alerted my agent to another place he had for sale: five acres just south of Erin. I went to see it.
I'm two days away from moving. I've named my property "5 Acres". I've come to really like the young family who sold it to me. I have a lot to learn from them about rural living. I'd better learn it fast, because they are moving to Australia. But as far as I'm concerned, "5 Acres" will always be their home too. They've entrusted a remarkable legacy to me and I mean to do my utmost to be a good steward of the land, to use and enjoy it every day, and in particular to come to the country with humility: not one of those city slickers who thinks they know everything and who lives like a country squire.
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
FEBRUARY 3rd.
February 3rd was a momentous day. It's the birthday of my brother Dave, the birthday of my nephew Samuel, and the birthday of my Auntie Eleanor. It was also a good day for a road trip. At lunchtime I went out for a drive with our longtime friend Myron, who is also my go-to guy for everything real estate. We'd decided to go out and see a very old (1871) schoolhouse which was newly up for sale in a hamlet about an hour's drive northwest of here. I liked it because it had a beautiful brick exterior, very high ceilings and huge windows.
I've never been drawn to anything ordinary in the way of real estate, and it's no exaggeration to say Myron has hated every single property I've bought in the past. He likes things conventional, comfortable, neutral in colour, well-appointed and moderately luxurious. Over the years, he's learned not to roll his eyes when I drag him out to see something that's for sale. He saves his eye-rolling for my taste in light fixtures. He likes pleasant and unobtrusive. I like sculptural and industrial.
I knew the schoolhouse was going to have some drawbacks. I could tell from the photos that the land around it was pretty flat and uninteresting. But it was moderately enough priced that you could throw a hundred thousand at it, the interior would be transformed, and it would be a showstopper that you could resell in a heartbeat.
Even better, it had a massive workshop in the back corner of the property, with a loft.
A schoolhouse makes an untraditional home, and I would have been very tempted, but for a feature that you couldn't tell until you saw it in person: it sat so close to the road that - as a friend said - someone could hand you your groceries from a passing car and you wouldn't even need to step off the front porch. So, with some regret (me) and some relief (Myron) we headed back to Toronto. As we were driving, his car phone rang. It was a real estate agent whose client was interested in making an offer on my building. I was so busy thinking about the schoolhouse, I completely zoned out.
But by the time we were close to my place, Myron asked "Can you live with" -- and he named a sum of money. I gulped, decided to say yes, and the rest was history. On April 1st, my wedding anniversary, my sweet little Atelier Ivaan will become the home of a naturopathic office and wellness clinic for mothers and babies, owned by two young women who live in the neighbourhood.
I had told my next door neighbours that I would do my best to find a buyer who would be an asset to the neighbourhood and who wouldn't be in competition with their longstanding restaurant businesses. I thought it might become a hair salon or an architect's office. But I don't think I could have predicted anything as excellent as this.
All of which begs the question: where will I be moving on April 1st? For months, I've had my eye on an out of town property. It is way too big for me: too much land, too much house, too many bedrooms, too many bathrooms, too many basements (no joke). It has too many ponds (three), too many trees (hundreds), and too many swimming pools (one). But all my adult life I've been purposefully opting for small and urban. Now I'm going to try the exact opposite. Stay tuned for my next post, which will be called, appropriately, April Fools.
 |
| Myron especially hates this one. |
But by the time we were close to my place, Myron asked "Can you live with" -- and he named a sum of money. I gulped, decided to say yes, and the rest was history. On April 1st, my wedding anniversary, my sweet little Atelier Ivaan will become the home of a naturopathic office and wellness clinic for mothers and babies, owned by two young women who live in the neighbourhood.
I had told my next door neighbours that I would do my best to find a buyer who would be an asset to the neighbourhood and who wouldn't be in competition with their longstanding restaurant businesses. I thought it might become a hair salon or an architect's office. But I don't think I could have predicted anything as excellent as this.
All of which begs the question: where will I be moving on April 1st? For months, I've had my eye on an out of town property. It is way too big for me: too much land, too much house, too many bedrooms, too many bathrooms, too many basements (no joke). It has too many ponds (three), too many trees (hundreds), and too many swimming pools (one). But all my adult life I've been purposefully opting for small and urban. Now I'm going to try the exact opposite. Stay tuned for my next post, which will be called, appropriately, April Fools.
Saturday, November 24, 2018
A DAY TO REMEMBER
This afternoon, I tweeted: "Dead slow at ATELIER IVAAN today." An hour later, some longtime clients had come by for a visit. We were hanging around talking and catching up and looking at jewellery when I noticed two people on the sidewalk out front. I was perplexed: one of them looked startlingly like Ontario's Lieutenant Governor, the Honourable Elizabeth Dowdeswell.
I opened my mouth to say to Jalani and Yasaman, "that woman looks exactly like the Lieutenant Governor!" when the door opened and my brain started doing that rapid-fire calculus wherein the left hemisphere says, "That IS the Lieutenant Governor" and the right hemisphere says, "What on earth would the Lieutenant Governor be doing here?" and the left says, "Maybe she's lost and she needs directions" and the right says, "Yeah, but how did she end up on Dupont Street of all places?" and all of a sudden, the Lieutenant Governor is standing in my shop and I'm just about having an asthma attack.
I have been a fan of our LG since she was appointed. She always seemed so warm and human and gracious - not qualities that are easy to maintain in a role where one is the Queen's representative in Ontario and required to attend official functions every single day, often with a personalized speech to deliver. I first got to see her in action on February 28, 2018, when she presided over the Order of Ontario investiture at Queen's Park. I was very fortunate to have been invited, as a guest of one of the people who was being invested into the Order, and even as a guest it was a momentous occasion.
Yet, the Lieutenant Governor presided over the event with such charm, warmth, grace and generosity of spirit that everyone in that room felt like an important participant in the evening. It was easy to tell that each recipient of the Order fell under the spell of her warmth and keen interest in their accomplishments. I was dazzled, and I felt so privileged to be there.
And all of a sudden, there's the Lieutenant Governor in my shop. If I had known she'd be coming, I might not have been wearing slippers and my TOFU VS. EVERYBODY t-shirt. I might have cleaned the place up a little, or put the kettle on, or worn make-up.
But I quickly came to realize that it absolutely didn't matter. She'd been reading my Twitter feed and learned that I was a fan and that one of my
dreams was to meet her. She'd also read my website and my blog, so she knew about Ivaan, and knew about me, too. And she'd decided to come over and just say hi.
Well, we had a great visit. Jalani and Yasaman took photos and we chatted about her work and my work, and Ivaan, and she was just as wonderful as I had imagined. We were all chatting easily and all too soon the visit was over.
If I did not have the photos to prove it, I'd definitely think I'd imagined the whole thing. It just seems incredible that on a perfectly normal Saturday in November, with no warning whatsoever, I got to meet one of my biggest heroes. It would be like having Nelson Mandela, kd lang, Ry Cooder, Pierre Trudeau and Paul McCartney, all holding hands, decide to drop in on you at the same time.
I felt so thrilled and honoured that on this rainy afternoon, somebody I admire so much took the time to think of me and then acted on it by coming round to say hello. I know she's up to her ears in protocol and security and all those things, and she never goes anywhere without an entourage. I thought I'd had an incredible year already: winning a literary competition, turning 65, attending the Order of Ontario investiture ceremony, taking up beekeeping, harvesting my first honey, a laneway naming, and moving a bunch of newer projects toward completion, but this was completely beyond anything I could have expected.
And just in case you think maybe I did dream this up, here are a couple of photos, for which I sincerely thank Yasaman and Jalani.
I opened my mouth to say to Jalani and Yasaman, "that woman looks exactly like the Lieutenant Governor!" when the door opened and my brain started doing that rapid-fire calculus wherein the left hemisphere says, "That IS the Lieutenant Governor" and the right hemisphere says, "What on earth would the Lieutenant Governor be doing here?" and the left says, "Maybe she's lost and she needs directions" and the right says, "Yeah, but how did she end up on Dupont Street of all places?" and all of a sudden, the Lieutenant Governor is standing in my shop and I'm just about having an asthma attack.
I have been a fan of our LG since she was appointed. She always seemed so warm and human and gracious - not qualities that are easy to maintain in a role where one is the Queen's representative in Ontario and required to attend official functions every single day, often with a personalized speech to deliver. I first got to see her in action on February 28, 2018, when she presided over the Order of Ontario investiture at Queen's Park. I was very fortunate to have been invited, as a guest of one of the people who was being invested into the Order, and even as a guest it was a momentous occasion.
Yet, the Lieutenant Governor presided over the event with such charm, warmth, grace and generosity of spirit that everyone in that room felt like an important participant in the evening. It was easy to tell that each recipient of the Order fell under the spell of her warmth and keen interest in their accomplishments. I was dazzled, and I felt so privileged to be there.
And all of a sudden, there's the Lieutenant Governor in my shop. If I had known she'd be coming, I might not have been wearing slippers and my TOFU VS. EVERYBODY t-shirt. I might have cleaned the place up a little, or put the kettle on, or worn make-up.
But I quickly came to realize that it absolutely didn't matter. She'd been reading my Twitter feed and learned that I was a fan and that one of my
dreams was to meet her. She'd also read my website and my blog, so she knew about Ivaan, and knew about me, too. And she'd decided to come over and just say hi.
Well, we had a great visit. Jalani and Yasaman took photos and we chatted about her work and my work, and Ivaan, and she was just as wonderful as I had imagined. We were all chatting easily and all too soon the visit was over.
If I did not have the photos to prove it, I'd definitely think I'd imagined the whole thing. It just seems incredible that on a perfectly normal Saturday in November, with no warning whatsoever, I got to meet one of my biggest heroes. It would be like having Nelson Mandela, kd lang, Ry Cooder, Pierre Trudeau and Paul McCartney, all holding hands, decide to drop in on you at the same time.
I felt so thrilled and honoured that on this rainy afternoon, somebody I admire so much took the time to think of me and then acted on it by coming round to say hello. I know she's up to her ears in protocol and security and all those things, and she never goes anywhere without an entourage. I thought I'd had an incredible year already: winning a literary competition, turning 65, attending the Order of Ontario investiture ceremony, taking up beekeeping, harvesting my first honey, a laneway naming, and moving a bunch of newer projects toward completion, but this was completely beyond anything I could have expected.
And just in case you think maybe I did dream this up, here are a couple of photos, for which I sincerely thank Yasaman and Jalani.
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
CORRESPONDENCE
Last Saturday morning, I woke up and immediately knew it was time to retire from Atelier Ivaan. I'd been thinking about it, on and off, for the better part of a year, wondering when the right time was, wondering how I'd know when the time had come, but on the morning of Saturday, November 10th, 2018, I just knew.
I got up, worked all day in the shop, and had a great day. Clients I really like came by, and it was fun talking with them. But at the end of the day I hadn't changed my mind, so I went to the computer and typed a letter to send out to clients and friends of Atelier Ivaan. I told them I wouldn't be taking on any custom orders after November 30th, and that I'd remain open till December 31st, but as of January 1st, 2019, the cash register would be slammed forever shut - and then I clicked Send.
Next morning I woke up to a barrage of reply emails - so many that I had an anxiety attack. But it was Remembrance Day, the 100th anniversary of the end of World War One, and I was going to meet my brother Hamish at the Cenotaph for the ceremony, so I tried not to read too many emails before I left.
When I came home, there were even more emails. Some said, "What? Are you sick or something?" Others said, "Impossible! I wave to Ivaan every time I go by your store!" Lots more said, "Okay, do what you must, but here's what I'm ordering" (followed by a long list of items).
One said:
Then I opened this one from a friend with a special connection to the Atelier, as she co-curated a massive retrospective of Ivaan's work in 2008 and 2009 and knows the pieces almost as well as I do:
This morning I was downtown getting started on a bunch of jewellery orders when I received this email message from our friend Helen.
Helen is one of the "Czech Chicks", a group of talented, beautiful, fun-loving women who have known each other for decades, wear Ivaan's work proudly, and are among his most ardent fans. Helen is tiny, impossibly chic, and so vivacious and full of life that nothing stops her. She looks as glamorous as a movie star from the 1950s. She's a force of nature.
I waited to read her email till I got home. Just as well, because I needed a handkerchief. Here's what she wrote:
Dear Eya,
Well, you can just imagine how I felt when I received that. I "made Ivaan immortal."
I think it was the sweetest thing I've ever read. Thank you, Helen. Ivaan thanks you too.
I got up, worked all day in the shop, and had a great day. Clients I really like came by, and it was fun talking with them. But at the end of the day I hadn't changed my mind, so I went to the computer and typed a letter to send out to clients and friends of Atelier Ivaan. I told them I wouldn't be taking on any custom orders after November 30th, and that I'd remain open till December 31st, but as of January 1st, 2019, the cash register would be slammed forever shut - and then I clicked Send.
Next morning I woke up to a barrage of reply emails - so many that I had an anxiety attack. But it was Remembrance Day, the 100th anniversary of the end of World War One, and I was going to meet my brother Hamish at the Cenotaph for the ceremony, so I tried not to read too many emails before I left.
When I came home, there were even more emails. Some said, "What? Are you sick or something?" Others said, "Impossible! I wave to Ivaan every time I go by your store!" Lots more said, "Okay, do what you must, but here's what I'm ordering" (followed by a long list of items).
One said:
Eya, Congratulations! I hope this next adventure is full of everything that makes you happy. Best always, Sandra
Another said:
Eya,Well, that pretty much had me crying, because I find it hard to imagine I'm anyone's hero. Hard working? Yes, I'll cop to that. Generous? I try hard to be. But Alice is one of the most remarkable women I know, heroic in every way, and I value her friendship and love her to bits.I can't believe you are closing down the store! Actually, I totally can, I just don't want to believe it.Just a selfish bit of wishful thinking that your store and Ivaan's work would always be there.You've done such an amazing job of continuing to share his legacy with so much love and dedication.You are still my hero...........What are you planning on for your next act?love,Alice
Then I opened this one from a friend with a special connection to the Atelier, as she co-curated a massive retrospective of Ivaan's work in 2008 and 2009 and knows the pieces almost as well as I do:
Well, I opened the news bulletin. And while it's hard to imagine the Atelier wrapping up,I know you have so many other interests and talents that make this the right move for you. You created something amazing to honour Ivaan, and the book and website and all the beautiful jewellery will live on long after us..... ....All good things for the future, Sonia
This morning I was downtown getting started on a bunch of jewellery orders when I received this email message from our friend Helen.
Helen is one of the "Czech Chicks", a group of talented, beautiful, fun-loving women who have known each other for decades, wear Ivaan's work proudly, and are among his most ardent fans. Helen is tiny, impossibly chic, and so vivacious and full of life that nothing stops her. She looks as glamorous as a movie star from the 1950s. She's a force of nature.
I waited to read her email till I got home. Just as well, because I needed a handkerchief. Here's what she wrote:
Dear Eya,
Thank you for your sad "happy" news.
Sad as your love story comes to the end - and happy that there
is new beginning - more time in your life for yourself !
I would love to come, just to give you hug and see you......
Ivaan's rings which I have for many years, never removing from my
finger, his legendary "Heart", which I wear on the black robe, is always
my best choice. There is "Immortality" in his designs .
He was so special! And you Eya - you made Ivaan immortal!
Your love for him and spreading his legacy all over .
Please be in touch. With love and many thanks.
from Helen
I think it was the sweetest thing I've ever read. Thank you, Helen. Ivaan thanks you too.
Monday, November 5, 2018
ONE OF FIFTY
It sometimes happens that a woman will contact me to enquire about an item she has bought or inherited, made by Ivaan. Why is it always a woman? I don't know. It just is. In fact, I can recall only one man, ever, who has enquired about a piece of jewellery he owns. I remember this so well that I even remember his name: Jimson Bowler. He's an Indigenous artist, and he's terrific. Look him up sometime. I remember doing a blog post maybe five years ago about Jimson's very unusual Ivaan ring.
Anyway, this isn't about Jimson in particular or men in general, though a couple of men feature in the story.
A few months ago, a woman from B.C. whose name is Wendy wrote to me about an Ivaan corkscrew her brother had bought at auction. Her brother collects corkscrews. From her description, I drew a complete blank. Eventually she asked her husband to photograph the corkscrew and send me the pictures.
I confess I was dumbstruck because Ivaan did not make many corkscrews and I was pretty sure I had seen them all. So I wasn't able to give her much information except to say that the handle was pewter, and that it was undoubtedly from 1979 or 1980. Wendy did a little more sleuthing and learned that the Art Gallery of Toronto had commissioned 50 identical corkscrews from Ivaan as a fundraising endeavour and they were very sought after. This was one of them.
It's almost incredible that I've never seen another of the fifty. But I'm willing to bet that as soon as I post this, somebody else is going to write to me and say, "My aunt has one of those" or - even better - "Would you like to buy one of those because I have one for sale".
Here's Wendy's brother's corkscrew. It's pretty sweet.
Anyway, this isn't about Jimson in particular or men in general, though a couple of men feature in the story.
A few months ago, a woman from B.C. whose name is Wendy wrote to me about an Ivaan corkscrew her brother had bought at auction. Her brother collects corkscrews. From her description, I drew a complete blank. Eventually she asked her husband to photograph the corkscrew and send me the pictures.
I confess I was dumbstruck because Ivaan did not make many corkscrews and I was pretty sure I had seen them all. So I wasn't able to give her much information except to say that the handle was pewter, and that it was undoubtedly from 1979 or 1980. Wendy did a little more sleuthing and learned that the Art Gallery of Toronto had commissioned 50 identical corkscrews from Ivaan as a fundraising endeavour and they were very sought after. This was one of them.
It's almost incredible that I've never seen another of the fifty. But I'm willing to bet that as soon as I post this, somebody else is going to write to me and say, "My aunt has one of those" or - even better - "Would you like to buy one of those because I have one for sale".
Here's Wendy's brother's corkscrew. It's pretty sweet.
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