Letters from the near East.
We touched down on the red clay on Sunday afternoon. With the exception of the brief Hurricane/tropical storm/ okay just a bit windy, the weather is not surprising. In one day, it has been warm (never hot), cool, windy, grey, sunny, breezy (never still), rainy and slightly overcast.
Such is the life of an Islander. To clarify, I'm referring to the other Islander - as both folks from Newfoundland and folks from P.E.I. refer to themselves as such. The distinction being that a P.E. Islander would never refer to themselves as being from "the rock", as that would be a complete and total lie. When I was four I saw my first rock, and it was imported from Nova Scotia. The weather is perfect for people who don't like it too extreme. At least, it is in the summer.
I've mixed feeling about getting back to the strange and wonderful and bitter and ugly Island. I waited with alarmed anticipation, getting off the plane and starting to recognize people who should be strangers. Having lived in Toronto for many years now, I've been able to avail myself of the autonomy that comes from living in a town with people you'll never get to know. While at first living in a large city seems ruthless, on closer inspection the enveloping anonymity that comes with walking down Queen Street West all by yourself and not worrying about other people's opinions is an insulation that most Islanders don't have.
Stripped bare by your relationships
that's Margie's brother's wife:
that's the girl who's uncle owns the dealership over in Summerside:
he was engaged to that girl for years, now she's married to the Johnston boy and they're down in Boston:
her father works over at the DVA:
he went to school with that one:
he's bad news, his brother was a bad egg:
it's a wonder anything ever gets done without ten others' input and the whole town's scrutiny.
That's why it always amazes me when people from these small, potentially inhibiting atmospheres produce soul-revealing art. Unlike the big city, where people pour their souls on canvas, or in music, only to revert to anonymity five minutes later, this will be remembered forever. And if it's not accepted by the community, it will leave you in a state of infamy forever.
he's that one who put that show on:
she's the one who put those preposterous paintings up on display:
People do not forget: but whisper in lower tones as time passes.
If you look at smaller areas, both in the Maritimes and Newfoundland, however, you will find vibrant and daring artwork, oftentimes (but not always) without the tinge of cynicism that can accompany an art endeavour of comparable size and talent within a larger centre. Mostly because you will be called to account if you are posing or pretending, because you are known. Even people with good intentions and purer motives (and talent!) are grilled and scrutinized by the public before gaining peer acceptance and review.
It's something to think about. I can't wait to get home.