There Goes Terpsichore, Showing Off Again

Before I began to write to the sculptural objects that I found on The Leslie Street Spit, I spent a few years tracking the creative instinct at work.   I was being disciplined, only allowing myself to photo document. I think that was broken rule number one. From time to time the attraction was so great, I could not resist, like this one from my first post:

I needed to place that stone spine, perhaps in honour of something I did not know yet, in honour of something significant about to happen. More than ten years of enchantment has been that.

Three years and a few self-imposed and then just as quickly broken rules of conduct later.

This day, before heading off to The Spit, I had come across my grandmother’s embroidery sampler -- stitched in 1900 by her twelve-year-old hand.  As soon as I arrived at the furthest point on The Spit, for an in-the-moment unknown reason, I braided a flower crown.

Maybe it was simply because the wildflowers were so plentiful.  My grandmother had braided an Austrian alpine flower crown for my mother, my mother a northern Ontario one for me, as I did for my own daughters here in Toronto.  Or perhaps I was under the influence of reflections sparked by the sampler. 

I thought I’d just try placing the crown and sampler in different situations to see how their significance and meaning might be affected in companionship and in juxtaposition with their surroundings.

Here is the trail of my placements.

The next one, courtesy of the wind.

And then, my breath caught.

I’ve thought about her often since then, felt her whirling saucy energy and have attributed my next chapter with The Spit to her.

I’ve tried to hold on to her, entice her to stay near, bribing her with flower crowns, flattering her and coaxing her.  But THAT girl?  She’s elusive. And so, I wait.

the second I laid eyes
on her

 she   had   me

 can you teach me to dance
that way?

‘nope’
she tossed
over her shoulder
as she whirled
between heaven and rubble

 ‘dance like there’s
nobody watching
only then will you have your own’

 and just like that

 she was gone

And for us, you and me, until next time.

The Stealth Art Collective

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