The World is Scary
The World is full of Monsters
The World is Beautiful
Welcome. What you have before you is my two year art project. Or I like to think of it as such. God, so much has gone on and changed in two years, flipping through this I am amazed at all that I’ve seen and experienced, all the amazing people that I’ve met and talked to, all the places I’ve been. My sisters and I started this blog in April 2008. We had great plans. We were three crazed sisters in our attic studio designing, drawing writing and painting. Since starting we’ve launched a fashion line, had a part in a few books and had an incredible show of our paintings, dresses and art with some friends. It’s been an amazing and magical ride.
But so much has changed since we started; Alice has all but disappeared, off somewhere writing a novel and, we suspect, a vampire; Elisabeth is in Paris, an apprentice, sewing fantastical dresses and I’ve become, hm, not disillusioned with blogging, more, I feel I’m saying more with my art … words have begun to fail me. In fact, aside from the Questionnaires which I am terribly proud of, my two years of writing cannot match one single issue, in terms of content, some of the more fascinating glossy magazines like Lula, Pop, An Other or Corduroy. Who am I kidding? I’m a painter, I live in a world of stripy stockings and ookpiks and penguins. I never go out unless forced, I go crazy in crowds, I never pick up the phone, in fact I even don’t own a cell phone. I am forever misquoting Shakespeare.
So here I am, Sarah Pomegranate, whatever I am, lets say artist. And as a person who speaks better visually, who needs to wave her hands about, I thought I would move to a gallery page format (I will add the link once I have it) and say this chapter is finished. You know, we get so bogged down, there is just so much noise, I love this blog and am proud of it, and it will always be here, but this is the next step, I’m jumping back in to the mirror.
This was our two year art project and you, gentle readers, were a wonderful and magical part of it.
Lastly, as a kind of aside, we are struck by all the deaths so close. Just this month alone, our dear decadent friend Sebastian Horsley and the very wonderful Tracey Wright and what of the macabre and ill-timed death of Tobias Wong? If this keeps up the world will truly just be filled with monsters (and YouTube sensations) Please, everyone, take care, stay with us for the art, stay with us for the anarchy, there’s still so much to do, and still so much to clean up. Okay, on to the next sensation. On to art.
In the mean time!
Scary/Monster/Beautiful – The Catalogue
The book, a spread of which you see presented here, and in the hands of our stunningly lovely model Crystal Wan above is a most gorgeous, glossy paper, hard cover catalogue of the Scary/Monster/Beautiful show, it to me is the period at the end of this grand art experiment. It is so beautiful and I am so proud of it. The first 25 copies will come with a signed original print of a new work by me, plus a CD featuring the AudioGuide from the show and three short films, plus a handmade ookpik keychain! That’s pretty exciting I must say. And all for $45.95 plus $15 for postage and handling. To purchase you copy click on the button below, if you truly hate PayPal email me and I will send you details.
Yesterday was a moonday for me. I know, unromantically we can blame it on PMS, but I like to think of days like yesterday as moondays. Lunatic, the state of being struck by the moon. And I don’t mean being a buff first nation’s teen defending the chastity of some dull girl that smells odd to shimmering yet just as dull vampires. I mean diving in to the waters deep and swimming out in to a night black sea. I mean setting sail in a silver ship, just you, an owl, a bottle of wine, your journal, a fountain pen and a photograph or two. I mean those days when you write poem after really bad poem, and you think them … brilliant. Earth shattering, in fact. In fact, you’d read them aloud if you had anyone to read them to. Because lets face it, people suck sometimes.
So yes, yesterday was a moonday. Welcome to my world.
In my blood many countries swarm much like parasites. I have a skill which I call ploughing, the ability to just sit in a chair and do the same thing over and over and over and over and over again. 98% of hand book binding is this, so much of pure craft is just tedium and repetition. The English in me gives me that stoicism, Stay Calm, Carry On. I admire the English and their carrying on, the stories of during the air raids of the second world war, “That was close. How about some fish and chips?” But on days like yesterday, when I am struck by the moon, my mellow turns dramatic and my quiet bubbles over in to a kind of rage and some other country in me takes hold.
And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I’m glad that you stood in my way.
Mr. Cohen, you just know, was having a moonday, standing as he was in the cold New York rain, wearing what was left of his heart on his sleeve.
In 1971, the top 5 song was One Bad Apple recorded by the Osmonds, Donny Osmond sang -
One bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch, girl.
Oh, give it one more try before you give up on love.
One bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch girl.
Oh, I don’t care what they say, I don’t care what you heard.
On Sunday night singer Lhasa de Sela died of breast cancer, she was only 37. I never met her and missed seeing her when she played in Toronto, but her CDs always transported myself and my sisters to other worlds with silver seas. Her voice spoke of moondays. Of swimming in the dangerous waters out to sea to be free. Wherever she is right now, floating high above us, shower down your stars, we will catch the fire in our skirts to light our way.
Sorry, this posting doesn’t make much sense. I’m sitting here in Paris, alone in this cold now empty apartment waiting for Elizabeth to come home. All of Aunt Charlotte’s things have gone, there’s nothing left but my two bags, my laptop and Mr. Murakami’s daughter’s piano. Even Albert the cat has a new home. Today is my last day in this haunted apartment. Elizabeth is moving to her own flat and I’ve decided to travel a while and then return to Canada.
So for a month I will be away. I will try to post when I find an internet café and I know Alice will be posting. In February we’ve decided to redesign the blog. Alice will have her own and I will focus this on my art, it will be more like a gallery um, blog. Elizabeth isn’t sure what she wants to do, she is so busy being an apprentice bee.
Thank you for being so magical and travelling this distance with us. Thank you for your kind letters and emails and photos. Thank you for coming to Paris with me and making me feel safe. I promise to not disappear like everyone else seems to. Let’s all set sail now, you and I, and see what we can see. Thank you for everything. Thank you to Deane Hughes and Gillian Holmes who helped so much with designing this site originally, thank you to all the amazing, wonderful and fascinating people who answered our questionnaire, thank you to our parents, Mr. Flowers and all the fashion designers, artists, bands, rogues, vegans and vagabonds who inspired so much of this world of wonders and thank you so much to you. I promise to be back soon.
Before I boxed Aunt Charlotte’s apartment away I photographed as much as I could. I took thousands of pictures, but could not capture what it felt like to be here, the odd warmth from the old iron radiators, and the damp cold that creeps in when they are off. The smells of incense that is permanently here, plus the wet, rot smell of a very old building, yesterdays cabbage seeping under the door, the smell of warm bread from the bakery below, not to mention Elisabeth’s scent (patchoulie) which comes and goes like a ghost. With this there is also the sounds of Paris, the morning sounds of people starting their day, the traffic, the shuffle, the whir of bicycles, the low buzz of scooters, churchbells and horns. The nighttime sounds of tires on wet pavement, echoing footsteps, hints of conversation. The ticking clock. The floorboards creaking.
I thought I could capture it all, but it’s just impossible. So here are but a few of the pictures for us to walk through if you’d like, I will be your guide, put your boots there by the door … follow me.
This is Aunt Charlotte’s study, this is where she sat writing her novels and letters listening to old jazz and opera records. It’s a magical suffocating room (in the colour of pomegranate!), there is a molting stuffed peacock and a zillion books and pillows.
Aunt Charlotte called this her art deco cabinet. Inside are hundreds of books on magic, witchcraft and, oddly, Victorian fiction. There are also stacks of playing cards and her Viewmaster collection.
Aunt Charlotte’s main decorating themes were twigs, tiny lights and drapery. This is the view above her bed.
This is our favourite corner of the living area. I will miss that couch. You can see just some of her vast book collection, also, faintly, her vampire deterrent kit which alas, we never had cause to use. Two mallets from one of seven croquet sets rests in the corner.
No surface was left uncluttered.
This is a view to the dining room. Aunt Charlotte had 76 obelisks. You can also see a number of cases which contained a trombone, a child’s accordion and a glass bell piano.
Open any drawer, you never know what you will find. Not one was empty.
Aunt Charlotte loved the work of our friend, artist Magda Trzaski. Here are two heads (you can only see one) by her that she suspended in the door way – very practical.
There is nothing like the festive season to make one think of the dead. Or as our father often says as a toast, “To friends no longer with us.” Here is a very haunting video of our parents dear departed friend Mr. Keyes’ song Misfits shot in his apartment in 2002 by Annie Smidt and edited by Gillian Holmes. It’s hard to believe he lived in such a place.
To friends no longer with us and happy festive what have you, love,
Sitting in the bathroom watching him shave is a religious experience. His ritual. He is thin, skeletal, and wears only a towel tightly wrapped around his waist. His skin is a constellation map of scars. I touch them and he makes a slight hiss, pulls the straight edge razor from his face, “Not while I’m holding something so sharp,” he says.
“Where did you get these?” I’ve never asked him before.
“Lead type.”
“What?”
“In another life I was a typositer, then I operated the lead type machine. It was volatile, it exploded sending slivers of molten lead type in to me. It was an article about shirt collars. It’s imbedded in me. You can ink me and roll me on paper if you’d like to read it.” He goes back to shaving. We are in the hotel bathroom, sitting in a cloud of steam. He stands before the fogged-over mirror with his eyes closed and continues. It sounds like buttering toast, his chorographed movements.
“Would you like to go to Antwerp today?” he asks.
“What’s there?”
“Diamonds, prostitutes, a friend I’d like you to meet and my most favourite painting.”
“Of course,” I say, and step in to the bath.
There is a long hall bisected with edges, the edges of galleries. One looks down and sees a thousand possibilities. Gallery after gallery, the edge of a gilded frame, the shoulder of a guard, a tourist, a bizarre play of spatiality and light. At the very end of the hall, facing you is her. He suddenly puts his hands over my eyes, “wait” he says, “you have to prepare.” He is warm for once and smells of the lemons of his shaving soap. He presses his body to me. I am conscious of being in the middle of a public gallery, being held by this skeletal man. We are trailing our winter coats, his long black and white striped scarf dragging on the ground. “Agnes Sorel. Every story is different,” he begins in a whisper, “she was twenty, she was fourteen. She was the mistress of France, the mistress of Charles VII, the weak chinned, opportunist dauphine. Joan of Arc crowned him, and he betrayed her to the English. Her beauty is legendary. She rallied the troupes. And, as she had three children and was expecting her fourth, she rallied the king. She was hated at court for being too smart, too pretty, having too much the ear of the king. Expecting her fouth child, she died on her way to see him. Only recently it was discovered she was poisoned.’ He takes away his hands. ‘Focus and walk towards her.”
La vierge a l’enfant entoures d’anges by Jean Fouquet, painted in 1452. A very young, long dead Agnes Sorel, with an exposed, unsinkable, perfectly symmetrical breast surrounded by terrifying seemingly made of plastic blue and red baby angels. And the Christ child looking about to die of lung cancer. Agnes looks down, lost in thoughts eternal.
We have tea in a café which smells of roasted coffee beans and cigarettes. Little sugar cubes wrapped in paper. The floor is littered with paper. Tiny cookies on the plate. He looks at me, “what did you think?”
“I love how modern art here starts hundreds of years ago.”
“That’s not really true, but really, do you have anything but modern art in Canada?”
Sound of lottery machines plinking and cars driving by.
We stand in the middle of two intersecting cobblestone streets. “We could ask someone.” I say.
“I don’t know the address, and its not that I’m lost, it’s that I only know my way at night. For some reason I am always here at night and my direction is based on street lights and shadows.” He pauses, “I know that lamp” and moves forward.
We come to a huge, gray, splintered, wooden door, so large it could let a carriage in. A smaller door has been cut in to the side with ancient rusted hinges and lock as complicated as an aorta. There is a rope which comes out of a hole drilled near the top. He pulls it and somewhere a bell rings. Two heads pop out of the window above, “oh my god!” they shout and a key falls to the wet pavement.
“I should warn you,” he says, unlocking the door, “we were lovers once, they are Siamese twins.”
I fear I’ve spent far too much time alone and have started talking to myself and giving inanimate objects names like Mr. Kettle when it whistles or Mr. Broom when I need to sweep. I’ve made friends with the widower down the hall Monsieur Murakami, who has loaned me his daughter Sophie’s upright piano insisting I use it as she only hated it. Monsieur Murakami was in love with my aunt, I found all of the letters he wrote to her and slipped under her door.
We will soon be leaving. I’m almost done doing what I have to do here and slowly a wall of boxes is rising along the far wall. My lovely Aunt and her things. There is only so much we can take, and only so much we are allowed to have. We will have to sell most things, but I want to take it all. I want to recreate this magical apartment somewhere and live within it. I know I must go back and press the play button again, but part of me, a huge part of me wants to just run like Alice, and start again, give myself a new name, a new identity, a clean slate. It would be such a romantic and fabulous mistake and it so appeals to me.
I drew this yesterday for Monsieur Murakami, me holding his dog Tiki with ookpik and monster. I send it to you with love.
Although I know how ill he really is, I hated admitting that his gauntness made him all the more attractive. His fragility is so alluring to me, his wrists are my undoing. His hands move like a magician’s would, practiced and with pleasure. Everything he did, from removing a card from his wallet to opening a door and letting me pass was a sinewy ballet. My first instinct upon seeing him was to throw myself shameless at him. The longing in me was so great it was almost unbearable. I kissed whatever part of him that was in front of me. I kissed his hands and face. I buried myself in my hair. I think I may have bit him. He stiffened and then letting go of his fear of public spectacle, of drawing attention to himself, wrapped his arms around me. He arched his head back then and broke in to a laugh.
It felt so good to be back on European trains. In the compartment he stared out the window pensively, tensing his jaw, silent to me. He was wearing the same charcoal gray coat that he had when I left, but the missing middle button had been replaced and I loved him that much more, thinking of him alone in his hotel room sewing on a button. Common gestures endear him more to me. Watching him make tea, spooning out the bag and putting it in the hotel ashtray, carrying the cup over to me, placing it beside me make me swoon. He was so uncommon so to see him do something commonplace seemed extraordinary, beautiful, poetic. Like a woman opening a fan. An elephant in snow.
We left Brussels in the late afternoon, travelling through Gent, Bruges and ending in Oostende. The train station is an ornamental gray and glass structure that made me think of India. Outside, without calling a shiny black taxi slowed to a stop in front of us and he opened the door, guiding me in. He said,
“Hotel Polaris.” And to me, “Why are you smiling?”
“It’s just funny.”
“What is?”
“That we’re here, of all places.”
“I always come here, I like the sea off season, it’s depressing, it makes me think of suicide.”
“I guess you haven’t seen the movie”
“Movie? There is a movie set in Oostende?”
I took his hand, “It’s right up your alley, I will have to find it and show it to you sometime.” He looked at me, giving me his I don’t understand her, but I’ve never been happier look and then tuned his gaze to the traffic.
The city is ugly, despite the sea. There is a new casino. It was raining. The taxi drivers name was Karl. The radio was playing Radiohead.
It felt like midnight in the lobby of the hotel. A thousand midnights trapped inside. It smelled of cleaner and coffee and wood. The walls are white. There is funky furniture and a boutique restaurant filled with elegant Belgians all in black and white and gray. It was warm, self-conscious. “I like that we came through a red door,” I said. He looked at me, decided to not comment then (in Flemish) asked the serious woman behind the reception desk for a room.
(He spoke Flemish, another mystery my man of clouds)
We were given a pass card, a book was signed. What did he say I was? Did he? Was he asked? He put the card in his pocket and said, “The top floor, we look at the square, we’re blocks from the sea, we can walk there when we’re settled, we can sing sad songs and write postcards.” He sounded tired. And when he is tired, I can hear how sick he really is. When he is tired he is no longer acting. He kissed me on the top of my head and I said,
Bless Lula and AnOther magazine for showing up and being magical as always.
You know what I found in Aunt Charlotte’s closet? Seven unfinished manuscripts. All written by her, all starting with the same sentence,
‘She left the party then, crossing the wet grass and entering the forest by the darkened path that she knew so well..’
I haven’t been writing, there is almost too much happening and I’m not sure where to start. And every day it rains. I shuffle my Halloween Tarot deck and draw randomly a card, the Six of Imps; success, the pleasure of recognition gained through creative hard work. Stability in action. Optimism, triumph, advancement. You can’t get better than that.
There is a rumbling that we may be working with a very cool fashion house on a men’s line which excites us greatly. It’s time for the dandy in goth, the well dressed vampire, Gomez Addams at Oxford. We can’t say much, but that has made us so happy and excited about the future we can’t even put it in to words.
And in the gray and the cold and the rain comes word from Alice, who posted the other night a journal entry from Belgium. She didn’t contact our parents, she didn’t contact us, she just posted. We took it down as we wanted our parents to see it first, to know she is okay, but I guess we will put it up. It is, as always, heart wrenching and so beautifully written.
In the market today I bought edible flowers.
Elizabeth and I have been talking a lot about what we leave behind. Certainly shuffling through the apartment here cataloguing Aunt Charlotte’s world has made me think more and more of this. I have a trunk of letters and journals that I now want to go home to Canada and burn. Elizabeth wants to destroy her old sketchbooks. We’ve done so little though, our mark is so insignificant.
I’ve been thinking about places that have become museums. I remember we three jumping out of the car in front of the Viper Room and bursting in to tears. Who remembers now the death of River Phoenix, that Vegan saint? What a horrible moment.
Edward Gorey passed away and left his magical house and cats. His home, Elephant House has now become a shrine of sorts and headquarters to a museum dedicated to him. I have been slowly photographing Aunt Charlotte’s apartment inspired totally by a haunting book by Kevin McDermott a friend of Mr. Gorey’s, who was allowed in to his house soon after his death and photographed it as it was left, haunting.
What else is there? What other places are haunted by what’s left behind? I am being morbid tonight, perhaps a(nother) cocktail.
