Vision of Victoria

In her self-help guide to creativity, The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron proposes the following visualizing exercise:

« Name your goal: I am_________________________________________.

In the present tense, describe yourself doing it at the height of your powers! This is your ideal scene.

Read this aloud to yourself.

Post this above your work area. »

Cameron suggests that you collect pictures of yourself and collage them with images cut out from magazines to illustrate the ideal scene described above. She believes that this visual cue will convey a sense of conviction because, as she reminds us, seeing is believing.

When I received an honorable mention for « The Birdman of Courville » at the 2003 Victoria School of Writing Postcard Story Competition I was fueled by the desire to win first prize-- full tuition for an intensive five-day summer writing workshop in Victoria.

In 2005 when I submitted « Spring Cleaning » to the same competition I put Julia Cameron’s visualizing exercise to the test! In all honesty I can’t say that I made a collage of myself hugging a totem pole, or of myself pounding away on my laptop atop a Rocky mountain summit, but I had a vague mental image of Talleen in BC, writing her heart out. I imagined vast green lawns, sloping toward the Pacific, and a room of my own with this view.

I got the news that I won first prize a couple of weeks after booking a flight to Turkey, a trip that coincided with the VSW summer intensive workshops. I had imagined winning first place but I had a plan B in case that dream didn’t materialize! Luckily the Victoria School of Writing let me take a workshop the following year.

Flying over the Rockies

In July 2006 I flew to Vancouver. I spent a few days in the city before taking the ferry to Victoria. I stayed at the Pacific Spirit Hostel on the UBC campus, the student residence open to tourists during the summer. For 20 $ a night, crisp linens included, this is a bargain. There’s plenty to visit right there on the campus, including the Museum of Anthropology, the Nitobe Memorial Graden, the Botanical Garden, and the infamous Wreck beach, where nudity is a legal option. I preferred to do my daily laps at the UBC Aquatic Centre, complete with ozonated whirlpool and swimmers in bathing suits. The added bonus of staying on campus was that I could pretend I was 20 years old, a feeling that really kicked in when I ate greasy pizza at the Student Union Building.

Museum of Anthropology

Nitobe Memorial Garden

Wreck Beach

After playing the tourist I hopped on the ferry to Victoria. The writing workshop was held at St. Margaret’s School, a private residential school located on 22 acres of park-like land. I had a private room, with two twin beds and two desks, in case one did not generate the appropriate quality of writing.

I had enrolled in « Writing the Samurai, » Charlotte Gill’s fiction workshop. I hesitated between this one and Susan Musgrave’s poetry workshop but when I read Charlotte Gill’s Ladykiller, nominated for the Governor General’s Literary Award in 2005, I couldn’t resist.

The summer session featured twice-daily open mics. The night I read, one writer complemented me on my reading voice, which he described as « lulling. » He suggested I record children’s bedtime stories. I did not take that to mean that my story put him to sleep.

Instructors left to right: Billeh Nickerson, Susan Musgrave,
John Lent, Gary Geddes, Maria Coffey, Charlotte Gill, Kevin Patterson

What inspired me most that week were the evening talks and readings by the instructors. I have attended many literary events, have cut myself off from reality for days at a time by hibernating at the annual Blue Metropolis Literary Festival in Montreal, however, there was a different tone to the authors’ talks here. The writers spoke from the heart as they addressed this group of enthusiastic writers with whom they worked and ate side-by-side with day in, day out. Their tone was easy, their message encouraging. I am thinking in particular of Maria Coffey’s talk on her book Where the Mountain Casts its Shadow: the Dark Side of Extreme Adventure. She wrote it after her husband died on a mountain climbing expedition. When she revealed intimate details of their relationship and described how these were connected to the process of writing the book she told the audience that it was the first time she was sharing this story in public.

Charlotte Gill explained that only a few years before becoming a Governor Gerneral’s nominee she was a creative writing student, wondering if she would « make it » as a writer. She said that, although difficult to describe, a « psychological turning point » was the key element to her future success.

John Lent read a short story where the main character’s emotional landscape is gradually revealed during a car ride. The description of scenery and atmosphere blend seamlessly with the internal dialogue of the driver. The story still resonates in my mind.

Sea kayaking near Victoria

I wrote a story about a woman who packs herself into a suitcase and « travels smoothly over suspension wheels. » When this story won first prize, I packed a suitcase (not my body!) and went on a trip to BC. I greeted Haida totem poles, ate sushi to my tummy’s content, saw harbor seals while sea kayaking, learned Charlotte Gill’s « timed writing » technique, walked through a medieval medicinal garden, browsed through Munro’s Books, celebrated my love of writing. I touched the lush green of the west coast.

I wonder what would have happened had I made a collage to illustrate my goal.

Talleen Hacikyan

To read « Spring Cleaning » visit my website and click on Literature and Literary publications. To read « Birdman of Courville » click on Literature and Artist’s Book.

Atelier Circulaire Then and Now

The exhibition La pemière la dernière, currently showing at the Maison de la culture Frontenac in Montreal until August 23 2008, commemorates Atelier Circulaire’s 25th anniversary. Sixty-four artists exhibit their first and latest print. The artwork can also be viewed on a website, which includes a short text written by each artist. This blog is an extension of what I have written there.

On a bright June morning in 1985, carrying a portfolio full of dreams, I stepped inside Atelier Circulaire for the first time. The community printmaking studio was located on Dowd Street, in Old Montreal, on the fringe of Chinatown, in a converted textile factory. Since then Atelier Circulaire has moved twice, first to Molière Street, near the Jean Talon market, and then to its present location on de Gaspé Avenue, in the trendy Mile-End.

On my first morning at the studio Christianne offered me a cup of mint tea at the kitchen table, next to a jungle of plants spilling from the windowsill. In her charming Provençale accent, she told me that every Friday the artists prepared a communal meal.

A typical Friday on Molière Street

I could write a novel on the meals and chatter shared around the kitchen table, with chapters devoted to memorable experiences such as the sancocho soup made by the Colombian artists, the birthday cake I made with a pink flamingo planted in it (yes, of the lawn ornament specie!), and our regular spreads of baguette, creamy French cheeses, grapes, and the compulsory bottle of red wine. Invariably, toward the end of these meals the room would be filled with jabs of laughter, and a haze of hand-rolled-cigarette smoke.

Gathering on Molière Street before heading to New York
Talleen: girl with the arms in the air!

I’ll never forget the night when a bunch of us met at the Molière Street studio before leaving on a three-day trip to New York. Jean Pierre had concocted a mean brew in the kitchen and, with the gleam of the Big Apple in his eye, he served us icy glasses of Manhattan, to “put us in the mood.” And what a mood it was later in our chartered bus, especially while watching “Jurassic Park” at 3:00 a.m.

In the early years, there were only a handful of artists in the studio. Some of them had private spaces, sectioned off with makeshift Tentest walls and curtains in lieu of doors. Those private universes fascinated me. Pierre Léon used to spread large canvases on the floor and paint primitive motifs while hopping around to the beat of African tribal music. Down the hall, Lilliane painted esoteric figurative images while listening to the meditative rhythms of Indian music. At the far end of the studio, the Latin American clan shared a space where they worked to the pulse of salsa or to the romantic vocals of Sylvio Rodriuez, while sipping their elixir of choice — Coke, preferably in the one-liter format. Not only did my Spanish improve thanks to these artists, they introduced me to Yayo, a charming Colombian cartoonist, whom I eventually married and thanks to him my Spanish became buenisimo!

Talleen on Dowd Street, 1987
Photo: Geneviève Bougie

Recently, at the vernissage of La première la dernière, Catherine reminisced about her first impressions of me, “You were so quiet — you just came in and did your thing.” At the time I did not have a private space. I settled into a cozy corner at the back of the studio, near the freight elevator. I liked working late into the night with the whole studio to myself, often past midnight, discovering the magic of woodcut printing and the power of art. The studio became my second home and working with the same group of artists day in and day out created a sense of family.

Rooftop on Dowd Street

Today there are close to a hundred members at Atelier Circulaire and it has become one of Canada’s leading print shops. Although most faces have changed, there are still a few from the original gang beside myself, like Jacinthe, Charlotte, and Louis Pierre. Most of the members are in their forties or fifties, and some in their sixties. We do have a few younger artists, full of drive, fueled by the prospect of an exciting career ahead of them. Colin creates innovative 3D print-based work inspired by the architecture of industrial factories, Yuka makes delicate etchings of anthropomorphized animals with chine collé, and Manuel makes vibrant, lyrical prints of people with cats and dogs.

When I enter the studio I become Talleen the Artist. My other roles evaporate as I lay out my day’s work. Usually there are about ten other artists engaged in various degrees of concentrated work. I’m not saying there is no chitchat because there is, but the bottom line is that the presence of artists is stimulating.

Talleen’s collagraph plate, July 2008

A few days ago I was etching designs into a four-legged animal (I still don’t know what this creature is) and fellow artist Wing, a former student of mine who now teaches me his secrets of collagraphy printmaking, was sitting at the other end of the table, polishing a copper plate while telling me all about the Toronto Outdoor Art Exhibition. He urged me to exhibit there next year, explaining how one artist he knows made 4000$ there and how another cashed in on 6000$. He told me that I could rent a tent for my booth on the spot or buy one beforehand and practice pitching it in my living room, preferably with a stopwatch. He said that I could stay in a cheap hostel across the street from the show or live it up at the Sheraton. He also pointed out that this outdoor art event is a great place to make friends, adding that that’s where Todd met his wife. Well, I don’t need to find a spouse (a chance meeting at Atelier Circulaire in 1991 took care of that) but the lure of big bucks might spur me to pack my prints, family, and tent and head to Toronto next summer.

Atelier Circulaire is not simply a huge sun-drenched loft with state of the art printing equipment. It’s a place where artists can share information, creative energy, a pot of tea, a bottle of wine, and a few good laughs. Because of Atelier Circulaire I cannot stop making prints.

Talleen on de Gaspé Avenue, June 2008

Talleen Hacikyan

Information on La première la dernère exhibition

Writing From the Picture

I am fascinated by the interplay between words and images, particularly in the creative process that occurs when a picture triggers a story.

My story “To Dante,” published in Room Magazine (vol.31.1 2008), was inspired by Dante and Beatrice, painted by Henry Holiday in 1883. We see Beatrice in the painting, walking next to her friend Giovanna in Florence as Dante awaits their approach. My narrative, a blend of historical fact and fiction, is told from the point of view of Beatrice. The proximity of the two women in the painting inspired me to invent a relationship between them.

Dante and Beatrice, 1883, by Henry Holiday

To Dante

When I was a virgin page my name was Bice de Folco Portinari. Now you scrawl all over me with perfect verses and call me Beatrice.

I am everywhere--in your goblet of wine; in the flicker of the candle on your desk; in your reflection when you stare out the window after midnight. I resemble you so much--my name is Love.

I walk down the Lungarno with Giovanna. You stand at the Ponte Santa Trinita, watching us. I clutch my rose; push my thumb into a thorn until it bleeds. I want to throw my hand into the Arno, let it drift under the Ponte Vecchio, watch a trinket merchant retrieve it from the cold water and wait for your next poem.

Dante, stain me with black ink. Drown me in your inkwell. Stab me with your golden nib. Engrave me into rock and throw it into Vesuvius. Make me erupt into a molten sheet of syllables. Beatrice is so beautiful to read.

I remember the first time we met, in my father’s garden, when you were nine and I was eight and the yellow butterfly landed on my cheek. How delicately you plucked it and pressed it between your palms. You kissed its lifeless wing and said you would keep it forever. Enigmatic are the hearts of boys who have lost their mother at seven years old.

Now you stand like a bronze statue, bracing your heart with your hand, waiting for me. I imagine what you will write tonight: Saw lady Vanna and lady Beatrice coming towards me, where I was still standing--one bliss still pursuing another bliss. L’una appresso de l’altra maraviglia.*

Durante Degli Alighieri, did you ever stop to think that your quill leaves scars? That this courtly passion of yours produces more than literary masterpieces? Townsfolk are gossiping. Simone wants to break our engagement.

As we walk past you I avoid your gaze and concentrate on the scent of my flower. We go to Giovanna’s house. No one is there, not even the servant. From the sitting room window, I look at the hills basking under the languid Florentine sun. At the graveyard this morning, Giovanna gave me the rose.

Giovanna takes me to her bedchamber. She shows me the purple silk she bought at the fair. She wants to sew me a dress. She drapes the sumptuous fabric on my body, pinning it into place here and there, paying particular attention to where it gathers under my breasts. Giovanna unties my hair, lets it flow down the way it does on brides, combs it gently between her fingers. My heart flutters like a butterfly, looks for a place to land--somewhere between the covers of an unwritten book.

*Dante Alighieri, The New Life, (circa 1293), Chapter XXIV.

Talleen Hacikyan