Exhibits: Thankful: moments, memories, and some art - Stories

Thankful

Moments, memories, and some art

Stories

 

These are lengthier stories relating to a number of the artworks. The artwork title as it is on the label precedes each story.

 

The only self-portrait I ever created.* I was asked to create caricatures of Art in Merchandising staff and students for a yearend open house/exhibit in April 1978, at Vancouver Community College.

*I included versions of myself in a few The Marketplace magazine illustrations in the late 1980s – because it was easier to do that than to go out and ask somebody if I could photograph them for reference. I tried to disguise the fact the subject was me but anybody who knew me would likely have known.   

 

2. Art in Merchandising

Vivaldi

Gouache, 1977

NFS

2. Art in Merchandising

Various caricatures

Pen and ink, liquid watercolour, 1977-78

Stanfield Underwear, NFS

Leonid Brezhnev and Jimmy Carter, $100.00

 

I wanted to draw from a very early age. I enjoyed making hard copies of my imaginings. More than anything, though, I drew to escape the nervousness and insecurity I felt on a daily basis due to my mom's many health issues.

My earliest memories are of living in a tiny shack of a house without indoor plumbing on the outskirts of Abbotsford. They are happy memories. Then, in 1959, when I was four years old, mom's long, never ending string of physical afflictions took over. She ended up in the hospital for a few months. I remember dad in a dark, empty house while my brother and I lived with my grandparents. His world seemed so empty. Mine verging on hopeless.

Dad worked six days a week as a mechanic, 12-13 hours a day, but still often stopped by to read to us before bed – something I looked forward to and found comforting.

Literally dozens of hospital stays and operations followed through the decades up to mom's passing in 2005. She was expected to die on a number of occasions. Her fierce will to live, her curiosity and wish to know and experience more, her unbreakable Christian faith, her desire to see her children grow and accomplish what she knew she could not, her love of dad -- to my mind -- kept her alive. In lighter moments, and she had remarkably many of them, she would say, "If I was a horse they would have put me down long ago."

I believe largely as a result of my mom's health issues, I was a very insecure boy and teenager. Drawing remained my escape, a place of wonder, imagination, freedom and peace. My high school art consisted almost exclusively of doodles, many pretty elaborate, in my notebooks. Doodles often took up as much or more space than my note taking.

After graduating from high school, not knowing what I wanted to do or be, I applied to attend Columbia Bible Institute (CBI), mainly to give me time to figure out what I wanted to do with my life and avoid feeling guilty for not yet going to university. I met Katie there. So, I am eternally thankful to CBI.

As with most of my post high school education, I did not complete CBI. Four friends and I pooled our money to buy a Fargo van for $800.00. Instead of returning to CBI, we hit the road to Newfoundland.

We returned to BC a couple of months later. I worked a few months for the BC Department of Highways and returned to CBI for one semester. Then I worked for a year as a graveyard shift janitor at the new mall in Abbotsford. Finally, I felt ready to head to university. I followed friends to Vancouver Community College, Langara where first and second year university could be completed prior to heading to either UBC or Simon Fraser. I was primarily interested in history and political science. I enjoyed what I was taking but didn't see a future. I wasn't interested in being a teacher, which I felt was the only viable alternative.

I had to walk by the Art in Merchandising studio on the way from classes to the VCC library. I passed it many times. One day it dawned on me that the title implied that making a living from art could be possible. My practical Mennonite brain had always told me that being an artist could not be a career. But this, this exotic looking space with Art in Merchandising proclaimed above the door, intrigued me.

Much against my shy nature, one day, instead of simply walking past, I stopped, opened the door and entered. I spoke to Herman Itzinger, the director of the program. He said I needed to apply with a portfolio. I said I had never been to an art class. My high school did not have art as a course. He suggested I bring in whatever drawings I might have. I did. I was accepted, one of 35 out of more than 300 applicants.

Art in Merchandising was similar to a commercial art/graphic design program at Red River – two intense years and done. I worked 60 to 80 hours a week the one year I was there. Deadlines were relentless. I doubt I have ever worked as hard (Katie disputed this claim when she read this over.).

I spent a ridiculous amount of time on the first couple of assignments -- the second one, Vivaldi, is included in this exhibit. I had never held a paint brush before. I knew absolutely nothing beyond pens and pencils. I laboured for hours upon hours. I handed in the first assignment – considerably larger than Vivaldi. The mark returned was barely a pass. I was devastated. Again, very much against my character at the time, I went to Mr. Itzinger to ask why the mark wasn't better. I had put in so much time and effort. Typically a hard, brittle man, he looked at me kindly and stated unapologetically, that the mark was correct and I should come and see him again before Christmas. "You will agree with me." I did.

 

3. South America

a Caribbean and South American journey

Liquid watercolour, 1979

NFS

 

After completing the first year of Art in Merchandising, I worked for three or four months for renowned, and incredibly eccentric, illustrator Carl Chaplin in his sprawling downtown Vancouver Granville St. studio. I was called an apprentice, I believe so he could justify paying less than minimum wage. While there, Katie and I decided I would forgo the second year at Langara and we would travel instead. We left at the beginning of August for South America, to fulfill a boyhood dream of mine to visit Machu Picchu in the Peruvian Andes.

We hopscotched through the Caribbean, concentrating on stopping at a dozen islands we'd never heard of or knew little about. We got stuck in Caracas, Venezuela and, as a result, missed going to the Brazilian Amazon. We headed straight to Rio and on to Paraguay, where Katie's mom and dad had arrived as refugees after fleeing the Soviet Union as children. From there we headed to Bolivia and on to Peru, Ecuador and Mexico.

We returned to Canada in time for Christmas.

We traveled on almost nothing. In order to not run out of money, we often traveled like locals rather than tourists. We stayed in "hotels" that cost as little as 65 cents per night. As foreigners passing through, our contact with people and culture was superficial, absolutely, but our lack of funds kept us often in very close proximity.

It was ordinary folks we met or observed in passing in restaurants, homes, hotels, on buses and trains, on the street, it was they who intrigued me most -- more than beaches, mountains, churches, historical sites, cities, even Machu Picchu. Machu Picchu met, even surpassed, my expectations but the people along the way were what remained with me. The extraordinary in the ordinary.

The direction of my career was falling into place.

 

 

5. Kinshasa, Zaire

Vanga Tractor Pull, Woman with Pots on Her Head, Climbing, Vanga Bathers

Reproductions, watercolour and pencil, 1984

$25.00 each, unframed

 

After three and a half years working in window display for Woodward's Department Stores in Vancouver and New Westminster, I was getting restless in early 1982. One day Katie saw a small notice in the Mennonite Brethren Herald, something I would have missed. She read it to me, graphic artist wanted in Zaire... She laughed, "You want to go to Africa?" I immediately said yes.

A volunteer position for a graphic artist had been created for a specific person. At the last minute, she was unable to go. So, when I applied I received a phone call the same day as my letter expressing my interest arrived on Peter Hamm's desk in Winnipeg. He introduced himself and asked if he could interview me over the phone right then and there. He asked for phone numbers of people who could supply references. Within two weeks of seeing the notice, we were confirmed to be heading to Kinshasa. We had no idea we would never return to Vancouver.

Shortly after arriving in Kinshasa, Katie was feeling sick. That leads to a story that is far too long for here but one which I hope to include in a book someday.

Before learning she was pregnant, myself and Rob Neufeld, while looking for medicine – what medicine, we had no idea (we had been told Katie's problem was probably gall bladder) -- were held at gunpoint, and nearly shot, by a large, unruly group of soldiers high on something or other, while the city unbeknownst to us was under curfew, on a dark night on a dark street, near the presidential palace on the day the president/dictator devalued the currency by 300%. Etc. – in that someday book. We never did find an open pharmacy.

Some days later we learned Katie was pregnant.

Kinshasa, at the time a city of approximately six million people, was like a giant village. Electricity was poor at best and non-existent for many. Basic services were less than negligible. President Mobutu was known as the most corrupt person on earth. Hospitals were avoided, places Zairians saw as somewhere you went to die, not to be healed.

There were various, mostly mission supported, hospitals in the interior. One day a pilot for Missionary Aviation Fellowship radioed us – phones were almost non-existent – to say he was flying to Vanga that day to deliver supplies and there were no passengers. "Would you like to ride along?"

Vanga, approximately 400kms as the crow flies from Kinshasa, was a village on the banks of the Kwilu River, downstream from the city of Kikwit, with a regional hospital run by American and German doctors. Vanga, as was the case for almost all villages, was nearly inaccessible by road. Our flight on a small Cessna hopscotched to Vanga.

Katie was checked by a doctor and we were told we could come for the birth but should come a month early because the position of the baby indicated there could be problems.

We returned a month prior to Katie's due date. I set up a work table on a veranda overlooking the Kwilu. I worked, Katie waited. During free time we wandered about the area -- to other villages, across the river on dugout canoes, to a neighbour woman's plot of land. All of the people in the four reproductions in this exhibit were from Vanga and nearby.

 

7. Africa, the DRC and beyond, positively countering stereotypes

Rise with the sun: women and Africa

Watercolour 1995

$1900.00

 

After moving to Winnipeg in late 1985, trying to figure out how to support my family as a painter, I painted various Manitoba scenes. I was taken on as an artist at Loch Mayberry Gallery for a few years, asked to concentrate on Winnipeg street scenes. My heart, however, was lost to the people I had known while living in the Democratic Republic of Congo. I drifted away from painting local scenes to focusing more and more on my own experiences with ordinary people I'd met and knew in Africa. Loch Mayberry and I parted company after a few years.

Realizing I likely would never be able to make a living as a painter, I searched for a new way to do something from my heart and soul that was "useful" for the greater good. My career turned more intentionally towards Africa and in 1990 I started my journey down a curatorial path. I began by pitching -- to Canadian Foodgrains Bank, Mennonite Central Committee and Canadian Lutheran World Relief -- the idea of bringing together a relatively small exhibition of touring contemporary African art to see if it could be effective both as an art exhibition and as "development education" (a common term in NGO circles), as a way to positively portray Africans and African related themes through the unfiltered eyes, thoughts, passions and talents of African artists. The hope was that people would come to see the art and, at the same time, learn about cultures, places, people and issues as presented by Africans.

Africa: Art of the People came together in 1991, with art from Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda and Zaire (Democratic Republic of Congo). Run on a shoestring, it successfully toured across Canada and into the US. Encouraged, I set out to bring together a second, much larger, exhibition.

Rise with the sun: women and Africa featured 44 artists from 12 sub-Saharan countries. Rise with the sun was, possibly, the most complicated undertaking of my career. I had to find enough NGO and business sponsors to make it viable financially. I had to find a lead agency willing to present the proposal to the Canadian International Development Agency, in order to receive matching funds. Finally, more than a dozen sponsors were on board, including Federal Express at the last minute. Cause Canada, based in Alberta, was willing to be the lead agency – responsible for submitting my proposal, plus handling administrative responsibilities. By letter, fax and phone I connected with artists, art schools, galleries, museums and arts organizations from Senegal down to South Africa, searching for artists to be recommended and commissioned. Not taking time change into consideration meant many return phone calls, often not in English, and faxes in the middle of the night. Katie and I do not miss the screeching of fax machines.

A substantial grant was approved in late 1994. I reconfirmed all the artists and purchased air tickets for two trips, one of six weeks and one 10 days after the first of five weeks. A couple of weeks prior to my departure on the first trip, Cause Canada received word from Ottawa that all development education grants were frozen, waiting for anticipated major cutbacks in the February 1995 federal budget. I pleaded that everything was in place and to reschedule would be near impossible. Less than a week before I was to leave, CIDA agreed and funds were released. Then, my major worry became how to cart increasing numbers of artworks between countries. Finally, only a few days before departure, Federal Express agreed to come on board. They gave me an account number. In every city I passed through where there was a Fed Ex office, I could go to it, drop off whatever art I had collected and Fed Ex would take care of the rest, making sure art got to Winnipeg. A lifesaver.

I traveled first to Senegal, then to Mali. From Bamako I flew to Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire. Someone from Cause Canada tracked me down in Abidjan. He said the federal budget had come down the day before and all, 100%, of grants such as what Cause Canada had received from CIDA for Rise with the sun were canceled. But because CIDA had signed our contract and had already released significant funds, our grant would be honoured.

Rise with the sun had a $300,000 budget spread over three years. This covered all my travel expenses, the purchase of all of the art directly from each artist, exhibition framing and crate building, a 19 stop tour from Nova Scotia to BC, bringing artists to Canada from Africa for exhibition openings and to work in schools, and my pay.

In late 1997 my being paid was finished. A few tour stops remained but I needed to start looking for other work. I started thinking about how I might be able to bring my 1990s curatorial experience "home."

In early 1998 Ken Reddig and I got together and the idea of the MHC Gallery began to percolate.

 

7. Africa, the DRC and beyond, positively countering stereotypes

Bahir Dar Market

Watercolour, 1998

$450.00

7. Africa, the DRC and beyond, positively countering stereotypes

Market Watch

Watercolour, acrylic 2002

$1100.00

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Thankful for the Mystery

Watercolour, acrylic, 2002

$600.00

 

The first exhibition of contemporary African art I curated was called Africa: Art of the People. In 1991 I traveled to the Democratic Republic of Congo, Uganda, Kenya and Ethiopia to meet artists and purchase artworks for the exhibition. Market Watch was inspired by a visit to a market just outside of Addis Ababa in 1991. Bahir Dar Market was created after a later trip. I have had the tremendous privilege of visiting Ethiopia five times.

I arrived in Addis the first time during the latter days of the long-time dictator Mengistu Haile Mariam. Mengistu was a horrifying tyrant, creating unimaginable terror and suffering. A long civil war was creeping closer to Addis. The city was surrounded by rebels when I arrived. Addis was peaceful but everyone knew the war was nearby. Foreigners were not allowed to venture far outside of the city. Two months later Mengistu's government fell and he fled to Zimbabwe.

I met the artist Tibebe Terffa in a hotel coffee shop. I noticed people warily eyeing each other. After years of Mengistu's ruthless rule, people were suspicious of one another. Is that person beside me an informer? Why is that person friendly? Is it dangerous to be seen with this or that person? Will I be arrested if I talk to him?

Like so many, Tibebe had been forced to work on a cooperative farm rather than as an artist, he was arrested and imprisoned, tortured. He survived – many did not. He thanked his wife for saving him in his deepest moments of despair.

After our initial coffee shop meeting, I was able to go to his home and meet his wife and two young daughters. We walked together around the city, catching glimpses of life, culture, art and history. It was wonderful. I purchased paintings from Tibebe and hoped I could return one day.

Mengistu fell and Ethiopia began to slowly open up. Tibebe and I maintained a friendship. He became one of the Rise with the sun artists, as well. I traveled to Ethiopia a third time on a travel grant for a three artist exhibition – myself, Tibebe and Desta Hagos -- at the Goethe Institute in Addis Ababa.

I brought Tibebe to Canada on travel grants to work in schools, to be an artist-in-residence and to have exhibitions. While in Toronto a few months prior to our joint exhibition in Addis, Tibebe received word his wife was severely ill. I changed his plane tickets and he hurried home to find she was already in a coma. She passed away from undetected breast cancer, leaving her husband and two young daughters.

Tibebe was devastated.

I asked if I should cancel my upcoming trip. He said no.

After the exhibition opened, we decided to travel to magnificent Lalibela together. Ethiopia was not yet a country frequented by tourists. Fabulous ancient sites, closed off from the outside during Mengistu's rule, were open but remained largely unvisited. Air Ethiopia's internal flights were very cheap, even cheaper for nationals. Hotels, still unused to foreigners, were unbelievably inexpensive. I said I would pay for everything for both of us – not an indication of my tremendous generosity, but rather of how little everything cost. We set out for Gondar, Axum and Lalibela, three of the major stops on Ethiopia's historic route.

Ethiopia is the birthplace of ancient cultures most of the world knows little about. Axum is recognized as where Ethiopian civilization began more 2500 years ago. Besides pre-Christian obelisks of unknown origin, what Ethiopians call the Queen of Sheba's palace and other sites, Axum, according to the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, is home to the Ark of the Covenant. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church was established in Axum in the 4th Century. Christianity was not brought to Ethiopia by Western missionaries. Ethiopia, also, was never successfully colonized by Europeans. The country's awesome landscape is matched by its unique history.

Lalibela is another community of historic importance. 11 stone churches, carved out of and into mountains in the 12th Century, are attributed to King Lalibela. They are spectacular and, when we visited were virtually empty except for some priests. Relics, old books, crosses were brought out for us to look at. The painting Thankful for the Mystery is of a priest inside the first church which was carved out of stone atop a cliff high above the town, which itself is situated at more than 9,000 feet elevation.

As I was preparing to go to Ethiopia, my father was nearing the end stage of his nine year battle with leukemia. I asked my mom and brother if they wished I would stay in Canada. They both said I should go to Ethiopia without guilt. Mom said it was impossible to know how long dad would live.

While not a deeply Orthodox man, I could tell traveling to Lalibela was a personal pilgrimage for Tibebe, a place he could find traditions that would comfort and ground him in a time of grief.

Tibebe and I entered one of the stone churches, said to be the home of King Lalibela's gold cross. It was a moment I will never forget.

We removed our shoes as required. We walked into what seemed a cave, with straw covering the cool stone floor. Light trickled in shafts from high narrow windows, lasering across the sanctuary, dust dancing in the light.

As our eyes adjusted, we could see the altar. A priest slowly approached us. He was holding a large golden cross, the cross of King Lalibela. The cross many in the Orthodox tradition seek out for healing.

The priest came to Tibebe and asked if he would like to touch the cross. Yes. Tibebe removed his hat and the priest moved the cross along his forehead, down to his shoulders and back and forth, all the while reciting something I could not understand. He raised the cross to Tibebe's lips and Tibebe kissed it. I could see that it was a powerful, intimate moment for him.

When the priest finished, hat in hand, his head still bowed, Tibebe asked, glancing towards me, "What about him?" The priest hesitated, then asked if I was Orthodox. Tibebe said no. I believe that should have excluded me from what was to follow. I am thankful, thankful for the mystery, that it did not.

The priest moved towards me. I took off my hat and bowed my head. What followed was unlike anything I had experienced or have experienced since. My Mennonite tradition includes nothing of the sort, would have been considered wrong in the past, probably still is by some today.

The priest moved the cross across my forehead, down to my shoulders, back and forth, then up to my mouth. I kissed the cold metal surface. All I recall Tibebe telling me of what the priest said was, "Feel the weight of the cross."

Throughout, with my eyes closed, I was thinking about my dad back in Abbotsford. I prayed.

A few days later we returned to Addis Ababa. Someone from MCC came to Tibebe's home searching for me. I needed to call home.

Dad had passed away. Mom said his last words were that he wanted to go home. She said that he could not go home. He was too ill. He replied, "Home to heaven."

It was the day Tibebe and I kissed the cross. I believe dad received the healing he sought that day.

 

7. Africa, the DRC and beyond, positively countering stereotypes

Mali Princess

Watercolour 2002

$750.00

 

I arrived in Bamako, the capital of Mali, at midnight from Dakar, Senegal in February 1995.

The previous spring my brother had sent me a large catalogue from an exhibition of African art he had seen in New York.

I wanted the Rise with the sun exhibition to broadly represent the various major regions of sub-Saharan Africa. I had good contacts in central, eastern and southern Africa but needed more in West Africa. While paging through the catalogue, I noted a small black and white photograph among the many large, full colour ones. It was of an artwork by the Groupe Bogolan Kasobané, a collective of Dogon artists from Mali who worked collaboratively, painting with mud on cloth, using a traditional method while addressing a wide range of subjects from female mutilation to nuclear war. I was intrigued.

I had no connections in Mali. I felt that if this group of artists was recognized as important within the country, the school of art would know them and know how to put me in touch with them. I decided that if there was an art school in Mali, it would be in the capital city. So, in my exceedingly poor French, I sent a handwritten letter to l'École des Beaux Arts, Bamako, Mali.

A few months later a letter arrived in our mailbox. It was from Souleymane Goro, a member of the Groupe. He said, "Come on down," or something along those lines in French.

A few phone calls and faxes, always in the middle of the night, followed.

As I arrived at the Bamako airport I was hoping that Souleymane would be there. We had never met. All of our correspondence had been in French. I departed the plane and headed towards the terminal. The temperature was in the 30s, even at this late hour. I picked up my suitcase and headed for customs.

On my first stop on this trip, in Dakar, I had had my passport confiscated at customs. I ended up entering the country illegally – sneaking into the arrivals area without my passport to find someone who could give me the correct answer to the question I had answered incorrectly, which had led to my passport being taken from me by a soldier. Then I had to sneak back into the customs area, past a couple of layers of military security, in order to give the correct answer and retrieve my passport. Fun in retrospect, not so at the time.

I was eyeing customs in Bamako, hoping things would be smoother sailing than they had been in Senegal. Then, before I had even reached customs, a young man in flowing, white robes strode towards me, hand outstretched. It was Souleymane.

What followed was one of the most intriguing, unforgettable times of my life. I won't write about the amazing experiences in any detail here. I hope to do that in a book someday.

The Dogon people are fiercely independent and proud, most still deeply immersed in their traditional culture. They come from the fabled Bandiagara Escarpment. The Groupe was headquartered in Bamako in order to better create art and get it out into the world.

I participated in their artmaking and daily life. Souleymane and Dr Ali -- a traditional healer who accompanied the group and was, at first at least, my minder – decided to take me to their home area. I was excited. We headed out by bus, got waylaid in some villages – in one, somehow I ended up in the company of a government cabinet minister who asked me to critique his new, still wrapped in plastic, furniture at his country villa -- and a town by the Niger River. We never reached the escarpment.

On the final day of our travels, as we needed to return to Bamako so I could catch a flight to Abidjan, we stopped at Markala, along the Niger River.

Dr. Ali, who seemed to regard me with suspicion at first, and I had become friends, as much as two people can in a short time, across enormous cultural and linguistic divides. Before turning back to Bamako, we decided to walk together to the banks of the Niger outside of the town.

It was over 40 degrees, sweltering and dry. A breeze kicked up the sand, sending it swirling around our sandaled feet. I stared out at the river. Looked to the right and saw in the distance, fishing dugouts, men repairing nets, women washing clothes, kids playing at the river's edge. The call to prayer floated through the air from the minaret of a mosque.

I wanted badly to say something meaningful to this man I stood beside. About the only thing we had in common was that we were both wearing sandals. Ali was a man dedicated to his traditions and, at the same time, a devout Muslim. I had seen him do things that to this day I cannot explain. I had witnessed his untrusting stare and now his easy smile of friendship.

Finally, in my fractured French, I said, gazing at the river, baking under the relentless Sahel sun, a ribbon of life, "This is truly a gift from God." Ali smiled, looking out over the river, "Yes, it is."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Other Face(s) of Islam

Watercolour, acrylic, 2002

$800.00

 

In 1999 I traveled to Sudan and Kenya to bring together the exhibition Art out of Sudan, at the request of MCC and Ten Thousand Villages in East Africa. I met with young Muslim Sudanese artists in Khartoum and Nairobi. Besides bringing together an exhibition, an exchange was requested. So, two Canadian artists accompanied me to East Africa. Workshops for Sudanese artists and we three Canadians were organized by Elimo Njau's Paa Ya Paa Art Centre outside of Nairobi and the School of Fine and Applied Arts at the Sudan University of Science and Technology. In Sudan we also spent time with Ahmed Shibrain, one of the leading figures in African modernism, and Rashid Diab, renowned as an artist who merges Western, African and Islamic influences effortlessly in his art.

My fondest memories are of Ahmed el Sharif, a Khartoum artist who became a dear friend. He guided us around Khartoum and into the Sahara to visit spectacular, tourist free ancient sites, including the Meroe pyramids. I brought him to Winnipeg on two occasions to work in schools and exhibit at the MHC Gallery.

Isam Aboud, a Winnipeg resident since arriving here with his wife as refugees in 2004, is a cousin to Ahmed and an equally wonderful man, artist and friend.

We happened to be in Khartoum as Ramadan was coming to a close. We were invited to the home of an artist couple for the feast of fast-breaking, Eid al-Fitr. Before heading to their home, we visited a Sufi mosque with Ahmed. We watched the prayers and met the imam. Then it was off to the feast. We drove into a residential area. To newcomer outsiders, everything looked the same – walled compounds, buildings the colour of the desert. We stopped. There were two gates. I was distracted by what was happening at the gate to the right. Two men were slaughtering a sheep for the feast.

The others I was with disappeared. I paid no attention. I remained watching the men with the sheep. They finished and invited me into the courtyard. They excused themselves to go wash their hands and directed me to enter the house. I went inside. Women and kids, dressed for the special day, greeted me in Arabic. I was ushered to a seat. Kids came and sat on my lap. Friendly women chatted nearby. I was feeling welcome and happy.

After 15 or 20 minutes, a man came to the door. He looked at me and asked, "What are you doing here?" I said I was waiting for the feast. He replied, "This is the wrong house. These people have no idea who you are."

I excused myself and went next door, where I was supposed to be.

Shortly thereafter there was a commotion at the side wall of the compound. A large tray of food was passed over the wall. With it a message, if he can't eat with us, we at least have to give him food.

Hospitality at its finest.

The people in the painting are the artist couple who hosted the feast. I wrote the story of the day behind and around them.

 

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Mother, India

Watercolour, acrylic, stamped archival ink, 2007

$400.00

 

From my In God's Image trip to India.

I had the amazing good fortune of traveling in Andhra Pradesh State with GK Rufus, an Indian Mennonite and artist/photographer working at a university in Hyderabad. We had a lot of fun. It was tremendous to wander with someone with a curious, artistic eye.

Rufus wanted me to see more than the city. He decided we should go to his mother's village, Akuthotapally.

It was very hot during the day and pleasant at night. Being dry season, Rufus, his mother, a brother and his wife and kids all slept outside in the courtyard. As the special guest, I was given a bedroom in the mudbrick house. It was stifling.

I looked outside and saw my hosts looking comfortable. I called Rufus and asked if I could sleep outside. My bed was pulled outdoors and placed beside Rufus'. Outside was lovely.

We would awaken with daybreak, large birds flying overhead and the sounds of women moving about cleaning their courtyards, making breakfast, preparing for the day. Rufus and I would get up as soon as the rising sun woke us and we'd hike in the boulder strewn hills, visit people, take photographs before the day became too hot. Many memories and stories to tell – such as sleeping through my own goodbye party and attending a tiny country circus.

After several nights at his mother's, Rufus informed me that he had intended to stay only one night but he saw that I seemed to like it, so, we stayed much longer. Thank you!

 

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Hope in Focus

Watercolour, acrylic, 2007

$1400.00

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

"let love and faithfulness never leave you"

Watercolour, acrylic, stamped archival ink, 2010

Proverbs series

$750.00

 

I was officially part of a Menno Simons College delegation going to Kinshasa for the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) elections in 2006 -- I as an accredited photographer and the others as observers.

Being accredited was critical. Otherwise it was virtually impossible to photograph in public in Kinshasa. Fines and arrest were pretty much inevitable. I was recommended for accreditation by the Eglise du Christ au Congo, an umbrella group covering more than 60 Congolese Protestant denominations. I am forever thankful to John David Pankratz for making arrangements so I could be accredited.

I was honoured to cover the election representing so many Congolese, all who had never been able to participate in an actual election previously. The UN called the election the most complicated in the history of humanity – relentless conflict in the east, almost non-existent infrastructure throughout, millions of people with no access to passable roads. Countless good people hoped for a better future, beginning with their being able to vote.

On a personal level, I was excited to have some official freedom. Living in Kinshasa in the 1980s, I experienced being unable to photograph freely – hassled, threatened and arrested once for having a camera. I was briefly kidnapped on an Africa: Art of the People exhibition visit in 1991 -- I believe because I was carrying cameras when I and a Congolese friend were unexpectedly dropped off in a busy public square. Definitely a near death experience – I'm not exaggerating -- story to tell in the book I hope to write.

I arrived in Kinshasa some days earlier than the rest of the Menno Simons delegation. I stayed in a small guesthouse. There was only one other guest. It was a relatively quiet area. So, after supper I could go out to meet people in the street.

Every evening a couple of young mothers and their kids sat by a small kiosk just down the street. They could not speak French and my Lingala was never very good. Nonetheless, I would quietly hang out with them, passing part of the evenings. Peace before the election chaos.

"let love and faithfulness never leave you" is a painting of one of those young women.

Hope in Focus comes out of a violent incident but the same as "Let love and faithfulness never leave you" it is about the decency, the goodness, the strength of women and their children, is about people deserving justice and freedom, and their hope for the future of their children. We are all created in God's image, each equal in the eyes of God.

A few days prior to the election, an opposition rally in a stadium was planned. The main opponent of the president was entering Kinshasa for the first time in years. He was formerly a rebel leader, indicted for war crimes but was managing to avoid extradition and trial.

I was asked to accompany a Canadian reporter to the rally. She brought along two Congolese Mennonites as interpreters. I felt uneasy but went along.

The stadium was across the city from where we set out. Early on in our drive we started coming across large groups of young men, marching and chanting, on their way to the rally. As we got closer the crowds grew in size and the almost celebratory early atmosphere was turning angry. We reached a point where the streets were plugged. Our car crawled through the crowds. People shouted at us. Someone tried to open my door. The lock did not work. I held onto the door handle with both hands to keep it closed. An election sign for President Joseph Kabila was hurled onto our windscreen, covering it entirely. For a moment, all we saw was Kabila's placid face and his request to vote for him.

Finally we arrived outside the stadium. The reporter was keen to go inside – my feeling was she was looking for publicity for herself as a foreign correspondent as opposed to being there for Congolese people. I looked at the two Congolese with us and said, "I am scared. I know you are, as well. Your families are more important than going in there." They looked at me in agreement but went along. She was paying them.

I headed across the street and into a courtyard filled with mothers and their children. They were anticipating what was surely coming and wished to stay out of sight. I joined them.

Crouched down, I was at kid level. Several came to me to good naturedly check me out.  One asked for my accreditation. I put it around her neck. She crossed her arms and posed defiantly. I snapped a photo and showed it to her on my camera screen. A huge smile broke across her face.

A short time later both of the Congolese who had come to the rally with me showed up to hide in the compound, as well. They said bad things were happening.

Later we learned some people had been killed. We saw a number of houses and businesses on fire.

What is my strongest memory of that time? The kids and their mothers. People who deserve a good and decent life, opportunities to have realistic hopes and dreams as most of us can and do. I am no more than them. I was honoured to spend that time with them, to be remember that Jesus stands on their side. Matthew 25:40, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

 

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

"give her the reward she has earned and let her works bring her praise at the city gate"

Watercolour, acrylic, stamped archival ink, 2010

Proverbs series

NFS

 

My dad passed away while I was in Ethiopia in November 1996. I was out of Addis Ababa at the time, beyond being able to be contacted. Mom waited to know when I could get to Abbotsford before scheduling the funeral. I decided this could not happen again. Mom would not die alone.

She had suffered greatly throughout our shared 50 years on earth. A number of times she nearly died, was supposed to die at least twice. Somehow she survived and outlived dad, who died far too young at age 70.

She spent most of the last two years of her life in the hospital. I traveled to BC eight or nine times those two years to be with her. Finally, in the early fall of 2005 we received word that this time it really was it. Doctors said she had two months to live.

With the help and blessing of Alf Redekopp, Connie Wiebe and Ruth Maendel, I was able to keep my promise that mom would not die alone. I moved into her Menno Home suite in Abbotsford. I had the internet hooked up to her room and worked on my laptop sitting on the floor beside the chair she sat in, mostly sleeping. I would help her go to the washroom, get into bed, take her medications, go to the dining room – she insisted on going even though she rarely ate. When she was up to it, I'd take her for a drive. We'd go to her doctors. We checked out palliative care facilities together. Best of all, when friends or relatives would come over, I made sure the conversation was about her, so she could hear good things about herself, not just have them said at her funeral.

It was a sad, profound, peaceful, lovely time.

When the day came to move to palliative care, I rode in the back of the ambulance with her, holding her hand. I moved into her palliative care room – a bed was wheeled in beside hers for me.

She remained coherent until the last couple of days. Then, on the second last night, she became restless. She called me over and over again, asking I come and stand beside her bed. She would ask me to move my hand about in the air above her. When I managed to find the right place she would indicate that was good and she would briefly be calm. I had no idea what I was doing with my hand, I just followed instructions.

After most of the night like this, all of a sudden she called out, "Walt! Mom!" The last words she said. She was entirely at peace. She passed away quietly the next day.

Was she seeing her husband and mother at the end of the "white tunnel?" Was she hallucinating? Whatever it was, she was calm and ready to go. I took great comfort in that and want to believe she did see dad and grandma that morning, waiting for her.

"give her the reward she has earned and let her works bring her praise at the city gate" is of mom on that last peaceful day.

 

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Democratic Republic of the Congo elections

photographs, 2006

$125.00 each       

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Women of Dzogadze, Ghana

photographs, 2006 and 2008

$100.00 each

 

The Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) election photographs include images from the election day, one in Kinshasa's massive Grand Marché days prior to the election and one, the child in the doorway, from after the election.

The election day was incredible, surreal, at points frightening, at other times exhilarating and, ultimately, amazing that it actually took place. I spent the day with a writer from MCC and a South African photographer hired by MCC. We raced from one voting place to another, recording people casting their ballots, citizens standing in line waiting patiently, soldiers maintaining order rather than causing disorder. We crossed paths with UN troop carriers patrolling the city, witnessed armed rebels running in the streets around their leader's base. Through it all, what remains with me is seeing people helping each other -- poll workers holding voter's babies, others patiently explaining how to vote as confused voters peered at the enormous ballots, elderly women being ushered to the front of the line to vote for the first time in their lives. That day the election mattered. That day many people held onto a sliver of hope.

Generalizing, the DRC was split electorally between supporting the president and expressing outright hatred for him. Kinshasa, the capital, was opposition territory, by and large. Among those in opposition who were angry, foreigners were enemies. That was not based on skin colour. Rwandans and Ugandans were as much enemies to the angry as any European.

A friend of mine from our time living in Kinshasa wanted me to visit his family a couple of days after the election. He lived in an opposition supporting area of the city. A taxi was arranged to pick me up. I was told to lay on the floor in the backseat. We arrived and I was taken into the house.

It was early in the morning. Kudipama wanted me to have breakfast. He sent one of his children to go buy a couple of eggs and something to drink. I took the photo of the young girl as I waited for breakfast. People were coming and going. This girl stopped, looked at me for a second and continued on her way.

I have always felt this photo completed the hundreds I took before, during and after the election. A pause before setting off into the future. Hope, please, for what is to come.

Spending time in Dzogadze, Ghana reconfirmed that what I prefer over something like covering an election is to just be, feel the rhythm of a community, become accepted into that community and to then document daily life in all its ordinariness.

I visited Dzogadze a few months after the DRC elections. I was in Ghana asked to photograph the opening of a new centre in Accra for the Osu Children's Library Fund (OCLF). I asked Kathy Knowles, founder and director of OCLF, if she could link me with a village where I could visit for a longer period of time after the opening. She put me in touch with two men from Dzogadze. I was welcome to visit.

I headed to the village by public transit, east out of Accra, across the Volta River and on to Atkatsi. A taxi had to be found at the Atkatsi bus rank. We soon turned off a highway that ultimately arrives at the border with Togo and headed down dirt tracks to Dzogadze – a peaceful village where traditional practices remained vitally important to the community.

I was greeted by Paul, the school librarian, and the master drummer – an elderly man responsible for keeping traditional drumming and dancing alive, as I understood, in Dzogadze and other nearby villages. I was taken to my room, across a small beaten earth yard from the master drummer's room.

After settling in, I asked Paul if he knew everyone in the village. Yes. Did everyone in the village know I was here and why? Yes. Wonderful days, full of ordinary events and extraordinary experiences followed. The women in the photos are some of the people I met.

With the break of dawn, the village came to life. Before the oppressive heat would arrive and kids had to get ready for school, children were out sweeping the village. Women were preparing food. The village was active and beautiful in the soft early morning light.

One morning, just as light began to filter into the village, the master drummer and I emerged from our rooms at the same time. He greeted me and asked, "Would you like to meet the distiller?" Sure. We wandered to a nearby home and into the backyard. A large clay vat with a tin roof over it was the focal point of the yard. The distiller showed me what he was making – some kind of homebrew. He asked the master drummer and I to take a seat. He scooped some liquid out of the vat and handed a small glass of his brew to each of us. I said thank you and drank it, as did the master drummer.

I had no idea what I was drinking. I simply accepted his hospitality and his gift.

After a second shot, the master drummer turned to me and asked, "Would you like to meet more people?" Sure.

We set off and for about two hours I was taken inside various simple homes to meet elderly people too sick, too weak to come out. People I would never have met otherwise. A tremendous, humbling honour.

I believe that invitation came as a result of my not hesitating when it came to sampling the distiller's drink. Simply being kind, interested, curious, open, not being judgmental, saying yes even in cases where one is not entirely sure what they are saying yes to, can lead to intimate experiences, graciously offered.

                                     

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Juntas Together

Watercolour, stamped archival ink, acrylic, 2015

$2500.00

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Courage, peace and strength to you

Watercolour, archival ink, acrylic, 2014

$3500.00

                                     

Well over a decade ago, I was asked if we'd be interested in exhibiting the art of Alejandro Aranda from Cuernavaca, Mexico. I was shown posters of his prints. Wow. What a talented man. A gifted artist whose art focused on the dignity and plight of marginalized women from the remote Indigenous community of Tlamacazapa, located in the mountains of Guerrero State.

We scheduled a showing.

Alejandro was connected to Tlamacazapa through Atzin Mexico, an NGO working with the community's women. Later, the founder of Atzin, Susan Smith, contacted me and said she would like me to work together with Alejandro one day.

Out of the blue, in 2013 I received an email from Susan saying that Atzin had secured a grant for me from the Mexican government to come to Mexico to work on an exhibition with Alejandro and women weavers from Tlamacazapa.

Alejandro and I were able spend some days and nights in Tlamacazapa meeting with weavers – the vast majority of the women in the community are weavers. We wandered the community, we held a workshop, we met with groups of women leaders for interviews, we observed weavers at work, we shared meals, we participated in programming run by Atzin to uplift young women.

Alejandro and I were asked to create artworks based on our time with Tlamacazapa's women.

I was moved and impressed by the quiet determination of the older leaders and the hope, in incredibly difficult situations, found in the young women they mentored. Their strength lay in their togetherness. Without that unity, in an area ravaged by marginalization, abuse, addictions, gangs and cartels, they would not have hope for the future.

To convey what I felt, I decided to create two "lineup" paintings – strength in standing shoulder to shoulder. One, the older leaders, mature and strong, a finished painting. The other of the younger women, expressing many moods, fears, joys, friendship, apprehension, hope, an unfinished painting. Their lives yet to unfold into mature adults and future leaders.

The exhibit toured in Mexico and Canada. Katie and I were able to attend the opening in Cuernavaca. Dozens of people came from Tlamacazapa to Cuernavaca for the opening. Magical.

 

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Along the Road to Freedom: Mennonite women of courage and faith

Katja Goerz

Watercolour, stamped archival ink, 2013

Available for family purchase

8. 1998 to 2021, the MHC Gallery and...

Along the Road to Freedom: Mennonite women of courage and faith

Katherina Dirks Peters

Watercolour, stamped archival ink, 2012

NFS

 

Along the Road to Freedom gave me the opportunity to dig deep into stories coming from similar backgrounds as mine and Katie's. I was able to interview many people who were children of women who brought them out of the former Soviet Union, refugees fleeing often without husbands and fathers.

There was power in the repetition of the trying circumstances in many of the stories. There was also power in the individual stories of courage, faith, resiliency, even in the face of great terror and despair.

Two stories stood out for me personally.

Katja Goerz was one of two women in the paintings who were still alive as the project began. I was able to meet her on two occasions. The second was the unveiling of her painting at her care home in Morden. The unveiling was a family gathering. Katja, blind and virtually deaf, in her 90s, was wheeled near the painting. Her children spoke about her journey, her husband, her life in Russia, Brazil and Canada. A granddaughter sat beside her, close so she could tell her what was being said. She described the painting to her.

After family photographs with Katja, her children and the painting, I sat with her briefly. She told me that she was not worth all the fuss. I was so happy to be able to tell her, as I would have liked to have told all the others in the paintings, "You are worth the fuss."

Katarina Dirks Peters was a great aunt of mine. Like so many others, her husband was taken by the secret police in the dead of night in the 1930s. He was never seen again. She had given birth to three daughters. All died as children. She had two sons. They survived.

Katarina and her sons joined the thousands of Mennonites who fled the former Soviet Union on the Great Trek in 1943. She had both boys taken from her along the way. When finally able to leave Europe with the help of MCC in 1948, she came alone to Canada.

My parents revered her. We would visit on Sunday afternoons, driving across Sumas Prairie from Abbotsford to Yarrow, BC, where she lived in a tiny shack. She could not speak English. I knew next to no German. Nonetheless, I held her in great regard because mom and dad thought so highly of her, and helped and protected her. If there were Mennonite saints, I'm sure mom and dad would have lobbied for Tante Tin to become one.

After some years she learned that her boys were still alive, exiled to Siberia. Her life became consumed by her desire to see her sons. She began writing to Soviet authorities asking to allow her sons to come visit in Canada. The answer was always no, but the door seemed to be left slightly ajar.

She continued asking, over and over again.

Finally, in the summer of 1974, she received a letter telling her to stop asking. Her sons would never be allowed to leave. Within two months she was dead.

When Along the Road to Freedom came into focus as a project, I felt I needed to include Tante Tin. A woman of great, quiet faith and determination. An exceedingly kind and gentle soul who had lost everything. I did not want her entirely lost in history. The painting is my little bit to honour her.

 

-------------------------------------------------

 

Thank you

A lifetime of thanks, to those who made a significant contribution to my life as an artist, sort of (at least some of the time) in chronological order:

Mom and dad (always supportive)

Katie (We met at Columbia Bible Institute in Abbotsford in September 1973. After a few false starts, we clicked and she changed my life for the better ever since.)

Arthur Block (While visiting Katie in his Vancouver home, where Katie lived prior to our getting married, Arthur came to me one evening and said, "I'd like to help your career someday." A few years later I ran a couple of ideas past him. "No," he answered with a smile. We moved to Quebec and Zaire, then to Winnipeg in late 1985. In early 1998 I asked, "Does starting the gallery qualify?" He said to visit him in Vancouver. I reminded him the only reason Ken Reddig and I would make the trip was because we were looking for a substantial donation. He said, "Come." He became the largest donor to the gallery for its first three years. Then he said, "After three years, if it is valued, there are Mennonites in Manitoba who should fund it." I retired after 23 years raising the budget through donations. Manitobans did support the gallery. Thank you!)

The PW Enns Family Foundation and DeFehr Foundation (the other two significant donors who helped the gallery get started)

Herman Itzinger (a tough Austrian taskmaster who presided over the Art in Merchandising program, the first – and only -- place I ever had art lessons)

An English professor whose name I forget at Vancouver Community College, Langara (he never knew the difference he made in my life)

Pakisa Tshimika and other Zairians/Congolese who helped me (Pakisa, always supportive, encouraging, excited about my work and what I could do to contribute, a good friend)

Harold Jantz and Wally Kroeker (we stayed in Winnipeg when we returned from Africa in late 1985 because of Harold and Wally offering me freelance design work and Wally many opportunities to hone my illustration skills)

Ron Braun, Elaine Peters, Terry Sawatsky, Sophie Gebreyes, Paul and Bev Carrick, etc (people working for NGOs who recognized art could be more than pretty pictures, could be an educational tool, especially, revealing Africans as people of dignity, integrity, hard work, faith, culture and family)

Val and Stephen Phelps (the Main/Access Gallery was a truly open-minded institution, helped me feel accepted in Winnipeg)

Tibebe Terffa, Elimo Njau, Dr. Ablade Glover, Ahmed el Sharif and others (African artists, talented, insightful, wise, friends)

Roberto Quijano and Ezequiel Sanchez (through Esperanza Gonzalez), Jairo Alfonso Castellanos and Manolo Baldrich (through Rose Plett) (opened the heart of Cuban people and culture to me, forever grateful)

Perry and Gladys Rosenstein (the Puffin Foundation, based in Teaneck, New Jersey, gave Katie and I a trip to Cuba, sponsored Cuban, Indonesian and Sudanese exhibits to go to their galleries in New Jersey and lower Manhattan, handed me the keys to their fantastic condominium and a convertible to use in New Jersey/New York while they were out of town, etc.)

Ron Streimer (always wanted to hear my stories, while enthusiastically taking on the challenge of framing hundreds of artworks, a good man)

Ken Reddig, Alf Redekopp, Connie Wiebe, Selenna Wolfe, Conrad Stoesz (People associated with the Mennonite Heritage Centre Archives and Gallery who were always supportive. I am eternally thankful.)

Ruth Maendel (stepped in so that I could leave for two months to be with my dying mom in BC, perhaps the most meaningful journey of my life)

John Wieler (figured out a way to raise the entire budget for the In God's Image: A Global Anabaptist Family project – exhibition and book -- and then sold hundreds, if not thousands, of the books; an encouraging friend)

Jon Bonk (offered me a chance to be artist-in-residence at OMSC and a research fellow at Yale, both in New Haven, Connecticut; a vision for visual art as an effective gift to be valued and honoured)

Dr. Lamin Sanneh (his review of my Yale exhibition affirmed, validated how I worked as an artist, curator and person across African cultures)

Marie Bouchard, The Winnipeg Foundation (always positive, encouraging, helpful, a true advocate)

Countless relationships at and through the gallery that went beyond art, often out of sight of most everyone else, too many to mention but a few: Betty Smith, Jean Wiens, Joan Lloyd, June Springer, James Friesen (James encouraged me to begin having annual fundraisers)

Gallery advisory committee members through the years, Marlene Neustaedter, Adelia Neufeld Wiens, Margaret Fast, Rachel Baerg, Danielle Fontaine Koslowsky, Reymond Pagé, Lori Matties, Sue Sorensen, Seth Woodyard, 'Segun Olude, Mary Paetkau

Lori Matties (the best, most tireless volunteer in history)

Susan Smith, Alejandro Aranda (Susan created opportunities for me to work in Tlamacazapa, Mexico; Aranda was my partner in artistic endeavours -- wonderful, powerful experiences)

Margaret and Bill Fast, Mary and Ted Paetkau, Frank and Agnes DeFehr, Herb and Erna Buller (significant donors, friends, generous beyond funding)

Manju Lodha (long-time good friend, colleague, partner on a number of gallery projects – exhibits, books, DVDs; I will never forget the time in a school workshop where I was using the language of "tolerance" speaking about diversity in the classroom and wider community, when Manju, a Hindu who grew up in India, came to me after and politely said, "I'd like to be accepted, not tolerated.")

Isam Aboud (friend, colleague, artist of boundless talent, gracious and humble man of faith and integrity, someone I met in a workshop in Kenya in the late 1990s; in 2004 I received a phone call from Isam, "I'm in Winnipeg." His wife, Heba, and Isam had arrived here as refugees from Sudan.)

Along the Road to Freedom: Mennonite women of courage and faith committee, Nettie Dueck, Hans Funk, Henry Bergen, Wanda Andres (came to me asking for ideas on how to honour their mothers who had brought them as children out of the former Soviet Union to find peace and security in Canada; a profound, deeply moving journey for me)

The many artists who have exhibited in the gallery through the years, the community members brought to the gallery through various exhibits and projects...

All those I have missed.

 

Ray Dirks, November 2022

 

 

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