What I Didn't Say (Gratitude and Art)

Last month, Making Up the Gods and I received an Arts and Heritage Award from the City of Thunder Bay. You can read more about it here. 

A frozen river? Nah, just
light snow on a rock surface
between moss clumps.

The awardees in the two categories ahead of me chose not to make comments, so when my time came, I opted to follow their "less is more" approach and start near the end of what I thought I might say. (Though of course I didn't give up the chance for a microphone, when invited.)

But I've been thinking since of ways I wish I'd spoken more into that evening as part of an ongoing conversation about art. So anyway, here's a mildly revised version of what I might have said a month ago.

Thank you so much, I’m surprised and grateful.

We all know how funders and government people talk about arts and artists, right? “The arts contributes X million to the economy. Our ticket sales are up by blah blah percent. Eleventy thousand people participated in the arts in this past year.”

All of which is for sure important. We do have financial responsibilities.

But that’s not why we’re here, right?

However much I love having books locally in Entershine Bookshop, so much of my art, writing, is really about spending time with imaginary people I learn to love.

And I suspect every artist, which means every being here, has your own “what it’s really about.”

The faces you read to at storytime—the kids (of all ages) who desperately want to hear about belonging and acceptance.

The muscle memory of rosining a bow, hearing the music in your head as you read a score, the jumping-rope feeling of jamming with a friend.

The moment before the curtain, when everyone’s excited and you get to actually live a story.

The pure joy of drawing the perfect cateye on both eyes—they actually match!—or capturing a gesture with a mark-making tool, assembling the elements of an installation, using fire or sharp edges or adhesives to create a sculpture.

The quiet satisfaction of forming fiber into a vision.

The nurturing you feel in return when you encourage people out there in the world to find and celebrate their own creativity.

I’m guessing that’s what our creativity is about, right?

For me, that’s a lot of it. And, speaking as a writer, the other reason I’m here? Readers. And I imagine that's true for the other Literature nominees as well.

A mature woman stares out the window in the middle of the night, wondering where her life went; she relates to Siobhan Farrell’s poetry about time, family, and imperfect beauty.

An adolescent (of any age) finding herself and her voice, her loves and hates, would have a great discussion with Samantha Convey’s poetry about growing up in an animal body.

Someone coming home from a long day at work just wants to put up their feet and escape into a world of obsession and mystery, and CR Kaine’s novel is just the ticket.

A little kid somewhere takes heart when a grownup reads them a book that says there’s no one way to be.

And someone who’s wondering if it’s possible to really let go of the past and live a future full of found family—and a few bears—might enjoy my novel, Making Up the Gods.

Because interacting with art lets us travel through space and time. Art is how we learn from our ancestors and share with our descendants. I'm grateful to be supported and recognized by the artistic community.

 

On a personal note, four quick thank yous.

First, some big dreamers opened a bricks and mortar store, selling books, in the middle of the pandemic, and now Entershine Bookshop is instrumental in the literary life of this community.

Second, shoutout to legacy media. Michael Sobota continues to read and review books for the Chronicle Journal, Dougall Media has The Source and John Pateman, and there’s The Walleye with a slew of reviews of arts every month. I’m grateful for all of it, and especially Michael’s gifts of discernment and attention.

Third, Erin Stewart is a gifted poet and collage artist. Erin created the image from which the cover of my book was made, and I couldn’t be happier about the way it captures the idealism and hope with which my book is infused. Thank you so much, Erin.

And last, because he’s the best, my husband Roy Blomstrom—also a writer and my best supporter, for whom I’m always grateful.

_____________

Climbing off my soapbox now to spend more time outdoors before the snow is less a magical mystery than a daily responsibility.