Art Appreciation 101

A few days ago I needed a break from packing and picked a favorite video, Girl With A Pearl Earring. Of course the combination of Colin Firth and Scarlett Johansson is electrifying, but I was more entranced by the art of Johannes Vermeer.

While current artists can purchase their oils in a multitude of colors, this 17th Century Dutch Master had to hand grind and mix his own colors for each day's work. Vermeer had limited sources for the colors he produced and probably employed no more than 15 different pigments in his entire lifetime. This makes the vibrant color schemes of his paintings all the more amazing. These pigments would come from grinding semi-precious stones like lapis lazuli to create Ultramarine Blue, pounding charcoal until it was a powder for Black and heating the poisonous element mercury with sulfur to create Vermilion. Vermeer even painted his patron's wife in "cow piss" or Indian Yellow that came directly from the urine of cattle in the Bengali province, where it is said, farmers fed their cows only mango leaves and water. Vermeer was a perfectionist and it often took him three or more months to finish a painting.

Although we do not own any originals from the Dutch Masters, we have a significant number of original paintings and drawings in our home that will be a joy to hang when we move to our new house.

I loved art as a child and remember spending hours watching my brother draw imaginative Superhero's. His craft matured when he began his meticulously detailed pen and ink drawings. I am still searching for The Clockwise Orange he created at my request.

Rembrandt - a master of light and shade.

Although I can draw, it has never been with the free-flowing ease of my brother. In my Grade 10 art class, one assignment had us creating a reproduction of a Renaissance artist. I picked Rembrandt and decided to do a still life with a lit candle. But I had no idea how difficult it would be to replicate such a masterful painter of light and shade. After spending weeks in frustration, I handed the painting in and begged my instructor to mark me on the one-square inch of candle flame, the only section I was happy with. Amazingly she did.

Peter's mother studied art and we have a number of Gudrun's original pieces in our house, including a pencil sketch she made of Peter sleeping, when he was just a year old. We also have a painting of an orange tree from Peter's sister Elinor. But now she is following in her older sister's footsteps and creating beautiful ceramics.

Our niece, Marcia Harris, gave us one of her earliest pieces as a gift and now her amazing paintings sell-out almost as fast as they are created. As a landscape artist she creates thought-provoking pieces that challenge our pristine view of nature. She often paints a more modern landscape where natural surroundings are forced to co-exist with mankind.

Lynn Kingham's "A Whale of a Pod."

One of my Fat-5 friends, Lynn Kingham, did a charcoal sketch of "Boy" for me in university and did a pencil portrait of Pokey that we treasure. She regularly participates in the "Night of Artists" murals and also in creating unique paintings on the animal sculptures that grace the streets of downtown Victoria.

As we go on a treasure search through our basement, I know we will uncover more of Gudrun's paintings, and possibly some of my brother's as well. Now, if only Michelangelo's statue of David was down there somewhere among the boxes and rubble, I would be truly happy!

My Grandfather's Murder and My Father's Forgiveness

I've been preoccupied with moving lately but as I delved into a book from my father's family history, I realized the move I was making was nothing compared to what he had to endure. Escaping famine, religious persecution, looting and his own father's murder, my dad left the turmoil of Russia behind for a new start in Canada.

I asked him many times what had happened in Russia before he left. He only told me once, then it was through tears as he recounted the excitement turned to fear and devastating loss in the days before they left.

My father gave me, Hierschau by Helmut Huebert, an account of the Mennonite community he grew up in, but I had never read it before today - Father's Day. I was shocked to find in it the details of my grandfather's murder and the events leading up to my father's departure.

A portrait of Catherine the Great.

My dad was from a Dutch Mennonite heritage. His great-great-grandfather moved to Russia after Catherine the Great made an offer to these Mennonites that was too good to refuse. She promised each family 174 acres of land, freedom of religion, exemption from military service (as the Mennonites were pacifists) and no taxes for the first ten years.

Mennonites streamed in to Southern Russia and enjoyed peace and prosperity there for well over a hundred years. The Mennonite colony in Hierschau was founded in 1848 and my father was born there in 1910. But the world Henry Peter Dyck was born into was no longer peaceful. In 1914 Germany declared war on Russia. Food shortages, riots, murders and political unrest marred life in the Russian cities. Although the Mennonite colonies in the south were not as affected by these incidents, the upheaval around them soon reached their land. When the German troops occupied this area in 1918, the Mennonites hoped for some stability. The Germans were not there for long before the Red Army took over. Anarchy and terror reigned as the Red and White Armies fought each other, often in the fertile fields of these Mennonite colonies.

The new government did not honor Catherine the Great's agreement with the Mennonites. Their young men were being conscripted into the army, their religious freedom was gone and officials were interfering with religious instruction in Mennonite schools. Then a large-scale famine hit the fertile Mennonite colonies. Hunger was rampant and local bandits would pilfer food at the cost of others lives. Their monetary currency, the ruble, had been so devalued a barrel-full could not even buy a loaf of bread.

Canada and Paraguay had opened their doors to immigrants and many of the families in Russia were making plans to leave. In August 1926, my father's family sold the last of their possessions and updated their passports, getting ready for the long train and boat trip to Eastern Canada.

The Dyck's were leaving with the Willms family and so had a combined auction to raise some money for the trip. August 24, 1926 was a beautiful day. The borscht flowed freely and articles sold well. My grandfather, Peter Dyck, worked into the night organizing their belongings and counting the money made by the sale. He stayed overnight at the Willms place to protect the large amount of money hidden in the bed mattresses. My dad's oldest brother, Frank, was there too for added security.

Before going to sleep, my grandfather thanked his heavenly Father for the blessings of the day and asked for God's protection on them during the night. Three other men had come to help act as watchmen. Late in the night, as they chatted on the front porch, they heard the creaking of a wagon in the distance. Before they could investigate, bandits suddenly attacked. One of the watchmen was shot, the bullet just grazing his scalp. My dad's brother, Frank, ran to wake the others inside the house but was clubbed over the head and left for dead.

By this time the families were awake and the men tried to make sure the women and children could get safely to the barn. As my grandfather was jumping through a window, he was shot in the head and killed instantly. More shots rang out and one of the bandits was injured as well. As quickly as they attacked, the bandits scattered, without finding the hidden money.

All the gunshots had roused the village and people ran to the Willms house to help. My grandmother, Katharina, thought one of the men on security had been shot. As she came to offer her condolences she found, to her horror, that her husband was dead.

When my dad told me about my grandfather's death, tears overwhelmed him. It was a shock to his whole family. His brother, Frank, recovered from the blow he took to his head and an emotional funeral was held for Peter Dyck a few days later. All eight children cried uncontrollably. Then in early September, the whole family left for a new country, a new life - one without their father.

Fourty-four years after my grandfather was murdered, an anonymous request came from Russia through a third party, asking forgiveness from the Dyck family for this murder. Katharina was no longer living. She had actually stayed with my family for over a year and even though I was a young child, I had a chance to know my strong-willed grandmother.

I remember the tears that flowed freely down my father's cheeks when he said he would forgive this man, who had participated in the robbery that led to the murder of my grandfather. I know forgiving this man was extremely hard for my dad to do, but his ability to forgive has left a lasting impression on me.

My dad was a quiet man but had a deep spiritual strength that marked his life. I hope I will be able to pass on his legacy, of love and forgiveness, to others through my life.

In The Move Groove.

It’s only been seven months since I started blogging and already it has changed my world. If it wasn't for Heidi constantly nagging me - asking me every other day “when was I going to FINALLY start a blog?” - I may have never begun. Heidi, you’re going to make someone a ‘fantastic’ wife someday...

Now I am totally obsessed by my blog statistics, especially how many people read my posts and where they are from. Initially, these stats were pretty boring. If 30 or 40 people read a post, it was miraculous. The majority of my readers were family and friends from Canada, with a healthy smattering of US citizens and a few from the Commonwealth countries.

Then the tsunami and earthquake hit Japan in early March. After trying to explain nuclear fission to my husband, Peter, one night, I decided to write about the Nuclear Meltdown that was (and still is) occurring at the Fukushima reactors. Overnight this post found an international audience. Countries like the U.K., Australia, Japan, Germany, India, Indonesia and Iran began popping up. Then my post was reprinted on a medical site in Slovenia that dealt with the aftermath of Chernobyl and I am still getting readers from this country. Now I can hardly wait to see how my international audience has grown. Peter is getting used to me shouting out the names of countries the first time they appear, like “Iceland! Kazakhstan! Bosnia!” or more recently, “United Arab Emirates!”

This international audience has made posting blogs much more fun. Since I wrote Sense or Censorship two months ago, it has garnered over 1000 visits. That's totally blown me away! I really have to thank my friend and writing partner, Methodius, for pushing me to write about this topic. I never expected literary censorship to be such a hotbed of interest.

Currently though, I am surrounded by a new project. I am in the midst of many boxes. Hundreds of them to be exact, mostly filled with unknown ‘treasures’ I have yet to discover. You see, we are moving. That very statement brings to mind a famous line from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Hollow Men – “The horror! The horror!”

Those of you who have ever moved a vast amount of baggage know what I mean. If there was a huge dislike button, I’d be pressing it. In the 21 years Peter and I have been married, we’ve moved once. That was over 17 years ago and we have literally gained a ton of stuff since then. UGH! But a wonderful opportunity has come to us and it’s time for a change. (Also time to hit the ‘dislike’ button again...did I tell you how much I dislike change)?

And this change is radical, not like just moving across town. We will be leaving the city and living in a house on 40 acres of wooded land. So instead of watching the police bust a drug house down the street, we will be watching the deer sleep in our back yard, listening to a thousand birds sing, and making sure we don't antagonize the moose.

Although every city neighborhood has a few villainous individuals, we have been blessed to live near some pretty remarkable neighbors - who have now become very close friends. I will miss the ebb and flow of these people coming and going from our house. I grew up in a country setting where we never locked our doors or closed the blinds on our windows. And I still maintain an ‘open door’ policy where friends are encouraged to just ‘drop in.’ But sometimes other creatures have decided to drop in too...Once a mouse took up residence in our living room for a few days until I saw his shadow scurrying across the floor. Then there was the cat that wandered in and began exploring our basement. It was as much a shock for Peter as it was for the cat when they encountered each other.

The great thing about our new place is that family will be living close to us. That will be a huge blessing and an opportunity to get to know some of our nieces and nephews better.

But how are we supposed to get all our junk from here to there? We don't have a lot of experience and both me and my husband are pack rats, of sorts. I like to think Peter is much worse than me, having inherited the ‘pack rat’ gene from his mother. But as I am wading through box after box of personal correspondence, I realize I must have a genetic predisposition to be a hoarder as well.

I found my baby bracelet from the hospital, a birthday card from my first birthday (which was quite some time ago now), a tiny stone from the Roman Coliseum my brother brought back for me, (this was before security guards stopped people from absconding pieces of their historical monuments...unfortunately my brother encountered police at Stonehenge otherwise I might have a piece of that too)!

Then there are all the letters, notes, cards and postcards from the Fat-5, other friends and family. I have kept every meaningful and interesting card and letter anyone has ever given me. Since there are artists on both sides of our family, many of these are amazing and unique. But hey, I did throw out all the original Bloom County and Doonesbury comics I had kept from the 80s.

So you can see why I need your advice. What do we move first (we have a month to get it done) and what can we move last? What do we do with the old boxes of black and white photos we have? Does anyone remember slides and slide projectors? What if I want to throw out a couple dozen boxes of junk but Peter thinks they’re worth more than gold? How can we not kill each other? Does anyone want a used process camera? (It’s free if you haul it away).

I’m going to share a BEFORE photo of a small section of our basement now. And yeah, this is also BEFORE we started packing. These boxes and CDs normally lie all over our ping pong table.

Have you heard my cry for help???