Month: November 2018

Brent van Staalduinen’s Writing Space

“less clutter is good for the creative soul”

Where it is:

My office is in the basement immediately under the master bedroom. This could be problematic when combined with my 5am starts because of our thin floors and my wife enjoying her sleep, but is actually perfect because I prefer to create in silence.

It doubles as the guest room but that’s not a thing because my wife and I are both introverted so we don’t often seek out houseguests to fill it. My two daughters, 5 and 3, have pretty much claimed the guest bed as their own, anyhow: sometimes they giggle their way down the stairs and knock me off my chair with hugs, then jump on the bed to play and forget I exist. No sound makes me happier than listening to our two tiny humans narrating the new worlds they’ve made.
I rarely close the door any more.

What I love most about it:

It’s my space. I get to create there. My family lets me go down there to try and put words together in interesting ways and encourages me to keep doing so. I’m so spoiled.

Things I keep in the space:

Small toys. I’ve discovered I have a weakness for buying them. If I sell a story, I treat myself. Lego. Star Wars. Realistic die-cast models. They line the window ledge and give me something to look at other than books and desk stuff.

And photos. I layer them. I hate getting rid of old ones, so new shots of the kids and my wife and my family get put in front of the old. I figure I have about ten years before the layers reach the edge and I have to do something so the new pictures don’t fall off.

I have carpets, too. A small Persian Baluch under the bookshelf and a large Afghan Turkmen between the desk and the door. They are miracles of craft and care. If you knew how soft and finely woven and beautiful they are, you’d wish, like I do, that everyone could have their own. Because, after all, bare feet.

How the space is reflective of my writing:

There go I but for the grace of God? Gently controlled chaos? Best laid plans for tidiness falling to pieces as often and easily as my plot and character outlines?

I’m actually very pleased with myself with how clear my desk is in the picture, given that I’m just starting the final chapter of my next novel’s first draft. Usually by this point I can’t see any desk surface at all, and am becoming seriously worried about all the things I’ve lost and might never see again. But right now I can sit at the desk and just work, without my peripheral vision taking in all the mess and stressing me out.

Advice I’d give a younger me: less clutter is good for the creative soul.

Also, the scientific evidence for this is far from certain, but I’m convinced that, in winter, 30 lit minutes from the small SAD lamp on the desk will lift me up. I love the idea that it can force more light into me.

Photo provided by Brent van Staalduinen

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What’s Tanis MacDonald Reading?

Memoir/essays
Bukowski in a Sundress – Kim Addonizio
I read a lot of memoirs about the writing life when I was preparing to write Out of Line, but I found Addonizio’s riotous beauty of a book only last week where I find everything good: on the shelves at Jeff Kirby’s poetry store knife/fork/book in Kensington Market. Like her poetry, Addonizio’s prose can be gut-bustingly funny one second and turn on a skateblade in a second for a sharp-eyed examination of agony. I will be thinking about her essay about her family, mental illness, and the legacy of cruelty, called “Simple Christian Charity,” for a long time.

Poetry
Sit How You Want – Robin Richardson
Walking into Richardson’s intense and muscular book of poems is like walking into the ocean. The book has that much salt and that much horizon. I’ve long admired Richardson’s start-up and editorship of the feminist litmag Minola Review and am taking this book of courageous and incendiary lyric experiments slowly, to make sure I get every word.

Fiction
The Comedian – Clem Martini
Not everyone knows this, but you heard it here first: I am a lifelong theatre geek. For me, Martini’s novel, narrated by the Roman playwright Plautus, was a special pleasure. Martini is a theatre scholar and playwright, and he’s a novelist of the first order. The love with which he paints this insider’s look at the production of a comedy (complete with plenty of mishaps) in a Rome scored by militarism and violence had the best qualities of historical fiction: timely in appearance and nimble in execution.

Photo by Flickr user Steven Depolo

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Sandra Cunha’s Writing Space

“miscellaneous paperwork and odds-and-ends”

This photo shows my current writing space, but it’ll be changing soon, as I’m moving once again.

If you’re wondering if my desk is always this tidy, the answer is no. I usually have some miscellaneous paperwork and odds-and-ends on it that are unrelated to my writing. But it’s never messy. I’m a minimalist, so I’m not one of those creatives who can work in chaos. When it comes time to write, I like to clear the desk.

In the years since I’ve started taking my writing more seriously, I’ve had many different writing spaces. I went years without having my own desk (or permanent address) and relied on writing at coffeehouses with the “right vibe.” I spent a few summers living in a university dorm room turned hotel room, declaring myself to be a writer-in-residence. And even now that I do have my own desk, I’m typing this while lying on my bed with my laptop propped up against a pillow. I didn’t feel like sitting in a chair.

I once thought that in order to be considered a true writer, I’d need a writing room of my own. But what I really need is some sort of a surface to rest my laptop, maybe some earphones to drown out surrounding noise, and, most importantly, I need to do the actual writing. That is and will always be the hardest part.

Photos provided by Sandra Cunha

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What’s Rob Taylor Reading?

I recently finished reading Correspondent by Dominique Bernier-Cormier (Goose Lane, 2018), which is a fascinating first book. It’s autobiographical, recounting the author’s adolescence – as one usually expects from first poetry collections – but it does so slantwise. Bernier-Cormier refers to his upbringing in hints and flashes around the larger political events which dominated the news, and his life, at the time (his father was a CBC correspondent in Moscow). So the sinking of the Kursk and the Nord-Ost siege become intertwined with Russian lessons in school, car rides through new neighbourhoods, memories of Canada, and visits to Central Asian marketplaces. It’s a very powerful portrait of a time, a place and, tucked within it all, a person.

More generally, I’m very excited about all the debut poetry books coming out from BC poets (or adopted BC poets who wrote their books while at UBC), including Joelle Barron (Ritual Lights), Nicholas Bradley (Rain Shadow), Aiden Chafe (Short Histories of Light), Curtis LeBlanc (Little Wild), Mallory Tater (This Will Be Good), Shazia Hafiz Ramji (Port of Being) and Laura Ritland (East and West). And forthcoming first collections by Daniel Cowper, Shaun Robinson and Matthew Walsh (and many more, I’m sure, who I’m missing). It’s an exciting time for poetry here on the west coast – all our secrets are spilling out for the rest of the country to learn about!

Photo by Flickr user Sergei F

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Meaghan Rondeau’s Writing Space

“collages of sometimes contradictory parts”

I live in a tiny one-bedroom on the second (second-and-a-half, really) floor of a heritage house built in 1902, in a neighbourhood full of big old trees and other big old houses, many of which, like mine, have been reverse-Tetris’d into a handful of self-contained suites. I was trying to play it super cool when I came to see the place, but I guess the landlord sensed my longing; he didn’t even make me fill out an application. “I can tell you’re a good person,” he said. This was a ridiculous miracle in a city where dozens of people show up for apartment viewings and are often forced to engage in battle-royale-esque bidding wars for a shot at living there. (Am I a good person? Too late for that now; I’m not leaving.)

I rarely feel comfortable out in the world, so I’m fairly uncompromising when it comes to my own space, whether that’s page space or living space. Besides being a person who writes something once or twice a year, I mostly work from home, so I’m here a lot, sitting behind my laptop screen for a bunch of hours most days. For my first couple years in this suite I didn’t have a desk, so working and writing on one of the mismatched, ergonomically unadvisable armchairs in the living room was the only option. Then a friend kindly donated her desk in the summer before I started my MFA, and I set it up in front of the windows in the little recessed nook at the back of my bedroom, thinking, Boy, I’m sure going to be getting a lot more done and taking myself a lot more seriously now that I have a Writing Space™! 

It really is a lovely spot (I mean, look at it!), and I do work in there sometimes, but I still prefer the living room, for a bunch of reasons. Most of my books are in here. (Digression: I realize I could save money by using the library, and save space by using an e-reader, but I’ve tried both and it’s just not the same. I like having books, I like being around them. They feel different when they’re physical and when they’re mine. I don’t know if I could write in a bookless room, and hopefully I’ll never find out.) My random knickknacks are in here, the fridge and junk food cupboard are in my sightline and the trip to refill my coffee mug is a few steps shorter, the temperature and the light are less intense in the afternoons, there’s a tree right in front of the window that I’m obsessed with in the fall (it turns into this whole crazy translucent red and orange situation)… I’ve also redecorated recently, and the thrill of having a living room full of furniture I actually chose hasn’t worn off yet. 

This room is organized chaos; my novels and poetry are alphabetized, my books from my past life as a future classicist (R.I.P. Former Meaghan, 1997-2007) are arranged chronologically and by genre, I vacuum pretty much every day, but the shelves and walls are covered in all kinds of disparate crap, and the couch is purple, and the floor is covered in cat toys. A lot of the things I write work in a similar way: they’re collages of sometimes contradictory parts that, gods willing, come across as a weirdly unified whole if you back up far enough. Ultimately, I feel most like myself on the couch with my feet propped on the coffee table and my fiction shelves in front of me and one or both of my cats passed out next to me than sat at a desk—even if it is a cute little desk in a cute little nook. For the most part, I really don’t want to take myself seriously. 

Photos provided by Meaghan Rondeau

                                                            

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Katie Zdybel’s Writing Space

“trying to write everywhere, anytime”

I live in a very small house in the Yukon with my husband, two children, and dog. There are two bedrooms, each just slightly bigger than a station wagon. We affectionately call one of these rooms the Swiss Army Knife Room. It has a Murphy bed, a clothes rack on a pulley system that can be winched up to the twelve-foot ceiling, a built-in desk, and a row of hooks about ten feet up for my husband’s many guitars. If you took all the things stacked or hanging vertically in that room, there is no way they would fit horizontally on the floor space. It is where I work out, do yoga, put my kids to bed, dry my clothes, and usually, write.

But lately, actually, I’ve been trying to write everywhere, anytime. I bought a bunch of plain notebooks and some Pilot Hi-Tecpoint pens. I keep them in my backpack, my car console, my cloth grocery bag. I’ll write a paragraph sitting in the car in the driveway with two kids snoring in their car seats behind me. I’ll write a few lines lying in bed with my baby asleep and smushed into my armpit. I started writing a new short story this summer while sitting in a squashy chair on a sun porch at the edge of Lake Huron, breastfeeding my daughter, and watching my parents and sister move back and forth between the cottage and the water. I thought I didn’t like writing with pen anymore, but I was wrong. They kept interrupting me (can I use your SPF lipbalm? Can Sam have a juicebox?) which is something I thought impeded me from sustaining focus, but I was wrong. The waves sounded like an audience rising to standing ovation over and over again and my left shoulder pinched at my neck. It was a good writing moment.

Photo provided by Katie Zdybel

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Catherine Malvern’s Writing Space

“a Virginia Woolf room of my own”

I am fortunate to have a writing room – a Virginia Woolf room of my own – three floors up in the attic of our old arts and crafts home. The houses on our street are very close together, so although I have the luxury of windows that open on opposite sides of the room, there is not much of a view, save that of the attic windows and roofs of our neighbours. But this is in my favour, as it provides much less of a distraction then say, a sunset over the ocean, or a meadow dotted with deer gambolling about. If indeed that were the case, I might not write one word and instead, merely spend my hours thinking how poetic these visions are.

Although I have an iPod connected to a speaker, I rarely turn it on. I need my quietude to write. I sometimes wish I was one of the people that could sit in a café and write amid the voices and activity, but I’m not. I need to concentrate and focus. I need to be in my familiar surroundings. I can’t sit at the kitchen counter and work or take my laptop outside, as I get nothing written thanks to my easily distracted mind.

I love my writing room. I waited a very long time to have it, and then once I had it, to be able to finally fully use it and be in it. I have a few or many totems that speak to me. Most recently, I received my poetry palomino, affectionately name Pamela, on my 60th birthday from my dearest writing friend. Her gentle face, so much more than plastic has her eye on the rocking horse in the window across the way. She is a presence – a reminder of the encouragement I am privileged to have when I doubt my ability.

And what’s a writing room without a cat? Kizzy is attentive to all my recitals except when she naps, which is always. If she is undisturbed by my voice when I read to her, I know then that what I have written is good enough.

Photos by Catherine Malvern

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“Great Minds”: An Interview with Jeff Dillon, Fine Arts

The New Quarterly’s Fall 2018 Issue (#148) features Jeff Dillon’s “#65 – Great Minds” on the cover. The painting beautifully depicts Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland.

Our Editor, Pamela Mulloy, was struck by Dillon’s use of colour and was compelled to use this image for our upcoming issue. The stunning piece fits perfectly with the issue’s theme: “The Weight of Story.”

We were incredibly grateful when Dillon offered to donate the original painting for auction in honour of the 2018 Wild Writers Literary Festival.

We spoke with Dillon to learn more about “Great Minds” and his artistic techniques and inspiration.

Jen Collins: As a charity organization, we appreciate any and all donations, but we admit it’s thrilling to see the canvas housed in our office for the time being. What made you decide to donate your piece to us?

Jeff Dillon: I thought it would be a kind gesture to tie the original painting to the publication. I wanted to allow TNQ the freedom to pass along this piece, or use as they see fit. I have been lucky enough to visit Trinity College twice in my life and I’m always been taken back by the number of books and knowledge held in one room.

JC: “Great Minds” is your visual representation of Trinity College in Dublin. Browsing through your work, one can see the majority of your inspiration comes from nature. So, I’m curious, what was the inspiration behind this architectural design?   

JD: I really do like creating architectural work; painting buildings and cityscapes is that really satisfying opposite to nature. Architectural paintings allow me to concentrate on perception and three-dimensional depth. A library and the angle of which Trinity College is represented in this piece allowed me to do this effectively.

JC: You describe your work as heavily influenced by European and Canadian landscape artists. Which artists in particular are you influenced by? How do you incorporate their influence into your work, and what makes it your own?

JD: I am heavily influenced by artists in the Group of Seven and their use of bright colours in a simplistic style. They often put colours that are extreme opposites beside each other to create a dynamic effect.  I also am intrigued by a number of current artists around the world. This year plethora of art from many different styles is inspiring.

JC: We admire the success you have built through your passion for art. (Kudos on having your work featured on Stranger Than Fiction craft beer cans!) However, we know you’ve been working for a long time to get to this point. Can you share with us your most memorable rejection story and how you feel about it in hindsight?

JD: Rejection is ongoing as to our successes. I have been extremely persistent and passionate about working as often as possible at anytime, day or night. I actually don’t have a memorable rejection story however, I have had a lot of rejections because I have been persistent at trying to create many opportunities. I still continue to try to create opportunities where I saw rejection in the past. Little bits of success are easier to come across when you’re persistent.

JC:When I look at your work, I am struck by your vibrant and warm use of colour. What kind of tools and techniques do you use to create such vibrancy?

JD:I work with golden liquid acrylic paint which is somewhere between watercolour and oil; it comes out similar to honey. A lot of my work is painted with extremely small brushes using lots and lots of layers. Each piece is normally painted multiple times before completed which allows the colours to become extremely vibrant.

JC: I have artist friends and family and the constant quip I get when commenting on their pieces is: “it’s not done yet.” At what point do you know that you have completed your work?

JD: I must admit, it is difficult for me to know at times when a piece is done. In truth I don’t think pieces are ever completely done, but there is a point where you have to put the brush down, take note of the things you have learned, and carry forward. I have learned that the artist is often harder on him or herself. Ultimately, I am happy that people find enjoyment in my work.

Interviewer’s note: I am currently an undergraduate student at the University of Waterloo, on my Co-op term with TNQ. I will be with the team until the end of the year, and so far my time here has been filled with new experiences and learning opportunities. I met Jeff previously in our office when he came to drop off his work, and I was amazed by his maintained humility while having the ability to create such fine art. When Managing Editor, Emily Bednarz, suggested an interview with Jeff Dillon, I leaped at the opportunity to further learn about him.

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