ARTist on disPLAY

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~DEREK BRUECKNER~

. .Vermont Studio, 2008

Acrylic on canvas, 2007

Nude drawings

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Oil and ink jet print on canvas, 2007 .

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Derek Brueckner is a visual artist who works and teaches in Winnipeg. He has held exhibitions at Plug In ICA, Ace Art, and Site Gallery; international exhibitions of his group works include Italy, Chicago and New York City. His art has been reviewed in such journals as Border Crossings, The Globe and Mail and our very own Winnipeg Free Press. Derek is a grant recipient (MAC, WAC, Vermont Studio Center)!

Catch Derek's next solo show at the Cre8tery!

opens November 29th, 2008

Digital Print stretched on canvas, 2003

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..... Your shoes feel worn. You throw them out. There's a garage sale and you are playing host. You buy a first edition, splurge on new sheets. A friend worries once too often about what's come over you and you take your first vacation in years.
..... The clock is ticking and you're hearing the beat. You stop by a museum shop, sign your name on a scuba-diving sheet, and commit yourself to Saturday mornings in the deep end.
..... You're either losing your mind -- or gaining your soul. Life is meant to be an artist date. That's why we were created.
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Julia Cameron

The Artist's Way

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andy warhol

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grief, (ii)

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black ink, white paper
the girl rages
over things lost forever.

prickly-knuckled pangs
rap at her door
anxious for re-entry.

a moment of respite
from the absence of motion
in her moribund life

she grasps at the shriek in relief.
this must be stage two
she says to herself

she remembers her
breathing lessons and
how costly they were.
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October

Jean part i:
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When October came, Jean decided that she had put it off long enough. She phoned Telebus and sheepishly she asked about the route she would need to take. The girl at the other end answered her questions in a patient manner and reminded Jean to obtain a transfer tag at Main and McDermot.

This is how Jean came to be knocking on her son’s door one brisk autumn morning.

When no one came to the door, Jean wondered how well she had thought this out. The bus ride here had consumed her with a list of words she might use to explain her sudden visit. Jean hadn’t stopped to consider that he might not be home.

Adam. . . she sighed softly. Despite his 23 years, he was and would always be her baby and she missed him something awful. What had occurred to bring a halt to his visits and their habitual Sunday night suppers and to those thoughtful calls he used to make just to say hi?

Jean sat on the dirty carpeting, her back against the wall, wondering if anyone ever cleaned these old corridors. She took out a pen and paper from her oversized bag, scribbled a few words down and slipped the note under his door.
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misty haiku

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celestial tears trickle
earthbound in the night;
sun-dried sky will smile anew.
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VINCENT VAN GOGH

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Aurevoir, soleil d'été!

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The last day of summer brought with it a warm sun and I took advantage of its farewell party vagabonding the afternoon away in Little Italy. The local Starbuck’s was taken over by more motorcycles than its likely ever seen, due in part to the recent papering of its rival’s windows across the way.

All conversation ceased with every roar of a Harley. And this mixing of cultures of sorts, made for a Bizzaro-like atmosphere, the money-makers moving indoors, the patio chairs trimmed with leather jackets. I felt a little responsible for my blue-collared friends who walked the café grounds looking lost, so I gladly stayed in the sun (where I belong) and became host to the 'South-street-erners' while waving at the suits on their way in.

It’s a good thing that Michael Angelo didn’t show up today. He would have likely wasted too much energy trying to entertain around the noises. What isn't good, is that the magician will no longer be gracing my neighbourhood in the summertime. He has whispered his Blain-ish plans my way, and though I am happy for him, I am very sad for me. I will miss the man who believes in magic.

The Haberdashery, who`s owner I`ve been helping out since the Spring, is moving also, to a larger location in the Exchange District. And despite my love of chapeaux, it is Luke and our near-daily chats that I will miss.

The neighbour`s bald spots (see 09Jun08) have miraculously filled green under the big old pine, after years of seeing no sun. The gardener has done well indeed!

And my avenue is sprinkled now with summer items that speak volumes about this gregarious neighbourhood I call home: one high-heeled shoe, one shirt, several bicycle parts, bottles, coins, and a parking sign, to name a few.

The weather this past summer has also spoken volumes, though certainly not in support of any green-house theory. I did a little dance last week to the welcome sound of my old rads clanking about late one night. Off came a layer of clothing as I prepared myself to say farewell to summer once again.

Another summer on the prairies has come and gone, again too quickly . . . much, much too quickly for this prairie girl.
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Comme l`imagination a créé le monde, elle le gouverne.

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BAUDELAIRE

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If we, citizens, do not support our artists,

then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality

and we end up believing in nothing

and having worthless dreams.

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YANN MARTEL
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where ImagInatIon comes to play . . .

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It was on a Sunday much like this one that I entered the world of blogging. Gerald Flood, Winnipeg Free Press Editor, had been the one to strongly recommend it just the previous day, but he didn’t specify subject matter. Personal journaling online was not a consideration for me – those who wanted to know the ins and outs of my daily life could pick up a phone. I’m still very reluctant about my foray into the world of Facebooks. It just isn’t tangible enough a relationship to satisfy me in any real way.

And so, in the tradition of Stephen King, who started his public writings through his brother’s publication, Dave’s Rag (readership: 5 – 50), I would share my voice with those willing to listen. One year later, with my daily readership nearing Dave’s higher circulation numbers (she says smiling . . .) I have decided to continue my musings for a second year.

La Charpente’s first year highlighted the works of my favourite artist, Gustav Klimt. It’s been very enjoyable for me to share his pieces with you, and I am nowhere near running out. But what I’d really like to do now is to highlight artists who are alive! There are so many of you out there – the painters, the poets, the musicians, the photographers and the film makers. I invite all of you to share your pieces right here, where your work will be highlighted and include your bio and any other information you would like to share.

So this is my call to all of my fellow CREATORS! You can contact and share with me through the email address provided on my profile page.

And to me . . . Happy Anniversary : -)

La Charpente est encore sans son escarpe . . .
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Since you are

like no other being

ever created since the beginning of time,

you are incomparable.

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BRENDA UELAND

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I awoke to a cloudy day in my loft hideaway in strawberry fields. The smell of livestock and of late summer lakes wafted through my open window, reminding me that I was not at home. I had escaped – from a new man in my life who was too soon introducing hurtful words and toward a good place to get some writing done. Today, I would go introduce myself to the First Nations Chief in the area to ask him his opinions about the Métis trespassing on what was exclusively the tribe’s legal right to do. The shots had been heard by everyone two days ago. It would seem that the Métis, openly hunting deer out of season, wanted their opinion heard loud and clear.

I had been sitting in my loft with pen and paper searching my gray cells for ideas, and so was naturally interested by the local war taking place around my strawberry fields hideaway. What I didn’t know yet were the words awaiting me at the breakfast table two floors below. I would soon be hearing nonsense stories about another war taking place beyond this nestled Victorian farm in the woods.

It was difficult to make much sense of the B & B owner’s words. What did he mean by saying that planes were crashing into buildings? An airline employee myself at the time, I thought it simply absurd to hear of such accidents occurring. Had I woken up in Bizzaro world?



My next recollection is of the respected voice on the radio. It was Schreyer’s, and the media was asking him what he felt the American President’s next move should be. Schreyer believed, and I agreed, that time for mourning was necessary.

And that’s when fear took precedence over my grief as I felt my stomach suddenly plummet. We were talking about the United States, after all. They weren’t a country known for their adaptation skills. We were talking about a nation whose citizens quite regularly sued one another when they got hurt. It's part of their social fiber. It’s not that grieving isn’t in their vocabulary; it’s that retaliation is more in their vocabulary, as George Orwell might put it. .


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I was immediately ‘excused’ from an online U.S. forum upon suggesting that Mr. Bush would soon put my livelihood in jeopardy. Beyond the simple sadness and surprise of this happening, it was a telling sign. There were Americans easily willing to separate themselves from global citizens who weren’t angry in quite the same way as they were, and, George Bush actually had an audience.

My bonds took a plunge, the rental control board lost all meaning during an inflated housing market brought on by panic, and the airline that employed me did indeed file for bankruptcy. Worse yet were the innocent people dying every day, paying the price for terrorists who were in no way affiliated to them or their homeland. And thus were Americans laying their mourning upon the graves of the Iraqi people.

I did speak with the First Nation Chief that fatal September day. And I wrote. My journey took me to Margaret Lawrence’s ‘Galloping Mountain’ in the hope of getting a stronger sense of native history and their plight in my province. But not until I heard some truly touching human stories that day, those stories that elevated emotions and a sense of connection with one another will allow.

I put off my return home for as long as I could. The guy (remember the guy?) didn’t survive the week, but those stories still survive in my heart and throughout my writings.

KLIMT

et si tu savais?

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et si tu savais comme je t'aime
si tu
,si tu savais
tu serais . . . hélas,
tu saurais?

mais si tu savais comme je t'aime
rien n'aura changé.
non,
rien n'aura changé.

je dirai rien.
non,
je n'écrirai aucun poème . . .
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grief, (i)

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unadorned for a fortnight
the walls fall around me
spilt to the floor:
Monet's water lilies
and Klimt's gilded sirens
hiding death's image between breasts
and rounded tummies

my walls reveal
dusty contours
of where they once lived
Frida, Diego, mother
and sister

they have gone to the sea
leaving me here
between the tides
. . . . .with no frames
for these worn out memories
i still hold high above my head
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One does not discover
. . . .new lands
. . . . . . .without consenting to lose sight

of the shore

............. . . . . . . . for a very long time.

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ANDRÉ GIDE

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GUSTAV KLIMT

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Punctured

part xvii:
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Hastily, he knelt down and looked for a handle of some sort, all the while removing leaves and woodchips from the wooden door. When he found the latch, he had to tug hard at it before it gave way. Part of him desperately wanted to rush down the steep staircase at his feet, so sure that this must be where Matthew kept his live prey. But he was afraid, and his feet wouldn’t move at first.

He descended the stairs and discovered he was standing at the edge of some elaborate bunker. Choking on the stench of death, he took his next steps into the abyss. He thought of calling for help, and knew it was protocol to do just that, but something stopped him. He needed to do this on his own.

Pontieff turned his flashlight on and kept walking. The deeper he went into the bunker, the darker it got. He was still able to make out several chambers equipped with hooks, chains, and tools he wasn’t prepared to name or imagine their uses. When he finally came upon the slight body hanging from a metal rafter, he knew it was the woman-child he was seeking.

He worked furiously to get her horizontal, lying her down on the cold, damp mud floor. He nearly dropped her, his hands covered with sludge, the sickly combination of vomit and blood. He turned away from Jane's body and heaved.

On his knees now, he stared at her hoping for any sign of life. But he knew he was too late. Jane was gone.

At her feet, the large man wept. I’m sorry, Jane . . . he whispered, for no one's ears but his own.

A moment passed before Pontieff appeared at the bottom steps of the make-shift staircase. In the Sheriff's arms was nestled the lifeless, fragile body which he carried to ground level like precious cargo. The only sound to break the dead air were those of the black birds circling above, while Crier and Harlow watched the dismal procession from a few feet away.
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THE END

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Punctured

part xvi:
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Sheriff, Harlow cried out, got another one! But sheriff Pontieff didn’t reply, except to sigh and turn away from Denis Harlow. Walk away, actually.

The massacre that had silently taken place here in Ronan was more than Pontieff could take and he wanted no witnesses to the gurgling sounds in his throat or the trembling that was taking over his limbs. They had had dozens of men digging on Onger’s five acre hideaway for seventy two hours. And there seemed no end in sight, with Harlow's declaration of corpse twenty-three.

Jane. Why hadn’t they found Jane? The cold blooded killer that got away had burrowed herself into his heart. It was the fourteen year old girl he couldn’t get out of his head.

The pieces had come together for the four of them back at the station. They had been more like hunches, really. It was true that the resemblance between the victim and his brother was uncanny. They knew Jane had likely not seen her abductor for fifteen years, and they had confirmed Richard’s presence in Sturgis. Jane’s aunt had seemed quite certain she may have seen him at Rudy’s that weekend. Her remaining family and fellow coffee shleppers were very concerned about sweet Jane’s sudden disappearance.

Pontieff was in his head, not paying attention to the ground below him as he tried escaping the whole scene behind him. He nearly fell over. What had tripped his step? He regained his balance and tapped the heel of his boot against the ridge below his feet. The knock of his boot echoed up. He tapped again, harder this time. Sure enough, he was standing on a wood shelf, and the resonation told him there was hollow space below it.
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