Tag: travel

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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excerpt

The Minister was a Maritimer and his open, neighbourly manner
delighted Ken. Their meeting resulted in the eminently successful 1975
exhibition of Ken’s Arctic work in Spain, and in the fashion of one domino
tipping the next, the first Canadian exhibition of the Arctic works was
triggered. Once the unusual, haunting images had been seen, and the origin
of the work was explained, all the right people wanted to own one of the
paintings, and gallery owners were clamouring to exhibit them. Best of
all, to Ken’s mind, it had been accomplished without cost to the Canadian
government beyond their public support and a few phone calls.
This was the beginning of the long road to the national introduction of
the Inuit, their stories and experiences, and the growing acceptance of the
symbol of the Inukshuk as a uniquely Canadian icon. It could be argued
this was the pivotal step that led to the Inukshuk becoming the distinctive
symbol of welcome for the 2010 Vancouver Olympics.
The Arctic paintings sold by the hundreds, nationally and internationally,
to the point where, a quarter of a century later, Canadian Art galleries were
objecting to anything other than ice, snow and Inuksuit displaying the
Kirkby name. It was ironic.
~~
Despite the history, the lack of outlets for Kirkby’s west coast images
promised a lean period ahead for the painter. He decided to force the issue
by withholding all of his art until the galleries accepted his new works. The
businessmen amongst the owners appreciated the fact that a painting with
the Kirkby signature translated into a certain sale, and Ken’s experience had
proven they’d come around when their stock was depleted.
He continued to work late, the bright light a beacon, spilling warmth
from the loft window. And then, one night he returned to the cottage to
find the message light blinking on the answering machine. That was the
start. While gallery managers still hopefully requested the Arctic series,
they agreed to hang work from his Vancouver Island series. Happily, new
customers liked it and previous Kirkby collectors were intrigued. Ten
years since that breakthrough, his work is more popular than ever and…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

Still Waters

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It snowed during the night, a good two inches which prompted
Cam to say when he came down to breakfast, “Is our skating party
off then? The lake will be covered with snow.”
“Heck, no.” Jeremy slapped butter onto his toast and glanced at
the clock on the kitchen wall. “Some of the guys’ll be out there already
clearing it off. We’d better hurry up and go help them.”
“Really?” Cam pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.
“What do you clear the ice with?”
“We put our skates on and push homemade snow ploughs along
the ice. Someone usually comes with a tractor and pushes the snow
to the side of the lake.” Jeremy helped himself to another dollop of
butter.
Tyne reached across the table and slapped her brother’s hand.
“Enough,” she scolded, thinking she sounded very much like their
dad. More gently she said, “You already have more butter than you
need on one slice of toast. Leave some for Cam.”
Cam grinned as he stirred his coffee. “Leave him alone, big sister.
He’s a growing boy.”
And one who’s used to having butter only when we have company,
Tyne thought. Usually, they had margarine which, until recently, had
been purchased in white unappetizing blocks that had to be mixed
with a capsule of orange colouring. Cam, she was sure, would have
no knowledge of such things. Nor would Morley, of course, since he
had always lived on the farm and had fresh cream and butter year
round.
Why does Morley always have to come to mind, even for the most
mundane things? I’m sure he never thinks about me.
They finished their breakfast and the young men went to their
rooms to change into their outdoor clothes. As Tyne began to clear
the table, her mother appeared at the pantry door, carrying a wicker
picnic basket.
“Leave the dishes, Tyne, and run along. I’ve packed you a little
lunch because I know you won’t think of coming home…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

The Circle

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“Come on, sweetheart, you need to see all this; don’t forget you won’t have
this opportunity again anytime soon.”
She perks up a bit and looks at the immense horizon on her right side with all
the sand and light; the brightness blinds her. The sun is definitely something they
have plenty of in this part of the world.
“Everything looks so bright, honey. I can’t look at this for too long because
my eyes get tired, even though I’m wearing sunglasses.”
“I know, Emily, yet you must try to see all you can,” he insists.
They’ve driven halfway to their destination when Rassan stops the car at a
small town where they’ll have lunch and the chance to stretch their legs before
they carry on. They find a small restaurant. Rassan and Abdul go inside and
check things out; when they come back appear pleased the place looks good, the
women and Ibrahim with Talal go inside. The small restaurant is filled with
travelers and there are a few other women.
Ibrahim lets Rassan order food and wine from the menu. The food will be
shared by everyone as they don’t order individual plates. Emily likes this way of
ordering as she doesn’t have to ask Talal to order things for her.
They are served on big platters and the wine comes in a carafe; Rassan fills
their glasses and they toast the health of everyone.
To Emily’s surprise, the food is very tasty, although she doesn’t know what
everything she eats is. Talal leans closer to her and asks, “Do you like the food,
sweetheart?”
She smiles at him and nods with her mouth full of delicious, creamy pate,
and her wine glass raised, ready to take a sip.
They arrive in Basra by mid afternoon when the heat of the day is at its peak.
Basra is the second largest city in Iraq with a population of 1,700,000; it’s the center
of the oil-exporting facilities in the south. There are substantial petroleum resources
and many oil wells in the area. They pump out about 150,000 barrels a day. The
fertile land around the periphery of the city produces a variety of grains, such as rice,
wheat, barley and corn. They also produce many meat and dairy products here.
During the war, the British stationed themselves in Basra and the city experienced
few effects from the war. Now, the city is completely rebuilt and in full swing with
the export of oil. In fact, most Iraqi oil wealth passes through this city.
Basra was first built thousands of years ago and was considered the cradle of
the Sumerian civilization. These days it’s called the Venice of Iraq because of its
elaborate system of canals and waterways leading to the open waters of the
Persian Gulf. The canal system is a lot more visible and functional during the
high tide, than at low tide.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562817

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

Swamped

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Without pushing their luck any further, they went to the café and
had a soothing bowl of chicken soup, then said goodbye to the casino
hall and went up to their room to rest.
In the morning Eteo phoned home to see how the boys were
doing. Jonathan assured him they were all fine. Then he called Logan
at the office and got an update on the market, after which, satisfied
that everything was under control, he went downstairs with Ariana.
They strolled from one casino to the other for most of the day, stopping
here and there to gamble for a while, taking a break for coffee
and then for lunch, relaxing by the pool for an hour or so, and then
gambling some more in the afternoon.
For Eteo the most enjoyable thing about Las Vegas was the
chance to observe other people and their interactions and reactions
to all the sights and sounds of the place. He loved to just look around
him while Ariana played her slot machines in whichever casino they
went to.
On Friday night they went to the famous KA show at the MGM
Grand. It was the most elaborate and amazing show either of them
had ever seen. The story line was a simple fairy tale, but the presentation
was spectacular, mainly for its technological innovations and
the gymnastics of the actors. What impressed Ariana and Eteo the
most was when the stage turned completely vertical, huge levers and
axles moving it slowly from horizontal to vertical while the actors
continued to perform their elaborate choreography standing on arrows
shot on the stage. It was a combination of artistry, acrobatics,
and athleticism all at the same time and to a musical score that was
a phenomenal combination of modern and classic mixes that created
a unique atmosphere. As they left, Eteo could not resist buying a CD
of the music to enjoy at home.
There were thousands of visitors in Las Vegas, and everywhere
they went they were always among crowds of people coming and
going, laughing and drinking, partying and teasing drinking and eating
as they walked, as they sat on a barstool right on the strip, as they
entered one hotel, or as they exited from another. People drank and
partied everywhere: in the streets, the hallways of the hotels, the casinos,
the restaurants, the bars, the blackjack tables, the baccarat hall.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562976

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08WP3LMPX

He Rode Tall

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They knew that what was in the pen was
really just a baby. Even Roy seemed to calm down his calling as
much as was possible. The bid, and there was four people still in
the chase, was at 15,000 dollars before Roy even handed the
microphone to Dr. Morgan. The good doctor was running out of
new words to offer on the horses, but as he told the crowd, “If you
don’t see the future in this one, if you don’t know what it means
to own a grandson of Topsail Cody on the top side and a grandson
of Doc Bar on the bottom side, then you should just get in
your truck and leave right now.” Nobody left.
When the microphone went back to Roy, he quickly took the
bidders to 25,000 dollars. For a weanling! Now, there were only
two bidders. Joel had heard someone behind him say that they
were both trainers and top-notch reiners; one from Texas and the
other from Colorado. Finally, at 32,000 dollars, the Texan waved
his hand and walked away from the ring. Joel was in heaven.
In quick succession, the remainder of the horses sold for
15,000, 12,000, 19,000, 17,000, and 21,000 dollars. In addition
to the 100,000 dollars he had picked up from the ten
three-year-olds, he also just sold six unbroken horses for another
100,000, plus change. It was a 200,000-dollar day. Not bad for a
sale with only sixteen horses. He tried to figure out the average
selling price of a horse, but with all of the excitement it was
beyond his mental comprehension, and besides, who cared!
As Roy thanked the crowd for attending, Cindy, with little Lila
in tow, appeared from the crowd and gave Joel a big hug. “Say
something,” she urged him “It’s your sale.”
Joel proudly strode across the pen to where Roy stood and took
the microphone. “Well,” he said, “I don’t really know what to
say. I would just like to thank everyone for traveling way out here
for our sale. I sure do appreciate the investment that you have
made in our horses. If you need any help, if you didn’t plan on
buying, or didn’t bring a trailer, we sure wouldn’t mind keeping
an eye on them for another day or two ’til you get home and get a
chance to return with your own trailer.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562862

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955

Jazz with Ella

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It was delicious and she washed it down with a sip from a tumbler full of what appeared to be neat spirit. She was sitting in the family’s combination living and dining room where the ornate, antique table was laden with small plates of food. Wise in the ways of Russian dining from having partied with Ukrainians and Polish, she knew that these were only the zakuski, the appetizers, and that a more substantial meal would follow. “No, really, now I’m full up.” At least the food is dampening the effects of the vodka, she thought. “How about you, Paul?”
The man referred to as Paul looked up from a plate of bread and sausage and smiled shyly. “Thank you. You are good hosts,” he murmured.
“Your Russian is so good. Did you study long in university?” asked Marta of Paul while Misha seemed distracted and regarded Jennifer solemnly. Paul-Volodya did not reply right away and Marta was interrupted by the sound of something bubbling on the stove. The afternoon so far had been wonderful, full of affectionate hugs and cheerful toasts toward Jennifer, friendship in which she reciprocated and in which Paul had been generously included. Their daughter, Nadya, was at school but the couple promised that she would return home very soon.
After refreshment, the cousins had spoken of their own hopes to leave the Soviet Union and live in Canada. The nervousness with which they raised the topic and the intensity with which they spoke made Jennifer realize how important this move was to them. They would need help and support in Canada. She didn’t know much about Canadian immigration laws, but wouldn’t they need a sponsor? Someone from within the country—a relative who would vouch for them, promise to provide for them? She thought at first of her mother as the closest relative but had an uneasy feeling these two were grooming their newfound cousin for the role.
Yet nagging questions persisted. Were they truly related to her? She wondered at their eagerness. They seemed to have everything here: a private apartment of their own, not too big but with a balcony that gave a view of the playground opposite. Their daughter enjoyed school and Young Pioneers, they said, and they were both working, he as a technician and she as a bus driver. This last gave Jennifer pause as she tried to envision the dainty, polite Marta in the driver’s seat of a soot-black, fume-spewing bus, but she knew that the Soviet Union was ahead of the west in ensuring women joined the work force in many non-traditional jobs. Marta worked shifts so was off-duty right now…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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is this illusion…you and I can go for a walk wherever you choose and
I challenge you to show me where money grows. It is a man-made
convenience, but we have turned it into God and the almighty banks
into the churches.
Money in itself is a nonentity, a paper mirage. But if you understand
how it functions you realise currency can be artificially created—
MasterCard and Visa are good examples. It no longer needs to be
printed by the Mint. I wish people would realise it is only a tool, to be
used like any other implement, and no more mysterious.
As the two men worked, Harris proposed assorted schemes to make money.
These were discussed, dissected and for one reason or another, discarded
at the end of the workday. Perhaps, like crossword puzzles or Sudoku, they
served to keep the workers’ mental juices flowing.
~~
Ken Kirkby is a particularly fine cook and, having been raised in
Francisco’s kitchen, can turn the simplest ingredients into a dish to be
savoured and praised. As his circle of friends expanded, he resurrected his
long-dormant culinary skills.
Portuguese meals would not be complete without a bottle of fullbodied
red or crisp white on the table. When Ken left Portugal, he had been
selective as to what he took with him, but one of his prized possessions
then and now, is the family wine recipe dating back several centuries. He
continually has a batch on the go although he is a moderate drinker himself.
It was likely a day or so after a well-spiced supper of clams, shrimp and
prawns cooked in Kirkby’s special fish stock prepared from flounder, too
small in themselves to eat. While spreading topsoil for the eventual seeding
of the lawn, Harris says, “You know, Kenny, that’s a damn fine wine you
make. You could probably make a pile of money if you set yourself up to
produce and sell it.”
“Probably,” says Kirkby.
Harris does some mental calculations. “How much do you think you
could make?”
“Money, or wine?” Kirkby quips.
“You’ve got a few racks there—how much do you usually make?”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

Arrows

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thundersticks of the white men, never making it to the appointed
battlefield. Others fell under the hoofs of the frightening beasts or
were stuck by the long spears while trying to break through metal
with their wooden swords.
Guacaipuro and Paramaconi persisted in their attempts to pass,
thinking that the rest of the coalition must long be engaged in battle.
Precious hours went by. It was past noon when Losada, sick to his
stomach in bed, was notified of the unnatural gathering of savages
on the outskirts of the city.
The several caciques that had opted to wait and those who had
wanted the charge soon found the choice made for them. I was told
later by Benjamin that Losada dressed leisurely when alerted to the
Indian presence, showing once again the temperance that had
always characterized him. He chose thirty men and appointed the
rest to the protection of the city.
The cavalry went out first, forming a crushing front with horses
bred and trained for bodily conflict: horses that would kick, turn and
caracole on command; that would not shy away from the sound of
battle; that would dismiss wounds as long as they could stand. The
infantry followed, finishing off any stubborn traces of life. Many
Indians fled in confusion, but it was a massacre all the same.
In my days with the conquistadors, I heard many stories of battle
and triumph. In those accounts, there were always thousands of
Indians attacking a handful of heroes who, despite the odds,
managed to come out victorious. The Indians could not possibly win
simply because of their inferior means, but had there been so many
thousands, as the Spanish accounts relate, I am sure no Spaniard,
half-breed or traitorous Indian would have survived.
From living amongst them, I knew there was no lack of courage or
commitment from the Indians. On that day, according to Benjamin,
after the Spaniards had thought most of the Indians were dead or
had withdrawn, a solitary voice defied Losada. There, amid corpses
and dying friends, stood Tiuna with gold bracelets on his arms and a
gold pendant on his chest. He was a warrior from the Caracas
Indians, of which Catia was cacique.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562848

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522

The Unquiet Land

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“What’s wrong down there, Tom?”
“Ach it’s yourself, Caitlin.” Tom turned to look at her and Nora with eyes scrunched up against the sun. “Oh they just fished a body out of the harbour.”
Michael, Caitlin thought immediately, and her face paled with fright. “Who… who was it?” she asked in a faltering voice.
“It was your Michael that pulled him out,” Tom declared, as if anxious to be the first to tell her.
“Pulled who out?” Caitlin asked.
“Carney’s youngest boy. Joe-Joe.”
“Is he dead?” Nora asked fearfully.
“I don’t know.” Tom spat tobacco on to the wharf. “Dr Starkey’s down there now.”
“What happened?” Caitlin and Nora, looking down on the boat, could see Michael now. He was bent over in the middle of the group with his hands on his knees.
“Well, I didn’t see it myself,” said Tom. “Seamus Slattery just a while ago came up from the boat saying there was nothing he could do, so he was going to the bar for a drink. As far as he could tell, it seems that young Joe-Joe was fishing over the side of Carney’s boat—your father’s boat—when he fell overboard into the water. Carney was in the galley doing woodwork and he didn’t hear the little fellow calling for help. It was God’s doing that sent Michael Carrick to the boat to ask Carney to do something for your father. He fished Joe-Joe out. I think he jumped in and lifted the boy into one of the rowing boats and then called Carney to bring a rope.”
“Joe-Joe can’t swim then?”
“Oh I dare say he can splash about a bit. But he’s only what? Four? Five? Six? Damned if I can keep track of the youngsters anymore.” Tom spat again. He pushed a gnarled, arthritic hand under his cap and scratched his white head. “I dare say he panicked.”
On the boat Michael straightened up. He saw Caitlin and Nora and waved but he did not smile.
One by one the other men unfolded like ferns and almost hid the slight figure of Dr Starkey. Caitlin saw only the round, bald patch on the back of the doctor’s head. Then someone lifted a bundle wrapped in blankets and carried it over his shoulder from the outer boat across the middle one to the inner boat by the wharf-side. Others reached out hands to help steady the man—Joe Carney himself—as he clambered over the sides of the boats…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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For the first time since he’d been a kid, Ken had no deadlines or other
people’s needs to accommodate. He could sit, smoke and enjoy the flavours
of the sea air, the sound of the gulls, the calm mornings filled with a distant
hum of passing cars filtering down from the Old Island Highway. The
constant rhythm of waves on the pebble beach soothed him as he read late
into the night. The mental kinks slowly started to release.
The luxury of pursuing my thoughts in an academic fashion, waking
when I chose and stopping when I liked was heaven. Initially I was
spinning from Karen’s rejection and had to regiment my mind or the
pain would have driven me crazy. The pain was still there, but now I
was no longer hiding from my thoughts and I took pleasure in the way
one thought could morph into something else incredibly interesting,
but totally unrelated.
We humans fancy that we have evolved this elevated thing called
‘reason’ when compared to ‘sense’—that is, coming from the senses,
which has been developing over millions of years—reasoning is in the
kindergarten stages. When we talk of premonitions, or gut feel, that
also relates to our senses. We have survived from the beginning as
single cell organisms to this time and place, no thanks to reason, but
through our senses.
When Ken Kirkby moved to Bowser at the end of 2001, he was seeking
complete anonymity. His landlords, Ken and Jeanine Harris, were pleasant
and helpful but respectful of his desire for privacy. If Kirkby appeared in the
yard, they were quick to open a conversation, but other than that, they didn’t
intrude. Over the months, the three became friends as well as neighbours
and the Harris’s encouraged him as he established his programme to gain
back his health.
Ken Harris had retired from a high-pressure career in Vancouver. He
was a physically active person, who kept an eye on the community and
occupied his enquiring mind through study. He enjoyed engaging Kirkby
in conversations, which bordered on debates, and ranged far and wide. As
spring approached and the weather warmed, the two Kens would sit together
in the morning sipping their coffee, and sharing Kirkby’s cigarettes (Harris
claimed he had given up smoking) while discussing whatever surfaced …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG