May 28, 2023 11:59pm
Three blue sky days at the Ameliasburgh museum, setting up wet-collodion base camp, behind the stone Honey House, table and darkbox right and left of the honey bee landing strip and hive tunnel, fortunately this hive was no longer in use. Trepidation, a year and half of waiting, preparation, coordination the wetplate angst thick and full, fingers itching to get that first plate off and in the bath, so that angst needs replaced by clear mind and focus? Who knows? The nature of out-of-doors wetplate [as I have written many times before] is a game of dice even on the best of days, the chemistry warms at different rates and as an example the spring pollen can add its own decisions to the surface of the plate, hopefully not to aggressively and as the practioner, my way through to the end result is the subtle adjustments of exposure, manipulations of light and the development, plus and minus calculations that – the fates willing, bring me to the goal of a usable, dare I say, perfect image.
Alright now with the preamble out of the way, the residency photographic project currently called Silvered Tongued, started three days before I landed at the Purdy A-Frame, good thing too, I was able to get as much indecision and bad plates out of the way. But to our continued good fortune the illustrious Jean connected us with resident Ameliasburgh artists to share their home and splendid gracious hospitality, Shelia and Manuel – Vielen dank! Thank you for the nerdy geological discussions on glaciation and soil maps, the black double long espressos and the No Milk foamy cappuccinos. The project and good conversation are indistinguishable, I think to myself. The stories of family types these relationship squares/boxes of our lives and how time wears the sharp pointed corners off the edges, well, off some of the edges. About historical lineages seven generations deep and how even those come to an end. Fantastical stories of spectacular game show winnings, which the precise answers, came in the clarity of a dream the night before. Devouring legumes, chickpea flower and early garden shoots, Baco Noir and, ancestors forgive me - Chardonnay, delicious despite my prejudice. All this wonderful humanity was bookended and peppered between with fondling of limestone Ordovician and Cretaceous jewels, picked and collected with intention and serendipity, hundreds of pebbles, stepped on by most. We could have just stayed, the stories and good company seemed endless.
Back to the Wetplateing, in Ameliasburgh Museum, sometimes affectionately referred to as Janice Land for she is the Curator and interpreter of the Village collections there. Janice opened the doors to the collections for us and gave us free reign, albeit with caution and museum handling credentials. I had a year ago scouted certain objects that I could potentially find as muse or inspiration to the project and many of those became the directed focus and singular minded intention, the church spire the ‘Wilderness Gothic’ steeple from Al’s poem the obvious one. Others not so obvious, old honey tins stamped with producers names all residing in Wooler Ontario – the town being Al’s birthplace. Many people came by to chat or otherwise linger and have their portrait made sharing a story in exchange, it is really happening I thought - the project has begun. The cloudless blue Ameliasburgh sky made for hard contrast and quick exposures, with occasional corrections and chemical adjustments. The third days cleanup went slow, nakkered [exhausted], but knowing our home for the next month was literally just across the lake - as the heron flies.
Walking up to the A-Frame allows you to step back approximately 30 or 50 years, much of the trees and simplicity remain, although the surrounding palatial estates and meticulous green lawns have replaced the former cottages and ALL the space between - the Charm and power of the place – this place – their place – the place of so many words and years of dedication, still fill the air. I am snapped from my sentimentality as carrying of things and general moving in need my full attention, Heather points and gives me some necessary direction. After all the what-nots have mostly been placed, the ceremonial beer, “all beautiful yellow flowers” has been poured and drank, we survey the shoreline still intact and full of willows, cedars and spruce. Sadly the giant ash trees have been devoured by the insatiable ash borer and stand as skeletal shadows. We raise our glasses, Heather and I to the past, the giant setting orb, this present, the Purdy’s, the Glorious A-Frame and this beautiful residency.
The climatic moments ended, the necessity of sleep upon us. Wordless we brush our teeth under red painted boards reclaimed by Al from some other building – I walk down the hall and to the Purdy’s bedroom I peruse night reading from the bookshelf lining the entire forward wall at the end of the bed. A fetishistic collection of vintage pelican blues, interspersed with penguin orange stand out, I move right to the very end and find what I am believing is a book neglected somewhat, relegated to general or ‘collected’ section of the bookshelf, within the table of contents, singular poems circled in red – Al’s favorite Canadian poems? Or just ones that deserved the merit of the red ball point annotations – the exception[Als] I read two before I flounder and nod repeatedly, lights out. More on this later perhaps…
