 Communication in Sensation Cyfathrebu yn Sensation this is a declaration of love, shamanist in the lost name of a colour which no longer exists in the language beyond words to express-- I stand breathless in the doorway at the hospice, the portal to bardo between the blurred lines of birth and death in the place that holds no time just Nain my Grandma, Nain in Welsh a hundred and one and a half laughs in the face of her epitaph and then asks me to join her on her journey through death, cryfder I say: absolutely-- yes we begin the dance of marwolaeth we do not know the steps and yet, we dance, we dance ddaear y gwaed as we live life Nain and I follow the lines as they are given we move forward dip our toes into the other side as if to test imaginations crest like the Holy Head coastline tide and then, we return to this realm half glorified, to catch our breath no time between our stars we know we do not know where we are going she reaches her boney hands into the twilight hour, up, up tells me: it’s snowing, it’s snowing-- I see her taste frozen light on her tongue in a language betwixt and between when I was young, she taught me to tie my laces, to tell time, and sound out each letter now, she shows me how to walk through yn marw and speaks in the language of soul we share eyes, surrender control and then we dance again dip our feet into the other side and return, again, fortified next we go deeper into death up to our ankles, our shins, our thighs no time between our stars until we are magnified Pleiades we know where we are going we are waist deep and then, up to our necks in death Nain looks over and into me with her final breath and exits in a language of the sea I know instantly, what she is saying I don’t want her to leave I don’t want her to leave me she tells me mind-to-mind, to mind it’s time she goes on without me, hedfan fly ffarwél music of the unknown wonders cry ffarwél, as she leaves her spirit with me for safe-keeping I hear a million hynafol voices speaking in languages lost to my people weeping, end of oak Celtiberian-ease and stones, end of wind and bardic poems crossbones scattered across the earth in llwch i’r llwch, tones ffarwél to the natural world word, lingua franca of birds heard—pictures oneiric, names of ways of seeing and being honeycomb—hieroglyphic pic’s, alphabetic scripts, all connected to this earth in metaphysics musica universalis metamorphosis symbols of symbols of cyphers of signs coded in code encoded in storylines love is a dangerous threat glottophagy linguicide when the last speaker of a language dies the last words of Nain grow distant and pale almost thin, they grow thin as the human skin one hundred years frail becomes Cain paper becomes a spider web thread in the hail sometimes I am the language that just lost its last speaker not misunderstood, erased deleted by a friend impossible to comprehend maybe that is what leads me to poetry the words of Nain are distant now thinner somehow no time between our stars naill ai ©Sheri-D Wilson Poet Laureate, City of Calgary 
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 "Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." ~ Martin Luther King Jr.  As I've been de-cluttering and repainting our home, I've also been slowly working on the 'Cityscapes' paintings. It's been very interesting taking literal photographs of regions around the city of Calgary and translating them to layered images to represent something that evokes history or memories. I also incorporated Speedball white acrylic ink. It was so nice to use in my airbrush, both because of the colour and the application. Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing where this leads over the next year.
  This is my maternal grandma and great grandma, in one of the last photos taken of them taken together (below), just before my great grandma died of tuberculosis. I think you can see the sadness in her eyes, and the confusion in my grandma’s eyes as they face the camera, and perhaps, in some way, this event together. Photo was taken in my grandma’s native Trinidad, my great grandma emigrated there from Madeira. One vintage shot of her at age 3 with her mother, my maternal great grandmother, who died of TB soon after this photo was taken. Another more recent of her celebrating her 93rd birthday. She is now 94. ~ Gabrielle Clark
 I know I say it all the time, but one of my favourite local charities to support is the Airdrie Food Bank. Every year I paint a bowl for auction for the 'Empty Bowls' fundrasier and through the year I donate a painting for Shamrock Shimmy. This foundation is very important to me as 1/3 of the recipients of the Food Bank are children. This painting is titled 'Black Elderberries' which is based on a series of wildflower paintings found in the region and measures 8x10 inches (plus the frame). The event takes place on March 14 and tickets will be available through the Airdrie Food Bank.
 Working on another 52 WEEKS project (the sixth) I feel as though I've asked for so much in this collaboration. With the 'Nasty Women' project I only required the authorization of each woman who offered to be included as I was able to gather photographs off of their social media sites. This time I've asked for photographs and memories, which means collecting and writing, which I know is a lot to ask, but I am already seeing the fruits of these labours. I can't express enough how these stories touch me.
It's also been interesting as I've been watching 'Portrait Artist of the Year' on BBC and hearing the struggles of painting (specifically portraiture) has been quite eye-opening. Some focus on capturing an exact likeness while others prefer to capture a feeling (my personal favourite). Each artist has their own struggles...whether it be with eyes, lips, hair or hands. I used to find hair challenging but now love painting hair using whichever colours appeal to me with broad strokes. And I've always loved painting mouths and eyes. My greatest hurdle is to incorporate as much colour as I would like as I often seem to tone things down a little too much. Another thing I find fascinating as I watch other artists work on portraits is how differently they all approach it, from utilizing digital photography, to several sketches, to connecting with the subject in conversation. It's been fun to see.  My Grandmother, Lorraine Murphy was the true Matriarch of our family. She ruled & influenced without speaking any words, she didn’t have to, every glance was understood and so well respected by us all. She left her foundation of strength, courage in my mother, sisters, aunties, uncles and me , I love her so much for teaching us this gift. ~ Lianna Robberecht
 Lately I've spent quite a bit of time in the city which has really been inspiring me. Visiting my daughter at university means we have been spending time in areas that I love and haven't been to in some time which means I've gathered several interesting photographs. Initially I wasn't certain how I would utilize any of these images but I've recently completed a painting of Calgary's Stephen Avenue though have decided to set it aside for awhile to be sure that I'm happy with it. It's been interesting as my only experience with a city landscape was last year's painting of the Calgary Tower. I found that after living with it for a few months I needed to make a few changes, which ended up making me love it. This included incorporating more acrylic ink and my airbrush. It helped the painting by increasing contrast while adding a bit more pattern while at the same time making it more cohesive through layers of glazes. Anyway, I'm quite pleased with this scene as I haven't really visited perspective like this since college...and the challenge was a good one.
 I have completed the first month of this year-long project and I am absolutely loving it! From the shortest stories to the longest, I am so honoured to listen to them, to learn about these women and how they affected the people near and dear to them. Every single time I am amazed by the challenges that each woman before us has overcome in order to raise families, begin careers, and settle in new places. I feel so privileged that I have been entrusted with these lovely photographs and memories.
  Ethel Maud (Parsonage) Kellar was from a family in Ilford, Essex, part of the emerging middle class. Her mother's family originated in Kent, the oldest part of England; they were Bridgers. (As people emigrated to the cities, this family became part of the massive working class à la Oliver Twist -- which I learned from my research and which my grandmother never ever shared.) She was well-educated for girls of her era and the first photo shows her working in a butcher shop. Although her father worked for the railroad, others in her extended family on the Bridger side were butchers and that's how they attained their wealth. Several were of German origin and Anglicized their surnames especially during WWI. It was a musical family; her mother played piano and her father the violin. it was also a very chatty, story-telling kind of family which is where I inherited this defect. Ethel met my grandfather, George Frederick Kellar, when she was 20 and singing (She had a beautiful voice and sang in her church choir into her 80s.) for the troops in London. My grandfather was on a leave due to injuries sustained at the Somme. He was with the Canadian Expeditionary Force, lying about his age to sign up. He was born in what is now Actinolite, Ontario. So, they married on October 3rd, 1917 in Ilford (greater London) and left for Canada soon after. She was a few weeks shy of her 21st birthday and George had turned 21 in July. My grandmother told me she barely knew my grandfather when she married him. She just wanted to get out of London and away from the zeppelins flying over the city. Her mother wouldn't speak to her for years afterwards as she accused Ethel of "breaking up the family." After she left for Canada, a sister and two brothers emigrated to Australia. The settled in Kingston, Ontario where my grandfather worked in a furniture store. They lived on Alfred Street, a couple of blocks up from where I later lived as a university student. (Their house is still there.) Their firstborn, a boy, died at 18 months of pneumonia. My grandfather's nerves were so bad (probably PTSD) his doctor suggested he should try farming, so they subsequently moved east to a farm at Odessa, Ontario. Neither of them had any experience and my grandmother told me George once bought an old nag by mistake; my grandmother said at least she knew how to tell a horse's age by its teeth! She also told me she used to go up on a hill and cry every afternoon as she was surrounded by uneducated, ignorant Canadian farm women. They had a daughter there; twin boys did not survive and were buried on the farm. They lost everything in a fire (including my grandmother's wedding ring), my grandmother throwing their daughter down to my grandfather from a second story window. Next, they bought a farm at Ameliasburgh on the Bay of Quinte (in Lake Ontario) in Prince Edward County across from Trenton. This was a beautiful place; the house is still there although much changed -- the farm having been divided up and sold for estates a number of years ago now. Two more girls and a boy were born. In March 1939, my grandfather died after falling through the ice in Lake Ontario; he was returning from Trenton with a pound of butter my grandmother had requested. People on shore saw him go under but rescue efforts were slower then and by the time they got to him, he'd gone under. I have the newspaper article which my grandmother saved. Ethel had to sell the farm although the government kept it in trust until each of her children attained the age of maturity, at 21. They all declined to take it on. My grandmother kept the sales bill for all the farm equipment. My mother and I wept when we came across that in her things a few years ago. My grandmother had to move into town -- Belleville -- where she worked four jobs to raise her children. She was hospitalized for a nervous breakdown soon after that move and their next-door-neighbour cared for the children. They were poor, living in rental homes which my grandmother would spend several days cleaning before she would permit her children to enter the premises. However, Ethel was proud and always sent the turkeys back to the church at Christmas and Thanksgiving, saying they were fine. She was trained in first aid and active with St. John's Ambulance as well as the Order of the Eastern Star, a Protestant women's organisation. She was also a monarchist and active politically as you might expect, and, although very tolerant and progressive for her generation, you always knew the British were best. My grandmother was a talented seamstress (She made my mother's grad and wedding gowns) and did beautiful knitting and crocheting. She could mend anything. She attended the Anglican Church until she became too frail. She had a large Bible and a complete record collection of famous operas. Despite such a hard life, she had a great sense of humour and loved to laugh. (Her family had bought jewellery during the war when currency fell and had given her this huge emerald in the ugliest setting imaginable. She wore it all the time and laughed because people just assumed it was junk jewellery. And she never sold it even though it could have made things a lot easier for her.) She lived in an apartment in her eldest daughter's home for many years and cared for her two grandchildren while her daughter taught at the Ontario School for the Deaf in Belleville. Her two other daughters became a nurse and a secretary/bookkeeper. She had scrimped and saved so her only son could go on to post-secondary school, but he dropped out of high school in grade 11 and went to work for Alcan Steel in Kingston (This was when Ontario was booming in the manufacturing sector during the 1940s-1960s.). She used all those savings to travel to England and Australia to visit her family by ocean liner before air travel replaced it. ~ Catherine Buchanan
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