On September 21^st  2009 my friend Kimberley Klass Spademan died by suicide. She was 40. I will never be able to figure out how such a sweet soul could leave without saying goodbye. She inspired me to take some of the best photographs of my life.

There is one occasion that will be impossible for me to ever forget and most of the series from that one session are here. She called me one day to tell me, “I have a new boyfriend called Glen and he is an artist. He paints.” In an instant I said, “I have an idea. Tell Glen to bring one of his thinnest paintbrushes and we will meet in my studio.”

I would not paint — a picture — (348)

By Emily Dickinson

I would not paint — a picture —

I'd rather be the One

It's bright impossibility

To dwell — delicious — on —

And wonder how the fingers feel

Whose rare — celestial — stir —

Evokes so sweet a torment —

Such sumptuous — Despair —

I would not talk, like Cornets —

I'd rather be the One

Raised softly to the Ceilings —

And out, and easy on —

Through Villages of Ether —

Myself endued Balloon

By but a lip of Metal —

The pier to my Pontoon —

Nor would I be a Poet —

It's finer — Own the Ear —

Enamored — impotent — content —

The License to revere,

A privilege so awful

What would the Dower be,

Had I the Art to stun myself

With Bolts — of Melody!

 

It is not often that I repeat a blog. This time I will add this.

With my Rosemary gone from my life on December 9, 2020 I am having a difficult time finding a reason to keep going with my life.

My two cats, Niño and Niña give me a modicum of responsibilities and lots of affectionate pleasure. I occasionally photograph people who come and pose for me in my little Kits home studio. My daughter Hilary visits me once a week and cook dinner for her. We have a similar taste for films (old ones and no none that are superhero movies).

With spring here I have been working in the garden and getting it ready for the June garden opening for the Vancouver Rose Society. If anything when I work in the garden I think of St. Luke and what he wrote about Christ parting the loaf of bread saying, “Do this in remembrance of me.” This garden, that was our garden, is now my garden, but it is also a living memory (the plants are so) of my Rosemary.

The most important activity that I have left besides the need to feed myself and sleep is to write my daily blog. I have discovered for some time now that almost everything I write has something to do with my memory of Rosemary. Some say that writers are compelled to write their novels and inspiration comes from who knows where. With me I now I am being compelled and somehow writing with her in my mind feels almost like a relief to withstand grief that simply will not go away.

One of my pleasures in writing my blogs is that it was quite a few years ago that I discovered the fun of combining my photographs with poems from my favourite poets. I am sure that this discovery had something to do with shooting for magazines and waiting for the surprise of seeing my photograph in a magazine with copy by a writer. With those magazines gone, my blog is my own private magazine for which I am the publisher, editor (not a very good) one, art director and photographer. 

More Emily Dickinson: 

November left then clambered up
You cannot make remembrance grow
November
the maple wears a gayer scarf