In March, 2017 I exhibited my thesis show at the Anna Leonowens Gallery at NSCAD University in Halifax, Nova Scotia.
During my Master of Fine Arts I was examining my experience growing up amidst the ruins of industry in deindustrializing Sydney, NS. I was thinking about land, identity and labour while considering the way history gets formed and presented to the public. I sought to challenge the beauracratized and sanitized versions of history presented to the public in Cape Breton and instead present my personal memories of living with industrial debris alongside detritus of former industry collected on trips back to the island. My history was presented in the form of brief personal narratives displayed alongside a curated selection from my collection of industrial debris.
I "repaired" objects like the lobster trap and the chain. I also recreated objects from my collection in plaster, sometimes imbedding secret histories within them.
The stories:
LP030117
Scavengers (repaired lobster trap)
Louisa playground, our playground, was built on top of the tar ponds. Part of the big pond was filled in (with slag, I heard) to make room for the train yard and the north end’s recreational areas: Playground, tennis court, and ball field. When we’d build sand castles at the playground, digging the moat was always the best part, we didn’t even have to go to the swamp for a bucket of water to fill it in. Water would just rise up and fill the moat in all by itself. It was sort of magical.
The big kids told us that there was an octopus in the swamp that would grab kids when they were crossing the railway tie bridge, but that wasn’t true. One time, one of the Joyce boys (it was Ryan) waded into the black water of the swamp and cut his foot pretty badly. We were afraid that he was going to get sick because the water was so dirty, but he didn’t. Around that time, I learned in school that lobsters are scavengers and people used to fish for them in the harbour but had to stop because of the tar ponds flowing into the harbour water. I think it was just glass that got Ryan’s foot, though.
NE011417
Ice at night (repaired chain)
The fire department came every year around the end of November to flood the tennis court. The neighbourhood kids loved to watch the firefighters, all done up in their gear, let the water rush out of their hoses, filling up the entire tennis court. There were never any nets there anyway, and we all loved to skate. All winter long we had our very own outdoor ice rink and we skated every day.
Mr. McQuarrie, our next door neighbour, also flooded his backyard every winter to make a rink for his grandsons. When they weren’t around we were allowed to skate there and we did so often, especially when the tennis court rink was being used for hockey. It was after dark one cold, still night while Lorraine and I were skating on Mr. McQuarrie’s rink that we saw the strangest thing. There was a man jogging (nobody jogged in our neighbourhood) up Des Barres Street, in what appeared to be peach coloured tights. As he got closer to us, by the light of the street lamp, we realized that there were no peach coloured tights. He wasn’t wearing any pants at all! We ducked down behind the hedges and rolled on the ice with laughter. Imagine jogging around at night, in winter, without any pants. Oh man, that was too much. He did another lap, and that was when Lorraine got scared. She figured he must be crazy. We snuck quietly through the backyards to Lorainne’s house where we told her dad, Larry, what we had seen.
Larry had been sitting around with a few buddies, having a few beers (he favoured Keith’s) when we burst into the house with our news. He was absolutely outraged by what we told him. I didn’t really understand why he was so mad, I still thought it was funny. Larry and his buddies rounded up baseball bats, hockey sticks, chains, tire irons, etc. and raged off into the night. I can still recall watching them storm up Des Barres Street like a posse of vigilantes.
It was better off for everyone that they never found him. He did come back, though.
RY022217
Sudden death (railway spikes)
My second big bicycle accident happened after a heavy rainfall and with a different bike. It must have been early on in hurricane season because there were branches strewn all over the street. I was riding my Princess bike: pink and white with a banana seat, sissy bars, purple streamers, one purple handle break and a bell I won in a colouring contest. I believe that bell was the first thing I ever won, the second thing was a two dollar bill for guessing the correct number of jellybeans in a jar at school. Anyway, I was riding down the hill (York Street) by the Convent and I made a hard right onto George Street, saw a downed branch, hit the brake, skidded, collided with the branch and went flying. Once again no helmet. It was still the eighties after all.
I blacked out, as you tend to do when you hit your head hard. The next thing I remember I was being carried, bleeding in the arms of Greg MacDonald. He carried me directly home and delivered me to my parents, I don’t remember much else about it. I do remember, though, that in a rough neighbourhood in a tough town, I looked up to Glen as a protector and he came through for me. The North End kids tended to stick together, the big ones looking out for the littler ones.
Greg kept order in the neighbourhood. He was the undisputed top dog. He took care of his parents (drinkers) and his brothers and sister. Glen sold drugs, and not just hash like my friend’s parents, but real drugs.
After I left home for university, my friend Cindy told me that Greg had had an accident. He was playing chicken with a friend down at the train yard when he went through the windshield of his Mustang and was decapitated. He died instantly.
DB101016
Gems like death (coal)
My grandparents always took us to Dominion Beach. I’m not sure if it was because they were fond of it or if it was because it was near the city, but of all the beautiful beaches on The Island, Dominion was their beach of choice. We’d pack a lunch (my grandmother favoured salami on rye with mustard, all ingredients from Ike’s Delicatessen on Charlotte Street, next to the Y), and we’d drive out in their white Pontiac with the bench seats to spend a few hours on sunny, warm days in summer. My brother, sister and I would play in the waves, and they would sit on the sand in low folding chairs and observe, or read thick, paperback romance novels, allowing the sun to warm their skin, wearing hats and sunglasses.
The beach is rather unremarkable: eroding cliffs, a sandy shore, a sunbleached boardwalk, but one feature of this particular beach stands out clearly in my mind as extraordinary: Coal dust. It shone on the shore in sparkling lines of black, mapping the rise and fall of the tide. It glinted in the surf and shimmered like jewels clinging to our skin when we would emerge from the waves. As children we found it enchanting, magical, otherworldly.
I don’t know what my grandparents thought about the coal dust. Perhaps they thought it was normal.
NE110716
Smoke in the air (slag)
It had been raining the last time I saw Bobbie. In my mind it was August, maybe because of the lush humidity left by the afternoon rainfall, and the sun that followed and made the streets shine. The air was heavy and the entire neighbourhood smelled like smoke. Something was burning.
I was sitting on the veranda when I saw Bobbie go by. There was nothing unusual about seeing him walk by, he only lived down the street a few blocks and around the corner on Pleasant Street, but for some reason I remember what he was wearing. He had on rawhide moccasins, cut off jean shorts, his hair was dark brown, short on top, long and curling in the back, he had a mustache and he was smoking a cigarette. I don’t think he was wearing a shirt.
He walked by the house, just like any day. Fire trucks whizzed by shortly afterward with their sirens wailing. It wouldn’t be until later that day when the news would travel around the neighbourhood - Bobbie stabbed his girlfriend to death up in Ashby, then he went back to his house, set it on fire and lay down on the attic floor, waiting to die. When it took too long to die, Bobbie left. He walked away, just like any day, his house burning behind him.
ES010917
Tow the line (repaired plaster driftwood)
Down by the old Robin Hood flour warehouse, between the yacht club and the government wharf, there was the foundation of an old house and the remnants of its garden gone to seed. Next to these there was a rope tied to the branch of a tree and if you grabbed ahold of it you could swing far out, in a wide arc, over the embankment, toward the red painted flour shed.
One day Christina and I went down to the rope swing and we were taking turns swinging out. This is when I got the great idea: We should find a big stick, stick it through the loop at the end of the rope and swing out together! We searched around, located a big, thick stick, threaded it through the loop on the end of the rope, each grabbed an end and swung out on the count of three. It was exhilarating, and we were moving really fast because of our combined weight. We were far out over the embankment when the stick broke. We went crashing to the ground, landing in a heap on the dirt. Christina landed on my stomach and knocked the wind out of me.
Johnny Markowski Sr. told me later that he watched the whole thing unfold, with a beer, on his Cape Islander (not at the yacht club, ha ha). He said he was laughing so hard at us because he couldn’t believe we were such a pair of idiots.
Christina maintains, to this day, that I landed on top of her. I know she’s wrong, though, because I was the heavier one.
LP120517
On the downswing
It seemed like the jungle gym in our playground was always getting burned down. It was made of wood, basically telephone poles, and was meant to look like a ship. There was a captain’s wheel and everything. I actually don’t know who was setting it on fire all the time, although if I had put some thought into it at the time, I’m sure I could have figured it out. I don’t recall ever really caring, it happened so frequently that it seemed like a normal part of everyday life. We all just assumed it was some of the big kids who were doing it for whatever reason, or for no reason at all. It was all the same to us.
Every summer, the city sent counsellors to the playground every day. To make sure that we weren’t getting into too much trouble, I guess. I always got the feeling that Louisa Playground in the North End was the least desirable assignment to these counsellors, although they did sometimes give us Kool-Aid. It wasn’t until after the counsellors left, after 5pm, that we could really ever do anything fun.
After 5pm, some of the big kids, Greg MacDonald (everyone knew he was the toughest guy in Sydney!) and his friends, would come to the playground and they would lift the picnic table up onto the giant steel swingset. They’d loop a swing around diagonally opposite sides of the bench seats to get the thing balanced, and it became one gigantic swing. It was utterly ingenious. All of the kids would pile on the table top and the benches and the big kids would push it to get some momentum going until we were flying. That thing was so heavy that it could really pick up speed. Luckily the swing set was cemented into the ground.
After the big kids set up the swing and got us going, they’d leave and go to the Foundation (drinking). To keep the swing moving we had to take turns jumping off, giving it a few good pushes and then letting it scoop you back up on the downswing. It had to be carefully choreographed. One time, I hopped off to take my turn pushing and I got hit in the face by the swing. I ended up with a big shiner, but the worst part was that Lorraine told me she didn’t feel bad for me. She said it was my own fault and I shouldn’t have been pushing the swing.
I was so mad at her for that because I was just taking my turn.