In the Hall of Crosses

Where was my head at when I headed down to my hometown’s art gallery?

It was the day after the New Year rolled in, and I was aware that I would be leaving in less than a week. I had been spending most of the time with my family and noting the frailty in my mother and stepfather, more so in my mom (she will not be stopped when her home has to be clean and meals prepared). I went over to visit relatives during the holidays, but I felt like I was looking at something from a distance. Most of the people I know are all working in the same soul-deadening spots I managed to avoid, and I cannot really explain why I see their lives as sadder and more limited now. My neighbourhood has not changed at all (perhaps there are more people buying some of the newish homes around us; perhaps more people are retired and keeping to themselves – no change there, either). I had gone for a walk on the Bruce Trail on the birth of the new year, and there were the usual friendly faces and greetings, but it felt like I was stuck in a terrible pattern that I built for myself since I first discovered that path through nature. I had less than a week left, and I wanted something unique that spoke to me, and lifted me out of the deep funk I felt seeing where I came from (it also did not hurt that the day after New Year’s Day was a free day at the gallery; you take what you can get). So, on a Thursday, I caught a bus – could not get anyone interested in heading down with me and a bus seemed to be the right method of entering the downtown core – and with a new stop that put me a little too far from my destination, I went into the brown, brutalist structure that is our municipal gallery.

It was surprisingly busy. I noted the couples and the tour groups that were composed of school kids and their minders (no break even over the holidays?). I put my coat away and entered into the main collection and noted that the same pieces were still standing. There were a few newer collections, but they did not stir me at all.

And then I entered the Jan Wade exhibition.

I walked into what turned out not to be the main entrance – I always seem to find the wrong way in with these displays – and I was in the hall of crosses. There were other art works around the room, but this was the exhibition that stood out to me. It was the part of her show that overwhelmed me as I felt the urge to both step forward and step back. You encounter one solid wall of crucifixes stamped and embossed with imagery and phrases from Black history: “Soul Power”; “Do the Right Thing”; “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised”, etc. I noted that the pieces used to affix the lines came from buttons, old, Scrabble and other games I used to play as a child. And I also noted that deep within my head, this was also stirring up some unpleasant feelings.

I will explain. My mother noted how, once during a visit, I went to church with her as “her personal Christmas gift”. That was many years ago, but it was implied that she wanted me to do so again. And I could not do it. I had had enough of the gospel music I had heard being played all day during some visits, and the daily televised church services on TV. I did not need another reminder of what I could not return to or had lost by choice (it is still hard to decide which way to approach this). And yet, here I was, in a room filled with iconography that, as a recovering Catholic from a West Indian background, I knew too well.

So, why did I choose this out of all the other photos I took that day?

There was an incident.

*

“So, what do you think?”

I was still reading and observing the wall up close when I heard that inquiry nearby. I turned and noted two older women sitting on a bench that been provided for the patrons. One lady on the right was waiting for a response.

“I’m sorry?”

“What do you think of her work?”

I began to wonder if I should approach her honestly or humorously. She was an older woman, as was her friend. They both seemed dressed for a day at the museum, or at any gallery or event, and I joked that it could have been much better.

Of course, they saw right through me. And I learned some very interesting history behind the work.

Jan Wade was a local artist, now living in Vancouver, who worked closely with the Afro-Caribbean community in the city. And she had a connection to both Chloe and Evie – the two ladies who caught my attention (Chloe being the one who posed the questions) – as a member of the Stewart Memorial Church, a Protestant parish in the downtown core. They were a part of the congregation…as was my mother (on and off; she was still devoted to her Catholicism). This is when I paid attention and decided to take the photo. They asked me to pose for one with them (I noted that I am not the most photogenic person; Chloe said that I was too handsome to say such a thing – I kept the photo they emailed to me). And I knew that I had to capture that moment.

I know that it might seem strange to focus on friends of the artist and not give a full biography of the person who created the work, but I would be wrong to ignore how moved I felt to finally be able to go to a display of impressive art work in the largest public gallery in my hometown and say, Yes, this is a creation that is connected to my community. This is work that speaks to a part of my life I barely registered.

Thank you, Ms. Wade. And thank you, Chloe and Evie, for reminding me of home.

*

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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