"Elle portait, comme un homme, passé entre deux boutons de son corsage, un lorgnon d'écaille."

-

"She wore, like a man, tucked between two buttons of her bodice, a tortoiseshell loignette."

Madame Bovary

(1856)

Gustave Flaubert

I won't ever manage to forget about this line.  It says so much about the time in which this book was written, about relationships between people, about our perceptions and feelings regarding both women and men, about ourselves in our present time, and says so much - of course - about Emma, about Charles.

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Femme lisant/Woman Reading. Henri Matisse (1894)

Thoughts on money and dreams

It is an unfortunate fact of life that most of us mere mortals need jobs. I, unfortunately, am one of these individuals. Bills need to be paid, food needs to get purchased and eaten, and that Cath Kidston bag needs to find itself in my arms. I work so that I can survive and enjoy little luxuries along the way.

I recently graduated with a master's degree in history, but guess what, historians don't make millions and unfortunately, finding a job with history degree needs some determination, imagination, and luck. I guess I've always known this. The decision I made to go to university was instinctual. I wanted to read and learn, to wear tweed and be lost among the book racks late at night like all the historians I saw growing up on documentaries as a child, like the characters in the stories of M.R. James. I never really concerned myself with what would happen after I was done with school.

This is the first time I am out of school with no immediate plans to return to school. It is October now and I miss it already. I miss the late, late nights where I listened to jazz lost in the 18th century England or Rupert's Land. Now, like many others with liberal arts educations, I do not have employment pertinent to my studies. No book racks, no dusty documents, no late nights writing. (But tweed and elbow patches I still wear.)

I'm currently turning over the thought that a career does not define the person. Without realizing, I'd for years believed that a person's career defined them. How North American white middle class of me. I'm part of the generation that was told they could do anything and frankly, to a certain extent, we can. I'd come to believe to do anything less than our absolute best was failure. Technically, I know I COULD be a lawyer, though I'm not particularly inclined to become one. Is this failure? Could I sacrifice my nerves and free time to dedicate myself to gaining a higher pay check? These thoughts also apply to our desire for all things material. We feel entitled to have everything bright shiny and new right away. Nothing is ever good enough. I think most of us have forgotten how a few generations ago people didn't have credit as we do. No cash? Do nothin'. I'm not poor by any means and so I should stop feeling like I'm poor. Poor is not being able to afford food. Nevertheless, it seems that many of us feel that we're poor if we can't get what we want when we want it. This includes (included?) myself.

I've begun looking at the world beyond the nine to five. No, my job isn't what I ever dreamed of having, but I think it supports my dreams in another way. It won't be able to pay for those Louboutin shoes or that trip to England I've dreamt of, but I do have my English Breakfast tea with too much milk and Oscar Wilde's short stories.

So, really, this post is about the fact I'm in the process of grasping two thoughts:

A person's imagination is their ticket to freedom.

and

Dreaming is free.

Pretty in her pallor

For a significant portion of the year Canada is blanketed by snows and its inhabitants venture outside muffled in puffy jackets lined with goose down and trimmed with fur, wearing scarves, mits, and toques knit or crocheted by various female relatives, while trudging around in heavy boots suitable for Antarctic expeditions. Well, at least I do. The sun is quite powerful during these wintry months as it shines off the snow, though due to multiple layers of clothing most people don't need to think about the sun's effects on their skin.

I live in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and it seems that as soon as the snows begin to melt and the Red and Assiniboine rivers begin to swell with the excess water brought by the melted snows, Winnipegers start stripping. People wear shorts and tank tops as early as they can. We love the sun and the warmth of its rays during the spring and summer. It sure isn't Florida, but we still know the sun.

Many of my friends begin turning lovely copper colours as the sun warms their skin. Meanwhile, I've always been the pale one, thanks to what my brother (also one of these Tannables) refers to as my "ginger genes." I remember in high school, during biology, when learning about melanin, the primary determinant of skin colour, a classmate laughed, looked at me and said, "You should get some of that!"

Over the years I've come to accept my paleness, but this year marks my wholehearted embrace of this fact. This has been brought on by my realizations that those previous efforts aimed at establishing a "base tan" were essentially unhealthy failures, and simply resulted in more freckles and some red-faced photographs of myself. Furthermore, I think of it as an experiment: will my skin reward me for my efforts later in life? I also have had an underlying penchant for all things Victorian-Gothic and vintage glamour throughout my life, so here goes :P Though many thoughts support my reasoning, I've been greatly inspired by figures I admire, ranging from Oscar Wilde to Dita Von Teese who hope that people find beauty in their unique qualities, whatever those may be.

Images from Rupert`s Land: The Work of Peter Rindisbacher.

How time flies! The month of March has kept me busy; marking papers, concentrating on my own work, and yes, procrastinating. I'm currently working towards completing an essay about the artwork of Peter Rindisbacher. Never heard of him, you say? Canada claims his work as an important element within the foundations of its history. Rindisbacher came from Switzerland at the age of fifteen in 1821. The Rindisbacher family, as well as 160 other settlers (primarily Swiss), were part of a last effort by the English Lord Selkirk and the Hudson's Bay Company to try and colonize the Red River area (present day Winnipeg). This project had begun in 1812 and was never considered anything other than a failure. The area of Red River was already inhabited by various First Nations groups, retired fur traders, their families and earlier groups of settlers (mainly Highland Scotts in this case) sent by Selkirk in years previous. Meanwhile, many from this fresh group of Selkirk Settlers would not stay in Red River very long; some, including Rindisbacher, would travel southwards to the United States after a few years of crop failures and disease. Rindisbacher would die at the age of twenty-eight in St-Louis, Missouri.

Great Danger of the ship Wellington of being crushed by an iceberg at Lat. 61.42 N.

July 25, 1821.

In the meantime, Rindisbacher painted many scenes depicting life in Rupert's Land. He was primarily self-taught, except for having studied briefly with Swiss artist Jakob Weibel, a minituarist and landscape artist. Rindisbacher's images reflect European stylistic preferences of the time. Scenes of Rupert's Land would begin with the arrival of the settlers aboard the Wellington at York Factory in Hudson Bay and the ship's close call with an iceberg. Other scenes would reveal the life of the settlers as they journeyed from Hudson Bay towards Red River; portaging York boats and camping along Lake Winnipeg.

Extremely wearisome journeys at the portages,

1821 .

Cold night camp on the inhospitable shores of Lake Winnipeg,

1821 .

Colonists on the Red River in North America

ca. 1822 .

The Governor of Red River, driving his Family on the River in a Horse Cariole,

1825.

Un métis et ses deux épouses.

Other scenes, such as the one above, would cater to European interests of the time such as notions of the exotic.

Indian hunters pursuing buffalo in the early spring,

1822.

Another popular scene at the time, which Rindisbacher produced amply, was that of hunting big game.

In the past, many of these images have been taken as accurate and truthful representations, though current endeavours by historians have commented that Rindisbacher had his own perceptions of that which he was witnessing and was also well aware of the interests of potential buyers. Negative stereotypes regarding First Nations and Métis peoples have also sprouted from literal interpretations of these images. Nevertheless, the art of Peter Rindisbacher are valuable remnants from an exciting age of interaction between cultures. The last image is one of my favourites; it depicts the forks where the Assiniboine and Red Rivers meet, where now stands the center of present-day Winnipeg.

Winter fishing on the ice of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers,

1821.1

*Images were provided by the digital collections of Library and Archives Canada*

Faint-Smiling Like A Star

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star

Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand:

They stepped into the boat, and launch'd from land.

-Endymion, Book I, 1818

Today is the anniversary of the death of John Keats, who is known as one of the great poets of the Romantic period. His major works of poetry were composed between the ages of nineteen and twenty six; the age of his death. Like the other major poets of the Romantic period such as Byron or Shelley, his life was struck by complexities and tragedy. His father died due to an accident when Keats was still a child, and the rest of his immediate family, save his sister Frances, would succumb to tuberculosis . Though many people of the time would also have been struck by the effects of this horrid disease, the significance of the deaths of his family cannot be lessened. The last days of his life were wrought with pain both physical and emotional; the woman he loved was thousands of kilometers away in England, while he himself lay dying in a bed in Rome. He was unable to read the last letters Fanny Brawne wrote to him, so profound was his heartbreak.

The poems he wrote during his short and difficult life remind me that even an existence plagued by darkness and shadow can still be a source of yet unimagined beauty and light. The physical life he led was brief, though that which he produced during that life inspires us still.

For more information on Keats and the products of his life, click here.

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Late Night Thoughts on Books.

She is too fond of books,

and it has turned her brain.

-Louisa May Alcott

I must admit that I first encountered this sentence on a book bag I saw a lady carrying in a Winnipeg McNally Robinson. As I currently occupy my time as a history student at the graduate level, I must admit that this sentence now often comes to mind. This is especially true when I find myself poring over a book late into the night when the usual activity of the surrounding city is dulled to a sleepy state, while, at the same time, my mind and imagination race with the possibilities presented by the matter I encounter between the printed pages of text I thumb. Therefore, I consider this sentence written by Louisa May Alcott in the nineteenth century with great affection. Books have fascinated me since I can remember. Even before I could read, I remember noticing the books my parents held between their hands and considering, as they read, "What could there possibly be on those pieces of paper which demands their concentration?"

It is the potential which lies within books which has long inspired my fascination. Scholarly works provide incite into the complexities related to the authors' thoughts and processes, as well as the complexities of the subject matter. Meanwhile, works of fiction are veritable rabbit holes of possibilities. Quite selfishly, it seems that in a world where so many experiences are shared by many through television and film, books offer the possibility for individual experience. Of course many people read the same books, but the content of these books are first experienced individually. The characters and settings are subject greatly to the construction of the reader's imagination. I find that bibliophiles usually share this common understanding that books are great bastions for fantasy and thought; a sort of security blanket for the contents of one's own mind.

I find that without complexities and imagination life loses something important. What is life if one cannot dream of something greater or ponder the meaning of the surrounding world? So perhaps it is a bit odd to own eight different published version of the same book because you like the variations in their presentation. Or considering the different methodology used in that new work of social history published by the University of Toronto Press, only to realize that, yes, I am in fact grocery shopping, and, yes, I have been staring at this tomato that I hold in my hand for well over a minute. Or thinking, "What would Oscar Wilde be wearing were he alive today? Would he ride the bus?" and, "When I finally get to England I am SO going to that Charles Dickens theme park I've heard about." So, perhaps books do have the ability to "turn a brain", but books hold the potential to be a shining salve which works away life's accumulated grit.

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Winter Stores

Winter Stores

Written by Charlotte Bronte,

published under the pen name Curer Bell, 1846.

We take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.
And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,
And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart.
Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace,
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release.
A moment, then, it takes the power
To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
This life's divinest glow.
But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
It cleaves its silent way.
Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss
The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"
And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?
No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet,--
While many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed its petals sweet,--
An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
Laboured one faculty,--
Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,
Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory.
'Tis she that from each transient pleasure
Extracts a lasting good;
'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
To serve for winter's food.
And when Youth's summer day is vanished,
And Age brings Winter's stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
Life's evening hours will bless.

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