Scugog Arts presents ‘Still Life: Captured Moments in Colour’; an exhibition of art by Penny Stevens where big and bold colours amplify the thoughts and essence of her subject matter. Join us at the artist reception on Saturday, January 10th from 1-3pm. 

In her big and bold use of colour, Penny Stevens presents a collection where colour is brought to the forefront of expression in captured moments of life.  

“I paint in the quiet of my studio where I mess around with paint on a canvas until it starts to make me hear or see what the person is thinking or until I can hear the scene of a landscape.”  – Penny Stevens

JAN 10 – FEB 7, 2026

Artist Reception: JAN 10, 1-3 PM @ Scugog Arts Space

Everyone Welcome!

Thinking About It — by Penny Stevens

November 20th, 2025

7:00 PM – 10:00 PM

Scugog Arts Space

2-268 Queen St., Port Perry

Get ready for an evening of good food, drink & treats while enjoying the ambiance of Scugog Arts Space after dark!

Come wielding your $20 bills for our draw prizes, silent auction, and drink tickets!

It will be a night to celebrate the 20 fruitful years of Scugog Arts and to show support for the years to come!

Our commitement to the Port Perry community is steadfast and will be demonstrated once again during our very own VOW RENEWAL. You won’t want to miss it!

Tickets are being sold HERE on the website and in person at Scugog Arts Space.

CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS AND DONORS

Do you bake? Would you like to donate a pie to our Pie Draw?

Are you interested in donating to our silent auction, baking or donating a pie for our pie draw, or  volunteering in general? Please email ailene@scugogarts.ca for more information!

Thank You for Being Part of the Mural Marathon

From July 10th to 13th, the parking lot beside Scugog Arts was filled with colour, connection, and creativity during the Villages of Scugog: Mural Marathon — and it wouldn’t have been possible without you.

Over four days, participants came together to paint five mural panels, each representing the rich culture, landscapes, and history of Scugog’s villages — from Seagrave to Scugog Island.

Whether you painted, volunteered, donated, or simply stopped by to show support, you helped bring this community art project to life.

Thank You to Everyone Who Got Involved

To the many painters — some picking up a brush for the first time — thank you for jumping in and helping shape this collective vision. Your time, focus, and enthusiasm made the experience meaningful for everyone involved.

To our volunteers and supporters, your behind-the-scenes dedication kept the momentum going and created a welcoming space for participants and visitors alike.

To our donors, your contributions directly supported this project and the wider mission of Scugog Arts. Your generosity fuels future creative opportunities across our community.

A Celebration of Community Through Art

What made the Mural Marathon so special was the way it brought people together. Participants of all skill levels, painted side by side, each adding their mark to something bigger than any one person.

Together, we created murals that reflect the character and diversity of Scugog’s villages, and built lasting connections in the process.

What’s Next?

The mural panels will soon be installed on the side of our new home in Downtown Port Perry. This installation will bring the artwork into public view — a lasting tribute to the creativity and collaboration that shaped it.

Stay tuned for updates on the unveiling, and be sure to visit once the panels are in place. It’s a wonderful way to see what we built together.

If you captured photos or video during your visit, tag us @ScugogArts and use #MuralMarathon — we’d love to see and share your perspective.

Thank you again to everyone who painted, supported, and showed up for the Villages of Scugog: Mural Marathon. We’re proud to be building a more vibrant, creative Scugog — with you.

—
The Scugog Arts Team

With Gratitude to Our Mural Marathon Contributors

This project was made possible through the time, energy, and generosity of so many individuals, teams, and organizations. Thank you to everyone who helped bring it all together:

🤝 Sponsors

RONA Port Perry
Sensational Signs

💰 Government Grants

The Township of Scugog
Ontario Trillium Foundation
Government of Ontario
Government of Canada

🧠 Committee Members

Kristyn Chambers
Julia Civello
Gail Collins
Karin Eaton
Marion Meyers
Kristen Meyer-Creamer
Aislin Miller
Marilyn Pearce
Melissa Rada
Councillor Terry Coyne

🥪 Brown Bag Donors

Applewood Farm Winery
Boundless Studio Uxbridge
Dunny Divots
Jesse Wheelock (Sculptor, Textile Artist, and Painter)
Jonathan van Bilsen’s Photos n Travel
KidsArtTalks
Kiwi and Bos
McDonald’s Port Perry & Uxbridge
Motion 3D Printing
Player 97
Port Perry Area B&B Association
Port Perry Dance Academy (PPDA)
Radar Digital
Riverside Creations
Sandbaggerz Driving Range and Mini Putt
Soul Fuel Snacks
Sportslogos.net
Susanne Reece
Theatre on the Ridge
The Children’s House Montessori
Town Hall 1873 Theatre
Woodchips and Sawdust Woodworking

Photos by: Lukash Chabursky

We’re back with our 2025 Mural Marathon Fundraiser! 

This July, the Mural Marathon returns! Over four days, 120+ painters will take shifts painting a mural across multiple large boards, creating a public art installation that can be enjoyed by visitors and locals alike.  

From Thursday, July 10th to Sunday, July 13th, we’re inviting the community to help complete a brand-new mural celebrating the Villages of Scugog. Over four days, painters will take on the challenge of finishing a continuous mural, which will be installed on the west wall of 268 Queen Street for all to enjoy over the next three years. 

This year’s mural will spotlight the arts, culture, and heritage of each village: Blackstock, Caesarea, Greenbank, Scugog Island, and Seagrave. Each panel will feature a unique scene designed by local artist Aislin Miller, drawn in her signature colouring book style to make painting beginner-friendly for participants of all skill levels.  

Anyone 12 years and older are welcome to sign up for a two-hour shift to leave their mark on this collaborative artwork. Painting will take place under tents at the north end of the parking lot at 268 Queen Street, where visitors can stop by to watch the mural come to life.

Get in on the action and register to paint or join us from behind the scenes by volunteering at the Mural Marathon Fundraiser. 

Painters can register using the CanadaHelps platform and make a minimum donation of $75 to participate. All funds raised support Scugog Arts and our mission to foster a vibrant, creative community.  

Let’s celebrate who we are and where we live—join us in bringing colour and life to the Villages of Scugog Mural! 

 Follow Jay Dart and his work here! https://www.jaydart.ca/

Scugog Arts presents ‘Collaborative Couple’; an exploration of art beyond the frame by artists Annette Blady Van Mil and Al Van Mil, opening Saturday, May 31st! Married for 45 years and creative collaborators throughout, Blady and Van Mil have built a unique artistic partnership defined by experimentation, reinvention, and shared vision.  

This exhibition showcases work from their ongoing Rising From the Canvas series, involving mixed media pieces that blur the boundaries between painting and sculpture. Alongside this will be their individual works that reflect their distinct artistic voices, including Blady’s richly layered encaustic and mixed media compositions and Van Mil’s vibrant, conceptually-driven oil paintings.  

Annette Blady, originally from Toronto, brings a tactile sensibility to her work, combining exotic papers, glass, metallics, and fabric in compositions that explore abstract form and ancient symbolism. Her background in architectural model design and interior aesthetics informs her deeply textured approach. Her encaustic and three-dimensional pieces have been widely exhibited and collected across Canada, the U.S., and Europe. 

Al Van Mil, born in Texel, the Netherlands, creates paintings that merge abstraction, portraiture, and narrative. Drawing on influences from pop art, Canadian conceptualism, jazz and architecture, his work reflects both intellectual precision and intuitive play. His paintings are included in major public and private collections, including the National Gallery of Canada and the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Montreal. 

Together, Blady and Van Mil approach collaboration as an evolving dialogue, which celebrates the process as much as the outcome. Collaborative Couple is a testament to their belief that through layering, persistence, and play, art can become a powerful expression of resilience and renewal. 

Please join us at the Scugog Arts Space for the opening reception of  ‘Collaborative Couple’ on May 31st from 1-3 PM.

Meet and talk with the artist, browse the show, and enjoy light refreshments on us. If you are unable to make the reception, you can view the show in the gallery until July 1st, 2025. 

Experience the Beauty of Landscapes

Join us as we welcome Reflections: Studies in Landscape, a captivating new exhibition by Lori Korkola, opening February 22, 2025, at Scugog Arts.

Lori Korkola, a northwestern Ontario native, finds inspiration in the landscapes that shaped her. Her paintings are a vibrant interplay of colour, movement, and emotion—each piece a reflection of the scenery that stirs her soul.

“My process begins with hiking nearby trails with a sketchbook at hand and a camera in my pocket,” Lori shares. “Once home, I work up small thumbnails focusing on design and value before beginning the painting that I hope will capture a bit of the scenery that moved me.”

Her creative process is meticulous yet deeply intuitive. Thumbnail sketches map out her compositions before she layers blues, pinks, greens, and purples into works with evocative titles like Looking Up, Summer Pond, and Afterglow. Through her brushstrokes, rivers rush, sunlight glows, and landscapes come alive with energy and contrast.

Lori holds an Honours BFA from the University of Toronto and trained as a secondary school art teacher at the University of British Columbia. She spent years inspiring young artists in Whitby, Ontario, before dedicating herself fully to her own practice. A personal milestone came at 50 when she set a challenge to complete 50 paintings in a year—an experience that pushed her creativity to new heights.

We invite you to celebrate Reflections: Studies in Landscape at the opening reception on February 22 from 1 PM to 3 PM at Scugog Arts.

Get creative this March Break at Scugog Arts!

Professional artist Karen Neu-Wideman will lead young artists through 5 half-day art classes for kids ages 8 to 13 during March Break week (March 10 to 14). 

For over 17 years, Scugog Studio Tour artist Karen has been teaching and mentoring young artists. Each morning class will feature a different project including painting, drawing, sculpture, and mixed media using quality art materials and tools.  

Sign up for one, two, three, or all sessions!

WHEN: Monday, March 10 to Friday, March 14 – 9 am to 12 pm each day 

Ages: 8 to 13 

Each session is $45 per participant with all materials included. Registration is required.

Participants will learn art techniques including painting in acrylics (Monday), mixed media paper collage (Tuesday), sculpting in clay (Wednesday), fabric art (Thursday), drawing (Friday), using quality art supplies and tools. 

Scugog Arts is excited to announce that, pending funding from Canada Summer Jobs, we will be hiring six team members to support a variety of creative programs throughout the summer. This is a fantastic opportunity to gain hands-on experience while contributing to the arts community in Port Perry.

We are looking to fill the following positions:

• Curatorial Assistant
• Arts Administrator
• Event Coordinator (2 positions)
• Community Arts/Art Camp Coordinator (2 positions)

To be eligible for an interview, applicants must meet the Canada Summer Jobs criteria outlined in the job postings. These are onsite positions, offering $18/hour for 35 hours per week over a 12-week period.

For full job details and application instructions: https://scugogarts.ca/current-opportunities/

Come to Scugog Arts on Saturday, February 8th from 11 am to 4 pm and join Mila Haynos-Owen from Lavender-Blu who will lead you through a hands-on Mini Workshop with a lavender theme just in time for Valentine’s Day. 

Create your design and then using the art supplies provided, make two of your own unique sachet letters ready for Valentine’s Day. Fill the sachet with real lavender from Mila’s Lavender-Blu farm. Complete a simple design or stay longer and embellish your design to your heart’s content.  

Cost: $20 each to create two sachets including instruction and all materials. No experience necessary.

Children ages 6 to 10 years of age are welcome to attend but must be accompanied by a parent or guardian who is also signed up for the workshop. 

 WHEN: Saturday, February 8 – Drop in between 11 am to 4 pm 

WHERE: Scugog Arts, 268 Queen St, Port Perry

Scugog Arts presents ‘Born to Want Likes’; a show of large –scale, neo-expressionistic artworks by artist Todd McCullough, opening October 12th! 

Todd McCullough resides in Ontario, Canada near the city of Toronto. He studied Art Fundamentals at Sheridan College and briefly attended the Drawing and Paint program at the Ontario College of Art and Design (OCAD).  

Through the combination of brushes and oil sticks, McCullough creates work that resonates with the viewer, making them stop in their tracks. McCullough’s interest in combining neo-expressionism with neo-classical themes creates works that are full of colour, movement, and texture. 

Fearlessly confronting our superficial and self-centered 21st-century society, McCullough highlights the negative impact of vanity, narcissism, and self-help fluff. He urges us to be mindful of our social media habits and prioritize genuine connections over external validation. By addressing these issues, McCullough calls for a shift toward an increasingly meaningful and authentic society.  

Please join us at the Scugog Arts Space for the opening reception of ‘Born to Want Likes’ on Saturday, October 12th from 1-3 PM. Meet and talk with the artist, browse the show, and enjoy light refreshments. The show continues in the gallery until November 10th, 2024. 

This Culture Days an open mic will take place  1-4 pm in the gazebo in Palmer Park on September 21^st. Artists can take the opportunity to practice in front of a live audience. If you are not inclined to perform, come out as an audience member to support

 The Small-Town Open Mic aims to connect local musicians, motivate creativity and allow for a welcoming performance space.

 We welcome you to share your music, listen to music created within the community, or even collaborate with fellow musicians. We will have a limit of three songs per set, with 15 minutes of performance time per person.

 We hope to see and hear you there!

This year, the kids bike parade will be returning to Culture Days in Port Perry. Kids (and kids at heart) display their creative side by decorating their bikes at home and showing it off in the parade.

The parade will begin on the boardwalk by the playground, and participants will display their bikes parading down and back up the boardwalk. Gather to register and join in the parade on Sat Sept 21, 1-1:30. Judges from Side Hustle Bikes and Gear will be present with prizes for the winners. The judges will make their decisions based on the following categories:

• Best use of Recycled Materials
• Best use of Nature
• Best Sports Bike
• Best Fairy Tale Bike
• Best Creature Bike

 Kids of all ages (and kids at heart) are encouraged to come out and show off their creations this Culture Days. We hope to see you there.

Aaron Jones, Artist (Photo: Art Gallery of Ontario)

Jones graduated from OCAD University with a BA in photography in 2018. Since then, he has been working with the Zalucky Contemporary Art Gallery displaying his work. Additionally, Jones has his own studio and storefront out of Toronto. He has been transitioning this studio into a project space for artists and other creatives. Here, programs are run, and an area for collaboration and exhibition is provided.

When speaking on the process, Jones said, “It’s a high bar sometimes when you are trying to create something new all the time. What’s exciting at the same time is that newness and being a part of a process of discovery.”

“Art is a way to conceptually explore and go on adventures”

– Aaron Jones

In addition to the inspiration stemming from his early interests, Jones is also an adventurer at heart, having been into hiking and exploring his whole life. “In a sense, art is a way to conceptually explore and go on adventures. I hope in some way I can bring that to audiences,” said Jones.

While creating his art, Jones hopes to show people something they have not seen before and have them contemplate what their eyes are seeing and perhaps contemplate something further within themselves and their individual lives

When asked what he wants to disseminate through his art, Jones said, “Bringing people to a space of reflection…a meditative place.”

Explore Poetry with Hollay Ghadery

Everyone is invited to join Scugog’s Poet Laureate, Hollay Ghadery, for this poetry writing workshop. Small Town Poetics, will look at the world around us to draw inspiration from our community and show how remarkable people and events live at the hyper-local level.

Date: Wednesday, August 14, 2024

Time:  7 –8:30 pm

Location: Scugog Arts Space, 175B Queen Street, Port Perry

Fee: $25

Culture Days Call for Volunteers

Are you interested in arts and culture? Are you looking to make a difference in the Scugog community? If so, an amazing opportunity is available for you!

Scugog Arts is seeking volunteers to assist with Culture Days on Saturday, September 21st and Sunday, September 22nd at Palmer Park.

Culture Days is a Canada-wide annual event that involves thousands of free activities, events, and programs. Culture Days will be comprised of events such as workshops, artist demonstrations, live performances, gallery shows, and tours.

To learn more about Culture Days and Scugog’s role in hosting, visit the Culture Days website.

Volunteer duties are open to the general public, including teens and students!

Volunteer Event Jobs

● Kids Craft Activity Assistants

● Artists Assistants

● Set Up and Tear Down

● Bike Decorating Competition & Parade

● Survey and Data Collection

● Runners

To sign up, use our current opportunity form!

For any further questions please contact us via email at events@scugogarts.ca

Ekphrastic Literary Contest 2024 WINNER

1st Place – Youth Poetry

morning coffee (or, it’ll be okay) by Izzy Le Fay

Morning Coffee by Sybille Von Reoder

2:37 am,
my father called to disown me
as the cow i had bottle-raised since she was no bigger than a barn cat
finally had a baby of her own.

i couldn’t feel my toes ‘cause summer hadn’t gotten out of bed.
the gleaming blue light of the coffee maker guiding my path out the door,
i sank to the barn in starless night,
the scrape of straw and concrete on my knees pulled prayers out of me instinctually.

the phone rang — a bitter, petulant song like the clatter of plates shattering on the kitchen tile.
people only call at that hour if something’s gone horribly wrong.
(of course, I picked up. in every lifetime I would pick up.
even though I saw the name that crawled across the screen. even though i felt the dread
latching onto my gut like a vice-clamp.
of course, I picked up.)

“one too many incorrect choices with your life”, he’d said, “livin’ in sin like that”.
i had no idea my father was an expert, i thought this was his first time on earth too.

my cow cried, and the little calf was born on the last venomous whisper of my father’s words.
i named him “jesse” ‘cause it means hope and ‘cause i always thought cowboys were such a romantic notion.
and my cow looked at her baby, closed her wide whiskey-brown eyes, and didn’t wake up.

i sat there, hands slick with blood and grime. his mama wasn’t there to clean him, so i did.
pushing air into his new lungs through sheer force of will
(orphans doing each other favours, i suppose, orphans facing survival together).

my phone lay cracked on the ground, and my father had floated away.
the neighbour’s border collie, a black and white falling star flash against the cornsilk sunrise,
laid his greying snout on my leg and something in his warm eyes said to me “it’ll be okay”.

it’s like the world knew i was grieving. like it knew i had been kept captive by love in seventy different masks. maybe it was the dirtied knees of my jeans that gave me away.

before me sat the tapestry of home,
the pink of my eyes rubbed raw, clawing up to meet the bluest teardrop sky,
throwing their blanket over the dozens of rebellious little wildflowers that sprang up from a golden-dry sea, despite the frost.

tonight i’ll be just as colourful, and tomorrow morning i’ll try to remember what to do with myself.

but there isn’t a rush, no one’s awake yet.
except me and my little cowboy on weak, fighting legs.
we can learn something from each other yet, huh?
i burnt the coffee. one sip and i couldn’t help but laugh. the dog howled along with me.

that’s alright. tonight i am just as colourful as the little world i live in,
and the coffee’s never tasted better.

Ekphrastic Literary Contest 2024 WINNER

1st Place – Adult Poetry

Morning Coffee by Wojciech Gurak

Morning Coffee by Sybille Von Reoder

I see you from behind as I’m coming quickly to join you
I know you have your mug with black coffee in your hand, too
You have your favourite hat on your head and it’s delightful
You have your lustrous hair in a long braid. You’re beautiful.

Our dog is beside you, sitting on the ground, very happy
We’ve had him since he was a tiny black and white puppy
You named him Oreo and the name is sweet and insightful
Though we love him so much, he loves us more. He’s beautiful.

We worked so hard for years in an ugly corporate office
So that we could own this land and say goodbye to the bosses
Now we see a myriad of greens, reds and blues, so colourful
The fields, the streams, the flowers, the sunrises. It’s beautiful.

Yet, you, Oreo and I have a very different task now
It’s to spoil our grandkids, and we have the know-how
With the food, the gifts, the house and the views from above
It’s all for the family: our time and our love.

Ekphrastic Literary Contest 2024 WINNER

3rd Place – Adult Short Story

Caught by Teresa Veltman

Morning Coffee by Sybille Von Reoder

Tyler tosses his sippy cup on the floor of the Sunrise Café for the third time.
“Leave it. He’s testing you,” Alex says, when Leanna bends to retrieve it.

Sighing, she glimpses herself in the mirror on the back wall. Dark under-eye shadows, disheveled hair, and snot stains on her jacket don’t reveal half of her weariness. Tyler whines, stretching his chubby fingers toward the discarded cup. Somehow, Alex can ignore the fussy toddler while scrolling on his phone. His buttoned-up shirt is spotless.

The coffeeshop door chimes. Leanna’s pulse quickens and she flushes scarlet, clashing with the green splotches on her jacket. The man who enters, orders at the counter—his deep voice reverberates in her cells. Muscular quadriceps flaunt themselves beneath his jeans—muscles that draped across her body two days before. Her fingertips tingle as she recalls combing through his wavy chestnut hair, while her lower body parts rouse at the memory of his fingertips outlining her lips, her nipples, and her caesarean scar.

It’s easy to fake your identity when you’re at a bank conference, but not when you’re a block from home. He can’t see her like this.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she says to Alex. Her chair screeches when she shoves it back, drawing all eyes to her, including the ones she aches to avoid.

Chocolate brown eyes open wide in recognition when they meet hers, but the easy smile fades as the toddler, the husband, and the shabby appearance are surveyed. His beautiful eyes look away. Latte in hand, he exits the shop.
Leanna rushes to the bathroom, locks the door, and weeps.

Ekphrastic Literary Contest 2024 WINNER

2nd Place – Adult Short Story

HAWK by Amita Dayal

Inspired by Leonard by Bethany Aiken

She can feel his eyes on her, two small halos of heat glancing her left temple, her cheek, her jaw. Flickering his attention from the road in front to her face, then back. The tension in her jaw causes an almost perceptible muscle twitch. He doesn’t notice as he focuses on the road, hugging the turns, guided by the roadside reflectors.

She sits attentively, head and shoulders facing forward, as if concentrating on the road as intently as the driver. It is dark already, just weeks after the winter solstice, yet the sky is clear and the roads dry. When her gaze veers from the windshield it is to glance out the window, at the passing darkness to her right.

‘If you’re hungry we can stop for dinner’, he says.

She looks to the left but avoids eye contact.

‘There won’t’ be anything until Huntsville now’, he adds.

‘I can wait’.

*** ***

He fiddles with the radio for something to do. Something beyond watching the white dotted line disappear underneath, the hydro poles flying by in his peripheral vision. This evening, how it contrasts from their summertime drives – no vegetable stands or chip trucks to distract or tempt them. No upbeat music to sing along to. No cows for her to moo at as they passed sunlight pastures. He would mock her silliness – a university student mooing out the window – but deep down, it touched him. That she didn’t care about being grown up and cool like everyone else their age. Driving north for guys’ weekends, he’d find himself moo-ing under his breath, following up with a scoff at the ridiculousness of it. Scoffing at the effect she had on him, even when they weren’t together. Love, if it was anything, was ridiculous.

He turns the heat up a notch – the sun has, by now, completely deserted them. The interior of the car is shaded in darkness. All he can see is her back, her black coat blending into the brown braid down her back. He knows she is not asleep. The rise and fall of her chest give her away. He can tell when she is truly asleep by the preceding soft sighs and the way her exhalations gradually lengthen. By the way it makes him feel to watch her.

Something in his chest constricts and instinctively he reaches across the centre console towards her. He pulls his arm away at the last moment as a shiver runs through him.

*** ***

The sign floats by, illuminated by the headlights just briefly enough to see that it is 12 km to Huntsville. The ache in her throat is so intense it feels as if it may crack open. She swallows hard and tries to squeeze back tears. She has yet to learn, it will take a couple of decades more to know, that swallowing past the ache isn’t a solution. For now, she only knows that her body feels the pain and that is now moving chest, constricting and cruel.

She counts the hydro poles as they go by, a habit from childhood. Counting as a distraction, distraction to fend off anxiety. As the outside world rushes by she sees the shadows of a bird on a hydro line. A familiar silhouette, head poised with the rare mix of patience and attentiveness. Her head lifts, instinctively, to say hawk. The word gets stuck, and she reaches to her neck, feeling stupid. He shifts. She pretends to adjust her scarf as memories flood through her. I will not cry in front of him, she tells herself, not again.

Birds of prey have always fascinated her. She had to write an essay in high school about which animal you would wish to be. The American bald eagle was her natural choice. She admires the combination of beauty, power and grace, the way they soar above observing the insignificant creatures below. There is the irony in the fact that she is deathly afraid of heights, however. Around here, a bald eagle sighting is very rare, yet she delights in spotting the red-tailed hawks flying over the farm fields or perched, intently watching the fields for prey. They have that in common as well, their interest in birds of prey. He is an expert on the turkey vulture which she doesn’t mind seeing flying but finds quite ugly up close, picking at roadkill. Last summer she had researched the red-tail as he drove them along these same roads, sharing facts with him. ‘They mate for life’, she had said, and they shared a goofy grin.

*** ***

He insists on eating inside the restaurant, claiming the need for a bathroom break anyway. As she sits across from him the fluorescent lights illuminate their meals, spread upon wax paper wrappers, littered with ketchup packages. The highway is quiet beyond the parking lot, the usual Sunday southbound traffic minimal on a gray night in January.

She notices the hint of pink across his fair cheeks. He must have gone skiing over the break. How strange it feels to not know where his physical body is always. For so long there has been a magnetic pull between them, an invisible line that seemed to tether them together. It feels as though she has lost one of her own limbs. Her best friend calls her dramatic, and maybe she’s right. But just sitting across from him is agony. She watches his hands reach for his fries – the blond hairs on his knuckles catching her attention; as if they were straining to get closer to her, electrically charged.

‘We should be there around 8:30’, he says, trying to catch her eye, to connect. Hoping to start up a conversation, because he would do anything to take it all back, to apologize. Do anything to go back to how it was before. To when he could be himself, to talk about things that mattered, and stupid stuff that didn’t. He missed the way she would smile as she looked into his eyes, nose to nose, chest to chest, feet intertwined in the sheets. The beauty of her face across from him makes him catch his breath but the emotion in the dark eyes that meet his is unrecognizable.

‘Okay. I’ll let Faye know – she is going to come down to meet me, help me carry things up’.

‘Come on, obviously I’ll come up with you, help you with your things. Say Happy New Year to the girls’, he smiles.

Her face contorts into her version of a snarl. ‘Thanks, but no thanks”.

She starts clearing their table, angrily stuffing napkins into paper bags, marching their trays to the garbage. When she returns and sits down it is with resignation. In the short distance back to the table she has dissolved into tears. He reaches for her hands, desperate to comfort her. Briefly she lets him hold them before jerking them back, tucking them under her thighs, not able to trust herself with the offer of his touch.

The anger returns to her voice, as she wipes away tears. Her must strain to hear her as she almost hisses under breath. ‘The last thing I want to do is to have you come upstairs with me like everything is normal.’ A small sob catches in her throat. ‘Then have to announce to everyone that we’re over, explain what happened, answer questions…’., she trails off. Then, emphatically, she stands, ‘No way.’

Outside, he hesitates before unlocking the car, forcing her to pause a second, hoping to diffuse some tension. When he had picked her up, after her dad had loaded her bags and told him to drive safely, she had hesitated. ‘We just have to get through this drive’, she had said. Now, she looks at him expectantly as she turns to buckle in – he hasn’t started the ignition. He holds her gaze. ‘I’m so sorry’. He stays looking at her, even after she quickly turns away.

As they head further north, then west, the snow starts to fall, softly, with snowflakes that glitter in the moonlight. She thinks about last winter, during spring break, when they caught snowflakes on their tongues, and she brushed snow from his shaggy hair while kissing his cool lips. She closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep the rest of the way. Knowing that if she doesn’t, she’ll be tempted to point out the perfectly formed and unique flakes that stick briefly to her window.

As the wipers glide back and forth, he thinks about the upcoming week. He anticipates the awkwardness of their Tuesday lecture – they would normally sit together, sharing coffee from her Thermos. They had planned to celebrate a mutual friends’ birthday Thursday at the pub as well. How would a few drinks affect their already intense emotions? As they pull up to the familiar campus driveway, amongst the anxiety and sadness, he lets himself feel a bit of hope.

Despite the strain of being so agonizingly enclosed with him, she hesitates just a moment before messaging Faye to come downstairs. It feels so final.

‘Bye’, she says over her shoulder, again avoiding his eyes. She pauses and turns, this time looking into his eyes. ‘I saw a Cooper’s hawk. On the hydro line. Near Huntsville.’

As the door slams, he breathes out, under his breath, ‘I love you’.

THE END

Ekphrastic Literary Contest 2024 WINNER

1st Place – Adult Short Story

MORNING COFFEE by Glenna Agnew

Inspired by Morning Coffee by Sybille Von Roeder

I stand at the fence, overlooking the field, staring out. Staring at the nothingness. The predawn with only a glimmer of pink, the sky still semi-dark. Staring at what some might consider the nothingness, but it is my life now. My faithful cup of morning brew is clutched desperately in my hand, fingers curled cruelly around the handle. It seems to be the only thing I can really get a grip on these days. As we stand watching, the sky is just beginning to lighten and the pink glow is blooming on the horizon.
Joe is there beside me, man’s best friend they say. He is my one source of comfort, other than the liquid comfort I hold in my hand. A cup of Joe in my hand and a Joe by my side. He leans against me, and rubs his black and white furry head against my side; he stares, as I do, into the distance. Into the future? Into the past? Who knows?

He suddenly perks up his ears and alerts. I glance in the direction he is staring. Is it the brown bunny that lives in the backyard? Is he wondering if the rabbit will peek his head out of his burrow and hop into sight, offering a little morning exercise for the two of them?

Is he wondering too, wondering if we will turn and take a walk along the winding path that travels beside the fence, across the dew-drenched fields, the way we used to do? Before… My thoughts trail off. Sometimes it’s hard these days to complete my ideas. Random thoughts are jumbled in my brain. With no rhyme or reason. I am distracted continually and scattered thoughts pop in and out as quickly as…
Joe leans into my leg and rubs his head against my leg again. Maybe he is wondering if we will return to the porch and watch the morning pass by, minute by minute, hour by hour, until the afternoon arrives and we start the process all over again. We’ve done that for the past few days now I think, and I hear him sigh but he does not leave my side. I reach down and give a quick pat to his faithful head.
I hear him breathing, that soft panting that he does now after the least bit of exertion. His tongue is extended, and drool pools in the corner of his mouth, that thick slobber that always seems to get over everything. Inevitably it will end up on my jeans or my jacket. But if truth be told, it is the price I gladly pay. The price of the slobber far outweighs the love I receive in return. Good old Joe.

I raise my cup again, drink in that pungent aroma, and taste the slight bitterness. I feel the steam rise and fill my nostrils. I blow on it before I take a sip; as if that is really going to cool the steamy liquid, however, it is part of the tradition, the coffee routine.
It’s cooler outside this morning, there is a raw bite to the air. When I opened the door this morning and felt the chill, I reached for my colourful jacket hanging on its peg by the kitchen door. I have always loved that jacket, it is soft and worn from many washings. The fringe along the arms reminds me of my younger days. Some of the fringe, like me, is barely hanging on, hanging on by a thread.

I reached up to the shelf above the pegs and jammed my broad-brimmed hat on my head. I love the hat which matches the jacket, it is also slightly faded and worn, again, much like me. I had bundled my long hair into a casual ponytail which hung loosely down my back almost to my waist. This style is about all I can manage these days. My bell-bottom blue jeans also speak of the past, a bygone era, one filled with Peace and Love and Flower Power. It all seems so long ago, or maybe it was just yesterday.
The sky is just beginning to lighten, the pink glow is spreading and I can see that the flowers are unfurling, opening themselves to the coming day. I love the daisies.

I take another sip from my cup, feel the hot liquid slide down my throat, and imagine it spreading through my veins, giving me the energy to face all that the day has to offer. I like this new brew, it has a strong, dark, earthy feel about it with a bolder somewhat smoky flavour. Forget those fancy frothy lattes and cappa, cappa something, or others. I will gladly pass on those artsy decorated cream-swirled concoctions with their leafy patterns. I like mine bold, strong, and fortifying. At least I think I do. Give me a good strong cup of Joe.
Joe. Joe. I look around and there he is beside me, staring at me and whining softly,
Something suddenly changes within me and I start to lose that fleeting clarity. It is as if a veil has come down over my brain, a shutter coming down within my mind, releasing cobwebs that are gossamer and dusty. It’s happened before I think, and I suddenly feel unsure, unsettled, unhinged. I have a need to go… go…

I glanced over my shoulder at the house behind me and saw a woman standing in the doorway. Watching. Waiting. Who was she and what was she doing there?
“Come on …dog,” I said and we went to see the woman now waving to us.
“Hello,” I said. “Were you waving at me?”
“Yes,” she answered and I thought her smile looked a little sad.
“How was your early morning walk?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered. “Are you here to see me? Can I help you?”
“No,” she said softly. “I’m here to help you Mum.”
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Yes, Mum. I’m your daughter Kelly. I’m back home now. Remember? I’m here to stay with you now. To take care of you.”
“Kelly? I like that name.”
“Thanks, Mum.” She opened the door and led us into the kitchen. “I see your cup is empty, let’s get you another cup of coffee, shall we?”

Celebrating the Art of Words: Winners of the 2024 Ekphrastic Literary Contest

Contributed by Lucy E.M. Black

A wine and cheese celebration was held at Scugog Arts on the evening of May 9th to highlight the literary successes of this year’s Ekphrastic Writing prize-winners. Hosted by Marion Myers, Chair of our Board of Directors and long-time volunteer, the contest utilized art from the annual juried show as writing prompts.

Four stunning pieces of work were selected and used as inspiration for this year’s contestants.  Bethany Aiken’s finely detailed painting of“Leonard” (a kestrel kept at the Toronto Zoo), Morning Coffee by Bille Von Roeder, Moon Magic by Jesse Wheelock, and Seeking Beauty by Shelby Strong.

Each of the award winners spoke to the inspiration behind their work and read a short excerpt from their writing.  This year’s contest judges were local author Lucy E.M. Black, and Scugog’s Poet Laureate, Hollay Ghadery.  The judges commented upon the high calibre of the work and the richness of the imagery used in all of the entries.

The award winners were as follows:

Category: Adult Short Stories

1st – Glenna Agnew with Morning Coffee (painting Morning Coffee by Bille Von Roeder)

2nd – Amita Dayal with Hawk (painting Leonard by Bethany Aiken)

3rd – Teresa Veltman with Caught (painting Morning Coffee by Bille Von Roeder)

Category: Adult Poem

1st – Wojciech Gurak with Morning Coffee (painting Morning Coffee by Bille Von Roeder)

Category: Youth Poem

1st – Izzy Le Fay with morning coffee (or, it’ll be okay) (painting Morning Coffee by Bille von Roeder)

A lovely moment took place when Wojciech Gurak presented Billie Von Roeder with a copy of the poem he had written.  Wojciech and his wife also purchased Billie’s painting to keep in their home. Izzy Lefay wore their fringed western-styled jacket to the event as a sweet gesture to acknowledge the figure in Billie’s painting which inspired the poem.

This annual writing contest continues to grow in popularity and is a wonderful opportunity to celebrate the literary arts in our town. 

Scugog Art Space, April 6 – 28, 2024, Tuesday to Sunday 11 am – 5 pm

Opening Reception Saturday, April 6, 1-3 pm

Exploring the complex relationship between struggle and beauty.

Cheryl’s intricate studio practice unfurls around foliage, gold embellishments, and imagery to create a counter-narrative of tenacity and the human condition; a reminder that we are seeds of brilliance that will thrive in the right climate and conditions.

Cheryl Rock was awarded the Toronto Outdoor Art Fair – Best in Show Two-Dimensional Works for two consecutive years (2019, 2020). She was awarded the Mayor’s Purchase Award in 2020. In 2023, Cheryl was awarded the Catherine Bratty Award for Best of Art Fair.

In “No Mud, No Lotus,” I explore the complex relationship between struggle and beauty, drawing inspiration from the enduring metaphor of the lotus emerging from the murky depths of a muddy environment.

Through my art, I delve into the transformative power of adversity, highlighting how overcoming challenges and hardships, and remembering who you are, serve as the fertile ground from which resilience and growth flourish.

Using a subtractive process, and a variety of media, I capture the essence of this metaphor, inviting viewers to contemplate their journeys of growth and self-discovery. Each piece reflects the complex interplay of darkness and light, chaos and harmony, inviting viewers to embrace the inherent beauty in life’s imperfections.

By showcasing the inherent beauty in life’s challenges, “No Mud, No Lotus” serves as a reminder that our healing and joy are essential, as we discover inner power, uncovering the extraordinary beauty and strength that lies within us all.

Learn to paint a landscape with Lori Korkola

Have you always wanted to try painting in acrylic? Not sure where to start? 

This workshop will take you step-by-step through painting a landscape in acrylic under the close guidance of landscape artist, Lori Korkola.

You will leave with TWO complete paintings after the 4 session workshop. 

This workshop is meant for teens (13 and up!) and adults. By no means do you need to be a master or work in acrylic to take the workshop.

Lori will ensure your growth as an artist, while encouraging you to find and bring the true colours of nature to life on a canvas.

WHEN: Wednesdays, November 8th, 15th, 22nd, and 29th 

TIME: 3 PM to 5 PM

WHERE: Scugog Arts Space, 175 B Queen St, Port Perry

BONUS: High school students have the opportunity to earn volunteer hours by assisting in the setup and cleanup of workshops. After registering for the workshop, please send us an email to notify us that your high school student is interested in volunteering – melissa@scugogarts.ca

About The Instructor

Lori Korkola is the teen and adult workshop instructor for Inktober 2022. Lori holds an Honours BFA from U of T and is trained to be a secondary school art teacher at UBC. Lori taught visual arts at a high school in Whitby, Ontario for many years.

Workshop Details

The class fee is $160 (4, 2-hour sessions) with all materials provided. 

Sign up using the application form below to ensure your spot! 

“Walk With Me” by Elayne Windsor

Opening reception Saturday, October 14th, 1pm-3pm

Scugog Arts presents “Walk With Me” , an exhibition of collages exploring the beauty of paper.

Using found and purchased paper, Elayne Windsor’s work celebrates the everyday, as well as the uniqueness and beauty of specialty paper.

“The most valuable space for an artist is not physical. It is not canvas, brushes, paint, glue, scissors or a room; it is the space inside the mind. It is the space to explore ideas, think about concepts and compositions, deciding how to get out of a problem or combine past ideas. Finding the mental space is often hard. I find think time through walking. To me walking is like a mini vacation. Walking, especially in nature, allows me to step outside of society for awhile, all it’s constraints and expectations.

Walking as a cultural activity, as pleasure, as travel, as a means of getting around is fading and with it goes a profound relationship between Body, world and the imagination. The decline in walking to me is an indicator of the loss of freedom- freedom of space, freedom of time… Walls divide us but trails connect us. My work is full of trails.

Being an artist is to constantly have a conversation with yourself. As I walk I am selecting, eliminating and emphasizing ideas. What comes up is often a multitude of questions, rather than answers. Back at my studio I am ready to explore the questions and see what answers arise. For me the meaning often comes behind the work, rather than in front of it. I work to narrow my thinking, searching for the answers.

My collages, and decollage, are created on a variety of substrates; birch panel, mat board, canvas and paper. Scissors, hole punches and sandpapers are used when working with found and purchased paper. Gel medium is used as an adhesive, and after completion a coat of spray varnish is applied to the work.

My work charts both the inner and outer world as I walk, examining the world from multiple and varied perspectives at one time. It explores the simple outer rhythmical movement and patterns of my body integrated with my inner imagination and thinking.”

Elayne’s work takes the beauty of the everyday, the excitement of the special, the range of memories, and sets it out before you like a map of life’s experiences. Her work represents mind maps , small bits of memory held together through connections and relationships, one to the other.

You can view “Walk With Me” at the Scugog Arts Space from October 14th to November 12th , 2023 at the Scugog Arts Space.

“Walk With Me” by Elayne Windsor – opening reception Saturday, October 14th from 1-3PM.

Meet Ontario’s newest Poet Laureate serving the Township of Scugog

Scugog – Scugog is proud to announce its first Poet Laureate, Hollay Ghadery. Hollay will soon compose poetry to capture the beauty of Scugog Township and commemorate our culture, our heritage, and our community.

Ghadery as Scugog Poet Laureate will participate in select community events such as: Remembrance Day, Canada Day, Council Investiture, Unveilings, and incorporate poetry into a range of official community activities.

A Poet Laureate is an ambassador for the literary arts, and an honorary designation to educate, create, and promote poetry. When commissioned for an event, Hollay Ghadery will read from their original works that will reflect and elevate the occasion.

The Scugog Poet Laureate was appointed by a committee consisting of representatives from the local arts community and the Township of Scugog. The committee reviewed the applications, and held in depth interviews, which included selected poems.  

Hollay Ghadery is a published, award winning Iranian-Canadian poet. She grew up in Uxbridge, Ontario and is the author of several books, most recently, Rebellion Box (Radiant Press, 2023), a collection of poetry that explores limits of fixed identity through a universal, global, and hyper-local lens. 

The title poem of the collection—which is about Joseph Gould’s involvement in the 1837 Rebellion—won The New Quarterly’s 2022 Nick Blatchford Award.

Hollay Ghadery is the owner of River Street Writing, a collective of creatives who aim to create and celebrate amazing writing. She is a co-host of Angie’s Bookclub on 105.5 HITS FM and an editor with The Minola Review, untethered magazine, and long con magazine.

You can learn more about Hollay at www.hollayghadery.com Hollay Ghadery assumes her position for the Township of Scugog in the fall of 2023.

Quotes:

“The Township of Scugog is honoured to have Hollay Ghadery accept the role of Poet Laureate. Supporting the literary arts serves to educate and elevate our community. Having the poems composed to reflect our community and read at special events not only celebrates our occasions but roots them in the medium of the written word for prosperity.” – Township of Scugog Mayor, Wilma Wotten

“For 15 years Scugog Arts has been engaged with the literary community, amplifying local writers through contests, readings and workshops. It was time to get the public engaged and what better way to celebrate our culture than to have a Poet Laureate.”– Marion Meyers, President Board of Directors of Scugog Council of the Arts

“Growing up in the area and having so much of my writing inspired by local culture makes being selected as The Township of Scugog’s first Poet Laureate a tremendous honour. Not only am I thrilled to be representing this remarkable place and its people through my work during my time as Poet Laureate, but I am looking forward to meeting many more members of the community and hearing their stories. Thank you to Scugog Arts and The Township of Scugog for this distinction.” Hollay Ghadery, Scugog Poet Laureate

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Media Contact: Lori Bowers, Director Community Services and Communications, Township of Scugog
905.985.7346 ext. 132, lbowers@scugog.ca

@TwpofScugog

https://www.facebook.com/TownshipOfScugog/

Can you tell a story in just 10 words?

It’s back! The #10WordStory contest is now open for entries. Can you tell a story in just 10 words? Enter your story for a chance to win some great prizes from Scugog Arts.

THE RULES:

1. Pick an artwork in the Scugog Arts Space to inspire your story! You can stop by in person at 175B Queen Street, or you can have a look through our online shop at the works available.

2.   Using the form below, write your story and specify which piece you are working from.   

3.    As titled, the story cannot exceed 10 words.

4.    The time frame to enter is between August 22nd – September 22nd, 2023.

       Entry closes at 8PM on the final day.

Winning entries will not only receive some great prizes from Scugog Arts, but will be featured on our website and social media pages during Culture Days 2023!

September 9th – October 8th, 2023

Opening Reception: Saturday, Oct. 8th, 1-3PM

Scugog Arts presents the work of Sherry Crawford in her show, White Bear Standing Shares Heart & Art on at the Scugog Arts Space from September 9th – October 8th, 2023.

Sherry is a member of the Kihicho Manito Madaouskarini Algonquin, FN, Bancroft, ON. This exhibit shares images that include a little bit of her Algonquin culture. She feels that art is a wonderful way to share thoughts and emotions.

Artist Bio

Sherry Crawford has been enjoying the process of “Creating” since childhood.  The gravel pit next door, forest behind her home and beach provided opportunities to create drawings with sticks and sand castles.  The gravel pit was perfect for creating life sized human shapes and images. She remembers how she enjoyed making  sculptures of mermaids in the huge ‘sand’ canvas.  The forest provided the opportunity to create ‘fun spaces’ for forts.  She used skipping ropes tied between trees for walls, and what home would be complete without the serving of beautifully created mud pies, complete with flower decorations and style! This is how you create when you do not have art supplies or even know what an artist is. Looking back, she will tell you the desire to Create has always been a big part of her life, including gathering materials and making Crafts such as ‘pinecone wreaths.

She started to pursue a Career in ART seriously in 2010 after meeting an amazing Artist/Museum Curator-Owner/Auctioneer/Gallery Owner.  Sherry was ‘taken under this beautiful lady’s wings’ and the result is what we see today!

Sherry has evolved into her ‘style’ of creating pieces that share images of her Algonquin Culture, often incorporating hidden gems that pop out at just the right time!   She loves to paint and draw, often surprised herself by the stories and images that seem to appear to ‘paint’ themselves.  She has worked with many mediums, including the Procreate program on her IPAD and has created dozens of images, landscapes and abstract pieces.   She hopes to continue to evolve and has decided to never hold back on trying new projects or Artistic endeavors.

You can read more about Sherry and her work on her member page.

Visit us for the opening reception of White Bear Standing Shares Heart & Art on Saturday, September 9th, 2023. Come meet the artist and enjoy snacks and refreshments on us.

You can view the work of Sherry Crawford at the Scugog Arts Space from September 9th – October 8th.

We’re looking forward to seeing your entries! Opening reception for the Annual Juried Show will be August 5th from 1-3PM. The show will run from August 5th – September 3rd.

Best of luck!

To enter the 2023 Annual Juried Show, read carefully over the rules and fill out the entry form at the bottom of this page.

RULES FOR ENTRY

 1: Entry fee is $30. You may enter up to two pieces with one entry.  You can only enter using our Annual Juried Show entry form on the Scugog Arts website. You do not need to fill out two separate forms for each piece – you can upload both images within the form. Do not fill out multiple forms and pay more than once in order enter more than two pieces. Be prepared to provide good quality, high resolution images of your work. We only accept JPEG and HEIC file extensions.

 2: All work must be original and produced by the artist. Do not enter a copy of another artwork or anything produced under instruction (in a class). We will not accept work that has shown previously in our gallery.

 3: Artwork entered in the Annual Juried Show must be priced with intention for sale. Do not enter an artwork you do not wish to sell. Do not list your work as “not for sale” in your entry form – it will not be counted as an entry. Scugog Arts takes a commission of 30%.

 IF ACCEPTED:

Only entrants who have been accepted into the show will be contacted. We will reach you by email by July 16^th ,  2023 to notify you of your acceptance.

 DISPLAY CONDITIONS:  Accepted work must be labelled on the back with your name, contact information, name of piece, and price. All work must be suitably framed and ready to hang or display. Work for wall-hanging must have D-Rings and wire installed at the back of the piece. 

 Wall-work should not exceed 36″ (3ft) in width. If your work requires a special stand for display, we appreciate it if you can supply your own. We will not accept work that has shown previously in our gallery.

 DELIVERY AND PICKUP: Artwork must be delivered to Scugog Arts at 175B Queen St. on August 1st  or 2nd  between 11am-5pm.

 Artists must pick up their work on September 5th or 6^th between 11am and 5pm.

For any further inquiries or concerns, reach out to artsspace@scugogarts.ca

The Township of Scugog is currently seeking a Poet Laureate, commencing September 1, 2023, for a four-year term.  

The role of a Poet Laureate is to reflect the life of a community through readings and a celebration of poetry. As an ambassador for the literary arts, the Poet Laureate incorporates poetry into a range of official community activities. A Poet Laureate is an honorary designation that recognizes their talents and literary contributions. The Scugog Poet Laureate position also affords the poet a platform for acting as a literary ambassador for our community and works to educate, create, and promote poetry. The Poet Laureate will receive an honorarium of $500 per annum for each year of their term. 

The Scugog Poet Laureate will participate in select community events such as: Remembrance Day, the Mayor’s Gala, Canada Day, Council Investiture, Unveilings, Grant Recognition Ceremonies; Good Friday Walk, Dedications, and new community acquisitions such as the CT scanner for our hospital. The Poet Laureate will read from their original works that reflect and help to elevate the occasion.

The Scugog Poet Laureate will be appointed by a committee consisting of representatives from the local arts community and the Township of Scugog.

The successful candidate will serve a four-year term. They will fulfill the following responsibilities:

• Assume the role of literary ambassador for the Township of Scugog, both within and outside of our community;
• Produce at least one original work of poetry each year of their term (retaining intellectual property rights);
• Appear and present a minimum of four works of significance to the community:
• At least once per year in front of Scugog Council;
• At least once per year at a Scugog-sponsored event;
• At a minimum of two Scugog official functions per year;
• Use their title as Scugog Poet Laureate in any literary festival or professional event they participate in.

The Poet Laureate candidate must:

• Be 18 years or older;
• Reside in Durham Region (preference given to Scugog candidates);
• Have published works in recognized journals or magazines;
• Have presented their works at public events or forums;
• Achieved excellence in their practice or be recognized by their peers;
• Submit an application letter and a portfolio including a representative selection (minimum three, maximum six compositions) of their work;
• Take part in a finalist interview which will include an oral reading of a sample of their work (short-listed candidates only).

We encourage diversity, equity, and inclusivity in our process. In addition, accommodation will be provided in accordance with the Accessibility for Ontarians with Disabilities Act (AODA). Please email lbowers@scugog.ca if you require any accommodations.

Please deliver a hard copy application letter and portfolio pieces to: Scugog Arts no later than June 30, 2023, by 12 p.m., 175B Queen Street, Port Perry, ON.

Poet Laureate for Scugog Township (PDF)

Learn how to tell your story and find your rhythm with writer, musician and artist Tamara Williamson and drummer, performer and creative wellness educator Tanya Porter in an afternoon designed to feed your creative spirit organized by Scugog Council for the Arts. Words, Beats and Treats takes place on Sunday, June 11 at Scugog Memorial Public Library and Scugog Arts Space both in downtown Port Perry.

Tamara Williamson, who is an engaging speaker, will share how she wrote her first book (a recently published memoir) as a pandemic project. She will read from her book, talk about her creative journey, lead participants through a writing exercise and share a few songs. 

Tanya Porter led two fun and meaningful drum workshops at Scugog Arts’ recent Energize! Symposium and she returns to inspire participants to try their hand at drumming. No experience necessary and if you would prefer to just listen, that’s okay too. 

Born and raised in London England, Tamara Williamson has led an amazing life in the art world. Signed to a major label in the 90’s, she went on to tour in Europe and North America as a solo artist and with her band Mrs. Torrance. She has shared the stage with Oasis, The Beautiful South, Talk Talk, Rheostatics and Feist has called her an inspiration. Her first book Mirror Horse has just launched and she has written and produced an accompanying song and music video.

Tanya Porter is a multi-disciplinary artist, performer, educator, holistic energy practitioner and yoga instructor with over 30 years of  experience in theatre, drum, dance, and creative wellness programming. She has recorded with numerous artists and in soundtracks for CBC, YTV and for independent films and has composed and recorded soundscapes for many live theatre and dance productions.

These two workshops will be held back to back on Sunday, June 11 at Scugog Memorial Library from 2 pm to 4 pm and will be followed a reception at Scugog Arts Space from 4 pm to 5 pm.

Admission is by donation at the door but you must register in advance below. Spaces are limited!

Thank you to the Ontario Trillium Foundation and the Government of Ontario for funding through the OTF Resilient Communities Fund.

Learn more about Tamara, here: https://www.tamarawilliamson.ca/

Learn more about Tanya, here: https://www.theinnerspace.ca/about

June 3rd – July 4th, 2023

Scugog Arts presents “Collaged” , an imaginative show of fine art created with up-cycled materials by Lakefield based artist Holly Edwards.

Holly is an abstract figurative artist using materials to intuitively respond to her environment and emotions. Paintings on paper, lino prints, monotypes and suminagashi marbling are collaged onto birch panels, canvas or watercolour papers. New works emerge combining vintage letters, Japanese papers and repurposed magazine clippings.

 “Through various mediums and materials, I strive to develop my art with integrity by continuously making a mark and responding to that impression. My process involves creating art daily, often working in a series to process an idea.
During the pandemic I found myself recycling life-drawing sketches and painted paper studies to create new works in the form of collage—often an unknown portrait or a group of figures. Old letters, magazine images, image transfers, monoprints, Lino prints, dry point and patterned washi were soon added to the collage mix. The endless possibilities of positive and negative shapes and additive and subtractive layers has become an integral part of my art practice.”

“Collaged” embraces art as a process where the journey of creating is integral to the finished piece.

Visit the Scugog Arts Space on Saturday, February 4th between 1-3PM for the opening reception. View the exhibition, meet the artist, and enjoy light refreshments including sweets provided by the Nutty Chocolatier.

Mincemeat Pie By Rich Giffen (aka Chris Wunderlich)

It must have been the early nineties—my memory is hyper-clear on certain details and completely blank on others. I’m guessing it was an especially warm Thanksgiving weekend. I was six years old, or maybe seven. I sat in a small café and ate what was probably a single scoop of completely forgettable ice cream. From where I sat, I could see out into the street and down to the lake. And near the lake sat a gigantic, red, million-year-old barn. I was fixated on it. It told me everything I needed to know about where I was.

The town of Port Perry is where my grandparents live. Before I became old enough to fully grasp my surroundings, this is the only way I knew the town. It was where Christmases and Easters and Thanksgivings took place. It was nostalgic and dusty, and it smelled like chicken pot pie. It was distinguished, with character and charm, and forever stuck in an age that remained a mystery to me. Homes had fireplaces and backed onto woodlots. Shops had awnings and hand painted signs. And right at the crux of it all lay a giant, red barn. I had no idea what it was actually for. A beacon of small-town magic, probably nothing more.

Later I would understand that said charm hid terrible truths—the same as any other town. I learned how the lake would pretend to freeze over, tricking careless snowmobilers and eating them whole. I met people caught in the class divide, having broken homes in terrible poverty rub shoulders with enormous wealth and indifference. I saw the all-too-common obituaries of teenagers, killed while drinking or driving or both. But that sad reality remained invisible during my childhood, thankfully. Port Perry is still, after all, my grandparents’ town. And any time I see farmland stretching out to meet suburbs or hear quaint downtowns bustling with friendly energy—or taste specifically horrendous tap water, to be honest, I think of them and that place.

I don’t remember how I came to be sitting in the corner café with my ice cream, but I do remember both my dad and grandpa (that is, my mother’s father) had taken me there. Perhaps we’d been playing catch in the park earlier. Perhaps my mother and sister and grandma had gone shopping somewhere feminine. The only thing I remember perfectly clearly about that day is my grandpa’s order. He’d asked for a slice of mincemeat pie.

It was the first time I’d heard that term, “mincemeat pie”. It sounded disgusting. My dad timidly cautioned him, asking “Are you sure? We’re having dinner soon”. My grandpa laughed without answering. When we sat and ate, I marveled at the flakey, buttery triangle of pie. It was full of fruit and raisins and brown, sugary ooze. My dad was surprised as well.

And that’s the day we both learned that mincemeat pie was not a hearty meal of beef or chicken, but a desert—almost like a giant butter-tart. Lesson learned. Call it a “slice of life”. As quaint as that big, red barn; as charming as Port Perry itself.

But it’s the interaction between my dad and grandpa that has me, to this day, still thinking about that moment. They were (and still are!) both loving, caring, men, dedicated to their families, with sound tempers, sage advice and nothing but good intentions in their hearts. They were my most important male role models growing up. They still are. But rarely did I see them genuinely interact. We’d attend baseball games together, eat at all the same family meals, and visit the cottage on the same weekends. They’d known each other all the years I’d been alive and even some before. But I can only recall a single conversation between the two of them. My dad was worried my grandpa would fill up on meat pie before supper; my grandpa laughed it off. It was barely a conversation at all.

My mom and dad divorced when I was in my early teens. It was for the best, and I’ve continued to have an excellent relationship with both of them. They made it work, and I think they live happy lives now. I don’t want to know the specifics of their relationship—the drama, the sadness, the words exchanged that my little ears were never meant to hear. I just want to know that they are happy.

So, this has me wondering, how can two people have their lives so intrinsically entwined for so many years without forming a meaningful bond? My dad spent most of his life without a father—did he see a father-figure in my grandpa? From what I saw between them, it isn’t likely. If I were to ask either one, I’m sure I’d get a respectful assessment of the other, tinged with reluctance or disinterest. Both men have affected my life in countless, meaningful, life-altering ways, yet they have seemed to have no effect on each other. I could find the truth about their relationship (my mom loves a good chat), but I, like them (or because of them) am hesitant to face the reality. I don’t want to see what dark secrets might be hidden beneath the apathy. I don’t want to tint the nostalgia of all those Christmases and Easters and Thanksgivings. I want to remember, exclusively, the magic of my ignorantly pleasant childhood. I want to remember my dad being slightly embarrassed while my grandpa enjoyed his delicious slice of confectionary perfection. To this day I love mincemeat pie—an inheritance, perhaps.

Some people you meet only once, and they change your life forever. Others you can know for years without forming a meaningful connection. I’m terrified that I’m not working hard enough at the relationships that I have. I don’t want to be passive, forgettable and irrelevant to those I care about. But I’m also too scared to ask, to know where I stand. When my grandpa finally leaves this world, will I have made him proud? Will he look back at my role in his life and smile? Or will he simply think of me with respect? Any shred of disinterest, reluctance or dishonesty would be too crushing to bear.

Fear will keep me ignorant, always striving, always worried, surely to an unhealthy degree. But I know what’s in mincemeat pie. That’s enough. I don’t want to see what’s hiding in the barn.

Leave the Window Open by Tina Gascon

Christmas was a wash. Of course it was. It was obviously the last which made it worse. You can narrow death down to window of time, days, weeks, years… but when they closed him back up instead of completing the surgery at the end of August, it was obvious that time was at a premium.
My Daddy was losing his battle with cancer.
He remained strong for us. He remained alive for us as long as he could, despite the disease. He never turned down a treatment or an option. I saw him as often as I could. When he had a day where he could function, he would go to gamble at the casino. First at Casino Rama, and then when he could not longer make the drive, Blue Heron
He spent Christmas alone in the emergency room because of covid rules and came home to be admitted to Lakeridge Health Port Perry. Visitors were limited to just my Mom but I tried to see him all the same. I called him daily. Sometimes he could talk and sometimes he couldn’t. Then he told me about his window.
Despite being in the hospital, he liked being right near the window and even though the temperature was hovering at almost minus twenty degrees, they let him keep it open.
I rounded up my kids, on New Year’s Eve, after I knew he would have had time to rest up since the end of my mom’s daily visit. We found his window and for the first time in days, we got to see him. Our visit lasted about forty-five seconds because it was too hard on him. The kids got to wish him a “Happy New Year” and it made them feel a little better.
The next day, January 1st, I decided to make the half an hour trip to see him myself. I found his window again but the man I saw was different from the day before. They had figured out his medications and he was so much more comfortable and talkative.
He told me the doctors had given him another month or two. Before he said that he wouldn’t see the spring, now he had a chance. It was hard to communicate through the window; the open part wasn’t visible from his bed but he wanted to see me. If I looked through the window at him, he couldn’t hear me. He had spent the day staring at the sheet surrounding his bed and wanted to look at me instead. I was dumbstruck that my face could mean so much to someone. He wanted to see his “sweet girl”.
Dad was worn out quickly and within 15minutes, I was on my way back home. Our visit struck a chord with me. It was so much like when I was younger. We were both such terrible sleepers, but we loved the night sky. We would tell each other about the weird little things we had seen in the night. It was something we had that was just for us.
I tried to time my visits and phone calls apart from Mom’s visit time so on January 2nd, I was surprised to get a call around 10am.
My Dad was worse than they suspected. He had his last big choice before him: assisted suicide, medical coma or continue to suffer terribly. He chose the coma. His fight was nearly through, and the coma was set to begin that afternoon.
And just like that, the door to any of his future slammed closed. It was time to see him off.
With his death so near, the hospital allowed my brother and me to accompany my Mom into the hospital. Everything happened so quickly. They gave him a new room, with a better window. He could see who was outside as well as talk to them. The window stayed open just like he wanted. Word was passed around the family and those that could make it rushed to the hospital. One by one, the people that loved him, came to his window to say goodbye. Everyone did their best not to upset him. To see such strength, all for my Daddy, to raise him up and send him off in peace awed me. Mostly I watched my Daddy, wishing everyone a good life, through the open window.
When they were about to put him into the coma, he arranged us in a semi circle at the foot of his bed. For a man of few words, in the end, he knew the ones I needed to hear. He left nothing either unsaid or to regret. I can only wish for such grace when I reach my end. His last words of advice to me were “Stay strange Teen”. This may seem odd to some, but it was exactly what I needed to hear.
To go into further detail is much too painful, but he was put into the coma with us surrounding him. I sat with him that night, with the window open as much as I could handle it (I kept having to warm up and then I would open it wide again).
In the early morning, my brother relieved my vigil. And later that morning, my mom came in. She was with him when he passed on January 3rd, less than a day into him medical coma. His strength still astounds me.
This past year without him has been a blur; I walked through it partially dead myself.
I think about him and miss daily but the night is still ours. I sit out in the yard by myself but not alone. I’m surrounded by 100 acres of corn and the type of clear sky you can only see in the dark of the country. As I watch the sky, he sends me shooting stars, and the breeze that lifts the bird’s wing in the day also lifts my hair at night. It’s my Daddy. He’s travelling the wind.
When I die, make sure to leave the window open. He’s been waiting for me.

The Way Forward by Amita Dayal 

Having been through it once before I could recognize the signs, albeit only the late signs, oblivious to the subtle ones I’d missed along the way. Avoiding work, ironically, as looming piles of work was part of the stress I was ignoring. Avoiding work and instead googling; alone in bed at night. Into that white bubble of hope, my cursor blinking; ‘non-clinical jobs for doctors in Canada’. This had been a late sign of significant burnout for me several years ago. That someone who worked their entire young life, giving up much of their twenties, amassing enormous debt to have their dream job would, in a dark place, be searching for any way out.

I was rescued from my first episode of burnout by a fire. A fire of the roof of our community hospital that, as it melted into the electrical room, became my salvation. We had to close for a year and luxuriously I slept in my bed every night for that year; something I had not done in close to 20 years. It afforded me an opportunity to re-group, to catch my breathe. It was an unfortunate and unexpected gift. What it did not do was show me how to prevent the cycle from happening again.

And so, it began again – the saying yes, the being everything to everyone, the pushing of my already poorly defined boundaries. These unconscious acts resulting in long hours and endless meetings. Impossible to fulfill commitments and the chest squeezing physical stress that accompanies that feeling of drowning. Drowning under a situation you yourself created and can’t see a way out of.

Burnout is an insidious thing, sneaking into the days and weeks; initially affecting the ‘off hours’, those times with family and friends, what should be recharging time. Instead of connecting, becoming distracted, irritable, withdrawn. Just plain exhausted. A vicious cycle.

From above, hovering near the corner of the ceiling, I see myself, scrolling, checking, texting, and avoiding. Avoiding sleep or avoiding something more? Something buried deep. Maybe many things. Maybe the anxiety, the losses, the anticipated disasters. Things that are part of the life of a doctor but made exponentially worse by the slap of a global pandemic.

It is only after the online exploration of jobs in medical writing, teaching, and medical administrative work that the bundle of frayed wires I call my brain thinks to google, ‘burnout’. Burnout is characterized, as per the internet definition, by three dimensions. One is the feeling of energy depletion or exhaustion – check. I can’t find the energy to take a lunch to work, adopting an ‘I’ll figure it out’ attitude (which means I’ll eat random office chocolate) let alone exercise. Increased mental distance from one’s job- check. Although I would never let on when face to face with a patient most weeks I am counting down the hours until I get a break, even when that break is 7 or 8 days away. The final dimension is a feeling of negativism related to one’s job – check. The google search. My late sign.

I tried adding monthly massages and weekly workouts with a trainer to my schedule; hoping some self-care would cure me. I joined a writing group; to nurture my childhood love of writing and allow for venting of my stress and life pressures. I met with a social worker online who empathized with my situation and gave me a safe space to share. I felt blessed that I was able to do such nice things for myself. Ironically, my calendar became fuller, and I felt even emptier. Everything felt like a chore, even my burnout strategies.

I imagined myself as an old water jug, crockery from a deceased relative; no longer able to hold water. Leaking like a sieve; broken handle, lip chipped. I was trying to fill it up but was left tapped out, feeling broken with not much left to give.

There becomes a point of despair; when you feel that you can no longer help yourself but also that there is no one who can help you. I considered acceptance. Maybe this is the price of being a doctor? For the life I chose, for my big house and safe lifestyle. I considered my options, but nothing seemed reasonable or possible. Not without letting everyone down or imploding my life. I am not an imploder, I am a live by the status quo, do what you know kind of person. Not a risk taker.

I sat in the parking lot, between work and home and cried, and crying does not come easy. Emotions must be compartmentalized to get through the day and with opening that box comes the fear that the lid may never fit back on. Emotions take time and I was short on time. Crying is messy. Eventually, I made a phone call. I explained where I was, the hole I was in, the need for a person at the top, throwing a rope and holding it while I climbed.

Help came. In the form of a woman who had previously worked as a rural family doctor but now spent her workdays coaching physicians. Physician like myself who were burnt out and needed to find the way forward. She asked me difficult questions, making me take stock of my values, my strengths and those weaknesses that made me vulnerable. I made hard decisions, about my work-life balance and I had the strength to carry them through. I understood why they were necessary. I let people down but, in the process, found a way to stop letting myself down.

I am moving forward. After 17 years of acute, fast paced care, I am moving towards some more creative aspects of medicine, such as writing and humanities. Slowing down. I try to view my practice through a physician wellness lens and hope to lead my colleagues and students by exploring burnout avoidance strategies that go deeper than so called self-care. A spa day or a cup of tea are good. Better still to ask yourself, who am I? What do I need to succeed in my version of success?

I want to have the energy to do my clinical work with some left for exercise. I want to be present with my patients and colleagues and cherish the role I am blessed to play in their lives and health. I want to feel good about the choice I made to follow my dream of being a physician. I want to never do that google search again.

The Way to Acceptance by Karen Seeley

Lightening flashed so close that I cringed. Here I was, out in the middle of the lake, the highest thing around. I’m not sure what the canoe is made of. Fiberglass maybe. It looks like wood, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t. At least it’s not metal, but it does have metal reinforcement in a thin strip around the top of the canoe.
I heard all the warnings my mother ever gave me. “Don’t go out on the lake if there is a storm” she would say. “If you hear thunder, get off the lake! Lightening will follow” and “Lightening strikes whatever is higher than the water. And it will strike anything that has metal in it”.
When I started out this morning, it was nice out. A little overcast maybe, but nothing too ominous. I could see the dark green line of evergreens and firs on the island far across the lake. To the west, an arm of land jutted out. I knew there was a cove on the other side of that arm. I had always found peace there, and I needed some of that.
“We’re leaving at noon, so be sure to be back by then” dad said. I rolled my eyes. I know, I know. Be back by noon. Geez. I’m not a baby, I’m fifteen.
I had to get away and think, and I had to be alone. Even though I had already thought and thought about it. I knew something was wrong last night when I went to hold Darryl’s hand, and he moved it out of the way. Not subtly enough because I noticed. I stopped walking and turned to face him. He turned his face away. “What is it? What’s wrong?” I asked.
He kept looking away from me, but said, “I don’t think we should see each other any more. I like you, but I don’t like, like you. You know what I mean?”
I remember gulping. He liked me enough to hang around all summer. He liked me enough to fool around with. Rat bastard. I kind of smiled, or something like it, trying not to show how he hurt me. Really, I don’t know how I came off. All of my feelings were battling it out at once.
I managed to spit out, “What did I do? What can I do?” I remember repeating it a few times.
He finally turned and faced me. “You didn’t do anything. Sometimes, things don’t work out” he said.
I felt a kind of dread. I thought we had a good thing. How could I be so wrong? Maybe if I kissed him. I got closer to him, and leaned my head in for a kiss. He gently pushed me away. On top of my hurt, I now had humiliation. He wouldn’t see me cry though. No way.
“It has been good, the time we had. Let’s leave it at that” he said.
This would all go in my diary once I got home. What would I write? That I was livid? That I was devastated? I couldn’t decide. It was dark, so I couldn’t see his face very well, and had to go by what he was saying. I was only half listening, struggling to keep my dignity and wondering if I should make a scene.
“I’ll walk you back to your cottage” he said as he started walking again. He wanted this over with. That was for sure. We walked in silence for a while.
“Goodbye” he said once we were at my cottage. “Bye” was all I said. I watched as he disappeared into the darkness.
I sat on the porch in that darkness. It was Meghan, wasn’t it? I saw how he looked at her that time. I imagined him kissing her. I hated Meghan.
I spent an hour out there, going over the smallest of details, over and over again. It all happened so suddenly. But I knew that it wasn’t sudden, and that he must have been thinking about it for a while. I felt so stupid. And ugly. And fat.
“Howdy, stranger!” my mom greeted me when I finally decided to go inside. Should I join the card game? Mr and Mrs Warden from a couple of cottages down were there, watching as I entered, while Mr Black was counting his chips. What else was there to do? I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, for sure. I decided not to join the game, even though it would be a good way to pass the time. My mom quietly followed me to my room.
“What’s wrong?” mom asked. “Nothing” I said, giving a shrug so she would accept my answer. My mom knew, though. She always knew. I had always been a pretty quiet kid, but eventually I always told her everything that happened in my life. She knew she just had to wait. This was a big one to keep inside. My first boyfriend. And he had just dumped me.
I had kept Darryl a secret. Here at the cottage, I was part of a gang of kids that hung out all summer, and we all knew each other since we were little. He was new to the neighbourhood, and my parents had never met him. Never would, now.
I turned into the cove, in perfect balance in the canoe. My arms kept up their motion. Those canoeing lessons I had at camp really paid off. My paddling came naturally and I didn’t have to think about it. So my mind was free to take me back once more to last night.
I wondered again what I did. Or what I didn’t do. I went over the last few days we had been going out, trying to remember everything in our conversations, looking for clues.
I remembered meeting up a few days ago. Darryl came to the usual place at the right time, but he didn’t have any licorice for me. He saw my look.
“Miller’s ran out of licorice” he said. He shrugged. “Sorry I didn’t have time to check anywhere else”.
He knew I loved licorice and he always had some for me. Except that day. I had become accustomed to his gift of licorice. And he couldn’t be bothered to find some? Was that the beginning?
Then there was Meghan. It seemed to me that Darryl found a way to maneuver closer to her when she was around. He laughed at all her jokes and he seemed to be more goofy around her, like he was extra nervous or something. Could I blame him? Meghan with her blue eyes and big boobs. She was smart, too. I saw it all happening and said nothing. I hate that I said nothing.
The wind had picked up considerably and was blowing me away from the direction I wanted to go. The lake was a bluish grey colour, with white lines of bubbles on the waves. Weeds that had been churned up were floating on the surface. The lake that I loved, the lake that was usually so friendly turned angry. The choppy water started to tire me out as I tried to get back to the dock in front of my cottage. Between the wind blowing droplets off the lake and the waves splashing over into the canoe, I was getting soaked. My clothes were beginning to chafe me, too. I wore my favourite blue jacket and black jeans. It was just about the end of summer, so I wore the jacket and jeans because it was a little chilly in the mornings now. I hadn’t given a thought that what I was wearing would get wet. I didn’t expect this. I felt the first tinge of fear.
Mom would be worried, and dad furious. It wasn’t like me to keep them waiting. When I said I was going to be back by noon, I meant it. Mom would know my lateness wasn’t intentional. I kept looking to the skies and hoping the storm would pass. Instead of passing, the wind just got worse. Scheduled departure time was noon. I figured it must be about noon now. I had to get back soon or there would be hell to pay.
I’ll bet my dad is pacing, and my mom is smoking a cigarette to calm down. I could just hear them.
“Jesus! We told her to be here by noon, Paula. Where the hell is she?” my dad would say.
“Come on, Frank. She’ll be here soon,” would be her answer. Then a puff. I could also see a smirk on Keith’s face. I was in trouble, but he wasn’t. Stupid little brother.
I aimed the canoe for the dock on the horizon. More rumbling of thunder. That dock was a little bit of comfort in my day right now, a sign that I would be home soon. I paddled with all my might and hardly made any headway. The fear that had been in the back of my mind came to the forefront. I have to admit, it made me start to cry. Then, the downpour began. This storm had come on so quickly and was acting strangely. Was it a twister or something?
The crash of thunder and another flash of lightning made me cry harder. Sheets of rain were obscuring the view of my goal, but I didn’t stop. All I wanted right then was to get to that dock. The rain had made the oars slippery, and I felt blisters forming. What could I do but ignore the pain in my hands and carry on?
And now here I was. My parents are going to kill me. I began to feel exhausted as well as afraid. I had to get back to the dock. I rested for just a second. That was all I needed. Just a second. But I still felt uncomfortable and cold.
My thoughts went from losing Darryl and everything I did, or didn’t do, to all the things I had done wrong in my whole life. Seems to me I screwed up a lot in my life. I began to wonder if I would ever make it to the dock. Was this it, then?
I needed to think of how I got through those mistakes. The ones that made me feel like my life was over, and yet were behind me now. The ones that resolved themselves. The ones that I could see were no big deal in the rearview mirror.
Like the time I got caught smoking. My dad had to be the one to lecture me, because my mom smokes. It was stupid. I knew better than to start, but my friends were doing it. And when I copied my friend’s project on Haiti and handed it in. I like doing projects, but I had run out of time. I changed a few words. Still, it was copied. Then there was that time I fell in the shower after Phys Ed and was too hurt to get dressed, and I waited, naked, until the school nurse came and she ended up calling the ambulance. One of the EMT guys was cute and I wanted to die. Why did I have to think of these things?
“And what have we learned?” my dad would ask every time I screwed up. I hated that. But it made me look at how I could get through problems.
I cried out when lightening lit up the sky again, but it gave me renewed purpose and I paddled like I had never paddled before. I could see that I had made some headway, and it pumped me up. I was strong and made use of all the strokes. I focussed my energy even more.
I made it to the dock and hastily got out of the canoe, the wind and fatigue making everything extra difficult. I took the time to pull the canoe to the canoe rack. I trudged to the cottage, knowing I was in for it. I had never been so happy as when mom ran out of the cottage to greet me and give me a hug, with no concern that I was soaking. “I have water boiling for hot chocolate” she said. “Now let’s get out of those clothes.”
She brought a couple of hot chocolates into my room and we both sipped quietly for a couple of minutes. Sure, I was grown up enough to have a boyfriend, and lose him, but there were times when I still wanted my mother, so that I knew I was loved.

Untitled by Lyndell Oldfield

She drained the last of the now cold tea from her mug and pushed herself away from the screen. Standing and stretching she released some of the tension and strain from working in her cramped quarters. She stood for a time, just looking out the window.

Deep blue shadows spread across the hard snowy surface of the lake. The dark winter green of conifers lined the shore. What a good idea it had seemed a few days ago, to leave the city, to move to the cottage, to take refuge from the tumbled world. When she’d first conceived of the idea she’d lost no time in contacting the summer neighbour (that’s how she always thought of him) and arranged to have the drive plowed, the water turned on and a load of wood delivered.

All the way there she’d imagined how cozy she would make things, how homey it would be with wooly throws added to the couch, a crackling fire, a glass of wine and a good book. Of course she’d have to work most days, but that could all be done online.

When she arrived she drove up between freshly plowed snowbanks in the greyness of the day, hauled everything she’d brought inside, and raised the thermostat to 28 C. to take the damp and cold out as quickly as possible. She paused to look around at the light coloured walls and worn furnishings, so familiar, yet now feeling empty. Bereft of the summer sounds of extended family, kids and dogs dashing in and out, screen door slamming, squeals of laughter, parental admonitions to “stay safe”, “mind the little ones”, the cottage felt so very different. The kitchen seemed a bit bare and drab, the floors were definitely cold. In fact, nothing felt like she’d imagined, not at all.

Nevertheless, the next day she had driven into the village, picked up extra groceries, a pack of emergency candles (because that was something you were supposed to have on hand, wasn’t it?) and a couple of bird feeders with bags of seed. As she hung the bird feeders somewhat awkwardly from the only branches she could reach, she’d had the feeling that the house, the yard, the snowy lake with its heavy rim of trees were all a bit indifferent, as though she was nothing more than an interruption of their winter slumber. Perhaps they were right, and her place here was only in the summer with the loons and the herons and the ever present mosquitoes., Maybe there was no place for her here among the neatly tarped lawn furniture, the BBQ piled high with snow over its cover, the dock nearly invisible under its white mantle. What on earth had she been thinking?

By three days later she’d developed something of a routine, rising, working on her laptop, returning emails and calls, having a sandwich for lunch while indulging in the thick novel she’d brought, working a bit longer, making dinner, and so on. Since yesterday she’d noticed that her bird feeds had been found. A couple chickadees were first, then a bold Blue Jay. this afternoon a red squirrel warned everyone away from atop the big spruce.

She stepped into her Kamiks and pulled on her fleecy plaid coat, and stepped out with her plastic bucket of bird seed to refill the feeders. Drawing the fresh damp tinged air into her lungs she smiled Hello to the blue jay that had immediately swooped to a close branch. Within seconds chickadees and nuthatches appeared and the red squirrel leaped from branch to branch chattering. She smiled again, thinking that her “pop up cafe” had evidently become an overnight sensation!

After some minutes of watching her patrons scramble to fill themselves as rapidly as possible she stepped back indoors to retrieve her hat and mittens. The fresh air lifted her as her boots scuffed through the snow. As she neared the lakeshore the sun had slipped partway behind the hills., golden and orange, leaving the soft blue and puffy clouds of the overhead sky. The lake stretched out before her, undulating shadows of blue and ridges of pure gold painted across its snowy canvas. How in the world had she lived so long without this spectacle of sunshine, dancing snow crystals and shadows? At this moment it seemed to be one of the only things worth living for! It filled her up as she trudged across the uneven surface.

As she was about to turn back she caught a bright movement ahead. Squinting into the rays of the late afternoon sun she stopped, spellbound, as a fox leapt into the air, pouncing in deadly intent on his hoped for supper. His orange coat gleamed in the golden light. She was in awe as she noted the black of his fine legs and and sharp nose, as well as the white of his chest and tip of his tail.. She marveled at the sheer beauty and grace of this creature. Then as quickly as he’d appeared he trotted off, never seeming to have noticed her at all.

Heart glowing she made her way back to the house. Inside, the last rays of the sun cast a warm glow onto the walls. The fire crackled. From the crock pot a wonderful aroma arose. From outside the friendly chatter of the chickadees welcomed her back.

She smiled a deep smile of contentment.

The Way Forward by Glenna Agnew

I rested my paddle against the edge of the canoe for a few moments and just gazed in awe at the panoramic view that spread out before me.
The weather was crisp and just slightly chilly although I knew that by mid-morning it would be considerably warmer; but now I was thankful for my blue fleece lined jacket. My bright orange lifejacket added an extra lawyer of warmth between me and the raw chill that I tried to tell myself invigorated the morning.
Behind me I could hear my sister in the stern, breathing regularly as she bent and dipped her paddle in and out of the water. The same repetitive pattern, breathe and dip, breathe and dip, in and out, in and out. It was somehow calming, cathartic if you will. God, I needed that.
The clouds overhead were not your fluffy white cotton candy variety of clouds, they looked angry and somewhat ominous; as if any moment the sky would part and the heavens would open sending a deluge of torrential rain down upon us. Maybe I secretly wanted that, maybe I needed that too. A way to wash away my troubles, maybe even cleanse my soul, although I somehow doubted that was even possible.
There was a plethora of fir trees on the shore in front of me, dark and dense. Interspersed amongst the coniferous trees were deciduous trees that had not yet started to change with the fall colours. The chill in the air was a good indication that autumn was upon us and that soon the bright colours of red, orange, yellow and brown would infiltrate the forest in a glorious splash of colour. Ontario was always at its best when dressed in this magnificent array.
As we came to the half way part of the little lake, the water became choppier. I noticed how the lake had taken on myriad shades of blue; lighter in the distance and darker where it splashed against the bow of the canoe. I remember as a child how I had always painted lakes one solid bold swipe of blue, but now I could see the gradation of shades that surrounded us. Ripples of azure, aqua, cobalt; touches of teal and ultramarine. I suppose with age comes more discernment, more awareness, more perception. At least this is what I think is supposed to happen, my current situation obviously negated these character traits.
Here, mid lake, the wind picked up and I tucked behind my ears, the loose tendrils that had escaped my single braid. The canoe began to rock gently, small waves lapping against the sides. The rocking motion somehow reminded me of the times when, as a child, I would crawl up into my Grandmother’s lap as she rocked in her ancient rocker on her front porch overlooking this very lake. She would hold me close, set the chair in motion and start to sing softly in that melodic voice that was always so soothing and she would wipe away all my tears, fears and sorrows. Oh Grandma! I miss you. I need you so much now. My emotions were as tumultuous as the brooding skies and the storm that was sure to develop later in the morning.
As if reading my mind, my sister started to hum softly. I recognized the song immediately. It was one of the songs that Grandma used to sing to us when we were little. She did not sing the words but I knew that both of us were singing the words in our minds. The unspoken words resonated in my mind, strong and clear.
My knees started to ache as I sat still in the bow, knees tucked up tightly under the seat. I placed both hands on my paddle as it rested on the sides of the canoe and distributing my weight carefully, I adjusted my position.
To the north I could hear the sounds of the Canada Geese as they flew in their famous “V” formation. We watched them as they came closer. They were on a mission and they knew where they were headed. Loudly, obnoxiously, persistently perhaps, but definitely with a concrete goal in mind. They obviously had their ducks in a row, I thought with a little humour and irony. If only it was that easy. If only I had that tenacity, that sense of purpose, that goal. My life, in comparison, seemed so purposeless, so uncertain, so unsure. So totally screwed up.
As we continued on, the smell of a wood fire drifted over the water. Pungent. Memorable. I turned my nose to the sky and drank in the scent, inhaling great bunches of goodness. Then, wonder of wonder, seconds later the smell of bacon frying over a campfire. I could almost taste it, I could envision it, greasy strips of bacon, sizzling in a black cast iron frying pan, becoming even more crispy as the pan got hotter. Grease bubbling, bacon crisping, my senses on overload, pleasant memories stirring.
We finally arrived at the far side of the lake. It was time to turn around. It was time to head home. We had crossed the lake, yet I felt like we had crossed some great divide. As one, my sister and I dug our paddles into the water and in a few strokes, turned the canoe around to the direction we had come.
There was a peace within me that I didn’t quite understand. I had come on this trip filled with dread, filled with indecision, filled with….. Yet somehow, mysteriously, maybe even miraculously there now was a harmony in my soul. My soul no longer felt lost, no longer felt dark. No longer felt adrift. There was a sense of peace. Where once there had been darkness now there was light. Small, flickering, a fledgling speck of light, but still, nun the less; there.
Not a word had been spoken, our journey was one of silence. My sister and I, always as one accord; knew what the other wanted, what they needed. My senses once on overload now were at rest,
I somehow, now knew … the way forward.

Behind Her Eyes, Beneath the Water
By Rich Giffen (aka Chris Wunderlich)

I stared at the back of my mother’s head and tried to remember her face—not the face I’d just met, as we hugged and ate lunch, before pushing our canoe into the water. I wanted to remember the face of my mother as a young woman, full of frustration, curiosity and bombastic energy. She could be a source of annoyance, a pillar of strength, a maddening teacher, or a caring confidant, sometimes all at once. Now, after so many years of distant, occasional communication between us, I was afraid she was gone. In her place was an older, wearier woman, content with life and its simple offerings, yet sapped of the spark that kept me on my toes. We waded through the calm water as I steered us to the middle of the lake.
“The Hendersons live there now,” my mother said, pointing to a dilapidated cottage near the shore. “Ethel and Frank were there for years, but I think they’ve moved to a home. I like the Hendersons, though. They only come up in the summer. They’ve got a very friendly pug.”
I nodded, but of course my mother couldn’t tell. She didn’t require my acknowledgment, anyhow.
“Oh, looks like Mary and Ken have a new boat. Or maybe that’s one their son brought up,” she continued.
It’s a good thing she couldn’t see my face. My lack of interest may have been perceived as rude. She was simply on autopilot, sharing the only information she had about her miniscule community. She was no longer a parent of schoolchildren, and she didn’t have a job, or coworkers to complain about. She was part of the road committee, a small group of neighbors that met twice a year to discuss snowplows and mud. And that was it.
“Did you see the turkeys on your way up? They usually walk along the road. There are four, I think. Maybe they’ve had babies.”
I hated how dull her interests had become; how narrow her social circle was. I wanted to see my mother thrive in the world, embrace the wisdom of her age, tackle exciting projects, explore, learn, or help others, like I knew she still could. Instead, she seemed to only garden and cook. I imagined the crippling boredom, the loneliness and soul-sucking mundanity of it all, and it upset me.
“Oh! Over there!? Is that him?” she pointed to a group of rocks.
“No, mom. I don’t think so,” I replied.
I steered us towards the rocks just to be sure. Another canoe was close behind us. I waved them off. As my mother began to speak again, a helicopter flew overhead.
“I think they’ve swept this area four or five times now. I don’t think we’ll find him here,” I called to her.
We paddled across to the opposite shore and rested again, scanning the waters. I wanted so desperately for my mother is say something interesting—something that indicated her zest for life had not yet been extinguished. But—
“My tomatoes are coming in well this year. I’ll give you some to take home,” was all she said.
In her prime, my mother wasn’t just a source of encouragement, she was a source of fear. Not only did she take me swimming—she pushed me in. She signed me up for sports I didn’t know how to play. She cold-called employers and handed me the phone. I hated it, but in her eyes, I needed it. In many ways I’m glad those days are over, but when I see my mother act passively, shrug off a setback, or turn down an opportunity, I get worried.
Somehow, though, she seems happy in her ways. It’s incredibly difficult to fault someone for creating a life that they are perfectly satisfied with. But it’s not the life I’d choose for her. Perhaps I’m jealous.
“Do you feel that? It’s starting to rain, I think,” she said to me, opening her palm to feel the drops.
“We can turn in. I don’t think we’re doing much good out here, anyway,” I told her.
The clouds darkened and the rain began, but to my surprise, my mother didn’t rest her paddle. She dug into the water. She’d slimmed in her age, but apparently never lost her strength.
“No, no. We said we’d cover this lake, and we will. A little rain won’t hurt. Not until the lightning starts!”
I was taken aback, steering us along the shore. The rain came down heavy, but there was no trace of thunder.
“See anything up ahead!?” my mother yelled.
“I can’t see anything!” I replied.
We watched as the other canoes turned towards the shore. My mother leaned back and laughed. Her serene veneer cracked. I saw a spark.
“I want to check those reeds before we head in!” she called.
So, I pushed us towards where she pointed, and we both paddled valiantly against the loud, bullet-like drops.
“I love the lake when the rain comes down! It’s like magic!” her smile was clear even without seeing her face.
“I don’t want you to catch a cold, mom!” I shouted.
“Don’t worry, the cottage is warm, and I’ve got towels enough for the both of us! But let’s not dawdle! I want to see those reeds!”
As we approached the patch, my mother shook her head and waved back to me.
“Okay, let’s turn in!” she yelled.
And so, we did. The helicopters sounds had stopped, apparently waiting out the rain as well. Mom lit a fire in the hearth and took my wet jacket. She brought me a hot cup of tea and a stack of clean towels, as promised, and sat down beside me.
“So sad…” she started. “I don’t know the family, though. I think they rent one of the cottages near the river. So sad…”
“They might still find him… you know… alive,” I assured her.
But the missing boy wasn’t what was on my mind. I watched my mother’s eyes as she stared into the fire. She wasn’t smiling, but I could still see a passion in her calm, resigned face. She’d not lost her maternal flame. It was there, powerful, and not entirely hidden anymore. She’d taught me well to swim on my own. She didn’t need to burn brightly and guide my path—not anymore. But she could, still, as bright as ever if needed. She was there, behind that face I barely recognized.
“I’m ready to go out again as soon as the rain dies down,” she told me.
“I know,” I told her. “You haven’t given up yet.”

Stay by Julie Mee

I was so mad at you then.
Raging.
Engaging.
Beet red in the face.
Oh, how you made me turn pink.
Eyes rolled right back in my head.
I didn’t know then
It was the last ride we’d take.
Our crowning rushed words.
The final scowls we’d make.
I just frowned at that dumb ponytail
Across the whole lake
Wanting to hit you in the head with that paddle,
Upside of that lop-sided braid.
Oops.
I didn’t mean it. I would say.
“You did that on purpose.”
“No I didn’t.”
So what if I did? I wouldn’t say.
“I’m telling Mom.”
“You’re such a baby.”
You never did tell her anyway.
Those were the best days.
Lets fight a thousand more fights.
For a hundred more years.
Stay with me in the small boat on the lake.
Just stay.

Untitled by Michaelene Shannon

Fingerling white clouds
Juxtapose leafy patterns
Stark contrasts brazenly
Grate visual sensibility

The field abounds
Waves of leaves
Shiny and luscious
In shades of verdant green

A tentative promise
Treasures to come
Golden and sweet
To satiate many bellies

The distant horizon
Seats three silos
Of varying heights
Awaiting harvest day

Crow looms overhead
It seems, he too, is
In the clutches of
Anticipatory enchantment

Unbidden she navigates
Dark and narrow spaces
Footsteps settle firmly
On unseeable terrain

From naked surrender
Borne of innocent wonder
And awestruck curiosity
She poses for no one

Solitude by Rebecca Pickering

Sweet sound of silence
Pause to reflect on blessings
Horizons calling

Fox Jump by Shane Schick

You don’t think about the slaughter to come.
Not until later, when you look it up at home
and learn that this particular pounce –
a russet ring floating above the snow –
is called “mousing,” where the fox isn’t crazy
so much as conscious on a level we are not.
He senses the presence of a critter underneath
the ground and makes a leap based on experience
rather than faith. You uneasily acknowledge –
now, after the fact – that the cheerfulness
of his spring was no mere beautiful balletics.
This was the brandishing of a sword.
It was the cocking of a firearm.
How could a single act, however graceful,
distract you from the opening of an attack?
What is it, you’ll wonder for a long time after,
that so mesmerized you in the witnessing
of that frolicking absence of mercy?

Energize! A Multi-Arts Symposium held in Port Perry on Friday, March 24 was a meaningful experience for participants and presenters alike! 

Welcoming remarks were given by Scugog Arts President Marion Meyers and Scugog Mayor Wilma Wotten and then host Greg Murphy began his role for the day by introducing artist/educator Holly Dean. Holly talked about how she dropped art in high school only to take up calligraphy which led to collage and book arts and eventually a career in the arts. 

Holly created a collage throughout the morning which captured the thoughts of the participants reflecting on how they had coped during the pandemic. Some of the words and phrases were: “embraced peace and quiet” , “jamming with my ukulele buddies”, “walking in the forest” and “discovering community”.

Three morning speakers, Georgia Fullerton, Greg Frankson and Lynne McIlvride, each offered a different perspective on their creative journey. Georgia talked about her path to the arts and her work as an arts therapist, Greg spoke about finding his own voice and encouraging others to do the same and performed two of his poems while Lynne spoke from the heart about how her life and her art have intertwined through love, loss and creativity.

A delicious lunch was followed by two back-to-back workshops where participants created art, wrote poems, learned to drum and laughed while trying improvisation.  Holly, Greg and Georgia were joined by dummer Tanya Porter and actor/improv instructor Steve Hobbs.  One person who took the drum workshop said that she loved it so much that she planned to buy a drum asap!

To cap off a wonderful day, Aysanabee performed his own beautiful and, at times, haunting music. Between songs, he talked about his early years living in Sandy Lake First Nation, his career path and his commitment to pursue music full time resulting in a whirlwind year and a Juno nomination. 

Thank you to the speakers, workshop leaders, host, volunteers, staff, tech and food crews and everyone who attended. It was a meaningful, fun and energizing day! 

If you attended and have feedback and/or photos to share, please contact Roz Pritchard at programs@scugogarts.ca

Thank you to Ontario Trillium Foundation and the Government of Ontario for funding through the OTF Resilient Communities Fund.

Barn Quilts Trails inspires rural communities across Canada to appreciate and celebrate their history and culture. Barnquilttrails.ca is a Canadian network of quilters, rural organizations, museums, historians, sponsors and many others with a passion for rural Canada. With the help of Durham Region Barn Quilt Trails, Scugog Arts is putting our community on the map and expanding the trail! 

On May 8th to 10th, Scugog Arts will be out in the lane-way painting Barn Quilt Boards with Durham Region Barn Quilt Trails. Join us and become a painter for these unique pieces. They will then be put up for display at the farms surrounding Port Perry for Culture Days! No experience required!

The Dawn of Writing

Thursday, May 11th, 6pm – 8pm

Scugog Memorial Public Library – Rotary Room

How did mankind first learn to record his thoughts in writing? And why? These are some of the questions we will look at in this whirlwind tour through 4000 years of history as people of the Middle East developed the first forms of communication. Join us as we travel from clay tokens to Mesopotamian cuneiform and Egyptian hieroglyphics, and eventually, thank goodness, the alphabet that we use today. Something to think about next time you sit down with a good book, or perhaps an e-reading tablet that is not so different than our ancient ancestors.

Amy Barron received her Ph.D. at the University of Toronto in the field of Mesopotamian history and archaeology. Her doctoral thesis is entitled “Late Assyrian Arms and Armour: Art versus Artifact”. She has excavated in the Middle East and elsewhere and has travelled widely studying the archaeology of various remote parts of the world from Peru to China. She has also worked in the museum field for almost thirty years and presently teaches Museum Studies at Fleming College.

The Lake Scugog Studio Tour is proudly part of Small Town Big 2023, an exciting, multi-disciplinary arts festival with events organized by various presenters taking place May 6th – 14th. Small Town Big features a variety of in-person, online, and outdoor events bringing together arts practitioners to showcase the vibrant art scene that Scugog has to offer.

Keep an eye out on the Scugog Arts website and social media, and subscribe to our newsletter to learn more.

Save the date for the 2023 Lake Scugog Studio Tour – taking place Saturday, May 6th and Sunday, May 7th.

February 4th – 26th, 2023

OPENING RECEPTION SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 4th, 1-3PM

“Honouring and amplifying the beauty that is expressed through natural hair.  This is a reminder for Black women and to the world, that we belong in every room we enter”.

Scugog Arts presents “CROWN” a group show featuring the artwork of Joy Martyr-André, Reisha Felix, and Aisha Chiguichon.

This show is inspired by the CROWN ACT. The CROWN Act was created in 2019 by Dove and the CROWN Coalition, in partnership with then State Senator Holly J. Mitchell of California to ensure protection against discrimination surrounding race-based hairstyles. The act extended statutory protection to hair texture and protective styles such as braids, locs, twists, and knots in the workplace and public schools.

We strongly encourage you learn more about the CROWN act at www.thecrownact.com

Meet the Artists!

Reisha Felix

“I am a self – taught artist with a focus on acrylic painting. I gain artistic inspiration from all that I deem beautiful including Black women and their versatile hair.

Black hair has never just been another body part. Throughout Black History, hair has been art, identity, empowerment, resistance, survival and beauty. I use my Caribbean upbringing and love for texture to influence how I showcase the intricacies of Black hairstyles – one of my treasures that I celebrate on canvas”.

You can see CROWN at the Scugog Arts Space from February 4th – 26th, 2023. Be sure to join us for the opening reception on Saturday, February 4th from 1-3PM. Meet the artists, browse the work, and enjoy light refreshments including sweets provided by the Nutty Chocolatier!

WORK IN THE ARTS!

Jobs in the arts can be fun, rewarding, engaging, and drive your own personal creative juices! Working in our space with visitors, residents, and creatives of all kinds, surrounded by great visual art and creative thinkers, helps to make our jobs unique.

Scugog Arts currently has five full-time summer jobs available, all partially funded by the Canada Summer Jobs program, open to those up to age 30, for a term of up to 16 weeks. There are lots of transferable skills to learn and develop with these jobs: client services, teamwork, communications, digital, research, leadership, project management, and creative problem solving. Specific jobs will also help you develop event management, marketing, writing, teaching, and systems & procedures skills.

Supervision and mentoring are provided by a board team with extensive education and experience in the arts, business, and tourism. We have had staff come back multiple summers and continue with permanent jobs. If you are an energetic self-starter with loads of ideas, determination, and grit we may be the place for you. 

But don’t be deterred if you don’t have a lot of experience – we welcome those who are willing to try and learn.

 We have four roles:

• Event Coordinators for our Culture Days program: Two staff will 1)create a revised vision and plan, 2) get commitment to participation from a wide variety of presenter participants, 3) create and execute a marketing plan, and 4) organize the digital programs, a public art program, live programs, jobs and people for Culture Days in September 2023.
• Administrator Assistant, Art Gallery will have five main goals: 1) organize indoor gallery exhibitions and shop displays; 2) organize our Annual Juried Show 2023; 3) bring in new artists to our Resident Artist group; 4) manage our digital art inventory system; 5) create programs in support of September 30 and Women’s History Month, as well as ideas for future Black History and Pride Month concepts.
• Coordinator, Arts & Crafts Programs will have four main goals: 1) create and instruct a summer Sunday outdoor art program for kids; 2) organize and teach two weeks of summer camp programs; 3) organize public workshops for youth and adults for fall and winter 2023-2024; 4) create a library of arts projects.
• Membership Services Manager will have four main goals: 1) Organize our outdoor Sunday Market in the Mews program including Member demonstrations and one day for a YART SALE; 2) create a plan for arts practitioner fall program of artist learning and related programs for members; 3) write and develop stories and communications for website an d social media about members; 4) keep member content on our website up to date

Job Facts:

• Most roles are in-person at Scugog Arts Space, 175B Queen Street in Port Perry, with some work that can be done from home and some off-site depending on the role.
• Staff are required to use their own phones and computers and must be vaccinated.
• Work week is 35 hours a week, $17 an hour.
• The application deadline is February 28th, 2023.
• Full job descriptions.

 To apply contact Marion Meyers at (905)982-2121 or email info@scugogarts.ca. Please include a cover letter with a resume telling us why you want a job at Scugog Arts.

Another amazing Culture Days in Scugog is in the books!

Families, friends, and people of all ages came out to enjoy Culture Days across Scugog from September 24^th to October 16^th. We shared, collaborated, inspired, and encouraged our community to participate in arts and culture. And they sure showed up! 

Chief Kelly LaRocca opened the festivities with a Land Acknowledgment at the Queen St Hub in Downtown Port Perry on Saturday, September 24th, while people filled the main street eager to get hands-on with local arts and culture. Many Scugog Arts members came out to host their own program and share their craft with the community and visitors. We saw Lori Korkola teaching youth how to paint a tree and Jacquie Sullivan moving attendees through the printmaking process. More artists hosted programs at Hubs around Scugog that broadened awareness of different art types and created more accessibility to the arts.

Throughout the main day of in-person activities (September 24th), live music filled the air of Downtown Port Perry. On the main stage attendees took in an authentic Indigenous drum group, along with music from local singer-songwriters. 

Our friends at Theatre on the Ridge once again provided audiences with an amazing performance. Emerging writer and performer, Uju Umenyi, and Theatre on the Ridge collaborated to create a new play based on the life of Port Perry’s first black resident in 1866. This project was made possible with producing partner Ontario Culture Days, as part of their Creatives in Residence program, and the Canada Council for the Arts Digital Now program. Keep scrolling to learn more about this exciting collaboration.   

Scugog Arts estimates over 3000 people attended Culture Days programs this year, of which there were 50 to enjoy!

Did you miss Culture Days in Scugog? Can’t wait until next year? 

Virtual Culture Days doesn’t have to end! Explore more arts and culture, here: https://scugogarts.ca/culture-days/

Watch a recap on Instagram, here: https://www.instagram.com/p/CjQ-x5zJdji/

Also, read Engage in Radical Kindness, a piece written by Scugog Arts member Lucy EM Black, in reflection on Chief Kelly LaRocca’s presentation on Indigenous issues, here: https://scugogarts.ca/news/engage-in-radical-kindness/

And check out the image gallery below!

Premiere Public Reading of a New Play by Uju Umenyi

Together, Ms. Umenyi and Theatre on the Ridge have collaborated to create a new play based on the life of Port Perry’s first black resident in 1866. This project has been made possible with producing partner Ontario Culture Days, as part of their Creatives in Residence program, and the Canada Council for the Arts Digital Now program.

Samuel Stout arrived in Scugog in the later part of the 19th century and worked as a barber, married a white woman, became an important member of the community, and died a centenarian and the oldest man in Scugog.

Ms. Umenyi’s play looks at Samuel’s early days in the community and received its premiere public reading at Ontario Culture Days 2022. After extensive workshopping over the past spring and summer, this performance was the next stage in the play’s development, enroute to a full production tentatively scheduled for public performances in 2023, the 10th anniversary year of Theatre on the Ridge.

A post-show conversation with the playwright and artists immediately followed the performance, where the audience also provided enthusiastic feedback on the performance. 

“Beautiful, funny, human, a caring compassionate mirror to this community. Wow!” – Audience member

Thanks for the help!

This piece was written by Scugog Arts member Lucy EM Black in reflection on Chief Kelly LaRocca’s presentation on Indigenous issues.

‘Engage in radical kindness’ was among the concluding remarks of Kelly LaRocca, Chief of The Mississaugas of Scugog First Nation at her presentation on September 29^th [2022] at the Scugog Recreation Centre.  Hosted by the Mississaugas, the Township and Scugog Arts, a large crowd of over 250 people were present for LaRocca’s eloquent and moving remarks.  The evening commenced with a gift of tobacco, a ceremonial smudging ceremony and a musical interlude by the talented Gary LaRocca on guitar.  Chief LaRocca began by introducing herself in the context of her family clans and Indigenous roots.  Her talk was divided into five clear components: cultural awareness; the residential schools’ era and intergenerational trauma; the significance of the Williams Treaties, 1923; how to best support the Indigenous community; and a conclusion. 

 LaRocca is an engaging, gracious and brilliant speaker.  She summarized key milestones in the history of Indigenous peoples in Canada and provided important information about their belief system in order to reinforce the significance of the history she was sharing.  Among the beliefs she shared is that the Anishinaabe, and others, believe that ‘children choose their parents’ before they are born and that the ‘Creator sets them on the path they choose’.  We are to understand from this, the importance of the connections between the family unit and spirituality as something that takes place in conjunction with birth.  Knowing this vital piece of information, we were given a glimmer of just how devastating it was to rip children from their families and to forcibly raise them under conditions that were meant to erase traditional familial ties and belief systems.  

 LaRocca summarized the importance of the Royal Declaration of 1763 in which King George III acknowledged aboriginal rights and imposed a fiduciary duty of care on the government.  Marking this declaration was a wampum belt which represented autonomy and mutual non-interference or, in LaRocca’s words, ‘two canoes going downstream beside each other’.  Also touched upon was the Treaty of Niagara of 1764 which is often cited as ‘Canada’s Indigenous Constitution’.  It stipulates a nation-to-nation relationship with the Crown and reinforces reciprocal independence.  Included in the historical review, was the 1857 Gradual Civilization Act which was a top-down piece of legislation and the precursor to the Indian Act, which established enfranchisement.  Followed by the 1867 Constitution Act, a division of power took place, without Indigenous consultation, and the province was given power over property, civil rights and justice.  This was further reinforced in the 1876 Indian Act where, once again, there was top-down legislation that eroded Indigenous rights.  The White Paper of 1969 proposed the total assimilation of ‘Indians’ with the view that there should be only one approach to law for all Canadians.  Viewed by many as ‘cancel culture’, this piece of legislation was ultimately defeated.  The Williams Treaties of 1923 continue to be significant documents.  Treaty 20 covers the Lake Scugog area and protects the harvesting rights associated with pre-confederation treaties. 

In 1848 Alderville opened the first residential school.  Through the ensuing residential system, seven generations of Indigenous people never knew what it was to be parented in their own homes and communities, and subsequently lost the opportunity to develop healthy role models for the parenting process.  The ‘scoop’ that took place in the 1960s, and again in the 1980s, continued the practice of forced removal, based upon the prevailing belief at the time that Indigenous people were culturally inferior and therefore unable of adequately provide for the needs of their children.  Indigenous children were sent long distances from home, sometimes outside of the province and even outside of Canada.  Many were adopted.  In 2008, Prime Minister Harper offered an apology. 

The Truth & Reconciliation Commission Report came out in 2015, confirming, among other things, that genocide had taken place, and also that a legacy of intergenerational trauma was the result of the residential school initiatives.  Although the federal report lists 94 calls to action, many of these fall within the purview of provincial governments, however, and require buy-in from those governing bodies.  

How to better support Indigenous people was one of the final components of the talk.  There were five key pieces included in this response: be aware that Indigenous people have a longing to be understood in conjunction with their history; be respectful; recognize that seven generations of suffering took place and that Indigenous communities are still healing and will continue to heal for at least seven generations; accept the opportunity to be an ally and challenge misinformation; and finally, find ways to implement the calls to action, commit to ongoing partnerships, and be willing to engage in radical kindness. 

The Chief’s final words were met with a standing ovation of considerable duration.  The evening was impactful and informative without being accusatory or divisive.  The discussion, while frank, was careful and respectful while still addressing the inequities in child welfare, the penal system, mental health and institutional or systemic racism. This was an honest presentation that produced an excellent evening, one that many of us hope will be the first of many such dialogues.  

We’re bringing back the Sketchy Arts Party on Tuesday, November 22nd!

Join us from 7 pm to 11 pm at Old Flame Brewery for an evening of live art with painting, comedy, and music on the lineup — this event is not to be missed. Also, win awesome prizes in a brown bag auction, 50/50 draw, and more.

Get your tickets to the Sketchy Arts Party now before they’re all gone! All proceeds go back to Scugog Arts so we can continue to create programs and events for our seriously awesome community.

Let’s get sketchy together — again!

Comedy

You’ll be laughing all night.

Live Collaborative Painting

Painters:

Shelby Strong 

Erin Voisey

Jesse Wheelock

Marie Moore

Initial design by Jon Colwell!

Learn to crochet a Sunflower Tote Bag! Claudia Zilstra teaches you how to make a beautiful bag with this step-by step downloadable guide. This online event is a part of Culture Days 2022. 

Thank you for your feedback! 

RULES: 

You must be a Scugog Arts Member to sign up for the Indoor Christmas Market. Membership is $45 a year and renews automatically upon joining. If you are already a member, be sure that your membership is up to date. 

Become a Scugog Arts Member here: https://scugogarts.ca/join/

There is a $50 Exhibition fee to partake in the market. The entry form below is for registration, payment, and to provide a sample of the work in your submission. There is a separate Inventory Form we will send you after you sign up, where you will be able to fill out each individual work you would like to sell. 

Artists earn 70% of the sales made at the Indoor Christmas Market. Payment for sales are made to the artists in the 2nd week of the following month after the market or exhibition.

The Indoor Christmas Market is open during our boxing week sale, in which all items are 20% off. Don’t worry – the discount is covered by Scugog Arts. 

Scugog Arts has the right to refuse work that we deem unsuitable for our space.

IMPORTANT DATES:

Deadline to enter the Indoor Christmas Market is November 1st, 2022. 

Deadline to submit the Inventory form is November 13th. 

Drop off work at Scugog Arts on November 15th between 11-5PM or November 16th between 11-8PM. 

Pick up work at Scugog Arts on January 3rd between 11am-5PM. 

For any further questions or concerns, reach out to artsspace@scugogarts.ca

We look forward to seeing your wares and artworks this holiday season!

ALL ART WAVES EPISODES

SEASON ONE