Muse: a word that conjures up all manner of sins.
In season one of Anthony Bourdain's Parts Unknown, chefs Dave McMillian and Frank Morin discuss what they call 'painful nostaligia' that informs both their menu choices at 'Joe Beef', located Montreal, as well as their day-to-day joie de vivre—all the while noshing on artery-clogging helpings of seared foie gras with shaved truffle. This post-ice fishing lunch is served on vintage tableware with vintage cutlery in a bona fide ice-fishing shack, complete with old-school etiquette and prepared anecdotes for conversation; waning praxis in the art of (fine) dining. It is a mixture of Old-World romanticism and rugged Canadiana, heavily embellished. The juxtaposition is stark and wonderfully over-the-top; a contrast I hope to imbue in my still lifes, though in an understated way.
'Ruffed Grouse, Cabbage'
Conscious effort is put into placing 'New World' items alongside what is decidedly 'Old World' fare/aesthetic. My primary inspirations are Spanish bodegónes (Cotán, Zurbarán, Melendez), with an occasional nod to Flemish Baroque still lifes through a vanitas element (inclusion of a fly, beginnings of rot). So 'Old World' fruit—limes, persimmons—is shot with a tanned skunk, purchased at Robertson's Trading Co. in La Ronge, Saskatchewan, or hung cabbage (see Cotán) is photographed with ruffed grouse killed by myself or my husband—again in northern Saskatchewan. They are 'painfully' nostalgic insofar as they 'recreate' something that never was: deeply personal and contrived Canadiana. And, if I'm honest with myself, they invariably include game not just because it adds a textural component to each image, but also because my 'Canadiana' is informed by a childhood spent on the prairies, with a father who hunted and trained bird dogs.
An assistant looks on at the Canadian National Spaniel Field Trial Championships near Calgary, AB, 2010
The aesthetic appeal of hunting is obvious though not often directly stated, which is why brands like Barbour successfully market field jackets with 'game' pockets to city dwellers who have no idea of their stated purpose. To wake up on a crisp fall morning and walk through sepia-toned hills, or to lie staring up through a crack in the goose blind at a cool blue sky, leaves an indelible mark on a person's subconscious. The unnatural oranges and reds of hunting garb contrast with an all-white or all-brown backdrop to an overall surreal effect. As a child I was something of a novelty on the hunt because most farm fathers don't take their girls hunting. The stated reason was gun safety; however, the unspoken/latent rationale has more to do with cultural mores around what girls should or should not be exposed to—death, possible macabre, the cost of meat-eating. I still remember the intense satisfaction of my first (and clean) kill, the sound of the deer's hooves crunching snow immediately prior, the mottled brown and white of the dip in the valley where I lay in snow-covered cacti, just as I remember the snow and Canada geese symmetrically lined up for plucking in muted and long mid-October light.
All of this informs my Canadian bodegón: a romantic indulgence in sentimentality. Like foie gras—on china—in the backwoods.
Rabbit and Watermelon