Blank Canvas Sampler: A new species of Urban Anas to add to the genus of dabbling ducks

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Historically, samplers began as a way to record and collect needlework stitches and patterns for future use and adaptation. When a needlewoman saw a new or intriguing piece of stitching, she would quickly sew a copy onto a piece of cloth. These samplers evolved organically over a lifetime, the patterns spreading outwards with the deceptive randomization of fractals, as the needlewoman’s collection grew in variation, texture, and complexity.

After borders and alphabets were added in the 17th century, along with religious and moral verses, samplers became more deliberate, organized, and methodical. No longer a collection of tactile experiences, samplers became a showcase for skill and were taught to young girls as a “sign of virtue, achievement, and industry”.

Sound familiar? Our 21st century culture celebrates those who channel their energies into ‘profitable communication’. Everything we do has become a demonstration of skill, rather than a collection of knowledge and experience. But humans are not efficient, or perfect. Our stitches are brushstrokes, not pixels. When we allow our hands to record our world, a new honesty surfaces in our observations. The Blank Canvas Sampler is a collection of true life images and people, overheard tidbits and cultural commentary. Let’s bring the sampler, and our lives, back to their root humanity.

Click here to discover the Blank Canvas Sampler

Note: This matching winter morning couple made last Friday’s walk to work feel a little less like a walk to work

How to turn your morning commute into an impromptu S&M adventure

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I find Doctor C waiting for me when I get into the office this morning. Our receptionist appears utterly entranced by my friend’s glowing – today it’s coral – smile.

“I was thinking about what you did to do those dishes,” says Doctor C (I’d told her about my trick during one of our elevator chats), “and it gave me an idea for another assignment – if you’re interested.”

As if she has to ask! We step into the hall and she gives me the details. She wants me to use my storying technique to give a Blank Canvas Living client a new perspective on her grueling daily commute. And since it’s the same client who was thrilled with my bondage themed sketchbook cover design, I know exactly what angle to take…

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Transit. Transition. How do you measure the space between A and B? Time. And we only have so much. Why devalue these precious minutes by dragging A and B closer together with handheld distractions? Are we really so terrified of giving up control and letting our senses direct our attentions? What happens when we submit to the moment?

The bus hits gridlock at 7th Ave and 4th Street. Ms M despairs. Her toes are already tingling painfully, pinched between the black leather straps of her high heels. It’s hell mornings like this one when she’s almost tempted to wear runners to the office – almost. What’s the point of trying to looking sexy when every other head is bent in reverence over tiny bright screens? They’ve chosen their distractions, and she, even with her stellar legs, apparently can’t compete with wi-fi access.

The bus jerks forward and Ms M teeters dangerously. She reaches across the aisle and grabs onto a second rubber strap handhold to center herself. She knows people don’t usually double up like this, but then again, people don’t usually wear 5 inch heels on public transit. The spread eagle position makes her feel immediately conspicuous, but no one looks up. She reaches both hands through the loops and twists her wrists to wrap the rubber tight to reduce the play. May as well go all the way, she figures, and lets her fingers hang free, her new handcuffs keeping her stable. The bus jerks again, with surprising violence. Pain shoots through her shoulders and she glares at the driver in his rearview mirror.

He’s smiling at her wickedly. Bastard! But then she realizes why. She’s locked herself into an impromptu S&M session and now he’s the one taking it all the way. Ms M feels her face flushing bright red. The other passengers, with their sensible shoes and iphones, disappear. The driver winks at her and she grins back. Her pinched toes become part of the game. She bends her knees to give over control of her body to the mercies of the driver. He pumps the gas and jams the brakes, taking obvious delight in watching her reactions.

The other passengers begin to look up to see what’s changed. Then the bus stops too quick, dead. The driver’s face goes white in the mirror. He’s hit the car in front.

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When doing the dishes becomes an archeological dig

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I hate washing dishes. No really – HATE. Coded with a somewhat masculine quirk, my brain is not designed to compartmentalize anything other than Sex/Love. All else falls under the blanket of Life – no enviable Work/Play distinctions that bring comfort to so many when faced with life’s daily bargaining of attentions. All is the exaltation of existence, blemished only by the hell tedium of repetition – where sex, perhaps not so ironically, is the only action worth repeating.

Forced to resort to somewhat extreme – stepping away from our theme here – decidedly unsexy actions to cope with the practicalities of life, I find myself wondering if I can apply Blank Canvas thinking to this latest spread of dirty dishes…

A story opens, and I dive in hands first…

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With a PhD in early 21st century residences, and more than a decade of field experience, our archeologist can’t believe she still gets stuck on dish duty. “Yah yah, women have come so far – bullshit,” she grumbles while brushing off the fine layer of sediment that covers the Northside counter of the perfectly preserved kitchen. Like much of ancient Rome and New York, this home has been buried under centuries of rebuilds and is nearly intact.

What she notices first is the organization of the artifacts: pots on the left, cutlery collected in a large Tupperware (perhaps left to soak), plates stacked by size. A theory springs to mind… Maybe the inhabitants tetrised (‘verbed’ in mid-2100s) the spread to make it less intimidating. There are no other dishes on the shelves, and notably, no dishwasher. “Maybe they hated doing the dishes as much as I do,” she wonders out loud in the still, linoleum floored cave. “Maybe they left them as long as they could – and then time ran out.”

But who lived here? She catalogues each plate, cup, pot, before taking scrapings of preserved food residue, then scrubs them clean for museum storage and possible future display. There are two distinct condiment patterns: some plates have sauce smeared all over, while others show evidence of little dried pools. The latter eater taking more than he/she needed, keeping tastes separate, and taking little dabs; the former mixing the flavourings with the food, or perhaps simply finishing with flourish.

There are more archeological clues. Some of the casserole dishes (and even Tupperware lids) show the same saucing patterns as the plates. Our archeologist considers this proof of her procrastination theory – that once the plates ran out, other surfaces were sacrificed. Most interesting are the dish gloves, the rubber made brittle by time, but still clearly the largest size available. A couple perhaps? A large woman and a smaller man (the dabs)? Two men?

Or a small woman and a Viking man (finishing with flourish), the gloves bought with the hope of compromise. The dabber would be the tetrisiser, but the gloves would better fit the man. Our archeologist steps back, arms dripping with suds. “And like so many compromises,” she muses, “the truth of any theory is proven only when time runs out.”

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I step back, pink gloves dripping. What she can’t see – the archeological evidence long since re-sauced – are the interm loads my Viking washed while waiting for me to man up and take my turn at the sink. And so with one (albeit epic) load of dishes, my faith in an entire branch of science is shaken to the core.

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How to capture and define your system’s own unique waveform

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Last week’s pantless adventure has had a curious effect. I’m seeing the world differently, and I love it! I feel my cognitive paradigm shifting; the world around me is suddenly bursting with possibilities. I recognize this freedom from childhood, but I am very much an adult, and by definition must commit to an internal framework or risk losing whatever I try to build – only by knowing the tides can one place one’s castle with confidence. Sigh…beaches, even metaphorical ones, seem a long way off on this icy January night.

A slip of moon shimmers above the frosted sidewalk. Standing at the bus stop, I rate my little path of footprints. I feel a bit ashamed, they’re duck toed and should be straighter. Ms J would be incensed! And according to an article I read who-knows-where, my steps are too far apart. I wonder if my stride is consistent? I know how to test it. I walk the same stretch while matching up the toes. Sure enough, it’s the same.

The cold air catches in my throat – a pattern is emerging in the frost. The sidewalk becomes an oscilloscope, and I can’t resist filling in the waveform. I don’t care if I look silly. This is fun! My duck toed shame disappears; I am alone with my own individual waveform. It is unique, personal – any judgment is gone. I’ve mapped a key feature of my body system, and seeing it exposed on the sidewalk gives me a private thrill. I don’t want to give up this new freedom of perception, of creation, but am I brave enough to take the next step? Can I really commit to Blank Canvas Living as my internal framework?

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