I am not afraid — chilliwack, BC
I Am Not Afraid.
It almost never happens that a ‘stranger’ invites an artist to paint a highly visible wall in a core section of town, without first asking to see at least some sort of sketch. Hard to believe? Then you haven’t met Amber Price.
She is not afraid. Or, when she is — like a true force of nature — she channels her nearly boundless energy into the kind of action that never ceases to impress or inspire.
Amber is the heart of the Chilliwack Mural Festival, in its relative infancy when I arrived. Her incredibly warm (and persistent!) invitation was the reason I found myself in that city, a little bit broken, in need of something I could not name.
No sketches needed. Only a promise to paint an asymmetrical portrait of that place; the “quieter waters”. Named by the Stó:lō people, this land unfolds gently beneath an upside-down bowl of purple-blue-faced skies, mirrored by churning waters of the mighty Fraser.
I painted while the blackberries were very plump and full.
A CITY IN NEED
Chilliwack has certainly not been spared the egregious effects of social and political decay that are the rot of every urban center I’ve traveled through over the last few years.
Fortunately, Amber is a champion of community revitalization, contributing volumes of personal vitality to initiate progress. With the help of many who know, love, and support her efforts, the realities of that place are transforming profoundly.
The work that she does, as with so many I’ve met on a journey of public art, can be terribly lonely. It’s a thankless job, but someone’s gotta do it. Right?
Taking responsibility for conditions around us — especially when others are unwilling to do so — requires the recognition that certain issues will have even further dire consequences if left unattended.
Her work, like any good ‘artivist’, is about recognizing the value of direct action. It’s like that guy down the street who cleans up his yard one day, really well. Ever notice that a week later, many other homes follow suit?
CHILLIWACK MURAL FESTIVAL
One of the most remarkable projects of my life, hands down.
It was the first mural I’ve ever permitted to completely envelop me — to paint me — evolving day after day until it let this humble servant know when was right for me to put the brushes down.
Time was lost to this wall, and I to the experience of learning from it.
While the painting itself never takes long, the process stretched on like those long late-summer British Columbia days, in profound communion with many who frequently stopped by the wall to share thoughts, vegetables, laughter, dreams and tears.
Every one of these conversations found their way into the texture of this wall, as turning from talk I’d once again pick up the brush, with the energies of these exchanges fueling every new stroke.
TOMMY LEE
The name of the wall belongs to a story about “Tommy Lee”, an older indigenous man with a sternly chiseled face and sharp eyes.
Tommy showed up out of the blue one day, with tired swagger and side-mouth cigarette. Dressed all black from head to toe, boot cut jeans, and silver belt buckle riding below tucked in western shirt, the story of this wall is best told through the blossoming of an unlikely relationship.
He too had just rolled into town, after having been away for many years. This man was deeply dismayed by how hard the streets had become. He felt overwhelmed by the scope of change to his old, once familiar stomping grounds.
Please forgive me
As I painted the first strokes, we conversed sporadically, as one does with a taciturn ‘stranger’.
I was looking for a guy named Earnest Tootoosis, and asked if the name meant anything to him. Turns out he knew the guy well from street days of old. “Why Earnest?” he asked, with a healthy shot of bewilderment.
I showed him a picture of the following quote I’d pulled out of a ring-bound book at the Stó:lō Nation a couple days earlier, from a community center Amber had taken me to on her extensive ‘Botkin tour’ of the region:
“You might reach the river and say this: “Please forgive me for disturbing your waters while i am crossing. I am not going to harm yo.
— Ernest Tootoosis
Please protect me when I’m crossing. I ask your help to reach my family. I think you or carrying me. You have been good to us, so i thank you.”
The prayer informed my vision for the wall profoundly. I was keen to have Ernest’s permission, wanting to include these words in the mural somehow.
”You seen him around lately? How do i go about finding him?”
“Nope, but he’ll be around if he’s needed. Did you call him?”
”What??”
Tommy’s eyes let me know I’d asked a dumb question. He turned and looked up to the sky. In a casual manner, as if he were standing just a few feet away, he spoke into the air:
“Ernest, this guy here needs to talk with you about something. I don’t really know what about… but whatever. Come over here when you get a chance, eh. Oh yeah… I wanna see you too.”
He turned once more, nodded, and then left, trailing cigarette smoke from the side of his mouth, his part of the job done for the day.
THE RIVER
Tommy had indeed found the man, on a community center wall, where photos are posted when a friend is to be fondly remembered. No Ernest, sadly.
Tommy stuck around for a bit, keeping quiet, comfortable company. Smoking his cigarette, he broke a long silence to ask more about what I was painting.
That face in the sky? Who is it? “
“Good question…you tell me.”
“Those big, powerful hands, they’re like those of the river itself.” He began to share childhood stories, crossing the Fraser in small aluminum-hulled boats, whose strong bodies would creak and moan ominously, caught in the crushing grip of seasonally high waters.
Plunging into icy depths meant certain death, quickly pulled to the bottom where one would join tumbling boulders, the sound roaring in your ears. Grizzly bear — a powerful swimmer — might pass you by at the bottom, but no match for current. Nothing would be seen but the darkness of those murky waters.
Sturgeon — king of the river
It was sturgeon — whose ridged back flanks the bottom left corner of the wall — who alone was mighty king of that watery domain…that moved through its waters as if they stood still, with prehistoric grace and power.
Tommy’s stories made clear the need for prayers of respect to the river, especially when coming to cross its mighty breadth. Over thousands of years, for his people, doing so was a matter of life and death.
Respect was to be paid to the river. It was a source of life to his people for thousands of years. Crossing it could also spell death.
HEALING HANDS
He showed up to the wall every few days over the three weeks of very intense production, by far the longest of my career up to that point.
What he had shared kicked the whole piece into high gear. It was only a matter of keeping my hands and body up with the demands of this work, as it told me moment by moment what to do.
I filled my belly with pounds of fresh blackberries every morning. Still very weakened and physically crippled by an unnamed autoimmune dis-ease, my body was grateful for the nutritional packed berries and the hard, tonifying work under gentle British Columbia late-summer skies.
Amber took pains to care for me, setting me up with a deluxe trailer parked in her rainbow flagged suburban driveway, her house a beautiful oasis. She introduced me to reiki, through a session which changed the course of my life. Her teacher was to become mine over the course of two weekends, which has become a daily practice since.
Funny to think remedy has always been with me.
DARK CLOUDS
Tommy showed up with some very dark clouds one day, deeply disturbed by allegations of sexual assault that he claimed had been leveled unfairly against him. While I can’t confirm the truth of these stories, they certainly add to the mystery surrounding his life. However, when living on the streets, carrying such a stain on your reputation is far from ideal. Vigilante justice can be blind and cruel.
Visibly upset, wrestling profoundly with dark emotions, I asked if he’d taken his fear to the river…give it a bath.
“No. I should.”
“Got any tobacco with you?” I pulled a few smokes out of the car, which I keep handy for these occasions.
He smoked a couple, disoriented and exhausted, like a frightened, caged animal.
Couple days later he returned, looking far worse.
“Did you take that shit to the river yet?”
“Nope. I should have. Smoked all that tobacco you gave me. Got more?”
“Don’t smoke these right away! You know what to do. It’s a start. Meantime, want some reiki?”
I’d just finished my course, and was eager to exercise. Couldn’t hurt.
“What?! Never heard of such a thing. What is it?”
I answered as honestly as I could in the moment, and to the day I still don’t have a better answer. “My teacher tells me to put my hands on someone and feel what I feel. If you’re into it, sit on that bucket over there, I’ll sit behind you putting my hands on your back, and you’re free to feel what you feel when i do so.”
Reiki
Perched behind him on that first rung of scaffolding, I pulled my empty orange Home Depot bucket up to the base of the wall where he sat. My hands were placed gently on his shoulder blades. Eyes closed, and I felt what I felt.
We sat like that, in perfect silence for half an hour, as the world went on around us. Tommy slumped over halfway through, which I’ve come to learn as a sign of good reiki. The energetic exchange is always powerful when touch others in that healing way. Deep communication, far beyond the capacity of words.
As he came back to awerness, he lifted his head and stood up, taking a deep breath, surprised to have found himself waking from sleep on an orange bucket next to man covered in paint.
He turned, complemented the choice of colours I’d added that day, and like that, left.
A BAD SMELL
Three days later he returned, totally different energy.
“Tommy! You’re lookin’ like a million bucks, real talk! Wayyyy better than last time you were here. How you feeling? You been hanging out at the river?” I was stunned by the transformation.
“Good” he said. “Real good. That stuff i was talking about the other day, its all gone.”
“You’re talkin’ about that stuff about the sexual assault…? What do you mean its gone?”
“It’s just gone…it’s not there anymore. I don’t know. It’s weird.”
I didn’t press for more. The news was good enough as is.
“Another thing. Something happened to me yesterday. I woke up and went to buy smokes at the store down the street. When I walked in, I stopped, and sniffed the air. It smelled terrible.”
“And…you’re buying smokes from this place??”
“No…you don’t get it…it smelled bad…really bad. But that’s the weird part about it… I haven’t been able to smell things for years. All of the sudden, I could. And it smelled bad.”
A smile snuck past his guard – quick like a clever thief — for the first time in our relationship. . It was a fleeting expression, but for a practiced tough guy, a look of pure joy. To be free of anguish…the torture of fear…to be able to smell the flowers of life again.
I AM NOT AFRAID
Tommy stayed at the wall for a couple more hours, mostly in silent company, the smell of cigarettes and back alley in the air. I offered him another round of reiki, which this time he accepted without question… a second half hour.
He got up off the bucket, more alive than I’d seen him yet, and ready to share more of his story. I could not have asked for a more precious gift in return.
He spoke of the river. The stories flowed into early memories as they turned toward his mother. He spoke of her experiences at the residential schools, until the words became too painful to speak.
We stood side by side, next to those powerful hands, weeping silently.
“I am not afraid.”
Those were his parting words.
FRIENDSHIP
This wall is dedicated to Lloyd “Buddy” Wesley.
I got the news of his death while painting in Denver. I wept quietly at that wall, until his spirit came to my side. Laughing at my expense, like this big face, he brought an important reminder.
Chilliwack was en route to his house. I was going to pay him a surprise visit, but he clearly Buddy had other plans up his sleeve. His body was discovered along a path that led through the woods. The trail led to the old house where he had raised his four children, all of whom he buried before he left his own body with a huge but broken heart.
He had made half the journey by foot, the other half by wing.
Through tears and paint on that Denver wall, he reminded me gently of something he’d always said about his culture.
“We never say goodbye…only “see you later”
We could never quite say so without tears welling softly in the corners of our eyes. No less, to the only man I’ve ever called Big Brother, from a man he called Little Brother…
I’ll see you later.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The list is too long.
Tommy, may your journey across the powerful river of life continue to unfold gently.
Amber Price <3
