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Feb 27 / Tiziana La Melia

Slip of the sock



The counselor is a wall with a crack. She listens, but she doesn’t say much. There are small windows. The counselor doesn’t wear deodorant. Like the meaning she seeks, she produces no smell. The speaker sweats. Sweat under armpits, between legs, behind scalp, along ears.

The room resembles his outfit. Grey dress pants, striped shirt, probably a brown belt, leather shoes, and special socks. He is not offensive, but it’s not Deanna’s personal taste.  Deanna has been visiting a counselor herself for five years. In the room, they are both attentive to words and energy. Sitting. Talking. Still. He used to take notes. Not anymore. Deanna can’t see it happening. Transference? Like she said, “he is not my personal taste”. Thinking Mississauga. Beginning to see the objects in her house differently. Thinking about her childhood home. Living room is filled with glinting ceramic Greek pillars, silk lilies by the window, pulling up blinds, releasing velvet drape, vase of peacock tails, pink petrified lips of the giant conch pressing its memory up against her ear, teal carpeted toilet cover, staining white carpet, pouring powder over top of a mark. Remembering Ray Bradbury’s The Veldt. Temperature of a dream, impaling parents with lion paws. But transference? Sounds terrifying. She blocks it out, even if she should be able to answer her own hi how are you? Redirecting thoughts to a few precious moments lined up on a shelf. “This is terribly abstract”. “Don’t worry about it”. Nothing precious moments about it. The counselor seems to hear things but is very reserved and does not reveal a thing about herself, a true psychoanalyst.

This is based off a true story. Last week Deanna went to see her shrink who in all these years tells her nothing of him (she don’t know if he’s married, gay, straight, kids, mom, dad, sister).

He accidentally reveals that he had a sister who lived in New York. “I saw an opening here, you see.”

“Did you ever live in New York?”  She said.

He very slowly nodded and hesitantly said ‘Yes.’

I am shocked and feel very strong.

“How” she said, “long?”

Again hesitating. Eyes close. Out comes a sigh, “7 years . . . ”

“Manhattan?” She probes.

Walking out he holds the door to shut behind her and whispers, “Brooklyn.”

She leaves and thinks I think he made a real breakthrough in that session. I say strong in that it was a role reversal.

Feb 21 / Tiziana La Melia

Cut Outs

It is February.


And I have never had a winter tan.

On my too watch and to do list.


The women here have long hair.


One woman brushes her hair in the front lawn along the Redwood Hwy,

too long to brush indoors.


Hair as a kind of clock that stops just past your ass, split ends like long seconds.

Rubyliths used to filter views rather than headline selected images.

You text a bouquet of baby’s breath and

I was thinking: style mistakes shape for form.


Lost in the abstraction of news.




Be casual.


Where are we?

Crescent City.

Croissant City?

u mm yes, Crescent City.

The next day.

I want a croissant.

I visualize crescents in croissants. Its like I see a croissant through baby eyes.

Plus she went through a croissant drawing period.

Don’t be embarrassed.



A full moon.

Even in the dark,

Surfaces are marked

With pastel colours

Developed out

Of extended periods

Of sunlight.

It has been a long time

Since I worried

Or wondered

About the Juan de Fuca Plate.


scan 01

Not yet titled scan by Nadia Belerique, 2013.





Feb 10 / Tiziana La Melia

Confidential Report

It is the most photogenic thing she has ever made. In the jpegs it is impossible to see it. And I am too far away to see that it’s really a picture of cardboard on top of coroplast.

When I saw the cardboard cutout chosen for duplication I felt excited. I googled Deanna Troi, and quickly found out that free astrological sites don’t predict up to the year 2336.

In a few days I’ll be leaving Vancouver to visit Los Angeles, where I will be visiting a person with extra sensory empathy. I haven’t knowingly exchanged energy fields with a telepathic stranger since 2003, when I got a ride from Winfield to Vancouver by a man from Vernon. I don’t remember his name, but I went to school with his daughter, and he bought coffee from my mom. He admitted to me that my mother was good (good vibes?) that he saw ghosts (pointing at one hanging out at the gas station), and that I had negative vibes. This made me sadder than I already was, so I knew it had to be true (his pointing out ghosts). He probed deeper, asking me questions about where I was going in life. Are you happy? Tell me about your boyfriend. Essentially acting as some kind of psychic counselor. He taught me a meditation technique. I felt dizzy.

The title of the exhibition reminded me of a book I handed down to Nadia during our days in the Firehall Studio at Guelph, R.D. Laing’s The Divided Self, a book I bought second hand as a teenager. Nadia became more intimate with it than I ever did, and applied it as a kind of manual to understand decisions in her photographs. So perhaps it is apt that we now have a counselor with the psionic ability to sense emotions to look to for advice.

I’ve been meaning to buy a long distance phone card. Waiting to pay at No Frills, I saw the reliable Ci Ci, my favorite. But I don’t get it, so Nadia walks into a bar and calls me.

Lying on the chaise, sometimes the iPhone on my shoulder slides down to my stomach. We’re at the bar together, despite the distance. I’m taking notes, analyst with no diagnosis.

A bouquet of gypsophilia sits on the coffee table.

Did you get the pictures what do you think?

I see some cardboard cutouts free standing in the gallery…There are two and it looks like she is talking in a mirror.

Something about them touching, trying to convince you that two images are one, that is funny. Touching. I decided to use both – what’s that thing that that guy said

(Types in ‘thesis notes’ in finder.)

You mean what J was talking about that time –  Max Ernst’s description of collage as the encounter of two or more realities

(Finds note and reads it out loud.)

“intrinsically incompatible realities on a surface which is manifestly inappropriate for the purpose, and the spark of poetry which leaps across the gap as these two realities are brought together” – good thing I have notes on hand. I wonder what this has to do with the undecided self.

What is funny about that?

It’s too light


for a heavy subject?
 When you walk in there’s nothing pressing about it – they look pressed or squished but feel light.

It’s made of coroplast? A picture a plastic cardboard? 
It’s a picture of cardboard on top of coroplast? Where’s the clue? The glitch? From my phone I’m uncertain about what I see.

The sound to Star Trek. That feels fine…it doesn’t sound like TV, it sounds like Star Trek…..

So Star Trek sounds like fine?