#artists I have known: Maila Shanks

(photo: Newfoundland)

Back from the glorious morning walk, enjoying the breakfast smoothie, and have some time to tackle your questions about by life as an artist…here goes!

Dr. May Banham, an old family friend, and professor of paediatric psychology at Duke University, used to visit us in Pte-Claire, every summer, on her way home to England. She came by when I was six months old and told the folks to put a pencil in my hand asap, as it would be the best means for me to express myself and enhance my development. 

I remember drawing copiously on paper towels, which were easily accessed from a dispenser in the kitchen. The early drawings I referred to as, “action pictures”. Like cartoon strips, the characters had words in bubbles, which were short vertical lines for each word. This was a source of great frustration to me and served to accelerate my actual learning to read/write. 

Sometimes I worked out difficult emotional episodes in my life by drawing. A good example was the time I came back from my brother’s cub-scout event where I was terribly jealous of his getting lots of attention for having won a medal. Mom said I immediately reached for a paper towel and proceeded to draw a very ugly little cub-scout, beside a large, beautiful self-portrait… Voilà, mood turned from sour to delighted! 

As soon as I could read, the word, “ART” was a beacon…it always jumped out at me. I somehow knew that this was my one constant, and my best and only truly reliable friend. Everything to do with ART was of great interest to me. My father was a “commercial artist”, during the 60’s. He used to bring home all kinds of work-related paraphernalia; including the very first felt pens/sharpies; sheets of Letraset (transferable typeset in a zillion fonts); and many pots of gouache, and artist quality coloured pencils and brushes. He encouraged me to use all of it, and both parents and extended family all supported my artistic bent with constant approval and acclamation of whatever I produced. 

As I grew up, my aesthetic sensibilities were honed through exposure and time spent with my parents and teachers, discussing all manner of art, including painting, sculpture, music, literature, architecture, and photography. It all fascinated me. 

Art was not really something I shared with my peers. I had lots of friends with whom I studied at school, played sports and games with, along with various other activities. Art was always something I mostly kept to myself. I began keeping a “logbook”, when my family hit a rough patch, due to my parents’ health issues, resulting in a dramatic shift in our overall security and financial means. 

Suddenly thrown into a much darker reality, art became a veritable life raft for me. The logbook (writing and drawings) habit has stayed with me since the age of 11 years. Still have a running one, and somehow managed to keep them all, despite my vagabond-nomad life.

As I entered adulthood, art was very much a constant, if not the main focus for me. Undoubtedly, the latter was due to what I’d gleaned from my life experience thus far, which was never to put art in the role of providing my livelihood. I always maintained a very practical day job and kept my art pretty well free from any monetary involvement. People referred to me as an “artist”, but more for my demeanour and the company I kept. “Artist”, at that time, had a rather negative, somewhat seedy connotation. This always irked me. 

There was a time during my 20’s-30’s when I collaborated with artistic friends and participated in a number of exhibitions and poetry events. I had a couple of solo exhibits of my artwork as well, which I enjoyed immensely. They were well received and provided the means for framing and offering my work to a broader audience than just my friends’ circle. Yet, this seemingly positive response never ignited the ambition to become a professional artist. In fact, it almost caused the opposite reaction. 

I saw more and more people referring to themselves as “artists” who made very good money at it. This gave the “Artist” a much more acceptable guise, but the “art” seemed less authentic, more commercial, and not so interesting to me. My last exhibit was at the McGill Faculty Club, marking my having received a BFA; which secured my position as a lecturer in McGill’s Cont. Ed. Department, teaching Intensive English as a Second Language. 

I travelled extensively through Latin America (Acapulco to Tierra del Fuego, and back) in my late 20s-early-30s, in two instalments, on a very limited budget. These trips allowed me to develop all manner of life skills and self-sufficiency. There was no end to the lessons a lone gringa had to learn, that’s for sure. Lots of notes and sketches record these mystical pilgrimages. 

In my mid-30’s I went off to India, with the idea of leaving my, “teacher” persona, to that of a “student”. I’d heard that Sanskrit was the mother of all our Indo-European languages and that India was virtually another planet. That all sounded perfect, as my hometown had become a kind of playpen, too easy for me to navigate and not providing enough inner wisdom. I’ve never regretted this decision. 

While in India, I continued to do artwork, including all kinds of devotional imagery in pictures and murals. I also began to sing a lot and play some percussion instruments during traditional “kirtan” sessions. There was non-stop learning; as in these new surroundings, initially without language skills; I was humbled into a state of almost infant-like ignorance. 

Everybody was my teacher there, including animals, insects and small children. Being in such an alien environment, on my own, was indeed an opportunity to get face-to-face with my real self. All of this granted me a whole new beginning, leaving behind old notions, digging up old traumas and discarding them as I got to know my true self. What a boon! The creative process has never wavered, as I never stopped creating with all/any fabulous materials, people, and opportunities afforded me. It has been one huge, art installation after another for me.

Designing clothes, itineraries, making jewellery, co-creating several beach resorts in Goa, with Rashid…the restaurant menus, the furnishings, the huts, the staff and customers… a never-ending kaleidoscope of wonderful, kinetic, art installations! 

How many people get to do this? It’s not for everybody, mind you, as it entails having all the fear within scared out of one. Not the easiest nor most pleasant experience, but certainly invaluable, especially in retrospect. 

People often ask, “Don’t you paint anymore?”  “The painting has morphed into a whole way of life,” I lamely tell them. Perhaps with time, less mobility, and a clearer vision, I may turn to my dear ✍️ and 🎨 in order to continue to share the infinite suffering and joy I’ve experienced, and we all experience in our own unique ways. These are what life is all about.

#artists I have known: Grandma Buckley

Grandma Buckley belonged to a generation of women who mastered handicrafts at an extraordinary level. Knitting, crocheting, rug-making—these were just the beginning. In her childhood, nothing was store-bought if it could be made by industrious hands. Girls were taught from a young age to avoid the shame of "idle hands, idle thoughts." Beyond practicality, there were specific handicrafts every young lady learned to prepare a proper dowry.

Grandma’s talents went far beyond the expected. She painted delicate porcelain, crafted intricate bobbin lace, embroidered detailed flowers and landscapes, quilted, and hemstitched napkins and tablecloths. Her home was a gallery of her handiwork, her cupboards brimming with treasures. Despite only completing a grade-six education, she carried herself with the grace and refinement of a true gentlewoman.

She was also a woman of profound faith. Grandma attended mass daily, sometimes more often on special holidays. Her faith was intertwined with her creativity—she was always crafting mittens, Christmas wreaths, quilts, jams, jellies, and baked goods to sell at church bazaars. At her funeral, an old friend shared a remarkable story: Grandma’s handmade goods were so admired at these events that they outshone all others. Initially, each woman had her own table or designated spot, but buyers flocked to Grandma’s wares, clearing her table within the first thirty minutes. To avoid embarrassment for the other contributors, the organizers eventually began spreading Grandma’s creations among the other displays, ensuring fairness in the sales.

What has always puzzled me is why Grandma’s artistry was never truly acknowledged, even within our family. She never sought praise and rarely received it. Was it because she was a woman, living in a time when only men were considered artists? Or was it because traditional handicrafts were dismissed as mere domestic labor rather than actual art?

Later in life, Peter became a remarkable writer and even rediscovered his love for playing Bach on the piano. Grandma’s creative spirit skipped over Pat and John but found it in Karen, Kim, D., and me. Without fanfare or formal lessons, she inspired us simply by living her art. Her gentle persistence as a role model shaped our lives in ways she likely never imagined.

Grandma Buckley may not have been celebrated as an artist in her time, but her legacy of creativity lives on in all of us who were touched by her life and work. 

#artists I have known: Uncle Peter

When we think of artists, we often picture painters, musicians, actors, or dancers. Rarely do we consider journalists. But Peter was an artist in every sense of the word—a wordsmith and a storyteller of truth.

He belonged to the Old School of Journalism, a generation of writers/journalists who believed what they did was for the betterment of society. In speech, as on paper, his deep intellect and insatiable curiosity found expression in their barest form. He made each word and each sentence count. He avoided unnecessary flourishes, letting the power of simplicity do the heavy lifting.

I was too young to read his articles when they were first published, but his legacy spoke for itself. Younger journalists who had worked with him at the Canadian Press spoke of him with reverence. They credited Peter with setting the gold standard for journalism—a benchmark that influenced not only his peers but also the generations that followed.

On a personal level, Peter was one of the few adults who encouraged my budding love for writing. At first, I was hesitant to tell him about my passion, especially for poetry. I assumed he might scoff at my efforts as the indulgences of a teenager. How wrong I was. Not only did he take my interest seriously, but he also welcomed me into his world of creative thought. Our conversations about writing were inspiring, and I was flattered that someone of his stature would take my ideas seriously.

Peter believed deeply in the transformative power of words. He understood that language can bridge gaps, ignite passions, or offer solace in times of sorrow. He taught me that a well-chosen word could change a person’s perspective. And he didn’t draw lines between the “big” world of global events and the smaller, intimate worlds we live in. To him, both were equally deserving of attention, honesty, and care.

Looking back, I realize how profoundly Peter influenced me. He showed me that writing isn’t just an act of expression; it’s an act of connection. He believed in the power of the written word to make the world a better place.