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Auntie Elva’s ocean side home smelled of dusting powder and seaweed. I visited her often there and walked with her on the beach. Even when beachcombing, Auntie Elva dressed as if for the theatre or shopping, saying that she’d sooner be dead than wear “sensible shoes”. Her beach finds were distributed throughout her house along with the things her husband, dead these many years, had brought back from his trips around the world. Cloisonné vases full of shells, driftwood perched on ebony trunks, bits of coloured glass atop brass tables. One day after our beach stroll Auntie Elva brought a tray of tea to the living room then sat on the chesterfield opposite me. While the tea steeped she began stitching a hem on her sister Myrtle’s dress. As she talked to me about the seagull situation and the garbage problem she casually used her left breast as a pin cushion. And that was how I found out that Auntie Elva had had a mastectomy.

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Every Christmas the families gathered at Auntie Elva’s house. There was a turkey in the oven, presents under the tree, and Auntie Myrtle, who always wore sensible shoes, holding court on the chesterfield. Without fail Auntie Elva gave her three nieces dolls. I was the youngest niece, my sister Leah was a year older than me, and our cousin Beth was a year older than Leah. Every year I reeled with happiness as I tore the wrapping paper away to reveal the brand new doll, the intoxicating scent of new plastic was perfume to my nose. We would take our new dolls to the big, carpeted landing on the stairs. It had a stained glass window and was ideal for playing house. And then one Christmas Beth opened her gift and it was not a doll. It was a sweater. My sister and I still got dolls but the next year my sister got a sweater and Beth did too, again. I was the only one with a doll that year. I didn’t want to stop getting dolls; I had a nice family of them at home and I loved each one. There was Debbie, so named because she looked like Debbie Reynolds to me. And there was the doll I named Purpose when I was five because I liked the sound of the word. But of course I got my sweater the next year and soon after that the dolls got packed away. I never saw them again and often wonder what happened to them.

*****

Uncle Andre always liked to tell the story of the rose liqueur. Whether he was at a party, a bar or just visiting, he would tell and tell again that story. It involved a famous actress who passed him in a hotel lobby in Paris and dropped her scarf: “The finest silk scented with roses…” Whenever he said this his fingers moved back and forth as if feeling the smoothness of the silk and he drew a deep breath in as if inhaling the fragrance of a thousand roses. “I ran to catch her. She was so grateful to have her scarf that she took down my name and room number.” And that night a bottle of rose liqueur with a whole rose in it was sent to his room. “The very next year that lady became a Princess.” Cheers, Uncle Andre.

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Photographs by Catharine Amato; writing by Marie Wilson. Catharine and Marie were among the original founding members of aamora. We thank them for sharing with us this collaboration and hope it’s the first of many. It reminded us of something written by Pierce Harris in the Atlantic Journal: “Memory is a child walking along a seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things.”

Catharine grew up in England but has been living in Italy since her marriage in 1969. She spends her winters near Milan and her summers in Tuscany. Check out her previous contribution to aamora – the very first one! – by clicking here and her other contributions by clicking here. You can also enjoy more of her wonderful work on jpgmag.com .

Marie is a writer, photographer, artist, actor, mother and muse. Originally from Vancouver, she lives in Toronto. Enjoy more of her photography at her photosite here and check out her writing, art and photography, as well as some cool links, on her new website.

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Marie Wilson was one of the first members of aamora. She is a writer, photographer, artist, actor, mother and muse. Originally from Vancouver, she lives in Toronto. Enjoy more of her photography at her photosite here and check out her writing, art and photography, as well as some cool links, on her new website

The Miss Jean Brodie of the cha cha set, Miss Abigail Deermont stands five three in stacked heels and bouffant do. Four new trainees, including me, sit before her on a Monday morning, day one of our classes in bronze dance steps and tarnished sales techniques.

“The Cinncinati Six,” she announces, “is a strategy designed to help you sell Lifetime Memberships at the Deermont Academy of Ballroom Dance. “Who can tell me where the technique was developed?”

The guy to my left, an ex insurance salesman wearing a powder blue polyester suit, furiously flips through his Academy manual while the young lady to my right (who has chosen the dance instructress alias of Miss Toy) picks at her nail polish. Miss Deermont’s crème de la crème.

“Cincinnati?” I volunteer.

“Correct!” Miss D swirls her arms before us. “You will all become Cincinnati Sixers!” She turns on her heels and carves an arabesque in the air. “Anyone over 18 who puts a ballot in the box at the mall wins six lessons.

“And it will be your job to teach basic bronze steps while also pumping those lucky winners for information.” Her nostrils flare like a flamenco dancer’s. “You have five classes to find out all about your charges’ personal lives, then on the sixth…” she pauses, her face tango-serious, “You move in for the kill.” Miss Toy looks abruptly up from her nails as the guy in the baby blue suit starts biting his.

“You will sell Lifetime Memberships to lonely abject souls who long for the flight of terpsichore!” Miss D swoops her arms as if for take off. “It costs just five thousand dollars for a lifetime of dance lessons and Friday night socials at the Academy.” Her wings flutter and settle at her side. “And you get 5%.”

And the reality of my new job hits me like a ton of rhumba shoes.

*

Fred Astaire glides into the studio in top hat, white tie and tails. Guests are arriving for the Friday night social. But Fred is not quite himself: his pants are too short and his socks are mismatched – one blue, one argyle.  Also the smooth black surface of his topper is interrupted by a glassy ebony orb. An almost imperceptible jewel in his crown, it looks like something out of a sci-fi movie, a transmitter to the Mothership or the cyclopean eye of Big Brother. It’s noticed by few, and only known in its true nature to its wearer and me. The wearer is, of course, not Fred Astaire at all but the remarkable Walter Kist in his grandfather’s best formal attire topped with his own madcap hatcam.

“Beam me up, Scottie,” I say, as Kist sashays past, shooting on the sly.

“There’s no intelligent life down here,” he counters, then aims his chapeau in my direction. I stick my tongue out at him as maracas and marimbas guide the tentative Lifers on the floor. He smiles and moves on, a soft shoe man dancing on crushed diamonds and rose petals whom no one pays much heed to despite his odd postures and wallflower poses.

But more than a few jaws drop at night’s end when Kist doffs his cap to dance a mad-hatter tango with me. Ignoring all proper bronze, silver or gold steps, we don’t moon like Brando, but our twists and turns and leaps comprise my last tango at Deermont’s. The next day I hand in my resignation.

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This is an excerpt of a work in progress by Marie Wilson. Marie was one of the first members of aamora. She is a writer, photographer, artist, actor, mother and muse. Originally from Vancouver, she lives in Toronto. Enjoy more of her photography at her photosite here and check out her writing, art and photography, as well as some cool links, on her new website
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Consider the word consider. Don’t break it up like they do dis-ease and co-relate. Con and sider don’t mean anything when it comes to the word consider.

Think about it. Sit. In some stillness and peace and consider the situation or the person or the things. Consider life, death, the price of eggs. Take your time. Don’t jump to conclusions. Do not rush consideration. Do not hasten deliberation.

Look at the facts, muse on the emotions, ask questions, talk to friends, speak to the wind. Wait. Ponder. Moodle. Free form thinking then focused inquiry.

Consider consideration – what is the objective of the thoughtful session? Toward this end choose, edit, select. Don’t censor, rather brainstorm. Then whittle. Then reconsider. Consider again. Distill.

Distill to a fine gold essence. Call it liqueur of the heart. And mind. Strike the aromatic balance. Call it Consideration. Take a long slow drink every now and then.

*****

Marie Wilson wishes you a happy Valentine’s Day. Marie was one of the first members of aamora. She is a writer, photographer, artist, actor, mother and muse. Originally from Vancouver, she lives in Toronto. Enjoy more of her photography at her photosite here and check out her writing, art and photography, as well as some cool links, on her new website

In the 70s, a homeless man named Chris used to roam the streets of Toronto. He had a long white beard and wore a lumber jacket and could often be seen holding onto fire hydrants around town while yelling: “Fire Ten! Fire Twenty! Fire Thirty!” and so on.

Most people thought Chris was crazy. But if you stopped and talked to him you would discover he was in possession of a very valuable secret. Fire hydrants, according to Chris, were storehouses of power, and anyone at anytime could fuel up by just following his procedure.

Try it sometime.

Marie Wilson was one of the first members of aamora. She is a writer, photographer, artist, actor, mother and muse. Originally from Vancouver, she lives in Toronto.  This is Marie’s contribution to aamora’s “Secret Project” (more here). Enjoy more of her photography at her photosite here and check out her writing, art and photography, as well as some cool links, on her new website

Michael Van der Tol, member and co-administrator of aamora, asked our members to contribute their favorite shot of 2009. He created this slide show for you to enjoy. Thanks, Michael, and Happy New Year everyone!

Marie Wilson was one of the first members of aamora. She is a writer, photographer, artist, actor, mother and muse. Originally from Vancouver, she lives in Toronto.  See more of her photography at her photosite here and on jpgmag.com.

Crystal Lamont, an aamora member and our celebrity expert on the Diana camera and all things tasteful,  offers her critique of one of another aamora member’s (Marie Wilson)  Diana+  shots.

Here are Crystal’s reviews of three of Marie Wilson’s photographs made with the Diana+ camera:

1. Photo: Little India triple exposure by Marie Wilson

Crystal sez:

I can’t say it enough: wind. And I don’t mean the kind that blows (as this shot does). No, I mean, wind as in turn that little dial at the top of your Diana after every click of your shutter. This photo is a good example of someone who doesn’t know how to wind or who just can’t be bothered. She probably goes around without nail polish on her toenails as well. And not only has she failed to wind, but she has failed to wind several times! And that’s why when you look at the shot it makes you feel as if you’ve had one too many martinis. And since I usually have had one too many martinis, this shot makes me see eightuple.

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