Persimmon Blackbridge Portrait

This portrait is a love letter to Persimmon (no not like that)… We have known each other a long time and have been through hell together. I am trying to recall meeting Persimmon. It would be circa 1990, I had gone to the groundbreaking work by Kiss and Tell, drawing the line. At some point, I guess I got up my courage to ask them to present at a class I was taking at Emilly Carr—circa veritas.

Then we started hanging out. I invited her to my studio; I was so nervous. I did not call myself an artist then—did not think I could. She asked why, and told me I should—so I did.

She became a great friend and mentor to me.

I learned so many things over the years from Persimmon. We took lots of walks—this big-brained diesel femme and stupid little butch me trying to find myself in this world. At that time I was, as she said, taking pictures of my badass S/m dyke friends.

Persimmon was the first person able to translate me—to breathe my art into writing—and I made as much use of that as I felt I could ask and probably more. She taught me that working across the grain, no matter how painful the splinters (to paraphrase Susan Stewart), was how I could and possibly should proceed. She taught me to treat my art as important. Like packing my art: she took such care, I had been haphazard with mine, not thinking it deserved it.

The bond forged realizing we were both stupid mad artists with learning disabilities struggling. Especially as Persimmon is quite possibly the most intelligent person I know, and so eloquent and brainy really. We call ourselves and each other stupid, upsetting those around us. Words used against us, used in delight, making stupid art together, pushing back—letting go—embracing, saying fuck you.

We spent hours talking, and then later when Persimmon left the city, on the phone. We sent each other pictures of our work. When my wife Catherine died in a plane crash, Persimmon was there for me. She was the safer place I ran to, even in her own pain when her dearest friend Tempest was murdered days later. In my own grief, probably never giving hers enough air. Persimmon went many miles with me on the phone as I traversed Canada by foot.

The DAAA initially invited me as an artist interviewee, but when I learned that Persimmon was to be interviewed, I jumped at the chance to do a portrait of her instead. These many years I have surprisingly few pics of Persimmon. I’ve been unhappy with all but one.

About the photos: Let me set the scene. I went to Hornby for my wife Catherine's 13th Deathday, something I had also done on the first anniversary. That would mean it was also Tempest’s

deathiversary. It was cold out, no REALLY cold, you remember that cold snap. So it was a good time for us to be together in the dark and the cold.

I think we were both a bit awkward at first, and so, it was freezing, and as there were strict covid protocols in place, we dressed warm and Persimmon made art out of doors while I stalked about her trying to find/collude/encourage/pull/tease/ease/illuminate out of her some of those parts of her that I love—to show her in her element.

I often shoot in the studio—I like bare space with nothing to distract from the beauty of the person—but with Persimmon, it made sense to work in her element. Her studio alone is art; her junk—as she calls it—is Everywhere. There is something of remarkable natural or sloughed-off magic bits in the drawers and drawers and jars of stuff that I rarely have the opportunity (or courage?) to open, but admire from the outside as the whole studio is a sculpture of her. Drawers with names like: wood body parts, tar, rough kids, girl scouts, pretty hardware (which means somewhere is one called ugly hardware). I wish I would’ve counted them all.

Persimmon makes art because she has to. It appeases the demons, though as anyone who makes art knows, the process makes its own demons as well, sooooo working like crazy…

Persimmon will sometimes say she is not a real artist. In more recent years I fight her on that. Will the real artist please stand up! Well, sometimes we can and sometimes we can’t, yet amidst that queer divine dissatisfaction, art bears witness regardless.