Growing up, I took for granted how thoroughly art and craft saturated my daily life. Our home was a medley of creative influences. My father was a commercial photographer whose images were on many of the packages I saw in grocery stores. After he retired, he became an award-winning woodcarver. My mother always downplayed her expertise in crafts, but she was an incredible creator and one of my first teachers. Machine knitting was her main passion, but she also experimented with quilting, carving, embroidery and even teddy bear making. My brother studied art at university and became a skilled master carpenter. I believe my family gave me the gift of seeing possibility and the myriad ways a creative life can be lived.
I’ve always adored literature and art equally, but I have to confess that I found a special satisfaction in studying when I was young. After pursuing a degree in English literature at McGill University, I continued at the University of Toronto with a Master of Arts and then, having decided that the library world was for me, a master’s degree in information studies. I ended up working at The Globe and Mail as a photo librarian, which fit well with my interest in both writing and visual arts.
To support my creative learning, I took many courses over the years in drawing, sewing, embroidery and knitting. Knitting was a favorite from when I learned it at the age of about 7 or 8, and I teach it now. I also became interested in the mechanics of making books and sought out the Canadian Bookbinders and Book Artists Guild (CABBAG) to learn bookbinding. Crafting a book by hand is deeply satisfying, but it can be very difficult to actually use the book once it’s finished! I made some for my kids when they were small, and they would fill those books without hesitation — it was a good reminder to just dive in. My love of watercolor painting really took hold during the years when my children were young, as watercolors are portable and also dry quickly, both ideal when accommodating quick changes and interruptions.
In a lot of ways, staying home to raise children is all-encompassing. There are gaps in many women’s careers as a result of making this choice. Looking back, I see all the ways my own creative energy became channeled into child-oriented projects and teaching at home. Making things became even more important to me during that time. I would knit while at children’s swim lessons or paint while the kids were playing.
When my children were still small, artist and photographer Marina Dempster and I co-created Cloud Cashmere, a cashmere accessory business for women and children, using our original designs. She and I have collaborated on a variety of creative projects during our long friendship, including this article which features her beautiful photography.
It wasn’t until I participated in my first group exhibition in 2019 and had a small solo show at a local coffee/thrift shop that same year that I felt myself begin to unfold more comfortably into identifying as a practicing artist. Watercolor painting allowed me to explore figures and landscapes using a loose style and minimal palette. I settled into mostly landscape painting, focusing on the emotional connection I feel with natural spaces. Specifically, Baptiste Lake and its surroundings provided, and continue to provide, unlimited inspiration for my work.
In the early pandemic years, the natural world increasingly became a refuge and I found myself craving time in natural settings more than ever, just as the ability to seek out those places became more constricted. A big milestone for me was having my painting In the Fog selected for the longstanding Carmichael Canadian Landscape Exhibition at the Orillia Museum of Art and History in 2020. Thanks to COVID, that show was locked down after a brief opening — but my painting got to hang in the museum for many months as a result!
Over the past few years, I’ve felt myself evolving and reaching into my arsenal of craft skills to incorporate textiles into my art. In my Visible Mending/Reconciliation series, I combined painting with stitching for the first time. In Canada, issues of land ownership and relationships with Indigenous peoples remain important, unresolved concerns. For this series, I cut squares out of my watercolor paintings before sewing them back on, slightly askew, exposing spaces and a deep red layer underneath.
These works are about the slow, difficult process of repair, but also about the hope inherent in the act of mending. I used my sewing machine for these pieces, moving back and forth over the areas I wanted to stitch. I sewed all the resulting ends through and secured them by hand. When sewing paper, it’s important to remember that too many stitches too close together will result in perforations and possibly a big hole, so if that isn’t the desired outcome it’s important to take care.
It might be surprising to hear that an integral part of my art practice is walking and running, but I find that the meditative time I spend moving my body helps me sort out things in my head. I often feel an idea for an artwork solidify or a line for a poem take shape as I move. My outings help me notice, which I believe to be one of the most important things in any creative practice.
There are two main areas I’ve been focusing on in my art lately, and I think of them as rural and urban manifestations of similar preoccupations. There is much overlap, and in some ways the division is artificial, but I can’t help considering the different resonances of rural and urban modes of walking and exploring while I make my artwork.
As I walk in the woods, over soft earth and undergrowth, I pick up discarded birch bark when the shape speaks to me. My constel/lichen series is about interconnection and the liberty of seeking new forms. My watercolor and textile additions form a new visual story coaxed out of natural materials that have moved past their initial purpose. We are part of the natural world, and by adding my textile forms that echo natural growth as well as the constellations, I’m creating maps of both the ways we grow and paths we follow throughout our lives.
Trees shed their skins in the woods, just as we shed identities and phases, yet my artwork gives the bark another life and new meaning. Again, as with sewing paper, there are specific challenges in the process. Very thin bark isn’t suitable for my purposes, so I use an awl to create holes in order to anchor my stitches.
When I add separate crochet or knit pieces, I’ll sew those onto the bark in a similar way, trying to use existing holes and working with the bark’s natural irregularities whenever possible. I use many French knots to suggest pathways and stars, and weaving to suggest fungi. I add watercolor details throughout the process, as I arrange the embroidered and other elements and see the relationships appear between them. It’s a very organic process, rather than one sketched or planned out ahead of time.
Similarly, my wandering in the city over concrete landscapes has become a bit of a treasure hunt, in that I constantly find rusty metal objects on the ground. Rust evokes deterioration of all sorts, but the bits I find also remind me of the massive impact people have on the environment. Unlike the bark I collect, metal is discarded by humans.
My Rust Proof series of artworks is a conversation about how manufacturing and litter impact our world as well as the implications of decay, a favorite theme of mine. I like the interplay between delicate handwork and manufactured metal, though it can be difficult at times to affix the pieces to one another. I try to create interesting stitches when they will be visible, and sometimes use crochet to attach pieces of metal as well. Stitching discarded metal into my work creates another life for it, one that references stages of disintegration and the fragility of our environment.
My workspace is tiny. My studio is in one corner of our kitchen, including part of our delightfully banged up harvest table. I loved being able to work on my art while remaining available to my children when they were younger, but sometimes I fervently wish for a studio that is entirely mine and that would seem more “professional.” The convenience of working in the center of my home is wonderful in many ways, so I’m deeply grateful for my family’s flexibility about my monopolizing this area. And I really do love the skylights over my workspace that provide beautiful light even on overcast or rainy days.
I have two studio assistants who are both extremely unhelpful. Unfortunately, I love them too much to fire them. Sandy, my shepherd/husky rescue, enjoys chewing and has destroyed countless art supplies, my art, and many of my shoes. Luckily, she seems to be emerging from the puppy stage with slightly less need to destroy my work. Jimmy, the former barn kitten who has grown into a city cat, expresses his general disdain for art by sleeping on mine.
♦♦♦
From Isabelle Fish | An artist’s role is to put a mirror to our face and show us what the world is, and force us to look, consider and act accordingly. It is to bring to the forefront what requires our attention; to keep us on the straight and narrow; to encourage us to do the right thing. Tanya Fenkell does all of this very well, with grace and determination, not shying away from the hard conversations. That’s why I believe her work is important.
Growing up, I took for granted how thoroughly art and craft saturated my daily life. Our home was a medley of creative influences. My father was a commercial photographer whose images were on many of the packages I saw in grocery stores. After he retired, he became an award-winning woodcarver. My mother always downplayed her expertise in crafts, but she was an incredible creator and one of my first teachers. Machine knitting was her main passion, but she also experimented with quilting, carving, embroidery and even teddy bear making. My brother studied art at university and became a skilled master carpenter. I believe my family gave me the gift of seeing possibility and the myriad ways a creative life can be lived.
I’ve always adored literature and art equally, but I have to confess that I found a special satisfaction in studying when I was young. After pursuing a degree in English literature at McGill University, I continued at the University of Toronto with a Master of Arts and then, having decided that the library world was for me, a master’s degree in information studies. I ended up working at The Globe and Mail as a photo librarian, which fit well with my interest in both writing and visual arts.
To support my creative learning, I took many courses over the years in drawing, sewing, embroidery and knitting. Knitting was a favorite from when I learned it at the age of about 7 or 8, and I teach it now. I also became interested in the mechanics of making books and sought out the Canadian Bookbinders and Book Artists Guild (CABBAG) to learn bookbinding. Crafting a book by hand is deeply satisfying, but it can be very difficult to actually use the book once it’s finished! I made some for my kids when they were small, and they would fill those books without hesitation — it was a good reminder to just dive in. My love of watercolor painting really took hold during the years when my children were young, as watercolors are portable and also dry quickly, both ideal when accommodating quick changes and interruptions.
In a lot of ways, staying home to raise children is all-encompassing. There are gaps in many women’s careers as a result of making this choice. Looking back, I see all the ways my own creative energy became channeled into child-oriented projects and teaching at home. Making things became even more important to me during that time. I would knit while at children’s swim lessons or paint while the kids were playing.
When my children were still small, artist and photographer Marina Dempster and I co-created Cloud Cashmere, a cashmere accessory business for women and children, using our original designs. She and I have collaborated on a variety of creative projects during our long friendship, including this article which features her beautiful photography.
It wasn’t until I participated in my first group exhibition in 2019 and had a small solo show at a local coffee/thrift shop that same year that I felt myself begin to unfold more comfortably into identifying as a practicing artist. Watercolor painting allowed me to explore figures and landscapes using a loose style and minimal palette. I settled into mostly landscape painting, focusing on the emotional connection I feel with natural spaces. Specifically, Baptiste Lake and its surroundings provided, and continue to provide, unlimited inspiration for my work.
In the early pandemic years, the natural world increasingly became a refuge and I found myself craving time in natural settings more than ever, just as the ability to seek out those places became more constricted. A big milestone for me was having my painting In the Fog selected for the longstanding Carmichael Canadian Landscape Exhibition at the Orillia Museum of Art and History in 2020. Thanks to COVID, that show was locked down after a brief opening — but my painting got to hang in the museum for many months as a result!
Over the past few years, I’ve felt myself evolving and reaching into my arsenal of craft skills to incorporate textiles into my art. In my Visible Mending/Reconciliation series, I combined painting with stitching for the first time. In Canada, issues of land ownership and relationships with Indigenous peoples remain important, unresolved concerns. For this series, I cut squares out of my watercolor paintings before sewing them back on, slightly askew, exposing spaces and a deep red layer underneath.
These works are about the slow, difficult process of repair, but also about the hope inherent in the act of mending. I used my sewing machine for these pieces, moving back and forth over the areas I wanted to stitch. I sewed all the resulting ends through and secured them by hand. When sewing paper, it’s important to remember that too many stitches too close together will result in perforations and possibly a big hole, so if that isn’t the desired outcome it’s important to take care.
It might be surprising to hear that an integral part of my art practice is walking and running, but I find that the meditative time I spend moving my body helps me sort out things in my head. I often feel an idea for an artwork solidify or a line for a poem take shape as I move. My outings help me notice, which I believe to be one of the most important things in any creative practice.
There are two main areas I’ve been focusing on in my art lately, and I think of them as rural and urban manifestations of similar preoccupations. There is much overlap, and in some ways the division is artificial, but I can’t help considering the different resonances of rural and urban modes of walking and exploring while I make my artwork.
As I walk in the woods, over soft earth and undergrowth, I pick up discarded birch bark when the shape speaks to me. My constel/lichen series is about interconnection and the liberty of seeking new forms. My watercolor and textile additions form a new visual story coaxed out of natural materials that have moved past their initial purpose. We are part of the natural world, and by adding my textile forms that echo natural growth as well as the constellations, I’m creating maps of both the ways we grow and paths we follow throughout our lives.
Trees shed their skins in the woods, just as we shed identities and phases, yet my artwork gives the bark another life and new meaning. Again, as with sewing paper, there are specific challenges in the process. Very thin bark isn’t suitable for my purposes, so I use an awl to create holes in order to anchor my stitches.
When I add separate crochet or knit pieces, I’ll sew those onto the bark in a similar way, trying to use existing holes and working with the bark’s natural irregularities whenever possible. I use many French knots to suggest pathways and stars, and weaving to suggest fungi. I add watercolor details throughout the process, as I arrange the embroidered and other elements and see the relationships appear between them. It’s a very organic process, rather than one sketched or planned out ahead of time.
Similarly, my wandering in the city over concrete landscapes has become a bit of a treasure hunt, in that I constantly find rusty metal objects on the ground. Rust evokes deterioration of all sorts, but the bits I find also remind me of the massive impact people have on the environment. Unlike the bark I collect, metal is discarded by humans.
My Rust Proof series of artworks is a conversation about how manufacturing and litter impact our world as well as the implications of decay, a favorite theme of mine. I like the interplay between delicate handwork and manufactured metal, though it can be difficult at times to affix the pieces to one another. I try to create interesting stitches when they will be visible, and sometimes use crochet to attach pieces of metal as well. Stitching discarded metal into my work creates another life for it, one that references stages of disintegration and the fragility of our environment.
My workspace is tiny. My studio is in one corner of our kitchen, including part of our delightfully banged up harvest table. I loved being able to work on my art while remaining available to my children when they were younger, but sometimes I fervently wish for a studio that is entirely mine and that would seem more “professional.” The convenience of working in the center of my home is wonderful in many ways, so I’m deeply grateful for my family’s flexibility about my monopolizing this area. And I really do love the skylights over my workspace that provide beautiful light even on overcast or rainy days.
I have two studio assistants who are both extremely unhelpful. Unfortunately, I love them too much to fire them. Sandy, my shepherd/husky rescue, enjoys chewing and has destroyed countless art supplies, my art, and many of my shoes. Luckily, she seems to be emerging from the puppy stage with slightly less need to destroy my work. Jimmy, the former barn kitten who has grown into a city cat, expresses his general disdain for art by sleeping on mine.
♦♦♦
From Isabelle Fish | An artist’s role is to put a mirror to our face and show us what the world is, and force us to look, consider and act accordingly. It is to bring to the forefront what requires our attention; to keep us on the straight and narrow; to encourage us to do the right thing. Tanya Fenkell does all of this very well, with grace and determination, not shying away from the hard conversations. That’s why I believe her work is important.
