I'm a jill of all trades artist from Toronto, Ontario. Soon I'd like to be able to work as a full time artist but, until then my feet stay on the ground with my 9 to 5.
When I think of my childhood home, I feel nothing but warmth that saturates my bones. And when I say home, I don’t necessarily mean a physical place. Home lives in my heart, and speaks to me through memories bathed in gold. From before I can remember, home was with my grandparents. Up at the trailer in Buckhorn, Ontario, or in their old home in the East York suburbs, home was with them. Home never felt like the house I grew up in from 5 to 17, or the apartment I had from 17 to 21. These are some of the memories I hold on to, from the house with the creaky floor boards, to the trailer where I spent every summer:
Cherish Your Name Like Gold
As a child, I grew up to be ashamed of my name. Danika, Dan-ick-ah. Boys would follow me on the school yard and yell my name in a way that bastardized it and hurt my ears, formed a chorus in the dark corners of my brain that fostered my self hatred. Dan-eek-a, Dan-eek-wa. It wasn’t hard to make a lonely girl cry when all she wants is to fit in, but in a school filled with names on top ten lists and Hollister shirts, that was never an option a poor girl with a weird name received.