With Every Brushstroke

Introduction

This is a memoir I never wanted to write about a series of paintings I never wanted to paint. It's been over a decade since my identical twin, Suzanne, succumbed to cancer after a brave nine-year battle with her health. Yet, I am only now ready to share these paintings and the story behind them.

It's hard enough to lose a loved one and we all suffer this pain in our lifetime. The rare few are unscathed by personal tragedies. Some deaths we learn to slowly accept, like that of a parent if only that nature generally predetermines their death before ours. Others, like that of a child or a sudden loss of a dear friend, can stop us in our proverbial tracks and grief becomes overwhelming and often debilitating.

But for a twin to lose their other half it can often feel like they have somehow died as well. I truly believe to a great extent the only me I ever knew perished along with Suzanne on April 19th, 2009. I was immediately forced to be reborn as a singular being to whom I had no connection.

Losing my twin after such an emotional journey where I literally lost myself in the roller-coaster of hospital stays, caregiving, survival guilt, and false hopes almost destroyed me completely. Although I am blessed with support and love from my family, close friends, and my husband, my true path to healing lies in these six paintings. This is where tear-stained sketches evolved into portraits of love and an acknowledgment of the gift I was so lucky to have ever had…

…our twinship

After her death, Suzanne spoke through a dream saying I would paint her and that I would "heal with every brushstroke." These paintings are the legacy of my healing.

And here is my story of transforming pain into beauty …

scroll down

I could start with the usual anecdotes most twins share about being "womb-mates." The finishing of each other's sentences or the inherent closeness that seems to be our very birthright. When I think back, especially to our early childhood, I only recall her constant companionship. Whether it was playing with our Barbies for hours on end, our love of animals (especially the yearly brood of barn kittens we so adored), or our shared interest in art, we were inseparable. We often sketched for hours quietly - probably to our parents' delight as it was one of the few times we stopped our relentless chatter. I would like to think that perhaps for our parents having twins sometimes was slightly easier, as we often forgot that anyone else existed. We were content in our own world. Much to our older sister's chagrin, we were probably pretty annoying at times with our constant warp speed twin babble echoing from our shared bedroom. Those memories of nights suppressing our giggles while ignoring repeated warnings from Dad to finally "Get to sleep!" still brings a smile to my lips.

Starting kindergarten changed things for us as our school didn't allow twins to be in the same classroom and we were very shy without one another. Although I believe it was done to encourage independence, sadly I only remember how traumatic the forced separation was. Over time we adapted to being apart but it wasn't a smooth transition and there were many tears along the way.

Unlike some identical twins, we both decided by around grade three to ask that we no longer be dressed alike. Looking back I have such fondness for the incredibly beautiful handmade clothing my mom made for us. She was a gifted seamstress - even our dolls benefited from her talent! It's hard to recall why we requested this distinction in our apparel but I can only surmise it was a natural part of our individuality and growth. Early on in my own life, I required eyeglasses and this certainly set us apart as well.

Decades later, near the end of Suzanne's life, I reverted to wearing my hair shorter to resemble my twin's style. It became a source of amusement to be seen so clearly as identical twins in our adult years. But sadly, instinctively I feared her health was spiralling and I would soon lose the chance to continue to have this uniquely twin experience.

During our schooling years, life became quickly marred by peer bullying which by all accounts is quite common when one is in any way different. Coming from a small rural town, Suzanne and I stood out like sore thumbs as the only set of twins. Thankfully, we eventually found a few quirky friends to join forces with. I still don't understand how anyone gets through their school years without the support of a built-in best friend. Our twinship gave us strength.

Aside from the usual drama of high school, we grew to revel in our sense of individuality and creativity. We were both artists and known for our crazy "looks." Keep in mind this was during the 1980s and Suzanne was the first to rock bleached crimped hair (ala Billy Idol) and I, unfortunately, picked my idol, Boy George, as an icon to emulate. So perhaps the bullying was sometimes warranted!

One of the great added perks of being an identical twin was rarely having to wear the same outfits twice. Being the same size meant we had an extensive wardrobe. Even now, years after her death, I still have sets of pieces. Suzanne would often buy two of the same items to make sure I had the same thing she fancied. She had impeccable taste and an eye for bargains so if something caught her attention, she knew I'd love it as well! This was just the kind of sweetness and consideration of others that was inherent to her character.

Our love of fashion, music and the arts grew, and early on it also became clear that my twin possessed the better singing voice and a knack for impressions and comedy which resulted in fits of endless laughter and silliness. We would often go for long after-dinner walks as the openness of country fields provided the perfect arena for enthusiastic duets and hilarity. Only the cows bore witness to our routines, which may have been for the best. There are still songs, even now, I can't hear without crying - like anything from the 80's band The Stray Cats, or even Elvis Presley (her favourite to impersonate). I had no idea that some memories will always remain too raw to revisit.

Post high school, our twenties brought the excitement of leaving our small town for art college in the big city. It barely crossed our minds to be separate in our school choices, even though we had different creative interests. Suzanne loved animation and I experimented with crafts and design - both programs offered at Sheridan College in the Greater Toronto Area.

As close as we always were, this was finally a real opportunity for us to forge our own paths. It was a great time to have freedom and explore the big city, developing different sets of friends and interests along the way. Yet we never considered the thought of having separate roommates as it was seamless and natural to continue living together. We shared the same aesthetics, comforts, and both enjoyed experimenting with new cuisine and the diverse culture Toronto provided. It was a welcome shift from the conservative hometown we grew up in, although funny now how one longs for home and simpler times as the decades pass.

Whenever we could we would frequent local nightclubs in search of large enough dance floors to match our endless energy. We loved to dance and often would mirror each other's footsteps, synchronized with our infectious enthusiasm. This drew more than a few curious stares but we were suckers for attention and grinned the whole time! We revelled in our twinship and had an absolute blast doing so.

We were often asked the seemingly obvious question, "What is it like to be a twin?" We would smile and wryly respond, "What's it like not to be a twin?" It was, of course, tongue in cheek as this bond was all we ever knew. How could we know any differently?

It was in our mid-20's when romantic relationships would take natural turns and I met the man that in a few years would become my husband. But no matter what was ever transpiring in our lives, whatever boy drama, work stress, or anything that was going on, we always talked multiple times a day, especially when we were no longer living together. I've learned since that this isn't unique among twins but singletons think it's a bit excessive. We could start and finish sentences for each other and had an endless stream of tangents, segueing to random conversation points, much to the confusion of others!

It took me years after her death to stop oversharing with people in the way I had done with my twin for my entire life. I didn't realize our extreme closeness and connection were considered so unusual, as we were completely open and honest with each other. It may have been at some times to our detriment or considered codependent, but I'm not entirely convinced that my now evolved state of guardedness is really in any way an improvement. I accept I may never again come across a connection as close as I have had with my twin.

Nothing replaces the feeling of being a twin: the contagious laughter, the lifelong history, the communication with a mere glance, and the utter feeling of completeness from just being together. Suzanne was an extension of me, and I of her. If I could go back in time… My God, to feel this again, this gift of twinship I was so very blessed to have even had.

I remember an incident early in our 20's - fresh from the farm when we were so green and new to city life. We had accidentally become separated on the subway line while travelling together, and I still recall the sheer panic that felt like ice coursing through my veins. This was prior to the convenience of cell phones and the separation and confusion felt like pure terror to us both. Of course, we eventually caught up with each other but the trauma of this memory never faded. Suzanne's death years later felt like a gross and cruel exaggeration of this exact moment. She was going somewhere now that I couldn't envision nor could I simply meet up with her.

It was also in our late 20’s that things started to go wrong for Suzanne`s health. Although we were both diagnosed in our teens of having a suspected blood disorder and Suzanne had a near-fatal pneumonia episode in her youth, we generally seemed unaffected by our shared condition. Looking back I realize Suzanne's frequent sinus infections and over-prescribed use of antibiotics was a hint of a weakened immune system. Being the older twin by a grand twenty minutes, I maintained a fierce protectiveness over Suzanne, although I can see her claiming the same sentiment. But nothing would prepare me for the battle which would be the turning point of our 30's. I would have thrown myself into a fire if it could have spared her the pain she was about to endure.

scroll down

This is the
hard part

This is the section
I want to skip

Suzanne often joked near the end of her life that she wished to write her life story and title it 'WTF.' It was said in jest but the underlying gravity was always there. Her humour was a strength she pulled on. Her grace, I will address later.

In writing this memoir, I want you to know that illness did not define Suzanne. Although as a family we grew closer from this experience and Suzanne's strength of character became even more evident with each challenge, I remember most Suzanne's kindness, humour, energy, and love. But to detail even a brief history of her struggles is necessary. This series exists as a testimony to the love I have for my departed twin. Undertaking this dedication was my true means of beginning to heal from the overwhelming grief I felt with her death.

The cards were not stacked in her favour. We were both diagnosed with a blood disorder, but it only seemed to affect Suzanne during our 30's. This is a rare genetic condition that was diagnosed fully in 2012, three years after Suzanne's death. It increases the risk of life-threatening infections (both viral and bacterial), blood cancer, virus-induced cancers, and bone marrow failure. This condition has since been isolated as an autosomal dominant Mono-Mac syndrome with a Gata-2 mutation. Its profile and occurrence are varied. The only current treatment is a complete bone marrow transplant.

With new information after her death, I consulted a top immunologist and asked, “What can I do (to maintain health)?”. His only response was, “Don't get sick.” I have since dealt with my own immunological issues and have battled cancer as a result, so far successfully. Time will tell and I don't take anything for granted. Ever.

A rough chronological order of events follows below. Although after a decade I may miss some details, I will keep this clinical as it's still too hard to revisit. I share this so one may understand how a remaining twin would be affected. Graphic descriptions do not serve anyone now, and as mentioned, I will remember Suzanne in all her light.

Autumn 2000 - Bell's Palsy: Suzanne would fully recover and her knack for clowning around helped her regain her facial control and symmetry.
January 2001 - Pyomyositis: a rare inflammatory disease that attacks the body, leading to an Intensive Care stay for months (which initially was misdiagnosed as flesh-eating disease as the symptoms were so similar. Proper diagnosis saved her from amputation). Thankfully, she was treated with massive intravenous antibiotics and received incredible care from the infectious disease team. Her body swelled to twice her size and she was covered in purple welts and abscesses. It was so unreal to witness and I was horrified. She was hospitalized for many weeks and suffered severe weight and muscle loss. It took considerable time for her to walk again and regain her strength.
Autumn 2001 - West Nile virus: It took multiple tests to determine that her coma-like state was caused by the virus. The infection resulted in permanent nerve damage to her left leg, causing atrophy and wheelchair use. Eventually, with a cane, she learned to walk again; twice in one year.
A diagnosis followed stating her liver was compromised from her previous infection and that she would require a transplant within a few years.
Multiple infections, hospital visits, overnight stays, e.coli infections, etc.
Winter 2006 - Vaginal cancer, chemotherapy, and brachytherapy.
November 2007 - Vulva cancer and subsequent radiation treatment.
Summer 2008 - Proposed exenteration surgery to remove any area cancer could attach to in the region; partial vulvectomy was performed instead.
Summer 2008 - Repeated severe infections.
Autumn 2008 - Listeria infection, ICU stay. Each of these infections could have been her last. A Homecare visit revealed a hospital bandage had been left inside her surgical wound from her cancer surgery, for which the hospital took no responsibility. An unfortunate negligence that compromised her even further.
Winter 2008 - New debilitating, unexplained abdominal pain symptoms that were not properly diagnosed.
Spring 2009 - Major abdominal pain and mysterious swelling in her good leg was diagnosed as a rare bone bacterial infection. We never got to treatment as unbeknownst to us, her previous cancer had returned and metastasized. She was rapidly spiralling.
April 19, 2009 - Suzanne left us.

After the West Nile infection, Suzanne was on permanent disability, and for many periods over the years she spent time recovering in our parent's home after each hospital stay. She was blessed to have their absolute love and care. Once strong enough, Suzanne would inevitably crave independence and return to her Toronto apartment, to try and maintain a degree of normalcy. She had constant support from her friends, as well as from my husband and me.

Throughout the years it was clear that although her spirit was strong, her body was not. There were countless infections and hospital visits. My husband and I were on guard for panicked late-night calls from Suzanne. It took years after her passing not to jump at the ringing of a phone.

During her many extended hospital stays, I rarely left her side. If I could have slept in that narrow bed with her, I would have. When Suzanne was in pain, it tore me apart. I couldn't make sense of why this was happening to only her, while I stayed healthy. The changes to her body now set us apart. Suffering muscle atrophy from the West Nile nerve damage and years of illness had left her frail. Although to look at Suzanne, all one would see was a beautiful and intricately stylish young woman. She tried hard to present herself as such.

Survival guilt was already taking hold long before she succumbed. Although I attempted to be hopeful for my twin and remain positive, the underlying fear always lay just under the surface.

Suzanne's grace and kindness, nevertheless, shone through even during the darkest times. I recall her calming down a nurse who was challenged with the difficult task of attaching a catheter in Suzanne's last days. Suzanne was so swollen and the nurse became distraught, losing her composure. There Suzanne was - in utter pain speaking gently to the nurse - settling her down. Later in the hallway, overcome with emotion, the nurse cried in disbelief that Suzanne could be so patient and kind with her when in such obvious distress. She was touched by this deeply, and quite literally blown away. This was not an exception to her character. Suzanne was someone you would be honoured to call your friend. Her loyalty and concern for those closest to her were unmatched.

The period leading up to her death was very difficult. In the last year of her life, I was more of a caregiver than anything else. I spent more nights with my twin than with my husband. I felt frantic as she spiralled. We had long befriended the head of the hospital's infectious disease unit, and there were many panicked calls as Suzanne slept fitfully. He was instrumental in her treatment, and having him on speed-dial was not only an expression of his incredible character, but also a fondness of my dear twin. Her condition was rare and complicated. After surgery and chemotherapy, the risk that cancer could return was understood, but the addition of new bizarre symptoms (later diagnosed as a deadly bacteria in the blood) was too much to endure.

I knew Suzanne hated going into hospitals and I thought I could promise her that I would not let that happen again. Silly promises to make, I know. But sometimes one believes they can make something true by saying it out loud, especially for those they love. I still feel as if I failed her somehow, as ridiculous as this sounds. Perhaps I will always hold some remnants of survival guilt. Only time will tell.

I remember a homecare worker taking me aside once and instructing me to 'take the weekend off' after Suzanne's 2008 surgery. She said she had never seen anyone so immersed in a patient's care and she saw signs of mental exhaustion. Concerned that I was close to my breaking point, she insisted that I return home for rest, and let homecare handle things for a while. Years later I finally grasped the importance of mindfulness and self-care, but when you're in the middle of a storm all you can do is try and withstand the wind.

If there was anything I could do, I tried. I felt so responsible for her, so upset to see her suffer, I could barely sleep or sit still. In her last weeks, her pain was so intense and I knew once we reached palliative care that finally, her struggles would soon end. I had never felt so conflicted in my life. I loved my twin more than myself. I wanted the suffering to end but I knew that meant we would soon be apart. This concept just seemed so surreal and painful to truly grasp.

I don't believe my twin ever had time to fully recover from any of her inflictions and the roller coaster of her health battles. Suzanne would often remark that her life felt like an extended series of X-Files, a then-popular television series. She was the underdog in the ring, surprising everyone with her endurance. She rose like a phoenix all but once.

It was the evening before she would leave us where I had one last twin-night alone with her in palliative care. Twin-nights used to be our chosen evenings together to share wine and laugh over silly shows, enjoying the comfort of our connection throughout our adulthood. Looking back, I'm amazed that I was functional at this time in palliative care. It’s truly incredible what strength you can find in the worst of times.

My family had gone out for food and I chose to stay behind with my twin. She had been there for over a week and was completely medicated, but I'd like to think she was able to hear my words.

While holding her hand with tears in my eyes, I promised her that I would live for her and feel her strength. I would try to be brave for her, as I know she would want me to. I assured her that with every beautiful thing I saw, I would feel it for her too; every flower, puppy, or sunset, everything and anything to keep the joy I felt being with her. I promised her that I would embrace life fully even with her absence and live in a way that would make her proud. I needed her to hear this from me, so she would have some peace when she would leave me behind.

She died a few short hours later.

It is one of my heart's most fervent prayers that she has seen the following six paintings and that she feels my love through them. I know that she understands why they took so long to paint. There is no time or compass for grief, no schedule or deadline, but the work is a steady path that thankfully has led me here.

scroll down

When it comes to death, to lose someone, to feel that connection is now physically gone, is a pain that is universal. Grief and shock can overwhelm and shatter even the toughest among us. Even though I knew she was dying, I was in no way prepared for the emptiness I would feel after my twin's passing.

Initially, the exhaustion from the hospital and palliative experience, coupled with the difficult task of clearing Suzanne’s apartment and dealing with her affairs had me on autopilot. Although I was blessed to have constant support and love from my family, it's difficult even years later to properly describe the enormity of the pain I was feeling.

I was so relieved she was no longer suffering. We all were. But I had never felt this alone before. I had a vast emptiness in my heart taking the place of the calm I had always felt in her presence. The world looked so surreal to me after her death, even colours seemed strangely off as I experienced a completely new sense of vulnerability. It was as if the world could clearly see that I was only half there. Exhaustive bouts of daily crying gripped me for years and although I knew tears were said to be therapeutic, time and tears alone would not be enough for me to begin healing from the loss of my twin.

In the immediate months after Suzanne died, I did find some comfort and guidance from a compassionate grief counsellor. But this period of seemingly endless rumination around my loss and pain ultimately left me with the revelation I needed. Pouring over traumatic details and survivor guilt would not be my salvation. My art would be.

There were many writers throughout the years whose words brought me comfort and insight. Just to name one, Thomas Moore, a Jungian psychotherapist, former monk, and writer of popular spiritual books who wrote the bestselling, “Care of the Soul,” which in particular touched me deeply. In his chapter titled, “Time of Saturn,” he speaks of many circumstances where one may go through a necessary period of darkness and reflection in order for growth and healing to occur. I remember feeling his words spoke directly to the darkness which enveloped me. The following is a partial quote from this chapter where he writes,

I had already instinctively known that tears were in fact healing, releasing endorphins that actually ease physical and emotional pain. But the inherent wisdom from observations such as the following helped to affirm the growing stirrings in my soul.

My navigation through my own “Time of Saturn” was completely dependent on the primal need to tell my story in paint. At first, even getting back into my sketchbook felt too painful, too raw. I felt so changed, everything in my world so alien without her in it. How could I ever feel creative again? Initial attempts of sketches resulted in unintelligible tear-stained scribbles and even angrier text. I couldn't even make sense of the myriad of emotions racing through me. Many nights of consuming too much wine, many days of absolute numbness, disbelieving that I couldn't see her smile or hear her voice. My new reality felt empty and raw and I understood at that point why some take their own lives when consumed with grief. I knew in my soul that I had to use my art somehow, that the seeds for a tribute to Suzanne needed to be planted for me to move past my pain. And although Suzanne's battle had ended, mine had only begun.

How would I begin to portray my love for my twin through images? How would I translate my entire heart into mere brushstrokes? Somehow, self-doubt was slowly starting to be replaced by the greater need for self-preservation. And I gently began to listen to my own instincts to help guide me through the creative process which would inevitably be my salvation.

These six paintings were the only way I could make sense of this separation. Turning pain into beauty and creating a heaven I could cling to, brushstrokes now taking the place where laughter once lived.

From here this series began to take shape and form.

I used to write in Suzanne's voice to myself in my journal, to give me comfort and try and get a sense of her wisdom in the time that I needed her most.

--:--

Pristine brushes

The three-week period when I had to clear out Suzanne's entire life from her tiny Toronto apartment is forever etched somewhere deep inside of me. It was a blur of emotions I can't begin to describe as I had so little time to decide what piece of her was worth sharing and with whom. I was still very much in shock and not even beginning to comprehend the grief that was to come.

I knew her as intimately as one could - her fears, her anxieties, and her habits. I understood the reason she was a 'clothes horse'. Her battered pride always fought to appear healthy, carefully selecting stylish pieces which camouflaged any of her perceived flaws. Yet, if you had met her in person, you would never have guessed she had been ill unless she was using her cane. Even that was a beautiful accent as well. Her dignity and grace were only rivalled by her resilient spirit.

I also knew why her cupboards were always stocked with supplies of everything, almost to excess. Living with a disability dictated a budget-savvy existence, and this gave her a keen eye for deals. She always prepared herself, thinking of her future. Suzanne had come to accept that there would be some days when she would not have the energy to leave her door.

But everywhere in her lovingly decorated apartment were charming and meaningful adornments, carefully selected thrift store treasures and of course, her own artwork, which made her space the sacred sanctuary she so deeply needed. If welcomed into her modest dwelling, one would be surrounded by warmth and beauty, a complete reflection of its inhabitant.

In starting this tribute, it was almost as if my twin had inspiration laid out for me. Everything that had once been hers was mine, and her art supplies were no different. She had spent years developing her craft after the first big health crisis in 2001. Her focus on nature, especially the simple beauty and symbolism of trees, resulted in the numerous miniature canvases she painted, now treasures for a lucky few. During her many hospital recovery periods, whether in her lengthy stays back home or in her Toronto apartment, painting became a refuge for her. She printed off countless photos of nature which inspired her, as this was long before digital cameras were so widely used. These scrapbooks, filled with so much of her vision and heart, became my source materials and inspiration for this series.

Poignantly, I found in the spine of one of her scrapbooks a forgotten paintbrush. This discovery reduced me to tears immediately and it still remains where I found it. I couldn't bring myself to remove it as it felt like a moment preserved from her time as an artist.

She wasn't planning on leaving us at age 38, and I know she would have grown in many ways had she survived, especially creatively. But as I had vowed on her deathbed to live fully for her, I felt I had no choice but to honour her with whatever beauty I could now pull from my pain.

scroll down

“The deeper the feeling, the deeper the pain.”

— Leonardo Da Vinci

scroll down

It took almost two years for me to complete the first image of this dedication. If there is any doubt of the complexity of grief and its trajectory, let me be clear: it’s not something you can rush through, even when you’re willing to work through your pain. It is also not a linear journey, rather a rollercoaster of small gradual gains of acceptance juxtaposed against a crippling longing for what was.

The irony is, in the previous January before her death, I had actually begun a large painting. I had barely spent time on it as my focus was on Suzanne's care, hospital appointments, and trying to keep my head above water from the stress.

But this painting I had previously started was a premonition of the journey I was soon to embark on. I am generally a figurative artist by nature after having spent years studying classical drawing and painting. I would often focus on portraits and this canvas wasn't unique in that way. Yet I never could have predicted its evolution would soon have great significance in my life.

It was an image depicting half of a woman's face with a single tear running down her cheek, solemnly looking directly at the viewer. It was a huge canvas measuring 60 x 48 inches. I had initially wanted it to be titled, "In Memory," as I instinctively sensed things were spiralling with regards to my twin's health. It was only a rough start and yet its design felt somehow insincere. I had been attempting to portray the sadness which engulfed me, as I was experiencing feelings of grief long before Suzanne's actual death, yearning for a pain-free life for her. But the image of a random woman's face, even with its obvious emotional context, somehow felt hollow to me.

I abandoned this painting completely once Suzanne began her final deterioration that spring leading to her death in April. That’s when my world crumbled. To be honest, the first year after her passing was a blur and the second was not much better. I functioned and somehow started back to work as a waitress, merely going through the motions of existence. But inside I was numb with grief. I had a difficult time just dealing with the shock of being without her for the first time. Stepping back into the studio felt far too raw even though I instinctively knew my art would be my true lifeline forward.

The issue with the painting I previously started was that it bore a stranger's face. I knew from my journals and sketches that after her death the only way to address my grief would be to walk straight through my pain. This image, therefore, had to be a self-portrait. I had no choice. This first painting is undoubtedly one of the more difficult of the series as it speaks entirely of my own trauma and loss of identity. Even in the cold of winter prior to her death my gut instincts darkly whispered that this would be my first painting that Suzanne would not be alive to see completed. In retrospect, this was probably another factor in my needing gentle space and time before revisiting this canvas.

I then did something drastic that I had never done before and ripped the canvas off the stretcher! It was strangely cathartic, its destruction ironically felt like the true beginning of something. I can't overstate how emotional it was to choose my own self-portrait for reference. It took countless hours of staring into a mirror. Unless you're an identical twin you can’t understand how hard it was after losing Suzanne to search for her every time I saw my own reflection. But restretching a new canvas was the fresh start I needed.

This painting was a multilayered process and its sheer size was daunting. Its content of self-reflection was intensely personal and excruciatingly intimate. The title was addressed quickly, as my previous attempt "In Memory" felt wrong. This had nothing to do with a familiar past or comforting sentimentality. I had just lost half of myself and I was overwhelmed with feelings of incompleteness and intense longing. "Identity" became its new title - the very thing I now struggled with so deeply.

Although the creation of my self-portrait was time-consuming and emotional, as an artist it was still familiar ground. But I had a technical issue with the second half of the canvas. I had left it blank whilst attempting to convey my missing "half" as a twin, and this was mirrored against a fully rendered half-portion self-portrait. There was a design issue as something was missing. Upon receiving advice from a dear friend who understood the enormity of the anger I was holding, he gently suggested releasing these feelings in a less structured approach. More timely advice was never spoken. Encouraged, I then felt the freedom to become more intuitive and physical with my technique as broad strokes with palette knives replaced my usual controlled brushstrokes. I cranked Suzanne's favourite music and painted in a way I had never previously allowed myself. More than once I was reduced to loud sobs on my studio floor, finally realizing that holding pain inside was counterintuitive to my healing.

Unfortunately, photos may not do the finished piece justice, because in person one would see the sheer energy and texture of the second half of this canvas. Palette knives were used freely to create the rawness which reflected my broken heart even though it was such a departure from my usual carefully meticulous method. With broad mark-making, a running tear is now only subtly implied as the emotion stemming from this self-portrait speaks loudly and clearly.

It was the hardest painting I had ever done and it was emotional as hell. Yet, never could I have done something so painfully necessary.

New Moon

scroll down

When cancer takes hold of your life, you try to take comfort in the little things. But with Suzanne’s death, my world changed immediately.

There were many nights when I drank her share and the tears came from a much darker place. The constant ruminating over details of her demise and complete rejection of this unwanted independence took its toll on my mental health. To be an identical twin, sharing a genetic blood disorder which was the eventual undoing for my dear Suzanne yet I was relatively unscathed, left me with a heightened sense of survival guilt which crippled me emotionally. Even the simple act of looking in the mirror at my own reflection could be traumatic, especially in the early years after her death. I would stare at myself searching desperately for my twin’s eyes as if I could summon her. Tearfully, I would try to imitate the silly faces Suzanne used to make in a desperate attempt to see her again. I feel this experience is unique to identical twins who have lost their other half, as something so simple as a mirror could now trigger deep sadness. (Although with years passing and as I grow older, I've grown to cherish this fleeting resemblance when I catch her shadow in my reflection).

It took at least two years for some of the more destructive patterns to ease as I struggled so deeply with the idea of loving myself, even though everyone around me repeatedly confirmed what great support I was for Suzanne, especially in her time of need. But all I felt for years was anger, sadness, and inadequacy that I somehow let her down. I couldn't accept that I wasn't able to love her back to health, that I couldn't save her.

It was only through the tentative initial sketches which evolved into this bigger project that I was able to finally move through my pain. Looking back now, after all these years of painting Suzanne’s likeness I have also learned to forgive myself for my previous weaknesses, and slowly I began to love myself finally as she once loved me.

I'm reminded of one of my favourite lyrics ever from Bruce Cockburn's "Lovers in a Dangerous Time."

"Got to kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight."

A note on process

There is a sentiment in art that a painting is 90%

drawing. I tend to agree as the preparation for a canvas

is extensive and often underappreciated.

Although the first image Identity took almost two-and-a-

half years to complete, I simultaneously spent

countless hours developing the remaining sketches for this

series. Conceptualizing this tribute was a labour of love,

as each painting represents a different facet of my

feelings for my twin. There was constant reworking at play

as my inner critic wouldn't accept anything less than my

best for Suzanne.

When it came to translating my ideas to canvas, I no

longer kept track of the hours I spent in my studio. After

considerable time developing each image I would often take

weeks of minibreaks from painting, stepping back to allow

fresh perspectives before proceeding further. Each

painting was a challenge with respect to technique as I

was attempting something new with every canvas. I took to

sharing my process on my Tumblr blog aptly named "A Work

in Progress." This is how I even saw myself for many

years, mirroring my own spiritual growth in the

progression of this tribute.

As a working artist, one might put a value on their time

to determine pricing their work or a commission rate. This

formula was never considered for this series as time spent

no longer mattered. This tribute was as cathartic in its

development as it was a final testimony of my love for

Suzanne. It was never created with the intention of

selling or profit in mind, although with the sharing of

these images through this story it is my intent to help

others find their own path for healing.

“Only those willing to walk through the dark night will be able to see the beauty of the moon and the brilliance of the stars.”

— Archbishop Socrates Villegas

scroll down

“Art can permeate the very deepest part of us, where no words exist.”

— Eileen Miles

I instinctively knew immediately after Suzanne's death that I needed an amulet of sorts. Something to wear that felt like a talisman, a physical reminder of my twin which I could reach for in her absence.

Looking back at my journals, I was sketching locket designs mere weeks after she died. It was a visceral desire to create a necklace and my vision for its design unfolded almost effortlessly.

The image of a single beautiful tree was always foremost in my mind. As mentioned previously, Suzanne herself was a gifted artist and soon after her first major illness, she sought comfort in portraying nature, especially trees, in her many wonderful and whimsical paintings. The very strength of trees and their ability to withstand the storm became an obvious metaphor and source of inspiration for her.

During her many bouts with illness, we always remained hopeful and positive, and as a family we often relied on humour to navigate through her battles. But in that last month, as Suzanne's health worsened irrevocably, there was more silence between the two of us than there had ever been in our lives. I was in full-on caregiving mode and she was in tremendous pain. Our usual banter was replaced with ominous silences. We couldn't talk about what we feared was so obvious, even though in my heart I ached to ask her about her feelings towards death. As if talking about it could somehow make the possibility less real.

In retrospect, I realize now it was never something we could ever really discuss. It was too surreal and painful to consider our imminent separation. But, there was one moment when I did ask Suzanne, as she had so many friends dear to her heart, "What do you want me to say to them?” in the event of her death.

I hear her response still so clearly. She was looking straight ahead and couldn't even bring her eyes to meet mine, as she quietly responded

"Tell them to sit under any tree; I'll be there."

The carving for my locket was cast in stone with those words.

I was fortunate to find a local jewelry designer whose sensitivity matched her talent. It was a unique design and would take certain skills to replicate. I was given a wax mould to carve, which would serve as the basis for the sterling silver locket it would become. I remember being so proud of myself when I used a tiny needle to carve that even tinier tree, modelling it after one of Suzanne's paintings. That I was able to keep my hand from shaking surprised me, maybe her hands were guiding the process.

The payment exchanged for its construction is noteworthy as well. One of Suzanne's final paintings was entitled ”Mist,” and was an image so beautifully rendered that there were many requests for prints from loved ones after her passing. Upon learning that Suzanne was such a talented artist, the jewelry designer agreed to accept a print as payment for her services. So, in fact, Suzanne's art made this locket possible and in its essence, it was her gift to me.

The finished piece was solid and heavy, exactly how I needed it to be. I was beyond thrilled with its execution. It still gives me incredible peace to wear it and I think Suzanne would approve.

My mom dreamt of my twin soon after this exchange. Suzanne was smiling as she spoke in this dream of how wonderful it was that people still wanted her art.

This second image in my tribute involved painting my twin's portrait for the first time. It was incredibly difficult and extremely emotional given its context, as capturing Suzanne's likeness was a challenge that almost crippled me with self-doubt. Could I do this? Did I have enough training or talent? Yet with gentle and constant encouragement from my husband, I pushed through my many mental blocks. Eventually, I surprised myself by creating a likeness that seemed to capture the heavenly glow I was aiming for. The simple combination of dark and light, Suzanne's ethereal gown next to my heavier-handled dress of mourning was as intentionally painted as the tiny bouquet of forget-me-nots held in my left hand. These sweet, dainty flowers would be a repeated theme in my tribute, as they speak of eternal love and remembrance.

The Locket represents the obvious separation between us now, as Suzanne bestows around my neck, a link between our two worlds. This amulet of memories and this very painting were the first steps to creating my own sense of Heaven, bridging the gap between a God I had become so angry with and a spirituality I so desperately needed.

"Tell them to sit under any tree. I'll be there."

“I can hear your absence in my soul, loud and luminous, sometimes it's a hushed echo, lingering low and lurking loose but it never fades. It takes a break but it never breaks away.”

Vazaki Nada

Balloons

At first glance, this playful image seems to be taken from a children's story. I'm pleased to have created a visual narrative that appears whimsical, but holds much symbolism. Suzanne collected children's books throughout her life, and it was her desire to publish one someday. She never got that chance, thus this painting was a deliberate attempt to channel her wish.

Though portrayed innocently, it actually has prophetic roots and foreshadows darker times to come, far from the playful hours spent in our joyful youth.

Inspiration for this image came from a snapshot of our fourth birthday. Looking back, I love the old photos of us dressed alike as identical twins, before we started to develop our individual styles. Drawing from this memory, I wanted to weave elements of past and future into an idyllic setting. On a lighter note, perhaps a subtle regret is not including one of my mom's wonderful birthday cakes in homage to her, but sadly, it didn't fit into this painting's story!

Birthdays since her passing have been a struggle for me. Any surviving twin can attest to the personal battles that come from spending their birthdays without their other half. What used to be a joint celebration with your favourite person in the world, now triggered overwhelming grief, panic attacks, and an intense longing for what was.

It became clear that new rituals needed to evolve in order to face that day without her. I had to find a way to "feel" Suzanne, to reach her, or to at least feel like I tried. It became my ritual for many years after her death to release balloons skywards, with a picture attached that she would recognize, complete with a handwritten message to her on its reverse side.

(After 10 years, I have since changed rituals as it finally dawned on me that balloons could hurt wildlife. I now leave copies of her cartoons, reproduced and hand-coloured by me, anonymously tied to a tree as a random offering for whomever is meant to find it. It is a gift to the finder from Suzanne and me on our birthdays and I know she would adore this idea immensely).

This painting speaks of many things woven together, an overlapping of past and future. As newborns, we were given tiny beaded bracelets in pink and blue (aptly entitled 'Twin A' and 'Twin B') to distinguish us apart. These colours inspired the styling trend in our infant wear, Suzanne garbed in pink and me in blue. Those little bracelets (one still exists), now fit on my pinky finger!

Although we are holding hands, I am the one holding the remaining blue balloon, while the pink one has slipped away. This is the prophecy of Suzanne eventually slipping away from me with her death, the balloon taking her place in flight. This also symbolizes my yearly attempts to reach her with my birthday offering hopefully meeting its heavenly mark. If you look closely, the attached photo is the same image I use for The Locket, the painting I previously described. Again, a connection to the future lies in the seemingly innocent storybook setting.

The endearing cat looking up towards Suzanne is actually Buttercup, twin's much-loved companion later in life, whom she found as a tiny fluff-ball in a barn soon after her West Nile diagnosis of 2001. This wonderful cat was a constant source of joy for her. I can attest to the many nights when I stayed with Suzanne how this loving creature seemed to calm her pain with her healing purr. Magical is the only way to describe the comfort found in our pets.

The mourning dove looks down on us from above and its sadness is palpable. Again, this is an image of prophecy and symbolism. You never know what you've had until you've lost it.

And finally, the recurring theme of forget-me-nots appears again as they are now held by Suzanne. In painting these narratives I am creating a heaven that heals and sustains me. With each painting in this series, I feel my twin still holding me in her heart. We are only separated by time, and nothing more.

This is a special chapter addressing only a few of the many times Suzanne "spoke" to me through dreams or imagery after her death. As previously mentioned, Suzanne and I never discussed at any length the real possibility of her death. I recall years prior, when joking around after a few glasses of wine, the two of us agreed that if one of us died before the other that "of course we'd still communicate!" Then we'd giggle and joke that she'd be a jerk and show up at inopportune times - for example, when I was brushing my teeth or during romantic moments. You can guess at the silliness that transpired, that in lighter moments of concocting bizarre scenarios, drinking, and laughing, the tragic possibility could never actually happen. Even these bittersweet memories are precious to me.

After her battle ended in 2009 there were definite signals, dreams, and attempted communications from Suzanne to me. In fact, not just for me, but for others who loved her as well.

This phenomenon was beautifully addressed at length in the 1995 publication, “Hello From Heaven! A New Field of Research - After Death Communication Confirms that Life and Love are Eternal.” This book was written by Bill and Judy Guggenheim after completing seven years of research. It documents over 3,300 firsthand accounts of people who believe they had been contacted by a loved one after their death. It really helped early on with my grief, affirming the spiritual journey I was about to take. The authors, in fact, were good friends with the late Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, who is heralded as a foremost authority on the intricacies of grief and its impact.

One of my favourite points of connection remains clear after the passing of several years. I recall a moment walking with my husband along the lake in the summer just after her death. Nature was always calming for me but I wasn't expecting the gift I was about to receive. Upon gazing at the clouds, gently talking with Skot about my twin and my sadness, I would then make out something startling yet familiar in the sky above. It was an image of a bear's face, clear as day! It was identical to the cartoons my twin loved to draw and now it was right in front of my eyes! It was uncanny and completely recognizable in the clouds, totally symmetrical, with perfectly shaped ears and eyes smiling down at me. Suzanne often drew bears as her protectors while sick, aspiring to one day illustrate childrens’ books. Low and behold, in the sky a beacon of her spirit had formed! Needless to say, I cried tears which were finally happy and my husband suggested I not repeat this, as people would think I was crazy. But he saw it too, and we marvelled together at the heavenly gift bestowed upon us when I needed it the most. There was no denying that both of us felt deeply that it was a deliberate message of love from Suzanne.

Other wonderful appearances happened in bittersweet times. On one occasion a dragonfly wouldn't leave me when I attended one of Suzanne's best friend's weddings in her place. Although it was a beautiful ceremony, it was still so raw for me to be there in my twin’s absence. But the appearance of a stunning red and black dragonfly landing on my ankle while we sat on the grass, refusing to leave, then hopping onto my hand, truly felt heaven-sent, as Suzanne loved dragonflies as much as I. Its markings were distinct and beautiful. I believe there was no coincidence in how it complimented my black and white dress. Suzanne couldn't have planned it better and this magical visit lasted what seemed like fifteen wonderful minutes!

There were also dreams, few and far between, unfortunately, but clearly spiritual visitations. Suzanne’s appearances were always distinct and memorable. Her energy was always so calm, unlike her usual hyper-fast talkative nature. Although I also experienced many nightmares reliving the trauma of those early years after her passing, in the blessed times when I truly feel she was making an appearance, Suzanne was always serene, glowing, and happy. She would say very little but her eyes never left mine and her calmness gave me a belief to hold on to. Although we are separated in the physical realm, there exists a beautiful place where we remain united in spirit and I'm always hopeful there will be more visits to come.

One of Suzanne's dear friends also had a profound experience. Soon after twin’s death this story involved her friend’s young daughter who exhibited signs of being gifted with psychic vision. It is commonly believed that the young have a psychic ability often lost with age. Being a toddler really, she had only met my twin once but her mom was so moved by the following interaction that she felt the need to tell me about it immediately. Suzanne's friend had a longstanding nighttime ritual to bond with her daughter before bedtime. She would play with her daughter's hands and ask her little one to recount the events and encounters of her day. Her answers were of the usual nature, mentioning neighbours and playmates but then it became heightened suddenly. This little girl began speaking about my twin, really surprising her mother with its random nature. Yet, this little one had only met Suzanne briefly. The details have long faded, but what stands out from this story was that this small child said to her mom that she could "see" my twin. She was actually focusing off in the distance while her mom played with her hands, but went on to describe where Suzanne was (somewhere beautiful with lots of flowers!), and that she was wearing a brown dress. (Suzanne as a brunette radiated in earth tones and had purchased two matching brown flower print dresses for her and myself in the summer before her death.)

How her mom stayed calm, I have no idea. But my twin's dear friend went on to tell me that her daughter relayed a message to me. She said to her mom that Suzanne wanted to say hi to "Mo." Mo was my nickname at my work and very few people knew this, certainly not this little girl. She went on to say, "Tell Mo to plant blue flowers.'' This is the most incredible part of this story. That very day I had spent time in a nursery searching for blue flowers in tribute to Suzanne. We had loved all colours, but blue, in particular, spoke to me, and the inclusion of delicate blue forget-me-nots in my paintings of Suzanne is no accident. Hearing this affirmed my newly forged belief in Heaven and started what would be a long and delicate journey in reestablishing a relationship with God, with whom I had been so very angry. The ending to this encounter was symbolic to me as well, as her mother pressed for more and her daughter replied that Suzanne was tired and needed to rest.

After much reading about life after death my understanding is that with especially traumatic and lengthy health battles, the deceased often take their initial arrival in the afterlife as an opportunity for much-needed rest. This perhaps mirrors the restorative rest that friends and family need in their grief. Other beliefs suggest that actual healing on the earthly plane mirrors the healing done in the Heavenly world. You owe it to yourself and those you love to move into a better place with your own grief journey, as perhaps your loved ones are healing simultaneously with you, a truly beautiful concept indeed. Perhaps, I will discuss this with Suzanne when my time to join her finally comes. But this whole incredible recounting of her friend's daughter's vision just added to the tiny building blocks of faith and healing in my journey forward.

Another incredible message was told by a friend who had visited a psychic medium shortly after my twin's death. Upon her entrance she remarked, "You have a friend who passed from cancer? She's petting a black cat."

The significance of this is uncanny, as my beloved black cat "Midnight" had just died suddenly not three weeks after my twin. This friend of Suzanne's lived in a different city. She and I hadn't spoken for a while, not since the funeral and she was not aware of this sudden loss of our cat. So, for the medium to open with this query was incredible to us both. Her statement that Suzanne was now "petting a black cat" confirmed that my beloved deceased pet had a new purpose in an unearthly realm, as a companion, a little piece of me for my dear Suzanne. It is difficult to describe the comfort that this brought to me during my sorrow.

I've only highlighted a few memories of what I feel were significant after-death communications. There are many others. Some were as subtle as catching her voice in mine or seeing her eyes in my reflection. This is perhaps truly significant for any surviving identical twin. Messages one might feel sent from Heaven take many forms and it's only up to your own heart to decipher their meaning. Your soul will feel the peace they whisper to a broken heart.

--:--

When clearing out Suzanne's apartment shortly after her death, I happen to randomly flip through one of her many notebooks, and landed immediately on this page. Here, I found this poem my twin had written out. It is a version of a well known poem entitled "Immortality", written in 1934 by Clair Harner. For me to find this, I believe was no accident. It shows me that Suzanne was thinking about her mortality and this poem speaks of hope for those on their journey, and for us left behind.

--:--

“Death is but a transition from this life to another existence, where there is no more pain and anguish. All the bitterness and disagreements will vanish and the only thing that lives forever is love.”

ELISABETH KüBLER-ROSS, M.D.

scroll down

I never imagined that I would've confronted this subject matter in my art. The decision to portray in paint the very moment Suzanne left our physical world was not an easy one. But I knew it was a necessary step for me to start healing from the incredible emptiness I now experience with her absence.

Growing up, I only had a fleeting connection to religion, although I have amusing memories of us both as young children fighting over who said their nightly prayers first. We assumed in our childhood wisdom that God couldn't possibly hear us simultaneously. This assumption resulted in some humorous back and forths as we were both impossibly stubborn.

But growing up as artsy creative types, the term, "The universe" quickly became the secular replacement for anything to do with God. This still remains the norm for many young people as religion often seems intimidating and outdated in the modern world. Yet the need for spiritual guidance remains. Suzanne and I were deeply empathic and sensitive to a fault. We found solace in self-help books of the day, Reiki, and whatever pseudo spiritualism came our way.

But I discovered that once you're faced with a loved one dealing with their own mortality, entrenched in health struggles and gut-wrenching pain, one can seek God’s presence pretty quickly. Speaking for myself, I assume our parents also whispered pleading prayers whenever Suzanne was in crisis. Unfortunately, our prayers were not answered, and to this day I still struggle with this, even though somewhere deep inside I know the answers may never come.

My own anger towards this was a massive weight in my heart which I carried for years. The survival guilt of being left behind, the constant ruminating of what I could have done better to help save her, and then my fury as to why a beautiful soul such as Suzanne had to suffer, are the heaviest burdens to bear.

Although this project was undertaken initially to honour my twin, it also evolved into addressing my severed connection with God. In order to heal, I needed to rebuild that relationship.

Reading, "When Bad Things happen to Good People," written by Harold Kushner, a prominent American rabbi, and author, was an early step for me in searching for healing words. Beautifully written, Kushner explains the "Book of Job" from the Old Testament, with his own interspersed decades of experience comforting families after loss. It was one of the many books I sought for guidance and I highly recommend it when searching for wisdom.

Although I had earlier touched on the theme of worldly separation in the painting of, "The Locket," this image of Suzanne on her death day was a massive emotional undertaking for me. I needed to create a visual narrative of my twin travelling from our world, gently guided by butterflies, to a heaven I could finally embrace.

There are many elements to this painting that I tried to weave, however painful they were, into an image so beautiful that its very presence on my walls now calms me.

Suzanne is adorned here in a simple brown dress, inspired by a shared vision from the previous chapter. Although she was ravaged by cancer in the last year of her life, I took care to present her as womanly and healthy as possible. I know she would appreciate this.

The fields behind Suzanne represent the past she is about to leave behind, the muted colours suggest sadness, and the halved single tree is poignant imagery of our separation. In Suzanne's own artistic journey throughout her lengthy health battle, trees remained a constant theme which I felt the need to recognize, however haunting it might be.

I surrounded my twin in lush greenery and flowers, as she had passed in spring, and I needed to believe that heaven was a new beginning for her, as the freshness of spring typically symbolizes.

It's not an accident that my beloved cat Midnight lays in wait by her side. His untimely death three weeks after Suzanne's was something I could only accept if I embraced the notion that he was meant to bring her comfort in the afterlife.

As Suzanne was also an artist, the paintbrush symbolizes our creative connection. This also serves as a subtle reminder of her battles with cancer, her brush dripping in red paint (symbolically, blood). I would like to believe she continues to inspire and create works of wonder, only now unlimited in her reach, using clouds and skyscapes as her vast canvas.

I have always adored the delicate beauty of butterflies. Growing up in our small town, monarchs flourished in our fields and never ceased to delight us. Thus, it seems fitting to portray a single monarch perched on her hand, heaven-sent to guide her from our world to the next. Forget-me-nots continue to make their appearance, serving as prophetic reminders of the bonds of love not broken by death.

This painting took countless hours and meticulous retouching, pushing me obsessively to try and capture her beautiful likeness. I wanted to create a sense of an ethereal transition, a heavenly glow surrounding butterflies that serve as chaperones, guiding gently my dear twin into a heaven that I was manifesting with brushstrokes. I needed to portray something she wouldn't be scared of, so magical that she'd put aside her sadness and trepidation of leaving us all behind, and bravely embrace this new journey without me by her side. Writing this now, I'm literally in tears at my keyboard. As much as I was torn apart with her leaving me behind, I know spiritually she had something to go through singularly as well. On one occasion, a dear friend who was touched by my efforts commented, “I don't know how you could paint this.” She understood the gravity of this ambition. My answer was merely, “How could I not?”

Even years after this painting's completion, I’m still lost in awe of it. This might sound strange and it's not meant to be egotistical. Like most artists, I agonized over details knowing perfection is an unattainable goal. But I feel in my heart that Suzanne helped guide my hand in this process every step of the way. I’m certain that the significance of the moment when she was released from this world into the next was captured effectively. I pulled it off, everything from her tentative posture welcoming the butterflies, to her beautiful smile once she realized that they're only there for loving intent. By this point in my series, I was already feeling the incredible healing power of creativity. I knew I was on the right path.

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

— Maya Angelou

scroll down

I will always hold on to the tender memory of an autumn visit from my parents in the aftermath of Suzanne's passing. We had taken a walk in Trinity Bellwoods Park, which was close to my twin's old apartment building and was one of her most beloved places. Autumn was her favourite season, and she had emulated its beauty countless times in her own intricately detailed paintings. This walk with my parents felt as surreal without her as it was appreciated for the comfort they provided. I remember holding hands with them and talking about Suzanne as we walked among the trees. They knew of my desire to create imagery about her and were very supportive. They spontaneously started helping me as I began to collect fallen leaves, as they understood their colours were inspiring me.

The three of us gathered the best ones that would have met my twin’s approval. We took a moment to rest on a park bench, my mom with her gentle wisdom and sadness, my dad with his incredible strength and stoicism, and I was overwhelmed with their love.

My dad spent many nights in the end with twin, sleeping on a cot in her hospital room, never leaving her side when she became delirious with cancer pain. He took my place when I lacked the calmness that only a father could bring, not a hysterical twin. He weathered a storm I wouldn't wish on any parent and bore what I did not have the strength to witness. The grace and courage my twin inherited from our Mom came out as well. Both she and our older sister Rachelle held me together as our world crumbled fast. As my parents and I sat there, with countless leaves in our laps, trying to organize them for whatever purpose they might serve, I hoped to use them for paintings not yet started. We were all overcome with emotion while my mom held my hand and my dad tearfully looked me straight in my eyes and calmly, quietly, beautifully said, "Just tell your story."

And that is what I did.

This image of Suzanne lost in her love of dance embodies her grace and beauty, eternally wrapped in the colours of her favourite season, and was inspired by the memory above. In fact, those same leaves purposefully collected that afternoon, can be seen delicately sealed in the layers of Suzanne's ethereal gown. Hanging on the wall of my home, this canvas gives me such joy whenever I look at it. Unlike my previous paintings in this series, this image almost entirely embodies lightness, only briefly hinting at the dark.

As noted earlier, Suzanne and I took every opportunity to take up space on the dance floor in our 20's. We loved to mirror each other's footwork, much to the amusement of onlookers. Sadly, with the onset of her health issues, there were only a handful of attempts to capture this energy again, greatly modified because of her permanent nerve damage and muscle atrophy incurred after her bout with the West Nile virus. Our once frenetic pace was then replaced with a much slower rhythm, but equally special.

Those who knew Suzanne would marvel at how vital and alive she looked when she lost herself in dancing, so it only seemed natural to include an image in this tribute that shows my twin in her glory. It was my intent to clear out remaining painful memories of what illness had taken from her and focus on the vitality which was her true spirit.

As with each canvas, I attempted new techniques and this piece was no exception. Looking closely, one can see after the passing of several years the lovingly preserved leaves woven into Suzanne's gown. This was done using a special impasto medium that works with oil paint. The resulting texture was created with expressive brushwork and multiple glazes, and this sealed the precious leaves into a tapestry that evolves with the changing light of day. The effect is truly magical!

I kept my palette as simple as possible, creating a cool textured background with wax medium to serve as the wind, juxtaposed against the warmth of her dress of fall colours. Autumn symbolizes a time of ripeness, beauty, and harvest before the inevitable coldness of winter, a stark contrast of cruel barrenness, which to me represents her impending cancer and death.

I designed this painstakingly using the “golden spiral,” a tool from nature used by designers and artists for centuries. It mirrors the elegant ratio one sees repeated in nature, such as in a seashell, and draws the eye into a focal point for dramatic effect.

I repeated this spiral twice in this painting's construction, as seen in the accompanying sketches. I placed the focal point directly onto my twin's face, and this again was mirrored in the dancing leaves facing her. If you squint, you might recognize the subtle suggestion of a large heart created by design in the background. My desire to match her steps is now replaced by delicate brushstrokes and swirling leaves. What you can't see with your naked eyes is my attempt to paint my love for her, eternal in spirit.

I still dance in my living room to our favourite music staring directly at this painting. Often cathartic tears run down my face. But as painful as parts of this painting series were, I knew in my heart it was the only true thing that would sustain me until I am reunited with Suzanne again.

“True healing lies inside stories. Fictional or not, it is the only place we can truly witness our own journey.”

Christina Rasmussen

I've written much about the incredible length of time spent developing each painting in this series, but this image presented a unique challenge. Unlike the previous paintings in this tribute, I didn't have an actual photo of us to use for inspiration for "Reunion." The preference for most artists is to either work from their own life drawings or from a photo reference that they themselves took.

I certainly had the idea in mind for what would be the final vision, but lacking an actual photograph of the two of us embracing was upsetting for me as this was so deeply personal. The symbolism of our eventual reunion carries such emotional weight it demands nothing short of perfection. Regardless, as creative vision stems from the artist's conceptualization, I knew I had developed the confidence from the previous five paintings to finally trust myself to work through any limitations.

As planning and design evolved it became evident that only unconditional, eternal love was needed to be portrayed, not necessarily our likenesses. Also, it became clearer to me how important it was that Suzanne and I look completely identical here, almost melting into each other. As mentioned in earlier chapters, we had prided ourselves in our individuality, but the idea that we would seemingly blend into each other upon our reunion gave me great comfort.

Technically, this was also a demanding image to create as I had never attempted a landscape like this before and the canvas size proved daunting. I wanted the fields to appear endless and calming as I layered countless dabs of colours for months. I even dreamt of sunflowers some nights! Glowing fields of these golden beauties were a common sight for us growing up, and while going through Suzanne's own scrapbooks after her death (books she had kept for her own painting reference over the years), I saw through her many clippings how much she really loved this simple yet beautiful flower. I was also attempting to imitate Suzanne's painting style that she had used in her own delightful and heartfelt paintings, allowing her spirit to guide me through this last canvas of my tribute.

It was instinctual to surround us with an ethereal glow, an idyllic setting for our long-awaited embrace. My emotions ran high with the creation of this image as it was an exhausting balancing act of paint application coupled with a compulsive desire for perfection. I eventually had to accept that it was time to let it go and put down my brushes. My healing lay as much in the process of creating each painting, as in its final result. I feel her love when I look at "Reunion" now, its hues shifting with the day's changing light, no longer discerning who is holding whom. I created this Heaven for us, imagining our embrace again when the time finally comes.

By going through this emotionally painstaking journey, I had fulfilled a promise I had made to Suzanne and, as importantly, to myself: to feel her and inevitably, to heal, “with every brushstroke.”

This clip is the last video of Suzanne & I taken on New Year’s
Eve, just a few months before her death.

There are so many phrases I'd love never to hear again. People do not intend to cause more distress when parroting standard hallmark sentiments for grief. It's not even the fault of a well-meaning colleague or even close friend who says something which although was meant to be supportive, actually hurts those immersed in a deep state of pain. Grief is a delicate and awkward space to be in and true empathy and sensitivity can be rare traits to find.

Perhaps without the personal and profound loss of my twin, I may have been guilty of expressing the same phrases for lack of a truer understanding of what was actually needed at the moment.

One only gathers wisdom through experience, so here I offer some gentle advice. For some, in times of grief, all that may be needed is to sit beside them, allowing them to express themselves freely. Even to be in silence with them so they know they are not alone can be incredibly comforting, if all they desire is to have someone bear witness to their pain. Count yourself fortunate one day if a friend is wise enough to sit with you in your time of need, and God bless you if you are able to be that true friend for another.

Hopefully, after reading this memoir, people will understand better that loss affects people uniquely, and that incredible healing can be found in encouraging loved ones to express their grief in some manner. Scientists have long determined that hormones released through tears actually support the healing process. To accept that one cannot sidestep this painful journey, but rather one needs to learn to navigate through it, is the only way towards true healing. For some, they may need to express their emotions physically, like hammering away in the garage on a new project, working with their hands. For others, sadness grows roots in literature, prose, and song. For myself, tear-stained sketches eventually evolved into testimonies of love.

Recently, I discovered the artist Edward Munch spent forty years creating countless tender images as a lifelong tribute to his dear younger sister who succumbed to tuberculosis at age fifteen. Even now, as a lover of country music, I have found an endless supply of heartfelt tributes written for loved ones who have passed. Although these songs often bring me to tears, to know that others have shared their own stories makes me feel more connected to our human experience.

The planning as well as the construction of my dedication series has brought me to a much better place than I could have ever been without a creative outlet. It wasn't an easy process, and working through the myriad of emotions these images invoked forced me to embrace my pain, finally accepting the loss of my twin.

It was always a struggle to stop tweaking and glazing, and admit that a canvas was indeed, finished finally. These paintings now adorn the walls of my home and are as much a testimony of love for Suzanne as they are about my own self-preservation. Recreating her in the flesh, so to speak, was my way of giving her eternal life and creating a sense of Heaven I needed so dearly. These accumulative brushstrokes took years to transform the storms brewing inside my soul, which was often exhausted. The effort challenged me artistically and spiritually to my core. These were the key factors enabling me to survive without my twin.

I feel blessed to have this ability to recreate my twin, “With Every Brushstroke.” This series and memoir provided me with a lifeline towards healing. And although I feel I am living more fully because of this creative journey, I may always feel like a work in progress, and my dear twin will undoubtedly become my muse again one day.

The reality is you will grieve forever, you will not “get over” the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it, You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but you will never be the same again, nor should you be the same, nor should you want to.

Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, MD

Suzanne's Art

One of the most difficult things when a loved one dies, especially if they were a creative person, is facing the stark realization that their work may not reach new eyes anymore.

I could not write a memoir about my experience as an artist dealing with the death of her twin without sharing a small selection of Suzanne’s own artwork. Sadly, her website was removed after her death, and it pains me that her wonderful art is no longer shared widely, except by those who were fortunate to have purchased from her.

Included here is a small selection of her artwork, ranging from gallery and local bar exhibitions to art fairs and private collections.

Dedication

An Ode to my Husband

I could not have created this tribute without the love, support, and encouragement from my husband. To be completely honest, I don't think I would have survived the loss of my twin if it wasn't for this man who loved my brokenness as much as my wholeness. His incredible strength of character, empathy, and compassion shone through all those tough years, caring for Suzanne with all his heart. He has also accepted that our life will be forever bittersweet as even in moments of joy with me, I will always speak of wishing my twin could have joined us.

But I gently warned him when we first met that I was a twin and Suzanne was an essential part of who I am. Her death does not change this.