Liz The Phoenix
Well not many of you know, but Liz Phillips was our very first producer. This talanted painter had just moved to Montreal, had no job, and still bought a frame. That’s how much she believes in the project.
Liz has had a rather amazing and heart wrenching ordeal in the last week and her struggle has reminded me of what is important in life.
Instead of me telling this story, I thought I’d let you hear it in her own words. I hope it give you inspiration, hope and reminds you to get insurance… our love and prayers go out to you Liz.
Dear Family and Friends,
On January 2nd I was in Seattle, playing cards with my friend, Greg, and his daughter, Sara. In Montreal, my apartment building was burning.
On January 3rd, I woke to an e-mail from my friend, Sara, in Montreal, telling me to call home quick and sent the news clip about my building, describing one wing of the building as gutted, the other not. I hoped my side was the not side. I e-mailed my friend, Anthony, to please go over to the building and assess the story. Anthony took his blackberry and e-mailed me from the site. The day was so cold fire was freezing in the fire hoses. Anthony froze his fingers writing to me. They were still fighting the fire. Turns out, my wing was the gutted one. I was supposed to stay in Seattle until January 20. I booked a ticket home the next day.
I arrived at my friend Sara’s the night of January 4. In the taxi from the airport on the way to Sara’s place, I told the driver what happened (of course, he’d heard, the fire was so big it made national news). I was happy to be home, in Montreal. We spoke in French. I said, “what a way to start the year.” And he replied, “You can’t think like that. The fire was an accident. God spared your life.” He was right. He is right.
In Seattle, the day before I came home, I felt OK about it all. I was not upset. My mother, father and brother, Justin, all offered to come to Monteal to help me sort through my apartment. I thanked them for their offers and said I would check things out first and get back to them.
Offers of places to stay in Montreal were instant. Sara, Amy, Val.
Sara prepped her tiny bachelor for my arrival. It was warm, beautiful, and ready for me, with a fridge full of feta cheese and lactose-free milk, and a basket of fresh tomatoes and my favourite-very-hard-to-find bread. We caught up and laughed and I slept a peaceful sleep. I had written to John to see if I could also stay at his place since he works in Toronto half the week, and his condo is spacious. He offered it without hesitation for the duration of my stay in Montreal, which will be about a week. Here I am able to take a bath in a tub the size of a pool, do laundry, catch up on my favourite TV show — 30 Rock — and enjoy the Plateau, my favourite part of the city.
In Seattle the night before I came back, I watched a movie with Greg — The Fountain — which I’d seen before, but it could not have been more appropriate — about facing death in order to live again. When it was over, I finally cried. I cried for all my diaries. That’s what I was most upset about. My diaries. And my guitar, the one I’d bought with my creative writing award from undergrad. And my new white coat I’d bought last year, the outrageously expensive one that I treated myself to in honour of my new life in Montreal. It was an investment in my future here. And my yearbooks from the Philippines. Nothing else mattered to me. Truly, nothing. Not jewelry, not clothes, not inherited antiques. Not even books, which can be replaced.
God must have been listening . . . I have been trying to be positive about this event since there is absolutely nothing I could have done, even if I’d been there. I never did get myself insurance, but the things I care about are not insurable. But because I was visiting Greg for 3 weeks, I had packed all my favourite clothes for winter, my computer, my camera, my webcam my passport. In short, I have everything I could need for the winter and for my job. In this way, I am blessed.
But in a weak moment, I wondered to myself if loss of my studio was a sign that I should just stop painting. After my crying jag, I read my e-mails, and I had received on of many from Pamela, a friend from Manila I have just reconnected with who lives in Vancouver, and she told me about a dream she’d recently had in which she saw a spread in a magazine featuring my paintings. I feel like I can’t let her dream down. With her, dreams are no less than visions. I believe them, and I felt like the universe was telling me to keep on going through the beautiful soul of Pamela.
Before I extol the virtues of all my family and friends, I was to tell you about the miracles that happened yesterday when I finally went to see the apartment. What I had imagined finding was toppled furniture under which I might salvage some things. What I found was blackness and ice. Walls burned right through, ceilings that did not exist, everything unrecognizable. Greg had told me to take my camera, so I did. And I’m so glad I did. What I saw was destruction so complete that what was left was unspeakable beauty. See for yourself. http://www.flickr.com/photos/88234126@N00/
And in that charred wreckage I did find things. I found the three Chinese Buddhas I inherited from my grandfather. They were black, but standing. I found the cookie jar Rosemary made and gave to me because I loved it. I found the ceramic pieces I had bought when I worked in a pottery store — all these things were in a recessed cupboard. I also found a silver bowl, my popcorn bowl, in a kitchen cupboard (more like a charred door hanging open — the rest unrecognizable).
There was one bookcase standing with my books in tact and frozen. Nothing I wanted, except for the diaries, which were buried under rubble on the bottom shelf. A guy who happened to be across the hall digging through the debris for a friend came to help me. He said I should come back tomorrow when things melted a bit to get the diaries. Same for my art journals, which were frozen in a block of ice in my studio. My winter coat was behind the front closet door, which looked fairly protected. One of two closets still in tact. I finally convinced him to crow bar open the door and we got my coat. It’s no longer white, but it exists! I brought the pottery and coat to Anthony’s gallery where he had his car. He said he would drive me back to John’s, but on the way he wanted to see the apartment, so we went in again. And he helped me get my diaries and my art journals.
Just before I left my building, I was talking to some neighbours in the wing that was not destroyed and George asked me if I’d known someone who had a guitar. I said no. I said mine had burned. He asked, “was it Canadian?” I said, “yes, it was a Norman.” And he looked at a guitar case standing in front of us that I had not noticed. I said, “but it can’t be mine. Mine was in my hallway and I no longer have a hall way.” He opened the case and there was my guitar. He said a fireman had run it out of the apartment when the case was burning. I have no idea why the fireman chose to save that guitar. But he did. And now I have it. The only thing on my wish list I was not able to get were my yearbooks, which had burned to ash . . .
Thankfully, I have all my friends from Manila who I am in touch with and they have all their yearbooks, so I have access to them.
So, now to my friends. Jacline, who is always there with whatever is needed — I can’t even count up all her assistance now and in the past. She’s my rock. Ann, who offered to replace my metal stars I’d salvaged from someone else’s art project. She knows where they are hidden in Toronto and will try to find me more. And she has also sent a ton of wishes in advance of the stars. Other friends in Toronto — Lilly, Katherine, Hilary, Munaza who all sent their thoughts and offers of homes and clothes and anything I need; Friends in London — Andrea, Megan, Melanie who all offered the same; Friend in New York — Jake, and his friends, Kim and Kathleen (who wanted to start a fundraiser on my behalf!); Family in Ottawa — Dawn, Andy, Mitchell and Grant (who offered their home); Family in Toronto — David and Jane (same home offer); Friends from all over the world . . . . everyone has been incredible. Supportive, loving, generous. Many of you are hearing this news for the first time, but I feel your love already. I am blessed.
Again, my parents, who are always there for me, unflaggingly. They have been wonderful, as always.
When I was in tears at Greg’s, he said, “don’t try to find a reason for this. You may not know for a long time, if ever. But trust that it happened for a reason.” And I know he meant a good one.
I feel so lucky to have what I do, and so liberated to not have to move all my things again. I have my writing and my guitar. I have my ability to paint and to imagine. I have a book I’m writing on my computer. I need to get a hard drive tomorrow to back up my computer!!! I have my family and friends. I have no less than my whole life ahead of me. And now I can travel unfettered.
One of the things I had inherited when my grandparents died was a Chagall print, signed and numbered. I never liked the image much, although I’ve always loved Chagall because he was a happy painter who loved his wife. Last fall I decided to put the print into Christie’s auction. I figured the money could be put towards something that would fuel my own art — like a trip to Berlin or Thailand, two places I long to go. The print sold at the top of its range and I got $14,000 US. How’s that for a miracle?
I moved to the apartment in August of 2007 and for 3 months I had the sunniest most beautiful apartment I have ever lived in. I slept among the trees (it was on the 3rd floor), I worked at my desk in sunlight and my studio was flooded with light, too. I loved that apartment, but something told me I would not have it for long . . . so I enjoyed every minute of it. You can see it in the flickr pics I sent (in the URL). There’s more than one page of images so keep on looking.
I love you all. I love my life. I am blessed.
Liz
www.lizphillips.ca
