The margin of disconnect between the island and a sense of home grows less with each passing day, especially now with all legalities towards my residence behind me. After making a brief trip back to Florida in order to retrieve the remainder of my belongings (as preference over shipping) and to gather the necessary paperwork for my reentry (still having some red tape to contend with for my medical portion of my work permit), I successfully made it through the Beef Island immigration line with a smile on my face and most worries disregarded this September 11th. Knowing now the extent of the work permit process, and having wished for more detailed information on the matter prior to, I offer any of you who are interested an unabbreviated list of necessities as well as a few helpful dos and donts for becoming properly employed in the BVI:

- Foremost, there was a loose recommendation by both the government and some fellow expats to begin submissions of the appropriate paperwork some several months prior to your arrival. This accounts not only for the required time period necessary for your potential employer to advertise the position to all locals (of which proof will be required as part of the application process), but also for the alloted time for shipping forms and the sluggish pace of the said offices for processing.

- Opting to use Fedex as the most rapid (but also frighteningly expensive) means for getting these express-sized envelopes to and from Tortola, I received my initial forms stating the conditions of my employment (description of the position, salary, benefits, etc...) within a matter of days. Upon their return along with 2 passport photos, my resume, and a copy of my college diploma, it took significantly more time to have this package as well as the proof of advertisement of the position to British Virgin Islanders stamped and approved by the government and then sent back to me with the corresponding medical paperwork.

- Prior to arriving in the BVI, I was required to have the following tests completed by my local doctor: Mantoux Tuberculosis, VDRL (primarily for Syphilis), and a Stool O&P. This also took several weeks to complete due not only to the time required to run the tests but also the standard inconveniences of scheduling an appointment for such and to obtain all records of my previous vaccines. Additionally, I was expected to obtain a copy of my criminal record for all counties of residence... Being one to have moved so often throughout my life, this could have proved to be very problematic. However, I was fortunate to only have to show the one for my most recent location, which also happened to be the longest in which I've held a permanent address. As the final component of all paperwork necessary to simply get through the airport, there was the extremely improvised proof of a return airline ticket, which is apparently necessary if immigration should not find all other documentation to be adequate. I will leave it to your imagination as for the best way to handle that one...

- After that magical passing through the gates at the Beef Island airport, the wave of relief I then experienced proved to be a fleeting one as I had yet to face another stretch of long lines, unmarked offices, and a wild goose chase for misplaced paperwork. To begin this 3 day event, I first was instructed to visit a medical facility which turned out to be far from its originally designated location. Nevertheless, I eventually found the then unlit and unoccupied gymnasium where the glorious stamp of approval was to be obtained, and actually found myself fortunate to arrive at an early hour well before the masses began filtering in. With a relatively short wait, $20 cash paid, and the aforementioned stamp landing itself on my documents, I was thankful for what seemed to be a painless start and then made my way over to the Labor and Immigration department. Here I found myself again in that situation of entering into the wrong building, rooms, and doors (I'm admittedly quite excellent at this, and often with some humorous stories for it), but instead was merely sent on my way in the end, being told that all new applicants for work permits will only be processed on Wednesdays. The journey takes a slightly fouler turn from here.

- The following day I returned to the Labour Department, where I was suddenly lumped into a large group with at least a few familiar faces from yesterday's medical visit. In this small waiting room already crammed with a number of other sleepy if not impatient individuals, we all withstood a duration reaching at least into a couple of hours, whereupon we were then taken into yet another small room for what was supposed to be a brief orientation... but at least it was much cooler, and with cushy chairs. Afterwards, our particularly unenthusiastic group was herded once more to the smallest room yet where, one by one, we were called in order to pay $75 for the ID card, and then some number reaching either into the hundreds or even thousands (based on your salary) for the work permit itself... Thankfully they do accept MasterCard and Visa. After paying our hefty fees (our bond growing stronger through such suffering), we once more were sent to wait, and while some finally obtained the mightiest stamp of all (that being the one in your passport), I was told to come back tomorrow.

- Returning for the third morning, it became apparent that my paperwork was lost as I was asked to fill out all of the same forms that I had originally sent from Florida.While I of course could not provide another copy of my diploma, nor do I typically carry a spare resume with me, I was nevertheless asked to recall the dates, addresses, and phone numbers of all schools I've attended (elementary education included) as well as that of all my previous employers... here too the amount of moving I've done worked against me, as did a faulty memory. To add to these burdens, I was also asked to have my boss complete several forms, which required my traveling back to that side of the island. Needless to say, my desire for this process to end had surpassed all else, meaning the final instruction (upon having returned all of the originally lost forms) to obtain my social security card in a separate building nearly put me at my limit. However, as this quick and last run back to Immigration (social security card in hand) at last provided that big blue stamp I had been looking for, I met that final sigh of relief, and handed over the best $25 I've spent yet.

While I've been told that the inconveniences surrounding my process were exceptional (I must just be that lucky), I still offer my experiences as fair warning and with note that it could be worse. Still, at the third day's end and as I looked to that island-lined horizon and clear blue water, never have I felt more grateful and truly that deeper sense of home. After all, I suppose that is the underlying intent of any right of passage, as we underscore some unspoken bond here upon this little rock.

apartment on Havers

After an all too surreal ride from the Beef Island airport (memories from my previous trip feeding the sensation of a dream), as well as a brief stop to reacquaint myself with everyone at Bamboushay, I entered that room to find 6 mattresses resting on opposite walls. The screens were off the windows, and one of the glass shutters was hanging loose, but I thought little of it in an ungrounded moment. Instead, I was drawn to a book that seemed intentionally set atop a disassembled rattan chair in the corner of the room. It was an old copy of John Milton's "Paradise Lost", which lay open to a page where the first verse was underlined. It read:

"Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven"

Shaken by sudden intuition, I turned to leave the room, upon which I saw the snake sitting on one of the mattresses. I looked at it for a second and after realizing that this species was not immediately recognizable to me, I decided it was all just too strange for comfort, but a sheet pressed to the bottom of that now closed door would be reassuring enough to secure that lingering history in my head.

For the days that followed, I was becoming increasingly frustrated that I did not have any drawers or hangers to begin unfolding my clothes that remained crammed in my suitcase. I remembered a closet in the second room, and it was only a matter of time when the want of a hanger overrode my foreboding feelings towards the coincidental circumstances of that space (although this was delayed several nights longer as I woke up that morning to find a decent sized scorpion on the kitchen floor). Needless to say, I was eventually overcome by some feeling of necessity to retrieve those hangers, and found out as well that the very same snake I saw only 4 days earlier was stuck in that same position to a piece of tape hanging from one of the plastic packages for the mattresses... It's difficult to describe the range of emotions that ran through me at that moment, albeit some combination of guilt for not being more observant towards the snake to begin with and maybe a slight undertone of comic relief.

As a memorial to this now dead serpent, I've incorporated it into a sculptural piece about all things finding themselves stuck; which also includes some tangled rope washed up with seashells, and a broken watch. Also to note: John Milton's book is now replaced with Gulliver's Travels. 

I've done the best I can with the rest of the apartment, although not having a car definitely limits my capabilities for sprucing it up. Instead, small and improvised efforts will have to suffice for now. I still don't have any gas for my oven (and therefor have no way to act on everyone's recommendation that I boil my water)... and I really do need to buy some type of mosquito repellant... but again and for the moment, I'm just glad to have mopped floors and clean counters. Also, the freshly washed sheets I'll sleep on tonight will be well worth the climb up the mountain with a bag of linens in tow, especially if there are less bugs to shield myself from via these, and a few cool breezes to travel though my windows.

moving on...

The time has come again for that inevitable return of the need to know my own shape amongst the world at large. Perhaps it's with the passing of several family members and a friend that I had begun to feel the loss of my own mass this previous year... or at least a shift into a more ephemeral form, incapable of being shaped or shaping. Perhaps it's just an awareness of being another year older, and so moving all the more towards a greater sense of my own mortality. For this, I need a new change on the exterior and a new means for reflection to compensate. For this, I'm making my way back to that little island of Tortola, facing the potential of at least a yearlong stay, and working as a gallery/studio manager in Nanny Cay. Here and in addition to the purpose mentioned above, I'm curious to discover how my experiences will be informed by my previous visit to the island (especially now as this travel will be made alone), and what differences will unfold between living there vs. vacationing. I will do my best to post these observations here throughout the months to come, as well as include a few photos of any new artistic endeavors on my other blog.

As I mentioned, what drove me most to this point of international migration was an extended period marked by a lack of such outward transition, but still moving on internally nonetheless. The words that follow are intended to provide a brief glimpse into this time of trial:

Nearly a year has passed of what would best be described as some form stationary change; accounting for the births, deaths, and marriages that have occurred within the lives of both family and friends, all while I forego further travels and maintain residence in Florida. In this place, sitting and watching the events that occur around me and occasionally through me, I've also taken to a new commitment towards survival via commissioned paintings. With this venture comes the need to contort myself to those various genres in demand in this area... portraits, reproductions of the old masters, and classical figures mixed with modern elements to suit the needs for several galleries. Initially, I enjoyed this selfless application of skill and quiet monotony. To be sure, it in someways kept to the concept behind much of my personal work, where I also sought to allow myself to only function as a human printing press, or rather seeking to pay an unobstructed homage to my influences (and thereby debating the presence of an original concept). Also and on that same unassuming level, I couldn't complain about the liberties that came from spending an 8 hour work day simply painting from my studio apartment... With an environment just outside my doorstep to equal the quiet that I hoped to achieve within, I took to the gentle teeming of deer, owls, rabbits, racoons, hawks, and armadillos that would occasionally cross by my window, breaking from the surrounding trails and small creek beds of the Black Hammock Wilderness Area. Here are a few of the paintings made for a hand full of cliental, all while living in this place. Unless noted otherwise, each was completed in oil on canvas:

24" x 36"

24" x 36"

24" x 36"

Needless to say, I'm looking forward to a change of aesthetic, as determined by this new environment. With all art supplies having to be imported to the island, some innovation towards whatever materials are available will undoubtedly be a factor. On that note and while I'll continue to add any updates on living in Tortola here; the paintings, prints, or drawings to follow will still be posted to kelliemoore.blogspot.com.

one island to another ------------------------------------->

With 4 months passing to encompass a late night flight from New York, a return to Florida, and a few weeks more before leaving again, I find myself needing yet another means for correspondence here on the island of Tortola. To be sure, I felt so clumsy in that last email... like swimming in a dark cavern, holding my breath and groping at small places of some unknown but desired mass until I find air. It often feels that way for me in connecting with someone who I occasionally catch such brief and potent glimpses of. That said and despite my own broader attempts towards some unbuttoned and unstrung movements, it's been far too long to really allow for all of my awkwardness and escape of metaphor... but thank you for naming it as something of beauty.

In fear of seeming unappreciative of my current setting, I hope I'm not letting on that my experiences here, what the environment impresses upon me, have been less than substantial. As new locations and vantage points are so capable of shedding light on long shadowed places or places that I've yet to see, these discoveries and rediscoveries have been as rewarding as much as they've been stripped of expectation. Prior to a couple of days ago (and so my first occasion of being out on the sea and looking back on the island for which I've unleashed the word home), I think I did feel too close and was trying too hard to avoid expectation to come up with some summary I felt necessary to deliver in so many of my other correspondences.... It's so often easier for me to say what something isn't than what it is... Still, at that point, these hasty (and not so hasty) but token tales were included:

"The 6 seater plane that provided the brief and bumpy ride from Puerto Rico to Tortola turned out to be a good indication to the scale of the islands we were soon to fly over. To be sure, a young girl (our only other companion on the plane aside of the pilot himself), tried to tell us over the loud buzz of the engine that it hardly takes 47 min. to drive the entire span of it's outermost road... That's including a potential wait at the island's only traffic light. So yes, it's small... and steep! My first day riding in our wonderfully corroded Chevy Tracker left small grooves in the overhead handlebar where my white-knuckled hand had clenched so hard; and the several occasions where my seat belt has suddenly become unbuckled gives no additional comfort. While my nerves are more adjusted to the flat roads of Florida, or even the march of a crowded subway, Tortola travels at different pace of fast driving cars whipping around unguarded cliffs and descents so sharp that it looks as if you're driving off the end of the road. This so far has been one of my most challenging adjustments, but I'm slowly getting used to it."

"Our very first stop was at a bakery/deli just outside of the airport where we were greeted by a dead chick laying at the doorstep and a woman inside, who after seeming so annoyed at us purchasing one of her guava pastries, soon resumed beating a little girl with a broom. Truly, she was so commonplace about it, I almost felt as if I was expected to start pushing around some poor and random child myself to engage in this as a sort of unknown social protocol. It was extremely awkward, beyond anything the Kellie-realm-of-awkwardness has ever imagined; I tried my best to not allow this to tint my future observations of the people here, but maybe it has... Without comparison to the Publix, PathMarks, or Whole Foods of the states, the grocery stores here are markedly tense with their crowded aisles, haphazard arrangement, and again that hurried pace. Perhaps that dynamic alone is enough to make the people working there miserable, or maybe they're just miserable to be working while the idea of a perfect day passes just outside. Speaking mostly with the owner of the pottery that I'm working for (partially because few others seem willing to engage in a conversation), I've learned that the locals call themselves "the belongers" and that the island is driven primarily by a cycle of tourism, of which we are now in a waning high season. Sometimes when Austin and I are riding around in our incognito vehicle, I feel that we stick out all the more as symbols of a dreaded industry that's now in those lagging months; and here we are continuing to invade the private islands of each and every person that "belongs". Still, I keep hope that these walls will come down with a natural passivity and unbroken politeness; and with that, a woman who works at the bakery we visit each morning has just this week started to ask us, smiling, how we're doing today, followed by a "see you tomorrow". Otherwise, I just try to convince myself that it's not so much my presence that they're bothered by, and that maybe it's more just the way of the collective demeanor, which is neither "wrong", nor "different", but just more pronounced."

"With fewer cruise ships coming into bay, leaving only the grandiose sailboats and catamarans to port, I've recently had the experience of being the solitary visitor to several of the Tortola beaches. Regardless though, I don't think that even the largest crowd could detract from the beauty, and I actually happen to enjoy swimming in those tropical waters when there are a few other people around. Austin, however, is fearless... or so he likes to come off as so. Having already disappeared once around some boulder-lined point, with waves so strong that I would be tossed around like a piece of seaweed, I'm reminded again of what a strong swimmer he is at his return; but even if I were able to compare, I wonder if l would feel the need to put myself in what appears to be such a dangerous situation. Maybe I've yet to come down from my experience of jumping out of a plane, or maybe again (like driving here) expectation manifested as fear is one that I have a difficult time dealing with on an everyday basis. Yet, I suppose as a forced means of facing it, I've gone out into those testing waters, both before and after an occasion that now surpasses skydiving...

Taking a ferry to a place called Marina Cay, Austin promised that I would experience some of the best snorkeling ever if I would just swim out with him a ways. Yet, "a ways" turned out to be about a mile and in an area where we were sandwiched between the dropping depths of blue ocean and a pretty spectacular wall of coral. Though my instincts were screaming danger and those National Geographic specials sent reminders through my mind of where it is that sharks like to hunt, Austin repeatedly assured me that "there's nothing out here to harm us". Using this as my mantra, I finally had begun to relax enough to leisurely be towed along via a strong grip on Austin's feet. We got about half way down the reef and to a point where the waves were getting a little more difficult to bear and the shoreline being very far off in the distance when the following happens:

Scene: Kellie's looking off towards the coral, with Austin swimming directly in front of her. He abruptly stops and his head shoots up out of the water.

Austin (looking panicked): "Shark"

Kellie (looking panicked also, but wondering if it's a joke): "What?!"

Austin (grabbing Kellie by the arm and quickly swimming in the opposite direction): "Nothing..."

Kellie (feeling her heart racing, though still wondering if it's a joke): "I heard you!"

Austin (still pulling Kellie along, but trying to talk to her calmly): "Kellie, don't panic. I need you to just keep swimming close beside me until we make it back around the reef."

Kellie now remembers how sharks are attracted to floundering creatures as a chance for an easy meal, and does her best to avoid a heart attack or hyperventilation; but mostly all she can think of is her feet as they are now the closest thing to the shark...

Needless to say, I'm still alive and fully attached as I write this letter, though probably facing a few gray hairs. Though we still haven't identified exactly what kind of shark it was, Austin described it as about 7 feet long, gray, and with a beefy build, and about 15 feet away from us. I have managed to get back into the water a couple of times since then, trying so hard to focus on a sense of very specific wonderment over the smaller sea life around me (bright and beautiful), but that lurking acknowledgment of the larger known is always tough to face."

True then, my happier times have been above water, feeling in a moment that I could exist forever in being both known and unknown to the spanning depths below. I look then to the land forms that emerge all around me; flat shapes in the distance whose depths I can only try to imagine, and whose dramatic details, both smooth and intolerable, are only revealed upon reaching their sea shaped/shaping shore. I want to explore these islands, but feel such little time!

Thank you for reaching out to mine.

return to the state...

After many months away, I landed in Deland.

slapping romanticism upside the head with a glove of humility and the force of the city (a letter to john)

As the initial infatuation fades; consumed by occasions of dancing dirty interpretations of salsa, crashing puppet shows with no puppets, and reaching across busy lanes of traffic to obtain a cigarette for my taxi cab driver; when these distractions give way to more commonplace occurrences and daily routine, I'm left with sustenance for more thorough digestion, and so better able to form these impressions...

Today at work I was asked if I would like anything as one of the girls was treating us to coffee. Eager for the opportunity for anything free (I need not mention the price of water in Soho), I asked for a small with 2 sugars and soy milk, if it was available. She snickered a little and said, "Of course they have soy milk", and I was reminded again of my surroundings. Later, I tried an Arizona black tea w/ ginseng and honey. It was fairly tasty, but not as good as their sweet tea.

I worked 5 hours packing butterflies and 3 hours pinning. The majority of them were of the Morpho didius group, whose sizable, blue wings are of the more difficult to handle. It's slow and meditative work until you remember that you're being paid per bug, at which point I always panic a little and thusly tend to make more mistakes. Mondays and Tuesdays are typically lighter as they involve tasks where I'm paid $10 per hour.

Apparently Mr. Hirst came into the store last week wearing a black trench coat with a beaded skull on the back. It's an image that fits well to the stories I hear... a deified and demonized master wielding control over an army of minions, all rushing about to fulfill his needs, but then finding their actions belittled in someway or another. Supposedly the order of 28,000 butterflies (whose meticulous preparation requires the symmetrical arrangement of both head, body, antennae, and wings) will be used for a display of Victorian wallpaper. To aid the process, there's word that he's hired another crew specifically for the unpacking of the specimens we so assiduously ready to ship, who then proceed to pull off all of the wings and discard the bodies in the trash. Death and art is all-inclusive here.

Following my time at Evolution, I was required to do some obligatory house work for the Conjeauds; scrubbing bathroom floors, making beds twice, and other tasks that have proven to exceed my standards of cleanliness. Now, as it seems that my cleaning abilities are not up to a personal par, I've been asked to babysit their 6 year old daughter in addition to our initial agreement of picking her up from school on Mondays. These are more often delightful occasions of fingers sticky with Elmer's glue and construction paper bits littering the floor, but the majority of my time work with her husband instead, resulting in full day travels between his Brooklyn-based workshop and an antiques showroom in Connecticut. Between this and my work at Evolution, 60 hour weeks are typical, as is the meager pay, and an overall situation that has left me with slightly less time to paint...

On a uplifting note, my room and connecting bathroom are quite large (though perhaps not by your bathroom standards), but remain noteworthy nonetheless in this NY setting. The space overall, despite its overwhelmingly eclectic mix of antique furniture and knickknacks, has sufficed in providing a small studio area, and I particularly enjoy those occasions of listening to the French news in the evening. Afterwards, I close my door, open a book, and enjoy the warmth of my space heater beneath my comforter tent... I've finished The Fall, and would greatly appreciate the suggestion of another.

I feel an anesthetized comfort here in Greenpoint, resulting maybe from those conscious attempts to forget my previous New York mindset, and certainly as I've yet to digest any form of debt from my time in Europe... A move elsewhere may be necessary, but one that would allow me to stay for awhile. Have I mentioned the possibility of Colorado? To add, the figurative weight of my Grandfather's declining health remains reciprocal to his lessening physical mass... Knowing in some sense that my own being then dwindles a little too, the part of me that remains feels a pressing need to be closer.

Quimper

church spires:


and pony rides:


and more pony rides:


Quimper as another french town...

ode to the crocodile hunter while on a french train:

vide grenier at Tremblay

Marche des Lices in Rennes

pour un bon chevre avec le fruit:


and a saucisse for Leon:





and I'm sold over a bouquet of flowers and a long story about peas:

at the intermarche

with two aisles of yogurt:



and one of cheese:


le pain:


c'est bon:


et puis la saucisse: