Party for a Cause

Party for a Cause

Raise funds and have a little fun, all in the comfort of your home

BY LISA MURPHY-LAMB, FOR THE CALGARY HERALD NOVEMBER 29, 2010


O n a recent Saturday night, 73 people gathe re d in my home for SalonWord, an eclectic evening of art, poetry, film and silent auction. Guests travelled from room to room, experiencing some of Alberta's greatest artistic talent -- all in the name of fundraising.

Before you say, "I could never do that," consider the benefits: a worthy cause gets a financial boost (in this case, approximately $3,600 went to WordsWorth, a youth writing program I coordinate); you help to generate an intimate sense of community among people you know (and those you don't); and you support a long tradition of culture and the arts.

The Concept

A salon is broadly defined as a gathering of people to discuss various topics and amuse one another. Historically, salons featured French literature or poetry in a salon or sitting room. Contemporary salons have grown to include art, music or political discussions and now often occur in coffeehouses and schools.

SalonWord was contemporary in vision. Since WordsWorth teaches writing through performance, fiction, non-fiction, art, scriptwriting, music and poetry, I wanted to throw a party that incorporated many of those realms.

Potluck Culture

Curating a party at home, gathering creative and non-creative friends for an evening of arts and frivolity, is a viable prospect. Sitting down to plan this salon, I looked at the different parts of my life and quickly realized how many creative and talented people I could contact, through both work and my social network.

Bob Jahrig, instructor and Edmonton musician, played a set with Marc Ladouceur. Scriptwriter Jason Long suggested director James Reckseidler, who debuted his short film Defensive Aggressive.

Local author-instructors Barb Howard and Joan Dixon contributed their books for the silent auction.

From my neighbourhood I was able to ask artists Neil Kathol, Gary Mc-Millan and Kathy Aldous-Schleindl to make up the bulk of the art exhibit.

I had met photographers Cynthia Robinson and Roberta McDonald volunteering at local arts events.

Longtime friend Jenne Newman pulled out a life-size sculptural doll piece from her past, and my father, Thomas P. Murphy, made his photographic debut.

Then friends started recommending friends, which is how director-animator Cam Christiansen came to show his short film 5 Hole: Tales of Hockey Erotica.

Within a short period of planning, the entertainment roster was full.

At The Salon

I charged a door admission of $20. The evening began with three young writers on the microphone in my front room: David Wenzel, Erin Vance and Sebastien Wen represented WordsWorth and set the purpose for the fundraiser.

Two short films followed in a makeshift theatre downstairs. Fulllength feature Walk All Over Me, contributed by neighbour and film producer Carolyn McMaster, played afterwards for those wishing to chill away from the crowd.

Upstairs, musical performances wrapped up with Laurie Fuhr, editor of literary magazine Filling Station, on guitar. The silent auction ended at midnight and DJ Scootz played until 4 a.m.

Taking Stock

People thought I was insane to host something this ambitious in our home.

But as the party progressed, guests remarked

the intimate space added to the hipness of the evening. There were constraints. Theatre space was cramped, cleanup fell into my hands and once the paintings are returned, I'll have to patch my walls. But after the party ended, I logged onto Facebook and read this post. "Erin Vance had a lovely time at SalonWord. We are so lucky to be surrounded by such talented and supportive people."

Indeed we are. And the closer, the better I would add.

Lisa Murphy-Lamb B. Ed., M. Ed co-ordinates WordsWorth, a youth writing program hosted by the Young Alberta Book Society that runs Feb. 4 To 6 and July 3 to 16, 2011, in Bragg Creek. For more information, go to yabs.ab.ca.

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Ten Tips For Hosting A Fundraiser At Home

icola Dawes of Nicola Dawes Consulting works with Wellspring Calgary and is auction chair for the UNICEF Gala. She recently organized a fundraiser at Gibson Fine Art for Art a la Carte, and offers this advice.

1. Know why you are fundraising. Is it to raise a profile, raise funds or to have fun?

2. Have a theme.

3. Create a binder with every last bit of information in it so somebody could take over if something unforeseen happens to you.

4. Have a Plan B.

5. Get insurance for the evening of the event.

6. Consider your pet, your children, your valuables and where they will go for the evening.

7. Create a marketing plan. How will you spread the word? What can you get done for free?

8. What kind of support can your organization give you?

9. Notify your neighbours.

10. Send thank-you notes to your supporters and thank your sponsors.

© Copyright (c) The Calgary Herald

Clearing A Passage

Clearing a Passage

Bumping slowly along a secondary road
through emerald countryside on a bus
customarily used for school field trips

sit countrymen, three abreast ladened
with lunches, children, hot livestock,
nodding heads, and through slit eyes

they see a girl beside the driver, sitting
with her back against the windshield on the engine’s
hump eating grapes alone, foreign and smiling.

Being different is the adventure and I
find pleasure in the rhythm of that uncertainty,
beyond the physical discomfort-

the heat, the wound on my right knee, that I am
much larger than the men, and thrilled
that my boldness and difference am found captivating, fresh.

An anomaly.

Looking rearward at the brown faces, onto the
countryside -- I imagine the day I might return
with a lover or family, leading them with stories and insight.

Solitude drapes my body and I layer it
with coat and hat as I wave to my boys
a good-bye and head out into the fall air

to catch a movie at the Plaza,
a reading and a drink at the Auburn,
my Monday night class.

Returning to house I slip through the shadows
kissing one, two, three boys as they sleep,
sit a moment to unwind before turning in.

I roll over in bed and through the early morning darkness,
see his shape, his traveled suitcase. “Have a good trip,”
I swallow, “I will see you in a week.”

Words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb, October 2010

In Turenne, Contentment

In Turenne, Contentment
in the laughter and coffee and plums on a sunny terrace
and the green freedom of a French holiday
with the adjacent rooftops that buckle then rise
again and the great valley beneath deep as a pleasured sigh
fills daily with fog routinely as a morning cuppa. I dream
a little of a sustained life this simple, this happy
gentleness where food and drink weigh
importantly upon our thoughts. The song is foreign, tiny
cigales vibrate as ivy tendrils round our table we recount old
stories and drink champagne by three. Our boys
tumble among the wasps creating their own stories. We
gather more plums and brew another pot and wait for the sun.

words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb September 2010

Coffee, he suggested

Coffee, he suggested

and so they met on thirsty soil

at a cafe (a quiet retreat for flirtation).

Across the table he sipped

the inky draught and she perceived

his delight

while outside on the street there

was already a faint chill.

She reached for her coffee,

a golden bangle slipping over

her wrist and a riptide of thought

possessed her mind

while she floated on the surface

of their conversation.

Her eyes wandered comfortably over the familiar

landscape of his face.

The conversation broke-

but she, with the flavour of Coffea arabica

on her lips had no great desire

to make him talk.

Silence, she accepted, was a part

of the general hush and symmetry of things (of them).

The charm of the coffee was drinking it together.

But soon, the early sunset slanted

through windows and across their table

and his hurried dip into her day

was done.

And so he leaves.

(coffee cup empty, quick kiss to the cheek).

She hardly knows what she had been seeking

or why the failure to find it

so blotted the light from her sky.

words and image by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

Portrait

Portrait

Not flattering or moving.

I give you an aspersion.

An overly exposed close-up.

It promises clarity

like a flute’s limpid notes.

Realize.

Its unsettled grace

crevassed

with provocative ambition

and a mob’s intoxicating violence.

I am looking in.

No magnetic warmth or magical allure.

So, I disorder the senses.

Like a skilled photographer

I embrace your stance

off-kilter

Prepare

for my camera’s

close eye.

Manipulate

your warmth.

Be rendered.

To the illusion that intimate study

reveals.

words by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

Interlude

Interlude

You came to me

in the night

midway

in a journy from afar

needing a place

to stay

for your shining self

and your sister. I have

two rooms empty

and only she slept

alone. Free

from repercussion,

I easily wrapped my

body around

yours, accepted

dream caresses

into the orange

dawn, slept

then awoke, expecting

you beside me

but with the dark

you were

gone. With the day’s

routine, you

remain

in me

reverberating. These

are the dreams

to dream.

Lisa Murphy-Lamb, April 2010

A Song in the Front Yard

photo by Lisa Murphy-Lamb, 11a Street, Calgary 2009

A SONG IN THE FRONT YARD

BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS

I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.

I want a peek at the back

Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.

A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want to go in the back yard now

And maybe down the alley,

To where the charity children play.

I want a good time today.

They do some wonderful things.

They have some wonderful fun.

My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine

How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine.

My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae

Will grow up to be a bad woman.

That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late

(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.

And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,

And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace

And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

Those Winter Sundays

photo by Lisa Murphy-Lamb, Riley Park, Calgary 2010

“Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden

THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS

BY ROBERT E. HAYDEN

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

A Supermarket In California

photo by Lisa Murphy-Lamb

A SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA

BY ALLEN GINSBERG

What thoughts I have of you tonight Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Berkeley, 1955