photograph by kerria gray for sad issue 24: space

Change is the only constant in life. Most people have heard the old saying, and while parents certainly love to overuse it, chances are after enough years in this city you will find it to be invariably true. SAD’s 24th issue delved into the many facets of space, from the physical spaces we occupy to the mental spaces we may find— or lose— ourselves in, but Kerria Gray’s piece “Space Shifting” stuck out to me immediately. While it can be difficult to articulate the all-too-common experience of moving along with all the little details that make it unique, Gray captures it in a way that is both simple and deeply perceptive. There is something refreshing about seeing a mundane event through another’s eyes; even more so when a new neighbourhood becomes a new person to acquaint yourself with.

Part of the beauty of Gray’s account lies in her vision of the West End, encapsulated in the photographs that reveal a placid, “thrift-store find” neighbourhood. When asking her about her approach, she described prioritizing a certain mood over a perfect angle, and looking through the pictures I am almost certain her sense of intuitiveness is vital to capturing the ‘right’ moment. As summer draws near and many locals begin their hunt for a new home, Gray’s piece reminds us that no matter how settled we may always adapt to the circumstances we are handed…and that the moving does not stop when the last box is empty.

Space Shifting: Observations in a new neighbourhood

Words & Photographs by Kerria Gray

I am in a new space. Seven hundred and fifty light-filled square-feet containing only my things and myself; there are high ceilings and hardwood floors and possibilities. I like the quiet of living alone again.

After a decade of residing in East Vancouver, the West End feels beautiful and weird and far from everything familiar. This neighbourhood is a thrift store-find, the almost-perfect t-shirt bought with the promise that I’ll alter it, maybe crop it a little to make it into the perfect thing I want it to be (I never do). It doesn’t feel like home, but there are birds that sing every morning, and in my first week here the magnolias show just the slightest hints of pink.

I begin a new routine of long evening walks with my camera to shake off, or process, the alienation and loneliness of this space and time. Once, I pass a man with a parrot the size of his chest; its bright reds and greens against his tight white t-shirt are alarming. He stands there talking with a neighbour or friend, casual, framed by the entrance to the gold-lettered lobby with its plastic plants and pink carpeting. I want to take his photo, composed and coloured just so, to preserve this moment of surprise and hopefulness, but I keep walking with a hand resting for comfort on my camera’s lens.

Passing the busiest streets, the light turns into something intense and hallucinogenic, a lava lamp purple-blue. I find myself, unexpectedly, in Stanley Park. I didn’t even know it was there, just beyond the apartments. The trees have labels; up above me there are dozens of blue heron nests. I wonder if I’ll still be here in this neighbourhood when the babies are born or if I’ll have given up by then and gone back home to East Van, dragging with me once again my couch and bed, my plates and mugs, and the many plants I bought this year, one for each time I felt sad (I live in a little forest of green).

At the convenience store on Denman I am drawn to all the colours of tulips, especially the yellows and oranges. There is an odd feeling in my gut, an absence and a presence. Something is shifting. Walking towards home, a tall older man on the corner yells, “Nice flowers!” His friendliness seems crooked and stumbling, but I edit my judgments and stop to respond. He is gentle, cheerful, and we talk for a minute or two before moving on. I forgive myself for the hesitation: I am only in a new place, after all. I am not a new person.

There are buildings everywhere that are old and crumbling, and there are buildings that are modern and tall. There are one or two charming houses with big porches, barely visible between the towering high-rises. Inside, through large windows, I can see that some of the walls are covered in books. Maybe people I understand could be somewhere here? It’s hard for me to know yet because there are an overwhelming number of apartments and people inside of them, and so many dogs, too (the dogs and the old people are the best part).

The weather gets warmer. My runs on the seawall become more frenetic, less direct. There are people everywhere now to navigate, but fewer people who seem to be paying real attention to this place. The loneliness recedes in step with the grey skies, and for the most part I stop spending all of my savings on plants. It’s been a very long winter; I am glad it’s over. Unexpectedly, I find someone I understand here in this neighbourhood where I thought I was alone; it is a surprise bright like a parrot. The alley between our houses is a hallway and I’ve learned it by heart. Things feel quiet lately. There are fewer long and lonely walks, and fewer surprises here, but I keep paying attention to all the things that are not quite home.

Kirsten Danae: I really loved how your piece explores the relationship between place and personhood, and the effects that a big transition appears, at times, to have on identity. What was your approach in writing this piece? Was this change ultimately what you hoped it would be?

Kerria Gray: It’s hard to remember the headspace I was in when I wrote this piece as it was so long ago, but I do still sort of remember the feeling of it all. I was grieving some losses at the time and there was something about living in the West End that was both intensely isolating and surprisingly healing during this challenging time.

My time in the West End ended up being a brief period in my life. I loved my neighbourhood and my home but ultimately the West End felt too lonely and I moved to Mount Pleasant after a year.

It is interesting timing that you reached out to me about this piece since I’m currently going through another big transition, having just moved to Hastings-Sunrise after getting displaced by the Broadway Plan from the home I moved to when I left the West End. While I feel much less isolated and much more at home here in my new neighbourhood than I did during the move I wrote about in this piece, there are some parallels in that I am once again working through some grief and I once again find myself going on long walks in a new neighbourhood to clear my head. I find myself seeking healing and a sense of place by buying flowers, planting seeds, walking to the park or to the ocean to watch the sunset, observing the changing of the seasons, and taking photos.

KD: You seemed to be very intentional with the photographs you captured for this piece. How would you describe your creative process as a photographer? Is photography more about technique or feeling for you?

KG: I would say it’s very much about feeling for me. Photography has always been about telling stories and sharing a certain feeling or moment with others. It’s my way of paying attention to the world, my way of saying “look at that!” even when no one is around. I love documenting little moments I find funny, absurd, or in some way cinematic. It helps me to be present and feel grounded in a place. I honestly am terrible with the technical stuff and often use a lot of automated features on my cameras because I’m not usually going for something technically perfect. I’m all about documenting (or creating) a certain mood.

KD: It’s been a few years since the Space issue came out. What has your professional journey looked liked since? Are you working on anything now?

KG: Honestly writing and photography have always been sort of background pursuits for me. I love them both but they’re the first thing to get neglected when life gets busy. My main creative pursuit these days is my ceramics practice. That said, being reminded of previous essays I’ve written for SadMag has really re-inspired me to write again, and I hope to find a little space and time for that soon.

KD: Finally, in keeping with the theme, what are your top three tips for Vancouverites settling into a new neighbourhood?

KG: Oh man, I don’t know if I’m an expert in this as I’m still feeling pretty unsettled after two months in my new neighbourhood and home, but long walks are my personal favorite way to get familiar with a new area. I’ve been living seeing the changing trees and the way the light hits in my new neighbourhood at certain times of day, for example, and discovering parks and gardens and other little hidden spaces I didn’t know existed.

Another thing I like to do when I’m moving is to map out my new neighbourhood with all the things I feel connected to. When I was about to move I made a google map pinning all my friends’ homes that are within walking distance as well as cafes, bakeries, stores, library, community center etc. just to get a sense of what my new routines could look like and to get myself excited for the change.

I also like to frequent local spots like the corner store or cafe or library often enough that I start to get to know the folks working there and maybe make a bit of small talk. There’s something really grounding about becoming a regular somewhere. It helps me feel like I’m part of the neighbourhood.

Kerria Gray is a writer, photographer, ceramics artist and Vancouver neighbourhood connoisseur. Check out her Instagram @kerria_gray_and_clay to see some of her beautiful work!

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SAD Again: Space Shifting