Anouchka Freybe: Mother in the Middle
My mother passed away on January 8th, 2026.
I rehearse saying the phrase with people I don’t know and those that I do, and the words still don’t feel real or possible. I don’t really know how to explain how “I’m doing”. I’m almost embarrassed by how much I miss her.
I hear her voice in my head, how she talked with enthusiasm or disdain, her thought processes and observations shared without fear. Her opinions tumble out, and land on the table like playing cards.
She is avid about laying out her deck.
Her first response to our idea of an artist residency project space was incredulity.
She was incredulous about the work involved and responsibilities, and the long list of unknowns (positive, negative, all sorts of tbd) that we were going to encounter. She questioned the motivation, and the capacity of our stakeholders.
Yes, she listened to our small circle of advisors, and frequently rolled her eyes or put up her hands in resignation, a “fine, do it” gesture. She trusted the advisor’s experience, but still, she was incredulous.
Then when she drove from the coast to the interior to see the log house and the land (it was initially purchased to be planted with wine grapes), she was in awe of the rough energy of the landscape. And she knew the range of British Columbia’s topography, something my parents experienced together over the past sixty years, from their honeymoon in the Okanagan, to family trips to Lake Shuswap, camping and road trips to Fort St John, Jasper, Revelstoke, Williams Lake, Kitimat.
Throughout the first year of our set-up, she would say “I’m coming for that beautiful drive, and the tea and snacks in Chilliwack”.
When the interior renovations started taking shape, she then offered her creative eye.
When items were on backorder (it was 2021) my father built additional bed frames, and my mother donated dish and kitchen ware. They have always been big proponents of working together and setting things up.
The first time I walked with my mother around the house and up the hill, it was summer and we were both wearing sandals. We crunched up the gravel path to get a better view of the red bridge. The sage brush had toughened, it was July, but you could still catch the sweet stringent scent of sage in the air. Isaiah, the then long-term artist in residence, must have thought we were crazy, bare toes risking the poke of prickly pears. Isaiah and Brittany invited us for tea and cherry pie. Landon and Lisa were there too, as trial artists-in-residence, and added cheese, fruit and local jam to the fare.
Something in the act of ‘coming to the table’ has always resonated for my mother. At the table, she was ready to take in all the stories that anyone wanted to offer. Brittany advised on where to buy Walla Walla onions after my mother claimed they were her favourite. Isaiah recommended where they could stop for fruit and jam, though there are many options in Keremeos. Lisa and Landon raved about swimming in the Similkameen. Afterwards, they showed us where the cherry tree was on the property, and then took us to one of their favourite swimming spots near the red bridge.
A year later, when Ali was the long-term artist in residence, my mother liked to listen to her share stories of artists' experiences in the studio, and how her own work was taking shape. It gave my mother a very particular boost to have an intimate conversation with an artist, to listen intently to a personal narrative.
The last time my mother was at the residency was on September 9, 2025, on my parent’s 58th anniversary. They had decided to do a ‘memory drive’ in honour of their honeymoon in the Okanagan, a long loop of a daytrip that included Kelowna, Penticton, and Keremeos. Ali offered celebratory tea and snacks, and introduced them to the current cohort of artists. She walked with them to the sculpture corral, and shared who the artists were that had offered their sculptural, durational works to the land.
The commitment of our advisory circle led to the concept of the Similkameen Artist Residency taking shape, but the impact of my mother is equally durational and more molecular, the essence of her commitment being to artists and the complexity of living an investigative, exploratory creative life.
I try to align myself with the crackling spirit of her curiosity.
While she was incredulous about what it would take to keep an artist residency space afloat, I know she knew the answer wasn’t linear or immediate. I know I feel what she felt, a solidarity with artists who are in the middle of things.
Everytime I drive up the gravel driveway, I imagine my mother making observations: how are the trees doing, are there any bighorn sheep today, has anyone seen a rattlesnake? Like a photo album, I’m holding on to her in snapshots until I can access how I feel and patch stories together.
-Anouchka Freybe