My name is Maggie. My family includes my husband, our two sons and our two Border Collies. We have settled ourselves in the small town of Grand Bay-Westfield, New Brunswick, Canada.
Mackpa designs are inspired by love of all things artistic and creative. My means of communicating with my family and friends is richer when I communicate in colour. I hope it is the same for you.
To know why I love art is to understand my relationship with my mother. Below is the poem I wrote for her 2014 funeral.
Why be beige, when you can be bold? “Mom, I want to be like everyone else!” I declared with a pre-teen cry. “Why on earth would you want to be that?” She was quick with her reply. For when you grow up the daughter Of someone over the top Extraordinary is the norm. Anything beige is a complete flop. She drove me nuts with objects electrical. The VCR - bane of her existence. But Mom could build a work of art A reflection of her brilliance. Of her skills and dexterity, I was often in awe. The batting, cloth, needle and thread. A quilt would result with one specific flaw. Always with an element of red. Scarce a time I could sit on a chair in our house, Without a pin needle stabbing my butt. “Did I lose that?” she would feign in confusion Then offer a sly “I must be a nut!” Strangely, as I got older The absent-minded thread floating on the floor Became more of a comfort and cheer Than a bother, or a chore. It wasn’t until my thirties That I gave painting a sincere shot. Mom and I did art courses And projects we started to plot. Would it be silver jewellery? That metal suits us both best. Would it be oils or acrylics? What medium would texture the rest? Regardless the project to be embarked The colours we always knew. Nothing beats a primary, Bright red, bold yellow, navy blue. Flowers on a table arranged with a “Zippedy-dippedy-doo!” Cakes and cookies decorated With style, grace and a few curly-Qs. The quilt of Mom’s life was strong at its centre. The stitching was threaded with steel. Sadly, the edges were frayed with illness. To the end, she refused to yield. I will sorely miss the giggles, Cups of tea and chick flicks. The date squares, magazines, Failed bread tasting like a brick. My pre-teen years are gone. I no longer need to fit in. I don’t want to be like everyone else. Mom’s colours shine brightly within. ©2014 Maggie Coffin Prowse