In November of 2021 I went to a month long artist residency in Pouch Cove Newfoundland. One very important thing is that it’s pronounced Pooch Cove (adorable) and another is that I was not supposed to be there. I was supposed to be in rug-filled Morocco, crossing “number one place I want to visit” off my bucket list. Alas: the second wave of the pandemic. We wanted to go to Morocco so so badly that we were still considering it despite the travel ban and all our friends bailing.

I pulled a tarot card asking what we should do. Six of Wands: victorious homecomings. Did this mean we would return home in victory? Or that staying home was the win? Just as I was beginning to doubt that tarot is an exact science, I got a message from the Pouch Cove Foundation, an artist residency inviting me to Newfoundland, my paternal homeland, for the exact Morocco dates.

The residency started November first. On the second, I had dinner with the other artists. Conversation turned to the house next door, which was apparently for sale. They asked if I had I looked at the listing. As a working class artist living in expensive ass Toronto, I was very much not in the habit of looking at housing listings. They said that the house came with all the furniture and that each room was colour coordinated. OK FINE I’LL LOOK.

The house was so charming and so inexpensive that I immediately texted James, the owner of the residency, “what is wrong with this cute house”

“nothing. want to see it?”

He knew the realtor and the next day she was showing me around. It’s disorienting to enter a room in real life that you have memorized from a fish-eye photo, but even moreso when the ceilings are only seven feet. The floors were so crooked a marble would race from one end to the other. There was carpet in every room except the bathroom, which also lacked a shower. The toilet had a little contraption around it to catch condensation(?) The house came with everything inside, which was… everything. The beds were made (a blue room, a pink room and a green one) and the table was set with the fine dishes. There were still moose meat and Christmas cookies in the deep freeze.

I wanted it. I wanted it all.

I could literally see little house from the residency and I took to gazing at it lovingly, imagining all the ways I could change it (lol). It had been on the market for months so I wasn’t in a rush. Mike was coming in a week and he would check it out and tell me what he thought.

And then the unthinkable: other people showed up with their own realtor and were looking at my house. Afterward, they popped into the residency all breathless and gushy. One of the artists told them how amazing the area is and how cool it would be to live right next to a bunch of international artists and I have not forgiven her to this day.

If I had any doubt about whether I wanted to buy a house on an island far from my family and jobs, the threat of someone else having it cleared that up toot sweet. My skin crawled with anxiety that these people would make an offer. In a late night moment of inspiration, I took the broom I had bought for my studio, snuck over to the house, and leaned it against the door on the leaf strewn porch. I said firmly to the house,

“when you are mine, I will use this broom to sweep you clean,”

then I walked the perimeter of the property and lovingly kissed the top of each of the thirtyish fence posts. I texted James

“i want this cute house what do i do?”

"shane down the hall knows mortages. he will sort you out tomorrow”

Satisfied, I cuddled up with a book of stories about outport life in 1940s Newfoundland. James used to own a bookstore and each room at the residency had at least one big shelf of books. I lucked out because my room contained the Newfoundland section and I was reading them like my dreams depended on it.

I met with Shane first thing. He helped build the residency and lived in an ocean facing studio at the end of the hall. He was very patient and generous with his time as I frantically pulled paperwork together with one eye on the house. I put my taxes off every year and was amazed to learn how fast I could do them with the right motivation. Shane assured me that I still had time — many people had looked at the house since it went on the market. One had made an offer, had it inspected and then changed their mind. I did not like hearing this. Shane said that old houses make people skittish, and he doubted it was anything serious. He explained to me how making an offer works. Contingencies, Financing, Property Tax. These intoxicatingly adult words that I had feared would never apply to my life.

The next day my girl Jamey flew in from Toronto to visit for the weekend. The plan had been to hike and chill. The reality was her listening to me talk about the house non-stop and planning for us to see it the next day. I told her about the amazing realtor who was so kind and accessible, about how lucky I was that Shane was right there. I showed her some of my fave Newfoundland books. She said,

“Sounds like you’re being Grand Seduced!”

Gasp!

The Grand Seduction is a movie about a Newfoundland village conspiring to lure a doctor to move there by staging it to seem like it’s the perfect place for him (it’s very charming). While I recognized the too-good-to-be-trueness of my situation, and that it was happening fast and far from home (ideal conditions for a grift) I couldn’t see what their motivation could be. In the Grand Seduction, the town needs a doctor in order to attract a factory. What on earth could these Pouch Covers get from me? Would I somehow pay for the house but they would own it? Was there a body in the yard? We googled all the major players and everyone seemed to be what they claimed.

That night we went to James’ and drank the world’s supply of pear cognac. The next morning, profoundly hungover, I got a text from the realtor. The other people had made a bid. Basically it came down to: if you want this house you have to make an offer now.

I blearily googled “how to do a home inspection” and we staggered the 50 feet to the house. Jamey grilled the realtor while I checked to see how snugly each door closed, what the wires were made of, whether there was mold. The basement was an indiscernible pile of rocks and the house appeared to be held up by ancient timbers.

When I had seen enough, we sat at the kitchen table and drafted an offer to Kermit and Llewellyn (real names), the brothers who were selling the house. I wrote a them a note telling them how much I loved the house, how I could see that it was well taken care of. I told them that it would be my honour to continue to take good care of it. I may have teared up. The realtor was incredibly supportive. She warned me that it could be days until I heard back. Jamey and I headed home to chug lime Crush and rally for a hike.

I got a call within an hour with news that you already knowx:

I GOT THE HOUSE! The other people may even have bid more but I got the house! They chose me because my offer had, and I quote, “less bullshit” which is not something usually associated with my brand, so shout out to Sarah the beautiful realtor for her guidance!

Jamey and I took our pear and lime lined stomachs on a celebratory hike along a dizzyingly beautiful stretch of the East Coast Trail. As I gazed giddily over the edge of the Eastern most point of the country, across the deep blue Atlantic toward Morocco, it hit me:

The Six of Wands.

Coming home in Victory. I had somehow returned to the home of my father and his parents before him. I had somehow fulfilled the seemingly unfulfillable dream of home ownership. The ever-present threats of rent increase, renoviction and the unknown future would have less power over me from now on. The roiling ocean inside me felt more serene. It was November 10. I had been in Newfoundland for less than 2 weeks.

As Remembered by Instagram:

February 10, 2022

My Home Ownership Log, featuring the artifacts left by the previous owner.

February 12, 2022

The dresses that came in my house FIT ME. @hex.video is here documenting every single amazing room and object, including this soup recipe I framed! @dashavalakhanovitch is in her @pouchcove_org studio with the stunning wicker table, making us cabbage pasta and cabbage paintings. If there was an award for happiest person on earth, I have won. 
#pouchcovefoundation #oldhousecharm #oldhousenewhome #comehomeyear #comehomeyear2022

February 10, 2023

Yes I did just go to Newfoundland for 5 days and yea I did tear down all the bathroom wallpaper I just painted over and paint a mural so it looks like #pouchcove is behind you in the mirror. Also featured : the eye popping beauty of @rug_the_rock and #bauline

August 30, 2023

Ugh Newfoundland is so cute all I do is make a mess when I come to my house, then panic about the mess and look at the mess and think my god this mess is cute

September 1, 2023

STILL so proud of my little sign. It’s a play on a very common sign here — Nanny & Poppy’s House (Nanny and Poppy is what grandparents are called here). The first time I saw one I was deeply charmed. Then I saw many more and they all say the same thing! A German artist at the residency next door thought it was a property management company or something!

September 8, 2023

PUTTING A BOW on my last trip to Pouch Cove!! LOTS of trim work, sealing and caulking this time. Home ownership has already made me think differently about water (it wants in!) and wood (it changes!) and like the man said — rust never sleeps. It’s an honour to seal all the cracks, insulate and protect such a beautiful old girl.

MacLeans featured me in their series about home buying.
I also chatted with OCAD U about my excitement for art, design, and old, old, houses. Read the article here.