When I first caught a glimpse of Toby Rosenbloom’s artwork it evoked a certain memory of a feeling. She seems to save the small moments you tell yourself that you won’t forget, because at the time they’re the most important. But they’re not moments you photograph or tell anyone about. It almost seems you don’t need to because of course you won’t forget, but then you do. It’s that feeling of being a visitor in a new city or of feeling like a stranger in your own neighborhood, just when the sky is growing dark but there’s a glow somewhere on the edges of the world. People have lights on in their houses but they haven’t drawn the curtains yet. You catch a glimpse of their life, and it’s like yours but so different. So different, but connected somehow. It’s the memory of all the small dusty places that were important to you as a child, as a teenager, as an adult. All the peculiar light particular to those places. You think you won’t forget, but you do, until you dream it all again.

I thought about this work often. It seemed like everything I love in art encapsulated, but in such a beautifully messy though perfectly measured way. Such strange perfect honesty. How does she capture the expressive gestures of inanimate objects — buildings and underpasses — let alone the ever-moving clouds and the ever-shifting light? How does she capture time passing and such specific memories of a moment and place and slant of light? With an absurd and compassionate humor and a depth of melancholy, she achieves a balance of dark and light — in all of the meanings of the words. It’s the edge between everything that sets the shapes and colors humming. Light and shadow, belonging and loneliness, buoyancy and weightiness. Expanses of space, darkness, or blacktop, punctuated by the small clusters of the overlooked buildings in which we spend most of our lives, growing and learning and passing our days. Passing our days.

I asked Toby if I could share her work, and I told her I like to share some words, too. Toby said she’s not good with writing, so I tried to keep it simple. At the last minute, I threw in “Why do you paint?” Existential is simple, right? Her response is one of the best small collections of words ever. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. In my experience, the people who believe they aren’t good with words are always the best with words.

And though she is better with words than she might imagine, she almost doesn’t need to be, because her paintings have such a quiet powerful voice and a disarming eloquence all their own. I am very grateful to share this beautiful work. Very grateful for the thoughtful answers to these few questions.

To me, your work captures that feeling of recognizing that some in-between, unremarkable moment is actually the most worth remembering. Maybe the feeling of being little on a car trip at a certain time of day or time of year, sleepy in the backseat, looking out at the landscape. A memory of a backseat-of-the car feeling. What’s your favorite time of day?

Every little painting is just an attempt to capture a feeling … Sometimes I’m out walking or driving in my car and some lighting on a tree or an unusual coincidence of colours hits me hard..and I just stop. When I’m driving this can be dangerous and my daughter has stories of close calls … The light late afternoon is the one I’m usually drawn to … I’m so happy when I find a more joyful full-sun scene that grabs me but it doesn’t happen as often. I think the morning light is the most beautiful but I have always been a night owl and have to force myself to see it. I’ve thought about how to describe that feeling I am after — and it’s some kind of contradiction of sorrow and hope.

Similarly, you find the fringe places kids might have played in and teenagers would hang out. Abandoned ball fields or basketball courts, vacant buildings, underpasses, the spaces between backyards – so incredibly important to certain people at certain times, though beneath the notice of others. What draws you to these spaces as an artist?

I like this question! I think it is the quiet I feel that draws me to these spaces. I am extremely sensitive to noise and am always searching out small moments where I feel at peace and able to really take in and experience the setting.

If you were graduating high school this year, what would your senior quote be? 

I looked up my old yearbook quote from 1984 and I had wished to be “put on an island with some paint and some brushes.” Maybe I would just cut and paste and add coffee and cheese and Advil cold and sinus.

Why do you paint? (First thought best thought.) To be a part of this world

What are the most and least tender colors? Pink and green

What’s a thing you love that you didn’t expect to, or that might surprise people?

Basketball — huge Raptors fan — thanks to my dad who started this tradition. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar was a common topic in our family. My mom still prints off the roster each year of the Raptors so we can get to know the new team members.

What is a memorable encounter with a stranger that you have had?

My very best days are the ones where I meet a stranger — they are my favourite people. I have many tiny moments often on my regular walks near the river that involve a connection with another human … 2 young fellows from Morocco giving me travelling advice … a lady just arrived from Syria with her young daughter … Damien who ended up teaching me Qui Gong … Martine the Italian-speaking animal rights activist who also took my email address and still sends me updates … and Andrew who I met walking my dog Opaloops in the forest while he was walking his pups Scooby and ptooey. Other than my daughter, I would say this unexpected ease (blessing?) (ability?) to make easy connections with a stranger is the one thing in the world I could not live without.

Toby Rosenbloom, 1966 Canadian

Had a lot of fun in my twenties in Montréal yet somehow came out with a Science and Mathematics degree and worked at The National Film Board in the Animation department.  Had a baby (cutest baby with silver hair ever there was) and got a job teaching high school that seemed to go on and on forever but I finally left after 20 years and now I paint. 

(Art drawing painting was always there in my mind I was just unable to find the brush)

See more of Toby’s work on Instagram @toby_rosenbloom.