Wishing you a great holiday

It's upon us already, the holiday rush. I'm not complaining. I love parties, catching up with family and friends, and the overall warmth and good feelings that spread through year-end celebrations.

Last week, I went to Scratch Gallery's and Laluque Atelier's show openings, and was totally inspired by the talented artists' knitted shawls, hats, jewellery, hand-painted t-shirts, ceramics, fibre art and paintings. Great places to buy presents.

Pamela de St. Antoine, a friend who lives in Washington, and writes for the Mauritian newspaper, Week-End, sent me an article she wrote about the Broadway play, Mauritius. It's cool to have the island where I was born featured in a Broadway play even though the play is really more about Mauritius' valuable stamps. You can read Pamela's article here.

Doesn't it feel as if millions of things keep charging at us before we can relax and enjoy the holidays? Hope you're having fun and not letting the shopping madness get to you. Wishing you all a wonderful time with family and friends and all the best for 2008.

Contre vents, marées et étoiles

".. nul ne t'a fait évader et tu n'en es point responsable. Tu as construit ta paix à force d'aveugler de ciment, comme le font les termites, toutes les échappées vers la lumière. Tu t'es roulé en boule dans ta sécurité bourgeoise, tes routines, les rites étouffants de ta vie provinciale, tu as élevé cet humble rempart contre les vents et les marées et les étoiles. Tu ne veux point t'inquiéter des grands problèmes, tu as eu bien assez de mal à oublier ta condition d'homme."

Terre des hommes - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

"... no one has helped you to escape, and you're not responsible for this. You found your own peace by blinding with cement every crevice that opened to the light, just like termites do. You rolled yourself into middle-class security, routines, the suffocating rites of provincial life, you set up a humble wall against winds, tides and stars. You don't want to think of larger problems, you find it hard enough to forget your condition."

I'm dedicating this translation to a friend who once quoted this passage to me because it described so well how he felt about his life. I could not comprehend why he let his talents go to waste, and tried to revive the artist in him. But I went about it with too much enthusiasm, and shook up too many things that were deeply buried for too long. He has withdrawn into his own world. Friendships are so fragile at times. It is especially sad for me to lose the connection with a friend who shared such similar artistic affinities. But I've learned to let things be because happiness is a constantly evolving state, and he made his choices accordingly, to find his own peace. I wish him the best.

A weekend at Judy's farm

We trekked, prowled through acres of farmland
past stretches of pasture, into the forest,
marvelled at the moss, and quartz, granite
scattered among fallen leaves, then went down
towards the lake, watched seagulls fly.
In the woodstove, flames crackled and danced,
I'm your man, Leonard claimed, so we pranced,
feet moved, arms stretched, hips followed,
minds roamed for comfort, dreams unfulfilled
resurfaced, stirred the rawness of untouched land.
The night was black but when we looked up,
stars glittered, sequins on a swath of velvet sky
in the distance, the eerie hoot of an owl,
a still silence, no neighbours, the city so far
a conditioned presence coated with fear.
I woke up to an orange glow by the window
the morning sun stroking the farm.
Cayotes howled, breaking the calm of dawn
but the light called, pulled me from bed,
and out in the cold I strolled.

Memories and losses

October has been a busy month. I've been painting silk scarves for stores for Christmas. It was wonderful to be in Montreal last weekend, to indulge in the joie de vivre of a city that makes fun a priority. Strolls through McGill's campus, and Vieux Montréal, delicous dinners around lively Rues St. Denis and Duluth, martinis at Maison du Jazz listening to Michelle Sweeney's soulful voice, and even late night dancing.

But on coming back, sad news: A friend's mother as well as a friend in his early fifties passed away. I was sad for my friend's mother but even sadder for the friend I knew as a teenager. Memories unfurled as if from a reel that had been long forgotten. He was kind, self-effacing, a good listener, always ready to help. I remember getting a ride from him on his mobilette, carefree, hair blowing in the wind, zipping towards the beach to meet our group of friends. After losing touch for a long time, I met him and his wife this year when I went to Mauritius. He was an accountant with a soft heart, unable to take money from friends he knew couldn't afford it. It's hard to accept that his life has been cut short so suddenly, to imagine his wife and children's searing loss.

"Le souvenir, c'est la présence invisible." Victor Hugo
Memory is an invisible presence













A lone seagull at Place des Arts, Montreal

Friends

Isn't life beautiful? A few days ago, it was grey but when my friend Judy phoned, everything suddenly brightened. We walked down the damp street for a cappuccino at a café and on the way there, livened up the sidewalk discussing how we can deal with piranhas by shaking them roughly off our legs. And at Nuit Blanche on Saturday night, Suzanne and I joined the carefree atmosphere, meandered through crowded streets, a sense of adventure and wonder keeping us alert and hopping from alien crash site to haunted house. And for my show's opening reception, all these wonderful friends, so ready to share a good laugh, a kind thought. Friends are such great blessings.

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."
Anais Nin

Toronto Upstairs

An invitation from Sidespace Gallery for Toronto Upstairs, a show I'm also taking part in.

Photo & Writing © Schuster Gindin

September 20 – October 25, 2007

Opening Reception Thursday, Sept. 20, 7 – 9 pm

Up here along the Davenport ridge, our topography is unique. We are Toronto's upstairs.

Davenport Road was originally a pathway formed along the shoreline of Lake Iroquois which began to recede 12,000 years ago. Along this, the oldest pedestrian route in the city, several little-known staircases take us up to the residential neighbourhoods adjacent to St. Clair Ave. Climb the steps at Glenholme, Via Italia, Hillcrest Park, Earlscourt Park or Spadina. At the top, turn around and you can see across the whole downtown and city skyline, built on the ancient seabed, to Lake Ontario. These public access points along this high escarpment allow all of us to savour our location.

Our stairways link up and down in the city. They afford pedestrians a ceremonial sense of arrival as we surmount the steps, and of immersion as we descend.

In Toronto Upstairs, thirteen artists will explore the staircases leading up from Davenport Road as transitional space, and contemplate and express the upness of here.

1080 St. Clair Ave. W. www.sidespacegallery.com

Feminine Mystique

Feminine Mystique

A study of women in watercolors, sketches and photographs
by Peggy Lampotang

September 27 to November 30, 2007

Join us for opening reception: Thursday, September 27, 5:30 - 7:30 pm
Regal Heights Bistro, 1079 St. Clair Ave West at Lauder

Paris

We rented an apartment in Paris for a week. It was a few minutes walk from the Latin quarter and we hung out there a lot, in the cafés, bistros, bookstores, by the bouquinistes along La Seine. Paris is the kind of place where you can let your feet guide you and no matter where you are, history pulls you in. Here, in front of Victor Hugo's house, there, the hotel where Oscar Wilde died. You let yourself drift and a delicious surprise welcomes you at every corner. One day, as we strolled behind Notre Dame, we heard the plaintive notes of a saxophone. A band was setting up. A dark man with a Tati bag stopped, a grey-haired couple, holding hands, took tiny steps towards a bench, a young woman slowed down and wrapped her boyfriend's arm around her waist. They all silently moved closer. I leaned against a tree and watched the theatre of life unfold. A quiver of an eyebrow. A bent head. A humming. A tap of the feet. A caress. A sigh. The rhythm, at times fitful, at times melancholic, reached deep within the private drama of each spectator. The musicians felt the connection, and rode on its wave. That's what I love most about Paris, those little incidents of spontaneous connections.

The true voyage

Le véritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux.

Marcel Proust

The true voyage of discovery is not to seek new lands but to see with new eyes.

Heaven and Earth

In your own bosom you bear your heaven and earth and all you behold; though it appears without, it is within.

William Blake

So many things to do

So many things to do and so little time. At the insistence of Tony Bolla, a man dedicated to bringing his community together, I've written articles about art exhibitions and artists on mystclair.com, a website that Tony created to inform residents about events, restaurants, businesses, artists, etc. in their neighbourhood.

I wish I could stretch time, wish it were sort of elasticized. As an advocate of renewable energy, I volunteered in a committee that plans to install solar sculptures on a small stretch of St.Clair Ave. West. I'm still somewhat involved with WISE (West Toronto Initiative for Solar Energy). If you want to use solar energy to reduce your household's dependency on air-polluting, coal-fired plants, check this site. It's such a thrill to see communities eager to clean the earth. We are so bombarded with news of wars, terrorism, murders, incurable diseases, decadent greed etc., that the future seems doomed, eager to self-destruct. And I despair when problems are not dealt with at the roots but with the bureaucratic superficiality of let's-spend-a-few-millions-on-research to-confirm-what-the-problem-is, or let's-throw-a-pile-of-money-in-this-project-to-calm-people-down, or other inefficient initiatives geared towards political and financial gains rather than the well-being of people and the earth we live on. Fortunately, human nature comes with built-in optimism, and rather than dwell on the depressive state of things over which we're helpless, we do take steps to change things and make the world seem wonderful again. Finding time to dedicate to one's beliefs is the challenge.

I'm trying to stretch time while working on an exciting photo project, writing short stories, painting on paper rather than silk. But summer is clamouring for attention, from neighbourhood street party to rampant garden screaming to be tended, not to mention the lure of coffee breaks and lunches on sidewalk cafés with the sun winking through leafy greens. And, yes, the kids are out of school, and the gravitational pull of motherly love makes me feel like those rock debris that form a ring as they madly circle certain planets. And those are just a few reasons why I can't keep up with this blog.

Peonies from my garden. A great summer to all!

Trouver du nouveau

"Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau,
Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu'importe?
Au fond de l'Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau!"

Les Fleurs du Mal - Charles Baudelaire

Such a fire burns our brain,
we want to plunge in an abyss,
who cares if it's heaven or hell,
in deep unknown to find the new.

Luminato

We took the Art Boat from Harbourfront to the Distillery District. In the middle of the lower deck, an artist was painting a dark landscape on a canvas larger than herself. There was a light breeze, enough to let your hair blow in the wind and feel carefree. A singer crooned Moon River. The woman in the photo mimed and coaxed us into dancing. When we docked. large shipping containers were lined on arid brown soil, against a backdrop of grey steel and asphalt. Upon closer inspection, each ribbed-metal container was the size of a small room, and displayed creative videos, sculptures with fluorescent lights, and other multimedia artwork. We crossed the highway, and walked under the bridge towards the Distillery. The huge brick buildings, where whiskey was distilled in the 1860's, have kept their ancient allure. History reverberates thoughout. It is almost palpable when the soles of your shoes adjust to the uneven contours of cobblestones, and you slow down as if moving back in time. A whiff of old Montreal. Jazz bands and singers, scattered around the site, filled the air with wistful melodies. The crowd milled about happily. It was fantastic to see creativity, in all its forms, accessible to a larger public. Food for the soul.

A friend had an extra ticket to see Gore Vidal interviewed by Adam Gopnik at the Elgin, so I tagged along. Toronto seems starved for culture during Luminato events. The line up to see this writer was so long that it wrapped around the block. Mr. Vidal was on a wheelchair but it didn't stop him from being his witty, perspicacious, arrogant yet self-deprecating, gossipy and opinionated self. It's interesting to hear him talk about U.S., his own country as being a liar that always acts in bad faith and hides behind a cloak of invisibility. And he calls Canada, Lady of the Snows ...

Quantum Healing

I'm reading Deepak Chopra's book about healing the body through the mind. It's really neat to speculate on the intricate power of the brain. I'm not the science oriented type, but somehow this book makes synapses and dendrites seem like little friendly guys roaming in one's head. I like his simple descriptions, like this one, "The material body is a river of atoms, the mind is a river of thought, and what holds them together is a river of intelligence." What Mr. Chopra is trying to prove, taking into consideration the fact that 2% of terminal cancer and aids patients have been able to defy science with miraculous, spontaneous remissions, is that we all have in us the power to cure our sickness, but we don't know how to access the intelligence which guides that power because science sees the mind and the body as separate when it comes to healing. I've been thinking a lot about the mind's healing power lately as I know so many people with cancer, some very close to me. I have a hard time believing that we can cure ourselves of cancer without medical intervention, by just empowering our intelligence to pass the right messages to our cells. But I do think that those who believe in the ability of the mind to heal are more empowered and positive in the way they deal with cancer. And who knows, maybe those positive vibes do stop the cancer from spreading further.
















Art Moderne at The Carlu, College Park


On a brighter note, Toronto is bustling with activity. Doors open was fun. Last weekend, Suzanne, Yolande and I felt like tourists in our own city. Suddenly the sculptural details at the top of College Park were more visible, and the limestone carvings on the Legislative Building at Queen's Park were precious works of art previously ignored. The Luminato Festival, a celebration of arts and creativity, covering everything from film, dance, music to literature, is on from June 1 -10.























Legislative Building, Queen's Park

Victoria day

Victoria day has zero meaning for me except that it's the long weekend to safely start planting - no more frost. The sun was shining through the weekend but then, it hardly touched my skin. I was in my studio writing or rather pretending to write because there are of course so many distractions, like having to cook and eat, and oh yes, I do have a family that needs me. But then from my window, these little bursts of fireworks, some really sad ones with little dots of light that fizzle in the air, and larger ones that splash away cheerfully and keep asking for attention, especially the ones that sprinkle a shower of colours against the black sky. Torontonians with even a dab of pyromania are going crazy as it's not illegal to light up the sky this weekend. And here I am, writing this blog, another excuse not to finish up my short stories. What's that saying again? Procrastination is the thief of time - I totally empathize. Thief, thief, thief, let me get down to work, find the perfect dialogue to bring life to this unsinpiring character who is blocking the flow of my story. By the way, did you hear about Contact , the photography festival that's all over Toronto this month ... I could go on and on ... here's the thief again. Okay, got to go.

La parole humaine

"La parole humaine est comme un chaudron fêlé où nous battons les mélodies à faire danser les ours, quand on voudrait attendrir les étoiles."

Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

Human speech is like a cracked cauldron on which we drum rhythms that would make bears dance, when we'd rather romance the stars.

Virtual identity

Last night, we sat on the red velvet seats of old-fashioned Royal Alex to watch E-dentity. Fascinating slices of insight into the internet savvy generation. The whimsical visual effects (projection of computer images on a clear background so they seem to hover in the air, and even interact with the actors) adds to the show's impact in making us feel the insidious way the internet infiltrates every part of our lives. This show takes us into the complicated virtual world in which imagination fills the gaps and twists reality to satisfy basic needs for warmth, friendship, and even sex (ever heard of remote control touch with a computer device?). Very interesting ... It's a brilliant show from which we leave with millions of questions and a nagging feeling of having witnessed a phenomenon that's happening so fast and on such a global scale that we still can't grasp its repercussions.

Compensation

Compensation

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears

Poems - Emily Dickinson

New York

New York during Easter weekend. A constant buzz along 5th and 6th Ave. Times Square is out of control. LED screens jump and flash from every corner. We walk and walk, away from the crowd. Hell's kitchen is an eclectic neighbourhood: boarded up windows filled with graffiti, nouveau chic restaurants and quirky ones where you can eat chicken quesadilla from old vinyl records, or sip your drink surrounded by rhinestone-studded crowns. Hotel rooms are ridiculously expensive. Food isn't cheap either but if you dig around, there are neat restaurants at reasonable prices, and there's this thing about two-for-one martinis you can't escape from. On the sidewalks, vendors peddle at dirt cheap prices, cashmere scarves, copies of Dolce & Gabbana bags, unnecessary accessories one can't afford at Saks. It's a city that thrives on people, intense, stimulating, a city for all.

The highlight at MoMA is a video installation by Pipilotti Rist, Swiss artist: A woman in a diaphanous pale blue dress and red shoes walks in slow motion along a street while a field of flowers is projected on the adjacent wall. A soft, plaintive music sets a sensual mood as she moves her legs and holds in her hands what looks like a stick with a flower-shaped tip. She smiles happily. Then she smashes the window of a car, clearly enjoying it, the naked release of emotions on her face kind of compelling. The complexity of human nature in full action. The video taunts us into looking at the moral dilemma within us, shattering our preconceptions. What line can we cross? This man looks on, thinking, wondering ...

Islands have allure

© Paul Comarmond

My friend Paul Comarmond has been diligently working on his watercolours and will be showing them at Regal Heights Bistro, 1077 St Clair Avenue West, Toronto. Be ready to party on opening night, Tuesday, May 1st, 2007 from 6 pm.

L'homme dans la nature

"Car enfin, qu'est-ce que l'homme dans la nature? Un néant à l'égard de l'infini, un tout à l'égard du néant, un milieu entre rien et tout."

Pensées - Blaise Pascal

After all, what is man in nature? Nothing when facing infinity, everything when facing nothing, the middle between everything and nothing.

Lin Fengmian

I want to share with you this site that my cousin Philip set up for our uncle Lin Feng Mian, an amazing artist whom I discovered in the last years, but much too late as he passed away in 1991. Being an artist myself, the immediate affinity I felt for his paintings was uncanny, as if I've known him forever, as if there's a little part of him in me somewhere that I just can't figure out yet. Through a few simple strokes of the brush he seems to magically evoke beauty, grace, sadness, peacefulness and a wide range of emotions, as you can see in these two paintings of his.




Images courtesy of Philip Lim, creator of Lin Feng Mian site

French, English: Pourquoi pas?

The article I wrote for the Globe (if you can't read it online, it's in my August 2005 blog posting) seems to have a life of its own. It's just been published in an educational book called Refining Reading writing-Essay Strategies for Canadian Students. My essay is in unit 4 under comparison and contrast and it's about how bilingualism can engender comprehension and tolerance between French and English Canadians. This subject tends to get passionate reactions: Praise for its inspiration but also negative comments from some Quebeckers and English Canadians from the West because of my mentioning the name Trudeau. I suppose it's a subject that leaves much to reflect upon, one of the reasons the article was chosen for this book. I'm thrilled about being published in an educational book, even though the momentary euphoria has subsided and I'm already back to work on my short stories.

C'est intéressant que cet article (vous pouvez le lire sur ce blog; août 2005 mais en anglais car je ne l'ai pas traduit en français) a déclenché des débats passionnés et parfois négatifs du côté des Québécois et des Canadiens anglophones de l'Ouest qui n'aiment pas Trudeau. Mais en revanche, beaucoup d'autres trouvent que l'article est une inspiration et ça leur donne envie d'être bilingue. L'article est tout simplement sur le biliguisme, comment ça peut aider à apprécier les différences entre les Canadiens anglais et français, et enfin, être plus tolérants l'un envers l'autre. C'est un sujet qui fait certainement réfléchir. Je suppose que c'est pourquoi on l'a choisi pour être publié dans ce livre. Je suis ravie d'avoir été publiée. Et maintenant que l'euphorie s'est déjà évaporée, il est temps de reprendre le travail sur mes nouvelles.

L'amour

"La vie est un sommeil, l'amour en est le rêve,
Et vous auriez vécu si vous aviez aimé."

Poésies - Alfred de Musset

Life is a sleep in which love is the dream,
And you've lived if you have loved.

Dance by Night

I'm participating in a fundraising for breast cancer and will dance on Saturday April 28th in support of relatives and friends who have fought or are fighting breast cancer.

If you want to support this cause, your money will go towards purchasing a digital mammography machine at Toronto Sunnybrook Regional Cancer Centre. Any small amount helps in improving the chances of women beating breast cancer.

Please don't feel obligated. I know how we're bombarded with requests for donations every day and it can be tiring because our $$$ can only go so far. But if you do feel like it ...

To donate online, please go on this site.

And if you want to be one of the participants and have fun dancing and raising money, please go on this site and click Register to Dance by Night.

Comics

A comic book's visual dimension is fascinating not only in the immediate gratification of its artwork, but also in the passionate intensity it brings out in the reader. When I was seven years old, my brothers introduced me to Blek, my first comic book superhero, a French trapper clad in tight pants, fur vest and raccoon hat. I lived in breathless suspense as he overpowered English soldiers with his bulging muscles and his expletives, "mille castors" (a thousand beavers) or "mille putois puants" (a thousand stinking skunks). I remember waiting impatiently for the next issue to arrive in the mail, eagerly flipping each page, listening to its crisp sound, inhaling with relief the smell of fresh print. But as I grew older, comics became a quick diversion rather than my main source of reading material.

I regained interest in the creative art form of comic books through Lovern Kindzierski, my sister-in-law's husband - yeah, we're all sort of connected within one or two degrees of separation these days. He is a passionate comic book lover who has transformed his obsession into professional excellence as a colorist and a comic book writer. He's worked on famous superheroes such as Tarzan and Conan, and is currently working on Code, a new African American superhero (finally a positive role model of different colour). Lovern is the one in red t-shirt, and of course he's from ... where else but Winnipeg, Canada's unpretentious creative hub. Cheers Pam. :)

WISE

Okay, I've sobered up a bit, got the languid tropical weather out of my bones. No residual taste of passion fruit or papaya in my mouth. Good old Toronto's minus 15 chill has slapped me awake. But haven't yet caught up with work or kept up with all the committees I'm involved with.

However, an important organizing committee from which I've slacked off lately is moving forward thanks to dedicated volunteers who have given many many hours of their time to put together a RFP (Request for proposal) to get the best deal possible from contractors to install solar panels in our neighbourhood. There are about 200 of us currently looking into pooling our purchasing power so we can contribute in protecting our environment and saving money by using solar-powered energy to produce electricity and/or to heat water in our houses.

If you're interested in this project, please check WISE (West Toronto Initiative for Solar Energy). We want to spread the word out so many other neighbourhoods can join us, not only in Toronto, but across Ontario, and hopefully the rest of Canada which has been slow compared to European countries like Germany to take an active role in reducing pollution and stopping the depletion of the earth's ozone layer.

Trip to Mauritius

I'm back but operating in slow motion, recovering from jetlag and too much fun. It started with pounding waves from the tail end of a cyclone.













The weather calmed down but for me it was a continuous barrage of sensations rediscovering Mauritius, the island where I was born, and reconnectiing with relatives, friends, and the exotic landscape. With the awareness of a camera in hand, every corner I turned seemed to offer images for thought.

People are so approachable, warm, and friendly along the coastal villages. They live with so little and yet seem so content and happy. I wanted to feel the heart of the island through its fishermen, its children and the people who make it tick, and wished I could spend more time learning their way of life.













To appreciate the two extremes of the island fully, I spent a couple of days in the pampered environment of a luxury resort. However, it takes only a few days to indulge in such decadence: freshly cut flowers and champagne to welcome us, thick, fluffy bathrobes and towels, private pool, spa, gourmet buffet, tea served by villa master, etc. After the novelty wears off, it feels more like an artificial paradise, illusory, not in touch with the real world, but it's still an experience not to be missed, especially when snorkelling and discovering underwater wonders. And it's great to know that the island's economy is thriving from European tourists who flock to these amazing resorts that dot the island's coast.

Art Sites

I won't be writing for a few weeks, so here are some sites you may want to check:

To sieve through the deluge of internet info, I speed read, and try hard to concentrate on what's relevant to me, but sometimes I get caught into such a burst of inspiring work from art sites that I can't quit that easily. Some are there for the purpose of selling artwork, like Paul Comarmond's at Yessy and Charmaine Johnson Putnam's at Absolutearts .

Others are for sharing photos and art, like Philip Lim's gallery at Deviant Art and Mondo's gallery at Flickr . These thrive on a community atmosphere where members write to each other with clever or silly pseudonyms like Elle-est-mental, Waitingforgodot, Hotsauce, Blasphemedsoldier, Surlybratt, etc. Common interests give a feeling of connection and make it fun to exchange photos, writing, and thoughts with members who hail from countries as remote as Estonia and Tibet. Some artists' works, especially in Deviant, are awesome, while others are uninspiring but what a great learning opportunity for everybody! These sites have a way of snowballing and you wonder how much larger they can possibly grow - imagine over 30 million artwork/photos in one site only, and this is only a small fraction of what's availbale on the net.

I'm fascinated by these community sites' easy accessibility to people around the globe one would otherwise never meet unless one travelled extensively. Will virtual encounters replace the need to interact with real people? I personally believe the warmth of human touch is essential to life and cannot be replaced by a computer, but I'm intrigued by the ramifications of online socializing. Anyway, as if my plate isn't full enough, I've taken up the invitation to join and just became a Deviant with this photo gallery, a bit boring so far, but I know it will get much better over time with inspiration and feedback from Deviant artists.

Enjoy these galleries!

Depressing February

There are so many celebrations in February other than Valentine's, namely Chinese New Year, and dance, music and theatre events for Black History month. But I've been sick and haven't gone out much in this freezing weather. There's some respite from this gloom though. Working in my studio isn't so bad. I get to watch snow flakes softly fall, covering the city in white. From the kitchen, I can see the neat shadows that the sun casts on the bright snow in our backyard.

Happy Valentine's

I was waiting for these two birds to get closer. You'd think they'd want to get warm and romantic on this cold day but they wouldn't budge. I guess they forgot it's Valentine's. Wishing you all a wonderful time with your loved ones, but really, why just today, why not every day of the year?

Introducing the book

To give a balance to the heavy philosophizing of Gibran, here's some silly humour which has its own brand of philosophy. Thanks Pam.

Introducing the book

The innate self

Every human being is capable of counterfeit when it comes to his likes and dislikes, and of juggling with his ambitions and bartering his thoughts, but no man on earth is capable of counterfeit with regard to his loneliness or of juggling with or bartering his hunger and thirst. Nor is there a single human being with the ability to reshape his dreams, to exchange one image for another or to transfer his secrets from one place to another. Can what is frail and meagre in us sway the strong and mighty in us? Can the acquired self, earth-bound as it is, induce alteration and transformation in the innate self, which is of heaven?

Love letters - Kahlil Gibran


















Look up and fly into the sky

Orpheus descending

Orpheus descending at the Royal Alex. This Orpheus is Val, a guitar-playing young Southern drifter to whom women are fatally attracted. He is the object of an older woman's desire, and when he finally realizes his love for her, she dies like Orpheus' beloved Eurydice. That's as far as the adaptation of the myth goes. Tennessee Williams' ability to portray people who don't fit into society hits as deeply as the way he analyzes the psyche of mature women, their insecurities, their need to express themselves, blossom, and love, reminding me of the powerful and desperate image of Blanche in A streetcar named desire. I left the theatre with my friends, thinking, not of handsome Val at all, but of passionate Lady Torrance, the feisty, married woman who falls for Val, thrives in her new-found love, shaking loose the constraints of her marriage. We all agreed that Seana Mckenna's performance as Lady, with Italian accent and all, was the best part of the show.

About accidents, chances in life

"Pas même fatal cet accident puisque rien n’est écrit nul part, la vie seulement criblée des hazards de dernière minute, ces petits riens décisifs qui defient présages et prévisions et se rient de nos attentes."
La Petite Chartreuse - Pierre Péju

"That accident wasn't even fatal, because nothing is written anywhere, just life riddled with last minute chances, these little non-decisive situations which challenge speculation and forecasting, and laugh at us as we wait."

I'm quoting Pierre Péju here because of this continuous debate I have with my dear friend C regarding fate. Her belief in fate reminds me of Greek tragedies. That same helpless way that fate controls Oedipus' every action, no matter what he tries to do to stay away from the horrible predictions of the Oracle. Not that I'm 100% with Pierre Péju. I think part of our personality is written in our DNA, over which we have no control. This brings us to the never-ending nature versus nurture debate. Wouldn't it be easier to say it's 50/50 and end all debate there? Our genes and our environment determine equally who we are, and then the rest is within our control. The choices we make in life and the chances we are willing to take are not part of fate. But then, as my friend C would argue, these choices and chances are controlled by genetic predisposition. Vicious circle isn't it? That's why we haven't been able to find a common ground on this. That's when I throw in that genetics don't predict everything because we're surrounded by the last minute chances that Pierrre Péju is talking about, and these are not predetermined. Okay, that's enough debating for today. Early morning fog from my studio.

Illustration of debate: This view is one of the many chances offered to me. I chose to take this photo. Fate didn't determine this. Couldn't resist this, C. Please, don't get mad. We'll continue later. :)

Reservoir Lounge

The Reservoir Lounge on a Saturday evening. Sophia Perlman and The Vipers perform for a packed house. I meet Sophia in front of the mirrors in the washroom. She's friendly, introduces herself and says she sings on Mondays usually, and she's putting on her sophisticated look for the Saturday crowd. Her voice is deep but there is a crispness to it, as if fine fibres of clear sounds are melding into a harmonious whole. On stage, her voice is even more impressive as she erupts into higher notes. She gives a rich lilt to Diamonds on the soles of her shoes.

My friends and I were greeted at the Reservoir door by a flirtatious Rod Stewart look-alike who asked for the cover charge first, then blew kisses. A waiter whose shoulders Suzanne found beautiful, served us tapas, pizza and wine. We danced on the few square feet available with a man nicknamed Mr. Transition by Yolande because of his hmm...interesting life story. Reservoir Lounge bubbles with warmth. Jazz, live music, has a way of doing that. But also, the place is so small that you bump into other people and have to talk to them whenever you take a few steps. I read that celebrities as disparate as Peter O'toole and Prince have been seen there. You can guess the varied range of music lovers. Girls, it was fun.

In memory

In memory of my cousin who passed away a few days ago
I will always remember him as a fine dancer
he moved with such grace and natural rhythm
in the dance halls at family weddings
the only few times I usually met him
and danced with him last in May
I heard about his health and phoned
but his voice was low and weak
so he let the music speak
and held the phone
to the speakers
I listened silent
to the drumbeat
and wished he
could still
dance
but
it was
not
to
be
...
yet ...
maybe
he did dance
his way to heaven

Orbit Room

Went to the Orbit Room on Tuesday night with a friend visiting from abroad. It was her last night in town. We arrived at 10 pm, and wondered whether we should stay. The club looked empty except for half a dozen people. We didn't have the energy to look for another place. And we thought, so what, maybe it's like that everywhere in the city on Tuesday night - good old hard-working Toronto already in bed.

It was awkward to watch a band larger than the audience. You wonder how they feel and whether they're watching you as much as you're watching them. However, by the time the first set was half-way through, the room was packed and nightlife in Toronto was alive and well. One of the musicians, with dreadlocks and a kind, friendly smile came to say hello to us, adding to the warm atmosphere of the place. A guest singer named Serena, blonde with a sweet angelic face, belted out Leonard Cohen's Sisters of Mercy with a Reggae Jazz beat - if you know what I mean - and you could feel her soulful voice going right through your guts. I'm relieved to know that the creative heart of Toronto is beating every night in this club and many others I still have to discover.

Back to writing

Bon, je recommence à écrire. C'est une de mes résolutions pour l'année 2007. Ecrire, écrire et écrire.

Back to blogging. Another year is gone. The phenomena of blogging, YouTube, and other forms of online mass communication is mind-boggling. It's all happening so fast I feel as if I'm part of an army of ants scrambling, typing away at the keyboard to keep up with the cornucopia of information and new experiences. One of which is discovering Peter Cincotti, a jazz singer/pianist that my friend Chris raved about. I'm now hooked on his romantic voice. Can't believe he's only 21 years old.

For photography Andrew's daily blog postings are truly inspiring. His composition and use of lighting, with focus on industrial sites, bring out the awesome beauty of what we would otherwise consider ordinary things. Am I biased because he's Teri's friend? I don't think so. See for yourself the results of his passion and dedication to photography.

Books I've read in the last months that are worth mentioning: Three Day Road by Joseph Boyden is the story of two Cree Indian friends, snipers for the Canadian army during World War I, Sweetness in the Belly by Camilla Gibb is about a white woman's Islamic faith. They both deal with cultural rifts, and a sense of isolation that I find very compelling.

Happy Holidays to all

A gentle morning light on snow-covered countryside. The cold Canadian winter is here and I feel as if I've been swept by an icy gale. Trying to pull myself out of pressures and disappointments. But there's that light, always a little light that brightens things up. Recalling childhood memories with old school friends, dancing away at a Xmas party, listening to jazz at The Rex, the twinkle of teasing eyes, kind words of encouragement, the warm touch of someone who cares ...

Wishing you all a happy holiday season and a wonderful New Year 2007 with family and friends.

Joyeux Noël à tous. J'espère écrire de nouveau après le nouvel an.

International Creole month

Samedi dernier, j'ai passé des moments agréables à parler créole, ma langue maternelle, et à déguster des amuse-gueules créoles, mais j'ai surtout trouvé très intéressant la présentation de Paul Comarmond sur l'esclavage et l'histoire du créole. Pendant le mois d'octobre, le Centre Francophone a plusieurs événements pour célébrer le mois créole et ça se termine avec une grande fête le 28 octobre, Journée Internationale Créole.

During the month of October, the Francophone Centre has a series of events to celebrate Creole month. It all ends with a splash on October 28, International Creole Day. It was fun to speak Creole, my mother tongue and to hear its colourful expressions last Saturday at the Francophone Centre. I enjoyed Paul Comarmond's presentation on how the Creole language was created by slaves speaking French. Paul also talked about the history of slavery. It is heart-wrenching to see pictures of slaves stuck one against another like sardines on ships designed to pack in as many as possible. I cannot understand the perversion of nature when it breeds callous slave traders and business owners who exploit other human beings so atrociously. But then, isn't our society perhaps as guilty in its greed to build wealth without any consideration for the welfare of workers in developing countries? Anyway, if you want to know more about the Creole language and the people who currently speak it, check the Francophone Centre this month.

Toronto's Nuit Blanche

Philosopher's Walk


La vie continue ... j'ai mis de côté le cauchemar. J'ai passé une merveilleuse Nuit Blanche, ou presque car on n'est pas resté jusqu'au lever du soleil. Samedi soir, pour toute la nuit, Toronto était comme une ville qui a changé de robe. Souriants, enthousiastes, les uns se tenant au chaud avec foulards et chapeaux, les autres en tenue décontractée, des gens de tout âge mais surtout des jeunes se promenaient en masse pour écouter des poèmes, voir des films, admirer des peintures, et prendre part à d'autres expressions artistiques d'une ville qui bouillonnait d'énergie créative. Suzanne, ma chère copine, une artiste et érivaine pendant ses moments de loisir, m'a accompagnée dans cette petite aventure. On a été très impressionné et inspiré. Il y a tant d'espoir pour notre belle ville, une ville qui donne de l'importance à la culture et l'art.

Life goes on ... I've put aside the nighmare. We were at Nuit Blanche, tried an all nighter, well ... almost since we did not last to see the sun rise. On Saturday night, Toronto was effervescent with creative energy. Together with a smiling, and enthusiastic, mostly twenty-something crowd, some keeping warm with trendy hats and scarves, others in casual clothes, we listened to the clear, melodious voice of a poet reading about her "brown ass", got pulled into a short movie about the delusions of lost love, gazed at Michael Snow's sheep grazing on the dome of the ROM's planetarium, and slipped on the muddy grass while looking at the mist on Philosopher's walk. Suzanne, my dear friend, an artist and writer in her spare time was a wonderful companion for Nuit Blanche. We were impressed and inspired. There is much excitement and hope for a city which believes in the cultural importance of art.

Art @ Liberty

Image © Art @ Liberty

Busy, busy, busy ... Who isn't in Toronto? The exciting part is we do make things happen in this city. Helped some friends with an art exhibition they're having across the street from where I'm having my photo exhibition of Moody Toronto. Their show is called Art @ LIberty. It's a series of photos, ranging from topiaries to manholes, taken in the St.Clair neighbourhood. It opens today and runs till October 1st. Both our shows will be part of Artwalk, the St. Clair Arts Festival and Studio Tour, between September 29th to October 1st.javascript:void(0)

I love you more than you know

That's the title of Jonathan Ames' book that I just read. He is one funny guy. Disarmingly honest, bent on telling every detail about his scatalogical, sexual, and disease-prone obsessions. He's the kind of guy whose one-track-sex-crazy mind makes you want to slap his face, but then the next minute, he is so tender and loving, you just want to hug him.

La confession d'une jeune fille

Time to get back to writing. That's what this blog is supposed to be all about, anyway. Plus I miss French so much. So here's my translation of Marcel Proust's insightful reflection on the intricacies of a young woman's relationship with a certain Lepré.

Si sa beauté était armée pour le vaincre, son esprit ne l’était pas moins pour le juger; elle était prête à cueillir comme une fleur amère le plaisir de le trouver mediocre et ridiculement proportioné à l’amour qu’elle avait pour lui. Ce n’était pas par prudence! elle sentait bien qu’elle serait toujours reprise dans le filet enchanté et que les mailles que son esprit trop incisive aurait rompues pendant la présence de Lepré, à peine serait-il parti que son imagination industrieuse les aurait réparées.

La confession d'une jeune fille - Marcel Proust

If her beauty was armed to conquer, her mind was equally armed to judge. She was ready to pick, like a bitter flower, the pleasure of finding him mediocre and ridiculous in proportion to the love she felt for him. It was not that she was cautious. She knew that she would always be lured back into the enchanted net, and that the stitches that her incisive mind had cut during Lepré's presence, would always be repaired by her industrious imagination within seconds of his departure.

Thank you so much

Thank you to all the eighty friends and more who came to the photo exhibition opening. It was a great party and it was so much fun to see everybody. Regal Heights Bistro was bubbling with smiles. Thanks Tony and the staff for creating such a magical atmosphere with the friendly service and thanks to chef Chris for the heavenly food. The mushroom ragoût was one favourite melt-in-your-mouth delight. Lots of hugs, kisses, praises, liquor, and delicious hors-d'oeuvres made for a very warm and lively evening. My voice was raw from talking. Short conversations ranged from debates about whether the idealistic wish to serve people in politics inevitably becomes a grasp for power, to new mothers' depression from boredom, and pumping milk like cows, one of the low times in women's lives. Thanks to all those who were impressed enough to buy my photos. Moody Toronto never looked so exuberant. I love you all.

Photo Exhibition

It's a collection of 18 photos showing the different moods of Toronto's skyline, all taken from my studio. The show is on from August 24th to October 1st at Regal Heights Bistro, 1079 St. Clair Ave. West at Lauder. See you there!

Montreal

Toronto is my true love but Montreal is like a secret lover, luring me with the forbidden. What I love about Montreal: It looks you right in the eye, it's got grit, indulges in whatever it wants, screaming matches, uncontrollable laughter, lewd stares, bouncy cleavages, and all. What I saw when I was there: In a park, an athletic young man in t-shirt and shorts seducing a tree with a wild dance, something like a cross between taichi and ballet jazz. A pretty woman in a restaurant going orgasmic with her hands describing something as inconsequential as trying clothes on. A vision in white jumping from the sidewalk, dark hair flying, arms flapping, skirt billowing, singing away in the middle of a street, oblivious of cars that stopped for her. A handsome man with intense green eyes and perfect skin, dangling a cup from a three-foot long stick, saying, "vous avez quelque chose pour moi?" Do you have something for me, he asked. I told him I'd rather get him a job, that perhaps he was an artist. There was creativity and originality in the dog muzzle he used to hold the cup at the end of his stick. These are all the little things that make Montreal so charming. Oh Teri, you're going to enjoy it so much when you move there! And I love your music blog.

Ton souvenir

Ton souvenir est comme un livre bien-aimé,
Qu'on lit sans cesse, et qui jamais n'est refermé,
- Te souvient-il de notre extase ancienne?
- Pourquoi voulez-vous donc qu'il s'en souvienne?

Fêtes galantes - Paul Verlaine

My memory of you is like a beloved book
That I keep reading and can't ever close,
- Does he remember our old rapture?
- Why do you want him to remember?

Your lynx eyes, Asia

It is your lynx eyes, Asia,
That spied something in me,
Teased it out, occult
And born of stillness,
Oppressive and difficult
Like the noon heat in Termez
As though pre-memory's years
Flowed like lava into the mind...
As if I were drinking my own tears
From a stranger's cupped hands.

Anna Akhmatova - Selected poems - Translated from Russian by D.M. Thomas

Thanks Ann and Brigid for recommending this great poet.

Dinner in our garden

Fifteen of us in the backyard. The grilled eggplant glides in the mouth, a succulent chunk of sealed flavour. It bursts as teeth dig in, then it melts, a sensual journey down the throat. Salads, fresh, crisp, cool the heat. Giggles, glasses of wine half emptied. "With the first child," someone says, "you take the kid to the hospital after a sneeze. With the second one, the kid's arm is twisted, hanging limp and you say, go to bed dear, it will get better tomorrow." Hysterical laughter. The night unfolds. The breeze sweeps away a frown, a pursed lip. Faces, foliage and clematis stars softly outlined by candlelight, look mysterious, yet familiar. Personalities shift in the shadows, searching release. New friendships bubble. Some weave stronger ties. It is a good night.

Ma tristesse

Ne me demande pas d'où me vient ma tristesse.
Ne me demande rien, tu ne comprendrais pas.
En découvrant l'amour, je frôle la détresse.
En croyant au bonheur, la peur entre en mes joies.

Extrait de Retiens La Nuit (Charles Aznavour/Georges Garvarentz) chanté par Johnny Halliday

Don't ask me why I'm sad.
Don't ask me, you won't understand.
When I find love, distress brushes against me.
When I believe in happiness, fear mingles with joy.

Taking photos in Montreal

Montreal was sunny with a cool breeze. Perfect weather to stroll along the cobblestoned streets and take photos with my cousin Philip and his friends Annie and Sébastien. Philip is a photography teacher, the kind everybody loves. His passion for photography, the way he'll enthuse about the quality of light, about lines leading to an object, about how to catch people in a natural pose, makes me want to keep clicking. It is gratifying to practise immediately what I'm learning. As if framing a picture to capture the essence of the moment is a blissful state of wonder.

Reading at U of T

I took all my Leonard Cohen CDs out. Listening to them non stop, even at breakfast one day. R came down, and said, Isn't it a bit early to get depressed? Then he made his voice low and deep, imitating dear Leonard singing In My Secret Life, but with his own words. I'm the poet of doom, I'm sooooo sad, he crooned. R is very funny. That's what I like best about him. Okay, I think it's time to move on to something more upbeat ... to Johnny Halliday, a French singer who is just as romantic and sad, but with more abandon, forceful passion, and despair. I'm such a cheerful one!

Looking forward to visiting one of my favourite cities in Canada. I'll be in Montreal in a few days. Meanwhile the weather is getting warm enough to open the windows of my studio, all five of them, so the dyes don't bother me when I go on a silk painting spree.

I'm so thrilled about getting my creative writing certificate from U of T. It's been an amazing journey. Learning the craft from some of the best writers in Toronto was inspiring. For friends who want to come to the graduation ceremony, it's on Friday, June 9th at 7:00 pm at 158 St. George, just south of Bloor. I'll be reading a short story from my final project.

Leonard Cohen, the aging lover

Yesterday, on Bay, south of Bloor, saw Leonard Cohen read poetry and sing. Worth the 45 minutes wait. That deep bass voice. But I have to admit I wouldn't have waited if I didn't have my friends Suzanne, Julia, and Yolande there chatting with me. The crowd thickened around us so tight that a fleeting sense of claustrophobia made me wonder how I would ever elbow and kick my way out of there, engulfed as we were in this sea of people.

When he appeared on stage, the crowd went wild. I love you, Leonard, a louder voice yelled above the roar. He took the microphone, an aged man with a stoop. He went right into a poem as if he was talking to us, his broody face defined by long bracket lines stretching from his nose down to his lips. The crowd couldn't have enough of this poet. And when he sang So Long Marianne with Barenaked Ladies and Anjani Thomas, a smile creeped onto his serious face, then exploded into youthful vigour, buoyed by the crowd's enthusiasm. You held on to me like I was a crucifix, he belted out. A flash of passion, an intensity, an enlightened feeling passed on to his fans. How superficial the physical decay of aging when exposed to such spirit. I love this man.

Creative vibes in Toronto

Today, I soaked in the creative energy of Toronto. Checked Contact, the Toronto Photography Festival. Loved the public exhibits in St Andrew and St. Patrick subways. The photographers made a strong and dramatic statement by doing a series of photos which repeat similar elements. Gu Xiong's series of portraits, I am who I am, show proud Chinese Canadians, their adaptation to the Canadian culture emphasized by comments written at the bottom of the photos in Chinese, French and English. Stephen Waddell did a series of pedestrians going up and down a set of stairs, and it's amazing to see that something so mundane can bring out the personality and beautiful movements of each person. Stephen Gill's Lost series show people asking or looking for directions. It's extremely effective, the way he captures the expressions and body postures which say it all, giving the familiar feeling of yes, we've been there. Ryerson's collection of historical black and white photos at BCE place are priceless. From Jackie Kennedy to the Civil Rights demonstrations, these photos impress more than history in the mind, they bring out the emotional connection to that time.

Tonight, we went to a poetry reading of Frank Giorno, a friend of R. The Gladstone's long room facing Dufferin Street was packed. The Lyricalmyrical press was launching six poetry books. It's inspiring to hear these talented writers and to see their work in handmade books. They're one of a kind, individually bound in different colours. Fifteen dollars for all that work seems like a bargain. Well, they're only about 20 pages but still. I don't know how small presses like these make money but I admire the publisher Luciano Iacobelli, his dedication to writing and writers. I was surprised to see a book by Bruce Meyer, one of my U of T teachers from four years ago. When I talked to him, all I could think of was this erudite man's incredible knowledge of classical literature, the way it spilled in the class with such enthusiasm that one had to be quick to catch them all. He's written twenty-three books and yet he's going with a small publishing company because he loves the handmade book.

I'm excited about the artistic vibes I feel in Toronto these days, as if creative juices are really churning in this city, their driving force beyond the limitations of financial gains.

Maupassant, the romantic

Elle était charmante ainsi, et dans son regard fuyant mille choses m'apparurent, mille choses ignorées jusqu'ici. J'y vis des profondeurs inconnues, tout le charme des tendresses, toute la poésie que nous rêvons, tout le bonheur que nous cherchons sans fin. Et j'avais un désir fou d'ouvrir les bras, de l'emporter quelque part pour lui murmurer à l'oreille la suave musique des paroles d'amour.

Au Printemps - Guy de Maupassant

She was alluring, and in her evasive look, many things appeared, many things ignored before. I saw in it unexplored depths, the appeal of tenderness, all the poetry we ever dream of, all the happiness that we keep searchng for. And I had a mad desire to take her in my arms, take her somewhere so I could whisper in her ear the sweet music of love.

At the bookstore

I was at Book City today to pick up a copy of the literary magazine, Kiss Machine in which my young talented friend Teri has written a short story titled: A secret handshake for the new world order. It's a touching story about growing up and relationships.

I checked some other books, thinking of how I sometimes like the quietness of bookstores, that sort of hushed religious silence and respect for the written word, but that it's also fun to have some distractions like observing or talking to quirky and interesting people who frequent bookstores. Then, the door flapped open with a waft of cool spring air. An entwined couple walked in. "Mmmhhh, it smells like books here," the young man said, taking a deep breath, his face on his girlfriend's hair. "What do you think, it's a bookstore," she said, pushing him away, cutting through the aisle with firm steps, hip hugging jeans and exposed midriff. They did bring a bit of fresh air in the store.

Crocuses

There they are, these harbingers of spring, peeking out, pert and pretty above the debris of previous fall.

Gardening

The light is crisper, brighter, the smell fresh and new. It's spring. The garden is glaring at me, its dried up plants screaming to be cut, its soil begging to be cleaned and aired out. The crocuses are peeking out, tiny yellow and purple petals of hope among desolate brown leaves and twigs. I cannot get myself to start because it's a full day's work. It's Easter anyway. Dinner with my sisters and their families. Going back to the garden, I don't connect to the soil like some friends do. I admire their gentle caring, their nimble fingers, the way their hands lovingly get into the dirt. To me, it's a vigorous, sweaty chore. I keep postponing until the forsaken garden hurts my vision so much that I rush on my knees, and hack away to expose all the healthy green growth, the perennials that will soon blossom into summer colours. The results of my labour: a garden lush with nature's wondrous gifts. Why do I wait so long? Same story every year.

He's a lawyer, not a warrior

He tells me he wants to be in my short stories so he can read about himself in print one day. I haven’t had a need for a lawyer yet in my writing. But since B is a good friend of ours, here goes:

He has a relaxed posture, the kind made to lie down on a lounge chair by the swimming pool, to sip drinks with bright pink umbrellas floating in them. He smacks his lips with the appreciation of a connaisseur when he eats escargots à l'ail, drinks Pisse-dru, and looks at women in short skirts and cleavages. His navy suit builds up his thin frame into a slick package that speaks legal jargon with aplomb. Take the suit off and he’s so loose, you could fold him up neatly into a precious small bundle and put him inside your pocket. But you can't take him home. He's happily married. His young son, blue eyes ardent, innocent, adorable, says he wants to grow up to be a 'wawyer' like his dad. Your dad, a warrior? No, dear, he's a bon vivant.

B, go for it. Life is short.

French movies

This week is the 9th annual celebration of International Francophone cinema held by Cinéfranco at the Ropyal Cinema in Toronto. What a treat if you can catch some of the 38 movies playing this week. All films are subtitled in English. I already saw Travaux (Housewarming). Carole Bouquet plays a lawyer who sympathizes with new immigrants including illegal ones whom she defends and befriends. She hires them to add a staircase to her house and it's a wild hilarious journey where bourgeoisie meets immigrés in a chaotic clash of cultures and a renovation nightmare. Bizarre at times with Carole Bouquet dancing on the judges's desk to win her cases, it's French comedy with empathy for the plight of immigrants.

I also saw Combien tu m'aimes? (How much do you love me?). Monica Bellucci plays a ravishing prostitute (Daniela) and Bernard Campan, a very infatuated Parisian (François). Great scenes in Paris and tons of funny situations and terrific lines. "Someone who is so loud when having sex is only faking it," says François' neighbour who can't stand Daniela's erotic screams. The sexy neighbour then proceeds to make the sounds she claims are more authentic, arousing François in the process.

I'm looking forward to see De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté (The beat that my heart skipped). It has won many awards in France. I wish I could watch many many more. It's so much fun indulging in French movies. It renews my enthusiasm for the language, the culture and I can't have enough.

Prix pour la francophonie

J'ai reçu un appel de CIUT 89.5 FM (radio de l'Université de Toronto) pendant leur émission française (tous les dimanches, de 11:00 à 13:00 heures) car j'avais participé à leur concours pendant la semaine de la francophonie (qui aboutit dans une célébration spéciale demain, le 20 mars, Jour Internationale de la Francophonie) en répondant à plusieurs questions sur la francophonie et celui là: Le français, ça vous chante?

Ma réponse: Le français, ça chante avec une chaleur sensuelle à travers mes veines.

Et devinez? J'ai gagné le grand prix: deux billets Via Rail pour Montréal. J'ai fait une petite entrevue avec l'animateur Eric Cader mais j'avais de la difficulté à respirer car j'étais tellement emballée par cette bonne nouvelle. Que j'ai hâte de te revoir, Montréal! En parlant de chance, hier je disais que j'aimerais bien voir la pièce de Michel Tremblay en français à Montréal et aujourd'hui je reçois deux billets gratuits pour y aller. Ai-je un ange gardien qui m'écoute?

I got a call from CIUT 89.5 FM (University of Toronto radio) during their French program (every Sunday from 11:00 am to 1:00 pm) because I participated in their contest during Francophone week (which culminates tomorrow, March 20th, in a special celebration of International Francophone Day) by answering several questions, one of them being: How does French appeal to you?

My answer: French sings through my veins with a warm sensuality.

Guess what? I won their first prize: a trip for two by Via Rail to Montreal. I had a short interview with the radio host Eric Cader, but I was kind of out of breath from this sudden good news. Wow! Here I come again, Montreal! Talk about wishful thinking. Yesterday I mentioned I'd like to see Michel Tremblay's play in French in Montreal, and today I win two tickets to go there! Is there a guardian angel out there?

French theatre in English

Went to see Past Perfect at the Tarragon. I like the cosiness of this small theatre. Our seats were so close to the stage that when Albertine raged with passion, we could see her lips tremble and wild fire leaping from her eyes. The backdrop of silent slow-motion black and white movies from the twenties gave a dramatic atmosphere to the scene. Talented actors and engaging script made for an enjoyable afternoon. It was as convincing a performance as one could produce in English but I wish I could have seen this play of Michel Tremblay in French since it is about a Québécois family after all. Ce sera pour la prochaine fois à Montréal.

painting and sketching

I love the fluidity of dyes on silk. It's like watercolour but the dyes move much faster. I have to move the brush quickly and be intuitive with the alchemy of colours. If you like this scarf, there are more at the Guild Shop in Yorkville, Toronto, or The Gallery Shoppes in Winnipeg.




I enjoy the gentle motions of silk painting. But every once in a while, I crave for a hard surface under my hand, I need to paint or sketch on paper. I love to observe people, and draw whatever inspires me about them, whether it's their hairdo or their sensuality. Human nature is so complex, and yet so full of simple moments. I recreate the person, and it is an imagination-filtered version as opposed to a photo of them. Not to say one is better than the other because photographs can capture the essence and the mood of people with artistic expressiveness. When I can't find an interesting subject to sketch, magazine photos are great for inspiration.

Paroles - Jacques Prévert

Je suis comme je suis
Je suis faite comme ça
Quand j'ai envie de rire
Oui, je ris aux éclats
J'aime celui qui m'aime
Est-ce ma faute à moi
Si ce n'est pas le même
Que j'aime chaque fois
Je suis comme je suis
Je suis faite comme ça
Que voulez vous de plus
Que voulez vous de moi

Je suis comme je suis - Paroles - Jacques Prévert

I am who I am
I am made like that
When I want to laugh
I hoot with laughter
I love who loves me
Why is it my fault
If it's not the same
That I love each time
I am who I am
I am made like that
What more do you want
Do you want from me

Le plaisir

L'homme est né pour le plaisir: il le sent, il n'en faut point d'autre preuve. Il suit donc sa raison en se donnant au plaisir.

Pensées - Blaise Pascal

Mankind is born for pleasure. It feels it. It does not need any other proof. It follows its common sense when it pursues pleasure.

On books and love

Some books I've been reading lately: Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club, a compelling, fast-paced writing style that suits the graphic violence in it; Joan Didion's The year of Magical Thinking, a very lucid account of a shattered life after losing a husband of forty years. (Teri, thanks for the recommendation); Marguerite Duras' Le ravissement de Lol V. Stein, an intriguing story, with a cinematographic quality to it, about the strange behaviour of a jilted woman.

Never meant to focus on such depressing topics, but the books were inspiring, and have put me in a mood for experimenting with different writing styles. Come to think of it, these books all have to do with love. In Fight Club, it's a lack of it that leads to violence. In the other two, it's all about the loss of loved ones.

Après avoir souffert, il faut souffrir encore;
Il faut aimer sans cesse, après avoir aimé.
Poésies - Alfred de Musset

After having suffered, there is more suffering;
After having loved, there's a constant need to love.

An artist from Winnipeg

I was told from sshhh ... a very reliable source born there, that some of the greatest in Canada come from Winnipeg. From singers like Neil Young, and Burton Cummings of The Guess Who to writers like Carol Shields (The Stone Diaries) and Miriam Toews (A Complicated Kindness), there is tremendous creativity in minus thirty degrees. My sister-in-law is not only very pretty, smart, and kind, she's also a wonderful artist. I like the mood in this watercolour of hers. Need a portrait of yours for posterity? She can do it from a photo. To find out more about her work, you can e-mail Charmaine Johnson Putnam at: toputnam@mts.net


© Charmaine Johnson Putnam

Umoja

Went to see Umoja, a South African show in which dancers, singers, and drummers infused us with their vibrant energy. Colourful costumes, voices that belt out with joy or mournfulness, frenetic drumming, and then, the dancing. Powerful, sensual and compelling. Rhythmic foot stamping, hip grinding, pelvic tilts, zapping kicks, and jumps. My feet were moving on their own, itching to hop on stage with them. The drums were pounding, taking over the pulse of our heartbeats, making the spectators one with the performers. At the end of the show, when the crowd was invited to dance, not one person hesitated. Young and old of all colours were wiggling their hands, and rolling their hips. It was Umoja (the spirit of togetherness).

A weekend in Montreal

Montreal was white with snow. We strolled along the Vieux Port, and stepped into a photo gallery. A young Québécois photographer working there: J'aime prendre les photos des gens dans la rue. On me dit que je suis bon. He's good at taking photos of people... Ever since Montreal released all its crazy people on the street, it's been more interesting taking portraits, he said. He told us where to eat and dance in Montreal.


Marché Bon Secours was a treasure trove. I love Quebec craftspeople, that they're willing to take risks, and are so bold with shapes and colours. Bought a few things I don't need, but they just looked so neat and different. Slippers, wallet, another hat ... How do I rationalize these purchases? They're a tiny contribution to the Canadian economy. They also brought goodwill from our Québécois vendors who were thrilled that Torontonians could speak French so fluently.

Commencer l'année avec une visite à Montréal, c'est comme respirer une bouffée de joie. Marcher dans les rues est une petite aventure en soi. Les gens se regardent. Il y a des échanges, une curiosité, une connection. Parler français, c'est déjà plus chaleureux. Ici, on célèbre la vie, les petits moments de bonheur et on est heureux. Ma copine et moi, on s'est amusé avec une telle intensité qu'on ne sentait plus le froid.

Marcel Proust's long sentences

Elle avait appris dans sa jeunesse à caresser les phrases au long col sinueux et démesuré, de Chopin, si libres, si flexibles, si tactiles, qui commencent par chercher et essayer leur place en dehors et bien loin de la direction de leur départ, bien loin du point où on avait pu espérer qu'atteindrait leur attouchement, et qui ne se jouent dans cet écart de fantaisie que pour revenir plus délibérément - d'un retour plus prémédité, avec plus de précision, comme sur un cristal qui résonnerait jusqu'à faire crier - vous frapper au coeur.

Un amour de Swann, Marcel Proust (1871 - 1922)

In her youth, she had learned to caress long sentences of Chopin, sinuous, excessive, so free, flexible and tactile, sentences which start by trying to find their place outside and far from the direction of departure, far from the spot where one hoped to feel their touch, and they played within this gap of fantasy only to come back more deliberately - a premeditated return, with more precision, like crystal that reverberates to the point of making you scream - to hit you in the heart.

I tried to translate this passage of Marcel Proust to convey his typical writing style, but it doesn't of course have the same flow as in French. At first, his long-winded sentences seem affected, incomprehensible and annoying, but when I read them again, and get used to his meditative tone, I find a lyrical quality to them, as if they're undulating, but with precise details and deeper meaning. I've always loved the flow of long sentences, but I never thought a writer could indulge in them to such extent that they work so well.

Perception of Pain by Anaïs Nin

"The primitive begins each day anew and does not relate today to yesterday, or envisage tomorrow. With lack of relatedness comes absence of pain. Pain comes from awareness ... It is our efforts to escape or protect ourselves from pain and shock which create a realm of anxiety unknown to the primitive. We live to defeat nature and they learn to live with it ... But the primitive had a natural paradise. We do not. We have to create an artificial one."

The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume Three 1939-1944
Anaïs Nin

I like the way Anaïs Nin analyzes emotions and tries to make sense of them. What she says is so true about pain. But I don't like the use of the word artificial here. I believe that the natural paradise she talks about is within us because we all have the primitive in us. It's a matter of letting the primitive come to the surface, feeling with all our senses, living in heightened moments of awareness. But it's also a matter of balance. If we live as primitives only, will we be able to feed ourselves? But then, when we're too busy defeating nature, and acquiring material goods, are we in touch with our higher needs? Finding a balance between the two is perhaps the key to happiness.

A weekend in the country

It was magical, the snow, the way it had covered every single tree that lined the laneway towards my friend's country house. We were entering a fairy tale land with white soft contours just a few hours after leaving the angular shapes of busy bustling Toronto. As if we had arrived in Narnia through the car instead of the wardrobe. The next day we shovelled, took a walk with the dog, fed the birds, watched blue jays and chickadees peck with zest at the feeder. White flurries formed momentary curtains when the sun dislodged large patches of snow from tall trees. The lake gleamed, majestic, omnipresent. By evening most snow had melted. Sitting by the crackling warmth of the fireplace, we gazed at the leaping flames, looked outside at the continuous rippling of water, the changing tones of sunset, and talked late into the night. My friend's partner had passed away over a month ago. She needed to talk about him. His spirit was there. I could feel it. She is discovering the challenges of living alone in the country. But the rewards are abundant.




I enjoyed being there. That feeling of communion with nature, that peacefulness, that friendliness and solidarity it brings in people. Breathing in the smell of pine, of damp soil, of burning logs. The deep silence at night. A light breeze swishing through the trees. A lone bird calling. The silence again. One learns to listen to one's heart. It felt good to be replenished with a good dose of nature before going back to the city.

Twelve Women Breaking Bread

There were twelve of us at a potluck dinner to raise money for educational projects for women in Afghanistan where 90% of women are illiterate. It's part of an initiative by an organization called Breaking Bread for Women. It is run entirely by volunteers. I'm impressed that no one is being paid a huge salary to run this organization. I like the ongoing reports on their website about how donations are being spent, for example paying teachers' salaries, building new schools, etc.

It is stimulating and empowering to be in the company of women eager to help others. Our desire to initiate changes, knowing we can make a difference turned the evening into a cheerful, upbeat exchange of ideas and stories.

With globalization, faster communication and travels, the western world is more aware of the needs of developing countries. Dare we think there will be a new pattern to our self-centred consuming habits? That instead of indulging in another pair of shoes, another dress, another piece of jewellery we don't need, we will see what that money will buy: $750.00 is a year's salary for a teacher in Afghanistan, which means the chance for women to be educated, to get out of the cycle of poverty and eventually help bring peace to their country.

It seems like a naive and idealistic project, but I believe that massive changes often start with small steps in the right direction by people who listen and act with their heart.