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.