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.