Leonard Cohen Day

I drove to Kingston and back today, and much as I love the Limestone City, I find the drive tedious.

Not today though, because today was Leonard Cohen Day on the CBC in honour of his newly released album, Old Ideas (which, incidentally, I am listening to right now as it's being streamed live all day). From here to just this side of Kingston, where it got unbelievable fuzzy, and again on the rather treacherous journey home, every few minutes was a clip or a song from Leonard.

This week, I've been teaching poetry to college students, and have been struggling with how to get them to just read it and enjoy it as so many of them seem to have negative attitudes toward what poetry is and what it means. I think tomorrow I am going to take some of Leonard Cohen's work in with me. For inspiration, as I try to elicit their poetic responses to the world around them.

In the meantime, here is one of my favourite of Cohen's songs/poems. I really like the stuff I heard off his new album - such as this - but I'm going to go with this classic.

 Wouldn't it have been glorious to wear this dress and matching gloves in 1939? There is something resplendent and yet bittersweet about such luxuriousness on the eve of World War II.

I don't very often get to dress up and go out anymore. Twenty years ago, I had a closet full of evening gowns and cocktail dresses that I wore to a myriad of naval functions: The Trafalgar Ball, New Year's Soirees, Meet and Greet events held at the fabulous Wardroom (Naval Officer's Mess) in Halifax, or events held in one of many private clubs where our commanding officers would host evenings of food and wine and music. As a lieutenant, I could have worn uniform, and often did wear my formal mess kit, but more often than not, when non military members were joining us, I wore evening attire. Not quite like this dress, unfortunately.

But occasionally, events like last night's International Wine Festival are held at the same happy time as we are able to organize babysitting (hello, Grandma and Grampa!), and though I don't have many gowns left in my closet, I do have a little black dress that was perfect for the event.

Dressing up, doing my hair (which, for me means drying my hair. With an actual hair dryer), wearing high heels and - yikes - makeup...let's just say it doesn't happen often. But perhaps that is part of the charm of going out for the evening.

We had a wonderful time. International cuisine (the Indian food was superb), plenty of unique wines to try, good friends, plenty of socializing, a super jazz band, and an ice-blue mime that welcomed us to the event.

No, we don't get out to functions like this as often as once we did. We do enjoy good food and company, but have sort of evolved into homebodies who invite friends over for dinner where we duke out seating arrangements with the kids, or who host an afternoon of snowshoeing followed by an evening sitting by the fire and enjoying a casual pot luck, or who throw a bonfire party in the dusk at the last minute. Even the dinner parties we enjoy that are more formal don't exactly call for evening dress. And I like it that way.

But sometimes - sometimes - swanky events like last night just fit the bill.

Theatrical Delights

Today I am taking my girls to see Annie at the theatre in Ottawa.  Their grandmother, great-grandmother, auntie, and cousin are coming too, so it's going to be a fun afternoon. I wrote about the allure of the theatre in this post, and it's something that never goes away.

When I was a child, every Christmas Eve, my parents would take my brother and I to see a pantomime in Liverpool. Kids stories - Peter Pan, Jack and the Beanstalk, Snow White - and I think that is where my love of the theatre began. I have very vivid memories of the glamour, the wide red-carpeted stairs, the rustle of malteser chocolates being opened, and the magic and singing and laughing and clapping that was all part of the experience.

As a teenager, I was fortunate that although we lived in a small town, our high school put on some excellent musicals - it's where I first saw Guys and Dolls, Camelot, Joseph, Fiddler on the Roof, and countless others.

And later, living in Halifax, I went to see plays like The Dresser, The Importance of Being Ernest, Shakespeare.

Once I lived in Ontario, with Toronto just a few hours south, the world opened wider. Phantom, Miss Saigon, and other musicals. We spent a fabulous time at the opera seeing Beethoven's Fidelio, and changed our honeymoon plans to catch Colm Wilkensen in Les Miserables - possibly my favourite play ever.

Now we live on the doorstep of Montreal and can go to the opera or theatre more often. We haven't taken advantage of it the way we should. I met my girlfriends last weekend in Toronto to see Wicked, and Leanne and I plan to betake ourselves to the Stratford Festival next summer.

But with young children, it is more difficult. I took the girls last New Years to see Mamma Mia, because I want to foster in them the same love of the theatre I have. And the Lion King comes back to Toronto next year and I would love to take all three kids there.

The Mountie

Anna wants to join the RCMP when she grows up, a laudable goal.

She's got the uniform, she googles their activities, She idolizes Sam Steele, she has their web site marked as a favourite, and she is already planning when we can go and see the Musical Ride again this spring.

In the meantime, she has set up a small art shrine in a corner of her bedroom, and has pinned a full size drawing of herself in Mountie attire above her bed, presumably for inspiration.

What do your kids want to be when they grow up?

Dark Horse

I've long been fascinated by this painting:

It's by renowned Canadian painter Alex Colville who was inspired by these words from South African poet and satirist, Roy Campbell:

Against a regiment I oppose a brain

And a dark horse against an armored train.

(I love it when poetry and art come together.)

Carla introduced me to the work of Colville in the early 90's when we were living in Halifax. We didn't have the internet then, but she had a book of Colville's art and we'd spend hours in her flat on Creighton Street listening to Ella Fitzgerald, drinking pinot noir and pouring over the pictures.

We returned to this one (Horse and Train) time after time. It is so dark, so powerful, evoking the freedom of the horse at full gallop, and the inevitability of what was going to happen if he keeps on his current course. For the viewer, suspended forever in that one anxious moment, it causes unease and tension.

Note: Bruce Cockburn used this painting as the cover for his 1973 album Night Vision. He said later that the picture gave him a sense of impending doom; Horse and Train is part of the Art Gallery of Hamilton's permanent collection.

Books

Book-wise, January was a wash out. No particular reason. I had new books to read in my library. I had time. I wanted to read. But somehow, I never quite managed it. Then fate stepped in. Or rather the library called and said a book I had ordered months ago (Galore, by Michael Crummey) was in, so off I trotted and of course while I was there....

Picking a novel is a bit like alchemy for me. I run a finger along dusty spines and sometimes the finger pauses, zen-like, on a title, hovers there, maybe even pulls the book out a little and flutters over it. Some universal instinct then takes over and I either push it back in and keep going or pull it off the shelf and read it. Either way I am incapable of explaining why. And so books I have long wanted to read sometimes sit unopened, waiting for that great cosmic moment. Other times, books I have never thought of all but leap out at me, buzzing under my fingertips while I stand puzzled, wondering why.

The Mermaid's Chair by Sue Monk Kidd was one such book. I've passed over it a hundred times, but that day in the library I didn't. The same thing happened with Ian McEwan's Saturday. (I loved Atonement but didn't think I could handle another book by McEwan just yet ,so had ignored review about this one. Still the universe had other ideas.) I bought them home, and started to read.

Galore was first. I'd been waiting. I was excited. I was hopeful. Ultimately I was disappointed. To be fair I don't think it was all the book. It was poetry and magic and myth. I used to love this stuff, the stuff I felt that made Canadian literature so great. I studied this at university. Right up my alley. Except that my alley has changed, and now I am left going, where's the plot? where's the action? and after spending so many years promoting and defending Canlit, the fact that I no longer like so much of it deflates me.

I was still deflated when I picked up The Mermaid's Chair, and rather reluctantly began to read. I have more to say about this book: suffice for now to say it restored my faith in literature (which I know is a pretty big claim and probably merits some thought all by itself) and gave me the courage I needed to tackle McEwan.

Anyone else read Atonement? I read it before the movie came out and loved it despite it being narrative and not action-driven. McEwan's voice frightened me though to the point where I was not sure I could read another of his novels. I'm glad I made the exception for Saturday. Like Atonement it was compelling and beautifully crafted, and you leave it with the sense that the world may not be perfect but that the fragility of human life is always a thing of wonder.

The Allure of the Theatre

I was sitting having lunch at the delectable 2Bean Cafe when I overheard them: Two women, older than me, maybe in their late 50's or early 60's, talking about the theatre. Not as theatre-goers, but as part of the theatrical troupe, which to my (admittedly eavesdropping) ears seemed infinitely more interesting. One of the ladies was telling the other about the role she was doing and the role she was going to try for next, and as they sat there, conversing in low rich voices, I felt a thrill go through me.

I love live theatre. I love the anticipation, the deep seats, the rustle of shawls and coats as people shift around waiting for things to start, the orchestra warming up, the gilded lights and elaborate carvings that are de rigeur at so many older establishments, and the deep crimson curtains, velvety and plush, that fall in graceful folds to the floor, and that pull back with a swoosh of golden tassles as the lights dim, the crowds hush, and the show begins.

I have often thought about becoming part of a local theatre group. Not acting, neccessarily - my acting career never went much further than one performance of Acastos in university. And not props - I still recoil with horror at the memory of being involved in props in high school and being asked to create a larger than life pencil for our version of You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown (which was a success despite my complete inability to do this one little job). And definitely not stage director - one of my favourite little hobbies is reading Shakespeare's plays just to have a giggle at the scanty stage directions he provides. (ie:Exit left, carrying a head, accompanied by various wispy ghosts)

But I did enjoy screenwriting a play once as a project for a philosophy class. Doctor Faustus never made it to stage, but I still have a dogearred copy of the screenplay somewhere. And although I've never written a play (with the exception of doing so with the children for Christmas) it's on my list of things to try.

Mostly, I just enjoy being a theatre-goer. Everything from local productions of War Brides or The Dresser (both excellent) to the latest and greatest musicals (just got tickets for myself and the girls to see Mamma Mia at the NAC in January), to the ones you see over and over because they're popular (The Importance of Being Ernest springs to mind). Heck, we even cut short our honeymoon to get back to Toronto in time to see Colm Wilkinson perform the lead role of Jean Valjean in Les Miserables.

But there is no denying that part of me, the part that was thrilled by the coversation I overheard at lunch, would like to be part of the production, and not just watching it. So far, I've shied away, mostly because of the time commitment. But one day, I will have the time. And if the allure of the theatre still holds sway, I look forward to being part of it all.

The Voice (Summer Night)

Driving home last weekend along scenic route #2 from Cornwall, the sun was setting over the Saint Lawrence River and the reflection in the water was beautiful. I, of course, didn't have my camera and probably couldn't have done it justice if I had. But it reminded me of a 100 year old painting I like by Norwegian artist, Edvard Munch, a painting I thought captures the essence of a rippling reflection (vertical yellow line in the centre of the painting) breaking up on the water.


It's funny how the mind works because when I took a closer look at this painting, it doesn't actually look anything like my sunset, and I can't see what it is that linked them in my mind at that moment. It's not even a sunset - it's moonlight. And in the painting it's really only a backdrop to another story, whereas my sunset was the story.

Still, it gave me another chance to look at the painting and made me realize that paintings are like books - you find something new and relevant every time you look at them.

Building Beauty: Forty Part Motet

Janet Cardiff’s Forty Part Motet is a musical piece of art that was staged at the National Gallery of Ontario’s Rideau Chapel. I have never heard or seen it, although obviously have heard of it, and something about it must have appealed to my subconscious mind as the other night I dreamed about it

It’s a relatively simple concept: Janet took Thomas Tallis’ 1573 composition Spem In Alium, a 40 part motet composed for eight choirs or five voices, and had it recorded by a cathedral choir with each of the 40 voices being recorded onto a separate track. These 40 voices are then played back through 40 speakers set around a room or hall.

It’s a deconstruction, if you like, of the music. If you stand in the middle, you can hear it as a whole. However, as you make your way around the room, each speaker gives a disjointed performance, proving that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

The artist herself says, "While listening to a concert you are normally seated in front of the choir, in traditional audience position. With this piece I want the audience to be able to experience a piece of music from the viewpoint of the singers. Every performer hears a unique mix of the piece of music. I placed the speakers around the room in an oval so that the listener would be able to really feel the sculptural construction of the piece by Tallis. You can hear the sound move from one choir to another, jumping back and forth, echoing each other and then experience the overwhelming feeling as the sound waves hit you when all of the singers are singing.”

But I particularly liked what A Washington Post article (2005) by Blake Gopnik had to say: “In "40 Part Motet," you get a shock when you realize what strange things go into building beauty. But also a reaffirmation of the miracle of art: Fragile human effort, almost painfully awkward, can come together into something worthy of divinity.”

Building Beauty. I was stuck by that. Because it’s kind of what my life is like. Surrounded by what can sometimes be harsh and often discordant noise (the third interruption by a child while I’m soaking in my bubble bath; the barking of the dog at an innocent leaf blowing across the driveway, the rattle of an overloaded washing machine, all of these at once, etc.), it’s easy to crave solitude and the peace of a white room.

But maybe the lesson Janet Cardiff wants us to learn is that together, all these things make a masterpiece of beauty and perfection.

We just need to see it whole.

Last Hurrah of Summer

It's a tradition every year to do something "fun" to commemorate the end of summer. A last hurrah, if you will, before returning to school and the routines of autumn. This year, I surprised the children with a train trip into Ottawa for the day.

We took the bus from the train station - an adventure in itself for my country-raised kids - and headed for Parliament Hill to see the Changing Of The Guard (with its bagpipes and brass band and ceremonial sword salutes and fixing of bayonets), and to wander around the grounds.

And we took a tour of Centre Block. We had to go through security to get inside. Kind of like being at an airport. They actually confiscated my corkscrew(?) - try explaining that to a 6, 8 and 9 year old...!

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Inside we saw the House of Commons, the Senate, the beautiful architecture (the kids liked the wonderful reliefs and gargoyles carved out of the limestone) and the awe-inspiring Parliamentary Library which took our breath away (a fortunate turn of events as talking is prohibited inside). Then it was up, up, up to the Observation Deck of the Peace Tower. We were there at noon, just as the 23 bell carrillon was ringing out over the city.

After, we walked through Ottawa and the Byward market, past the US Embassy where a hunger strike was being staged (more explaining to a 6, 8 and 9 year old - who really didn't get why people would voluntarily not eat!) and onward to the National Gallery.

After lunch at the Cafe, we saw the Papal Art by such 16th century masters as Raphael, Michelangelo and Titian, although the kids were only really impressed once - at the large and somewhat gruesome painting of David holding up the head of Goliath.

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We did the Canadian Gallery because I just like to sit in the Group of Seven gallery and absorb their work (I particularly like Tom Thomson's The Jack Pine with it's layers of colour), but I somehow managed to miss the work of Alex Colville, who I also like very much.

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We looked at some of the modern art where huge canvases of colour (and one that was just painted black) were hung, making me feel ignorant because I have never really understood what makes them art. (If you're reading this and you can explain it, please do so).

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And we visited the Rideau Street Convent Chapel, because it is calm and serene and has marvellous presence, and sat by the adjacent Water Court to (pardon the pun) reflect on what we had seen.

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But of course, all of this paled beside one piece of art: the 30 foot tall giant bronze spider, Maman, that sits at the entrance to the National Gallery. And if art can be measured by wide eyed wonder, thrills and chills, this sculpture by Louise Bourgeoise won hands down.