Reading

People ask me "what are you reading?" and I usually reply "this fantastic book by so-and-so...but I'm only halfway through, since I'm not exactly sure where I put it." That answer doesn't go over very well, and I'm reminded that it's not very nice to lose your books. But as of yesterday, if you were to ask me that question I'd answer "'No one belongs here more than you' by Miranda July." I first heard about it on Boing Boing last month, and after visiting the author's site, I just couldn't resist buying an advance copy of her short stories, which has turned out to be quite wonderful and unexpected.

In the 'recently located' category is Leonard Cohen's "Book of Longing", which guides me in and out of consciousness during my travels home on the train. He's one of those constants that has followed me around since high school without any encouragement or explanation. It's a mystery. Every few years he appears unannounced for a waltz around the room, and a little bit of navel gazing. (The Globe featured an interesting article on him this past Saturday...)

Mini blobs

Umbrella

A few years ago, lovie and I were visiting friends that live near Richmond & Niagara...just around the corner from all things good: The Paper Place, Trinity Bellwoods Park, Type, Chippy's. As we wandered along the south side, I noticed an oversized white poster with an enourmous typeface. Glancing at the first, slowing at the second and stopping to read the third, I finally realized that the posters were everywhere, but all were completely undisturbed. (remarkable...the only thing on Queen West free from grime, grafitti or attitude.) The anonymous words contained a sentiment that was so very Toronto, and I knew the posters would be ignored until they were noticed and destroyed, so I took the time to free one from its lamppost.

Umbrella

It's pouring rain and the streetcar is nowhere to
be seen. I have no umbrella and I'm soaked.
Standing at the end of the line, I try to retain
some dignity while I drip into my own shoes.
A businessman joins the line behind me. He is
impeccable and dry under his umbrella.
Without addressing me, he extends him umbrella
to shield me from the downpour.
I am suddenly overcome by emotion, so
unexpected and gentle is this act. I keep my head
down and stare at my sopping shoes to prevent
tears spilling down my already wet face.
I am barely able to mumble "Thank you."
After several silent minutes, the streetcar finally
arrives; we board, and I blend into the masses,
not even knowing what his face looks like.

This poster now hangs in the spare bedroom where I do all of my artwork. I suppose I cherish it because it reminds me of why I fell in love with Toronto, but also why I had to leave.

Blobs

A few weeks ago I bought a new sketch book in the hopes that I could capture some mid flight ideas that have been travelling around in my head. I go through these phases, these dry patches of non-inspiration and I can't squeeze an idea out of my noggin for the life of me. And then suddenly, I start imagining forms, patterns, textures, colour combinations and a new phase of painting begins. It's annoying as heck, especially since these bursts of inspriation are usually short lived, arriving in the fall/winter when I'm smack dab in the middle of my busy season at work. So anyways, I've got my new sketchbook and it seems as though every time I take it out, I'm confronted with these elongated blobs. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with them, but this seemed like a good place to start.

May

The merry month of May has arrived, bringing with it blue skies and a few ideas for some new paintings.