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Showing posts from December, 2009

the old new year

New Year's, Eve ; mixed media on canvas, 22 x 28 inches, the second half of a commission. The string series continues. *Sold*. * * * * * Another year, more abject terror in the skies. No, I'm not talking about the lunatic who immolated himself on Christmas Day. I'm talking about the new security measures, which reduce air travellers to the status of inmates during a lockdown. No coats or blankets on your lap. No going to the bathroom during the last hour of the flight. Body searches, body scans. Bring out the sniffing dogs. Bring out the Ukrainian guards and the German officers, the long march to the gate. Okay, maybe not the last one. But the effect amounts to just as much theatre . I have never been to the bathroom on an airplane. Never. It's a personal record. Like I've said here before, they could have lions in there for all I know. But people do go. It seems like they have to, because if it's anything like other public facilities, I'm guessing it&#

Weathering Christmas

*Of course* ... the day that looked the most like Christmas came three days later, by way of dawn snow like shredded pillows, wafting its way down. Cleaning things up nicely. Even Division, which most mornings is more of a scar than a street, looked like it was populated by human beings. The day before had been mild but ugly, all the city's garbage with nowhere to hide, wet and glaring, and even the old drunk who I surprised pissing against the downstairs door to the studio seemed mildly embarrassed by the contradiction of mild sunshine in the sky and the styrofoam takeaway containers in the gutter, spilling over with half-chewed vomit. The day before *that* -- Boxing Day -- had been filled with rain, almost literally, so that when me and C and Oona ventured out to return library books and get videos and maybe even a "fancy" coffee, our navigations were constantly thwarted by spreading pools and devolving ice. At the video store I almost went silently insane because they

Christmas traditions

Last night I listened to a CBC radio story trying to sell the frenzy of last-minute shopping as "a Canadian Christmas tradition". Really? They even tacked on the mad scramble for airplanes, buses and trains. "It wouldn't be Christmas if I wasn't sleeping in an airport," some clueless traveller said. Well, CBC radio, I have been on a packed Greyhound bus in the days before Christmas and I can tell you that the only tradition is mindless suffering, ruinous indignity and the rolling smell of old, cold farts. If you're at the back of the bus then you get the bonus stink of chemically-treated piss, not to mention the cheery company of the miscreants and lunatics who congregate there (indeed, the back of the Greyhound bus past midnight just might be the 20th century's cathedral for aspiring criminals). Anyone who would be caught dead in a store this time of year is either hapless or mad. And if *that's* your tradition, so be it. I'll stick with pra

the Christmas form letter

Rachel, me, Jaime, about a million years ago. I have a Steve Austin doll and some kind of bionic GI Joe. Obviously, Steve Austin is taller. * * * * * Why, exactly, do people send out those Merry-Christmas, family-update, form-type, end-of-year letters? We've already received a few this season and they seem to distinguish themselves in only two ways: a) a grinning, ham-fisted attempt at bragging and b) grammar and spelling so awful that it comes as a shock. I can swallow the 'friendly' typeface they've chosen (Comic Sans, anyone?), the opening remarks about the arrival of winter (what, did you think it might not come this year?), the reminder of what grades the kids are in (oh yeah, that's Mr. Mugs territory), who died and who's in ill health (a couple of lines, tossed in at the end), but what I don't understand is the renovation news, the holiday-cruise news, the too-wholehearted retirement news (is it *really* that awesome to be old?), the my-son-in-la

the war against napping ...

... is currently being won by the little guy gal. We'll be setting up our own version of Guantanamo Happy Land upstairs.

on the best gift ever

The best Christmas gift I ever gave was a video game called Godzilla : Destroy All Monsters - Melee . I gave it to my nephews Ryer and Landon for their Nintendo GameCube. It seems like a lifetime ago but I'd have to guess it was when they were eight and five years old. Ohmygod they loved that game. And how could they not? Even as a guy in his thirties I could see the throaty charm of controlling a vintage, out-sized monster in an utterly destructible cityscape. This is a old-school rampage. This is a some kind of Japanese-nerd version of Götterdämmerung. This is better than ultra-violence Alex imagining his part in the good book (in the novel, I seem to remember the sequence escalating to the point of him slicing open the entire world with a knife). I mean, there's a monster who's actually named Destoroyah . He is King Kong's ultimate foe! Of course, Ryer and Landon -- being mentalists of the first order even at that age -- became hopelessly enmeshed and fascinated and

the invincibility of christmas

untitled ; mixed media on canvas, 8 x 10 inches. A friend of mine has been having a hard time lately. Of course, the hard time has been compounded by near-German levels of perfectionism and self-pity. But you don't say these things, do you? So when the phone rings and my friend orders/demands (her calls are often like shotgun blasts) some artwork to give to her boss for Christmas, and instructs me that the work has to be (a) for $50 and (b) *specifically* of a woman battling a baleful dragon, I can hardly refuse (there is also, unfortunately, something very small-town or prairie in me that makes it almost shameful to turn my nose up at any work). Still, the whole thing smells a little bit like this . But I do it, in the few days (read: actually just a few hours I can get at my studio) I have left before her 'deadline' (read: her going away on vacation). And I duly send her an email with a scan of the image telling her it's ready. When she picks it up, she makes a comme

my studio mate(s)

Already done a whack of work in the new studio, four paintings and a bundle of new cigar-tin stories, this on only one morning and one night a week. The trick? Deadlines. Nothing inspires like insistent need. The right studio mates help. I'm sharing this space with my friend Phileen, a painter and watercolourist who will do great things if she only gives herself the time. An example of her work ... And sometimes my pal Oona drops by, to do some snoring and hang with dad while mom goes for a run.

first snowstorm of the season

cigar-tin story #53 . Cigar-tin stories are available at Novel Idea through the month of December. * * * * * First snowstorm of the season last night. Or for me: this morning. Not really sure what I was dealing with at first, this piled darkness on the other side of the window. Difficult to judge a storm from your bedroom, and the weatherman had already been talking shit on the radio all week. Still, taking a tentative step out the front door seemed to indicate it was the real deal. It also seemed as good a time as any to break in the new parka (yes, I can be positive ... sometimes). So I set out. And what did I learn? Being forced to walk down the middle of the street feels very day-after-ish, doesn't it? Like zombies are right around the corner. It is also slightly dangerous, as the giant trucks with the blue strobe lights always have the right of way during snowstorms. Even if they don't. The few people you see will say hello during snowstorms. Cities can be quite pretty

so you know what i look like

New Year's Eve, while I waited ; mixed media on canvas, 24 x 24 inches. The string series continues. First painting I've done in the new studio, first half of a very fun commission. * * * * * In lieu of posting much this month, here's some notes of note from the last year. No, it's not a Best-of, but it would give a stranger a pretty good idea of what I'm carrying inside (fiery pits, leaden skies, black stuff). * about the flawed, precarious nature of painting * not playing nicely with others * the basics of math * red jacket * hierarchy * just an awful movie * coming home * heat * craziness * peanut * an open letter to my former studio studio