the cassandra pages

Sketching in the Sunday sunshine...and musing about secularism.

On Sunday, the newly-formed Urban Sketchers of Montreal were outside on the first comfortably-warm day of the year, sketching along the Lachine Canal.  It was also opening day for our community garden; our work bees are always on Sunday mornings. I would have liked to be in those two places too, but I was singing instead -- and happy to be doing that.

Still, it was such a nice day that I sat outside after lunch, in-between the services, and -- in the spirit of urban sketching -- did this sketch of the monument in Phillips Square, which is located kitty-corner and across Blvd St. Catherine from the cathedral. It was so warm and bright I was actually worried about getting sunburned! I only had 45 minutes so there wasn't time to add color; I just did the basic sketch and then added the watercolor later in my studio. The base of the monument had a lot of tricky angles and slants, and I struggled with the perspective, and against my normal tendency to rush. See how everything is slanting to the left? Another tendency of mine when drawing, which seems odd for a right-hander.

I'm always too critical. What makes me feel good is that I know I couldn't have done this well a year ago. Practice, practice really does pay off, as does being disciplined and gentle on yourself at the same time. Listen to me and get out your pencils, you would-be sketchers! (or piano-players, singers, writers and painters!)

I think we bloggers should have a NaDrawMo. Anyone want to join me? October is the Big Draw month in many countries, but I'd opt for a warmer time of the year. One drawing a day - it's not much, and the subject can be a paperclip or your coffee cup - doesn't need to be anything elaborate. The point is to build up a habit of sketching every day. The best I've ever done has been in April this year: not quite one a day, but a lot. It would be fun to try.

As for the Phillips Square statue itself, here's what the Wikipedia says:

The square features a bronze monument of Britain’s King Edward VII, who ruled from 1901 to 1910. He visited Montreal in 1860, when he was still the Prince of Wales, to open the Victoria Bridge. The statue was designed by Louis-Philippe Hébert and was erected in 1914. The four allegorical figures at the base of the monument represent Peace, the Four Founding Nations, Abundance, and Liberty.

Phillips Square is a meeting place for small-scale demonstrations, strikes, and protests, of which there are many in our fair city, and a convenient and visible downtown end-point for protest marches. Often when we are rehearsing for Evensong in the mid-afternoon, we hear megaphones and chanting coming from the Square over the sounds of our a capella Renaissance and Baroque motets. There was even a very loud student demonstration, against tuition hikes, in Phillips Square on Good Friday afternoon, right during the most solemn part of the religious observance. It felt disrespectful to me, but that's how far the tables have turned here. Fifty years ago all of Montreal's shops would have been closed up tight on Sundays -- by law -- and certainly on holy days like Good Friday, when practically everyone would have been in church. I don't think that it was good at all for the Church to have such a hammer-lock on Quebec society; nor was it good to have Christianity trump every other religion. However, after a lifetime, literally, of spending Sunday mornings singing in church choirs, it's odd to know that in Quebec anyway, we're an anomaly, a relic of a quickly-forgotten past. In a short few decades, the universal assumption has been turned upside down: now it's simply assumed that you're free on Sundays. No wonder it's becoming o difficult to keep the youth choir going, in spite of the great musical education the kids receive -- even the most gifted and enthusiastic of the kids are under tremendous peer pressure to do something more cool. Fortunately I have enough excellent company on Sundays that my own uncoolness feels like it becomes cool all over again!

There were no demonstrations or shouting in the square yesterday: just a lot of happy Montrealers enjoying the sun, like these tulips, ahead of themselves, in the stone-warmed cathedral plaza.

A Tiny Chapel in a Square

This weekend I worked on this sketch of this strange little chapel, just a single room really, that we stumbled upon in a small square in Mexico City. I was fascinated by its age, which was extreme, and the lovely pink color; it had a kind of doll-house effect. Unfotunately it was locked and we couldn't go in. The surrounding neighborhood was relatively poor, but there were beautiful old Spanish buildings dating from the 1500s on every street.

I'm trying to develop a style for drawings like this: loose and energetic but fairly accurate. It's not easy. The perspective distortion on the edges here is mostly in the photograph, though, and even when I used Photoshop's perspective correction tool I wasn't satisfied so I removed it. But I like this better than if I drew the entire thing like an architectural rendering, with vanishing points. No matter what, it takes a long time; I'm trying to get faster. This is obviously from photographs; I never felt like Ihad sufficient time in Mexico to sit and draw - we were too interested in wandering and seeing what was around the next corner!

Here's the drawing without the color; I might like it better. What do you think?

Balconies and Colonnades

I am showing you beautiful things because as yet it's difficult to write about the human ones. This is one of the world's "Maximum Cities," as I am learning with greater intensity each day we are here. An absolutely remarkable place; one wonders how it can possibly survive, but it does, and has.

ABC : MTL

It hasn't been that easy for us as artists to move into an entirely new city and new country, where we had no contacts and no history; we left all of that -- a whole lifetime of work, really-- behind in the U.S.  Making friends has been quite easy, but finding our way in the art scene has not, except for my music. Being included in an exhibition like ABC : MTL has not only been a good experience for J. as an artist, but it's also made him feel more integrated and accepted as participants in the artistic life of the city we've chosen to call home.

There's a comprehensive review of the ABC :MTL show at the Canadian Centre for Architecture in the January issue of Canadian Architect magazine, including a double-page spread of Jonathan's photograph that was included in the show (p.32-33) In her thoughtful review, Louise Pelletier writes:

"Some of the most successful pieces, however, invite a different kind of participation." They create new places for poetic inhabitation through representing very real conditions. Jonathan Sa'adah's panoramic The Tunnel of Death, for instance, offers an improbable view of the intersection between d'Iberville and Boulevard Saint-Joseph, capturing the complex motions and coexistence of infinite trajectories that share a common space of circulation while inviting the viewer to reflect on the nature of urban space."

Pelletier liked the show, which had as its premise the presentation of a creative, unusual self-autoportrait of the city, and its democratic, open process of inviting proposals from artists, architects, and citizens. She felt the curators had been less sucessful, however, in their stated goal of engaging viewers in dialogue about the future of the city, particularly in addressing some of the problems brought up by the participating artists. I would agree.

However, it's been a very good experience; it was great for him to have a ten-foot print of his work shown in such a public, high-profile venue; he was part of a video interview (2:07) (see image above, or click link to watch the video) with the artists shown at the museum and on the web, and he gave a talk along with several others artists last weekend, quite well-attended in spite of the bad weather. All his interactions with the staff and curators have been very positive and professional; it's been good.

 

Amour: Thinking Ahead, Uncomfortably

For weeks now, I've been hearing and reading about Amour, the much-discussed film by Michael Haneke, especially with my friend Teju Cole, who wrote a review of it for the New Yorker blog. Early yesterday morning I took this photograph for him; the feeling of the image seems to express some of my own trepidation about seeing the film, which is no doubt inextricably tied up in my own feelings about age itself, and particularly about facing old age with a lifelong, beloved partner.

Whether I'll actually go see the movie is still up in the air. I find that I have problems with its premise - a kind of "what-if" scenario designed perhaps to make us think, perhaps to shock, perhaps to manipulate our shared anxiety, with its depiction of a potential reality. What is amour, actually -- what is love, at these extremes?

For me, having helped care for elderly loved ones, it wouldn't, couldn't end this way, nor would I want it to end that way for me. A different path is understandable, perhaps. I felt that these end-times were sacred, and very much a part of the long lives I had been part of. The medical care did a great deal to alleviate pain and suffering; perhaps I have too much faith in it, but that's still what I observed. We'd want to try to be faithful right up to the end -- that's what we promised -- though there's no black-and-white answer, beforehand, to what one would want, or do, only the grey of a cold morning.

Have you seen the film? What did you think?

(here's a very different take on the film, also on the New Yorker blog, by Richard Brody.)

Vernissage at the CCA

Last night we were at the CCA (Canadian Centre for Architecture) for the opening of their new exhibit, ABC : MTL. It was a special night because my husband, J. (below), was one of the artists selected to be part of the exhibition from a field of 250 proposals by architectural firms, videographers and filmmakers, planners, musicians, and individual artists. (I'm sorry for the poor quality of these images - there was very little light in the rooms.)

The CCA is a terrific museum, and it was a real honor for him to have a piece of work included. The curatorial staff has treated him very well in all their communications and interactions; the 10-foot photographic print he provided was beautifully mounted, hung, and lighted. A video interview is part of a documentary presentation that goes with the exhibition, and he'll be on a discussion panel later on.

(click image to read large version of curatorial statement about his work, in French and English)

J.'s photograph shows one of the deadliest intersections in the city, at St-Joseph and Iberville, and illustrates his focus on what happens when residential neighborhoods and industrial/commercial interests collide in an urban context. It's a problem shared by many cities, and particularly difficult to solve when interlayered, old infrastructures are involved.

Some of the other works were a lot more cerebral: in the entrance area to the exhibition, below, the hanging work is a video that included a changing pattern over Montreal somehow created from sampled radio frequencies.

 

The large photograph on the back wall is an artist's attempt to render what the sky over Montreal might have looked like in the early days of the earth's formation.

The CCA put on quite a party; there was a DJ and a band, and an open bar serving wine and beer in Shaughnessy House, the old mansion that was incorporated into the sleek new museum. The multi-level, modern extension is a beautifully designed structure of wood, chrome, and polished black granite with large exhibition and teaching spaces, offices, and a gorgeous architectural library.

We celebrated late, with a decadent dessert at Cacao 70: I actually don't think I've ever eaten a banana split before (remember, I thought I was allergic to bananas for 60 years!) and we did split this one, but...As I said to a wide-eyed man who glanced at our table when it was delivered, "un peu excessif?" He shook his head, laughed, and replied, "I'm not judging!"

Nov. 8, in the ruelle

Curved-top turquoise doors

Cabochons set in old brick

Unnecessary

Byzantine embellishments

for this alley of bored cats.

Ottawa I

1. Parliament, from the hill behind the National Gallery of Canada.

2. Nothing special, just a Cassandra-esque picture, looking down at the street from the same spot

3. The tower of the National Gallery, seen from the back

4. Windows of the gallery cafeteria, after closing

5. Carved rocks, for Marja-Leena!

6. The rocks in situ, on the grounds of the National Gallery, Parliament behind

Heatwave, Underground

The heatwave continued through Tuesday. Early that morning I walked under threatening skies to the bus stop on Papineau. From there I took the bus to the Papineau station to pick up the green line on the métro, for a long ride through the stifling tunnels under the city, to have breakfast with my friend V. in Verdun.

When I left the house I was in one of those rather cross moods that's the result of the effect of heat and humidity and uncomfortable, short nights on an unaccustomed northern body. I settled miserably into the bus seat. At the plant kiosk near the Papineau station I bought a bunch of gladiolas for my friend, and then entered the stuffy, claustrophobic underground, where I had to stand up for the first part of the journey in a métro car packed with similarly uncomfortable commuters, while the plastic bag around the flower stems dripped water all over the floor. I was so full of my own thoughts that I wasn't seeing the other people. But all of a sudden, I did. And they were so beautiful in their variety, their tired and eager and bored faces, their hair and their skin, their individual outfits and diverse ages, that I was almost sorry when we passed the last of the centre-ville stations, and the car cleared out. I had forgotten about myself, and left the train in a good mood.

I got out at the Verdun station but had a nagging suspicion that I really wanted the previous one, so I consulted a large street map hanging on a dimly-lit wall behind scratched plexiglass. Yes, I thought, finally managing to squint the local streets into focus, it was the one before, De l'Eglise. So I took the footbridge over the tracks, missing one train in the process, and waited to retrace my journey. Later I discovered there is a way to walked between the two, underground, and that this station's labyrinthine structure had its origin in a disaster during the construction in March 1974: dynamiting caused the weak rock to cave in, creating a huge sinkhole in rue Wellington (scroll down to see historic photos), delaying completion and requiring the subsequent, inconvenient redesign.

When I reached the top of the escalator at De l'Eglise (which really does exit at a large church on Av. de l'Église) there was a huge rush of wind, and a woman blew through the swinging door, struggling with an inside-out umbrella that seemed to be alive. I was hit by a blast of wind and rain, and looked out at sheets of water starting to cascade from the sky. I had a couple of blocks to walk, but set out anyway, under my small red umbrella. My sandals, legs, and lower skirt were immediately soaked, but somehow it felt perfectly all right, even a relief.

I spent several happy hours with my friend, who's recently moved to a new apartment, talking about home and cooking, gardens and quilt-making, the spiritual life and art and writing. While we were out in the backyard garden, considering its many possibilities, the sun came out, and everything in the world began to steam. An hour later I put on my damp sandals and set off down the street, which was - if anything - even hotter than before. Going down the escalator into the métro I noticed the overhead patterns in the concrete, and although I only had my cellphone, rode up and down a couple of times, taking photographs, some with people on the stairs and some without. But it wasn't until I got home and looked at the images that I realized I had taken the one at the top of this post, far better than all the others -- through the cellphone viewfinder, taking shots quickly on the moving stairs, I hadn't seen the man standing there at all.

What lasts?

The city changes hourly. The sun rises and moves across steel, glass, and stone, catching one edge of a building and then another, setting reflections shimmering on their mirrored faces. Movement begins, sunrise ends; the day settles upon the city, the reflections shift, colors and corners glow and recede into shadow. Eventually lights flicker on, the sky reddens, a planet or a moon appear, a searchlight beacon traces paths through the fog, and windows and floors go dark for another night. In the morning, it begins again, but perhaps the light is soft today, the sky overcast, the sub obscured; or perhaps it's raining and the streets, dark and polished like mirrors, trace a pattern through the city unseen on sunny days. All these structures, drawn up from the earth, from rock that's passed through fire, convince us daily of their permanence, solid and immutable except for the light arcing across their surfaces, the water cascading down the glass onto the streets and running back into the earth.

We're not like that, we living things. Our period is not a day; our countenance doesn't change with the weather or the seasons. In this landscape we've created, we're born, grow, age, and die, and others come to take our places, streaming out of the commuter trains, up from the underground, arrriving on boats and planes. From my perch, high above the city, I see.

Embedded within the present moment are the structures of long ago: verdegris steeples, hidden among office buildings; the brick stores and apartments, the ornate stores and hotels of past centuries dwarfed by modern, sleek towers. In that middle level, I follow black iron fire-escapes zigzagging down old brick and stone, hung with a bits of laundry that wave across the centuries. On the side of the mountain, the former heights: old mansions of merchants, railroad barons, shipping magnates; the hospital named for Victoria; the cross that once presided over a devout city where Catholicism reigned, and now shares the highest real estate with media antennas sending a quite different message down to the people below. In the distance, a city of cranes are building a new super-hospital; nearby, others lift steel girders to the tops of new office towers.

We build our edifices, and then we disappear. Is it sad? I don't think so. In the trains and on the downtown streets, I've watched the people: their incredible diversity and their astonishing beauty, of which most seem quite unconscious. Babies blinking at their very first spring. Boys and girls playing at being adult. Busy commuters hurrying to work or hurrying home. The old man on the corner of St. Catherine and Stanley, singing show tunes at the top of his lungs. Nothing we create or build could ever rival these fleeting watery creatures, their fragility, their strength, their mysterious origins and departures.