the cassandra pages

Taizé, and its place in my musical journey

 

The roots of the Taizé community, in the Burgundy region of France, began in 1940, when a young monk, Brother Roger, from the Protestant Reformed tradition, left his home in Switzerland. He settled in the village of Taizé, near the demarcation line that split France into unoccupied and Nazi territory. Roger had suffered from tuberculosis for a long time, and during a long healing process he had become convinced that he was called to bring people together into community. He also saw that his new location near that border would be ideal for sheltering refugees, including Jews, who were fleeing the war — similar work to what his grandmother had done during WWI. Helped by his sister, he did this work quietly until 1942, when they were forced to flee to Geneva. They returned to Taizé in 1944, and Brother Roger was eventually joined by seven other young men with whom he formed the original Taizé Community, committed to a life of celibacy and simplicity. Roger’s vision was one of ecumenism and reconciliation, and the community has continued to live that out. He was killed during a service at age 90 by a mentally-ill woman, and his funeral was attended by 10,000 people and presided over by leaders of many religious traditions.

Brother Roger in 2003. (Wikipedia)

Today the Taizé Community includes eighty brothers from different traditions — Catholic, Anglican and Protestant — and thirty countries. Most live there, in France, but some live in temporary missions in various countries. Most notably, they welcome over one hundred thousand visitors every year, a majority of whom are young people, from all traditions and none, who come in search of peace and spiritual sustenance, and to participate in the unique mixture of silence, prayer, and contemplative chanting that has become known, worldwide, simply as “Taizé.”

A typical chant from the official Taize songbook - words are given in many languages, which was part of Brother Roger’s ecumenical vision.

Here in Montreal, our cathedral Dean, who was originally from France and then from England, has a particular affinity for this type of worship. As we gradually returned to church after the pandemic, he encouraged the start of a weekly Taizé service, on Wednesdays at the close of the workday. I’ve always been attracted to this kind of simplicity and quiet, which reminds me of the Zen meditation that was transformative for me in my 30s and 40s, but with the addition of music. When I attended (sporadically I must admit) the services in previous years, I loved the combination of a quiet piano and a cello that accompanied our singing of simple chants. The cellist, unfortunately for us, has moved to Toronto.

Around the same time, I took up my flute again after, essentially, a 50-year hiatus. In the absence of our cellist, the Dean asked if any instrumentalists would like to play for the Taizé services. I hesitated for a long time, and then showed up one week, my flute case clutched nervously in one hand. My first attempt was pretty rocky, and convinced me that it was time to get serious about my playing and buy a better instrument. We had just sold my father’s house and, considering my dad’s love of music and support of my own musical life from a very early age, I thought an appropriate use of some of that money would be to buy a good flute. I did, and immediately it made a big difference. I practiced hard for some months and then tried again. It went much better, and the other Taizé participants encouraged me to keep on. I was helped the most by one of the two regular pianists, Mouse, and soon I asked if they would like to work on some sonatas with me. I practice at home every day, and haven’t found that onerous at all — I’ve always liked practicing. Mouse and I developed a routine of meeting on Wednesday afternoons at the cathedral, a couple of hours before the services, working first on Handel, Vivaldi and Bach flute sonatas, and more recently branching out to some Fauré and César Franck.

At first I was very nervous about playing in front of other people, especially after such a long time away from the instrument. Practicing in the cathedral and playing for the small Taizé group has been an ideal re-entry; the group is very kind and supportive, but at the same time, strangers are always coming into the cathedral off the street — some are tourists, some are homeless, some are local people seeking a few moments of quiet, others are parishioners who happen to be downtown. I was surprised when people began to sit down and listen to us, and some would nod or say thank you when they left. The flute, too, sounds especially wonderful in that resonant, acoustically-supportive space, so I was getting a lot of helpful sonic feedback.

Yesterday we took our first leap into a much more public performance. The cathedral’s organist and interim music director was away on vacation, so the Dean had asked if we would play for two Taizé Eucharists, one for the francophone congregation at 9:00 am, and one for the bilingual service at 10:30, where the Dean of the Toronto Anglican cathedral would be the guest preacher. These services would introduce the larger congregation to this style of worship and give them, perhaps, a welcome space of peacefulness and simplicity in the midst of all the world’s troubles. Everyone could participate in the chants. Mouse planned the music, and we were joined by Lukas, who acted as cantor, leading all the sung portions of the service. Mouse and I played instrumental preludes and postludes.

I was quite worried that I would be nervous, because I used to suffer from pretty bad stage fright when performing solo on flute or piano or voice. But I guess all these years of performing with the choir, sometimes in fairly high-stress situations, has taught me something — and I’m also just older and more able to manage myself. I felt very supported by my two colleagues, and reminded myself that I was there to give the best of myself, that I was well prepared, and to just trust in the moment and in the music. In any case, it went well. There were a few inevitable bobbles through the course of the morning, but nothing particularly obvious or serious. It was also a very hot day — 91 degrees — and the air conditioning was not working, so my hands kept getting sweaty; I’d had the foresight to bring both a cloth and a water bottle. But for a first attempt like this, I was happy, and delighted to be able to perform with the two excellent musicians who formed our little group. Afterward, a number of friends who didn’t even know I played came up, with surprised faces, to say thanks, and others said how much they had appreciated the meditative quality of the music. What I had hoped for was to help create an open, quiet ambience of solace and reflection, and I think we were able to do this. The music is simple and transparent, with beautiful melodies — but sometimes simplicity is the hardest thing to convey.

There is such a deep pleasure in being able to give music to others — I missed that so much during the pandemic when I was no longer able to sing. Mouse and I will be playing again in September at the annual Journées de la Culture, a citywide event where institutions open their doors to the public, and offer programs that showcase their strengths. That will probably be a short program of Handel and Fauré. And I’ll continue to play for the weekly Taizé services, which give me more than I give — I love that quiet, contemplative hour in the middle of the week, and it really helps me.

Lying in bed early this morning, I was thinking how life keeps giving us surprises, if we’re open to them. Returning with real intention to this instrument is not something I would have predicted. Yet it’s been one of the most satisfying musical things I’ve done, in a long lifetime filled with music as a serious avocation, and I plan to keep at it as long as I can.

Canada Day

 

It’s been very quiet, and very steamy today. I went for a walk this afternoon, into the nearby Town of Mont Royal, a wealthy area within Montreal that is separate from the city, with its own government and municipal services. No barbecues, no flags on anyone’s porch, no signs of family gatherings. The only people I saw were hired garden service workers, trying to take a break from the humidity under a shady tree, and a few kids on the playground of the park where I stopped to sit on a bench, and took this picture of what I saw overhead. When I got home I was so overheated that I went downstairs and got in the pool.

 

Also seen on my walk: a reminder that in Canada, the wilderness is never very far away.

Although I am trying to get plenty of exercise, my ulterior motive for the walk was to try to figure out what to write about here. I have a serious post in the works, but that one will need more time. It’s really hard to know what to say at a time when words feel too plentiful and too cheap. One of the newsletter authors I follow noted that his commenters say one of the things they’re most tired of is “punditry.” I share that fatigue, and have unsubscribed from a number of places, keeping only the ones that feel the most honest, direct, and helpful. I’m also reading less opinion in the newspapers. I don’t need someone else to tell me what’s happening and share their outrage; I can see it and feel it all too clearly.

But it’s more than that. I have a hard time with stupidity, but somehow it’s more understandable to me than cruelty and inhumanity. I don’t watch movies that have those qualities as the basis of their “entertainment”, and I don’t even read novels that immerse me in unrelenting awfulness, especially when it’s directed at women and children. Yet this is exactly what we see now, every single day, in the real world, perpetrated by elected governments and carried out by their henchmen. That’s so much worse. And it’s not just in wars, it’s in policies that are being voted upon by elected representatives, and ruled upon in the highest courts. It’s in the streets of cities and small towns. What is this constant witnessing doing to us? Many are simply looking away, and saying, well, it’s not going to touch me. Others refuse to look away, and therefore feel horrified anew every day. Many are trying to speak out, but it’s becoming more difficult and more frustrating. Others are… silenced. Removed.

And here, in Canada, on our national holiday, it’s quiet.

Most of the people in that wealthy enclave are privileged and white; the lawns are manicured, the gardens beautiful, the trees mature. But nearer to home, as I walked back to my apartment, are many blocks of low-income multi-family apartments where recent immigrants live. I wouldn’t call them tenements; they’re considerably better than that, while not being great places to live. There are parks where kids can play, basketball courts, wading pools, soccer fields, picnic tables, a community center where city employees offer resources and programming; we’ve gone there several times for Covid or flu shots. I’m often the only white person in that park. The parents watching their kids on the swings, the guys playing table tennis or shooting hoops, the older people walking alone or sitting on benches, the kids playing soccer, or the people working in the community gardens, all tend to be African, South Asian, Asian, Middle or Near-Eastern. From their dress, I’d guess that many are fairly recent immigrants.

My own building is more affluent, but it’s also a broad mix of ethnicities, religions, races, sexual orientations and languages. And frankly, that’s a big part of what I like about living here. When the political posters go up in Montreal for our brief municipal, provincial or federal election seasons, the names and faces of the people running for office reflect this reality. We have our share of detractors and racists, and plenty of people who prefer to live surrounded by people who are at least superficially similar, but this mosaic of cultures is seen as a strength by most Montrealers. The hateful remarks, lies, and equivocation by mainstream party members following the recent primary election in New York was really awful, but not surprising. That level of invective would, however, be shocking here, and I hope our society doesn’t ever degenerate to that degree.

 

Sunset on a playing field at the University of Montreal, with the Oratoire St-Joseph at top left.

I think that is what I am quietly celebrating, and grateful for, this Canada Day. 2025 may be the year when Canadian pride — in more than our hockey teams — actually became a thing, thanks to the boost from our neighbor to the south. I’m not much for nationalism, myself, let alone patriotic fervor, but I am immensely grateful for the pockets of compassionate democracy that remain in our world, and want to strengthen them. I’m glad each of those newly-arrived Canadian kids can get health care, that rural hospitals aren’t going to be closed on a whim, and that we all pay into the system so that prescriptions can be affordable for everyone.

I’ll write more soon about what I’m doing to stay sane, and what I think we can all do to make the world a better place, regardless of where we are.

Obscurity

 

Wildfire smoke over Montreal, looking north, June 8, 2025

Our weekend was graced with warmer weather, at last, but few could enjoy it. People were advised to stay inside their homes because of the high levels of particulate matter from the wildfires in Manitoba. The air quality index got as high as the 170s here. On Saturday the sunset was apocalyptic — a blurry orange sun burning in a grim, murky sky. This morning the air quality index is down to 97 and the severe alert has been cancelled, but looking out from my north-facing studio window, the low-lying smoke persists even though I can see faint patches of pale blue high above.

American friends in the Northeast also experienced some of this pollution, though not yet to the levels of last summer. I’m always taken aback when people say things to me like, “Yes, we had some of your smoke,” or even, “Thanks a lot, Canada.” Like casually tossed-off racist, anti-feminist, or anti-LGBTQ+ remarks, I experience these nationalistic comments as micro-aggressions. (I’m sure it would be far worse if I lived in Mexico.) Wildfires caused by climate change are happening everywhere, including the US and Europe, mainly originating in huge tracts of northern forest -- but no longer confined to those mostly-unpopulated areas, as we’ve seen recently in Los Angeles. This is not “Canadian smoke” - it is our smoke collectively, caused by global behavior and governments’ refusals to legislate fundamental change. Clearly there have to be major changes in forest management, but if you really think about the extent of the boreal and northern forests, you will quickly realize what a daunting task that is. Canada shares in that responsibility, and its own climate record is not good. But shall we start blaming the Arctic and Antarctic for the melting ice and rising sea levels? Shall we blame the south for the fact that ticks are moving north? In actuality, the fires are a symptom of an underlying disease, caused by all the industrialized nations. Massive car traffic isn’t occurring in the Yukon, but in Miami, Beijing, New York, Singapore. Fossil fuels are being burned by airplanes all over the planet; too many of us have a seemingly insatiable desire for comfort, convenience, variety and luxury in our diets and lifestyles, while too many others have no choice at all. We are all part of that web of interconnected systems and behavioral choices; it’s our responsibility to make the climate a primary issue when we vote, and to change our own behaviors.

I’ve come to see the smoky skies as a symbol of a much larger obscurity — the ongoing obscurity of the truth about just about everything, and the accompanying refusal to admit cause and effect. There’s a great desire right now to assign blame for all the ills of our world, and to shift it away from ourselves onto other groups — which conveniently often end up to be the victims themselves. The most egregious and tragic example of this has been the blaming of the Palestinians for the horrific genocide of their own people in Gaza — blame that goes all the way back to 1948 when their land was forcibly taken from them.

In the last few days, we’ve seen the government and the media putting a spin on the immigration protests in L.A., attempting to shift blame from the root cause — the terrifying and totally unacceptable military tactics being used to round up immigrants to meet new federal quotas — to the actions of the protesters, who, though angry, have remained largely peaceful. The rhetoric has been exaggerated even to the point of calling the protests “an insurrection,” with the immigrants themselves being labeled as terrorists and criminals, and the protesters as “radicals”. I made a point of watching footage and media coverage from a number of different international and national outlets, and the differences in the words used, and the videos shown, are blatant and deliberate.

Mexico and Canada are blamed already for America’s drug addiction; Muslims are blamed for domestic terrorism when much of it is caused by white supremacists, and the root causes are seldom discussed. I could give countless other examples, but most of the people reading here already know them.

 

What can we do? We may not be directly responsible for wars, the climate crisis, the rise of fascism, the spinelessness and collusion of mainstream media. However, history shows us that passivity allows these terrible things to flourish. We can inform ourselves, and speak our truth to others; we can engage at least a little, instead of hiding in our own frustration, exhaustion, and helplessness. We need to do that quietly, firmly, and calmly, knowing how we feel and why, and being able to say it with integrity and conviction in a way that invites dialogue. That is always the first step: “I’m upset about the air quality too and I’m sorry it’s affecting you. But I see it differently — this isn’t just ‘Canada’s smoke’ — we’re all in this, we all own it. What do you think needs to be done?” Or, “I’m upset enough about what’s happening to go to a No Kings Day protest on June 14. Would you consider coming with me?”

Peonies at their Peak

Please take a walk with me, it will do us both good.

(This post originally contained two short videos. To see them, please visit my mirror blog at Substack.)

 

Tree peonies in the Japanese garden

I went to the Montreal Botanical Garden today, specifically to see the peonies. We were there a couple of weeks ago, when it was lilac time, and I made a mental note to try to come back about now. I’m glad I did because the two hours I spent there did me so much good — and I want to share some of this beauty and peacefulness with you.

 

Azaleas, ferns, and cotoneaster horizontalis (the shrub in the foreground) in the Japanese garden.

 

The last of the lilacs.

 

There were some families, also out for a walk.

 

And some couples, like these wood ducks, happily swimming in slime they seemed to find very yummy.

 

And the obligatory Canada geese.

 

A redwing blackbird, for M.K.

 

Delicate yellow flag wild iris, on the bank of the marsh.

 

Tender pink tamarack (larch) cones forming on a branch at the edge of the marsh.

 

More peonies. This is an herbaceous variety aptly named “Clair de lune.”

 

Glorious, huge tree peonies in the Chinese garden.

 

This is the one that really knocked me out — a tree peony named “Nike.” I did a drawing of it, but the photograph captures what’s so special about it — that incredible salmon/peach color.

 

We need beauty and nature so much right now. I hope you can find some in your life, and that this virtual walk gave you some moments to breathe freely today.

 

 

Me-Made-May, under the wire!

 

Purple wool jersey tunic with organza trim, inspired by a Jason Wu design. Fabric from Mood Fabrics, NYC, self-drafted pattern.

It’s the last day of May, and so far I haven’t posted anything for the meme “Me-Made-May” in which lots of sewists and knitters have been showing their own clothing creations each day this month. I have been sewing and knitting, though, so here’s a catch-up post on the projects which have helped me stay sane during this winter and spring.

The recent boom in home sewing and knitting, spurred by online sharing among independent pattern designers, knitters, and home sewists, has been a great inspiration, and a huge help for finding good online resources for fabric, notions, and yarn. I’ve appreciated this especially because local fabric and yarn shops are a lot less numerous than they once were. These days I use some purchased patterns, and want to support these independent designers. I also self-draft some of the clothing I make. Most of my yarn comes from online sources, and the fabric from shops I visit when traveling, local stores, and online retailers. The captions on this post contain more information, and I’ll leave it at that - please ask me questions in the comments if you have any!

 

“Simple Work Shirt” from the Nani Iro Sewing Studio book of Japanese clothing patterns.

This is an oversized shirt/tunic; the grey-and-white striped lightweight linen fabric is from The Linen Lab in South Korea. I changed the pattern slightly; it calls for a triangular tab at the bottom of the placket, and buttons and buttonholes, but I wanted it to be plainer. I plan to wear it with a decorative pin instead if a closure is needed. The shirt also looks good over a turtleneck or long-sleeve T-shirt, for cooler weather, and will be nice either with skinny jeans or with a long full skirt.

 

 

Speaking of skirts, here’s a project from late winter. This piece of Italian wool bouclé, bought at Mood Fabrics in New York last fall, finally became a self-drafted, slim skirt. It has a short slit in the back for easier walking. It may look heavy, but it’s perfect with tall boots and a heavy sweater for our bitter cold winter.

 

 

“Origami Bag” by Motif Studios.

I just made this two days ago! After seeing the pattern online I had to try making one. This is the small size; I’ll make a larger tote-bag-size model now that I understand the tricky way it goes together. You start with two long rectangles of cloth — the outer shell, and the lining fabric — sew them together, turn inside out, and then fold and stitch them in the most clever way to form the bag. The crunched handle cover is the only extra piece; it is slid onto one pointed handle before the two handles are sewn together, and then slid down to cover the join. I just used remnants from my stash for this one; the outer cloth is a pretty aqua sateen that doesn’t really show in these photos.

 

And a pair of socks (they kinda match the bag, don’t they?), all done except for the final bit of the second toe. I hate knitting socks — these were started last winter and I still haven’t finished them! The fine wool/silk self-striping yarn is really nice but unfortunately I can’t remember where it’s from.

 

Above and below: “Cara Hat,” by a German designer I follow on Instagram, paulastrickt. The yarn is sport weight Lang Cashmerino from Little Knits.

I’ve made several of this designer’s patterns and like them very much — simple, fairly easy designs, but all with something that makes them interesting or intriguing to knit. She also offers some crochet patterns for hats and bags.

These particular hats are knit in a tube with the rounded crown at both ends; one half gets slipped inside the other and the crowns stitched invisibly together, while the bottom edge is turned up to form a cuff, so the resulting hat is double and very warm. They’re very easy to knit and I’ve made three so far. (In the bottom photo, the folded hat in the cubbyhole at top left is a Scandinavian-patterned hat I made for Jonathan at least thirty years ago!)

 

Overall, I’m noticing a lot of cool and neutral colors here - partly a personal preference, but also maybe a reflection of our cool, northern spring, which continues today. It’s definitely time for some bright colors and warmth! Can I encourage you to make something?

A Letter from Canada, at the end of May

 

 

A walk in Parc Angrignon yesterday felt like a respite from the extremely difficult time in which we’re living. The world is screaming and yet so many are silenced, afraid of what will happen if they voice the truth or even simply say what they feel, as human beings. It’s a time when truth itself is under attack, as well as the institutions that teach people how to think critically, how to discern the truth for themselves, and express it in a coherent and rational way. A time when we are witnesses every single day to horrific violence perpetrated on the most innocent of victims, when sheer cruelty, corruption, utter disregard for the most vulnerable, and endless lies are becoming normalized. A time when being a journalist, a doctor, an aid worker, or a foreign student has never been more dangerous. A time when our own options for living with integrity seem smaller and smaller, and, as another Substack author writes, one longs for retreat from the madness:

Sometimes I fantasize about disappearing.

Not dying.

Just logging off.

Getting a job no one cares about.

Growing tomatoes.

Writing poems in the margins of a notebook no one reads.

Not as a failure.

But as a kind of freedom.

—Huy Nguyen

For those of us who do write, it becomes harder and harder to know what to say. My most immediate concerns are the welfare of those closest to me, wherever they live, and the necessity of protecting democracy and freedom here in Canada. In order to do that, I have to take care of myself first. I’ve been limiting my exposure to the news; I read it every day, but do not allow myself to get pulled into endless scrolling.

I had already cut my social media accounts in 2024, except for Instagram, where I have a community of artist friends, but now I check there once a day at most, and have been posting only rarely; I’m considering getting off completely. I no longer use Google as my browser, and all my email and messaging are on secure applications. My growing aversion is fueled partly by not wanting anything to do with the billionaire-owned companies that spy on us and use/sell our data both for commercial and government-related purposes, and partly because of fatigue with the endless, algorithm-based ads, but also because I get depressed seeing so much mindless material posted by other users. It’s discouraging to realize how many people are focused on trivialities, personal vanity, mass entertainment, and consumerism at a time like this — it’s an extension of the shock so many people felt at the results of the election, finally having to admit that a huge number of Americans had voted for the person they did. Now we realize that a great many have just tuned out: some are overwhelmed, but maybe really don’t seem to care, since the bad things aren’t happening (yet) to them or to people they know. Yet I also don’t want to be triggered into judgmental attitudes that only hurt me; everyone copes with life in their own ways, distraction is not only tempting but necessary at times, and it’s not easy right now for anyone.

 

Feeling helpless, however, is not an option for me. I may not be able to affect world politics in any large way, but I can take small daily actions and decisions as part of a collective resistance. The other day, looking at berries in a supermarket cooler, I was alongside a French Canadian man who kept picking up boxes of strawberries and putting them back. Finally he turned to me and said, in English, “I forgot my glasses and I’m trying to see where they’re from.” He handed me the box. “Produit des Etats-Unis,” I told him. “Merci. They can keep their freakin’ strawberries,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away, while I put two boxes of Mexican raspberries in my own cart. I see and share this sorting behavior every time I go to the store, and wonder if Americans realize just how widely and deeply the feeling runs.

 

On a spiritual level, I can still allow myself to mourn, to meditate, and to hope for wisdom and a better future for humanity. I can allow the sorrow of the world to enter into me, and breathe it out with intention; I can find places of peace and solitude, for renewal. I can learn from history and feel solidarity with other artists and intellectuals who lived through very difficult periods of time. I can always be a better friend, participate in my chosen and familial communities with my full heart, and bring all of myself to my work and to the arts that I know are vital. I can choose what kind of person to be inside; no one has the power to take that away from me.

Lately I’ve been doing more music, and have been working as chair of the cathedral’s search committee for a new director of music. I’ve been taking care of my health as I heal up from my dental surgery and move on to the final phase of that nearly-year-long process. Along with walking (and the swimming I hope to get back to) I’ve added an exercise regimen with light hand weights that’s making me feel stronger, and will help protect my back. Reading and language practice continue to be important parts of my days.

Spring has finally come to Montreal, and we’re looking forward to some genuine warmth— the plants are out on the balcony, the herbs are tall enough to offer a sprig or two for cutting, and my studio windows look out, at last, on green trees. Instead of artwork, I’ve wanted to do something more concrete, so I’ve been sewing - more on that in another post. The work of making something tangible and practical, whether it’s a piece of clothing, a pot of edible plants, or a home-cooked meal, feels grounding. I only wish I could do it for those who have lost almost everything, and are suffering far more.

 

 

 

 

 

Experiments in Oil Pastel

...and the jury is still out

 

 

In May, so far, I’ve been doing some sketchbook drawings using oil pastel. I was thinking it would be a good exercise that would feed into my renewed practice of oil painting - a quick way of sketching ideas, experimenting with color, leaving detail aside because the thick sticks make it impossible to fuss over anything or make small marks. All of these drawings are in a fairly large (11” x 14”) Canson sketchbook, and they’re approximately 9 inches wide.

 

I like:

• the sketchiness

• the irregular edges

• the feel of the medium: the pigment is heavy-bodied, you can blend it with your fingers, and build it up in layers

 

I don’t like:

• the limited color selection - I have two sets of 24 colors each, but the selection they give you is all too close in value

• the expense - Sennelier oil pastels cost CD$5.99/stick

• feeling like the results don’t suit my style or show my abilities to best advantage

 

This one, which appeared in a previous post, is perhaps the most successful, because it’s the simplest. It’s also hard to photograph these pages, for some reason - the photos lose a lot of luminosity and subtlety of the originals.

 

These details are more accurate and you can see how oil-like the surface is.

 

I’m not giving up, but not entirely convinced either. Oddly enough, I’ve always loved working in dry pastels, where I have a huge color selection and the pigments are easily blended and layered. There’s also more control — but I’m deliberately trying to give away some of that control here.

Maybe I’m pushing the medium to do landscapes like this, at this size. But the expense of the oil pastel sticks discourages me from working larger. Why not just use big brushes and oil paint on prepared board or gessoed card? Or even a mixed media approach?

What I’ve found is that each of us needs to find the media, the specific types of paper or canvas, and the tools that suit us and that we love using. It’s worth fighting with your tools sometimes — to shake up your technique, get out of a rut, push yourself to try new things and learn from them. But if it’s not satisfying, or doesn’t feel right after a while, then it’s better to use your time with the media and materials that feel natural and satisfying under your hands.

Jonathan's Revitalized Blog

 

My dear husband and partner, Jonathan Sa’adah, who has been a very fine professional photographer throughout his life, has recently revitalized his blog. I hope you will check it out and sign up for his mailing list to be notified of new posts. It’s not on Substack but on his own domain, and all content is free. He writes:

Here's the latest post from my blog. Right now I’m working on a series about Joseph Losey’s film M Klein, which I documented being made early in my career (1975-76). So far there’s an Intro post in the series, and then this one. I’m planning to follow up with profiles of people associated with the film along with aspects of the film making that I think others might find interesting, or should be preserved. One of the profiles will be about Margot Capelier, who was France’s first Casting Director and someone who doesn’t get much attention. I was lucky to know her and other people associated with the film. Subjects I plan - similar to this post - are about things like how a film studio worked, and about film editing. I hope you might find this interesting and comment, either on the blog or by email.

 

Portrait of Joseph Losey, © Jonathan Sa’adah

And the blog is not all about film, by any means. Some of his previous posts explore subjects as varied as the early days of the Pilobolus Dance Theater, the Biblioteca Vasconceles in Mexico City, and eating camel in Damascus. I think readers of The Cassandra Pages will enjoy his combination of excellent photographs and lively text, so please take a look!

Blog Link > JonZphoto.com. Jonathan’s website also includes several portfolios of photographs, a bio, and information on his photobook, How Many Roads?, about America during the tumultuous years between 1968 and 1975.

What My Teeth Have Taught Me

 

 

 

In bed with an ice pack, Thursday afternoon.

In my mother’s desk, she kept a small, round tin that had once held mints. Inside were all my baby teeth. I used to love to take it out and look inside at those tiny perfect teeth; I can remember the sound they made rattling against the side of the tin as I carefully placed them back in the drawer. Although her desk came to me after she died, it arrived empty. I found that tin inside a dresser when I was cleaning out my parents’ house last year. I looked inside once more, but didn’t keep it.

Little did I know that those shed teeth — which once lived inside my body — would be prophetic.

I grew up in a rural American town in the 50s and 60s, where there was a lot of poverty, not much higher education, and limited health care. My dentist was not the best, but he was a caring person who recommended to my parents that I get braces, because I had inherited a too-small mouth that gave rise to a lot of crowding, and crooked, overlapping teeth. But my parents didn’t have much money in those days, and I of course didn’t want to get braces, which would have meant frequent trips to a distant city — and put me, who already hated wearing glasses, in a very small minority. I only knew of one child in my class of 125 who had had orthodonture. That is not a decision to be left to the child. In my case, the adults should have prevailed and found the money, but… they didn’t. Several people in my family had lost their teeth and had dentures. It was common in our area to see people with missing teeth that were never replaced.

But that was not true in university, and in my subsequent life, first in university towns in New England, then in Montreal, and among our acquaintances in major cities. It is still the case in rural Quebec and many parts of America, as well as in many other countries with poorer populations and limited access to dentistry. But within a certain demographic, tooth loss carries stigma and judgement, and creates shame in the person who has it. Even when it is hidden, we don’t talk about it. In my case, I experience my lifelong dental saga as a chronic illness about which I rarely speak.

My dental problems started in my twenties. Ironically, I have few cavities and my teeth have always been strong. I’ve never even needed a root canal. The problems stemmed from the crowding, which gave rise to periodontal pockets. In spite of my diligent twice-daily brushing, flossing, water-picking, dental cleanings four times a year, and many gum surgeries — this eventually led to bone loss in my upper jaw, necessitating the incremental removal of most of my upper teeth and the placement of various restorations, from bridges to surgical implants. I’ve been going to periodontal specialists and oral surgeons as well as general dentists for 40 years, and although I’ve never totaled the money spent on my mouth, it has been huge.

 

The surgical suite of my periodontist in Westmount, QC

The latest and most extensive of these surgeries happened last Thursday, when I received three titanium implant posts in my upper left jaw. A loose bridge, and two old implants that had been placed too close together and had become compromised, were all removed six months ago, when I also received bone grafts to help support their replacements, which will hold a fixed bridge spanning the space of five teeth, including a front one.

Fortunately, dental science, techniques and technology have advanced tremendously during my lifetime. Since moving to this city, I’ve been able to receive state-of-the-art care, and, thankfully, to afford it. The spaceship suite where I had this most recent surgery is equipped with lasers, CT-scanners, enormous viewing screens, and all the latest equipment, but the primary differences are the highly-trained and continually-learning professionals who plan the treatments and perform them. I’m working with a team - my general dentist, my periodontist, and a prosthodontist who is responsible for the restoration work and who has made me temporary fixtures to wear this year during the various stages of treatment and healing.

—

I decided to write about this because I am tired of minimizing it, and because I know that many people deal with similar issues but are, like me, reluctant to speak of them. Unlike some chronic conditions like, say, asthma, certain others carry stigma in our society — mental illness, obesity, and physical disabilities are prime examples — where the sufferer tends to be judged and blamed. I would put serious, ongoing dental problems in a similar category. The affected person can feel isolated and shamed, particularly when there is disfigurement, even if it is mostly hidden. I will never forget opening my room door in a European hotel some years ago to the insistent knock of a maid. It was early morning, and I hadn’t yet placed a temporary tooth in the front of my mouth — I was in the middle of one of these long multi-stage implant procedures. The young woman literally recoiled when I opened my mouth to answer her question, so unexpected was my appearance. And there are other effects: what and how one can eat is affected; the possibility of new problems is always in the back of your mind; travel creates disruptions in the maintenance routine, so that you’re always worried about a flare-up. I always travel with antibiotics and a special kit of tooth-care tools, and investigate where I could get emergency care in foreign countries if it became necessary. It’s also very, very costly to go the higher-end route of bridges and implants, rather than partial or full dentures.

Many friends don’t know what to say, while some are very empathetic. It doesn’t help that I tend to downplay what I’m going through; I’m stoic and want to live normally, and people tend to expect that of me. I actually received several phone calls while I was still being stitched up on Thursday, which I later discovered were from a friend who I’d told about the anticipated procedure the previous evening. In subsequent messages they never mentioned my situation at all, in spite of the fact that I explained why I hadn’t answered their calls. Other friends sent me supportive messages before and afterwards, and have kept in touch, which of course I greatly appreciate.

On the other hand, I’ve learned to live with it. My husband also has some chronic conditions, including some dental ones, and he has helped me see how to gracefully manage my own. I tend to heal quickly, and am grateful for the advances in care which minimize pain, swelling, and discomfort during the treatments, and allow me to function, for the most part, normally.

 

A former dental implant, now residing in my mother’s desk.

One result of my hundreds, if not thousands, of hours in dental chairs, is that I no longer feel fear. First of all, dentists do not want to hurt you, and modern dentistry shouldn’t hurt. My best advice is to communicate. If you are apprehensive, explain your feelings in detail to your dentist and they will do what they can to help. My American friends are surprised that we seldom have general anesthesia for major dental procedures here in Canada — maybe it’s a toughness legacy from all the teeth knocked out by hockey pucks! Some dental offices offer gas, but mine generally prescribe Ativan for those who are apprehensive. Local anesthesia injections, which can be the worst part of a treatment, are lessened by topical gels and acupressure applied by the dentist to the lips or gums - it’s over in a few seconds.

I always end up with good relationships with my practitioners, and that’s helped by my curiosity about what they’re doing and how they do it, and about who they are as people. This also lessens tension during the procedures, on both our parts. It’s good that we can laugh together, even if it’s sometimes black humor. Pain medications and steroids help a great deal afterwards, as well as knowing I can contact my practitioners easily.

Meditative techniques are the primary key I’ve found to surviving in the chair. Breathing deeply through your nose minimizes the chance of gagging, and helps to calm the entire body. I try to set up a rhythm and keep to it, breathing mindfully and taking my attention away from what is happening by focusing on something innocuous in my field of vision. Sometimes I “play” music in my head. If there is any hint of pain, I always ask for more anesthetic.

Over my life, I’ve also changed my relationship to time. Last Thursday’s surgery took three hours, using only local anesthetic, which was exactly what I had expected. I’ve learned that time is something quite relative. The traffic light will eventually change, you’ll get to the end of a queue, the bus will arrive — there’s no point getting upset about waiting. As in music, time spent waiting proceeds linearly, from a beginning to an end — but there will always be an end. Knowing this, I’m better able to put up with a short-term ordeal to get to a new point where we can, in the words of one of my former dental surgeons, “let the healing begin.”

Report: A Brief Cross-Border Excursion

 

For someone who’s made as many trips across the Canadian-US border as I have, it’s been strange to feel not only constrained, but apprehensive about the prospect. During the pandemic, we didn’t go to the US for more than a year because we couldn’t — the border was closed — but that felt totally different. More recently, in December and early January, we took trips to visit family and friends in the US. But after the inauguration, the threats against Canada, and the reports of people being hassled, intimidated or detained at the border, we have deliberately stayed put.

I received a document last week — a final piece of my father’s estate — that had to be notarized and returned to the US. I called the US Consulate here in Montreal to make an appointment to see a notary there, and was told that they no longer offered that service. My choices were to go to Ottawa, a two-hour trip each way, and pay something like $70 for the service at the US Embassy, or drive to the town clerk in Champlain, NY, where I’ve been before, and have the document notarized for free. Yesterday, that’s what I did.

 

The reward was a beautiful drive on the day when the leaves were coming out. I enjoyed seeing the flat fields awaiting spring planting, some with their incredible, black earth just plowed, and the tender yellow-green and reddish haze of tree buds just beginning to burst.

I took my regular phone, thinking the chances of it being examined or seized were pretty small; I’d looked through it pretty carefully ahead of time.

At the border — this was the Champlain crossing — there were no cars. Literally. I saw one or two others coming behind me, but that’s unheard of — often the lines have stretched half a mile back from this major crossing into New York State. I pulled into the NEXUS lane, which has an automatic scanner, rolled down my window. The border agent, a woman, asked me where I lived and the reason for my visit; I said I was going to the town clerk’s office in Champlain. She said, “Thank you, have a nice day,” and that was that.

Of course, on her screen she can see that I’m a dual citizen, born in America, and have a record of hundreds of crossings with no red flags. But the main thing she sees and hears is an older white person with an Anglo name, speaking unaccented American English. I’m not proud of that privilege. I’ve always been aware of the profiling that happens at the border. Now it can be a matter of freedom or detention, imprisonment, disappearance, or even death.

At the town offices, the clerk used my American passport as ID, and when she’d finished she quietly asked, “How was the border?” “No problem,” I said, “but there were basically no cars there.” “Yes, “ she said, pursing her lips in concern. “They say the traffic is way down.”

 

Yesterday was also the day that Columbia University student Mohsen Mahdawi was freed on bail by a federal judge in Vermont. After mailing my document at the post office in Champlain, I almost drove across the bridge to Vermont, just to stand in my former home state for a moment or two. I hadn’t heard the good news about Mahdawi yet, but I’ve been proud of our congressional delegation and of the thousands of Vermonters who’ve been standing up strongly for democracy and free speech, and against the cruelty of these kidnappings and detentions. I turned around to head home straightaway instead, knowing I’d probably get hung up in Montreal’s rush hour traffic later on — which I did.

At the Canadian border, after our inital “bonjour-hi”, the agent asked me why I’d been in the US and for how long (“less than an hour”), and whether I’d bought anything (they are charging tariffs on everything purchased in the US now, including gas). I truthfully answered “no” — usually I’d have a full tank of gas and a bag of groceries, but all I had bought was a doughnut, which was long gone, and not worth mentioning. He asked me to roll down my back window, took a cursory look from his booth, and nodded an OK. Then he told me they had had reports of a car driving the wrong way on the highway ahead, and to please be careful. “Merci,” I answered, and went on my way.

 

I didn’t even pull off to take any pictures, although the landscape was particularly beautiful. This morning, though, I pulled out some images from a year ago and did the quick oil pastel you see here, which captures some of the tremulous quality of yesterday’s early northern spring in the countryside. No wonder the student protests in Egypt some years ago were called “The Arab Spring”: that’s the hopeful energy you feel in nature right now. I wish we could harness it! Resistance is definitely growing, though, as more and more people wake up to reality and realize they need to do something. Opinion polls show negative approval now among a majority, regardless of party affiliation. The courts are holding firm in most decisions, as are more institutions. Still, the damage is rapid and massive, and the pushback agonizingly slow.

I’m relieved that everything went so easily on my short trip, though I don’t take it for granted; if we need or want to visit our American friends and relatives I’ll feel less apprehensive about it. The reticence remains, however. In the grocery store this morning, like everyone else, we read the labels and chose products from Canada, Mexico, and countries other than the US.. We’ll spend our vacation dollars elsewhere. How sad it is to feel slapped in the face by your best friend — and, in my case, by my own homeland! Let’s hope this state of affairs gradually resolves, though the sense of betrayal, loss of trust, and anxiety will linger, I’m afraid, for a long time.