ArtwordBlog

A Russian freighter is passing through the straits of Gibraltar and comes upon a marine disaster: a small vessel has sunk and all but one of the passengers are drowned. As the play begins, the sailors are laying the bodies one by one on the deck, the lone survivor crouching beside them. The captain is on the ship-to-shore telephone trying to convince the British, the French and ultimately the Moroccans to allow the bodies to be put ashore. No one wants them. They are illegal migrants trying to get into Europe, a problem that no country wants to acknowledge or take responsibility for. More »

A quiet, brave, socially-committed workoholic named Scott Gilbert has decided that what Toronto needs is a cinema that shows socially relevant documentaries. With the help of a few friends, he’s doing it himself. He used to rent the Bloor Cinema, but that is expensive and often not available. So he’s taken a second floor in a storefront on Brunswick Avenue and turned it into a cinema. More »

On Saturday, February 3, the Globe and Mail published “Just pay the piano player”, a polemic by Margaret Atwood attacking the Harper government for its lack of support for the arts. It’s a well-reasoned piece (what else would it be?), but as a polemic it is somewhat lacking in fire. Atwood can’t help seeing both sides of the question and leaving us ultimately with more questions than answers.

However, the questions are good ones. More »

Donald Carr phoned up at 7:30. He had two tickets to see Roy Hargrove at Massey Hall. Were we interested? Judith was busy making two-minute videos, but I was willing and able. I jumped in the car, picked up Donald, and away we went.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Massey Hall. More »

The man beside me didn’t know Gounod’s Faust. He was busy reading the plot synopsis in the program. “Seems quite dense”, he said. I assured him that it wasn’t. “It rips along”, I told him. “Sure fire.”

We’re up in level five of the new Ballet Opera House. Seasons tickets, in the cheap seats. I don’t mind. I’m excited.

Faust isn’t high art. It’s a sex-and-demons melodrama set to crowd-pleaser music, Offenbach without a can-can (but with a terrific waltz). More »

“Maman” is a giant spider made of bronze, a sculpture by Louise Bourgeois. Monumental in scale, she seems weightless, barely touching the earth on the points of her eight segmented legs. She wraps and transforms the space beneath her, enclosing the light, standing against the sky, a delicate silhouette, simultaneously menacing and comforting, threatening destruction, promising transformation, an embodiment of brutish nature, a spinner of delicate artifice. Inhuman, alien, a creature of nightmare, simple, familiar, homely. She is Mother. More »

I’ve seen three productions of Orpheus Descending. The first time, I was a teenager, and I loved it — the lush language, the sharply drawn mythic characters, the charismatic folksinger in the snakeskin jacket, the passionate Italian woman brought back to life, the apocalyptic ending. Great stuff. I fell in love with the rhythm of Williams’ language, the repetitions, the assonance. Is it out of fashion? So is Mendelsohn. More »

Around the corner from where we live on Portland Street is the Available Light Gallery (506 Adelaide St. W), run by our good friend Rupen. It’s a storefront. Rupen lives in the house behind. He changes the shows once a month, inviting artists to create installations. Rupen is an artist, and has lots of artist friends, so the shows have been excellent. There’s nothing to buy. You can’t go in. You just look at the displays in the windows. When the show is over, the work is dismantled and gone.

Rupen is not only an artist, but a finish carpenter. (That’s “finish” not “Finish”. He’s Armenian.) More »