Baby, it’s Cold Outside

Found this mint condition vintage fur coat for $60 at a thrift store today. I wasn’t in the market for one or anything, but thought… looks good, dirt cheap, what the hey! Maybe it’s all that Billie Holiday and old movies I’ve been listening to/watching.

J’ai Perdue la Tête

Mais je suis à sa recherche. Je t’aime.

You Killed the Tooth Fairy

Every time I lost a tooth, the following night I would carefully place it underneath my pillow, right in the very center of the bed so it wouldn’t slip and fall. You told me to do so and you I trusted above all. The following morning, as expected, I would find a bright shiny coin in its place. You told me the Tooth Fairy had placed it there and I believed you.

One afternoon I was playing in your closet when I came across a big black bag hidden at the very back. Out of curiosity I unzipped it. Almost instantly I slapped my hands to my mouth, muffling my scream. There lay the Tooth Fairy, battered and bruised, cold as death. It was at that moment doubt and disappointment had begun to settle in my soul in regards to you. My last milk tooth had been loose for a little over a weak. With all the anger my small body could muster I yanked it out. I went downstairs to show it to you and you seemed pleased. That night I waited and you came. As you reached underneath my pillow I caught your arm and said: “It’s not by killing my heroes that you will become one in my eyes”. I let go of your arm, rolled over and fell asleep.

Quote of the Day

“When Lamb Lost on Mountain, Lamb Make Cry.
Sometime come Mother, Sometime come Wolf.”

Found while wasting precious time on www.mama-tried.com

I Want to be Webbed in Gold and Silver

Two days ago I finally bought an Arielle de Pinto necklace (been wanting one for a while, just never got around to it). When it comes to describing how taken I am with her craft I feel like Woody Allen in the role of Alvy Singer when he tells Annie Hall that love is too weak a word for how he feels… I luuurve Arielle de Pinto’s work. Here’s an interview with the twenty-three year old Canadian designer who happened to study at Concordia!

Adventures in Acupuncture

The experience was indeed relaxing although my peacock seemed to find it rather irritating…

It's ALIVE!!!!!

Montreal Jazz Festival, Day 13 (Finale): Ben Harper and Relentless 7

This concludes the enthralling two-week Jazz Festival for which Montreal is famed. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that this time I was smack-dab in the middle of the hundreds of thousands, but the energy emanating from the crowd on this particular night was more tangible than ever. As for Ben Harper, the pressure was on: would his performance be up to par with all the other extraordinary concerts presented during this very special 30th anniversary edition of the Festival? It most definitely was. During the song “Another Lonely Day”, there was a moment when everyone started singing along in perfect synchronicity as it began to rain. However the rain was as soft as the people’s voices. I even caught myself thinking “What a wonderful city I live in”. Forgive me for my tackiness, but it really was beautiful; I guess you had to be there. Another moving moment was at the beginning of “Fly One Time” as the mass clapped to the beat of the drums in unison. I couldn’t help but wonder how amazing it must be for a performer to look out onto such a well receiving crowd. What a finale it was. I’m already looking forward to next year.

On a side-note, the Tremblant Blues Festival started five days ago, I hope to make it up there before it ends.

Nantes, Jul. 10, 1900

Dear Sir,

I have received your last letter with gratitude. However I cannot help but detect an ever-growing coldness in your words which pains me so. I hope this parcel finds you well, even though you never seem to share with me any of your qualms, which makes me question why I still bother to ask. I am well aware that my last correspondence to you was hardly mild, but it happened to be a mere reflection of the way I have been interpreting you for the last little while. It has been over a month now that I have not seen your face nor have I heard the clearness of your voice resonating within the café. I know it is difficult for you to make your way here, yet the constantly expanding void created in your absence causes me much apprehension. I never asked much from you and I have grown weary of quarrelling. If you could at least send forth a note bearing words of kindness as you have done so once upon a time, I would be forever grateful to you. Do forgive me for my display of emotional weakness. I hope to set eyes on you again before the trees start to go bare.

Je t’embrasse,

Your Lady

Fishing Hooks, Nylon and…

Today people will dub practically anything art. A dog can take a dump on a paper plate and someone will take it, put it under a glass casing and say they’re trying to revolutionize art. Furthermore, it is more and more frequent to come across people to whom you will casually ask “So, what do you do?” and they will reply in a very serious manner “Oh, well I’m an artist”. Very amusing how the term is being thrown around so loosely; reminds me of how teenagers say they love someone after having known the person for about a week.

Now in spite of of all this, I have come across the quite fascinating Claire Morgan who happens to have a first class degree in Sculpture underneath her belt. She specializes in very elaborate sculptural installations, her focal points most often being organic materials; a few have even won awards and special mentions. She is definitely worth a look.

This particular piece entitled “Love Will Tear Us Apart” truly hit home.

Autoportrait

“Je ne veux pas travailler

Je ne veux pas déjeuner

Je veux seulement oublier

Et puis je fume”

-Pink Martini

Montreal Jazz Festival, Day 6: Patrick Watson/Pawa Up First

Sunday morning my eyes were still trying to get accustomed to their surroundings when my phone rang. It was none other then my dear friend Léliane. She wanted to know if I was willing to accompany her and her beloved to the Patrick Watson show that night, considering that I had been spending practically every waking moment at the Jazz Festival since day one. “Who?” I thought to myself. I assured her it was a date; after all, any excuse was a good one for me to make my way over to the agglomeration of Jazz-amateurs, tourists and whatnot, even if I had no clue who I was going to see, which was the case in this particular situation. Once I arrived at the site, I began to question my knowledge of the popular culture. It was almost like the Stevie Wonder concert revisited, with a tad less security. There were literally people of all ages and walks of life present. I could have even sworn I had seen a friend of my grand mother’s. The odds were against us, but Léliane and I were able to find each other. Gerardo, her gentleman of a boyfriend managed to fray a path for us through the dense jungle of people out into a clearing. Amen. I then stepped on my pride and confessed to them I had never heard of this Watson character before. Once again, by their reactions, I felt I needed to perhaps get rid of the metaphorical rock covering my dwelling. The show had started and it was near impossible for me to get a decent shot. It didn’t take long for me to give up, especially since I was feelings extremely claustrophobic at the time.



Overall I must say, the man knows how to put on a good show… and he’s got talent. Anyone who writes a song about “Where The Wild Things Are” (as over-rated as this phenomenon is now becoming thanks to dear old mister Jonze) gets me applauding. His mad fisting of the grand piano at the end of “The Great Escape” was also a pleaser. Not to mention the fact that his drummer was at least seventy years old. Amazing.

Hitting two pigeons with one rock, at midnight I made my way over to the Pawa Up First show at Club Soda. Once again, had never heard of these people before (boy was this ever a Celia you don’t know Jack night). However I must say these guys were possibly situated a bit more in my musical preference zone. They qualify themselves as Experimental Visual Rock and draw a lot of inspiration from film music. All in all, quite interesting. They reminded me of a much much much softer and more mainstream version of Mogwai whom I adore.

Montreal Jazz Festival, Day 5: Bob Walsh

I arrived at the site two hours early and very inappropriately dressed for the sudden climate change: it was cold, very cold, but I tried to derive my thoughts from it. At t-minus forty-five minutes till Bob Walsh’s set, I made my way over to the Loto-Quebec stage. Not long after I arrived, I caught a glimpse of Guy Bélanger getting ready with Bob Walsh and it was as though someone had hit me with a happy stun-gun. For some reason it completely slipped my mind, but I knew Bob and Guy always played together – let’s just say pleasantly surprised would be an understatement.

Walsh has been a major name in Quebec’s Blues scene for over thirty years and through his voice you can feel the seniority that inspires the same kind of respect you’d give a grand father telling a war tale. You just listen to him eyes and ears pealed, not wanting to miss a word, even if you already know the songs he sings by heart. Together, he and Guy Bélanger put on quite the electrifying show. Guy is such a pleasure to watch, every time he gets up on stage, he makes it his own, there’s no overshadowing him. He uses the harmonica in a way you would never imagine feasible and that makes lyrics seem almost redundant. He always playfully engages with the other members of the band creating small fiery duos within a song, whether it’s with the guitarist, pianist or bassist. I will never grow weary of seeing him live. I would also like to mention that the musicians accompanying Mr. Wash and Mr. Bélanger last night were all immaculate.

Not wanting to miss one head bang, I jumped over the security fence for better shots, loving every second.

My personal highlight of the night: getting to speak to Guy in person after the set.

Montreal Jazz Festival, Day 3: Guy Bélanger

I’ve been staring at my screen for a good twenty minutes now trying to figure out how to go about describing last night’s performance. I think I am beginning to finally recover from it. Every time I see this man in concert, I actually get emotional. The way he slaps his harmonica against his lips so passionately while making those funk-inspired vocal sounds that echo through the instrument’s chamber just blows my mind. Especially when he gets really fervent and starts giving the stage floor a real beating with his feet, all to the rhythm of the music, making it vibrate right into my gut. He is, hands down, my favorite harmonica player and I have been following his career, alongside those of Jim Zeller and Carl Tremblay, since the age of twelve.

Last night he was playing at the new venue on Ste-Catherine called L’Astral. Needless to say I had been anticipating this moment for quite some time so I came prepared, Nikon in hand. I managed to seat myself right up against the stage; my view couldn’t have been more ideal. I started taking some test shots to make sure I was using the proper settings and all. Everything was perfect, I was ready. Suddenly, the announcer’s voice comes on requesting that everyone turn off their mobiles, etc, etc… And no cameras or other recording devices allowed. What? Did I hear correctly? I swear I could have shot the man two seats to the right smirking at me. I rested my camera in my lap feeling utterly defeated. Guy and his band came on and opened with a bang (as usual). The lighting was stellar and this was making me antsy because all I could think of was how amazing this would look in photographs. Damn L’Astral I thought to myself. However in mid-concert I couldn’t stay put any longer. I couldn’t let it go, I was so close I could hear them all breathing in between songs. So I crossed my legs, propped up my camera on one knee, turned it on and started snapping away blindly – flash off of course. No one took any notice. I felt like the Frankie Wilde of photography.

Turns out eyes weren’t really that necessary.

Montreal Jazz Festival, Day 2: Jim Zeller & Carl Tremblay

First and foremost I’d like to mention that I have seen harmonica-gods Jim Zeller and Carl Tremblay every summer since 1999. I’ll always remember my first time. All I cared for were the Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop when my mother dragged me to the Tremblant Blues Festival at the age of twelve, but that changed very quickly after watching Carl's set. His voice made me weak in the knees back then and still does today. Not to mention the hot-blooded one on one harmonica battles he always has with Mr. Zeller. That night was just the beginning of what would become my life-long love affair with the Blues.





As I expected, tonight’s show was perfect. Yes, they may have aged a little over the years, but they still have that sway in their hips that makes me smile and gives me fever.

On another note, I’m finally doing what I love… and it feels great.