Beauty

More than a decade ago, a friend (John Brooks, for those who will recognize the name) invited me to join him as he visited a friend, an artist, at the artist's studio/apartment.

As we were leaving I noticed a large and remarkable painting on the wall. I didn't own any fine art at the time and surprised myself by asking, with some fervour, if the artist might sell the painting. The answer was no. A couple of weeks later I ran into the artist at a party and revisited the painting and its availability and he said he'd sell it and named a price. I went to the bank about a loan (although the painting wasn't THAT expensive, I was relatively poor and short of any real credit limits) but in the end, for reasons I still don't understand (but surely it was about going into debt), I then informed the artist I wouldn't be buying the work.

In all the time that has passed since then I have thought of that painting with great frequency; regretted not buying it.

Recently the artist (Gerard Gauci) has been featured in an exhibit in the city as a result of his holding the day job of set designer for Opera Atelier. As a result of that exhibit I discoverd what Gallery represents Mr. Gauci, called the gallery, recounted my story with the painting so many years ago, wondered if the painting was still available and if so, at what price?

The gallery owner said he was aware of the painting, but doubted very much it was for sale. However, to the gallery's surpise, the artist agreed to part with the work. Hooray! EXCEPT, the new, current price is SIX times the price I had been quoted way back in the early '90s. Minus a sugar daddy appearing soon, I don't have that kind of cash.

The painting that got away. Last I saw it the work was hanging in the gallery where it was perched so I could take some pictures. I guess it'll be going back to where it was hanging before I called to disturb it.

Titled "St. Michael," the painting is oil on board (plus, note the spectacular gold leaf on the background); the frame is made and painted by the artist. 39x42 inches (if I remember correctly).

Enjoy, and know this work is much much more spectacular in its textures and colours, in person. Part of my awe with the work is that it has such a hold on me yet is utterly free of irony or darkness. It is just beauty, both in craftsmanship and artistic expression.

I Think My Rant is Broken

So, four Canadian soldiers die in Afghanistan (the fact they're Canadian only gives the mess more context, political, at least, in my life, 'cause lots of other nationalities are dying and that pisses me off too).

A 15 year old boy is hacked to death with a garden hoe by his uncle in Kenya 'cause the kid has AIDS.

The price of gas is sky high even absent a hurricane to blame.

I did my 2004 taxes and owe hundreds more dollars to the state.

That's just a sampling of the week past and yet I've been unable to slobber snot out of my nose in anger in a blogged rant about any of it.

Oh, and the magnesium levels in my reef aquarium have fallen below 1000 mg/L and STILL no need to blather on angrily on my blog.

Yup, my rant is broken.

Spring Has Spung-ed

With all this light and warmth, even a curmudgeonly old and bitt...,er, disdainful bastard like me can't help but feel buoyed by winter's being left behind (even if we just had the winter that never was).

The trees are in bud and that means lunch away from the bird feeder for many -- snapped this wee fellow (gal?) just down the street from my building.

Happy Spring!

PS -- I fully expect a snowfall before May arrives.

Aquarium Blow Job?

I'm home from work today with a fever, and was sitting near-to-coma staring into my reef aquarium when I noticed one of the snails (Astrea sp.) releasing gametes (ah, cumming)into the water. The snails look like they're on fire with a plume of white smoke coming out of them when they're, ah, releasing gametes.

What was particularly interesting was that one of the fish (Chromis viridis -- mostly boring but neon-green/blue and very active, schooling fishies) was hovering just off starboard of the snail inhaling the smoke stream of snail splooge. Clearly this is a fish that swallows.

The fish pictured here had nothing to do with the spunk inhaling today, although as the gametes spread out in the tank all inhabitants enjoyed the, er, tasty treat.

The fishies in the pic are commonly called Bengali Cardinals (Pterapogon kauderni). Big risk buying two as one hopes one gets a mated pair, otherwise same sex coupling leads to death and singledom. Dad carries the eggs in his mouth and when the fry hatch he spits them out into the cruel world, where, again, all my fish enjoy a live food treat. I've seen the male "pregnant" (mouth gets very very swollen) but never seen him "give birth." The young will never survive without the happy couple being moved to a pregnancy tank, and I ain't in the business of raising baby Bengalis!

My aquarium is back on the road to recovery. An unknown disease or unseen parasite wiped out most all my beautiful stoney corals (two brain corals, a sun coral and a soft coral called mushroom, survived). Water quality is not to blame as all fish, invertebrates (even sea squirts and sponges) have continued to do well. I also had an outbreak of an all but impossible to harvest by hand macro algae which covered the tank in what looked like wet, shaggy RED cotton batton. After a search and many tries with various "natural controls", five large pacific giant turbo snails (Turbo sp.) have all but eliminated the stuff in a couple of weeks.

Soon, I'll acquire a new stony coral and, well, test the waters.

Nemo says hello.

Out of the Blue (Box)

He Who Lives Here Now is celebrating his birthday today -- there are fruit flies older, but I'll let him share his age if he wants.

The birthday brought a visit from the store with the blue box.





Happy Birthday "Hughey!"

Food Court

I have a handful of eating experiences in my life that stand out, such as the turtle soup in New Orleans which the waiter had me try before and after he poured in a goodly dollup of fine cognac over a spoon, cascading the booze into the soup ("so it will breath, ah!" he said) -- the soup was stunning before the cognac and mystical after its being added; or the aged, black-angus beef steak I had while on a date with a woman (turns out I'm a vegetarian, which is okay as the woman turned out to be a lesbian) at The Senator Dining Room in Toronto--that steak seemingly had no fibre, it melted as might whipped cream on my tongue.

Who knew I would add eating in a food court to my list of never-forget eating experiences, but that's the case today.

The firm I work for has a named tower in the TD Centre office tower complex, and while the TD Centre is the very geographical and metaphorical heart of Toronto's financial district, and designed by famed architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, the food court is still, well a food court, complete with the standard Japanese and Chinse fast food, the token Greek take out, a Tim's, a MacDonalds and the rest of the cast of food court franchises. There have been exceptions lately with a high-end burger place and a designer salad place, and froo-froo coffee place with an Italian name.

About a month ago one of THE Montreal chefs and restaurant developers opened a "sandwich shop" in the foodcourt -- MBCo. (Montreal Boulangerier Co.) The joint really is about fine, fine dining in a food court setting. A license to sell wine has been applied for. I've eaten there 4 times. First time was a small veggie pizza which was beyond just good, the nearly overly ample amount of oil soaked into the dough crust so precisely measured and flavoured as to erase the guilt of eating it. Later I had two sandwiches, both vegetarian and remarkable enough to mention/recommend the place to people despite the $10 tag for lunch (not including a drink or side).

Ah, and then there was today. I had the roasted salmon sandwich on some sort of very dark bread (they make their own breads) and it was just among the very best food I've ever eaten. It was, as such utopian and rare experiences with food are, nearly surreal. Like one suddenly discovers a sense called taste. It was so many many tastes combined into one, individual tastes elusive in order to service the collective, everything in the sandwich (right down to the watercress sprigs springled on top) working so well together in a culinary harmony.

I made a point of telling the owner of the place -- a giant of an Italian man, who wears button up sweaters like a grandmother and aggressively imposes customer service (today he told someone who was eating in, "I want you to sit down so I can bring you your sandwich, please. go, go!" then he followed the customer to the table and delivered the food, on, I'll point out, a china plate -- and he mumbled about how there was no mayo in my sandwich (a flavoured version was on the side for those so inclined) and the salmon is roasted fresh, not canned, before bellowing that my compliment had won me a free lunch the next time he sees me. I truly feel like refusing as it somehow might sully the compliment. The food WAS that good.

Don't worry, I'll take the free lunch.

Cream

A couple of decades ago, having lunch in Canada's first MacDonald's restaurant (in Calgary), I sat at a table near to a quite elderly couple. Some years ago, especially, I used to note that older people seemed awkward eating fast food, as if the rules of eating they were accustomed to didn't fit with Styrofoam boxes (as MacDonald's burgers used to come nestled in) and cardboard envelopes (for fries,) or with ketchup in tiny, sealed, plastic pouches.

Or coffee creamers with peel away lids, meant to be leveraged open with a miniscule tab on the edge of the creamer's paper thin lid.

Because of that awkwardness with junk food and because of profoundly arthritic hands (his and hers), I had been watching the couple in Calgary. They shared some fries and each had coffee, or rather wanted coffee. He struggled at length to get the lids off the coffee cups without washing himself and his wife in hot liquid. And even now my chest flutters and my stomach turns at the sadness of the moment. But it became more upsetting for them as both tried to open the damn creamers, without success. They were both very embarrassed by the impasse, their body language, and their looks to each other, made that most clear.

Despite fearing I would only further worsen the situation, I offered to help: "Those damn creamers," I said. "Would you like some help?" And I then, not quickly, peeled back the lid on four of the little creamer cups, asked how many each wanted and poured them into their cups according to the specific instructions in their answers.

He and she both became apologetic in their embarrassment which I dismissed (for what the hell did they have to be ashamed about? Nothing) with some comment about the world ignoring how our abilities change with time and suggesting that the least the couple was owed (given their age and contributions to society)was to be able to easily get cream into their coffee. She called me "dear."

For whatever reason, I think of that moment often and always with a flick of pain in my chest at how something so mundane, so simple, became an insurmountable, incredibly frustrating obstacle for that couple and their tangled, knotted, cold-face-of-the-mountain cedar--branches hands.

Last night at the gym an old guy and I were the only people in the change room. As I stripped to get ready to head off to the shower I noted that he hadn't moved in the few minutes I’d been getting ready. It was then I realized his pants were only partially up his legs, the waistband under his thighs, where he sat on them; his bare, ample, white-fleshed ass pushed horizontally under his weight, revealing his physical surrender into the buttress of the bench. His head was lowered, dropped into his supporting hands. I hesitated asking him if he was okay (heart attack or exhaustion from working out?) but delayed my shower, pretended to be busy with something so I could keep an eye on him.

Thankfully, in short order he raised his head to height, without assistance from his hands, got his underwear in place, then his pants, and his belt fastened. Each stage took obvious concentration and a bit of exertion, but when finished he gave a bit of a stomp, grabbed his coat and left.

I’ve seen many guys of all ages unable to get up off the locker room bench on occasion – held there by that “can’t lift my arms, nagging question of ‘am I gonna puke,’ I just need to go coma for a moment” feeling of having stressed one’s self into the red zone of exercise exhaustion. That which makes us nearly hurl our diced carrots (vomit) in public makes us stronger…

As an aside, I read this week about research findings which suggest that while older people can’t, in exercise, match the young in terms of strength, speed or muscle-growth rates, the older exert themselves with greater efficiency – in this study’s particular finding’s case, it was found that older people use less oxygen to complete the same physical task undertaken by the younger exerciser.

So, I was glad I didn’t offer the old fellow in the gym assistance, as his moment was actually one of victory – again he’d faced his challenge at the gym and won. Now, perhaps, if only an aging engineer somewhere would more boldly lead the fight to make certain that product design doesn’t keep the old from enjoying a coffee break.