More TTC Subway sketches
Wed, Feb 21 2018 02:14
The latest TTC Subway crop: the first one on 6"x9" tan paper (pen is unforgiving, and the cross-hatching on her left cheek isn't quite right, but, hey, just a transit drawing); the latter two on 3½"x5½" cream paper. I do like working in the small book - more discreet. Disclaimer: These resemble the folks who inspired them but are not accurate renderings since either they got off the train or I did before I was finished the drawing and so relied on memory.
Later: It looks like I forgot to upload a couple more transit sketches.
The last page shown here is what happened when, unknown to me, I used water on one of the sketches... it soaked through with the ink and ruined a few pages back. So I did a few more sketches in the Strathmore toned grey, and then bought a new sketchbook, and another smaller one.
Saturday Morning Pet Sketches
Sat, Feb 17 2018 02:48
Saturday morning sketches with a rather crude ink pen that resisted the Strathmore 80lb drawing paper, and required digging the nib in, and losing finesse of line. Drawing with it is like hacking away at the paper. But my babies don't mind, and they sweetly slept.
And this little charcoal sketch of Aria, maybe Jan 2018. It's black and white charcoal only. She moved before I drew the back of her head, and so that is a bit awkward.
Charcoal is much easier, for sure. Just not sure it is the look I am after.
Happy Lupercalia! Uh, Valentines!
Wed, Feb 14 2018 11:12
So St Valentine, who was potentially one of three martyrs, was beheaded. How did he become a patron saint of love? All three men lived during the 3rd century: two lived in Italy, Saint Valentine of Rome and Saint Valentine of Terni, while the third resided in a Roman province in North Africa. It doesn't matter which one we celebrate since the festival the Christian Valentine's appropriated was the Roman feast Lupercalia, a pagan fertility festival. In one of the rites, naked men raced wearing goat skins while women stood at various places along the course. Children, along the route of naked men racing from wolves in their goat skins, would choose to pair couples, who had to live together and be intimate for a year afterwards. Blame Chaucer and Shakespeare for the romanticization of Valentines, and American commercialism for the sugar-sweet cutesy heart cards with little Valentines and their arrows. Lupercalia reigns, and don't forget! Be wolves today.
Review of Heather Babcock's 'Of Being Underground and Moving Backwards'
Tue, Jan 30 2018 01:07
Of Being Underground and Moving Backwards, a collection of short stories by Heather Babcock, is a searingly beautiful read. She writes with dark, piercing poetry of the undersides of the life of those who precariously live on the edges of the working class. Many of the women are hookers, from a mermaid whose first trick finds her sleeping with a drowning man who has tested positive, to an office cleaner in a high tower who travels the subway naked under her coat looking for men to tantalize.
"Wilbur was underwater now - a graceful Sea lion - the noise surrounding him having gone white.
A Plasticine-blue woman smiled at Wilbur from across the bar - except that she wasn't really a woman at all, but rather a mermaid. A shiny and beautiful mermaid: smiling only for him." (Half Off, 6)
The erotic body figures in each story, but its beauty, its soft fluids and skin, is stained with ironies, with an unwanted pregnancy that we learn of as a male character dreams of a pregnant cat under his bed who is starving, or a mother whose thin dress reveals her pubic triangle and who garners cat calls from the boys in the mall. Perhaps at the deepest centre of these stories is a grandfather who loved his granddaughter too much and her suicide is an unfathomable loss that echoes as the narrator lays sunflowers on both of their graves while she pisses on his.
"I placed one of the sunflowers beside my grandfather's grave. Maybe Pumpkin had killed herself because she couldn't bring herself to hate him and she couldn't live loving him. My mother was still standing in front of Pumpkin's grave, her back to me. Quietly, I removed my jeans and hiked up my nightgown. Holding on to his headstone for balance, I urinated over my grandfather's grave." (Of Being Underground and Moving Backwards, 26)
The stories in Underground and Moving Backwards express the unfairnesses of the hard-working working class, at all points it is a social commentary on our unequal society. In the various characters there is loneliness that is somewhat assuaged in the strangeness of slick sexual moments, a carnality without depth. And we find in other stories the pain of the loss of loved ones. This whole world, its delicate and strangely limned or hovering quality, is expressed with a gentle sympathy in astute, crafted prose that is a poetry.
"A large table falls from the ceiling and our host calls us to dinner." (Wind Pudding and Wagon Tracks, 38) "...the strangers she opened her body to, the men whose love was too nervous to dive past the surface of Betty's ocean." (The Trees Turned to Glass, 27) "Her mouth looks like a wet strawberry but when I kiss her it tastes more metallic than sweet." (The Dancing Bear, 15) "He died because he thought our glass window was the world." (Break, 1)
These stories are beautifully written, their jarring images vivid. The paradoxical and hard core of each story is implied, never told. I can see why many of them were published. Babcock is are a master of this form of short story, blunt, poetic, use of inference - if I may slip into metaphor, roots drugged and dredged with carnal, fertile, polluted earth and yet full of the light of dandelions about to blow away. The emotional textures that emerge from reading the tales are complex, nuanced, not easily defined. Babcock's stories are piercing and yet always tender, gentle, honouring the subjects, full of sympathy for the plight of their strange lives.
"Christina always ate half a jar of peanut butter for breakfast. Weeks ago, in the same newspaper, she had read an article about the unhealthy eating habits of the city's poor." (Half Off, 3) "Betty sighed, filling the bowl with harsh smelling disinfectant before plunging her latex gloved hands in to clean up the mess." (The Trees Turned to Glass, 27) "People watched me sometimes from the outside; their mouths pressed up against the windows like gaping fish." (Of Being Underground and Moving Backwards, 23)
Like the ribbons in corsets, Babcock's stories are tied together with dark narratives, are told through emergences of sharp, strange moments, connections that carry a reflective hallucinated quality, a touching without touching, the whole implied and shown without ever being told. They are written with poetic precision in tightly honed images. There is no excess in this book. I've read it twice and can vouch that Heather Babcock is a brilliant writer and keep her on your list. She's going to be a well known author one day.
This collection, a chapbook published by DevilHouse Press in 2015, is sold out. If you find a copy, keep it like a rare jewel.
Fugue in Green Jan 2018 Readings
Wed, Jan 24 2018 05:13
GIFs from performance poems in Tidal Fury
Sun, Jan 7 2018 11:03
Chthonic - "I can't stop dancing."
Dance of the Sarong - "I dance a life's struggles."
from the Medusa suite
Some GIFs from my performance of poems from my book, Tidal Fury, 6 Jan 2018 at Linda Stitt's Words and Music Salon at the Tranzac Club in Toronto. Thank you to John Oughton for snapping 'live photos' on my iPhone, which I edited and was able to turn into the weird things you see here.
Sorry for the visual overload! They probably won't all load properly on the page - look at each of them in the lightbox by clicking on the first one, that's best. I'd like to collect them in one place.
If you'd like to buy Tidal Fury, click on the image in the footer, which will take you to a page of booksellers, and quotes from reviews, or here.
The performed poems are, in order, Chthonic, Dance of the Sarong, and a Medusa suite (including Medusa slugging beer!). That final GIF is quite strange, almost a visitation of fairy dust, except, it being Medusa's headdress, these would be snakes. Creepy thought! Enjoy!
Fugue in Green at Indigo Books
Fri, Jan 5 2018 09:08
Somehow, it's official when you see it in a bookstore. Fugue in Green, my new novella, at Indigo Bay Bloor! Tomorrow, I will read from it and have some copies for sale too. Come out to Linda Stitt's Words and Music Salon, 12:30-3:30pm, Tranzac Club, Bloor and Brunswick, where I am a feature poet, along with a great line-up, Charlene Jones, Glen Gary, John Charles Daly and Sam Sudar-Singh. The Facebook Event Page is here: https://www.facebook.com/events/1771706859789879/
Unwrapping First Copies of Fugue in Green!
Wed, Dec 13 2017 01:11
direct link: Unwrapping First Copies of Fugue in Green!
The first copies of Fugue in Green arrived from Quattro Books today! Guess who helped me open the box! My little darlings! They were so sweet I had to grab my iPhone and video. As you can see, they found the box, rather than the books, of greatest interest.
The Quattro Launch is Wednesday, January 31, 2018, at The Garrison, 1197 Dundas St W, Toronto (Dundas St W, just west of Ossington Ave), 7 pm start time. I am considering doing another launch with another author later on, since the Quattro launch is for eight books and will be packed.
How to Deal With A Block: Never Mind, Draw!
Wed, Dec 6 2017 12:17
Everything within me has fled since my brother's death, or this is what I think. So how do you work through a block. You draw. Never mind what anybody else might think. Draw because your life depends on it. These are mostly (but not always) extremely short subway drawings, sometimes from one stop to another.
Photos of Bloor St in Toronto tonight
Sat, Dec 2 2017 09:19
Bloor Street in Toronto tonight, and not where'd you think. They are snapshots of the same scene. These images are practically painted with the way that I do them. I'm not an abstract artist, and no desire to go that direction, but it's fun to take the realism of the photograph and push it, and push it, into an abstraction of the scene which it so faithfully rendered in the photostream. Something scantily scandalous about this.