The Opera Queen

So wrote Oscar Wilde. It seems fitting, the day after Halloween 2009, to think about this quote. Were the ghouls, goblins, and dead Vegas girls running up porches, ringing doorbells, and dancing at parties really make-believe? Or do they reveal something deeper about the wearers? Maybe masks are, to paraphrase Wilde, the truth that dares not speak its name.

I’ve thought about the lines that run between, around, and through notions of play, theatre, past, present, and art a lot lately. As a woman in the twenty-first century, my sense of identity should be more fluid than ever, and yet female image -iconography -feels constricted, claustrophobic, and shrunken. The Irish great may have been using “man” in a general sense, but in considering some recently portrayals of women, I’m coming to believe the masks being presented depend entirely on who is is providing the costuming.

Pop star Lady Gaga has provided no end of interest or amusement for the media-hungry masses. Body stockings, planetary rings, masks -Stefani Germanotta is, in many senses, creating her own personal mythology and wider social iconography in a weirdly similar way to her predecessor, Madonna, who did the same thing over two decades ago. Gaga’s mum may have christened her ambitious daughter with a similarly funny-sad/flaky-weighty nickname, but both have earned their wider social royalty; the latter is making it abundantly clear she never needed a counterpart Lord to have her own title. The clash between the perceived upper echelon of societal position and the Dadaist impulse of giving nonsense names is what Stephanie seems to be aiming at. Maybe. Similarly so Madge, who replaced the outdated, insincere societal version of holiness (and the saintly female icon image) nearly thirty years ago with her own brand of melted-down, rough-soft Pop Culture Femme-Prayer. ‘You may adore me,’ her mask implies, ‘but you will never really know me.’

And so we haven’t, even with babies, charity work, divorce. Madonna is shrewd enough to know that pop culture doesn’t care about the deeply personal, that there’s power in the unknowable. Gaga knows it too. Her hit song “Poker Face” celebrates the power of sexual power at the same time as it shakes hands with Mr. Invisible. Bearing in mind the rough sexual allusions, there’s much to be said for the benefits of maintaining a “pokerface” -it is, after all, another mask. Did we hear Madge respond to ex-husband Guy Ritchie’s inane “gristle” comment with any real growl herself? Maintaining the mask at all costs -even in the face of classless accusations related to pat intimacies -seems to be a necessity for the modern woman.

Cindy Sherman has made a career out of donning masks. Within the California girl, the secretary, the socialite, and the sad clown lives an awe-inspiring range of emotion and experience. This isn’t just about using ingenious costuming, makeup, and photography to capture a “look” -Sherman’s work goes one step further than fashion, turning the “look” into a wider storyline that is frequently disturbing, unnerving, and strangely… real. It’s within the artifice that she finds a kind of truth that speaks to our perceptions around women and their relationships to image. Sherman doesn’t just put something out there to be merely provocative -that’s easy -but to ask questions around ideas of beauty, value, and the hypocritical politics of chauvinistic “inclusion.” She does it in a way that in some ways reminds me of Madge around her Sex book days -willful, angry, daring, fearless, celebratory and challenging.

Seeing Sherman profiled recently on Art 21 (on an episode cleverly titled “Transformation”), I was reminded of something a fellow journalist had written about getting the pop culture we deserve. Publicists and managers now, more than ever, sculpt those in the public eye to be utterly envied, relentless talked about (in good or bad terms), and mercilessly duplicated. How much does someone like Lady Gaga actually control what goes out there? How little? The internet age of music and information consumption has meant that the concept of ‘instantaneous’ has been elevated to an artform. Only yesterday the Globe and Mail featured Halloween costumes that could easily transform you into someone famous. On the cover? Lady Gaga. Duh. Old idea; new ethos. What she is -and I’m still working it out -is somehow far less than what she represents: the colourful, noisy, thighs-splayed busting-open of a modern female identity that is merely an implosion in an old, dirty box marked “hawtness.” In their staged SNL catfight, the first thing Madge grabbed, and kept trying to pull off, was Gaga’s white-blonde wig. Through that small gesture of playful comedy, something whispered, “redefinition, reset, revolution… but only if I’m pulling the strings.” Maybe, as a woman in the twenty-first century, that’s both the beginning, and the end, of escaping that dirty little box, while keeping a poker face firmly, squarely, and sadly, in place.

It’s Up To You…

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 21, 2009

In art

The Guggenheim celebrated its 50th anniversary yesterday by offering free admission to all visitors.

The online world got in the spirit, with “#Gugg50” hashtags popping up on related tweets; the physical world celebrated too, with the Empire State being bathed in red to celebrate this most beautiful of cultural anniversaries. For fifty years, the Guggenheim has contributed to the international dialogue on art, culture, life, and the connections therein. It’s inspired millions, and confused just about as many too. Over on my Facebook wall, there’s a comment beneath the link of the Guggenheim news story reminding those who weren’t aware (me) that Saturday evenings are pay-what-you-can at the Gugg; the poster has also added that he didn’t think the museum was “worth” the $18 admission price. No, I wanted to respond, because what’s in there is priceless.

Just like religion, we want a revelation from culture -a lightning bolt of genius, a flash of pizazz, something to wake us up and give us a knock in the knickers. At the same time, however, there’s a push-pull between the known and the known; we’re hungering after a purely transcendental experience, but in so doing, we don’t want to be confronted with things we don’t understand -things that might be bigger, wider, stronger and more formless than we’re comfortable with. We want culture to conform to our very individualized, and very personal, notions around art. But this isn’t what culture is about -sometimes it takes patience, persistence, and a change in perception to really see the value of something -and to recognize what’s priceless to us may be worthless to another, or, more frequently, vice-versa.

HERB & DOROTHY Trailer from Herb & Dorothy on Vimeo.

I was reminded of this watching Herb and Dorothy on PBS recently. The documentary, done via Independent Lens, is a fascinating look at Herb and Dorothy Vogel, two unassuming New Yorkers who wound up amassing one of the most important collections of modern art in history. Some of the pieces they collected were indeed, quite unusual. The documentary includes a hilarious old clip from 60 Minutes, featuring a befuddled Mike Wallace staring at one work (by Richard Tuttle), and exclaiming, in exaggeratedly serious-journo tones, “But it’s a piece of rope…” Dorothy and Herb patiently, excitedly, explain their love of the work -they’re not patronizing, but equally they’re unapologetic in their passion. They don’t justify why they love the work, or why they amassed so much of what many might consider to be idiotic, meaningless canvases filled with blobs, streaks, scribbles, or indeed, nothing at all. They love what they love, and for them, art doesn’t have a worth past their own personal experience; it, and their passion, requires no justification to anyone. That, to me, mirrors the spiritual experience versus the religious one; it’s what Karen Armstrong is on about in her new work, and it’s something many thinkers (and artists) through the ages have sought to grasp, even as it slips away: a vast, bigger-than-us unknowability that requires neither justification nor classification, only acceptance. The intersection between the profound and the profane is fine; the one between art and religion even finer. We hate accepting what we can’t understand, and we hate ascribing value to something we deem has none.

It was through their massive, near-obsessive collecting that the Vogels not only experienced and participated in a truly gargantuate cultural moment (however accidentally), they also formed meaningful relationships with the artists they bought from. This connectivity enlivens the collection, and indeed, changes our perception of it. The canvases, installations, and all else becomes a living body of relating and sharing; just as “the word is God,” so is, it would appear, whole collections that express cultural moments and impulses. Their value is past our reckoning. It’s perhaps for this reason that The Vogels eventually gave much of their work away. Yes, gave. They didn’t (don’t) believe in profiting from what they love, and wouldn’t take money for their own personal experiences with both the art and the person who made it. Worthless? Priceless? Go to the National Gallery and find out for yourself. And while you’re at it, start engaging -with dancers, singers, poets, painters, writers, performers -the ones whose work you don’t understand or may not even like. Start thinking. Start asking. And, to quote a past post of mine, start embracing the questions. The next time you’re at the Gugg (Saturday night or otherwise) remember those questions, and thank God you -and they -are there.

The Nightingale: Fluttering Simplicity

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 19, 2009

In opera

Igor Stravinsky has never endeared those who crave traditional melodic lines. His music is raucous, rough, and challenging –not the kind of thing you can hum or whistle to.

So it was with a mix of trepidation and curiosity that I took my traditional-opera-loving mum to see the new production of his 1908 opera The Nightingale, an adaptation of the Hans Christian Andersen fable. She’s always thought of Stravinsky as “weird” (you might too, if your favourite music is grand Italian opera) and I know she was never a fan of the Russian’s challenging, difficult, definitely non-hummable music. His infamous statement, that “music is, by its very nature, essentially powerless to express anything at all,” has been assessed and analyzed, criticized and derided, and yet I suspect he may’ve been onto the same kinds of thing as Marcel Duchamp, or even later, Brian Eno. Stravinsky’s work isn’t about making you feel comfortable, and indeed, that isn’t the point of what I’d consider good art. Spoon-feeding is atrocious; it takes a keen director, respectful of the material but strong in their own sense of individualism and craft to bring a vision that might express something through the myriad of sounds and effects Stravinsky laid throughout his scores.

Enter Robert Lepage. The Nightingale marks his return to the Canadian Opera Company after a sixteen-year absence. Just as he brought a bold, striking vision to the 1993 production of Bluebeard’s Castle and Erwartung so he brings a playful, if equally visionary sense to this latest work. Stravinsky was the musical revolutionary of his time; LePage is his contemporary theatrical equivalent. Neither artist has ever taken the safe road with regards to their respective arts, so it came as no surprise when it was announced last year that the Quebec born, multi-award-winning theatre director would be filling the orchestra pit of The Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts with 67,000 litres of water as part of his vision for the piece. That’s a whole lotta water, and people like my mother (a longtime COC subscriber) wondered if it was also a whole lotta waste-of-time.

But the idea -in its audacity, grandeur, and sheer weirdness -intrigued her, and I would imagine, many of those in attendance at Saturday’s opening. Opera is meant to be big and bold and ballsy; there’s no such thing as subtle opera in the larger scheme of things. The adjective “grand” is attached to opera (or at least some styles) for a reason, and it’s always this sense of “the big” that pervades popular notions around the artform. I’ve sat through more than one production of Aida that featured live animals, including elephants, horses, and even -once -a zebra. So why not fill up the orchestra pit? Why not have puppets? Why not embrace the grand-opera mystique and majesty?

But even majesty is best used when it’s done with simplicity, class, and most of all, awareness. To be big just for the sake of it smacks of narcissism; to go large without an overriding artistic idea feels simplistic. And the line between “simple” and “simplistic” is fine but it’s important. Too often in the arts world -of high culture and low culture equally -the “large” aspect is blindly presented and unquestioningly embraced. Lepage doesn’t offer any solutions for this modern artistic conundrum but he does have the visionary mindset to look behind and around him for clues as to how to solve it. In the program notes, he offers his theory theatre’s origins: “Man was sitting around a bonfire in a cave telling stories and one day he stood up and used his shadow to illustrate his tale. Theatre was born using nothing more than light and imagination.” It’s this sense of childlike play that the director transfers onto the complex musicality of Stravinsky, making for a unique opera-going experience that both pays homage to the roots (or suspected roots) of theatrical performance, and opens the door to a new way of seeing an old, frequently-stodgy artform. In other words, he reinvents the way we perceive opera and its relevance to theatre, performance, and music itself. he also make it personal, by injecting elements many of us recognize from childhood. They’re simple elements, but not simplistic. Lepage trusts and respects his audience -their capacity for creation, imagination, comprehension and invention -and this abiding love of humanity shines through every aspect of the production. Clever, creative use of light, shadow, water, and the human form tease out the the complexities of Stravinsky’s work, revealing its inherent playfulness and its gentle parody of the foibles and follies of human nature.

In so doing, the composer’s seemingly-barren, cold modern music is infused with a new richness. In The Fox, a Russian folk tale based on Russian Folk Tales by the writer Aleksandr Afanasyev, he creates a world where we see folk tales being literally shared -told, re-told, re-interpreted and recycled -with choruses of singers dressed in traditional Russian garb standing on side platforms. Fables about wily foxes, proud roosters, crying babies, and curious cats are shared, expressed, and laughed over. Another layer of theatre is literally grafted on top of this via a large, cinematically-shaped screen running the length of the stage, over top of the orchestra. Using shadows made by hands and later bodies (thanks to puppeteers), we see a cat’s tail swishing about, a rabbit’s eyes dancing to and fro, a rooster guarding his hens; each movement matches and accentuates elements in Stravinsky’s score. Here is a whole new way of experiencing the Russian composer -as well as the operatic form itself : as mischievous, theatrical, imaginative, perhaps even fun. Opera? Fun? Hell yeah. Even my mother said as much at intermission.

For The Nightingale, Lepage has taken Andersen’s fable about the golden-throated bird and the Chinese Emperor who covets her and turned it into a magical metaphor about the relationship of man and nature. As the singers control their puppets, with the aid of five talented puppeteers, I couldn’t help but notice the near-identical dress between the performers and their doll-like counterparts. Puppet designer Michael Curry has fashioned a series of creations that gorgeously complement their human counterparts in both appearance, and, thanks to choreographer Martin Genest, movement. Each puppet is like a child, with a larger grown-up version of itself controlling, manipulating, sounding, and speaking for it. It reminded me a bit of when my own mother would take me to the opera when I was very young, in fact. There was something sentimental and touching about the way each singer cradled and carefully controlled their smaller, ornately-dressed selves.

With lights from the orchestra musician’s music stands reflected in the water, I found myself musing, amidst the swirling raucousness of the music: art is reflected in nature; nature shows art what is truly is; nature reflects but has its own qualities one can’t totally control -and that is a good way of approaching (if not describing) the best sort of art. All this, from filling up an orchestra pit, though the genius was in the design. The reflections (intensified at the opera’s end by Diwali-eque floating candles) were not incidental; Etienne Boucher‘s specific, focused lighting strongly recalled the work of Bill Viola, with all of its spiritual, simple-meets-challenging aspects, encompassed within a live performance presentation.

The Nightingale involves so much more than mere, simplistic effect; it is a wonderous, child-like vision of an eternal dance between the natural world and the constructed one. Via the shadowplay of the first half, and the waterplay/puppeteering of the second, we’re reminded again and again to re-connect with our own playful instincts –ones, it must be said, that are as ancient as those first stories he refers to in the notes. Sometimes it’s via the most unexpected and challenging means that we come to find our own common humanity, and come to recognize our own nightingale, singing, flying, just waiting to be heard.

As to my mum? She’s still not a Stravinsky fan. But she adores Lepage. Bien sur.

Slow / Now

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 16, 2009

In opera

A current, entirely-wonderful program at New York’s Museum of Modern Art takes the basic ideas of slow food and applies them to art. “Could you spend one hour looking at just one painting?” its Twitter feed asks. Actually, yes. I have done, and it’s an intensely enjoyable experience.

When I lived in London, I used to go to the National Portrait Gallery on my lunch breaks and visit the beautiful series of poet portraits that hung in the Romantics section. I recall a good forty-five minutes vanishing as I’d sit gazing at Byron, Shelley, and Blake.

Later when I moved back to Toronto, I’d take advantage of the Art Gallery of Ontario‘s free Wednesday evenings (it was and remains a bit of a shock to me to pay admission, so utterly spoiled was I by London’s free galleries and museums). I would go directly to the small but lovely collection of Monet paintings, where I would sit and gaze silently, worshipping shape, colour, texture, the magic of the rich, gooey shades changing form and implication with my own positioning, the gallery’s lighting, and even how many people were or were not crowding around the painting with me. I loved spending this slow, meditative time with art. I don’t do it enough anymore. There’s always another event to get to, another work to see. My leaning toward Pop and abstract art, with its sometimes-bouncy, breezy energies and kinetic shapes and sparky ideas, frequently mocks and milks the ‘faster-stronger-higher’ ethos of contemporary society, but such works demand equal amounts of care, contemplation, and stillness.

It’s hard for me to say if one form of art or era lends itself better than another to slow art, or if it should. I’m sure it’s personal. But in this world of instant gratification and simple solutions, it’s nice to find the slow-down-and-smell-the-flowers ethos being applied to so many facets of culture. I’m reminded of a line I heard in a production of Sholom Aleichem: Laughter Through Tears, on now in Toronto. Sholom Aleichem (real name Sholom Yakov Rabinovitz) was a Yiddish writer from Eastern Europe who wrote numerous stories focusing on the day-to-day live of his fellow Jews in the late 19th century. From these tales sprang the beloved character of Tevye the Milkman who populates many of Aleichem’s stories, and is the protective father in Fiddler on the Roof; it’s no irony that Theodore Bikel, who has played Tevye thousands of times, is performing as Aleichem. The production is a slow if loving meditation on the nature of writing, and performing, taking into account the importance of culture, community, and family. Aleichem comes from a world where concepts of “instant” and “faster” are unknown; things are steeped and brewed in the long, slow-moving stream of cultural lore long before they fully ripen. The line, delivered towards the end of the show, invites us to embrace the idea of accepting “fewer answers in life, and more questions.” How wonderful. And how very exemplary of the Slow Movement.

It’s an old idea, but it still resonates: it isn’t the destination, it’s the footsteps; it isn’t the result, it’s the journey. In trying times, we all want to cling to the familiar, the knowable, the easy and yes, the fast. But these aren’t the things that are going to feed us. Just as deep hunger is not satiated with greasy fast food, our spiritual, emotional, and cultural needs (I’d argue they’re all one in the same) aren’t satisfied with simple answers. And so it behooves us to accept the questions -and perhaps, us exemplifying those questions. The Museum of Modern Art seems to understand this; we’re not only looking, we’re in the process of becoming. Nothing can be more timely, or timeless.

When Culture is Delicious

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 7, 2009

In food

“F*ck Nuit Blanche.”

So said by a good friend of mine, when asked about whether she had partaken of the all-night “art thing” that takes Toronto by storm every autumn. We both smiled. I knew what she meant.

I have to admit, the past years I’ve attended have been wonderful examples of community colliding with curiosity. Everyone is out and about, pointing, looking, chatty, silent, laughing, and having a rambling nice time. Then again, there are also whacks of drunken people stumbling along in bad outfits posing as serious artistes. There’s also dreadful lines. And rampant pretentiousness. And gimmicky aplenty. And as Lynn Crosbie pointed out, there’s also the annoying kid-factor. Eeek.

I didn’t attend this year’s Nuit Blanche. It wasn’t out of any malice so much as the strictures of gut instinct telling me to save my energy. Not only have I been sick more often this year than in any other, but I had what I consider a higher calling: I was attending the Brickworks Picnic the following day. It’s no surprise to followers of this blog that food is a passion for me; it’s also art, and so it follows that I put my arty Nuit Blanche-esque, curious-arty energy into meeting chefs, sampling cuisine, and contemplating flavours, colours, textures and shapes. I wanted to engage in a person-to-person-to-soil-to-mouth-to-person connection -otherwise known as, yes, culture.

The Brickworks Picnic is all about creating awareness of local food issues and linking local food sources with chefs, and, in turn connecting that with consumers, who become, in the process, more involved in the entire symbiotic relationship between production and consumption. Intended as a benefit for Evergreen and Slow Food Toronto, the Picnic boasted an impressive array of beautiful food, gorgeous wines, and curious attendees. With 1300 people, the affair was anything but intimate, and yet, in meeting and shaking hands with such wonderful, talented people as Brad Livergant (of Veritas Local Fare), Ezra Title (of Chez Vous Dining), and Olivia Bolano (of All The Best), I felt an immediate connection with the arts of both cooking and growing.

One of the trends I noticed at the picnic was the theme of Latin and South American-influenced dishes. There were empanadas, tongue dishes, salsas, and beef, all infused with the gorgeous, rich flavours of afar -and yet made with ingredients that were local. How wondrous. Same goes for the many Persian and Middle Eastern nibbles, including yummy stews, spreads, kabobs, and delectable Eastern European treats (including delicate plum dumplings, above, courtesy of Hungarian-born David Kokai of Loic Gourmet -Köszönöm, David!). Again, the incredible richness of my own home province was made clear to me through this magical melange of flavours. The riotous meeting of colour, texture, shape and flavour with each and every station I encountered made for a beautiful, memorable afternoon.

The time at the Brickworks Picnic was even more enhanced by the beverage education I received courtesy of the many wineries on-site for the event. Reps at each were truly friendly and happy to pair dishes being consumed -or ready to be consumed -with their offerings. Owing to a chilly, rainy afternoon, I stuck to warming red selections. My favourites included Malivoire, Rosehall Run, Frogpond Farm, and FlatRock Cellars. After that, I headed over to Merchants of Green Coffee, where I gleefully roasted coffee beans in a metal pan with a lid over a high gas flame (“Think of Jiffy Pop!” I was told). Following a thorough education in the terroir of coffee beans and the proper methods of brewing, I enjoyed a gorgeous, rich cup of the resulting brew. With a syrup-meets-molasses flavour countered by a nice bitter astringency, it was coffee that made Timmy’s look like the Naked Emperor it truly is.

Merchants of Green Coffee was ideally situated between two of my favourite items at the Picnic: Jamie Kennedy‘s scrumptious bean pakoras and Oiko‘s warming, satisfying Orange Pekoe tea. With dampness abounding through the Brickworks’ environs, it was a relief to be afforded (make that saved by) so many cups of gorgeous, delicately-brewed tea, and a few crunchy-soft, flavourful (and deeply satisfying) bean pakoras with either roasted pureed eggplant or tomato raita toppings.

In watching the chefs and producers pack up as the Picnic drew to a close, I was reminded of the incredible work that goes into event such as these, and, in a wider sense, of the awesome work it takes to produce the very things we need to survive. And yet food has become too easy for us. It is something that surrounds us, but we continually take it for granted. The Brickworks Picnic is a magical event for so many reasons, but one stands out in my mind, in retrospect: it balances the connecting, life-giving force of food with the more rooted reality of its centrality to culture. And that culture means growing, producing, sustaining, supporting and educating. It’s not about the quick fix anymore; it’s about the process. It’s not about impressing with a final product; it’s about educating for a more rewarding and sustainable journey. Everyone who took part in the Picnic seemed to have an inherent understanding of these realities.

Nuit Blanche? Whatever. I think I may have found where the real art in Toronto was this weekend. I was so artistically inspired, I went home and… cooked.

A More Intimate Experience

By Catherine Kustanczy

On September 29, 2009

In poetry

I moved from Dublin to London a little over ten years ago. My head was full of poetry, music, art and anxiety. I loved writing and I loved writers. While I have a hard time remembering my last few months in Ireland, one event, driven by this passion, sticks out: seeing Nick Cave twice in one day.

The lanky, deep-voiced Australian artist was in Dublin on the lecture circuit, delivering his treatise on the relationship between creativity, poetry, life, and love. He held an afternoon chat, during which he would occasionally break away to play the odd tune on a grand piano. I recall his stripped-down version of “West County Girl,” with its dramatic, low-roaring ending of “then purrrrrs… AGAIN” sent chills down my spine. He talked about saudade. He talked about owning grief. He talked about Jesus, creation, the Old Testament, the New, an the relationship of art -of writing -to each. Fancying myself a true writer, I was in love with Cave’s dramatic, deeply-felt works, even if I didn’t quite have the life experience to fully understand them. And a writer talking about writing… was manna from heaven. Verging on broke, I took what little I had and bought another ticket for the same talk happening that evening. I filled an entire journal with notes hastily scribbled during his chat, and once I’d run out of ink, I sat, silent and pie-eyed, hoping to someday be half the writer Cave was -and indeed, still is.

Cave has never shied away from showing his writerly streak, in all its flagrant glory. Part of this, for those who know his work, comes from his early exposure to literature courtesy of his English teacher-father, who died when Cave was still quite young. Known for his work with the Bad Seeds, Cave also published And the Ass Saw The Angel (Harper Collins) in 1989, a wildly surreal, violent, bizarre work that was equally potent, poetic, and memorable. He’s always worn his love for the written word proudly on his sleeve. He says (in the clip above) that his work has always been “bursting at the seams with lyrical information” -which is putting it mildly in terms of his own gift with words. As befits a rock and roll guy with a poetic streak, he credits music for giving life to his words, noting there’s “a musical rhythm to the language.” But his heart’s still firmly with those words, just as much as it is with tones, sounds, and rhythms.

The Death Of Bunny Munro (Harper Collins) is Nick Cave’s latest novel. While I’m not the biggest fan of some of his more recent music (Grinderman being the exception), I admit that the novel is deeply intriguing. It’s as if, in embracing his literary side, he’s also embracing the aggressively male side that characterized at least a portion of his work in the 1990s with the Bad Seeds (the stuff I particularly adored then, natch); it’s like Cave is exercising (not exorcising) that still-remnant Bad Seed, the one that’s been at least outwardly tamed by domestic responsibility. He can live in the squalid, dark corners of his imagination through writing, without robbing the his other creative pursuits of their pungency.

I’m really glad to see Cave still writing, and still exploring this important side of his artistry. And I’m glad he’s being honest about it, in traveling through this kind of dark, non-cuddly terrain. Artists worth their salt shouldn’t, by their nature, always release likable, easily-digestible stuff. The artists I happen to love the most, that tend to stay with me longest, often release work that is challenging, thought-provoking, hard -and distinctly non-nice. Record companies may not always like their artists’ extra-curricular creative activities, but… balls, I do, and some of them enjoy doing it, too. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps sanity intact for artist and audience alike.

That doesn’t mean sales don’t matter, though. As if to underline this, Bunny Munro was itself released in three formats: hardcover, audio book, and iPhone application. The audio book version includes a score by Dirty Three member/Bad Seed/scary-lookin’ dude Warren Ellis. The audio book intrigues because you get Cave’s deep voice giving a deeply-dramatic rendering of his own words (I remember in Dublin he called them “children,” which I was chuffed at, referring as I did then to my own work in the exact same way); in addition, you get Ellis’ intuitive musical underscoring, creating an eerie, atmospheric complement. If you have an iPhone, you can partly-read, partly-listen, using the specially-designed app. Who would’ve thought books would be so easy, so multi-faceted, so … octopus-like in reach, scope, presentation and marketing? I don’t buy the whole romantic notion of “simple appeal” even though I do enjoy the sensual appeal of the tangible (I mean hell, I love cooking, right?). I love how technology and tradition have married with The Death Of Bunny Munro, and I love that Nick Cave is so very open to it. He says he wrote the first chapter on his iPhone, and the rest in longhand. And yet he equally admits that sitting down with a book is probably more intimate.

This balance between tradition and technology is really refreshing; its equal embrace by an artist of Cave’s calibre is downright inspiring. I haven’t decided which format I’ll get yet, but I’m leaning at the audio book -if only to hear that dramatic voice reading words rendered by mind, heart, and those long, elegant fingers. I ran into Cave -by accident or some grand intelligent design -several time after I moved from Dublin to London. He was in Toronto recently to read from Bunny Munro and do a raft of interviews as well as a book signing. When I heard his voice on the radio, I smiled. My romantic ideas around writing have totally vanished, but Cave’s respect for his art is a boon to me still. And I can’t wait to be corrupted by Bunny.

Change The Lens

By Catherine Kustanczy

On September 26, 2009

In opera

Along with the cooler temperatures of fall comes new opportunities. My challenges around shifting perspectives, having been helped along by artists, projects, and friends, was underlined this week with two events: attending the opening of the new Nicolas Ruel show at Toronto’s Thompson-Landry Gallery, in the city’s historic Distillery District, on Thursday night, and going to the opening of Secrets of a Black Boy, at another historic location, Toronto’s Danforth Music Hall, lastnight. Each experience afforded me some rich insight into the nature of perception, particularly as it relates to urban landscapes, and to those around us, and how we relate with them.

Ruel works in large-scale photographic works, printing his multi-layered urban landscapes onto smooth stainless steel. To quote the gallery’s website, his most recent work, projet 8 secondes, “depicts urban civilizations captured by the photographer in sustained intervals of eight seconds.” The cities of Shanghai, Tokyo, New York, Paris and Sydney are all explored in images that are both dreamy and hard, ethereal and slick. It’s somewhere in the middle -and the viewer has to find that middle -where the truth of Ruel’s work lies.

This eight-second exposure pause is interesting to me because it collapses conventional notions around perception, time, and the relations we draw between each. Architecture becomes dance; streets become skies. Solidity is rendered extremely fluid, implying our fixed notions of time and space -and our place within each -are merely illusions, that there’s no “fixed” at all, that, even with the hard shiny surface of stainless steel, a myriad of hidden illusions and layers lies just beneath the surface. It takes an adjustment in position -physical, mental, emotional -to see the things that lie concealed in the most surprisingly shallow ways. Such a small shift allows us to view the world around us -ourselves, our relationship with others, including solid structures and forms -in a new, more fluid, all-encompassing way. If you think you’re stuck in one spot, Ruel’s work whispers in a silvery, high-timbred way, think again -step back, step over, turn right, turn left. Small shifts change everything, and underline the fluid, non-linear nature of existence.

I found myself particularly compelled by two works, one of which was shot in London, England, a favourite city I lived in a decade ago. I’m always fascinated by the ways in which artists choose to shoot such a vivid, varied place; each one seems to bring me back to Pepys‘ work as well as Johnson’s famous statement about the British capital, adding miniscule bricks to his stance. Ruel’s work is deceptively simple; it features a window, layerered with subtle shapes. But is that all? No, it looks like there could be the vast environs of a train station defining the piece, giving it scale and context. The piece, “Window,” gives off a smoky, oblique sheen that uses empty space as a dramatic character. Is that smoke? or clouds? is this about terrorism? or daydreaming? or travel? the transitory nature of modern life? of art? of perception? is this simply about resting the brain and not thinking? Is that the right response? Having lived in the city, I had a personal reaction to it -and I think, perhaps, that might be the point. We each carry personal ideas and sometimes experiences around the cities Ruel depicts. He’s asking us to step aside from those notions, however slightly, and look at things in a new way.

The second work I was drawn to, “Midnight Stand,” was shot on a narrow, crowded street in Tokyo, and is impressive for its sheer size (it’s at least six feet across, if not more, and almost as high). The piece has a bustling, busy energy, with the electric light glow of the street dancing against the ghostly top half of a man semi-super-imposed on top, his white-shirted arm floating amidst the cacophony of reds, blues, and greens. This is one of the more colourful pieces in the collection, in that Ruel has allowed a myriad of shades to infuse his work -unlike “Window,” which uses deep blues and greys, its depiction like a paned, smoky-cemented bruise of modern life. The mammoth Tokyo work gave an impression of a city at once colliding with and embracing tradition -melding old and new ways. While this isn’t a new idea about the Japanese capital, it was originally presented, with little shops and lights almost appearing as strips of celluloid, or comic panes; look from a different angle and… wow, there are people. Actual, real people, with actual real lives, trying to earn a living amidst the hustle and bustle. There was so much texture built up on the smooth piece of steel as to be awe-inspiring. Different levels of perception, reality, and experience collided, and I had to take a step back and go for a glass of Riesling and a deep breath. Fascinating, compelling, poetic -just some words I’d use to describe Ruel’s work. You won’t quite look at your own city the same way again.

I thought about this shift in perspective watching Darren Anthony’s deeply affecting premier work, Secrets of a Black Boy, which opened lastnight at Toronto’s sizeable Danforth Music Hall. Despise some venue drawbacks (the lobby is weensie and the raking is shallow, so if you’re short and get stuck behind a giant… too bad), the show is solid, uplifting, moving, and not a little provocative. Anthony is the brother of theatre artist Trey Anthony, best known for her hit work Da Kink In My Hair. While Trey explored black female identity, first-time playwright Darren examines male black identity, particularly within the modern urban context of a rapidly-gentrifying downtown Toronto. Five young black men come together in a community hall that is soon to be torn down, and, over a game of dominoes, share their histories, anxieties, fears, and joys. The intimacies are delivered one-by-one in a series of monologues addressed to the audience, with other cast members occasionally joining in and acting out requisite parts. Issues like sex, parenting, gender relationships, homosexuality, friendship and gun violence are all touched on, some with more subtlety and grace than others. The lines about AIDS and condom usage came off a bit heavy-handed, but then, nothing about Secrets is especially subtle anyway. There’s a vibrant mix of hip-hop, soul, old-school funk, and classic rap pumped out by a live DJ throughout the work, providing atmosphere, accent and emotional underpinning as needed. Wisely, some scenes are allowed to be silent (such as a monologue delivered by a domestic abuser, played and delivered by Anthony himself), and in others, it’s the actors themselves who provide the noise -for instance, opening the second half with a Stomp-esque dance/clap routine and closing the show with a repeated, urgent plea: “We. Are. Here.”

Secrets of a Black Boy is everything Canadian theatre should be in 2009; it’s vibrant, zesty, thoughtful, involving, and deeply insightful. It’s also chalk-full of talented (and um, gorgeous) people. The audience for the show’s opening was equally fantastic; I’ve never seen such a young, eclectic, stylish, and involved group at an opening (and they weren’t tiresome luvvies, either). This is the audience most Canadian theatres are, I think, frothing at the mouth to get. Yet it takes more than a DJ and some graffiti-esque design to bring them. Anthony and his team have worked at marketing the campaign across social media platforms and have integrated many aspects of their own experiences into the mix. I got the feeling Secrets isn’t viewed strictly as Art, either (the “You are coming to the thee-uh-tah, we are doing something totally Art-full here, now act smart and say deep things”-hipster posturing that dents so many promising productions for me); rather, the show is Community itself, and that community is much, much wider and deeper than any stereotype of The Male Black Suspect. These are real men, with real problems and challenges, some of which I actually found myself relating to. The bit about absent fathers and the grief that causes throughout life rang particularly deep bells for me, a white woman living what is probably a pretty privileged existence. Funny how the intimate can become epic, and then intimate all over again.

Anthony’s work is sincere, honest, and refreshingly unpretentious. It’s also fun, and has a fantastic streak of interactivity running through it. As with Ruel’s work, you won’t look at your own city -or the people who make it up -the same way. We all have secrets -even cities have them, really – but it takes a shift in thinking and perception to see what they mean -and how they can change us and our choices -in the long run. Bravo Ruel, Bravo Anthony; you’ve made me change the lens and take the long way home.

Let Me In

By Catherine Kustanczy

On September 25, 2009

In opera

Balance is difficult -and I don’t just mean the standing-on-one-foot variety. Staying aware of reactions can be a trying endeavor -and balancing opposing reactions is an even greater challenge, particularly in the face of what I’d term Generally Bad Sh*t That Sometimes Happens. But it is wise to consider the Generally Bad from different viewpoints. So it was with a lot of courage and deep breathing that I managed to pull myself out of a black hole of feeling-left-out-ness lately. Recognizing the let-in-ness has been difficult, sure, because it’s meant a total re-adjustment of perception and attitude to outer circumstances; change is never comfortable, particularly as one gets older. But the adjustment, while strange, has also been a real blessing, thank in no small part to the truly big hearts of good friends, and more than a few incredible experiences that I’ve able to view as proof that Good Stuff Happens Too.

First of all, I recently had the opportunity to see an incredibly beautiful film, Amreeka, the first feature film by director/writer Cherien Dabis. It’s a really heartfelt look at the experiences of a mother and son from the West Bank who emigrate to the American Midwest. I interviewed Dabis about the work, and we discussed ideas around family, politics, and being an outsider. In a film where maudlin emotion easily could’ve trumped authenticity, Dabis touches all the right emotions, gently, while telling a compelling, involving story. Oh, and she told me she “hates” sentimentality. Hallelujah. None of her characters are victims, but rather, survivors, loving, living, and muddling their way through like the rest of us. Amreeka served as a wonderful reminder to me of the importance of relationships -to friends, family, work, and life itself.

Second good thing: the recent launch of AUX. The Canadian music station has been operating online for several months, but will be making its formal televised launch October 1st. I couldn’t help but think back to the early days of Muchmusic in watching chief AUX-ster Raja Khanna speak at the event Wednesday night. With a beguiling combination of sincere enthusiasm and music geek fondness, he excitedly outlined the station’s programming, and introduced its hosts, which included Explore Music‘s Alan Cross.

Amidst the total breakdown of the ways in which music is being created, shared, and consumed these days, it was refreshing to see such a great blend of faith, dedication and passion for artistry on display. No more “Pimp my Ride” or “Pimp My Bedroom” or any other inane nonsense that seems to occupy so many supposedly-cultural television stations on AUX -just music, examined and explored through various lenses, some fun, some serious, some playful, some challenging. Along with original programming, AUX is bringing Jools Holland’s totally excellent chat show to these shores (finally!) -proof-positive that Khanna and his team take music, and the artistry behind it, very seriously. In this world of media meltdown and of taking artists for granted, it’s refreshing to see there are still solid music lovers out there willing to bet they can build something beautiful.

Within the vein of building -and by extension, artistry -I’m really happy to announce that I’m part of a team organizing a salon speaking series in Toronto called Heads. I was approached by my fellow Heads-ster (and outright genius, frankly) Simon a few week ago, and … lo and behold, we have speakers, a venue, and even an art battle (think Iron Chef, with paint in place of food). TED (and its Canadian counterpart, Idea City) has the market cornered in terms of brainy speaking engagements, sure, but we aim for Heads to be more inclusive, less formal, and more in the tradition of the great French salons of the 18th and 19th centuries, when people of all stripes and backgrounds gathered to yap about culturally interesting, relevant topics. Simon likes to say it’ll be “more think, less drink” -because as fun as the odd piss-up is, this isn’t aiming to be that, but rather, a solid gathering of people who want to discuss and debate ideas -in Heads’ first outing, those ideas will revolve around the validity (or not) of Canadian dairy laws, advances in neuroscience, and lo and behold, online arts patronage. All this for $5. I mean, really? This feels so right for right now, right here, and being involved in this project has yielded so many new blessings and inspirations, opening the way for me to think about my own pursuits in entirely new ways.

The glass is really half-full. It’s all in how you look at it -with head and heart equally, is, I suspect, the best approach.

Cool (Hot) Beets

By Catherine Kustanczy

On September 21, 2009

In food

I’m writing this from my kitchen -my place of refuge, my studio, my laboratory, all rolled in one. It’s funny how such a simple change of locale -from upstairs to down -can drastically alter the way one approaches one’s work. No wonder coffee shops are so filled with people on laptops; what is sometimes lost in personal interconnection in such circumstances is often gained in the field of inspiration and initiative (though I’d argue one is deeply connected with the other).

So, after much thought -and a joyous session in roasting beets (more below), I’ve decided to include simple recipes as part of Play Anon. Rather than watering down its content, I feel it will add to, and complement it. Food is as much a part of culture as theatre, dance, painting, sculpture, electronic art, and so on -though it is also vastly more immediate, and I feel, intimate in its nature. Food is what we share as humans. We cannot live without eating. And like all cultural things, it provides needed nourishment -not only to our bodies, but on spiritual, mental, and emotional levels.

Right now, I’m typing with hands softened by good olive oil, just used to anoint the beets which now roast in the oven. I love beets, and always have done, ever since I was a child, standing beside my mother, hands stained purple, carefully peeling, apron firmly tied. I grew up thinking there was only one way to prepare them -that is, my mother’s method: boil to death, messily peel, drown in butter. While I’m not immune to the charms of butter and salt (though now, I’m finding good quality in each harder to come by), I feel treating such a beautiful vegetable so heinously borders on the sinful. Basic rule: if the vegetable is good, it should stand on its own. Period.

So while I applaud Lucy Waverman integrating beets into various dishes to tempt the palette of any beet-hating President, I prefer my purpley root veg straight-up. Antony John understands this. I had the wonderful fortune of visiting his beautiful farm, Soiled Reputation, last month. Sitting just outside the town of Stratford, Ontario, the farm grows organic vegetables which are then used in many restaurants across the Southern end of the province. Jamie Kennedy, the activist-chef (and one of my very-favourites, for his food and his ethos), uses Soiled Reputation’s veg, including their lovely, feathery greens, filled with sweet and bitter tastes.

One of the things I brought back from my trip was a bag of beets. Though pink on the outside, they’re white on the inside. They yield a sweeter flavour than regular beets, and I am wagering, roast up deliciously.

Roasting is, incidentally, my favourite method, though I have also experimented with marinating sliced beets in good balsamic, and then barbequing, both with foil and without. But there’s something awfully comforting about the smell of roast-anything wafting through the house, particularly as temperatures drop and the season turns. With the advent of autumn, root vegetables come back to prominence at my table.

Depending on the size of the beets, you may wish to slice them (I chopped a few bigger ones in half width-wise) and i always take the top off (the part where the greens sprout), though I tend to leave the “tail” -there’s something so merry about them, even if you can’t (or won’t) eat that portion.

So you will need:

Roughly 12 beets, small, or 8 small, 2 medium, 1-2 large, all very well-scrubbed.

Leave the small beets whole; chop the medium beets in half width-wise; chop the large beets in manageable chunks.

Pour good olive oil on top -about 3-4 tsp should be enough, but use your judgment; you don’t want them swimming or dripping in it, but you want enough to lubricate the beets and the casserole dish they’re sitting snugly in, rosy cheek to pale jowl.

Sprinkle salt on top: sea, rock, red, whatever you wish.

Toss with your bare hands.

Cover with foil, loosely; pop into a pre-heated oven (400F) for about 15 minutes; check after that to see if they’re done how you like, or if you need to add more oil.

I’d leave them in another 15-20 minutes. Prick with a fork if you’re really not sure but they’ll be making little sizzley sounds to indicate they’re cooked.

And… that’s it.

Really, wasn’t that easy?

Addendum: 30ish minutes did the trick. Delicious, succulent, sweet, and rich. I said it before, I’ll say it again: beets are beautiful. Take that, Mr. Obama.

Don’t Sign This

By Catherine Kustanczy

On September 15, 2009

In inspiration

The Beatles Rock Band opening Cinematic E3
by pamelapatty

I came across this incredible piece of animation courtesy of my illustrator friend Kit on Facebook, who kindly provided a link. It’s taken from The Beatles ‘ Rock Band game. Yes, it seems the Fab Four are everywhere these days, what with videos and box sets, and, from what I can glean across social media networks, a whole new demographic coming to know and adore their enormous -and enormously influential -body of work. Watching this animation, with its combination of running, flying, playing and well… playing, I was struck by the sprightly, fun spirit of the piece, and how it perfectly encapsulates the madness that was Beatlemania.

Equally, I can’t help but look at the footage with confusion and a discomfort. I’m immediately reminded of the masses lined up outside some of Toronto’s swankiest hotels for the past few days. People are breathlessly waiting for some kind of glimpse of a celebrity -a wave will suffice, never mind the pandemonium around a handshake or an autograph. There’s a surreal kind of madness around fame that I do not pretend to understand. Perhaps my own time around the famous and celebrated has jaded me, although, in all frankness, I’ve seen people of all stripes and levels of notoriety at their very best, and at their very worst. When it comes to artists, the guy playing the back room of a dirty beer joint is sometimes more awe-inspiring than the stadium-fillers (and the latter will cop to this, too); the violinist on the subway platform can produce a more transcendent experience than a symphony, a spontaneous piece of graffiti inspire something deeper and more stirring than any framed canvas. I guess it depends on one’s mood, and perhaps more tellingly, perspective.

But at the heart of it, people are people, whether they walk around barefoot or they’re escorted everywhere in Cadillac Escalades. Artists -not ones playing at art or fussing around its edges -are seeking some kind of connection, to a wider world and experience than is easily granted. Does fame water down artistic output? That’s a tough one -one I’m still at odds to work out. Does the public actually want to be challenged? I engaged in a debate around celebrity reporting earlier on my Twitter feed, with Doug Saunders and I both agreeing that, from a journalistic point of view, offering intelligent, insightful reportage is harder than ever (though if you’re looking, check out Lynn Crosbie, who is one of the best). The Beatles manifest in cartoon form is, on many levels, a keen commentary on the nature of popular perception around fame -we like our heroes two-dimensional, don’t we? Don’t make a mistake, don’t get too weird, don’t be political, and talk in a language we all get. (The whole “Dammit, be normal and stop the weird crap, you’re one of us! / Dammit, you’re so awesome and stratospherically awesome, you’re not like us!” dichotomy is a whole other argument, and perhaps, future blog post.) The fact you can now play along with The Beatles, and thus claim your own little slice of Beatles-dom, makes it even more interesting, twisted, and surreal: “You too can be Paul, John, George or Ringo… just press a button!” Forget practise and craft. Pffft.

For me, artists -the ones I really admire, am challenged by, and who open up ways of perceiving existence and point at (indeed, celebrate) the world in all its maddening, chaotic horror/splendor -they aren’t two-dimensional (even if some choose to take that by-now-tiresome ironic pose, or play that damn role into the ground -especially annoying if you know they’re actually interesting). In the same vein, I don’t buy the airbrushed version of celebrity. I don’t want to. Messy, human, faulty, wrinkly, fat, grey and ridiculous: kind of like the rest of us, only with flashbulbs, sharpies, Whole Foods and questionable taste.

I’ll be on the Park Hyatt‘s roof shortly -not because I want to meet any celebrities, but because it’s simply one of my favourite spot in Toronto, and I want to enjoy the September sunshine while it lasts. If anyone wants a chat, famous or not … you know where to find me. Leave the cartoon-you on the street below.