La Danse - Frederick Wiseman

I just saw this 3 hour documentary film about the Paris Opera Ballet. It's a masterpiece of film making. The camera captures the dancers mastering their craft, the historical building and everything that goes on in it, the changing light over the city, the art of choreography. It is dance-filming at it's very best.
Click on the post title to get to an reinterview with the director.

Third Time Lucky

Obviously I have nothing better to do than keep on posting today. This is a record for me, 3 in a row. But I couldn't resist. Here's a joke for the holidays, curtsy of my dear sister:

After the holiday dinner, the 2 couples split – the men to smoke on the balcony, the women chat in the kitchen (probably clearing the dishes – editor’s note).
One woman tells the other:
We had sex yesterday. It was a disaster. My husband came home from work, had dinner in 3 minutes, we had sex in 4 minutes, 2 minutes later he was snoring in my ear. How was your evening?
The other tells her story: It was fantastic. My husband asked me out for dinner and let me choose the restaurant. We walked home after dinner, a lovely one hour walk. When we got home he lit some candles and we fooled around for an hour, then had amazing sex for another hour at least, and in the end, imagine that - we even talked for an hour.

The smoking husbands on the balcony are having the same conversation.
The first husband: We had sex yesterday. It was amazing. I came home from work, dinner was already made, I finished it in 5 minutes, we fucked for 5 minutes, and I fell asleep right after. Simply incredible. How was your night?
The second husband: It was a catastrophe. I came home from work to find there was no electricity so I had to take the wife to a restaurant, she insisted on choosing. It was so pricey I had no money left for a cab so we had to walk home. When we got there the electricity was still out so I lit some candles to be able to see what I’m doing. I was so upset it took me an hour to get an erection, and another hour of fucking until I managed to finish, it was very frustrating. After all that I just couldn’t fall asleep and she kept on yakking for an hour until we finally got to sleep.

Oh What Good Friday

Out and about, in my short skirt and new boots I'm in love with. Having coffee under sunny skies, feeling like a tourist in my very own city.
Aren't they spiffy, my boots? I got them at my favourite women's consignment shop - Second Nature, naturally. The skirt too, just so you know.

Things you can see from there

Some things in life turn out to be a matter of perspective.
There's something about being a transplant, an immigrant, a diaspora, that makes one appreciate rituals that might be taken for granted when one stays home.
Holiday celebrations can become a chore to endure when you know that year after year they are going to be the same: same people gather, same food consumed, same family feuds erupt.
The Passover dinners are supposed to be just that - same story told the same way year after year, so your children will learn it and in time will be able to do it with their own families.
I remember well the very first year Passover became an important holiday for me - it was when I became a mother, in New York city. All of a sudden doing it right was crucial, even if it was the smallest one ever for us all - 4 adults and a baby. We got dressed, we had a fancy table and we read the story, we cooked, we ate and we drank. We made it festive. It was a delightful accomplishment.
Since then we try to make it special every year. When you need to gather a group of friends to celebrate, when you never know if you'll end up alone around your own table as your family back home gathers crowds effortlessly, taking holidays for granted is not possible anymore.
You become grateful of the friendships you've nourished over the years and feel honored to sit around the same table with people who choose to be there with you.

Deaths and Cakes

My dear friend L's mother passed away.
She had a long life, a good life, and a relatively easy death, comfortable. I knew her very little, but heard stories.
Today at her funeral her daughter, my friend, a tiny yet strong woman, was digging a shovel into the mound of earth, throwing the soil into the open grave, again ad again and again, getting more and more emotional with every heave, I thought how good it was - the action of throwing the soil on your mother's casket makes sure you are achingly aware of her passing. It's a physical act that resonates with us all. We watched her, standing in the rain under our umbrellas, and we cried with her, and then we went to have some cakes in her honor.
For my son this was a first funeral. I tried to explain what the Kadish prayer means - the blessing for the sacred soul that passed away. We told him where we want our ashes to be scattered. We hope he will remember.

Free to be Bound

The coming week marks the celebration of freedom, Passover.
Every year we go around the table asking each person present to say what he or she wants to be free of, for themselves or for the world. Just like in beauty pageants, "World Peace" looms large, for those who don't wish to declare their personal prisons at the dinner table. It always makes us laugh.
I think this year I'd like to concentrate on freedoms we already have in our lives. I thought how lucky we are that we are able to choose who we bind ourselves to in our life. The inner freedom we all possess to be able to love who or what we love, and understand the personal responsibility that comes with this particular freedom, as with any other.

Family Matters

We grow old, we mature, we collect wrinkles and scars. Yet in the eyes of our families we stay where we always were. I'll always be the 5th in line between my siblings, and in my father's eyes I'll always be a little girl, as long as he's around. My mother said to me a few days ago "make sure you don't grow old". I'll try not to disappoint her, I just have to figure out how.

Where Is Home?

Some of us call where they live home. Others carry lost homes with them wherever they go. I think we may all have an emotional home, internally, and a practical one, where we live. Returning to my practical home made that clear to me, once again.
My emotional home is ragged, intense, turbulent, beautifully colourful, loaded.
My practical home is almost a complete opposite: quiet, calming, gentle, devoid of family, urban.
There exists the blatant fact that I do not possess a house in my emotional home, I don't have material possessions to return to there, yet I have an emotional history there which can't be repeated anywhere else.
Here is a sunset over the Sea of Galilee, from a moving car. The sharp clif is where Jesus supposedly jumped from, to reach a neighbouring mountain. You can see how such a view can make legends rise.

We set our tents in the dark, spent the evening sitting by the fire roasting potatoes and sipping wine. Rising from a restless sleep in tents on the cold mountaintop to this spectacular view of the valley bellow was a sight for sore eyes.

This song is a long time favorite of mine. It talks about what people go looking for, and what they might find (or not) when they feel the need to spread their wings and fly away from home.

Sightseeing In A Foreign Land

"I don't like sightseeing" my darling son, who gets the credit for this picture of Chopin's famous statue, confessed to me in a quiet apologetic tone after some hours of wondering the somewhat bleak streets of Warsaw, underdressed for the freezing cold weather, tired after a long night flight, and anticipating another sleepless night on route to our final destination.
For me that day was a discovery of the nothing that's left in that city after the war. All that's there now is an imitation of something long dead. I found it tragic in the most uninteresting way.

Traveling Light

I aspire always to travel light. However it becomes a challenge when you have more than one destination, in 2 different climates, and when your trip calls for both urban and country wardrobe. And I am not a cowboy.
Shoes become an issue to contend with: they are bulky and heavy, but one must have proper footwear. It's impossible for any person with a sense of style to walk into a trendy coffee shop (and I do hope that's going to happen) wearing the same shoes one will be going to discover nature, and the reverse is even worse. Fancy shoes on a trail - there's no bigger offense to nature and fashion alike.
This is why I dislike packing and wait until the last minute to do it - deciding in advance what I will wear for the next 12 days, when I like to improvise every morning, simply feels wrong.

All The Way

Last night we heard Toronto's "Swing Shift" orchestra at Humber College in a recording evening of their favourite tunes. This number was one of them, sung by a local singer who's voice I loved but unfortunately can't remeber the name.
Here's a good old version by a man who's ethics may have been lacking, but his dress style, hats and all, were not too bad. After all, that's what matters, right?

Weather Report - Sunny Days

The winter seems to really be gone now, and this blog demands updating the images.
It is gloriously sunny in Toronto. It's true that the garden is still covered with snow, and sitting outside is not pleasant, and I'm wearing a heavy coat and boots and gloves, and the shop is stock full of winter garments which men are still buying. It's all true.
Yet spring is really in the air, I can feel it. Faces are brightening up all around me.
I dusted my bike off, figuratively speaking, and despite the fact that my ears still freeze when I ride them hatless, when they are parked in all their decrepit glory beside the shop, people know I'm in.
I'm preparing for a trip during March break - the shop will most likely be closed for a week and a half while I'm busy gallivanting with my magnificent and gracious blood sisters in places far far away.

Snow, at last

For the first time this winter, at the very end of February, I had to shovel the sidewalk after a mild snowstorm.
One admits winter passes faster when there's less inconvenience of snow removal, salt-stained boots, bitter-cold air that hits your lungs as you come out of your cocoon. Still, it's been a strange winter.
We managed to go for a few x-country trips this year, and I'm getting a little braver each time, forcing my tense & scared body to put myself on the tracks and relax into a breezy slide down those gentle slopes. It's a mental exercise more than anything, so they say. If that's true, why do I feel every muscle I have for days after?
No, that's not someone I know in the following picture. I just like it...

V-Day

Here's to love.
May we all want it, get it, keep it, protect it, regard it, always.
I had a conversation with my mother a few days ago - she talked about her first love. She was 15 or so at the time it happened, and has not forgotten a thing, 65 years later. Love does not allow us to forget.

February - a month of gloom?

I resolve to not let it be.
January was not as bad as it could be, or used to be in the past. It could be the mild winter, or my new boots, or the fact that I got to do something I have not been able to do for 2 decades - make a dance, with dancers.
Yes, that must be it. It made me happy, but it also makes spending time in a quiet little shop a lot more challenging.

This is a different version of the music I used - it's much slower. When G.G. was younger he played it with a youthful vigor and dynamic that I still love.