Ed and Wilbur

One of my sister's horses. This was just after she rescued it and it was heavily in foal at the time.

“You certainly look relaxed, Ed”

“Oh yeah, I am.  I’ve gotta thank someone for leaving that gate open. Was that you? I owe you one. I didn’t know the neighbours were growing weed in their backyard.”

“I think most yards have weeds. Some more than others…”

“No, not weeds, Wilbur. I thought I’d died and gone to horse heaven. I sort of floated back here from the Addison place.”

“Well, you look as if you’re about to fall over.”

“Nope, feeling great! Are there any more oats? Or apples? How about carrots? Maybe you could mix up some warm mash. Boy, its really bright here by the door. Think I’ll go stand in the corner, my knees area little wobbly. What’s that sound? Do you hear buzzing?”

“I don’t hear anything. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

“Fine. I’m fine. Just close the door will you. I’m just going to close my eyes for a bit.”

“I’d better have a look at that gate latch.”

 

The Art Gallery

I bought three art prints today after spending the afternoon at the gallery. I had been meaning to go since I returned from Vancouver 16 months ago but I never got around to it. While out west, I visited every gallery and museum in B.C. There’s a lot of Salish and Inuit art in Vancouver and Victoria, which I can take or leave. I’m a big fan of early twentieth century Canadian painting, especially work done by Emily Carr and Tom Thompson and work by or in the style of The Group of Seven.

The prints are not large, approximately 30 x 22 cm. Now I’ll have to find frames, which will likely cost me more than the prints. I’ll spend some time on-line tomorrow to try to learn what sort of frame is best and then more web time to find a shop, hopefully in my neighbourhood. I already have a particular wall selected for them.

All three of these are representations of oils by Carr. She spent most of her career on the BC coast and she’s better known for her watercolours but I’ve never appreciated that medium. It’s usually too pale and washed out for my taste. I prefer oils. They’re usually more vibrant and full of colour. I learned today that she often mixed her oil paint with gasoline in order to allow the paint to flow more freely on the canvas.

I don’t know much about art. I go to a gallery and look around until something catches my eye and then I read the wall plaque or the guide to learn more about it. I can’t tell what is artistically “good” and what isn’t. I just know when I like something. I deal with it in much the same way as I do wine.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the gallery. There were rooms I zipped right through and others that deserved some dawdling. There was a visiting exhibit of Jean-Michel Basquiat that I took the time to go through and there was a second special exhibit of photography that I didn’t get to before closing. The gallery can be a confusing place with dozens of interconnecting salons and it’s easy to get turned around or find yourself back where you started.

I don’t buy art very often. My apartment walls are still bare although I have a few things that I could have hung if I’d gotten around to it. Now I’ll have to, so watch for snaps on my Shots page. Maybe I’ll hang the rest of my pictures at the same time. I should probably pick up some boxes too. If this is like every other place I’ve lived in, when I finally complete my decorating, I’ll end up moving. ©

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VSO

While living on the west coast, I struck something from my bucket list. I had always wanted to attend the symphony and the VSO is an orchestra of Canadian renown. I bought a package of tickets to three performances and looked forward to what I had been told by one friend would be an exhilarating evening for any music lover, even one unfamiliar with classical music. Another friend raised an eyebrow and wondered if I’d asked for the senior’s discount. I ignored her.

The Orpheum Theatre in downtown Vancouver is an ageing beauty dressed in cream and gold and deep red velvet, still lovely in the soft light of her chandeliers and wall sconces. Oil paintings and memorial plaques adorn the walls and there are comfortable chairs and sofas scattered about the halls and foyers. It’s easy to imagine the early Vancouver upper crust in gowns and tuxedos gathering in the orchestra lobby or climbing the stately staircases to the Dress Circle. Inside the auditorium, the decorative painted ceiling and the sculpted backdrop complete the effect.

The first half of that night’s performance was by a visiting pianist. The music was marvellous and when the audience stood to give him a standing ovation and a curtain call, I joined them. At intermission I bought a glass of wine and took a stroll around the theatre. I was quite pleased with my choice in entertainment. The music, the building and the ambiance provided an entirely pleasing experience. I looked forward to the next performance in my package.

Back at my seat, I took off my jacket. The balcony was warm in the late summer evening and the AC seemed to be struggling. The next musical pieces were described in the program as stirring and I settled back to enjoy them. The first was pleasant but I thought “stirring” was a bit generous. And it was long. The final work started with even less melodic flair and seemed to be entirely about the violins.

I awoke with the first burst of applause. Embarrassed, I jumped to my feet and joined the audience in a stirring round of appreciation. I didn’t tell either friend about my nap. ©

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To Whom It May Concern

Dear PC,

As you know, I committed the other week to posting something each day. This was to be an exercise in discipline. I was having no trouble coming up with ideas but just as soon as I opened my mouth to tell the world that writer’s block is hokum, “I just sit down and free type”, things have dried up.

I’m here to tell you that I’m getting a little tired of waiting for you to pull your weight. I don’t ask for much. A few words about loons or a joke about a fire. Perhaps a short poem or a ditty about a little red sweater. Just about anything will do, really. Just help me get started. And don’t speak to me about the prompts. Sometimes they work and sometimes I stare at them as if they’re written in Greek.

This letter is intended as a warning that should you continue to block my efforts, I will go out, purchase a new laptop and consign you to the closet. Beware, once in, never out! There are still jackets in there from the 80’s!

I can tell you one thing, this is definitely not my fault. I’ve always been able to bullshit about any topic for a couple of minutes or a couple of hundred words. So, as you are the only other entity involved…

…huh. Look at that, a couple of hundred words. ©

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