Tuesday, July 07, 2020
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: Two weeks ago, my friend died. She didn't die of C...
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: Two weeks ago, my friend died. She didn't die of C...: Two weeks ago, my friend died. She didn't die of COVID-19, she died from metastasized cancer, a melanoma that ultimately reached her b...
Two weeks ago, my friend died. She didn't die of COVID-19,
she died from metastasized cancer, a melanoma that ultimately reached her brain
causing lesions that required radiation.
I didn't post about this on social media because I thought, well, there
are only 2 people who are social-media friends who knew her and they know of her death.
At the news, I cried, of course. It's never easy to lose
someone in your life. I talked about her with a couple of people, briefly, with
one friend I said more. She was not one of my oldest friends, those I've known
for many decades, all of whom live elsewhere, but someone I met 5 or 6 years
ago at a dining group I joined, which she also attended. Although we were as
different as night (me) and day (her), she being fashionable, stylish,
visual, extraverted, lively, and me being, well, the opposite, she befriended me from the get-go.
I thought I'd coped fairly well with her death. I've known a lot of death from an early age.
It's never easy and somehow always shocking as if the invisible seam holding reality
together has split open revealing a different reality, one we know exists and
yet hope doesn't. I have a kind of radar that picks up on hints, kind of like second sight, meaning, it's
happened a lot that I've known in advance when someone was about to die, even
people who were not ill or in dire circumstances, or people I'd not seen or
heard from in ages. Blessing or curse?
My friend had cancer, her third bout with that disease. She
had been treated in the most modern ways with drugs specific to her system. In
the time I knew her, she went from closing out one cancer to the remission
stage and contracting another.
Yesterday was a horrible day for me. Everything piled up until I became overwhelmed. I managed to be sane enough to realize that there were 4
things tormenting me, plus two friends who I became worried about. I've been living in self-quarantine since
March and since I live alone, it's been hard. I try to talk or email regularly
with some friends, others it's more sporadic. But it's the 3-D experience I'm
missing, leaving me to feel as if I'm locked in solitary confinement. I posted my
emotional collapse on Facebook. Normally, I just ride things out, but the
pile-up got to me and with no one to talk to about it, I made a vague comment. 3 of the 4 things I cannot speak about because that would make the
situations worse.
Overnight, sleep and more rational thinking brought me to
realize that 2 of those 4 I can dispense with and just let them flow away from
my life. Sure, I take the hit, but at the same time, I will survive. And in the grand scheme of things, likely
they just won't matter that much down the road. The 3rd issue is big and has
been ongoing for months now, repeated
shocks to my system, yesterday's a double whammy when I naively thought the
problem on the verge of resolution. I have to find a way to get through that,
to deal with it, and my one advisor is down with an acute problem so I'm on my
own for a bit, struggling to not rush in like a fool, my usual reaction to extreme
stress, but what I'm trying to temper in my dotage, even though I suspect I
will end up with an ulcer or worse from this psyche-soma situation.
But, #4. That is the death of my friend. I really don't know
why I didn't mention this on Facebook. It might be because every day I read the
newsfeed and see the huge # of posts of grief and sadness of people losing
someone close to them, or some other catastrophe. I didn't want to add to that mound of human misery in a
time of so much fear and sadness. And, those who knew my friend already know of
her death.
But today I awoke thinking about her and crying in a
different way, and here's why. Her amazing
life, all the wonderful, giving, loving things she did, everything about her that's
external, what's in her obituary, that's
not what I'm feeling. I'm feeling the loss of someone who was kind to me. Who
loved me.
I have many friends of all different stripes. Some closer,
some not so close. But I have rarely had a friend who is absolutely non-judgemental.
Most people I've met in my life are judgemental, including me. We have strong
opinions, make judgments, like to apply our moral code to others. Some people
do this more often and more aggressively than others, of course, while others are more
subtle about it, but there are none I consider judgment-free, which I guess is
a judgment.
My friend who died was unique. She loved everyone. And she
loved gossip because she loved everyone and wanted to know people, and what we hide
is often the thing that makes us human in the eyes of others. But it also leads
to judgments and perhaps condemnation, which is why we hide. For my friend, she did not go that route. She
was one of the most positive, life-affirming people I've met. She never judged through the gossip but understood,
not in a way that made her self-effacing as with some people, or 'pious' as
with others, but she truly did not judge. It was as if she loved to build
mosaics and the more she knew of someone directly or indirectly, the more pieces
she could add to the mosaic that was a composite of that person. She saw the
mosaic of the person as wonderful, lovely, full and rich.
My friend liked me, loved me, and even admired me, which I
find leaves me feeling delicate. I am incredibly flawed, but she saw beyond my
flaws as good friends do, and loved and nurtured the wounded child in me. She was bias-free and therefore easy to
trust.
My friend had family, and many friends and a wide and varied
circle she traveled in. Still, we got together frequently apart from the food
group for lunches, to visit museums, art shows, she came to one of my book
launches. She introduced me to her University Women's Art Society, which
offers monthly talks by people in the arts and sciences, some well-known and/or famous in their field; I attended some, finding them refreshing and the varied
presentations fascinating. Then she introduced the Society to me by approaching
the committee and telling them they really needed to have me as a speaker. What did I talk about? Vampires. And, despite my reservations, the talk
was packed and I was invited to return sometime in the future.
My friend was generous with her time and her caring. She was
Jewish and frequented pretty much daily a Middle-Eastern cafe near her home for
her favorite coffee 'with warm milk, please', and a treat. She told me how much she liked the man who
ran the cafe and wanted to support this small business venture. Often when we
met for lunch or anything else we did she would bring me a treat from that
cafe, or something she had baked. She laughed a lot, about everything,
including herself. There are so many experiences going through my mind and I
could go on and on, but I won't. Just to
say that while she was younger than me, she felt like a mother to me,
unconditional love plus lots of encouragement.
There were signs that things weren't going well, even as
long as a year ago. She loved to walk
and would walk for 1 or 2 hrs. from her home to meet me at a resto. She was
always never more than 5 or 10 minutes late. But last year, I waited an hour
for her at a resto she had wanted to visit. I left her cellphone messages she did
not respond to. When she finally arrived,
she looked frazzled. It was a hot day so at first, I didn't think much about it
until she told me she had walked the wrong way and when she realized it, had to
walk back the same distance. This was very unlike her. A warning flag went up for me, one that I
carefully tucked to the back of mind.
There were no other incidents until January 27th, the last time we got
together, though I saw her at the other end of the table at the exceptionally-large
food group in early March, just days before our COVID lockdown.
January 27th we went to a new food court in the Eaton Centre
called Time Out. It's an upscale food emporium with dozens of high-end
restaurants having small spaces to make a limited gourmet menu. It was huge,
chaotic and while 90% of the seating was at high tables on stools and high
chairs, we found the one long table at regular height and wedged ourselves
in. Her hearing had been going for decades
and she wore hearing aids, but she couldn't hear me there. After, we searched
for a nice cafe for coffee, but alas, there were none and we finally ended up
in the metro near the entrance at a Second Cup. I always asked about her
treatments and whenever she had visited the doctor for tests, the results, which came
back pretty good. This time she said the
results weren't great and she'd be seeing the doctor again, possibly for new
treatments. She was on chemo and had many side effects to deal with but was
still extremely positive.
We emailed regularly from February onward, checking up on
each other. But when I asked about her condition, her news was not improving. Then, I received a strange email from her,
with a picture of one of her grandchildren. I wasn't sure what the odd message
meant and wrote to ask. She wrote back confessing that she was having problems
and couldn't think properly and was sending things to the wrong people and knew
she wasn't making sense. I wrote back,
she wrote back, and because she was upset I asked if I could call her. I knew
she didn't like to do the phone because of her hearing issues and when she
wrote back she said she wouldn't be able to hear me. Shortly after, a long email came to her
closest friends, and I guess I was one of them. She wrote it with the help of
her husband. It explained her condition and what the doctor had told her—she
had 3 months to live. She was hoping for a miracle. So was I and, I imagine, all her friends and
family. That emailed promised she with her husband's help would send an email
weekly updating everyone on her condition. The following week, no email arrived,
and I understood what that meant. I was not surprised to learn of her death.
There is a finality with death and yet our thoughts and
feelings about the person gone do not end. We carry them with us and are forced
to survive on the memories and struggle to make those concrete to make up for
the empty space in the 'real' world. But the memories never quite match what
was the reality that will be no more.
I didn't realize I was so broken by her death. I thought my
initial crying for one night and part of one day was it. I went on after that
with thoughts occasionally but no more tears. This, like so many deaths, was
now in the past. And yet yesterday's pileup, exacerbated by COVID's emotional
rollercoaster, brought me to awareness again of what I've lost. I know she went
quickly, surrounded by the love of her family. I've been in touch with her
daughter, and not yet with her husband who doesn't want to answer a lot of
phone calls right now.
Losing her is like losing a mother. Support. Unconditional
love. Fun times. Sweetness. Caring. Admiration. Someone who loved me, warts and
all and, strangely, conveyed that she was proud of me. I'm still humbled by and
in awe of her.
If there is a hereafter, she is winging her way there,
optimistically, hopefully, adventurously, ready to accept whatever it is for
what it is. I am so grateful that in my last email to her I told her how much she
has meant to me. This is the type of message one would convey to someone on
their deathbed. I sent the email a week before she died. I didn't hear back, of
course. Sometime soon after she fell and had then been in hospice for 3 or 4
days.
Such a beautiful human being. I miss you. The world misses your lovely spirit. Annette, I know you will R.I.P. But if you're on another adventure, I wish you, my friend, with much love, un très bon voyage.
Tuesday, June 09, 2020
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: ORIGINAL VS. REMAKES...PONDERING FILMS #1 in a p...
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: ORIGINAL VS. REMAKES...
PONDERING FILMS
#1 in a p...: ORIGINAL VS. REMAKES... PONDERING FILMS #1 in a potential blog series Recently I watched MEET JOE BLACK on Netflix and because I don...
PONDERING FILMS
#1 in a p...: ORIGINAL VS. REMAKES... PONDERING FILMS #1 in a potential blog series Recently I watched MEET JOE BLACK on Netflix and because I don...
ORIGINAL VS. REMAKES...
PONDERING FILMS
#1 in a potential blog series
AGREE/DISAGREE/AGREE TO DISAGREE?
Feel free to opine here at the bottom of this blog, or come visit my Facebook page and post a comment under this blog post (June 6).
Nancy's Facebook
PONDERING FILMS
#1 in a potential blog series
Recently I watched MEET JOE BLACK on Netflix and because I
don't usually read reviews before watching a movie but I do read synopses and
might view trailers, I didn't know in advance that this movie was a modern remake of DEATH
TAKES A HOLIDAY. I saw the 1930s movie
decades ago during a phase when I was enamored with black and white cinema. As I watched MEET JOE BLACK, I was reminded of
the b&w film DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY, and decided to rewatch that early movie but found only a crappy copy on YouTube.
Still, it was worth the refresher. Later, I was checking out one of the actors on IMDB and discovered another DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY, a TV movie from the 1970s which I didn't know about so I
watched that as well on YouTube. (I noticed that there were TV shows or episodes but didn't watch those.)
This is something I tend to do a lot, mostly because if I've seen the original film or an older version of a more current movie, I normally don't have much recall about the whole of it, just a feeling, and flashes of independent scenes that have lingered in my brain. But I find it kind of fun to look at the major versions and within their various contexts, compare. So, here goes:
SOURCE MATERIAL
Death Takes a Holiday is based on a 1924 Italian play (La Morte in Vacanza) written by Alberto Casella (1891-1957), adapted in English for Broadway in 1929 by Walter Ferris. Amazon has the play here:
Death Takes a Holiday. A Comedy in Three Acts
This is something I tend to do a lot, mostly because if I've seen the original film or an older version of a more current movie, I normally don't have much recall about the whole of it, just a feeling, and flashes of independent scenes that have lingered in my brain. But I find it kind of fun to look at the major versions and within their various contexts, compare. So, here goes:
SOURCE MATERIAL
Death Takes a Holiday is based on a 1924 Italian play (La Morte in Vacanza) written by Alberto Casella (1891-1957), adapted in English for Broadway in 1929 by Walter Ferris. Amazon has the play here:
Death Takes a Holiday. A Comedy in Three Acts
THE MAIN THEME
Death cannot figure out why mortals cling to
life. The Grim Reaper takes 3 days off to become human and check it out. Everybody tells Thanatos that love is the thing.
THE FILMS
DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY - 1934 - This black and white film stars
Fredric March as Prince Sirki/Death. Stylish in the mode of the day, with
allusions to Nazi Germany, it's packed with old-school philosophy which
Death as the Prince and later as himself is happy to dispense. Beautiful costumes, a crowd of wealthy people
on holiday at a lovely estate. Grazia (Evelyn Venable) is psychically inclined,
in love with the mysterious and ultimately dumps her boyfriend and falls for
Death as he falls for her. Only the estate owner knows that the Prince is Death but
is forced to tell the other guests when Grazia's life is on the line. But Death,
vocalizing more philosophy which includes a bit of a rant about his eternal
pain and how can humanity's petty concerns and grievances possibly compare, is seemingly understood by the guests yet they do not agree with him. Still, he takes Grazia with him into the otherworld because he wants
her, and she wants to go.
DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY - 1971 - Monte Markham stars as David
Smith/Death. It's a 70s-style movie with an expectation of disco music permeating the film. It doesn't, but there is one extremely long motorboat race that has a
lot of whurring sounds accompanying it. The wealthy Chapman family is
reminiscent of the Kennedy clan and their tragedies. The youngest, prettiest
daughter Peggy is a daredevil, played by Yvette Mimieux, who drowns at the
beginning of the movie, yet doesn't because Death is at the start of his 3-day human experience and rescues her because no one can die while he's on vacation.
Meanwhile, during Death's holiday, bodies are piling up on Earth but the
Chapman's on the island retreat they own are unaware of this most of the film. The
senior dad, Judge Earl Chapman, is played by Melvyn Douglas. Chapman is ready and not
ready to die. Through various illnesses, he now recognizes Death—he's seen him waiting in the wings during several strokes he's suffered. He insists Death should take him instead
of daughter Peggy. But Death--who talks concepts that go over the
heads of this family, including Peggy's cousin who is in love with her—says he
doesn't have the power to do a switch.
Only mom, Selena Chapman, played by Myrna Loy looking very Rose Kennedy,
understands that Peggy has to have this complete soul-connection love. Death wants Peggy and Peggy wants Death so he
takes her with him because she wants to go.
MEET JOE BLACK - 1998
- Brad Pitt stars as Joe Black/Death, and I think this is a great spin on the
character, reminiscent of the attractive Greek youth of demise, Thanatos. This is a modern story, Death here to take William Parrish—perfectly portrayed by Anthony Hopkins—on his 65th birthday. Parrish heads an enormous newspaper empire. Joe is a real person who meets Parrish's daughter Susan (Claire
Forlani) at a coffee shop and while they are attracted to one another, they
part and, unknown to her, he is hit by a
car. Death instantly grabs his body and visits William Parrish and they cut a deal. For 3 days Death will be by the side of
Parrish to learn why life is so damned precious. They have a sort of fun
relationship and there is black/Black humor to be had. Ultimately Black/Death
falls for Susan and she falls for him but her dad—who has accepted his own impending demise—doesn't like this relationship
and confronts Death with solid heart and sound philosophical reasons why it's
wrong to take Susan too. Death thinks about this. Meanwhile, Death helps
Parrish sort out his messy business and the swindler who made it that way before
leading him beyond the veil. Death reveals his true self to Susan and
Forlani's acting in this bit is nothing short of brilliant. She will go with him but ultimately, Death takes the high
road and allows the distraught, grieving-for-lost-love Susan to live...and returns unharmed 'Joe',
the body he 'borrowed', so the two can start over from the coffee
shop meeting.
MY FAVORITE
Of the 3 films, it's a tossup for me between DEATH TAKES A
HOLIDAY 1934 and MEET JOE BLACK 1998. I
like them both a lot. Despite 63 years between these films shot in and reflecting differing film styles and the societal norms of their eras, each is terrific and Death in both is an intriguing character. Death reveals his true
identity to the female of choice and the reactions are fascinating. DEATH TAKES
A HOLIDAY 1971 feels shallow to me, Death wooden. I cannot see the chemistry between
David/Death and Peggy. It is definitely
there in the other two films. I mean, come on! Death is a cold, jaded character
and needs something pretty astounding to pierce that otherworldly dark armor, and
while Mimieux is cute and perky, I don't see her longing as in the other two
versions. Maybe the director thought 'cute' would be enough, but that does not cut it for me. Peggy likes to explore new and dangerous adventures and I kept wondering how
soon she will be 'over' Death and that eternal relationship in the hereafter. I also like the
dialogue in the 1934 and 1998 films, which touches on the profound. 1971 reeks of the '70s era approach that I find annoying (and this is me, who had a relatively good time in the '70s!). The fact that weighty monologues fly over the heads of most
of the Chapman clan speaks volumes about both the film and the decade.
AGREE/DISAGREE/AGREE TO DISAGREE?
Feel free to opine here at the bottom of this blog, or come visit my Facebook page and post a comment under this blog post (June 6).
Nancy's Facebook
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: BLACK KNIGHT - BLUE QUEENa faintly-Romantik vague...
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: BLACK KNIGHT - BLUE QUEEN
a faintly-Romantik vague...: BLACK KNIGHT - BLUE QUEEN a faintly-Romantik vaguely Erotik F a i r y t a l e read by Nancy Kilpatrick, writing as D e s i r...
a faintly-Romantik vague...: BLACK KNIGHT - BLUE QUEEN a faintly-Romantik vaguely Erotik F a i r y t a l e read by Nancy Kilpatrick, writing as D e s i r...
Friday, February 21, 2020
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: JOBS—working for The Man (not Steve, the noun).O...
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: JOBS—working for The Man (not Steve, the noun).
O...: JOBS—working for The Man (not Steve, the noun). Over the decades of being a writer, some years earning a living, some years not quite, I u...
O...: JOBS—working for The Man (not Steve, the noun). Over the decades of being a writer, some years earning a living, some years not quite, I u...
JOBS—working for The Man (not Steve, the noun).
Over the decades of being a writer, some years earning a living, some years not quite, I used to hire myself out for many different types of jobs, all temporary, to fill in the financial gaps between the feast and famine. Here are just a handful of my perhaps more amusing short-term jobs, not presented chronologically at all, covering 2-3 decades.
- I worked at the old Simpsons department store downtown Toronto a lifetime ago over Christmas one year in...wait for it...the perfume section. Back then you could get various high-end brands like Halston, Yves St. Laurent, Chloe and etc. at the same counter. This is me, who is allergic to many scents! And, at that time, ignorant of perfumes in general. Yes, I had some 'training', mainly the women I worked with who were full-time employees who told me this and that, including, as I recall, one informing me which smelled closest to 'rotting cabbage'. And, of course, I listened to their sales spiels, which I emulated. They obviously liked me because I left with gifts, a tiny Halston kidney-shaped perfume bottle, and a small St. Laurent 'Opium' in spray form. I still have the Halston which is probably rancid by now. I can't say it was my worst job when I actually had to take 'jobs'. But still today I want to clobber any woman who douses herself with scent and sits near me at a theater or on a plane, ditto a man who overdoes the aftershave.
- Speaking of Simpsons, I worked as a freelance ad copywriter for them at another juncture in my checkered temp-work history. My friend-with-benefits at that time who had worked for the company for a decade assured me that me, being a writer, it would be easy and lucrative employment. The money was great. But honestly, even though I'm a creative type, I found it VERY difficult from ad-flyer to ad-flyer to describe in a new, exciting yet conservative manner pinwheel crystal. A few short months and that job was history.
- And delving into theoretically 'artistic' work, there was the 5-month June to October stint at the Royal Ontario Museum for a special exhibit: Georgian Canada. A new head of security, for the first time, apparently, a woman, had been hired and came up with the idea that she should bring in a crew to guard that temporary exhibit composed of creative young people who might actually be able to converse with visitors in an intelligent way and impart some info on the exhibit and its items. I, the token fiction writer, was hired, along with a token poet, musician, painter, budding filmmaker and a bunch of others. Oh, and one sports guy who was, apparently, an attractive accidental hire. As I recall, the exhibit was composed of 8 or 10 rooms with one guard per room. Once in a while, a member of the public would ask me a question about the paintings, furniture, silver this or that on display, something beyond the usual queries: "Where is the washroom?", "Is there a cafeteria?", "Where's this from?" Fortunately, my eyesight was pretty sharp back then and I, too, could read the description in at least one of the two official languages on the wall beside the gilded pine lion with one paw possessively resting on a ball and declare with some authority: "It's from the Upper Canada Legislature". My main communication, though, was "Please don't touch that!", parroting the signs everywhere. One day, Brian Mulroney came in. He had either just become or would by September be Prime Minister of Canada for a few years (the time frame of his visit is a bit sketchy in my memory.) We were warned that someone special would be coming through and the exhibit was cleared out of the hoi polloi. Bodyguards and others were stationed at the entrances and exits of all the interconnected rooms. I was specifically positioned in one of the larger rooms, which housed most of the enormous paintings. Suddenly, a surprisingly-short man strode into the room at a brisk pace. He said 'Hello" in my general direction, but didn't wait for a response, didn't look around the room but headed right to the giant painting of Wolfe (British) and Montcalm (French), The Death of General Wolfe (1770), depicting a death scene when the two countries battled for what was becoming Canada. In reality, both Generals ending up dying of wounds from that battle. Mr. Mulroney, fists on hips, looked up, scanned for several seconds the enormous painting that took up most of the wall, and then said to no one in particular: "Don't let Mila (his wife) see this, she'd want it for the living room!" And then he was gone. To be followed sometime later in the year by Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip on an unscheduled visit to the ROM. Once the exhibit was over, all of us guards were offered permanent, part-time positions. I took that job (as did a few others) and lasted less than 2 more months before I verged on losing my mind completely and quit. You'd think working in a museum would be great, but it wasn't. I thought it would be more interesting than being stuck in one temporary exhibit, rotating between the few rooms, looking at the same things for hours every day, five days a week. With the whole museum, I'd get to be with the dinosaur bones and suits of armor and the gallery that had live creatures like giant Madagascar beetles (aka roaches), and scorpions. But sadly, most of my work time was spent after the Georgian exhibit in the Alfred Wirth gallery, at that time a small room, dimly-lit to evoke mystery and exotica, into which few people ventured. Soon, my brain headed towards meltdown. I can honestly say that I and every single one of the creative types hired for the special exhibit and/or after the exhibit were not able to create anything during our time at the museum. We talked about that constantly on breaks, wondering if the museum's air or the water fountain's water induced a coma-like state, or if creative stagnation was the result of deadly routine. Besides money to buck up the finances during that period, one thing that did, ultimately, work well for me was my mystery story "Mantrap", set in the ROM, based on their (former) security system, which won the Arthur Ellis Award for the best short story of the year (which, btw, I wrote after my employment at the museum ended, and published 7 or 8 years later.) I also did an interview with the woman who was head of security for Toronto Life Magazine. See! Good things come from dull experiences.
- One lesser job was at the post office over Christmas, where my ex-husband and I both had secured employment as 'sorters'. Back then, sorting was manual, and Canada was not far into the new postal code system. I'm the type who likes to complete jobs and perpetual work drives me insane. The job consisted of hundreds of letters dumped into the bin in front of me and me sorting them by the start of street names into rows of slots, specifically the slots that went from Ha, He, Hi, Ho, Hu to Hy. My letters were supposed to be the streets beginning with Ha and He, although if I came across other vowels, others were commissioned to do the Hi, Ho, Hu, Hy's. This was, of course, a tiny section of streets in the city of Toronto. I quickly discovered that when I'd just about made a dent in the mound, someone would come along and dump more envelopes into my bin. Far from catching up, the pile became huge to overflowing. By the end of the day, I was a basket case, and that night had a nightmare about an endless stream of letters flying past my eyes that just would not stop. The next day I quit.
- One particularly odious job was working at a small, one-off video store for a couple of weeks. This was pre-DVD/Blu Ray but in the midst of VHS tapes and the getting popular though eventually doomed LP-sized LaserDiscs. I don't know why I was hired since everyone who worked there was a teenager, but maybe the woman who owned the store thought I'd bring some sense of decorum and maturity to the place. I knew computers so had no trouble inputting rentals and sales on the rudimentary machines. Recommendations were something else. I've never been particularly aligned with most modern movies—then, or now. Hollywood movies are pretty much so-so in my opinion, kind of visual/audial pap, not wonderful for the most part but hopefully not deadly terrible either, just very middle-of-the-road with some standouts, but I've been a rebel and a snob most of my life in terms of the arts. Fortunately, almost all of the video-store customers knew what they wanted and hauled empty boxes up to the desk where I would slide in the VHS tape and then do the rental or in some cases find the unopened box for a sale. But one time a woman came in hoping to find an old movie from the '30s or '40s she hadn't seen, a b&w film a la Casablanca, African Queen, The Philadelphia Story. She loved the era and wondered if I knew anything about it. I did, and recommended the 1939 movie The Women (Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, Rosalind Russell et al) to this obviously worldly woman who looked rather artistic to my eye. I raved about the movie and gave her a brief verbal synopsis. She rented it and brought it back the next day telling me how much she loathed the film. That was my last recommendation, but not why I quit. The 'manager' was 17 years old, rather nerdy, and with his new-found power-position liked to gruffly order the other employees around. No style, no finesse, no respect, no etiquette on the go. One Hitler-like order too many and I was out of there.
By now you probably realize how ridiculous my life has been and this is just a handful of Joe-jobs. I did actually have some real jobs now and again that I held for a decent time, some big-paying and high-status, but that's an entirely different world, and not what this is about. This blog is about woeful, usually low-paying, time-consuming, brain-deadening work, and if you are or were forced to work at any job like any of these, you have my sympathies. So I'll close with just one more of the jobs that involved money coming my way in exchange for a schedule and/or routine or something else which, other than the salary, did not work for me.
- I've always hesitated to mention this one, not because I'm embarrassed, but because Poppy Z. Brite back in the day did similar work and scooped the shock value and I've never relished being seen as an imitator, although lots of young women did such work back then. In my case, it was very short-lived.
This happened back in the hippy days, which dates me, but not for nothing have I been deemed a 'living legend!' I was complaining about money, although in the olden days one did not need as much as is required today to survive, although some money was (and is) crucial to continue the creative life, not to mention life in general. A friendly neighbor who lived in my building worked as an exotic dancer and somewhat of a 'prostitute'—Her clientele consisted entirely of senior citizens, older, lonely men who preferred talking to her about their lives rather than engaging in physical intimacy. Her other gig, as a dancer, is where she suggested I should 'audition' at Zanzibar, which was (and maybe still is) a bar on Yonge Street located in what then was a wild, somewhat seedy part of the so-called 'mean streets' of Toronto. Zanzibar specialized in exotic dancers--meaning topless as in bare from the waist up, not a person missing half her body, although maybe that is a metaphor. Topless but for pasties (cups temporarily glued over the nipple area required by law, so you can imagine this was ancient history!) I was very young, new to Canada, new to Toronto, up for pretty much anything legal, which kind of goes with being young. I've never been particularly inhibited about physicality. And I'd been told often enough that I was 'cute' and kind of believed it on a good day. So off we trotted to the Zanzibar. It was daytime, the interior dark and reeking of stale beer and cigarette smoke permanently clinging to the air. My friend had set up an 'appointment' and the place was empty but for 2 men bearing an aura of serious-business. One of them directed me to get up onto one of the four foot high barrels placed strategically around the room as 'decor' or 'dance floor', whichever. Anyone who knows me well knows I'm not the most graceful creature, although my first name means grace, but so much for misnomers. Trust me, I was not graceful in the slightest as I visually searched for a way to get onto a high barrel. Finally, awkwardly, I climbed onto a bar stool, stepped onto the bar, walked a few paces across the bar to the corner and made it atop a nearby barrel without injury. Then the music played and I did, like Sandy Dennis in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, my 'interpretive' dance. Let's just say I was not hired. My neighbor, always an optimist, said, "Never mind those f@#$ers!" She had a gig dancing in Brampton, which is just outside Toronto, and dragged me with her the next Friday night. "All you have to do," she said, "is take off your street clothes, step onto a chair, then onto the table and dance the three songs, then come down, grab your clothes and shoes and follow me out." It sounded simple, the pay would cover two month's rent, and I thought, Okay, I'll try it. We caught a ride to Brampton from one of the band guys (the bar had a live band on weekends but we danced to taped music). The place was packed. My friend went to the stage and pointed me towards a big, round table with an empty chair situated in the center of the room, around which sat 7 men in this 'men's room' part of the bar which used to be common. Naturally, I was kind of nervous but thought: How bad can it be? 3 songs. I can do this! I slipped out of my shoes, then my skirt and blouse, folded the clothing neatly and placed them on the empty chair, then stepped onto the free part of the chair holding onto the chair back—since I was and still am such a klutz—and much more gracefully than I had managed at Zanzibar, hoisted myself onto the table crowded with jugs of beer—empty, half-empty, full—, beer spills, beer glasses with or without beer in them, beer bottles for those so inclined, plus ashtrays since this was still an era of smoking. I danced, glancing occasionally but rarely at eyes watching me at this table and those nearby tables. Time moved quickly, it was over, I stepped down onto the chair and then the floor and...my clothes and shoes were missing! My neighbor was waiting for me at the exit to the 'dressing rooms' while I frantically looked under the table, all around, and couldn't find my things, surrounded by a room of strangely-silent males. I felt panicked, near tears, envisioning having to spend hours in the Autumn air almost naked before I could get back to my apartment in Toronto. Finally, my friend, hardened to this job, realized what had happened, stormed over and blasted the guys at the table who were, by now, laughing at their joke. They handed over my things and we departed, but I was rattled. There were two more sets where my neighbor danced alone while I sat in the backroom thinking about my life and deciding whether or not I should go back to selling Harbinger, Toronto's underground newspaper. Or perhaps take a stab at selling roses on the street—a common job of the day—bought for 50 cents, sold for $1. Not as lucrative but definitely more doable.
And despite everything, all of those jobs taught me something. Mainly, that life looks strange seen up close but rather hilarious viewed from a distance.
Those particular types of jobs came to an end, none ever to be repeated, in, as Lady Bracknell of The Importance of Being Earnest put it, "A life filled with incident."
Paying bills, necessary.
Short-term paying jobs to sustain a career in the arts, necessary but feh!
Sense and sensibility and nonsense!
Over the decades of being a writer, some years earning a living, some years not quite, I used to hire myself out for many different types of jobs, all temporary, to fill in the financial gaps between the feast and famine. Here are just a handful of my perhaps more amusing short-term jobs, not presented chronologically at all, covering 2-3 decades.
- I worked at the old Simpsons department store downtown Toronto a lifetime ago over Christmas one year in...wait for it...the perfume section. Back then you could get various high-end brands like Halston, Yves St. Laurent, Chloe and etc. at the same counter. This is me, who is allergic to many scents! And, at that time, ignorant of perfumes in general. Yes, I had some 'training', mainly the women I worked with who were full-time employees who told me this and that, including, as I recall, one informing me which smelled closest to 'rotting cabbage'. And, of course, I listened to their sales spiels, which I emulated. They obviously liked me because I left with gifts, a tiny Halston kidney-shaped perfume bottle, and a small St. Laurent 'Opium' in spray form. I still have the Halston which is probably rancid by now. I can't say it was my worst job when I actually had to take 'jobs'. But still today I want to clobber any woman who douses herself with scent and sits near me at a theater or on a plane, ditto a man who overdoes the aftershave.
- Speaking of Simpsons, I worked as a freelance ad copywriter for them at another juncture in my checkered temp-work history. My friend-with-benefits at that time who had worked for the company for a decade assured me that me, being a writer, it would be easy and lucrative employment. The money was great. But honestly, even though I'm a creative type, I found it VERY difficult from ad-flyer to ad-flyer to describe in a new, exciting yet conservative manner pinwheel crystal. A few short months and that job was history.
- And delving into theoretically 'artistic' work, there was the 5-month June to October stint at the Royal Ontario Museum for a special exhibit: Georgian Canada. A new head of security, for the first time, apparently, a woman, had been hired and came up with the idea that she should bring in a crew to guard that temporary exhibit composed of creative young people who might actually be able to converse with visitors in an intelligent way and impart some info on the exhibit and its items. I, the token fiction writer, was hired, along with a token poet, musician, painter, budding filmmaker and a bunch of others. Oh, and one sports guy who was, apparently, an attractive accidental hire. As I recall, the exhibit was composed of 8 or 10 rooms with one guard per room. Once in a while, a member of the public would ask me a question about the paintings, furniture, silver this or that on display, something beyond the usual queries: "Where is the washroom?", "Is there a cafeteria?", "Where's this from?" Fortunately, my eyesight was pretty sharp back then and I, too, could read the description in at least one of the two official languages on the wall beside the gilded pine lion with one paw possessively resting on a ball and declare with some authority: "It's from the Upper Canada Legislature". My main communication, though, was "Please don't touch that!", parroting the signs everywhere. One day, Brian Mulroney came in. He had either just become or would by September be Prime Minister of Canada for a few years (the time frame of his visit is a bit sketchy in my memory.) We were warned that someone special would be coming through and the exhibit was cleared out of the hoi polloi. Bodyguards and others were stationed at the entrances and exits of all the interconnected rooms. I was specifically positioned in one of the larger rooms, which housed most of the enormous paintings. Suddenly, a surprisingly-short man strode into the room at a brisk pace. He said 'Hello" in my general direction, but didn't wait for a response, didn't look around the room but headed right to the giant painting of Wolfe (British) and Montcalm (French), The Death of General Wolfe (1770), depicting a death scene when the two countries battled for what was becoming Canada. In reality, both Generals ending up dying of wounds from that battle. Mr. Mulroney, fists on hips, looked up, scanned for several seconds the enormous painting that took up most of the wall, and then said to no one in particular: "Don't let Mila (his wife) see this, she'd want it for the living room!" And then he was gone. To be followed sometime later in the year by Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip on an unscheduled visit to the ROM. Once the exhibit was over, all of us guards were offered permanent, part-time positions. I took that job (as did a few others) and lasted less than 2 more months before I verged on losing my mind completely and quit. You'd think working in a museum would be great, but it wasn't. I thought it would be more interesting than being stuck in one temporary exhibit, rotating between the few rooms, looking at the same things for hours every day, five days a week. With the whole museum, I'd get to be with the dinosaur bones and suits of armor and the gallery that had live creatures like giant Madagascar beetles (aka roaches), and scorpions. But sadly, most of my work time was spent after the Georgian exhibit in the Alfred Wirth gallery, at that time a small room, dimly-lit to evoke mystery and exotica, into which few people ventured. Soon, my brain headed towards meltdown. I can honestly say that I and every single one of the creative types hired for the special exhibit and/or after the exhibit were not able to create anything during our time at the museum. We talked about that constantly on breaks, wondering if the museum's air or the water fountain's water induced a coma-like state, or if creative stagnation was the result of deadly routine. Besides money to buck up the finances during that period, one thing that did, ultimately, work well for me was my mystery story "Mantrap", set in the ROM, based on their (former) security system, which won the Arthur Ellis Award for the best short story of the year (which, btw, I wrote after my employment at the museum ended, and published 7 or 8 years later.) I also did an interview with the woman who was head of security for Toronto Life Magazine. See! Good things come from dull experiences.
- One lesser job was at the post office over Christmas, where my ex-husband and I both had secured employment as 'sorters'. Back then, sorting was manual, and Canada was not far into the new postal code system. I'm the type who likes to complete jobs and perpetual work drives me insane. The job consisted of hundreds of letters dumped into the bin in front of me and me sorting them by the start of street names into rows of slots, specifically the slots that went from Ha, He, Hi, Ho, Hu to Hy. My letters were supposed to be the streets beginning with Ha and He, although if I came across other vowels, others were commissioned to do the Hi, Ho, Hu, Hy's. This was, of course, a tiny section of streets in the city of Toronto. I quickly discovered that when I'd just about made a dent in the mound, someone would come along and dump more envelopes into my bin. Far from catching up, the pile became huge to overflowing. By the end of the day, I was a basket case, and that night had a nightmare about an endless stream of letters flying past my eyes that just would not stop. The next day I quit.
- One particularly odious job was working at a small, one-off video store for a couple of weeks. This was pre-DVD/Blu Ray but in the midst of VHS tapes and the getting popular though eventually doomed LP-sized LaserDiscs. I don't know why I was hired since everyone who worked there was a teenager, but maybe the woman who owned the store thought I'd bring some sense of decorum and maturity to the place. I knew computers so had no trouble inputting rentals and sales on the rudimentary machines. Recommendations were something else. I've never been particularly aligned with most modern movies—then, or now. Hollywood movies are pretty much so-so in my opinion, kind of visual/audial pap, not wonderful for the most part but hopefully not deadly terrible either, just very middle-of-the-road with some standouts, but I've been a rebel and a snob most of my life in terms of the arts. Fortunately, almost all of the video-store customers knew what they wanted and hauled empty boxes up to the desk where I would slide in the VHS tape and then do the rental or in some cases find the unopened box for a sale. But one time a woman came in hoping to find an old movie from the '30s or '40s she hadn't seen, a b&w film a la Casablanca, African Queen, The Philadelphia Story. She loved the era and wondered if I knew anything about it. I did, and recommended the 1939 movie The Women (Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, Rosalind Russell et al) to this obviously worldly woman who looked rather artistic to my eye. I raved about the movie and gave her a brief verbal synopsis. She rented it and brought it back the next day telling me how much she loathed the film. That was my last recommendation, but not why I quit. The 'manager' was 17 years old, rather nerdy, and with his new-found power-position liked to gruffly order the other employees around. No style, no finesse, no respect, no etiquette on the go. One Hitler-like order too many and I was out of there.
By now you probably realize how ridiculous my life has been and this is just a handful of Joe-jobs. I did actually have some real jobs now and again that I held for a decent time, some big-paying and high-status, but that's an entirely different world, and not what this is about. This blog is about woeful, usually low-paying, time-consuming, brain-deadening work, and if you are or were forced to work at any job like any of these, you have my sympathies. So I'll close with just one more of the jobs that involved money coming my way in exchange for a schedule and/or routine or something else which, other than the salary, did not work for me.
- I've always hesitated to mention this one, not because I'm embarrassed, but because Poppy Z. Brite back in the day did similar work and scooped the shock value and I've never relished being seen as an imitator, although lots of young women did such work back then. In my case, it was very short-lived.
This happened back in the hippy days, which dates me, but not for nothing have I been deemed a 'living legend!' I was complaining about money, although in the olden days one did not need as much as is required today to survive, although some money was (and is) crucial to continue the creative life, not to mention life in general. A friendly neighbor who lived in my building worked as an exotic dancer and somewhat of a 'prostitute'—Her clientele consisted entirely of senior citizens, older, lonely men who preferred talking to her about their lives rather than engaging in physical intimacy. Her other gig, as a dancer, is where she suggested I should 'audition' at Zanzibar, which was (and maybe still is) a bar on Yonge Street located in what then was a wild, somewhat seedy part of the so-called 'mean streets' of Toronto. Zanzibar specialized in exotic dancers--meaning topless as in bare from the waist up, not a person missing half her body, although maybe that is a metaphor. Topless but for pasties (cups temporarily glued over the nipple area required by law, so you can imagine this was ancient history!) I was very young, new to Canada, new to Toronto, up for pretty much anything legal, which kind of goes with being young. I've never been particularly inhibited about physicality. And I'd been told often enough that I was 'cute' and kind of believed it on a good day. So off we trotted to the Zanzibar. It was daytime, the interior dark and reeking of stale beer and cigarette smoke permanently clinging to the air. My friend had set up an 'appointment' and the place was empty but for 2 men bearing an aura of serious-business. One of them directed me to get up onto one of the four foot high barrels placed strategically around the room as 'decor' or 'dance floor', whichever. Anyone who knows me well knows I'm not the most graceful creature, although my first name means grace, but so much for misnomers. Trust me, I was not graceful in the slightest as I visually searched for a way to get onto a high barrel. Finally, awkwardly, I climbed onto a bar stool, stepped onto the bar, walked a few paces across the bar to the corner and made it atop a nearby barrel without injury. Then the music played and I did, like Sandy Dennis in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, my 'interpretive' dance. Let's just say I was not hired. My neighbor, always an optimist, said, "Never mind those f@#$ers!" She had a gig dancing in Brampton, which is just outside Toronto, and dragged me with her the next Friday night. "All you have to do," she said, "is take off your street clothes, step onto a chair, then onto the table and dance the three songs, then come down, grab your clothes and shoes and follow me out." It sounded simple, the pay would cover two month's rent, and I thought, Okay, I'll try it. We caught a ride to Brampton from one of the band guys (the bar had a live band on weekends but we danced to taped music). The place was packed. My friend went to the stage and pointed me towards a big, round table with an empty chair situated in the center of the room, around which sat 7 men in this 'men's room' part of the bar which used to be common. Naturally, I was kind of nervous but thought: How bad can it be? 3 songs. I can do this! I slipped out of my shoes, then my skirt and blouse, folded the clothing neatly and placed them on the empty chair, then stepped onto the free part of the chair holding onto the chair back—since I was and still am such a klutz—and much more gracefully than I had managed at Zanzibar, hoisted myself onto the table crowded with jugs of beer—empty, half-empty, full—, beer spills, beer glasses with or without beer in them, beer bottles for those so inclined, plus ashtrays since this was still an era of smoking. I danced, glancing occasionally but rarely at eyes watching me at this table and those nearby tables. Time moved quickly, it was over, I stepped down onto the chair and then the floor and...my clothes and shoes were missing! My neighbor was waiting for me at the exit to the 'dressing rooms' while I frantically looked under the table, all around, and couldn't find my things, surrounded by a room of strangely-silent males. I felt panicked, near tears, envisioning having to spend hours in the Autumn air almost naked before I could get back to my apartment in Toronto. Finally, my friend, hardened to this job, realized what had happened, stormed over and blasted the guys at the table who were, by now, laughing at their joke. They handed over my things and we departed, but I was rattled. There were two more sets where my neighbor danced alone while I sat in the backroom thinking about my life and deciding whether or not I should go back to selling Harbinger, Toronto's underground newspaper. Or perhaps take a stab at selling roses on the street—a common job of the day—bought for 50 cents, sold for $1. Not as lucrative but definitely more doable.
And despite everything, all of those jobs taught me something. Mainly, that life looks strange seen up close but rather hilarious viewed from a distance.
Those particular types of jobs came to an end, none ever to be repeated, in, as Lady Bracknell of The Importance of Being Earnest put it, "A life filled with incident."
Paying bills, necessary.
Short-term paying jobs to sustain a career in the arts, necessary but feh!
Sense and sensibility and nonsense!
Tuesday, January 28, 2020
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: Get to Know Photographer...STEPHANE LORDStepha...
Nancy Kilpatrick Writer: Get to Know Photographer...
STEPHANE LORD
Stepha...: Get to Know Photographer... STEPHANE LORD Stephane Lord NK - You've been a photographer who has sold his work since ...
STEPHANE LORD
Stepha...: Get to Know Photographer... STEPHANE LORD Stephane Lord NK - You've been a photographer who has sold his work since ...
Get to Know Photographer...
STEPHANE LORD
Stephane Lord
photo by Luc Lauziere
photo by Luc Lauziere
NK - You've been a photographer who has sold his work since 1996,
but did you have an interest in photography prior to that? What's your
background?
SL - I started by studying professional photography in 1983
for 3 years but my interest in the "dark and mysterious" only came in
1996. For several years I kind of took a break from photography after I
finished college because I couldn't find a decent job in that field.
NK - With all its sub- and sub-sub genres, what is it about the gothic-rock scene that appeals to you?
SL - Apart from the music, I love the mysterious, romantic,
stylish side of the scene. I like Victorian, medieval and fetish style as well
but it's also something that attracts other Goths, especially if you look at
the German Goth scene.
NK - Besides musicians, you have also created gorgeous photographs
of the most delicate-looking females who may or may not have wings. Faeries,
really. Why are you attracted to that type
of image?
SL - I love
faeries... I collect all sorts of figurines and illustration books. I like their
beauty but also the romantic and mysterious side of them. I have tried to infuse interpretations into
some of my pictures, and some results were better than others; when I started
in the late '90's, I was shooting with film so nothing from the film days has been
Photoshopped.
NK - You are a bilingual Quebecker but have traveled every
year for decades to either England or Germany or both. What appeals to you
about those two countries specifically that inspires your photography?
SL - The first time I visited England was in 1988. I
immediately fell in love with the country. My first year of traveling in the UK
was very much "music-oriented". I made a few contacts and met some
wonderful people but this was during my break in photography. It was only 10
years later, two years after I started doing photography again, that I did some
sessions in the UK, mostly in London. The old buildings, the overgrown
cemeteries, the vegetation, the ivy...that was fantastic! There have been times when I was doing more
sessions in a few weeks there than all the rest of the year in Montreal. I love the Goth scene over there and through
the years I've made several friends which is another reason to return...and
English ales, of course!
My fascination with Germany came later. I loved the vibrant
nightlife that I found in Berlin years ago, but everything changed when I
discovered the Wave Gotik Treffen festival in Leipzig. It attracts between 20,000
and 25,000 Goths. You can see so many extravagant styles that you'll never see
in Montreal. As everybody is running from one venue to another to see their
favorite bands, it's almost impossible to try to organize a session, so I’m
not going there in hopes of doing photo sessions...a few snapshots, maybe.
NK - What is your latest photographic project and where can
we see it?
SL - Amanda Rogers, an American singer that I've known for
years, used a picture from a session we did in Montreal for her new album
cover. It was actually just a test shot before removing her coat on a cold
autumn day. You can see the cover here:
The Hallow
The Hallow
Photographs
Model - Isabelle
Model - Manon Verret
Model - Victoria Fenban
Model - Lucas Lanthier of Cinema Strange
Model - Amanda Rogers
Model - Fannie Langlois
Magazine & Book Covers
More Photographs Here: Dark Fairies
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)