A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

Don Homero Aridjis - The Butterfly Man
Friday, May 06, 2016





I first met Homero Aridjis, The Butterfly Man in 1993 when he visited Vancouver. Since then we have become friends. In some of my own visits to Mexico City I am always invited for lunch at his home by his wife Betty Ferber.

It is difficult to pin down the Contepec, Michoacán-born man as he is a complex mixture of diplomat, environmentalist, journalist and poet/novelist. The latter combination is deadly. To read the prose of a poet be it Jorge Luís Borges or The Butterfly Man, leads you to re-reading soaring passages over and over. Many of his novels have been translated into English and the bulk of his poetry here in British Columbia by George McWhirter.

It was in his Mexico City home in Lomas de Chapultepec that The Butterfly Man told me the story of his philosopher friend Ramón Xirau calling him to tell him that when he left his house he could not breathe. Xirau and The Butterfly Man organized the Grupo de Los Cien which pioneered the idea of limiting the circulation of automobiles in Mexico City to license plates that alternated between odd and even. Soon the organization was pushing for the protection not only of the atmospheric environment of one of the largest and most polluted cities of the world but to also saving endangered animal species including whales and turtles.

But dear to The Butterfly Man were the Monarch Butterflies (Danaus plexippus) that wintered near his home town on the Mexican Oyamel fir trees (Abies religiosa).

When I first met The Butterfly Man my garden butterfly bush (Buddleja davidii) was completely covered by Monarchs in August. By the beginning of the 21st century there were the odd three of four. At the the time (when I first met The Butterly Man) there was a great ignorance on where Ontario butterflies wintered. Strangely The Butterfly Man told me that they did not knwow where the wintering Monarchs came from. Once this communication disconnect was fixed new efforts were made, guided and led by The Butterfly Man who personally visited Mexican presidents and urged them to set aside Oyamel forests in Michoacán as places that could not be logged.



Of his efforts The Butterfly Man has written many a lovely poem of the dazzling sight of millions of butterflies arriving at his home town of Contepec to winter and how the Oyamel’s vibrated as if injected by LSD.

But it seems that it has been to no avail and The Butterlfly Man has again warned us all via the Huffington Post. 




A Tourist In My Own Land
Thursday, April 14, 2016






We (my Rosemary and two daughters) moved from Mexico City to Vancouver in 1975. On contract I have worked for the CBC, Canadian Pacific Limited, Air Canada and for Vancouver Magazine. I have photographed politicians, mayors, hoods, cops, stars, directors, dancers and more.

And yet I look at the mountains (with snow or without) with the eyes of a tourist. In fact I have felt like a tourist all these years. I feel I don’t belong.

My trip to Buenos Aires this Thursday will bring a temporary relief of being with relatives and friends and all in a city that will be recognizable. There is something to be said for the routine of the unchanging.

That is not the case in Vancouver. It was only today (Wednesday) that the City of Vancouver Twitter page posted a question about did we know that there were two previous incarnations of the Cambie Street Bridge. My guess is that nobody at City Hall has the memory for the fact that (at least the second one) it was previously called the Connaught Bridge.

We live in a city with an escaping memory. As the carpet is rolled out the other end is being rolled in.



When I am in Buenos Aires I will tell everybody about the charms of the city where I now live but it will be difficult to explain my sense of detachment (alienation, even) for a city where everything works, there is a steady 110 volts at the outlets (at an unwavering 60 cycles).  It will be difficult to explain, too them to understand that the polarization the plagues my former country of birth does not exist in Vancouver...yet.

The two pictures here I took of Jo-Ann (my former routine monthly subject on a Thursday) on the roof of my studio on Granville and Robson. The Farmer Building is gone and when I walk by I feel like a carrier pigeon lost.



Phone Sex With My Wife
Wednesday, April 13, 2016






I have yet to board my Air Canada airplane to Buenos Aires and I already miss my Rosemary.

It was at her urging (and nagging) that I am going for two weeks to the city of my birth. I am looking forward to the warmth (lots of the outward kind) from my relatives and friends. Men, after you have been introduced to them will kiss you on the cheek with no compunction when you say goodbye. I miss that sort of thing here with those cold-as-their-tap-water Vancouverians.

Perhaps this coldness is not only of this city but a Canadian trademark and a result of the serious Scottish background of early settlers.

As a Latin American I show passion for stuff and don’t keep it inside.I have been known to throw, dishes, phones and toasters. I get angry. And I have cried.

My Rosemary is not like that. She is shy, reserved and not known for hugging me in public (and rarely in private). And yet…

Here I am missing the warmth that is in her that after 48 years of marriage I know she has. My mother was similar to Rosemary. She used to say, “Love is not kissing and hugging. Love is doing.”

Rosemary worries about me. She may place a chocolate bar on my bedroom table or buy me some special juice I like. She is checking that I have clean clothes to pack and she urged me to buy new jeans now that my waist size has gone from 38 inches to 34. She has made sure I am taking all necessary pills. And best of all she inherited from my grandmother (on a roundabout way?) her ability to pack a suitcase.

Rosemary has made sure I have spare storage cards for my Fuji X-E1 and reminded me to buy a second battery.

In short I am all set.

But I want to almost (but not that bashfully) reveal that on the phone, abroad or at home, my Rosemary oozes with warmth. Had someone invented something beyond virtual phone sex, by now we would have at least a dozen children.

I have not yet left but I am ready to come home and to hug my Rosemary and tell her how sorry I am that I will not be here for April 19th which happens to be her birthday.



Fiddler On The Roof In New Westminster & Peach Yoghurt In Buenos Aires
Monday, April 11, 2016


Dallas Murray Richards, 97, Lauren Elizabeth Stewart, 12, April 11, 2015


Royal City Musical Theatre’s production of Joseph Stein (Book) Jerry Bock (Music),Sheldon Harnick Lyrics originally produced on the NY Stage directed and choreographed by Jerome Robbins of Fiddler on the Roof was a bittersweet experience for my granddaughter Lauren (13) and I.

Before the musical started I indicated to Lauren that we should get up from our very good seats up front and go back a few to greet Muriel Richards who was sitting a few rows behind us. Lauren understood as it was in last years’production of My Fair Lady (by the Royal City Musical Theatre) that we sat next to Muriel and Dal Richards. Since I had photographed Richards many times he was especially pleasant to Lauren and promised her he would give her tips on how to play her school instrument of choice, the clarinet. This was not to be as Dal Richards died last year.



In spite of our feeling blue we enjoyed ourselves immensely and I must add that rarely do you have a director who happens to also do the choreography. This is the case of Valerie Easton whom I knew in the late 70s as a CBC jazz dancer who appeared in many variety shows.

During the whole show it was difficult not to note the choreography which was tops.
And here I must interject with what to me in which I admit (and not embarrassed in the least) that is an admission that RCMT’s Fiddler on the Roof was the first ever for me. I knew the tunes but had no idea of the plot or anything else. Lauren promised to keep her mouth zipped as she had recently seen a very good production of the musical at Eric Hamber Secondary. I asked her why them musical was called Fiddler on the Roof and she answered that there was a most slim connection.

Now for this sort of thing I have always been late. It was only when I was 21 that I tried yoghurt (peach flavoured) in my Buenos Aires. Until then I thought it was rotten milk.

As a Latin American I could never understand the North American concept of actors suddenly beginning to sing in what is called the musical. Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly and many musicals that I have subsequently attended at the Arts Club Theatre Company have helped to make me open to this strange mix of song, dance and acting.


The singers/actors/dancers were all superb as was the lead Warren Kimmel. The sets were sumptuous and kept moving around and showing facets of all their sides.

Watching Fiddler on the Roof I can understand why RCMT specializes in one production per year at the Massey Theatre in New Westminster. With the exception of the Queen Elizabeth Theatre and perhaps the Vancouver Playhouse no large musical production like this one could fly. And consider, furthermore that there was a musical ensemble of 19 souls which did include an accordion!

This sort of thing is now really unique to the RCMT's intimate liaison with the Massey Theatre.
But, there is one little wrinkle on all this. Every time we drive on Marine Way we never find that famous 6th Avenue Exit. I can now report that it does not exist going or coming unless you are going to navigate the Queensborough Bridge. Lauren patiently watched me avoid getting lost getting back although we returned via Richmond.

All in all it was a beautiful evening in which I shared moments with my granddaughter that she will one day re-tell to her children.

I am about to leave on a two-week trip to my hometown of Buenos Aires so I have been thinking about Argentina a lot. It has suddenly struck me why in Argentina the euphemism for Jewish people is Ruso! Fiddler on the Roof has further added to my education.

Fiddler on the Roof runs until April 23d.




Of Dead Cities & Of Living Ones
Sunday, April 10, 2016


Retiro Station - Buenos Aires







In recent days I have come to the realization that some of the cities of my memory, cities in which I lived have died.

The first city of my memory was and is Buenos Aires. It was and is a city of trains and subways, of smells of brake lining dust rusting on railroad tracks. Of smells at noon of meat being roasted in the pits by the window of downtown restaurants. Of smells of mate and café cortados and medias lunas. Of pizza and moscato.

My mother who had a keen sense of smell said I smelled of an Englishman and that coming back from trips abroad Buenos Aires she instantly sensed a smell of meat being roasted as soon as she walked on the airport tarmac of Ezeiza.

In that second city of my life my mother said that it smelled of tortillas being heated on comales. The unwashed masses in buses she said had the scent of catinga (an Argentine word for the smell of a horse).

Then there was the city of Veracruz which was a combination of humidity, sewer water and ship bunker fuel mixed in the port and that whiff of salt from the sea and the nearby vegetation during the powerful nortes.


There was Nueva Rosita, Coahuila which was not a city so my mother could not identify any particular smell to it. She never went to visit me in Austin so that small city did not register with her sense of smell.

It was at the Canadian Embassy in Mexico City where I met the second Canadian of my life (after my Rosemary).When Dorothy Barkley found out I was going to Vancouver (she was in Mexico to visit a friend in jail) she poetically described Vancouver as a city of mountains, rivers, bridges and the sea. She was right. She did not tell me that Vancouverites were as cold as their pure tap watter.

To me Vancouver smells (there is a hint of it in my nostrils!) of that pure tap water, something that Vancouverites might take for granted.

To me a city has to be part of my life. I could never live in Lillooet like my oldest daughter. I could not live without theatre, dance, art, music and the noise of big city. To me a city is a repetition of the Greek concept of the City State. To be part of a core of humanity you have to live in a city.

I am shortly going to the city of my youth. As soon as I check in to my “hotel de mala muerte” (a sort of refined flee bag) I will be one block from the Subte. Within seconds I will be able to go anywhere without getting lost. Like a bird going south I will know where everything is.


LAS CALLES


Las calles de Buenos Aires

ya son mi entraña.

No las ávidas calles,

incómodas de turba y de ajetreo,

sino las calles desganadas del barrio,

casi invisibles de habituales,

enternecidas de penumbra y de ocaso

y aquellas más afuera

ajenas de árboles piadosos

donde austeras casitas apenas se aventuran,

abrumadas por inmortales distancias,

a perderse en la honda visión

de cielo y de llanura.

Son para el solitario una promesa

porque millares de almas singulares las pueblan,

únicas ante Dios y en el tiempo

y sin duda preciosas.

Hacia el Oeste, el Norte y el Sur

se han desplegado–y son también la patria–las calles:

ojalá en versos que trazo

estén esas banderas.



—Jorge Luis Borges

(de la edición 1969 de Fervor de Buenos Aires)


Buenos Aires, more than any other city of the world, is a city that has been blessed and defined by the tango. Americans and their jazz cannot argue about that. And Jorge Luís Borges, more than any poet that this literary amateur can boast about wrote at length of Buenos Aires and of definite and defined city corners. It is impossible to walk up Calle Corrientes without running into the ghosts of tango and Borges.

 THE STREETS
My soul is in the streets
of Buenos Aires.
Not the greedy streets
jostling with crowds and traffic,
but the neighborhood streets where nothing is happening,
almost invisible by force of habit,
rendered eternal in the dim light of sunset,
and the ones even farther out,
empty of comforting trees,
where austere little houses scarcely venture,
overwhelmed by deathless distances,
losing themselves in the deep expanse
of sky and plains.
For the solitary one they are a promise
because thousands of singular souls inhabit them,
unique before God and in time
and no doubt precious.
To the West, the North, and the South
unfold the streets–and they too are my country;
within these lines I trace
may their flags fly.

Translation by Stephen Kessler

In recent days I have come to the realization that some of the cities of my memory, cities in which I lived have died.



I cannot return to Mexico City or Austin. Mexico City is the second city of my grandmother and mother, of my Tía Fermina and Tío Luís. They are dead. It was the city of Raul Guerrero Montemayor, my friend, mentor and godfather of my youngest daughter Hilary. I saw him two years ago weeks before he died. As I left he had tears in his eyes. I did, too knowing that his death would be the death of a former city I had loved.


Ángel de Independencia, Mexico D.F.
Austin, the city in which the Roman Catholic Brothers of Holy Cross made me into a man and gave me an education that still dazzles me with its death is dead. My religious mentor, friend Brother Edwin Reggio, C.S.C. died a few weeks after I last saw him two years ago. Nearby in a house by a damn my friend Howard Houston died last year.

I cannot return to Austin or Mexico City . Certainly not alone. I might visit with my Rosemary or with a friend and show them around. But alone would be like visiting a cemetery. In fact at the Assumption Cemetery on one side of St. Edward’s University are little white crosses, all in rows marking the remains of Brother Edwin and all those other brothers that indelibly marked my life for the better.

So I return to my Buenos Aires, a city with trains, with cooking meat, a city with a subway, a city with family and friends, a city that unlike Vancouver is still recognizable of its past even though it is populated by ghosts like my father, uncles and aunts. When I walk up Corrientes Piazzolla will be in my inner ear full of melancholy and the adventure of the dissonance of the big city. Perhaps I might even pass through the ghost of me from my past or of my Susy, now dead

.
Brother Edwin Reggio, C.S.C. Assumption Cemetery, Austin Texas

I will be happy, before soon, I, too will be part of a dead city of which I will no longer have a memory for. And some visitors, perhaps one of my daughters or granddaughters the city will be alive if I am part of their memory.

On my last days in Buenos Aires I will be wondering how I see Vancouver, my city now. I will be wondering when my Rosemary picks me up at the airport what my olfactory enclined mother would say my city smells of. Certainly not of French fries she said all American cities reminded her of.



     

Previous Posts
Don Homero Aridjis - The Butterfly Man

A Tourist In My Own Land

Phone Sex With My Wife

Fiddler On The Roof In New Westminster & Peach Yog...

Of Dead Cities & Of Living Ones

Ballenitas - Collar Stays & A Dearth Of Button Dow...

In A Library

Street Photography Is Alive & Well At Vancouver Ca...

Agent Orange & Viet Nam Are Alive & Well With Vete...

My Kitsilano Darkroom & Nicole



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9/18/11 - 9/25/11

9/25/11 - 10/2/11

10/2/11 - 10/9/11

10/9/11 - 10/16/11

10/16/11 - 10/23/11

10/23/11 - 10/30/11

10/30/11 - 11/6/11

11/6/11 - 11/13/11

11/13/11 - 11/20/11

11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

1/29/12 - 2/5/12

2/5/12 - 2/12/12

2/12/12 - 2/19/12

2/19/12 - 2/26/12

2/26/12 - 3/4/12

3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

4/15/12 - 4/22/12

4/22/12 - 4/29/12

4/29/12 - 5/6/12

5/6/12 - 5/13/12

5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

7/8/12 - 7/15/12

7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

7/29/12 - 8/5/12

8/5/12 - 8/12/12

8/12/12 - 8/19/12

8/19/12 - 8/26/12

8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

9/9/12 - 9/16/12

9/16/12 - 9/23/12

9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

6/15/14 - 6/22/14

6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

7/6/14 - 7/13/14

7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

7/27/14 - 8/3/14

8/3/14 - 8/10/14

8/10/14 - 8/17/14

8/17/14 - 8/24/14

8/24/14 - 8/31/14

8/31/14 - 9/7/14

9/7/14 - 9/14/14

9/14/14 - 9/21/14

9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

10/5/14 - 10/12/14

10/12/14 - 10/19/14

10/19/14 - 10/26/14

10/26/14 - 11/2/14

11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

4/5/15 - 4/12/15

4/12/15 - 4/19/15

4/19/15 - 4/26/15

4/26/15 - 5/3/15

5/3/15 - 5/10/15

5/10/15 - 5/17/15

5/17/15 - 5/24/15

5/24/15 - 5/31/15

5/31/15 - 6/7/15

6/7/15 - 6/14/15

6/14/15 - 6/21/15

6/21/15 - 6/28/15

6/28/15 - 7/5/15

7/5/15 - 7/12/15

7/12/15 - 7/19/15

7/19/15 - 7/26/15

7/26/15 - 8/2/15

8/2/15 - 8/9/15

8/9/15 - 8/16/15

8/16/15 - 8/23/15

8/23/15 - 8/30/15

8/30/15 - 9/6/15

9/6/15 - 9/13/15

9/13/15 - 9/20/15

9/20/15 - 9/27/15

9/27/15 - 10/4/15

10/4/15 - 10/11/15

10/18/15 - 10/25/15

10/25/15 - 11/1/15

11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

12/6/15 - 12/13/15

12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

3/6/16 - 3/13/16

3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

4/10/16 - 4/17/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16