Zippy Pinhead - Musician
Friday, October 03, 2014
My Mother's Red Shawl
- El Rebozo Colorado
Zippy Pinhead -
When Alex approached me to do this photo
shoot I was celebrating my 53rd birthday with my close friends Art Bergmann and
his wife Sherry, Randy Rampage and Susanne Tabata, Long John Tanner and my wife.
I'd had photo shoots with Alex in the past so I knew he had a certain taste for
the dramatic effect in his pics. Dressing up like turn of the century bandidos
with full regalia to sensitive portraits in a heartbeat, I was
honored! When he told me the story of the red shawl and how long it
had been in his family I immediately thought of how many parties this shawl has
seen and how much comfort it gave it's owner when the party was over, so I went
into the bathroom and sort of through it up in the air and it landed on my head
kinda like the headdress worn by Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia! A cupla
twists and I was there. Charging through the sand dunes on my trusty camel, shooting
into the air and yelling at the top of my lungs.....Get out of the way you bastards;
here I come with thousands of my close friends right behind me. That’s the way
I felt when I put on the shawl.
Holly McRea Model - Poet - Creation Conduit.
Model - Volunteer - Friend
Diseñadora de vestuario
Sociólogo, Investigador Histórico - Amigo
Jennifer Froese Youth Worker
Georgina Elizabeth Isles
Author/Lawyer/Assistant DA Travis County TX
Brother Edwin Charles Reggio, CSC
Mentor & Teacher
Raúl Guerrero Montemayor
Yeva & Thoenn Glover
André De Mondo
Johnna Wright & Sascha
Director/Mother - Son/Dreamer
Decker & Nick Hunt
Cat & 19th century amateur
Vancouver Sun Columnist
Statesman, Flag Designer
Vancouver Sun Columnist
Lauren Elizabeth Stewart
The Clematis, The Clitoris, An Ostrich & The Spotted Hyena
Thursday, October 02, 2014
Just this past week I
listened to poet Alastair Reid, who died this past September 21 read his
beautiful poem on cats (and dogs) Curiosity. I listened to how he pronounced
idyll in the line below:
|Clematis ternata, October 1, 2014|
where living is an idyll
It was as surprising to me as many years
ago when I was listening to the BBC as young man in Mexico City and the announcer uttered
Himaaleeas. It seemed that he was talking about a chain of mountains bordering Tibet, Nepal
Another favourite of mine is the strange
aroid, Arisaema which we might pronounce A-ree-sa-ee-maw. But then I listened
to an English botanical judge say: Arí-si (as in Sicily) –maw. If you pronounce it that way
while lifting your nose up into the air, the plant sounds so much more exotic. This
particular aroid has family members that can raise the temperature of their
spadix (aroid flowers are called inflorescences) from the surrounding
atmospheric temperature, so they can disseminate its often foul odor and
attract insects like flies. So much for some vertebrates being the only warm
blooded specimens in nature.
I will now persist in my narrative
involving sexual organs. My fave (in reference to its history and nothing
else!) is the clitoris via the clematis. More on that somewhere at the bottom.
My wife Rosemary and I both garden. We each
have favourite plants. Most of the time we keep civility in check when her
plant or my plant becomes invasive or is a pain in the neck in some way.
Rosemary loves the clematis which is given
the botanical epithet “Queen of the Vines”. When you think of the beauty of the
passion flower (Passiflora) I would in less diplomatic inclinations to argue
The clematis is a fragile; its stems have
to be treated with extreme care. If you bend the stems, like folding a paper, you cannot unbend them and they will
die. But that is where fragile ends and in many varieties you have an invasive
variety that in some cases, like that other thug, the wisteria, can bring down
To keep them in check and to have them
properly bloom there are three (perhaps more and I don’t want to dwell on that)
types that require pruning at different times of the year. Many of these
Rosemary faves do not have any scent (but some ( yes!) and do so quite
sweetly). Like many camellias and hibiscus their beauty fools you. You get
close to the wonderful flowers and you get nothing.
But right now, October 1, there is a
wonderful, white and fragrant clematis, Clematis ternata blooming on our
boulevard fence. It has managed to climb up the very large Thuya plicatta (Western
Red Cedar) and if I don’t prune it, it could possibly drag down the tree (not
really, I am only exaggerating).
Scanning the flowers is an almost
impossible job. If you place them on the scanner glass the white flowers
over-expose. If you hang them over the glass then only the closest will look as
they do on the vine.
I will have to admit here that Rosemary’s
clematis (no idea of the plural form) have their moments.
Now to the connection between clematis and
clitoris. The connection is that both words have etymological routes in Greek
and both words in Greek are accented on the first syllable. Thus:
Clém – atis and Clít- toris (clídoris)
I love going to the desks of elderly master
gardeners ready to answer your questions at garden centers during the growing
season. I like to ask them, “How do you pronounce c, l, e, m, a, t, i, s?” If
they pronounce it the non Greek way, I then ask them, “How do you pronounce c,
l, i, t, o, r, i, s?” I am usually sent packing.
I cannot resist here to quote that handy
Wikipedia on a hitherto known fact about the clitoris, the ostrich and the
spotted hyena. Here it is:
The clitoris is a
female sex organ present in mammals, ostriches and a limited number of other
animals. In humans, the visible button-like portion is near the front junction
of the labia minora (inner lips), above the opening of the urethra. Unlike the
penis, the male homologue (equivalent) to the clitoris, it usually does not
contain the distal portion (or opening) of the urethra and is therefore not
used for urination. While few animals urinate through the clitoris, the spotted
hyena, which has an especially well-developed clitoris, urinates, mates and
gives birth via the organ. Some other carnivorous animals, or mammals in
particular, such as lemurs and spider monkeys, also have a well-developed
In Search Of A Style With Siouxsie & Budgie
Wednesday, October 01, 2014
|Siouxsie & Budgie - circa 1981|
When Colt introduced
its single action Colt Army Peacemaker in 1873 it revolutionized the “art” of
killing. If you had the money to buy one (and many did) you could compete with
anybody and more so if you knew how to use it. I see that gun having a parallel
with the proliferation in the 21st century of good digital cameras.
I believe that the Colt evened out the playing field in the 19th
century and now in the 21st century the same has happened with
cameras and how they affected photographers who use them.
When I began to work
for Vancouver Magazine in the late 70s and Les Wiseman (the writer) and yours
truly (the photographer) started covering rock concerts (local and from abroad)
for the In One Ear column, we discussed how we could do it differently.
happened at the Commodore Ballroom, the Smilin’ Buddha, Gary Taylor’s and UBC’s
We quickly figured out
that even though we were given access to shoot in what we called the media pit
(right next to the stage floor) my pictures looked like anybody else’s or not as good.
At the time there were
two choices. You either used what we called a head-on flash (like the one in
the picture here) or you shot very fast film that was pushed to higher ratings.
The problem with the
above is that the methods used to place photographs in a magazine or newspaper
was photo-mechanical and not digital. If there was no separation between a
musician’s head and the black background the picture could not be used. In fact
pictures surrounded by black were editorial no-nos. Art directors loved low contrast.
The flash up close
minimized the dark background. But it was difficult to impose a personal style. The
only style involved was how important your magazine was so that access became
the style. I attempted to use slow shutters (1/8, ¼ and slower) when using the
flash so that I would get some sharpness but some ghosting blurs at the same
|Les Wiseman & Siouxsie Sioux|
Soon even that was
passé and Wiseman and I narrowed our approach to personal interviews with the
band members or the lead member either in their hotel or at sound check in
their dressing rooms. I would bring a very heavy studio flash (it was a
QC-I000) and a couple of heads. This plus the light stands and a seamless paper
were all heavy and Wiseman had to help.
At the time the record
companies were all powerful and one had to kowtow to the “Record Rep”. We were
nice to them and they soon liked our exclusive coverage which involved Wiseman’s
exceptional writing style. Wiseman believed in doing copious research (an in an era before
Google) this meant many trips to the library. Soon we were sort of able to call
the shots. We would, “If we cannot get access back stage or at the hotel,
The bands that Wiseman
picked were all based on his extremely snobbish (thank God) tastes. Many times
nobody knew about them and after the In One Ear Column was out we garnered lots
of hip prestige in knowing before anybody else a band’s rising fame.
The pictures you see
here of Siouxie Sioux I believe I took in 1981. Wiseman says the hotel shots
were taken in the concrete one on the corner of Granville and Helmcken which I
believe is now called the Chateau Granville. He reminded me that somehow we had
to go up stairs with my heavy equipment.
The lights were
expensive but the camera I used was the one you see here and or a more modern
one called a Pentax Spotmatic-F. At the time I liked to use extreme wide angles
and got close to my subjects. I particularly liked a 20mm. The film was Kodak
Technical Pan which was slow (25 ISO).
For the concert shots
I still used the slow film and a slow shutter. My lens would have been the 55mm
here or an 80mm Komura.
Until a recent past I
taught at Focal Point and did two years at VanArts, downtown. The former closed
its doors three years ago and VanArts fired me as they said that I was not a
good fit for their school.
I remember once when I
told my students that it was virtually impossible to shoot band at concerts in
an original way. One particular female student was extremely aggressive and
told me I knew nothing and had no experience. She told me that my rock swirls
(the slow shutter ones) were simply bad photography.
I tried to stress that
the single most important aspect in personal photography was to develop a
personal style. I called the personal style the Holy Grail of photography. But
it was to no avail and I see now, more than ever pictures of performing bands
(sharp, well exposed, bright colours, etc) that are boring, banal and all
pretty well look the same. In fact if you are in front of a band at a concert
with a very good camera I guarantee that the pictures you will take will look
like somebody else’s. In 1982 having the pictures "turn out" was not a sure thing. It is now a sure thing but that does not necessarily include style.
In the group of
pictures here you can see the descent from the interesting (Siouxie playing the
devil with her hands) to the sofa shot with her drummer Budgie to the ordinary
concert pictures I took at the Commodore. You might note that I had access to
one side of the stage so I got profiles. To me the only saving grace of these
pictures is Siouxie’s fishnets.
The Western Canon, The Travails Of ESL & Money Laundering In Real Estate
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
|The Western Canon|
October of 2008 veteran journalist and editor, Paul Sullivan, while not coining
the expression citizen journalism, wrote and spoke of its new found virtues and
hired (at no or little pay) professionally unqualified (and thus qualified) people,
including two “ladies of the night” to write (subjectivity not objectivity was their
mantra) about city events, in particular about the women who had been
terrorized and brutally murdered by Robert Pickton. The website was called
Sullivan was vaunting
the virtues of everyman (person) journalism.
I have never been
inclined to seek the opinion of the woman or man on the street as I grew up
listening to Walter Cronkite or laughing at the acute humour of Nicholas von
Hoffman. I prefer to listen and to watch
on MSNBC the likes of Rachel Maddow who is smart, articulate and has the
credentials to match those rare qualities in this day and age.
Perhaps my views are
to be expected, they come from someone who was born in the first half of the now terribly
defunct 20th century.
The wonders of this
century have brought citizen journalism and opinion to the on-line versions of
paper magazines and newspapers. These unadulterated comments in articles and
essays often bring the worst and most caustic side of human beings. In fact I
was finally turned off from the many pleasures of reading The Tyee, were those citizens, with time in
their hands, and with agendas to chew on, ranted with no tact or diplomacy and spoiled my experience.
The alternative (I am
reluctant to pluralize that word) to that excellent web news magazine The Tyee
with its liberal tendencies (and I am a liberal) is slowly decaying into
redundancy (a fave Brit word for what ails so many of us in this modern world).
Not too many weeks ago
I read one of the best essays I had read in years in my city newspaper, the Vancouver Sun. It was
written by Rick Ouston and I blogged about it here. To my dismay I ran into two
former Sun Staffers and one active one recently. None had read it. If you
consider that in the essay in question Ouston writes about a blundered suicide
attempt a year ago you wonder what happens in the Vancouver newsroom in this age of communication.
I talked to a staffer
today and told him, “I went to the Sun newsroom on Saturday and I saw a paper
tacked to the newsroom door. It said, ‘Please do not declare WWIII or if you
are a famous person don’t succumb until Monday. We are closed on
When from a facebook
posting (note it must be written in lower case) I found out on late Sunday that
Drew Burns had died on Saturday I was not able to confirm his death by any
media mention. I do know that the Vancouver Sun will have a hard copy obituary
on the Tuesday edition written by perhaps the only man working at the Sun who
knew Burns and dealt with him as John Mackie was a punk band manager at one time
when phone booths were a dime a dozen.
Consider that the Vancouver Sun staffer to
whom I told about the newsroom-door-pinned-bulletin seemed to believe my
statement. Surely he did not believe it to be more than a a prank. Perhaps it is true and our only real city newspaper is out to lunch
on weekends. Obituaries have to wait for Tuesdays.
By now many reading
this will think, “When is this idiot going to get to the point?”
Remember I am
one of those Paul Sullivan citizen journalists.
I have not been trained to get
to the point or to write well. I am one of those former photographers that in those
days, in that other century, were collectively thought to be
stupid. What follows will have to do. And what follows I hope nobody considers to be a “The-Tyee-comment-ranter”
particularly those who imitated coyotes and other vermin of the hinterland of
In the last couple of
months well regarded columnists of the Vancouver Sun have written prominent
articles on the expensive state of our real estate, the ruining (by the influx
of people unwilling to speak English) of
ESL (English as a Second Language) in our public school system, and how:
Asian grip on the
Western Canon – Musical arts: Caucasian students playing piano at a high level
are few and far between.
This last opinion
article published in the Sun on Saturday September 20 and written by Pete
McMartin was followed by another by him on Saturday September 27:
Too much of a good
thing? Theory: Vancouver’s
attractiveness could one day be its undoing.
The crux of this
latter essay drew from a NY Times Sunday Magazine (two Sundays ago) that was
about how people in the US
want to go to live in Portland
because of its beauty, weather and social milieu. McMartin finds that the
so-called Amenity Paradox (people go to Portland
but find few jobs and real estate is becoming more dear) has parallels with our
Vancouver. In Portland we have a
gravitational pull of young college graduates. Who gravitates to our Vancouver is left blurry.
In this article McMartin quoted the noted urban planner Lance Berelowitz. My beef is that I want
to read in a newspaper essays that address in a fair manner how the growth
can be explained and how solutions to perceived problems by our city rapid
expansion can be found.
When an article (the
one on the Western Canon) prominently uses large type on the word Caucasian
there is some sort of weird reverse racism involved. Somehow when McMartin uses
Asian that term seems milder in my view than Caucasian. When the “red Indian”
ruled the plains in the 19th century (and before) the term Caucasian
was probably not used. Except for the Chinese (not called Asian then) were
building railroads, people in our neck of the woods were either white or were
not. Only now is that NFL team, the Washington Redskins trying to navigate what
really is a losing battle of the insult their name represents to Aboriginal
Americans. Can any future team be called the Dallas Caucasians?
Somehow Caucasian has
a troublesome ring to my ears. I hear it more often from the lips of Chinese
people that I know. They never say, “white”. Caucasian is the politically
correct epithet but to me it grinds and almost offends.
Few know that not too
long ago the inhabitants of the Indian Subcontinent were listed as Caucasians
by scientific journals. Caucasian had nothing to do with skin colour but with
facial features. As far as I can tell India,
Pakistan and Bangladesh are
South Asian countries.
Those Asians who are
not tickling the ivories in our local music schools, are they Filipino,
Indonesian, Indian, Bangladeshi, Borneans, or even Japanese or Korean? Could
Mr. McMartin be skirting the fact that many of them are Chinese? To write that
they could be Chinese, would that be offensive? Would it be racist?
Not too many weeks ago a local
architect of Chinese origin told us at an Abraham Rogatnick memorial lunch that a full time project of
actively trying to keep the flavour, spirit and look of Vancouver’s
China Town alive was most difficult. I could not tell the noted architect (age is
making me polite) that our Chinatown, and many
more in other cities are former ghettos. The inhabitants of those ghettos were
not allowed or could not afford to live anywhere else. Now we have different
China Towns. And they are not ghettos by the old definition.
I would like to read
in the Vancouver Sun balanced articles in which experts such as Vancouver urban
planner Lance Berelowitz (note Vancouver Sun fact checkers that there is a
second e in that surname) and others tell us about our urban problems and offer
solutions. I have been told by two prominent real estate agents that many
houses that change hands in Vancouver
are all about money laundering. Why not bring back the unflinching David Baines
to explore that topic? Rick Ouston, a professional and qualified journalist
could write with objectivity about this Caucasian/Chinese thing we are so
reluctant to discuss. I wonder about those small signs stapled to posts on Granville, Cambie, etc that say, "Quick cash for your home."
To be fair I do believe that Pete McMartin's efforts are laudable in that they are indeed an effort to tackle the issues of our city. I remember with warmth, affection and respect the scion of the Southam newspaper empire, Harvey Southam how in his sorely missed (at least by yours truly) his business monthly Equity Magazine in which he featured two prominent city columnists on adjacent pages (left and right!). One was called From the Left and the other From the Right. They always wrote about the same issue but from a different point of view. I want balanced objective reporting without forgetting what one of the sailors on board Thor Heyerdahl's expeditions Ra I and Ra II, Santiago Genovés once said at a lecture I attended in Mexico City in the early 70s:
"We must remember that objectivity is a subjective invention by man."
If we persist in this
reluctant direction the flames of racism will surely be fanned. I might just
decide to move to Portland.
Or as a friend of mine likes to remind me of something I said to him some years
ago, “Let’s go to White
Town. Let’s see how we maneuver
around our food with one of those forks and knives.”
Drew Burns' Commodore Ballroom
Monday, September 29, 2014
Not too long ago I had
to photograph a couple of composers for the Georgia
Straight. I decided that taking the picture on Granville by the Orpheum and the
Commodore Ballroom was the right place. I was prevented from taking my
photograph by some tough guys who said that the Commodore Ballroom had all
rights to pictures not only taken inside but outside on the street. I sort of
sweet talked them into inquiring about getting permission from those involved
in running the Commodore. The permission came and I took my picture days later.
This would not have happened in times gone
by; the times when Drew Burns was in charge. In the 70s and 80s when I took
many pictures of bands performing there Burns always accommodated my needs which
sometimes were requests to take photographs backstage. Burns always invited me
into his office (a messy kind of office) and I remember he had a penchant for
shirts with polka-dots.
Such was my reputation, courtesy of
Vancouver Magazine, that the security staff played protective wall for me from
punks (the punk band punk variety punks) who liked to push and shove for fun but my cameras were more fragile than I was. These security guys would stand in front of
me and marched to wherever I wanted to take my shots. One security man, while
walking on Granville (he may have been involved with some motorcycle gang. His last name was Paisely.) was
shot in the stomach. In spite of the pain he ran after the gunman and wrestled
him to the ground.
Les Wiseman who wrote his crafty words for
Vancouver Magazine’s In One Ear was a snob. This meant that we sometimes
skipped the warm-up acts. In some rare occasions we skipped the headliners
(probably Images in Vogue) and left after the warm-up bands finished.
In one special evening that I remember
vividly we left for a cheap beer at the Dufferin before the headliners were to
be on. We ran into one of my fave exotic dancers, Miss Mew, AKA Fleen. We told
her where we were going. She warned us, “The place has changed.”
I never really imbibed but I
sort of enjoyed the second-string lineups of exotic dancers of the bar. One of
my fave sights was a waiter who looked like Laurence Harvey.
We sat down and Wiseman ordered his beer. I
ordered my coke. I noticed two men holding hands at another table. “Les, I
believe this bar has gone gay.” It had. In one of those strange, unexplainable
events of our city of the time someone had decided from one day to the next for the change, as
if there were a switch that went from straight to gay. The owner flicked the
switch and that was it.
To me the Commodore that was will never
again be that Commodore. It ceased being so when Burns, a gentleman, retired 15 years ago.
Some sort of mafia has taken over.
Somehow my memory of the Commodore Ballroom
had something to do with the many chandeliers and the tacky and elaborate red
wall paper going up on the stairs.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
|Helianthus annuus September 28, 2014|
Today Sunday after a
night of insomnia I went finally asleep and woke up with deep melancholia.
My female cat, Plata
is now 16 years old and she is obsessed in wanting to eat all day. She nags me
constantly. She may have some version of feline dementia as many times there is
still food in her dish. I pick up the dish and stir the contents around with a
spoon. Plata eats. Sometimes, I have to admit I get very angry at her nagging
and I say (sometimes in a raised voice) to her, “Plata, if you want more food
ask your mistress. I’ve had it with your constant begging.”
This morning Rosemary
said something close to this, “Our cats are two faithful remnants of our life
and we should appreciate and care for them. They really don’t expect nothing
and give all.”
Rosemary left for a
Master Gardener clinic at Garden Works in Lougheed Highway. It is a sunny day and I
must finish pruning and shaping our very long laurel hedge.
I decided to postpone
that to perhaps later in the afternoon. I made my breakfast and brought the
tray to bed where I finished the last of yesterday’s (the Sunday Times is
delivered on Saturday night) Sunday Review. I prevaricated (that sounds better
than that term dithering now associated to Obama even by his followers). I
With me, by my side
was Plata stretched out so elegantly as only cats can, having learned in their
past from the dancers in the courts of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs.
My mother and
grandmother, two very Roman Catholic women prayed to the many saints connected
with problems encountered. St Anthony of Padua
was promised funds for charity should he help them find a lost earring or other
trinket. When things became desperate they turned to St. Jude Apostle, the
patron saint of impossible things (and situations).
One day my mother
whose name was Filomena arrived from school desperate. “Alex, the pope has
de-listed St. Philomena. She never existed. I no longer have a patron saint.” Years
later, no scandal in England
as far as I can tell, the Roman Catholic Church asserted that St.
George, had never existed so he could never have slain that dragon.
With no internet and
Google to check out useless facts my mother and grandmother never knew of an
Armenian centurion Expeditus who was martyred when he converted to Christianity
in 303 AD. It seems that while pondering
on his decision a crow appeared and squawked “Cras, cras,” Latin for tomorrow.
Expeditus not only ignored the bird but he stomped him and promptly converted.
Not clear in my
investigation of Expeditus is my confusion of exactly what he intercedes with
God for us. Does he help us not to dither? Does he justify our act of prevarication?
Is he the long lost saint of that 60s mantra that we were going to be showered
with leisure time? Obviously St Expeditus
could have never predicted the rise of the iPhone and how that gadget keeps us
from true, substantial, melancholy, a meandering of thought, inspirational and
even artistic daydreaming.
I believe that St.
Expeditus and St. Jude should get together and
decide with precision and without delay to intercede for us and help us achieve
While I have been
scanning my garden roses now for some ten years, this year I have become enamoured
with my Lillooet daughter’s sun flowers. In early spring she brings these
plants in big black pots. I help Rosemary plant them in our back lane garden
and wherever else we can find a sunny spot. I have been delighted with the long
span of this annual. From beginning when I can note their buds to the end of
the cycle when the plants droop and the flowers become untidy I have noted a
beauty that while not competing with my roses, have an elegance, an ordinary
elegance that can almost, as today, almost wipe out my late summer melancholy.
Rosemary is right. I
shall attend to Plata and give her more love and less shouting. I will try to
ignore her nagging and just feed her. With so many of my human friends
disappearing (do they dither?) it is comforting to have a friendly allegiance.
Alistair Reid - March 22, 1926 - September 21, 2014
Saturday, September 27, 2014
|Gaticuchi Waterhouse-Hayward - 1976 - 1991|
Curiosity - Alastair Reid
may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives,
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious
have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats love too much, are
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.