the latest or most advanced stage in the development of something.
"researchers at the cutting edge of molecular biology"
3.
a dynamic or invigorating quality.
"the campaign began to lose its cutting edge"
incisiveness and directness of expression.
"his wit retains its cutting edge"
Last night my graphic designer friend Graham Walker and I
attended a Standing Wave concert at Christ Church Cathedral that was part of
this year's VSO New Music Festival.
I know I photographed Standing Wave before 2002 (the only
pictures in my files). I was struck as I listened to music that I had never
heard before that there was here an obvious dialectic of two words at odds. And
yet I can state that it is not the case. I can remember memorable occasions of
having heard each member (in separate concerts in other solos and orchestras)
of Standing Wave:
Perhaps the most memorable of all was a performance of
Olivier Messiaen’s Quartet for the End of Time with Peggy Lee playing her
cello.
I may have to diverge a bit here in an attempt to explain
the magic and exhilaration of listening to a work of music for the first time
that statistically I will probably never ever listen to again. The same happens
in Vancouver with modern dance. You see a performance and as soon as it is over
all that remains is a flicker of memory embedded in my brain that in years
passing fades like some of my badly fixed photographs. I believe this is a
thrill that may explain why I never ever want to listen to another recording of
Bach’s Double Violin Concerto. Bachian Proportions
Perhaps as a musical amateur I may no longer appreciate the
brilliance or nuances of that double violin concerto. But this musical amateur
does find the surprise of the unexpected (any concert of Standing Wave or new
music) a reward. I listen to less recorded music at home (it is in my memory
banks with around 11 versions of Gerry Mulligan playing My Funny Valentine).
And last night’s Standing Wave concert was a surprise (a
smooth predictable one!) of listening to 6 works by living composers (two were
present, Jocelyn Morlock and Marcus Goddard). They had a little of dissonance,
a little of lyrical smoothness and jarring noises (particularly the most
interesting ones by Rebecca Whitling who switched to a viola in Steven Macky’s Indigenous Insruments. The 6
pieces were not long so time passed quickly and when the concert ended I was
satisfied and felt no signs of overindulgence in my stomach.
Jocelyn Morlock’s Stone’s Throw was a piece that I wish I
could hear again. I wonder when I watch the 6 Standing Wave musicians use their
instruments in some unusual way if Morlock has an intimate knowledge on how
instruments work and what the are capable of. When I listen to Morlock’s music I have in my
mind a photograph of Shostakovich with his glasses which alienated me from
listening to his music until a friend plunked on my turntable the Shostakovich
Fifth Symphony and told me, “Now listen to a piano played like the percussion
instrument it is.” Listening to her music after listening to her laugh off her
obvious talent, rewards you with the idea that here is a new music composer who
happily does not need glasses and will not scare your guests at a dinner party
if you happen to play her Juno Award music.
As for that Shostakovich piano there was a good measure
of it by Allen Stiles in Steven Mackey’s Indigenous Instruments and some fine
cello plucking by Lee.
Watching Standing Wave always brings the pleasure of
surprise as to what strange instruments will come into the mix. Christie Reside
in one number played a flute the size of a Parker Pen while Anne Katherine
Coope played on a slide whistle. And Rebecca Whitling's (battered looking viola) was a surprise, too. At one point Vern Griffiths, sitting (uncharacteristically at a drum kit waved what looked like a Technicolor beaver tail that made a whistling sound.
Perhaps the sounds that invited more of the audience to
ask Vern Griffiths to demonstrate, were whale-like sounds (although in the upper
register they nicely imitated the below human hearing low sounds of Blue
Wavesin Jared Miller’s Leviathan.) in
which he used what looked like a cello bow on tiny cymbals placed on the side
of his tympani.
American composer Marcus Goddard’s Pool of Lost Grooves
(a World Premier it was) had everything. It was edgy, lyrical and obsessive.
The latter makes this work what I call “Bridge Crossing Music in a High Speed Car.”
Once many years ago I was driving my Maserati Biturbo ( a terrible car that
only a bassoonist would own) at night through the covered Seattle freeway while
listening to London Calling by the Clash. A little of the edginess was removed
by the presence of young Atlantan Michael Jarrett who relieved Griffiths in
percussion who seemed to be having a very good and easy time. My companion
Walker marvelled at how he held his mallets when he played on the vibraphone.
So Standing Wave is cutting edge music that has been
happening in our city much longer than anyone would have predicted. It seems
that they will be touring Europe soon. It is about time that Vancouver’s
cutting edge and venerable new music group show the world how good we are.
Some years ago Venetian cellist Claudio Ronco came to
Vancouver on a double purpose. Most think that 19th century Bohemian composer
David Popper is known best for his studies for the cello for beginners. Ronco
proved otherwise. Some of Popper’s works that he played, to me sounded like Bach
on amphetamines. The other reason he was in town was to inform us with alarm
that Venice’s Jewish Ghetto was being forgotten and it needed repair and
recognition.
Rosemary and I plan to be in Venice on the 21 for an opening
of a show in San Marco of sculpture, video, painting and photography called Body Language. I am
going to have ten photographs up. I am hoping on meeting up with Ronco and
perhaps he will play some more Popper.
This photograph of baroque cellist Julian Soltis has the
look of speed to my eyes.
As January loses the excitement and lights of the Christmas
season; as I forget putting out of my bedroom door my shoes on the eve of the Epiphany, with the
hopes that on the next day I would find toys, I have a few reasons to feel
optimistic for this year.
It would seem that my cameras will be having their shutter
buttons pushed and I will be having tea rests with beautiful subjects.
But it impossible to clean the slate, not only last year’s
but also all the preceding ones.
When I feel melancholy I don’t buy new shoes or slurp a
thick chocolate malt. I go to my oficina and under my section P to Z I extract
a thick file called Tarren.
On any envelope ranging from 1980 to about 2007 I can gaze
on extraordinary beauty that was not only that. I have photographer many
beautiful women. But Tarren had (and surely has) what I call presence. You can
be a magnificent ballerina with the best technique but without that almost
impossible to define presence she will only be a dancer. I saw the same in my
youth when I would go to Plaza México and indulge in my then interest in bullfighting.
Some matadors had presence. Others did not and did not interest me.
For me Tarren was (and surely is) that contradiction that I
define as liquid fire.
I may have at least 1000 photographs of her. There may be 10
that are not so good.
I believe that I am the photographer that I am today because
I met Tarren when there was little I knew about the photography of woman. With
an easy smile (and may I add sexy without being reproached?) she taught me and
inspired me.
How could I have been so lucky?
For those who may be curious here is an explanation of
the photographs. I photographed Tarren with a Nikon FM-2 using a small softbox
flash. The film was Kodak Black and White Infrared Film. I noticed that the
contact sheet has developed a nice colour as it has faded in my file. So I
scanned three from it, one at a time. With my 13 year-old Photoshop I joined
them together.
Christmases are supposed to be happy events, particularly
when the family sits down for a Christmas Eve dinner. In our family that has
meant I cook and dinner is at home.
Not this year. We went to my daughter Hilary’s home in Burnaby. I kept thinking about our own Christmas tree. It was alone in
Kitsilano. In some ways (for me) the living thing that is a Christmas tree, is
confirmed with tons of melancholy, when you see them discarded in our back
lanes.
Today is January 7 which is really the day I have always
taken the tree down. Sometimes it has been exactly on the Epiphany of the day
before. Before I took down the tree (Rosemary is in charge of the lights) I
realized that the tree had not been photographed as our family shots happened
in Burnaby. I brought my camera and as I was about to take the picture Niño our
male cat appeared and looked back at me. This delighted me and put a bit of a
smile on my face on a day when sadness rules.
I found this very sad Christmas Eve very short story by
Uruguayan author Eduardo Galeano. It is about loneliness. To me there is
nothing more lonely than a tree minus its ornaments when you decide for it that
it no longer has a role to play. My translation into English follows the
original in Spanish.
Nochebuena. Eduardo Galeano
Fernando Silva dirige el hospital de niños en Managua.
En vísperas de Navidad, se quedó trabajando hasta muy tarde. Ya estaban sonando los
cohetes, y empezaban los fuegos artificiales a iluminar el cielo, cuando Fernando
decidió marcharse. En su casa lo esperaban para festejar.
Hizo una
última recorrida por las salas, viendo si todo queda en orden, y en eso estaba
cuando sintió que unos pasos lo seguían. Unos pasos de algodón; se volvió y
descubrió que uno de los enfermitos le andaba atrás. En la penumbra lo
reconoció. Era un niño que estaba solo. Fernando reconoció su cara ya marcada
por la muerte y esos ojos que pedían disculpas o quizá pedían permiso.
Fernando
se acercó y el niño lo rozó con la mano:
-Decile
a... -susurró el niño-
Decile a
alguien, que yo estoy aquí.
Fernando Silva is in charge at the children’s hospital in
Managua. On Christmas Eve he stayed late at work. The fireworks were sounding and illuminating the sky, when
Fernando decided to leave. They were waiting for him at home to celebrate. He
did one more round to make sure everything was in order. He heard some steps
that were following him. They were soft steps; he turned around and saw one of
the little sick ones. In the darkness he recognized him. It was a child that
was alone. Fernando recognized on his face, one marked for death, and in his
eyes perhaps asking for an apology or even permission. Fernando went up to him
and the child caressed him with his hand. Tell him, he whispered, tell someone
that I am alone here.
3pm Saturday January 5 Jazz @ The Pat kicks off the new year
- our eighth - with the wonderful Oliver Gannon 4tet. They'll be playing Wes
Montgomery tunes, some Horace Silver and lots of standards.
Oliver Gannon - guitar
Nick Peck - piano
Russ Botten - bass
Craig Scott – drums
In my quieter times dictated by my waning years in this
century the chance to listen to quiet jazz without reeds or horns can be a
distinct pleasure. That this can be enjoyed in a smoke-free (one definite
improvement of the 21st century) and clean joint (The Patricia
Hotel) amongst new friends and some old ones (journalists who now sleep late
without deadlines) is truly wonderful.
I will never understand why my dancer friend Noam Gagnon
pronounces his names differently from Oliver Gagnon. My friend Maurice Bridge (an
habitué of Jazz @ The Pat ) pronounces his name Morris. It was explained to me
that Bridge’s parents did not like the French so the name’s pronunciation was modified
to avoid any Gallic connections. Since I do not know Mr. Oliver Gagnon I will
not enquire.
There were four tunes (why is it that in jazz they are
called tunes? Is a tune once it gets lyrics called a song such as Airegin , The
Work Song and Goodbye Pork Pie Hat?) that I particularly liked. I was only able
to attend one set (at the Saturday Pat performances there are always three). So
the tunes, Jeannine (Duke Pearson), Jingles (Wes Montgomery), Goodbye Pork Pie
Hat (Charlie Mingus) and The Shadow of Your Smile (Johnny Mandel).
Even though I was interested in works by pianist Horace
Silver, which must have been played in the later sets I could not stay.
One of my new friends labeled some of the performances of
the above tunes as tasteful. As a photographer with expertise in images of the
undraped female I absolutely become most annoyed when they tell me how
tasteful. My friend argued (with a pleasant smile) that my preferring the use
of elegant was simply an exercise in semantics.
I don’t think that The Shadow of Your Smile, Lara’s Theme or
Around the World in 80 Days can ever be anything but nasty/tasteful. And yet
with my recent discovery that English piano player Nick Peck is an ivory wonder
I could not but point out here that the quartet’s version of that tune was most
elegant! And I could add that Andre Previn did wonders with I Could Have Danced All Night and Mack the Knife.
My fave version of Goodbye Pork Pie Hat is in my fave
Charlie Mingus album is Mingus Ah Um but I have a warm spot in my heart for
Joni Mitchell’s Mingus. Russ Botten’s stand-up bass was solid in the quartet's playing (and elegant!).
I loved Jeannine because I love jazz tunes named after
women. I like Paul Desmond’s Audrey (he did indeed carry a torch for Audrey
Hepburn). My absolute fave is Tina composed by Duke Ellington. Can a country be
a woman? Ellington must have thought so as he composed the tune for my mother
land (patria in Spanish is indeed of the female gender).
All in all my short afternoon at the pat was a pleasant one
and a cheerful one as drummer Craig Scott does forget about his long drive from
Chilliwack with a wide grin on his face.
I called up my friend Gavin Walker and stated that Jingles,
composed by Wes Montgomery sounded very much like the Work Song written by Nat
Adderley. His 1960 album by that name did have Wes Montgomery on guitar. Go
figure!
As for me the ultimate Work Song is this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IoAhHMq88PE
As a dyslexic I like to find jazz tunes such as Airegin that address to my reading woes. A week ago at The Pat I heard Miles Davis's Sivad. Tina which is in Duke Ellington's album (1972) Latin American Suite does include Oclupaca.
