Saturday, April 07, 2012


My Mother's Red Shawl - El Rebozo Colorado
Jocelyn Morlock - Composer






Alex’s mother’s rebozo is the reddest thing I’ve ever worn. It is rather itchy, which I am enjoying as it draws my attention to itself, and this seems appropriate. Something so very red shouldn’t just lie placidly on my shoulders.

Before visiting Alex, I looked up “rebozo” on the internet and the first picture I found was of Frida Kahlo wearing a brilliantly red (and presumably itchy) one. As well as the dramatic garment, I feel a certain kinship with her eyebrows. Mine are the most physically obvious resemblance between my late father and myself. We also shared a fondness for bad puns, pickled herring, and the music of Arlo Guthrie, but to my knowledge those didn’t affect our appearance.

For various reasons, I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad in the last few weeks, and more generally about families, history, the speed at which time passes (please slow down…?)

With Frida in mind too, I’m happy to be sporting both Alex’s heritage and my own.

Jocelyn Morlock


Corinne McConchie Librarian
Rachel Ditor Dramaturg
Patrick Reid Statesman, Flag Designer
Michael Varga CBC Cameraman
Bronwen Marsden Playwright/Actress/Director
David Baines Vancouver Sun Columnist
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward Photographer
Lauren Elizabeth Stewart Student
Sandrine Cassini Dancer/Choreographer
Meredith Kalaman Dancer/Choreographer
Juliya Kate Dominatrix

Friday, April 06, 2012

My Mother's Red Shawl - El Rebozo Colorado
Corinne McConchie - Librarian







I like being part of this red shawl series. The shawl tells its own story and as well it invites many individuals together in their respective identities to share their stories and to join something and create together.

There is a beauty in groups, people feeding off each other’s energy, resonating with their shared stories and ideas. At the same time, it is good to let the individual take up space, to be heard and seen and honoured, not lost in the crowd. I love how in this series each person here has a turn. Each can take up the same amount of time and space, and each can be seen and known briefly in turn. This honours the individual and the group too.

While I have a craving to really be heard, in groups I tend to speak last or not at all, often not sure what I wish to say or how to say it best. I’ll make way for others as I figure myself out. Sometimes the time passes me by in my hesitation. I am not entirely clear where this tendency comes from. Did I learn it in childhood as a way to be safe? I suspect, yes. There must have been a reward to me when growing up for letting others take up the conversational space. I still do it by habit but am not happy about that. I really must get to the bottom of this.

As I thought about what to say now that the floor is mine, I went all over the place up in my head and nearly didn’t speak. How like me that is! How I do this little story is how I do my life!

I finally decided I can at least say that. If I wait until I am clever and profound and perfect, I will wait forever and the moment will be lost.



Rachel Ditor Dramaturg
Patrick Reid Statesman, Flag Designer
Michael Varga CBC Cameraman
Bronwen Marsden Playwright/Actress/Director
David Baines Vancouver Sun Columnist
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward Photographer
Lauren Elizabeth Stewart Student
Sandrine Cassini Dancer/Choreographer
Meredith Kalaman Dancer/Choreographer
Juliya Kate Dominatrix

Thursday, April 05, 2012

Rebecca Anne Stewart - ¿Gente fina?

Early in my life my mother taught me to be a snob. She would disdainfully point at ordinary mortals and proclaim, “Hay poca gente fina como nosotros.” This translates to something like, “There are few people who are as well mannered and educated as we are.”

My grandmother who was a tremendously talented coloratura soprano never sang professionally as only women of ill-repute sang in places like opera houses.

My father read such authors as Leslie Charteris, A.P. Herbert and P.G. Woodhouse.

Thus I grew up to be a snob who was a trifle embarrassed to move to Canada to live in Burnaby (of all places!) in a town house on Springer Avenue. If I was embarrassed my wife Rosemary was more so as she had somehow through psychic osmosis had inherited my mother’s class consciousness.

We tried to place both our daughters at the E'cole Bilingue but the waiting list was much too long. We bought the town house in Burnaby which was halfway between Vancouver (Vancouver School of Music and the ballet) and Coquitlam where they had the very good French Immersion schools in Mallardville.

By the time our eldest daughter was in high school we knew we had to do something. She returned from school and began, “Me and a bunch of guys…” It was at that very moment where we checked the bus schedules and buses available in Burnaby that went to either Crofton House or York House. It was the latter that won out as the King Edward bus left regularly from Brentwood Mall, not too far from our house.

I strictly controlled how much TV my daughters watched and what they watched. But I have to admit that I was with them for many of those Gilligan Island episodes and I remember how Rosemary and the girls loved Dallas and made Oscar night a night for the girls. Since I was a snob I never watched (nor have I ever watched) such drivel.

It was to my great disappointment that my daughters informed me they were going to see Stripes at the Lougheed Mall. I gave them a sermon on what a waste of time that would be and that it was pure American crap. They went, anyway.

A couple of years later I saw the film and I almost died of laughter. I had patently been wrong about it and let my snobbish attitude keep me away from having fun.

It was about this time, during the early 80s, that I worked at Vancouver Magazine with rock’ roll columnist Les Wiseman who was a real music snob. For years he bragged that he had never ever attended a concert nor reviewed a record by a local new wave band called Images in Vogue. “If you have to like heavy metal, Alex, the only band you have to know about is Motorhead.” He informed me that Lou Reed was God and I became, like Wiseman an expert on the high and the mighty popular music that critics loved and the masses hated. First on that list was Iggy Pop. In a visit to Rolling Stone in NY we noticed that many of the people who worked there looked like (and even wore black glasses) like Elvis Costello. This confirmed to Wiseman that our tastes were on the right track.

Today my granddaughter, her mother and her other grandmother have gone to see the Hunger Games.

For a person (me) who can tell you in great detail all the happenings of The Most Dangerous Game, a story by Richard Connell this film, based on the novels by Suzanne Collins (that she is a television writer is surely indicative of what and how she writes!) leaves me perplexed on how it survived not only as a juvenile novel series but now as the expected blockbuster with the hyper-viral I likes and comments in facebook.

How can a film where teenagers have to kill other teenagers to survive possibly be juvenile content of merit?

I haven’t seen this film and I have not read the novel nor do I plan to read the novel. But I wonder, could I be wrong again? Stripes again?

I don’t think so.

Wednesday, April 04, 2012

My Mother's Red Shawl - El Rebozo Colorado
Rachel Ditor - Director/Literary Manager



My mother is not of the girly-girl variety so when I was little playing dress up was about making up stories, not about dressing like a princess or a pretty lady - which I saved for my piano lessons.

My brother and I went for lessons together, and while one of us was with Mrs. Mackie at the piano, the other would wait and read the 1950's adventure comic books that were put out to keep us occupied. But they were dog-eared and the colours had faded - for entertainment I much preferred to quietly slip out to Mrs. Mackie's bathroom.

Next to the double sinks on the countertop was a vast, sparkling collection of artfully arranged perfumes, powder puffs, eye shadows in peacock blues and greens, rouge in a gold compact, and a dozen lipsticks. All multiplied in the reflection of the large mirror behind them - Aladdin's cave.

Lipstick was especially exciting because you didn't have to choose one colour you could wear two; one on the bottom lip and one on the top! How Mrs. Mackie hovered over my shoulders while I played piano without choking on the cloud of perfume and talc that surrounded me I'll never know. She never batted an eye at my glamorous transformation. Every week the cosmetics and atomizers remained on display, she never put them under lock and key. I suppose at least I was quiet while my brother had his lesson.

This was a brief and furtive foray into girly land. I left that universe behind after the first time I wore mauve eye shadow in junior high and my father asked if someone had punched me. I followed the instructions closely in Teen Magazine, but now when I looked at the various shades of purple I had layered around my eyes... Well, I saw his point.

It took almost 30 years before I ventured back to the land of dresses and lace. Now I have my own perfume collection of pretty bottles lining the counter in my bathroom. And the thrill of dressing to go out at night that I carried as a child is still there in the background; one of those moments when time collapses and the girl is eager to go out, while the woman despairs about looking tired.

The pearl necklace I’m wearing in the photo was a birthday present from my Grandpa Freddy when I was 12. Thankfully I thought it was boring so it remained in a box untouched until I was old enough to appreciate its elegance and his foresight. The shawl is so rich and festive in colour, it immediately reminded me of how I once longed to be old enough to go out at night, dressed for a special event. But this time, only one shade of lipstick, to complement the shawl.



Patrick Reid Statesman, Flag Designer
Michael Varga CBC Cameraman
Bronwen Marsden Playwright/Actress/Director
David Baines Vancouver Sun Columnist
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward Photographer
Lauren Elizabeth Stewart Student
Sandrine Cassini Dancer/Choreographer
Meredith Kalaman Dancer/Choreographer
Juliya Kate Dominatrix

Tuesday, April 03, 2012

Guest Blog by writer John Lekich

John Schlesinger and the Great Question Mark.

John Schlesinger, October 1988 -  Alex W-H

Whenever anybody asks me what’s wrong with movies today, I say. “Watch Midnight Cowboy and get back to me. We’ll talk.”

Directed by the late John Schlesinger and released in 1969, The Internet Movie Database describes the plot of Midnight Cowboy as well as anybody. “A naïve male prostitute (Jon Voight) and his sickly friend (Dustin Hoffman) struggle to survive in New York City.” The film won a slew of Oscars – including best picture and best director – as well as paving the road for any number of meaningfully offbeat films throughout the seventies.

A good argument could be made that Midnight Cowboy is the grittiest, riskiest and – oddly enough – the most tenderhearted film ever produced by a mainstream Hollywood studio. One thing is certain. It would never get made today.

It remains a fine example of what we’ll call “a question mark film.” This in honour of Schlesinger, who said: “I like making films that have question marks in them. ” You can interpret this statement in a number of ways. None of which go well with the kind of mainstream movies that are being made today. Movies that seem to supply all the answers before the opening credits are finished.

Thanks to Alex, I’ve been thinking about Schlesinger lately. Alex mentioned watching Julie Christie in Darling. (Schlesinger directing his favourite actress to an Oscar winning performance.) I started mulling over all the great movies Schlesinger made in his career. Day of the Locust, Far From the Madding Crowd. Sunday, Bloody Sunday. And Marathon Man - a first rate thriller featuring a scene in a dentist office that rivals the scariest horror film.

Like Robert Altman - another great director who flourished in the seventies - Schlesinger’s career seems to lose momentum during the eighties. Some critics point to 1981’s misguided Honky Tonk Freeway – one of Schlesinger’s rare missteps - by way of explanation. But I think it was mostly because question mark films were being devoured by sequels featuring man-eating sharks.

I take solace in the fact that, like Altman, Schlesinger continued to find meaningful ways to do good work until his death in 2003. Stage, television and a lovely little film with Shirley MacLaine called Madame Sousatzka. All projects that thankfully featured his trademark fascination with question marks.


Addendum: Whenever Rosemary and I watch a good film on TCM or rent one I always like to find out more about it.  I have three references. I first go to the NY Times film database and in particular I like to read the old reviews by the wonderfully-named Boseley Crowther who was critic there from 1940 to 1967. My second reference is a tattered Pauleine Kael - 5001 Nights at the Movies. My third is an impulse to phone John Lekich. Lekich, in this age of easy-reference  Google & Wikipedia, always has information that is personal and endearing. After seeing Julie Christie in Darling I resisted my instant urge to phone Lekich but I did email him asking him to write something about Schlesinger. He did!

More guest blogs by John Lekich:

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine

Monday, April 02, 2012

My Mother's Red Shawl - El Rebozo Colorado
Patrick Reid - Statesman & Flag designer.








  A Bit of Irish Philosophy for Alex

There are only two things to worry about
Either you are well or you are sick.
If you are well,
then there is nothing to worry about.
If you are sick
there are two things to worry about.
Either you will get well or you will die.
If you get well,
there is nothing to worry about.
If you die,
there are two things to worry about.
Either you will go to heaven or hell.
If you go to heaven,
there is nothing to worry about.
But if you go to hell,
you’ll be so busy shaking hands
with your friends,
You won't have time to worry!

Addendum: The story is a long one and virtually unknown. To break the impasse in Parliament Prime Minister Lester Pearson phoned Patrick Reid and told him to take charge of the Canadian flag project. This he did. In the end the almost final project was perused by Reid in his kitchen. The maple leaf had 14 points. He didn't like those 14 points. He removed three. Every once in a while I run into the tall 6 ft 4 inch Reid (with his silvery hair) walking in Kerrisdale. I look at him with pride. After all how many of us can have a live, walking national flag designer amongst us?
Alex W-H

Patrick Reid a MIG 29 & the Canadian Flag

Rachel Ditor
Michael Varga
Bronwen Marsden
David Baines
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward
Lauren Elizabeth Stewart
Sandrine Cassini
Meredith Kalaman
Juliya Kate

Sunday, April 01, 2012

Wade Davis

It was perhaps five years ago that I stumbled into an idea that became lucrative for me in my former profession of magazine photographer. I call the idea the biographical portrait. This biographical photograph of explorer/author Wade Davis,  was originally supposed to be a cover for the Georgia Straight but the folks there could not understand that sometimes a cover can be complicated but still interesting. I posted the Davis photo here.

I am teaching one of my classes at Focal Point to do this sort of thing. A couple of Tuesdays ago I brought some random articles from my own life and instructed my students to arrange them on the floor. One of them, Cherry Archer took this Ektachrome. I rather like it. If I had done it myself I might have arranged them in a different way. But the whole purpose of the exercise was to teach them the mechanics. They will be documenting their life this Tuesday. It will be fun for me to watch.

Alex by Cherry Archer & assisted by Lois Crawford

Wade Davis - Hero of the Planet