Saturday, November 24, 2012



Birds’ Wings and Dirty Things
Jacqueline S



I think with pride of the silly details

In the clothes I choose, which you never see

As you fight through zippers, buttons, stockings—

Layers impeding your access to skin.

I wore a dress with printed, painted cats,

Panties with upward flying sparrows so

The cats would have something to play with, eat.

I point out this little joke to you; annoyed

You demand: “Bend over and show me your ass,”

And I quickly comply, arching my back

While you do not count the sparrows. You tear

At lace and ribbon, I hold my blank pose,

Thinking (not of you but of cats wounding

Birds’ wings—proudly holding their prey in their mouths).

Friday, November 23, 2012


My father was an alcoholic. When I was old enough (8, or 9) to understand the problem I was embarrassed especially when playing in the garden with my friends Mario and Miguelito, my father might appear drunk, coming back from the office. For most of my life I have avoided alcohol and feared any substance that might make me dependant on it. My body has even fought light drinking with devastating migraines after just one glass of wine, cider or beer. My migraines (even when I did not drink) dissipated and disappeared by the time I was 60.

For reasons that escape me my friends have always told me to relax and let go and have offered me and even forced me to try all forms of drugs. Most never worked proving how powerful a mind can be when it decides to be contrary. In Mexico I was given peyote and my friends watched as I retched without any hallucination. The best and most powerful hashish given to me in the early 89s on Wreck Beach by Maurice Depas, the lead singer of Maurice and the Clichés, did nothing for me except give me a terrible stutter.

I remember once having consumed half a bottle of my roommate’s Bourbon in Austin, Texas. It was 1960. I wanted to find out what it was like to be drunk. My roommate arrived and when he saw the empty bottle on the floor he kicked and kicked me and left me black and blue. I felt the pain then and even more in the morning. I never experimented again.

Until my migraines left me I was prescribed a drug called Gravegol. I was so afraid of addiction that I would ignore all the signs of an incoming migraine until it was too late. I would then swallow two capsules. After 30 minutes I could assert that had my mother-in-law entered the room I would have greeted her with all love and affection. If she were to have shouted in my ear I would have simply floated away. I was aware that I could have peddled my prescription on Granville and helped pay for my mortgage. I never did and I avoided when possible taking the pills that seemed to deaden the world around me.

While teaching in a private high school in Mexico City my students asked me a couple of times what my take on smoking weed was. My response, not based on any practical experience was this one:

You can eat a tomato in two ways. You can buy a pale imitation of a tomato at the supermarket and sprinkle it with MSG and a tad of salt. You can then enjoy it. Or you can patiently wait for your backyard tomatoes to ripen and then pull them out, one at a time and consume them with relish.

Most of my students caught on that the tomato in my story represented life.

A few years ago I was enjoying a rock show at Gary Taylor’s Rock Room. A chubby woman with a warm smile came up to me and asked, “Are you Alex Waterhouse-Hayward?” I nodded in the affirmative. She asked me to open the palm of my right hand and deposited a mound of white powder. I did not want to offend nor did I want to waste what looked to be a powder of some value so I did the obvious (my first and last time). She came back later and asked me, “How was it?” I felt like an actor in a movie after a one-night-stand being asked the same question while trying to get out of bed as silently as possible. All I could reply was, “It felt like walking up the stairs to the street from the New York City subway on a hot evening. I felt a rush of cold air.” She looked at me oddly and disappeared for the night.

From the above you now know that my father was an alcoholic and perhaps because of it I have avoided drugs and alcohol. My father was a  burrero (he bet on the horses) and was excellent at cards especially the Argentine game of truco. I have never gambled. I have never purchased a lottery ticket.

By 1954 my mother had contracted a terrible

Thursday, November 22, 2012

My Mother's Red Shawl - El Rebozo Colorado
Yeva & Thoenn Glover - Dancers/Choreographers

Yeva & Thoenn Glover

 Yeva Glover (writing about her sister Thoenn)

Siblings - Coming into the world holding hands.

Siblings are fascinating creatures. Whether close in relationship or not, they shape one another, protect each other, compete viciously, confide, provide, support, criticize, praise and insult. They can be as different as black and white or as similar as two peas in the same pod. Thoenn and I have had a relationship that stems from deep in our genetics, but has also run a line of parallel ground in our chosen artistic pursuits as dancers.

Upon her arrival into this world, I immediately adopted Thoenn as a member of my doll family, however she quickly became much more interesting than any of the others as this one was actually alive! From this point we moved through life in a sense holding hands. Whether in rivalry or intimate friendship, one would always fill in each other’s gaps; one taking the role the other left open. I sometimes wonder how much of our personalities have been carved by each other’s strengths, flaws, and entwined lives. We shared the brunt of confusion and pain, new ventures and family dramas. When we began dance, we began together and would often be found making routines together on the lawn, in the tree house, on our pretend tight rope, in the bathroom…

Thoenn was always more of the firecracker than I: quicker to bite, faster moving, snappier in temperament, braver and more daring (in my mind). She has always been quicker to the punch and able to freely speak her mind. As a child, this was simply troublesome and annoying. As a young adult, it was an enviable blast of energy and success. Now, I admire these strengths, as they seem to kick in where mine maybe leave off.

As siblings close in friendship, we also have miles of common ground in terms of our careers as dancers. As we became more and more serious about training, competitions, etc., there was a certain animosity between us. I, being elder, was always on the next step that she had to then also ascend to, if not surpass. If I won a 1st place, she must then win a 1st or otherwise have failed (in her mind). This continued through post-secondary training as we followed virtually the same path. It wasn’t until we both carved out our own jobs in the field, spent many years without much contact, and added some numbers to our age, that we came to a place where the playing field was even, immune to the roles of older and younger sisters.

Now, we have begun the adventure of creating dance together, which is no small feat. As we tumble and struggle through directing ourselves, and each other, in a grown-up variation on the backyard lawn productions, we are yet again creating, exploring, supporting, sometimes provoking, yet sharing this life in a way no one else can. I still envy her sharp and out going flare. I assume she admires certain qualities of mine. She still knows how to get under my skin, as I know how to get under hers. We pull pieces from each other’s depths; play to one another’s strengths, and in both of our minds we have succeeded in ways the other envies. Thoenn and I can be as different as you can imagine or as similar as our looks would suggest, but regardless of it all, we are two people that seem to have come into the world to hold each other’s hands as we meander down the road of living.


Thoenn Glover (Writing about her sister Yeva)

Yeva changed her personality a few years into her life here on this planet. Born angry and violent, she underwent a sudden transition and transformed into the most easy-going of the 3 sisters. As a toddler, Yeva would have unexplainable tantrums. Imagine a child, at almost hip height, hurtling down the hill (where the chicken coup was), and at top speed colliding with our heavy wooden door…once…twice…thrice…and all in a an effort to display her frustration at something, no one knows what. Our family was/is supportive, loving and provided all the care and attention a child needs. Definitely not the type of circumstance that would cause a small kid to dedicate periods of time to smashing her own head into the floor repeatedly, which was another commonality at that time. Somehow, out of the blue, this all changed relatively suddenly, leaving the calm & non-reactive Yeva we know today.

For me, as the third girl, the stage was set: my eldest sister was very much removed by the 10 years separating us, but Yeva was my closest point of contact outside of Mom & Dad and the person I could try out my own personality with. When I arrived Yeva had yet to transition, therefore I fell happily into the “good child & quiet baby” role, however soon after when she decided to take a 180, I was forced into being a hyper and excitable child in contrast to my now-calm counterpoint. This proved to be a challenge for me in our interactions, as I was now the most vocal of the two and would attract the most scolding. Normally, the cause of an outburst would be Yeva’s calculated manipulations, where with a few specific words or by simply looking at me I would be forced into my prescribed role as the younger, bratty sister.

Luckily we have managed to mature into adults with all of our fingers & toes, and are appearing wrapped in the same shawl in this very photo. But…I beg you…look into Yeva’s face. Can you see the dual personality? Believe it or not, the layering of experience under the cool gaze, there exists a history of early turmoil, underneath the serene and patient individual we are accustomed to now. There is a cunning mastery in there too, with which she not only changed her personality, but mine too.


JJ Lee Writer
Jacqueline Model
Cathy Marsden Pschiatrist
André De Mondo Wanderer
Colin MacDonald Saxophonist/Composer
Nina Gouveia Yoga Instructor
Stacey Hutton Excercise Physiologist
Colleen Wheeler Actor
Sarah Rodgers Actor, Director,Mother
Timothy Turner - Real Estate Agent
Kiera Hill Dancer
Johnna Wright & Sascha Director/Mother - Son/Dreamer
Decker & Nick Hunt Cat & 19th century amateur
George Bowering Poet
Celia Duthie Gallerist
Linda Lorenzo Mother
Katheryn Petersen Accordionist
Stefanie Denz Artist
Ivette Hernández Actress
Byron Chief-Moon Actor/Dancer
Colin Horricks Doctor
Ian Mulgrew Vancouver Sun Columnist
Jocelyn Morlock Composer
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

Wednesday, November 21, 2012





My grandfather Don Tirso de Irureta Goyena had two half-brothers, Antonio and Ramón de Irureta Goyena. My grandmother used to tell me when I was a young boy (when I was very blonde) that I had inherited my blond hair from Antonio. I was too young and too stupid to find out anything more about my doppelgänger so whatever happened to him is now lost. But recently I found this picture, in my mother’s family album. She did not identify it and it is loose.  It is a photograph of a little girl with a violin. I look quite a bit like her. I wonder who she was?

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

“The credibility of a photograph does not lie on the publisher of a book, magazine or newspaper. It lies on the photographer. If you know and trust the photographer you can believe in the picture. “Nick Didlick, Vancouver photojournalist.



Daguerre - Boulevard du Temple - 1838

In 1950 my mother took me to the Lincoln Library in Buenos Aires. This United States Information Service library was the only one in Argentina that allowed you to borrow books and take them home. In the library, that day I saw a book of US Civil War photos. A picture by Matthew Brady that showed about two dozen dead at Gettysburg, made such an impression (for this 8 year old boy those were my first corpses) that it may have been then that I decided that one day I would be a photographer. Since then scholars have determined that the photographer was really Timothy O’Sullivan and there are suspicions that the bodies were moved to make the photograph more effective. Furthermore, I have since found out that the friendly library was really a front for the CIA’s clandestine operations in Argentina.

There is a dispute as to which may have been the earliest photograph of a human being. In both cases the photographer was Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre. One is M Huet, 1837, which has been recently attributed to Daguerre. The other (more famous one) is Boulevard du Temple, 1838. Consider that this daguerreotype shows a sweeping vista of a Paris boulevard (taken from a high window) on a sunny day. The scene is empty of carts, horses and people, except for one or maybe two. A man appears to be having his shoes shined. A statue or a dead tree blocks the shoeshine man. The exposure may have run in the tens of minutes so the movement of people did not leave an impression on the sensitized plate.

While Timothy O’Sullivan may not have been deliberately dishonest in his effort to “improve” his photograph, nonetheless the photograph is not all true. Daguerre’s picture, while not intentionally dishonest (it has been suggested that Daguerre may have paid the two men not to move), cannot be considered to be a snapshot of reality. From its very beginnings photography was supposed to be a manifestation of reality - a reality that could never be equaled by painting. Instead, it has proven to be a shaky purveyor of truth.

German Soldier  - August Sander -1945

I never did believe the somewhat crude pictures of aliens in the pre-PhotoShop National Enquirer. Curators of reputable museums consider Stalin’s sometimes not so skillful scissor-manipulated propaganda as high art. There now seems to be a consensus that photography, the digital variety in particular, is suspect. The perpetrator of our mistrust, formerly the airbrush artist, is now PhotoShop. Yet any skillful darkroom printer can transform the reality of a landscape, or the perceived beauty of a portrait subject, and few viewers would ever suspect the manipulation. PhotoShop has just made all this easier.

Back in my Catholic boarding school theology class we would try to lay mine fields on our Jesuit teacher by asking precisely where (in dollars and cents) stealing money went from being a venial sin, to a mortal sin. Determining where a photograph begins to lie is a similar - equally challenging - distinction to make. Our teacher’s answer then, “It depends,” must also apply to photography. A photograph’s limitation of compressing the reality of three dimensions into two already puts it at a disadvantage.

But there are more subtle ways of bending the truth that do not involve scissors, airbrushes or computer programs. With knowledge of light and shadow, photographer George Hurrell converted plain Jane actress Norma Shearer into a star of the 30s and 40s. But for me the best example of the manipulation of truth can be found in one of the most important photography books of the 20th century, August Sander: Citizens of the Twentieth Century- Portrait Photographs 1892-1952, Edited by Gunther Sander. This book has extraordinary portraits of the professions (from the beggars and engineers to mayors) of the people of Germany.

For me one photo stands out. It is in b+w (like all the rest in the book) but I have always seen it in colour in my mind. The young helmeted German soldier poses with a tiny smile, an enigmatic combination of contentment and peace, and stares at Sander’s camera. I can guess the soldier may be anywhere from 16 to 18. I am almost certain he has blue eyes and blonde hair. You know he could have been a model for the prototype of Hitler’s Aryan master race. It is the date, 1945, which tells you that the Russian army may be around the corner or a few blocks away. Unless the soldier is superhuman, his fear must have been skillfully hidden by the calming words of August Sander. This photograph is a wonderful lie.

Iggy Pop - 1989

Perhaps the very antithesis of this photograph is Alfred Eisenstaedt’s portrait of Hitler’s propaganda minister, Joseph Goebbels, taken in Geneva in 1933. Goebbels scowls at the camera with a chilling stare that is prophetic of the Nazi horrors to come. Does this photograph predict a future truth?


In 1989 I faced a drug-free Iggy Pop in his hotel room. He was sitting and I told him, “You almost remind me of that famous portrait of Goebbels. Iggy, told me, “Yes I know. I am dressed in black. When I was in Geneva I located the exact spot where he sat for Aisenstaedt,” scowling he looked at my camera and I snapped the shutter.

So much in a portrait depends on a subject’s relationship to the photographer and how the photographer manipulates light and camera position. How these factors are combined will determine in the end what the photograph “says”. Our only guide, besides a knowledge of photography, is to take Nick Didlick’s advice and find out a bit more about the photographers who are peddling the truth.

Monday, November 19, 2012

The Fighting Temeraire, 1839, J.M.W. Turner, National Gallery

On Sunday I took my granddaughter Rebecca, 15, to see Skyfall at the IMAX Theatre at the SilverCity Riverport Cinemas in Richmond. I have mixed feelings about the experience. To begin with I picked up Rebecca at her home with the resolve that I would avoid any confrontation or questioning that might spark an immediate teenage explosion. I can report here that I was mostly successful. This meant that we rode in silence. Not quite as the rain was pecking at the windshield with sounds resembling driving in Texas through a storm of locusts. On the CD player I had Mi Buenos Aires Querido with tango music played by Daniel Barenboim on piano, Rodolfo Madero on bandoneón and Héctor Console on bass. It is a lovely CD.

Upon arriving at that Mecca of Richmond Cinema I was appalled by the entrance which resembled a food-bazaar-from-hell with gross multi coloured signs advertizing Pizza! Hamburgers! The place was packed with mostly ill-dressed people in hoodies. We had paid reservations. We walked through dark blue corridors where people were lined up and sitting on the floor waiting for their movie theatre to open. Wherever I looked I saw young women and men dressed in blue uniforms (sort of like the early Bond films where the villains invariably had an empire that featured workers all wearing identical uniforms). They had carts and they were all hauling the detritus (plastic pop cups and huge empty popcorn containers) of previous shows. It was ugly. We entered our IMAX theatre and I sat in three different aisles until I finally overcame my alphabetical order syndrome. We were looking for aisle I but I first sat at J and then at H. The folks around me were wondering about my sanity and or my premature senescence. We finally sat down.

Rebecca told me she was thirsty. I told her to find a water fountain or drink water from the bathroom. She told me of all the myriads of bacteria to be found in our drinking water. I asked her if she had money. She told me (while texting to her mother that I was a cheapskate) she had spent it all the week before. I told her that if she hadn’t she would could buy her drink and I was not prepared to spend a fortune on a small pop. She persisted that the atmosphere of the theatre was similar to that of the Sahara. I finally relented and gave her a five dollar bill. She came back and gave me 42 cents back. “You were right,” she said. The lights went out and a boom exceeding 100 decibels (for sure) almost gave me a heart seizure. I was already feeling sick as the man next to me was dipping chips in a tomato/garlic sauce. The smell of pop corn was making my stomach churn. The boom was the announcement that we were going to be exposed to the treat of digital sound (fingers bang at your eardrums I would attest!).

There were then trailers to The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and Hansel and Gretel Witch Hunters. Both trailers were beyond 100 decibels and featured every kind of conceivable weapon except Bond’s Walther PPK. Rebecca who had calmed down with her drink, a very large chocolate bar and a bag of fruit juice slices (provided by my Rosemary) calmed me, “The film will not be so loud.” She was partially right. I am not going to review the film as I am an amateur and I have no business doing this here. I mentioned the violence of the film to my friend Paul Leisz who is at least 8 years younger than I am. His conclusion, “You are too old for this sort of thing.” I was going to proudly tell Rebecca that the film, Skyfall marked the 50th anniversary of Bond films and that I could boast having seen every one of them when they first were shown. I figured this would have only put me deeper into the old geezer bucket.

The film has one wonderful moment when Bond (Daniel Craig sits down on a bench at London’s National Gallery facing Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire. He sits next to a young geek in geeky glasses (Ben Wishaw) who opens the conversation on the meaning of the old wooden ship that helped defeat Napoleon’s navy. Subsequent dialogue I will not reveal here. But I will say that our 21st century Bond, unlike the Sean Connery 20th century Bond is not the urbane man who can pinpoint a Champagne’s vintage. Bond of the Craig kind is at the gallery not to admire art but on assignment. The wooden ship representing the ships-of-the line that made England a world power in the age of sail is being towed by a new-fangled steam tug to be broken up at a yard. The celebrated ship is old hat and useless. It is our aging Bond in a world of cyber warfare, where bad guys are terminated from Marin County, California by the press of button that unleashes precise munitions without any so-called collateral damage. Just a few minutes of the beautiful black woman with a monetary name on the wheel of a venerable British marque, a Land Rover ploughing up the wrong side of a street will surely have terminated more innocents that US drones in Afghanistan in one year. The tug boat is the 21st century, the age of pushbutton war and love.

After the film we quietly (it was still raining locusts) listened to the tango music. It skipped on cut 7, a lovely Horacio Salgán composition. I asked Rebecca to wipe the CD with my handkerchief. The Salgán skipped. She did this again. It skipped. She told me, “It’s not dirty it’s scratched. Wipe it with some toothpaste.” Today I went to Staples and asked an attendant (he was Portugese, so we spoke in Spanish, his Spanish being much better than my Portuguese) for a product to repair my CD. “Usa pasta dental,” he told me. It worked and I feel that this Fighting Temeraire has to cede water to the little tugboat that can, Rebecca Stewart, the future of the 21st century.

David YH Luie, Celia Duthie & the Fighting Temeraire

The Fighting Téméraire
Sir Henry Newbolt


It was eight bells ringing,
For the morning watch was done,
And the gunner's lads were singing
As they polished every gun.
It was eight bells ringing,
And the gunner's lads were singing,
For the ship she rode a-swinging,
As they polished every gun.

Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to hear the round shot biting,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Oh! to see the linstock lighting,
And to hear the round shot biting,
For we're all in love with fighting
On the fighting Téméraire.

It was noontide ringing,
And the battle just begun,
When the ship her way was winging,
As they loaded every gun.
It was noontide ringing,
When the ship her way was winging,
And the gunner's lads were singing
As they loaded every gun.

There'll be many grim and gory,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be few to tell the story,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
There'll be many grim and gory,
There'll be few to tell the story,
But we'll all be one in glory
With the Fighting Téméraire.

There's a far bell ringing
At the setting of the sun,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of the great days done.
There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of renown for ever clinging
To the great days done.

Now the sunset breezes shiver,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
And she's fading down the river,
Téméraire! Téméraire!
Now the sunset's breezes shiver,
And she's fading down the river,
But in England's song for ever
She's the Fighting Téméraire.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

My Mother's Red Shawl - El Rebozo Colorado
JJ Lee - Writer





As a camera collector, I was curious to see what kind of equipment Alex would have laying about his house. A Canon rangefinder with a speed winder sat nonchalantly on a stack of books by the baby grand. For some collectors it would be a Holy Grail kind of camera. Alex uses it as a paper weight. Alex feigns no glibness when it comes to the red shawl. Once worn by his mother, the rebozo he keeps in a chest in a dining room. A treasure. The shawl is rough woolen material loomed by hand on a small machine. The red sits deeply in the fibre and is most likely vegetable dye. It lacks the chemical or acrid fluorescence one finds in synthetic reds. It was much shorter than I would have thought. Another surprise, I did not know the wide cast of characters who have posed in it before me. For example, Yuliya Kate, a dominatrix stood before the lens with not much more than a few straps of leather and bits of metal on her bare skin. If I had known, I may have been tempted to take a deep inhale to draw in its bouquet. I know it pervvy and kind of Hannibal Lecterous. But I don't come across such women in my regular life, at least, not to my knowledge.

But I digress. To wear the rebozo as a scarf around the neck would have been quite nice but I kept on thinking of Toulouse Lautrec's poster of Aristide Bruant. You can't really compete with that. I suppose I could have geared down (Alex, it seems, is able to lead many a fine looking sitter to wear nothing but the rebozo, and, who knows, perhaps he hoped I would do the same) but I'm more known for they way I dress than the way I undress. I threw it over my head instead. The only other person to do so would be Bill Richardson, the CBC radio host.

Alex first took a Polaroid (though I believe it is Fuji instant film) which I was able to keep. He has the instant negative and the proper full frame transparency taken on roll film. He took four or five shots. I'm not sure what my image says or conveys. There's the bow tie, a bit of discoloration on my face and not even sure at what I am looking but I knew I wanted the red of the rebozo to be the star of the photograph.



JJ Lee Writer
Jacqueline Model
Cathy Marsden Psychiatrist
André De Mondo Wanderer
Colin MacDonald Saxophonist/Composer
Nina Gouveia Yoga Instructor
Stacey Hutton Excercise Physiologist
Colleen Wheeler Actor
Sarah Rodgers Actor, Director,Mother
Timothy Turner - Real Estate Agent
Kiera Hill Dancer
Johnna Wright & Sascha Director/Mother - Son/Dreamer
Decker & Nick Hunt Cat & 19th century amateur
George Bowering Poet
Celia Duthie Gallerist
Linda Lorenzo Mother
Katheryn Petersen Accordionist
Stefanie Denz Artist
Ivette Hernández Actress
Byron Chief-Moon Actor/Dancer
Colin Horricks Doctor
Ian Mulgrew Vancouver Sun Columnist
Jocelyn Morlock Composer
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