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




 

Bill Bennett A Knight In Shining Armour - August 18 1932 – December 3 2015
Saturday, December 05, 2015






Former British Columbia Premier Bill Bennett died this past Thursday. The various articles in the Vancouver Sun all mentioned that even people who thought they disliked the man sometimes changed their minds when they met him in person.

I wrote about my similar experience here.  But again reading about him I thought again how an editorial photographer (this category is in a rapid avenue towards extinction) should never have a predisposed opinion on a subject to be photographed.

And looking back now at this politician and his record and comparing him with those running for the GOP in the United States, he seems to me a knight in shining armour. I am thankful for living in Canada and in British Columbia.

Isn’t Bennett’s smile wonderful?



The Pirelli Calendar - It's All On The Table
Tuesday, December 01, 2015


Pirelli Calendar - November 1965 - Photographer - Duffy - Location - South of France - Designer - Colin Forbes - Art Director - Derek Forsyth


When my wife and two daughters arrived in Vancouver in 1975 I had my sights of becoming a photographer. I remember going to London Drugs and telling the man who was interviewing me for a job in the photo department that I was a portraitist. He dismissed me with a, “ I graduated from Ryerson and I don’t call myself that!”

The only job I was able to find was washing cars at Tilden-Rent-a-Car on Alberni Street. After about 6 months I was promoted to counter clerk and when answering the phone I had to say, “In Canada it’s Tilden. How may I help you?”

I hated my job and for distraction I took a stroke improvement (swimming) at the YMCA on Burrard. A French Canadian lass, when she found out I was a photographer she asked me to take her pictures. I did not know that she worked in the gift department of Holt Renfrew. I did not know that she had placed my colour portraits in the expensive frames of her department. I was soon gone from Tilden but not before my fellow workers gave me a lovely present – The Complete Pirelli Calendar Book –Introduced by David Niven.

The book was special in several ways. By 1976 I had already seen ads in the January Vancouver Sun of people selling the 1975 Pirelli Calendar. I had always had soft spot of admiration for David Niven as my father not only resembled him but he had a similar voice and accent.

The dedicating card wished me many a session with beautiful women. I must assert here that I did everything possible to make that wish come true.

Niven who was so sorry to note that after ten years the Pirelli Calendar was no more would have been pleased that the Calendar came back in 1984. From my NT Times I have now learned that the 2016 Pirelli Calendar has another dramatic change courtesy of photographer Annie Leibovitz.

The new direction of the calendar in b+w and featuring the portrait warms my heart with excitement. In the new house that my Rosemary and I will be occupying mid-January I have installed a smallish studio where I, too, will take my portraits in b+w and preferably with film.

Below is the wonderful introduction by David Niven and a reproduction of his favourite November 1965 is above.



The Complete Pirelli Calendar 1964-1974

Introduction by David Niven

When it comes to an auction, I am a chicken…I don’t have the guts to pull my earlobe or pick my nose in order to signal to the auctioneer that I’ll bid another twenty guineas for a dilapidated snuff box. I am, however, drawn to auctions like a moth to flame, particularly to auctions of contemporary art. One day such a sale was taking place at Christie’s, and standing in the doorway, hands firmly in pockets and eyebrows anchored in case an involuntary move on my part struck me with something by Andy Warhol, I beheld a brisk bidding for some Pirelli Calendars. I thought it encouraging for the future of the world that the venerable House of Christie had thus publically proclaimed what many of us had known since 1964 – that the Pirelli Calendar was an Art Form. The Calendar was the brainchild of designer Derek Forsyth, and for ten years, as mounting waves of pornography swept over one and all, discerning denizens of boardrooms and bar rooms clung to their Pirelli Calendars as they raised their beautiful and erotic heads above the swill.

When I heard that the denizens of Pirelli’s own boardroom had suffered a traumatic lapse and decided to discontinue the making of their Calendars I was appalled, and wrote to the Chairman of the Board, telling him so. The upshot of the ensuing interchange of views as that I was invited to write an introduction to their Pirelli Calendar Book and not, let it be said, and obituary for the Calendars.

If you have to have an image – and with actors it is almost delivered with the first Equity card – then I suppose I cannot complain about mine. I was never altogether sure how I came to be regarded as suave and sophisticated, but it does have its incidental advantages.

For one thing, men are disinclined to pester you with detailed stories of the deficiencies of their troughing, and in the age of the do-it-yourself man that is an immunity to be cherished.

More positively, other men who like to consider themselves S. and S. constantly offer fine wines, and invitations to highly superior parties. They also ask advice about women; and listen to the reply like hungry punters around a loose-tongues stable-lad.

Now it so happens that I know all about beautiful women. That isn’t quite the distinction it may sound, because I don’t know a single man who doesn’t believe that he knows all about beautiful women. It is the one province where ignorance never precluded opinion.

It’s quite true that I have spent much of my life surrounded by lovely ladies, but that is like an electrician saying his life is beset with wires, or a traffic warden claiming he is perpetually immersed in ingratitude…it goes with the job, that’s all.

The image sticks, however, and if that means that for a little while I have to pose as a consultant on femininity, I’m quite happy to go along with it, for the honour alone.

The Pirelli Calendars have been described as sophisticated erotica: in a sphere where anything on shiny paper can pass for sophisticated, and erotica is all too often an unpleasantly bulbous woman in Wellington boots, it is a real pleasure to find a product that lives up to it raffish label.

For me the charm of the Pirelli Calendar story is that it was all so very unlikely. The manufacturers of tyres and slippers…a mundane device for remembering your wedding anniversary – it could scarcely have sounded less exciting, but what elevated a thoroughly commonplace exercise was excellence. It was as simple as that. A gifted art director, the finest photographers in the world, the loveliest girls, the most exotic and perfect locations – and from its inception the Calendar became known as the Rolls-Royce of its class.

What made it even more remarkable was that by refusing to sell the calendar – it was a gift to customers and friends – Pirelli gave it an exclusivity, a mystique almost, and they did for the humble calendar what Chippendale did for chairs. A black marked sprang up (in the For Sale columns of only the smartest publications, of course) and Calendars changed hands for up to £100. One businessman kept his securely locked in a glass fronted wall cabinet, after having one stolen. It succeeded at all levels: denim-clad designers lisped about its remarkable chiaroscuro while oily mechanics muttered: ‘You don’t get many of them in a pound.’

Now it is over. There will be no more Pirelli Calendars. At first, as I said, I was appalled at the prospect, and the calendar will no doubt revert to tradition: pictures of disagreeable little terriers wearing tartan bows, and misty views of Ann Hathaway’s cottage. Yet on reflection, I can see their point. After ten productions of flawless excellence, there is nowhere for Pirelli to go but down. So they are quitting while they are ahead, and at least we now have this complete collection to prod us into drooling nostalgia.

Who cares about the date anyway? I am perfectly content to stay for ever in November 1965, if it means I can always look at that sulphurous blonde, elbows on table, hand crooked to light a cigarette, nonchalantly aware that the concealed but no doubt splendid contents of her tee-shirt are resting on the table top. Whew!

With the lightest touch, the most sensitive hint, the Pirelli pictures flamed with sensuality. Perhaps it was only a shadow across the eyes or a sunbeam on a strand of hair, but the pictures showed that sexuality is coarse without romance, and romance maudlin and hollow without sexuality. Pirelli caught both together, and brought our fantasies to life.

That really was their achievement. For the most part, man’s attempts to portray the woman of his imagination end with the outmoded blandness of the pin-up, or the unsubtle crudity of gynaecologist’s homework. That half of the human race which shaves in the morning has for centuries struggled with drawings, carvings, paintings and pictures of the half that doesn’t, and it has never been entirely satisfactory.

The classical artists gave us dozens of recumbent goddesses who looked like nothing so much as a heap of prizewinning marrows. The only really admirable point about these ladies was the unbegrudging use of raw materials that went into their manufacture. I distinctly remember on my first visit to an art gallery wondering if children could have half-portions.

I remember, too, my first reaction at seeing a saucy photograph. It was at boarding school, and you must remember that what lay between knee and neck of girl hockey-players had been the subject of a great deal of dormitory speculation. So quite a crowd gathered when one boy produced a crumpled magazine which escaped the censorship of the time by reproducing photographs of naked ladies under vaguely therapeutic  title of ‘health’. Then the adult bookshop was still pre-natal. It did, in fact, show a naked lady. She was playing whist with several other naked ladies, apparently in thick fog, and with the cards unluckily obscuring the interesting bits. What we could see of the ladies suggested half-set jelly more than the buoyant bodies of our dreams. It was a bitter disappointment, and I can only put it down to my indomitable curiosity that I continued my researches.

Times changed, and those who thought that the new freedoms of the permissive age would save us, found only that we shot from prudery to prurience. That fresh-faced young girl, wearing a skipper’s hat, sweater and shorts as she posed jauntily on a yacht deck, was replaced almost overnight by her younger sister-laced in leather, aiming a flame-thrower at a GI’s throat as she commanded: ‘Scream for my kisses, Amerikaner soldat!’ It wasn’t much of a choice was it?

Right behind came the tide of hairy-chested magazines with gruntingly monosyllabic names like ‘Thrust’ and ‘Poke’, and the girls were of such pneumatic plasticity that they looked as though one touch would reduce them to a burst valve and a pool of silicone. Worse, they were almost all called Dolores.

I may not be able to articulate the woman of my dreams, but I am fairly certain that she is not playing whist and virtually positive that she does not carry a riding-crop. Like all men, I suppose, however suave and sophisticated, we don’t quite know what turns us on until we see it: Pirelli gave our dreams form, and once we saw them we knew that standards had been set which would last us a long, possibly a life, time.

Though Pirelli now go back to tyres and slippers, we at least don’t have to revert to whimsical terriers and thatched cottages. Every month can be November 1965 if we want, with this splendid collection. It was as a they say, a very good month.



My Stanton - A Heavy Garrard & Norman C. Pickering
Monday, November 30, 2015






Anybody my age (73) will know what a Garrard is. It was a turntable made in England. My first Garrard I purchased in 1963. I had a similar one which I found in Buenos Aires which I used in my two years in the Argentine Navy between 1964 and 1966. Its main feature was that my manual one had to be cocked back. When you did this the turntable platter turned and the sound was connected to the primitive cartridge in the tone arm. Most of the terms used here are probably American. The British had other words such as the gramophone and I believe the pickup.

The fact is that those Garrard turntables had heavy tone arms and they slowly wore out records if you played them a lot. My Buenos Aires records, it would seem, were pressed from extremely heavy vinyl and have survived to this day with their sound being almost pristine.

It was around 1972 in Mexico City when my friend Jorge Urrechaga introduced me and sold me an Acoustic Research amplifier. He told me that my system was as good as its weakest components. He added that while my speakers were awful my Garrard had to go. Somehow I found a beautiful Acoustic Research turntable and soon bought a Shure V-15 Type II (I don’t remember how this was. Perhaps I made a plane trip to the US and smuggled it back. This cartridge was state-of-the-art. By the time I arrived in Vancouver in 1975 my speakers were venerable but wonderful Acoustic Research AR-3As. These were stolen from my home years later and my insurance replaced them with some JBL Studio Monitors.

As years passed I went through three more brands of cartridges. One was a Pickering and another, a Grado. A third one (my present one) is a Stanton.

My Stanton is installed in my Sony linear tracking turntable. When I listen to records my system is superb.

I was most surprised that my aural pleasure has been enhanced all these years by a Mr. Norman Pickering. Here is his NY Times obituary.



The First Little Bastard Who Calls Me An Elitist...
Sunday, November 29, 2015









My mother often told me, “Hay poca gente fina como nosotros.” This does not entirely translate correctly into English as, “There are few people with manners and good taste like us.” The problem lies in the Spanish word “educacíon” which not only means what you think it might mean but also it has the added manners attached.

Thus gente fina would send flowers in lieu of not showing up for party, would know when to thank you and most important would never offend anybody knowingly.

Gente fina my mother would also add liked Mozart and Beethoven, good books by established writers and admire paintings by the masters.

In a late 20th century epithet now seen as a damning insult, my mother was a elitist.
In 1994 I wrote a book review for the now defunct city business magazine Equity. The book was a posthumous publication by William A. Henry III. It was called In Defense of Elitism.
His first paragraph reads:

Somewhere along Bill Clinton’s path to the White House it dawned on me that the term “elitist,” which I had matter-a-factly  applied to myself and most of my fellow liberal Democratic friends for decades, has come to rival if not outstrip “racist” as the foremost catchcall pejorative of our times. Once I began consciously looking, I found evidence everywhere – from tabloid newspapers to scholarly journals, from smirky game shows to sober academic discourse, above all in the public rhetoric of liberals and conservatives alike – that belief that any sort of elitism, and in the all-important hierarchy of values that must underlie such a belief, has been pushed outside the pale of polite discussion. The very word, used as a label, seems to be considered enough for today’s  rhetoricians to dismiss their opponents as defeated beyond redemption.

All the above went through my head at a recent book launching by author/poet/extraordinaire Bill Richardson and illustrator (one of supreme good taste) Roxanna Bikadoroff. The book is a slim. It is called The First Little Bastard to Call Me Gramps and it was launched at Barbara-Jo’s Books to Cooks


I know that my mother would have felt comfortable surrounded by the mature women (sparsely sprinkled with mature men) in a place that was well lit, with many books on book shelves and served with lovely little things that melted in one’s mouth or when not washed down by premium sherry.  I would have been amazed if any of the women present might have sported tattoos in parts unknown. But I could be wrong.

I have always had admiration for Bill Richardson and in particular for his CBC Radio program (it lasted long enough for me to despair at its loss) Bunny Watson.

Last night (Saturday) my daughter Hilary, her daughter Lauren, 13, my wife and I watched Walter Lang’s 1957 Desk Set with Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Gig Young, Joan Blondell and (yes!) Dina Merrill (supremely elegant in my books). Katharine Hepburn’s name in the film is Bunny Watson and she could associate numbers and places to other numbers and places like no other human being in film. It was only a week ago that I taught my Lauren about association which I consider the supreme and defining difference between humans and other living things. I asked Lauren why it was that I always smile when I look at my 2007 Chevrolet Malibu. Her answer was expected but pleased me, “You smile because the Malibu reminds you of Abi’s (my wife) gray cat Casi-Casi.

Bunny Watson: Just for kicks. You don't have to answer it if you don't want to. I mean, don't dwell on the question, but I warn you there's a trick in it. If six Chinamen get off a train at Las Vegas, and two of them are found floating face down in a goldfish bowl, and the only thing they can find to identify them are two telephone numbers: one, Plaza Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh-Oh and the other, Columbus Oh-1492. What time did the train get to Palm Springs?

Richard Sumner (played by Spencer Tracy): Nine O'Clock.

Bunny Watson: Now, would you mind telling me how you happened to get that?

Richard Sumner: Well, there are 11 letters in Palm Springs. You take away two Chinamen, that leaves nine.

Bunny Watson: You're a sketch, Mr. Sumner.

Richard Sumner: You're not so bad yourself.



Bill Richardson’s little book, so elegantly illustrated by Roxanna Bikadoroff who has contributed to all kinds of magazines (The Walrus) including (yes!) The New Yorker has poetry that is accessible, funny and challenging in some assertions. Bikadoroff is a pro who knows how illustration, when wisely done, can enhance type. Her illustrations have all kinds of Buny Watson moments. You can see something different every time you look at them that you might have overlooked before. But there is one that is my favourite. The illustration to the story The Night We Found the Riding Crop I associate with a famous photograph that Helmut Newton took of one woman riding another on a saddle in a living room. Newton’s photographs were erotic, but always to me they were done with elegance. Elegance is something that Bikadoroff, Richardson and Barbara-Jo have in spades.

This blog's (and most of my blogs)  apparent randomness is a direct result and influence from Richardson's program Bunny Watson.





     

Previous Posts
Sandrine Cassini On My Red Psychiatric Couch

The Paris Opera Ballet & Alonso King Lines Ballet

Sandrine Cassini - A Soon-to-be Visit by an Appari...

The Clubhouse On Second

Sound Holes

Faded - Recovered - Scanned - Delight

El Absurdo Infinito

Miss D, My Chickering Baby Grand & Fuji FP-100C

Lee Lytton III & Friendly & Warm Ghosts

San Valentín



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4/10/11 - 4/17/11

4/17/11 - 4/24/11

4/24/11 - 5/1/11

5/1/11 - 5/8/11

5/8/11 - 5/15/11

5/15/11 - 5/22/11

5/22/11 - 5/29/11

5/29/11 - 6/5/11

6/5/11 - 6/12/11

6/12/11 - 6/19/11

6/19/11 - 6/26/11

6/26/11 - 7/3/11

7/3/11 - 7/10/11

7/10/11 - 7/17/11

7/17/11 - 7/24/11

7/24/11 - 7/31/11

7/31/11 - 8/7/11

8/7/11 - 8/14/11

8/14/11 - 8/21/11

8/21/11 - 8/28/11

8/28/11 - 9/4/11

9/4/11 - 9/11/11

9/11/11 - 9/18/11

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

4/17/16 - 4/24/16

4/24/16 - 5/1/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16

5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

6/5/16 - 6/12/16

6/12/16 - 6/19/16

6/19/16 - 6/26/16

6/26/16 - 7/3/16

7/3/16 - 7/10/16

7/10/16 - 7/17/16

7/17/16 - 7/24/16

7/24/16 - 7/31/16

7/31/16 - 8/7/16

8/7/16 - 8/14/16

8/14/16 - 8/21/16

8/21/16 - 8/28/16

8/28/16 - 9/4/16

9/4/16 - 9/11/16

9/11/16 - 9/18/16

9/18/16 - 9/25/16

9/25/16 - 10/2/16

10/2/16 - 10/9/16

10/9/16 - 10/16/16

10/16/16 - 10/23/16

10/23/16 - 10/30/16

10/30/16 - 11/6/16

11/6/16 - 11/13/16

11/13/16 - 11/20/16

11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17

2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17