Invisible City

(Freeze frame taken from, "Invisible City" directed by Hubert Davis)

We waited for an hour in an impossibly long line - our fingers were numb from reaching in to various bags of candy and a large packet of Maltesers that we had purchased for this very reason. I didn't know much about the film we were about to see, only that it was a documentary on the revitalization of Toronto's Regent Park (an area with a ho-hum reputation and enough bad architecture to back that claim up). From the academic whisperings of the crowded lineup I could bet that this would be a very in depth look at the architecture that would soon create a new, thriving 'community' in the former slum; I was pleasantly surprised to find I could not have been more wrong about the director's intentions, and it made for an evening of shifting perspectives, core shaking revelations, and an internal debate about the varying moralities of architecture.

Davis' artful imagery forces one to experience the subtle beauty of this area and the people that make it - not the buildings. The story follows the lives of two youths who struggle through the day to day trials that have left a permanent stamp on their world. It tells of loss, uphill battles, and the realities that chase many of the young men of Regent Park. "In this community, manhood comes early...Being weak is not an option" (Ainsworth Morgan, Nelson Mandela Park Public School). It does this without intervention, without manipulation, and put simply - it tells the story like it is. It sets the lives of these youths, eerily amidst footage of Regent Park's demolition. The point that settled in my stomach and made my mind reel was that of scale; I kept picturing architects and planners working at a zoomed out scale, completely unaware of the individual lives that would be put in upheaval at each shifting location of the "Community Centre", inevitably represented as a little cube of foam on a 1:2000 scale model.

This was an absolutely exquisitely crafted film by Hubert Davis (obviously a recently graduated student with a whole intimidating load of talent). It is a must-see with hardly anything in it that warrants knit-picking. I can only say how grateful I am to Hot Docs for bringing it to us, and to the lovely Andrea for dragging me out to see it on a cold night with the added enticement of Maltesers and Sour Keys.

Mulranny

Across the wetlands the path carves away; a world split in two. Endless skies billow above, settling into dark hues that fall to the horizon. A thousand lives are buried here - shadowed faces, memory layered upon memory. The hills speak of their passing, undulating with the strain of the mass grave.

The Racehorse

(Freeze frame from The Man With The Movie Camera, 1929, Dziga Vertov)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLykv_SCqj8&feature=related

The racehorse hammers his hooves assuredly against the battered earth of the track. Countless mechanisms keep time with the rhythm of the horse's stride, harmonizing in one, sinuous, and fluid motion. And almost audible, in the pooled shadows of our distant unconscious, is the sound of a throbbing inhalation; air sucked greedily through foamy bit, scrapes through teeth and tongue, before settling in a boiling sigh in the depths of the horse's throat. Unexpectedly, he slows. The powerful limbs ease into a motionless pause, and the horse becomes an artifact, suspended in space and time, impatiently awaiting our analysis. Poised with such potent intensity and discipline, each muscle a trembling bow hovering above the taut string of a violin, held fast, awaiting the signal. Discomfort stirs in the corners of our surrendered state. We will the illusion to continue, we will the racehorse to complete his stride, we wish to give ourselves once again to the comforting embrace of the mirage; but something refuses us entry, and still the racehorse remains caught. His freedom, and our re-admittance to the imaginary constructs of this silvery reflection, orchestrated according to the will of an unknown conductor.

Oh He's Good...

(From “Relativism is dialectics for idiots”, The Time Has Come - D. Tytob, by Dimitry Gutov)

“The time has come to say farewell to the mousy scrambling of reflection!”

Was This Just A Coincidence?

....YES

....but still.......uncanny

Iron & Wine Rocks My Socks!

(Photograph by Wendy Lynch, www.wendylynchphotography.com)

Not only is Iron & Wine letting you download tracks that weren't previously released from their 2007 Shepherd’s Dog sessions on their website, AND releasing a new album due out May 19th (Around The Well), BUT they are also playing Ottawa Bluesfest this summer! Amaaaaaaazing.....

....my day has been made.

Zumthorlicious!

(Image courtesy of www.archdaily.com)

Swiss architect Peter Zumthor has received The Pritzker Prize of architecture for 2009. Zumthor has continually crafted timeless buildings, rich in phenomenology and saturated in sensory experience; the inhabitant should feel the architecture around them and be changed by its presence.

" ...What do we mean when we speak of architectural quality? It is a question I have little difficulty in answering. Quality in architecture does not - not to me anyway - mean inclusion in architectural guides or histories of architecture or getting my work into this or that publication. Quality architecture to me is when a building manages to move me."

(Peter Zumthor in his book Atmospheres, p 10)

Oh God, don't you just love him?

Rain

(Rain at Miyajima by Koitsu, Showa 16, July 1941)

I remember the lanterns;

their delicate paper shells swaying in time with the wind, unconcerned with the rain that drummed down just feet away. I lifted my fingertips, and I could touch the sky. It stretched toward me - sticking to my skin, hiding in my hair; playful. Each footfall sounded with a satisfying thud against the damp wooden walkway.

We moved on, through the quiet streets. The paving stones glistened in the light of shop windows. We arrived at the tea house. Large and open on all sides - it glowed with warmth, piercing the chill of evening. Its wooden structure smelled sweet in the heavy air. Decades of sencha had been served beneath its thatch roof, and it was as though the steam that had come from each cup still lingered. We sat, the clay mugs warming our hands, and listened to the night's embrace.

Snow Storm

(Snow Storm – Boat Off a Harbour’s Mouth, J. M. W. Turner, 1842)

amid swathes of stinging snow and drowning wind
the defiant steamboat carves through waters treacherous

the immutable cloth of waves tightens like a noose
a ground laden with every shifting swell of mirrored grey

sky and sea reach towards each other
with the passion of lovers
wrought in anguished battle

they twist violently
clawing to feel the presence of the other
the burning breath of the smoke stack
caught between their writhing bodies

Hiroshi Sugimoto: Atmosphere of the Unknown

Tyrren­ian Sea (© Hiroshi Sugimoto)

An initial contemplation of Hiroshi Sugimoto's seascapes instills a feeling of tranquility; some kind of sigh of relief at escaping the 'chaos' of the modern metropolis, and exchanging it for what seems like the simple serenity of sea and sky. Tranquility, that is, until a second glance allows the unease to settle over you. You stand, on the precipice of the unknown, confronted with the great expanse of fearsome beauty and chilling omniscience.

This is The Sublime. Nature; darkly portrayed in its qualities of vastness and incomprehensible grace. The intellect is overwhelmed - the body is struck with awe, and veneration to the point of fear. The unrelenting horizon; a hard line that resonates with the power of Nature .

The atmosphere that reaches from the page entwines itself around the onlooker - holding them captive for the short time that they stare into the black swathes of water, and never quite letting go.

Atget's Paris

(Untitled, photograph of Paris by Eugene Atget)

the simmering waters of the seine
breathe the sweat of industry

it encircles the cool morning damp
and settles residually on the ghost
of a thousand purposeful footsteps
that echo in the memory
of the worn cobblestone streets

the solace of night subsides
giving way to the sharp cut of morning air
a new day is on the horizon

and in this glorious ambiguity
of shifting skies
when the dust of yesterday
has come to rest
in moistened grime
somewhere

distant minds are pulling themselves
from the caress of contented slumbers
and wearied souls
emerge to face the impending sun