My mothers red shawl by Ian Bateson, Art Director, Graphic Designer and Artist.

Alex Waterhouse-Hayward a Vancouver-based commercial and fine art photographer. It was 1952 in Buenos Aires, a Buenos Aires with no Chinese, Japanese and the only Indians I had really seen (not knowing that the beggars on movie row on Lavalle were Bolivian aboriginals) were three turbaned Sikhs. They worked with my father at the Indian Embassy, and he had invited them for his home-cooked curry. They came in their Hillman Minx and, for days after, my friends of Calle Melián enquired about the exotic dark men and their turbans. Exotic for me were red Indians or the inhabitants of a far away land we in Argentina called “La Conchichina”. It was many, many years later that I found out it was the ancient name for Vietnam. When my mother came back from an exploratory trip to Mexico in 1952 I found out about the truly exotic. She spoke of volcanoes and pyramids, of Aztecs and of a curandera who had read her hand and told her that she would be moving soon to those parts. My mother spoke of a magical city where during the rainy season it would rain for a couple of hours every day and the sun would shine right after as before. She had brought little obsidian idols that my uncle Bill Humphrey had sent. She told me how Aztec priests had used knives made from the same black volcanic glass to cut into the chests of their captives and how with their bare hands they would rip out the still-beating hearts as an offer to Huitzilopochtli. It was about then when all the blood and gore was in my mind that she showed my abuelita and me a red rebozo. It was a red I had never seen before and a red I have not seen since except every time I lovingly and so carefully remove it from the Mexican Olinalá chest, made of a sweet scented wood, where it resides and has since we left Mexico for Canada in 1975. The curandera had been right and we had indeed moved to exotic Mexico in July of 1954. During all my years there, until my mother died in 1972 it was the red rebozo that my mother would put on to go to parties or church. She had various ways of putting it on. For me it was magic. While many admire the softness of silk, I found a special pleasure in rubbing the rough cotton against my cheek. It could hurt if I wasn’t careful. continued on page 2…

In some ways the rebozo has always reminded me of my mother’s ways. She would often tell me that love was not expressing it but doing. She proved this all her life by penny pinching to save from her salary enough money to send me to the best schools or to buy me whatever I would demand as children do so without knowing the sacrifice needed. But it was difficult to get a hug from her or a kiss. I don’t remember her kissing me much but I do remember my father doing so. What my mother did do was smell me behind my ears. She said I had a lovely scent of an Englishman. I was allowed to do same, to smell behind her ears which always smelled of Chanel Number 5 of Jean Patou’s Joy. Smell was very important to her. I inherited that ability and its sense of importance. She told me that Mexico, as soon as you got off an airplane smelled of a combination of tortillas, smoke and the lime used to make nixtamal from which Mexicans make their tortillas. Getting off a plane in Ezeiza in Buenos Aires was like walking into a restaurant specializing in steaks. Buenos Aires constantly smelled of meat roasting was her assertion. As an afterthought she told me that deplaning in the United States was all about the smell of French fries. My mother’s red rebozo, smells of that sweet Olinalá wood from the Mexican state of Guerrero. Her scent is gone. But its roughness remains, to remind me always, that loving isn’t expressing it with a passionate embrace but by the sacrifice of doing what you can. But to this day, especially in the gray of the rainy Vancouver winters, a season full (as in all the other seasons) of exotic Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Hindus and Sikhs and Aboriginal Canadians, it is only the blood red colour of my mother’s rebozo that fills me with a yearning for the truly exotic, a Mexico of volcanoes and earth colours and a roughness that reminds me of an opposite. That opposite is the kiss and embrace of my father. Perhaps my mother was much to shy to tell me that she, too, suspected, that love has to be both ◆ Look forward to a future addition in this series.

Colin MacDonald—Saxophonist/Composer 10 • 24 • 12

Rebozo draped over my shoulders, warming my skin in the coolness of the house. The rough wool is heavy and textured, from a time when people made things by hand. Alex says, “You are in an exclusive club now. The Red Shawl Club.” We are all woven together under the magic eye of his camera lens, our blood red lives frozen in a moment of time. How many others have been touched by this fabric, how many more will join the club? What invisible threads have led me here, like Ariadne’s cord guiding me safely through the maze? Over time and across space, Bell’s Interconnectedness Theorem binds us together, entangling our unseen quanta in the sticky webs of life. Like the Srivatsa engraved on my wedding band reminds me, our messy macroscopic selves stick together like tar babies, through love and hate, memory, dream, and fantasy. Over land and sea the rebozo travelled from Mexico to Argentina, and eventually here to Vancouver. All those who touched it left an impression, helped it on its journey to reach my shoulders. Redness shines forth from it, the dye it carries absorbing all colour but for that shade which it reflects back into my eyes, the tint of fresh blood now over my skin, but also within me. King scale crimson, Homer’s wine-dark sea, blood of the great mother that birthed the universe. The secret river carrying DNA messages through eternity, ferrying molecules of oxygen, glucose, serotonin, dopamine, endorphin, food for thoughts, giving rise to self-consciousness, becoming electrical activity carried mimetically from one brain and body to another. “Hands reveal much about persons,” Alex tells me. The hands of this tool-using primate are smooth and manicured, muscled for precise movements on the instrument of my choice, and bear the emblems of my devotion to my wife. I hold them crossed, right over left, in a sign of secret Art. Under the rebozo we all sit: musician, dancer, writer, actor, butcher, baker, candlestick-maker, tinker, tailor, soldier, spy. I imagine the red shawl growing, weaving itself longer and larger to cover the city, the country, wrapping the entire planet until every man, woman, and child is protected and preserved in its embrace. I perch on the chair and face into the camera lens, as curious to see myself as to know how the photographer sees me. Will I recognize myself, or does my memory of my face come from another place and time? Time is captured, fixed in the photograph’s plate, this moment never to reappear, yet forming another vibrating strand in the web of reality. If I lift my arm, and slide over a little in the frame, I think there’s room enough for you too, dear Reader ◆

Veronica Vex—Burlesque Dancer 01 • 14 • 13

When I was a little girl I knew I wanted to be a showgirl, an actress, a star. I remember telling my grade school friends that I wanted to be a Las Vegas showgirl. They laughed and ridiculed me. They thought I was joking. I was hurt by their reaction because I knew it was my truth however it didn’t fit in with everyone else so I suppressed my desires and went along with the masses. I remember being drawn to everything and anything sparkly (I still am), pink, frilly, poofy, and princess-like. I remember one Christmas I refused to wear what I was supposed to wear because I wanted to wear my big white poofy crinoline and camisole and already wanting to wear undergarments as an outfit at age 8. At 10 I told my parents that I wanted to be an actress and asked if they would enroll me in acting classes. My mom pooh-poohed the idea and encouraged me to find something more realistic or go to school and study for a real job. My dad’s response was even worse, one that stayed with me for years and inevitably became my belief about myself. He said that I didn’t have what it takes to be an actress; I didn’t have the right personality for it. I had to be more like my cousin Stephanie who was incredibly outgoing and a total attention seeker. Basically in a nutshell ‘you are not good enough’. I was crushed. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are wonderful and have supported me in all my choices as an adult. I don’t blame them for anything for they were only doing what they thought was best for me not realizing that those five words affected my self esteem, my confidence and stunted my ability to accept myself for who I was. As I grew into my teens and then twenties and now thirties I struggled with my identity and was always seeking approval from outside sources. I would take on other personalities and wished that I were something else or somebody else because I didn’t like who I was. I didn’t think I was good enough, taking on other personalities, trying to be someone else. The irony does not escape me. I am two different people. I am Michelle Miguez; massage therapist, Reiki master, chartered herbalist, hippy healing, nature loving intuitive, sister and daughter. I am Veronica Vex; burlesque sex kitten, classy broad, dancer, performer, pin-up model, artist. These are two personas that share one body. Two personas that differ in lifestyles, but share the same desire to express oneself, to love, to be free, to help and to inspire others on their life journey. Burlesque found me during a time of chaos and turmoil. It was a time where I had no idea who I was, consumed by fear and completely disconnected from myself, from Source, God, I AM presence. I was heartbroken and had endured a severe blow to the ego. I also became very ill. I suffer from a genetic illness called cystic fibrosis. CF affects all the organs predominantly the pancreas, lungs and digestive system. I’ve lived very well and healthy with this illness my whole life until the summer of 2009. I experienced an exacerbation caused by pneumonia. I was hospitalized for two weeks and on IV antibiotics. I had two very important and challenging tasks ahead of me; heal my body and heal my heart. I persevered and shortly after my recovery I stumbled across Screaming Chicken Theatrical Society. Thus began my giant leap into the burlesque world. I graduated from Screaming Chicken’s burlesque class in 2010. I am so grateful to Screaming Chicken for taking an insecure, timid, lost little girl and helping her blossom into a powerful, creative, confidant woman. I am grateful everyday that I have the opportunity to express myself through this amazing art form and share my talents with Vancouver and internationally. I have made the best friends I’ve ever had through burlesque and continue to be inspired by all the talented performers in Vancouver, old and new. Burlesque allows me to create, dance, be imaginative, express myself, to laugh, to dress up, be beautiful, be sexy, be funny, be anything I desire, it is my opportunity to be larger than life. This was my dream as a child. I am finally living it ◆

George McWhirter—Poet 01 • 05 • 13

After the war He was a barrel with fists that flailed at your face for even a sideways look: a tough egg, whose appearance gave the expression meaning. Five and furious at something mysterious every one of his friends and foes had or done. He pushed kids off kerbs as if they were cliffs, elbowed them into brick walls. A dig was his how-do-you-do. His mother’s eyes smouldered with the same familiar fury at him or us for infuriating him. Holding the ends like a knitted wool rosary she kept her arms folded under her shawl, her breasts mounded like our dark, night-time fires, damped down with slack so the burn would last. One day they came to check, line us up, strip us, listen to our chests for TB. Some shed shirts and vests like childhood afflictions they were glad to be rid of from around their ribs, but he peeled his off, one after the other, as carefully as scabs, down to a liberty vest, and stood beside those underthings in a pile, this thin white scar, too frightful for his classmates to show pity. ◆ George McWhirter

Kathy Marsden—Psychiatrist 09 • 30 • 12 The white couch After receiving my degree in counseling psychology 20 years ago, I decided to open a private practice in my home. There was only one possible location for the office: my sacred meditation room. I did not relish the concept of sharing such an intimate space with strangers, especially strangers who might infect it with distressing vibrations. However, I put aside such distasteful thoughts, and took myself off to IKEA to buy some suitable furniture. I decided on a rather austere black swivel chair for myself, and for the prospective clients, a boxy-but-plush white 2-seater couch and matching armchair. To complement the existing décor, I added to my IKEA cart three square silk pillows—two brown, the other crimson madder. The chair was incidental—extra seating for families, or for acrimonious couples who disdained close proximity with each other. The White Couch was the therapeutic crucible. I would not have guessed that there were so many ways to approach or occupy a couch. Individuals or couples, each initiated their unique relationship to it. Some marched directly towards it and sat down without a second glance. Some perched on the edge, back rigid, palms pressed firmly against knees, waiting expectantly for the go-ahead from me to begin their story. Or, conversely, they’d launched into their story before I’d had a chance to seat myself: a clear indication of a recalcitrant client, one who did not acknowledge the therapist’s inherent right to initiate the session, set the tone and define parameters. Others lingered in the doorway, glancing uneasily from chair to couch to me, perhaps waiting for invitation or suggestion. An alternate variation was to try first the couch, then the chair, then the left side of the couch, then the right. Some settled for the middle, and unwittingly descended into the crack between the two seat cushions. There were slumpers and slouchers, sprawlers and wrigglers, coffee-spillers and tormenters of the silk accent pillows. Fetal balls bound themselves in tightly crossed arms or huddled in the recesses of coats; the restless sat, stood, paced, turned abruptly and sat again. The angry pounded the arms of the couch, the lamenters drenched it in tears. The freshly clean scented the upholstery with the cloying fragrance of drugstore perfume or dryer balls; the unwashed shed grease, sweat and flecks of mud upon the receptive fabric. Smokers of cigarettes spewed stale odours uniformly throughout the room and my lungs, and the inebriated—well, the inebriated were sent home. Therapy cannot penetrate the miasmas of alcohol. Despite their foibles, individual clients were controllable. I had learned to interrupt and overrule. Couples, on the other hand, regardless of their level of animosity, had an inscrutable alliance that kept both me and the couch on tenterhooks. We observed uneasily as battles physical, verbal and psychological were enacted before us and upon us. Overt violence was not tolerated, and offenders were—after one warning—dismissed. But there are uncountable levels of covert violence that shattered my composure, threatened the integrity of the couch, and certainly disturbed the tranquility of my meditation room. Upon the departure of such clients, there ensued much dusting, vacuuming, opening of windows, lighting of candles and burning of incense. Just over a year ago I retired. Despite my grievances, it was a difficult decision. With few exceptions I had great respect and reverence for my clients, who shared their deepest thoughts, feelings and secrets with me. So profound was the meeting of souls that I often sensed a palpable energy flowing between and around us, an energy reminiscent of ocean waves, a sparkling night sky, a warm scented breeze. These transcendent experiences, too, were absorbed by the couch, and when the last client departed, they were what remained. Of course I removed all the covers, washed them, and hung them out in the sun to refresh and re-whiten themselves. But no further exorcism was required. The couch abdicated its therapeutic appointment, and offered itself as an abode for meditation. ◆ 11

Alexandra Waterhouse-Hayward—Maestra 12 • 14 • 12 El rebozo rojo lo recuerdo desde mi infancia. En Navidad siempre ha tenido el prestigio de adornar la base del árbol. Recuerdo que cuando vivíamos en Burnaby, Gaticuchi (nuestro gato) descubrió que encima del rebozo y entre el papel de los regalos tendría un lugar calentito y seguro para no perderse nada y dormitar entre eventos. Es de un carmín anaranjado, tomate, vino tinto, sangre, agua de jamaica, y si recuerdo bien hilos de negro. Pero se ve rojo. Es de lana. Pesa. Pica. Es como envolverte en una larga y ligera alfombra. Más vale no mojarlo Recuerdo que mi mamó lo usó con vestido negro en varias ocasiones y se vio muy elegante. Que porte de mi mamá. No se como lo hizo. El rebozo rojo, de ahora en adelante RR, el Rolls Royce de rebozos, es una herencia de mi papá de mi abuela Nena, su mamá. ¿Cuanto habrá viajado ese rebozo antes de llegar a su lugar en el baúl? Entre mis recuerdos de Nena, ella tocaba piano junto a la puerta de la cocina, se mareaba aunque estuviera sentada, y me quiso mucho.Me imagino que su vida no fue fácil. Mujer soltera con hijo. En los años 50. Pero bien que se defendió, dando clases en colegios americanos y educando su hijo a la vez. A veces el RR me lleva en la imaginación a la época en que era muy común usar rebozo. ¿Lo habrá usado mi abuelita en alguna salida romántica? ¿El RR la habrá abrigado contra vientos desérticos en el norte de México y en Tejas? Solo puedo imaginar lo que fue su vida cotidiana, su experiencia como madre. Por algunas correspondencias se ve que sus amigas la quisieron asi como sus alumnos. Ojalá que en esta Navidad el Rebozo Rojo me cuente algo más acerca de la vida de mi tierna y talentosa abuela, Filomena de Irureta Goyena. ◆

David Baines—Columnist, Vancouver Sun 03 • 14 • 12 Because I investigate crime, albeit white-collar crime, people often ask whether I feel at risk. The answer is yes, but the risk is entirely legal. Physically, the street is quite benign. The reporters at real risk are those who work in countries where anarchy prevails, and right now, anarchy prevails in Mexico. So when Alex offered me this red Mexican shawl, I couldn’t help but think of the dozen Mexican journalists who were murdered last year, nearly all targeted, many decapitated. Mexico is now the most dangerous place in the world for reporters, more dangerous than Somalia or Afghanistan or Iraq or any of those other places where summary executions, rather than libel suits, are used to muzzle reporters. I don’t know where it will all end, and I don’t think they know, either. Yet they persist, which is a pretty amazing thing. ◆

Katheryn Petersen—Accordionist 05 • 20 • 12 When I arrived at Alex’ house for our red shawl session, he asked me if I knew the accordion classic “Lydia of Spain”. It didn’t ring any bells for me so Alex did some googling and in short order we were both watching Myron Floren, a famous accordionist in the 60’s on the Lawrence Welk show, blast away with bellows shakes and florid ornamental runs through “Lady of Spain”. Alex and I agreed after about 15 seconds of Myron’s pyrotechnics that it was a good thing that I didn’t know Lady of Spain or Lydia of Spain or anything like it. It reminded me that I am part of the North America generation born into the fallout of the ‘golden age of the accordion’ in the 50’s. This would be safely in the past, but since I took up the accordion 8 years ago, my mom has been trying to steer me toward the schmaltz of those glory days with email links to YouTube videos of modern wunderkinds like “Die Twinnies”, the blonde 20 year old twin girls who roller skate in semi fore, while playing creepy Christian polka music on their matching accordions. Their YouTube video is almost as disturbing as the one with the slap-dancing German men in lederhosen. There is indeed a slice of German in my background and the forces of fate may be against me in my personal quest to play accordion music that doesn’t suck. As I write this I realize that it may be me who is the uncool one and that German slap-dancing may well be the next big thing. However, it is too late for me to turn back and so I continue to make my way, best I can, with accordion in hand, through the surreal world of “Lydia of Spain”. ◆

JJ Lee—Writer 11 • 12 • 12 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. ◆

Bronwen Marsden—Actor 03 • 20 • 12 I have been told I have thin skin. Blood capillaries close to the surface. Or something. Whether or not this is in fact true, the story does explain why I blush so easily. And, lordy, do I ever blush easily. All it takes is a hint of self-consciousness, or a faint whisper of embarrassment, and my ears turn to fire, my neck and cheeks fill with a lava-like substance and, if it’s really bad, tears spring to my eyes. Suddenly, I find that my neck is holding up a tomato, not a head. This has given me all kinds of grief. In early high school, it meant classmates could accuse me of having crushes on people I’d never once considered attractive, and have those accusations confirmed by my physiognomy. Nowadays, it leads people to believe I have rather Victorian sensibilities. Sometimes people like to make a party game out of it: “Who can make Bronwen blush first?” It’s an irritating and easily misinterpreted window to my heart. For a long time, I didn’t really know when I was blushing. Then, I became familiar with the sensation, but the awareness led to a deepening of the crimson. Now, though, I am starting to get a better handle on my reddening: I know when it’s happening, I know what triggers it, and I have a method for restoring my natural colour a bit more quickly. But I’ve begun to wonder: why aren’t actors expected to flush on command? After all, “Can you cry on cue?” is almost the most-asked question by non-actors (second only to “How did you memorise all those lines?”). Crying at will isn’t the most difficult part of acting by a long shot, but it is a neat trick, and most actors have a way of getting to it. So why not blushing? It’s a physiological reaction, like crying. Strong emotion brings it up, like crying. It has certain triggers, like crying. Can it not, then, be accessed by the same sort of mechanism? Surely someone, somewhere, has worked out a way to do it. I think even I could, if I put a bit of effort into it. As an actor, being able to display the inner workings of my mind and my emotions is prized. Where once I wished I could hide everything behind a smile, I now actively seek truthful expressions of my inner self. And, for me, that includes the reddening of my face. But the question I have is, if I were to master this part of my physiology, would anyone even notice? Or would it be invisible on stage, and too red for HD cameras? Would it be prized by directors? Or despised by makeup artists? ◆

André De Mondo—Wanderer 10 • 25 • 12 Think of talent not as a thing, but as process. Not something we have, but something we do.

Celia Duthie—Gallerist 06 • 06 • 12 What else could there be to do after ‘books’? Not that this is after books, I read as much as ever, and as new as I can afford. Alex teases me about not wanting to pay full price for a book, even to ‘buy’ a book. (I bought the new HiIlary Mantel at Ivy’s in Oak Bay at full price!) It’s been a long conditioning; I’ve grown up with all the books I could ever want, free! Advance reading copies, new hardcover fiction, art books, everything and surrounded by a culture of seasoned readers with endless excellent recommendations: Ivy, of Ivy’s Books, still extant in Oak Bay, Victoria, worked at Duthies in the 50’s and early 60’s. She suggested Flowers for Hitler. Don Lewis recommended Le Grandes Meulnes by Alain Fournier, and several Heinrich Boll. Jane Flick got me gobbling up Virginia Woolf, and Michael Varty: Kapuscinski and Tony Judt. Nick’s, almost the last recommendation before the last 4th Ave store closed, was Geoff Dyer, the current darling of my reading heart. Alex doesn’t like Geoff Dyer, or at least not his photography criticism. I adore (almost) all his writing, admire his mastery of so many literary forms, even among his novels such a range of different structures and themes, and his critical essays cover an amazing breadth of interests and passions with brilliance originality and humour. There’s a recommendation! Now, we do art. We show it and recommend it. Duthie Gallery—Sculpture Park, fine art and studio furniture. Michael Dennis, Brent Comber, David Robinson, Judith Currelly and others. Tangibles. Alex has (very kindly) come and photographed the art. He refrains from any art criticism when he is taking pictures, but then adds cheeky titles to the jpgs. Next year we’re planning a show of Alex’s Erotica, his Balthus series, with collaborative paintings by Stefanie Denz. Alex always calls me Napoleon, but he is much more fundamentally Napoleonic than I am (watch him taking pictures or selecting plants). Mostly he is referencing the books by Arthur Upfield (which I had recommended) whose main character is named Bonaparte, Bony for short). Alex, for years after we left town, thought we would come back, but I don’t think so. I love Elba. ◆

Colin Horricks—Doctor 04 • 17 • 12 The red shawl to me means ‘addressing’ a matter of passion. As an ongoing student of Carl Jung I have learned to search for the importance of everyday symbols. Seeing the metaphor is what connects the mundane to meaning, whether in a dream or a strange circumstance in life or a patient’s symptoms. For instance, sometimes patients come to me concerned with their heart and it’s really symptomatic of trouble in their love life. We are living, breathing poems. In the case of the red shawl, it asks me to address my passion for medicine. Patient care is a beautiful thing. I had a dream once and I woke with the lingering statement: “it takes a lot of nice patience to have a lot of nice patients.” If I’ve learned anything in nearly forty years of practicing family medicine it’s the importance of patience. Patience in the pregnant pause and waiting for a response or with a patent in addiction it may take five years of struggle to get to the beginning of recovery. I love the continuity of care in a general practice—seeing patients over many years in all circumstances of misery and healing is very rich, a kind of reciprocal love. Patient care is a beautiful thing. Oh, but the paperwork is another matter!. ◆

Georgina Elizabeth Isles—Figure Model 04 • 12 • 13 They ask why I give my naked body to be stared upon. What I think about as I watch men move around spaces trying to capture my bum at a certain angle, or my small breasts in a certain light, occasionally muttering words of satisfaction, or direction. Why I love the voyeurs of my body (and they are all voyeurs). Whilst I sit and wait for the drawers to draw and photographers to photograph, I always think of you; Bob. I travel more now you are gone. I speak less. They try to capture what I could only give to you; my heart and abandoned body, lying bare as your canvas. My gosh, did you draw Bobby! Did you shade me grey and darken my shadows? Shine light where there was none? If only they could capture what you took. Pray, at least they have what you left behind; the little girl who gave you all, and all at once lost it, to you. I believe they met a girl like me once, and forever they will chase her to their canvases. Again and again they load their film and click. I will sit here and wait until you return. ◆

Ian Mulgrew—Columnist , Vancouver Sun 04 • 08 • 12 I thought immediately of a small, faded-burgundy volume of Robert Burns poetry when Alex told me of his mother’s red rebozo. Innumerable unique expensive objets d’art have come my way—a 1920s art deco lamp, a signed Beatles poster, a first-edition Proust. Most significant mementoes I’ve lost—some appropriated by old loves, others sold in hard times. I’ve misplaced more keepsakes, meaningful tchotchkes, emotionally charged trinkets and soulful souvenirs than I care to remember. But, like Alex, I do have an heirloom that I cherish, a handed-down artifact that I would give a hand to save, the only material possession I have obsessively salvaged from break-ups, natural disasters and assorted train wrecks: a book I treasure as a jewel. It’s a small, tiny volume measuring roughly 3 inches by 5 inches, about an inch-and-a-half thick, bound in threadbare cloth. Titled The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, with A Memoir of the Author’s Life, and a Copious Glossary, the minuscule text was published in Glasgow by G. & J. Cameron, 67 Virginia St., in 1854. Its pages are brittle and yellowed with age. I grew up in Scotland where Burns is a veritable saint: This is equivalent to a relic of the one true cross. My great-granny, Flora Harper, born in the 19th century, scoured antiquarian bookstores and found it in the 1920s. She bought it and bequeathed it to her son, my Granda Willie, who handed it down to his oldest daughter, my mother Marion, who gave it to me. My sisters remain peeved. When Alex asked me to pose with his mother’s shawl, I had to bring the Burns book. I was thinking of an off-hand portrait of Toulouse-Lautrec in some brasserie wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a dashing scarlet scarf; instead my photograph has a religious cast. ◆

Colleen Wheeler—Actor 10 • 05 • 12 Tradition—Holding on to a previous time…I often wondered, when rehearsing Macbeth, what it would have viscerally felt like to live in Scotland in the early 1600’s. More specifically, how the clothes would have felt on the skin, all that wool—it would have had to have kept them so warm. When Alex gave me his mother’s shawl to wear and I felt it next to my skin, it reminded me of the wool sweater my Irish Grandmother made for me to wear as a child. I think of her making it beside her peat fire, her large knobby hands sitting atop her bosom as she knit for me and my sisters. I keep it safe, my daughter will wear it and I hope her children will too. It is the only thing I have in my possession that my Grandmother made with her own hands. Tradition is something that has been on my mind a lot these days as both of my parents are gone now. I wonder how well I have retained the old stories they told me about their heritage. What will I pass on to my daughter? If Lady Macbeth had had children (who lived) would her desire for power subside? So many questions. ◆ Addendum: Where possible I take the photographs for this series at home. The series involve the wearing of my mother’s 1952 red Mexican rebozo. Because actors are busy persons I make exceptions to my rule, particularly if they are then willing not only to pose but to eventually write their essay. I went with my equipment and my semi-portable gray background to Bard on the Beach. Publicist Cynnamon Schreinert set it all up and placed me in a corner of the main stage tent. Colleen Wheeler was there in preparation for her day’s performance of Lady Macbeth. I had thought of her for weeks after seeing her in the play because my mothers’ red shawl seemed to parallel all the blood of Shakespeare’s play. When Wheeler faced my camera I simply told her, you are Lady Macbeth. I am delighted that her essay is about that role. I was lucky that afternoon as when I spotted Christopher Gaze in the wings I asked him to pose, too. He did. Now if he would only write that essay! Alex W-H

Jim Erickson—Set Decorator 19 • 04 • 13 I have come to the realization that the only time we really look at ourselves is when some one hands us a photo of ourselves they have taken. It is only then, when seen through the eyes of another, we actually see what we look like. And it is unsettling and fascinating. Mirrors merely reflect what we are doing to ourselves, brushing our teeth, combing our hair, straightening our tie. I doubt most of us ever really pay much attention to what we actually look like and, let’s face it, the mirror has no opinion. I think the photo some one else has taken has the point of view of the taker and when I look at it I usually say to myself, “really?” For the past 25 years I have actively discouraged photos of myself. In fact I have a collection of photos of my back, of me looking at famous world landmarks, The Pyramids in Egypt, Notre Dame in Paris, the reclining Buddha in Thailand, Lake Louise in Alberta. I do not like looking at myself in photos. I think they might be too honest and don’t match the sense of self I have of myself which seems to be a slim 22 year old with a full head of hair. I am now 63. I have had a great career in the film business, have seen more of the world than I ever dreamed, have learned more about this fascinating life than I ever thought possible, have been in love and have been loved, I have been close enough to death to appreciate this life, and I now am round with thin short hair. In this photo I see all that. There is a twinkle in my eye that gives me a sense of humour and a sense of a settled life and maybe even a true sense of self. ◆

Alexandra Hill—Soprano 14 • 04 • 13 Alex meets Alex. What a pleasure! Or as he put it “what fun!” What fun indeed, I thought, as I sat next to him at his editing desk last Sunday afternoon looking at the Polaroids [Fuji Instant Film] just scanned into his PC. It is not every day that one is asked to take part in such creativity. What fun, as he dunks his cookie into his Earl Grey tea! What fun, as I pose in the dress my mother made me and the shawl his mother gave him, Russian Red lipstick and hair up. What fun that our paths should have crossed at all! Had you asked Alex ten years ago if he’d ever take portraits of people for such a project, he’d have said no. Had you asked me this time last year if I would be singing the soprano solos in Bach’s St. John Passion, I too would have said no. No way. No thank you. Not possible. A wise friend once told me: enjoy the process. His words have never left my mind. If I am to dedicate my life to music, I had better enjoy the processes involved with that career choice, and forget about end-gaining. I had better enjoy the nuances of many different languages. I had better enjoy learning to disorganize and reorganize the beauty of an aria and to enjoy the time it takes to discover and rediscover a character. I had better learn to appreciate and enjoy the ever changing human body that houses my voice. I had better learn to enjoy an unending quest for simplicity and perfection, the treasures that await every artist at the end of the rainbow. I am. The process is marvelous. My eyes and ears have been opened to new challenges and to new perspectives. It is my guess that Alex Waterhouse-Hayward, who uses film to capture the subjects of his Red-Shawl Project rather than the digital medium, also enjoys the process, perhaps on both a figurative and literal level. And I believe he puts the process in the best of light: What fun! ◆

William Adrian Lockhart Reid (aka Patrick)—Statesman and Flag Designer 02 • 04 • 12 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

Jocelyn Morlock—Composer 07 • 04 • 12 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. ◆

Byron Chief-Moon—Actor/Dancer 04 • 18 • 12 My name is Byron Chief-Moon; I work in the performance arts industry as actor and dancer. When my friend Alex called to ask if I would pose with his mother’s red shawl, I was intrigued by the storytelling aspect and accepted the invitation. Alex and I have known each other for many years through dance. Alex shared beautiful stories about his mother and on how she wore the shawl on special occasions. And my dancer’s curiosity prevailed and I wanted to feel the cloth on my skin, in my hands and on my body in movement. I maintain openness to energy that would be emanating from it, if any. I grew up in an environment closely connected to landscape which allow me a perspective on synergistic fields and wondered if ideas and thoughts could linger on loved or objects worn or treasured for significance. Also the color of red is important part of my life; red reminds me of the passion of love and the devastating beauty in death and to never forget the pointless bloodsheds. Blood is also a name associated with my mother’s people. The Blood Tribe of southern Alberta; also known as Kainai, members of the Blackfoot Confederacy, a territory far from the home of my friend Alex and his family who live on the west side of Vancouver. Upon arriving, Alex shared more stories about the red shawl and his mother. We met his wife, Rosemary, who graciously descended the stairwell pausing briefly on the landing for introductions. We are standing in the foyer which was transformed into the ‘studio.’ It was a lovely first encounter with Rosemary. After the introduction I went in front of the mirror and began to style the shawl onto my body, and more importantly to have the hands exposed. At one time Rosemary passed by as I had the shawl over my head, she paused momentarily, tilted her head and smiled looking at the sight in front of her, and I quickly removed the shawl off my head. After a few moments I then began to move with it again, carefully. The final styling came while I was walking around feeling the fabric against my skin. Finally, Alex asked if I was ready, and if I would sit down on his chair. The first photo was taken with the Polaroid; it was taken with the ‘Fujiroid.’ The Fujiroid was used to check for lighting, styling, position of the shawl and very important; the position of the hands. The pose was approved by both Alex and my partner Shanon, who had been visiting with Alex while I was getting acquainted with the red shawl. I have a belief that if you take care of beloved objects they will serve you well for as long as you maintain a positive energy around them, or they move onward. I have given away and found homes for most of my ‘precious’ things keeping only what is necessary. However, I find that my blood memory still serves me well. I grew up in an oral culture a ‘living culture’ where we are constantly told the stories of the land and its people every evolving and adapting to the present moment; maintaining the love for one another channeling from the landscape. Where I grew up in southern Alberta, where there is red on the land and red to me is symbolic of whom I am — ‘The red Indian.’ My mother’s people the Blood or Kainai, still use red ochre as part of our face painting ceremonies, hence the name Blood (Red) being associated with my mother’s people. I enjoy wearing red; it’s a passionate color for me and it’s also a devastating color too. I wear red on Fridays. It’s something I had been doing for years, and it’s my own personal memorial and a reminder of all the needless deaths in the needless wars throughout the world. In wearing my friend’s red shawl I felt emotions that I was not sure if they were mine, I thought at any time I would burst into tears. But I had to maintain from becoming too emotional, what helped was the constant reassuring smile of my partner who was the only other observer in the room along with Alex, who were physically present. Not often do I pose for a photo without directions, as most print work I do has been usually for the ‘industry’ and often they look for a certain attitude (emotion), lighting and style. This was a different session. I was guided by the red shawl and on the innocence of the project. I lost my mother several years ago, and I feel I’m finally coming into my own self again, but definitely changed. I wore a red shawl that belonged to a remarkable woman… a mother. ◆

Rachel Ditor—Dramaturg 04 • 04 • 12 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. ◆

George Bowering—Poet 07 • 13 • 12 Look at That Look at that photograph. Look at that man in the photograph. Well, there isn’t one. You are looking at a small two-dimensional something. You remember looking at an illustration in a culture magazine and saying to yourself, yes, that is Curnoe. But is it? Isn’t it a magazine illustration of a painting that was painted years ago by Greg Curnoe? So when you look at that photograph of the guy with a red shawl over his shoulder, some sort of imaginative power lets you make him adopt the right size and appear in three dimensions. Again—really? In our three-dimensional world, so-called, we see one side of anything. We get used to ascribing reality to that. Then we try to represent that reality, to use a verb that Henry James thought would do the job here. Call it realism. Realism, I have thought since I turned twenty-one, is an admission of defeat. Whether a landscape or a kaleidoscape, it is an admission of failure. Sometimes a really likeable one, as in Each Man’s Son. I have heard of great novels being called the “canon of representation.” But isn’t that kind of poormouthing a created art? The great quartets of Beethoven and Coltrane don’t represent anything (except the body of work managed by those geniuses). I am saying that word “representation” doesn’t properly refer to the art work; it refers to what the artist is doing, not so much on canvas or keyboard as in being oneself, maybe an advocate for presentation. Oh no, not again. Because the referential act leaves out too much. Do you know what I mean? Too much that we do not want to slip away. I want to make it all cohere, like a fuzzy magnet. I am impatient with reference, with continuity, with unity, with the final coming to rest. Morse Peckham called his version of impatience a rage for chaos. I don’t think there is any such place. I’m the witch of And/Or. Thus I have never been able to understand all those Canadian poets and fiction writers and especially professor anthologists who want to trace our literature to explorers’ journals. There are so many purposes for setting down words—why assume that frozen John Franklin is a model for you or me? All right, I have strayed from that image of the old poet with the red rebozo over his shoulder. The photograph is by Alex Quarterhorse-Haywire or someone like that. What I have almost been saying is that I want to write fiction the way he photographs that rebozo. You see, it is an important item of family material. All my life I just have been offered stories that treat such items as “symbolic.” Not interested. For Alex it is an object that keeps showing up. Its reappearance is as pleasurable and meaningless as the alphabet. I love that. As soon as you start saying things about family heritage and matrilineal blah blah blah I am out of here. But I should go back and make a little concession. Realism does not have to apologize for being around or for being a downer, as it so often is. Nor do other attempts to convey the real. That shawl looks very real, what with its colour especially, and I might even look convincingly like a Latin American uncle. But I did not feel any rush of recognition when I put it over my shoulder. ◆

Judith Currelly—Artist—Pilot 04 • 30 • 13

Brother Edwin Charles Reggio, C.S.C.—Mentor and Teacher 02 • 19 • 13 A personal, but random, glimpse into the life of Brother Edwin Charles Reggio, C.S.C. Tuesday, January 15, 2013 8:40 AM Hi Alex, Thanks for the book. My health is not too good right now. I’m having problems focusing on things. Look forward to seeing you soon.

Bro. Edwin Brother Edwin entered our religion class in 1958 and asked us while pouring water to the brim of a small glass and of a big one. “Which is fuller?” The class answered predictably. Brother Edwin gently corrected us, “Both are equally full as I can not pour more water into either of them without overflowing them. But the bigger glass has more capacity. The small glass can be easily filled. We can say the same about happiness. Some of us can be happy with little, others with more.” Edwin is not doing well. Besides his normal illnesses, he has a rare infection in the brain that is causing him to lose some memory processing functions. Even though he is distressed at not being able to make the trains run on time, he is in fairly good spirits.

Br. Bill In 1959 I was stopped by Brother Edwin while waking between the Old Main and Holy Cross Hall. “I need a sax player for the school band. You are going to learn to play one.” In 1958 at St. Ed’s we were young, our teachers were old men. In 2008 I contacted Brother Edwin and I asked him how he was. His answer was precise. He almost seemed insulted, “I feel just fine. I am not much older than you are.” That’s when it hit me that at age 16 our religion teacher was a young man of 26! In 2008 I traveled with my wife Rosemary and granddaughter Rebecca (9 at the time) to Austin. I could have never imagined that some day my granddaughter would meet Brother Edwin. My granddaughter Rebecca asked Brother Edwin how he came to be a Brother of Holy Cross. “I was dating an admiral’s daughter. He offered me the chance to be a cadet in Annapolis. He had connections. The minimum height would be waived. I decided that I wanted to pursue a religious life.” In 1959 Byron Todd, a portly classmate, was misbehaving in religion. Brother Edwin lifted him up with his left hand. He told him, “You be quiet.” In 2008 I asked him how he had managed. “My family and I practiced the sport of Olympic rings.” continued on page 51…

One day in 2011 I followed Brother Edwin in his rounds of the day at his office, going to pick up mail at the post office, dealing with the financial dealings of the Brothers in the in-university bank, feeding the squirrels in St. Joseph Hall, etc. I was struck that his routine could have been measured with a stopwatch. I told him, “You remind me of Phileas Fogg.” His reply was, “He made a mistake.” In 2011 I was had lunch with Brother Edwin at St. Joseph Hall. I had just arrived. “Alex, you need a haircut. Stand up and let’s take care of it.” “Brother Edwin, do you remember my granddaughter Rebecca? She is now a 15-year-old teenager from hell.” “Of course I remember her. Don’t do anything. The more your force her, the more she will go in the opposite direction.” February 18, 2013 “Brother Edwin, will you miss Texas?” “To miss Texas I will first have to remember it.” Brother Edwin is going to be 81 on March 29. ◆

Lauren Stewart—Student 03 • 08 • 12 It was itchy. I like the red rebozo because it is pretty. I like the red rebozo because red is my favourite colour. I think that when my great grandmother Filomena put it on it was itchy for her, too. It’s fun when papi takes my picture. And when I have my picture taken I get to have makeup. My older sister Rebecca makes me up. I don’t smile for pictures because Papi likes my face serious.◆

Timothy Turner—Real Estate Agent 08 • 07 • 12 Who among us feels that their job defines them? I guess we all have at times. Be it a business person, nurse, gardener, sculptor or whomever. It may be what you do on a daily basis to earn a living to support yourself and others, but don’t be so quick to slip into that comfortable little pigeon hole where society loves to place you. Your job is only your job. It isn’t really who you are at all. Indeed, you are a much richer reservoir of nuance than you may believe and you are most definitely more than the sum of your parts. Most of us are familiar with the remarkable works of art created by the Italian master, Leonardo da Vinci. Was he simply an artist or was he much more than that? Was he not an amalgam of his many interests, professional disciplines and hobbies? He was an accomplished engineer, mathematician, innovator, anatomist and inventor. Without a doubt, he serves as a leading example of what we now describe as a true Renaissance Man. His genius was fueled by his insatiable curiosity about the world around him and his fascination with the human condition - all of which was manifested in one facet of his being, his artistic expression. We are no different than Leonardo. It doesn’t mean that we must be a famous artist or world-renowned anything. It just means that we need to nurture our varying interests. Celebrate our diverse experiences from the world around us. Feed our curiosity. Dabble and dip into the unknown. Harness our experiences to create new ones. In effect, embrace our inner Leonardo. I suspect that my own experiences as a university graduate, lawyer, television producer, advertising executive and realtor are really just part of my ongoing learning continuum and merge with my hobbies as gardener, renovator, painter, interior designer, photographer and singer. Each serving as colourful threads that weave together to create the ever expanding tapestry of my life. Every day, we paint the picture that we wish to inhabit. Some of us are a little more shy and shield the outside world from our thoughts while others are comfortable shouting from the mountaintops. Neither one is better than the other. Wherever you find your place in the world it is important to learn to recognize and appreciate your own uniqueness and manifest it where ever and however possible. Regardless of the degree of fulfillment you enjoy from your work or profession, your job does not actually define you. You define yourself in every human interaction and in the manner in which you embrace learning and seek meaningful activities and pursuits, big or small, day in and day out. Remember to embrace that inner Leonardo that is in all of us. ◆

Ivette Hernandez—Actress 04 • 23 • 12 Rebozo Rojo! The Rebirth of Art Red Beginning and End Circle of Life and Death Like the Sunrise and Sunset Like the Blood that gives Life and an End Rebozo Covers, warm, holds together. It shelters from the sun It warms in a cold day It brings together a mother with her child. Red is always present in Mexican culture. It is present in the Aztecs and Mayans who painted their pyramids and their writing with red. Present in sacred blood that brings life and death. Present in the blood spread during our revolution that made us an independent nation. The rebozo is always present. It is present in the life of a woman. It covers her face from the sun and cold. It helps her when she holds on to it during labour. It carries and hugs her children when they are being held, being feed and put to sleep. The red rebozo portrait is very special to me. In 2010 I was asked to take part in photo-sessions connected to my Mexican roots. I happily agreed as I was born in León, Guanajuato. I love my heritage as well as photography. This was my first artistic and professional project and I was ecstatic. My dear friend and photography mentor and I spent several days exchanging ideas, sharing memories and creating new pictures symbolizing old events, photographs and people. This was a project that was my first exposure to posing and perhaps the last of its kind. I will not soon forget it. For me the photo with the red rebozo symbolizes the beginning and end. Red is like the passion that gives birth to creations. In this image it began as the photographer’s idea, it materialized with the help of light, a subject and objects, a camera. It ends on photographic paper or in the photons of your computer monitor. Once there it has its own life. I cannot be destroyed unless red fire intervenes. Like the spirit in the photographer’s heart that burns with passion to create art. Art that once is born and expressed, it will never die. This is the circle of Life for Art…. For me this photo symbolizes togetherness. Rebozo, the Mexican rebozo that brings us together, that keeps the warmth and cools us in heat. Today as 2012 that building where the picture was taken is gone. It has been demolished. This brings me some sort of melancholy for those days, but also leaves me with happiness for what I was able to experience and express in those walls. Those walls are gone physically but their memory remains as well as this photo. They are alive.◆

Raul Guerrero Montemayor—Padre y Compadre 12 • 19 • 12 el viejo antes de dormir cuenta a sus amigos y a menudo en la noche despierta asustado pensando que le falto otro y hay mañanas en que realmente le falta otro y más encogido y más solo se siente y a persona o cosa que ve le dice adiós con los ojos y ahí en su silla atraviesa los días como el pasajero único de una barca crujiente en un mar tempestoso the old man counts his friends before falling asleep and often wakes in the night afraid thinking that one is missing and some mornings one really is missing and he feels more shrunken and alone and he says goodbye with his eyes to everyone or thing he sees and there in his chair he crosses the days like the only passenger in a creaking ship on a stormy sea. Homero Aridjis Eyes to See Otherwise – Ojos de Otro Mirar Selected Poems Edited by Betty Ferber and George Mc Whirter ◆

Yuliya Kate—Dominatrix 04 • 02 • 2012 The only thing I will not do is writing of any sort. Sorry... Yuliya Kate ◆

Decker and Nick Hunt—19th Century Amateur 07 • 14 • 2012 Cat Talk Call me Decker. Here I am ensconced on my person’s lap (Nicholas Hunt). My companion Black and a small female princess cat, Mitts, live here with me in considerable comfort and style. Our people (staff) do our bidding and accommodate us on the club chairs, couches, and their laps. They feed us canned cat food which is pretty good although frankly not much of a variety. We really prefer our meat warm and wiggling. We have a very happy hunting ground right behind the blackberries; some days we score 3 or 4 bunnies each and our people applaud, though less enthusiastically I’ve noticed, if the bunnies are deposited on the rug in the living room. When I’ve killed I yowl; they know instantly that it’s the kill yowl and day or night they leap up to stop me from bringing in the poor bleeding creature. We eat everything except the tail and spleen. When I’ve had my fill I saunter away and leave the rest for the other cats. I know that I am the favourite because when I call and caterwaul for fresh food, it’s done right away. Kibbles get dry so quickly and I do not like them dry. If I am late for breakfast I know it will be kept for me. Once I even had it presented al fresco when I was lounging in the garden. I know how to arrange myself decorously in line of sight, know that my people will notice and smile and say lovingly, “look at that cat!” ◆

Linda Lorenzo—Mother 05 • 31 • 2012 The day I found out I was pregnant was the greatest day of my life. Dreaming of being a mother seemed impossible because a couple of years before I had become a widow. God gave me back faith, to be strong and continue in my journey through life. My dream came true but with a disguise. On October 23, 2010 I gave birth to my son Matteo Ignacio Lorenzo. Matteo’s biological father lives in Argentina, we reside in Canada. My choice is to have my son in my life here. In the long run Matteo will benefit knowing his father. God granted me a miracle and for that I am grateful. Everyday is a new and glorious adventure. My life is full of joy and happiness. And, yes, with lots of diapers on my mind. Gracias a Dios por esta gran vida ◆

Michael Varga—Cameraman 03 • 30 • 2012 When I was around 10 years old my father took me into a TV studio in London, Ontario. My family was friends of the owner of CFPL London and every time my father went to visit the owner at the station I would go with him. I would hang out in the studio and watch them work. In those days television was mostly live and very exciting to watch; even the commercials were live. One day my father arrived to pick me up in the studio after his meeting was over with the owner and I said to him, “Dad, I want to work in this business.” He said, “Sure kid.” As the years flew by I always knew that I wanted a career in television and I wanted to be a cameraman. I was lucky to be in London, Ontario because I went to Beal High School which had a very good television course at the time which I’m sure still has, so I learned a lot about television production in high school. In 1970 my family moved to Vancouver which was the best thing for everyone in the family. I now had to find a way to get into television and so I started to volunteer with Northwest Cable in North Vancouver which is now Shaw and I shot hockey games at the North Shore Winter Club. I then applied to BCIT and was turned down because they felt I knew too much about TV because of my Beal High School experience. They suggested I take a night school course which BCIT was offering. I followed their advice and took the course where I met Mark Forester who was taking the course as well. He was working at the CBC mailroom in the daytime and school at night. One day Mark said to me that the CBC was hiring people for summer relief work and I should apply for a summer job in the mailroom. The next day I filled out an application and wrote down my experiences at Northwest Cable as well did the night school, plus my TV course at Beal High School. I received a call for the mail room job but I was turned down. It was disappointing but a week later I was called by the technical manager who asked me if I wanted to be a cameraman for the summer...that was 1973 in the old CBC building on1200 West Georgia. The CBC was now planning a new building at 700 Hamilton and needed to hire more people because CBC Vancouver was now becoming a big operation producing a lot of programming, mostly music variety shows. I was now a full time cameraman for CBC and working on all the top shows at the CBC at the time. The best time in Television was from the late 1970’s to the mid 1990’s and I was there working with the best people in the business. What a fantastic time it was! By the mid 1980’s the cameras were getting smaller and more portable and then the travel started. I was very lucky and because of CBC Sports I travelled the world with 11 Olympics and World Cup Skiing for many years. Thank you, CBC Sports! Being a cameraman for CBC Television for 36 years has been a real joy. It gave me a wonderful life and I met all those amazing people, from Politicians to Queens to Presidents to rock stars and just real ordinary people. I got to record history in this beautiful country from coast to coast…What a privilege. I am now retired from the CBC but still working and after 40 years as a cameraman I still love it. Thank you Dad for taking me into the studio when I was 10 years old. ◆

Kiera Hill—Dancer 08 • 04 • 12 As an emerging artist my journey along this career path is just beginning. Many hours training and rehearsal in the studios of Arts Umbrella have tried to prepare me for this moment, the moment when you are no longer considered a student, but a professional dancer. I have just completed the Arts Umbrella/VCC Graduate Program and will be starting my apprenticeship with Ballet BC in the 2011/2012 season. I feel so fortunate that both my school and company of choice ended up in the same city. Artemis Gordon, Director of Arts Umbrella Dance and Emily Molnar, Artistic Director of Ballet BC have been two of my greatest mentors and inspirations over the years and being able to work with both of them is more than I could ever ask for. I am so excited to take this next step, the dancers of Ballet BC are all exceptional artists that I have been looking up to for many years and I hunger for the knowledge and experiences that await me. ◆

Shirley Gnome—Singer/Provocateur 12 • 13 • 2012 Y’know, I used to be a “real” musician before this dirty crap I play now. But I took my joke songs to a comedy night in East Vancouver, just to get a free glass of bourbon, and my “bird,” or whatever the fuck you want to call creative success, soared. That was a year ago. In August I won $20,000 in Patrick Maliha’s The People’s Champ of Comedy contest, because people liked my whorish mouth more than the seasoned vets of comedy. Now I have to play these goddamn comedy shows. I’m playing near-empty restaurants on Tuesday nights to make strangers laugh while I try to hock them my CDs (when they could easily go home and steal my music for free). I am paid one fucking drink ticket for this opportunity. So, I guess, dreams can come true. Now stop. If I had read that story out at a comedy show, people would have been inclined to take that in as funny. But did you? I actually did improvise this on Tuesday night to a near empty restaurant. Those who were there laughed. Quite a bit. And that’s great—it’s a joke, after all. But without stupid facial expression, timing, vocal inflection, etc. (delivery), it seems like the line between bitterness and joy gets washed the fuck out. So… uh… have I really given up being a musician? I mean, what the hell am I doing? I’ve been told I’m too funny for music nights. But I’ve been told I’m too musical for stand up comedy. Then I’ve been told I’m not burlesque enough because I don’t hang my tits out. I’ve also been told I’m too offensive to play fundraisers. And yet I’ve found a place in each one of those worlds in some way, crossing over them in ways that can be very disorienting, perplexing, fascinating, exciting. But as I traverse these different scenes and shift my performance focus over and over, I’m glad to have the chance to do my thing in so many different capacities. Belonging to a lot of different creative platforms feels like a privilege, and a reflection of a past full of different artistic ventures. Comedy is one avenue that has been very good to me. I might be a niche, and I may hit or miss, but I like my vantage point. So, Tuesday I did two comedy nights. This Saturday, I’ll be performing a few bits at the Neverland Burlesque show. On Sunday, I’ll host a giant Awkward Christmas Party with a focus on music, complete with backup singers. Monday I’ll likely sleep, maybe rub one out, y’know, the usual. My songs are about sexy, silly, dirty things - like choosing to masturbate instead of eat breakfast when you only have time for one. Or, in a desperate attempt to fill the void left by a departed lover, filling up on pornography to the point where nothing shocks or arouses you anymore. Or, finding the joy in small penises. Also, saggy old man balls. Did I mention anal sex? I call it dirty c*untry. But I still strive to write good melodies, song structures, and chord progressions, while laying my vocal range softy yet firmly all over them. I still want the songs to be well written, beyond the dirty lyrics. So is this comedy? Burlesque? Music? Performance art? I can’t really be the one to tell you. I can tell you what I’m trying to do, not what I’ve accomplished. I’ll have to let the songs and the shows speak for themselves and you can be the judge of whatever it is the fuck I am doing. I’m certainly not for everyone, but I’m definitely for some. So for you some, this is for you, however you like me, baby. Oh yeah. Now take off those pants and show me that fat ass. ◆

Stefanie Denz—Painter 05 • 01 • 12 I thought, as I sat for Alex, the way he wanted me to, in the spot he had so carefully constructed, then giving me to place on myself, something so disarming as the deep red simple and elegant shawl, that I would oblige him with my focused gaze. And that was a pleasure to impart and have received. I felt that I could exchange what was inside me to Alex which he could then bring to the photographic image. I am a painter. I like to paint people and places as space. I paint persons in their place; their body. What they express outwardly is in exchange with what is inside them, this occurs on a physical level. There is also the layer of memory, personal and shared by details of clothing setting, and composition. This adds interpretation to what is expressed. ◆ Sent from my iPad

Emma Middleton—Actor 03 • 19 • 2013 Alex and I met when he came to see the United Players production of A Room with a View, and spoiled us all by writing lovely things about the show here on his blog. One moment in particular caught his attention: when my character, Lucy, entered at the end of Act I and “let down her hair to reveal a Baroque curl that left [him] breathless”. Daniel Doerksen’s score with Darren W. Hales’ soft lighting and of course Sarah Rodgers’ brilliant direction had created a romantic atmosphere and beautiful picture onstage. Backstage was another story. Moments before, I was in the wings having my braid ripped out and my clothes torn off—all in about twenty seconds. This is what’s called a quick change, and to me it’s one of the most magical parts of working in the theatre. A quick change is when an actor completely changes their costume in a very short amount of time. This often happens between scenes, sometimes to suggest a different character. Quick changes can involve wigs and make-up to the point where the audience (hopefully) can’t tell he or she is the same actor they saw moments before. In one show at UBC I rotated between a high-powered business woman, a troubled schoolgirl and a dumpy landlady. My own mother didn’t realize one of those characters was me! In A Room with a View I had a personal record of ten quick changes. Catherine E. Carr, our costume designer was brilliant and designed my costumes so that I could get in and out of them quickly. I was also incredibly lucky that Danielle, a fellow UBC theatre grad and friend, offered to be my dresser for the show. I could not have done it without her. She had my absolute trust - after all, her job was to make sure I never bolted onstage half-naked, as actors are wont to do when hit with a rush of performance adrenaline. Thankfully, I made it onstage fully clothed every single night. ◆

Corinne McConchie—Librarian 04 • 06 • 2012 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. ◆

Sarah Rodgers and Poppy High—Actor/Director/ Mother—Poppy—Daughter 08 • 27 • 2012 Mothers and daughters As I am sitting here with my daughter wearing my mother’s dress and Alex Waterhouse-Hayward’s mother’s shawl I can’t help but feel wrapped in mothers’ love. Throughout the years I have often worn my mother’s clothes. She generously passed on her long legs and tall slim figure. On stage I have her mannerisms and lilting voice and off stage her gift of story telling. My mother, at 89, is still a slim, bright eyed, beautiful woman. I would consider myself pretty but my mother has always been a beautiful English rose to me and to the world. I am always thrilled and flattered when people say: “Oh, you look just like your mother.” As I sit with my very own cherished daughter, adopted from Vietnam, with her unique dark straight hair and beautiful brown eyes I wonder if people will ever see us physically as mother and daughter. My husband and I both come from very tall families but our diminutive daughter comes from a long line of tiny, delicate people. I can see in her stunning genes that she would never have inherited from us: dimples under her eyes as she grins, a huge teethy grin, straight black hair and luscious Angelina Jolie lips. Everyone comments on her lips and certainly The Rodgers and The Smiths are not known for their thick lips. Yet, everyone who knows Poppy will tell you that her personality and disposition is exactly our families. She is a theatre baby if there ever was one. From the moment we met her she had personality and a sense of humour and even it seems a sense of theatricality. She certainly knew how to be in the limelight. At the very serious giving and receiving ceremony in Vietnam where all other babies were either asleep or crying—our little monkey was climbing onto the centre of the table and blowing spit bubbles. She took centre stage with her lively personality and humour at six months old. We certainly feel that we flew across the world to find the perfect baby for our family. Recently, she has begun to fling her head back when she laughs—apparently, a trait that I have been unconsciously doing for years. Recently, friends and family have commented: “Oh, Sarah – Poppy is laughing exactly like you.” This warms my heart as I imagine us walking down the street one day when she is a teenager—me with my long red curly hair and Poppy with her straight black hair sharing a giggle and tossing our heads back together in unison. Mother and daughter indeed and perhaps even look-alikes after all. ◆

Sandrine Cassini—Dancer/Choreographer 02 • 20 • 2012 Taking a picture with Alex is like becoming someone else. I was Carmen one day, I became Penelope for an afternoon, a red mexican shawl wrapped around my shoulders; I tried to imagine the pain this woman had felt, the pain of waiting, the despair of not knowing, then the acceptance. But aren’t we all Penelope somehow?

Alex Waterhouse-Hayward—Biography When Alex Waterhouse-Hayward’s birth in a Buenos Aires hospital was recorded with a burst of a photographer’s magnesium flash in 1942 he knew then that one day he would become a photographer. Alex taught algebra and ancient and medieval history in a Mexico City high school until 1975 when he and his Canadian wife Rosemary and two Mexican-born daughters moved to Vancouver. In Vancouver Alex started as a stills photographer shooting CBC drama and variety shows. But his real love was magazines and since the late 70s Alex has shot for almost every magazine and newspaper in Canada, Time, the New York Times, Vanity Fair, Stern, the Guardian and many more. In Vancouver he shoots regularly for the arts section of the Georgia Straight weekly, for annual reports, campaign posters for both Federal and Provincial political parties. In 2001 Canada Post issued four rose stamps photographed by Alex. 12 years ago Alex started exhibiting his fine arts photography and has shown at several Vancouver galleries, Simon Patrich Gallery, the Exposure Gallery, the Helen Pitt and Presentation House and he is a frequent contributor of photography essays for online arts magazines such as the Tyee and Montreal’s Arts and Opinion. For 13 years Alex taught photography for the Outreach Program of Emily Carr and currently taught at Focal Point until it closed its doors last year. Alex has been blogging since the beginning of blogs and posts every day about his current cultural activities: concerts, plays and art shows and from his richly remembered and photographed past. blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/

Gallery Shows Threshold Gallery: 1991—Homebodies, Group Show Exposure Gallery:1991—Shade Fanfare One Man Show Exposure Gallery:1991 to 2005—Various Group Shows Threshold Gallery:1993—As I See Them, One Man Show Fifty Six Gallery:1993—Art Exposed, One Man Show Helen Pit Gallery:1995—Joint Show with Brian Lynch Presentation House: 1998—Joint Show Pinholes in Paradise Simon Patrich Gallery: 2000—Nostalgia joint show with Juan Manuel Sanchez and Nora Patrich 5th Avenue Gallery: 2005—Alex Waterhouse-Hayward Pendulum Gallery: 2006—Sectret Gardens One Man Show Duthie Gallery Saltspring Island: 2013—One Man Show

Design layout: Ian Bateson.