My feet are tired and my face hurts.
The feet are sore from all the mileage that Keith and I put in around downtown today as we walked between venues at the Toronto Fringe Festival. See those six gaps in the FitBit activity log? Those represent the six shows we saw in one day. All but one was very funny, and even the one that wasn’t very funny was still pretty funny. Which is why my face hurts.
We laughed. A lot.
More tomorrow, as right now all I want to do is drink the beer that is included in the above MFP log before I fall asleep.
Grocery store sushi only sounds like a good idea, until it isn’t.
Honestly, I should know better, but I was at work and could not look at another crappy 5 Guys burger or crappy Tim Horton’s sandwich. The sushi tasted good at the time, but let’s just say that there is not one area of my gastro-intestinal system that is currently happy with my good idea at the time.
The plus side is that I do not feel like my usual late night snacking. There will be NO PROBLEM keeping under my allotted calorie limit today.
Sharp contrast to yesterday when all I really did was snack. Actually, I’m going to use the term graze. It just sounds nicer. Oh, and drank. Brian and Stacie, friends from Atlanta, are in Toronto being tourists so I met up with them in the evening and went through some of the $5 Sunday pint menu at BarHop. I am both sad and happy that I do not live closer to BarHop.
I hit the Toronto Outdoor Art Exhibition at Nathan Phillips Square before meeting them to scope out all the lovely creative pieces I cannot afford. There was the usual same-old-same-old (oh, look, another painting of the Great Canadian Shield done in the style of one of the Group of Seven), but there were some truly spectacular artists that piqued my interest.
One is Becca Wallace who does some great photography with old toys (robots!!). I showed Keith some of her work, and we’re going to commission her to shoot some of our old childhood toys in the same fashion.
Another artist I spoke to for a while was Blair McKean who does scorched wood art – think kid’s woodburning kit all grown up.
But the one exhibitor that really fried my noodle were these wire work sculptures by James Paterson. Words fail to express how full of delight they are.
Yes, I know it’s sideways. Believe when I say it will be easier for you to tilt your head for five seconds than it will be for me to remain seated long enough to find and apply a fix. Someday I will learn to rotate my phone 90 degrees.
It’s pretty nifty though, eh?
And before I forget, here’s my tracking for the last two days.
Now I’m off to bed in the hopes that the Imodium and Gravol I’ve taken start working soon. Fucking grocery store sushi.
So glad I tore through a big chunk of my crap-to-do list before taking myself out. I don’t think I would have enjoyed my outing so much if I’d still had a bunch of things still hanging over my head.
I didn’t get to see the Bowie exhibit though. It was the second last day, and I could tell by how busy the ticket desks were that it was going to be packed. I decided to take a pass since 1) I’m not a fan of crowds and 2) I’ve already seen it. I was getting my general admission ticket at the member’s desk when the nice man asked me if I wanted to see the new Guggenheim exhibit that opens on Saturday. Yes, please! Membership does have it’s perks.
There was much there that I liked. I spent a lot of time in front of Red Eiffel Tower by Delaunay and View From a Paris Window by Chagall. There were pieces by Kandinsky and Mondrian that I think I have to go back to.
I am however, still filled with meh at Picasso. Perhaps I just haven’t seen the right piece yet.
I visited my usuals; the Draped Seated Woman sculpture by Henry Moore (reminds me of the orbiting giants from MirrorMask) and Lake Superior III by Lawren Harris, then went for a surprisingly good coffee in the member’s lounge and got some writing done.
I wandered down to Chapters and killed some time until doors opened at the Four Seasons Centre. I went to the ballet talk, which was interesting but a bit much in spots.
The show was called Innovation, and had four short pieces. All were good, but the second one called Being and Nothingness (Part 1), a 7-minute solo set to Philip Glass’ Metamorphosis, was by far the most moving IMHO.
I headed to the Toronto Indie Arts Market today to check out some of the wares. As anticipated, I did buy anything for Christmas presents. I did however buy some great hand-made beer soap and a wallet from brewersCRAP, a company that recycles brewing materials – the wallet is made from an old malt bag, and the soap has spent grain in it as an exfoliant. Can’t wait to use it.
I also got to meet Sheryl Kirby, who I have twittered and emailed back and forth with. She’s one of the driving forces behind Beer and Buttertarts, the new food zine that bought one of my memoir pieces. She had a proof copy of the initial issue; it felt slightly surreal but incredible to hold the tangible piece and to see my name in print on page 26.
One of the most interesting things about the Indie Arts Market was the venue. The Gladstone Hotel was built in the late 1800’s and has been in continuous operation every since.
Like many hotels, it’s seen it’s share of hard times. I used to deliver Meals on Wheels there in the 80’s, and always hated going in. It was basically a flop house by this point with all the smells and disrepair that go with that designation. The old gentleman I delivered to had a room on the third floor, and was blind as a result of complications due to diabetes. He had been a musician with one of the more famous big bands in the forties and fifties and had drank his money and his health away. He was lonely, and wanted to talk. I would have loved to stay and talk with him, but the strong smell of old urine and black mould made my eyes water and I always beat as hasty retreat as I could back down the wide wooden stairs. I lived in the neighbourhood and occasionally would join some of the other old guys int he cowboy bar for nickel draft. Not because I liked the bar or the cowboy music or the beer, but the price was right.
I knew the place had been bought and had undergone major renovations. The company that bought it had renovated other old buildings, but this was the first that still had residents in it. There was a documentary made about this period, Last Call at the Gladstone Hotel that is “… a riveting and extraordinary human portrait of the effects of urban renewal upon the poor and the unintentional roles artists play in the process of gentrification.” I’m going to watch the full version this week.
Now the place is lovely. The manually-operated Victorian elevator has been fully restored – the brass glints as it slides slowly between floors. Each room is unique, designed by local artists. There are permanent and temporary art installations in the lobby, the stairwell and other public spaces, and original features like wood floors and trim, brass fixtures and wooden columns have been wonderfully restored.
It really is visually lovely, and I enjoyed comparing it to my memories while I talked with the artisans at the Indie Arts Market. But frankly, the smug hipsters at the check-in desk annoyed me, and the smug well-to-do moms seemed to make a job of blocking my way with their SUV strollers, and good lord man, where the hell did you find plaid skinny pants that clashed so horribly with that slightly-too-small plaid jacket, all put so artfully together with that fedora to look just so?
It’s just not my aesthetic. I’m more a run-down bar with old guys and cheap draft kind of girl in the end.
Just got home from finally seeing the National Ballet’s performance of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I’d wanted to see it when they performed it two years ago, but it sold out too fast.
And now I know why it sold out so fast…clever, fun and whimsical from start to finish. Worth the price of admission just to see how they make the Cheshire Cat come to life.
I might have to go again.
Starting a rainy by listening to Tom Waits read Charles Bukowski.