"This is your fault," the Creative Genius said to me this morning. "Instead of all the many useful things I could be doing, I'm going to spend today trying to learn how to belch words for you."
I am an inspiration to the Higher Mind.
We drove to Montréal this past weekend, to see A Company of Fools' production of Richard III. It was a memorably lousy drive, a long slog through "flurries" that looked more like "blizzard", and a whole lot of very slow traffic (no fun at all with a manual transmission). Then we got lost, at the very brink of our goal, under the Québecois road signs cunningly designed for the express purpose of confusing les Anglais, and found ourselves whizzing towards Vermont while watching Montréal rush-hour traffic go the other way across the Pont Champlain towards Centre-Ville...
Yes, a bad drive, and probably put the Creative Genius off driving forever, as he watched me entirely lose my shit on the outskirts of the city, there, and then lose it again as we circled the block of St.-Denis in which M.'s hotel was located for the third time, seeking parking. But all things come out in the end, and the end of Friday did find us in M.'s tiny mini-flat charmingly decorated in animal prints and murky paintings of skinny-legged elephants under clotted red African skies.
She only had a little while before her call, so we decompressed a bit (and I gave her her Yuletide presents). Then she was off, leaving us with walking directions to the theatre, and we were off, to get the Creative Genius signed into his hotel 1 room.
On the whole, Richard III makes a pretty good show, in bouffon. As the CG pointed out on the drive home (during which he exhaustively and brilliantly critiqued the entire production) Shakespeare practically is bouffon, which could be either an advantage or not. We both thought the beautiful, shiny, matching Lycra costumes didn't quite work; they were rather too pretty. And the show was designed for more of a proscenium presentation, apparently, and only hastily adapted to Mainline Theatre's little thrust stage. (We were in the right side, that first night, and so missed some things.)
Afterwards, the CG took off to his hotel, while M. and I went across the street to the condominium of an old, old friend of ours, to whom I will hereafter refer as the Musician 2, and his partner, for a late dinner.
Their condominium was in a beautiful little block, with another frightening set of wintry stairs leading up to it. Inside, it looked like a spread from Architectural Digest —all the way from the elegant modern sofa and glass coffee table, the slate-lined shower in the bathroom, the green granite countertops and green glass tile in the kitchen (which also had an enviable gas range with grill) right to Max, the rescue greyhound who strolled after us like a canine supermodel from room to room.
"You haven't changed a bit," the Musician said, embracing me at the door. Since he last saw me when I was maybe twenty, I'm not sure whether to be flattered or disturbed. Maybe, as I said to M. on the walk back, I'm merely regressing to my original unspoiled nature. He has changed, although nowhere for the worse; when I knew him, he was frighteningly beautiful, and yet at the same time projected a curious unearthly vulnerability. Now, there are lines of character in his face, and his entire being has grounded.
The Musician and his partner R., beautifully yet casually clad in not-quite-matching plaid shirts (a crowning touch I profoundly hope was only a happy accident) served us wine, walnuts, ferociously old cheese and ginger biscuits, while they nimbly prepared a risotto and some marinated shrimp (grilled on that fantastic gas stove top). We drank a lot of wine, and talked a lot. R. and the Musician are well on their way to opening a small gourmet shop in Montréal, with a stunning business plan and everything, focussing on local food and prepared menus and a little catering. I was a bit stunned to hear that there weren't any there; the business plan looks very like what my favourite local Fancy Deli does, as well as the newer David's Gourmet (which has been so successful it's opened a second location, depressingly close to my apartment). Small-town Southern Ontario ahead of cosmopolitan Montréal—who'd've thought?
After dinner, the Musician said, in the ascetic tones of one who'd planned to serve cheese and port for dessert, "R. wants to have cheesecake." Who has ever refused cheesecake? Not us. It was perfectly plain, and perfectly fantastic. There turned out to be creme brulée as well (crusted over in the oven; to my surprise there was not one of those brulée blowtorches about), and plenty of very good port. 3 The Musician produced some clove cigarettes, which R. tolerantly allowed him, and so we were all well supplied with the vices of our lost youth.
He showed us a photo slideshow of his life since we'd last seen him. Travel in exotic locations, sunshine, Buddhas and living on the edge on rented motor scooters-- it was all I would have expected. Then R. took himself off to bed (the Musician has indeed calmed down a lot, and apparently their typical day now ends in an early bedtime) and we took ourselves off to the livingroom with the elegant dog, the port, and the clove cigarettes.
There, M. and the Musician conversed intently, while I mostly sketched and watched them and occasionally interjected slightly disconnected comments, since the port was causing a poor intersection with conventional time. Truly, just like the old days!
At half-past three, M. and I finally left for the chilly walk back to her hotel. Montréal is fantastic. In my small town, the streets would have rolled up several hours earlier, with only a few drunken students remaining to show that anyone lived there at all. Here? It was just as bustling on the streets and sidewalks as when we'd left the theatre. Inspired, perhaps, by our surroundings, M. and I didn't sleep for another several hours.
Normally I dislike lightproof blinds immensely 4, but I have to admit they have some advantages.
Above, a couple of slightly drunken portraits—the Musician, and M. I'm not really happy with either of them (nor with the fact that I could only do a half-decent job in profile; in particular, I would have liked to get a good likeness of the Musician, full-face, because the changes I see there are very interesting). Still, messy linework and all, there they are.
1 Also within walking distance, the Hotel de Paris on Sherbourne—a shabby mansion with an intimidating set of slippery steps leading up to the imposing front door. It was quite nice, and not too expensive, and perhaps we will stay there again, if as we both hope we wander back to Montréal for a few days of wandering and photo fun.
2 When I knew him, he was studying music—already an accomplished singer, instrumentalist and composer. I remember he introduced me to Mahler—and to Andrew Lloyd Webber. Apparently he still works as a singer at times.
3 I gave up drinking port, and indeed all red wine, years ago, because it used to give me an instant, splitting headache down the right side of my head. Perhaps I used to drink worse wines; anyway, I've had several different reds in the last year or so, and none of them have caused any adverse reaction at all.
4 Very often, sleeping in a completely darkened room gives me nightmares.
Recent Comments