#BestDespinaEver!

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Opening nights are always such fun… Tuesday night past, I was reminded of all the opening nights that I would attend with a slightly neurotic Merlin as some show or other that he had directed was being presented to the world… As ever, it was great to see my plus one, Lucian Mann-Chomedy as the ideal partner for these occasions. Always reserved, pleasant and just the right amount of chatter and wit.

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Whilst Lucian enjoyed the pre-show lecture in the Four Seasons Centre Amphitheatre, I slipped next door into the warmth of the Sheraton Centre Hotel and warmed myself on a glass of sherry whilst finishing off 2018’s Scotiabank Giller Prize winner on my KOBO.

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What an utterly stunning tour de force. It was a moment to reflect, this Black History Month on just where we blacks are in the scheme of things. God only knows, it has been bruising to watch Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex become the print media’s most reviled and hunted fugitive from justice of that most vile creature, the racial predator.

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I was still smarting at the events of a week earlier during the winter season’s first major snowstorm. I had been recalling to friends how strange it now was, compared to my first winter in Canada. December 1, 1974 and it snowed that day more than 8 inches. Back then it generally was guaranteed to snow once if not twice weekly. Now at end of January, 2019 and we were finally having our first major snow. This was not like snow from years past… Now it was a dirty, sooty-looking hard mess that lingered, largely in part because the city has contracted out its snow removal services.

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As there are no windows in my apartment – Sol’s too damn bright by far and besides, boarded up windows afford me more art-hanging space – I got down in the early afternoon that Monday with my bike, only to be met by falling snow and several accumulated inches. Back up I went, retired the trusty chrome steed and returned and hopped into a snazzy Audi A6 Uber ride with a Macedonian whose spirit was as smooth and elegant as matchingly was his car. The mood set the tone for my day. As I am known to work 16-hr days, I called another Uber at the end of gig one whilst hoping to get to gig 2 in good time. The snow was still coming down; it was also bitterly cold and windy.

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When finally, Uber #2 arrived, cold and dark with icy pellets mixed in with the snow, the driver rolled down his passenger side window and declared, “Sorry Buddy but I am going to have to cancel this ride…” Already running late, with my wheeled suitcase at the ready, he edged along as I tried to open the door and raised his voice, his eyes almost feral-looking beneath his turbanned, narrow skull. “I said I am cancelling you. One: I never take people like you in my car. Two: you have a shitty rating… Sorry, not sorry. Fuck you Buddy.” With that, he stepped on the gas and I had to swiftly haul me and suitcase out of the way as the rear of his red older model car whose interior did have that blasted malodorous melange of curry, dirty armpit, dirty arse, smegma and whatever the fuck else that passes for immigrants of choice these days. Finally, after having struggled out onto a still-not-ploughed Bay Street, I managed to hail the fourth cab whose West African driver insisted that I call Uber and report him… Days later, I was afforded assurances that the racist Dravidian was no longer part of Uber’s fleet. Similarly, when calling a Beck Taxi with a fairly generic name as Arvin, on coming downstairs the Indo-Canadian drivers on several occasions as though staying on script would feign obsequiousness and state that they were deeply sorry but owing to a family emergency, they were having to take the cab out of service. No sooner than having refused me a ride, they would then be observed heading out to Wellesley, turning on their unoccupied light and picking up a fare off the road. As if the blasted motherfuck, the likes of your overbred arse invented Jazz.

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Each and every time that one experiences racial animus, is preyed on racially, it always harks back to that first winter in Toronto. My best mate from two summers earlier, when I would come to Canada to visit with my dad during school break, had been sick. After Sunday church service at Knox Presbyterian at Harbord and Spadina before returning to our beautiful home at 122 Mortimer Avenue, I would visit – my dad and I – with Tommy who was holding up at Toronto Sick Kids Hospital on University Avenue. My father explained that Tommy was sick with the winter flu, which sometimes could last for months and well beyond winter. I was a scrawny little fourteen-year-old who looked like most ten-year-old Canadian kids as I crawled the halls at Harbord Collegiate where among my mostly Italian-Canadian chums was future lawyer, Rocco Galati. As Tommy, who was a couple of years older than me, had gladly shared books with me the two summers prior that I would take to Knox summer camp and read then have a good stroke off, lusting after my inamorato, Tommy, I readily agreed to do his newspaper route for him until he came home. My first Saturday, the cart was overflowing with the thick Toronto Star newspaper and there was a good foot of snow everywhere. It was hellish but for Tommy, I was game to go the distance – who knows what hot frottage, docking and more was in the offing for having done his route for him! When I got to the northeast corner of Floyd and Bater Avenues that first Saturday to collect the funds, the door opened to a woman whose response to me was the most hideous display of the displaced madness that is white bigotry. Screaming at the top of her lungs, the woman in her upper seventies, vituperatively cursed my black bugger arse off and laid down the law. Never again, “you dirty little nigger” was I to set foot on her verandah.., I was to put the paper between her screen and front doors, knock then return to the top of her steps and wait for her to pay the bill. That first Saturday, she ripped the paper from my hand, flung the money at me. She was terrifying, in her faded blue A-line dress, black spectacles that had those upturned pointed edges at the sides; she wore faux pearls. Most of all, she wore the most hideously terrifying eyes. I remember how much they looked like eyes of a rooster, especially so for being such puffy eyes. Like the evolved, winged and feathered reptilians that roosters are, her eyes truly did look not the least bit human. She was so consumed with racial animus that it was truly frightening. By the time I made it home, I found myself regurgitating. Thereafter, every Saturday, I would take my spot at the top of the steps and consistently she would hurl out pennies mostly at me rather than the verandah where that first winter I had to suffer the indignity of picking through inches of snow on the verandah, steps and lawn to collect my money. Naturally, without fail she called most Saturdays to the Toronto Star, complaining of either not having received her paper on time or that it was missing altogether. This would mean having to buy her a replacement at the corner store, take it and only to be fed on by the hideous-of-spirit racial predator. Like a true cockhound many an indignity I suffered in hopes of my spectacled, full-lipped and scholarly inamorato, Tommy hooking up with me for having been so loyal to him. The summer prior, I had ventured to the public pool on Broadview at Riverdale Park with him and a couple of others and thrilled beyond belief was I to spy his large pendulous balls and that hammer-headed girthsome salami that pummelled his bikinis. Indeed, for Tommy I would suffer much indignity. There was a low-rise apartment building at 1111 Broadview where on the ground floor, there was another predator, this one equally septuagenarian who lived alone, smoked incessantly and always answered the door in various stages of undress, mostly ever only wearing a soiled merino. He was always a generous tipper; a whole 2$ bill in 1974/75 was serious cash. Naturally, in the pre-Ciaslis epoch old anorexic, drunken paunched predator would sometimes tug on the old bulbous semi-flaccid/semi-tumescent, though, pendulous but perfectly useless appendage, trying to lure me in. Sitting there in all that squalor and acting as though he was sugar daddy material… indeed. He was always keen on trying to grab me when giving me the “tip” and I was ever sly and crafty enough to get away from him each time. He, too, lead me to regurgitate, which I had not done since age nine and suffering my first racial attack. Of course, to this day, neither academia nor medicine will concede that there is any such a thing as the racial predator and the effects it has on those preyed on – mostly blacks – and the psyche/mental illness of those who prey on others chiefly non-blacks in varying degrees of severity based on otherness.

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Finally, the house lights went down and I was met by the whimsical vista of the COC’s production of W. A. Mozart’s glorious opera, Cosi Fan Tutte. Previously, I had caught productions of this Mozart gem in Chicago, Montréal and New York City. I was not expecting much at this rate. The Frida Kahlo connection was a bit of a stretch but the butterflies fast won me over.

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From the moment that she stepped onto stage, my spirit soared aloft higher than Mozart’s glorious music to that point had spirited me. Never before had there been so captivating a Despina. My eyes teared up and I was ever on the cusp of explosive giggles. Then what made me truly come undone was the moment Tracy Dahl took to the stage as the notary… by now, I was losing tears and beginning to emit choked snorted chuckles. Each Saturday back in 1974/75 when doing Tommy’s newspaper route, I would end off taking the Saturday Star to Giovanna an octogenarian Italian, who was plump, charming and more adorable than any mere mortal ought to be. Soon, we were fast lovers and she loved fussing over me, baking me each Saturday nice, warm, oven-fresh biscotti washed down with a glass of ice-cold “gingah raleh”… her thick Italian accent was part of her charm. Hers was a large black and white cat, simply known as pussy gatto, who always sat nesting on the armchair. Each week, Giovanna sat transfixed as I read her the newspaper; her vision was to that point fairly deteriorated. As a way of better forging our bond and because most of my mates at Harbord were Italian, for three years, I studied Italian and that really impressed Giovanna, who was simply known as “Mama Mia.”

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As the opera progressed, Ms. Dahl as the notary, dashed and took cover beneath the table at which point, I buried my face in the program with explosive laughter. Straight away, I was reminded of each Saturday when the ever silent pussy gatto would bolt from the armchair and take cover beneath the sofa where I sat as Giovanna began an explosion of long-winded farts. Even the singer’s voice sounded much like Giovanna’s as she sang the role of notary. Remarkably, it was as though she was channelling Giovanna. In that moment, I was healed of the bile, which the recent Uber incident had caused to surface, bile that dated as far back as 1974.

In the end, Tommy’s parents sold their house and it was not until a couple years later that I discovered from the neighbour next-door that Tommy, who had never returned to their Mortimer and Logan home, had died of Leukaemia. Indeed, the winter flu was my dad’s way of protecting me from the callousness of having to lose a friend so early in life.

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Apart from the catharsis that Tracy Dahl’s performance personally effected, I don’t think that it would be biased of me to state that hers was the runaway performance in the COC’s fantastic, and fast-paced I might add, production of Cosi Fan Tutte.

As ever, mischievously push down and melt with laughter in celebration of the joy that is life and start having yourselves a most glorious of flying dreams. Thanks for your ongoing support of this happening astral joint on this side of the astral plane. I love you more.

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Here’s to You!

Just a wee glimpse into my magical life where dreamquests are all begun in the groovy comfort of my collapsible pyramid.  I have had a pyramid since 1984 in one form or another.  This incarnation of my dream chamber, I rather love.  Being surrounded by art is about being greatly inspired.  

Happy New Year!  Thanks for your ongoing support and here’s wishing you the very best this year!  Sweet dreams as ever! 

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Put Your Complaints ‘Ere

my-ere

Put Your Complaints ‘ere

Lithograph

41 x 29 inc

Edition: 13/67

©2002 Robert Davidson

Provenance: Collection Arvin da Braga.

My but this makes me purr…  Lovely way to start Black History Month.  

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

In Memoriam: George F. Hawken

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(George F. Hawken – February 5, 1999, Montréal, Québec)

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This past Friday, December 23, 2016, I went to my doctor’s to get my test results for HIV.  The doctor whom I had not seen in long ages was unusually engaging.  When he finally cut to the chase, never had he announced that my test result was HIV negative with so much pleasure; I thought it odd at the time.  Brushing past all that, I then inquired of him how George Hawken was doing; after all, George years earlier on my return to Toronto had insisted that I have the handsome Sino-Canadian for a GP as well. 

Marta 74 George Hawken Intaglio on Paper

Marta.  Intaglio on Paper. 1974 George Hawken  

 

As he paused, I told him that I could appreciate his patient-client confidentiality considerations; however, forging ahead, I told him that I had sent George an email more than a week earlier and had not heard back from him.  Pressing on, I inquired if George was doing well of late as I had last been in touch a couple of months earlier.  In that way that the good doctor had mastered, he haltingly stammered back that yes, George was doing well…  We then left it at that as clearly he did not want to pursue the matter further – he had actually stood up to conclude our visit.   

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Pink Chair 1992 George Hawken  (Arvin)

 

About a week earlier, I was feeling especially uneasy about not having had a reply from George to my last email; he would always answer within 36 hours at the latest.  By then, it had been about a week; we hardly ever spoke by phone on my return from Montréal.  Previously, when we spoke by phone our conversations back in the late 80s and through to mid 90s resulted in an invitation from George to immediately get together where our passionate physicality was intense beyond the norm. 

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Gordon and Janet in their Garden.  Lithograph 2009 George Hawken 

 

To still my worrisome mind, I began playing Joseph Haydn’s Paris symphonies; George favoured the Paris symphonies where I favoured the London Symphonies.  George  had actually introduced me to Haydn’s music; he insisted that I become better acquainted with the 18th century composer’s works.  When first I sat for George in 1986, at his Brock Avenue loft in the Queen Street West neighbourhood, he always played Haydn…  I would always love the way, he would play imaginary keyboard whilst enjoying a cigarette break as I privately sat for him. 

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Franz Kafka – Kafka Suite. Intaglio 1982 George Hawken 

 

One of the funniest memories of George is lying in bed with him after passionate play at the Brock Avenue loft and laughing hysterically whilst we listened to CBCFM and a Florence Foster-Jenkins performance.  Afterwards, we indulged another round of Rottweiler style passion that was part Greco-Roman brawn.  On my return to Toronto, George and I never resumed our physical relationship; though, I had at least hoped that I could serve as muse to him again.  Alas, it was not to be. 

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Book Cover Illustration. 1980 George Hawken 

 

One morning after work, with Haydn symphonies swirling about my mind as my apartment was sodden heavy with the Paris symphonies, I suddenly made a right whilst coming up Yonge Street and headed along Adelaide Street East.  Then, I went one better and hung a left up Sherbourne Street for the morning ride home; never had I done this.  Riding up Sherbourne, the familiar strains of Haydn’s Symphony No. 85 B flat major ‘La Reine’ spirited me along as I leisurely rode up the moderately icy, dedicated bike lane. 

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Fly. Etching. 1976 George Hawken 

 

Just above Shuter Street, George suddenly fell into my mind and I crouched forward towards the handlebar to best face into the cold winds barrelling down the avenue.  Whilst coasting up the bike lane opposite Allan Gardens Park, my mind as I whistled Haydn’s symphony began recalling moments of passion with George long years earlier.  I thought of those glorious nights of noisy, sweaty passionate play at his McCaul Street loft; I crouched forward even more as my face warmed into a smile at pleasurable memories. 

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Beethoven Asleep.  Etching. 1975 George Hawken 

 

If only, I still had George’s numbers, I would call him on getting home; it was so unlike him not to have responded to the email that I had sent him on December 13, 2016.  Peddling harder up the tough stretch of bike lane between Carlton and Wellesley Street East, I suddenly began slowing down as a large black hearse slowly negotiated its way from the Rosar-Morrison Funeral Home & Chapel property at 467 Sherbourne Street; it waited in the middle of the bike lane for northerly flowing traffic to ease up. 

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Pink Chair I/III AP. Lithograph. 1990 George Hawken  (Arvin)

 

I rolled up and paused looking squarely into the hearse where a cardboard coffin was bound and en route to the St. James Cemetery and Crematorium over on Parliament Street.  This was the same route that my father’s cadaver had taken after his funeral in August 2008 which George had attended.  I was so appreciative of the fact that he had asked if he could attend my father’s funeral.  After the lovely service, I had approached George and we hugged and he seemed really pleased to have made the outing. 

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Woman. Lithograph. 1980 George Hawken 

 

Moments afterwards another of my lovers, Owen Hawksmoor came by to start lecturing me about the importance of having many friends; after all, said he, look at all the people who had turned out to my father’s funeral.  Then said, Owen, as can ever be expected of him, “you should at least have six people who would be prepared to pall bear for you.”  Brushing him and his big sex cockiness aside, I rebutted, “trust you to always make for a bitter after taste.  What’s it to me, I’d be dead; it really wouldn’t matter anymore than it does now.” 

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Yonge Street Mask. AP Etching. 1971 George Hawken  

 

I broke and hopped off the bike and intently looked inside at the brown cardboard coffin; it seemed an eternity waiting for the hearse to finally make it off the bike lane and into traffic.  In those moments, I again thought of George and that was when it suddenly dawned on me that I was never going to hear from George again.  Further, I had the distinct impression that what had prompted me to route-change for the first time, to be humming and whistling one of Haydn’s Paris symphonies: symphony No. 84 in B float major is because George’s corpse lay in the hearse before me en route to St. James Cemetery and Crematorium. 

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Myself  (Self-portrait) AP Etching. 2008 George Hawken 

 

Without doubt, this was why I was in this place in this moment before an austere black hearse straddling the northbound bike lane on Sherbourne which I had never used before en route home from work.  With that, as the hearse slowly pulled out onto Sherbourne and then made a right turn onto Wellesley Street East, the traffic in the icy snowy street was sufficiently slow that I rode alongside the hearse along the side of the cardboard coffin and accompanied all the way to the black wrought iron gates of the cemetery on Parliament Street. 

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Baudelaire II. Etchin. 1975 George Hawken 

 

After I got in, had a shower and had my lovely home infused with Hoju incense, Haydn’s symphony No. 104 in D major ‘London’ played on repeat as I grounded anew.  Though it was not especially windy out, there was a loud noise on my balcony and wrapping up in my lovely woollen pea coat, I took to the balcony to investigate.  The first sight that greeted me was a heavy plume of sooty black smoke from the crematorium’s chimneys as they were being swept southerly in the cold wintry morning air.  I lost a tear and on returning indoors, though my Google search on coming home produced nothing for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ I still felt firmly that there was no coincidence to the sequence of events and synchronicity of the past several days which culminated in the black hearse across the bike lane. 

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Colin Campbell. Etching. George Hawken 

 

As it is always tough to close shut, I gave the door to the balcony a bit of encouragement by heaving my right shoulder into it.  On turning away from the door, I noticed one of George’s gifts to me “Woman” was titled off its hook on the cement wall where moments before taking to the balcony it had sat perfectly aligned.  Yet another sign indeed.  Finally, today at work, as I kept checking the folder which bore all George’s email correspondences, then did a Google search for ‘George Hawken Obituary’ alas there was confirmation.  George had died the day before I had sent him my final email; it was one in which I offered to buy a copy of an illustration which he had done for an anthology of emerging Canadian authors. 

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George Hawken, 1970s.

Again, today after work, I rode up the Sherbourne Street bike lane and it all fell into place.  Almost always when I went to our shared doctor, there would George be.  Finally, when I saw him after a long spell of not having been in touch, he sat birdlike in the doctor’s office and he was just as stunned to have seen me walk in as I was to have seem him looking so gravely ill.  George had said that it was cancer; we there and then made arrangements to get together and did.  I was so pleased that he had finally met my lovely sister, Pandora and it was lovely going to George’s Camden Street penthouse suite for dinner with my lovely sister when she was in town from Ottawa. 

Self Portrait 5. Etching. 1984 George Hawken 

Today, whilst riding up the bike lane on Sherbourne Street, the doctor’s excitable congratulations to my testing HIV negative made so much sense.  Too, his response to my query how George was doing of late and his response that he was doing well, indeed, made perfect sense.  By Friday, December 23, 2016, George was doing well and in a better place no longer suffering from the wear and tear of his end-of-life monadal illness.  Ours was a very private relationship and there were only two persons in George’s life with whom I enjoyed cordial relations: his son and his lover, Colin Campbell.  I rather suspect that Colin is George’s task companion. 

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Grete.  Etching. George Hawken 

 

I will ever be proud of having been an inspiring muse to George and for having facilitated the energetic work that he did in the late ‘80s to mid ‘90s.  Our passion fuelled his creativity; what’s more, our passion kept me focussed and grounded in this life as Merlin and his ravaging illness and the hideous ghouls who betrayed him in his illness made life at times more harrowing than already the illness made it.  George and his compassion and support were invaluable for me and Merlin was aware of it and openly and unselfishly encouraged it; he knew that I needed that support as with his passing the vipers in his circle would readily dispense with me.  Alas, all things being mutual, dispense with the ill-evolved lot I gladly did. 

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Hearts and Flowers. Intaglio. 1976 George Hawken

Sweet and blissful dreams my darling ennobled George; I am honoured to have fostered and enabled your creativity to have lotussed into greater flower.  Yours was a most rare and beautiful spirit and yet again our love shall dance and soar to higher octaves.  My heart centre is wide open to facilitate your journey in whatever capacity of our choosing in the dreamtime.  Ever, will I love you more. 

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©2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

The Architects Home In The Ravine

The Artchitects Home In The Ravine 1991

Oil on Canvas

200 x 275 cm

1991, Peter Doig

Provenance: Private Collection; sold at auction in London, England, 2013 12$m.

http://peterdoig.mbam.qc.ca/en/

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How did I not know of this creative genius before?  Well, apart from not being awash in multiple millions… I have watched this painting for the past several weeks truly enraptured.  Of course, thanks to the schadenfreude that was Evan Solomon’s demise – goodness, if you sneezed, it’s very likely that you would have missed it – I have finally found Peter Doig.

Of course, I don’t look at TV so his departure from CBC would have been more readily noticed.  Moral of the story: do not ever try extorting money from the rich… and a lawyer to boot – Bruce Bailey.  Goodness, what could he possibly have been thinking?  The greedy twat… adieu!  Goodness, I have not laughed so hard in long ages.

As Sunday is my birthday, I am going to be shaking tail feathers – it’s also Caribana  or whatever it is now called – and being feted over the next couple of nights.  Happy summer, sweet dreams and my but I love this Peter Doig painting.

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Happy Canada Day!

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New Flag

Oil on Canvas

Charles Pachter

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Wheatland – Canadiana Suite – Oscar Peterson Trio 1964.

Piano:  Oscar Peterson

Bass:  Ray Brown

Drums: Ed Thigpen

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Oyster Catcher 5_91 Robert Davidson 2009 Serigraph

Oyster Catcher

Serigraph

24 x 30 inches

Edition: 91

© 2009 Robert Davidson

Provenance: 5/91 Art Collection Arvin da Braga.

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Happy 148th Canada – for more than half my life, I have had some truly remarkable, uplifting experiences whilst living here.  Too, I shared a great love with my Canadian-born task companion, Merlin.

Regrettably, I could neither find the dimensions nor year of creation for the masterful Charles Pachter flag which I would presume is an Oil on Canvas.

Happy Canada Day – my life experience has been immensely enriched for having remained focussed here in this great land.

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Gordon and Janet, in their garden.

Gordon and Janet, in their garden

Intaglio

22 x 15.75in Image

30 x 22in Paper

© 2006 George Hawken

I decided to see what an intense observation of couples whom I know very well would produce. I trust my own process enough to know that if I allow it to unfold naturally, the results will have a certain integrity – which I think this series does. This portrait, of Janet and Gordon Belray in their garden, references their commitment to one another in the face of serious health issues, and the hope that comes from the garden – a metaphor of restoration and continuation. I feel that the intensity of their connection to one another and their hopes for their children are suspended in this simple examination. – George Hawken.

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Had a most lucid astral plane encounter with George last night.  We sat at a deuce visiting.  For me, I have come to realise that whenever thusly situated on the astral plane, the encounter will be languorously rhapsodic.  Our eye contact was intense and direct and we hardly said anything to each other which, incidentally, was always the case when visiting in person.

George and I were lovers, long ago, and as I was then his muse our passion inspired the lithograph, Pink Chair, which has been previously shared on this blog.  I love this piece and on my return from living in Montréal, the artist was then working on this series of portraits.  I had hoped to have been included in the series but alas it was not to be.

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

I’ve Got The World On A String/Guess Who I Saw Today?

© 2013 L’Orchestre National de Jazz de Montréal.

1932 I’ve Got The World On A String

Composition: Harold Arlen

Lyrics: Ted Koehler

Vocals: Ranee Lee

Mucial Direction: Christine Jensen

Piano: Marianne Trudel

Bass: Fraser Hollins

Saxophones: David Bellemare/Frank Lozano/André Leroux/Alexandre Côté/Samuel Blais

Trumpets: David Carbonneau/Dominic Léveillée/Bill Mahar/Lex French

Trombones: Gabriel Gagnon/Abdul Al Khabyyr/Dave Jespersen/Suzie Nadeau

Guitar: Richard King

Drums: Kevin Warren

© Live concert at Salle L’Astral, Montréal, Qc.

Love Ranee Lee concerts and one reason why living in Montréal was a memorable experience.

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© 1952 Guess Who I Saw Today

Music: Murray Grand

Lyrics: Elisse Boyd

© 1994 Nancy Wilson Live, Recorded for Television.

*Originally recorded by Nancy Wilson in 1960 on Capitol Records album: Something Wonderful.

Favourite living Jazz singer.

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.

Blue Wolf Headdress.

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Glass (blown and sand-carved) Hair (horse) and Steel

17 x 28 x 6 Inches (including stand)

© 2011 Joe David/Preston Singletary

http://www.spiritwrestler.com/catalog/index.php?artists_id=949

http://www.spiritwrestler.com/catalog/index.php?cPath=2_88

http://www.spiritwrestler.com/catalog/index.php

Truly exquisite.

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© 2013-2020 Arvin da Brgha.  All Rights Reserved.