House
The following tale could be told, all story elements considered, over the course of an hour. I shall, for sake of blog aesthetics, keep it brief.
Ingrid and I decided not too long ago that it was time to look for a house. We went through the movements – contacted a mortgage broker, then contacted a real estate agent – and found ourselves seriously looking at houses. As in, “come to the house for 2pm and have a look”.
You learn very quickly what it is that you want, by virtue of what you don’t like: suspicious patch jobs, poorly graded foundations, murky unfinished basements. Then, of course, comes price. Finding a house – a good house – in downtown Toronto for a decent price is difficult. All the talk in the media about flailing real estate markets may be correct on the whole, but I can tell you from experience that downtown Toronto prices are still inflated (or, at the very least, stuck at pre-recession-2008 prices).
Ingrid then left for a week’s vacation to see a friend (and sometimes-bandmate of mine) in London, England. Two days after she left, I receive a house listing via email from our real estate agent – look at this, she says, it’s perfect for you two. I was afraid of this; I lived in terror that this would happen – that, while Ingrid was away, I would find a house and (because the downtown buyers’ market is still strong) would need to make a quick decision as to whether or not to put in an offer. I saw the place on Friday (same day I received the email) and needed to have an answer for Sunday. Nice house. Nice owners. Great neighbourhood. Good price, considering house, owners, and neighbourhood.
Long story short, I bought a house that Sunday which Ingrid has never seen, save for photos and descriptions sent via email. I am currently going through a swirling mass of elation, buyer’s remorse, stress, and raw, drug-like excitement. I swear, my life mirrors B-movies and 80s TV shows sometimes.
Thankfully, she lands in Toronto tomorrow, so I will not be the only one trying to get a handle on this. I cannot even imagine – on her end – how surreal an experience this must’ve been.
I also don’t want to see my phone bill.
Images
I think images are worth repeating
images repeated from a painting
Images taken from a painting
from a photo worth re-seeing
I love images worth repeating
project them upon the ceiling
Multiply them with silk screening
see them with a different feeling
– from Images, lyrics by Lou Reed
Every May in Toronto there is what is called CONTACT. It is a photography showcase. What makes it unique is that, rather than two or three galleries being the centre of interest, the photographs are integrated into (and across) the city. Storefronts bear photographs, abandoned buildings bear them, you see them inside bars and cafés. Go along the Junction and you can’t sit down without seeing signs pointing into stores, saying “Temporary Gallery”.
This integration was quite stunning a couple of years ago; someone got permission to have their photographs – printed on clear plastic film – adorn the glass-paned bus shelters along Queen West. Each one responded to each other and the environment. It was thought-out. Choreographed, if you will. It was, photography or no photography, an art installation.
This year I find myself wishing CONTACT would end (if not May). Though I have not seen (what I can only assume is) the A-grade stuff in the chosen galleries, I have to say that I’m going to scream if I have to walk past many more of them. There is no order. Just image, after image, after image. Just images. Rectangular submissions without point, intent, self-awareness.
I am surrounded by photos, everywhere, at a point where I am going through a photographic/existential crisis. The film vs. digital divide has divided me, particularly since my 35mm lens is giving me problems (I sooo don’t want to get out the jeweller’s screwdriver kit). Meanwhile, I’m having great fun (at low resolution) with my BlackBerry’s camera – it allows me to do so much I wish my manual film-camera could do: being spontaneous without lugging a 2lb Soviet brick. Having a preview window is also a great plus. In the end, however, the resolution isn’t good and the colour is often skewed blue/cyan (meaning I often have to import the photo onto my laptop and futz w/ Photoshop before I can upload it).
Just before this all came about, things were quite different. I had joined a local, well-respected photography collective and was expecting a medium format camera to be sent from an eBay seller. My photographic future appeared, allow me this, picture-perfect. In short, the camera never worked, the seller was less than useless in helping the situation, and it simply can’t be fixed locally. Add to this my affair with a shallow cameraphone, my 35mm lens issue, and said well-respected photography collective annoying me with “bulk” emails (filled with both utterly useless and useful information without care for clear formatting). Add CONTACT and stir, liberally.
In short, it has all forced me to face a philosophical and practical dilemma which I never really thought I’d need to face: why do I take pictures? What am I taking pictures of? What is the eye behind the viewfinder? Is it a diary? Is it journalism? How seriously are you going to take this? Professional-seriously or I’m-just-fucking-around-and-don’t-want-to-think-about-it-seriously?
Thus I find myself subconsciously referring to a song from Songs For Drella, a dedication to Andy Warhol by Lou Reed and John Cale. It spins like a mantra, like a whirling dervish, and I stare intently at it hoping that I’ll see the meaning in its elusive centre.
I’m no urban idiot savant
spewing paint without any order
I’m no sphinx, no mystery enigma
what I paint is very ordinary
I don’t think I’m old or modern
I don’t think I think I’m thinking
It doesn’t matter what I’m thinking
It’s the images that are worth repeating
Ah, repeating, images
Images
Mobile: Dispatch #1
Dispatch…
1. to send off or away with speed, as a messenger, telegram, body of troops, etc.
2. to dismiss (a person), as after an audience.
3. to put to death; kill
Dispatch from the 501 Queen streetcar. Thoughts dispatched, sent like troops via cellphone: instant, unilateral.
This is not a dialogue.
Dispatch. Done with; I am finished incubating this thought. I am done. It has been sent in contravention of MacLuhan, without a message.
Message sent.
[Sent via BlackBerry]
Cellphoto: Self-Portrait in Motion
Dear Reader,
It may have come to your attention (those who visit semi-often) that I have not been posting here that often (aside from the Twitter-y things on the right column).
This is true.
I am a little swamped these days with non-Imaginary Magnitude-y things (i.e. work). I have not, I insist, lost interest.
Please stay tuned. I will eventually return with more consistency than what is currently on display.
Cheers,
Matt
Cellphoto: Morning Shadows (Self-Portrait)
Happy "Family Day"
Tomorrow (Monday) is a newly-created holiday (which, if you’ve been in Canada in February, is crucial for mental survival), called “Family Day”. This is its second year in existence and nobody really knows what to do with it. Okay, when I say “nobody” I mean me.
I’ve never been someone who makes elaborate plans in advance of long-weekends. For me, weekends are about plugging-out of work and relaxing, writing, photography, and the occasional neighbourhood brunch. I suppose if I had a cottage up north things would be different (not that February is necessarily when you want to be at a cottage up north).
Add to this the ree-coc-u-lous name “Family Day”. The premier of Ontario deemed it so, pinning its creation to his rationale; whether said rationale is window-dressing or solemn honesty is beside the point. I hate the name. 
I’m not a militant sort, but what of those of us without children? Should I spend the day meditating on my biological error? Are all those people gearing-up to get drunk up and down Ossington Avenue tonight doing so as a testament to the strength of the Ontarian family? Doubtful.
Rather than spending it with our kids (who don’t exist, though we do have a lovely cat – her name is Selchie), I shall be mending clothing with holes, cleaning up some paperwork, filing things away, and reading. And yes, we’re going for drinks tonight.
So, from our family to yours, have a lovely Family Day tomorrow, gracious readers.