Planet of the Arts, vol.4, no.3 The power struggle was, of course, all imag- ined. I mean, here I was in love with this person. My zits even cleared up. I was in hormonal bliss. So what happens. I’m accused of being suffocating. This is only after a year of a long-distance relation- ship. Look, all I wanted was a bit of security and some fun times. So what if the phone bill was beyond my means or each waking hour was spent fantasizing about what life together would be. I should have known it was coming. I saw no wrong in anything she did. Sure, there were qualities I didn’t particularly like. There was one, for instance. The pantyhose left hanging to dry in the washroom—to get to the toilet in the middle of ~ the night one needed a machete. There was also always the argument about flossing after I brushed my teeth. The party concerned felt that it was a dental blasphemy to do’such a thing; one must always floss before brushing. Comparatively however, I had less cavities. The major contention was the freedom issue. Whenever I was with her (which was always for short periods of time) she said I was being clingy. Here I was travelling thousands of miles just to be with this person. Admittedly, I might not have allowed her to pee in private, stir the soup by 12 herself or work in her workplace alone, but it wasn’t me talking. It was those damn hormones. Yes, I admit, I can be somewhat possessive at first. So what if I used trickery, lying, begging and every other Machiavellian method known to make sure there was fidelity. I was in love. Wasn’t that reason enough? Anyway, at the thought of losing the person who was making me act like Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction, I decided to give a rest on the possessive tactics. Then I got to the bottom of everything. I mean everyone wants to find the right person to be with, so in every relationship you question whether this is The One, but as a person matures you find there is no such thing as the Perfect One and you live with the other person’s mistakes because usually you have a hell of a lot of your own. This isn’t the case if the other person has a roommate who doesn’t think quite so highly of you, and has theories about you, like insanity or low blood-sugar levels. These theories always sound so official that one is apt to believe such roommates. I mean, I did everything in my power to love this human being (the roommate) but nothing would budge the set-in- stone opinion. So, really, the power struggle was not so much between my lover and myself but more A TALL SHORT STORY between the roommate and myself. I tried to be cool-Kitsilano around this person, but the callous- ness towards me was enough to make me act like Charo on coke. I swore I'd practice voodoo or chant incantations for this person to go away. Alas, this roommate was the one that ran the house and my honey-pie had no intention of moving. I decided to give up, but the funny thing is that your head says, “No way!”. So then the power struggle becomes within you. You begin by denying your body food. Then you are forced, by your body, to gorge yourself on two containers of Cheese Whiz with Pringles potato chips. You break out in cheese boils, hives and a cold. You keep thinking, “Is it worth it?” Then you realize you wouldn’t change one thing, except yourself, because who wants to die alone with one’s last words being “Can some- body please pass the Clearasil?” Jerry Stochansky BIG City, BIG Art, The plane took off in the wee hours of the night: they call it the “Red Eye Express”. Strapped into my seat, hands holding the arm rests ina death grip, my armpits getting soggier by the minute, we roared into the night. Anticipation welled in my heart. We’ve all heard the stories, about the excitement, the grandeur, and the city that (hardly ever) sleeps. Montreal, after all, isn’t New York. Still, I couldn’t prevent the swell of emotion when I heard the flight attendant speak French. Maybe it was dinner. Anyway, we hurtled through the ebony night. We hurtled through the ivory morning and we hurtled past Dorval International Airport. The airport’s automatic navigation system was not operational once again. The cloud cover was below two hundred feet. There was a heavy wet snow falling. The plane kept on passing over the same stretch of terrain. I was trying to remem- ber a prayer; the pilot was evidently trying to remember where he had last seen the airport. By pure chance, I’m sure, we found what we were looking for. My brother met me at the gate. After endless trudging through a colossal parking maze we found the car. Pulled out of the stall. Got hit by another car. Got out of the car, exchanged curses (in two languages), got back in and headed away from The City. I watched the skyline recede in the mirror as we left the Grand Old Lady behind in a romantic curtain of smog. Off, into the bowels of the sub- urbs. Tomorrow was another day. Art: it means almost as much to me as it means to my mother. Her son’s art (that being me), and my art (that which is hanging in every avail- able nook and cranny). It is disconcerting to have staring you in the face those things one would rather delegate to some deep hole in the earth. After six years of absence it didn’t get any better. Montreal, for those that might not know, is a place of mythical proportion. From the grand cathedrals to the mighty skyscrapers to the pleth- ora of art galleries it is a city that hums with movement and creativity. So I’ve heard. Every- thing is bigger and better. So I’ve heard. The art is, well, bigger and better. So I’ve heard. The moment of truth was approaching. After a day of tortuous soul-searching, coming to grips with the time that had passed and the ambivalence that stared at me from the walls, we headed into Town. One approaches Montreal squeezed tightly into an express lane that snakes endlessly, is congested grossly and is stupifyingly complex. Again I assumed it was pure chance that we reached the downtown core. The day was leaden and overcast; the people were not much different. The only distinction is that the weather sometimes changes. After leaving the car to the vagaries of the street, and with my hand clutching a list of galler- ies, we headed into the day. This was the place where I spent my first years in Canada. St. Laurent Street was still pretty much the same, full of small clothing and shoe shops. The Jewish deli’s, the hot dog emporiums, the bakeries, all still plying their trade. Something happened, though, in the intervening years. Small parallel galleries had sprouted in the cheap available warehouse spaces that the rag trade had vacated. These galleries were to give Montreal some of the art mystique that surrounds it now. In my absence Montreal had also gotten a large gallery of contemporary art, which was to put Montreal on the art map. Amongst all this there also exist the commercial galleries, selling contemporary artists and those dealing in repertoire. The kitsch of yesteryear, the smiling Madonnas, the over-ripe fruit and the paintings that gave the classics a bad name. We went to the parallel galleries first. Hidden away from general view (being in upper stories of buildings), we needed our guide as the desert traveler needs his map. Typically, there seems not much chance of the general public ever visiting such venues on a casual basis. Somehow Q: Why are these people going to make it in today’s business world? IoyMog BoLwyeg IG Deal. even here art was hidden behind a plain brown paper wrapper. The first gallery had a show dealing with the uses of wood as an art material. So far so good. There were numerous artists involved, thus the term “group show”. So far so good. The show had about a hundred pieces. They were made by Montreal artists, but the pieces looked like they could have been made on the West Coast. Not so good. Not that the pieces weren’t competent, but where was the originality? Could it be that the West Coast influences the East? You had your totems, you had your fetishes, you had your animals, you had your portraits, in mask form. Still, this is only one gallery; there are others. Upstairs was another space. This one had an installation. Shades of Allan Story. A large hemisphere was attached to a wall, in the centre of the room a large globe, seven feet in diameter, on a shaft. You could revolve the globe. Upon the globe and hemisphere was a picture of an amphitheatre; the piece was called “Amphitheatre”. Mind bog- gling. : Two down. Next, there followed four galleries that had photographic installations of such revolu- tionary images as landscapes, the body, more landscapes, some faces, more landscapes and so on. I was getting dizzy with all the portent. My companions were getting restless. On to the commercial galleries. Snobbery, mostly empty spaces, and a casual neglect greeted us. No infor- mation on the artists’ show and little interest in our questions. Up the stairs, down the stairs, around the block, into the day. Maybe I had caught Montreal on a bad day. I'll go back another time. At home my old works started to have a new life. My mother’s love of my pieces wasn’t such a mystery anymore. I drowned my disappointment and fortified my constitution with numerous beverages and contemplated the meaning of life. Aha, I thought, public works, monumental works, art with presence - I'll search out the art of the street. I felt like the old Greek searching for Truth. On the Montreal streets I found the tired Henry Moores, the foppish generals, the limitless litho- graphs, the cute, the bad and the crass. Time was running out fast. My heart was already back in the rain forest. I went through my old dreams in the basement, discarded whole sections of my life, shook my head at old aspirations and smiled at the new. On the plane back to Vancouver, I tempered my disappointment with the realization that, after all, I hadn’t gone to New York. At least there is still a rumour of that fabled place, where all is bigger and all is better. Michael Graf Planet of the Arts, vol.4, no.3 A TALL SHORT STORY ‘The power struggle was, of course, all imag- ined. Tmean, here I was in love with this person. My zits oven cleared up. I was in hormonal bliss ‘So what happens. I'm accused of being suffocating. ‘This is only after a year ofa long-distance relation- ship. Look, all I wanted was a bit of security and some fun times. So what ifthe phone bill was beyond my means or each waking hour was spent fantasizing about what life together would be. should have known it was coming. Isaw no wrong in anything she did. Sure, there were qualities I didn't particularly like. There was one, for instance. The pantyhose left hanging to dry in the washroom—to got to the toilet in the middle of the night one needed a machete. There was also always the argument about flossing after I brushed my teeth. The party concerned felt that it was a dental blasphemy to do such a thing; one must always floss before brushing. Comparatively, hhowever, I had less cavities, ‘The major contention was the freedom issue, Whenever Iwas with her (which was always for short periods of time) she said I was being clingy. Here I was travelling thousands of miles just tobe with this person. Admittedly, I might not have allowed her to pee in private, stir the soup by herself or work in her workplace alone, but it wasn't me talking. Tt was those damn hormones. Yes, I admit, Iean be somewhat possessive at first. So what ifT used trickery, lying, beguing and every other Machiavellian method known to make sure there was fidelity. Iwas in love. Wasn't that reason enough? Anyway, at the thought of losing the person who was making me act like Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction, I decided to give a rest ‘on the possessive tactis, ‘Then I got to the bottom of everything. I ‘mean everyone wants to find the right person to be with, son every relationship you question whether this is The One, but as a person matures you find there is no such thing as the Perfect One and you live with the other person's mistakes because usually you have a hell ofa lot of your own. "Thi isn't the case ifthe other person has a roomm: who doesn’t think quite so highly of you, and has theories about you, like insanity or low blood-sugar levels. These theories always sound s0 offical that ‘one is apt to believe such roommates. Imean, I did ‘everything in my power to love this human being (the roommate) but nothing would budge the set-in. stone opinion. So, really, the power struggle was ‘not so much between my lover and myself but more between the roommate and myself. [tried to be cool-Kitsilano around this person, but the eallous- ness towards me was enough to make me act like ‘Charo on coke. I swore Pd practice voodoo or chant ineantations for this person to go away. Alas, this roommate was the one that ran the house and my hhoney-pie had no intention of moving. decided to give up, but the funny thing is that your head says, “No way!”. So then the power struggle becomes within you. You begin by denying ‘your body food. ‘Then you are foreed, by your body, to gorge yourself on two containers of Cheese Whiz with Pringles potato chips. You break out in cheese boils, hives and a cold. You keep thinking, “Is it worth it?” Then you realize you wouldn't change ‘one thing, except yourself, because who wants to die alone with one’s last words being “Can some- body please pass the Clearasil?” Jerry Stochansky BIG City, BIG Art, BIG Deal. ‘The plane took offin the wee hour ofthe night: they cll tthe “RedEye Expreae™ Strapped into my aea, hands holding the arm rests in a death gp uy ormplte gotingooggir by the tinue, we rored int te nigh: Anticipation allen my beat. Weve all heed the soi Sout the exeiterent, the grandeur, and the ety that Charly ver) sleeper Montreal eter allie New York Sul, I couldn't prevent the swell of emotion when Ther the fight allendant speak French Maybe it was dlaaer Azgway, we ured troigh the ebony night. We hurled trough the ivory ‘Boralag aod we Hurtiedpest Dorval Lnleratloal ‘Airport. "he sitar? tonal uayigettoneystegn ‘was not operational ones again, The coud cover os below bro hundied fit. There wes a heer Wet mow fling. The plane kept on passing over the came stteteh of terrain. Iwas trying to remem: Dera prayer; th plot was evidenty trying remember where he had last son the epert, By Dire chance, im aure, we found what we were Tooking for. My brother met meat the gate, After endless trudging through acoloseal parking maze we found the car, Pulled out ofthe stall. Got hit by anther car. Got out of the car, exchanged curses (in two languages), got back in and headed away from The Gity. I watched the sksline recede in the miror as we left the Grand Old Lady behind in a romantic {rain af emog. Of into the bowels of the eub rie. Toucerow woe titer Acttanend slates michta penalt, moana omy mother. Her eons are that being me), adn art (hat which in banging in every ava able nook and eranny). Is dlsconcertng ‘have faring you in the face thove things one would Tather dalegate to some dep hol in the earth ‘Mtr six yours ofabeence itd got ony betty. Montreal, for those that might not Know, isa place of mythical propottion. From the grand Cathedrals tothe mighty skyscrapers othe plth- ora cart gallerice tie acty thet ems with ‘ovement and creativity, So Ive heard, Every- thing is bigger and better. So ve heard. ‘The art , well bigger and beter, So ve heard. The ‘moment of ruth was approaching. ‘Alera day of tortuous soul-searching, coming to gripe withthe time that had paseed and the tmbivalence that stared at me from the walla, we headed into Town, ‘One approaches Montreal aqueezed tightly into an express ane that enakes endlessly, congested grossly and is stupifyingly complex. Again I assumed it was pure chance that we Teached the downtown core. Tho day was leaden tnd overeat; the people were not mach diferent ‘The only dstinetion is that the weather sometimes changes. After leaving the car tothe vagaries of the street, and with my hand clutching alist of galle- {es, we headed into the day. This was the place where I spent my first years in Canada. St. Laurent Street was stil pretty much the same fll ‘of small clothing and shoe shops. The Jewish dels, the hot dog emporiums, the bakeries, all stil plying their trade. Something happened, though, inthe intervening years. Small parallel galleries had sprouted n the cheap available warehouse spaces that the rag trade had vacated. These galleries wore to give Montreal some of the art mystique that surrounds it now. In my absence Montreal hhad also gotten a large gallery of contemporary art, which was to put Montreal on the art map. Amongst all this there also exist the commercial galleries, selling contemporary artists and those dealing in repertaire. The kitsch of yesteryear, the ‘smiling Madonnas, the over-ripe fruit and the paintings that gave the classics a bad name. ‘We went to the parallel galleries first. ‘Hidden away from general view (being in upper stories of buildings), we needed our guide as the desert traveler needs his map. Typically, there seems not much chance of the general public ever visiting such venues on a casual basis. Somehow Why ar thon people pingto mae itn todays bln word? SayAog PHT even here art was hidden behind a plain brown paper wrapper. ‘The first gallery had a show dealing with the uses of wood as an art material. So far $0 good. There were numerous artists involved, thus the term “group show”. So far so ‘g004. The show had about a hundred pieces. They ‘were made by Montreal artists, but the pieces Tooked lke they could have been made on the Wast Coast. Not so good. Not that the pieces weren't competent, but where was the originality? Could it bbe that the West Coast influences the East? You hhad your totems, you had your fetishes, you had your animals, you had your portraits, in mask form. Sil, this is only one gallery; there are others. ‘Upstairs was another space. This one had an installation. Shades of Allan Story. A large hemisphere was attached toa wall, in the centre of ‘the room a large globe, seven feet in diameter, on a shaft. You could revolve the globe. Upon the globe and hemisphere was a picture of an amphitheatre; the piece was called “Amphitheatre”. Mind bog- sling. ‘Two down. Next, there followed four galleries that had photographie installations of such revolu- tionary images as landscapes, the body, more landscapes, some faces, more landscapes and so on. was getting dizzy with all the portent. My companions were getting restless. On to the commercial galleries. Snobbery, mostly empty spaces, and a casual neglect greeted us. No nfor- ‘mation on the artis’ show and little interest in our ‘questions. Up the stairs, down the stairs, around the block, into the day. ‘Maybe Thad eaught Montreal on a bad day. TM goback another time. At home my old works started to have anew life. My mother’s love of my pieces wasn't such a mystery anymore. I drowned iy disappointment and fortified my constitution with numerous beverages and contemplated the meaning oflife. Aha, I thought, publie works, monumental works, art with presence - Il search out the art of the street. felt like the old Greek searching for Truth. On the Montreal streets [found the tired Henry Moores, the foppish generals, the limitless litho- raps, the cate, the bad and the crass, ‘Time was Tuning out fast. My heart was already back in the rain forest. T went through my old dreams in the basement, discarded whole sections of my life, shook my head at old aspirations and smiled at the On the plane back to Vancouver, I tempered my disappointment with the realization that, after all, [hadn't gone to New York. At least there is, still a rumour of that fabled place, where all is Digger and all is bette. Michael Graf