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My feelings for this game probably exist at a genetic level — it was a family secret that | denied or was just not aware of. | didn’t like the game for most of my life, it reminded me of my father, who was not there. With my mother in the house there was not an atmosphere where a taste for hockey could develop. My mother hated hockey and everything it stood for in her mind: my father and having to getting up at five in the morning to wake me up for games that |.didn’t want to go to (for the brief span of about one year). | wanted stay on her good side which at the time was a fairly narrow patch of grass, so my tastes tended to run parallel to hers or be denied. But, lots happened differ- ently when | moved out. | got caught up in Canucks fever two years ago when they played the New York Rangers to seven games, ulti- mately losing the Stanley Cup, but causing two riots. Riots that were like yin and yang, embodying the duality of the riot as being an unstoppable coming together and a reason for stealing shoes. Things had changed somewhere, on a molecular level, and this article is about wondering why.

So, | don’t believe that hockey is inherently bad, although | can remember the day when | did. | also remember the days when my roommate Toby would not be caught dead watching a hockey game, and what I’m trying to get my finger on here is what happened to change it all. Like | say, | got really excited when the Canucks just about (typically) went all the way a couple years back, and things have kind of progressed from there.

Around that time, my friend Nick was bugging me to get my Dad to send me his old gear so we could go play. He was constantly trying to take me in new leisure directions and this was a little fit he had back then. Well, | got my Dad to send me his gear. It was made of canvas and leather, and it smelled different. Not bad — just differ- ent. More different from anything | had yet experienced. | began to play hockey on a drop-in basis, and | started to get excited. | was not good, | was not in shape, but somewhere inside me something stirred, and | recalled that as a very young child my dad was pretty set on my playing hockey, and | even have vague memories of hockey school. All these things started coming to the surface when | smelled the ice, when | would briefly feel the puck on my stick before it was taken away from me by someone else to be put to better use. Something in me was awakened, and so | started watching, anxious to learn and because | enjoyed what was going on. That still doesn’t explain all of what I’m trying to get at here. It doesn’t explain my roommate Toby.

Toby (who would not be caught dead watching a hockey game). Is a musician, and a writer, and a creator of small sculptures that live in the kitchen. Hockey was this new thing that had happened, and | had been there all the way through it, but that still does not ease it’s mystery.

Like this morning. | usually get up at eight, or shortly thereafter. At 7:30 one morning, Toby busts into my room yelling, “Did you hear the score?” slight hesitation for my sleepy reply, “It was six to two!” For Vancouver? “No, for the Oilers!” | swear to God, three years ago

the Body, And the Puck Shall Follow

May-June 1996 / Planet of the Arts 19

BY KACEY MCDOUGALL

lot), and someone who had found their way into our living room remarked that they hated the lack of mercy in hockey. Toby was thoughtful, and tried to explain how there are other times for mercy, and hockey just isn’t one of those times. Hockey is about something else. God, | don’t want to sentimentalize some bizarre coming of age, but it seems as though that’s what I’m doing. There’s also some sort of skewed Canadian Nationalism in there too, but | don’t even want to touch that one.

All of this has happened at Emily Carr, during the time I’ve been here. | came here thinking that the little red-neck town that | came from was narrow minded and intolerant, and that | was attending a bastion of open-mindedness and free thought. Hockey was not part of the world of higher culture that art was contained in, and that was good.

Now, my ideas have changed and | have come to think of the art world as intolerant and elitist. This kind of scares me, and | now understand why my Grandfather doesn’t understand art and has no time for it. | seemed to understand that art was a force for good and understanding and that it looked at society and commented so that society could understand itself and change for the better. Instead, | see an art world that is pretty out of touch with the average human experience. Of course there are exceptions, but overall | feel that people here are striving to make something that doesn’t involve what goes on out there in the world. The world that hockey is a part of, and more and more | realize that | am a part of.

he would not have cared, let alone wakened me at an early hour to take part in the strange, gloating co-misery of the Canucks fan. Somewhere something snapped and there we were — we were like our fathers, and it was right.

You see, | didn’t think that someone who likes literature and art and beauty could like seeing someone get leveled into the boards, yet these things do co-exist within one frame, namely my own. | remember we were watching the Maple Leafs get hammered by some other team the other day (Toby has now decided that he is a closet ‘Leafs fan because they are old and scrappy and they lose a

Photo ~ Scholarship Awarded

On March 22nd, Third year Photography Major Diyah Pera was awarded the Perel Scholarship of $500.00. This scholar- ship is awarded to third year Photography major students on behalf of the Western Association of Holocaust Survivors — Families & Friends (WAHSFF). The folio submissions (portrai- ture) were adjudicated by William Cupit, Diane Evans, and Chick Rice.

From top left: Jim Breukelman (Dean of Media division), Irene Dual (WAHSSF), William Cupit (Coordinator Photography Dept.); from Bottom Left: Diyah Pera (recipient) & Renia Perel.

Check Thee the Body, And the Puck Shall Follow

My feelings for this game probably exist at 1 genetic level - it was a family secret that | denied or was just not aware of. | didnt like the game for most of iy lf, it reminded me of my father, who was not there. With my ‘mother in the house there was not an atmosphere where a taste for hockey could develop. My mother hated hockey and everything it stood for in her mind: my father and having to getting up at five in the morning to wake me up for games that I didn't want to go to, (for the brief span of about one year). | wanted stay on her good side ‘which at the time was a fairly narrow patch of grass, so my tastes tended to run parallel to hers or be denied. But, lots happened dlifer- cently when | moved out. | got caught up in Canucks fever two years ‘ago when they played the New York Rangers to seven games, ult ‘mately losing the Stanley Cup, but causing two riots, Rots that were: like yin and yang, embodying the duality ofthe riot as being an Unstoppable coming together and a reason for stealing shoes. Things hhad changed somewhere, on a molecular level, and this article is, about wondering why,

So, | don't believe that hockey is inherently bad, although | can remember the day when | did. | also remember the days when my. roommate Toby would not be caught dead watching a hockey game, and what I'm trying to get my finger on here is what happened to change it ll Like | say, | got really excited when the Canucks just ‘about (typically) went all the way a couple years back, and things hhave kind of progressed from there.

‘Around that time, my friend Nick was bugging me to get my Dad to send me his old gear so we could go play. He was constantly trying to take me in new leisure directions and this was a litle fit he hhad back then. Well, I got my Dad to send me his gear. It was made of canvas and leather, and it smelled different. Not bad — just differ. ent. More different from anything | had yet experienced. | began to play hockey on a drop-in basis, and I started to get excited. 1 was not 00d, | was not in shape, but somewhere inside me something stirred, and I recalled that as a very young child my dad was pretty set on my playing hockey, and I even have vague memories of hockey school. All these things started coming to the surface when | smelled the ice, when I would briefly feel the puck on my stick before ‘twas taken away from me by someone else to be put to better us. Something in me was awakened, and so | started watching, anxious to learn and because | enjoyed what was going on. That still doesn’t ‘explain all of what I'm trying to get at here. It doesn’t explain my, roommate Toby.

Toby (oho would not be caught dead watching a hockey game). {sa musician, and a weiter, and a creator of small sculptures that live inthe kitchen. Hockey was this new thing that had happened, and | hhad been there all the way through it, but that still does not ease it’s mystery.

Like this morning. | usually get up at eight, or shorty thereafter. At 7:30 one morning, Toby busts into my room yelling, “Did you hear the score?” slight hesitation for my sleepy reply, "It was six to two!” For Vancouver? “No, for the Oilers! | swear to God, three years ago hhe would not have cared, let alone wakened me at an early hour to take part in the strange, gloating co-misery of the Canucks fan. Somewhere something snapped and there we were - we were like ‘our fathers, and it was right.

You see, | didn’t think that someone who likes literature and art and beauty could like seeing someone get leveled into the boards, yet these things do co-exist within one frame, namely my own. | remember we were watching the Maple Leafs get hammered by some other team the other day (Toby has now decided that he isa closet ‘Leafs fan because they are old and scrappy and they lose a

{Coowdinstor Potography Dept rom Botiom Lae Byah Fora ecient & Rena Perel

May-June 1996 / Planet of the Arts 19

BY KACEY MCDOUGALL

lot), and someone who had found their way into our living room remarked that they hated the lack of mercy in hockey. Toby was thoughtful, and tried to explain how there are other times for mercy, and hockey just isn’t one of those times. Hockey is about something else. God, | don’t want to sentimentalize some bizarre coming of age, but it seems as though that’s what 'm doing. There's also some sort ‘of skewed Canadian Nationalism in there too, but | don’t even want to touch that one.

All ofthis has happened at Emily Carr, during the time I've been hhere. came here thinking thatthe litle ed-neck town that | came from was narrow minded and intolerant, and that | was attending bastion of open-mindedness and free thought. Hockey was not part of the world of higher culture that art was contained in, and that was good

Now, my ideas have changed and | have come to think of the art world as intolerant and elitist. This kind of scares me, and I now understand why my Grandfather doesn’t understand art and has no time for it. | seemed to understand that art was a force for good and understanding and that it looked at society and commented so that society could understand itself and change for the better. Instead, | see an art world that is pretty out of touch with the average human experience, Of course there are exceptions, but overal | feel that people here are striving to make something that doesn’t involve what _90e5 on out therein the world. The world that hockey is a part of, and ‘more and more | realize that | am a part of

Photo Scholarship Awarded

(On March 22nd, Third year Photography Major Diyah Pera was awarded the Perel Scholarship of $500.00. This scholar- ship is awarded to third year Photography major students on behalf ofthe Western Association of Holocaust Survivors Families & Friends (WAHSFF). The folio submissions (portrai- ture) were adjudicated by William Cupit, Diane Evans, and Chick Rice.