To be honest, I wasn't really sure what to expect for this event. I had never seen Guy Gavriel Kay speak before, but as my husband and I made our way through the crowded room to find seats, we settled ourselves in the thick of Kay's loyal fans. Papers rustled as they shifted in their chairs, checking their watches or sipping their wine. All eyes were directed to the front of the room, eagerly waiting for the event to start. Maybe they had seen him speak before and knew that we were in for a treat. Maybe they just knew how much research Kay does to write his books, so they wanted to hear about his craft. Maybe they just wanted to listen to a very intelligent man talk about the world for a while. (Or maybe they were like me, not quite sure what to expect—but happy to end up with all of the above.)
In his opening remarks, Kay noted that River of Stars is (in part) about the way in which memory—individual and collective—can distort the events of the past. We shape and create legends, vilify others, and use this memory of the past to guide how we act in the present day. He plays with the idea of "fighting the last war" and how desperately trying to avoid the mistakes of the past can lead us to make new mistakes altogether. After this brief introduction, Kay read a passage from the book centred around its female protagonist, Lin Shan.
Like most of Kay's books, River of Stars was inspired by a period of our own world's history (the Song Dynasty of the 12th Century this time). Later in the evening, Kay joked about how the academic friends and contacts that he had developed during his research for his previous novel, Under Heaven, had just taken it "as a matter of course" that he would "stay in China for the next book." They gave him research, books, and unpublished monographs about the time period, and he was hooked. Happiest when he has "a trove of material to work with" for his research, it's no wonder that the richness of the Song culture (and the information available about it) seemed too good to pass up.
As usual, River of Stars involves a rather large cast of characters. "Someone once wrote that 'Kay never met a secondary character he didn't like,'" he said with a chuckle, followed by a shrug. "I can live with that."
That said, you won't find famous historical names in Kay's books. He is much more comfortable saying that his characters are inspired by real people from the past. "For one thing," he noted, "it is creatively liberating. For another, it also feels more grounded." Kay doesn't want "an illegitimate boost from readers" by doing something shocking with real people from the past. Instead, by creating settings for his novels that are inspired by the past and by real historical figures, Kay has more freedom to explore the themes of a time and place with his readers.
"I want to share with the reader the notion that, when we work with the past, we're making it up. We're using educated guesses," he said. "I won't pretend that I can nail down the reasons for why things happened [the way they did in the real past], but I can offer what I think."
Kay also emphasized that, for him, working with the past means respecting past cultures and their beliefs. His underlying mantra is "to make the world of the book to be the way that they [people from the time period] would have believed it to be." It isn't about looking down on the past with smug contemporary superiority; it's about giving validity to the way that they saw the world. It's also why he uses what he calls his "quarter turn to the fantastic" in his writing: these elements of the supernatural give credit to the beliefs of previous cultures.
The amount of research that Kay does to bring his stories to life is mind-boggling. It isn't just the grand, sweeping tales of historical figures that grab his attention. He also focuses on the little details of the time period, the minutiae of everyday life. He talked about a "stunningly dry academic book that got [him] alarmingly excited" (by Dr. Alan Cameron, retired from Columbia University) for one of his previous novels, and explained how having primary sources in his research lets him show his audience his characters and their culture at the same time. For example, if he has two characters disputing a technique for creating tesserae, he is able to show that his main character knows his craft and is also able to show elements of their current society (shifts in technology, generational tensions, the importance of art).
During the Q&A session, one audience member pointed out Kay's skill in writing the subtlety of politics and political strategies. Kay laughed about how it would be fun for him to have political advisors to help with his books, but in truth he is drawn to conflict and to cultures on the cusp of change. "That tension lets me spin a story into it," he said. "Those cultures tend to have equally conflicted politics, so I'm drawn to their politics as a way of illuminating the culture I'm working on."
Another audience member drew everyone's attention to Kay's shift to the present tense in the novel for his female protagonist's perspective (based on the passage he read to start the event). Kay answered that he uses this writing technique for many different purposes.
"I want to keep you up until 3am, move you emotionally, and make you think," he said. The shift to the present tense for his female characters emphasizes the razor-sharp perception that women would have needed during that time period to have any impact on their own lives. Kay wanted to portray their ability to be in the moment (and be observant in the moment) and to give a sense of immediacy to their experiences. "Most readers do not overtly notice [the changes in tense], but on a subliminal level, because it has been constructed that way, it has an impact on the reader."
Kay certainly provided his readers—and even aspiring writers—with a wealth of ideas to chew on for the evening. I left feeling that Kay is a rare and gifted craftsman...and I can't wait to dive into more of his books.
I chose to attend “Banned in Canada” partly because all of the girlie, food-related events were taken (I really, really like food), and partly because I was interested in fleshing out why an author’s work should or should not be banned in Canada. Author Howard Chaykin’s most controversial work, the “Black Kiss” series, is not my cup of tea (what can I say, erotic vampires just aren’t my thing), but I wanted to examine why it was banned through the lens of free speech and Canadian legislation.
Black Kiss reportedly violates subsection 163(8) of the Criminal Code, which means it dominantly displays “the undue exploitation of sex, or of sex and any one or more of the following subjects, namely, crime, horror, cruelty and violence.” Considering the theme of the work is, as Chaykin put it, “sexually insatiable vampires,” it is little surprise that it violates the obscenity provision of the Code. Chaykin also explained that the 1st issue of the series, published in Toronto, was censored, not due to depictions of a sexual nature, but because of a language issue; the content was deemed child pornography.
After hearing Chaykin describe his work, I gather his intent is not to shock and awe, but to marry darkness and humor. His aim is to “annoy people” with his work. I sensed that he finds stock comic book characters mass-produced and boring, and looks to inject real life into his prose. His passion is storytelling, so he focuses on narratives first and the visual expression of them second. It follows that he desires any “titillating” nature to his work to be secondary to the actual storyline. Chaykin applies the same quality of narrative to his erotic comics that he does to his non-erotic comics. Visual storytelling is his gift, and by all appearances, he excels at it. For him, comics are a “synergy of pictures and story.” When asked about the perception of comics as adolescent in mainstream thought, Chaykin suggests mature themes in comics are just real-world meat and bread. He labels adults who want moral comics “ephemeral” and “ridiculous." He explores the idea that comics can get away with more controversial content because they depict drawn images rather than real people, though he seems to disprove of comic books solely comprised of pornographic images, with no real story behind them—true to his focus on narrative content.
At one point a member of the audience asked why Black Kiss II contained a theme of duality, of male vs. female, black vs. white. He answered that he loves the concept of a “secret identity” and finds himself ever-evolving to keep up with the trends in his work. He reinvented his life at age 13 by teaching himself to subdue his New York accent. This duality is a current flowing through his work, which he describes as “deadly serious, casual mischief,” preferring that it be dirty and funny.His idea of a likeable superhero is not Batman as he is depicted now, but a superhero who is constantly overpowered and outnumbered, because the underdog is rooted in reality.
I must admit, I felt an ounce of embarrassment when I realized I was likely the only one in the room who didn’t actively read comic books (I attribute it to my lack of imagination, and maybe a childhood void of creativity, but I digress). I was heartened at the joy on the faces of attendees who were devoted comic book consumers delighted to hear a beloved writer speak. Unexpectedly, the event gave me a glimpse into the world of comics and why people appreciate them. The idea of narrative blended with images is not one I had given much thought prior to the event, but I can see the potential and place for such a medium. I also, rather naively, assumed comics held much more appeal for adolescents, and was pleasantly surprised at the smattering of generations present to hear from Chaykin. Though I would have preferred more discussion around free speech and boundaries on obscene material in Canada, I still found something to take away from this Writer’s Festival event. (Who knows, maybe I’ll pop open a comic book on my next commute: vampires not welcome.)
With a healthy turnout at the Mayfair Theatre, the well-loved CBC personality Shelagh Rogers wasted no time introducing Northwords , a film that was clearly a labor of love for her and her team. The lasting effect of the film on Rogers was palpable as she expressed the impetus of the project with great enthusiasm. Her aim had been to pick five Canadian writers to join her on a literary adventure, delving into the remote and starkly beautiful Torngat Mountains National Park in order to evoke inspiration and dialogue with the North.
Northwords did not disappoint. From the drawing of the curtains, to the thunderous applause ending the fifty minute documentary, director Geoff Morrison and cinematographer Stephen Chung invited us on a journey of raw, unmitigated beauty that stirred something in everyone present.
The film documents the five writers’ process of working through their own distinct responses to what seems like a completely foreign land and way of living. The viewer observes each of them arrive at a deep respect and admiration for the people of the land and their relationship with it, cultivating in them, as well as the viewer, a small whisper for a release from cell phones and asphalt. You can sense something coming alive in each of them as their journey goes on.
Morrison and Chung’s eye for the inescapably harsh beauty of the terrain draws the viewer into a world that is only juxtaposed by the warm and intimate relationships of the Inuit people that co-manage the land in partnership with Parks Canada. The historical and cultural relationship the Inuit have with the land is humbling and often a point of pause and reflection for the group of five writers.
Once the film was finished, some of the writers that made the journey with Rogers took questions. The theme of relationship weaved throughout much of the discussion: the relationships in the film between the five writers, the crew, the hospitable Inuit who welcomed everyone into their home and the clear relationship with the land that all experienced.
Northwords succeeds at showing us a part of Canada that too few of us have ever experienced, as well as a people and way of life that we often too easily dismiss. Rogers and Morrison sound the clarion call to engage and step outside of ourselves. They do so with a grace and sincerity that pays respect to the land and its people.
The “E” in Ivan E. Coyote stands for Elizabeth. For those unfamiliar with the author, she looks and sounds like a man – specifically, a homey, appealing, charismatic man with a nifty retro hair cut. Like a northern Stuart MacLean. The “E” is an insider nod to her unclear gender identity – born a girl, she presents as a man and has spent her professional life exploring gender identity and sexuality through story-telling, writing, and music.
If one were to judge by appearances (which obviously Coyote might advise against) the jam-packed crowd at Knox Presbyterian for the 8:30 Saturday night Northern Scene event was composed of more than one Coyote fan. Festival volunteers hastily scrawled name after name onto the wait list for the sold-out night, and the room had a young, buzzy energy.
When Tagralik Partridge from Kujuak, Nunavik, took the stage after Lucy Van Oldenbarneveld’s ebullient introduction of both northern stars, she focused the audience on her particular story of identity in seven words.
“I don’t know what to tell you” she said slowly in a velvety, just-swallowed-molasses voice. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know what she was having difficulty telling us. “We were picking berries,” she continued, as if she had just thought of a story, the perfect parable to inform this particular moment. Van Oldenbarneveld has a snappy, knife-edge voice, perfect for morning news, and I could feel my heartbeat slowing as Partridge opened with a melodic piece on life on the tundra, hunting camps, blackflies, and quiet moments with friends.
Partridge has lived in Montreal for over a decade, so her next story (which won first place in the Quebec writing competition) brought us back to the city, with a mournful but cleanly-told story of a double heart-break: her heartbreak at losing her lover to his own heartbreak at leaving his land and family. “Living in the South is like holding your breath underwater for a long time. You get good at it if you want to survive.”
Ivan E. Coyote’s stories were energetic and rhythmic tales of family and small-town community, punch-line morals falling over each other as the characters vied for attention. The crowd met grandma matriarchs and teenage moms, taciturn uncles and wise mothers, and laughed almost constantly with easy recognition. Even as she related questioning her family about whether they knew she had “caught the gay early on,” her own gender identity was just one among many.
During the question period after the talk, Coyote noted that when she performs she always comes away with notes in the margins of her text - that she gains writing inspiration from how her spoken word impacts the audience. Like here, she said, pulling out her piece of paper – “this one says, ‘nipple clamps and potholders’”. Then: “Oh no, wait – that’s a packing list for moving.”
I reflected that Coyote’s hominess is, in a way, the most subversive thing about her.
Both Partridge and Coyote avoid politicizing their art. When asked about the political import of her work, Partridge noted that “wherever you stand in society is political. If you see something from that place, it’s on you to say something.” Coyote refuses to identify herself specifically as a man or a woman, noting that she only identifies herself as a “she” to the media to avoid a conversation on “what my genitals look like” in favour of focussing on her body of work. “I’m just trying to tell my truth” she noted.
With these artists at the mic, the telling of personal truths was deeply entertaining and profoundly meaningful. The noise of the crowd afterwards, hanging out to get books signed and to chat with Partridge and Coyote, certainly indicated the event was a roaring success
Everyone who came to the House of Anansi Press Poetry Bash on Saturday night was treated to wine, cheese, and excellent Canadian poetry. Anyone who came ignorant of the three authors, Sara Peters, Adam Dickenson and Michael Crummey, left as fans. Those that did know them were just as appreciative. All three poets demonstrated a mastery of language and form that was simultaneously inspiring and intimidating. Each poet was sharing work from recent collections published by House of Anansi.
Sarah Peters opened the evening. She was reading from 1996, her first published collection. Her use of language to explore memory and personal history (both invented and real) is like a scalpel in its precision. She dissects events, revealing their raw beating hearts. One of the poems she read, “Cruelty”, was inspired by her cousin operating on a gopher with a serrated tin-can lid. While the image is quite unsettling, she uses this unbalanced state of the reader to reflect on the cruelty many children exhibit, and how they grow up to use these lessons learned from their childhood in their adult lives. Her poem, “Your Life as Lucy Maude Montgomery”, was just as sharp. This poem was inspired by a quote from Montgomery: “I am very careful to be shallow and conventional where depth and originality are wasted.” When Peters read the line “She places her knife on the thinnest skin you own”, I heard a person gasp at the imagery. Peters read six poems from 1996, and each was of equal quality and potency.
Adam Dickenson was the second poet to read. His book, The Polymers, is a concept album of sorts having been envisioned as a book project from the beginning. Dickenson took the concept of polymers, “molecules composed of numerous repeating parts”, and wanted to perform a scientific analysis of cultural polymers like memes, line-ups, financial credit, etc. Much of Dickenson’s work in the past has explored science and technology as a metaphor for culture, and this is a continuation of that theme. Dickenson read “Hearsay”, which envisioned an imaginary parking lot with cars from every one of the 50 states – the poem contains the slogan from each of the fifty different state plates. This was well received by the audience for both the wit, and the craft to accomplish such a task. Dickenson was a great presenter, and he explained the origins of his works well which helped with appreciating them more deeply.
The final poet showcased was Michael Crummey. A poet for 30 years, his experience was on display through his sparse use of language while simultaneously revealing so much. He was sharing work from his recent collection Under the Keel. The first poem he shared, “Watermark” was inspired out of a project where he was given access to the archives at the Rooms Provincial Art Gallery in St. John’s Newfoundland. One photo in particular, of a minister presiding over a full-immersion baptism in the Atlantic inspired this poem: “If they want comfort, let them join the Sally Ann.” … “I’ve been sove three times now/ Please God this one will take.” Crummey shared his poem “The Kids are Alright” that has clearly come from his experience as a parent; “The kids are alright but you’ll never forgive them for making you feel so human.” Crummey’s final poem of the night was “Something New”. It’s a poem dealing with his father dying of cancer, and is at the same time a love poem. The narrative examines the love his mother showed for her dying husband which the narrator doesn’t comprehend, yet is beginning to understand what it will take to become that kind of person and promising that to his wife. It has that existential-love-song feel to it; raw, honest, but hopeful.
The discussion after the readings was well moderated, with good questions asked to the authors and great discussion. Clearly a lot of people enjoyed the poems on display, as there was a significant line-up after the event to buy the works from these three poets. These are three books I look forward to reading. Overall, the night was a successful showcase of poetry by House of Anansi, and a reminder of the quality of literature they continue to publish.
This intimate gathering took place while the sun was beaming a narrow spot light through the small basement window of the Manx Pub, a favorite, basement watering hole in downtown Ottawa. Speaking to a full house seated in red upholstered chairs and booths, Elizabeth Mariatti, author of How to Get Along with Women , spoke first.
The petite woman with wavy brown hair stood beside the microphone and read with confidence and wit while describing a Jewish neighbourhood and her first encounter with Asher, an 11 year-old boy. Filled with observations on politics and internal prejudices the writer pokes with affection and detachment at the flippant comments of her characters asking us to look beyond what we see.
Dobozy then followed Mariatti with his graphic description of blood, guts and suffering when the Red Army entered Budapest during the Second World War in December 1944. In the excerpt from his book, Seige 13 , Dobozy read about the brutal death of animals, raging fires and the internal agony and perished hope of people caught in the destruction, “As if it was possible to stop thinking from thinking too much and exploding thought,” and “In myths, people turn into flowers, horses and animals, but now, we don’t transform.” While provoking the audience to feel, hear, smell and taste the brutality and loss, Dobozy asks us to examine the ugly blemish of human nature: that like other animals, we have taken pleasure in inflicting pain. “A cat will play with its prey all for the pleasure,” he reads and then closes his book. The affected audience applauded both authors for their unique insights and talent.
Entering the side entrance of the Knox Presbyterian church I see what looks like over 100 people seated in perfect rows facing a large stage. The stage has four empty red chairs facing outwards, a large blue screen in the background and a pale wood podium on the right, where a woman with a long shock of red hair reads her work, “I learned that I’ll get my head stuck under the steering wheel for a blow job.” And then I quietly find an empty seat in the audience while everyone is still being transported by the reader and I hear her again, “No kissing, no real names, no playing house. I hold my breath and stare at the wall until he’s finished.” And it’s all too clear what she’s describing.
Amber Dawn is reading from her gritty and powerful memoir, How Poetry Saved My Life . It’s a frank, painful and sometimes funny account of a woman’s life as a hustler on the streets of Vancouver: what it did to her and how she was saved by poetry. After her compelling read, Ms. Dawn is followed by Miriam Katin, the author of a debut graphic novel called, We Are On Our Own , who reveals herself as a short woman with salt and pepper hair pulled neatly into a bun in the back of her head. She’s wearing a plain black jacket and large round eye glasses. While standing at the podium, the screen beside her projects an image of a two or three-year-old girl who is standing next to a home with a short iron railing in front of her while Ms. Katin tells us about her life with a strong Hungarian accent, “The shadow of that iron railing cast a shadow on my body and I always thought of it as an omen of things to come.” She laments over the hardships during the Second World War and the passing of time, while stunning drawings of this woman in front of us are depicted with many different prompts and people in movement, torment and toil on the screen beside her. Then she calls out in exasperation, “I thought it was over and then my son announced that he wanted to live in Germany.” But, she admitts, there was one consolation, “Dry martinis were my nice personal savior,” and the audience bellows out loud as she ends her reading and sits down.
In stark contrast to Ms. Katin’s stature, she is replaced at the podium by the much taller, Iain Reid, writer of the The Truth About Luck , a memoir on a birthday gift-road trip to Kingston, Ontario with his 92 year-old grandmother. Dressed in a brown sweater and a blue shirt and tie, the stoic balding figure with glasses begins to read a comical and touching tale about how his brother Jimmy and he, sat in the Manx Pub in Ottawa, Ontario, and through a process of elimination, conspired to take his grandmother to Kingston for her birthday and have her pay for it. The audience exploded with laughter at the hilarious banter of these dueling brothers. The evening ended with the host and three writers sitting in the red chairs and responding to audience questions where even deeper truths were revealed about things like their first writing experiences, how they wrote about real people in their lives and what it takes to write about their own lives, “It is an act of bravery” called out Amber Dawn. “We just hope that people appreciate it. I get thanks all of the time and it gives me courage.”
I slipped into my seat just as John Metcalf was being introduced as the host for the noon hour discussion. I missed a minute or two of the introduction but heard Mr. Metcalfe described as accomplished, witty and irascible. As the session unfolded, it was apparent that what I did hear summed it up very nicely. Metcalfe is well known in Canadian literature as an educator, editor and writer He told the audience, tongue in cheek, the short story has been described as “admirable and virtuous but not quite grown up - like the NDP.” Malcolm Bradbury, English author and academic, defined the short story as a major form of literary expression. Metcalf took charge of the conversation and treated those gathered to a conversation delving into the thought process of two accomplished short story authors.
Nancy Jo Cullen, author of Canary and Tamas Dobozy author of Siege 13 were asked about landscapes they chose for their short stories. Cullen writes from an urban landscape. She said she is “interested in bad decisions” that people make and she likes “the problems of recovery.” Dobozy said he uses “the intellectual to sequence the plot” and he tries to base the story in emotion.
The authors were asked to describe where their stories come from and how they go about beginning their stories. The first paragraph is the essential part of the story according to Cullen. There is a dominant emotion she tries to capture from the onset. For Dobozy the title or first sentence form the basis from which the rest of the story grows. He said there is something simultaneous that happens in reading a short story; it happens all at once in a readers mind.
The authors discussed the challenges of writing a short story. Metcalfe believes endings are the most difficult. Cullen looks for a “shift at the end” where she wants the characters to live on in the readers mind. Dobozy has thrown out stories as he couldn’t end them. He has also ended stories and only then does he realize what the story is about.
As the conversation progressed Metcalf observed how easily all three of them had been referencing others. He believes all successful short story writers have a personal library in their heads, of other authors, stories and excerpts they draw upon as they go about their craft.
The authors were asked how they know, at the onset, that something will be a short story and not a novella or a novel. Cullen responded this was not an issue as she constrains herself to the length of a short story. Dobozy voiced a similar response as he said there is a conscience intention when you sit down.
Each of the authors read an excerpt from their latest book. Cullen read from the story Valerie’s Bush and Dobozy read from The Atlas of B. Görbe.
It’s a rare treat and a privilege to hear three accomplished authors speak openly about their thought processes, the inspiration for their stories and the discipline they employ as they go about their craft. During the discussion Dobozy made reference to a saying that in writing beginnings are easy, middles are challenging and endings are impossible. The noon hour conversation was insightful and interesting at the beginning, in the middle and at the end.
Every day, as I settle into my car, put on my seat belt, adjust the mirrors my hand naturally finds its way to the radio dial where the soothing voices of the CBC await.
All in a Day is my “relax after class” show. On air from 3-6 every week day, the host Alan Neal has a way about his voice, that draws the listener in turning any topic into one of interest. The moment I saw Neal’s name on the Writer’s Fest Spring line up, I knew I had to attend.
The Knox Presbyterian Church was brimming with people and chatter as I took my seat, pen and notebook in hand. As Neal took the stage, he introduced the topic of the evening -“Random Play.” Prior to the event, Neal played his iPod on “random” and proceeded to select the first 10 songs played. Neal then attempted to find out every last detail about each of these songs- from who composed them, to what inspired them, to the meaning of the lyrics that define them. These 10 songs came from an array of artists, both local and international, from the modern day to eras past, allowing for an eclectic mix of musical tastes, themes and contexts. Neal used his creative insights to explain each song, going so far as to reach out to the widows of the composers, thus imbuing each song with meaning beyond its basic value. Following his description and individual interpretation and research conducted for each song, the song would then be performed by either the artists themselves or the by a local artist on behalf of an artist passed or too distant to join us for the evening.
Proceeding in “coffee house style,” artists took the stage to perform the songs previously described by Neal. The local artists were quite impressive, interacting with the audience and playing along with Neal’s casual approach to the evening. From Halifax’s Jenn Grant, to Ottawa based Kelly Lee Evans – the music was beautiful and intriguing. For example, for one of Jenn Grant’s songs about “being born in a lion’s mouth,” Neal sought the advice of professors of mythology, which of course added humour and insight to the lyrics themselves. While each songs’ description maintained its own quirks, and garnered its own “ah-ha” moments and giggles from the audience, there is one interpretation presented by Neal that I would like to focus on.
Like many of the previous songs of the evening, the fifth song was one that I had never heard before. Titled “Captain Finch,” it was written by Ottawa singer-song writer Jim Bryson in 2003. In and amongst the witty and often times funny explanations of the 10 songs selected and their meanings, it was Neal’s description of his journey to find meaning in the song that was most powerful.
After being unsuccessful in his attempt at finding a Captain Finch in the Canadian Armed Forces, Neal moved his search south to our US neighbor, where he discovered a “real, live” Captain Finch with whom he shared Bryson’s song.
As a Navy Chaplain for the United States Army, Captain Finch approached the song from a different angle than Jim Bryson could ever have fathomed.
On 9/11 Captain Finch had been called to Manhattan to provide people with comfort on that tragic and traumatic day. When listening to lyrics of Bryson’s song, which read “Captain Finch, would find a friend?,” the real Captain Finch was reminded of that very day. In his recorded interview with Neal, Captain Finch recalled that on 9/11, in the midst of the horror, he was “simply there to be a friend,” to those whose friends and family were never found.
Bryson was astounded to hear Captain Finch’s interpretation of his words, and was moved. Bryson explained to the audience that he wrote the lyrics when his friend were going away to school – a completely different concept from the one that Captain Finch had interpreted. This difference in the interpretation of the song provided by Neal through his research and the “expert advice” he garnered, and that of the song’s original composer is embodied by the story of Captain Finch. This discrepancy between interpretations, as they are influenced by life experience was, to my mind, the most fascinating component of the evening. How a song can take on a different meaning than what was intended by the composer, is just one of the many magical components of music.
As a fellow graduate student at the Norman Paterson School of International Affairs (NPSIA), I would be remiss to mention the performance by Andy Conte and Ethan Kraus, fellow NPSIANs who took one line from each of the 10 songs selected and created a comprehensive song. As the winners of the song competition, they were granted the opportunity to perform live. Their song was fun, and had the audience clapping! While it was a tad bit lengthy, overall Neal’s interpretation of song and accompanying case of performers, made for a light, fun and enjoyable evening.
Photo credit: Christie Esau
Give me anything relating to community, grassroots movements, or social justice, and I’m all in. And, judging by the attendance at this afternoon’s talk with Nick Saul and Andrea Curtis, it seems like plenty of other attendees were with me too.
The recent book collaboration by Saul and Curtis—the subtitle of which I will skip repeating, considering the authors did the same—chronicles the story of, in short, moving from transactions to transformation. The Stop , a small food bank that Nick Saul began working at in 1998 on Davenport Road in Toronto, has now blossomed into a well-staffed organization with a $4.5 million dollar annual budget. As host Joanne Chianello of the Ottawa Citizen pointed out, the accomplishments of The Stop are far too numerous to list.
The Stop is now a community food centre rather than a food bank. Saul and Curtis describe The Stop's model as one which embraces dignity, hope and humanity. They also jokingly refer to it as a family business, an accurate statement based on their partnership, and Curtis’ early (and volunteer) communications work for the organization.
One of the resounding themes of Nick Saul and Andrea Curtis’ talk today—and, of course, in the work they do on the ground—is that it is essential to remove the ever-common ‘us versus them’ divide. As Saul and Curtis can attest from their early days involved with The Stop, a food bank is just a band-aid; a transaction in which one person gives and another receives. They believe that people are more than just consumers of food.
There are three million people in Canada who are food insecure, which is the equivalent of Saskatchewan’s population three times over. For the number buffs out there, that’s almost nine percent of our entire population as a country. That is, clearly, far too many people without adequate and appropriate food.
I admit that I just picked up my copy of Saul and Curtis’ book, but I can predict that it will be a delightful read. Today’s talk emphasized the importance and power of storytelling, and—especially from Curtis’ point of view—reclaiming social history. Thus, Saul and Curtis’ book not only tells rarely heard stories, but moreover empowers the story tellers. As Nick Saul pointed out, stories are not easily dismissed, whereas ideas often are.
From days of the early 1980s at St. Stephen-of-the-Fields, to the mid-1990s at the Davenport location, to the current national expansion work via Community Food Centres Canada, The Stop has made a lot of progress over the years. One highlight Saul and Curtis discussed is The Stop’s somewhat recent project The Green Barn. Located in an old TTC maintenance barn, The Green Barn provides educational centres, sheltered gardens, greenhouses and kitchens. Saul and Curtis remarked that this particular project is a great avenue to bridge gaps; because relationships built at The Green Barn—which is located in a more middle class and thus economically stable area than the Davenport location—can lead to creative solutions to hunger.
As Saul reminded, you have to create spaces for the future you want to see. Clearly, Nick Saul and Andrea Curtis are working tirelessly for the future they want; one centered around maintaining dignity for all people while ensuring they have access to good healthy food and a safe community.