hurtinsongs
nuthin but hurtin songs
Inside of a dog it's too dark to read
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Tangoville
While it’s true that one’s imagination can never be fitted over the reality of a place one visits – the reality is both denser, more real and often disappointing compared to the imagined – it is also true that the physical environment causes all kinds of mental excitation. Personally, I am always confronted with two realities – I suppose I am a comparative soul and new sensations are always rubbing against my prejudices of the familiar. I am reminded of the Jewish folktale of the long-suffering but devout man who is offered the opportunity to select any other life he chooses by his generous G_d. In a nutshell, after endless searching for a life that would suit him better he decides that he prefers his present life despite the difficulties. Somehow, regardless of the richness, variety or sweetness of another existence, one always wants to return to the familiar. I wouldn’t give up being a Canadian living in this time and place - regardless of travails, pain, discomfort and uncertainty - for anything.
We hit the jackpot last night. I was beginning to despair that all my preconceptions of Buenos Aires were complete misses. On the recommendation of our host in Palermo we sauntered up the street a few blocks to catch some music and ‘light fare’. Cafe Vinilo is a wide-ish hole in the wall. Unprepossessing from the outside and perhaps more unprepossessing on the inside, yet it was rich with Argentine soul. We were directed to the crowded nightclub at the rear of the building – it held less than one hundred people. We sat in near complete darkness at tiny round wooden tables. Service was glacial but when the food and wine arrived – GRROWLLLL! Hamburguesas like we have never tasted; rich and dense beef with minimal dressing. The wine - some sort of Malbec but easily suited to the most discerning vampire.
A smallish group of musicians – pianist, cello, saxophone, flute, acoustic bass, drums – started with a familiar Gabriel Faure piece – ‘Pavane’ (this version is like a neutered dog compared to the one played by La Somnambula – no offense Hammond or Hugo (none taken wags Hugo)) then launched into Piazolla-esque pieces that stirred us deeply. After each piece there was heavy applause and guttural cries of appreciation – not a north American reaction – almost Baptist church-like in quality but add a liter of gitane. Throughout each piece (photo above) an artist drew images of magical imagination: crippled men (is that me?) and dark, mysterious women took form, were modified, shifted blurrily – pan to threatening crows on stark limbs. A woman’s half-naked body is revealed, lying on the grass, dense spikes of leaves appear foreground and background, pan, a young boy stares into a pond where a frog sits half submerged in the water – the artist’s brush worked quickly and unerringly, narrating the wordless music, creating a world of love, loss, danger, suspicion. At one point a figure leaps from a cliff – is caught in mid-air. End of Song. It was magical. I once saw a performance at Harbourfront Toronto where Winnipeg’s Christine Fellows delivered her quirky songs. An illustrator similarly drew images on acetate and joined and animated the images that were projected on a screen – but this was somehow more cinematic and more immediate. I couldn’t understand the technology he used to created the images – afterwards I went up and saw the rig – an ingenious use of cheap bond paper, india ink, a glass plate, a webcam, a 45 degree front-silvered mirror all run through a simple Mac app and projected behind the performing group. The smeary quality was really just digital lag but it had appeared as an analog artifact. All through the performance I was flashing on Jane Lowbeer’s work from long ago – mid 90’s? Even earlier – Crankee Consort days. Jane is opening her show at Loop Gallery this weekend. Don’t miss it. She has returned to painting. Lovely, figurative work.
We left sated. The night was cool and a brief rain had left the streets rich and greasy with smears of semaforo winking. BA was closed up at midnight, the tumbling sidewalks added to the exotic sense of shift. Or was it the Malbec?
Today we took the Subte (subterranean?) downtown. Fares are cheap. We emerged at the last station on the line: Catedral. The streets were thronged with people. Observations: the BA women almost ALL wear their hair long. Except for up-dos the style is universal. Straight, plain, little intervention of scissor or colour. Shoes are mostly shabby – not a criticism just an observation – espadrilles and battered, age-ravaged loafers. Few wore suits even though it was presumably the financial center of the city. I felt like I might be looking at a Toronto of the future when the 1 percent is the .25 percent and almost all of us are relegated to quasi-poverty – the uber-wealthy nowhere to be seen. All around young men and women were discretely offering money changing service. They obviously recognized us as Ingles because they invariably addressed us in English. Funnily, wherever we travel the natives regard Sophie as one of them. It didn’t matter if it was Japan, Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Mexico... people would look directly at Sophie and speak to her in their native tongue even though I had asked the question. (‘Why don’t you tell him’ their expressions said, ‘You are one of us’) and so it was at a cafe where I addressed the waitress in my ersatz Spanish. She looked directly at Sophie and asked her for the order. I would answer each question but she waved her hand as if a fly were distracting her from understanding the response from the mute addressee. Weird. We always have a laugh about it afterwards. Sophie has the universal face it seems.
Downtown is dirty and broken and crowded but fascinating. The streets are often thematic (electronics here, lamps there, musical instruments for these two blocks. Booksellers EVERYWHERE) – much like older European sectors. I tried out a guitar – Sophie started rolling the old eyeballs, time to move on.
Tomorrow will be less ambitious. BTW, forget to write my impressions of the famous Cemetario where Evita lies ‘neath stone. Will shoehorn that into a later missive. Death is impressive here.
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Buenos Errors
First Impressions
We drop out of dense cloud to over verdant fields arranged like jigsaw pieces - not much evidence of the rectilinear grid that is so familiar to Canadians.
Taxiing in, the airport looks a bit shabby from the exterior but the interior is all marble and glass – modern and sophisticated. The immigration experience is a little bit un-Canadian: the staff exchange lots of cheek busses (custom here is one kiss, right cheek) during the shift change and seem quite unaware of the horde of impatient travelers. Traffic is poorly managed so the line grows and grows - some booths are constantly busy while others contain officers who languish with no clients – the latter chat merrily with their compatriots while the extranjeros grind their teeth, waiting.
We chose a shuttle into BA rather that a cab to save a few pesos. Traveling along the highway, one of the first things that strikes one is that a lot of the marginalia on the highway – the 1/8 hectare counterforms of cloverleafs and highway exits – has vehicles parked on them; we see dad and son kicking a soccer ball or a family sitting on a blanket, surrounded by a scrofula of litter, having a picnic - which strikes one as strange. We have learned that today is a holiday. Perhaps that explains why those miniscule exurban hinterlands are being exploited as park-space. I was reminded of that striking scene in Mad Men season One when Don and family rise up from their picnic blanket, shake out the boxes, napkins and bottles onto the verdant grass and serenely walk back to the Cadillac – when I saw it then it I had a vivid flashback – most people were insensitive to littering and abuse of public space in the sixties. That has changed - and for so long that it almost seems impossible that we were so negligent of shared spaces.
As in many Latin countries the traffic lanes are more of a concept than a rule. Our driver meandered and weaved, spending most of his time straddling a white line – often a solid one. We transferred from the shuttle bus downtown to a collegial taxi containing 4 passengers who were stuffed into a wee Citroen - we all shared proximate destinations – it’s efficient!
Like many old European cities the streets bend, branch and merge dendritically – perhaps following ghost cowpaths or horse-trails. The car horn is an important tool in Buenos driving and is used liberally for communication purposes. In Costa Rica drivers employ merry little pips in a friendly fashion (I’m here. Go ahead. My Turn. Good to see you!) Here, as in Athens, it’s all-out nuking; perhaps half a minute to 45 seconds of solid klaxon – why, God, why?!!!!!
Regrettably there is a pervasive smell of diesel in BA. The cars and trucks are poorly tuned and diesel is still prevalent it seems. The late night streets smell of cigar, cigarette and unburned auto fuel provoke Proustian recollections of decades ago sojourns in foreign cities. The streets are half-dim with sodium vapour filtering through dense foliage – lots of those charming sycamores here with their distinctive ‘camo’ bark and huge flowering trees I have yet to identify. Buenos Aires has trees lining almost every street. Ficus and Lemon among them - which feels quite exotic to a Canadian. It has a lush feel – and that’s just as well because the city is fairly dirty with cracked and uneven sidewalks and scabrous walls covered with grafitti. My ambulatory experience is very different since acquiring a cane - the pitch and yaw of the crazed walkways threatens. It’s an unwelcome sensation; making me feel more vulnerable. I long to abandon my cane and return to normal mobility. Increasingly I am sensitized to the challenges faced by disabled folk. Much needs to be done.
I had huge expectations of cheap and succulent meals in Argentina. So far my fantasies have been so much vapour. Unexpectedly this seems to be a city of pizzerias and little cafes offering supersweet cakes and pastries. Tonight we will venture out to find music and the culinary el Dorado.
And thus my first blog Buenos Aires post. Ultra-mundane – hopefully I will discover and report on rare things here, perhaps acquire a sense of humour.
tim hurtin
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Havana, Cuba 2014
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Hoi An, Vietnam 2009
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Nikko, Japan 2009
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Wake up everyone.
Her name was Lamia Beard.
Her name was Taja DeJesus.
Her name was Penny Proud.
Her name was Ty Underwood.
Her name was Yazmin Vash Payne.
it’s important that we pay tribute to Leelah and Zander, but it’s also important that we pay tribute to the five trans women of color murdered in 2015 so far. I have seen next to nothing about these women. They are just as important as Leelah or Zander. They deserve the same recognition. They deserve the same respect. Remember their names.
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Joyce Bryant (October 14, 1928)
• Joyce was born in Oakland, CA and raised in San Francisco.
• She was the oldest of 8 kids and raised as a Seventh Day Adventist.
• She eloped at 14 but the marriage ended the same day.
• In 1946, while visiting a cousin in L.A., she agreed to sing at a local club on a dare. The club owner later offered her $25 to sing on stage.
• During the 1940s, she began to perform regularly at different night clubs.
• Eventually she was booked on the same bill as Josephine Baker. To standout she dyed her hair silver using radiator paint
• In 1952, Joyce became the first black entertainer to sing at the Miami Beach Hotel despite KKK protests.
• In 1954, she became the first black singer to perform at the Casino Royal in Washington D.C.
• By the late 1950s, Joyce had grown tired of her than lifestyle. She disliked the men that frequented the clubs she performed at.
• She was once beaten by a man for rejecting his advances.
• In 1955, she quit performing.
• She devoted herself to the Seventh Day Adventist Church and enrolled in Oakwood College in Huntsville, AL.
• She traveled throughout the South and became angry at the discrimination she saw.
• She organized fundraisers for blacks so they could buy food, medicine, and clothing.
• Joyce also helped her church raise money by performing. She wore no makeup and her natural hair.
• She often met with Martin Luther King Jr. and was inspired to ask her church to take a stand against racism.
• Her church refused, which led her to return to the entertainment industry in the 60s.
• She trained with vocal teacher Frederick Wilkerson at Howard University. This led to her winning a contract with the New York City Opera.
• Joyce toured internationally with French and Vienna Opera companies.
• In the 1980s, she became a vocal instructor and worked with people like Jennifer Holliday, Raquel Welch, and Phyllis Hyman.
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Takeyama, Japan - Spring 2009
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killing fields..Cambodia
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