Apologies to the photographer; I found this photograph on Facebook and will credit the photographer or remove it on request |
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Notes on St. Michael's Church, Mile End, Montreal (two)
Monday, October 13, 2008
Notes on St. Michael’s Church, Mile End, Montreal (one)
Fr. Luke Callaghan |
Harvey Shepherd, writing in The Gazette, on 26 July and again on 21 September 2003, informed readers of tours of St. Michael’s Church available to the public. St. Michael’s is a landmark in Montreal, visible from several miles away at the lookout on Mount Royal facing towards the Plateau and the east end of the city. The church is built in the style of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, Turkey. St. Michael’s is a large domed structure with an entrance façade and minaret on the east side to the rear of the church building. Shepherd writes, “Back in the early 20th century, it [St. Michael’s] was said to be the largest English-speaking parish in Quebec, with more than 1,800 families or close to 15,000 parishoners, mainly Irish in origin.” Of course, after reading this article with its offer of a tour, I soon visited St. Michael’s Church, which I had so far only seen from the outside. As you enter, on the far left side on the ceiling, is Father Luke’s name written in Latin. St. Michael’s now serves a predominantly Polish congregation. The church was built in 1914-1915 with funds largely raised by Father Luke Callaghan.
Aristide Beaugrand-Champagne, the architect of St. Michael’s, achieved what was then highly innovative in his design and construction of the dome of the church. The magnificent dome is constructed with reinforced concrete, a first in Montreal until duplicated, but on a much larger scale, at St. Joseph’s Oratory on Queen Mary Road. The dome at St. Michael’s has a diameter of 23 metres and is flanked by two half domes; covering the nave that reaches 40 metres from the centre of the dome are two arches with a diameter of 16.5 metres each. The inside of the church seats 1400 people and in Father Luke’s day simultaneous services were held in a large basement auditorium, seating over 1200 people, because of the capacity attendance inside the church. Incidentally, Beaugrand-Champagne also designed the award winning Chalet de la Montagne, facing south on Mount Royal and overlooking the downtown of the city. Now called Parc du Mont Royal, the design of this prominent park, inaugurated in 1876 and located in central Montreal, is by Frederick Law Olmstead who also designed Central Park in New York City. Original art work at St. Michael’s was created by Guido Nincheri, who was born in Prato, Italy, in 1885. In 1914 Nincheri moved to Montreal where he and his wife lived until his death. Nincheri’s first large commission in Montreal was to create the frescoes and stained-glass windows that decorate the dome and walls of St. Michael’s Church. The stained-glass windows, circling the entire circumference of the dome, flood the entire church with light and colour. When standing on the upper pulpit overlooking the interior of the church—as I have done—one is overwhelmed with sunlight and the magnificence of this building. Later, between 1928 and 1951, Nincheri designed the interior of the prestigious St-Léon-de-Westmount Church on Boulevard de Maisonneuve in Westmount. Although Nincheri lived for a few years in the United States he considered Montreal his home and was buried at Notre Dame des Neiges Cemetery after his death in 1973. St. Michael’s Church deserves some much-needed restoration work and the church could then be used, at least part-time, as a concert hall. It is a remarkable edifice—both magnificent and majestic—and well worth visiting on a Sunday morning when open to the public. I am grateful to Mr. Kevin Cohalan, the Executive Director of the Volunteer Bureau of Montreal, who was instrumental in organizing the summer-long open-house at St. Michael’s which was an invaluable opportunity to visit the church pretty much at one’s own convenience during daytime hours. I was given, generously, carte blanche to go where I liked in the church on my two visits there last summer.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (four)
Gibet et de la Roue
Paris, 1913.
Avec les gestes piteux et le the oaths of the cardplayers in the
sous la pluie
Bella, Agnès, Catherine et la ne
Et celle, la mère de mon amoucles who paced nervously up and
looked at me as he passed
Il y a des cris de sirène qui me heart tears rise
Là-bas en Mandchourie un mistress…
dans un accouchement and,
Je voudrain depths of a bordello
Je voudrain n’avoir jamais fait
Motley
Like my life
And my life doesn’t keep me a full speed
Shawl
And the whole of Europe see
gold wheels whirling madly along in
universe
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrars
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (three)
The wings of our seven sins
And all the trains are the devil’s cup and ball
The poultry yard
The modern world
Speed is useless
In the modern world
Distances are too great
And at the end of the trip it's terrible to be a man with a
woman…
We can’t go to Japan
Come to Mexico!
On the escarpments the
Riotous vines
They seem a painter’s
Colors booming like
Rousseau was there
His life was dazzled
At Chita we had a few day’s piano and I had a raging
Five days stopover because of b
We spent it with Monsieur Iae that calm interior the father’s
me his only daughter in daughter who would come each
Then the train took off again.
And amputated limbs dance tulip trees are in bloom
raucous air tresses
Fire was on all the faces in alette and brushes
Idiot fingers rapped on all the ngs
And in the press of fear glance
In all the stations where all the
And I saw
Sleep
I would so have liked to sleep camels
I can identify all the countri more than 500 kilometers
closed it’s all I saw
And I can identify all the train
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrars
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Window at Natalie's Hat Shop on Decarie Boulevard, Montreal
The importance of this photo isn't evident in the photograph itself. Here it is: after my father died my mother purchased a new hat for the funeral at Natalie's Hat Shop facing Decarie Boulevard. The viewer couldn't have known this, which is, after all important to the reason why this photograph is included here. There is more to the story, including poems I wrote about the hat and what became of the hat. Also, that Natalie, the hat shop's owner, later lived at one of Hoolahan's flats on Oxford Avenue; in fact, she lived in the flat next to where we had formerly lived... so there is quite a bit of synchronisty to this.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Notes on Photography (unrevised) Four
Alexis Nihon Plaza, solarium, 2013
21. The Observing Eye: What photographs reveal is what the eye (the consciousness of the photographer) finds of interest, observes, and pays attention to. This is the observed world of the photographer, it shows a consistent and cohesive vision of the world. It is the documentation of the observing eye.
22. Krishnamurti writes, “The content of consciousness is consciousness.” What is recorded in the photographs is the consciousness of the photographer.
23. A photograph records how a specific time and place is seen by the observing eye, photographs are the record of what is observed. In my photographs, I am aiming for an elegant austerity.
24. Krishnamurti writes, “The observer is the observed.” What you think you are observing turns out to be… yourself.
25. Whatever I photograph has a deeper, personal meaning for me; some of the most obscure photographs refer to an image or a line or phrase from one of my poems. So, “Between Chaston and Green” refers to where my father is buried; “Natalie’s hat shop on Decarie Boulevard” refers to where my mother purchased a hat to wear to my father’s funeral; and so on.
26. Artists have access to what the public knows little about but feels is important, has value, and wants: it is access to the unconscious mind.
27. Today, many people want to be artists. They want to publish their poems, they want to exhibit their drawings and photographs, they want to be creative. They want to fill the emptiness within themselves with their artistic expression, with their poems, their music, their photographs.
28. There is more to being an artist than creativity and talent, there is hard work, being alone, and an obsessive personality.
29. Why would anyone be as obsessed about death as I have been? or as consumed with the ancestors? or have taken so many photographs in cemeteries and churches? or have written obsessively about the same subjects, book after book, diary after diary, decade after decade?
30. It is necessary to speak one’s truth. I can say this with conviction, as someone who has always taught others not to censor their words, their vision. And yet, I have censored myself, I have held back what I wanted to say, I have doubted myself, been silenced by others, not wanted to offend or cause arguments, been too concerned that others not think badly of me and so remained silent. And yet, I have been happiest when I have spoken my truth; when I have not spoken my truth it has gotten me nowhere.
31. (from) Letters of Arthur Rimbaud:
… The first study for a man who wants to be a poet is the knowledge of himself, entire. He searches his soul, he inspects it, he tests it, he learns it. As soon as he knows it, he cultivates it: it seems simple: in very brain a natural development is accomplished; so many egoists proclaim themselves authors; others attribute their intellectual progress to themselves! But the soul has to be made monstrous, that’s the point:… Imagine a man planting and cultivating warts on his face… One must, I say, be a visionary, make oneself a visionary.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (two)
An old monk was
Novgorod.
And I, the bad poet who Still, I was a very bad poe
everywhere I couldn’t go to the end.
And also merchants still I was hungry
To go make their fortune And all the days and all
And all the shopwindows glasses
And all the houses and all I should have liked
And all the wheels of cabs and all the streets
pavements those lives
I should have liked to plus turning like whirlwinds over broken
nge them into a furnace of swords
the square
And my hands took fligh The great almonds of the
wings And the honeyed gold of
And those were the last An old monk was reading
Of the very last voyage I was thirsty
And of the sea. And I was deciphering
When, all at once, the pig
I was in Moscow, where too,
with the rustling of albatross flames
And I was not satisfied of the last day
that my eyes turned
Their train left every many dead out there
It was rumored there we rates
One took along a hundred accounts I the bank.
clocks from Blac Malmö filled with tin cans and cans
Another, hatboxes,
Revolution… omen
And the sun was a fierce hire which could also be useful
That burned like live
It was in the time of my And I should have liked
I was scarcely sixteen And tear out all the
And dissolve all those
garments that enrage
I could sense the coming
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrar
Thursday, September 25, 2008
2226 Girouard Avenue, Montreal
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Blaise Cendrars Cut Up (one)
o grind up all the bones cathedrals all in white
the bells
all bodies, naked and strange under me the legend of Nizhni Novgorod
me…
of the great red Christ of the Russian letters
eons of the Holy Ghost flew up from
wound adolescence
I had already forgotten my birth
it was war
Love carted away millions of corpses
the last trains leaving
because they weren’t selling any ging to me the legend of Nizhni
going away would have liked to
didn’t want to go anywhere, could go
had enough money
corkscrews
Still another, coffins from I was trying to nourish myself with
of sardines in oil
Then there were many with the bell towers and the stations
Women with crotches for stars
Coffins
They were all patented day morning.
It was rumored there were many dead.
They traveled at reduced boxes of alarm clocks and cuckoo
And they had savings Forest
and an assortment of Sheffield
the women in the cafes and all In Siberia cannon
Hunger cold plague
them and break them And the muddy waters
In all the stations I saw
Nobody could
more tickets
And the soldiers who
stay. . .
______________________________
Cut up of “Prose of the Transsiberian and of Little Jeanne of France”, by Blaise Cendrar