Endurance of Winter 忍冬

Met a snowstorm when driving back to town from Woodbine Avenue. I said this blasting snow flakes fell oh so silently. Ginger said not calm at all, it's just because we're watching it protected under a bridge, saved from greater perils. All along we followed the procession to the crematorium, surrounded by graveyards, most of them reddish brown tombstones, engraved with unmatching, tastelessness inscriptions and patterns. They looked honestly ugly and unpleasant. I wouldn't want to lie here. On the way back Ginger asked if I still wanted to be a tree. She wanted to be a diamond. Fai is now in paradise. He has the best hair cut, dressed in a pink-based yellow stripes shirt, black leather tie, sienna suit jacket - a typical "Workshop" style as in his youthful days. Because it was impolite to photograph, I looked at him for several instances, and saved you this final impression of our dear friend.

從忍冬大道回到市區的傍晚又遇風雪。我説這綿綿密密的雪花多靜靜地下落來，思菱説那裏靜呢，只不過我們在天橋底的庇護下看它，就小了許多風險。我 們一直跟著隊伍進入火化場 ，環顧四週都是墳地，那些佔大多數，赤竭色的墓碑，刻上了不相稱，又不美觀的碑文和圖案，是顕得越發醜陋、難看的了。我才不會趟在這裡呢。一路上，思菱問 我要不要做一顆樹，她想做鑽石。阿輝已經在樂園了。他梳戴整齊，粉紅底間黃條子的恤衫，黒皮領呔，中啡色西裝，不失當年 Workshop 本色。因為影相不禮貎，我是特別多看了幾眼，給你留個最後的印象。

Sleeping Cat and Creeping Mouse

We bought this mouse pad more than twenty years ago in a museum, when desk top computers were in their heydays. Fancy mouse pads were everywhere, just like the cell phone cases nowadays. Sometime ago this mouse pad has retired, and been used as a mat for a pot of orchid. We have almost forgotten it. As the proverb goes: out of sight, out of mind. We rediscover it in Cats in Art, a book we bought recently in a trip to New York. Ah, it is famous! When digging deeper in history, we learn its creator is Cornelis Visscher, a Dutch etcher who made famous prints in the mid-17th century. Aside from the name cat we gave him, it has been named Cat Sleeping, The Big Cat, The Large Cat, and as the image suggests: Sleeping Cat and Creeping Mouse.

Bowl

Words are magic wand. With a single stroke a thought is determined. And it can remain there for hundreds of generations.

I am lake bright mountain colour

Sounds scenic isn't it? Thanks to our old masters who molded me - a small pavilion on a hill with shady trees, a man lies down, drinks his wine and rhymes his poem. With distant hills on the other bank, a boat floats leisurely on the lake. I have been depicted this way for more than a thousand years. The masters follow the same equation to paint and repeat me, occasionally make little changes, say, add a person fishing. This has become ME! When I look around myself, I feel so disconcerted that I want to cry. Really I have already made a lot of progress. Strange cemented forests sprouting from the earth, ferries, cargo ships and cruisers sliding rulingly over the skin of my water. How is it possible that nobody notices the change?

I, lake bright mountain colour, am only an aged-old idea, a mere ghostly existence?


I am bowl

A bowl that holds rice or soup, to be precise.

Even though I came from the world famous porcelain town Jin de Zhen, I belong only to the civilian class. My clan's long and glorious history has become solely bygones. Despite the fact that I have reached the age of retirement, I am still 30 years younger than my master! Don't ask about my origin, master is a fool. She can't even figure out her own history, let alone mine. But I guess I was made around the 80's in one of the ten big porcelain factories in China called New Wind. I presume that because they seemed adept at scenic paintings. There's one thing I can be certain of, I must have belonged to the family of porcelain wares at that time exported to Europe, America, South East Asia and Hong Kong.

My present and future? Can only go along with globalization. Gone old greet new, gone east greet west. Nationalized style gone Japanese. If not for the love of master, I would have been buried in the reclamation land with other garbage. But, if I am luckier and got promoted, I might even be able to get into the museum!


My Name is little Ping

Actually I have several names, little Ping is just my infant name. The bowl you are seeing originally existed as a pair, a wedding gift from my mother for my kitchen inventory. Many bowls and dishes have broken since. I broke this bowl some twenty years ago, but reluctant to have it disposed. Seeing the bowl is like seeing my long gone mother.

The harbour where I grew up experienced no wars, revolutions nor hunger. My unwitting soul floats along historical currents unaware of soaring memories of its past and coming. The China I long for is crafted from literature, history, music and poetry. My favourite poet Du Fu (712-770 CE) once wrote, "The state broken, its mountains and rivers remain. The city turns spring, deep with plants and trees". The overwhelming change today feels like "The state remained, its mountains and rivers shattered. Wealth and lust are what people matter". China has to change. Its supersonic train will not stop racing towards the ever braver newer world. A face flips over. Hello Creator. Goodbye destroyer.


文字真像魔術棒，一下子㸃下來就凝固了一個思維，叫它好幾個世代也不能翻身。
我是湖光山色。
很風景畫，是不是？也多謝歷朝歷代的工像畫師，把我塑造成的模樣 — 山丘上有小亭，樹影婆娑。古人臥坐吃酒吟詩。對岸山脈連綿，一葉輕舟飄蕩在湖水上。千百年來，畫師依循公式重覆，或偶作改動，或加上個江人垂釣，這個便是我! 回首看看我的週圍，真迷惘得想哭。我進步神速，三合土森林從土地上長出奇葩，小輪船小氣艇大郵船洋洋灑灑在湖面滑翔。怎麼我變了也沒有人知道？我湖光山色，竟是個陳久的思維，一個魅影的存在？

我是碗。
準確一㸃説，是盛飯盛湯的那種碗。
同樣是陶瓷盛器，出自於聞名中外的景德鎮，我祇是屬於平民階級。我族類悠遠輝煌的歷史，皆成為陳年舊事。我雖然巳經到了退休的年紀，但比我的主人要年輕三十歲！別問我的來歷，主人糊塗，連她自己的歷史背景都弄不清楚，更甭說我了。不過我如此推想，我大概是生產於八零前後十大瓷廠其中之一的新風瓷廠。我這樣推測，是因為他們好像擅長於風景彩描。較可肯定的是我一定屬於當年外銷歐美、東南亞及香港的其中成員。
至於我們的現狀與未來嗎？也只可跟著全球化的時代走。去舊迎新，去東迎西。僅存的一點國風都改吹了和風。如果不是主人愛惜，我現在已經葬身填土區。假如再幸運一些經人提拔，我可能有機會擠身博物館呢！


我叫小萍。
其實我有好幾個名字，小萍祇是乳名。你現在看見這隻碗原本是一對的，是我結婚時母親給我添置的櫉具。當年很多的碗碟已經不存在，這隻碗在卄多年前打破，不捨得扔掉。看見它就好像看見已故的母親。我成長的港灣沒有經歷戰爭革命和饑餓。混混沌沌的我真的像浮萍般飄泊在歴史中的長流，並且沒有儆覺它前呼後湧的記憶。我的中國是來自文學、歷史、音樂和詩歌。國破山河在 ，城春草木深。這年頭驚天動地的變化，更像國在山河破，財色輕心。中國必然轉變，這列超音速快車是㑹義無反誨的衝往未來更勇敢的新世界。一個從摧毀者到創造者的變臉。

Things That Are Distant Though Near

We came back to the commissary for a breakfast on the tenth day after the full moon, sat on the seat next to the corner couch where the four of us sat on that Saturday night, and before that, another four of us sat for an early brunch. The cafe was quiet, with a twenty something working on his computer. The server who served us guided two younger female customers to the bakery case for morning butter croissants and blueberry lemon muffins. After all this is a restaurant in a new area developed from an industrial zone. But news spread fast, and people certainly don't mind to drive to this 'next destination' while there is still ample parking space.

I was hungry and ordered an avocado lemon and gruyere tartine, which was my friend George's favourite. I was also greedy and couldn't wait to taste the salmon and pickled onion cream cheese bagel so I advocated Lee to order it. As we waited for our sandwiches, I got a chance to walk around the space and saw this, which, from a distance was a menu, I thought.

It was a poem by Suzanne Buffam, the name on the lower right corner of the blackboard. Later I found it was from A Pillow Book published in 2016. The title is Things That Are Distant Though Near.

That was not all. I love the poem. That night I googled the writer and found the second half of the poem Things That Are Near Though Distant.

Paradise.
Hell.
The Andromeda Galaxy.
Pen pals.
Laughter on the far side of the bay.

For Bob, after the new-white-door

There is always
HOPE

Let red drown us
the chicken poet
lemon
fat as a sea shell

Canada Welcomes You
from both sides
thousands rainbow toothpicks
raining down
on a city
where moose head men
goose head men
yelling in their iPhone seven

The Box

Every day I encounter beauty right in front of my eyes. Nature's pencil has drafted this cube, which I believe is an acrylic single pocket brochure holder, mounted on the north wall of the gallery. It measures 9 inch x 10 inch, with a thin 1.75 inch width. It sat on a table given to it one sunny morning at 8:32 a.m. on September 6, 2012.

An old collage from my album (mid seventies)

Is it distance
or time
that dull my senses

PK died
I don't even get to miss him
cause he's still there
always there
his voice and laughter linger
no pain shrouded me
nor grief
nor the bitterness of a traveling melon

Is it the distance
of time
is it better
this sharp and acute grief
to arrive later than sooner

Mother had gone for seven years
only now
at night
I cry
when I think of her
I dream
every so often
she is there
there
cooking, cleaning, doing the house work
I feel good
love
to be around her
in the short realm of my dream

I have dreamt once
with PK
we created an awesome poem
overwhelmed with excitement
I have awoken
sadly
to find the lines dispersed
like escaping spirits
fallen petals
disintegrated
vaporized
into thin
cold
air

Wild salmon and Einstein on the Beach

John is from Hornby Island, an island situated between Vancouver Island and the mainland of British Columbia. He came to Toronto to see his ninety-two-year old mother and Einstein on the Beach, an opera by Robert Wilson and Philip Glass premiered in France in 1976. In our bed and breakfast, I am always interested in people who stay here to attend theatre, concerts or other art events. We can easily develop a nice conversation.

John told me he studied classical music. This was not the first time he saw the opera. His understanding and recognition of Glass music hinted me to a higher level of appreciation. Before I knew John, I have liked the music of Philip Glass in my own way. Every time I hear Passages - a music collaboration between Philip Glass and Ravi Shankar my heart dances with the rhythm.

In 1992 while traveling in Europe, I came across the Dutch composer Simeon ten Holt and was caught by his music, which also possesses the minimal, repetitive structures. His most famous piece "Canto Ostinato", a work performed by four pianos was written in 1976 - the same year when Einstein on the Beach was born. Sadly, both Ravi Shankar and Simeon ten Holt died this November and December respectively.

At the end of his stay, John gave me a can of salmon as a gift. He told me that the fish was cooked and canned as soon as it was caught to retain its nutrition and fresh flavour. But I made a mistake. Instead of eating the fish right out of the can, I mixed the salmon with mayonnaise to spread on a sandwich. The fresh taste was killed. Two weeks ago I was surprised when I saw the five cans of salmon given to us by a friend. The products were also from B.C. And of course I was smarter this time. "one two three four, one one two two three four, one one two two three three four four". The numerical repetition from Einstein on the Beach's Knee Plays kept spinning on my head as a piece of wild chunk salmon melted in my mouth.

Don Quixote

He is on the quest. one fine morning in two thousand twelve. Early Autumn. He just passed through a valley covering with faded green leaves, yellow, red and gold. In the distance, inside a park that stretches from south to north adjoining two parallel streets, there are people sitting at a long table, having breakfast. Birds sing, flowers send off their fragrants. Listen! Some wind instrument music floats by. Some say "it's Japanese", some say "it's Chinese", others say "it's Indian". Don Quixote thinks to himself "it's Indonesian". He is heading to the Pagaruyung Palace in West Sumatra, to witness the splendor of the colourful and horny structure, a palace that has great appeal, and has appeared in his dreams twenty two times.

More Than Enough

"More Than Enough". These words meet at Toronto's Harbourfront, which can mean art, or condos, or both. The revitalization of the city's waterfront keep the area busy. Towers keep erecting, and inside the Power Plant films keep running. The Clock - a 24-hour projection by American artist Christian Marclay, is comprised of Tens of thousands of film clips synched to real time.

If that is not enough, there's White Night. Once a year, at the end of September or the beginning of October - art, big or small, will flood the city for one whole night, calling tens of thousands of people to come out and party from dusk till dawn.

2046

Numbers are chains of memories. One number two numbers three numbers four numbers. Canada always talk about 1812. The United States remembers 1492, 1945, 1969, 2001, 2009. China reflects on 1911, 1949, 1989. Artists speak through numbers such as ... 1812, 2001, 2046, 1Q84 and Nineteen Eighty-Four. I get stuck with 1953, 1992, 1997.

The Lake on the Mountain

I don't have any clue as to how I would associate Bing Lee's assumed drawing of a "lake" to specifically the Lake on the Mountain, which is situated at the Provincial Park at Glenora, a two-and-a-half hours northeast of Toronto.

In the graphite drawing, looking out from the cloud-shaped window is the lake. Two moon crescents fall one by one into its bosom. Perhaps it is the enigmatic aspects about Bing's lake and the Lake on the Mountain that create my connection. The Lake on the Mountain was once a sacred native site, named by the Mohawks "Onokenoga" - Lake of the Gods. Three sisters - Corn, Squash and Beans lived in the depths of its water.

What really makes this lake famous is another curious phenomenon. Lake on the Mountain is 60 metres above Lake Ontario, which is one of the five Great Lakes in North America. A lake overlooking another lake, Lake on the Mountain was thought to be fathomless until recently. It has a constant flow of clean, fresh water with no apparent source. Some visitors have spotted sunfish swimming in the water.

1985

While cleaning up the shelves, she located a catalogue from a pile of old magazines. It was called Journey - An Exhibition of Poetry and Etching published in 1985, an art collaboration between two of her friends - PK and Donna. The exhibition had thirty-one poems, each was accompanied by one etching. The cover is not impressive but the calligraphy was from a great Chinese scholar Qian Zhongshu. It just happened that she is reading something about Qian and his wife Yang Jiang, who is also an important writer. Yang has just turned 101 years old.

Seems like a long time ago. What happened in 1985? She tried to line up some facts. Her daughter was two years old. She was thirty-two and had a photo exhibition named Owltoise. They were all black and white still-life shots photographing her daughter's toys. Her best friend Donna had also returned home, having earned her Master of Arts Degree in Etching from France. For the Journey collaboration, Donna had created a lovely piece with a woman playing violin underneath a tree, and this work went with PK's poem The Left-handed Woman.

Donna has always a place in her heart, an intimate presence. In the Owltoise exhibition she made the photograph Donda, which was a combination of two picture cards - Dog and Panda. The new species was secretly created for the friend she loves. The name owltoise was born out of the mouth of her daughter at the age of three. Inspired by the word, she also wrote a poem with the same name and used it as the title of the photo exhibition.

A Postcard from St. John's

I got a couple of things from the mail box this morning - a Pizza Nova leaflet, three different packages containing stuffs that Iris bought from the Internet, a Flare magazine renewal notice, and, thinking of just another promo thingy, I almost threw this card to the recycle bin. I am glad I didn't. A casual flip on the back showed me it was a postcard from a friend. I instantly recognized it as Irina's. She mentioned to me a few months ago about going to Newfoundland this summer to help in a B&B, in exchange to stay there for a few weeks at the water's edge. She would cook breakfast in a kitchen that can smell the sea. On the card she wrote:

Roughing it on the Boat House - not hot, ocean traffic. Helping with the Rock Bottom B&B. Brought wrong clothes overwhelmed with the heat - looking forward to sleeping in my own bed again soon. Regards from much water - Irina + G

It's seldom to receive a postcard these days, even rarer a hand-written one. Irina's writings is pure pleasure. She must be sipping a cup of coffee as she wrote, with a box of water colours on the side, she signed it with her iconic, greek and Picasso inspired goddess profile.

Amongst her writings, which were all over the card, she left this originally printed line quite eligible:

Sauna, Jacuzzi, Hiking, Fireplace, Hot Breakfast, Internet, Icebergs, Whale Watching, Sea/City View, Nightlights.

And on the front of the picture postcard, you can see the bed & breakfast nestled under the cliffs of a hill. It has this message: Is Operating And Is For Sale.

The Bread

She just got out of the shower when she smelled the bread - her usual masterpiece after practicing for more than three years with the bread machine. A machine she had done some good research on, which proved to be worthy after making several hundred breads. She had to replace the paddle and the bread pan once and at some point the lid was also broken. She needs to remember to be careful with the lid because it came off once and almost fell on the floor. The bread this time is an Italian herb bread, with milk, olive oil, parsley, basil, marjoram and thyme. She has gathered her skill these days in using herbs and spices, feeding her family with aloo gobi and saag panir. The aloo gobi dish, which is cauliflower with potatoes, was an instant success when she first tried it. But saag panir, spinach with cottage cheese was a disaster. The cottage cheese she got from the supermarket broke down and partly melted during cooking. The dish was also a bit sour. Now she knows, she would look for panir, a more compact cheese, which will stay intact when pan fried.

Joni

This headache has been hanging around in me for several days. I just have a little bit of time to lie down and close my eyes. Joni's music happened to fill the room. It was Down To You. The song has been long disappearing from my head. I got up, tried to find the book Joni Mitchell The Complete Poems and Lyrics, a book I bought in 1997 and is squeezed on the shelf between other books - still quite untouched.

It all comes back to me. My love for Joni's music, her beautiful poems, my younger days, hers. Her beautiful, youthful voice in the 70's and 80's. It would be wonderful if Joni could know her large followers in Asia...in Hong Kong, who loved and influenced by her music and poems in as early as thirty years ago.

Joni is always beautiful in my eyes. The cover picture of The Complete Poems and Lyrics was taken by Herb Ritts, an American photographer. I used to know the names of so many fashion photographers in the 80's and 90's and Herb Ritts was one among my favorites.

Joni's music didn't exist in the room coincidentally. Ah Fai, my friend, digitized some of her songs into MP3 and gave them to Lee Ka-sing. Ka-sing played it. Just like long time ago he played Erik Satie while I was asleep, but half awake. The music was also recorded by Ah Fai, but then in the format of audio tape. It was a long 28 years ago.

Barenaked Ladies and the Blue Submarine

Barbara stayed with us in April for several days. She came from the city of Winterhur from Switzerland and the main reason was to see a rock concert by the Barenaked Ladies in Kingston. When we talked in the morning during breakfast, I learned that this was her 53rd show of the band, and that she has been a vivid follower since 2000.

Never have I met a real person with such dedication! She has even created a German website for the band. Out of curiosity I asked which was the first band that she encountered and fell for. It was also my band - the Beatles. I still remember the boyish look and gesture of a younger Paul McCartney when he sang "when I'm 64". He is turning 68 this June.

Barbara was lucky and she didn't get stuck in Toronto because of the volcano ash. The day she left was also the opening of a photography exhibition at INDEXG Hommage to Magritte (Sea Life) by Tamara Chatterjee. In this series Barbara caught an image that spoke to her, the image of a submarine she was familiar with - only this time it was blue. After debating whether to get it now or later, she decided to buy it since it would be much more expensive to ship afterwards. And to ease her mind we packed it really carefully. It lay beautifully flat and well protected in her luggage.

From ash rise the phoenixes

Our guest Ulrike just left yesterday for New York to try her luck in catching the first plane back to Amsterdam. She stayed with us earlier for the 62nd Annual Meeting of the American Academy of Neurology and was supposed to have left a few days ago. She didn't know she would be stuck for four days in Toronto due to Iceland's volcanic eruption. Before she left she jokingly said that she would have an extraordinary memory of Toronto because of the artwork she kept thinking of and eventually bought from our artshop seemed to have predicted the volcanic ash disruption. The artwork is an etching of two phoenixes flying, now easily depicted as phoenixes rising.

Ulrike fell in love with "phoenixes rising" when she had breakfast in our gallery artshop in the first day of her stay. During the next five days of neurology meeting she kept coming back to look at it. I know that Phoenix is referred as the mythical bird Fenghuang in China, but when I googled, I further learned that Simurgh (Phoenix) originates in Persian mythology, is equivalent also to Firebird in Russia, Bennu in Egypt, Adarna in the Philippines and Garuda in India.

Bread

It is almost the second Anniversary of our Bed and Breakfast! For the past two years we came across so many interesting people that we wouldn't have met if it was not the business. I kept thinking back of certain people who'd made an impression on me. Juan, for example, stayed with us during the last International Film Festival. He was here for the film La Soga, which he played the part of the General. Juan is smart, funny and knowledgeable. He loved eating the bread I made (almost every other day). He put on this most wonderful, satisfying look in his face as the lightly toasted bread went down his mouth. He then would look at me and tell me with his eyes "what a great treat!". I was so overwhelmed with his praises that I had to make sure my next loaf won't disappoint him.

Of course, my bread is better than those brought home because it is fresher. I have chosen a right bread maker after some research so that my baking would not discourage me. I have fun and been adventurous in trying out different recipes. I share conversation with guests on the success and failure about bread baking with machines. One thing that really surprises me though is my own persistence. Instead of letting my bread maker sitting idly there, we work together really hard year round.

Wanderlust

Daniela Grogg stayed in our b&b last August and at that time she told me she had been writing in her journey. She posted her journals in her blog. The trip started from June to September, from Atlanta of the United States to Canada, and back to New York in the United States. She traveled through more than twenty different States. While in Toronto, I remembered talking to her about less and less people sending written postcards these days when traveling. She got some postcards from us and promised to write. Of course I forgot the whole conversation.

But I was surprised to receive her letter last November. The letter included two postcards: a postcard by Ngan Chun-tung she got from us; another postcard of the Alpine landscape of Greina in Switzerland, which is her home country. On the back of the Greina Plateau postcard she wrote us a letter about her journey that ended in Spain in October, and that she was now busy putting together the traveling pictures. On the back of Ngan's postcard, she wrote down a poem she came across. It was "The Traveler" by the Spanish poet Antonio Machado (1875-1939).