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When I Dined With An Olympic Silver Medal Winner

I once had the privilege to dine with two of Canada’s preeminent artists. I say privilege and not pleasure, because I soon realized I was out of my depth. I was more apprehensive than not concerning the conversation, and decided I’d best resort to asking a series of not too stupid questions.

This is not casting any negative aspersions upon my hosts. They were both charming and witty. And kind. And the meal was great.

I had been asked to supper by Helen Weinzweig, a formidable author who took fiction into unexpected directions. We were both among the instructors at a week-long writing workshop. I had been asked to say a few words of thanks to her at the end of a reading. Her noted book at the time was entitled “Basic Black With Pearls” which, according to the New York Review Books, is ” . . .recognized as a feminist landmark”. Helen  and I got along very well, so I figured I could slide into a bit of gaucheness with her. During my thanks, I presented her with the best string of pearls that one could purchase at Zellers. And made sure they were in a black box. She did a double take, no doubt to make certain they were fake (though I like to think she had a fleeting thought they might be real).

Her husband, John Weinzweig, was a well-established composer of classical music. His compositions were cutting edge, and often did not fit comfortably into the conventional ouvre. I’m guessing neither one of them had a mundane thought or opinion. There were certainly none presented that night. Which was both a joy and a trial to me.

Oh – and the food was great.

However, it was only yesterday that I found out John Weinzweig won a silver medal at the Olympics. In 1948. A Silver Medal for Music. Specifically for Instrumental and Chamber Music, with his piece ‘ Divertimento No. 1 . As it turned out, 1948 was the last year such “Art” medals were awarded.

I do like to think that, if I had known at the time, I would not have been gauche enough to ask to see it.

DE

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Kafka Had Sex and Sex and More Sex

I had personal communication today, where the new translation of Kafka’s Diaries ( https://archive.is/BELrL) was discussed.

The original diary, published after his death by his closest friend, Max Brod, was ‘altered and censored’ to make him appear to be a saint. Interpretations of some of the new material disclosed can (in certain circles) imply that Kafka was either asexual, or interested in men.

Not (of course) that sex interests me, but I will point out that Kafka had more than a fair share of sexual encounters, both from professional ladies, to a reasonably steady stream of female companions, the last of whom had to held back from leaping into his open grave.

It is true he does also seem to feel that sex is a weakness of the flesh, and thus (perhaps) below the purity of a true artist. Maybe it was more than just his desire to write, that kept him up so late most nights. He was uncomfortable having sexual relations, but that did not stop his pursuits.

DE

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Reality and Art and the World Between

THE REALITY: (from REALITY)

A few years ago I had cause to walk the grounds of a Catholic college. I did this often, as it was a large and peaceful place to wander. There were some paths, some gardens, some benches, wide playing fields and even a stroll beside a river. A peaceful retreat from the city.

I did meet one ancient priest telling his beads (there was a ‘retirement’ residence also present) who gave me a jovial ‘good day’. He was walking the paths through the trees (as was I) and eventually settled on a bench (as  I did not). I kept through the trees, which were really planted in individual copses. enjoying refuge from the sun. The trees seemed to be all pines, with full and tightly packed branches. As I went through one such group of firs, I looked between the trees. There was a statue on the other side. I circled and went up to it. As I approached I was overcome with the oddest feeling of familiarity, though I knew I could never had been there before.

And then.

And then I realized what it was.

It was a scene I had created for my two ‘Satan’ novels. A central character has the statue of an angel within a copse of firs in his back yard. My novel has an angel statue ,and reality had the Virgin Mary. But, still . . .

I’ve written of many real places which I have visited, but none took me so aback as this.

THE ART: (from THERE HAS BEEN A SIGHTING)

Mr. S. unexpectedly takes her arm, and begins to lead her along a winding, flagstone path. She has never seen such large pieces of the stone, and they glisten as if polished.
The path skirts a small stand of black spruce before it continues to the river. He stops her at the mouth of a gravel walkway leading through the trees.
“Let’s pop in here.”
“Your little acre of the Black Forest?”
“Hardly an acre.”
“Precision.” Breeze laughs. “Whatever would my father think of you?”
“Does any father think well of any man when his daughter is concerned?”
“Probably not.”
“No,” agrees Mr. S. “So not to worry.”
“He would think even less of someone leading his daughter down the garden path,” observes Breeze.
“That would be before he saw what I am about to show you.”
Mr. S. holds her arm tightly, and guides her onto the gravel walk. It leads directly to the base of a tree, then makes an abrupt curve between the largest of the spruce.
One of the boughs is so low Breeze ducks her head. She has the sensation of being in the midst of a forest, for the heavy branches obscure the surroundings.
“If I may be permitted a moment of drama.”
Mr. S. covers her eyes and speaks softly.
“Will you turn to your right, and take a few steps?”
Even though he had asked, Breeze is startled as he gently eases her forward, and she feels a slight urge to resist him. Her steps are more cautious than the gravel walkway demands, and the press of his body is noticeable. She counts her footsteps under her breath. She is surprised when they stop at half a dozen, and he quickly removes his hand.
“She’s beautiful.” Breeze stares, open-mouthed.
“Yes.” Mr. S. is pleased. “I think so, too.”
“An angel in the woods.”
“The angel of peace.” Mr. S. walks her around the statue. “Not at all bad for a knockoff.” He pauses behind the wings.
“A knockoff?”
“A reproduction.” He puts his foot on the pedestal, and leans forward. “I don’t really know how old it is. Certainly last century – possibly before.” He points to the blue folds. “I’ve had the paint cleaned and touched up. Is it too garish?”
“It … it stands out.” Breeze hunts for a word. “Let’s call it vibrant.”
DE

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