Exhibition at La Maison de la culture du Plateau-Mont-Royal

It’s show time. That special time when every activity revolves around the final stages of orchestrating a solo show. Updating the list of invitees, making sure I don’t send any to Mr. and Mrs. so and so when the couple has split up, or worse still, when one of them has died. Then there is postal code detection. At least I don’t have to go all the way to the post office anymore to consult the fat book of postal codes from across the province of Quebec. The answers to my postal code queries are virtually at the clicks of my fingertips.

The invitations and press releases have been sent. The prints are framed, hanging and awaiting fame and glory under the spotlights. The artist will get a good night’s sleep and try not to have the classic pre-vernissage nightmare where prints fall to pieces like Humpty Dumpty.

Only artists who like to live dangerously have solo shows in Quebec between the months of December and March. It’s always a bit of a gamble with Mother Nature. Will the vernissage be blessed with a snow blizzard? There isn’t a snowstorm in the forecast for tomorrow’s opening. I just got back from the Plateau and according to all the orange No Parking signs that have been planted into snow banks, the City of Montreal will carry out its snow removal ceremonies de 19h à 7h! So come one come all, to the Maison de la culture du Plateau-Mont-Royal for the royal treatment and for a treat for your eyes and soul.

Maisons modèles
Exhibition of collagraphs and monoprints
Maison de la culture du Plateau-Mont-Royal
January 29 to March 8 2009
Vernissage Saturday January 31 from 2:00 to 5:00 p.m

Talleen Hacikyan

Making Coney Island Memories

“I wanna go to Coney Island!” I kept pestering my husband, Diego, even before we stepped off our New York-bound Greyhound. Put me anywhere near a major body of water and I will gravitate toward it. When I was in Bruges, Belgium, two summers ago, I lured Diego and our son, Pablo, to the North Sea.

Zeebrugge

La mer du nord! The very words sound so lulling. We rented bicycles and rode on bike paths along the canals, for 15 kilometers, past windmills and grazing horses, to Zeebrugge. The spectacular shore, the powdery atmosphere, and the sensational lemon mango sorbet cones made the long ride worth the effort.

It was much easier to get to the Atlantic Ocean from New York City, than it was to cycle from Bruges to Zeebrugge. It was a surreal experience to hop on a subway in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and end up in Coney Island, a mere twenty minutes later.

I had never been to Coney Island so it isn’t as if I had any nostalgic memories attached to the place. Somehow, accounts of other people’s memories must have seeped into my consciousness, and I vaguely remember scenes from a film taking place there, or somewhere that conjures the same sense of bygone days of seaside pleasure.

On January 1, on the second to last day of our trip, we went to Coney Island. After days of intense museum visits I felt I had earned the right to let loose at the beach. We missed the spectacle of the polar bear bathers. The Coney Island Polar Bear Club is a group of wild souls who brave the frigid waters of the Atlantic throughout winter. On New Year’s Day other crazy people join in the fun. I did catch a glimpse of one twenty-something guy still high after having dipped into the water. He was on the beach with some friends, towel drying his hair. Let me add that this was a crispy-cold day. I overheard him tell a curious passerby, “This was the best thing I did all year (I suppose he meant 2008 because 2009 was only fifteen hours old.) It’s warmer in there than it is out here!!!!!”

We appreciated the water without entering it. We walked along the beach, collected clamshells, played tag with the seagulls. Pablo found a horseshoe crab shell. I took tons of photos. We walked along the boardwalk.

While Pablo bought a hot dog and onion rings from a food stand, a group of protestors chanted, “Save Coney Island, save Coney Island.” The food stand vendor explained that developers want to tear down Astroland and build a new amusement park. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us,” he said, clearly worried.

Although Coney Island used to be an island, today it is a peninsula, located in southernmost Brooklyn, with a beach on the Atlantic Ocean. It is also a neighborhood with a population of 60,000, made up of Russians, African Americans, Hispanics and West Indians. Coney Island was an important resort and site of amusement parks that reached its peak in the early 20th century.

I love the sound of the words Coney Island. Native American inhabitants, the Lenape, called the island Narrioch, land without shadows. This is because its compass orientation keeps the beach drenched in sunlight throughout the day. The Dutch name for the island was Conye Eylandt, Rabbit Island, because the area used to be teaming with wild rabbits. Rabbit hunting was common until the development of resorts eliminated most of the open space. Coney is also an obsolete and dialectal English word for rabbit. Even though the history of Coney Island’s name can be traced to historical maps there are people who contend that the name derives from other sources. Some say that the cone-like hills inspired early English settlers to come up with the name.

The only hill formations I saw were the undulating wooden tracks of the Cyclone roller coaster, featuring an 85-foot drop. It was built in 1927 and is still running today. As soon as we stepped out of the subway, at West 8th Street station, Diego noticed the towering red Parachute Jump. “Look!” he said, as he photographed the unusual landmark, “The Eiffel Tower!” The Parachute Jump ride was built for the 1939 New York World’s Fair and has been closed since 1968. Between 2002 and 2004 it was dismantled, painted and restored. Diego was not so far off the mark; the Parachute Jump is referred to as “Brooklyn’s Eiffel Tower.”

We visited the New York Aquarium, located right on the boardwalk. Pablo found real live horseshoe crabs, along with other delightful creatures, such as walruses. I had never seen such a variety of sea horses and was fascinated to discover that it is the male seahorse that becomes pregnant, not the female. The Alien Stingers exhibit of jellyfish is mesmerizing and could easily win first prize at the Venice Biennale contemporary art exhibition.

Once we resurfaced from our underwater exploration at the aquarium we ran around on the shore for one last time, put more shells and sand into our pockets, and rode the subway to Chinatown. As our train crossed the Manhattan Bridge I looked at my son sitting opposite me. Behind him the six o’clock sky boasted a trace of orange that highlighted the majestic skyline. He had that tuckered-out-but-content look to him. I may not have childhood memories of Coney Island, but one day Pablo will.

Talleen Hacikyan

Aquarium videos and photo by Pablo

The Cats of New York

After gallivanting New York for twelve days, from Queens, through Manhattan, to Coney Island, Brooklyn, I want to write about cats. At first sight New York appears to be void of cats. Even the Broadway musical that mewed all the way to the bank is currently closed.

My son, Pablo, however, has a sixth sense for detecting animals in any setting, whether he is in a Laurentian forest or the New York subway. My husband, Diego, took Pablo to the Metropolitan museum to see the collection of armor.

Berkeley Street, Park Slope

At the end of the day, we met at our apartment—a fabulous sublet in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where I did not unfortunately bump into Paul Auster, who lives in this quaint neighborhood. Gathered in our cozy living room, aglow with Christmas tree lights, I asked Pablo, “What did you see today?” My son’s face lit up, “In the Met…” I was elated to see what an impact this cultural outing had made on him. As this thought flashed through my brain, I heard Pablo add the syllable ro to met. I figured he hadn’t been in the city long enough to realize that most New Yorkers refer to this museum as the Met.

As I waited for him to pronounce politan, followed by the wonders of fifth century Japanese, and Medieval European armor, I grasped what Pablo said: “In the metro I saw a rat!” He was as excited as an archeologist unearthing the missing shard of an Etruscan vase. I was glad I was spared his discovery of subterranean wildlife. My rodent-free bliss didn’t last long, however. The following day, while we were waiting for the Q train on the platform of the Canal Street subway, Pablo spotted another rat, “Oh look, he’s licking the root beer off the can!” As if that wasn’t enough, about a foot away from this soda-addicted creature, Pablo detected a mouse’s head gnawing away at something under the metal track. I say mouse, but it could have been a baby rat.

A couple of days later we visited the New York Transit Museum, in Brooklyn, a must-see for anyone with or without kids. Between the three of us we rode the New York subway 99 times, thanks to our 14-day unlimited passes. It was interesting to learn about how this ultra efficient transport network was constructed. This intriguing museum is housed in a decommissioned 1936 subway station in downtown, Brooklyn. The collection includes 19 restored subway cars, dating from 1904 to 1964. We visited the cars, bouncing on springy, wicker upholstered seats, and contemplating the nostalgic advertisements.

There was an over-abundance of soap and detergent ads for everything from the face to nylon stockings. At the end of the platform, in a dim corner, on a blanket draped over a crate, Pablo spotted a curled up, grey cat. We asked the museum guard about the cat. The young woman was happy to provide information: “Oh, yes, that’s Subway Sadie. She belongs to the museum.”

Pablo wanted to know if she caught her own food in the genuine, albeit defunct tunnel. “Oh, no, there isn’t much to be found here. We feed her real cat food,” which got me pondering about real versus fake cat food. I imagined a colorful bag with a silky Siamese printed on it, and live vitamin-enriched mice scrambling inside.

I have trouble believing that Subway Sadie doesn’t get to feast on the occasional mouse. We have a friend who lives in an elegant apartment, across from Prospect Park. This is a nice building, with a swanky lobby with a porter and a revolving Christmas tree. I was surprised when he told us that a mouse used to hang out at their flat. I was even more amazed to find out how he finally managed to catch it. He didn’t lure it with Swiss, French, or Dutch cheese. He had better luck with Maltesers, chocolate covered malt biscuit balls.

On a balmy day, tropical by Quebec standards, Pablo spotted another cat, this time above ground, on Park Avenue and 79th Street--a robust, massive, stately feline. Not a tabby, or a calico, but a bronze, sculpted by none other than Fernando Botero. There is nothing shy or reclusive about El Gato, who stands proudly amidst the sky-tickling Manhattan buildings. Perhaps El Gato is Subway Sadie’s alter ego. Maybe when Sadie retreats to the quiet corners of the New York Transit Museum, she dreams that after her nine lives come to a gentle end, she becomes reincarnated into a gigantic bronze cat, stationed in front of the Metropolitan Museum, near the fountains. She pictures children and honeymooners climbing on her back and posing for that perfect snapshot, the one with the hotdog stand in the background. I wonder if Botero knows about Subway Sadie. I’m not taking any chances. I’m going to immortalize Subway Sadie myself, in a print.

We’ve been back from New York for a week. I can’t sleep at night, too charged with the art I saw and the art I want to make. The city has seeped into my bloodstream. I can’t wait to return. A friend of a friend has proposed to let us stay in her Manhattan apartment, the next time she leaves on vacation. I look forward to this opportunity. The apartment will be extremely affordable since we will be staying there in exchange for taking care of two wonderful cats. This place promises to be cheap…and rodent free!

Talleen Hacikyan