Van Dongen: Painting the Town Fauve

After seeing the retrospective of Kees Van Dongen (1877-1968) at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, I am convinced that the title of this exhibit is very apropos. Strolling through the first rooms of his early drawings I was struck by Van Dongen’s special relationship with the cities where he lived and worked. Nathalie Bondil, one of the curators of the show, writes that Van Dongen depicts the psychological portrait of a ferocious, futile and factice society. Places of pleasure, Paris, Venice, Deauville and Monte Carlo are the backdrops for this theatre of mores.

The Fauves were a short-lived loose grouping of early 20th century Modern artists whose work emphasized painterly qualities and strong color. While most of the artists associated with the movement were mainly painters of nature, Van Dongen was interested in depicting human nature. With the exception of Matisse the human figure is a marginal element in Fauve painting. In Van Dongen’s case the opposite is true. In this exhibition the human condition is painted with a tone that often oscillates between sarcasm and denunciation.

The exhibition takes us into the world of the demimonde, of prostitutes, of single mothers, of people who lived on the fringe of society. We get to know Van Dongen the illustrator. His masterful drawing together with his swift brushwork, lend themselves to powerful illustrations. There is a book on display, described as a story for the young and old, about a single mother who turns to the streets to support her daughter. The book ends with the daughter following her mother’s footsteps.

The show is impeccably presented and I enjoyed the quotes printed on the walls above the paintings:

“Moi je suis comme une vache. Je regarde: je peins ce que je vois.”

“Paris m’attirait comme un phare.”

“Pour vivre, je dessinais dans les squares le portrait des promeneurs qui le voulaient bien et avec Picasso on étalaient nos toiles par terre près de Médrano. Prix unique à cent sous.”

“J’aime les belles femmes qui inspirent le désir charnel et la peinture m’en donne la posession la plus complète.”

“…comme je n’avais pas d’argent pour me payer des modèles professionnels, j’allais dans les bistrots ramasser les filles, qui pour un café crème, acceptaient de poser quelques heures.”

These snippets of writing, together with the paintings, illustrations, and photos of the artist, contain information that let us reconstruct Van Dongen’s life. I liked imagining the artist frequenting the nocturnal haunts that became the stages for his subjects. I could picture him devouring cities with his bestial appetite, getting to know the town from the fringes, painting the town Fauve.

Talleen Hacikyan

Virtual tour of the exhibition

Van Dongen: Painting the Town Fauve
Juanuary 22 to Aril 19, 2009
The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts

April’s Fish

In France April Fool’s is called Poisson d’avril, April’s fish. The French fool their friends by taping a paper fish onto their friends’ backs. This year for April Fool’s day I made myself a silver fish– a 925 sterling silver fish.

This was my first venture into jewelry making. For my birthday, my artsy friend Johanne (see my blog Johanne Weibrenner an Artist of All Trades) gave me a gift certificate that entitled me to go to her house and make a piece of silver jewelry, private lesson, materials, and jovial conversation included.

Johanne suggested that I begin practicing my cutting, soldering and filing skills by making a copper ring. I worked with some etched copper scraps that she had recuperated from Atelier Circulaire, our printmaking studio. I worked away until I fashioned what to my surprise actually looked like a ring.

My coach graduated me to silver. I decided to make a fish pendant. Johanne taught me how to shape silver wire, how to hammer it flat, how to cut pieces out of a silver sheet, and how to saw pieces. Sawing without breaking the thin blade is an art I have yet to master. Johanne guided me, “You’re applying too much pressure, ease up, always remember less is more!” She was very precise with instructions, “Saw like you’re playing violin…no, the cello!” I have never played either instrument but somehow this piece of advice worked because at one point it really felt as if I was cutting through butter.

Soldering was a challenge to say the least. During our first session, (my one session became two) we used a torch that shot a mighty dragon flame. For my second session Johanne had equipped herself with an ultra sophisticated jeweler’s torch with two valves, one for regulating oxygen, the other for propane. I loved using this device. Johanne was thrilled that the old one had now been relegated to the role of burning crème flambé. My fish turned out to be a complex project with many pieces so I got plenty of practice using the new torch.

This winter in New York I saw a fabulous Calder jewelry exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum. Most of the pieces featured a hammered surface. I tried my hand at pounding the middle strips of my fish with a ball pein hammer, to mock a scale texture.

By far my very favorite step was polishing my finished piece. As I child I used to love polishing our household silverware with Twinkle silver polish. Polishing with a mechanical polisher, with special paste, turned out to be double the fun. It didn’t get done in one shot; it happened in three progressive stages, with electrolyte baths in between (for my fish, not for me.)

At one point, as I was polishing I remembered visiting a silver mine in Potosi, Bolivia in 1992. A guide led my husband and I into the mine. Wearing a helmet and clutching my propane lamp I followed them into the obscure depths of that underground universe. We stopped at an altar where offerings of flowers had been made to protect the miners. The silver miners, who sometimes work up to ten hours a day, chew coca leaves to help alleviate the harsh conditions. Potosi is teaming with palliris, miner’s widows, and when we saw a man and a young boy crouched into the crooks and crannies of this previously silver- infested Cerro Rico, rich mountain, I understood how lives can end fast here. It was hard to see, hard to move, hard to breathe, hard to imagine a world beyond this dank dungeon situated at 4090 meters above sea level.

As the rotary wire brush polished my silver pendant it became warm in my hand, and oh so soft, and started shining like the moon. So strange that at the moment when my piece finally transformed into an object of beauty I remembered the Quechua Indians who mine this precious metal.

Back at the worktable for the final touch, Johanne handed me a 925 swan neck stamp, “You have to stamp 925 on your fish!” I placed the end of the stamp on the back of the fishtail and gave the other end a good whack with the hammer. “One more time, a little harder.” After this nerve-wracking yet satisfying step, my teacher inspected the punched numbers. “C’est bon!”

Talleen Hacikyan

Photos 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 by Johanne Weilbrenner, who did not want to be photographed because she was having a bad hair day!

Dolls and Art

Left to right: Fuzzy, Sleepy Baby, Mafoo

I’ve been thinking about dolls. Sitting in my living room, wondering what or whom to write about in my blog, my eyes kept focusing on the three dolls perpetually resting in an old Canadiana antique baby sleigh. My Godmother, Mayda, from New York, sent me Mafoo, my first doll. This rubber girl has aqua eyes that open and close, a molded bun that won’t even budge in a hurricane, and dimples on her knees. If you peek under her dress she looks anorexic now because all the air has come out of her. Sleepy Baby has a hard plastic face and a spongy body. In the 49 years that I have owned her she never once opened her eyes, at least not while I was looking. I used to cuddle her and fall asleep.

Four dolls

Fuzzy on the other hand, kept me wide-awake at night. I remember being in bed and making her dance in the dark, tossing her stringy hair all over the place like a Go-Go dancer. I worked her so hard that I had to bind her dislocated neck with a leather grip that I took off the handle of my Dad’s tennis racket. Mafoo, Sleepy Baby and Fuzzy are the survivor dolls that have followed me. There used to be countless others.

When I was growing up in St. Jean, Quebec, we used to have a genuine horse drawn sleigh in the basement. Much to my dismay we did not own a horse to go with it. My mother had painted the sleigh black with gold trim and had upholstered it in cherry red corduroy. It was inundated with my dolls–dolls that walked, slept, peed, and fed my imagination. Being an only child at the time, I enjoyed playing in this haven of surrogates. At times these children became my orphanage. Other times I became one of them and we would ride together as our team of horses galloped us off to the North Pole. We never did find Santa Clause’s house, however, Santa inevitably found our house on Christmas Eve. He always dumped the presents next to the sleigh, a convenient spot since it was located next to the chimney.

Through the years many dolls have come and gone from my life. Some have stayed, albeit in a plastic box in the crawl space of my basement. Today, for the sake of this blog, I contorted my body into Cirque de Soleil postures as I reached into the corner of my crawl space to dig out what remains of my diminished family of dolls. I found Jenny the redhead who would perennially crop up from my birthday cake, atop a cascade of chocolate icing. I discovered a nameless doll I sewed when I was in my twenties, back when I had that precious commodity called free time. I recovered a faded and barren matrioshka, Russian nesting doll. I found my itty-biddy plastic girls I bought in a dusty market in a Bolivian village, dolls with bottle cap faces from Cappadocia, Turkey, and dolls from Brazil, still in their never-opened original plastic bags!

What do dolls have to do with art? Everything. I am not referring to the art of doll making. I am thinking about the act of playing with dolls. As a child I would invent countless scenarios with my dolls, appropriate them with an array of emotions, in other words I expressed myself through them. These were not scenarios that I’d sit down and script. They happened on their own, and because I was never aware of being the instigator of these stories, these dolls appeared all the more real to me, with a will of their own.

When I create my prints I have a similar, intuitive approach. Yes, I may start with drawings before attacking my plate but at the sketching stage I try to be as free as I can, shutting off my personal sensors. When I transpose my drawn ideas to the plate, I continue the state of play as I rip the cardboard plate and glue on various materials. For my latest series, Animal Instincts, I cut out cardboard animals that became my plates. Several times as I manipulated my horses, wolves and cats, I remembered playing with paper dolls as a child. When I juxtapose my animals at the printing stage, again I am playing as I invent scenarios and create relationships.

When I look at my dolls now they don’t seem as alive as they used to. In fact they look dilapidated and smell musty, which is why they have been relegated to plastic bins. I really don’t need them anymore. Sometimes I do get the urge to play, but never with dolls. One of these days I want to make beaded necklaces, another activity reminiscent of my childhood. My husband recently bought me tons of beads, enough to string a necklace from here to Patagonia. Now all I need to do is make free time, an art I have yet to master!

Talleen Hacikyan

Street Heart

Today I wanted to stop all the running around that comes with being an artist.

Sometimes I feel as if I’m up against the wall.

I wanted to walk down the road of freedom.

Drain all my troubles away.

See beyond the writing on the wall.

Reflect.

Go places, even if that meant pretending to be a tourist in Old Montreal.

Talleen Hacikyan

Atelier-galerie Alain Piroir

I’m at Atelier-galerie Alain Piroir, about to interview the man who runs the show. Alain Piroir rolls two chairs to an inking table, sets his expresso cup on the glass surface. « Alors, qu’es-ce que tu veux savoir?» he asks. I ask about his stylish red glasses. « Dollarama,» he says, « I sat on the other ones!»

Everyone in the Quebec printmaking milieu knows Alain Piroir. The master printer, who moved to Montreal from Lyon fifteen years ago, is a gift to printmakers. When he immigrated he worked at Atelier Circulaire for eighteen months, which is where I met him for the first time.

During this period Alain landed a contract to print for Jean-Paul Riopelle. He worked for four months at L’Isle-aux-Grues, where Riopelle was living at the time. Task at hand: to set up a printmaking studio, provide technical assistance to the artist, and to print the bon à  tirer proofs which would become part of the artist’s book, Le Cirque, written by Gilles Vigneault. Once a print meets the artist’s expectations, this becomes a bon à tirer, « good to pull » proof. There were days when Riopelle wasn’t very motivated to work on his copper etchings, however, says Alain, the legendary Quebec artist was pleasant to work with. Alain printed the entire edition of the book in Montreal with his daughter, Agathe, Elmyna Bouchard, and Yann.

Casgrain Street

After this Herculean project Alain established his own printshop on St. Denis Street. Since then he has moved his studio twice, once to Mt.Royal Street, a hop away from the effervescent buzz of the Main, and then to Casgrain, across from Atelier Circulaire.

I have had the pleasure of working with Alain in all of his studios. I remember the day I brought my son, four months old at the time, to the St.Denis location. Pablo had fallen asleep in the car. I carried my sleeping babe–bundled in his snowsuit and strapped into his car seat–and propped him on the kitchen floor, expecting the usual hour-long nap. I was itching to help Alain print, dying to get my hands dirty with something other than a diaper change. Alain warned me not to print. Having been a parent for longer than me, he knew what he was talking about. Just as I started dabbing my Pthalo blue ink on my collagraph plate, Pablo started to cry!

Fortunately I have had many other chances to work with Alain. Through the years he has gotten to know my work. I am always amazed at how quickly he can grasp the mental image of what I want and turn it into a real, live print. I can describe a color, or a group of colors, and he mixes away until the hues appear. He is steady, indefatigable, an impeccable technician, and never imposes his own esthetic. The most exciting printing sessions were when he printed my large formats, one of which will be on exhibit at my upcoming show. Two words to express the experience of having my work printed by Alain: pure luxury.

Twelve years have gone by since I took my baby to Alain’s studio. My son is taller than me now. Atelier-galerie Alain Piroir has also grown. Its present location on Casgrain Street boasts a sweeping eighth-floor view of Mile End, set against the undulating backdrop of Mount Royal. The wall-to-wall windows invite a flood of sunlight into this magnificent loft, that includes a unique gallery space. At night, the atmosphere is nothing short of magical as the view transforms into a glittering urban galaxy. Can you tell I am trying to lure you to my March 6 vernissage at Atelier-galerie Alain Piroir?

This printshop is practically a museum. Some people collect stamps. Alain collects presses. He owns six etching presses, one typography press, paper and metal cutters, and an impressive two-hundred year old binding press. Each press has a story. Three of them traveled to Quebec from France by boat. If you think that is a poetic image, wait until I tell you about another story that involves a boat and presses. Attendez! That’s my hook to keep you reading! Among the presses that were shipped from France there is an adorable mini Bertrand that would look very smart in my living room. Agathe, who is wiping a Martin Muller plate, points out that her father designed the press with the wooden frame. Alain explains that he created it in France out of scrap, at a time when he had lost all his presses. It is an unusual looking contraption but I would never have guessed its humble origins. Alain has come a long way since those days. His impressive collection includes two Ledeuils, one of which used to belong to Albert Dumouchel.

Alain, originally trained in marquetry, went on to study fine arts for five years in Lyon. After earning his Diplôme nationale de gravure in 1974, he moved to Paris, where he worked as a printer for seven years at Georges Visat’s art publishing studio. He printed bon à tirer proofs for big names such as Francis Bacon, Max Earnst, and Roberto Matta.

After returning to Lyon, where he opened his own studio, Alain printed and published prints for the next fifteen years. At this point he wanted a change. His dream project was to buy a barge and set up a printshop on it. He wanted to print, publish and travel all in one shot! Instead of buying a peniche, he immigrated to Montreal, where he got to do all of those three things! I ask him if he still dreams of turning the wheel of a press as his barge advances languidly through an exotic canal. He smiles, as if saying, «Anything is possible.»

If he decided to do it, I think he could do it. It takes a real visionary to have gotten to where he is now. Printmaking is not dead but let’s just say that it takes a lot of love, passion, conviction, and perseverance to keep it alive! Alain and Agathe are forever full of projects, always striving to increase visibility, reputation, and let’s not forget income.

Agathe, an artist, printer, and mother of two young children, has been working with her father for several years now. When she was fifteen she worked at his Lyon studio. After immigrating to Montreal with him, she printed for a while in New York. When she returned to Montreal she opened her own printshop, where she worked for five years. I ask her about the nature of her collaboration with her father. She leans into the wheel of the press as she ponders this serious question. « We have differences in the day-to-day functioning of little things, but globally we share the same vision.»

Alain agrees, giving the example of art publishing as one of their goals. He has already published prints of high-profile artists such as Louis-Pierre Bougie, Francine Simonin, and Martin Muller, and done co-editions with Galerie Éric Develin and Galerie Lacerte. Now he wants to publish prints for international artists and organize related events to attract the media and art collectors.

I look forward to exhibiting my latest show, Animal Instincts, at Atelier-gallery Alain Piroir. I am anxious to see my prints, hot off the press, hanging in this glorious space. I can’t wait to share the sparkling nocturnal view with you on Friday March 6.

Talleen Hacikyan

ANIMAL INSTINCTS
Atelier-galerie Alain-Piroir

March 3 to 28, 2009
Vernissage: Friday March 6, 5:00-7:00 pm

5333, Casgrain Street, suite 802
(Two blocks east of St. Laurent, one block north of Fairmount)
514 276-3494

Photos # 1, 2, and 4 by Claude Arsenault

Three shows or Embarassment of Riches

So, how busy am I? My show, Maisons modèles, opened at the Maison de la culture du Plateau-Mont-Royal on January 29. For more info on that you can read the article in Le Plateau. My exhibit of illustrations from Tork Angegh opened at Atelier Circulaire on February 8. On March 3, my show, Animal Instincts, will open at Atelier-galerie Alain Piroir. Whenever I get tempted to feel a hint overwhelmed I think of women who have three children in a row…or triplets! Then I realize that this is a relative breeze. I can have three shows in a row, bang, bang, bang. At least I don’t have to feed, burp, and diaper my artwork and at the end of my busy day I go to bed and sleep peacefully the whole night through!

Speaking of kids, on Sunday, my son, Pablo, came to Atelier Circulaire to help me hang the illustration show. We lugged 21 framed pieces from the car to the fifth floor of 5445 de Gaspé Avenue. Fellow artist, Wing, was quick to suggest stretching string across the wall as a guide for our nails. When I hear good advice I follow it. At one point I sat down while Pablo hammered the two rows of nails. Just then Stella passed by and said that I looked like a queen. At that moment I did feel quite regal, almost as regal as Haykanush on her wedding day. If you want to see what she wore on the day of her marriage to Tork Angegh, you have to come to Atelier Circulaire and see for yourself in the final image in this perfectly hung sequence of illustrations!

Exhibiting these works at my own studio is a wonderful experience. Every time I pass the gallery, invariably on my way to the kitchen to brew a pot of brown rice tea, someone comments on the show. The artists at my studio know Talleen the printmaker and are surprised to discover Talleen the illustrator. Up to now, my favorite comment came from Frederique: “I didn’t know you could draw!”

Whenever I sit at the kitchen table I can see and contemplate my exhibition. I feel a sense of pride and also a sense of relief that I got through that challenging, stimulating, yet at times arduous project.

Stella, Wing, and Roberto suggested that I use the showcase on the ground floor to advertise my show. When I was little I used to think that it would be cool to be a window dresser. I told Wing I could display my book in the showcase with a bottle of expensive wine or maybe some plastic sushi to lure people up to the fifth floor studio. The promise of food and drink always works. Then I thought of changing the display every day. My final idea was to stand in there for a whole day in a fancy evening gown showing my book the way the gals would show off prizes on The Price is Right. I saw a Ritzy version of that trick in a New York jewelry shop on Fifth Avenue. I don’t know where they found that stunning, blonde woman. She was a real head-turner in that long, black gown and that glittering diamond choker as she leaned against a shiny grand piano. For now, I have a copy of Tork Angegh in the window…and this blog to attract visitors to the show.

On a more mundane note, these days it’s quite easy to find parking spots around Atelier Circulaire. O.K. I’m feeling generous–on Henri-Julien, between Laurier and Maguire. Between April 1 and December 1, when parking bylaws become stricter, it is not unusual to circle the area for up to 20 minutes before parking and finally feeling the bliss of pavement beneath your feet. This morning I literally had a choice of three parking spots. I had the luxury of choosing the big one, on the left, perfectly shoveled by an unknown citizen of Mile End. I thought to myself, parking these days is so easy it’s not even fun anymore. The intensity of the challenge equals the intensity of pleasure when that challenge has been met. The point being, when my third show opens on March 3, I should be flying pretty high. Come check out my flight pattern. In the meantime, you have two other shows to choose from. L’embarras du choix, which translates into a strange expression I have never heard–embarrassment of riches.

Talleen Hacikyan

Animal Instincts
Atelier-galerie Alain-Piroir
5333, rue Casgrain, suite 802
514 276-3494
March 3 to 28, 2009
Vernissage: Friday March 6, 5:00 to 9:00 pm

Maisons modèles
Maison de la culture du Plateau-Mont-Royal
465, avenue du Mont-Royal
514 872-2266
January 29 to March 8, 2009

Illustrations for Tork Angegh
Atelier Circulaire
5445 de Gaspé Avenue, Fifth floor
514 272-5413
February 8 to 28, 2009

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

Tork Angegh and Orhan Pamuk

On December 16, the Sanahin branch of the Hamazkayin Armenian Cultural Association hosted the Tork Angegh book launch and exhibition at the Armenian Community Centre. This was the first time I hung a show on the same evening as the event. This, coupled with unusually heavy traffic on Decarie North, the Metropolitan, and the 15 North, en route to the community centre, had a jolting effect on my central nervous system!

Once my twenty-one illustrations were hung, and the spotlights were installed and directed onto the frames, I took a deep sigh of relief. Varty, Garo, Seta, and Anahid were most efficient and pleasant to work with.

Before the talks, the public had a chance to look at the exhibition. People were curious about my technique– a combination of acrylic, collage, and hand-stamp printing.

Stephan Daigle, Annouchka Galouchko, Talleen

The event was organized by the Hamazkayin literary committee, and coordinated and presented by Varty Tanielian. Varty got the evening rolling by talking about Ghazaros Aghayan (1840-1911), the writer who recorded Tork Angegh. Aghayan wrote novels, poetry, textbooks, children’s stories, and had a special talent for retelling folktales, in a way that emphasized their inherent social and moral values. The most famous of these retellings is Tork Angegh.

Varty Tanieleian

Varty went on to present my father, Agop Hacikyan. He had warned her not to dwell on his achievements, to save that for his eulogy! But strong-willed as she is, she read four pages worth of claims to fame, from his novels and translations, to his two-year appointment at the United Nations in Geneva in charge of the official languages of the organization, to his year of traveling around the globe with the National Defence College of Canada. When he finally got up to speak he said, “Well, I guess I’m dead now, so I can’t speak!” Somehow he managed to talk about the art of literary translation. He explained that a literary translator does not translate words; he or she translates meaning. . Last year he edited contemporary Armenian short stories by writers of Armenia, translated into English by Armenian translators in Armenia. Agop said that while their effort and the proficiency of English was commendable, the translators lacked the needed cultural background in order to make the translation meaningful. They did not have these cultural references because they did not have a chance to be exposed to them, due to lack of financial support. This was one of the main points that he underlined; it was more of an appeal than a formal presentation. He asked Armenian cultural organizations to provide funding for the translation of Armenian literature.

Talleen, Agop Hacikyan

Three of Varty’s students did a marvelous job of reading excerpts of Tork Angegh in Armenian. I read three excerpts in English. In the restaurant next door there was a party– a lively party, with dance music that seeped through the wall, into our hall very successfully! It was incongruent reading about summertime on the summit of Lok mountain, the “numerous fountains, pure and crystalline,” and the shepherd flute that was singing “but one song: Love! Love!” to the backbeat of the Village People belting out, “Y.M.C.A.” Thank God for my microphone. At one point during Varty’s talk, I went to the restaurant, walked across the dance floor through strobe lights–resisting the urge to dance the night away–and kindly requested the DJ to turn down the volume, which he did, for a while.

When Varty presented me, she traced my interest in art and writing to my parents’ creative endeavors and to the trips and museum visits I was exposed to at an early age. Next, I spoke about my experience illustrating Tork Angegh. I described what I wrote in my previous blog, « Tork Angegh Book Launch and Exhibition. »

I also told the audience that after posting that blog I got the most interesting comment from Nicole Milette, an artist at Atelier Circulaire. She asked me if I had read Orhan Pamuk’s My Name is Red. Nicole said that my illustrations reminded her of this novel. This is incredible! Not only have I read it. Not only is it one of my all time favorite novels. I was reading it when I was illustrating Tork Angegh. This 417-page story became my companion and source of strength during the sometimes-difficult illustration sessions. My Name is Red is a historical novel about miniaturists in the Ottoman Empire. Events revolve around the murder of one of them, Elegant Effendi. The characters have poetic names such as Kara (black in Turkish), Butterfly, Stork, and Olive. These artists had it hard. Besides one of them getting murdered, many of them suffered eminent or actual blindness from painting such detailed images. Their pain made me realize that I had it good in my little heated studio in my home. These characters gave me strength. So did the shear imaginative power of Pamuk. The author compares illustration to the afterlife. He says that through both people aspire to achieve a sense of eternity. I did not set out to become eternal through my illustrations. All I know is that I am glad that I made them and that they have found a home in the form of a book.

Centre: Varty, Agop, Talleen, surrounded by organizers
Front : Students who read

Talleen Hacikyan