Insight

Thanks to a discussion I had with an artist on dA, I offer you my insight for the day. Or week. Or however long it takes for me to come up with another vaguely insightful journal entry.

I had an illustration teacher in high school who was often quite sage, despite continuing to wear the same polyester pantsuits he'd been wearing since 1973. He particularly liked me, maybe because I could see beyond lavender and plaid, and he let me sit in with him when he graded students' work (mine included). "I give ---- a good grade because he's clearly done good work; the composition is good, the flow is dynamic. But he's in a rut. It's the same exact thing, with different characters, every time. He shows no growth. Artists have to grow. Their work has to develop. Even Disney wants a well-rounded portfolio from their artists, more than big eyes and Barbie waists, even if that's all they'll end up drawing..."

A movie review of Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire is not City of God, so if you didn't like the latter, you might still like the former. I loved the latter, by the way. As far as I know, Slumdog Millionaire is not based on a true story, although there is arguably a lot of truth in it, but instead based on the prize winning novel Q & A.

The film uses a creative and non-linear approach to telling the protagonist's story, which I won't go into, through flash-back and recollections juxtaposed with the present. I often dislike the flashback approach, but this works, telling many stories that build the whole. The cinematography is outstanding. Often quick and jarring, it's never nauseating, pretentious or overdone (by which I mean there's none of that spinning, shaking or ridiculous crane shots). The editing does what it's supposed to do, enhance the telling of the story, and at no time is the story subsumed by look-at-me-aren't-I-clever shots or unnecesary artistry. It feels very honest, all the way through, which is important because one of the film's themes is honesty.

The acting is good. I won't say that it's great, because it's not, but it is better than adequate and, in the case of the children, who were/are slum-dwellers in real life, utterly delightful and humourous as only kids can be. The lead, Dev Patel, is very good. At first I wasn't sure of him, but he totally folded me into the story. He's not ridiculously handsome - he's believably cute in a real-person kind of way. He's a little bit goofy looking. The female lead, Freida Pinto, had apparently never acted before, although she's an Indian fashion model. She's not bad. She fulfills the need of being beautiful while not taking away from the film. Once again, I want to stress that the kids are fantastic. The Brits are amazing at finding the perfect, real, natural children to play in film and they did a great job with this one, too.

Slumdog Millionaire is really good. You should go see it. It makes a perfect date movie, being equal parts action, drama, comedy and love story. I have no idea if it deserved the Oscars it won - I didn't see any of the other nominated films - but it was an excellent film and undeniably deserves praise.

Not so festive spirit

This time last year, I was struggling with spending my first 'stmas away from home, up in the Yukon. It was a nice enough time with friends up there, but I desperately missed being surrounded by old friends and family. As you can imagine, I was quite excited for this year's holidays because I'd be home again. Unfortunately, my delight has been tempered by a schedule too busy for card-making and most recently, sad news.

Two close friends of the family are in hospital. One is in varying health, up one day, down the next. She might be dying. It's unclear. The other is my mother's best friend, Julie, who has always been like a close aunt to me. She was just admitted to hospital with kidney stones for which they may have to operate. This is the same Julie who had the massive stroke a few years back. Julie's latest health concern was almost too much for my mother to process as only two days before, we'd heard from another close friend's husband...

Saturday morning, we lost a close friend to what was apparently cardiac arrest. While none of us were surprised by her death - alcoholism had been taking its toll for some time - the timing and how quickly it happened were pretty shocking. We have been estranged from this friend and her husband for a couple of years now as the drinking was almost intollerable. In recent months, there had even been discussion among other mutual friends about an intervention. For almost a decade, my family, another family and this couple had done Christmas dinner together. She was welcoming to my mother when my mom first moved to Peterborough and helped my mother when she had her stroke. It's been a tragic decline watching as the booze changed her. An autopsy is being conducted on her and I won't be at all shocked if it comes back that she had more than just alcohol in her system. You don't drink the way she did if you're happy with your life. What a terrible waste of an intelligent, funny woman.

I pray that our hospitalised friends regain their health and return to their normal lives for the new year. It might be selfish, but I admit I don't know if I can handle more than one funeral over the holidays.

Other than that, I'll be spending my time with my mother and with close friends. My cats are already in Peterborough visiting their 'cousin' Willy. Apparently, they're getting along all right. I plan on writing my final paper of the taught portion of my degree, which is due the 7th of January, as well as putting together a workplan for the upcoming exhibits at ML. I should probably write my draft for the exhibition, too. So, I'll be busy, but at least I'll be able to sleep in.

I sincerely hope your holiday is full of love and good health. Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, etc.

Lest We Forget

My mother was born in Holland just weeks before the outbreak of war in 1940. As a child she spoke both English and Dutch. Her father, Jan, her aunt, Ina, her uncle, Gert, and the family doctor, Dr. De Groot, were all involved in the Resistance. Prior to that, her father was rode out to meet the German Army as a member of the mounted infantry and witnessed first hand (and with much disgust) as the Dutch cannons were quickly overpowered by German tanks.

I am, of course, half Jewish, thanks to my father. His family was in the USA already when war broke out and none of his immediate family was on active duty. But they had immigrated only a generation before from all the places under siege, and though I never had the chance to speak about the war with any of them, I am sure friends and family left behind suffered and died in battle and as victims of the Holocaust.

The summer of 1995, 50 years after liberation, my mother and I travelled to Holland to visit family. That summer was a drought and it was hot and dry and everywhere the normally verdant gardens and meadows were scorched and brown. On one day, we went with my mother's uncle to a small war cemetery not far from our family's home and abutting the German border. It's in one of the few hilly places in Holland. I had never visited a war grave before and although it was small, perhaps no more than 1000 graves, it was no less affecting. White headstones stretching out in carefully tended plots, cared for by school children, bearing crosses and stars of David and other symbols of faith. Most of the buried were Canadian soldiers. And there, just over the next hill, was Germany. It was deeply affecting and I carry still the memory of my outrage at the loss, the disrespect of human life, the utter insanity of the Nazi cause. Tears of rage coursed my cheeks as I screamed at the rolling hills beyond.

War and armed conflict are abhorant to me. If as much money were poured into diplomacy and peace-activities as is currently spent on war, I have no doubt this world would be a very different, better place. I am non-violent, which is not, by the way, the same as being a pacifist, but believe in standing up for one's beliefs and rights and in defense of that which is held dear. I could not imagine serving in Canada's armed forces, or any armed forces for that matter, although if it were a requirement of active citizenship, I probably would not oppose it. All that aside, regardless of whether or not I agree with the missions, I support the men and women who join and who are willing to fight. And I am grateful to the sacrifices of the past, the tremendous, bloody sacrifices men and women have made in defense of Canada, the world, and humanity.

Lest we forget.

When in Rome, eat your KD with ketchup

I just made (and ate) a pot of Kraft Dinner. As I poured ketchup on it I suddenly remembered a moment from my youth.

It was the summer of 1992, the summer I turned 15, memorable for a number of reasons, not the least an incredibly scary riding accident that could have killed me and for being indirectly struck by lightning. This has nothing to do with either event.

That summer I was lucky enough to attend a session at an incredibly posh riding camp in the Ottawa valley. It was the kind of camp that brought rich kids from around North America (and the Caribbean, if I recall), including diplomats' children, a number of whom brought their own horses for the entire summer. In one way, however, it was just like most camps: food was questionable at best.

Except for their macaroni and cheese. It's damned hard to screw it up, even in bulk. Mac & cheese was a saving grace. We all looked forward to it. I was sitting with other girls my age and two of them were from the USA. One was a strawberry-blonde princess from one of the Carolinas, I think South. The other I want to say came from California, but I don't remember for sure. The rest of the table was made up of Canadians.

As we came back to our table with our heaping helpings, every Canadian kids at the table reached for the ketchup bottle and whether they put it on top and mixed it in, or on the side, each one of us used it. I remember looking up at the two American girls and they both wore expressions of sheer revulsion and horror. The princess might even have moaned in disgust.

"That is absolutely disgusting," said the dark haired Californian girl, who was an incredibly talented rider.

"Oh my gawd," echoed the princess, "I think I'm going to be sick. How can you eat that?!"

The rest of us exchanged glances and most of us said, "What?" in unison.

"Ketchup... on your macaroni and cheese," answered both girls.

Again we exchanged looks. Someone was going to have to defend it. But who? I stepped up. "No, no, try it, it's good."

"No way."

"Here, try a bite of mine," I urged, having fully mixed my ketchup in as I am wont to do. "It really won't kill you, and maybe you'll like it." I gestured to the rest of the table and was encouraged by enthusiastic nodding.

"But it looks so... gross." The princess looked like her resolve was crumbling. She glanced at the Californian who sat with her arms crossed firmly shaking her head.

I pushed my plate toward the princess and smiled, "Look around the room. We're not the freaks here." The princess picked up her fork and held it tentatively over my plate. "Come on, I'm not telling you to jump off a bridge, it's food and it's good."

We watched in silence as she slowly dug in her fork and raised the orange pasta to her lips. The Californian looked appalled. "Go on," I encouraged, "I bet you'll like it."

"Oh my gawd !" she cried, loudly enough to turn heads at other tables. We all watched with wide eyes. "That is SO GOOD !" We all cheered and applauded and the princess reached for the bottle of ketchup.

The Californian was grimacing. "I can't believe you like it. No one does that to their mac and cheese in our country."

I was going to say something, but before I could, the princess turned and spread her hands, "Well duh, we're in Canada now. Gawd."