Off to Nuit Blanche last Saturday. Joined some others at the corner of Yonge and Gould and headed to the Ryerson Image Centre for the public opening of the Black Star Collection of photojournalism archive. Wonderful! But a qualified wonderful! The photographs themselves were splendid, and the video reflections inspired by the collection by Michael Snow, Vera Frenkel and others made stimulating viewing. Of them all, Frenkel's work left the strongest impression. Her mother escaped Nazi Europe on the storied Blue Train and the long, lingering shots of a single train track were chilling, bringing home the horror of that infamous single rail line that lead straight to the gates of Auschwitz, and reminding me just how random life can be.
Far less impressive were the disdainful arty types - dressed in black, a pained look plastered on that spoke either of their dismay at mixing with the Hogtown hoi polloi or their sore feet - who seemed to be out in force. Hey guys, here's a clue: art is for everyone even those who've never heard of Todd Webb. Equally unimpressive, from a strictly sentimental point of view, was the Image Centre itself. Oh, as a building it does just fine, but it stands on the site of the old Journalism School where I tried to learn the fundamentals of hack-dom so many years ago.
There were plenty of other exhibits that stood out: the End of the World presentation at Nathan Phillips Square; the High Five Contest at the corner of University and Queen St. West; exhibits at the Gladstone, the Drake and all points west (my route). Also standing out were the Yahoos, or should that be yahoos? They were smoking dope, drinking, I dunno, vodka coolers? and generally behaving like jerks. Party hearty, boys and girls. But do it on your own patch.
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