I used to work for a now defunct newspaper at my university called the Medium, a monthy 8 page paper which served the fine art faculty. I was the associate editor and spent many a night cutting and pasting columns (we were too poor to have a computer publishing program). The good thing was that I, being associate editor, had total freedom on what I wished to write about. I just had to fill my column each month. The results, some more creative than others, are posted below. Hope you enjoy them.

Yes, the Barnes Exhibit is here and every art institution, art class, and citizen who has seen the bold colourful banners around the downtown core is either smiling or sneering in its wake. The city feels, breathes, and smells of Barnes. It feels as if the Queen has arrived, and she has brought along some very important friends.

Have I managed to stay immune to this epidemic of Barnes hype which evokes vague memories of art textbook characters, loss of breath, and slight spells of vertigo? Of course not. Having been a volunteer docent at the AGO for the summer, the Barnes proclamation has been hammered into my brain and etched in memory. I have watched the gallery slowly erect a rather clumsy-looking ticket booth right in the middle of a previously spacious lobby; seen meticulous foam-core models of the display rooms; and heard the screaming of electric table saws cutting panelling for this prestigious event. The Queen is here, and the table must be set.

It all seems to benefit everybody: the art enthusiasts and historians are rubbing their hands in glee, economists are forecasting a steroid-like injection into the local economy (our guests must sleep in nice hotels and eat fine food, of course), students are getting a chance to actually see what is read in books, and the AGO will rise yet another step in the international hierarchy of notable museums. But if the man who all this fuss is about could see the exhibit for himself, he wouldn't be so happy. Yes, Dr. Barnes is probably rolling bitterly in his grave.

This brings to light the main criticism of the exhibit. If the AGO believes what is being seen is a honest representation of what the Barnes foundation is all about, they are sadly mistaken. Say good-bye, Dr. Albert Barnes, to the hours spelt arranging your walls in wonderful juxtaposition and splendid symmetry. All that remains is the pale yellow-ochre walls and a couple of paintings. One must feel sympathic. How ironic that the passion of this stern collector is now a mass marketing bonanza. It is everything Dr. Barnes wasn't.

But is this the goal of the Gallery? Is this an exact copy of the foundation? Do they actually believe that? Perhaps. The public is screaming rip off and I think the executives were well prepared for it. In all fairness, the exhibit is titled, The Barnes Exhibit: Great French Paintings From Cezanne to Matisse. No promise of African or Oriental art, fine rugs, and antique furniture, only (here is the key) marketable paintings from France. Yes, the hype has been rather misleading, but there is at least a trace of honesty in the title. And I suppose it is nearly impossible to exactly duplicate the wall arrangments in Merion. With only a handful of paintings, it is difficult to achieve the same effect. But indeed a special part of the foundation has been lost in the process.

The Barnes is promoted to be, and essentially is, a monumental event for both the art world and Toronto. Never before Never again, the T-shirts read. There is a lot of truth in that. These paintings (well, a good number of them) are masterpieces, and it would be a shame if they are not seen. Yes, the hype will continue until we are physical sick of hearing 'Barnes'; the gallery will not stop holding social functions for the rich and notorious; the gift shop will never be empty of hungry shoppers seeking a small souvenir; and the exhibit will always be a one way ticket to being 'cultured'. Ignore all that. Go for the art. Go for the Joy of Life, The Great Bathers, and Roulin, the postman. After all, before this, no one knew who Dr. Barnes was, and if a watered-down version of his brilliant collection is the price he pays for historical and cultural immortality, so be it. This rare, and somewhat deceiving, exhibit runs to December 31, and, no doubt, the Queen and her friends are loving every second of it.

Gossip! Gossip! Gossip!

It seems there has been a recent rash of biographies out on the bookshelves, trashy books about scandalous celebrities and literary chronicles of literary personalities. The variety is overwhelming; one can choose between Nicole Simpson and Graham Greene, the Prince of Windsor or Robertson Davies; such difficult decisions!

But this biography business isn't at all simple nor straightforward. The biographer has a long list of moral and personal dilemmas to face. Instead of the fiction writer who must squeeze their brain of all the creativity it can muster, the biographer is more like a juggler, balancing fact with fiction, truth with gossip, or as one biographer put it, "the granite of truth and the rainbow of personality." It can be said with a fair degree of confidence that all biographies do have a gossipy ingredient, even in the most literary of books. It is not by accident that the Toronto Star chose to publish the most juicy part of Judith Skelton Grant's book on the Canadian literary giant, Robertson Davies. What's a biography without a dash of spice and flavour? Biographers indeed must dig up all the lost skeletons these celebrities spend so much time burying.

Yet there is also one significant difference between Skelton Grant's book and the biography of Nicole Simpson by her best friend, and this lies in the intent of both. The biographies of artists and writers, dancers and actors, are intended to offer more insight to the work of the artist by examining their lives. There is a purpose to read other people's letters. In other words, there is an excuse for gossiping. But books about the Nicole Simpsons and Prince Charles (and the rest of his family) of this world are written for the pure purpose of scandal. Is it by coincidence that the biographies of these two are coming out now? I don't think so. The circumstances around these two rather unfortunate celebrities are still sizzling, and publishers must exploit the heat before it turns cold.

But both types of biographies do fulfill the same need in all of us; the need to know, of curiosity, the desire to see another life either raise to fame or fall from grace. We want to be reminded of the humanity in us, that we are not perfect, and it is fun looking at other's mistakes. And we all do deep inside wish something similar would happen to us. It would be nice to know someone cares enough to write about your life, and stroke your neglected ego. Yet at the same time, there is a fear of being completely exposed, of facing old skeletons, and of raising things best left forgotten. Gossiping is such a fickled business.

Van Go or Van Gok?

Artists have wonderful names. It seems their names are tailored uniquely for them, as well as clever pieces of marketing. Indeed, they border on poetry— Raphael, Soutine, Balla, Pissaro—million dollar names which everyone wants hung on thier walls. Yet amongst all the Monets, Massacios, and Titians, there are the odd ones, the eccentric names which more often than not, suit the eccentric character.

Of course, everybody has their favourites. One of mine is the French sculptor, Jacques Lipchitz or the undaunting, Christo (one of those special one word names like the former Prince or Madonna— a rarity) or what about the classical, Cimabue, and the huanting, Otto Dix. But one name which people can't seem to figure out belongs to one of the most popular painters ever, Vincent van Gogh, or van Gok, that is.

During one of my humanities lectures, the professor happened to mention his name, the proper way. From behind, I heard a series of giggles as if someone flatuated. Again and again, whenever the name was mentioned, the flatuation giggles followed. Needless to say this was extremely annoying. Of course you can't really blame people for laughing; the hard mucus-nasal pronounciation does sound odd. But the irony of it all is that van Gogh has been mispronounced all along, and only now is truth slowly surfacing.

From the strange but easily said Van Go, we realize the strange is now even stranger, and harder to pronounce— Van Gok (with an impossible nasal accent). So now marketers and students don't know what to use. I don't want to make a fuss over it; if Van Go doesn't bother anyone and communicates better than the giggle-ridden Van Gok, why not use it? Sometimes political correctness can be a hassle. And how appropriate that such an eccentric name suit him. Somehow I can't imagine old Vincent sporting an van der Weyden— it's too slick. But yet I also hope that, over time, this Dutchman will be able to rest peacefully knowing North Americans can finally pronounce his name correctly, just like that German music guy, Back, oops I mean, Bach.

Bravo! just recently aired the Three Tenors Concert in Los Angeles (yet again). Despite all the Tom Cruises and George Bushes in the audience, not to mention the Hellenistic Jurassic Park-like set design, the three greatest tenors of the world were singing together-- an opera lover's delight. The last time this happened was four years ago; it's becoming a pseudo-Olympic event. Sitting there watching, I thought, "the other two are good, but boy, I like this Placido Domingo."

But I must admit the best voice does belong to that Pavorotti character. This rotund Italian struts and puffs his way to the stage, kissing the conductor Mehta's hands, leans back, and bellows sounds which can be heard in China. He is like the fat uncle everyone has who eats too much at family barbecues. Yet he has also become the visual symbol of opera; everyone knows him. From the lean glamour boys like Caruso, the image of the tenor is now 300lbs heavier. Donning pastel colour scarves, wrapped loosely around his thick neck, Pavorotti echoes memories of ancient Roman Emperors; indeed, he is a god. Pavorotti, it seems, is more interested in Pavorotti, rather than opera.

And what about Jose Carreras? He is like a wrinkled teenager with thinning hair, a baby-face playboy with a old man's voice, sort of like (sorry) Rick Astley. I guess there is a pristine elegance to the man— reserved, almost mechanical. But during demanding arias such as E Lucevan le Stelle, I fear he will collapse before the song is over. He small frail body begs him to go into dentistry instead.

But Domingo. Oh Domingo! He face tells of great joys and sorrows, his eyes glitter with passion, his hands waltz in front of him as sweet honey notes dance off his lips. Like a good wine, he ages beautifully, appealing to gentile mothers and hardcore opera enthusiasts. He also serenaded the frisky Mrs. Cosby, turning her into butter, on the Cosby show, making Bill a cuckold. He even had the rambunctious Letterman audience wrapped around his finger, begging for more, after receiving a standing O for his trademark song, Granada. Unlike the other two stooges, Domingo is both actor and tenor. One can see the aria in his body. Whether as the tearful clown in Pagliacci, or singing those wonderful Neopolitan songs, Domingo is a joy to watch and listen to. And that is why I like Placido Domingo.

In a Different Tune:
Artwork From a Forgotten Beatle

For anyone who has seen the film, Backbeat, and liked it, or for any Beatles die-hard, or even for the mild abstract art enthusiast, the Stuart Sutcliffe show at 80 Spadina was a must see (it ended on March 25th- sorry). The show at Leo Kaman gallery featured a selection of over 30 of Stuart Sutcliffe's paperworks and paintings from 1958 to 1961. As well, the gallery had a fascinating binder of newspaper clippings on the artist and his infamous life for public browsing, not to mention a poster of Stu for twenty dollars.

Who is Stuart Sutcliffe? Here, it is impossible to talk about the artist without mentioning his biography. I'll be brief. He was John Lennon's best friend and bassist for the Beatles before they became the legends they are now. Desperate, the Beatles went to Hamburg in the early 60s hoping to stir things up and grab someone's attention. They did. Stuart, however, was more interested in getting into the local art school, rather than concentrate on his less than wonderful guitar playing. Just when the band came alive, he died of a sudden brain hemorrhage (drugs) in 1961.

Given that, the question is this: would this show even have taken place if it wasn't for his famous band-mates? Perhaps. These artworks show, if not quality, than talent. Blending and experimenting with what appears to be analytical Cubism and Abstract Expressionism, Sutcliffe combined newspaper clippings with vibrant slashes of thrown or quickly painted colours. He also experimented with various media: chalk, sand, charcoal, and paint, to mention a few. The result is an overwhelming sense of energy, a tactile texture, and a odd sense of confusion. Those years in Hamburg were rather reckless, and with titles like, Hamburg No.36, you can't help but sense some of that energy reflected in the art.

There is a long list of artists whose fame rests partly on their tragedy. Sutcliffe died at such an early age, it would be impossible to speculate on how successful he would be as an artist. No doubt, a lot of attention generated is directly because of his relationship with the Beatles. But the work does stand on its own, and as an art show, that's what is important. But because of his early death, he will likely remain only as a small footnote in the increasingly monstrous Beatle biography. Stu, it seems, exists for John.