207th and Broadway

I used to sell Christmas trees on the streets of New York City in the early 1990s. I had just started teaching at Concordia. I was not tenured, but a contractually limited employee. It was insecure work and I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be an academic.  I would finish teaching in the beginning of December, take a train and join my partner on 207th and Broadway. I was much younger.

The arrival of the trees into New York City on flat bed trucks from tree farms in upstate New York, Vermont, Quebec, New Brunswick was a sign that the holiday season had started. We lived in a trailer for a month waiting for the daily deliveries from our Vermont suppliers who hired many Quebeckers. The A&P let us use their sidewalk- and toilet- for a price.

New Yorkers liked us, or at least we imagined that they did. Those that stopped to chat, on their way to somewhere else,  thought we were exotic. We would regale them whenever possible with slightly embellished tales from our adventurous Canadian lives. We dressed the part. We transformed the grey sidewalks into a forest. We were almost as popular as Santa. Or so we thought.

207th and Broadway was an amazing neighbourhood, just south of the Bronx. It had been predominantly Irish, but had recently become home to a large demographic of Cubans. It was great for business. Catholics all, they loved Christmas and they loved the trees. Real trees. Our customers didn’t want any cheap artificial plasticy garbage-tree from the corner hardware store. They wanted the smell of their very own tree in their very own home.

We got to know the locals. The assistant manager of the A&P right in front of our stand became our friend.  The man who owned the newsstand next door. Pops, stationed beside our trailer, sold hot dogs from a cart and hardly spoke at all. I thought his name was Frank because  of the sign on his cart, “Franks Rolls”. We eventually learned that his real name was Peter. Every morning we were greeted by the guy who hawked the “Daily News”  and insisted on singing the paper’s name to the tune of Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue”. Hearing this song puts his voice in my head to this day. Then there were the regulars at the bar next door, many able to recall the early history of the hood, some bitter at its changes. A retinue of very old ladies would come by each day pushing shopping carts that were as tall as they.  Dressed up in their finest they elegantly strolled through the trees on their way to buy a potato or two.

For a short time they were our neighbours, our intimates, our only friends in the city. We shared their sidewalks. Stationary tourists parked on a New York City street corner, we watched the world pass by while we waited for customers and swept away the needles that would fall on the ground from our trees. We had to keep moving to keep away the cold, although we could not really travel  anywhere. We never made it to any other neighbourhood in the city during this time. We were tethered to the trees. We learned the rhythms and routines of the corner and we adjusted our schedule to the patterns of life around our little universe: the tree stand.

It was hard work. It was dangerous work. I could not do it for many years.

During the day we readied the stand,  unloaded the trees, waited for customers and then bargained, bargained, bargained. We baled trees to protect them on the journey from stand to home. We fashioned wreaths out of branches cut from the bottom of the trees we sold. Nothing would be wasted. Money could be made and we knew the time to Christmas was short. The value of a tree significantly declines after the 25th of December. We were on a deadline. We pushed packages of “tree life”  for a buck that we guaranteed would extend the life of each and every tree. I have no idea if it really worked but we were very convincing. We gave detailed instructions on caring for your tree. We got to know the properties of the trees on our little lot. Scotch pine, that smelled like cat piss to me. The traditional balsam, soft and silky to the touch. Douglas firs. Expensive. Rare. The dreaded blue spruce with their razor-sharp needles. How I hated to touch them.

We slept like babies every night exhausted from a day on the street, surrounded by the night sounds of New York. Garbage trucks. Gunshots. Tires screeching. Music blaring from passing cars. Sirens.

When I go to the Jean-Talon market at Christmas time and I catch a whiff of pine and see the sales folk I feel a complicity with them.  I want to show off my tree knowledge, throw around a bit of tree-talk  like “hey, they that one is a real basketball” or “wow, look at the double crown on that baby”. But I mostly say nothing.

I came to Canada to study and I stayed. That was 41 years ago: 1971. I had 2 sisters and I was the baby of the family. I decided to do something different. My first idea to was to go to Australia. But my sisters said “go to Canada, it isn’t so far away.”  I had a cousin who lived in Canada and so I wrote to her and arranged to visit. During this visit we checked to see if I could stay and go to University. I enrolled at Concordia, then I went to immigration and received my papers. I learned French and English. I finished my studies, in computers, at Concordia in 1980. Of course this has all changed.

I travelled to Vancouver to work for a short time, but I came back to Montreal. I worked for the Bank of Montreal for 18 years and for a short time for Bentley, in the department of finance.

I am now retired.

I broke my arm in 2008. I was running, and fell on the snow. Under the snow was ice. I fell and broke it in several places. I had a cast on my arm from my fingers to my shoulders. I was home for almost a year. At that time I decided to take my pension. But I still work.

I am a volunteer at the YMCA where I give courses in Tai Chi and relaxation to older people. I also work for Yellow Door where I participate in a program for people studying at McGill who are in theatre. They are always looking for people to tell stories, which they put into plays, often for the radio. I have participated for 3 years.

I like this type of creative work. I paint at home and I read. I am busy. Everyday I do my exercises and my relaxation routine. This is important to me.

Reflections on my photos:
Many Landscapes, Four Seasons, Two Countries, One Planet

I like to take pictures. But I like pictures of nature. I like the contrast between the summer, winter, spring and fall. Nature is part of my life; and I am part of nature. When I look at the trees, I sense that the trees see me. They are alive too. They are a part of me and we are connected. When natural disaster strikes I often have a feeling that something is about to happen.

When I was a little girl I went to the countryside when my mother was sick. She was told she needed to be in clean air and that she needed heat. So we went to a place that was in the corner of the country on the border of Colombia and Venezuala. At that time it was a jungle. I spent 4 or 5 years with her in the jungle. I learned how to comb wild horses and to ride them. I swam in the river. I walked without shoes. I was completely part of all of this. Living in the jungle I was in contact with everything this environment had to offer: the wild horses, the orchids, the birds. It was beautiful. It is still in my body. It is something I will never forgot. I put my feet in the water  today, and I feel the sensation, from my childhood, of the fish biting at my toes.

My life is part of nature and the pictures are part of this life. I try and be in the now. Today. Not in the past or the future or tomorrow. The moment. The past is a beautiful memory but I cannot go back. I am thinking about the future but I am not there yet. I am in the now. Of course sometimes things arrive and you don’t know what you want. You must be prepared for these things, but you don’t know where your decisions will take you. This is how I live.

I love the 4 seasons. In Colombia, we have snow, but it is perpetual and we often don’t get the chance to see it. You can ski there, but it is different. There are places close to the sea with mountains of snow. But the most beautiful scenery is the Andes and Cordilleras that is part of Colombia. Anywhere you look, there are mountains. It is beautiful. You travel there and you are somewhere different. The sky is not high. It is close to you. It is almost 3000 meters at sea level. When you travel you feel the sky is not far. It is just above your head. But when you go down from the mountains, it is different. There are places where if you put an egg in the sun, at noon,  it is cooked in 5 minutes. It is so hot. So we don’t have changes of seasons, but we have contrast. In Bogata you may have spring and winter as well as summer, but it is nothing like Canada.  There is almost always rain and heat. And the primary contrast is all about elevation: up is cold; down is hot. I often think about these seasonal changes and ageing. All the seasons are different, but all bring a moment of promise to us, even winter. There is optimism in every season. I have made a small movie about this process and my feelings about this.

For this exhibition, I put together landscapes of Colombia and Montreal. I love both places. My feelings for both are strong.  Both places are home. There is no separation. I never separate the two countries. They are part of the larger Universe; I am part of this Universe.  I consider everything and everywhere I go integrated. Anywhere. Anywhere. Everything is our place. This is our shared planet.

I use the word peace when I look at these photos. Inside of me I have peace. I want to transmit this to people because I feel it. When I give my courses, I tell people to look for the place where they can find peace and harmony. “Think about the best moment in your life. Enjoy the moment that you are there. Even if it only through thinking.” This is what I suggest.  By doing this you can feel peace and happiness. I want to transmit this joy through giving. You give and this is good. When you give you must never wait to get back. For the soul this is important.

This is the way to live, in my opinion. Not searching for money or for success. If  these things bring you happiness, I respect that. I cannot change people. Everyone is different. We must respect these differences. It would be terrible if everyone was the same.

I have two children, both born in Montreal. I’m originally from South India and have travelled much in my life having lived in Bahrain for some time. I have been to the USA, Europe, South Africa, Mexico, Jamaica and Thailand. Our family has a close connection with Germany and we have more than forty years of history there since many of my siblings worked for the U.S. Army in a civilian capacity during the cold war. My niece, who lives in Frankfurt, is a German rapper, song-writer, and occasional actress and she has won several awards. My mother passed away in Stuttgart and I got married in Ludwigsburg, where my sister had lived.

I visited East Berlin in 1981 before the wall came down. Once when we were riding in the bus with my little daughter, who was then 5 years old, she dropped a candy wrapper when we got off. The driver was screaming at us with the wrapper in his hand. I was baffled. What had we done for him to act hysterically? Only then did it dawn on my sister that the East German police would apprehend locals for any small transgressions. They were forbidden from having even a trace of any foreign product on them: that was the reason the driver was furious with us lest he might be caught with the foreign candy wrapper. My brother had already alerted us to the fact that in East Berlin locals were forbidden to accept anything from foreigners. He had suggested that we carry lots of candies with us before leaving and to throw them from the train to the farmers working in the fields, where they could consume them undetected. This we did!

I have visited Netherlands too, since my daughter got married there.  It was during the festivities of their Queen Beatrix’s official birthday on April 30^th.  My Dutch son-in-law was born and raised in a city called Alkmaar, which is 40 kms from Amsterdam and it is well-known for its traditional Cheese Market.  It is the only one in Netherlands now, where cheese is weighed in bulk and traded.  On Fridays from April to September every year, the market square becomes very lively with visitors from all around, who come to see this true cultural attraction.  I was fortunate to be there with my family in 2011.

I had several opportunities to visit South Africa recently since my son-in-law works there.  The highlight of my first visit in 2010 was in meeting Mahatma Gandhi’s grand-daughter, Mrs. Ila Gandhi, who is a professor at the Durban College of Technology. It was the year when South Africa was commemorating the arrival of Indians there 150 years ago and their immense contribution to this country. I was fortunate to accompany a friend, who wanted Ila Gandhi to write a preface for a book that she was going to release for the occasion. It was an exhilarating experience for me to meet her.

My next visit was in early 2011 when I went to welcome our family’s little bundle of joy, my first grandchild who came into this world on March 16, 2011. It was my daughter’s first baby boy. My 3rd visit to South Africa was to take part in my grandson’s first birthday celebration. This time I had the chance to visit the Mandela House in Soweto, where the country’s history, heritage, and legacy of his Soweto property is preserved. It is the house where Nelson Mandela had lived in 1946 – 1962 and he had donated it to the Soweto Heritage Trust in September 1997 to run it as a museum. In his congratulatory message to the Trust when it opened the refurbished House for the public in March 2009, he said that his humble dwelling is not only the epitome of struggles and sacrifices, but also a depiction of the ability of the human spirit to overcome adversity. He emphasized that it is the heritage of not only his family but of all the people of Soweto including his fellowmen and women across the country who refused to yield to oppression during the time of apartheid. It was very heartrending to see the exhibits pertaining to this great man, and to read about all the terrible events that took place in South Africa and his eventual imprisonment in Robben Island for 28 years.

During this visit we decided to go on sightseeing tour. We went to Madikwe Safari Lodge, a four-hour drive from Pretoria where we spent 4 nights there. On one of our morning safari trips, a lion was actually in our path. We were driving slowly behind and at one point I felt we were being too invasive as the ranger was almost following it right into the bush at a very close range. But it did not seem to mind at all. Its gesture seemed to suggest that it was leading us right into its den. On that evening’s safari, the ranger permitted us to bring my one year-old grandson with us. Not all of us could go together on these safari trips as we had to take turns to be with the baby. We were elated that we could be together for the first time, as you can see in the photo. Towards nightfall, with our spot light on, we came across ‘the king of beasts’ relaxing in the bush. It was a wonderful treat for us. We could see its eyes glisten in the dark and it looked as though it was actually posing for us. We took some photos focusing our cameras right on its face. While we were engrossed with taking pictures, admiring and clicking away snapshots of the king sprawling royally in the bush, oblivious to our intrusion, all of a sudden my grandson let out a scream. This jolted us. We were too close for comfort and feared the king, which had been keeping a low profile all this while, would come to its senses and spring on us. To our astonishment, it took our intrusiveness in its stride and allowed us to have fun at its expense. What an experience!

Travelling is very important to me, as important as attending school. It broadens one’s horizon and teaches us to appreciate different cultures. Having come from India, where there are 14 official languages and more than 200 dialects and where every province you cross has its own language and culture, I learned to appreciate the diversity of people in my travels.

I enjoy the glimpse we get of the world with the click of a camera. A photo tells so much! It  freezes time and space. I have six sorts of photos in my collection. Some photographs are of places here we once owned and where we worked. There is one taken with our friends in front of Cottman Transmission, which was a franchise owned by one of my brothers in the late 1970s in Greenfield Park on the South Shore. He also co-owned the first South Indian restaurant in Montreal, ‘The Woodlands’, which was located in front of the Cȏte des Neiges Plaza. The photograph of the side door leading to the bar of the restaurant is from the 1980s. He and I worked together as volunteers at the Atwater Library in the Computer Centre in the late 90s.

I brought photos of a Westmount parade because it had something to do with Montreal, this neighborhood and its past. I also wanted to see if I could figure out what the parade was about.

There are pictures of the January 1998 Ice Storm, which shows the damage caused by our neighbor’s tree branch, which fell on our solarium. It was a significant and memorable moment for me.

I have photos of my most recent trip to South Africa, my grandchild and my encounter with the lions.

I have included some of family photos too, many from our lives in India, that came into my possession when my brother passed away. It was his collection. I cherish them and they are of great sentimental value to me. Taking a family photo, or any pertinent photo for that matter, makes for great storytelling years later. Photographs are mementoes of special events with special people during special moments, which we cannot recapture later in life. They evoke memories of the past and present. I become very emotional when looking at my family photos because my parents and some of my siblings and my close relatives are no longer with me. I remember the details that I had forgotten, where and when it was taken and on what occasions. They capture change and people as they were. These photos are invaluable and irreplaceable. It is imperative that we treasure especially our family photos for our future generations to tell them who we are and where we come from- otherwise, they tend to forget their roots (this is the granny in me talking!).

Hutchison Street Childhoods

31 Photos

Inside the House

16 Photos

Street Fete

8 Photos

Reading

6 Photos

Bath Time

3 Photos

Holidays & Birthdays

22 Photos

Early Photos

9 Photos

What a pleasure the opportunity to participate in MemorySpace has been, enabling me to revisit the photographs of my children’s 1980’s childhood on a very special block of Hutchison Street – one side in Mile End, the other in Outremont.

What made this tree-lined block of mainly triplexes so safe and hospitable for the families living there, was its sense of enclosure – from Hutman’s grocery store on the corner of Villeneuve to the little blue and white tiled Greek Orthodox church on the corner of Berube, where Hutchison curves to the base of the mountain at Mount Royal.

The street architecture, with its unique Montreal porches, winding outdoor staircases and iron-grilled front gardens, became the physical support for the many interactions between the children and their families, as witnessed in the many photos of the children and neighbours on the front stairs and in the street closing parties we organized each June for the Fête de la St-Jean (Hutchison Street Childhoods/Street Fete).

Indoors, our ‘flats’ were relatively bright and spacious and all resembled each other’s, with large central living rooms and kitchens – features which undoubtedly helped the children to feel so at home when visiting each other (Holidays and Birthdays/Bath Time/Inside the House).

Most of the parents were involved in the world of the arts, teaching and community organizing – so it seemed perfectly normal, on Hutchison Street at that time, to live a precarious existence while bringing up children. Few of us owned our own homes (which later became a renter’s nightmare, as the original immigrant owners sold to developers who renovated and eventually sold each floor – even though we fought to prevent this).

In 1988, tired of fighting the landlords, and when my children’s father returned to France and Spain, I reluctantly moved away from this special street and neighbourhood. Luckily, we were able to return to Hutchison four years later, when a neighbour kindly informed us that a rental flat was available because the (musician) friends who lived there were able to buy on the street, next door to her and downstairs from another close family – all of whom now own their homes and still live there (photo of the three girls dancing, Inside the House).

To this day, Hutchison Street is a family affair: We have shared in each other’s lives through the years and through many changes. We have watched our children blossom into bright, creative young adults who continue to share close ties with each other and will travel great distances to be there for mutual celebrations – and, as fate would have it, my son still has a Hutchison Street address! (photos in display case)

It is on Hutchison Street that the children also encountered the world – with many mixed race and mixed religion families – Chinese, Japanese, First Nations, British, Quebecois, French, Caribbean, Peruvian, Jewish, Mennonite, and of course, Greek! This has made them open to the world, with a strong sense of community and social justice.

Having been brought up beside lakes and with access to nature, I often berated myself for the urban upbringing of my own children. However, it was often impossible to entice them off our block, with so many friends and so many adventures to share throughout the changing seasons of their lives. How lucky they are! And how lucky are we, the parents, to bear witness and kvell!

Neuro Image Streams

Photographs are a meaningful way of communicating amongst family & friends. Since many of  the photos from my life have disappeared, for this exhibition I have included contemporary photos taken with my iPad. Since participating in MemorySpace, I have collected a stream of photos from current events that surround me, and speak to me: photos of seniors, the student movement, festivals. In these photos I was interested in showing how memories are similar to what I capture on the iPad– a neurological film stream of images of still pictures and videos.

I cannot help but think of individuals who have experienced near death experiences, who report their lives running before them like a film. I believe that the stream of photos I have taken communicate a kind of “review” or “revue” of Montreal events in these past few months. These events rush by us but we are also immersed in them. So while unwillingly I have lost many photos from my past, it also allowed me to be open to how new technologies could be used, to learn, and to appreciate the life-film flowing all around me. My community. Our community.

It has also made me question how the past and present are connected by a momentary event that flashes before us. Last night I woke up to the news that someone had been shot in Montreal, during Pauline Marois’ acceptance speech. It was like déjà vu. Rather than seeing the present, a stream of images from 1968 seemed to appear before me. It frightened me. It took a few minutes to realize that I wasn’t in front of a tv on a hot night near Harvard listening to Bobby Kennedy speak in LA, witnessing the violence of his murder. Instead I was witnessing someone in Montreal on election night, here, with a rifle. French is not my first  language so it took me a while to make sense of what was happening. The sense of déjà vu was powerful, maybe because of the confusion of language. At least this time a newly elected politician survived. I am not sure what it all means, but I like this stream of images approach to memory: memory space, memory-scapes, a flow of impressions that this new technology allows us to capture.

Personal story

I grew up in a religiously conservative, and what I thought was boring, city of Toronto. I come from two families of wanderers.

Although my paternal grandfather was born and died in southern Ontario, his three surviving children were born in three different countries. His wife was from the United States. My father was born in India, the son of missionaries. An older daughter died in infancy.

My mother was born in Quebec where her father was an engineer working on the dam in, I think, Arvida.

My daughter was conceived in South Africa and born in Paris, France. Except for four years at university in Toronto and nearly a year working in Tunisia, she has lived in Montreal.

All this to say that when Expo’67 came around it promised a world of adventure in Montreal. I took the train from Vancouver, where I was working, to Montreal. Expo’67 lived up to its promises.

I didn’t think of settling in Montreal at the time – as exciting as it was to be in Montreal for Expo’67, there was a sense of unreality in visiting countries as their governments wished them to be experienced.

So, I headed down the St. Lawrence and towards France aboard a Norwegian freighter. There followed 10 years of working and wandering around the world. Finally, in January 1977 I came back to Canada. I’ve lived in Montreal ever since.

Reflections on my Expo ’67 photos: memory and dreams

Expo’67 was a time when Montreal dared to dream and everyone participated in the excitement of dreaming large.  I even heard about the dream from Vancouver, which was a pretty cool place at the time.

Expo seemed to be at the forefront of architecture, transportation and at the centre of the world.  There was plenty to see: buildings that were spherical, triangular, with ski-jump-shaped roofs holding enigmatic sculptures, with mirrors and lots of windows.  The metro was shiny and new with its artist-designed stations.  A state-of-the art monorail system that was to be copied by other cities, but destroyed in Montreal.  A condo complex that is still inhabited, but which seemed to me unsuited to the cold November winds.

In photographing Expo’67, I was just trying to record what I saw.  The paradox of photos is that they change the photographer from participant to observer, and looking at those same photos brings back visual memories but also triggers memories of sensations, of odours and of feelings.  Looking at a photo of Habitat’67, I can feel the cold November winds on the St. Lawrence River.  Looking at a photo of well-bundled children riding an elephant I can feel the warm sunshine on a cold day and wonder how they felt, those elephants and camels brought to Montreal from other climates for children to ride.  Looking at photos of bridges and the skyline, I am grateful that Montreal chose to present itself to the world on an island in one of the world’s mightiest rivers.  Looking through a glass plate in the Czech pavilion I know that one’s viewpoint can cause distortions in the object captured through a camera’s lens.