Art is everywhere, if you choose to look.
Lately, as the weather becomes a slightly more pleasurable each day, I am taking the opportunity to get back out on the streets of Toronto to observe what really happens here.
Last Thursday, on the way to an appointment, I was fortunate to notice something I had never seen before.
Just about any day you’ll find Ross Ward hunched over on Yonge Street tending to his art. The ‘Birdman of Toronto’ has been a fixture on these streets in various locations for well over a decade, and during each day he crafts, and sells, palm-sized birds.
Once only a hobby — this is now more than whittling — Ward carves out shapes of common birds from reclaimed wood. There is always a piece in progress, and always a small flock for sale on his concrete workspace.
Perhaps in our day-to-day journeys, we don’t look close enough at all the people. We don’t often observe enough to see art just happening here and there on our landscape. I’ve wandered this street how many times and only last week did I notice the man. I saw him again on the weekend.
Appreciating the beauty of his work, I bought a bird as a gift for someone . . . or maybe a souvenir for myself to one day remember my time in this city.
Couldn’t we all use more memorable hand-made art?
April is Poetry Month
Posted on April 11, 2015 by j.g.lewis
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she and me
Like filthy pigeons, we huddled
atop the cold metal
of the warm subway grate.
Hand up, handouts, we waited
while we wait. Most walk by.
She,
she shared
her beer and
her body. She took me in
for a time, she
had a room.
Her home
little more than a door
separating by-the-week rubbies
from her possessions.
A toaster oven,
a lucite radio,
stacks
upon
stacks
of paperbacks.
The guitar.
A musty cot, our nest
for those seven, eight weeks.
Milk stayed cold on the windowsill,
pressed against
cracked
frosted glass.
She shared her warmth, and sensibilities.
She busked, I begged.
Until I felt I was above this.
©2010 j.g. lewis