A few weeks back the headline news in this country was all about a painting that sold at auction for a breathtaking $ 11.2 million dollars.

Now it’s pretty easy to say the sale of Mountain Forms by Lawren Harris – member of The Group of Seven – was the greatest testimonial to the man’s talent.

There are also those who speculate that this major feat (more than doubling the amount paid for the last record-breaking Canadian painting) will throw the international spotlight onto our vibrant cultural scene.

But, fact is, the majority of us don’t view art as this sort of commodity. Most, or many, of us do not purchase art as a financial investment, but rather as something that will brighten up the living room decor, add colour to our lives, and make beauty readily available. Even those with deeper pockets, and who chose art as an investment, generally, purchase a painting first for its visual nature.

Before looking at a price tag, a painting must appeal to the senses (first of all the eyes) and then to the emotions. Art must capture our imagination in some way, like hoar frost or a vast starry night. Colours, composition, subject and style, yes, it is all important, but the pure gut instinct of whether we like it or not is more based on a feeling than anything else.

The amount we spend on art isn’t even directly related to how much we love it. I have many pieces collected through the years, of many different values, but my true favourite was painted by a five-year-old, and it is priceless.

Art is subjective and, in so many ways, that is also its beauty. One piece will not appeal to two people in exactly the same way. Art allows us to think, whether abstract or impressionist, and it takes us to places outside of our everyday three-dimensional lives.

The moment a value is attached to art, the moment it is commoditized, perceptions are altered. No longer do we ask ourselves whether we like it or not, we begin to wonder instead if it really is worth the asking price.

In no way am I saying that art does not have a financial value. In fact, money is crucial to supporting the arts and the artists, but there cannot be an expectation that a painting will steadily increase in value, or will fluctuate like stocks and bonds. We cannot expect that Canadian art, as a brand, should now ride this exciting wave of commercial viability.

The art scene here will continue to prosper and grow, as art does, reflecting the personality and the climate in which it is created. There will still be legions of painters who eke out a living or a sideline business selling canvases for $300 – $900 (or much, much less) from the walls of the local coffee shop. This is work that is original, and viable, and available.

And yes, there are some (but far, far fewer) artists capturing tens of thousands of dollars for their images and imagination at privately-owned fine art galleries.

But, all of a sudden, multi-million dollar masterpieces will not be any more common now than they were last year or five years before that.

The only expectation we should have of art is that it affects us, in some way. It’s only then that we know its worth. We should not buy a painting only because we think it might make us money, we should simply purchase the art because it makes us happy.

I knew him.

We were not friends, but the friends we each ran with moved within the same circle. I knew his twin sisters as well, with the same familiarity. We went to the same junior high school, took no classes together, we were both in a few school plays, and went to some of the same parties and concerts. We were both young, then.

I read his obituary 25 years ago.

I hadn’t seen him in years. I switched schools and had no idea where he was headed. Not until I read the newspaper. His family provided an update of where his life had taken him, up until his time of death.

The obituary also said he died of AIDS.

Those were brave words to include in an obituary a quarter century ago, especially in the rather conservative prairie city we grew up in.

Working as business writer at the daily newspaper and, moved by the honest words of a loving family, I wrote an editorial column about the young man, and about AIDS; about what I knew about the stigma and stereotype surrounding the disease. The column received mixed reaction with many, many angry responses, but some very positive. I also received a phone call from one of his sisters, and then spent a morning with her, talking about her brother, her family, and the disease itself. Ultimately the topic of the day was love.

Outside of the already-published column I knew there was a deeper story and, in between the regular news cycle, spent the next six months of 1991 researching and writing, enough to produce a seven-part series entitled Living With AIDS.

The body of work covered not only the medical, practical, and educational sides of a disease the world was just coming to understand, it included the compassionate side of a couple and a family with first-hand knowledge of how the invasive disease rips a body apart. The series angered some, enlightened many, and rewarded me with a major Human Rights Journalism Award.

December 1st is World AIDS day. It came and went this year and, to me, doesn’t seem to be all that it once was. Yes, you will listen to a few extra features in the media, but AIDS no longer grabs the headlines like it had in the past.

You don’t see the red ribbons on lapels as often as you used to. The charities and organizations founded over the years still exist, and are very active, but they have blended into the societal landscape and no longer stand out as they once did.

A lot has changed over the decades. A lot has been accomplished. AIDS and HIV (the virus leading to AIDS) are still major sexually transmitted diseases, but not the STDs they were 25 years ago.

It is not the same Sexually Transmitted Death.

Since its discovery in 1981, according to the World Health Organization, more than 25 million people have been killed by HIV/AIDS. It is estimated more than 34 million people are living with the disease worldwide, the majority in sub-Saharan Africa. Some news sources indicate even higher numbers.

The statistics are numbing.

There is still no cure for AIDS, but ongoing research has produced drug treatments which no longer just alleviate pain or arrest symptoms. Life is now sustainable, and can be prolonged, for those exposed to, or living with, the disease.

Just last week a major vaccine trial was announced. There have been animal trials previously, and other attempts at vaccines, but this trial provides greater hope than ever before.

This kind of hope never existed for the young man I once knew.

I thought about him last Thursday. I even went through now-yellowed copies of some of the stories I had written so long ago. Yesterday I read the letter the man’s partner wrote to me while I was working on the series. This was a man with whom I spent an entire afternoon on the phone as he shared his stories, and tears, about a man he loved. Together they shared everything, including the same death sentence.

During the months I spent working on the series, this young man’s partner, his sister and brother, and father, opened their lives up to me, offering opinion, reality, support, and a reason for doing what I was doing.

It was a defining period of my career where I learned more about the human condition, and how even the slightest hope keeps people alive. My eyes were opened as a journalist, but more as a human being.

Warning signs, dashboard indicators, red flags,
continual reminders of what is ahead, or
what follows at breakneck speed. Too fast; 
too busy, too confused, we yield not to the signals,
but push ahead, our direction, our intention,
our destination more important
than anyone else. Even suspended in traffic,
all four lanes, our refusal to allow others in
is more than stubbornness. Sharing neither
caution or common courtesy, we will not alter
or acknowledge our route.
To do so is to admit less power, or that we may
have lost our way. Distance and time
the only measure of where we are going, or
how we will get there. We navigate the commute
between the reality we live with, and that
which is expected, our individual emissions
contributing to the noxious fumes we ingest. Daily.
Driving forward, but not ahead, running on empty,
through a cracked windshield we see, or believe,
nothing will harm us. Road rage, we curse
under our breath. or shout foul-mouthed insults
at those behaving as we are, refusing right-of-way.
To anybody. Self-motivated or selfish,
it makes little difference at any speed. We fail
to notice a world that passes us by. Look,
perhaps a shoulder check. It may take a glance
in the review mirror to remind us life is precious.
Slow down. Pay attention. Let others in.
 

©2016 j.g. lewis

Turn it off. Weary the mind. You’ve had your say
now allow time for those working, or trying, and
believing there may still be opportunity, perhaps
prosperity. If allowed. Can the dream still exist?
More and more it becomes less and less important.
I will not listen; or cannot, a more apt description,
to the incessant ignorance spilling from your lips.
My ears bleed, my heart aches, among this crush
of bigotry, inequality and blind trust misplaced.
I put on my headphones commanding ear-splitting
silence to shut out the numbing narcissistic diatribe
with its women-hating violence. You’ve said all that
you needed to get what you wanted, you bullied,
and prophesied, and threatened and taunted. Now
perpetuating insult with that firm hypocritical
stance, adding insult to illusion, capitalizing on
chance. It’s less about being chosen, and now
what you choose, because my motherhood issues
are a far cry from your motherfucking truths.

It’s a moon, only a moon; one of many moons
in this incomprehensibly immeasurable universe, but
it is the Moon we know. It is the one we identify with.
Burning more brightly than it has in decades,
people are talking like they’ve never before noticed.
Light reflecting, radiance filling the space
that is our darkness. It has always been there.
We all stare up. We wonder. You never wonder
like you do under a full moon. In awe of the light,
we seek out contentment
but do we consider what it illuminates?
Not all of it is good.
There is far too much bitterness, and shouting.
All this blame and shame. It is ugly and unnecessary,
fodder for gossip and hatred, and worse.
Nightfall is a blessing, as much as a curse. The issues
that separate us are still there at dawn.
Many times we use the blackness as an excuse to
ignore what is not always visible. We close our eyes,
hoping our problems disappear. They wait for morning,
perhaps magnified. It’s brighter, harder to ignore
what you forget, or neglect, or abhor.
Is there a message in the Moon, all this light, and
what it might be saying? It comes at a time
when we need to listen, and take a closer look
at all that surrounds us. The Moon
casts its gentle wisdom; it does in any phase.
It does not have to be full to have a purpose.
The courage is there. Always. Chose to see what
needs to be done, what has to be said. Shine on.

©2016 j.g.lewis