Each street has a function, a name, and familiarity
to someone. Not merely a destination, but a place on which lives
are lived. More than lines on a map indicating territory, a street
defines a place. Vehicles drive and humans wander, tripping through
what others leave behind. Cigarette butts, empty bottles, and dog shit
reminders that we are not alone on this path. The human race,
not without a whisper or trace of humanity.

Traffic patterns become the regularity marking our time,
coming and going on the same street, the same route, the pedestrian
nature of what we do, and how we live. We travel with frequency
along indistinguishable streets to get done what we need to, and enjoy it
as we can. Little happens at night, silence stretching to fill the space as
taxicabs and cowards leave little light behind. You can’t imagine streets
not being there, yet man and beast travelled before they existed.

Fate or destiny, missed turns along the way. Calm or cold,
you decide if it is late, or early, when you arrive. Even rush hour moves
forward. Lanes merge and we struggle with speed and direction.
Congestion on major arteries, blood pressure measured with the click of
the turn signal. We come to dislike traffic and our place in it. There is
no point between A and B, frustrations articulated by the contrast. We each
have an address and every street takes somebody home.

                Without direction from the
             soon-setting Sun, drawn not by the pull
         of the Moon, it flows past murky shadows
 shifting into place, and passes by the sweep of trees.
          The river remains constant.
      Showing itself, ripples and bubbles, only
  when convenient. Beneath the frozen surface,
                 a flurry of activity within each body of water
                 it passes through.
                 Neither transient or untenable
          it knows not whether it will end up in the sea,
   or be channelled through tributaries
                to a gentle stream, sparkling lake, or
 come to rest in a stagnant swamp, eventually
                     seeping into the aquifer, or evaporating
        and ending up as a puddle in a far-away city.
                    The cycle begins again.
                     Wanderlust.
              The river does not know the power it contains,
      yet continues to move.
      There is no silence.
          The stillness is never complete as we,
 minute by day, year over year, seek purpose.
     And balance. Under this Solstice,
               the Sun shedding it’s grace for such little time,
              traversing through to darker hours, as we are.
         Or as we can,
         in this semi-frozen state, craving comfort
      which comes from removing ourselves
 from the elements.
                        Man-made darkness, the shelter
               in which we hide, or rest, or plot how
           we will better face the day, and the year ahead.
 Each of us is searching, or knowing, or
                                     finding our ocean.
                                     Neither temporary
     or transient. A natural rhythm, the planets revolving
 as they should, each cycle, each pattern,
         each evolution.

©2016 j.g. lewis

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