"It is the great illusion of our culture that what we confess to is who we are."
In the fall of 2018 I was asked to contribute a photograph to a fundraising auction organized by an artist-run gallery in Vancouver. Excited by the opportunity (my first such solicitation), I selected an image of a man at the corner of one of the busiest intersections of the city collecting empties from a street-side trash can, his collection of recyclables slung over his shoulder. After my submission was accepted, I invested time, labour, and money into making an archival quality print that would not only honour the subject but also last for decades as a visual object.
In my artist statement for the gallery, I noted my inspiration, specifically, an essay written by curator Bill Jeffries about Vancouver photography that issued a call to action in hope that “artists would see that there is in fact a tradition of picturing our streets and that the pictures do carry meaning that cannot be found in other ways.” My image is less an exercise in common tropes of street photography, such as Henri Cartier-Bresson’s decisive moment, than in Jeffries’ notion that the street acts as a symbol of a city’s economic engine and social space.
Yet both approaches to picture-making still play a role in my image. The man with the bags looms over the foreground, while the action in the image collapses into the space behind him, all slammed against the rigidity of the scarred light standard, a captivating collision of textures and geometries with an accidental Winogrand-style frame tilt. But the “moment” works in the service of context, the man highlighting the lengths some residents must go to mitigate their poverty, and the faceless figure with cellphone to ear, full stride accelerating away, showcasing the ambivalence by which some continue to ignore the problem.
About a week before the scheduled auction I received an email asking for new work for the show, stating unnamed staff and volunteers had concerns with my photograph, and even though previously defended by the gallery director/curator prior to approval, the work would not be shown. I was disappointed (to say the least).
Now, I do not wish to vent my outrage or name names; this is not about censorship. The decision of whether or not to hang my art lies exclusively with the gallery and I hold no grudge against the persons involved (though I would decline an offer to work with them in the future). My struggle is to accept the notion that a street portrait of a man juxtaposed against a society that ignores him is in some way controversial, the image photojournalistic to the degree that it would not look out of place on the cover of a newspaper.
I assumed (because they were never explained in much detail) the major concerns leveled at my image come from the direction of those who classify it as appropriation or exploitation. Without permission to take the photograph, I am simply a privileged artist with agency stealing the narrative of someone with less power for use in the service of my own interests. But this contention ignores the entire history of photojournalism and a lineage of humanistic street photography in Vancouver, pictures that capture the beating heart of the city and its people, by such internationally-recognized artists as Fred Herzog and Greg Girard (among many others). These are exactly the kind of photographs Bill Jeffries was referring to when he called artists to renew their desire in “picturing” Vancouver; images which communicate the experience of living in this place at this exact moment in history. The name I had chosen for my picture was a direct reference to one from Girard, my intention to emphasize the temporal, how the photograph can be used document a city as it changes.
The charge of appropriation/exploitation comes also without the context of why I chose to capture the man with bags (I was never asked), assuming it not possible I could have any idea of his life; to the accusers I’m simply trading in another’s pain. But that assumption is wrong. In Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag writes “photographs are a means of making ‘real’ (or ‘more real’) matters that the privileged and the merely safe might prefer to ignore.” She is referring to war photography and depictions of gruesome death, but the logic can be applied to documentary photographs of all forms of pain.
Sontag wrote against the perception that “something is innately cynical about [the] diffusion” of such images of pain, and addressed “a suspicion about the interest in these images, and the intentions of those who produce them,” that lingers, still. “Citizens of modernity, consumers of violence as spectacle, adepts of proximity without risk, are schooled to be cynical about the possibility of sincerity. Some people will do anything to keep themselves from being moved.”
What the critics of my photograph were not aware of is I chose the man because I saw myself in him, where my life could have ended up given only slightly changed circumstances.
I ran away from home a few days after my sixteenth birthday, bouncing from house to house, even living on the street for a short time (thank god it was summer) before a family friend gave me a bedroom to sleep. I was heavily using drugs and escaping an abusive situation no longer tenable. Eventually I went home, quit using, but I have never forgotten just how easy it is to end up with nothing, whether by one’s own making or not. It informs the compassion with which I treat all people in my community. With only an instant to capture the frame of the man with bags as I crossed Georgia Street, I thought of all the ways my life could have been different, of all the ways since my sixteenth year I have been so near poverty I could smell the air beneath the cliff, and I pressed the shutter.
But the image was about the man and the community in which I live, not about me. It was not about identity; it was about the social turmoil and class divisions that are keeping the community increasingly alienated from itself. I do not make confessional art (well sometimes, I guess I am human after all). Like any artist, my life and identity inform my practice, but the work springs most from the palace of ideas and from stories of my society, like portraits of what it’s like to live in this specific time and place. Like my photography, my writing is journalistic, even when not specifically journalism.
the broker was numbers & paper
metrics at his desk in a heat wave
LCD screens tri-colour text
stock ticker translating real time
all day he wiped his forehead
with a handkerchief bet big
the numbers called for it
his office forty-seven stories
a spastic air conditioner & one
fan oscillating hallucination
hot at the top of the heap
looking down a snifter of ice water
no windows that open up there
at noon an assistant on retainer
spritzed his body with water vapour
expensed because it provided
the conditions necessary to print
slips of paper that for some reason
he’d come to believe in
the horizon vibrated behind the city
glass bright skyline feeding
off itself the telephone sparrows
mechanical one note no song
infinite flashing & repeats
losses ramped up in afternoon
trading but by closing he was still
ahead the others not so lucky
streamed out the building bloody
computers lit all night reflected
in the desk glass line graphs risen
from ash finally cool on the ground
the waft of gardenias & dirt & a hint
of spice as he downshifted he drove
the expressway with his shirt
unbuttoned the windows down
Glenn Miller on satellite radio
as if the body wasn’t lost
somewhere over the Channel
exit 177 caught the corner
with chauffeur precision his own
street by memory sign missing
from galvanized position the ladder
the daises stretched above the power
lines into the black sky toward
a fog or a smoke the streetlamps
glowing down through it like umbrellas
of light the engine parked on the lawn
Kentucky blue his neck bent back
it was a gamble he dumped his sweat
on the seat of the Buick
& climbed up into the light
My poem “Blank Generation,” takes its title from a song by Richard Hell and the Voidoids and is inspired by a photograph from the 2001 Gregory Crewdson series, “Twilight.” The poem speaks of a stock trader who discovers a portal on his drive home from the office and is pulled into its powerful gravity. A poem about the dangers of capitalism and the seductive lure of risk, it’s part of a manuscript that has been rejected (or quietly ignored) by nearly every suitable poetry publisher in Canada (or at least the ones who still have open submissions and I believe would be a good fit for the collection). I think I understand why.
The poems move with an omniscient narrator, and even when the speaker slips in to the ‘I,” the voice of self, of the poet, is rejected. My speakers are characters who rarely resemble me. The voice of the poems in the series in which "Blank Generation" appears draws heavily on USAmerican prose poet Russell Edson and his often fantastic narratives. I impart my identity on the poems by the rhythm of their breath. Maybe this is why one editor prized “the imaginative risks…the vigor of purpose and the willingness to keep leaving comfort behind,” and yet rejected the manuscript because it did not provide “wisdom” in the correct places, maybe not even the right wisdom at all, as if a person’s perception of what in fact is wise is not entirely subjective.
I feel contemporary Canadian poetry is struck by a concerning neo-romantic regression manifested as a valuation of personal feeling and autobiography as the one "true" and "correct" poetry. This neo-romanticism was not something that afflicted Vancouver poetry when I began writing in the 1990s. When you picked up books from different publishers you got entirely different kinds of writing. It is a wonderful pleasure to be reading, finally, such diversity in Canadian poetry. What is unfortunate is that so much of the writing published in Canada that is diverse in its identity, follows the same old lyric forms and emotional hegemony. But there is absolutely no possible reason anyone would want to read about the feelings of another white male writer near middle age. I don’t want to write that way, not because I can’t, but because my identity or experiences are not interesting or important to me. What is important to me is the society in which I live, the ideas that enliven it, and the very real people who occupy its spaces.
There is too the possibility both examples of my work here are, simply put, not any good. Maybe I am blind to the flaws in my own creations. But who if not me should believe in what I make? My favourite bookmark (for over twenty years) carries the quote: “If I’m not for myself then who is for me? If I’m only for myself then what am I? And if not now, when?” Maybe as well, as Zadie Smith wrote about “Open Casket,” the controversial painting by Dana Schutz: “The viewer is not a fraud. Neither is the [artist]. The truth is that this [artwork] and I are simply not in profound communication.” Such is the danger letting my poems or photographs be wrapped in the community that surrounds them rather than the never-ceasing cloak of the self. It makes the work all the more difficult to connect with for a reader or viewer expecting a vehicle of self-expression. I am not deterred. My eye and ear continue to be trained out on the wider world.
“Of Friendship,” Vivian Gornick. After Montaigne, University of Georgia Press. 2015
Bill Jeffries in Unfinished Business: Photographing Vancouver Streets 1955 to 1985. West Coast Line 47 – Vol. 39 No.2. 2005
Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. 2003
“Getting In and Out: who owns black pain?” Zadie Smith. Harper’s Magazine. July 2017
Released in 1956, Rythmetic by Evelyn Lambert & Norman McLaren is frequently misinterpreted as a one-dimensional educational film with a bit of humour to keep things entertaining. Numerals and mathematical shapes move in controlled, lyric gestures upon a crisp blue background. Spreading across the screen in geometric patterns, the numbers bump and chafe, spawn anew, and add and subtract themselves in the dance of arithmetic operations. Writing in 1976 for the Canadian Film Institute, Maynard Collins described the film thusly:
“Following the heels of a teaching assignment in India for UNESCO, this amusing non-verbal lecture on the subject of mathematics reveals…feelings about the inadequacies of communication between peoples of different cultures and languages. After toying with several ideas for making a truly international film, [McLaren & Lambert] settled on Arabic numerals as probably the most understood method of communication, far more so than any other alphabet.”
It may be comforting to a viewer grasping at meaning to place such autobiographical motives at the heart of the film, but a serious question arises: would two visionary animators put their talents toward an aim so plain, so didactic?
To attempt to answer the question, we must discard the impulse to place such importance on the life of the artist as source of inspiration, for there are many ways of reading this film. One possible avenue is found in the work of another often misinterpreted Canadian artist, the poet bpNichol.
To scholar Kit Dobson, “the best thing about reading bpNichol is the impossibility of reading bpNichol,” arguing that attempting to read his poems through the lens of personality and personal relationships has “limited how his work might be understood.”
When I first watched Rythmetic, I was instantly struck by the similarity to Nichol’s series of poems “probable systems” that uses cryptarithms (mathematical games with arithmetical operations where numbers are substituted for letters or other symbols) in an attempt to quantify the ephemeral. Take this example from 1974:
probable systems 4
this one’s for james joyce in his worst bummer
= 6 + 1 + 9 + 20 + 8
= 8 + 15 + 16 + 5
We are shown the work of his process and gain access to what Paul Dutton has described as the satisfaction we get from watching someone else’s original thinking. Having proved faith equals hope (literally and not by metaphor), Nichol cleverly illustrates the expressiveness of mathematics for speaking directly to the human experience.
The same emotion is at the heart of Rythmetic. The shapes don’t always follow the rules: they jump, bounce, dart across the screen, and, only after significant effort, settle. At one point, a mutating zero explodes the arithmetic attempting to contain its energy. The symbols police the numerals while the numerals bristle against the strict control.
This is no artless arithmetic. This is the lyric struggle of a life: to define yourself against the rules of a society that you could not help being born into, sometimes with success and sometimes not. Like Nichol’s “probable systems,” Rythmetic “analyses and expresses the unfolding of its own creative process” and invites the viewer to participate in meaning.
Really, though, when has math (or life) ever been simple?
J. A. Brown, T. Trowbridge and J. Szabó, "The poetic metrics of bpNichol," 2009 IEEE Toronto International Conference Science and Technology for Humanity (TIC-STH), Toronto, ON, 2009, pg. 933-938.
Dobson, Kit, "Openings: bpNichol's Ephemera," Open Letter 13, No.8, Ed. Lori Emerson, 2009, pg 9-18.
Nichol, bp, a book of variations: love-zygal-art facts, ed by Stephen Voyce, Coach House Books, Toronto, ON, 2013, pg 176.
Utako, Kurihara, “Norman McLaren’s Animated Film Rythmetic as Temporal Art,” Bigaku (Aesthetics), No. 15, The Japanese Society for Aesthetics, Tokyo, 2011, pg 116-124.
Listen to the subtle melodies of assonance, the call and response of slant rhyme feeding the reader through to the turn. Notice the repetition of single syllable words, an insistent rhythm. Owen uses sound like a lure, seduces the reader with music.
The poems of Somatic are inspired by the life and work of Austrian painter Egon Schiele. Published twenty years ago, this was Owen’s first book (the author gifted me a copy at a reading we did together) and the verse is grounded in the themes she continues to explore: art, love, death, desire, and the nature of the muse.
An interesting polyphony develops as the poems accrue. Subtle shifts in voice help the poems differentiate themselves, but have the effect on this reader of too much too soon. I wanted to dwell for longer with some sounds, rhythms, rather than following “their fine disturbances.” (42) Maybe it’s just the collection is short and no dominant voice develops fully. Still, if there is a through line, it is of distance, the poet-observer, Owen conscious of the humanity of the artist and of his subjects, the viewer and viewed, “the white brushed so lightly / around the brown / was done to suggest spirit, / the body’s other skin.” (34)
Owen’s interpretation of Schiele urges a drawing close of the dark, sexual, and for whatever reason ‘forbidden’ by society: “to take the darkness and draw / it ever deeper.” (41) The sexuality in the poems reflects Schiele's art, the times, and the character, but it also points to empowerment through sexual liberation and the freedom of living outside societal norms. Schiele paid a steep price when he was jailed for public immorality. He was never the same after:
With twenty-four days, your self-portraits
changed, the eyes no longer flaunted
a haughty pose of youth but become pools,
disturbed by stones so huge that ripples
bellied out over the surface, blind and unceasing.
“Prison, Neulengbach, 1912” (46)
There’s that music again, delivering the tragedy of Schiele’s life and the intense beauty of his art in equal measure. The narrative is black but the buoyancy of the language ensures accessibility to darkness. Somatic stands as a testament to the dangers of the rebel life and of non-conformity, and at the same time, prophets the necessity of following one’s truth, whatever the consequence.
Excited to announce that my chapbook, We Have To Watch, has been selected for presentation as part of the 30th Annual Two Days of Canada Conference on "The Concept of Vancouver" that will take place on 13-14 October 2016 at The Centre for Canadian Studies at Brock University.
There will plenary presentations by Rita Wong, Richard Cavell, Michael Turner, Lisa Robertson, and Roy Miki — and a special keynote public address by George Bowering, Canada's first Poet Laureate and two-time Governor-General's Literary Award winner. The conference will involve a rich melange of artists, activists, and academics. There will be papers, discussion forums, music performances, poetry readings, visual art, and public lectures.
The 30th annual "Two Days of Canada" conference at Brock University, the oldest Canadian Studies conference of its kind in Canada, invites scholars, artists, writers, and activists to broadly think through the conceptualizations of the histories, presents, and futures of the city. Papers and panels will consider the conceptualization of the arts, literatures, and politics of Vancouver, and the interconnections these concepts have with other scales of engagement, including the national and planetary issues in which Vancouver participates.
I had a wonderful experience last weekend exhibiting my text based artwork for the 2015 New West Cultural Crawl. My piece was part of
Cut #2: On the Road (2015), is from a sequence of found-text poems sampled from canonical works of literature, formed through procedural constraints in the lineage of Oulipo poetics. Each poem is created from the text of one randomly selected book page. The text may be quoted, cut, mixed, or re-arranged in any way. Each poem explores the social and political legacies of literary canon, acting as a conversation in mutual language between the original writer and the poet. The juxtaposition of the cutout book page and the re-ordered text comments on the translation of language by a reader in the subjective creation of meaning and the destruction of the physical work is a literal dismantling of literary canon.
Thank you to Sixth Street Popup & Gallery for putting on the show and for showcasing the great breadth of local New Westminster art. a small group show at Sixth Street Popup & Gallery in New Westminster, BC.
A new book review of Niki Koulouris's poetry collection The sea with no one in it just went online at Pulp.
'While most of text brings an intellectual investigation of myth and art, it is not until the end that the reader sees the speaker’s gaze turn inward onto the poet. “It’s always midnight / in the river / between two poems” (58) it begins and the reader experiences the darkness that envelops the artist between work, the black void without ideas and without creation, like a ship at sea rolling on swells, with no land in sight. From this darkness The sea with no one in it radiates out, looking and looking again, knowing that midnight is simply a few short hours from the light.'
Read the whole review on Pulp's website here.
PRISM international recently published my review of Placeholder by Charmaine Cadeau from London, Ontario's Brick Books.
"The future is elusive and uncertain. The past is exact, a known experience that marks like “road salt from the side of the car / sticks to your jacket, tells where you’ve been.” (49) Placeholder, the second book of poems from Charmaine Cadeau, takes residence in the moments between these opposing abstracts of time."
To read the entire review, please visit the PRISM website.
Voices Linger On: The 1963 Vancouver Poetry Conference and the Seeds of a Canadian West Coast Counterculture
In November of 1963, Warren Tallman, American ex-patriot, University of British Columbia (UBC) professor of English, and co-founder of the UBC department of creative writing, wrote prophetically: “the poetry festival, like the song, is ended. But like the melody, the voices of the poets linger on.”[i] The Vancouver Poetry Conference in the summer of 1963, brought five American poets, Robert Creely, Denise Levertov, Allen Ginsberg, Robert Duncan, and Charles Olson, to UBC to participate in a series of readings and lectures about a new and radical open form of poetry. Some sixty UBC students and other local poets attended the conference. From these small numbers, grew the vibrant revolutionary energy of a new Canadian poetics. Small press publishers and DIY magazines rose as a voice for this new energy. TISH, a contemporary poetry newsletter founded in 1961, acted as the start point of a Vancouver poetic underground, a movement that would gain new followers with the 1963 conference. The underground grew and fractured. Inspired by United States counterculture newspapers like The Berkeley Barb, a group of poets, with the help of a few friends, founded The Georgia Straight in reaction to the apparent persecution of youth culture in Vancouver by the police and traditional media. The paper’s persecution had the opposite than intended effect; circulation soared and US radical icons like activist Jerry Rubin rallied in the paper’s defense. Through the poetic infusion of ideas during the 1963 Vancouver Poetry Conference at the University of British Columbia, the United States and its radical intellectuals jumpstarted the development of a Canadian west coast counterculture.
TISH was a contemporary poetry newsletter started by George Bowering, Frank Davey, David Dawson, Lionel Kearns, Jaime Reid, and Fred Wah, that ran for nineteen consecutive issues between September 1961 until April 1963 and then intermittently until 1968. Formed in the study halls and rental apartments of these students at the University of British Columbia, TISH (the name chosen because it was an anagram for shit) stood at the edge of the modernist poetic fringe, a movement quite separate from the prevailing climate of artistic nationalism that swept Canada as the nation approached the 100th anniversary of confederation. Poet and activist Stan Persky called it “the beginning of poetry in this particular place.”[ii] The magazine was heavily influenced by the US poets of the San Francisco Renaissance and the Black Mountain School, specifically Robert Duncan and Charles Olson, and it was after a reading by Duncan at UBC in 1961, that the students decided to start the magazine. For the poets, the connection with an American poetic idol was revolutionary. Frank Davey wrote: “within two visits the bi-monthly meetings to discuss our own work became weekly meetings of intensive study…in no time literary theories and poems began filling the air.”[iii] With its gaze firmly looking outward to an international community, TISH was critical target for many in the literary establishment who saw it as an affront to their attempts to define a Canadian literature. Governor General’s Award winning poet Irving Layton considered it “an extension of the faddish American style…which has no relevancy to our native literary traditions and sensibility.”[iv] Populist poet Al Purdy was kinder but still suggested the magazine was a dangerous clique, calling the editors “an in-group whose far-out gods are still Olson, [William Carlos] Williams, and [Robert] Creely.”[v] Like it or not, TISH and its editors tapped into a poetics of place that seemed to charge the Vancouver community with radical energy. Warren Tallman described the effect: “when the poet subjects himself to his environment in order to become the subject of his sentence, he is likely to move in contact with his and the environment’s vital energies…and phenomenal energy was the most obvious fact of TISH.”[vi]
The 1963 conference can be seen less as a single event that changed the trajectory of modernist poetry in Vancouver and more as the culmination of the first act in the construction of a community of radical activism. By the summer of 1963, TISH had almost two years publishing under its belt and many of the founding editors had just finished university. As their tenure wound down, new groups of poets took their place. Younger TISH followers, such as Daphne Marlatt, Stan Persky, Robert Hogg and Dan McLeod, earned more prominent roles in the newsletter. A new group of “Downtown” poets including bill bissett, Maxine Gadd, Roy Kiyooka, and John Newlove, were sympathetic to the TISH movement but were distrustful of their academic orientation. Organized by Warren Tallman, the conference brought poets of all kinds, from UBC, Vancouver, and all over the United States together for intensive study and discussion. The atmosphere was conducive for intellectual revolution. A new generation of Canadian writers, for a short period of time, discussed as equals with towering figures in the US literary world. But “the most remarkable thing,” as George Bowering wrote, “is that a passel of young poets should emerge as something more responsible than a blurbing of self indulgent romanticism.”[vii] The poetics of TISH were always those of place, of being acutely aware of one’s environment, and of knowing one’s responsibilities within that environment. There was a specific energy in this west coast Pacific place.
The first issue of The Georgia Straight was published on May 5, 1967, and did not go unnoticed. Less than a week later, editor Dan McLeod was arrested by Vancouver police for “investigation of vagrancy” and the paper suddenly could no longer find a shop to print the next issue.[viii] McLeod, the former editor of TISH, was a young Vancouver poet and UBC Math student who dropped out of school as the counterculture wave began to swell, his decision to quit coming from a desire to oppose the establishment. “Is that what it’s all about,” he asked in an interview with the Langara Journalism Review, “working for IBM to design missile systems? Or even if I’d just retired in the ivory tower and taught people math, they would be designing the missile systems. I just didn’t want to participate in that; I wanted to oppose it in some way.”[ix] The Georgia Straight was founded by the Vancouver Free Press collective in direct response to a perceived “campaign against youth culture”[x] by Vancouver Mayor Tom “Terrific” Campbell and large daily newspaper The Vancouver Sun. Inspired by counterculture press from the United States such as The Berkeley Barb (Berkeley), Guerilla (Detroit), and The Village Voice (New York), from the very beginning, the poets played an active role. Pierre Coupey, a poet and painter from Montreal, wrote the Free Press manifesto and, with the help of bill bissett and the Gestetner mimeograph machine of blewointmentpress (sic), published the screed on telephone poles up and down 4th Avenue. Milton Acorn, the people’s poet of Canada and radical socialist, donated an entire month of his military pension to the startup capital. It makes sense that The Georgia Straight evolved out of a collaborative community of both “Downtown” poets, as well as those, such as Dan McLeod and Stan Persky, who were closely aligned TISH. The poetics of place in the Vancouver environment energized the poets as well as the community and it seemed natural for like-minded individuals to band together. Furthemore, following the departure of the original editors TISH in 1963, “bill bissett stepped in with blewointmentpress and…became the new center for the energy that TISH had generated.”[xi] The paper was a vocal critic of local and provincial governments and became a constant target of police harassment. Their offices were routinely raided and in 1968, the city tried to revoke the paper’s business license before a legal challenge had it reinstated. When McLeod and writer Bob Cummings, who would go on to become one of the founders of Greenpeace, were arrested and charged with criminal libel for comparing a British Columbia court judge to Pontius Pilate, poet Allen Ginsberg and activist Jerry Rubin, both monuments of the US counterculture, rallied in defense of The Georgia Straight. The little “hippie rag” from Vancouver had important friends.
In 1969, as the United States planned to test a nuclear bomb off the coast of Alaska, the foundational elements of Greenpeace began to coalesce in Vancouver from a motley group of pacifists, draft dodgers, US ex-patriots, and homegrown Canadian radicals. This was the logical evolution of the energy created by TISH, fueled by the 1963 Vancouver Poetry Conference and enacted by The Georgia Straight. Incorporating the teachings of US poet-academics into a Canadian poetics of place, TISH radically challenged the establishment of Canadian poetry. Using a model of subversive media inspired by the US counterculture, The Georgia Straight actively sought to give a voice to persecuted youth. The poets were there. Vancouver in the 1960s was a perfect storm of influence and action where a healthy injection of poetic ideas met a wide range of men and women willing to act towards the creation of a community that ran counter to the one they found themselves a part of.
[i] Warren Tallman, “Poets in Vancouver.” Simon Fraser University Special Collections, MSC 26 Box 13, 1963, accessed May 10, 2014, http://vidaver.wordpress.com/2009/08/ 10/warren-tallman-vancouver-1963/
[ii] Brad Robinson, “Stan Persky’s Section from Oral History of Vancouver.” The Writing Life: historical and critical views of the Tish movement, ed. CH Gervais. (Coatsworth: Black Moss Press, 1976), 116.
[iii] Frank Davey, “Anything but Reluctant.” Ibid., 137.
[iv] Irving Layton, Quoted in Frank Davey, “Introduction.” Ibid., 15.
[v] Al Purdy, Ibid., 16.
[vi] Warren Tallman, “Wonder Merchants: Modernist Poetry in Vancouver During the 1960’s.” Ibid., 53.
[vii] George Bowering, “The Most Remarkable Thing About Tish.” Ibid., 134.
[viii] Naomi Pauls and Charles Campbell, ed., What The Hell Happened?: the best of The Georgia Straight. (Vancouver: Douglas & McIntyre, 1997), 67.
[ix] Derek Bedry, “Let’s get it Straight.” Langara Journalism Review. June 2012, accessed June 3, 2014, http://www.ljr.ca/2012/06/01/lets-get-it-straight/
[x] Pierre Coupey, “Plains and Straits: On the Founding of The Georgia Straight.” The Capilano Review 3.13. (North Vancouver: Capilano University, 2011), 37.
[xi] Warren Tallman, “Wonder Merchants: Modernist Poetry in Vancouver During the 1960’s.” The Writing Life: historical and critical views of the Tish movement, ed. CH Gervais. (Coatsworth: Black Moss Press, 1976), 55.
The rain picked up. I followed a line of spruce followed that joined with a grove of leafy aspen. Under canopy of branches, I tried to shield myself from the downpour. Droplets of water dripping off my nylon shell jacket and off the brim of my Houston Astros baseball cap. I worshiped Nolan Ryan, Major League strikeout king. But that world was nowhere near Isaac Lake. I was eight years old and utterly alone. Only rain and the murmur of nature. Alive.