In 2003 the Alcuin Society undertook a much needed overhaul of their annual book design awards catalogue, and from a rather poorly designed, saddle-stitched booklet, an aesthetically sophisticated, well-printed and nicely bound volume came into existence. For a novice designer like myself at the time, the catalogue provided an essential showcase for the sort of thing that most folks, even book folks, are hardly aware of: book design in Canada. And for those as eager as I was to see good contemporary work in book design – if for no other reason than to prove that such work existed – the Alcuin catalogue was a yearly gift. In a format suitable to its subject, and in some cases with commentary by the awards’ judges, the craft and talent of this country’s finest book makers was made available to examine. The problem was you had to know about the awards, not to mention the Alcuin Society itself.
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In Her Prime
Clark BlaiseTiffy Hu and I are passing by the hedges behind the tennis courts, headed to skating practice, when a horrible truth strikes me: life is eternal. There’s no escaping it, not even in death. I’m scuffling my shoes over the concrete slabs, over tufts of grass and weeds and the anthills and dried snail shells. Dogs do their business under the hedges. Flies drop their eggs. Smudgy little birds perch on the fence and hop through the thorny branches.
“You coming, Prammy?”
“I’m thinking,” I say. What goes on in her little brain? It must be like the birds, hopping and chirping. Actually, I do know. It’s sex, sex, sex.
Black & White
Steven W. BeattieWhen The Book of Negroes won the 2009 edition of Canada Reads, CBC Radio’s annual Survivor-like literary elimination contest, broadcaster Avi Lewis, who was championing the book, referred to author Lawrence Hill’s “titanic task” in taking on the trans-Atlantic slave trade in the eighteenth century and refracting it through the life of one woman, Aminata Diallo, an African girl who is kidnapped as a child and shipped to the Thirteen Colonies where she is sold into slavery. It is likely that Lewis didn’t intend the obvious pop cultural association that accrues to his particular choice of words in this instance, but in fact Hill’s book shares much in common with James Cameron’s Academy Award-winning film about the great twentieth-century nautical disaster.
Living with Art
Nancy BaeleI remember everything about the day: the sudden spring rain, the spongy grass, the padlocked garage door and the small key that opened it so I could see a painting that filled the back wall. The sight of The Beginnings of Love echoed the sensation I had had on first seeing Goya’s Dog Buried in Sand: here was a work of art that would be with me for life. The detritus of several months’ labour – a low bed, a table strewn with paintbrushes, rags, a camp stove, books on Goya – filled the garage/studio. The glistening painting, reeking of oil, diminished everything around it. Seeing such a forceful evocation of rushing water, of human emotions seeking their source, seemed a miraculous transubstantiation. I felt I was witnessing water turned to oil and knew I couldn’t treat this painting the way I had other works by Richard Gorman, admiring them in exhibitions, committing them to memory. I wanted to see The Beginnings of Love every day. I wanted to live with it.
