Lately I have been having a problem with aging. My own aging, not other's. Looking at recent photos I find myself seeing every line, every wrinkle and I wonder where that young girl went, the one I still feel inside me. The luminosity of my skin and hair is fading. I can no longer eat whatever I want without running every calorie of it off. It feels like gravity is slowly pulling everything down. I find myself contemplating various procedures and surgeries that I could pull off in secret (Yes my time in France did do me very well thank you) and these thoughts make me blush with feminist shame. I'm not supposed to feel like this. I have two university degrees. I have a successful career. I am a good mother. I look good for my age. I'm not entirely sure what being a feminist has to do with this but somehow I feel like I'm supposed to be larger than all this anxiety. That I am now supposed celebrate my womanhood beyond the gaze and feel secure in my mind and in my talent. At this stage of the game, I should know who I am enough to know that how I look doesn't matter. But I think about my appearance - a lot.
Obviously in a culture that fetishizes youth and beauty above all else these feelings should come as no surprise. And it also comes as no surprise that this fetishization applies primarily to women although I know this is slowly changing to the point where men are becoming as apprehensive about aging as we are. I love that we think this is progress. When I look at my husband, I can see grey hairs creeping up his side-burns. His crows-feet deepen every year. He, too, gains weight more easily. Somehow I am able to look at his aging and my heart fills. He's never looked better. And I'm not even saying that to appear magnanimous either - he really does look better every year.
Which brings me to Narcissus. Everybody thinks that Narcissus could not stop staring at his reflection because he was so in love with himself, that the sight of his beauty was so bewitching that he couldn't imagine pulling away from the pool even for a moment. He was a slave to his beauty to the point where he ended up destroying it - sacrificing the needs of the body (food, water, sleep) in exaltation of the body. The moral of this story is that this is the recompense for vanity. Narcissus was vain and therefore he got what he deserved for loving himself too much.
I don't know much, but I know that this was no act of love. This was an act of hatred.
Narcissus did not love himself. He hated himself. He needed that pool - the gaze, even if it was his own - to define him. Without the gaze he was nothing and he knew it. Narcissus was never able to trust in himself, in who he was as an individual beyond the body. That's why he withered away into nothing but a pile of bones when there was food and water right by him. He could have saved his life, stepped away from the pool, had he just trusted that he existed beyond his reflection.
I think this kind of trust can be especially hard for women. And how can it not be? To be looked at is a big part of being a women, even if we wish it were not so. I love to look at women, especially in summer. Flirty dresses, polished toes, pony tails, bodies just waiting to be seen - to be gazed upon. I think most women enjoy being looked at - and what is true for most women is perhaps doubly so for me.
This need for visual attention starts fairly young too. I have a friend whose little girl plans what dress she is going to wear the next day as a surprise for him. He has strict instructions as to how she will reveal herself and he knows his job is to be delighted and to tell her how pretty she looks. I've been trying to unpack what she is excited about. Is it the anticipation of the surprise? Is it the planning of the dress, the shoes, the purse, the jewels that thrills her? Or is it his attention? I imagine it is an amalgam of all of these things.
I was once at an all-girls party where we were discussing the possibility of going camping. One of the girls looked rather pointedly at me and said that she would not tolerate any 'girly' girls worrying about chipping their nail polish. My sister - who else? - rushed to my defense saying to not be deceived, I was a master outdoorswoman who could fish, hunt, start her own fire and even build her own lean-to (thanks dad) but this woman wouldn't lay off. She said: "I've gotten to a place in my life where I think God wants more for women than just beauty." I was not sure how God came into this coversation however, I readily agreed but also added my own views: I think God gave us beauty to delight us - to please us. I think pleasure in beauty in art, or music, or architecture, or nature is to elevate our hearts and minds. To remind us that she exists.
But in many ways beauty becomes standardized, molded, and reduced until it only fits within narrow parametres. I'm trying to work on that in my own mind. I think about how much I love Isobel's snow white hair. I think about how I am proud of my hands even though they are ugly because they are a mark of a great pianist and became so chorded from years of typing/playing. I'm trying to love my laugh lines and my big bum. But most of all I'm trying to accept that it is okay to walk away from the pool from time to time. That I have done the hard work of becoming a person that I could be proud of.
And I won't disappear just because no one is looking.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
How Big is Lisa?
When I was quite little, one of my strategies to get attention was to throw my hands high above my head and shout: "How big is Lisa?" This entreaty meant that those around me had to immediately stop what they were doing, raise their hands in the air and reply, "Soooooo Big!" If I didn't get what I wanted right away, I was not deterred - I would start chanting, hopping from one foot to the other: "How big is Li-sa, how big is Li-sa?" Responses to this would vary. More often than not, I would get a sing-song chorus of "so big" - placated, I'd move along. Other times, people were busy or talking so they would ignore me until my chants became louder and more persistent. When it became impossible to hear themselves over the din, someone would finally yell "SO BIG" loud enough to blow my hair back and I would shuffle off, feeling hard done-by, wondering what was everyone's problem.
Why did I do this? I imagine it had something to do with being the youngest of five daughters who were equally, if not more, talkative than I - getting enough 'air time' was something we fought over. My verbally talented sisters had a decided advantage over me, but none could match my tenacity. Talk all you want, I thought, I will keep chanting. When I think back, that was a tough room. It wasn't easy being on the tail end of that lot. Wendy, the eldest, was poetically beautiful. People would stop her on the street and tell her so. Katie, the brain, was known for her kindness and her intellect - she was the only one of us who had any talent whatsoever for mathematics. Gayle's voice was larger than life. I remember her singing Ave Maria a Capella filling the cathedral church to its rafters. The only person who could match Gayle's talent for performance was Lynne. She was gifted with a crazy, disarming sense of humour and could mimic any accent. Plus Lynne was always different than everyone else. Fearless. I remember one time she shaved her head on one side and died it purple; the other side she left long, ebony, hanging to her waist. People stared, but she just laughed. It wasn't her problem they weren't cool.
Perhaps "How big is Lisa?" had something to do with carving out a space for myself in amongst all this excellence. Maybe I insisted on being seen. Lately, however, I wonder if there wasn't something more to it than this. If you think about it, I was asking a deeply important question. Standing on my tip-toes, stretching my arms as high as they would reach, I wanted - needed? - to know how big I was. I don't think I have stopped asking this question, I've merely internalized it. And the insistence upon external validation still looms as large as it always did. Every new challenge, every goal I set, every impossible mountain that I scale, has this question at its heart.
How big is Lisa?
I guess we'll find out.
Why did I do this? I imagine it had something to do with being the youngest of five daughters who were equally, if not more, talkative than I - getting enough 'air time' was something we fought over. My verbally talented sisters had a decided advantage over me, but none could match my tenacity. Talk all you want, I thought, I will keep chanting. When I think back, that was a tough room. It wasn't easy being on the tail end of that lot. Wendy, the eldest, was poetically beautiful. People would stop her on the street and tell her so. Katie, the brain, was known for her kindness and her intellect - she was the only one of us who had any talent whatsoever for mathematics. Gayle's voice was larger than life. I remember her singing Ave Maria a Capella filling the cathedral church to its rafters. The only person who could match Gayle's talent for performance was Lynne. She was gifted with a crazy, disarming sense of humour and could mimic any accent. Plus Lynne was always different than everyone else. Fearless. I remember one time she shaved her head on one side and died it purple; the other side she left long, ebony, hanging to her waist. People stared, but she just laughed. It wasn't her problem they weren't cool.
Perhaps "How big is Lisa?" had something to do with carving out a space for myself in amongst all this excellence. Maybe I insisted on being seen. Lately, however, I wonder if there wasn't something more to it than this. If you think about it, I was asking a deeply important question. Standing on my tip-toes, stretching my arms as high as they would reach, I wanted - needed? - to know how big I was. I don't think I have stopped asking this question, I've merely internalized it. And the insistence upon external validation still looms as large as it always did. Every new challenge, every goal I set, every impossible mountain that I scale, has this question at its heart.
How big is Lisa?
I guess we'll find out.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Women Are Attacking Campus
Last week students Michelle Tomarat and Derek Warwick posted satirical posters expressing their disgust and incredulity over President Indira Samarasekera's comments that males are disenfranchised in terms of enrollment in academia. She was referring to the fact that women now comprise 56% of campus population with men trailing behind at a paltry 44%. Her concern is that in 20 years that Canada will "not have the benefit of enough male talent at the heads of companies and elsewhere." Naturally comments like these provoked outrage and forced students to wonder if Samarasekera has a clue about women's position as it stands today in the world. The fact is that as of 2007, women in North America still make 76 cents to every male dollar. They do not comprise the majority, or even a close minority (certainly no 44%) of executive positions in business, politics, or government. There has not been an elected female prime-minister in our country yet. There has not been an elected female leader in North America, for that matter. Some articles I have read from the European Foreign press indicate that North America is a bit of a laughing stock in terms of their lack of female leadership...something that is increasingly more common in Europe. Yet still over here in the land of prehistoric snow and ice, we continue to lag behind.
I would have to say that what outraged me the most was that there was a time (a loooong time) where women did not have equal numbers in terms of enrollment in Canadian universities. This, however, was not a matter of concern for past presidents of the U of A or elsewhere. There were no drives to help women achieve higher education. No quotas were lowered (as is being discussed in the States to help drive male enrollment in post secondary education), no tax breaks given, no encouragement formal or informal delivered. Yet the number of women being educated slowly started to rise. So many of them, myself included, made it through the school of hard knocks. During my first degree, I had two children and a part time job. I would start school at 8 am, go to classes until noon, and then drive to GE where I would work until 6. I worked all day Saturday and Sunday. For two years I never took a day off. I did this because I knew there was no oil patch job waiting for me. I knew that as a single mother, I made up the largest portion of those who reside below the poverty line and that I had the least likely chance of ever crossing that line. If there was any hope for me, it was to be an exception to every statistic that was defining me - so this is what I set out to do, and have done with a moderate degree of success.
At any rate, back to the subject at hand. The satirical posters hailed headlines that read "Women are attacking campus!" and "Women: stop! drop! Men: Enroll!" complete with black and white vintage representations of the 1950's men and women. The posters were clever and above all funny. These students used satire to question statements that, frankly, should be questioned. The response to this was that campus security rounded up these students and told them they were being charged and potentially expelled from the University for distributing "hate literature." In 2009 ladies. This should concern you.
Basically the students were bullied into dropping their resistance, and President Samarasekera stated to the Edmonton Journal that there is no way they will be expelled as she is all for 'academic freedom.' Apparently Samarasekera's office received many complaints from faculty members, professors, and students protesting this suppression of academic freedom. This was not an issue that was being taken lightly. Faculty members and professors at the U of A, and presumably around the world, take academic freedom seriously. Like lay-down-in-front-of-a-tank-Tiananmen Square- seriously, which is lucky.
I couldn't help but think back to my first degree and to a group of students who weren't so lucky. During Rod Fraser's imperial reign as President of the U of A, a group of students spray painted some plywood sheets that were erected as a temporary front to a business in Hub mall that was under construction. The posted statistics of the ever-increasing tuition prices at the university under his leadership and correlated them with the number of students who were homeless, to those who were now forced to use the food bank. They were expelled for destruction of private property and in that battle, the students fought alone. My husband still says that Fraser's name on his degree is a blight to the quaecumque vera (whatsoever things are true) motto underneath it. Fittingly, that motto comes from St. Paul's letter to the Phillippians (who wasn't the greatest lover of women) and the passage commences with "Brothers..."
While the students ultimately were not charged, and to be fair Samarasekera defended their right to freedom of academic expression and that the literature they distributed did not constitute 'hate literature,' it is still with a heavy heart that I write this morning. I am overwhelmed with stories lately of women who are getting the shaft in corporate America, who are climbing up on the backs of one another, spreading malicious rumours to gain advantage, and bumping their heads on the glass ceiling. To those women who are taking other women out in order to gain advantage (and I have a specific example in mind here) I say this: you don't know what you are doing. The stakes have never been higher - and you reinforce a system that will spare you no mercy when your time comes.
To Derek Warwick and Michelle Tomarat I say this: where can I get some of those posters? I would like to frame them and put them up in my office - to remind me.
I would have to say that what outraged me the most was that there was a time (a loooong time) where women did not have equal numbers in terms of enrollment in Canadian universities. This, however, was not a matter of concern for past presidents of the U of A or elsewhere. There were no drives to help women achieve higher education. No quotas were lowered (as is being discussed in the States to help drive male enrollment in post secondary education), no tax breaks given, no encouragement formal or informal delivered. Yet the number of women being educated slowly started to rise. So many of them, myself included, made it through the school of hard knocks. During my first degree, I had two children and a part time job. I would start school at 8 am, go to classes until noon, and then drive to GE where I would work until 6. I worked all day Saturday and Sunday. For two years I never took a day off. I did this because I knew there was no oil patch job waiting for me. I knew that as a single mother, I made up the largest portion of those who reside below the poverty line and that I had the least likely chance of ever crossing that line. If there was any hope for me, it was to be an exception to every statistic that was defining me - so this is what I set out to do, and have done with a moderate degree of success.
At any rate, back to the subject at hand. The satirical posters hailed headlines that read "Women are attacking campus!" and "Women: stop! drop! Men: Enroll!" complete with black and white vintage representations of the 1950's men and women. The posters were clever and above all funny. These students used satire to question statements that, frankly, should be questioned. The response to this was that campus security rounded up these students and told them they were being charged and potentially expelled from the University for distributing "hate literature." In 2009 ladies. This should concern you.
Basically the students were bullied into dropping their resistance, and President Samarasekera stated to the Edmonton Journal that there is no way they will be expelled as she is all for 'academic freedom.' Apparently Samarasekera's office received many complaints from faculty members, professors, and students protesting this suppression of academic freedom. This was not an issue that was being taken lightly. Faculty members and professors at the U of A, and presumably around the world, take academic freedom seriously. Like lay-down-in-front-of-a-tank-Tiananmen Square- seriously, which is lucky.
I couldn't help but think back to my first degree and to a group of students who weren't so lucky. During Rod Fraser's imperial reign as President of the U of A, a group of students spray painted some plywood sheets that were erected as a temporary front to a business in Hub mall that was under construction. The posted statistics of the ever-increasing tuition prices at the university under his leadership and correlated them with the number of students who were homeless, to those who were now forced to use the food bank. They were expelled for destruction of private property and in that battle, the students fought alone. My husband still says that Fraser's name on his degree is a blight to the quaecumque vera (whatsoever things are true) motto underneath it. Fittingly, that motto comes from St. Paul's letter to the Phillippians (who wasn't the greatest lover of women) and the passage commences with "Brothers..."
While the students ultimately were not charged, and to be fair Samarasekera defended their right to freedom of academic expression and that the literature they distributed did not constitute 'hate literature,' it is still with a heavy heart that I write this morning. I am overwhelmed with stories lately of women who are getting the shaft in corporate America, who are climbing up on the backs of one another, spreading malicious rumours to gain advantage, and bumping their heads on the glass ceiling. To those women who are taking other women out in order to gain advantage (and I have a specific example in mind here) I say this: you don't know what you are doing. The stakes have never been higher - and you reinforce a system that will spare you no mercy when your time comes.
To Derek Warwick and Michelle Tomarat I say this: where can I get some of those posters? I would like to frame them and put them up in my office - to remind me.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
This One's for the Girls - No, really!
Warning - this blog is about menstruation. If you find that in poor taste...well, personally I don't really care. Read something else then.
Have you ever had your period completely surprise you? You are on holidays, or in your car, or in the fitting room at Nordstrom, or worse - in a lecture hall, and you start to feel this slow trickle between your legs. If you are like me, than for sure you will not have a tampon in your purse. I always keep one for emergencies and it seems like I always use it and forget to replace it. Or, alternatively, I haven't used it and it gets mangled by the junk in my purse until there is no way that it could be considered sanitary and it gets pitched. This is precisely the moment where I will get my period - because I am unprepared.
I was musing on this predicament with my sister a while back and bitching that I, a 35 year old woman, should by now have some reasonable idea of when I will menstruate - but I don't. Every month it's like this diabolical surprise that springs up, usually when I am wearing white. My older sisters are incredulous that this continually happens to me. Kate: "Don't you know by now how to chart your period? They teach you that when you are twelve you know." Yes, I remember health class where dear Daena's mom (who was a nurse) would come and pass out "It's Wonderful Being a Girl" pamphlets and allow us to write questions annonymously on little scaps of paper so that we wouldn't be embrassed. I guess that you could say I am remedial because I never did actually use the calendar enclosed; twenty years later, I still have not done so.
Lynne and I have a mutual friend who tracks her period on-line so I thought I would check it out. http://www.mymonthlycycles.com/ If you are forgetful like me, this is a handy dandy little site. You can fill out your calendar online and it will send you reminder emails when you are going to menstruate. There was one hitch though in that you have to be able to give the dates of your last two periods (which frankly, if I knew that I wouldn't need the calendar) but after some discussion with Rob (Don't you remember? We were kyaking and had to race into Jasper? The month before that remember we had to leave that dinner party early?), I managed to figure it out. Yes folks, my poor husband has purchased feminine hygiene products for me pretty much everywhere on earth while I sit slunked low in the passenger seat with a napkin jammed between my legs... Anyway, the site is awesome. This month I received a pink pop-up reminder that said "Lisa: put some tampons in your purse." Also, you can track fertility, breast self examination, symptoms of your period, gynecologist appointments - whatever you want. It will graph the trends for you and make suggestions.
What really struck me though was the section for women who are trying to conceive. This is an invaluable tool for them as it tracks ovulation. There is a section called the 'Wishing Well' - as I opened it my eyes filled with tears (did I mention the cite will also track PMS?) Hundreds, no thousands, of voices filled my screen: 'Please God, give me a baby,' 'Please let this be the month,' 'My husband's disappointment is killing me, he wants this so badly.' It's overwhelming. There is a section called TTC after MC (trying to conceive after miscarrying) where women can post their wishes but also comment on other's wishes. You can send people prayers or, for the non-religious, wishes of good luck. You can send women 'tons of baby dust' or make supportive comments. This is what I found truly moving. Somewhere out in the electronic blackness there is a community of women holding each other up - buttressing each other. They are seperated by race, ethnicity, distance, socio-economic circumstances, religion, sexual orientation and so on - yet they come together to share their hopes, experiences and fears.
I added my own wish to well. "Please help us continue to be sisters, please help us support one another. Grant us peace."
Have you ever had your period completely surprise you? You are on holidays, or in your car, or in the fitting room at Nordstrom, or worse - in a lecture hall, and you start to feel this slow trickle between your legs. If you are like me, than for sure you will not have a tampon in your purse. I always keep one for emergencies and it seems like I always use it and forget to replace it. Or, alternatively, I haven't used it and it gets mangled by the junk in my purse until there is no way that it could be considered sanitary and it gets pitched. This is precisely the moment where I will get my period - because I am unprepared.
I was musing on this predicament with my sister a while back and bitching that I, a 35 year old woman, should by now have some reasonable idea of when I will menstruate - but I don't. Every month it's like this diabolical surprise that springs up, usually when I am wearing white. My older sisters are incredulous that this continually happens to me. Kate: "Don't you know by now how to chart your period? They teach you that when you are twelve you know." Yes, I remember health class where dear Daena's mom (who was a nurse) would come and pass out "It's Wonderful Being a Girl" pamphlets and allow us to write questions annonymously on little scaps of paper so that we wouldn't be embrassed. I guess that you could say I am remedial because I never did actually use the calendar enclosed; twenty years later, I still have not done so.
Lynne and I have a mutual friend who tracks her period on-line so I thought I would check it out. http://www.mymonthlycycles.com/ If you are forgetful like me, this is a handy dandy little site. You can fill out your calendar online and it will send you reminder emails when you are going to menstruate. There was one hitch though in that you have to be able to give the dates of your last two periods (which frankly, if I knew that I wouldn't need the calendar) but after some discussion with Rob (Don't you remember? We were kyaking and had to race into Jasper? The month before that remember we had to leave that dinner party early?), I managed to figure it out. Yes folks, my poor husband has purchased feminine hygiene products for me pretty much everywhere on earth while I sit slunked low in the passenger seat with a napkin jammed between my legs... Anyway, the site is awesome. This month I received a pink pop-up reminder that said "Lisa: put some tampons in your purse." Also, you can track fertility, breast self examination, symptoms of your period, gynecologist appointments - whatever you want. It will graph the trends for you and make suggestions.
What really struck me though was the section for women who are trying to conceive. This is an invaluable tool for them as it tracks ovulation. There is a section called the 'Wishing Well' - as I opened it my eyes filled with tears (did I mention the cite will also track PMS?) Hundreds, no thousands, of voices filled my screen: 'Please God, give me a baby,' 'Please let this be the month,' 'My husband's disappointment is killing me, he wants this so badly.' It's overwhelming. There is a section called TTC after MC (trying to conceive after miscarrying) where women can post their wishes but also comment on other's wishes. You can send people prayers or, for the non-religious, wishes of good luck. You can send women 'tons of baby dust' or make supportive comments. This is what I found truly moving. Somewhere out in the electronic blackness there is a community of women holding each other up - buttressing each other. They are seperated by race, ethnicity, distance, socio-economic circumstances, religion, sexual orientation and so on - yet they come together to share their hopes, experiences and fears.
I added my own wish to well. "Please help us continue to be sisters, please help us support one another. Grant us peace."
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Music makes the people come together...
For all of my friends who play piano, you have to check out this site: http://www.pianofiles.com/.
I stumbled upon this site when searching for some Natalie Merchant music online. I have had to resort to finding music online because of the complete and absolute tyranny that is the sheet music business. Most music stores will not allow customers to sample music in order to prevent people from copying it and returning it - which seems to make sense. However, what ends up happening to the end user, the customer, is that every music purchase is in it's own way a leap of faith. I have pretty decent sight reading abilities because I have had 15 years of conservatory music instruction and I am still constantly disappointed. Either the melody line isn't written in the music (meaning that it is true accompaniment music), or it is and you don't want that, or the music is too easy, or not in the key you want (which can be transposed but again, you need a fairly in depth understanding of music theory to do that). I have purchased music books looking for a single song for upwards of 50$, only to find out it wasn't what I wanted. And, of course, you can't return it.
The internet has been somewhat better in that you can search individual titles, as opposed to artists, and purchase a single song. The downside of this is that you don't even get to see the music, so you really have no idea what you are buying. I recently purchased a couple of songs from the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack that ended up being pretty, but far too easy. Luckily, they only set me back about 14$ each.
Pianofiles is a site that allows users to share music in pdf files. The music isn't available online for download for obvious copyright reasons, but members can arrange privately to send music to each other via email. FOR FREE. I have met pianists from all over the world, and I share music I have whenever I can. We can also share opinions, comments and suggestions. I usually receive music that I am looking for in about a week, which is comparable to internet purchasing.
Do I feel badly about the copyright issues? Hell no. I feel the same way about it as I do about downloading electronic music files. If artists find that they can't compete because people are sharing their music, they need to change the way they do business. Or go home. It's really that simple. I purchased the new Killers CD because I really liked them as a band and want to make sure that I am supporting them financially. What reward did I get for my purchase? Eight watered-down songs in addition to their single - which is the only decent song on the whole CD - and 4 photos of the band that my kid could have taken. I thought to myself: what is preventing me from downloading your music? As a customer, the product is shoddy. Whereas my new Rise Against CD was a treasure-trove of discovery. The artwork on the jacket is incredible. There is a small bio on all of the band members (the Killers CD didn't even have their names in it), recommended reading and recommended sites to visit. 50 Cent includes a DVD in his CD with a music video on it. Gwen Steffani's solo CD has passwords for her website so that fans can see exclusive interviews, concert footage, and pictures. Now people, that is thinking. I will buy her CD because she is delivering value. I have brand loyalty just as much as the next guy - I always buy Canadian artists to support our undervalued music industry - but dammit you have to earn it. Marilyn Manson once said in an interview that file sharing has allowed him to access customers he may not have had previously because they can sample the music, decide if they like it, and then purchase it. For artists who don't get radio play, file sharing is essential.
Downloading free music isn't easy or convenient. Anyone who has tried to load a free song into itunes can tell you this. File sharing of sheet music is also not convenient - you have to rely upon the mercy of a stranger in the same predicament to scan and send their music to you. I think the fact that file sharing exists is a consumer response to markets that are not meeting their customer's needs. Hell, sometimes I think they aren't even trying. Wanna know how Britney Spears makes her money? Ringtones. 1$ per ringtone adds up pretty quick... Whatever anyone wants to say about the quality of her music, she is selling.
I was recently treated to a soapbox argument about the issue of file sharing in our country and all I could think was: where else in business can a company bemoan their lack of sales by blaming the customer and then actually try to take legal action against the very people who they hope to purchase their product?
I guess those who cannot do - preach.
I stumbled upon this site when searching for some Natalie Merchant music online. I have had to resort to finding music online because of the complete and absolute tyranny that is the sheet music business. Most music stores will not allow customers to sample music in order to prevent people from copying it and returning it - which seems to make sense. However, what ends up happening to the end user, the customer, is that every music purchase is in it's own way a leap of faith. I have pretty decent sight reading abilities because I have had 15 years of conservatory music instruction and I am still constantly disappointed. Either the melody line isn't written in the music (meaning that it is true accompaniment music), or it is and you don't want that, or the music is too easy, or not in the key you want (which can be transposed but again, you need a fairly in depth understanding of music theory to do that). I have purchased music books looking for a single song for upwards of 50$, only to find out it wasn't what I wanted. And, of course, you can't return it.
The internet has been somewhat better in that you can search individual titles, as opposed to artists, and purchase a single song. The downside of this is that you don't even get to see the music, so you really have no idea what you are buying. I recently purchased a couple of songs from the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack that ended up being pretty, but far too easy. Luckily, they only set me back about 14$ each.
Pianofiles is a site that allows users to share music in pdf files. The music isn't available online for download for obvious copyright reasons, but members can arrange privately to send music to each other via email. FOR FREE. I have met pianists from all over the world, and I share music I have whenever I can. We can also share opinions, comments and suggestions. I usually receive music that I am looking for in about a week, which is comparable to internet purchasing.
Do I feel badly about the copyright issues? Hell no. I feel the same way about it as I do about downloading electronic music files. If artists find that they can't compete because people are sharing their music, they need to change the way they do business. Or go home. It's really that simple. I purchased the new Killers CD because I really liked them as a band and want to make sure that I am supporting them financially. What reward did I get for my purchase? Eight watered-down songs in addition to their single - which is the only decent song on the whole CD - and 4 photos of the band that my kid could have taken. I thought to myself: what is preventing me from downloading your music? As a customer, the product is shoddy. Whereas my new Rise Against CD was a treasure-trove of discovery. The artwork on the jacket is incredible. There is a small bio on all of the band members (the Killers CD didn't even have their names in it), recommended reading and recommended sites to visit. 50 Cent includes a DVD in his CD with a music video on it. Gwen Steffani's solo CD has passwords for her website so that fans can see exclusive interviews, concert footage, and pictures. Now people, that is thinking. I will buy her CD because she is delivering value. I have brand loyalty just as much as the next guy - I always buy Canadian artists to support our undervalued music industry - but dammit you have to earn it. Marilyn Manson once said in an interview that file sharing has allowed him to access customers he may not have had previously because they can sample the music, decide if they like it, and then purchase it. For artists who don't get radio play, file sharing is essential.
Downloading free music isn't easy or convenient. Anyone who has tried to load a free song into itunes can tell you this. File sharing of sheet music is also not convenient - you have to rely upon the mercy of a stranger in the same predicament to scan and send their music to you. I think the fact that file sharing exists is a consumer response to markets that are not meeting their customer's needs. Hell, sometimes I think they aren't even trying. Wanna know how Britney Spears makes her money? Ringtones. 1$ per ringtone adds up pretty quick... Whatever anyone wants to say about the quality of her music, she is selling.
I was recently treated to a soapbox argument about the issue of file sharing in our country and all I could think was: where else in business can a company bemoan their lack of sales by blaming the customer and then actually try to take legal action against the very people who they hope to purchase their product?
I guess those who cannot do - preach.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Paint
I have a love/hate relationship with paint. I usually begin any renovation project with gusto, pouring over paint samples and design magazines, only to find my enthusiasm flagging by the time I am finished the first coat on the first wall. I love choosing paint colours, and if I may say so myself, I am really good at it. I can match undertones well - that is the secret. For example, the first time I painted my living room I choose the colour 'Egyptian' which is a deep earthy brown colour. You would think that it would be too dark and somber, but it isn't at all. The room gets a lot of light and the carpet is a light beige, so it works. I painted the ceiling mauve to compliment the brown because there is a mauve undertone in 'Egyptian'. The effect is cool in that you really cannot tell that my ceiling is purple - it looks white. I chose 'Americana' for my bathroom because it was such a vibrant shade of blue and then paired it with a massive gold gilt framed mirror over the sink and brushed nickel faucets. For the TV room, I was inspired by a Manhattan pied-a-terre concept: exposed brick, clean lines, modern furniture with a more masculine feel to it. I chose a deep chocolate brown for the end walls and a slate grey for the sides and paired it with rich chocolate leather couches. I felt a tiny burst of pride when I heard the cable guy's impressed whistle as Rob showed him the room. Ok ok, he was most likely whistling about the audio-visual equipment, but in my mind it was over my awesome paint job.
'Haze' is my favorite colour for paint that you want to be able to ignore. My bedroom is painted in this colour and so is my office. The colour resembles coffee with too much milk in it. But it's really soothing and matches well with almost any decor.
I gave my sister Kate deep red walls in her bedroom (that we immediately began calling her 'boudoir') which really set off the mahogany fireplace and dark wood mouldings of the room. We chose a crushed velvet bedspread and about a million throw pillows with heavy wine coloured curtains to finish off the room. The red walls were tough - anyone who has attempted this colour knows it is a faux amis. I burst into tears after the first coat dried because it resembled strongly the colour of Campbell's Tomato Soup. Grey primer was the secret to that room - or any room where you want to make the colour deep and bold. I have done textured walls also. The only thing I will say about that is that you better love love love that wall, because there is no way that you are getting that shit off. Plus it is super difficult to work with and you have to be so precise.
So here I am painting my living room again. This time, I am dropping the ceiling by painting the crown moulding and the ceiling the same shade. I chose an off-white with dove grey undertones to it to give an 'antiqued' feel to the room. I am painting the walls a moss green colour called 'Promenade.' Rob blanched at this colour choice, but is remaining cautiously optimistic. Granted, I had to recite the litany of paint jobs I have done in my life to remind him that really I am very good at this and he should just trust me; in the end he has agreed to leave me to it. Sure, I have made mistakes in the past. I painted the guest room downstairs yellow thinking it would open up a dreary basement room. This was before I knew that yellow is the colour of repressed rage. It looked like an asylum. I picked the lightest shade of blush pink for the kitchen which was really a rookie mistake. Unless you are painting a nursery, pink should never be used inside your home. It looked like the walls were hosed down with Pepto Bismol.
Vis-a-vis the living room, I am at the point where I am tired of painting which is bad because there is a lot more to do. I am sick of paint pans, and tape, and washing brushes. I am systematically dislocating my rotater cuff with all this repetitive motion and my hands are chapped from too much washing. My neck hurts from looking up all the time.
But I am still excited about the colour choices, I think I have picked a real winner this time. I will keep you posted...
'Haze' is my favorite colour for paint that you want to be able to ignore. My bedroom is painted in this colour and so is my office. The colour resembles coffee with too much milk in it. But it's really soothing and matches well with almost any decor.
I gave my sister Kate deep red walls in her bedroom (that we immediately began calling her 'boudoir') which really set off the mahogany fireplace and dark wood mouldings of the room. We chose a crushed velvet bedspread and about a million throw pillows with heavy wine coloured curtains to finish off the room. The red walls were tough - anyone who has attempted this colour knows it is a faux amis. I burst into tears after the first coat dried because it resembled strongly the colour of Campbell's Tomato Soup. Grey primer was the secret to that room - or any room where you want to make the colour deep and bold. I have done textured walls also. The only thing I will say about that is that you better love love love that wall, because there is no way that you are getting that shit off. Plus it is super difficult to work with and you have to be so precise.
So here I am painting my living room again. This time, I am dropping the ceiling by painting the crown moulding and the ceiling the same shade. I chose an off-white with dove grey undertones to it to give an 'antiqued' feel to the room. I am painting the walls a moss green colour called 'Promenade.' Rob blanched at this colour choice, but is remaining cautiously optimistic. Granted, I had to recite the litany of paint jobs I have done in my life to remind him that really I am very good at this and he should just trust me; in the end he has agreed to leave me to it. Sure, I have made mistakes in the past. I painted the guest room downstairs yellow thinking it would open up a dreary basement room. This was before I knew that yellow is the colour of repressed rage. It looked like an asylum. I picked the lightest shade of blush pink for the kitchen which was really a rookie mistake. Unless you are painting a nursery, pink should never be used inside your home. It looked like the walls were hosed down with Pepto Bismol.
Vis-a-vis the living room, I am at the point where I am tired of painting which is bad because there is a lot more to do. I am sick of paint pans, and tape, and washing brushes. I am systematically dislocating my rotater cuff with all this repetitive motion and my hands are chapped from too much washing. My neck hurts from looking up all the time.
But I am still excited about the colour choices, I think I have picked a real winner this time. I will keep you posted...
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Oh Canada...
The topic of conversation around our backyard fire pit this Canada Day was "You know you are Canadian when..." Here are some of the answers:
You Know You Are Canadian When...
1) You have de-iced your car door locks using a lighter.
2) You have opened a beer bottle with that same lighter.
3) You know how to light a fire pretty much anywhere, with limited supplies.
4) You know how to paddle a canoe.
5) You have thrown at least one curling rock in your life.
6) You have caught at least one fish.
7) You have visited "The Largest ____" Fill in: Pasanka Egg, UFO, Lobster, etc... http://www.bigthings.ca/
8) You know the bird call from the Hinterland Who's Who.
http://www.hww.ca/index_e.asp
9) You can sing, or at least hum, the entire Log Driver's Waltz.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ekqsHP9Sck
10) The Hockey Night in Canada theme song still gives you a thrill, even if you don't watch hockey.
11) You know at least one person who has held the Stanley Cup.
12) You know what a Double Double is, and you would like one please...
13) You have watched at least one episode of the following, usually due to a lack of cable TV: The Tommy Hunter Show, Rita McNeil & Friends, Hee-Haw, The Beachcombers, or Stompin Tom Connors. The Littlest Hobo was also mentioned, but many felt they watched that voluntarily.
14) You can sing along to the Irish Rovers because somehow all of the words of 'Wasn't That a Party' have crept into the recesses of your subconscious and refuse to leave.
15) Ditto for 'The Rodeo Song"...
16) That no matter where you go in this great land of ours, there are always strong opinions about the weather and the state of the roads.
17) You understand that beavers are mighty creatures.
18) You have shoveled twice in the same day.
19) No matter the flavor of your politics, everyone thinks Louis Riel kicked ass.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Riel
20) You have uttered the phrase "I hate white rabbits" to keep away the smoke.
As we neared the end of our list, we were forced to admit how regional ours was. We wondered what Lincoln's friend James' list would look like. His parents are from Vietnam, he was born in Canada. Or my sister Gayle's list, and her family in Québec. Or Shivani's. Or Ayala's. While there are moments where one can feel with strong conviction one's own 'Canadianness,' it is elusive as to what actually makes up this identity. I'm not sure why, but I like this. I like that there can be so many definitions to one single word: Canadian. I feel an immeasurable amount of pride in my country, and to be Canadian.
Happy Canada Day everyone.
You Know You Are Canadian When...
1) You have de-iced your car door locks using a lighter.
2) You have opened a beer bottle with that same lighter.
3) You know how to light a fire pretty much anywhere, with limited supplies.
4) You know how to paddle a canoe.
5) You have thrown at least one curling rock in your life.
6) You have caught at least one fish.
7) You have visited "The Largest ____" Fill in: Pasanka Egg, UFO, Lobster, etc... http://www.bigthings.ca/
8) You know the bird call from the Hinterland Who's Who.
http://www.hww.ca/index_e.asp
9) You can sing, or at least hum, the entire Log Driver's Waltz.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ekqsHP9Sck
10) The Hockey Night in Canada theme song still gives you a thrill, even if you don't watch hockey.
11) You know at least one person who has held the Stanley Cup.
12) You know what a Double Double is, and you would like one please...
13) You have watched at least one episode of the following, usually due to a lack of cable TV: The Tommy Hunter Show, Rita McNeil & Friends, Hee-Haw, The Beachcombers, or Stompin Tom Connors. The Littlest Hobo was also mentioned, but many felt they watched that voluntarily.
14) You can sing along to the Irish Rovers because somehow all of the words of 'Wasn't That a Party' have crept into the recesses of your subconscious and refuse to leave.
15) Ditto for 'The Rodeo Song"...
16) That no matter where you go in this great land of ours, there are always strong opinions about the weather and the state of the roads.
17) You understand that beavers are mighty creatures.
18) You have shoveled twice in the same day.
19) No matter the flavor of your politics, everyone thinks Louis Riel kicked ass.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Riel
20) You have uttered the phrase "I hate white rabbits" to keep away the smoke.
As we neared the end of our list, we were forced to admit how regional ours was. We wondered what Lincoln's friend James' list would look like. His parents are from Vietnam, he was born in Canada. Or my sister Gayle's list, and her family in Québec. Or Shivani's. Or Ayala's. While there are moments where one can feel with strong conviction one's own 'Canadianness,' it is elusive as to what actually makes up this identity. I'm not sure why, but I like this. I like that there can be so many definitions to one single word: Canadian. I feel an immeasurable amount of pride in my country, and to be Canadian.
Happy Canada Day everyone.
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