Place des arts

I went downtown tonight to see the Pink Parade put on by Festival Juste pour rire (Just for laughs) in honour of Jean-Paul Gauthier. I was in place early, waiting while sipping some strawberry slushy drink, looking around at the crowd. I thought the parade would just be around the corner, but heard they would be another hour. So I did what I do, I looked around and observed and listened. Then, slowly, I started feeling anxious. The ladies in front of me, sitting on their camping folding chairs were chatting endlessly about all and nothing. I knew their words but I could not understand. As I looked around, and heard the laughter, the jokes, saw the green clowns, the pizza eaters, I realized I did not know what I was doing there. I could not understand. I could not relate. And then, I could not breathe.

I rushed away to the underground of the subway station and found myself passing through the newly renovated tunnel between Place Desjardins and the concert hall of Place des arts. There in the dark, a wall of video art, colourful, changing, primal like a child?s game. In the darkness people looked like black shadows. Through the fairly silent passageway, I could hear the loud sound of just one drop of water falling periodically. I felt I belonged there. In the dark, in the anonymity of shadows and ghosts, in the art world, I breathed better. And I took this picture. I just loved the way the art could be reflected in the ceiling. And the colours. Always the colours.

As I was waiting in the darkened 129 bus for it to leave, I looked through the open window at the children playing on the ground of the Festival. I also saw the parade end its way behind the stage, sailor-dressed music players, and tall pink puppets. They would have made for great pictures. I just could not wait. Going up the hill of Du Parc avenue, the window opened and the wind in my face, I took it in my breath, the black tree shapes against dusk, the people walking slowly in the park below Mont-Royal, the cyclists. Then two magnificent punks, perfect, all of black and studs and studied agressivity with some flashes of red, entered the bus. I could totally relate. I was breathing. They like the drummers and walkers of Mont-Royal, and espresso sippers and the girls in dresses on their bicycles belong to my Montreal. The one I like to observe in darkness, in museums, or at 4:50 in the morning. I guess Just for laughs is just not my thing...