Update 2011

I don't know when exactly, but this tract of land is going to change soon. Move, to be precise. How (as in format and content) I am not sure. Where, I'm pretty sure but without knowing how I don't want to make any promises.

When I started Imaginary Magnitude, it was a means for me to explore and share ideas on a variety of things: things philosophical, things artistic, things writerly, sometimes things political and social. There were (and are still) essays, book reviews, shitloads of photography, thoughts on film, thoughts on me and my direction (or lack thereof). It is this last point which has become topical, if not online then off.

Back in 2006, when I posted my first "Hello World", I was an employee for a film/TV production company, in search of independence. Within the following year, I found that independence as a freelancer. It was a successful decision. On June 12th, I will sit on a specialized panel at the TIFF Lightbox in downtown Toronto to discuss stereographic 3D filmmaking. Last year, I presented my thoughts on digital post production workflows at Pinewood Studios. Over the course of my career, I've supervised at least two feature films which have opened at #1 in the North American box office. I have an honorary Emmy Award for my work in the edit room. I also got to sit in on a recording session with producer Hal Willner, and had the honour of witnessing Mary Margaret O'Hara lay down the vocals for her chilling rendition of Blues In The Night. These are all good things, and I put them out there not to boast or chest-thump, but because I often get so wrapped up in the day-to-day details of my profession that I overlook the significance of certain plot points.

Thing is, what I'm doing is not creative work. It's loosely collaborative and, if anything, I've most enjoyed the parts where I've been a voyeur. As regular readers will note, I'm a fiction writer. A novelist who, at 39, needed (note past-tense - I am 40 now) a career which did not consume every moment of the day (and/or weekend) with the flotsam and jetsam of other people's creative (and logistic) stress - or, put in a better way, something consumed by the right people and the right stress, for the right reasons.

After long consideration, I decided in 2010 to pursue an education in psychotherapy, with an eye to practice as a therapist. Psychology has been something I've always been pulled towards, and psychotherapy seems a fitting combination of my skills and interests. Last September was my first class and the first year has raced past me: a lot of writing, a lot of reading, a lot of listening, a lot of talking and feeling. So far, so good. I've got two more years ahead of me, but will begin seeing clients as early as November of this year as part of the training program.

I've had to reconsider many things lately, this blog being one of them. Since contributing to the post production diary on Guy Maddin's film (via Tumblr), the Blogger interface seems a little clunky and not as receptive to throwing paint on the wall. I also don't know what this is about anymore: this blog. So, I may abandon it and start something new...or I might simply import this sucker elsewhere. I've got a couple of domains held, and a cool webhost, so the rest is really up to me (and time, and Fate, and my patience with coding). Besides, five years is a long time to do anything.

This is not my last post, but by September I'm sure I will have put a new site together. A new address as well. I will let you know when that happens.

[June 3rd: edited for clarity and accuracy of my age, in case anyone thinks I'm trying to pass myself off as 39]

Remembering Michael

It's the 32nd anniversary of my uncle's murder. Details here: http://www.amw.com/fugitives/brief.cfm?id=44215.

Sad, numb.

I was in a mood when I wrote this - hard not to be, I suppose. However, I don't want it to come across as maudlin, so I thought I'd add some context.

I chose this year to make a statement about it, on social media especially (Facebook, Twitter). Why? Because, outside of the initial blog posts I published around the time of the America's Most Wanted episode, it's been a source of untapped grief. In making it public, I was unabashedly putting it out there - to friends and acquaintances, and strangers alike - instead of it being this twisted little secret which swims around my head.

The fact is, my uncle's death has nothing to do with me. I never had the chance to meet him. I am involved in the sense you would be involved if you were researching a stranger from another age, another country, who just happened to be related. And yet his story is woven into mine, distant though our two lives were. I am older than he was when he was shot. I wasn't even 9 years old back then, and I didn't learn about it until I was 17. The tragedy was delayed for me: time-released.

In any case, this is my sorrow, shared briefly with you. It is, I should add (in all fairness), a necessary exploitation of a crime, in the faint hope someone will happen across an old Guild D40 guitar, or know what happened to a burglar with a Leica fetish. Faint hope, for sure, but it's part of the process of grief.

Update

First off, things are going very well on the Keyhole blog. If you haven't checked it out, please do. Yes, this is me, shilling for myself (and the film).

It is a departure from Guy's previous works, which tended to rely on the aesthetic of film itself as a language; Guy has been very upfront about his love of tropes from the early days of cinema. The difference is that in Keyhole these elements are reordered in priority, toward the background as mise-en-scène and not a character in and of itself. Keyhole is subliminally deeper and more purely emotional than his earlier films; a drawback is that I'm not sure how much people will be able to absorb in one viewing. If there is one challenge that I am experiencing, it is balancing the educational, editorial, and entertainment-oriented components of the diary/blog.

Aside from this, teaching, student-ing, writing are going well. I am working on a submission letter to a literary agent for my novel. The weather is getting warmer. I can't complain

Well, I will complain: we have a federal election coming up May 2nd. I don't mind the election per se, but we have exceeded three weeks of campaigning already and not one word of either Afghanistan or Libya - two wars which require a position, regardless of whether you are the sitting government or one of the contenders. Oh, and health care. It's the weird-assed priorities which bug me - who are they trying to appeal to? Swing voters and pundits, it seems.

Guy Maddin's Keyhole

Good news #1: I'm supervising the post production on the new film by Guy Maddin, Keyhole.

Good news #2: I've been asked to do a blog/diary of its progress. Sweet!

Here's the link to my Keyhole post production blog. Don't be surprised if it takes my attention away from here for the next while. I will endeavour to keep Imaginary Magnitude updated.

Movies & A Book: Some of The Best Things I've Witnessed in 2010

Here's the best of what I've seen this year. I haven't seen everything. You may disagree with what I have seen. This is life.

FILM:

Inception

Go ahead. Try. Try disagreeing that this is one of the most technically (and perhaps conceptually) elaborate mainstream Hollywood productions released in years which also happens to work as a "movie" that a wide variety of audiences would enjoy watching.

There has been a backlash against Inception. I don't know how or why this is - perhaps it was over-sold as a deep "puzzle-solver" film, which it is not. And yes, the NYT's A.O. Scott has a point in his comment that the film's literal depiction of dreams are lacking psychological heft (outside of Marion Cotillard's performance as DiCaprio's wife). In any case, something has caused a revolt against this film and I say this revolt is missing the point.

Inception is, generally speaking, the most watchable, the most fascinating film of 2010. You are allowed to hate it.

A Prophet

I am a huge fan of Jacques Audiard, a French director who has always rewarded the viewer with films (Read My Lips, The Beat My Heart Skipped) that balance passion with style. With A Prophet, Audiard expands his canvas, creating a gritty, novelistic masterpiece on-par with The Godfather (yes). The story concerns a young incarcerated Muslim who slowly rebuilds himself from within the treachery of prison life, rising from under the thumb of a vicious mob leader to become his own person and create his own empire. Epic, patient, and in places extremely violent. People will be referring to this film for years to come even if it has not really made a mark in North America. Again, a masterpiece.

The Eclipse

I realize this Irish film was released in 2009, but it didn't get here until now. A compelling ghost story which eschews the two-dimensionality of ghost story films. It was around the twenty-minute mark that I realized it was a film which was going to confound my expectations (expectations based upon years and hundreds of similar plot lines): it wasn't going to squander what it was and fall prey to hackneyed cliché. A gorgeous, touching, ultimately humanistic film with a stand-out performance by Ciarán Hinds as a grieving father of two children who must swallow his pride to escort a loud-mouthed Aidan Quinn through the motions of a book tour of the small coastal city of Cobh, in County Cork. A sublime achievement by director Conor McPherson.

Notable: Winter's Bone - see it. It's on DVD now. Like A Simple Plan, it's a self-contained "rural thriller" (ugh) with a chilling undertone of barren hopelessness. Unlike A Simple Plan, it's uncomplicated which is what gives it more of an honest strength. Exit Through The Gift Shop is the perhaps best film made about art and the art world that I have seen - like Inception, it's not trying to be deep, just smart. Scott Pilgrim vs. The World blew me away because I expected it to be weak (perhaps because all the publicity photos inexplicably used a static image of Michael Cera standing against a fucking wall...imagine if you will, trying to sell Star Wars with a picture of Mark Hamill sitting cross-legged in the desert - sounds awesome, eh?). Not only was it not weak, it was the strangest case of "I don't know why I love this movie but I really do". Painstakingly, sublimely Toronto-centric (which, unlike the inexplicable promo photos of Michael Cera, shouldn't be factored into explaining why it didn't fare well at the box office) and wildly imaginative - those two things have never met before...oh but wait, I forgot the perfect companion piece: Kick Ass - also shot in TO, and also exceedingly expectation-defying (although the climax is kinda drawn-out). As far as performances go, Jesse Eisenberg (The Social Network) and Colin Firth (The King's Speech) stand out, along with Winter's Bone's Jennifer Lawrence, and Hailee Steinfeld for True Grit (who, at 14-years, shows huge promise as an actor).

BOOK:

I would have said "BOOKS", but due to work and school I haven't read anything published this year (that I can remember), with the exception of John Vaillant's The Tiger. Lucky for me, since it is without doubt one of the best non-fiction titles I've read in years.

The Tiger is a meaty real-life tale of vengeance by the titular beast, in the winter hinterland of the Russian Far East (which the author calls, paradoxically, "the boreal forest"). Vaillant describes an environment historically, politically, and biologically unique, inhabited by hardened outcasts. The shadow of a predator male tiger, known never before to attack without cause, creates a wave of dread throughout the land, with only a small band of volunteers to figure out the mystery. Vaillant provides wave after wave of fascinating detail - examples of how man and beast have evolved throughout time, how human and animal behaviour have worked in similar paths - that by the end of the book you feel as if you should have a credit in Ethology. This is truly a page-turner and I cannot recommend it enough.

Photo: Self-Portrait, Credit River

Taking a Breath

For the first time in a few Decembers, I approach the end of the year without a knot in my stomache, without a brain scrambled by the to-and-fro of this and that. This is not to say that I'm not busy, that I do not (as I type this) sit with a few plates spinning above my head. This is also not to say that I do not face an onslaught of tasks once the merriment of New Year's Eve has ebbed.

I feel compelled these days to start putting things in perspective. Perhaps this is what happens when you turn 40 - perhaps I am being cliché. Seeking context and sketching narratives seem like writerly enough goals to aim for, but even as a writer there are a lot of things - tangents, curves, frays, tears - to reconcile within that task.

A strong influence stems from my current study of psychotherapy, which requires that I be in therapy also. You find yourself relating a story from your past - from your childhood, from your 20s - and you find yourself saying something you realize you haven't really mentioned to anyone before. Not necessarily secrets, but impressions of events. Sometimes events themselves. It allows you to discover how unintentionally secretive we can all be.

I have been struck by as often as I have been able to dodge the things thrown at me in life. Sometimes you don't have a choice: I think that's one of the first things you learn, but the hardest to reconcile. That is, if you don't want to subscribe to fatalism (which isn't to say that everything should boil down to some atheist/libertarian screed). Ultimately, life has but one author, and if you do not have a hand on the pen there is a problem.

It is thus, in the spirit of pen holding, that I try to take some time over the next while to add to the picture of my understanding of my self, with the aim of broadening that understanding (as opposed to solipsism) so that the rest of the (human) world may not be as strange and foreboding as it can seem.

Perhaps, some day, we will see that we are all artists.

Cellphoto: Self-portrait (the other one)

Cellphoto: Self-portrait

I Don't Want To Know

As a writer, even though I am not part of any sort of literati, I am still plugged into the lit scene. You need to be if you want to understand the general to-and-fro of any industry you are interested in becoming a part of (same goes for TV, music, theatre, etc..). That said, I must make an admission. I am making this admission because I think there are a lot of people like me out there who feel the same but are reticent to admit it.

Here goes: I don't take any particular interest in the life of the artist outside of his or her art.

When I read a book, I don't care if an author comes from the East Coast and studied journalism, had a drug problem and now lives in a shed with a mastiff. It's not that I don't care about this author personally, it's that these facts shouldn't have anything to do with the book that I am about to read. I should be able to pick up the book, knowing nothing about said author, and be able to read it, enjoy it, be fully affected by it, without substantially missing something due to a lack of familiarity with the author's biography.

And yet, when you are culturally plugged-in (and by this I mean, you check out industry blogs, trade mags, etc.) there is so much white noise about the artists themselves that it seems divergent from what it is they are supposed to be doing: their work. We can talk about Picasso's passions, but 100 years from now there will probably only be discussion of his work - your work is the only thing left after you and everyone who knew you has died. And if people are still talking more about you than your work after this point, then I would think the quality of your work was overstated.

Would knowing that Stephen King battled drug addiction offer an insight into some of his writing? Yes. But, my point is that if that insight is necessary in order to fully appreciate a piece of work then there is a problem. The work doesn't work if you need a biographical cheat sheet to inject context into the material.

I think Bryan Ferry is an fantastic vocalist - and I don't want to know anything more than that. Nor the details outside a director's films, nor what inspired the playwright to write her play. I've got my own shit going on, thanks very much.

Ephemera is for journalists, fanzines, and those working on their Ph.D. The general public should not feel inadequate if they pick a DVD or book off a shelf, sit down in a theatre, or load a song without being prepared with supplemental information not contained within the medium which contains the work. The work inevitably has to stand up for itself. I write this for two reasons: first, with the likes of the AV Club and traditional print/TV media clamouring to add as much web-based context as possible to every article, there's a growing sense that - for the everyman - if you aren't savvy to the smallest details of each artist's passings and goings, you are nothing but a tourist. Secondly, embracing social media to a claustrophobic degree, we can now read endless commentating on authors reading their work for a live audience!...something no one really asked for outside the publishing companies themselves and perhaps the authors' parents. Let's face it: most authors can't read aloud to save their lives - it's not their specialty.

There are reasons for digging deeper, but that's up to the individual. It was interesting to learn more about HP Lovecraft when I reviewed Michel Houellebecq's quasi-biography of him and his work. What's funny, however - using that same example - is that when I proceeded to read the two works by Lovecraft contained in that same book, I don't recall thinking to myself "Ahh - this is where his uncomfortable relationship with women takes shape!". That's because the stories were two of his masterpieces, and when you witness a masterpiece, peripheral biographical information is going to gunk-up your enjoyment.

The medium may be the message, but the work contains the words. Outside of this we are left with cultural "bonus features". Nice to have, but not necessary.

Swirl

I am trying (desperately) to avoid a "boy, it's been a wacky ride these last few months!" post. It certainly isn't for lack of things to talk about, news to update you with, opinions to confess/shout.

Thing is, I don't know who you are. Sure, I know there are some of you who are semi-regular visitors. There are others who happen upon this place by accident (via Blogger or StumbleUpon). There are also those who come here via Google searches, either via my name or - most likely - a book review (which admittedly I haven't done in, oh, a year or so *). And no, this isn't going to be a "Matt wittily evading accusations of being a lazy bastard by turning the camera on the reader" post.

I've been posting artsy stuff, writerly stuff, industry opinion stuff. I don't mind the randomness, so long as there's no fluff. I do mind the lack of output. I wish, for one, that I could post more photographs (which is to say, I wish I had a better selection of photos to post **).

It comes down to the fact that I've been working like a dog since May (note: this happens every year that I'm working on a SAW film). When I come out of these periods, I feel like Rip van Winkle: a little dazed, slow on the up-take. Whereas last year this time I started teaching, this time this year I am a student (part-time) †. I have a small (but good) feature and a small (but good and potentially controversial) TV show on my plate from now till February. If funds allow, I also hope to have an editor working with me on my novel, with an eye to approaching a publisher or self-publishing if that doesn't seem feasible ††. I'm collaborating on a musical.

My plate is full.

- - - 

* which isn't to say that I'm not reading or that I don't want to do any more book reviews. I'm reading a lot of non-fiction, thank you. Much of it either out of professional or academic interest. However, if only to improve my Google ranking, here's a quick book review of Antwerp by Roberto Bolaño: What the fuck was that? (ISBN-13: 978-0811217170)

** another casualty of working so much is my photography. I still have the same roll of film in my camera that I'd loaded in June. I think I've only taken 4 exposures since then. Of course, my cellphone camera gets all the fun these days, unfortunately.

† I will be continuing teaching, but for only two terms this year as opposed to three (which was exhausting and... exhausting)

†† It needs a new name, for one thing. And I know this is going to drive me up the wall more than any changes to the actual content of the book.

A Life For Abandoned Chairs

I had a lovely interview with Ellen Moorhouse from the Toronto Star about my low-fi photo project, Conversations With Abandoned Chairs. It's now online, so please have a look if you're interested.

More posts coming soon, I swear!

Photo: Self-Portrait @ Queen W. & Augusta

Ryeberg

I should note that I've contributed a few pieces of work to an innovative website, called Ryeberg. The conceit of the site is user-contributed curated YouTube videos, narrated by personal essays on a variety of topics. I am in revision-mode currently, but when my stuff gets posted, I'll let you know. In the meantime, feel free to visit.

Fiction Excerpt: Cloud Species

I've labelled myself a fiction writer in my bio - I've certainly mentioned my writing here and there - yet I have never posted any work on this blog. Why? Well, mainly for fear of publishing something which would contravene most lit journals' definition of "unpublished". How am I getting around this? Well, at least for now, I am providing an orphaned excerpt - I don't know what it belongs to, so please consider this a "work in progress". Well...maybe I do know what it belongs to, but I think it's safe to upload it, for now at least.)

Cloud Species (excerpt)

Something made the hedge in front of the porch shake, as if shook by a hand reaching out of the ground. I would've leaned forward to look closer, but I was exhausted from the previous night. There – it happened again. I could hear dry twigs cracking. The morning sun approached my feet on the floor of the porch, the volume of civilization rising slowly around me: coffee grinders, piano lessons, radios. Yet I couldn't see a soul. I was alone, focused on the hedge, curious what made it move. I didn't want the sun to touch me yet.

She left a newspaper behind but I didn't touch it. It was sitting in the sun. She must have been up earlier than me. Perhaps she'd been up all night until now? I didn't want her gifts and I didn't want the troubles of the world to make rain from the cloudy anger hanging in my head. I sat brooding in a Muskoka chair asking myself what exactly I'd expected to have happened the night before, instead of what did.

It was a robin. It ran out from the hedge onto the yard, took one look at me, head cocked to the side, momentarily frozen. It was hunting. It seemed more threatening than I could be, sitting staring at it helplessly, drinking coffee like it was an antidote for paralysis.

I asked myself why I'd gone to bed so early. Why before then I'd drank so much, so quickly. Why I'd bothered making the trip if I was so exhausted in the first place. I couldn't answer any of it. I wasn't allowing myself to. It was like staring at long division on a chalkboard: I could see the numbers but didn't want to understand where they came from.

The bird carried on with its sweep of the yard, unconcerned by my presence. The sunlight crept closer to my feet, my head was stuffed with thoughts, a jumble of unconnected ideas which became words scribbled over each other, my coffee cup was empty and I knew I'd have to creep up the stairs in order to get more. Past her, sleeping. Sleeping, I hoped, alone.

The Hammer (pt. 1)

When I rented a car and went to Brantford/Onondaga to do some reminiscing and photo-taking, I knew that Hamilton was also, ultimately, on my to-do list.

The aim of these trips is not preconceived. This makes it doubly hard to explain to others (friends, strangers, and loved ones) what exactly the hell I'm planning to do. "Taking pictures and stuff." I'll say - that's certainly no lie, but of course there's more to it. The thing about Zen is this: the second you begin to describe it, it disappears. And so - Art & Zen being the same - there's always a scaffolding I build around my explanation for these trips. It's the same scaffolding I use when I go out writing, or to take photos locally: a vague (yet not untrue) reason which allows me to unspoil the inspiration (which itself needs to be vague) while preventing others from thinking I've lost my mind. I'm not uncomplicated.

Hamilton, being a place of the past for me, exists in patches of haze - this isn't to say I did a lot of drinking or drugs when it was a destination, and yet it seems that way: murky. Of course, a good chunk of that time is best forgotten now. The downtown seems more hollowed-out than it did before, with the exception of Gore Park which to this day reminds me what a good idea it is to have spacious downtown promenades.

It was a precursory destination. First, with an ill-fated relationship which spawned a series of bad decisions which I owe to naivety. I am not alone in stating that I owe many mistakes in my 20s to naivety. It all culminated in a brief tenancy at an old apartment building north of St. Joseph's hospital. In so many ways, it was one of the more excruciating periods in my life - I think the haze I mentioned previously is partially there to protect me from looking too closely at things like this.

The second identity Hamilton had for me happened a few years later when, staying with relatives in Burlington while I studied at college, it became a "big city" to escape to. Toronto was bigger, of course, but it was too far to drive to just to have kicks. Hamilton was perfect and in the early 90s had a great nighttime scene in and around Hess Village. My hang-out was the Bauhaus Café, which sadly (though not surprisingly) no longer exists.

Walking around there now, it seems as if parts of it just gave up. People don't even want to advertise on billboards. To be fair, I shouldn't make any judgments without going there again, but on a Friday night - I'm afraid however that these judgments will only skew worse if I do.

Perhaps I have a better understanding of the haze now: it's there to protect my feelings, it's there to protect the city from the cold light of an unsympathetic audience.

Cahill's Probability: the inexplicable yet consistent > (greater-than) 50% chance that the label you attempt to read will be showing the French side.

Imagine walking into an empty room.

There is a baseball bat on the ground.
Sitting above it is a lead crystal vase atop a waist-height pedestal.
Written in large letters on the vase are the words: HIT ME.


(This is what enters my mind when I encounter self-righteousness.)

Mobile: March 9, 2010 - Walking

It Was a Dark and Mysterious Person

"You are a dark and mysterious person." said my friend Simon.

We were chatting on Facebook and he had mentioned how closely we had rated to one another's tastes on the movie-rating application, Flixster. That's when I told him I'd deleted it a few months ago: the application, my ratings, my mini-reviews, my Flixster identity. I also did the same for the iLike application (also on Facebook), which rates music. And I did the same on the Internet Movie Database: I simply removed myself (the opinions, not my professional identity).

I needed to clean house, to remove clutter, and - most importantly - to get away from being an armchair critic. There are too many people playing "expert" out there and I didn't want to be one of them because it becomes a game of oneupmanship. This isn't even to mention the fact that all of the Facebook applications keep information on file about you, that, while you are wittily commenting on the 2nd season of MadMen, you are becoming a company's marketing demographic.

I wanted no part in it. I also began to feel that, the more I expressed my opinions - witty or not, bitter or not, funny or not - the smaller I felt. This is not to criticize self-expression, but rather to say that I became sensitive to the format I chose.

I'd rather bitch about things here, on my doorstep, or on Twitter, than simply be another anonymous puppy yelping on yet another movie/music/placenamehere database.

It's also healthy to eliminate your identity from time to time, not unlike the transformational qualities of a forest fire: clearing the brush and the remnants of what is dead but still lingering.

(disclosure: I'm a Scorpio and this sort of thing comes naturally to me, and no, I have no problem saying something like "I'm a Scorpio.")