Matt Crookshank: Violent Whimsey

Matt Crookshank, Violent Whimsey,
Sept 9- Oct 8 at General Hardware Contemporary
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> > There's a good crowd, lively chatter, and the smell of fresh paint. Mostly comprised of a series of large robust abstracts in vivid colours, Matt Crookshank is opening an exhibition that also includes smaller pieces of foil and paper, hung in a couple quiet corners of the walls of this Parkdale gallery.
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> > Living as I currently do across the street, I have been meaning to come into General Hardware for some weeks now, and am not disappointed by the spacious back room, almost invisible from the sidewalk, the patio full of genteel chill and cool talk, or even the bathroom facilities, private yet with a translucent wall which maintains one's sense of involvement in the party.
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> > Streetcars pass, people come and go, I sit writing on a window bench that I resolve to visit more often, and the stress of schlepping downtown or even up to Bloor for culture's sake  becomes irrelevant. Bourgeoisie has draped itself along Queen street west west, this is true. But the flip side to that coin is that said bourgeoisie must now interact with the local people and culture, if it has any eye to stability or sustainable growth.
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> > > > Catt and dog are doing battle on the carpet. She teases him with toys and treats. Sit, she says. Good luck, I say. But she tames the beast and runs him through paces. Back to the bar and things are as usual bouncing. Sarah, Andrews, Marlon, and Derek are there, most of them playing, though still nobody dances with the abandon I deem necessary.

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> > > > Mother bades me to take care in the wilds of Parkdale. I tell her it's a neighborhood no different than Winnipeg's North Main strip, in places and at times a people zoo, where the animals and ambulances are safely separated from my workplace smoking zone by sturdy fence. A woman stands with a foot cast  perfectly balanced to her other, heeled, foot.
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> > > > I walked from Shepard to Queen's Quay yesterday, and I was hungry the whole ways. Past taverns and restaurants, I perceived the evolution of the mega city from a collection of towns and villages, through rural suburbs to big boxes and strip malls.
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> > > After hours now, and I make a curry chicken pasta with corn, bok choy, and roasted beets because no pizza. Dazzle your mouth with the hippy shit and it will thank you. So will your wallet. I tried ignoring Trump, has he gone away yet? I tried napping while jets flew overhead. I beat my head against the wall an the bar when Mip reminded me. Also when Stu's dibs and I were interrupted by a lousy statement on racial groove. Sigh. It's a science, I should include it in these missives.
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> > > Listened to the Police last night. And ok computer. And unplugged in new York. I had no phone and was left to pilfer my laptop for stimulation.  Perspective of twelve years makes Thom Yorke sound like the only constant in the waves of ravelled time, Sting's appropriation of punk and raggae seems so garishly, awkwardly indolent. Then it was on to vintage RnB and rap. The ignorance Riel perceived even as he said try and hear Nas and Jeru, I see it now. Less in the quest of the perfect performance, more in the art of channeling positive energy. Did I cross a line tonight? If you think so, know what side I stand on. All things are negotiable and we trust in you as well, the most reliable of things: dart, breath, pulse, phrase, tempo, rhythmic icthymus, mode, and overtone structures. Little besides remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, amidst out vines and frolics, magick and mirth making marble seem barren and bare, the lone and level sands of the octave disappear. Like they were never here. We composers call that an overture. You may call it bluster. But I do not bluff.
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> > > My feet feel like pulled toffee and my thumb feels like I punched somebody. The phone missed me so much it tries to write for me, resists my choices, covets my voice. Jake Gyllenhall coaches me in sensitive flirts. Peter scolds and trains me. I am his hands. I make it back for last dance and last call. The Tinderbox is currently in a position to quadruple it's productivity and expand its reach by tens, if not dozens of readers. If you or someone you know is an artist, free thinker, or irrepressible dancer, please urge them to message me at dmzmgmt@gmail. The Snowbirds are gone, the Jets, Beckbirds and Starhawk are here to stay. Let's see what Wonder Woman demands tomorrow. Let's hear her out. Within her demands are the directives of her power. It's source, purpose, and full potentials. Move made, lesson learned.