Why Berlin?

This question reminds of one that plagued me at art school, "Why Chuck Close?" Why was I reproducing his 1968 self portrait image? I wrote an 80-page thesis about the possible whys but never really got to a clear because. So I started to write a ficto-memoir that might at least explore the question. I've written one chapter and bits of two more. I'm going to Berlin to work on the book. Or, at least, that's one reason.

When I was pushing to finish my thesis in London, Ontario -- a small city that, to me, was more like a suburb dropped into the middle of a stinky and bible-thumping cow patch (I discovered all the brown people were doctors hiding out in the hospitals only after I started to date one. Otherwise, sea of blonde) -- I read a number of articles about Berlin, about how it was an amazing cultural centre but without a snotty arty attitude, and I just had this feeling that I needed to go. And not really even for the art part.

My mother's parents were from Berlin. From the best version of Berlin: the 1920's and 30's Cabaret Berlin. More than a city, their Berlin was a cutting-edge culture in which my grandparents could sleep together before marriage, where my great grandmother held salons for poets, philosophers and other thinkers, where my grandfather studied architecture at the Bauhaus while my grandmother studied medicine, where my great uncle could be flagrantly gay and where my great grandfather lived a life that lead to syphilis, a disease, in his case, of which I'm strangely proud.

Of course, I knew that would not be the Berlin I would find when I went. When I finally got the opportunity to go last April (my dear friend Abi was there while her partner was on sabbatical), I took it, and what I did find was a feeling, one of coming home. Clichéd as that may be, it also happens be the truth. One day into my week-long trip I already knew I had to come back.

In the intervening five months, a great deal has happened. One of which was my decision to rent an apartment in Toronto from Oct until next April. A week before I did that, I thought Berlin was my final destination. It still could be. Which is what I'm going to find out.

While there, I plan to do a few things. Work on my book. Check out the art scene. Spend quality alone time running and reading and drinking milch kaffé. Counting my blessings because who is lucky enough to go to Berlin twice in one year????

How did I get to be this lucky? Marc Chagall. And my grandparents. At some point in their post-war lives, they started to modestly collect numbered and signed artist prints. They had a couple of Miros, a Picasso and a Chagall. When they died, I inherited the Chagall. I had it re-matted and reframed and then I lived with it for a few years before I realized that, actually, I did not really like it that much. Although I have a soft spot for Chagall the man (he loved his wife so much he painted dreamy scenes in which they floated in their wedding garb over their lost cities), I seemed to have outgrown his pretty pastel palette and sweet images. I was lying in my bed in Montreal last year looking at the print when it came to me: I could sell it and travel! I think Chagall would approve. I even think my grandfather would approve!

When I think of how Chagall has affected my life in this way, I feel close to him. Chagall. Close. And now I'm thinking of Chuck Close. Why? Here's a possible response:

In the early '60s, Ed Ruscha made a painting of the 20th Century Fox logo (a.k.a Large Trademark with Eight Spotlights). I love that painting for many reasons, not the least of which is that it provides a kind of answer to the Chuck Close question. To me, Chuck Close is most definitely a 20th century fox.

Stay tuned for more. I will be posting here regularly, and when I can figure out how to link this to my flickr page, you'll get images, too!