2012. Just the look of the numbers is impressive, after the vague, asymmetric digits of 2011. Here on the west coast, it’s a season of short, grey days punctuated by fleeting glimpses of the sun’s brilliance, low on the horizon.

No resolutions here. It’s enough to look for warmth, light and hope. Happy New Year, and all the best for 2012.

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Today I saw snow falling for the first time this year. In the dark November dawn, more wet than white, drifting lightly down in the way that only snow can. Winter has arrived, which means there’s that much more to talk about when conversations begin with the latest weather. It’s a minor tradition leading into many, many more as December waits ahead.

For the last few years a good chunk of my drawings have been squirrel-related. It began when illustrations were required for the book- also about squirrels- and continued after the publishing of same. Friends and acquaintances have graciously accepted this idiosyncrasy without further comment, at least in my presence, for which I’m grateful. Drawing to drawing, strange idea following odd concept, and one Christmas card after another… squirrels. And one more minor tradition.

Here’s a close cropping of the whole drawing, and the cards are at my store.

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The second fuzzball skater. I envisioned a board barely in one piece, clawed, battered and barely surviving another high-altitude stunt.

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If an individual is not immediately familiar with the name Steve Jobs, chances are good that person has something belonging to Mr. Jobs, the inventor, visionary and driving force behind Apple. Maybe it’s a home computer. Possibly a tablet. Could be a phone. Or maybe it’s one of the millions of tiny handheld devices for playing music. Minus a bite, the apple logo has become an international symbol of technology, innovation, and an uncommon devotion to a corporation and its brand name.

Steve Jobs was not always the man behind Apple; 1985 saw the corporation’s board of directors effectively showing him the door, and he resigned from the company he co-founded. Such a personal defeat might have understandably driven him to despair. Instead, a series of events he initiated resulted in the creation of Pixar Animation Studios, whose first effort was the landmark production Toy Story, in which he served as an executive producer. Pixar went on to establish its own unique reputation as an industry leader; meanwhile, by 2000 Jobs was once again back at Apple, and after a decade of layoffs and soul-searching, the corporation rose to reclaim it’s own brand.

Apple is more than a corporation; it’s a phenomenon whose products inspire loyalty, high expectations, even a smug conceit from some of its customers. For those of us who don’t own Apple products and may have developed an attitude towards the brand, it’s been a curious thing to experience. As outsiders, a bemused observation of the party within; are Apple products truly worth the extra cost? Are they always superior to the competition?

Steve Job’s passing on Wednesday October 5th will be publicly mourned. His life and career will be analysed for the days and weeks to come, probably beyond what most of our attention spans will accommodate. He made his share of mistakes- yet this is no ordinary goodbye, as sad, soon and early as it is, and this is a farewell to no ordinary individual. The story of Jobs’ contribution to technology, communication, and the marriage of elegant design with function will find a place in history next to such gifted individuals as Edison, Bell, and Franklin.

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1 of 2 bits of fuzzy work with a summer theme… our 2 week Vancouver summer season is all but gone. Second boarder is in progress.

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I can only vaguely recall seeing the movie for the first time. 1988, Calgary, and I can’t remember who it was with. A film with massive hype, two male leads, one a long-time icon and the other barely more than a youth, two years past his first hugely popular role. A safe bet for the money, about $5 per ticket, and sure enough, an engaging story with memorable characters.

Some months later, the movie was released on VHS. Roger’s Video was quickly displacing the smaller video rental outlets with brightly lit stores freshly painted in red and white, and rows upon rows of movies to choose from. I didn’t own a VCR player, however that was a good reason to go over to friend’s places on Friday and Saturday nights, driving along John Laurie Boulevard with U2, Guns N’Roses and INXS howling in the background. And that would have been the second time I saw the movie.

The story is about two brothers, Charlie and Raymond, one younger and self-centered, the older one relating to the outside world with great difficulty, relying upon routines and patterns to protect himself. A popular repeat on TV during the ’90′s, I can’t say how many times I discovered it flipping through channels, perhaps watching a few minutes of a favorite scene, once or twice watching the movie from start to finish. I won’t miss the carving of a good movie into segments with commercial breaks.

Enter the 2000′s, and a downtown Roger’s outlet with ragged, worn carpet and flickering fluorescent lighting. Dwindling VHS movies maintained in aging, yellow-ish plastic cases, their faded titles relegated to dusty back rows, while up front, a growing selection of DVD’s and a familiar favorite for an evening rental. The first part of the movie is all Cruise, bristling with energy and rapid-fire dialogue. The promise of wealth, and the challenge of taking it by any means, whatever it takes. Meantime, a comfortable chair and a good drink added up to an enjoyable evening.

I don’t know when movies at least 20 years old became almost as interesting as new ones. The old black and white films never held my attention when I was younger; now there are films from the ’70′s and ’80′s that are woven into my own experience. And the same with music; there was no conscious decision to lose track of the current top 40. It just got away. Not because I feel there are no good movies or pop hits being made anymore;  there are, and they stand out because they can compete with the past, and are perhaps that much better for what they owe to those that came before.

Online last night, I noticed the same title, and out of a sea of downloadable choices, decided on a favorite.  The soundtrack of the movie is eclectic, and mildly dated by the late ’80′s keyboards. Hoffman’s striking, occasionally humorous and often moving portrayal of a savant takes over the second half of the movie, and fresh out of his pilot’s gear, Cruise keeps the pace admirably well. I don’t remember Valerie Golino outside of this movie- her scene in the elevator with Hoffman is at once romantic, gentle and funny.

Twenty three years have crept between.

And if for whatever reason the name of the movie hasn’t come to you, or if that’s way too long ago… look here.

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Sunday, and after some initial confusion with getting a new metro pass and a miserable metro employee, I was on my way to Ste. Sulpice, the second largest cathedral in Paris, only slightly smaller than Notre Dame. The beauty of the architecture is something to see, however my reason for going there was more for the hearing. This church is known for one of the finest pipe organs in the world, and a highly recommended stop for those with an interest in this musical genre. In my case, a compromise of sorts; there were many other music events in Paris, live jazz in particular, and chances to see good live music are much better there than here at home. It’s just unfortunate that the smoking habit was strong there, most of the club events didn’t begin until 10 pm, and the fact that I was traveling solo was something to consider, particularly late at night in neighbourhoods where English may not be understood or appreciated.

As one might suspect, the organ is played primarily before, during and after church services. So, in effect, I was attending Mass, and by the time I found the church, there were a fair number of people filing in. However, a different crowd, noticeably local and short on tourists. Which was a pleasant change- no camera flashes, children running/shouting, and no one determined to stand in front of everything, mouth agape, for their picture. And older, too. Taking a seat off to the side and looking around, I had a sense of being one of the younger people present.

The Prelude began, and all other thoughts vanished. Even at a low volume, the first rich, single notes filled the air with sound, reverberating in the acoustically perfect chamber like the colors of a painting, and when the notes were joined by others, in harmony… the bass notes gently resonating throughout the entire building as the higher melody burst into arpeggios, from minor to major, resolving and building into a crescendo… I don’t know. Whatever one finds beautiful, whatever stirs the soul, whatever it is that is so moving as to be embarrassing in its emotional impact, sends the blood rushing to one’s face- that was it for me. I can’t explain better than that. The water was in my eyes as the last notes rose into the high places among the stone arches far above.

The mass itself was less glorious. I could catch the occasional word here and there, stood up and sat down with the others, and was pleasantly surprised when, at the close of the service, many of the people around me turned to smile and shake my hand. Traveling alone makes the rare moments of warmth and human contact more noticeable. Apart from that, the French mass was mostly incomprehensible, and towards the end seemed quietly ironic. Going through the proceedings with little or no sense of the language isn’t so different from following traditions with little or no understanding of their meaning.

My reward for sitting through mass was the Postlude, where the organist is given free rein to open up and give fingers, thumbs and keyboard a thorough workout. Today was no exception, and though the initial rush was past, this time the full range of the bass, mids and highs rose in waves of volume throughout the building. I looked around and saw others with the same look on their faces, some stretched out in the chairs with eyes closed, others nodding and grinning.

Stepping outside was like descending from the clouds to find my feet back down on solid ground. I wandered through a nearby flea market, looked for anything that might make an original gift. Gewgaws, bric-a-brac and knickknacks look much the same in another country- it’s still someone else’s castoffs. A person with more time and patience might well have found something worth bringing back. Not me. Onwards to a cafe for espresso and a route to the next destination.

The Musee Marmottan-Monet was some distance away, off the beaten track, and I figured a safe bet for fewer sightseers. A longer ride on the metro and some casting about on the streets, then discovered the signs and from there, no problem. A vast collection in a former hunting lodge, there are over 300 works of art from Monet and his contemporaries, a collection of Flemish work from medieval times, and during my visit, a collection of work by the brothers Jean and Raoul Dufy, along with various items of furniture from the Napoleonic era. And that was Sunday afternoon, wandering through the museum, up close and personal with works of art that were analyzed and idolized by former instructors at art college. I’ve already gone on about the music from earlier that morning, I won’t attempt to describe how it felt to see Monet’s work, to be within arm’s length of the paint and canvas. Visually, it was a similar feeling.

Art appreciation completed, I wandered through a park full of children playing and adults relaxing, then to the apartment for a break. Wanted something spicy for supper and went looking for a good Indian restaurant, however the rain was returning and the nearest place was Turkish, a small place near the metro. Not bad, wasn’t nearly as spicy as it was fried. Downtown for another look at Notre Dame in the evening, and a stop at what seems to be regarded as the Best Ice Cream shop in Paris, Berthillon. Another look at the cathedral before calling it a night, and up with the umbrella to the metro for the ride home.

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