The Fat Red Lips

I had just stepped out of Galerie Corno (51, rue Saint-Paul O.), which is always one of my first stops after I land in Montreal, curious to see what new pieces they’re showcasing. This, especially since her passing at end of 2016.

Since a teenager, Corno has been my favourite Canadian artist because she was one of the few who painted women with fat red lips. No lie, this was what drew me to her work. Also, that all of the paintings I saw were of brunettes with unapologetically strong, and bold features (though of course she also painted many blondes, I was introduced to her through her brunettes). Behold my favourite, Purple Lips, a poster of which hung in my room throughout my teenage years –She doesn’t know where the lens is, either. Do you think…do you think if I learned how to pout, I could have been a Corno model? When I was a teenager I certainly believed she should paint me. RIP.

Earlier today, another maybe-someday Canadian artist kept reaching behind his little body to run his tiny appendages over his bottom, squeezing and tapping it. For about three minutes, he kept sitting on it and standing up. Sitting and standing. Sitting to squish it, laughing with hysteria every time he did.

Without purpose, and unintentionally, I was watching an infant toddler make a poo. He was sitting across from me gleefully enjoying an invisible thing which I did not at first recognize; he was rejoicing in his own making of the poo, confirmed moments later when the smell glided up to his mother and she announced, in great anger, that she’d just wiped his ass moments ago. (Mind, she might have used gentler language.)

This kid, weirdo, if he could have narrated his poo making, it would have been delivered in Morgan Freeman, and with great pomp and celebration. Kids, man; just a bunch of unhinged dippies, none of whom are around me in Montreal.

Laurence recently finished working all of her magic on her new home, so I came to visit. It is, as I expected, as beautiful and eclectic as she. My room has a little balcony, and I am sitting typing, watching this quiet street, tree-lined and colour-soaked. Behind me, on my bed, Zidane is laid out and waiting for me. He is a cat. Not a euphemism; wish it were.

Over sushi, we have been deep-diving all evening. Listening to her describe the insides of her belly is as though the voice inside of my head came to life as a gorgeous blonde and sat across from me to converse.

It’s going to be a wonderful few days, inshAllah.

Today, I am grateful for:
1. Succulents. I was on the hunt for what I might gift Laurence, she with the greenest of thumbs. I finally decided on succulents, and found these gorgeous, completely vibrant babies in Ottawa. I wrapped them myself, because I love wrapping gifts as much as I love choosing them for people I love.

2. The opportunity to gift things to beloveds. One, it means that I have people; two, that I have the means to gift; and, three, I get to do creative things with the wrapping. (Everything you see above is recycled; I have not purchased gift wrap in decades.)
3. Sleeping with my bedroom door open onto a balcony nestled inside of trees.

Montreal | Day 229 | July 17, 2019

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