Art is everywhere, if you choose to look.
Lately, as the weather becomes a slightly more pleasurable each day, I am taking the opportunity to get back out on the streets of Toronto to observe what really happens here.
Last Thursday, on the way to an appointment, I was fortunate to notice something I had never seen before.
Just about any day you’ll find Ross Ward hunched over on Yonge Street tending to his art. The ‘Birdman of Toronto’ has been a fixture on these streets in various locations for well over a decade, and during each day he crafts, and sells, palm-sized birds.
Once only a hobby — this is now more than whittling — Ward carves out shapes of common birds from reclaimed wood. There is always a piece in progress, and always a small flock for sale on his concrete workspace.
Perhaps in our day-to-day journeys, we don’t look close enough at all the people. We don’t often observe enough to see art just happening here and there on our landscape. I’ve wandered this street how many times and only last week did I notice the man. I saw him again on the weekend.
Appreciating the beauty of his work, I bought a bird as a gift for someone . . . or maybe a souvenir for myself to one day remember my time in this city.
Couldn’t we all use more memorable hand-made art?
The Seconds Between
We seek shelter, a leafy tree,
tenement steps, even pressing closer
to a random building
in hopes we may be spared.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Ignoring the signs, we forget the distinction
between lightning and thunder,
not counting the seconds between,
or caring.
Overcast, overcome with the immediacy
of the moment. Summer weather
a reminder of the turmoil we live with,
or clouds we live under.
A day as promising as a politician’s smile,
just as deceiving. Unnoticed, but not
unexpected. Forced,
by chance, to deal with inclement emotions
and torrential pain. Crushing humidity,
atmospheric pressure bucking
under its own weight. Our thoughts
hold us hostage.
Days rarely go as planned.
Night will come, as surely as our breath.
Here we are, huddled with strangers,
waiting out another storm.
© 2019 j.g. lewis