This week, Sun dreamed that the police arrested him after 8 p.m. for violating the curfew. The policewoman who arrested him (in his dream) is actually one of his colleagues at the grocery store.
For several weeks, he came home from work at the end of the evening with a check stub in his pocket in order to justify his trips if needed. No police officer asked him any questions about this. “I think it stresses me more than I think,” he says.
Our dreams usually say more than we actually think. On the same night that Sun dreamed of his arrest, I dreamed that I was the only one wearing a mask in a bar. I couldn’t focus on the band’s music on stage because I was so concerned about carelessness and audience proximity.
I don’t know what feeling inside of me would be when I could finally go to a stage show. But what I do know is that I dream about getting out. Go out to the bar, go out to a restaurant, go out to the cinema or theater. Get out for fun.
Sortir is the name of the deceased Journalism I took my first steps in journalism, 28 years ago. I had received the history of “restaurants on the go” from my colleague Matthias Brunet, assigned to the sport. I’ve written about both the old traditional boy-boy and the new modern snack. She reports the hottest burgers, the best ice cream parlors, and the best little beers in town. Luckily for my streak, it turned to film criticism.
Going out has always been a part of my life. I found it odd a year ago, with a few exceptions, to deny it. A week before the grand prison, I went to the theater three times and watched two films in the cinema. For 11 months, like everyone else, I stayed home mostly.
Last week I went to the museum. Usually, I’ll be careful not to tell you that. Not only was that outing for me, it was also an event. A small victory over the pandemic. We are winning all the victories we can these days.
I’m not the only one who found it pointless not to be able to go to the museum in recent months, when I managed to wander through the maze of IKEA galleries at my spare time. I was forbidden to stop for a few seconds in front of a painting or sculpture in a museum, but I could enjoy long minutes in a bathroom or a melamine kitchen counter, surrounded by dozens of people (not all of them two meters away) away).
Reopening museums may not be a great victory for art over trade, but it is a start. Since the end of autumn we have been able to see the exhibition Riopelle – Encountering Northern Territories and Indigenous CulturesAnd the Practically, on the website of the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts (MMFA). But there is no such thing as seeing such an exhibition in person, which should be possible – except for “offending variants” – until May.
I fell in love when I, eagerly, reached the top of the stairs of the old MMFA ward. Spirited emotion in front of the antique painting Meeting point – pentagonAnd the It was directed by Jean-Paul Riobel in 1963 and performed at the Opera Bastille in Paris. Gasped, in front of such majestic works The Blessing – Honor the Gray Owl or Sylvain BlizzardAnd the An explosion of colors, textures, and patterns, such as gemstones or layered metals. This is a detail that clearly cannot be fully appreciated from a computer screen. You have to go out to see it.
The 175 or so works in this exhibition share Riopelle’s great interest in northern and Ottoman as well as his continued love for the landscapes of his home country during his stay in Paris in the 1950s. 60 and 70. The hunting and fishing trips he made in Nunavik and Nunavut, especially with his collector friend Champlain Charest, seemed to inspire him a lot.
Among Riopelle’s major recently restored works is the colossal statue FontaineCreated between 1964 and 1977, the artist stored it in his workshop in Sainte-Marguerite-du-Lac-Masson, and was presented to the public for the first time. Surrounded by paintings inspired by icebergs, it is in a hypnotic acoustic environment from the collision of glaciers. I let myself cool off from this polar atmosphere, and I let myself be left to my winter dreams.
I went to the museum. It would be trivial in normal times. It is not in these special times. This trip to the museum made me dream of other trips. Extremely simple breakouts, harmless breaks with the daily routine.
I dream of getting out. To go out to remember that there is life outside my home. To come out like a metaphor, to see the light, even the vibrating, which we see at the end of the tunnel. To get out of my bubbles for a day, and finally, to get out of the epidemic.
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