Back from the great white north, which was not as white as it had been until recently, but also not as green as the city I returned to, which had taken to bursting into full-leaf overnight, so so it appeared.It had been almost a decade since I visited Montreal, since I had been to Canada, actually, but it was just as I'd remembered it; quaint, urban, provincial, and worldly, all at the same time. It's more French than Paris; perhaps because as part of French-Canadian Quebec, it's in a constant battle for it's own identity.
But, language issues aside, Montreal has always held its own as far as its attraction to artists. In fact, in 2005, it was chosen by UNESCO as the "World Book Capital City." ANEL President, Denis Vaugeois said of this honor, "Montreal, as well as Quebec as a whole, really deserves this honour, which is a tribute of the quality of its editorial production and the dynamism of all those who are involved in the book industry.” Good to know, should I ever need an escape from New York and a job.
Literary Montreal for me, begins with Leonard Cohen (no surprise there), so as I mentioned in an earlier post, I spent one beautiful spring afternoon walking around the neighborhood of Westmount in search of Cohen's childhood home. Thanks to the Leonard Cohen Files "A Short Walk in Cohen's Westmount" and some Montreal Metro map investigation, I was able to find 599 Belmont without any trouble. And it was a beautiful time.
It was an odd sensation walking down the extraordinarily normal streets of Westmount on one of the first true spring days the city had seen. The trees were just aching to bud and the sky was blue ... and aside from the sound of a lawn trimmer being used on the grounds of the Greek consulate, there wasn't another soul to be seen. It was the suburbs in all it's generic glory.
Having grown up on (what I always felt were) the not-so-gritty streets of NYC, I've always been fascinated by suburban culture and its effect on the artistic soul. Those friends I've come in contact with over the years from those manicured parts of the world seem to not believe that one could ever exist under the age of 19 in an apartment without some kind of dirt to skin one's knees on (all my childhood scars are concrete based). But I digress ... so I walked down Westmount Avenue on this beautiful day and take in all of it's quiet--indeed, the lack of humanity offered me a true Cohen moment of solitude--and the first thought upon turning right down Belmont Ave to number 599 was, "whither the angst"? Does this say something about the discrepancy of growing up in different environments? The homes in Westmount are upper-middle class, beyond any type that I, or even my "wealthy" Long Island relatives ever owned. I had to question, based on my own sense of disdain for the ennui of the entitled ... what was it that created the discontent for Cohen? Was it simply religion? (Not that religion is ever simple.) That has to be the case. And it is a part of my wonder ... is it possible that religion is so much more powerful than wealth? Having no experience with either, I suppose I must consider this to be true. Certainly, I've had experience with religious zealots and millionaires both, in my life. But, I've also had poor friends plop down in the middle of some of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the country who did not experience the type of disassociation with their surroundings that Cohen did. This is not a complaint or a criticism, mind you--more of a further wonder about a man whom I have long revered over his extraordinary ability to see into the human emotional condition.Childhood is a precious thing, it creates us in so many ways. We begin who we are in the most unusual ways, and what we take with us; what we hold on to, even our parents must wonder about.
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"on the block" and "whither the angst" © 2007 duluoz cats
