Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 68

Looking Around, Looking Ahead

Poor Rudolph! (Well, we can hope not! This was a sign in the window of a butcher shop in the Plateau.)

It's been cold and grey here in Montreal, with a few warmer days -- finally! -- toward the end of this week. I could feel myself getting worn out by the winter: the cold, the slush, the crowded buses and trains full of sick, dour people dressed in black and grey. But we were without a car this week so we were walking more than usual -- and that was good. I was outside at last, and looking around more closely at the neighborhoods.

Some people still have their Christmas lights up. There are sleds on porches: the old-fashioned kind that are used for pulling children and groceries and doing errands. There are people walking around with their skates strung over their shoulders, and young men traveling to games and practices with their hockey sticks and big bags of equipment. I've seen quite a few red-and-white mittens with the letters CAN on the back: they're being sold at the Bay to benefit the Olympic team. (Blessedly, I've heard very little talk about the SuperBowl.) I wore a bright red or blue or yellow scarf every day, and ran into garden friends on the street, and met a blogger friend for coffee and another garden friend for tea, and we had other friends over for dinner last weekend... and somehow it felt like the closed-up, miserable part of winter gave way to something a lot cheerier.

I find I just have to get OUT in the winter, because it is just so damn long here - out to do things, out to feel the air on my face, out to see people. I'm not a person who has trouble with the lack of light, but it really helps that our studio, on a second floor, has large windows all along one side and is bright all day long. We bring our most sunlight-needy houseplants here in the winter, and they always thrive; in another few weeks I'll start some seeds, and the maple sap will start rising. The days are definitely getting longer, and even though it's a steady slog between now and April - a month that can still be quite cold here - there's hope, regardless of what the groundhog sees. On Sunday, Candlemas, we'll bless the candles for the year and sing about midwinter - but we're on the downward slope now.

As Epiphany draw to a close, as well as the buying season of the holidays and January sales, and the necessary year-end accounting that we small-business people must do, I feel myself starting --finally -- to look ahead. We have some studio improvement projects we hope to do; there's Jonathan's book that we plan to publish this spring, and several Phoenicia projects that are ongoing or coming up. Last night there was music for Easter in our choir folders, and we had the pleasure of singing through a Gabrielli Mass for 12 voices that we'll perform that day, with a brass choir - marvelous! Yes, Lent comes inbetween, but when Easter is late - as it is this year - it actually feels like it coincides with spring.

J. and I are hoping to do a bit of travel in warmer climes in February and March. But I really want to get back to my own drawing and painting, and perhaps even to a long piece of writing that I worked hard on two years ago. I feel like I've been going full-tilt since September, or even before: professional work, lots of singing, lots of giving-out-energy-to-others. That's been fine, but I'm aware of my emotional fatigue, even as I catch up on sleep, start exercising more regularly, cooking with more pleasure and more time, and generally doing things that are good for my physical well-being. It's time to step back, regroup, look around, and smell those elusive roses: not the Valentine kind, either -- but the ones that require care but reward us later with real fragrance. You can take that literally or not, as you wish!

 Roses in my garden, June 2013 -- photo by Eric Fournel.

 

Trying out a new sketchbook

The subject isn't new, but the sketchbook is. This is the first drawing in my new Stillman & Birn Gamma series sketchbook. I liked the landscape format and size, and the paper quality and texture, but they are serious when they say "accepts light washes." "Light" should be in italics. The paper was quite curled at the corners when I looked at it this morning. Nevertheless, this is the best-quality, all-purpose, purchased sketchbook I've used. If it manages to get me drawing regularly again, that will be great.

And the video...

If you want to see and hear our choir, as well as seeing some lovely shots of the cathedral interior, this video link from Radio Canada should be available for at least a week. The narration is in French. Not sure if it will stream for viewers outside Canada. You can also try another link, to the French TV transmission of the same thing, but with a different intro.

You might want to start at the 4:40 mark on the Radio Canada video - that's the first hymn - and then go to 11:45 for the Ralph Vaughn Williams Te Deum.

Flying Cameras and Waving Arms

 Sunday, 1:30 pm: I've been in the underground since the morning service finished around 11:30, eating lunch, checking email, and walking to get some exercise as I windowshop in the underground mall. Now I emerge above-ground, since the door to the undercroft (where the choir room is located) is locked; I need to re-enter through the main doors. I hadn't seen the giant CBC truck when I arrived this morning, but the cathedral was already full of equipment, wiring, and lights for the 4 pm service, a worldwide ecumenical celebration of "Christian Unity" that will be televised in Canada and France next week. Historically, this annual service has taken place at St Joseph's Oratory, the huge Catholic basilica on Mont Royal, but this year the organizers decided to start moving it around the city; our Anglican cathedral is the first host, and we are providing the musical backbone.

1:45: the weekly French mass is still in progress, so I slip into a back pew and listen, while looking around at the equipment. Four of my choir friends, all professionals, sing this French mass each week, and I listen to the quartet as they do the Sanctus and Benedictus; it's a messa por quattro voci by Giovanni Cima, from around 1600. The priests consecrate the bread and wine, the quartet sings the Agnus Dei, and the congregation rises to file up to the altar and take communion...I go and get a French hymnal and join in singing the final hymn, and then take a look around. There are big video cameras, coils of heavy power cords, lights everywhere but nothing is on yet, or, it seems, in position. It's hard to know what to expect; I take a few pictures and head downstairs to the choir room.

 2:15: I hang up my parka on the coatrack, stash my purse in my locker, quickly brush my teeth in the bathroom, put on some lipstick, and change from my brown ankle boots into the comfortable black shoes I usually wear for singing. They're Clarks, with a slight wedge, and just dressy enough to look decent. I retrieve my folder from my cubbyhole in the choir room, and check the desk for this afternoon's special service music: a responsory psalm composed by our director, an Armenian Alleluia that we'll sing before the Gospel, the special hymn booklet for today with alternating English and French verses and soprano descants for the final verses of several of the hymns. I take my seat and organize the music in my folder in order, slipping the service leaflet, the hymn booklet, and the anthem - a Te Deum by Ralph Vaughn Williams - into the elastic bands. The choir shairs, arranged in semi-circular rows on risers, quickly fill up; I chat with my fellow sopranos in the front row. Christie, a law student, is a bit breathless; she's just come from a dress rehearsal for a play she's in; it's already been a busy day for her since we all sang a full service this morning. Catherine, our second soprano section pro, shows me the score for a Puccini opera she's singing in next month at her college. Carole and Mary, both closer to my own age, are checking their phones.

2:30: At two-thirty sharp, Patrick takes a seat on his stool, glances at the clock, and pulls up the music stand in front of him. Everyone's here; there are about 28 of us today. "OK," he says, "take unto yourselves your service booklets, and let's talk...No procession, we're in the back pews as for Easter and will stay put there throughout..." We make notes as necessary, and then run quickly through the hymns, marking the breathing where necessary, noting lines that should be carried over. We take the most time over the French verses where there are elisions, or not, and voiced/unvoiced syllables that are different from speech. Patrick checks a few questionable spots with the francophones, who make up nearly half of our choir. One of our bass soloists speaks up: "If I can make a small request, on the last verse here, English speakers always tend to pronounce the e in eglise as ay but really it should be more like eh..." We mark everything in our scores. Patrick goes to the keyboard and runs through the descants. "Don't sing, sopranos, save your voices and just follow along," and we do, noting the tricky spots in our heads.

2:45: "All right," he says, "let's go up. Bring your folders, and the handbells for the psalm. We'll be in two choirs, first choir on my right, second on my left, as if we were in the loft."

We go up the stairs quickly and take our seats in the back pews, which bear yellow "reserved" signs encased in plastic holders. A few early birds are already in the congregation but most of the people in the nave seem to be part of the television crew. The lights are on now, and they are extremely bright, shining right in our eyes. Most striking is a camera on a large weighted boom in the center aisle. As we take our places, the cameraman swivels the boom around and the camera flies smoothly into position above our heads. I open my folder and when I look up, the camera, alarmingly, is less than a foot from my face and level with it. Oh my, I whisper, and Catherine and Christie roll their eyes; the camera glides down our row. We smile at each other; one thing singing here has taught me is to roll with whatever happens, and not get rattled. Obviously, today we'll just need to act like nothing is different and keep our eyes on the ball: i.e., the music and director, rather than staring at this floating eye. Actually, the lights are much more distracting and bothersome than the camera.

"All right," Patrick says, getting up onto the podium - a wooden box upholstered with slightly threadbare floral needlepoint -- "this is your Vaughn Williams...Adrian, are you ready?" He looks up at the organ loft where the assistant organist and organ scholar are waiting. "Yes, we're all set," comes their answer. At the downbeat, the organ begins, and a few measures later the choir enters in unison, "We praise Thee oh God..." The Vaughn Williams Te Deum is a great big English anthem, written for the enthronement of an Archibishop of Canterbury in the 1920s; a showpiece. We sing the first page of music, all in unison, and then the choir breaks into rather glorious harmony, and people in the nave start turning around to watch.

The anthem goes well; Patrick only stops us a few times to practice tempo changes, reinforce dynamic markings, and make sure his conducting directions are precisely coordinated with the organists who can only see his movements reflected in a mirror. Then we sing part of the psalm, which has verses and a repeated refrain, punctuated by handbell chords. A handsome man stands smiling at Patrick's elbow, and introduces himself as the tv director. He compliments the choir, and asks about the bass soloist who is chanting alternate verses of the psalm. Patrick suggest that Normand come out into the aisle; the director gestures to the cameraman who checks his shot and angle for a zoom onto the soloist's face; we do the same thing for the Alleluia, when Carole, the cantor for that piece, moves into the aisle. The animateur - a French term for a sort of master-of-ceremonies who leads congregational singing and responding (is this a Quebecois Catholic tradition or a more general Roman Catholic practice? I'm not sure, but there's been such a person at every Catholic service I've ever attended) also comes by to introduce himself and offer a few words of praise and appreciation.

3:20: We're finished with the rehearsal, and need to get out of the nave before the congregation arrives. "Bring your folders," Patrick tells us, "and let's go down and talk again." We leave our water bottles under the pews, file downstairs, avoiding the minefield of cords and boxes of lighting equipment, and take our seats again, while Patrick reviews a few last minutes details. "The crew is fascinated by your handbells," he says, wryly. "You sound excellent, as you have all day today. So just relax and do your thing. Sorry about the lights, we can't do anything about that. At 3:45 you should all be robed and in your seats upstairs; I'll see you up there after the Prelude. Mary will be checking your surplices so don't leave this room without stopping to see her."

3:30 After bathroom breaks and a bit more milling around and chatting, we all head into the locker rooms to put on our robes. The cassocks are heavy, and bright red; a white dickey goes underneath, at the neck, and a long white surplice, gathered into a round yoke, goes over everything and weighs as much as a bedsheet. The women discuss how many of their clothes to leave on or take off; most of us remove our sweaters and strip down to bras and camisoles; even though it's a cold day, and the church was very cool this morning, now it's warmer, and will be even more so when filled by the expected crowd. I notice a bit of nervousness and uncertainty among some of the younger or less experienced members, but in general everyone's cool; we joke around and make light of it as if this is just a normal day, and everyone seems to relax. I run a brush through my hair and touch up my lipstick, and take a look in the long mirror as I leave the dressing room; the stupid dickey is centered, the surplice sitting straight on my shoulders and unwrinkled in back. I pick up the folder from my chair and grin at Normand, who stands stiffly, arms out, next to Patrick's desk while Mary (a fellow-soprano and our wardrobe mistress,) who's perfectly positioned to block the way out the door so she can check every one of us, rolls a lint-remover over the folds of his surplice and adjusts the neck. I'm next, and pass the examination quickly; I head out the door and up the stairs, taking a few deep breaths to quiet down and settle myself into performance mode.

3:50  My friend V., acting as one of the sidesmen (the English term for church ushers/greeters), is graciously shepherding people into the empty pews adjacent to the central aisle and the enormous boom-camera; for some reason they hadn't been filled by the other ushers. I see my husband come in and sit on the far left; he turns around to see us, brilliantly illuminated by the high lights, and smiles.

4:00 We sit without talking; the church is nearly full of visitors from various churches all over Montreal; ahead of me are two robed brothers from an unidentified Order; I also notice a young nun with a beatific smile, possibly from Saint-Sacrament on Mont-Royal, in a light blue habit and muslin headscarf. On the exact hour, Patrick starts the prelude - this 4:00 pm service, as usual, is broadcast throughout Quebec. When he finishes, the animateur takes the pulpit and welcomes everyone, and then the organ begins the first hymn, playing through one verse; we sing; the camera comes flying in and then follows the liturgical procession entering single file behind the crucifer and candle-bearing acolytes, stepping carefully to avoid the boom and camera. For a brief moment this ecumenical procession reminds me, irreverently, of a costume party: in addition to Anglican and Roman Catholics priests in their mostly-black robes, we have Monseigneur Lepine, Catholic archbishop of Montreal in his red cape and skullcap; a Greek Orthodox priest with the traditional flat-headed black headpiece and flowing robe; members of the Salvation Army; an evangelical pastor in a snow-white satin suit; pastors of the Methodist and Lutheran and United Churches; and even a Native American leader in full feathered headdress.

I can't spend time looking though, except for a few peeks; I have to concentrate on the unfamiliar French which is printed not underneath the musical score, as in a normal hymnal, but in stanzas on the facing page, a format which makes it doubly difficult to get the syllables in the right place. The hymn finishes; as the first act in our ecumenical worship, the animateur, in both languages, asks us to pray with our Native brothers and sisters as we turn to face the four compass directions. "Please note, we're not participating in a pagan practice," he adds, "but a celebration of God from whom all creation comes." We hear drumbeats, and then a sonorous bass voice from beneath the nodding feathers: "tournez vers l'est" -- we all turn halfway to our right, and the service begins.

5:30: Tired, amused, we file out of the back pews before the congregation starts to leave. When we reach the downstairs hallway, one of the students exclaims, "That was the weirdest service EVER!", and soon everyone is busy talking at once while we return the music to sorted stacks on the desk and put away our folders before unrobing. "I realized at one point I was staring right at the camera," says one young woman. "I was mesmerized by that little red light it had on the side!"

There had been little recognizeable Anglican liturgy in the service, designed by an ecumenical committee as a well-intentioned mixture of various traditions, giving space for each of the visiting clergy to participate, with plenty of congregational responses. Monseigner Lepine had preached the sermon, delivered in its entirety in both languages. There was no communion -- the service was comprised of prayers, litanies, and hymns, all evenly bilingual. Delegates from each represented denomination brought shiny, colored shopping bags up the aisle as "gifts we receive from each tradition" were enumerated by the animateur: we Anglicans had been noted for "the gift of diversity." The air of unrehearsed informality felt unfamiliar and, at times, awkward: readers stumbled through the scriptures and prayers; the archbishop went first to the lectern and then realized he was in the wrong place to deliver his sermon; the animateur broke in repeatedly to offer directions. And at the very end of the service, as we finished the final hymn, the congregation broke into applause!

Midway through the service, a gospel choir from an evangelical church had performed a praise song from the chancel steps, and as the song gathered intensity, the choir began clapping and then lifting their arms to praise the Lord. The animateur good-naturedly followed suit from his station in the pulpit, and soon part of the congregation was stamping and swaying and lifting their arms, while the rest of it stood smiling, moving in time to the music, perhaps, or else standing stiffly, waiting for such an embarrassment of emotion to end. I just hoped the cameraman wouldn't have the bright idea of swinging around to show a shot of our choir while they were singing -- and I don't think he did.

5:45 On the way home, I find myself thinking about how seamlessly we usually manage to transition from a parish church community, with a few visitors, as we are on most Sunday mornings, to this other function of formal cathedral host of large, grand events. It feels as if our community is somehow nested within that larger function, with certain experienced people knowing what to do, among them clergy who can plan and carry off complex liturgies in front of a large crowd often unfamiliar with Anglican traditions; a team of servers who can perform the necessary tasks of carrying symbols and books and candles and moving wine and water and bread to the right places at the right time; lay people who act as greeters and ushers and element-bearers; lectors who can read scripture and prayers clearly, with gravitas and few errors, in either language; professional vergers who prepare the building, the altar, and the seating before each service, keep everything clean and repaired, and are responsible for watching for interruptions, intrusions, or anything disruptive or unexpected; and, of course, musicians who can handle whatever the occasion calls for, without lengthy preparation. It's a huge responsibility, actually, and I not only marvel about how much work and experience go into it, but how I've quietly learned and accepted a role in this ongoing liturgical drama, too, over the past six or seven years. On this day celebrating Jesus's baptism in the Jordan River by John the Baptist, maybe it's appropriate to note that it hasn't been a sudden immersion or change, or even a particularly conscious decision, but rather, as the Zen Buddhists would say, like getting wet in a fog.

Slogging and Sliding

Since this photo was taken, we've had quite a bit of rain and warmer days here, and the sidewalks, for the most part, have shed not only the snow but also their coating of bulletproof glare ice that has called for cleats and crampons. But we all know we're heading into the long haul now: those endless months of February and March when it seems like winter will never loosen its grip -- or perhaps I should write, as the French do when speaking of flu, its grippe.

As for me, I went in search of a vaccination anti-grippe last Friday, and ended up at a public clinic above a pharmacy, where I waited for nearly two hours before the infirmiare called me for the ten-second procedure. There was no line for shots, nothing like that -- just the long wait that everyone complains about in the public sector, and then a quick, efficient, competent health care provider and well-equipped, spotless lab at the other end. I was fortunate; a lot of clinics have run out of vaccine just as the flu season starts to peak. But I came down with a cold anyway, this week, and today stayed home, drinking tea with lemon and ginger and piling up tissues in the wastebasket.

This cold has been having its way with our choir, especially since we've had a number of performances and extra rehearsals lately at which everyone is required if at all possible. On Sunday, as we sang the first piece in the Epiphany Lessons and Carols service near the high altar, I had a momentary vision of all the microbes dancing in the air, released like the contents of Pandora's Box and propelled by the strong lung capacity of thirty singers. The need for musical concentration quickly dispensed with that vision, but I suspect it wasn't far from reality.

Earlier in the day I had reluctantly consumed the communion wafer placed in my hand which had just shared the Peace with half a dozen other souls, but declined to drink from the communal cup. My mother once told me that a former rector of hers insisted that it was impossible to get ill from the shared communion chalice because no agents of deisease could live in the consecrated wine. I wonder how many people still believe that. But even if it weren't for sharing our droplets and shaking one another's paws, all I'd have to do is ride on a few metro cars or buses, where everyone is hacking, or touch the poles or railings and forget to wash... and winter would do its work.

So that's just part of life in the north, where we're all forced into cozy indoor togetherness for months on end. I've been glad for this recent thaw, because I've been able to walk outside again without risking a broken wrist or worse. The other night, coming home from leading contemplative prayer, I got out of the metro one stop early and walked north through the park, hoping to suspend the meditative space I was in. No one was skating; pools of water stood atop the ice, reflecting the small blue lights strung in great loops in the trees along the lake's edge. The path was full of mushy snow and a few bare spots, and I made my way with relative ease, stepping off now and then into deeper snow or crunchy, disintegrating ice when the path was flooded. Along with the quiet and the solitude, I felt that exhilaration that only comes in winter: the sharp clean slap of the air on your face, the buoyant heart, the acknowledgement of winter's stark beauty, the thrill of being out in it with a sixth sense of what to do that developed in early childhood.

During the days when it was so icy, I watched elderly people picking their way across streets and along the frozen sidewalks to the shops, and worried for them, wondering if and when I'd join their ranks. Many Canadians, of course, go south for the winter -- and we may escape for a week or two to someplace warmer -- but I can't see myself abandoning this place for the whole season. Life, to me, consists of seasons -- all of them -- and while I'd just as soon pass on the bugs and the grippe, I'd miss that heightened awareness that winter demands, and the pleasure of curling up under a comforter on a cold night with a book and a cup of hot tea. These days, I'm reading Tomas Transtromer, and painting Iceland, and I feel at home.

And the Finished CD

On December 27th, we drove down to Vermont for a special concert and party in honor of Jon's 75th birthday. It was a great event, held in a large hall at the White River Junction Center for Cartoon Studies. Jon had had a good piano moved in for the concert, and the guests were treated to an evening of wonderful music played by the composer and friends from the many decades of his life. The musicians included former students and friends, many of whom have made their careers in music, and his son JJ, who is a professional musician in NYC. It was, as you can probably imagine, a wonderful and moving evening. I'm kicking myself that I didn't take any pictures -- I was swept up in the moment and totally forgot!

Minkyung Oh had come up from Boston to play some selections from the new CD, which we launched that night.

If you'd like to hear clips from the recording, there are two on the CD's page at the Phoenicia website: the concluding sonata from The Scarlatti Doubles, and "The Sheepfolds" from The Couperin Doubles. (The physical CDs are available now; mp3 downloads will be available soon.) If any of you have favorite classical radio programs or local reviewers who you think might be interested in this recording, please let me know. We were delighted with the comments from composer Steve Reich, who called the works "a beautiful addition to piano literature," and said he was particularly drawn to Jon's reworking of Couperin's Les Bergeries/"The Sheepfolds," which J.S. Bach also used in the Anna Magdalena Bach book.

(I'm happy to offer a 10% discount to any readers of this blog who'd like a copy - just email me at phoeniciapublishing (at) gmail (dot) com )

 

A CD in the Making

Back in late November, J. and I traveled to Boston, and the studios of WGBH, for the third and final day of a recording session for a disc Phoenicia would be publishing in early 2014. The CD would contain two recent works for solo piano by our friend, composer Jon Appleton: The Scarlatti Doubles and The Couperin Doubles. I knew both sets of pieces well; Jon had sent me drafts and final copies as .pdf files during the months he was composing them, and I had tried them out myself on the piano. Some of the Scarlatti Doubles were technically beyond me, but by the time of the recording, I was pretty familiar with all the pieces.

Jon engaged a young Korean-American pianist, Minkyung Oh, to record the works, and they had met several times and had numerous discussions about the music and interpretation. When J. and I arrived in Boston, nearly all of the recording was already done; all that remained were the editing and one section of one piece to be recorded again.

I've been involved in several recordings, as a choir singer and instrumental player in large ensembles, and in my earlier days doing advertising for New England Digital, makers of the Synclavier, a leading music synthesizer and editing workstation, I'd visited a lot of recording studios in L.A., New York and other cities during photo sessions. A prior disc of Jon's music that was also published by Phoenicia was comprised of works recorded at the Moscow Conservtory. Banquet celeste, a collection of contemporary liturgical music for choir and organ that our choir put out a few years ago, was the result of four long nights of painstaking recording; I sang in the choir, J. took photographs, and we designed the packaging and a commemorative book inside, but the editing was done by the director and his engineer.

So this was the first time I'd been directly involved in the production and editing process. The engineer, Frank Cunningham (above, center), is a consummate professional who knew exactly what he was doing. Minkyung (below, right) and Jon (below, center) had both reviewed the raw recording takes from the previous two nights, and had their lists of edits ready. During the long night of editing, the four of us worked together, with the scores, to come as close to perfection as we could, while J. documented the process. (That's his photo below, the other two are mine.)

As in all artistic creative processes, one of the most difficult decisions is when to stop. Perfection in music probably isn't achievable, but the astounding capacity of digital recording and editing makes it tempting to try. When we stopped at 10:00 pm, we were all exhausted, but happy with the results. Minkyung's performance had been extraordinary: brilliant, virtuosic, but also extremely sensitive. Without that to begin with, no editing process in the world can make a great recording. All we were really doing was very fine-tuning.

It was a fascinating and challenging experience for me, and something I'd like to do again. I have a pretty good ear, but that eveing I was pushed to listen in a different way; in addition my role was to help faciliate our work as a team. Reflecting on the process afterwards, it was clear to me that I had been drawing on a lifetime of skills, and wouldn't have been able to contribute in the same way even ten years ago. That was part of what I found so interesting. Jon, who just turned 75, has been a composer and professor of composition all his adult life. This was Minkyung's first recording; she is just starting out on what I hope will be an illustrious career as a performer and teacher. Frank, the engineer, Jonathan, and I are all about the same age; we've been around the block, but not as long as Jon. Everyone brought different skills and experience to the project, and there were five different personalities in the room. That can spell disaster or it can be a strength; this collaboration was a success even though there were, inevitably, rocky moments: there always are. In the next post I'll share the result with you!

Epiphany: Star Over Mont St-Hilaire

Here we are at the 12th Day of Christmas, the end of the season. Wishing you all an Epiphany of self-discovery, creativity and inner peace, all the New Year long!

 

 

 

 

Of Kings and Stars

At the bakery today, the choices were difficult. Epiphany is upon us, and it's time for the traditional galette des rois, or "kings' cake" of France and Quebec: made of puffed pastry with almond cream inside. They're always sold with a crown on top, and a little favor is hidden inside: the person who finds it wears the crown. The favor used to be a broad bean, but now the bean has been replaced by little figurines - in Louisiana, they are plastic babies said to represent Jesus.

Since there were only two of us, a whole cake seemed like a great over-indulgence.

There were, of course, smaller cakes and confections, each one more tempting than the last: those fruit tartes looked absolutely fantastic.

And above the array of Napoleons, how about these square pots of three chocolate mousses in layers, crowned with kingly triangles?

But reason prevailed, and we came home with just one treat: an etoile aux pommes, a star filled with apples, which seemed perfect for the day, and perfect for Quebec. You'll see more of why I thought that, tomorrow.

The Snow Queen's Lace

Her fingers draw the most beautiful patterns, but they're definitely of the don't-touch variety. Montreal hasn't gotten the recent snows that have hit the Atlantic coast, but it has been absolutely frigid here: -11 this morning, the kind of cold that prickles and then freezes the hairs in your nostrils when you go outside and take a breath. It's brilliantly sunny on the white snow, and makes me think of those fairy tales of alluringly beautiful but deadly Snow Queens.

We bundle up and dash from car to studio, studio to car, trying to avoid errands that require extra stops. Usually up early and quickly out of bed, we huddle under the duvet, making the warmth last as long as we can. I'm feeling especially sympathetic with our friends M. and E. who spent three weeks in L.A. over the holidays, house- and cat-sitting for a friend, but just flew back last night. What a shock!

Montreal isn't really back to work yet, though. I still can't get used to the cultural difference in attitudes toward work; here the emphasis is on family life and joie de vivre; back in the U.S. hardly anyone except school employees were off during the entire holiday week, not to mention several days after January 1st! But with Christmas and New Year's falling midweek this year, I guess a lot of businesses decided to just stay closed here until next Monday. In our studio building, it was absolutely dead during Christmas week, with a few people just starting to trickle back to their studios and businesses yesterday and today. I should try to learn from their example, but it's not so easy: I've got a painting to complete and send off to Iceland, an illustration to do for a friend, and a new CD that's just come out at Phoenicia, with lots of associated marketing to do. There's the year-end accounting, emails from clients, and several orders of supplies that needed to be placed. It will all get done, but this is the reality of self-employment, and actually I wouldn't have it any other way. Later in the winter we'll probably take some time off in a warmer place, but right now the afternoon sunshine is sending long rays treaming all the way across the studio, the cat's here at my side, the water's boiling for tea, and we're cozy and warm for another couple of hours, before that last dash across the parking lot, under the gaze of the Snow Queen.