India Will Impress

There was something about this particular Kolkata window that seemed absolutely transcendent to me. The exposed brick, open shutter, the sheet, the bars. Every element in the image added up to something I could not explain, but could feel connecting deep within me. Perhaps the ten weeks of travelling around India by that point had something to do with it, as well as the way were travelling around India. We were embedding ourselves into society in a fundamental fashion, but from a perspective that allowed us the freedom to exit at any point should things go awry. That freedom allowed me to examine society with a micro lens while forever keeping a distance between us. I struggle to explain the way that distance impacted my feelings about India, or perhaps whether that distance means that I could never have a true understanding of India. If we can leave at any time, can our immersion be that complete?
Regardless, this window made me understand how India is so much more than the sum of its parts.

Learning how to pilot a running rickshaw in Kolkata.

Up close and personal with the scent of spices in a Kolkata alley.

If you had asked me which country I enjoyed the most on our round-the-world trip, while I was still actually in and experiencing a particular country, India would have been the last on that list on many occasions. It isn't that there is anything especially bad about India; it's more that there are so many tiny things that can be irritating, and more importantly, accumulative. Accretive. India is about managing how you respond to the little things. Not being able to let some things go can potentially obscure your enjoyment of the true wonder of India. It's kind of like in the hockey playoffs, all those seven-game series, and the commentators forever calling it a battle of attrition. But the rewards?

Leaving your backpack unattended at Kudle Beach has its consequences.

At first you're thinking, "What the heck?" After a while, it's, "Dammit! Not cows again!" and eventually, "Huh, India."

Going to visit the Taj Mahal. Wandering the fort in Jaisalmer. Exploring the markets in Kolkata. Hiking around Hampi. Sailing around the backwaters in Alleppey. Watching the sun set while your kids play in the Arabian Sea. These things are spellbinding, both in their sheer visual beauty as well as how the moment sits within the language of your family history.

Exploring between Kudle Beach and Gokarna's town beach.

That first look is without a word of exaggeration, breathtaking.

It's casual moments like this that catch you off guard. Your kids are listening to the audio guide at Mehrangarh Fort and you think, "Gosh, that's cute." Sometimes the magnitude of what's happening is lost on you. Sometimes it takes years to recognize the truth, and sometimes it hits you in the face when you frame it in the camera's viewfinder. What a day we had there.

What is less magnificent is some of that day to day stuff that you would not be used to dealing with at home. Rickshaw drivers hounding you for a fare. Touts wanting to guide you through a tourist attraction. Shopkeepers who are relentless in their efforts to lure you into a shop. Kids who are relentless in their efforts to lure you into a shop that will pay them commissions. Men who urinate somewhat openly in the streets. I could go on, but you get the idea. As long as you can learn to deal with that, India will quickly rise to the top of your favourite country list. The majority of kids, shopkeepers, rickshaw drivers, and urinating men are not remotely irritating. Well, the urinating men are, but most do their business in more appropriate settings. Or at least, discretely. Rickshaw drivers are trying to earn a living, and when they see a tourist, particularly a family of four, they see their earning potential rise dramatically. And that's what it boils down to - people just trying to earning a living. Yes, the one-hundredth call of, "Hello? Rickshaw?" in a single afternoon may occasionally force some regrettable comment out of your mouth, this is true. And yes, some people (including tired tourists...ahem) are just jerks, that's true everywhere, but most people are just trying to get by. 

My drawings of everyday people in India, and a couple of abstracts thrown in because it was part of a montage.

More often than not, you'll have someone curious about where you are from, what it's like where you live, and how do you like India? When you carry on a conversation, and really engage, it will be a rewarding experience that will provide a mental shield from the next, "Hello! One photo!"*

There is incredible life in India, incredible colour, and some truly incredible people. The distances within are vast, but with India's decent train system and your strong stomach, you can see a lot of the country. Push yourself beyond the Golden Triangle, and you will be rewarded with memories unlike any other.

The south is green, its air thick and warm. Rajasthan the land is the colour of straw, full of castles that hug the sky. Varanasi lives and breathes along the Ganges. Temples abound in the 14th century empire of Hampi. India is an experience like no other, and is worth any amount of time you can give it. 

A tower at Chittorgarh Fort in Chittorgarh, Rajasthan.

Outside the walls at Chittorgarh Fort.

A photogenic monkey at Chittorgarh.

Yes, the Taj Mahal is really something, but there's a lot more to India than this.

For instance, the Taj's poor cousin in Aurangabad.

By the end of our time in India, nearly three months, my mind was a little clouded by some of the negative experiences. But almost immediately after taking off from Kolkata on our way to Bangkok, the moments of pure joy rose to the surface, and I found myself longing to be back in the sweaty embrace of anywhere that was India. The food is a wonder, with restaurants, and hotels too throughout the country, serving up a fabulous array of dishes. The shops are full of colourful textiles and exceptional artisanal work. The history of India is on full display nearly everywhere you look. And the people. Give them a chance, and the good people will find you, and make you feel at ease.

Spice vendor and his son posing with us in Kolkata.

Learn to let the inconsequential go, and hold fast to the wonders. Incredible India will reveal itself all over.

*At first, the idea that someone would want a photo of themselves with us seemed funny and cute. But when you're going to be late for your bus, and the 47th person is saying, "One photo!" it can be a little much. Fun, for sure, but exhausting.

So many photos taken with so many Indian folks.

India's doors will impress.

My book chronicling our time in India.

Interior spread from The Happy Accident.

Moroccan-Inspired Front Steps

The Alhambra in Granada, Spain, is one amazing place, so it's no surprise that we made visiting there a priority when we went to Spain a few years ago. It is chock full of spectacular Moorish architectural embellishments and design that are visually spellbinding. The Moorish influences around southern Spain were so extraordinary, they inspired a visit to Morocco the following year. Needless to say, we were dazzled.

One of a million examples of plaster work at the Alhambra.

From the Alcazar in Seville, to a variety of stops in the underbelly of Fes, the remnants of old Moorish design are ever-present in this region. There are intricate tile designs known as zellij that are usually found on walls, but will also make up floors, ceilings, fountains, and more. Carved plaster designs grace archways and columns and walls. Pretty much any surface that a Moroccan craftsperson sees as under-served in the beauty department will get the full treatment. If there are unadorned surfaces anywhere, well, it must be because somebody just hasn't gotten around to it yet.

Floor somewhere in Morocco.

Doorway in a tight alley in Fes.

The Alcazar in Seville, Spain.

Meknes, a short train ride from Fes, also has a great deal of this type of artistry on display throughout the city.

A bonus shot from Meknes featuring the Moroccan triple threat: superb zellij tile work, plaster work, and calligraphy.

A wall in a madrasa in Meknes. Imagine showing me a pic of your trip to the mountains and trying to explain how a photograph doesn't capture the feeling of being there. That's how I feel here, that no photo can do these places justice. 

Rabat, the capital city of Morocco, of course is not going to be outdone in the presentation department, and went all out at the more modern Mausoleum of Mohammed V.

How about some more fountains?

El Glaoui Palace in Fes.

In a museum in Fes - I think Dar Batha, but I'm not entirely sure at the moment.

After reflecting on all that we'd seen on these two trips, we knew that we wanted to incorporate this kind of design into our home somehow. I even toyed with the idea of putting a fountain in our patio, but of course, our climate would not be kind to any intricate tile work or outdoor plumbing. But when our front steps needed redoing this summer, before the mail carrier fell through one of these days, I thought aha! Now's my chance. I sketched out a few ideas, showed them to my supervisor, and got down to work.

Staring at the doors of the Fes Royal Palace, ideas began to stir.

I knew right from the start though that there was no way I was doing tile work outdoors (or anywhere for that matter), and that I needed to curb my enthusiasm as I had no time (or skills) to recreate the Alhambra in my yard, so calm down right now if you think that's what this post is about.

I started searching out some ideas on the web, coming across a couple pics with designs that I could base my stair design on. It wasn't until preparing this post that I realized the photo I was using was of a door that I had taken a picture of. Looking back, I'm not sure how I ended up searching the web instead of my own photos. I think I must have been doing both, but anyways. Here's the pic that made me go, "Ah, that I can work with."

My photo of a door at the Alhambra.

A close up of another area to show how the aged tiles can look.

I actually started to draw the design out on the first riser before quickly realizing that a stencil would be much easier overall. I did this on some matte board, which is heavy enough to take some abuse and can be saved for future work.

The diamond pattern stencil was about a third of the length of the steps. I just sketched out the first third, moved the stencil, and repeated.

It's probably not worth noting that we went a good two weeks without front steps while I laboured over the design and rebuild. I tore the old steps out, then started to think about how I would do the design. Which is maybe a good thing as you don't want to spend a lot of your life creating something fabulous only to realize later that it doesn't fit into your stairs.

Once the design was sketched out on the primed riser boards, I got to work on the painting. I thought I had carefully chosen my paint colours, but apparently not, so I had to do some mixing to get my green colour the way I wanted it. 

Hard at work on the patio during those 35 degree days in July. The light of the sun looks like it's turning the patio blocks red hot. Supervisor took this pic from the comfort of her new day bed (completed during the hot days of June) which is wonderfully shaded on those hot, hot days.

With the design in place, it's just a matter of filling in the colours, and then deciding how far you want to take the trompe l'oeil effect to make realistic looking tiles.

On my first board, the top riser, I went all in. I was loving creating this look. When my supervisor got home from her other job, it was noted that we didn't want tiles that looked like they were ready to fall off the stairs today, so I had to tone it down going forward.

You can see in this pic how I mixed some blue in with my green to create a sort of translucent effect, giving the tiles a little more visual interest over a straight green.

I did this with the other colours too. I used a primer that was verging towards cream, but those bright, bold tile colours could not cover in one coat. I swished an uneven second and occasional third coat over top so that some white would still show through here and there.

My dog was an amazing cheerleader through all of this.

Here are a couple pics of the final risers, in place, today. One thing that is clear is that I'm going to have to spend a lot more time cleaning my steps than I ever did before. Every time it rains, the drops splatter dirt all over my nice stairs!

All the tiles look a little imperfectly "cut" so as not to look like wall paper, but emulate real hand-cut tile. The "grout" gets into all the little imperfections and nicks in the tiles, and little shadows are added here and there to give some depth.

I changed up the shades of the tiles a bit so that they are not all uniformly the exact same colour.

The supervisor had a wise idea to add some small red tiles into the mix.

Look at all that dirt on my new stairs!

Here are the completed stairs so you can see the entire design together. One thing I would do differently is make the white "tiles" that accompany the squares of blue, mustard, and green just a hair thinner. Maybe a millimetre or two. Not much, as a little would go a long way here.

Note that I was very careful to include the depth of the stair tread in the design layout. This way it appears that the tread is in front of a continuous wall of tile, which allows the tiles to visually flow from one riser to the next.

Overall, I'm really happy with how they turned out. And now when the supervisor gets home from work on a -35 day in January, she will be warmed by the memories of those wonderful spring days in Spain and Morocco.

Here are my photo galleries from Spain and Morocco.

Buy Spain prints here, and Morocco prints here. 

Reymond Pagé's Guide to Immortality

Get Rey's Look: Rey's vintage sunglasses stolen from the visor of someone else's car; Bracelets from a kid in Cambodia; Pendant from Mirador San Nicolas vendor in Granada; Rey's jeans from the Old Navy sale bin; Rey's own vintage belt; Mark’s Work Warehouse sandals; Joe Boxer briefs at Costco; artwork at 275days.com. Note that I cannot flex my abdomen without flexing my big toes.

One thing Reymond Pagé has been trying to tell us all along is that another world is possible - a better world guided by love and not by fear, where people choose unity and peace over division and self-destruction. In a world like that one, the past few months might have gone very differently for almost everyone, including Reymond Pagé. He might have spent his spring photographing the Portuguese coast, his wife on his arm. He might have continued with his string of successful spring and winter (and spring again) neighbourhood art tours where Rey sells art that makes women swoon, and lush photo books of his travels wherein he laments that the world clearly wants peace but for the actions of an insane few who use our foibles to pit us against one another, time and time again, like some sort of historical record player where the tonearm just keeps bumping back and forth at the end of the album, leaving us stuck with the same set of sociopathic leaders determined to have us shoot one another because that's how problems are solved in their worlds.

Instead, in early March, as the spread of Covid-19 picked up speed, Pagé left his third floor studio and headed to the first floor kitchen, thinking he'd have some more superfoods and go walk his dog until things went back to normal. His art supplies were still upstairs in the studio, his clothing always carefully packed away in cupboards and drawers on the second floor. "I was built for this," he remembers thinking. A floor for everything and everything in its place.

He is never alone throughout the day because Indi the Superdog is always at his side. Except when the music is turned up, then she heads to her second floor window where she holds court over her dominion. However, this pattern changed during Covid to making a bed on the main floor with the long runner in the expansive foyer. In the photos on Indi's Instagram feed (yes, for real), it looks like a pretty idyllic existence. Here is Indi, shirtless and barefoot, laying on her right side on a lumpy hunk of carpet. Here is Indi, laying shirtless and barefoot on her left side, on what seems to be another bed, but no, it's the same runner just bunched up in a different way because that's her groove. Here's Indi having her assistants give her a bath, again and as always, shirtless and barefoot. Here is Indi, knowing that the world is waiting to hear how she's doing despite it all, waiting breathlessly for that caption that captures the essence of what we're going through together but alone. "Ruff," it reads. The world exhales collectively. "We feel you," we respond in perfect unison. The photos depict a dog and a man living comfortably in their only home, contentedly and most definitely not alone. "There is the internet," they both tell me.

Which isn't to say they don't think of more. A country house in some gorgeous Provençal town, maybe some art by other artists on the walls instead of being jam-packed with the most amazing art and photography that you've never seen before, all by one singular artist. Or even some mementos from some of the countries to which he hasn't yet been. Small dreams.

Rey through the years.

Contemplate the yin-yang of Studio Rey and Dreaming Rey long enough and you will come to see the world in which Reymond's head resides: a world where we don't all have to act like an asshole to get what we all want - just simple peace and quiet without some asshole being a racist lunatic and ruining it for everyone else. Pagé is the last unknown art god standing, because no one else is willing to live so simply in the midst of such luxury. A man for whom a basketball represents all that is needed for a sublime Sunday afternoon. Throwing the football with friends is the ultimate coffee date. Donning goalie equipment for another ball hockey session is worth an infinite number of Friday nights in some pretentious and ridiculous downtown bar doing one's best to be seen as the coolest cat around.

Reymond lives up to, at all times, our dream of what Reymond Pagé might be doing at any given moment, because we can imagine it for ourselves. You know what Reymond's days consist of because you've all witnessed the fruits of his labour. He doesn't need to live stream every moment of his existence for us to envision him creating life in his studio, breathing a heartbeat into yet another unfathomable yet completely approachable portrait. He may write the odd article about what's going on (!), but that is the exception.

The artist chilling in his studio. Get Rey's look: Rey's own vintage, hand-painted jean jacket; vintage hand-painted jeans; vintage belt and sunglasses; pendant from Spain.

To an outsider, Pagé looks like a guy who's given up. Sweatpants ("They're actually called wind pants," he grumbles, to great affect), a ratty t-shirt, and sometimes an equally ratty sweatshirt ("Oil paint doesn't come out easily," he laments, like someone who has been there and felt that pain). To Pagé, any clothing bought this century belongs in his 'new clothes' category. But when I stop to think about this for a minute, here's a guy who was an athlete in the late 80s, and a tank in the early 2000s. And somehow, in 2021, he's still wearing the same clothes and they don't look out of place on his body. (He proudly shows me his cache of sweatshirts he and his fellow warriors won when they dominated the flag football scene at university. "My wife won't let me wear those anymore," he says quietly, his voice disappearing into a memory of the glory days.) Most of us buy new clothes because we get tired of the old ones or they just don't fit now, or Paris tells us it's time for something new. For Pagé, wearing old clothes is a badge of honour. You know that Seinfeld bit about dads: "All father's dress in the clothing style of the last good year of their lives." For Pagé, this is an act of defiance: Yes motherfucker, I am that old. As crazy as it sounds, if it weren't for all that grey hair, the bags under the eyes, or that weird goose flesh on the elbows, you might not be able to tell how old he is.

Most days, he'll wake up and have an apple. "Pink lady. Best apple in the world." Then he'll set to work down in the basement dungeon. Skip. Ride the bike until the sweat drips off his nose (and if you've seen that nose in person, you know that is one long road to hoe). The get into his workout for the morning. Back in university, a friend critiqued his workout routine of playing basketball for an hour before hitting the weights. "You'll never get big doing that!"

"I'm just trying to have fun, man." And that's been his mantra all along. Pushing weight around is fun. Moving his body around is just plain fun. Whenever he feels a cold coming on, he hits the weights, plays some hoops, gets active. "That'll clear the sinuses," he says. But lately, he's been rubbing that sore elbow for longer and longer. Physical pain is his medicine.

Nightly hill training. Get Rey's look: Propagandhi T-shirt at Propagandhi.com; shorts from Sargent Avenue Thrift Shop; Rey's own vintage runners; Rey's kid's sunglasses that he doesn't know are missing yet; Rey's mountain bike - Mountain Tour Ridgerunner DX bought by his wife from a guy in his underwear sometime in the 90s. Photo courtesy M. Pagé.

Since those early days in the university gym, Pagé has been his own physical trainer. "Nobody knows this body like I know this body." I ask about his thighs. "These are basketball legs!" he nearly shouts. His basement gym is where the term hodge-podge comes from. An ecletic mix of free weights and bars. His bench-squat rack combo maybe from an old Canadian Tire catalogue. "I got this baby at Canadian Tire, twenty-five years ago." Pride oozes from his pores every time he talks about how old something is.

What is the point of all this? Other than returning to the condition of his early middle-age, he has one major goal: to dunk the basketball again. "My best dunks are not behind me. That time I dunked on my sixteen-year-old neighbour? Or jumped over that guy at Holy Cross School? No, I've got more in me." He is looking past me as he recalls those days, and I can see in his eyes that he is reliving the moment.

Get Rey's look: Rey's own vintage sunglasses; Hair ties from Shopper's Drug Mart; Rey's vintage muscle shirt; sports shorts from Sargent Avenue Thrift Shop.

At press time, Pagé's home town is ground zero for Covid's third wave at almost double the next worst per capita case count in all of North America. Residents bristle under yet another lockdown even as vaccinations ramp up. Somehow, the virus does not bow to the word of God or bend to the will of the fit and healthy. It is indiscriminate and it is relentless, but to Pagé, the endless lockdowns do not feel like deprivation. "I went around the world with five pairs of underwear. Everything I needed, and a few things I didn't, plus all the stuff my wife bought, I carried on my back for nine months. I don't need much to be happy, man." But don't you miss people, I ask. He hesitates, like Trudeau wondering how to answer a question about North-South relations.

One thing Pagé hasn't been doing is recording music. "It's been a long time." He seems to do a lot of lamenting when he ponders the past. In another universe, there is a Reymond Pagé who is the stage presence for an intense metal band. "Not this new metal business, but the good stuff, like Soundgarden or old Metallica, the best of the 80s and 90s." With the advent of computer recording and programming, Pagé experimented with the technology when his kids were napping or playing contentedly in the family room beside his studio. One day, his oldest walked in. "Wow, papa, you were really screaming that time." His five song EP didn't make the charts, but it made him happy. Any hits, I ask, half-jokingly. "Servants of Our Good Fortune," he replies, without hesitation. "Maybe Death Squad too."

Back in 2003, the world (i.e. the Western World; you know that's always what people mean when they say "the world," like the rest of the planet doesn't matter) was, well, much as it is now. But that war in Iraq really stuck in Pagé's craw. His brow furrows even more than usual, and the veins in his forearms pulsate a little more aggressively. Eyewitness To Murder was born, and a song like Servants of Our Good Fortune reflects the world (you know what I mean) of today just as accurately as it did in 2003.

The silent, screaming, shame of our great nation(s)

Is our failure to see the cages that we build around

(the) Servants of Our Good Fortune.

Things get a little dark in Run Little Children:

Like father like son

Fate asks that you bow to order

Like father like son

I go to sleep thinking about how

I like the feeling of little bones beneath my feet.

"At one time, I thought I could change the world. I still think that, when I go to sleep at night. Then I wake up in the morning and I'm still me, and no one is listening." Words of the prophets, and all that. Those nearly twenty-year-old lyrics ring true, like nail-on-the-head true, but I wonder if it's just too much for some people, many of whom, the ones that have the power to make a difference anyway, are just too comfortable. "We're just too comfortable today," he says, reading my mind.

"It's what a lot of my work is all about," he says, talking about his art. "People are people the world over. That was the biggest takeaway from all those countries we visited. People over there want the same things as people over here. Syria, Cambodia, everywhere else, they just want peace, man. I've been saying it for years, wrote about it in my book."

Remnants of a year of bliss.

His three-volume, fully illustrated travel book didn't make a dent in the Governor General's long list, but it is easily the most beautiful travel memoir you will ever lay eyes on. It's like something out of time because there is no equivalent anywhere. Hundreds and hundreds of photos from indescribably beautiful places, dozens of works of art, and stories from Italy to Thailand, all from the blog he kept while on the road with his family for nine months, all done up in a crisply designed, but still heartfelt package. It's a handful, but it's worth the effort. Do you have a favourite moment, I ask. "That whole year was a favourite moment, honestly, and so many things stand out..." He trails off. "Smuggling cigarettes into Jordan, didn't expect that. Having a Greek beach all to ourselves for three weeks was pretty cool. And then the Cambodian bus scam that had us haggling over the price of a visa. You know, there's things that you just expect will never happen in your life, so you never think of them. Then they happen, and you just go, "Huh. That happened."" Words spill off the colourful pages, the as-it's-happening accounts and full, descriptive details delivering the moment right to your mind's eye. 

"...there is one other thing that ranks above public speaking in terms of fear factor, and without being too graphic, I will just say that it involves the forced ejection of material from my insides in an upward direction."

Get Rey's books: Here to buy, or here to figure out which book you even want.

Page's entire artistic output, from his music to his books to his art, is completely self-produced. "I can't delegate anything, so I do everything. Most people aren't as anal about the details as I am, so rather than get mad at people for not meeting my standards, I just get mad at myself for not being perfect." His music is certainly not for everyone, but the smile he gets as Servants draws to a close tells me that it just doesn't matter. He rewinds and listens to the last two minutes. And again. "That's metal," he whispers, to no one in particular. Power chords, drums, and a heartfelt cry for everyone to just listen.

His portraits read like living humans, hearts beating behind eyes that struggle, that yearn, that desire, that hope. "These faces are living landscapes to me, each with its own climate, its own history. The secrets lie in the soil, some dormant, some in full bloom, but everyone is that fascinating. Everyone deserves to be known for the lives they live."

Countless people tell him he should try this or that or another thing. He nods politely and wonders quietly if they even understand life.

What's in Rey's fridge? The many elixirs of life, including Parle G, India's greatest export cracker.

His own books reveal a lot about his direction, his ambitions, his perceived aimlessness. "I don't think about it much," he says, about staying home, raising kids and creating art. "Yeah, I could chase millions doing all kinds of things, but to what end? So I can relax in retirement? I'll do what I love, and we can go shoot hoops now," he grins, "then we'll grill up some chicken and asparagus. Then a bike ride later." It's thirty-six degrees (97F) outside, I remind him. "I know, right?" His laugh is reminiscent of a sailor marooned on a desert island, who's come to love the taste of handfuls of live ants or scorpions roasted over an open fire.

His most recent show in April of 2021 centred around a society hell-bent on riding full throttle into their own collective graves. "The amazing thing is that we let a few thousand people write the script, and the rest of us play our given parts. I do my art, tell my stories, write my songs, then I go put gas in my car after I buy my yogurt in plastic containers and meat in styrofoam trays. Jesus, how do we live with ourselves?" Truth be told, his car is thirteen years old and has over 200,000 kilometres on it. But it's still a gas-powered vehicle.

He looks like a man who simultaneously understands that while he has already arrived, he still has a long way to go.

Changing the world is a full-time, life-time job.

- © 2021 PegCityHealth and Reymond Pagé

Collector's Edition cover!