Louise Moyes has a rare ability to connect with perfect strangers and she does so frequently on her journeys to St. John’s from Montreal, taking in the scenery and the people along Newfoundland’s isolated south coast via the Lower North Shore of Quebec and into Labrador, and turns those conversations along the way into pieces of art for the stage.
For a brief moment he burned brighter than any other star in the neo-expressionist universe.
I see a photograph of myself. In it I was on the bus travelling north to Tehran. We were going to visit friends, but that is not so important to the story. I was sitting alone because he was not talking to me. We were driving through the flat, dry landscape of my dreams, like the movies. I was wearing a maghnae, like a schoolgirl would wear, or a nun’s wimple. It’s tight around my face, but easier than wrestling with a headscarf that slides off my hair too easily. This particular day there was a stray hair sticking out, under my chin. I remember trying to locate it, unsuccessfully. It was troubling me. In the photograph I can see it, under my chin. That little hair sticking out reminds me of how I felt that day. Resigned. As much as I may have tried to tame the stray bits, one always found its way out of its cover.