The frequent appearance of hearts in his photographs may be interpreted as some kind of sign – a pending miracle, an awakening, a message from the universe – or just one great, big coincidence. Whatever the reason, artist Stephen Hues accepts that hearts just always seem to appear to him or he is drawn to objects that contain them.
This song is by Mary Margaret O’Hara. Renowned Canadian singer and songwriter. I’ve always been a big fan of hers. She couldn’t be here tonight, but she was actually here not that long ago. And sat right here, singing while I danced.
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.
by Richard Crouse – Toronto, Ontario, Canada
A few years ago I hosted some events at Fan Expo in Toronto. In between shows I sat in the greenroom, usually with my face buried in a newspaper or a book. One afternoon as I sat reading I felt someone come sit at the table with me. They didn’t say anything and I didn’t look up. It was so crazy busy on the floor; everyone was enjoying the relative tranquility of the greenroom and staying to themselves.
For 13 years I have gone back and forth between St. John’s and Montreal…between Montreal …and St.John’s. St. John’s and Montreal. And so has Marilyn – the first time we met was in 1989, she’d come into the Continental Cafe in St. John’s between 3 and 5 for toast and tea. We’d let her stay as long as she didn’t make too much ssshh (noise)!…
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.