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The Way I See It

2011-06-22T08:28:00.000-07:00

June 22, 2011

Time Evaporates.

I'm back in Calgary, Alberta for a few weeks before I head out on the road with "This is CANCER". It looks like a very busy summer ahead, and it's nice to have the time here to gather myself and get ready for the Fringe Festival tour.

Being essentially homeless for the last year has been a lesson in 'giving in' - succumbing to the forces of the universe and saying "yes".

The latest project, "The Way I See It: Portraits and Paintings" is a perfect example...

Years ago, when my father was sick, I began to think about his influence on my life.

When I was diagnosed with bi-lateral retinoblastoma as a baby (cancer on the retina's of both of my eyes), the treatment at that time was to remove the affected eyes. My father stepped in at that point and requested that another treatment be found.

My right eye had too many tumors to be saved (it was removed and I was to wear a prosthesis for the rest of my life), but the left eye had only three small tumors. So, I was flown to Toronto and had radiation treatment performed on the tumors in my left eye. The treatment left me with heavy scar-tissue, and later I developed a cataract in the eye which was treated when I was around 4 or 5 yrs old.

The remaining vision is quite heavily impaired; I have tunnel-vision, I wear a HEAVY prescription bi-focal lens (+12), I have a secondary cataract developing which gives everything I look at a halo or aura, I have heavy vitreous floaters which cover my entire field of vision, and I have extreme light-sensitivity. If I quickly look from one object to another, there is a ripple effect which can be quite startling. Since this is all I've ever known I have managed to fake being fully sighted, and un-impaired for most of my life. I've often had people tell me that they would never had known there was anything wrong with my eyesight, other than the fact that the radiation did bone-damage, and my eyes appear "unmatched" (nice way of saying "fucked").

I notice changes in my vision as the years go along. My sensitivity to light has increased, the floaters have increased, my prescription for reading and seeing things up close has increased, and my ability to see things at a distance has diminished.

However...

My visual acuity (with a lens and at the right distance) is not too bad.

I can read print (with a lens)

I can see color.

I can see shapes.

I can see shadows

I can see sun-rises and sun-sets.

I have seen the faces of my family and friends. I have seen the Acropolis in Greece, the Globe Theatre in London, and Monet's Water Lilies at the Museum of Modern Art in New York among many, many other beautiful, breath-taking things in this world

I would have seen none of these things, had it not been for my father stepping in and saving my eyesight. He was, and is, my hero.

When Dad was sick, I had an impulse to pay tribute to him. I thought that if maybe I could paint him as I saw him, so that he could see what he had given me, it would testament to his life. I was on the road at the time, and began practicing by painting still-life, landscapes, and portraits of my friends. I found a real joy and a great sense of peace in this work. I was also glad to explore how it is that I see, as I had struggled for so long to fake being sighted, that it was a strange thing to actually give in to what it was that I was actually seeing....

Dad passed away before I could paint his portrait. And, really - the last time I saw him, the Cancer had taken so much of him and added so many years, that I'm sure he would not have been in the slightest bit comfortable.

April, 2011:

I was here in Calgary doing Rebecca Northan's "Kung Fu Panties" (Ground Zero Theatre/Hit and Myth Productions) and I had decided to get a space and run a Clown/Improv Workshop. I was hoping to use some of the training I had received from John Turner and Mike Kennard (Mump and Smoot) and get a tidy little class together. Jamie Tognazzini suggested that I speak to Dean Bareham at the Green Fools'. We stopped by his space - and I fell instantly in love with it. It's an old Church near the Talisman Centre on a near-empty block surrounded by brand-new condo developments. You can practically smell the 75-yr. mortgages, inflated interest-rates, and impending coronaries in the neighborhood. This Church is probably next on the list to be knocked down in order to put up more much-needed condo's. Dean offered it to me to run my class, and I was ecstatic.

I began putting the word out about the class.

Day one, and I had one student: my old college-friend Brandon Harris. (My mother had asked if she could take the class as well, but I thought that might be a bit weird). I had been aching to get back to painting for some time, and it dawned on me that I now had a space and, perhaps, a willing subject.

Brandon and I took a trip over to Inglewood art-supplies and I picked up some canvasses and began the day by doing his portrait. He is one of the most supportive and positive people I have ever met, and from that sitting I began this project in ernest. The Harborfront Centre in Toronto posted an open call for submissions for their gallery spaces, which was just the incentive I needed to push the project into the next stage.

The Clown class was officially cancelled, and I began asking friends and family if they would agree to come and sit for a few hours while I painted their portrait...I would use this as an opportunity to tackle a question I have been asked so many times in my life: "how do you see?". I would try to capture the cataract, the floaters, the tunnel vision, the halo's... everything in the paint and on the canvass.

It's been a most intriguing ride so far... and it continues.

I've just finished #80 and showing no signs of stopping. I'm a bit tired, but only in my body. Off to bed, 'cuz I've booked a full day tomorrow.

February In Toronto.

2008-02-17T18:33:00.000-08:00

Once again, I’ve been far too long in posting. An update.
Took “Cancer” through more stages than I’d care to count. A version in St. Catherine’s, a version for the Toronto Fringe, a version to Vancouver for the Here Be Monsters Carnival of the Arts, a version to Regina and presented by Hectik Theatre, and, lastly, a version to Whitehorse for the Pivot Festival at Nakai Theatre. So – we’ve been all over the country (almost). My fingers are crossed for a BIG East-coast tour – as I have always wanted to see that part of the country… and… they get Cancer, don’t they?
I’ve encountered so many lovely survivors who are wonderfully open to share their experiences and it’s been such a blessing. Crazy show.
In other news, I’ve received my certification in Thai Yoga Massage and have started up my own practice. It’s going rather well. Starting to book more and more clients, and I’m really enjoying the work. If I can’t “heal through humor”, perhaps I can heal through Metta.

Playrites Festival

2007-03-06T15:20:00.000-08:00

Yup - it's all over.... what a trip it was.
Calgary, Alberta for the PlayRites Festival and ten shows of This Is Cancer.
I have just arrived back home (half an hour ago..) and am madly trying to prepare 2 audition pieces for “Dream in High Park” - you guessed it - my AGENT got me an audition for tomorrow. (I capitalize “agent” because I never thought I would have one – and now that I do, I see why they’re such a great idea). CanStage’s version of Shakespeare in the Park are having their last day of "callbacks" tomorrow, but are willing to squeeze me in. And now that I have an agent I have no excuse not to be working my ass off on audition pieces that will get me the part. No excuse, Horak – you wasted enough time in your 20's...
The stuff I picked is fun and shows me off – I just have to fight my nerves and not rush through… that’s accomplished by knowing my shit and being confident.
However, I'm feeling a bit drained from the Calgary experience, so it's hard to truly focus. I feel like I need to "come down" from the Cancer thing. That show kicked my ass, and I feel like I need a rest.
Time to process it all.
I’m taking a break from rehearsal to vent some of it and maybe slough off some of the angst and turmoil I’m feeling.
The whole Calgary experience was a roller-coaster ride. We arrived with most of the show completely rewritten, and half of it untested. Rebecca and I worked together in the rehearsal hall together, her: trying to act as director, stage manager, and audience, me: trying to remember my lines and concentrate on my physicality at the same time. Body was aching before we arrived, and hasn’t stopped since. Felt overloaded and unskilled.
Eventually, Rebecca left saying, “you need to run this by yourself”.
There I was running the show in costume for the rehearsal hall mirror, and Vicki Stroich opens the door to be confronted with “cancer” in all his glory. She seemed to roll with it very well. I was convinced that she had seen this sort of thing every day since coming to work at Alberta Theatre Projects.
Waylen arrived next day and we finished the closing number. Finally, we had a show.
Having the office staff of ATP come and watch was exhilarating. These people can really hit!
The run was incredible – every show seemed to jump a little higher than the last. Rebecca felt that Tuesday and the closing Sunday were the best. I agree, but I don’t believe there was a “bad” one in the bunch. I remember bits of every one – they were all so different. Every crowd had a different energy. Different voices shouting names – different people staying behind to chat and ask questions and even just say “thanks”. We started doing a “bow” at the end of the show, and that seemed to break some tension, which was a good release. I think the audience needed to see me as a real person, even if just for a second. It also seemed to encourage more people to stick around for the “second act” – the talkback. That’s a good sign. I loved every one of them.
But Sunday… well – that was a hell of a ride.
I was stretching in the alcove by the elevator outside the dressing-room of the Big Secret Theatre and trying to get focused on the final show. It had become a ritual. Get into the suit, finish my coffee, and stretch before putting my make-up on. Rebecca sits inside the propped-open door and gives me final notes. Marilyn Potts popped her head in. She was one of my Dad's best friends, has been a part of my family since I was a kid, and a huge supporter of theatre in Calgary. My brother went to school with her daughter. She taught drama in the same school-system as my father. She had seen the show on Saturday Night, and stopped by early Sunday to tell me; "Carl would be so proud. I kept thinking "he should be here" - but - " and here. for the first time in my life, I watched Marilyn Potts lose her words.
I felt like I had been hit in the stomach; that same feeling I had when I listened to the recording of my father dictating his obituary to me. My father's voice, which I had been listening to all week, suddenly held a different significance.
Watching the effect that the show had on Potts, who was always such a positive and moving force in my life really winded me. “We see a different show”, she said “because we know what all those little references mean.” That’s true, but since my father’s death I have come to appreciate the little references more and more and more.
And maybe even some bigger references as well. As Waylen pointed out early in the process: This show is, in a way, my father’s obituary. In the recording that I have of him telling me what to type, he finishes by saying that he loved the absurdities of life, and what could be more absurd than his youngest son performing as the disease that took his life? And all intended as a celebration of his life. I hope that’s what comes across – because that’s the intention.
There’s always the fear that perhaps it comes across as callous or disrespectful. That was never the intention. The opposite is true in this case.
Strange. Strange stuff.
Was there a bigger reason that I was home in June to record his obituary? Was there a bigger reason that he told me to go and do the Fringe circuit and not come rushing back in the coming months? Was there a bigger reason that the last thing he said to me, after he hugged me goodbye and right before I closed the door on the car to drive to the airport was, "Don't worry - I shall not go gently into that good night".
To me, he hasn’t. And that’s the bigger reason. Gently implies leaving no ripples. No marking of your passing. Gently implies ease and lack of suffering. He lived such a gentle life, he deserved to leave some ripples behind.
The creation of this show was not a gentle process. There were a lot of tears in the process, a lot of anger and frustration. It was hard to let go. I felt restrained at times, not wanting to give it all, because I was afraid of going there. But something happened in the run and I had to. Something slipped, and I had to let go, go where the audience wanted, because not doing so was a disservice. It was a lie. It was “stealing from the audience”, as Rebecca so fondly put it.
So I had to let go – and, as Potts said right before my closing show, “it’s good”.
There were a lot of amazing things said by a lot of amazing people while we were in Calgary, but that was one that kicked me in the stomach. That was all part of the ride, of course. Dad made an impression on people. He was a “healthy cynic”. He made people laugh, and continues to do so. The gentlest kind of ripple is a ripple of laughter.