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Thursday, August 11, 2011

Social Flutterby (August 11, 2011)



Toronto is a city in a hurry. The pace—visitors always remark on it—is more quick than fast, the people hurry and everyone is wheeling and dealing. “It used to be so sleepy, I hardly recognize WASPy old Hogtown anymore” Ardie said at lunch while Miss Cousins agreed that “allowing stores to open on Sundays” would draw people into the city, “and get rid of the stale air downtown.”

Queen Street was already well into a transformation that would see it evolve from fabric shops, furniture stores and light industry to artists, designers, galleries, restaurants and nightclubs. In time it would become give birth to a media conglomerate, a club district and trendy living spaces. People were now smugly announcing that they lived in a warehouse, or above a store, or behind a factory downtown.

Ardie observed that the Westbury Hotel on Yonge Street, once a fashionable address with a good dining room, was now nothing more than a trick-pad for the sex trade. “Friday night the dining room of the Westbury was always packed,” he said, “and men would be wearing black tie.” The office crew around the table was amused; “You’re dating yourself, Ardie, be careful,” Miss Cousins said, safely from behind her sunglasses.

She had been working well into the nights on various pieces, so she was feeling—and probably looking—a little worse for wear. Over the years I’ve been asked a lot of questions about Miss Cousins from curious people who know her work or her story. Generic responses usually suffice, and private knowledge remains just that: private. “I heard she worked on at least 10 or 15 paintings at one time,” one cocktail party guest once said. She was satisfied with the knowledge that Miss Cousins did, in fact, often work on more than one painting at a time. It was never necessary to be specific as most people are happy with vague.

No confidences are betrayed by revealing that her usual modus operandi was to work on a theme. The current theme—the one that caused her to work until 3:00AM and appear at lunch in sunglasses, slightly hung over—was food. Eggs and toast, sandwiches, fish, breakfast specials, hamburgers, bananas and other fruit, meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. Side of peas. That kind of food.

Miss Cousins worked in her studio, sometimes with music and sometimes in silence, on any number of canvases over the same period of time. It wasn’t unusual for her to have perhaps four canvases in some stage of work, but not more than six. The sizes would be different, due to the studio layout more than anything else, and she would occasionally leave one to work on another, or “abandon” one for a few days, weeks or longer while her muse took her elsewhere.

The output from the food series was tremendous and the suggestion of another catalogue was eagerly accepted by the Boss. The last catalogue had resulted in a record-number of commissions and sales, and Miss Cousins wasn’t one to lollygag where business was concerned.

Ardie, too, had been spending industrious days and nights of late, exploring new business opportunities during the day and exciting new nightclub destinations every evening. Suddenly, formerly staid Toronto was hip. There were people, places and things that could only be described as avant garde. Trendsetters were being discovered and followed and Our Ardie Beebe was one of the popular in-crowd.

Zena Cherry, the long-serving social columnist (“dreadful gossip columnist” according to Beebe) who chronicled the activities of what passed for society in Toronto, regularly noted where Ardie had dined, visited, danced or been. Fundraising lunches for reputable—and often useless—worthy efforts were prime opportunities for meeting potential clients and for Ardie’s now flourishing antiques shoppe. He supported hospitals, of course, plus endowments to fight diseases that plague children, the homeless, shelters of every description, food banks, museums, heritage destinations, parks, animals (domestic; livestock; wild) and the Monarchist League of Canada. (“After all, we Queens have to stick together,” said Ardie.)

Miss Cousins put her chopsticks down and reached for a newspaper (not the Canadian Record, tsk tsk) and pointed out that Ardie had been spotted “at Toronto’s chicest new club” surrounded by “gorgeous models and some of Toronto’s best-known names.” She looked down the table, crowded with more people than usual today, and her eyebrows rose up above her sunglasses. “It seems you are becoming a social flutterby, Ardie, in danger of becoming the burned-toast of the town” she said.

Ardie took a long drag on his torch (right at the table; after a while it didn’t even seem unusual) and leaned his head back before exhaling a long powerful cloud of smoke up, up toward the ceiling and beyond.

“I don’t know about the gorgeous models, but the best names in Toronto must be George Edward Trick, realtor-about-town,” laughed Ardie. George Edward Trick was Ardie’s oldest and best friend. He was a well-known realtor and Ardie—and soon everyone—called him Tricky.

Ardie and Tricky had been in boarding school together, and after being expelled together had travelled to Europe—“no where near a backpack, Kid”—before returning to Toronto and settling in, but not down. Tricky exploited his family and social connections and was soon a trusted name for old-families to call on when they needed a real estate agent who understood their particular sensibilities.

“Tricky asked me to help him celebrate his new condominium launch, and things got carried away,” Ardie explained. He looked at the column again quickly before admitting that there may have been “two or three gorgeous young men present, some of whom could have been models. I never ask what people do for a living because Mother said it was rude.”

Miss Cousins laughed over that one. “I am quite sure, Ardie, that you find out what their particular skills are soon enough.”

 


Tuesday, August 09, 2011

The Rat Race (August 9, 2011)


The Rat Race

The “miserable rat race” of work, business and industry were now in full swing. Miss Cousins had returned with plans, and the office hummed along with all cylinders firing. I was writing a catalogue to accompany a planned show and the endless revisions and discussions were cumbersome and annoying. Lunch—the fabled institution of Miss Cousins’ office schedule—evolved on some days into an ongoing planning session, and that is how Ardie came to our rescue.

Ardie had stopped into the office to see Miss Cousins and joined lunch, already in progress, at the urgent invitation of pretty much everyone; Ardie was always fun and his impromptu visits were welcomed. Today’s fare was a Chinese banquet, so another set of chopsticks and a plate were soon found and Ardie was soon ooh-ing over the General Tao’s chicken just like everyone else. (Miss Cousins gave good lunch.)

Miss Cousins was “bored to death” with all of the suggested ideas for the photo shoot planned to promote the upcoming show. The catalogue, she decided, should include photographs showing her artwork in the homes of real people. No more all white walls, contemporary interiors or lush museum settings! 

We discussed a few different ideas before Ardie interrupted Miss Cousins with a wet cough and suggested a few names and addresses where—he was “more than certain, Adelaide, more than certain”— the home owners would be thrilled to having their home photographed with a real Adelaide Cousins painting adorning a 
wall.

The catalogue, Ardie continued, would be a collector’s item in itself; why, some of the same owners might become patrons! (This was tricky; Miss Cousins could be difficult with patrons on the hunt for “something, anything really” to adorn the walls.)

I was directed to write the copy for the catalogue, which Miss Cousins would subsequently edit. The final product would be sent for professional editing and proofing, of course, but the original effort was in-house. A team of three graphic designers (hired by yours truly) eventually came up with a style and look that pleased Miss Cousins, and the cover eventually served duty on a poster, post-card and, much later, a calendar. The final product was so successful we used the dame three designers, year after year, for a long time.

Ardie had “all sorts of contacts and friends” we could “tap into with a simple phone call” and soon Ardie was recommending various people who had “homes with potential” for our consideration. First on the list was 12B, of course, as Ardie was feeling hard-up for cash and a little self-promotion goes a long way in the “decorating rat race.”

I had an uneventful evening at home on my social calendar; shared a quick hello with Jane when she arrived at The Campanile to collect Bethany, and waved to Habashaka as he headed over to Yonge and St. Clair on a domestic errand. The news about the shaky foundations—literally, as it turned out—of The Campanile did not serve as a catalyst for good times and merriment. Jane was securing a suitable mortgage and, with only a 6% ownership vote, the decision would not be one I could materially affect.

Miss Cousins was sanguine about The Campanile. “It will get sorted out, it’s just business.” She was working on more food images—they sold like hotcakes, pun intended, so why shouldn’t she crank a few more out?—and the office was quiet as I prepared to wrap up the day. She was smoking, sipping a cocktail and seemed in no hurry to be leaving. “I’ll drive myself home tonight,” she dismissed me in a friendly way, “see you tomorrow.”

I walked for a while before catching a cab up near Harbord Street. I slipped into 7A and bolted the door, not looking for company or entertainment of any particular kind. I was paying rent to live in the apartment now and, although deeply subsidized by my 6%, it was no longer free and the future was far less certain, economically speaking.

Ardie was a fury of activity; the antiques shop downtown was repainted, restocked and re-opened with much fanfare. Old clients were invited to 12B for drinks and a tour and more than a few of them subsequently contacted Ardie, the master, for consultations on updates, renovations, additions, deletions, makeovers and bare-to-the-walls, top-to-bottom overhauls.

Of course, new clients were the lifeblood of his business, and this is where a concerted charm offensive paid grand dividends. Every morning would find Ardie scanning the obituaries of The Canadian Record, looking for “good deaths.”

Good deaths, Ardie explained, would involve “money, property, antiques and a war over the will.” One good estate sale could reveal a fortune of plunder for the antique shop. Tea sets and davenports and sideboards would be found, along with Chinoiserie, majolica and “God only knows what else!” as Ardie smoked over the paper, coffee cup nearby, intent on stoking his fortunes once more.

Ardie had to move quickly when it came to the Jewish community. He generally skipped funerals but had a week—give or take—to “hit the Shiva and really clean up.”

For the uninitiated, a Shiva is a proscribed period of time, usually a week, after which the friends and family of bereaved Jews will visit the family and comfort them in their time of loss. Friends, neighbours, colleagues and others will deliver food, good wishes, companionship and the sense of community everyone needs so badly during a time of loss.

The Shiva—with its rhythms and comforts—provides a concentrated opportunity to grieve, remember, laugh, cry and finally begin to move on. “Of course you have to eat, too, so don’t miss the buffet,” Ardie said as he corralled me one afternoon to accompany him to a Shiva up off Bayview Avenue.

We were only attending because the deceased was an aged aunt of Candis Mitzvah’s cousin-by-marriage, and Candis would be in attendance today, “dispensing coffee and cake” according to Ardie. “Oh, and sympathy. Of course.”

Needless to say, Ardie changed the tone of this particular Shiva. I offered a few quiet condolences and moved to the buffet—which was good, actually—and kept quiet as Ardie worked the room. Ardie greeted Candis and was then introduced to the cousin-by-marriage, and then he was almost immediately saying goodbye; he was just in the neighbourhood, he had heard the sad news, worried about Candis and her family, must dash, really shouldn’t intrude. Just wanted to wish everyone well. So sorry to learn about your Aunt; that type of thing. Ardie was smooth with his insincerity.

These people were not grief-stricken enough to let Ardie leave. Soon the scotch was flowing—who knew Aunty kept such a bar?—and Ardie had learned that dear Aunt Whatever had left some money to her daughter, who was now getting the full-court press from both Ardie and Candis, who was eager to promote her association with Ardie Beebe.

We left after an hour or so, and Ardie smiled as he sat behind the wheel of his car. “The poor dear suffered so much and her daughter got everything. Candis tells me she’s thinking of moving and, of course, she’ll need some help with wherever she moves.” He cleared his throat. “Lots and lots of help.”