Orchids of Ottawa

About sixteen years ago, I was walking with my uncle and his dog in the countryside around his house and property in the Algarve region of Portugal near Moncarapacho (that’s for all you Google Maps freaks). We were following the numerous red clay paths, meandering through thin scrub vegetation in the hot Mediterranean sun.

These paths weren’t paths at all, apparently. They were the beds of streams and creeks that were quite dry due to persistent drought. There was still plenty of water to support various forms of interesting vegetation, but the occasional six-foot Prickly Pear cactus made it seem hotter and more dry than it otherwise would have been.

Now, this wasn’t an agricultural area. Most of the economy, such as there was, was tied to tourism and ocean fishery. So the dry conditions weren’t as severe to the local populace as they might have been in a more freshwater-dependent part of the world. Besides, the “locals” included a disproportionate number of Swiss bankers with winter hideaways in the hills.

Occasionally, and nearly frequently, my bearded, kindly Merchant Marine uncle would stop and point at something ahead of us on the path. He would stoop down, and with a gentle hand, brush the petals of a small flower growing obstinately in a crack in the dry red clay, much as you would find a dandelion growing in a crack in the sidewalk here in urban North America.

These were orchids.

I am, and was, accustomed to hearing about, rather than seeing, orchids. If it wasn’t a single dead orchid purchased for an insane sum of money from a floral wholesaler or live orchids in carefully climate-controlled government or university greenhouses, I simply hadn’t a chance.

Yet here they were, defiant and colourful, each one incredibly unique, growing where nothing else would, in heat higher than my body temperature (this was March), hidden from all but the most patient and solitary of observers.

Now, I live in Ottawa, and I have for most of my life. Luckily, I have had the not-too-infrequent opportunity to visit some real cities, like Montreal, Quebec City, Vancouver, London, Paris, Amsterdam, Lisbon… and other half-cities like Toronto, Winnipeg and Luton. Ottawa is popularly known as The City that Fun Forgot, and in many ways it richly deserves that name, despite having a National Capital’s share of world-class museums, two influential universities, and the World’s Longest Skating Rink So Far.

What can you expect? There used to be two industries in this town: the federal government and “high-tech.” And high-tech left town. Locally, there’s a perceivable cultural drought. It’s so bad that I have witnessed art auctioneers approach physical violence (and inebraite themselves in the process) trying to convince the people of this grey town that a fabulous original oil painting (by whom? I must confess I was dabbling in the free wine and did not hear clearly) was as, if not more, valuable than a complete set of plastic deck furniture. I imagine that the quality of soul required to endure government employment for a lifetime must be shrivelled, reeking of decay, in bad need of repair, and utterly oblivious to aesthetic expression. It’s one thing to prefer concrete to marble, but it’s quite another to lack the faculty with which to distinguish the two.

There is hope, as there was in Pandora’s box. For even in such desolation, you can, if you wander solitary and with discerning eye, discover singular gems of cultural significance, each as refreshing and unique as an orchid in a footpath.

I would like to point out, first, three local artists whose work is very familiar to me, and encourage you to explore their vision.

There is, of course, my dear sweet mother, whose visual arts background covers painting, drawing, sculpture, fashion, floral design, landscaping and, most recently, digital photography. Although I cannot currently share with you the garageful of oil paintings executed in the 1960s, I am pleased to be able to share with you her photographic interpretatons of local horticultural beauty, courtesy of the Ottawa Horticultural Society and OttawaGarden.ca.
I have the pleasure to have rather more than a passing acquaintance with Aram Faghfouri, also a visual artist in multiple media whose current focus, and passion, is photography. Her style is more avant-garde, bordering in some instances on the experimental. Her website is barely suggestive of the full depth of her work, and well worth updating (a fact of which I remind her daily).

There is a stereotype of the starving artist; rarely does a visual artist’s creative vision pervade the murky realm of Return On Investment and Break-Even. Matthew Wellman is one artist who I believe is a distinct exception to this model. He is never far from good pencils and a sketchbook, and has a solid career plan, connections in the business and the talent to take to market. One day you will probably be pitting your half-gnome rogue alter-ego against one of his creations in a terrifying battle to the virtual death.

Not all art is as grandiose, “fine” — or even framed and indoors. jessrawk’s fabulous Flickr photo gallery showcasing the graffiti art of Ottawa is a perfect series of examples. We certainly rival Toronto in this respect, and possibly approach Amsterdam in several notable specimens. I suppose your level of appreciation of this form of expression varies inversely with your ownership of exterior walls. Despite my fundamental respect for the concept of privately-held property, I find graffiti as compellng and mysterious as ou remote ancestors’ first cave paintings.

Lest I limit myself, we have the occasional burst of worthwhile local musical expression. I don’t mean Alanis Morrissette — I always found her never too hot, never too cold myself. But who could forget Furnaceface? And I must say you haven’t really lived until you’ve stumbled through all six pubs of the Irish Village, hepped up on two pints of Guinness, to hear the unfortunately defunct Siobhan.

Speaking of Furnaceface, I am reminded of our not unnotable local film industry. If you didn’t see Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter, well then you didn’t attend Cannes that year, nor any Canadian film festival the following year. It’s probably improper for me to plug Departure Productions, one of the many groups with which I have had a falling-out over the years, but they did finally put out Maggot Man, and it’s worth watching at least once. Decoys (that’s between you, Flixster and Google; I don’t have a convenient link) and its sequel are firmly rooted in Ottawa, and should be on any connoisseur’s list of fine B-movies.

Oh, you can find more examples. In fact, I encourage you to do so. Like the orchids of the Algarve, they are there, but it can take some searching to find them. And perhaps if the climate were less inhospitable and the road better travelled, they wouldn’t be there at all. So it’s worth seeking to savour them while they still exist in their singular, unique beauty.