Winnipeg 2010: Day 5

On the last full day of our visit, Greg and I are up early, in anticipation of a family brunch at The Forks, a market and cultural venue at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers. The gathering is not for another couple of hours, so Greg and I take advantage of the early hours to walk around the neighbourhood of my parents' condo, mainly for some exercise.

With another hour before brunch, Greg and I head south, towards Broadway Avenue. We walk along Vaughan Street, on the east side of the Bay department store. On the corner of Vaughan Street and St. Mary Avenue, we look up at one of my favourite buildings, the Winnipeg Clinic, founded in 1938 by Paul H.T. Thorlakson. Dr. Thorlakson was an active and prominent member of the medical community in Winnipeg, helping to establish the present-day Health Sciences Centre, and serving on several boards and associations throughout his life. The Winnipeg Clinic was founded on, and continues to adhere to, principles strongly held by Dr. Thorklakson. He believed that quality medical research and practice could only be attained through on-site experience in teaching hospitals and a thorough knowledge of patient histories.

Initially, a one-storey structure of Tyndall Stone and glass bricks was constructed at the corner of Vaughan Street and St. Mary Avenue. An additional five-storey, and later, seven-storey, building was erected on the east side of the original one-storey clinic. The clinic's architecuture reflects experimentation with the early Modernist style. Its visual impact is arresting, given its inception; it has been referred to as the Jetsons building.

Diagonally across from the Winnipeg Clinic is the Manitoba Archives Building.  Constructed in 1932 as a multi-use community building, it was designed jointly by Northwood and Chivers, Pratt & Ross, and J.N. Semmens, and, until 1974, functioned as the Winnipeg Auditorium. Since 1974, the building has been home to the Manitoba Archives, The Hudson's Bay Company Archives, and the archives of the Manitoba Legislature.

Like many other civic buildings in Winnipeg the Winnipeg Auditorium was a make-work project during the Depression, providing much-needed employment to those in the construction and building trades. The funding originated from all three levels of government.

When completed, the facility played host to renowned international artists and musicians, including Vladimir Horowitz, Sergei Rachmaninoff, Fritz Kreisler, and Glenn Gould. Ballet companies, including The Ballet Russes and Sadler Wells, as well as orchestras such as The New York Philharmonic, have also performed there.

Despite its handsome design, the building was acoustically flawed, given its multi-purpose use as a dance hall, convention centre, and skating rink. When the Manitoba Centennial Concert Hall opened in 1968, it supplanted the Winnipeg Auditorium as a state-of-the-art facility with perfect acoustics, designed by Russell Johnson.

South of the Manitoba Archives are additional buildings I photograph, including the Norquay Building, the Law Courts and the Manitoba Legislative Building.

The latter - the Lej, we call it - has always been a fascinating place for me. I have visited here many times: as a touring elementary and junior high school student, as a chorister,  and as an audience member, when choral groups sang in the acoustically haunting rotunda. The building has always held an aura of mystery, tranquility, and ordered precision, notions not lost on me when I read up on its history.

The Manitoba Legislative Building was completed in 1920. Neoclassical in its style, it was designed by Frank Worthington Simon and Henry Boddington III, both free masons, whose winning designs won the competition held amongst architects throughout the British Empire. They received $10,000 for their efforts.

Because the Manitoba Legislative Building was designed and constructed by Free Masons, urban legends abound related to the symbology of its precise layout, the connections to mystical religions, and the meaning of its statuary. Recent research by Frank Albo, a Research Fellow at the University of Winnipeg, intriguingly attests to the building's connections to esoteric mysticism.

We skirt around the building's eastern facade, note the regal statues of Lord Selkirk - Scottish Philanthropist who sponsored the settlement of Manitoba in the early 19th century - and Pierre La Verendrye - farmer, fur trader, explorer, and military officer who led expeditions to open up the areas from Lake Superior to the Lower Saskatchewan and Missouri Rivers, to the French fur trade, and carry on south towards Osborne Village.

We linger for a short time on the Osborne Street Bridge, taking in the view on this bright and cloudless morning. On the west side of the bridge are three high rise apartment buildings from the late 1970s. Evergreen Towers have, for a long time, been considered prime residences due to their location, on the south side of the Assiniboine River. They are within close proximity to prime shopping in charming Osborne Village, and are across the bridge from other attractions, including the Manitoba Legislature and the Forks Market. Over the years, one of each building has been home to various friends, colleagues, and acquaintances.

Almost directly at the foot of the Osborne Bridge lies The Roslyn, an apartment building that dates back to 1908 and is a designated heritage site. Though I have never been inside, I have heard of its large and character-filled units, and have always admired its deep red-painted brick facade. Like many of Winnipeg's older buildings, the Roslyn's imposing character is a presence on the corner of Osborne and Roslyn Road.

From here, Greg and I head east on Roslyn Road, encountering other apartments, of various vintages, along the way - from early 20th century to the late 1960s. We note the unusual quality of the street: not one single-family home exists here. We wonder how it came to house only apartment buildings.

Historically, Roslyn Road East was not comprised solely of apartment buildings. From 1880 to 1914, Winnipeg's prime location made it the development and investment centre of Canada's west,  and so attracted a number of affluent and influential residents. As a result of the financial boom that ensued, Roslyn Road East became an enclave of the wealthy, due, in large part, to its riverside location. Residents included J.C. Falls, a business man, who built a large Queen Anne Revival style home at 36 Roslyn Road and August Nanton, who built a large mansion on five acres at 61 Roslyn Crescent (229 Roslyn Road).

Roslyn Road itself is part of a larger district of Winnipeg called Fort Rouge, an area bounded by the Assiniboine River to its north, by the Red River to its east and south, and by Stafford Street and Pembina Highway to its west. Fort Rouge was named after a fort built in the 1730s by Louis Damours de Louvieres, a lieutenant of the aforementioned explorer, Pierre de La Verendrye. In the early 1800s, the area consisted of small farms, but later expanded in the latter part of the century when two bridges, one connecting Main Street with the French quarter of Winnipeg, St. Boniface, and the other connecting the two sections of Pembina Road (later, Osborne Street). With the completion of the two bridges in the 1880s, together with the presence of a streetcar line (Park Line), Fort Rouge expanded, with many mid-sized homes, reflecting a growing middle class, constructed. Most of the apartment buildings now standing on Roslyn Road East were built from the 1950s to the 1980s.

We pass one small brick apartment building and note the elegant interior through the generously-sized windows. Tucked away at the eastern-most end of this cul-de-sac, it strikes me as an ideal building to have an apartment in: it is private, quiet, bright, and elegant.

This building, reminds me of another, more imposing one, on the other side of Osborne Avenue, on Roslyn Road West. This latter building is the former home of Mireille Grandpierre, a former ballerina with, among others, the Paris Opera and the Russian Ballet companies, during an illustrious career in France that started at age nine and ended in the 1940s, when she met her husband, Max, and re-located to Winnipeg, after the liberation of Paris in 1946. She gave birth to their son, Ronald, in the same year.  Like the smaller red brick apartment I admiringly gaze at, the Grandpierre's home - really a mansion - is also of red brick, and also housed Madame's studio, the Ballet Conservatory, where she taught dance for decades, starting in 1956. I have only been there once, as a teenager, when, after a play rehearsal at my high school, St. Paul's, I was one of the passengers in the car of a teacher, giving Madame a lift home.

As a theatre enthusiast and member of the St. Paul's High School Drama Society, I first met Madame Grandpierre when she choreographed some of the plays in which I performed, including 'Mother Goose's Golden Christmas', 'Something's Afoot', and 'The Three Musketeers'. Many of the students regarded her as an anachronism, with her Parisian rigorousness and impeccable chignon. I, however, secretly admired her eccentricities, chalking them up to her Parisian-bred life and the rigours of her decades of dance discipline. She had been, after all, a ballet protegee at 11, and a recipient of a World Gold Medal (in ballet) in 1939, at the age of 13. Being students at a boys' school, however, my classmates were not impressed (or, at least, professed not to be) by an aging former ballerina. Behind her back, they aped her strong French accent, with their imitations of her exhortations: "Boiz, vee meust bee seenkronaized", as she demonstrated plies and arabesques that we, in our roles as blackbirds, had to emulate. The boys sneered and guffawed. I, on the other hand, was dance in heaven!

I was even more impressed when I later learned of Madame's long connection with St. Paul's. She had taught a French culture class there in the 1970s', subsequently forming a strong friendship with the Drama Society's Director, Fr. John Murray, and with whom she formed an artistic alliance. It was under his auspices that the Drama Society flourished, renowned in the city for putting on the best school plays - two a year - along, with a talented cast, crew, and musicians.

Having learned recently that Mireille Grandpierre passed away in 2008, I cannot help but be sad. Her talent, refinement, and sophistication were reminders of the standards I tried to emulate and apply to my own passions, regardless of me being judged for having them. Reminiscing about Madame, I am struck by the peculiarity of the source of some of my inspirations. I did not know her very well. She did leave an indelible mark. There was no one like her.

Noting the passing time, Greg and I head back to my parents' condo. The four of us then head over to the Forks Market, where we join my two brothers and sister, their partners, and my nephew Renzy. Brunch is to be at the Inn At The Forks, a swank hotel renovated in 2004. We enjoy the rich, delicious food, then make our way outside to enjoy the warm weather.

The Forks is the name given to the confluence between the Red and Assiniboine Rivers, the site of Winnipeg. For thousands of years, it had been the setting for cultural, religious, and social gatherings of aboriginal people. From the 18th century on, it has been a major site of Canada's fur trade, the development of Manitoba's railways, and the entry point of immigrants to Western Canada. Today, The Forks play a more social role in Winnipeg's cultural and historical landscape. Many of the heritage building on site - including railways sheds, terminals, and power plants have been transformed into spaces for shopping, dining, and enjoying theatrical performances. There is also a children's museum, an historical interpretive centre, and hotel and conference centre.

My memories of The Forks go back to when it first opened in the late 80s. It was a place where I would enjoy the seasons with friends and family. Winter at The Forks usually consisted of breakfasts at the Pancake House or dinner at the Prairie Oyster. Christmas time was particularly enjoyable, given the variety of activities one could take in, including skating on the Assiniboine River, perusing the antiques stalls, and enjoying a chicken Caesar salad at the Old Spaghetti Factory.

On several occasions, The Forks was the venue of choice for my friend, Robert, and me. In the winters, we would walk on the frozen Assiniboine River from the Wolseley area to the Forks, braving frigid temperatures and warmed by our conversations. We would then have lunch or breakfast at one of the restaurants, before taking in the antiques market in the basement of the Johnston Terminal. In the summers we would cycle to The Forks, snap up ice cream, and sit on the grassy banks of the river. Walking was a favoured pastime, and The Forks, with its many and extensive paths facilitated strolling and discussion.

The Forks was also a venue of choice for the English As A Second Language program in which I taught at the University of Winnipeg (1999-2004). With its extensive ice rinks, carefully groomed to function as pathways on the river, The Forks attracted many of our students and instructors to the river banks for hours of fun. Watching Sergio, a young Mexican of 19, for instance, excel at ice skating, despite having been exposed to it only after arriving in Winnipeg, was spellbinding. Clearly he is an accomplished athlete, which I note, given how, by comparison, he is less accomplished, even cantankerous, in the classroom. Seeing him and others of his Mexican friends skating effortlessly and fearlessly, it occurs to me how individuals possess different strengths and, therefore, how important it is to provide them with opportunities to exercise and to acknowledge these. I call Mario over. He is not one of my students, but I compliment him on his natural ice skating prowess. He is well chuffed, and I could tell that his gratitude is heartfelt; it is not only for the praise, but also that it is coming from an instructor, an ostensible academic, a symbolic antagonist.

The Forks today is brilliantly sunny. No longer able to withstand the heat, I make phone contact with my long-time friend Angela, who offers to fetch me from my parents' condo and drive me to Bird's Hill Park, where we would have one of our regular visits.

Having known her for 15 years, Angela has been one my dearest friends. We initially met after having both been participants on the Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Programme, albeit during different years. I had been back in Winnipeg three years when Angela (or Ange, as I call her), prompted by a friend of hers whom I had recently become acquainted, contacted me. Our initial phone conversation lasted a couple of hours, as did our initial meeting. A long friendship has since developed, with our respective JET experiences, fascination with Japanese culture, and interest in music and nature being our common bonds. For 6 years, we worked together as volunteer executive members of the Manitoba-Saskatchewan JET Programme Alumni Association, aiding in programme recruitment and social activities. Years before she moved into her own house, Ange had an apartment half a block up from where I lived; I spent many weekend nights over at hers, discussing the finer points of paper making, watching a video, or listening to her latest musical fascination. Ange has a superb singing voice and has long been a fixture in Winnipeg's choral music community. Since 1998, she has been a devoted member of Camerata Nova, a choral ensemble dedicated to medieval, Renaissance, and aboriginal music, sung a capella. The group's annual concert at the Manitoba Legislative Building is always a beautifully meditative experience, augmented by the haunting acoustics of the building's interior spaces.

On this hot Sunday afternoon, Ange and I drive to Bird's Hill Park with her two dogs, Madrigal (Madi) and Bilbo (Billy). I had not been to this park in almost 10 years. It is a perfect summer day: hot, breezy, and slightly humid. The site Ange has chosen is one off the beaten path, and is, in fact, not open to the public. Given her many visits to the park over the years - as both avid camper and Folk Festival attendee - Ange is quite familiarity with the lay of the land...and how not to get caught and turfed. We let  the dogs off their leads and sit on a picnic table. This set of grounds is deserted and the peace and tranquility are highly
palpable.

Ange apprises me of the year's events in her life, and I do the same with her. As we chat, she continually tosses a Frisbee for Madi to fetch. Billy, being older, is content to sit out the exercise and to take comfort in the shade the picnic table offers.

I take in the natural surroundings as Ange carries on with the account of her past year.

Bird's Hill Provincial Park, opened in 1967, was created as a natural preserve for oak and aspen trees, as well as a venue for recreation, including hiking, horse-back riding, hiking, and nature viewing. It is a unique natural habitat for a variety of landscapes, rarely seen in one venue. These include esker ridges, dry prairie, wet meadows, bogs, and mixed boreal forest.

Apart from its natural attractions, Bird's Hill Park also hosts over a hundred special events a year, including sports' competitions, weddings, company picnics, and fund raising events, in addition to the Winnipeg Folk Festival, one of Canada's longest-running music festivals. It has been staged in the park since 1974.

Bird’s Hill Park, for me, has been the setting of a number of school-days incidents, all memorable, though not all affirming. One June day, just before the start of summer holidays, the upper grades of the elementary school I was attending went on an all-day excursion to the park. Because of the number of participating students, school buses were augmented by private vehicles of chaperoning parents. One sleek station wagon, owned by my classmate Angela’s father, had a rear seat that looked out the vehicle’s tailgate. Three of us – Susan, Angela, and I – occupied that seat, and we spent the better part of the 45-minute ride happily waving out the window at the occupants of the vehicle driving behind our station wagon. Just before our arrival at the park, however, as my two female seatmates were making eyes at the seemingly receptive male driver behind us, he suddenly accelerated and gave our vehicle a more than heavy thump, with his front fender. All of us lurched forward, and then backwards, as Angela’s father braked hard and suddenly. I remember biting my tongue, as much as from the squeamish sound of metal on metal, as from the impact of hit. Luckily, no one was hurt and we carried on, without further incident; but what appalled us all was how the other driver, without seeming regard for the young passengers of our car, did what he did, and then cowardly sped off. Needless to say, with the number of us in the car, at least one of the adults was able to record the culprit’s license plate.

On arriving at the park, and with the glorious weather to buoy our spirits, the incident is quickly supplanted with more lighthearted activity. Some of us walk over to the park’s horse stables while most of us, head for a swim in the artificial lake. The water and sun are perfect: enticing and comforting, augmented by the constant breezes. Students and chaperons interact and share food freely and by the end of our visit, many of us grudgingly go off to the dressing rooms to change for the journey home.

Inside, I am suddenly faced with the dilemma – at the time, highly significant to an 11-year-old: having to undress in front of my male classmates, something I had never had to do before. This point of the day’s events had only briefly crossed my mind earlier, when, in preparation, I had worn my trunks underneath my trousers. Arriving at the beach, I needed only to remove the outer layer, without having to suffer the embarrassment of undressing completely. Now, I have no choice. Mortified and running out of time to make up my mind, I quickly put my trousers on, over top of my wet trunks. I resume my place in the back of Angela’s father’s station wagon, place my backpack on my lap, and forget about my discomfort on the return journey home by engaging fully in conversation with the others. It was only when I am about to exit the car, an hour later, that I realize I have on light-coloured trousers. From the side windows, I discern Angela and Susan’s reflections, simultaneously gasping when they see my bottom half, the top potion darker in colour than the bottom. At the same time, I see Angela’s father, who had evidently anticipated a potentially humiliating experience, gently prod the two girls into silence. Susan bites her lip; Angela adjusts her sunglasses. I carry on home, my face burning, yet my honour still intact.

Having caught up with Angela’s news, she drops me off at my parents’ condo, where Greg has been working on his papers. In a while, we head over to my cousin Ruby and her husband Matthew’s house, for a quick visit. Not having been there for several years, we note the marvelous transformation their house has undergone, a process that they had initiated six years previously. With their two young kids asleep upstairs, we stay on the first floor. They show us their renovated kitchen, with its underfloor heating; recount the ordeal of working with a cantankerous contractor, prone to dictatorial pronouncements regarding the work that needed done; and reminisce the feeling of satisfaction of completing an extensive project. We then settle to some fine wine and watch a bit of TV, interspersed with conversations ranging from travels to current events to raising their kids. We take our leave, knowing that all is well with Ruby and Matt.

In many ways, this year’s visit to Winnipeg is no different to others we have had, the most notable difference being the recent addition of family members and the memorable reunion I had with former colleagues at the University of Winnipeg. In reality, however, Greg and I took in areas of the city that, seen through his urban planning eyes, I experienced in new ways, making the occasion of coming home all the more worthwhile and satisfying.

References:
1. 36 Roslyn Road: J.C.Falls House: City of Winnipeg Historical Buildings Committee, January 1994.
2. Bird's Hill Provincial Park - Background Information, Manitoba Parks, June 2010.
3. Former Nanton Estate: City of Winnipeg Historical Buildings Committee, 1980.
4. The Forks Website
5. The Canadian Encyclopedia Website - Manitoba Centennial Concert Hall 
6. The Canadian Encyclopedia Website - Pierre La Verendrye  
7. The Canadian Encylopedia Website - Winnipeg Auditorium 
8. Obituary: Mireille Grandpierre 
9. The Progress of an Idea: The Story of the Winnipeg Clinic Research Institute, R.S. Mitchell, M.D., Winnipeg MB, 1966.
10. Wikipedia - Fort Rouge (Winnipeg) 
11. Wikipedia - Lord Selkirk 
12. The Winnipeg Clinic Website
13. Winnipeg Art Gallery Website


See slide show below for more images (click on slide show to enlarge):

Winnipeg 2010: Day 4

We are up early this Saturday morning. Christine and Rob, Paul and Catherine, mom, Greg, and I are off to the St. Norbert Market, south of Winnipeg. We drive in three vehicles, taking advantage of light traffic on a weekend morning, and arrive  45 minutes later. It has been many years since I have been to the market, and by all estimation, it has grown in popularity. Already the parking lots are starting to overflow, causing congestion on Pembina Highway.

In light of the recent trend for consuming locally, St. Norbert Farmer's Market, is one of the first enterprises to promote this practice. Manitoba farmers, from St. Adolphe to Killarney, have been baking and crafting wares to sell here every Saturday for 22 years. When we arrive, we see everything from hand-made soaps, to jewellery, to peanut butter, to toys; and creators are on hand to speak about their crafts. Naturally, local produce is the focus of this market, with everything from beets to potatoes to grain on sale, many organically cultivated.

With the variety of goods sold in this temporary location, we remark on the extent of the work involved, especially for the set up and take down of the stalls. Vendors must arrive in the early morning, before working over 8 hours, much of these in the blazing sun, only to disassemble their stalls in the late afternoon. We admire their dedication to and production of their goods.

Paul and Catherine get in cues to snap up vegetables and beef for the barbecue they are hosting this evening, while Christine, Rob, Greg, and I enjoy the energetic, friendly vibe and warm sunshine. Greg and I take in the replica of a homestead set up on the market grounds, while Christine and Rob review the crafts for sale. Instead of being kitschy, the goods are notably sophisticated. I particularly appreciate the work of a local jewellery designer who uses semi-precious stones in wonderfully original ways and who would likely garner demand for her work in more urban settings.

Though not parallel, the designer and her jewelery remind me of my own experiences in selling wares. In the late 90s, having made the decision to design and make clothing full time, I take the opportunity for a paid-for trip to Montreal, to peddle samples of my collection. In retrospect, I had no idea what I was doing, merely relying on instinct, hoping an enlightened boutique owner or manager would take a sufficient enough interest in my work to place an order. Having been to Montreal many times before, I am familiar with the various shopping districts and choose St. Denis Street for its boutiques that carry adequately "directional" clothing designs that still reflect a certain timelessness, like my own.

In preparation, I pack two or three shift dresses in reds and beiges and in various fabric weights: silk for warm-weather wear, wool and cashmere for cool-weather ones. In addition, I include two women's suitings, the jackets cut in narrow proportions, with small shoulders. Mindful that I have also to attend a three-day conference - it was, after all, my free ticket to the city - I choose the day of my junket carefully, so as not to conflict with my conference duties.

The chosen day is hot and humid. Undeterred, I put on my best silk shirt and cotton pants - both in light shades of sand to fend off the hot sun - and sling the nylon garment bag filled with its precious products over my shoulder. I start at the southern end of the long street, at the corner of St. Denis and Sherbrooke. Feeling that this is where the more receptive portion of the street began, I feel no particular need to start further down, my merchandise not likely to appeal to tatoo parlour artists or Dollar Store managers.

For the next four hours, I make "cold calls" - unsolicited visits for the purpose of promoting and selling - to various boutiques whose merchandise I feel are compatible with my own work. I make small talk with perfunctorily friendly sales staff, and talk fashion with imperious owners. Consistently, they allow me to linger and chat, only to tell me, after half an hour, that they do not deal directly with designers. What I hope is a journey of design discovery is turning out to be an ordeal: "Desole. We only buy from wholesalers. Try next door."; "J'aime beaucoup les couleurs. But blue is what we are selling this season."; "Quel belle decolletage, mais pas pour l'hiver!" Quel horreur! Did Armani have to go through this!?

The go-sees turn out not to be too bad an experience, though; hours later, I have business cards from two separate boutique proprietors, both proposing collaborating on collections exclusive to their stores (likely their way of getting rid of pesky wannabee designers). I promise to send them sketches in two months, for the following spring-summer season. Elated, I take the metro back to the hotel room. It is only when I pass the foyer mirror in my room that I gasp in horror. My hair is matted and my shirt covered in unsightly splotches down the chest, lower back, underarms, and elbows: a result, I suppose, of the unforgiving heat and the enveloping nylon garment bag. What must those chic, French-speaking ladies have thought!!??

A week after my trip, I get a call from the University of Manitoba, offering me a teaching position in one of their Continuing Education programs. With virtually full-time hours and a generous salary, I do not hesitate. I suspend work on my designs and reassess. Perhaps adjusting my designing to teaching ratio - teaching full-time, designing part-time - is, after all, a more financially stable, more dignified, way to achieve fashion stardom!

The noon heat is stifling, though the cool breezes, decidedly absent on that memorable day in Montreal, gently bring me back to the present. We are in the cue for lunch. I try a simple but fresh burger of pure Angus beef, while the others opt for pulled pork. We retreat to a shaded picnic table, next to a a small cage of goats and a llama, their owners advocates for lucrative farming with ease and a gentler carbon footprint. In this heat, I simply long to comfort the poor things.

Having run out of venues to browse, we conclude our market visit, exhausted by the heat. Having come in different cars, we go our separate ways. Greg and I explore the town of St. Norbert itself, though after driving around the near-deserted streets, we  realize that everyone must be at the market. The local church and cemetery are not worth the sacrifice of leaving air-conditioned comfort, so we drive back downtown, and head for the Winnipeg Art Gallery.

In contrast to the criticisms heaped on it, I like the Winnipeg Art Gallery building. I appreciate its modernist, wedge-shaped design, despite its apparent accommodation of interior leakage and challenges in displaying art pieces. I also admire its Tyndallstone walls and floors. Designed by Winnipeg architect Gustavo de Rosa and opened by Princess Margaret in 1971, the gallery is internationally renowned for having the largest collection of Inuit Art, an extensive collection of decorative art objects and photography, and the famous Gort Collection of Gothic and early Renaissance art.

Prior to its current location on Memorial Boulevard, the Winnipeg Art Gallery had homes, first in the Federal Building, on the corner of Main and Water Streets; then in the Manitoba Archives Building, between Vaughan Street and Memorial Boulevard. Largely cultivated by Dr. Ferdinand Eckhardt, a sophisticated Viennese curator with a vision and whose tenure as director spanned over 20 years, the Gallery collections, under his auspices, expanded to 23,000 objects, necessitating the creation of larger premises. The current building consists of eight galleries, a 320-seat auditorium, a rooftop sculpture garden and restaurant, a bookshop, a research library, meeting and lecture spaces, and a separate building for art classes.

Apart from the building's design, what I find endearing about the Gallery is my participation in a fashion show staged in its auditorium 25 years earlier. In the spring of 1985, after a few years of dabbling in fashion design as a serious hobby, I am contacted by a "leading light" of the Winnipeg Filipino community, asking if I would show some of my work, along with those of other aspiring Filipino designers, as part of a fund raising show. Being an undergraduate student at the time, my academic schedule is hectic; but, feeling this to be a rare opportunity to showcase my passion in a great venue, I accept the invitation anyway. As I had already several ready-made pieces, most of my effort for the show involved simply finding the right models and taking part in rehearsals. For the former, I do not have to look far. My friends Bryan, Jim, and Raymond - with their lithe builds, graceful moves, and unique individual styles - fit the bill. The latter, for the most part, were fun exercises in collaboration and self-effacement.

I recall the farcical rehearsals, which include the Filipino community's go-to hairdresser, Joey, coaching the models on the finer points of catwalk modelling, reproaching those who do not comply; Romilyn, one of the designers, and her large multi-compartmentalized personal make-up kit; and my model, Jim, and his run-in with a surly Gallery security guard. He sweetly reprimands the man, using sailor-blushing language.  Jim is a great sport: when I discover, at the last minute, that the jacket I design for the show turns out to be too long, he helps me fold up and (masking) tape down the hem, later modeling the piece as if the oversight were part of the design.

Typical of my team: defiance (so much for self-effacement)! We ignore Joey's cliched modelling directives and the top 40 musical choices of the other designers. Our modelling inspiration: the Christian Dior fall '85 show, with designs reminiscent of the house's New Look, and models chanelling the great 50s icons, Dovima and Carmen. For musical selections, we opt for ones from obscure European bands, including Propaganda, Cocteau Twins, Bronski Beat, and Malcolm McLaren. The musical choices best capture the tone of the designs: jackets and suits in black satin, burgundy brocade, and Mexican blanket prints.

The show is a rousing success, and I enjoy working with the WAG's auditorium stage, the crew, and the technology that allows us to create the desired effects. However, I do not recall how much money is raised for charity, in the end, nor what happens to the the sketches I provide for display purposes. They mysteriously disappear, never to be recovered.

When Greg and I visit the Gallery, there are four main exhibits (hover and click on each item, for more information):

1. We Are Sorry - by Cathy Busby
2. The Nude in Modern Canadian Art: 1920-1950
3. Diana Thorneycroft: Canada, Myth, and History, Group of Seven Awkward Moments Series
4. Kiugak Ashoona: Stories and Imaginings from Cape Dorset

Neither of us is particularly impressed by the Busby exhibit: an exercise in comparative analysis between the apologies of Prime Ministers Stephen Harper (of Canada) and Kevin Rudd (of Australia) to their countries' respective aboriginal communities, as a result of the abuses incurred by church-run residential schools. I do not really see the point (both sets of apologies, to me, ringing hollow, disingenuous, and long overdue), though the piece itself is sufficiently enormous to be attempting to make one. The nudism exhibit is similarly banal, despite the parental advisory. There are some wonderful pieces, but ultimately, I ask: "What's so remarkable about Canadian artists painting naked folks in the early part of the 20th century? Hadn't these artists ever heard of Canaletto and Michelangelo?" The Thorneycroft, on the other hand, is hilarious: an irreverent and gruesome take on iconic Group of Seven work. We had seen the exhibit a year earlier at the McMichael Gallery in Kleinburg, Ontario, and enjoyed reviewing it. The pieces are original, thought-provoking, and beautifully rendered. The Ashoona exhibit is compelling, with some truly beautiful pieces. Though I easily tire of the constancy of the material, style, and imagery of Inuit Art, this exhibit is remarkable in how many pieces look to me like minimalist abstract art - a favoured style - a distinction from others of the genre that tend to be representational.

Our next appointment - coffee with a former classmate of Greg - is not for another hour. We take advantage of the extra time to search for a bank machine, and to explore a bit more of the downtown. We cross Memorial Boulevard, enter the Bay department store, and exit on the other side, to Vaughan Street. From here, we cross a parking lot and end up in the lane backing Kennedy Street. It is familiar to me. For years, I used to cut through the parking lot, in order to reach my bus stop on the other side. The lane also accesses the back of the Windermere Apartments, an iconic building where several friends of my past used to reside. Re-visiting this lane reminds me of one of my Winnipeg pastimes: play.

From childhood to young adulthood, back lanes held a particular fascination for me. They were reflections of people's inner sanctums, a repository for things they kept secret from the outside (i.e., the front) world.  The one behind my parents' house contained everything from driveways, derelict garages, garbage bins, and other detritus. Often old furniture, picture frames, and vintage cars were organized in piles or rows inside garages, sheds, or below decks. I enjoyed betting with myself to identify what an object was, via a glimpse through a grate or dirty window, until finally, by happenstance and regular walk-bys, the treasure would be revealed. Guessing right, I would treat myself to after-school sweets!

I see myself and other children, in the spring, floating paper boats and other found objects in ruts created by car wheels in the melting snow, and down which water flowed, to the end of the lane. We would use long sticks to steer our boats. In my early teens, the lanes would be short cuts to regular haunts or as escape routes from bellicose bullies, their function two-fold: to hide one physically as well as emotionally. I never could stand to fight; back lanes helped to obscure my shame over this. On such occasions, I would regularly and mercifully run into a solitary neighbourhood dog or cat, who would provide immediate, unconditional comfort, or at least hit me up for some sweets. I was always happy to oblige and would instantly feel better. Regularly, too, I would observe a stranger, fishing for food out of garbage bins, the scenario teaching me humility and empathy.

There are Maria, Roberta, and Michael, three Italian-German siblings, who, in 1975, befriend my three siblings and me. They live down the lane from us and parallel us in age. We attend the same elementary school (Laura Secord), and parish church (St. Mary's), where our friendships blossom, and, in the case of Christine and Roberta, endure to this day.

In addition to English, Maria, Roberta, and Michael speak fluent German, and undergo the same extra-curricular activities, such as piano lessons, Sunday school, and Brownies, that my siblings and I do. They also have a craftsman father who built them a puppet theatre. We spend hours playing together, conjuring plots based on classic nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and our own rich imaginations. My grandmother regularly scolds us whenever we get too rough in our play, or when we take our pretend roles too seriously. Glancing out a window, one winter day, she sees me, surrounded by assorted siblings, cousins, and neighbourhood kids bending down to kiss, repeatedly, a reclining Maria. She is aghast! She screams for all of us to come inside. "But she's Snow White, the others are the Seven Dwarfs, and I'm the Prince. I was only trying to wake her up!" For a time, we do not see Maria, Roberta, and Michael.

There is George, our craftsman neighbour directly on the other side of the back lane from my parents' house, whose wife, one rainy Saturday evening, waylays our family car as my dad is about to back out of the driveway. She has locked herself out of their house, after rushing George off to the Misericordia (Hospital) and returning home to retrieve a forgotten item within. She is in hysterics, pleading with my mother, as the latter rolls down her window.  At that instant wife shoves, directly under my mother's nose, a Tupperware container within which is what my mother initially thinks to be a rather large prawn. Wife screams "George severed his finger with his band saw. I need ice!!!!!"

Back lanes are a wonder. The one in which Greg and I now stand has been tidied up, with fresh coats of paint on the buildings that border it. It looks pristine, somewhat cold and unfamiliar, until I notice a stranger, fishing for food out of garbage bins, and instantly feel relieved. The scenario teaches me humility and empathy.

We carry on to the other side of the lane, to Kennedy Street, still hopeful for an ATM. I notice the Manitoba Law Society building, admiring its simple, modernist facade of decorative hollow concrete blocks. I remark on the number of wonderful mid-century buildings in Winnipeg, a reflection of the post-war building boom that took much of its direction from the Faculty of Architecture at the University of Manitoba. Until today, I had never appreciated these buildings.
 

Greg and I hurry back to the car. Time has run out and we drive back to the Wolseley area to re-unite with Dave, a former graduate classmate of Greg. We meet at Stella's Restaurant on Sherbrooke Street. Greg and Dave re-connected when we were in Winnipeg two years before. Greg and I were at another Wolseley neighbourhood coffee shop, when Dave, on recognizing Greg, had come to our table to re-introduce himself.

Like Greg, Dave has an urban planning background, though he now works for the Province of Manitoba, in its Office of Municipal Affairs. He and his wife had been living in Toronto until three years before, when they re-located to Manitoba to be closer to their aging parents, living in Saskatchewan. Their sons attend university in Toronto. Dave is a highly affable and sensible fellow. Our conversation ranges from our visit to Winnipeg to Greg's progress on his Ph.d to my work as a university instructor to Dave's continual familiarization with his new home, three years after arriving here. He comments on the friendliness of his neighbours, the growth of his wife's editorial service, and his downtown biking expeditions. His observations on Winnipeg, when compared to those on Toronto, paint a picture of a still-parochial city, fragmented in its organization, and slow to respond to urban issues. We talk about Paris and London, where Greg and I recently were, and what makes them truly great cities. We talk about how a long cultural history can make a difference in the growth, culture, and energy of a city: it informs, provides lessons, and presents options that encourage risk-taking and experimentation.

After a couple of hours, Greg and I part company with Dave and head over to Paul and Catherine's, for a family barbeque. This has become an annual event, with guests including two sides of my maternal grandmother's family: her daughter, Alice's and son, Tom's. In all there are eighteen of us, including four recent additions.

As in years past, this gathering allow us all - parents, aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews - to re-connect. Naturally, the young additions, Joe (3), Indigo Rose (Indy) (1), Luisa (1), and Renzy (9 months), take centre stage, their spontaneity and budding personalities the subject of much casual analysis and speculation.

Joe, Ruby and Matthew's son, being the eldest of the bunch, has already made progress, his unabashed curiosity and humour endearing him to all. His cousin, Luisa, Iris and Chris's daughter, shares his curiosity, and though only a year old, possesses a quiet independence. Joe's sister, Indy, is equally feisty and energetic, eager to bestow affection on anyone receptive to her. Even Alec and Dani's son, Renzy, still an infant at nine months, already demonstrates a self-possessiveness and equanimity that parallels that of older children.

In reflecting on these young personalities, I look back on my own childhood. I was far less outgoing and self-possessed than these kids. Indeed, diffidence characterized my siblings, cousins, and me. I recall my first few weeks of kindergarten in the Philippines. Accompanied by my mother on the first day of class, I do not permit her to leave, nor even let her out of my sight, once in the classroom.  This continues for the next three weeks, resulting in my mother being reprimanded for being chronically late for work. Worse, when I do notice she has left, I vomit, in a fit of panic. As pre-teens In Canada, when colleagues of our parents come to our home for a dinner party, my siblings and I peer over railings, slowly making our way down the stairs, for a better glimpse; then, on being discovered and approached by a friendly, unsuspecting guest, shrieking with terror and running back upstairs. The guest, frozen in his tracks, is mortified.

I wonder what factors contributed to our characters. Were they partly based on culture, upbringing, or the effects of immigration? I believe all three played a role. Culturally, Filipinos of my generation were taught to be polite, but not assertive. We were taught to regard adults with deference and respect, not with a sense of equality. Immigrating to a new country as children, also had its challenges. I felt at odds with the the way Canadian children behaved. They were more aggressive, more self-absorbed, than those in the Philippines. Regularly, I felt intimidated, especially in the school yard, affecting the way I felt towards school, in general: I hated Sunday nights, but loved Friday afternoons.

Seeing how well adjusted these youngsters are is reassuring; being so will help them cope with the potential social and emotional tumult that occurs during adolescence to their late teens.

It is another successful barbeque party. Much lively conversation about work and child rearing, together with fawning over babies and toddlers, ensue. With such distractions, there is less attention paid to the food, though there is plenty to be had: from Angus beef burgers to chorizo to pizza to Filipinio carioca (sweet rice balls) to a selection of wines and beers. A family gathering would be incomplete without such an array.

Greg and I return to the suite well satiated, spent after another full day of stimulating activity.

References:
1. St. Norbert's Farmer's Market Website
2. Winnipeg Art Gallery Website


See slide show below for more images (click on slide show to enlarge):

Winnipeg 2010: Day 3

It is 10:00. Greg and I meet my parents and Christine and Rob for breakfast, at my parents' condo. Having rented one of the guest suites in the same building, though, all Greg and I have to do is go up six floors: very convenient!

My parents, Pol and Alice, moved into their high-rise condo after selling the Wolseley-neighbourhood house we grew up in in 2008. After I moved out, mom wanted to downsize. She found it difficult to maintain such a large space, with its three flights of stairs, which compounded her back pain. Initially concerned about how she would adjust to a significantly smaller space, she now has no regrets about making this move. With all of the condo's amenities, neither she nor my father has to shovel walks, cut grass, or vacuum multiple levels of floors.  The new space,  with its two bedrooms and bathrooms, windows that permit cross breezes and natural light, and a higher elevation, not only unburdens my mother of a significant portion of her domestic duties, it also insures security.

Being higher up the condo allows charming views of downtown Winnipeg, including the Winnipeg Adult Education Centre, to its west. This Centre is housed in the former Isbister School, one of four schools - Gladstone, Machray, and Wellington are the other three - built in neighbourhoods north of Portage Avenue (Winnipeg's main thoroughfare) in the late 19th century, a reflection of the city's expansion. The building now known as the Winnipeg Adult Education Centre is named after Alexander Kennedy Isbister, a highly reputable scholar and educator from the northwest. It was built in the Queen Anne style of architecture, characterized by an eclectic mix of other architectural styles, notably the Tudor.

The school was well used throughout the early 20th century, until the mid-1960s, when, due to dwindling enrolment, it was closed. It re-opened in 1967 as the Winnipeg Adult Education Centre, providing a high school education to mature learners. Today, this character-full building has been expanded to include modern additions to its rear, housing additional classrooms and administrative offices.

Other buildings my parents' condo overlooks, include other famous landmarks, such as the former Gordon Downtowner Hotel, fronting Ellice Avenue; the Brutalist styles of the William and Catherine Booth Residence and Lockhart Hall of the University of Winnipeg; and the Raleigh Apartments, at the corner of Vaughan Street and Ellice Avenue. This latter building was built in 1931 and incorporates colourful stonework rendered in the Art-Deco style. It was a project that the municipal government  approved of during the height of the Depression, along with other make-work projects, such as bridges and cultural institutions.

My mother has, once again, outdone herself on the food preparations front, offering a variety of delicious favourites, including bacon and eggs, cereal, jams, and "pandesal", a traditional Filipino bread. Our conversation, as in years past, focuses on our family history, including the story of my maternal grandmother's childhood raised by the wife of a local ship magnate and the subsequent life of privilege she led. We reminisce about her warmth and generosity, but also of her famous temper, which my mother believes was due to her apparent addiction to coffee.

After breakfast, Greg stays in the condo suite, to work on some research, Christine and Rob head off to visit his aunt in St. Boniface, and I head over to the Exchange District, a downtown neighbourhood I am quite fond of. It is here where the University of Winnipeg's Division of Continuing Education, where I worked full time for five years, had its space. It is also here where I had a fashion design studio for four years.

The area dates back to the late 19th century, when Winnipeg was the grain capital of the country; the area's name is derived from the Winnipeg Grain Exchange, the commodity trading centre, where all goods were bought and sold. The Exchange District developed when a number of buildings related to the grain trade were built and operated in the area. These include the building that now houses the downtown campus of Red River College, on Pricess Street; another that still functions and is aptly named the Grain Exchange, on Lombard Street; and the last on the corner of Portage Avenue and Main Street.

The building in which my former studio is located is known as the Bate Building (formerly the Lyon Block), and was constructed in 1883 to house a grocery wholesaler, Lyon, Mackenzie, and Powis. Its construction reflected the business boom of 1880 to 1882 and was one of several properties built on the major cross streets surrounding Main Street.

The building, designed in the Romanesque revival style, was solidly built on a stone foundation to support the heavy stock stored therein. At the time of its completion, it was a mere three storeys tall, and was far more detailed than it is today, incorporating decorative brick work, arches over doors, brick buttresses, and pressed metal.

In 1893, Lyon's wholesaler vacated the building and was replaced by Thompson, Codville and Company, another grocery wholesaler, until 1899. The Manitoba Free Press took over until 1905, when, after outgrowing the space, it left. J.A.M. Aikens, one of the most prominent law firms in Winnipeg, then purchased the building, with the intention of renovating it into office space. As part of its remodeling, Aikins hired architect J.H.G. Russell to add two storeys to the building, which resulted in the addition of concrete columns for reinforcement, large storefront windows, and an exquisite Otis-Fenson cage elevator, which still exists - though inoperable - today.

The Aikens firm eventually vacated the space and the building continued as both warehouse and office spaces for Winnipeg's film industry, the Royal Brand Clothing Company, the Office Specialty Manufacturing Company, and Continental Clothing. In 1942, Bate and Bate, a drug wholesaler, purchased the building, changed its name, and occupied the space for a time. Since its departure, the Bate Building has functioned primarily as a combination of office and retail spaces and artist studios.

I moved into the Bate Building, after operating a fledgling fashion design business - Thomas Robles Couture -  out of a neighbour's spare bedroom for five years. My brother Paul, an artist, already had space in the building and it was from him I received a tip that a 600 sq. foot studio space had become available. Generally in great condition after previously functioning as a computer firm, the space came equipped with numerous electrical outlets that could accommodate several pieces of sewing and pressing equipment, precluding the need for extensive renovation. Coupled with low rent at $189.00 a month, I moved in expeditiously in August 2000.

Consisting of blonde hard-wood floors, 12-foot ceilings, and two enormous arched windows, the Bate Building studio was one of my great loves. In its warm embrace I could lose myself in my passion for clothing design and construction. Intended as both work space and showroom, it was here I consulted with clients on commissions, spent hours researching and experimenting with new ideas and patterns, and generally hung out when I was not teaching.

Decorated in an industrial-modernist style and furnished with vintage finds and custom pieces by a friend, Robert, I enjoyed the tranquility the space provided as well as its proximity to fabric shops, art galleries, and the museum - places from which I derived much inspiration. Giving it up to re-locate to Toronto in 2004 was one of my deepest regrets, especially in light of my inability to find a similarly affordable space in this city.

Much of the furniture and equipment from the studio is now divided between two storage spaces in Toronto. Whenever I access these units and gaze on the pieces - stacked, worn, and dusty - I am reminded of their former use, and the pleasure I had of their company.

Walking around the Exchange today, I remark on the vibrancy of the area. Buildings that used to house dingy storage spaces are now breathing new life, due to the influx of new businesses and a more youthful, multicultural vibe.

I stop at Hooper's Bazaar, a vintage mid-century furniture shop from which I purchased many of the pieces in my studio. Formerly housed on the first floor of the Bate Building, it moved, a few years back, to larger spaces across the street. Warren's eye, in my opinion, is still flawless: furniture and home accessories that showcase impeccable craftsmanship and timelessness and that reflect a bygone era that today's new designs can only hope to achieve, despite their high cost.

My next stop is Ragpickers, another established haunt. Here, vintage clothing and accessories, available for purchase, vie with beautiful vintage costumes, for rent. On walking through the doors, the aroma of worn leather and powder puffs, take me back to when I used to frequent the place. I spy and pounce on a red wool cardigan - a steal at $15.00.

After Ragpickers, I stop for a meal at Jejomar, a restaurant specializing in Filipino pastries: ensemada (a bread roll injected with butter and sprinkled with sugar), pandesal (a traditional breakfast roll), bitchu bitchu (a twisted soft bread sprinkled with sugar), and shupao (a Chinese bun stuffed with meat and vegetables). I forego on the sweets and have soup and a sandwich instead. I contemplate the name, Jejomar, which reflects the Filipino propensity for name conflation: It is short for Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. As I eat, a long-time friend, Dennis, whom I have not seen for years, walks by. I invite him to sit with me, and we have a quick catch-up before he runs.

I first met Dennis in the late 90s. He and his partner, Tim, would regularly have me over to their home for engaging conversations over exquisite meals, prepared with great skill and passion. We shared interests in design, film, and alternative music. Dennis was very much into theatre then, even performing in a play at Prairie Theatre Exchange. I also enjoyed outings to their cottage where we, together with other friends, would engage in much tomfoolery, in the rain. Having spent the early 90s feeling isolated in Winnipeg after my Japan years, having friends such as Tim and Dennis was a boon. For years beforehand, I often spent time either on my own or in the company of others with whom I had little in common, conforming to social conventions that were anything but affirming, or even satisfying. My friendship with Tim and Dennis, together with a few other kindred spirits, buoyed my self-esteem and renewed my hopes for a contented life in Winnipeg. When I inevitably did re-locate to Toronto, their friendship and my memories of our time together, were ones that I deeply missed. Today, Dennis is a youthful sixty. Still handsome, trim, and content, he is waiting to obtain another piercing to add to his collection and feels largely at peace with where his life now is.

On leaving Jejomar, I head over to meet Christine and Rob at a restaurant owned by one of Christine's high school chums, Janet. Janet's restaurant used to be a hip clothing boutique, but she decided to re-open a wool and knitting shop and cafe in the same space. In addition to stocking high quality wool, Janet, being Korean, also carries in her shop, the Japanese and Korean snacks that I craved as child. The strategic move was a smart one: as a restaurant/cafe/shop, specializing in kim chee and other Asian treats, Janet has seen a rise in sales, due to an influx of Filipino customers, attracted by her specialty fare.

I pick up a couple of packages of chips - Calbee brand: a rare find these days - before heading home, overwhelmed by the humid heat. In the evening, Greg, Christine, Rob, and I have dinner with my parents. As before, our conversation centres mainly on our family stories. A thunderstorm is brewing outside, prompting my recollection and recounting of the trauma with storms I experienced as a kid.

At my parents' Wolseley neighbourhood house, my siblings and I used to run around a lot, as part of our play. One summer evening, during a particularly powerful storm, Christine, Paul, and I were chasing each other on the second floor, making our way towards the back of the house, to a room bordered by windows on all sides. On entering the room, lightning strikes a hydro pole behind the house, blowing the hydro box open, dispersing metal and wire in the wake of the loudest explosion I have ever heard. Christine and Paul push me in front of them, instinctively shielding themselves, in a fit of fear. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to face the horror, riveted in place by four arms, simultaneously dazzled and shocked by the blast. Minutes later, as emergency vehicles arrive and we are temporarily evacuated to my aunt and uncle's down the street, I wince at every lightning flash. I have never recovered.

At my parents' condo, dinner is wrapping up. Christine, Rob, and Greg, still transfixed by the imminent storm, walk over to the windows, Rob photographing the enormous, ever-expanding cumulus clouds. It is a spectacle. I on the other hand, sit in front of the TV, transfixed by an inane game show, unable to move.

References:
1. Isbister School (Winnipeg Adult Education Centre): Manitoba Culture, Heritage, and Recreation, Historic Resources Branch, 1984.
2. 221 McDermot Avenue - Bate Block (formerly Lyon Block & Aikins Block): City of Winnipeg Historical Buildings Committee, no date.
3. 340 Vaughan Street - Raleigh Apartments: City of Winnipeg Historical Buildings Committee, 1997.

See slide show below for more images (click on slide show to enlarge):

Winnipeg 2010: Day 2

After a restful sleep, Greg and I wake early to start the day at my parents' condo. After breakfast, I walk him over to West Broadway for a scheduled interview with someone participating in research he is conducting. During the short walk, we take in the neighbourhood within the borders of the University of Winnipeg to the north, Westminster Avenue to the south, Colony Street to the east, and Furby Street to the west. As an urban planner, Greg is interested in how neighbourhoods, especially those in the inner city, evolve. The area known as West Broadway, which has experienced only moderate positive changes in the last ten years, is of interest to Greg's study. We remark on some changes that have taken place since our last visit of the area.

For one, there is the new science complex currently under construction for the University of Winnipeg. It replaces the old Winnipeg Roller Rink that stood on the north side of Portage Avenue at Langside Street for decades, first opening in 1912, as an ice rink. A search reveals that it shared space with livery stables, until 1936, when it was transformed into a roller skating rink. The new building, formally named the University of Winnipeg Science Complex and Richardson College For the Environment, will devote 155,000 square feet to research, development, and commercialization in the field of science.

For another, there is the transformation of Spence Street, bordering the University's main campus on the west side, into a pedestrian corridor. Other changes include those south of the University. Spence Street, between Portage Avenue and Broadway Avenue, though largely unchanged in its physical state, feels more fresh, cleared of its past baggage, and as a result, safer.

Greg and I have some time before his interview to take in more of the area, so head further south, to Westminster Avenue. Along the way, we pass the Broadway Community Centre, serving the community of West Broadway. I note how, in contrast to when I lived in nearby Wolseley, the open fields outside the centre that used to act as a repository for derelict cars and other detritus, have been transformed into communal gardens. The apartment buildings that border the south end of these gardens look newly painted, reflecting potential changes, both in physical form and, hopefully, in attitudes. Building renovations, spurred on by government incentives and grants, and the proliferation of community gardens, have rekindled investment and activity in the area, restoring its dignity, and a renewed hope for further growth.

I leave Greg to his interview, and for the next hour, continue exploring the downtown area. I take in more new buildings, including the Buhler Centre, another University of Winnipeg project, located on the former site of the Army Navy Surplus building, at the corner of Portage Avenue and Memorial Boulevard. The Buhler will house the University's Faculty of Business and Economics, the Division of Continuing Education, and Plug In Institute of Contemporary Art. The building was designed collaboratively by David Penner, Peter Sampson Architecture Studio, and DIN Projects. I admire its minimal lines and sleek, textured, facade. It seems creativity is not in short supply in Winnipeg. I only wish it had been more evident when I lived here.

It is now 10:00. I cross Memorial Boulevard to The Bay department store. I enter just as the store is opening and look around. This store, along with Eaton's, was my family's regular shopping haunt for decades.

The Hudson's Bay Company was created by royal proclamation. In 1670, King Charles of England created a charter for a corporation, which he entitled his cousin, Prince Rupert, to oversee. The charter entitled the prince and his investors complete control of over a million and a half square kilometres of north-western Canada, south of Hudson's Bay. A chairman answered to the stockholders (or "proprietors"), who elected the governor, deputy governor, and the board of governors (or "committee"). For the first two hundred years, most of the company's business centered on the fur trade, operating posts from Newfoundland to Vancouver Island and from the St. Lawrence River to the Arctic. Affiliations with American traders also established posts in Alaska, Hawaii, and as far south as Texas, which was Spanish territory at the time. The company also formed alliances with the Russian far east. Company trade introduced employees to aboriginal life, and much intermarriage between European employees and aboriginal women occurred.

In 1870, however, much of the company's land holdings, then known as Rupert's Land, were absorbed by the newly-created Dominion of Canada, for which the company received a generous settlement from the federal government, and compelled it to adapt to the growing agricultural path onto which the country was embarking. In addition to the fur trade, the company became involved in the selling of farm lots and the opening of retail stores in small towns that were quickly emerging throughout the country. By the 1960s and up to the 1990s, the company had acquired many other retail companies, including Zellers, Simpson's, and Woodward's.

Winnipeg was the site chosen for the company's headquarters, and a small retail store was initially opened in 1881 on the corner of Main Street and York Avenue, considered the centre of the city at the time. By 1900, however, the city centre had moved to Portage Avenue, so plans were made for a larger store to be built on the corner of Portage Avenue and Memorial Boulevard. Construction commenced in 1925, enlisting hundreds of men and over a hundred teams of horses. When the store opened in 1926, over 50,000 customers came through its doors.

The T. Eaton Company was started in 1869, with a small retail store on Yonge Street, in Toronto. By the late 1880s it re-located to a larger, three-storey building, divided into 35 departments. Eaton's initiation of a mail-order catalogue service quickly established the company's wealth and was the impetus for its expansion to western Canada, at the start of the 20th century. Company founder, Timothy Eaton's son, John, oversaw this expansion, opening enormous headquarters on the corner of Portage Avenue and Donald Street in 1907. The department store became a huge success, at one point boasting 8000 employees and its own library, fire department, and water supply. The store attracted international attention and is considered the pre-cursor to other mega-department stores, such as Macy's, in the U.S. With the company's eventual declaration of bankruptcy in the late 1990s, the Winnipeg headquarters was partially demolished and replaced with an arena.

As kids, my mother used to bring my siblings and me to the Bay and Eaton's to shop for clothes, shoes, gifts, and to enjoy the throngs of shoppers and revellers during the Christmas season. These stores provided not just a shopping experience, but a social one as well. My grandmother, an avid window shopper well into her late 80s, used to recruit each grandchild, as we came of age, to accompany her on her Saturday shopping jaunts. These would take us to, in addition to the downtown branches of Eaton's and the Bay, the suburban malls, including St. Vital and Unicity Malls. My grandmother especially enjoyed browsing the clothing, jewellery, and specialty foods departments, the latter's items of which she would note for making purchases for "pasalubong" - Filipino for souvenirs to send to family and friends back home. For our time and commitment, my grandmother would cover our bus fare, treat us to lunch, and buy us a small present. We would try different restaurants, including all the fast food joints. She really enjoyed french fries and the malted milkshakes served in the Bay basement eatery.

As someone who, in his young teens, accompanied her for a few years, these weekend shopping jaunts were quality times between my grandmother and me. Typical of other Filipino families, my grandmother lived in my parents' house; it was natural for us, while shopping, to talk about our lives there. I would recount my week at school - my homework, my friends, the challenges of fitting in - and she would talk about her cooking and crocheting projects,  regale me with stories of life in the Philippines, and vent about domestic matters she did not feel comfortable discussing with her daughter, my mother. Reflecting on my grandmother's long life (she died at 100), I can see how those years in which she regularly took the time to do things for herself amidst the busyness of her daily routines, were ones that assured her longevity. So, as bizarre as it is to be, I am grateful to Eaton's, the Bay, Sears Polo Park and St. Vital, Grubees, A & W, and the Malt Stoppe for the opportunities they unwittingly provided in strengthening the bond between my grandmother and me, one that, long after I had outgrown the role of shopping guide, only deepened, despite the passing of years and the diverging of our lives.

The Bay that I walk into today, in light of my reminiscences, is a shadow of its former self. Where once the first floor aisles brimmed with racks of high quality, sophisticated merchandise, today there are only open spaces. And what there is looks shoddy: leather bags the quality of plastic and orthopedic shoes labelled "designer". Heavily creased, merchandise is evidently hung straight out of the delivery boxes they come in. The crowds, too, are sparser now than in the past, though this may have something to do with it being early in the day, as well as being mid-week and mid-summer. I mount the rickety escalators, note the empty platform that used to display inspired tableaus, and head up to the 2nd floor. I note the bare display walls uniformly painted rose where once they would have been coloured more vibrantly. I also notice the silence; it is deafening. Once, popular music complemented the din of the crowds coming in during lunch breaks. Now, I feel I am intruding in someone's vast personal wardrobe.

I recall twenty years earlier when, as an undergrad at the University of Winnipeg, I would regularly pass through the Bay on my way to my bus stop. One season, I was captivated by their "Made in Italy" campaign when the entire store was devoted to all things from that country: from clothing to fragrances to decor to food. As a PR exercise, it could not have been more elegant or captivating. Now, there is only a disconcerting stillness, and a lone cashier reading a newspaper at her counter. I wonder if this overall lack in the store - of people, of merchandise, of ambiance - is reflective of the exodus from the the downtown core, resulting in a decline in demand and inspiration. If so, I remark on how this trend had its likely start ten years earlier, to the time when the Eaton's downtown store was closed, demolished, and replaced with an arena. More importantly, I question whether steps have been taken to staunch this flow from the downtown, and if so, what these steps are and whether they have they been effective in luring people back. Is the spate of new U of W buildings in the area a sign of its revivification?

I leave the Bay and head west, using the over head walkways that connect it to Portage Place. I explore this mall, opened in the late 80's to great fanfare and excitement, introducing high fashion to downtown Winnipeg, and I am struck by its significant decline. Where swank designer stores, epitomized by a Holt Renfrew boutique, once lined the corridors, now it is a Dollar Store, a Shoppers Drug Mart, and a Staples that dominate. This decline has likely been a gradual one, but as an infrequent visitor, the difference between the past and current manifestation of the mall is a stunning one to me. Was the mall's former incarnation and subsequent transformation reflective of economic fluctuations or to a phenomenon that is more specific to the downtown core? If the former, then how to explain the seemingly steady growth and flourishing of the suburban malls? If the latter, what are the circumstances that lead to downtown decline? How can this phenomenon be reversed?

I exit the mall and find myself on Portage Avenue between Carlton and Edmonton Streets. In front of me, on the south side of Portage Avenue, a brand new building soars, its gleaming surfaces comprised of blue-tinged glass that enhances its verticality. This is the new Manitoba Hydro Place tower, designed by Toronto firm KPMB to exemplify the new environmentally-conscious attitude in architecture. Regarded as one of the most energy-efficient buildings in North America, it apparently uses up to 65% less energy than national building code requirements and was built at a cost of close to $300 million. I am struck by its beauty, which is not surprising given its designer. KPMB happens to be one of my favoured architectural firms. I applaud its green design and function as well as the role it plays in helping to re-populate the downtown core, at least during the day.

I return to this site an hour later to meet Greg; my brother, Paul; my sister, Christine; her husband, Rob; and my mother, Alice. For now, I continue my exploration of the downtown area, where on spotting familiar buildings, I compare their current state to my memories of them as a resident. One of these buildings of significance, is the former Centennial Library, re-named the Millennium Library, since its makeover in 2006. It encompasses an entire city block, and fronts the corner of Donald Street and Graham Avenue.

I vividly recall when my mother took my siblings and me to visit just after the branch opened in 1979. We raided the children's book sections and mounted the tiered, brown-carpeted seating area to read our finds. Since that time, it has become my second most favoured library in the city, after the Cornish branch. I did research and wrote my high school essays here, and later, as an instructor, I brought my students to hear lectures. Today, this great building has a recently added fifth floor, a huge east-facing window that brightens a previously darker interior, and an expanded collection of library materials. I appreciate how the renovations, which took over three years to complete, complements the pre-existing building beautifully. Those unfamiliar with its previous incarnation would be hard-pressed to tell which parts of the building are new.

On returning to Manitoba Hydro Place, Christine, Rob, Paul, Greg, my mother and I head to Marcello's, a restaurant on the ground floor, for lunch. The restaurant is too full to accommodate us, so we sit on a platform outside, in front of the building. The weather is perfect for an al fresco lunch and we enjoy the cool breezes. We chat about the new building and what it brings to the downtown area. Paul comments on Marcello's, with its deli-like format, and its reflection of current trends in healthy eating: One selects from a buffet and pays according to the weight of one's choices. Options are healthy from raw salads to fresh luncheon meats, with an edited selection of healthy drinks. Pop, though, is still available. The restaurant's format reminds me of La Commensal, a chain of vegetarian restaurants in Ontario and Quebec. After lunch, the group separates: Greg and I visit my long-time friend and former neighbour, Harry; Paul goes back to work at the MTS Building; and Christine, Rob, and my mom visit Dani and Renzy.

Harry lives in the Wolseley neighbourhood, on the corner of the street where my parents' once owned a house. As a teenager I was drawn to Harry's critically-thinking, hard-working, and highly compassionate character. Years later, after a friendship blossomed between us, I would visit him at home, and talk for hours on subjects ranging from politics to gay life in the 70s and 80s to architecture (he has a masters in the field) to his year spent in Nigeria on an architectural project. For years, he was a loyal and passionate supporter of the NDP party in Winnipeg, volunteering countless hours, especially during election campaigns. Once, when another neighbour had to be rushed to the hospital, he visited, his supportive demeanour and effusive company ensuring her dignity, brightening her mood.



Greg and I enjoy our visits with Harry for the insights he offers on topics ranging from Gary Doer's appointment as Ambassador to the U.S. to gardening tips to the latest neighbourhood news to his opinions on Winnipeg's current mayor. Today, with his depression and cancer in check, Harry is healthy and energetic enough to oversee the continual maintenance of his house and garden.

Our afternoon visit complete, Greg and I proceed to the Forks to meet Manning, for dinner.  I first met Manning when we both worked as instructors and junior administrators at the Division of Continuing Education, University of Winnipeg.

Manning is highly competent, hard-working, and fair-minded. When I was living in Winnipeg, the demands of our teaching and administrative work often took their toll on me. Manning provided input in a non-judgmental way, mollifying my insecurities. As a result of our professional relationship over a number of years, Manning and I have cultivated a deep friendship, one which has come to include Greg. With his modest, thoughtful character, Manning has made great advances in his personal and academic lives. Over dinner he talks of the Master's in Marriage and Family Therapy degree he is pursuing at the University of Winnipeg, and how his two years in it have helped him become more sensitive to the needs of the socially marginalized.

The three of us stroll the periphery of the Forks and take in the sights. The weather had been warm, but with the approach of evening, has become cooler. We chat as we walk, noting and commenting on the sights, which include the iconic St. Boniface Cathedral across the Red River, the construction site of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, and the Provencher Bridge, with the popular Salisbury House Restaurant perched in its centre.

Another day has come to an end, and with it, another gratifying visit with Manning. He is off in the morning, back to his family cottage. We have another full day planned tomorrow, so need to turn in early. We part company with Manning, with hopes for another reunion in the future.

References:
1. Hudson's Bay Company Archives Website
2. HBC Heritage Website
3. Eaton's Company Website 
4. Manitoba Hydro Place Website
5. University of Winnipeg Graduate Studies Website
6. University of Winnipeg Website - News 
7. University of Winnipeg Website - Science Complex and Richardson College for the Environment 
8. Winnipeg Millenium Library Website

See slide show below for more images (click on slide show to enlarge).