February 19, 2017
|Stanley Barb with someone I don't know in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel - read more about him and the Chelsea at http://www.chelseahotelblog.com|
Oh dear! The New York Times tells me Stanley Bard died yesterday. He was 82 - as am I. Stanley “managed” the Chelsea Hotel in New York City. I lived at the famous hotel the winter of 1991/2 while attending the Art Students League. I love the Chelsea and Stanley was a very good man. I called from Toronto asking about a room. Stanley answered the phone - “come on down and we can decide how much your rent will be later …” With some trepidation I did just that. He gave me a great large room on the 6th floor with a little balcony and 2 double beds, a combined stove/fridge and my own bathroom. After several weeks and several requests he told me my rent would be $1200.00 a month - a pittance!
Thanks Stanley - I see David says you had a stroke, I don’t think you would have like living like that so I wish you god’s speed and I thank you so very much!
Posted by Betty Bishop at 3:57 pm
February 12, 2017
This is the same model - also done in my ipadpro with Procreate - also kind of creepy - click on it to get a close up. I love these Monday morning 2 hour sessions. The only sound in the room is the pencil, pastel, charcoal or paint touching the paper or canvas.
Posted by Betty Bishop at 3:37 pm
February 09, 2017
February 05, 2017
January 24, 2017
|These signs were left on the Iron Fence in front of the Law Society on Queen Street West|
Posted by Betty Bishop at 1:42 pm
January 17, 2017
January 11, 2017
November 22, 2016
November 20, 2016
Posted by Betty Bishop at 8:03 pm
November 04, 2016
WHY TRUMP IS DIFFERENT—AND MUST BE REPELLED By Adam Gopnik , NOVEMBER 3, 2016 Donald Trump behaves exactly how you would expect an American fascist to act. PHOTOGRAPH BY MANDEL NGAN / AFP / GETTY Barrier Status: 'none' For the past months, and into this final week, as for much of the past year, many New Yorkers have been in a position that recalls parents with a colicky baby: you put the baby down at last, it seems safely asleep, grateful and unbelievably exhausted you return to bed—only to hear the small tell-tale cough or sob that guarantees another crying jag is on the way. The parents in this case, to fill in the metaphorical blanks, are liberal-minded folk; the baby’s cries are any indicators that Donald Trump may not be out of the race for President—as he seemed to be even as recently as last week—and may actually have a real chance at being elected. Disbelief crowds exhaustion: this can’t be happening. If the colicky baby is a metaphor too sweet for so infantile a figure as the orange menace, then let us think instead, perhaps, of the killer in a teen horror movie of the vintage kind: every time Freddy seemed dispatched and buried, there he was leaping up again, as the teens caught their breath and returned, too soon, to their teendom. We joke because we seek sanity in an insane moment. For the idea that Trump might be elected is as crazy as the man is. Trump remains, as he has been all along, an open and committed enemy of liberal democracy and constitutional republicanism, and yet he is at most a few polling points from power. Indeed, we can be confident that, whatever the play of the polls this week, we will certainly arrive at next Tuesday with Trump retaining at least the chance that any candidate of one of our two major parties always has—a real one, with much depending on things that happen outside anyone’s control, often at the last minute, and in ways that cannot now easily be envisioned. Those are the stakes, and our emergency, our sleepless baby, our back-from-the-dead killer. Come, the skeptic alongside or within us protests, surely this account is at least a little hysterical, or exaggerated. Can Trump really be that bad? And would he truly be unguarded by constitutional constraints? For haven’t we heard all this, or something too much like it, before? It has been a convention of our quadrennial liberal pieties, after all, to insist that this election is the one that uniquely matters, with repeated spectres of looming apocalyptic authoritarianism often (and perhaps too carelessly) invoked. People said the same things about Goldwater in 1964, and about Richard Nixon in that grim year of 1968. Even Ronald Reagan, now as comforting an American icon as Ozzie Nelson, was greeted in the summer of 1980 with fearful warnings about the dangers of putting the nuclear button in the hands of a shallow and untested actor. The country survived. Hell, the country thrived. Can the oafish and absurd Donald Trump really be worse? Well, if one lesson liberals learn from 2016 is to be more discerning about the difference between bad policies and constitutional crises, between falling rain and onrushing meteors, it will surely be salubrious for them, and for us all. But, in truth, this time is different. Barry Goldwater worked within, and respected all the norms of, democracy—during his time as a senator, he and J.F.K. were not only friends across the aisle but talked of barnstorming together in 1964. “Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice” may not be a slogan all can embrace, but (to sound like Walter Sobchak, in “The Big Lebowski”) at least it’s an ethos—something to respect and debate, to argue over. The condition of the country in 1968 was surely worse than it is now, and Nixon had an inner life more paranoid than even now is quite believable—but he was also a normal politician who had followed a normal path, and when, in fact, his anti-democratic tendencies were revealed, he was expelled by the same constitutional order that he had betrayed. One never thought to have to say this in his praise, but Richard Nixon accepted the system that distinguished itself by ejecting him. And Ronald Reagan, whatever anxieties he awoke in the year of his election, could point credibly to his time as a successful two-term governor of our largest state. Meanwhile, the true previous American demagogues—Joe McCarthy and Huey Long and George Wallace—never captured the Presidential nomination of a major political party. Donald Trump is not normal in any of these ways, and yet we continue to treat him as though he were. Those of us who warned last spring that he was being underestimated and “normalized” by a sinister process of gradual acceptance of the unacceptable turned out, tragically, to be right. Trump is not normal. Nothing about him is. One need only look at his rallies, track the rhetoric they offer and the vengeful orgy of hatred and misogyny and racism they induce, to see just how different he is. His followers are not, shall we say, there to root on their favored libertarian in his pursuit of free-market solutions to vexing social problems; they are there to scream insults and cry havoc on their (mostly imaginary) enemies, to revel in the riot of misogyny and racism that Trump has finally given them license to retrieve from the darkest chapters of our past. (“Not politically correct” means openly brutal to minorities and women.) A ten-year-old screams, “Take that bitch down!” to laughter. One need only track the past month’s series of outrages, each quickly receding into the distance, to recall that he has done not one but almost innumerable things that in any previous election would have been, quaint word, “disqualifying.” His Twitter assault on the former Miss Universe was followed by his confession and boasts of being a sexual predator, which were followed by the confirmation of numerable women that, yes, indeed, he is a sexual predator—met only by his snarling denials, none of them the least bit convincing, and the familiar big-lie technique of insisting that their stories have been “debunked” when they have not even been effectively denied. The truth is that Trump’s “positions” on specific issues are more or less a matter of chance and whim and impulse (Of course women should be punished for having abortions! Ten minutes later: no, they shouldn’t) while his actual ideology, the song he sings every day, the one those listeners and followers gleefully vibrate to, is one anthem, and it is the sound of the authoritarian and anti-democratic impulses Americans have rejected since the founding of this country. Call them what you will—populist authoritarianism or extreme-right-wing ethno-nationalism—the active agents within a Trump speech and energizing a Trump rally are always the same: the worship of power in its most brutal and authoritarian forms (thus his admiration for Vladimir Putin and for the Chinese Communists who assaulted the protesters at Tiananmen Square); the reduction of all relations to dominance contests; the contempt for rational argument; the perpetual unashamed storm of lies; the appeal to hysterically exaggerated fears of outsiders; and, above all, the relentless sense of ethnic grievance that can be remedied only by acts of annihilating revenge. His is the ideology not of democratic patriotism but of a narrow nationalism alone—the glorification of the nation, and the exaggeration of its humiliations, with violence promised to its enemies, at home and abroad; and a promise of vengeance for those who feel themselves disempowered by history. He will “level the playing field” with the terrorist spectre of isis by forcing soldiers to commit war crimes; he will not merely kill our enemies but annihilate their families. His platform is resentment and his program is revenge, and that is an ideology with many faces and one name. This is fascism with an American face. Because it is fascism with an American face, it can look, as things American so often do, in its own strange way not merely repellent but grotesquely entertaining—so much so that on some of these mornings of this final week it’s hard to recall the magnitude of the stakes. (The Trump stakes, of course, are not to be confused with Trump Steaks, one more failed brand.) Trump’s aggression slips so seamlessly inside the practices of professional wrestling and reality-television shows that one has to stop laughing long enough to remember, as our parents used to say, that there isn’t anything funny about it. Trump does what he does, as all good demagogues do, by instinct more than instruction: he senses that the “character” part in a professional-wrestling match must be always and entirely unrepentant and must never apologize—and, important detail, that the bad-guy persona can in fact become a good guy to the crowd if he is only given a chance to drop-kick the Muslim Sheik or the Mexican Intruder. And the strange rhythm of repeated insult is exactly the rhythm of “The Apprentice”—each week demands another outrage. But take no comfort from the squalid comedy: this is exactly what you would expect an American fascist to be, and to be like. The priority, putting all others aside, is to stop him. And yet voting, the essential act, has to be supported by speaking, and by telling the truth about how we got here. One reading of Trump should be avoided—indeed, repelled—for the sake of intellectual integrity. It has become almost an essential piety even among his opponents that a special pathos clings to his supporters, who know not what they do, but are themselves victims of forces larger than they. The misérables of the postmodern period, the dispossessed of the globalized planetary era, his supporters are not really the “racists” they are thought to be—and if they indulge in the blind hatred of his message it is only because their alienation from mainstream America, and their increasing hopelessness in the face of job losses and meaningful occupation, makes them vulnerable to a demagogic ideology. They embrace from ignorance and misplaced hope rather than from shared hatreds. The trouble with this view is that, while Trump has his share of disaffected white working-class voters, the correlation between Trumpism and economic discontent is a false one, as has been demonstrated many times. One particularly detailed and persuasive example appeared on Vox: “Trump support was correlated with higher, not lower, income, both among the population as a whole and among white people. Trump supporters were less likely to be unemployed or to have dropped out of the labor force. Areas with more manufacturing, or higher exposure to imports from China, were less likely to think favorably of Trump.” Even if the correlation were minimally robust, the notion that belonging to the largely fluid category “the white working class” puts one in special possession of virtue—a notion that still makes Chris Matthews’s eyes moist every night—is, in a polyglot, cosmopolitan country, absurd. The white working class built unions and raised children and fought wars—and lynched black people and supported Joe McCarthy. Sometimes those attitudes could be held together in a single personality. No group is invulnerable to bad causes. We should have no hesitation in calling deplorable attitudes deplorable—without imagining that those who hold them are deplorable people. They can be wrong without being bad. And, in any case, it would be good to balance the endless hand-wringing about the pathos of the Trump voter with some countervailing sense of the pathos, still larger, of the Clinton voter: the Latina motel cleaner in Nevada or the single mother in Brooklyn. No category of voters in a democracy is especially virtuous, none immune from evil. The biggest single error, and the most tragic, that “progressive” or liberal thinkers made in the twentieth century was to imagine that ethnic grievances could be reduced to economic grievances, and that if the aggrieved could be made to see their “true” class position the grievance would go away, the nationalism, or racism, would vanish. It never has. Trump’s supporters demand our attention and deserve our empathy—but that doesn’t make the ideology they so feverishly share any less toxic or dangerous. And the notion that they have no agency or choice is the truly condescending one. (The reality, more hopeful, is that the views behind such grievances do not get out-argued; they just evolve out of us. The most encouraging of the poll-borne truths may be that Trump’s support drops among those younger than thirty, of whatever racial or ethnic or educational background.) The mistake in the analysis lies deeper, perhaps—in the assumption that only a strange and traumatic sequence can have made this happen. What can be causing Trumpism? We ask, and seek for an earthquake, or at least a historical oddity or a series of highly specific causal events. The more tragic truth is that the Trumpian view of the world is the default view of mankind. Bigotry, fanaticism, xenophobia are the norms of human life—the question is not what causes them but what uncauses them, what happens in the rare extended moments that allow them to be put aside, when secular values of toleration and pluralism replace them. It is a touching thing that Oscar Hammerstein had his people sing, apropos racial prejudice, that “You’ve got to be carefully taught.” Alas, as poor Oscar would have realized if he had stopped to think about the events that had led all those American soldiers and sailors to the South Pacific in the first place, you don’t have to be carefully taught to hate. The Hitlerians and the Japanese militarists hadn’t been carefully taught; they rushed to their lesson in the face of all evidence. Human groups, particularly those fuelled by religious fanaticism or the twentieth-century equivalent, blind nationalism, always tend toward exclusion. To eliminate the tribal instinct may be impossible, but to raise the accidental practice of pluralism to a principle is what enlightened societies struggle to accomplish. And they have. It just turns out to be a horribly hard triumph to sustain. Along comes 1914, or 1933—or, God forbid, 2016—and the work comes crashing down. What really needs explaining is not why the Trumps of the world come forward and win. It is why they sometimes lose. Not long ago, I had occasion to write of the divide in virtue that separates us from Shakespeare, making the point that Shakespeare believed in fate, order, and forgiveness, whereas we believe in history, justice, and compassion, and that, superior though our moral progress may seem, there are bitter truths in the old trinity. For, as Shakespeare would have grasped at once, there is no explaining Trump. He is one of those phenomena that rise regularly in history to confound us with the possibility—and black comedy—of potent evil: conscienceless, cruel and pathologically dishonest. That evil magnetizes followers of all kinds is another permanent truth. Overexplaining its rise is as foolish as pretending that it can be easily defeated. The threat it makes to an order that, however imperfect, is worth sustaining and defending reminds us of that order’s fragility. As to forgiveness, much will be demanded, even if the best happens—or the worst, at least, is avoided. #content ￼ Adam Gopnik, a staff writer, has been contributing to The New Yorker since 1986.
Posted by Betty Bishop at 11:14 am
October 14, 2016
I have been home from West Park for a month and most of a day. Unfortunately I came home with pneumonia although I didn’t know that until my family doctor received a report from West Park. After the pneumonia I got a wicked thrush infection from the antibiotics and I am still babying a boil that came from I don’t know where. Aside from getting infected while at West Park it was an excellent experience and I learned a great deal from dedicated staff, other patients as well as seeing myself in a different light. I urge anyone with COPD to go to the nearest live in rehab facility. If you can’t do that at least follow and practice the exercises on the internet. I like this 27 minute long demo from the Burke Institute - youtube.com/COPDexercise - and do it every day. I also wear a fitbit and count my steps. Anyone out there with COPD? I would love to hear from you and any advice you may have.
Posted by Betty Bishop at 3:32 pm
August 14, 2016
It was kind of a crazy week at West Park. On Monday morning I woke up with a runny nose and a bit of a cough so I was semi isolated behind the curtain in the room which I share with 3 other women. For 3 days! Boring but I did manage to get my laptop connected to WP's wifi which I hadn't been able to do previously. Due to being in isolation I was unable to start the daily routine until Thursday [Behind the curtain I danced with myself to try and keep in shape!] so I have only did it for 2 days before coming home for the weekend. Boy, the routine is tough but I feel better for it already! Breakfast is served at our bedside. The food is surprisingly good for a hospital. I receive 1400 calories a day and have lost 5 lbs - very nice. By 8.45 we are all in the workout room to practice breathing methods, 9.45 we start various physical exercises from 1. take your heart rate and enter it on your chart 2. walk for 20 minutes 3.take your heart rate and then we graduate from walking to the bikes and or treadmills and more difficult exercises. These exercises are repeated for an hour each afternoon. Dinner is around 5 or 5.30 and then we are free to go for a walk in the 27 acre part which is beautiful even if it was hot as hell last week. One evening we played bingo and patients who have been there off and on for many years told me their stories. I may ask them if I can tell you some of them .... If you smoke I hope you smoked less this week?
Posted by Betty Bishop at 11:30 am
August 07, 2016
Posted by Betty Bishop at 11:09 am
July 17, 2016
July 11, 2016
I am practicing the best way to put these web pages into my blog. Please excuse the mess. I took a picture of this page with Preview and than trimmed it [not enough!]. It might get better tomorrow but then again it might not. Click to make it bigger and I hope you can read the headings?!
Posted by Betty Bishop at 3:48 pm
More Family Paintings - My father's parents [she painted] - a 1 room schoolhouse with me, my brother and my sister. Thats my Mac desktop in the background. To see all my work go to bettybishop.ca - or wait in anticipation for me to post again! LOL
Posted by Betty Bishop at 3:18 pm
July 07, 2016
July 06, 2016
July 02, 2016
June 22, 2016
June 20, 2016
Posted by Betty Bishop at 5:51 pm
June 18, 2016
June 15, 2016
June 13, 2016
June 08, 2016
Of all those arts in which the wise excel Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well. (Andre Breton)
Posted by Betty Bishop at 7:01 pm
I could spend my whole life prying loose the secrets of the insane. These people are honest to a fault, and their naivety has no peer but my own. (Andre Breton)
Posted by Betty Bishop at 6:59 pm
Do not fear the aging of the body for it is the body's way of seeking the root. (Lao Tzu)
Posted by Betty Bishop at 6:57 pm