Dressed for hope

Cara sent a link to a Washington Post article in which Robin Givhan discusses "what happens when the narrative is just pyjamas and sweats" for office workers now telecommuting. Givhan writes, "When we go out into the community our clothes allow us to have our say without ever opening our mouths... Clothing is an eloquent form of communication for the inarticulate."

I'd strike the last three words; articulate or not, our clothes speak for us, about us. I asked myself, what do I want to communicate now? Ideally, hope, forbearance and good will.

Saturday morning, Villeray

Walking through the deserted streets, my clothes are saying, Hi, I'm exercising (and am grateful to be permitted outdoors!) I pass a bakery-café where the honeyed sunlight bathes empty tables, a bookstore with a rack of postcards that capture the once-bustling streets.

An hour is about right, any longer and I want to stop somewhere for a café au lait, but I could only get one to go on Saturday and people drinking theirs on the street looked aggrieved.

Families are 'dressing' their windows in the universal symbol of hope, the rainbow. I counted over a dozen on my walk.

Saturday afternoon, Marché Jean-Talon

To the market, this time without you—to quickly pick up some supplies. No lingering today.

Left: Continuity comforts: I'm in what I've owned for years: Breton kabig, jeans, a kantha scarf. New clothes would feel weird now.
Upper right: It was still very cold, -10C/14F, but she is not covered against that chill. Her muffler-mask is for psychological benefit.
Centre: A tart sky blue always lifts my spirits. I am sure she has a brilliant smile but today she has things on her mind.
Lower right: I asked to snap this young mother, sitting in a sheltered terrace in the sun. She knew it was that puff of palest-pink fur on her headband that drew my eye and readily agreed, saying "At this time, we need everything pretty that we have in the drawer."

He's our man

The celebrated joie de vivre of Montréalers is muted, still there at the edges—dog-walking strangers smile when they pass, neighbours wave from windows. I'm certain conviviality will return, but who knows when? I'd like to ask the man from the Tower of Song.

Sunday evening the city sang, a mass balcony-choir performance of "So Long, Marianne", led by Martha Wainwright via live streaming. This is one we all know! (The Cohen/Wainwright connection is familial as well as professional; the mother of Martha's niece Viva is Cohen's daughter, Lorca.) (Video of her exuberant performance here. The second song is Richard Desjardins' "Le coeur est un oiseau".)

Though I'm always grateful that you've dropped by, today I'm feeling especially so, on the eve of the 12th anniversary of the Passage's opening. Your well-wishes for everyone here touch and sustain me.