Chapter 1
The Quest
Years ago, when I was a baby artistic director I was very interested in trying to find new approaches to the art and the craft of that work. Once in a while, I'd get ideas about a "best next step" on that path. Many would fade in the light of day or get lost among more pressing concerns, but sometimes one would refuse to go away until it actually happened... which is how I came to dine with Estelle Klein.
Estelle was not the first artistic director of a folk festival in Canada, but she had set a high standard for that position during her years at the Mariposa Folk Festival and in the programming she had done after that in a variety of prominent venues. A cultural pioneer of the first order, she wove music, dance, craft and other elements of folk living into inspiring experiences that changed lives.
One of the people profoundly affected by her work was a kid from Winnipeg named Mitch Podolak, who would go on to found a new folk festival there. A few years later, a marketing maven from Brooklyn turned city planner in Vancouver named Ernie Fladell would invite him out to start another one with another radical youth familiar with Estelle's work named Gary Cristall.
In the years since, these and other events like them would transform the experience of culture in Canada, and the way events were created and staged. It seemed to me that if anyone might understand my determination to do a good job, or could offer me a clue or two, it would be Estelle Klein.
This country can be a pretty small town sometimes, no matter what you're into, and the folk/roots/global music zone is no exception. Once in a while, it can be a good thing and for me, this was one of those times. My desire to come and pay my respects to her the next time I was back east (as we say out west) was forwarded to her through the appropriate channels and one day an email from her turned up in my inbox saying she would be up for a visit.
And so it was that one fine fall day, a friend and I found ourselves on the road to Quinte Bay, a little village near Kingston on the north shore of Lake Ontario where she and her husband had moved when he retired. Our plan was simple- a cup or two of tea and some conversation - but like most plans, it evolved in response to changing circumstances as the afternoon turned into evening. The conversation paused just long enough to secure some pizza and beer for dinner and just kept rolling along until finally, it was really time to go. We said our good-byes and as we headed back out to the highway, I knew I was in love.
Chapter 2
2. Respection & Affection
One of the fundamentals of First Nations culture is a profound respect for elders, and when I began to work with people from west coast First Nations on programming for the festival, this was one thing I got from the get-go... the elders in my family had inspired an early love and respect verging on adoration that continues long after their passing.
Their example, and the fond memories of our time together have led me to seek the company of elders ever since, and my life continues to be influenced by the grace and wisdom of the company of some very extraordinary people- Vince Stogan from the Squamish Nation, Carsten Panduro, Utah Phillips, Roy Bailey and Roy Estrada and a few others over the years, including Estelle.
My appreciation of each of these amazing people and the time we spent together grows with every passing year and it's a practice I would recommend to anyone trying to learn more about their art, their craft or simply about how to be a human being.
A conversation with an elder one respects is a profound moment: it's implicit in their listening that one's naive ideas are worthy of attention and it's just as implicit that the elder's experience experience and perspective are both highly valued and influential.
For those having the conversation, it is also historic- imagining the future while referencing the past and the present. As a young practitioner, one is welcomed into history while gaining deeper insights into it from someone who helped to create it.
There's an old truism often heard backstage anywhere that there's no money in it, you just do it for the stories. If she had wanted to just tell me some war stories, as they're known in the trade, I would have felt like the luckiest guy in folk music. She'd worked with some of the most amazing musicians and other performers on the continent and they'd made magic together that had long since evolved into mythology.
What she did, most of the time though, was ask me about what I was working on, and what I hoped would come of it. Estelle would listen with a patience and a genuine curiousity that was rare in my life, as I suspect it is in many other people's these days, and it was both inspiring and intimidating.
She was far more interested in what was happening now than she was in recounting her own history. From that first afternoon in her kitchen, the stories she would share and her pointed questions always sent me back to work scratching my head, but also inspired to find the essence of it and to find an answer worth sharing with her the next time we saw each other.
Their example, and the fond memories of our time together have led me to seek the company of elders ever since, and my life continues to be influenced by the grace and wisdom of the company of some very extraordinary people- Vince Stogan from the Squamish Nation, Carsten Panduro, Utah Phillips, Roy Bailey and Roy Estrada and a few others over the years, including Estelle.
My appreciation of each of these amazing people and the time we spent together grows with every passing year and it's a practice I would recommend to anyone trying to learn more about their art, their craft or simply about how to be a human being.
A conversation with an elder one respects is a profound moment: it's implicit in their listening that one's naive ideas are worthy of attention and it's just as implicit that the elder's experience experience and perspective are both highly valued and influential.
For those having the conversation, it is also historic- imagining the future while referencing the past and the present. As a young practitioner, one is welcomed into history while gaining deeper insights into it from someone who helped to create it.
There's an old truism often heard backstage anywhere that there's no money in it, you just do it for the stories. If she had wanted to just tell me some war stories, as they're known in the trade, I would have felt like the luckiest guy in folk music. She'd worked with some of the most amazing musicians and other performers on the continent and they'd made magic together that had long since evolved into mythology.
What she did, most of the time though, was ask me about what I was working on, and what I hoped would come of it. Estelle would listen with a patience and a genuine curiousity that was rare in my life, as I suspect it is in many other people's these days, and it was both inspiring and intimidating.
She was far more interested in what was happening now than she was in recounting her own history. From that first afternoon in her kitchen, the stories she would share and her pointed questions always sent me back to work scratching my head, but also inspired to find the essence of it and to find an answer worth sharing with her the next time we saw each other.
Only later, well beyond the here and now of it all, would I realize she was also teaching me a few things about being an elder. Only much, much later would it occur to me that the respect and interest in the elder that the "younger" brings to these encounters may also have some value.
Chapter 3
The Question
The Question
One of the things that makes time with an elder so precious is scarcity.
My grandparents lived in London, Ontario, which was almost exactly halfway between our family in Brampton and their other grandchildren in Windsor. They were scrupulous about sharing their free time equally with each family and while we all respected the fairness of their decision, it didn't add up to half the time we would have preferred to spend with them.
My grandparents lived in London, Ontario, which was almost exactly halfway between our family in Brampton and their other grandchildren in Windsor. They were scrupulous about sharing their free time equally with each family and while we all respected the fairness of their decision, it didn't add up to half the time we would have preferred to spend with them.
It's a pattern that's held true with every elder in my life ever since, and it's a feeling that only gets worse when their time of dying comes. There is not a week that goes by without them in my thoughts.
I know time with them was a gift, but some days I forget. I remember something they said, I hear the sound of their laughter and sometimes I am certain of their presence beside me, but sometimes, when the dark days come on, their absence is an aching deep inside and I'd trade a month of my time for one more evening together again.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The last time I had dinner with Estelle was during a music conference in Ottawa. There were, as always, a million things I was dying to talk about and not nearly enough time. I was dreaming in techni-colour about something or other and in the course of my rhapsodizing I made a reference to "the folk community".
She raised a finger and when I paused, asked me to repeat what I'd just said to her. When I did, she put down her fork, looked me straight in the eye and said "the folk community... do you really believe there is such a thing?"
It was a very serious question and one that she was not expecting an answer to that night. The conversation moved on, dessert came and went and we each returned to our respective conference commitments. Our paths didn't cross again that weekend and I went back to Vancouver, with her words much on my mind.
It turned out to be the last question. All too soon after that night, she would pass away and I'm just one of many people who miss her still. Her question has stayed with me, and the look in her eyes and lately, I think of it as a gift, one that only an elder could give...
I know time with them was a gift, but some days I forget. I remember something they said, I hear the sound of their laughter and sometimes I am certain of their presence beside me, but sometimes, when the dark days come on, their absence is an aching deep inside and I'd trade a month of my time for one more evening together again.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The last time I had dinner with Estelle was during a music conference in Ottawa. There were, as always, a million things I was dying to talk about and not nearly enough time. I was dreaming in techni-colour about something or other and in the course of my rhapsodizing I made a reference to "the folk community".
She raised a finger and when I paused, asked me to repeat what I'd just said to her. When I did, she put down her fork, looked me straight in the eye and said "the folk community... do you really believe there is such a thing?"
It was a very serious question and one that she was not expecting an answer to that night. The conversation moved on, dessert came and went and we each returned to our respective conference commitments. Our paths didn't cross again that weekend and I went back to Vancouver, with her words much on my mind.
It turned out to be the last question. All too soon after that night, she would pass away and I'm just one of many people who miss her still. Her question has stayed with me, and the look in her eyes and lately, I think of it as a gift, one that only an elder could give...
- to be continued -
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