What's the Story? Geoffrey Smedley Part 2

I thought he was 85, but he is 86 and one-quarter, he reminded, with the precision typical of this intellectually rigourous man. That in itself is a story. No lying back for this artist.

The other thing is that he makes his art in a studio on Gambier Island, which is accessible only by passenger ferry or private boat from Vancouver or Gibsons. There are a few gravel roads, and some of the 150 or so permanent residents barge over vehicles to drive them, but nothing is simple when you live on an island. It requires desire and determination to brings things on or get things off. That's another big part of the story.

And I haven't yet introduced the work itself, 20 years in the making, an electro-

mechanical sculpture in four pieces, collectively called "Dissections," it is a literal interpretation of Descartes' view of man as a collection of mechanical parts. Each of Geoffrey Smedley's pieces are one of the organs of the character he calls Descartes' Clown, the last robot on earth.  

"Like Descartes, the Clown is neurotic. Each call into question their existence and non-existence, " he writes. "....The Clown removes the pineal gland Descartes thought the foyer to the immortal soul, the agent of life, and asks, is it here I shall find truth? It is the intuition that truth lies beneath that propels the robot to dissect himself."

Those passages come from a book that accompanies the work, which will be exhibited at the Canadian Centre for Architecture beginning June 6. The book is also called Dissections, white on black, featuring 100 fragments Geoffrey photographed himself, and facing-page texts that are as thoughtful as they are, often, hilarious, which comment on the metaphorical implications of each part. Much of the text is narrated by the Clown/robot himself. Not yet halfway through, I have found enough quotable lines to keep me tweeting for months (once I open an account.)

Because I think people have to know about this man, his vision, his commitment, his intellect, his skill as a machinist (he tooled all the parts himself, in his Gambier Island workshop), his sense of artistic elegance, his wife Brigid, who is dealing with a second bout of cancer, the Herculean effort it took to get the pieces into 12 crates weighing several tons onto a barge, then into a truck for the ferry across to Vancouver and the 4500

km journey to Montreal. The crates are on their way. Geoffrey and Brigid will follow in a couple of weeks. The story will continue.

Mon Voisin

How to live graciously as you grow old: Une leçon de simplicité, apples and music.

Mon voisin a 93 ans. Il est hauteur, and straight, his white hair falls to his shoulders. He cooks for himself, organic vegetables, soybeans, applesauce. He eats peanut butter, bread - both biologique. He cooks organic oats for breakfast everyday. He buys many boxes of apples in the fall and uses then, also shares them, through the year.

He keeps a cat, Pussy, and a bird, Blueberry, that a neighbour gave him when her daughter grew tired of having pets. The litter box rests on the red carpet in the living room, across from the cot he keeps there, and the bird cage hangs from a pole in the kitchen, near the card table and the two chairs with their down-to-the-threads cushions. When he leaves the apartment he assures Pussy that although he is going out, he will be back. Pussy occasionally roams the halls of this petit édifice, sniffing my shoes to get to know me, and whomever else might interest her. He does not let Pussy outside because cats are murder on birds. My neighbour also has a friend who is a dog. In fair weather, the dog lies still à les Plaines, on a bench, while my neighbour combs his long hair smooth. The dog loves my neighbour as much as my neighbour loves him.

My neighbour adores la musique. He is a season ticket holder to all series presented by Orcheste Symphonique de Québec. He is a big-time supporter of the opera, so much so that the director of the opera makes a point of introducing visiting artists to him. Charming to see those storied stars, those big voices stop to chat with this very old, exceedingly modest fan, who has saved up memories, and occasionally a joke, to entertain them.

Although he uses a cane, he is not otherwise accessorized and walks his mile circuit every day it is not excessively windy or icy. He wears a brown toque pulled over his forehead, a brown coat, home-knitted slippers inside old-fashioned rubbers. Ten years ago he slipped on a minute icy patch and broke his wrist. He is healthy, healthy enough to endure tooth implantation to make it easier to chew.

He enjoys company, yet he seems not to crave it, but, with his Pussy, his Bluebell, l'opéra and programs de la musique on CBC et Espace Musique, he enjoys what there is, as he says, left. Self-sufficient, desiring little, using to its threads, a rag for cleaning, wearing the same robe over his self-mended long sleeved t-shirt. This former physicist, who has neither computer nor tv, un bon model.