The Divine Comedy

Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost

(Dante's Inferno I. 1–3)

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This Christmas, I received Dante's The Divine Comedy; Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso and a separate book featuring all of Gustave Doré's illustration plates for such. It is divinely exquisite artwork that has captivated me since viewing the originals at the D'Orsay Museum last spring. Immersing into the epic 752-page trilogy, which begins with the tercet above, should make for an interesting read this winter. 

I didn't get to choose the pathway of the previous year. As 2014 draws to a close though, I've decided to give myself twelve months to explore life and all its intensity. Like a moth to a flame, there are many things I am drawn to.

In 2015, I will light the match. 

The Forest (Gustave Doré) from The Divine Comedy

Japan Gallery Updated

To view the updated Japan gallery, click here. 

Alley in Kabukicho, Tokyo (©Deborah Clague)

Interior of A-Bomb Dome, Hiroshima (©Deborah Clague)

My homeboy and I

China Gallery Updated

To view the updated China gallery, click here. 

Night market in the French Concession, Shanghai (©Deborah Clague)

Great Wall of China (©Deborah Clague)

My homeboy and I. 

2014.

"Where's the nearest gas station? Punch it into the GPS."

"Uh…there's one about 20 kilometres from here." I answered as we drove down the back roads of the Midi-Pyrénées region of France. "But we'd need to reroute down another highway. There may be a toll..."

"I'll keep driving" my father replied. I could tell he was getting anxious even though we had half a tank. "We really need fuel though. If we're going to be driving around to these obscure sites, we need to ensure that the tank is always topped up."

This conversation repeated itself daily over the month of April as our European road trip brought us through France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany and blink-and-you'll-miss-it Luxembourg. A preoccupation with the availability of petrol may seem strange, especially since we were on holiday – our final holiday together – but it did offer fleeting distraction from the fact we were both staring down the barrel of a gun. 

"There's a gas station up ahead." I noted. "On the right."

"We should be able to make it to the next one. I'll keep going."

In a year marked by loss, depression and stress in every facet of my existence, the memory of this prosaic banter has become one of my most cherished moments of 2014. 

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Returning to my childhood home now brings back a flood of emotion. One of my earliest memories in life took place just beyond the perimeter of backyard that my bedroom window overlooks. I may have been three or four-years-old; the exact epoch of childhood remains hazy but the magic of the moment does not. I recall it being winter – a Winnipeg winter – and I was playing in the snow with my father all bundled up in layers, ski-pants, toque and mitts. Throwing snowballs into the air, I marvelled as one seemed to disappear into the cosmos. 

"Daddy! I threw one all the way into space!!!"

Not missing a beat, my father assured me: "I bet it went all the way to Saturn."

It's hard not having this person in my life. This beacon of support. This rock. My father was a gold-standard individual. The older one gets, the more one realizes that people like this are few and very far between. In grade 9, I told my dad I wanted to study Philosophy. I was very serious even though the only enigma I truly wished to find explanation for was why high school sucked so bad. He told me to take classes that would aid in getting accepted into university when I was ready. Nearing graduation, I presented my father with an even more absurd career goal: I wanted to be an artist. Again, not missing a beat or expressing any sort of concern at the probability of me living on social assistance for the rest of my life (or worse, living at home until I was 50), he not only supported me emotionally but financially as I worked towards my goal. He believed in supporting people's dreams. 

They say grief gets easier as time goes on but that is a lie. It gets harder before it gets better.

Christmas is approaching and while I am not looking forward to that, I lament ringing in the new year even more. My father's name is now forever tied with this year: Brian Donald Clague, 1950 - 2014. I've been telling myself a lie for the last five months that he is still here, somewhere, and the obituary confirms that. When the clock rings in midnight on January 1, 2015, I fear I won't even have that fallacy to cling to. 

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My other most cherished memory of the year occurred in late June. When my father was discharged from the hospital after his first stroke, he came home to recuperate. His mobility wasn't the greatest but early one morning, well before the sun could broach the horizon, he left his bed and snuck outside. Sitting on the deck in an adirondack chair, he gazed at the stars, at the moon and possibly Saturn. They are all visible from that vantage point.

Minimalist World Leaders

Clockwise from top-left: Kim Jong Un (North Korea), Angela Merkel (Germany), Ali Khamenei (Iran), Stephen Harper (Canada), Vladimir Putin (Russia), Francois Hollande (France), Pranab Mukherjee (India), Barack Obama (United States of America). 

Tokyo on Foot

This book caught my eye when I was in Japan Town, San Francisco: 'Tokyo on Foot' is part travel guide, part graphic memoir. Every page is illustrated with sketches that artist/author Florent Chavouet created while living in the world's greatest megalopolis for six months. His focus is the nuances and quirks of the city that both enchant and confuse; from neighbourhood-specific fashion to life in extremely cramped quarters, this book paints a colourful portrait of a very interesting, unique place. 

To buy Tokyo on Foot, click here. 

San Francisco Vignette no.5

It was 4:20pm. As the ferry back to Pier 33 embarked from Alcatraz, I made my way to the bow to secure the best spot for photographing San Francisco's skyline. Next to me stood two tourists from Mumbai. We entered into conversation about Goa, dolphin sightings and imagined life in maximum security prison. 

"So what did you think of the tour?" I asked them. 

"It was very interesting," one of the gentleman replied. "but I don't understand why everyone thinks it is bleak. I did not find it so. They were criminals and got the punishment they deserved." 

San Francisco Vignette no.4

It was 5:23pm. We were at Haight-Ashbury admiring the now commercialized former hub of the counter culture. I wanted to visit Whole Foods. 

At Stanyan Street, I gazed into the eastern periphery of Golden Gate Park and felt a thousand eyes stare back at me amongst the darkness of the trees. Loitering about were young people, old people; some more weathered in appearance than others, some with canine companions. They congregated here with visions of 1969. Of free love and cheap drugs and being in the presence of their apostle Garcia, even though he - and the gospel he preached - were long dead.

Death changes everything.

"LSD. I can get you some LSD." a 20-something male with a yellow lab uttered to my companion and I. 

I walked into Whole Foods. 

Postcards from Pripyat

Photographer Danny Cooke has created a haunting video of the town of Pripyat, Ukraine shot by mounting a camera on a drone. 

"Time has stood still and there are memories of past happenings floating around us." - Danny Cooke.