Alma Mater
Having attended several different High Schools (on account of brilliance as opposed to truancy, I hasten to add!) I decided recently to return to my Alma Mater in Oakville. I hadn't been to the school for quite some time, but had a vague sense that it would be cool to visit the stairwell where I had often played my flute during spares or the occasional lunch hour. Perched near the top of the stairwell, I would read through Bach, Massenet, Berbiguier - whatever I had on hand - and revel in the live acoustics of the space. The resonance gave my playing a new sense of power and vitality, something that I had not fully experienced before.
One day, Mr McLaren, the math teacher who had a classroom near the bottom of the stairs, told me he didn't necessarily appreciate the volume of my playing! But, despite this little bit of feedback, I was totally stoked, and I maintain that I would not still be playing today without the positive re-enforcement of playing in this fantastic space.
I knew that the school had been relocated long ago, and that the original school was sitting empty for many years.The funny thing is that when I first started my Urban Flute Project blogsite a couple of years ago, one of the first searches for 'urban' and 'flute' pulled up a story about some guy who had infiltrated this old site. So I had been thinking I'd be able to follow in his footsteps and find my friendly stairwell.
I honestly didn't know what to expect when I decided to stop by in the rain late one night as I drove back from Hamilton to Toronto - I just knew that I had this urge to visit that old stairwell, like some Holy Grail of acoustics from my mis-spent youth!
You can imagine my surprise when I discovered that 80% of the building had vanished, and the only remaining portion was the original, hulking remnant of the Victorian structure, obviously left standing for historical reasons, being circa 1885 or something like that. Ominous and silhouetted against the night sky, I was somehow even more determined than ever to venture i n. The fact that I didn't have my flute or recorder that particular evening didn't deter me.
Once safely inside, I found myself in absolute pitch darkness, and used the weak glow of my cellphone to find my way through the musty, basement corridors. The place was incredible and like nothing else I had ever experienced.
This was quite different from more recent adventures I 've since had with Urban Exploration, visiting abandoned factories like GE in Toronto's Junction area, or the incredible Firestone site out in Hamilton. These were group adventures, and this was solo. which is completely different. Where in a group there is this reassuring sensation of 'safety in numbers', alone in this darkened empty building was spine-tingling and basically kinda spooky. Yet, oddly, I felt strangely safe at the same time - it was if the spirit of this forgotten, old relic of a building, once so alive with students and learning, welcomed my visit as I wandered around, trying not to panic when I lost my bearings in the maze of darkly shadowed corridors.
I returned several months later, flute, recording device and camera in hand and once again it was the same odd, visceral experience: I found myself absolutely alone, yet somehow safely in the comforting embrace of the deserted building. This time it was the intermittent flash of my camera that lit up the labyrinth of otherwise pitch-black tunnels and boiler rooms...I quickly learned to tightly close my eyes as I squeezed the shutter so as not be completely blinded by the light!
After wandering around and taking these photos, it was an odd experience to then improvise in the red room - what colour is a red room in pitch blackness, I wonder - the room with the distinctive black pillar. I had abandoned the idea of trying to read from music, but instead just converesed with my Alma Mater - 'Nourishing Mother' - in the absolute darkness.
J
Having attended several different High Schools (on account of brilliance as opposed to truancy, I hasten to add!) I decided recently to return to my Alma Mater in Oakville. I hadn't been to the school for quite some time, but had a vague sense that it would be cool to visit the stairwell where I had often played my flute during spares or the occasional lunch hour. Perched near the top of the stairwell, I would read through Bach, Massenet, Berbiguier - whatever I had on hand - and revel in the live acoustics of the space. The resonance gave my playing a new sense of power and vitality, something that I had not fully experienced before.
One day, Mr McLaren, the math teacher who had a classroom near the bottom of the stairs, told me he didn't necessarily appreciate the volume of my playing! But, despite this little bit of feedback, I was totally stoked, and I maintain that I would not still be playing today without the positive re-enforcement of playing in this fantastic space.
I knew that the school had been relocated long ago, and that the original school was sitting empty for many years.The funny thing is that when I first started my Urban Flute Project blogsite a couple of years ago, one of the first searches for 'urban' and 'flute' pulled up a story about some guy who had infiltrated this old site. So I had been thinking I'd be able to follow in his footsteps and find my friendly stairwell.
I honestly didn't know what to expect when I decided to stop by in the rain late one night as I drove back from Hamilton to Toronto - I just knew that I had this urge to visit that old stairwell, like some Holy Grail of acoustics from my mis-spent youth!
You can imagine my surprise when I discovered that 80% of the building had vanished, and the only remaining portion was the original, hulking remnant of the Victorian structure, obviously left standing for historical reasons, being circa 1885 or something like that. Ominous and silhouetted against the night sky, I was somehow even more determined than ever to venture i n. The fact that I didn't have my flute or recorder that particular evening didn't deter me.
Once safely inside, I found myself in absolute pitch darkness, and used the weak glow of my cellphone to find my way through the musty, basement corridors. The place was incredible and like nothing else I had ever experienced.
This was quite different from more recent adventures I 've since had with Urban Exploration, visiting abandoned factories like GE in Toronto's Junction area, or the incredible Firestone site out in Hamilton. These were group adventures, and this was solo. which is completely different. Where in a group there is this reassuring sensation of 'safety in numbers', alone in this darkened empty building was spine-tingling and basically kinda spooky. Yet, oddly, I felt strangely safe at the same time - it was if the spirit of this forgotten, old relic of a building, once so alive with students and learning, welcomed my visit as I wandered around, trying not to panic when I lost my bearings in the maze of darkly shadowed corridors.
I returned several months later, flute, recording device and camera in hand and once again it was the same odd, visceral experience: I found myself absolutely alone, yet somehow safely in the comforting embrace of the deserted building. This time it was the intermittent flash of my camera that lit up the labyrinth of otherwise pitch-black tunnels and boiler rooms...I quickly learned to tightly close my eyes as I squeezed the shutter so as not be completely blinded by the light!
After wandering around and taking these photos, it was an odd experience to then improvise in the red room - what colour is a red room in pitch blackness, I wonder - the room with the distinctive black pillar. I had abandoned the idea of trying to read from music, but instead just converesed with my Alma Mater - 'Nourishing Mother' - in the absolute darkness.
J
