Saturday, March 13, 2010

Ice Gate Strike Mar 3 - 5

The box
stripped open
and we so far
so far from
that moment.
Today, we just want to get it down.
It's Wednesday.

The crew was noticeably smaller, but Gary stayed. Here's Paul looking like a gargoyle atop the box as the plates came down.

Then the glass into the container.

Thursday night, we met with Deborah Jones and her husband, Marat, at the Jericho Club to discuss sponsorship for the next gig.

Friday night, the sidewalk was swept clean. Saturday Rob and Ari drove the truck back to the coast to unload scaffolding, and it was done.

We got our rain back. It's spring.

Strike Day Two

Tuesday, March 2nd.

At nine am, Pete Mason is already there in his bright yellow bicycle jacket, firing jokes and bossing people around. It turns out to be the perfect thing to do.

Gary Gronlund, fireman & hockey buddy, Master of Mullions yesterday, is still not afraid of the scaffold.

Brett arrives saying Owen collapsed at hockey this morning back on the coast, no news. Tor appears, making it a foursome.

I feel a humbling gratitude, and pride to be one of them.

They have done this stuff before and are not intimidated by the heavy Kingspan at the back, the height and the problematic logistics of lifting & carrying & planning safely what comes before what.

Everything is discussed before action is taken. Gord decrees that the Kingspan should be cut in half for easier moving. Pete quips for humour and perspective; together, they’re all very good at problem-solving.

Pete says (at the moment when it all looks so daunting): “ You think if we just left it like that we could grow marijuana.”

The crates arrive.

Across the laneway, the Inniskillin tent is dismantled.

When the glass man finds the keys to his rig, we change focus. At the last minute Gord decides instead to put all the glass on the A frame, and we shift back to taking down the panels.

Tuesday goes by like this. We get a lot done, with more to finish tomorrow.

March 1st 2010


Huge trucks everywhere.

The sound of water dripping onto cement. An airplane overhead, a truck bleeping backwards urgently, in threes.

Now and again power tools fire up in high pitched, whining choruses. A sense of space in the plaza as pedestrian footfalls echo across the square.

A quiet afternoon. No honking euphoria, no babies in strollers, red hats or painted faces, no Canadian flags.

Instead, hammers pound against ice; huge chunks crash onto the aluminium floor.

ICE GATE is smashed and chiseled into managaeable chunks, pushed, shard by shard, towards the door of its presentation case, and hurled into the dumpster.

It’s the day after closing. The 2010 Olympics have passed.

Finally, the paintings are gone.