Life in Guelph #22 Batman version 2

5 02 2017



David Halliday’s Victor Genova in Guelph

2 11 2016

Ed Kuris

1 08 2013

A friend of mine has started a blog. Ed comes out of the fog of time via the coal fields of Nova Scotia and the mountains of Slovakia. He was the top student in advertising at the Ontario College of Art. For years he worked in the commercial art world but returned to his first love, painting. He is also a poet so his blog should be interesting. It would be well worth one’s time to check it out.



mom speaks to me with feathers,
mute tongues,
soft messages prompting my journey,
punctuation under my footstep.

this summer i collected six black feathers
i wondered what sense
came with these announcements.

before leaving for my wife’s surgery
i found a blue feather in our evergreen
out of the blue,
a silken promise of open skies.

the purification took place,
Nata had malignancy pared out.

the surgeon cut out my tongue.

i carried my devastation outside of the hospital,
wept over a sewer pipe, broken gestalts,
negotiated with eternity,
smoked a cigarette.
under my foot, a blue feather.

when Nata came out of surgery
she said, “i’m glad i got that off my chest”.
i knew we’d be okay.

i told her about the feather,
a mother’s reassurances
that there will be blue skies…..

Kuris Jazz Kuris3 Kuris5 KurisA1 KurisA2 KurisA3 KurisA4

Ed Kuris

20 11 2010

Ed Kuris and I grew up down the street from each other. Ed always had a knack with things. With words. His humour. He was good at almost everything. Great at some things. As a young boy he was  a lot of girls heart throb. He looked a bit like a slovakian James Dean. He had a bit of a petulant bad boy look. He could make things. Weapons. As a 12 year old he built a large sculpture in his back yard. He took painting lessons from a woman named Mrs. Newton who had painted with The Group of Seven. He was the first kid on the block to have a motorcyle. He wrote poetry. As did I. That’s about all that I did. Except I read a lot. That’s how we became friends. As young teenagers. We would walk every week to the closest book store and buy a book. We started with all of John Steinbeck’s books and went from there. As I grew older I became more visual. Moved from writing to other visual forms of art. Tried painting. Collage. Ed was my biggest influence. As a young man I was very shy. Through my writing and art I became more outgoing. As Ed grew older, he became more internalized. More private. Ed had demons. Suffered from the early stages of bi-polar and manic depression. Strange thing is that the more depressed he became, the funnier he was. Ed had addictions. We were both restless spirits. I had a lot of anger inside. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was pissed off that I wasn’t good enough. At much. To myself. Or maybe I was angry at being afraid. Afraid of everything. My anger was like a forge. I used it to become something other than what I was. Ed’s anger ate him up. Knawed at him. The black dogs of his soul would not let him rest. All of this sounds like a eulogy. Ed is very much alive. (We went bowling today with Vic, the other part of our triumvirate.) I realized that he deserves more attention from the art’s community than he has received, more attention from the general public. But that is unlikely to happen.