IFOA 29: The Photo Diary (i.e., the evidence)

As promised, a photographic trip down memory boulevard, a visual diary of IFOA 29 in no particular order.

The festival begins with Don McKellar in "spirited conversation" with Roddy Doyle.

Chip Kidd interviewed by Christopher Butcher at the intimate Studio Theatre.

David Benioff (author/screenwriter/heartthrob) reads from his newest, City of Thieves.

Lee Henderson (the real Lee, that is), prepares to sign copies of The Man Game outside the Brigantine Room.

The funniest panel I saw this year. Hugo Hamilton, Dermot Bolger, Emma Donoghue and David Park discuss contemporary Irish literature, moderated by Bert Archer.

Junot Diaz, somehow managing to looks sneaky, seductive and brilliant all at the same time.

The menu for just one of the remarkable authors' dinners during the festival. This one was at Le Select Bistro. I had the cock's crowns and the lamb's neck. Believe it or not, I used to be a vegetarian.

Austin Clarke interviewed by CBC's The Scene at the IFOA/Hello! Magazine Welcome party.

Colm Toibin and Eugene McCabe trying to decide who's round it is at the IFOA/Hello! party. Fellas! The drinks were free!

2008 Harboufront Festival Prize winner Wayson Choy enjoying himself at the IFOA/Hello! party.


And finally, Moyez Gulamhussein (M.G.) Vassanji steals a moment of serenity before I annihilate him on the squash court... I mean, before he steps on stage.

DAY ELEVEN: One last perfect heated evening

Geoffrey Taylor said it well last night, during his introductory speech to the Scotiabank Giller Prize finalist readings, the final event of this year's IFOA: "This has been, by all accounts, our most successful festival year."

The Fleck Dance Theatre was packed. I'd arrived just moments before Maeve Binchy welcomed us to the festival for the very last time. I'd only been able to find a seat at the back of the balcony, where the combined heat of hundreds had accumulated, where a few of the men had stripped down to their t-shirts. It felt appropriate, this heat, as if all the hard-won and beautiful words, sentences and stories that have been spoken onstage over the last eleven days had somehow arrived here, too, hanging on for one last hurrah.

We sat rapt as five Canadians, all of them either debut or sophomore authors, cast spells on us with pitch-perfect scenes of hilarity, brutality, heredity and love, their shoulders, for the most part, slouched over the podium as if guarding their books from over-exposure. I do not need to name them, as most readers of this little rag already know who they are - some of you were likely there last night, and perhaps remember the heat. What I will do is name their books, because as much as this last eleven days has been a celebration of authors, it has also been a celebration of what authors create, what they give to the world, what they share with us every time we turn a page.

Through Black Spruce
Barnacle Love
Good To A Fault
Cockroach
The Boys in the Trees

I know literary prizes aren't the endgame of this big, fantastical publishing world. I know there are hundreds of books published every year, and that many of them deserve so much more attention than they get. But last night no one was thinking these things. No one was thinking anything, in fact.

We were listening; we were reading.

I'm off to bed, to curl up with a good book. But stay tuned, because in the next few days I'll post a recap of IFOA 29, with all my favourite photos, quotes, and stories. And maybe, just maybe, I'll convince Colm Toibin to write me a few lines about his experiences guest-curating the most successful IFOA ever.

To everyone who has done so, thank you for reading. Ciao for now.
ADW

~

Almost forgot.
On a more serious note, the Quote of Day Eleven:
"Show me a computer and my back-hair begins to rise."
- Farley Mowat

DAY TEN: What happened to Day Ten?

That's a very good question.
Here's what I do know:
1. The Walrus party on Thursday night went so late, I thought I saw a lineup of children walking to the Friday morning YoungIFOA event as I hailed a cab to go home.
2. It was Halloween, and the hallways of the Harbourfront Centre were crawling with children all day, many of them in adorable costumes, as they attended events and made frighteningly well-themed crafts.
3. An evening of ghoulish events was highlighted by C.C. Humphreys' thrilling reading from Vlad: The Last Confession.
4. I dressed up as a guy with a massive headache, passed out in his own bed catching the first real sleep he's had in ten days, thanking the heavens his friend Becky suggested he take the night off.

The 2008 Harbourfront Festival Prize goes to...

A wee shout-out to Wayson Choy, who was awarded the $10,000 Harbourfront Festival Prize last night in recognition of his "substantial contribution to the world of books and writing." By all accounts, the man is a tireless and passionate teacher (in addition to being brilliant on the page). As they say in my adopted native homeland of Newcastle, in the north of England, "Howay the lad!"

DAY ONE: Signing in

Today, in a sun-drenched suite on the 34th floor of the Westin Harbour Castle Hotel, I did something I've been dreaming of doing for probably twenty years. I autographed my first book. As a part of the registration process, all authors have to sign a bunch of their books, which then become a part of the Harboufront Centre's permanent literature archive. But the first book in the pile is for one person in particular, Geoffrey Taylor, IFOA's director and basically the guy we have to thank for being invited in the first place (OK, some of us have Ben McNally to thank as well, and others owe Colm Toibin, the guest curator this year, a pint or three. But without Geoff, nada.). So, the first signed copy of The Riverbones goes to Mr. Taylor's personal library. Maybe someday I'll visit said library and see all the other signed works. Or maybe Geoff keeps them in a secret vault somewhere under the York Quay Centre.

Anyway, I had no idea I'd be signing any books. Nobody had told me. And as my pen hovered over the first book, opened to the title page, I realized I had no idea what to do. I've probably practiced my signature 10,000 times in preparation for this very moment, and now I couldn't remember which siggie I'd settled on. Was it my full name? Was it just my first initial and full last? Was it just two initials, which together make something of an ebony mountain range with a slash struck through it?

Or perhaps I should do something more beguiling. Perhaps I should draw something, a smirking happy face, an androgynous stick figure pleading with the heavens, or a farm animal, a different one in each book, maybe, the fecund farmyard of my mind spread across all the title pages of all the books I sign from now until I die.

I eventually settled on the mountain range, much to the relief of the woman who was holding the book open to the proper page the entire time I was sweating the decision. Things have got off to a strange, exciting, perspirational start. I am officially signed in.