Frank O’Hara used to
say he couldn’t enjoy a
blade of grass unless
there was a subway handy;
David W. McFadden, “New
York,” The Art of Darkness (1984)
[photo by Christine McNair: myself and David O’Meara with McFadden after his 2013 Griffin Prize win]
Sad news out of
Toronto, hearing that David W. McFadden has died, after a stay in hospice care.
When
I was still in my mid-twenties, floundering with poems and poetry, David McFadden
was one of the first older writers I met whose work and personality resonated.
And from another city, even. Uncle Dave, we called him. I called him. Well
before I met Uncle George.
His
1984 title, The Art of Darkness, I carried
around like a bible for some time. I liked his humour, and plain way of
speaking. We both liked to read Frank O’Hara, something Ken Norris might have
first pointed out to me.
My
first trip to involve any significant downtown Toronto time was in 1995, a
downtown day-trip to the bookstores. Wandering, I ended up at This Aint the
Rosedale Library Bookstore on Church, where I
recognized him, skimming the bookshelves (I had mailed him a packet of
above/ground press items only a few weeks prior, but we hadn’t yet met). He recognized,
I suspect, some of the items I was attempting to leave in the store on
consignment.
McFadden
walked over and smiled. So, he said, are you going to call David McFadden while
you're in town?
I
thought that was you, I said.
We
ended up next door, at the Unicorn Family Restaurant, and talked about things
we knew, and things we didn’t know. He flirted with a dance teacher at the next
table, and we made fun of the waiter, who had an “I HEART N Y” apron, with a
tomato where the heart should be.
McFadden
told me to order the pancakes, so we did.
After
he had finished eating, I said: Those pancakes were awful.
I
know, he smiled. Almost gleefully.
We
kept in touch, on and off, for years. Whenever I would end up at or near that
restaurant, I would leave him a phone message, and he almost always appeared
within twenty minutes or so. He recommended books for me to read, and even
allowed me to produce three chapbooks through above/ground press.
I
once heard him heckle a Stuart Ross/Gary Barwin reading at The Idler Pub
Reading Series. I hosted his first Ottawa reading, at The TREE Reading Series,
on September 4, 1996. I was there when he read the entirety of The Ovi Yogas (1971) publicly, for the
first time (prompted by jwcurry) in a midnight hospitality suite to less than a
dozen of us, during The Ottawa International Writers Festival in 2004. It was
glorious. He had a fine mind, and a casualness that belied his quick wit.
I
enjoyed that sparkle in his eye, even as he told the worst joke imaginable.
I
shall miss his odd humour, his generosity and his grace.
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