LIVES LIVED

Shortly after Ivaan's death, two of our nephews, Angus and Ivor Benderavage, collaborated on a tribute to Ivaan which was published in the Globe and Mail, in the Lives Lived section, a regular feature about an interesting person who has recently died.  People who know Ivaan instantly recognized Ivaan's huge personality in the article, and readers who had never met him before suddenly felt as though they'd known him all their lives.  Here is the text of Angus' and Ivor's tribute:

"With Ivaan, we were always laughing.   He called us the plemeniks, Yiddish for nephews.  We called him avunculus, Latin for uncle.  Witty, debonair, endlessly fascinating, he was the coolest of uncles.

Ivaan exuded a rare, unabashed joie de vivre, perhaps because his early life was marked by extreme hardship.  He was born in a Nazi internment camp, where his parents, Mykyta and Maria, were forced to work from morning to night.  The family endured illness and near-starvation until liberation.

They immigrated to Canada in 1949 and settled in Smoky Lake, Alberta.  There, Ivaan’s passion for metalwork was sparked by observing the village blacksmith.  In 1951, the family moved to Toronto.

Ivaan was a member of the camera club at Harbord Collegiate Institute and he won awards for his early photography.  After graduating from Ryerson  Polytechnical Institute, he joined Maclean Hunter Publishing in 1967, and became Chief Photographer in 1970.  His many notable subjects included The Beatles, Janis Joplin,  Jimi Hendrix, Yousuf Karsh, Pierre Trudeau and the Queen.

By 1969, Ivaan’s focus was shifting to metal arts.  Although he left Maclean Hunter in 1973 to devote himself full time to metalworking, he continued to pursue photography as a hobby.  He won gold and silver National Magazine Awards for his photographic essay, No Fixed Address, published in Toronto Life magazine in 1996.  His long-standing interest in photographing street people reflected his deep respect for life. 

We loved spending time in Ivaan’s studio, sorting treasures and operating the grinding and polishing machines.  Ivaan transformed wax, plastic, glass and even bread dough into objects of beauty.  He cast jewellery and small sculptures in gold and silver using the ancient  lost-wax casting process.  His vision and skill were so breathtaking that nothing about him seemed improbable.  For years we believed a tale that certain painted bricks on his house were solid gold.

Ivaan and his long-time beloved, Eya Donald Greenland, married in 1995.   He taught us that carrying a camera was a great way to meet girls.

A relentless series of strokes that began in 2000 led to Ivaan’s eventual paralysis.  He adapted patiently to wheelchair life, continuing to laugh and to create.  Faced with an imminently fatal brain aneurysm, he underwent a pioneering neurosurgical procedure last December.  Although it was successful, he suffered a massive stroke, never regaining consciousness.

Ivaan was an artist for whom the creative process was as essential as breathing; from it he derived great joy.  He shared that joy every day."

MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS, (or: Sh*t Ivaan Said...And Did)

Lately, I've found myself bursting out laughing at the memory of the funny things Ivaan said and did.  One of the very interesting things about being around Ivaan was that you could never predict what was going to happen next.  Here are a few of the bizarre episodes I've been laughing about lately:

On one memorable occasion, we were grocery shopping at Loblaws Queen's Quay.  Now, I absolutely loathe grocery shopping, but for Ivaan a trip to a grocery store was akin to a vacation:  he felt it was essential to allot several hours to the excursion and  to visit every aisle (except the meat department), pausing to scrutinize all  the merchandise in minute detail.  Certain aisles took much more time to peruse than others.  These included the coffee aisle and the jam aisle.  Sometimes it also included the bakery aisle, if the bread was very fresh, because Ivaan only fed fresh bread to the neighbourhood  birds and squirrels.  We rarely spent much time together in a grocery store.  Leaving Ivaan with the shopping cart, I'd do a quick sprint through the aisles, gathering the essentials in my arms.  By the time I was ready to hit the checkout, usually ten minutes or less, he'd be half way through aisle one.   On one memorable occasion, we met up in the bakery section.  On the mezzanine level, above the bakery department, a Latin band was playing.  As I placed my items in Ivaan's shopping cart, the band struck up the opening notes of a tango.  Ivaan turned to me and asked, "Would you care to dance?"  "Why, yes, I think I would", I replied.  He held out his arms, I stepped into them, wriggled my shoulders a bit until our tango posture was correct, and we executed one of the best tangos we have ever done.  It's important to maintain an imperious expression while dancing the tango.  I must have been doing this with some success, because I don't recall the reaction of other shoppers, but when the last notes of the music died away, the entire band rose to their feet and gave us a standing ovation.

Our nephew Philippe is 22.  It is miraculous that he has lived to adulthood.  When Philippe was seven, Ivaan invited him and his brother Sam to visit him at his Queen Street West store.  The back room of the store was chaotic in a way that is hard to put into words.  Stuff was lying everywhere, and though urban legend had it that Ivaan knew where everything was, I have actually seen hand-drawn maps of the room he had drawn to help him locate items.  Ivaan loved anything to do with fire, and so did Philippe.  After all, Philippe was a member of the Pyromaniacs, a club whose membership consisted of Ivaan and every one of our nephews who was old enough to walk.   Ivaan had a huge pair of heavily-padded leather blacksmith's gauntlets.  That day he put those gloves on Philippe's arms.  They came almost to his armpits.  He directed Philippe to stand with his arms outstretched, sprayed the gloves with lighter fluid, then held a lit match  to each arm in turn.  I have it on good authority that Philippe looked like someone had set fire to a scarecrow.  The lighter fluid burned off within seconds, but it was several weeks before any of the Pyromaniacs confessed to me what had taken place that afternoon in the back of Uncle's store.

It was on that same occasion that Philippe decided he wanted to buy himself a silver ring made by Ivaan.  He examined all the trays of sterling silver rings in detail, trying on a variety of rings until he found the one he wanted.  Having made his selection, he went up to Ivaan who was standing behind the counter, held up the ring he'd selected and with great solemnity fired his opening salvo:  "I'll give you two dollars for this", he said, "and not a penny more."   Just as solemnly, and perhaps feeling some retrospective anxiety about the incident with the lighter fluid, Ivaan conceded that two dollars was a fair price.  Philippe counted out the two dollars, plus tax, and the transaction was completed.

Terry Robinson was five the first time Ivaan went camping with the Robinsons.  Our friends Neil and Chris have three sons, and Terry is the youngest.  It goes without saying that Chris Robinson did not go camping with her husband and sons....ever.  If she had, she would no doubt have had something to say about this incident.  One evening, while sitting around the campfire, Ivaan and the Robinson guys decided to rub some charcoal onto Terry's face, put some leaves in his hair and generally make him look as grubby and unkempt as possible.  Then they sent him round to other campsites, claiming to be lost and hungry and begging for food.  The scheme went off without a hitch, until some outraged campers seized Terry by the scruff of the neck and brought him back to the Robinson family's campsite with some strongly-expressed invective directed at the more senior members of the camping expedition.

Terry and Ivaan shared a fascination for a children's outdoors magazine called Ranger Rick, to the extent they used to address each other as Ranger Rick.  On this same camping trip, Ivaan indulged his love of sunbathing to such an extent that his skin blistered badly.  Upon his return home, Ivaan was shedding sunburnt skin in boa constrictor-size pieces, which he promptly collected, put into an envelope and mailed to five-year-old Terry....all in the interests of science.  He felt it was an appropriately scientific gift, since Terry had recently given him a year's subscription to the equally scientific Ranger Rick.

When Terry was seven, we went out to dinner with the Robinsons at Golden Thai, a very nice restaurant at the corner of Church and Richmond Streets.  Part way through our meal, Ivaan and Terry noticed a police car pull up kitty-corner to the restaurant.  Two officers jumped out and arrested a young man standing on the sidewalk.  As they were handcuffing him, Ivaan and Terry decided they'd better go and investigate.  The rest of us continued our meal.  By the time we were ready to leave the restaurant, Terry and Ivaan had still not returned.  We went outside to search for them, and eventually noticed them sitting in the window of a very shabby donut shop across the street, enjoying some coffee and donuts for dessert.

MEGHAN'S DREAM

Last night, our friend Meghan had a dream.  She sent me an email about it.  Over to you, Meg:

- - - - - - - 

Hey Eya

I wanted to share with you a dream I had last night. I went to a flea market with Ivaan! He was real excited, scampering around and telling me all about the weird items for sale. I think some of the stories were exaggerated, but it was fun! 
 
He had on really nice white leather shoes, I asked him if they fit properly, he gave me a thumbs up and directed me to a stall selling sweets.

It was a fun outing!

Xoxo

Meghan

- - - - - - - 

If you ever want proof that there is an afterlife, I think that Meghan's dream may just be what you're looking for.  First, Ivaan let loose in a flea market that has weird items for sale?  Check! Second, he's wearing really nice white shoes that fit properly?  Check!  Third, there's something sweet to eat?  Check!  And fourth, Meghan's there too?
I think that's all the proof we'll ever need.  Thanks, Meghan.  You made my day!  

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

I'm not much of a consumer, and that's probably an understatement.  I love fine quality things, especially clothing and accessories, and I buy well, but very sparingly.  A friend who helped me pack in preparation for my move to this house was taken aback by the emptiness of my closet. I just don't lust after material goods.  It's quite rare that an item of apparel sets my heart aflutter. Before Ivaan became part of my daily existence, it was even rarer.  In late 1991, I had a fleeting passionate relationship with a pair of highly improbable shoes in a high-end shoe shop.  First of all, they were very expensive.  Even on sale (which they were), they were about a week's salary.  Second, they were size 7 - at least half a size too small.  Third, I'd have looked idiotic riding my motorcycle wearing them.   Fourth, they conjured up dyed blond curly hair with about an inch of dark roots showing, a cigarette in a cigarette holder, a stiff drink and a negligee.  Frankly, the only thing I sleep in is my bed, which is probably more than you needed to know.  But the shoes were red patent leather, with scalloped edges, lined in gold leather, and they were, admittedly, beautifully made.  They were a minor work of art, actually, and leaving them in the store felt like abandoning them to an uncertain fate.

By December of 1991, Ivaan and I were living together, but things could easily have gone either way.  One thing that puzzled him about me was my lack of interest in the trappings of domesticity.  The women in his family delighted in a well-equipped kitchen, the more dishes and appliances the better.  Me?  I had a kettle.  One evening, he asked, "What would you like me to get you for Christmas?"  I reminded him that Christmas wasn't a huge part of my social calendar, and I couldn't really think of anything I wanted or needed. I suggested if he wanted to buy me something, he might make it a practical item.  He suggested a coffee pot, since my habit of making coffee by putting a filter cone on top of a mason jar always seemed a bit like camping to him.  I readily agreed that a coffee pot would be a practical gift, and I was glad to have the problem solved so expediently.

On Christmas Day, I wasn't surprised to find myself tearing the wrapping paper off a cardboard box bearing a photo of a nice-looking coffee pot. Reaching inside the box, however, I was surprised to find that his gift was not in fact a coffee pot, but.......

...a beautiful pair of very expensive red patent leather shoes with scalloped edges and gold leather lining, in a size 7.  I had never told a soul about those shoes, and definitely not Ivaan.  Nowadays, they are a full size too small and I have never yet worn them. But I love having them, because they remind me that sometimes the one you love knows you better than you know yourself.

IN CASE OF FIRE...

If I ever had to flee from my house due to a fire, the list of things I'd take with me would be mercifully brief and easy to locate.  This piece of blue gingham cloth would be close to the top of the list.  It looks like a well-washed and often-mended cotton cushion cover, measuring about  19  by 22 inches. When Ivaan was a baby, and his family was interned in a Nazi slave labour camp near Cologne, Germany this was his only protection from the cold.  I have a tiny photo of Ivaan with this piece of cloth on his bed.

The harsh conditions under which Ivaan was born and lived in his early years meant that he was never physically robust, either in childhood or as an adult. Even if you'd known Ivaan for decades, you would never have known the incursions frail health made on his life.  He never talked about it.  People who saw him deliberately avoiding physical strain assumed he was either lazy or that he considered physical toil beneath him.  Ivaan never corrected either assumption.

On January 6, 1993, Ivaan helped me carry a small kitchen stove up two flights of stairs one morning before he went to church.  Half way through the church service, he had his first heart attack.  He got up and walked out of church, ignoring the disapproving glances of fellow parishioners, crossed the street and walked into the hospital.  The Cardiology team later told us that if he'd arrived five minutes later, he would have been horizontal...on a slab.

Ivaan's family kept this piece of blue gingham cloth as a sort of talisman that would keep him from harm.  I keep it in his top left dresser drawer.  If you're ever at my house and fire breaks out, please save Ivaan's "blanket", because I treasure it.

TYPEWRITING & SCREAMING

Ivaan, who was so dextrous and whose art required such exquisite hand-eye coordination, was completely unable to fathom typewriting.  He was never able to understand how someone could type without watching their fingers, or while having a conversation, or while reading or listening to someone dictating.   He hated having someone talk to him while he worked, and preferred to work with no one in the room.  Even if they were paying no attention to what he was doing, their presence made him uncomfortable. Ivaan was happiest when he was working alone.

In the 1980s, I was a court reporter.   In those days, court reporting was a serious, slightly glamorous profession, with skills that were hard to acquire and credentials that were highly sought after.   Court proceedings were taken down in a type of shorthand that was developed especially for the fast pace of a courtroom, and subsequently transcribed as needed into typewritten form.   Being able to type quickly and accurately was essential; a substantial part of our income was derived from transcript production.  Being in court all day meant spending many evenings typing transcript.  It also meant being habituated to working in a high-stress environment, surrounded by people and noise.  Ivaan would watch me transcribing my shorthand notes on a typewriter and every so often his anxiety would build up to such a fever pitch that he'd scream, "I can't stand it! I can't believe you can do that!"

What he meant was that he couldn't fathom working when his eyes and his hands weren't both aligned in the same direction.    He'd watch me play piano and marvel that the musical notes on the page in front of me translated into the keys on the piano, but it wouldn't make him scream, because my eyes and hands were focused on a common task.

I bought this typewriter the other day.  It's over 80 years old and it still works perfectly.  It's almost identical to the typewriter on which I first learned to type back in 1977.  Since buying the typewriter, I've been thinking of other things I did that made Ivaan scream. Knitting made him scream. Making pie crust made him scream.  Flying an airplane made him scream.   So did threading a sewing machine or operating a treadle sewing machine.

Since I bought this typewriter, I've found myself several times, sitting at my desk and typing away on it, not even looking at what I'm doing, and I realize I'm waiting to hear Ivaan scream.

I miss Ivaan's screams.

SEPARATED AT BIRTH FINALE: IT'S AN OPAL!

I would not have predicted this.  Yesterday I took the Separated At Birth ring to Ivaan's former partner, Tamas.  He is very knowledgeable about gemstones. Tamas took one look at this stone and said, "It's an opal".  I've never seen an opal with a rugged surface like this before, but he says it's a good one.  So some lucky person who was probably born in October and wears a size 7 ring is going to be very happy.  Ivaan was born in October, so opal was his birthstone.

Today is our 16th wedding anniversary, so it's an auspicious day for me to have completed the Separated At Birth ring.    I hope it ends up on the finger of someone who loves it as much for its history as for its beauty.

Happy Anniversary, Ivaan.