famous sons

Leaning back in the tub of the Yorkville hotel that closes the loop of my Canada road trip, in a bathroom that's only slightly smaller than my London apartment, I relax to the tunes of Bach that quickly sooth me into a state of semianimation. Appropriately, Glenn Gould, this most unconventional pianist that drives thick layers of musical brilliance from my iPod, was from Toronto, was in fact the city's most famous citizen.

Today, a music school, a recording studio and a foundation bear his name, but there's precious little to satisfy a musical pilgrim or even as casually devoted tourist. Gould Street is so short is doesn't even require an East/West specifier, and there's is nothing on it to explain the name. There is no plaque full of history, and the only statue on its sides is of the founder of Ryerson University, an institution of muted prestige whose campus extends north and south of the street.

To the befuddlement of my cotravelers, I kept returning to the street in search of some evidence of its namesake. I kept crossing the street looking at every exposed wall and into every alley, I searched out nooks and concealed recesses to find some evidence of acknowledgment. It was in vain. There was nothing.

Only today did I learn about the park bench outside the CSB recording studios, but the incessant and incredibly violent rain kept me from going there and checking things out, and maybe even having my photo taken with the metal man. I'm left with his music and the realization that a little bit of preparation would have gone a long way.

Another famous artist who has gone unacknowledged for too long has recently made a splash. Banksy is a graffiti virtuoso of carefully guarded identity of whom not much more is know than his youth in Bristol. Ever since honing his skills with the spray can, he has been putting his ironic stenciled images on every possible wall from Bristol to London to Palestine and back.

Like every serious sprayer's, his works are frequently painted over or scraped off walls by concerned authorities. Bristol led the way. Up to a year ago, not a single Banksy could be found within the city limits. Then came the in-your-face mural at a sexual health clinic, which somehow changed the city's minds. A month ago, out of nowhere, Banksy was given the keys to Bristol Museum and told to do as he pleased. The result has caused a mad frenzy, a gold rush to tickets more spirited than the museum seems to be able to handle. I'm not a fan of crowds, but I'll make the trip anyway, sometime in August before the show ends. I wouldn't want to miss another artist I admire.