The Story

(Abridged)

My paternal grandparents, Jewish refugees from Western Europe, would often greet us kids on the sun-drenched steps outside their home in Montreal. Once ushered into the cool, twilit interior, we'd pass menacing themes, rendered in dark etchings, haunting ancient frames along the walls. Soon safely ensconced in the musty study, we were free to browse any book in their library --boasting an eclectic collection of rare titles, religious texts, art books, and pulp novels. Not having yet mastered much English, we typically went for the picture books. A massive volume of Ronald Searle's illustrations was a favourite, even as i struggled to make sense of the macabre sketches he produced while imprisoned in a POW camp, vulgar celebrations of sex and wanton violence, and blistering rebukes of consumerism. Searle was a master of finding the darkest humour in the absurd, his line quality reflecting the thorny moral landscape of life on Earth.

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It was also there that I first encountered the ex libris. The first I'd ever seen was a product of my old man's, a gifted draftsman and engineer, and was intended for his father, whom he held in great esteem. The ex libris featured Prometheus astride his ethereal chariot, bringing the light of knowledge to all of humankind, the constellation of Cassiopeia behind him --Cassiopeia, renowned for her vanity. Below was a lotus, symbol of strength and rebirth. All of which neatly summed up the formidable patriarch whom I would eventually come to know, more or less accurately. For my father to have seemingly published a drawing that made reference to someone I personally knew-- in an actual book -- was nothing short of mind-blowing.

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My mind has never recovered.​

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