A few weeks ago, I went to Nuit Blanche in Toronto.
I wasn't disappointed.
The best art show: fake trees that shoot fire when you touch them at a specific area (like the trunk, the branches, etc).
Why do I love Nuit Blanche so much? I honestly can't explain it. The city is alive at three, four, five in the morning. People wander about, yawning, on the cold streets, as people draw or paint with insomniac-like energy. Maybe I love feeling alive, walking around in the early hours of the morning, watching people give way to their artistic drives.
I know Toronto isn't like this every day, but I fell in love with Toronto that night. It made me think of Woody Allen's film "Midnight in Paris". We love to fall in love, to be enamoured with, a memory, an ideal, an image.
That night, I fell in love with Toronto, with art, with the beauty of youth. Yes, it's an ideal... and yet perhaps it's vital. If we couldn't believe in certain "illusions", how would we survive? Or, should I say, how would romantics like me survive? No idea.
