Blues for Hubes

A canto, in memory of Hubert O'Hearn.

A spontaneous improvisation, not unlike a conversation with Hubert: casual, meandering, tongue-in-cheek. Happy, but with a mist of melancholy.

Press play and read on...

Hubert was poised to give his support to my blues project; but, as we creators who knew him know well, he didn't "support" his friends the way most people do, with a Like on Facebook and maybe a one-in-ten chance of buying the finished product. No, he championed the creators he believed in, throwing the weight of his critical voice and substance of his publishing platforms behind their projects and using his literary voice to make sure the world knew and appreciated what his friends were up to.

Hubert O’Hearn was one of my creative mentors. I was never brave enough to do the things he did; throwing caution to the wind and expatriating myself to more authorly climes as he did. But he was always encouraging with my writing, always willing to hand over a quip or turn of phrase. He imbued in me the desire to never write a bad review; a desire which, to this day, I struggle with. There’s so much bad stuff out there to bitch about. But his view; which should be all of our view; was that there was no point in telling people what to avoid or why it was bad. Better, he believed, to point them to things that are good. I was reminded of that this week, in some of our old correspondence, and I think that’s how I’m going to be from now on.

You could model your writing on his, but he never wanted you to sound like him. “Only ever sound like yourself,” he said, “just, you know, the smarter, more literate version. And throw in a little profanity now and then to keep them clutching their pearls for your next piece.”

He was referring to our readers of The Chronicle-Journal in Thunder Bay, of course.

You could be forgiven for thinking the tone of his writing pretentious. But if you ever got into a really good conversation with him, you’d know that it was actually fully sincere. He talked that way. And you knew that if you could read it in his voice -- the way modern memists are wont to do with Morgan Freeman -- you could capture the truth of what was there. It wasn’t pretentious. It was laughing. It was underscored with irony. He would wax prosaic about professional wrestling and strippers as though he were dissecting Hemingway, and he knew that while he was dead serious about the value of his subjects, it was unquestionably funny. Funny, not that it was silly, but funny that he could write about it that way. It was, in his way, subversive; a subtle rebellion against mainstream conservative (small “c”) criticism that only wanted to dabble in its own self-importance.

Hubert was never self-important.

I met Hubert the first time a lot of years ago -- something like twenty-ish. The actual date is stuffed in a box in my basement somewhere, with a programme and a cast photo. Off the top of my head there’s also Marina Konrad, Val Midgely, Olga Landiak...the director was a bit of a brat. We were doing a play for Moonlight Melodrama, and I had the pleasure of turning that cast (and a couple of talented singers) into vocalists. It was a melodrama, of course, and Hubert was the villain. In fact, his own song in the play was literally titled “I’m a Villain,” just in case the black top hat and curly mustache left any doubt. He was a terrible singer, or at least terribly shy about singing. And so we made the decision that his big number ought to be a blend of Snidely Whiplash as played by Rex Harrison. And not only did it work, it was arguably the best thing about his part. He took the weakness he felt he had and turned it into his character’s signature trait.

Some years later (about nine years ago now), I asked him to do an interview for the “Men We Admire” section of a blog I was running. He obliged, but in typical Hubertian fashion tossed out my questions and simply wrote an autobiographical. The blog is set to disappear soon, so I’ve reproduced the article here: https://woodsnstrings.blogspot.com/2020/02/men-we-admire-hubert-ohearn.html 

He revelled in working with amateurs, because; as he rightly said; the very word "amateur" means someone who loves a thing. And who better to coach, direct, mentor, or just work with than someone who loves the thing they’re doing?

Hubert loved the thing he did, but he was no amateur. He was living his life, divinely guided by whatever inspiration pushed him there. Cottage. Dog. Mossy rocks and grassy hills. Writing at will and soaking it all in. I will admit that when he first left Canada for the UK, Canada suddenly felt a little less Canadian; and the prospect of having him home again, even though we would be living in different parts of the vastness of Ontario, meant Canada had a hope of being that same Canada once more. So it’s sad, personally, professionally, but also culturally, that we’ve lost someone who touched so many lives in his unique way of doing so. The world is just a little bit smaller, with just a little bit less wit and wonder in it, for his passing.

So it’s to us who knew him; many, I’m sure, better than I knew him; to take the things we’ve learned from Hubert: about writing, about kindness, about directing people to what’s good, about holding power to account, about subversive humour, about living on purpose, about the value of a good dog, or at least a few very good friends; and carry those into the world. We may not be able to stamp out darkness with the fury of our indignation. But we can certainly shine a light where it’s needed in the lives of those around us, create good works that mean something, and encourage talent to always be “amateur” and love the things they’re doing.

I always thought I could be a professional writer. I’ve also always been a musician. And for some reason I think I’ve always had that fear that underpins a lot of the more adventurous things we face when staring down the barrel of our choices, and never fully -- I mean really fully -- committed to either. Hubert was in his writing, waist deep, eat and sleep, and chased down what he could with everything he had until he did it.

He did it.

It would be remiss of me; negligent, even; to ignore the lessons Hubert taught. He lived those lessons. So will I. It’s the least I can do.

Be a writer, that is. And play a little blues.

Peace, love and hugs.

Be seeing you.