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Found 14 results

  1. Launch of a love affair Ratings for Lévesque’s TV program sometimes hit an amazing 100 per cent by Daniel Poliquin on Thursday, September 24, 2009 10:20am - 0 Comments macleans.ca By the mid-1950s, Quebecers, like most other Canadians, had fallen in love with television. So overwhelming was the coup de foudre that although in some regions near the U.S. border only American broadcasts would come in, unilingual French Quebecers lapped it up anyway. Kids could be seen in the streets of small towns re-enacting their favourite show, The Adventures of Kit Carson, speaking in a made-up mumbo-jumbo language they believed was English. That was how it sounded to them anyway. Four out of five households in the province had a television set. And when the French-speaking people of Canada were all able to view locally made, francophone productions, they became a tight-knit virtual family, discussing at length the ending of the last sitcom or drama millions of others had watched, adopting as their own actors and actresses they had grown fond of, or, conversely, expressing unanimous hate for TV villains like Séraphin, the miser in the seemingly endless Les Belles Histoires des Pays d’En-Haut, which everybody watched. For good reason, too: there was only one French-language TV station; Radio-Canada’s monopoly ensured that all, and I mean all, francophones growing up in Quebec in the 1950s and 1960s shared a single TV culture. Lévesque was a regular commentator on current events programs, but he was mainly heard on the radio—until someone at Radio-Canada had the good sense to give him his own television show in October 1957. Here begins the legend of René Lévesque. The show was called Point de mire (Focal Point) and it was a 30-minute live broadcast first airing on Sundays at 11:15 p.m., and later, due to the show’s growing popularity, on Tuesdays at 10:30 p.m. For many, it was another coup de foudre. Here was this little man with the funny voice, equipped with a blackboard, a pointer, and maps, explaining the outside world to French-speaking Canadians, talking very fast but using only intelligible words. Let me paraphrase him: “Good evening. Thank you for joining me. Tonight, we are off to the Suez. It’s in Egypt, the land of the pharaohs that became mummies, you know, the land of the pyramids and the Sphinx. Here on the map is a canal, called Suez, built by French and British engineers in the last century. You can see here that it links up the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. So a very important route for international trade, because, thanks to the canal, ships stopped having to go all around the African continent to take their goods to the Orient, or the other way around. See?” (He would circle Africa with his pointer.) “Without Suez, the cup of tea from India you just had would cost you more because it would have to travel much farther. You follow me? Now, the Egyptians no longer have pharaohs. Egypt is now a republic, led by a man they call the Raïs—which means ‘president’ in Arabic—a man by the name of Nasser. So . . .” And on he would go. For many Quebecers with little schooling, Point de mire became their first window on the world. Not everybody watched, but those who did were enthralled, especially news junkies and all those hungry for knowledge. And in Duplessis’ Quebec, there were a lot of them. Thanks to the Radio-Canada monopoly, Lévesque’s ratings sometimes reached 100 per cent: a dream for any broadcaster and now an impossible feat, even on a day such as Sept. 11, 2001. To take the helm of Point de mire, Lévesque had had to give up his comfortable job as a broadcaster, with the guaranteed income, pension, and other benefits. But he was now earning $20,000 a year—more than any cabinet minister, provincial or federal. The real payoff, however, was instant celebrity. René Lévesque was now the star journalist who could explain the school desegregation in Little Rock, Ark.; the violent decolonization of Algeria; or the partition of Berlin and Cyprus. He could not walk the streets of Quebec without being accosted by adoring fans who would stop him to shake his hand and thank him. And he was more than loved; he was respected. In the words of novelist and social commentator Jacques Godbout, Lévesque was Quebec’s “first lay teacher.” Of course, the viewers did not see the man who never read his fan mail and never returned phone calls. Undisciplined but hard-working, incessantly feasting on magazines and newspapers in his smoke-filled office or at McGill’s nearby library to prepare for his weekly rendezvous with live television. Stressed out, as we would say today, but always focused. The badly dressed and unsuspected Lothario with doubtful hygiene who ate, talked, and smoked all at once, leaving a mess behind him all the time, driving like a madman in the streets in Montreal. Famous for his all-night poker playing, his chain-smoking; fond of sleeping late and seldom on time for appointments. Never at home, never where he was supposed to be. It was as though he was living three lives at the same time. During those years that he met Pierre Trudeau. The meeting took place in the Radio-Canada cafeteria, where artists and journalists congregated between assignments to talk and reshape the world in keeping with the fantasies and ideals in vogue. Trudeau was then a law professor and sometime TV commentator known for his scathing wit and erudition. He was well travelled, one of the few men in Canada who had visited China and reported on it. His Cité Libre was one of the very rare publications that dared to criticize Duplessis and public policy. Its circulation was of confidential proportions, but it was influential within the small, thinking elite of the era. The person who introduced them was journalist Gérard Pelletier, who was a friend of both Trudeau and Lévesque. For once, as Pelletier said later, Lévesque was not running, slowed down by the overflowing cup of coffee in his one hand and the stack of newspapers under his other arm. Pelletier motioned to him to come and sit down with him and the slightly balding man with the piercing blue eyes. He had wanted the two to meet for a long time. For the occasion, Trudeau put on his best snotty-nosed behaviour, complete with the French mid-Atlantic accent he had acquired at Montreal’s Jesuit-run Brébeuf College. Lévesque played the nonchalant TV star. This is how Pelletier remembers their conversation. I’ve added what I imagine must have been their internal dialogue in square brackets. Trudeau: Ah, the famous René Lévesque! How do you do? [Your Point de mire celebrity does not impress me at all, you should know that.] You speak well, sir, very well, but tell me something: can you write, too? Lévesque: Yes, but you know, writing takes time . . . [Don’t even think for a minute I would waste a second reading your Cité Libre . . .] Trudeau: Yes, you are right. You need time, and you also need to have ideas of your own, things to say, you know . . . [Watch out, buddy, I bite too.] The two were chalk and cheese from the get-go. They would meet again. From Extraordinary Canadians: René Lévesque by Daniel Poliquin. Copyright © Daniel Poliquin, 2009. Reprinted with permission of Penguin Group (Canada).
  2. 28 Janvier 2008 1600 René Lévesque Ouest-Standard Life
  3. Localisation: René Lévesque (intersection Amherst et Wolfe) Étage: 6 Nombre d'appartement: Prometteur: Groupe Cartierville Clientèle: Référence: La Presse 14 nov 2009 Pas de photo disponible
  4. Localisation: 1174 rue de Champlain (intersection René Lévesque) Étage: 5 Nombre d'appartement: 47 Prometteur: Groupe CDH Clientèle: Artistes membres de milieu de la culture Référence: La Presse 14 nov. 2010
  5. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/12/us/blighted-cities-prefer-razing-to-rebuilding.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20131112&_r=0 Absolutely fascinating article in the New York Times abut the demolition of inner city areas throughout the States. The figures for population exodus are staggering. It reminds me of Drapeau`s slum clearance programme here. . What is it now? 50 years later? And we still have great swaths of abandoned land along Rene Levesque ouest. Our urban challenges seem fairly minor compared to some.
  6. Villains from the The Fantastic Mr. Fox movie that is now in theaters. Courtesy of coolopolis. http://coolopolis.blogspot.com/2009/12/new-major-motion-picture-features.html
  7. via the New Yorker : FEBRUARY 28, 2015 Leonard Cohen’s Montreal BY BERNARD AVISHAI PHOTOGRAPH BY ROB VERHORST/REDFERNS VIA GETTY Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”—a hymn to souls too carnal to grow old, too secular to give praise, and too baffled to mock faith—recently turned thirty. Cohen himself, now eighty, came of age in Jewish Montreal during the twenty years after the Second World War, and those of us who followed him, a half-generation later, can’t hear the song without also thinking about that time and place, which qualifies as an era. The devotional—and deftly sacrilegious—quality of “Hallelujah” and other songs and poems by Cohen reflects a city of clashing and bonding religious communities, especially first-generation Jews and French Catholics. Montreal’s politics in the early sixties were energized by what came to be called Quebec’s Quiet Revolution, which emancipated the city’s bicultural intelligentsia from Church and Anglostocracy. The pace of transformation could make the place half crazy; that’s why you wanted to be there. Religious thoughts seemed to be the gravest ones in Montreal then, insinuated, even inculcated, by its architecture, seasonal festivals, and colloquialisms. Cohen grew up in affluent Westmount, the best part of Mount Royal, about a mile from my family home in Snowdon—a neighborhood on a lower Western slope, where “the English” (as my mother called them) had no choice but to make room for Jewish factory owners, lawyers, and doctors. Towering over both our neighborhoods, impressing itself on our senses, was the dome of St. Joseph’s Oratory, Quebec’s great basilica, the dream palace of (the now canonized) Brother André Bessette, who healed the body and spirit of pilgrims—the place we simply called the Shrine. A. M. Klein, the first of the Montreal Jewish poets, wrote, “How rich, how plumped with blessing is that dome! / The gourd of Brother André! His sweet days / rounded! Fulfilled! Honeyed to honeycomb!” Its neon-illuminated cross was visible from my bedroom window, an imposing rival for the whispered Shma Yisroel of bedtime. The city’s ironwork staircases, its streets tangled around Mount Royal, carried the names of uncountable saints (St. Denis, St. Eustache, St. Laurent); the fall air was scented by rotting leaves and, on Rosh Hashana, polished synagogues. Fresh snow sharpened Christmas lights. Our curses, borrowed from Québécois proles, were affectionately sacrilegious mocks of the Mass: “calice,” “tabarnak,” “osti”—chalice, tabernacle, host. For Jews, a sense of rivalry was palpable, triangular, and almost Old Country in character. French public schools were run by the Catholic Church, English schools by the Protestant School Board, and some fifty per cent of Jewish students went to Anglo-Jewish day schools that embraced (and effaced) Old World movements: Orthodox, Zionist, folkish Yiddishist. Montreal’s Jews numbered well over a hundred and twenty thousand in those years. A great many men and women behind the counters of our bakeries, delis, and bookstores spoke (as did my father) the Yiddish-inflected English of immigrants who had come in the twenties. The Soviet revolution had changed the boundaries of Russia’s borderlands, closing Russian markets that had previously been open to Jewish merchants and textile manufacturers in Lithuania and White Russia (now Eastern Belarus), forcing them West—just when the Johnson-Reed Act of 1924 closed America to more Jewish immigration. My father and his widowed mother and siblings were trying, in 1928, to get from Bialystok to Chicago, where an uncle lived. The port of Montreal was supposed to be their starting point, before heading down to the Great Lakes. It was where they stayed. (If the accents were heavier, you knew the new arrivals had come mainly from Romania or Hungary after the Nazi defeat, and had witnessed horrors that we did not speak about.) Jewish community life after the war was imbued with a sense of intensely felt tragedy, but so was traditional Judaism as a culture. The world of Yiddishkeit, three generations back for New York intellectuals, was just one generation back for us. Compared with “Dick and Jane” in our English readers, the characters of the Hebrew bible—their violence, jealousies, and treacheries—seemed like family. On a streetcar ride up Queen Mary Road, where the Shrine stood, a nun once told me that I had “the look of Abraham” on my face. Another, apparently reading my mind, asked me if I knew what it meant to have sinful thoughts. (She also kindly shared an amusing word game, so her Inquisition ended with grace.) The largest English talk-radio station had a call-in show on Sunday evenings on which the vexingly courteous Pentecostal Pastor Johnson explained why Jews, in rejecting Jesus, were sadly damned. Most of his callers were Jews who debated and denounced him. Unlike in the United States, Jews in Quebec did not have a neutral civil space to melt into. We had nothing as stipulated as the American Constitution; our liberties derived organically, within the tradition of British Common Law. Canada’s money had a Queen on it, not the founding fathers. The institutions of Jewish Montreal created places in which we fell back on ourselves. The heads of our welfare services and of the Y.M.H.A., the public library, the free-loan society, and political congresses were local celebrities. The family of the liquor baron Sam Bronfman, who supported these institutions, were our nobility. The progressives among us didn’t go to Reform synagogues; we just went to Orthodox and Conservative synagogues, and irregularly. If we got sick, we went to the Jewish General Hospital. My father, a Zionist leader who travelled to Israel in 1954 as if on the hajj, often admonished me with the famous aphorism of Moses Mendelssohn, the eighteenth-century liberal philosopher, that I should be a Jew at home and a human in the street. I understood Mendelssohn more readily than, say, Leonard Bernstein, who, teaching us sonata form on television, seemed human pretty much everywhere. Tolerance meant dialogue and reciprocal recognition, not assimilation. A few years ago, I walked through Bialystok with a historical map of the now destroyed Jewish city—before the First World War, Jews comprised about half the population—and found my father’s house. I was struck by how familiar Montreal’s large immigrant Jewish neighborhoods might have seemed, at least on the surface, to my father in 1928, when he arrived at the age of fourteen: the same hard winter and the same thick-walled constructions, the same forested hills, the same churches, the same easy insular Yiddish dominating commerce in textiles and clothing—the shmate (“rag”) business. The same farmers who had, a couple of generations back, been peasants, speaking a strange national language, working in our factories, speaking against us from hearths and pulpits yet greeting us warmly and with a practiced humility. The same sense that, by contrast, the propertied classes, our local nobility, would tolerate Jews so long as we helped them get richer but did not cross some invisible boundary—the presumably unavailable daughters. In his iconic Canadian novel, “Two Solitudes,” Hugh MacLennan describes Quebec as being defined by two competing cultures, nested in two little nations that were also classes, French and English. The gruff, brilliant, promiscuous Irving Layton—who had been an acolyte of Klein, and who became Cohen’s mentor and advocate—observed many years later that Montreal actually had three solitudes—a Jewish one, too, sitting somewhere between the others. Commercial life was English, so Jews as a community were drawn to the Anglophone world, narrow only in Quebec. Yet immigrant Jews engaged more poignantly, pushing and pulling, with French religious culture, which was locally engulfing. Catholic priests and nuns were ubiquitous public servants, tending to the French population, largely subsidized by provincial taxes and dominating Quebec’s French universities, hospitals, and social agencies, as well as the public schools. Cardinal Paul-Émile Léger, installed in 1953, was a kindly man, concerned for the poor, who ended his days as an African missionary (“a mensch,” my father called him), and the equal of any mayor; he kept anyone under sixteen from entering a movie theatre, except when Walt Disney films made the rounds. In the thirties and forties, the Church in Quebec had been ultramontane, and the not silent partner of the reactionary National Union Party of Premier Maurice Duplessis, who ruled, with a five year interruption, from 1936 until his death, in 1959. He had been xenophobic, populist, ambivalent about the war against Hitler, and classically (if discreetly) anti-Semitic. Behind the scenes, this political establishment instructed French voters, many of whom lived in far-flung farming villages where parish schooling was limited. They were barely literate and easily swayed. Duplessis presided over an apparently impregnable majority, rallied against sinful Montreal—Cardinal Léger sought to ban bingo—and used the provincial police thuggishly, turning it into a personal force. But the war and its aftermath gradually put the Catholic Church on the defensive. The exposure of Québécois soldiers to the triumph over Fascism, the penetration into the countryside of radio and television, the inescapable guilt that Catholic intellectuals felt about the death camps, the Second Vatican Council in 1962—all of these unleashed dissent. The Church’s chief critics were dazzling, cosmopolitan French Canadian intellectuals: Jean Marchand, the charismatic, leftist union leader; Gérard Pelletier and Pierre Elliott Trudeau, the editors of Cité Libre magazine (Trudeau would eventually lead the federal Liberals to victory in 1968); and René Lévesque, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s most famous French-language host. When, in the 1960* election, the Liberal Party came to power (Lévesque joined the Liberal’s cabinet as the resources minister), the priests and nuns began losing their grip on the city’s schools and social services, and Quebec entered the humanist insurgency of the Quiet Revolution. The arts began to flourish: the Comédie-Canadienne blossomed, and the filmmaker Denys Arcand joined the National Film Board, producing award-winning French-language documentaries. The University of Montreal and community colleges were infused with provincial funds, and their graduates took social-service jobs in a new, fiercely secular Quebec bureaucracy. Public schools, still divided by language, were taken over more firmly, and funded more lavishly, by the regional government (though the formally “confessional” nomenclature—Catholic and Protestant—was not finally abandoned until 1998). By the spring of 1963, the Quebec government had nationalized old English-owned power companies, disturbing the peace of the residual Anglostocracy. In this loosened political atmosphere, Jews—who voted “Liberal” as faithfully as we conducted Seders—emerged into the culture. We grew infatuated with Trudeau’s federalist idealism. He was elected from a largely Jewish Montreal constituency and remained there throughout his years as Prime Minister. The Quiet Revolution transformed Montreal, at least for a while, into a kind of Andalusia: contesting religious-linguistic cultures rubbing each other the right way. Jews shared professional and literary ties with les Anglais, but we shared an affinity with French Catholics, for religious traditions that were thickly esthetic and that we, each in our own way, both loved and loved to distance ourselves from. We also intuitively understood congregational routine, authoritative interpretation of sacred literature, the prestige of historical continuity—we understood that messiahs matter in this world, that the divine emerged within the precincts of a discipline, commandments, and the mass, all of which produced decorum before they produced grace. As Cohen writes in “Hallelujah,” you cannot feel so you learn to touch: works, not just faith alone. Our rivalry with Catholics at times seemed fuelled by an unacknowledged tenderness, theirs for our historical struggles, professional erudition, and exegetical trenchancy, ours for their majestic spaces, genuflecting hockey champions, and forgiving, suffering servant—a Jew, after all. “I love Jesus,” Cohen told his biographer, Sylvie Simmons. “Always did.” But, he said, “I didn’t stand up in shul and say, ‘I love Jesus.’ ” My mother—the amiably innocent scion of another Bialystoker family—took me, overdressed (oisgeputzt), to Eaton’s department store to see the Christmas pageantry; and then, more reverentially (and to my father’s dismay), she took me to the Shrine’s wax museum, to see depictions of the passions of the saints. When I first heard a recording of Judy Collins’s iconic rendition of Cohen’s “Suzanne,” at McGill in the fall of 1967, a year after my mother’s sudden death—heard about the lonely wooden tower and its occupant searching out the drowning—it occurred to me that I had never expected much empathy from the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. It also occurred to me that Cohen, whose father had died when he was nine, knew loss, and that the distance from mama’s boy to ladies’ man could be short. Which brings me, finally, to McGill. If our emancipation was not in civil society, it was on that campus. The university had been chartered in 1821 to provide English and Scottish Protestants a colonial piece of the Enlightenment, above the atavism of habitant manors and parishes; the student population at the Arts and Sciences Faculty, in the mid-sixties, was something like forty-per-cent Jewish. Cohen was a legend by the time I got there. He had graduated in 1955, and had published three books of poetry and two novels; the National Film Board had made a fawning documentary about him. It was at McGill that Cohen found Irving Layton (he said of Layton, “I taught him how to dress, he taught me how to live forever”). Klein, Layton’s teacher, had been there in the thirties, studied law, and went on to simultaneously write “The Rocking Chair,” a poetic tribute to French Canada, and edit The Canadian Jewish Chronicle. (Secretly, he also wrote speeches for Sam Bronfman). By the time Cohen got to McGill, Klein had fallen silent, spiralling into, among other sources of melancholy, a never-completed exegesis of Joyce’s “Ulysses.” For our part, we found at McGill a kind of finishing school to make ourselves more sovereign, like Cohen was. There was no need for young Jews to offer Quebec some new model of political insurrection—no American-style howl. The restrained, verbose liberalism of John Stuart Mill seemed insurgent enough, even for Trudeau and Levesque. So was the tolerance—the scientific doubt—of the Scottish enlightenment and the lyricism of English and Irish poets, from Wordsworth to Yeats. Hemmed in by Jewish and Catholic sexual norms—and also by Victorian prissiness—the first right that we thought to exercise was the right to Eros. Cohen told Sylvie Simmons that he was first inspired to write poetry when, in his teens, he read, in English translation, the work of the Spaniard Federico García Lorca. But, like many other Jewish youths at McGill, he shuttled between the debating union and the traditions of the English, immersing himself in the study of liberty and literature as in a yeshiva. This open-spirited time of cross-fertilization did not last. The Quiet Revolution, which prompted Trudeau’s federalism, in time gave rise to a more stridently nationalist idea, encouraged by Charles de Gaulle on his trip to the 1967 World’s Fair, and soon championed by Lévesque, too: that Quebec would be better off as an independent country, maîtres chez nous (masters of our own). Spooked by the vitality of English culture in Montreal, and by the fact that many more French were learning English than the other way around, separatists began agitating for an end to English-language education for new immigrants and English signs in the city. Socialists among the separatists, recalling Lévesque’s nationalization of the power companies, began calling for the nationalization of banks and large businesses. At the beginning of the sixties, radical separatists—impatient with the Liberals’ nonviolent democratic methods—had formed the Front de Libération du Québec, or F.L.Q., and gone underground. By the end of the sixties, they had placed bombs in the stock exchange and in mailboxes in English neighborhoods. In 1970, after a spate of F.L.Q. kidnappings (a Quebec minister, Pierre Laporte, was murdered), Trudeau imposed martial law. The city was roiled by arrests; a friend at McGill known for his New Left sympathies saw his flat raided; the police confiscated books, including, he laughed nervously, one entitled “Cubism”. Lévesque despised the violence of the underground, but was undeterred in his commitment to pursue national sovereignty democratically, ultimately through a referendum. In 1968, he had founded Le Parti Québécois. Jews, like most English-speaking residents of Quebec, were shocked when Lévesque was unexpectedly elected Premier in 1976. This proved the cue. Tens of thousands moved to Toronto. Some Jewish intellectuals, professionals, and artists stayed, but most left, and the amity of the sixties dimmed. Cohen kept a house in Montreal, but as his fame as a songwriter grew he spent little time there. Nevertheless, something of his native Montreal could not be shaken off—the short, sweet tradition of which Cohen was, in a sense, the end. In his 1978 poem “The Death of a Ladies’ Man,” Cohen writes of a lover’s “high religious mood” brought low by the dangers of desire: “She beckoned to the sentry / of his high religious mood. / She said, ‘I’ll make a space between my legs, / I’ll teach you solitude.’ ” You hear the resonances of Cohen’s own religious mood, and Montreal’s, in the lyrics of many songs—“Sisters of Mercy,” “Story of Isaac,” “Who by Fire,” “If It Be Your Will”—culminating, perhaps, with “Hallelujah.” The resonances and the losses are even clearer, I think, when you go to the start of the tradition—roughly, Klein to Layton to Cohen—rather than hear only its end. Klein’s 1947 poem “The Cripples,” about French Catholic worshippers at St. Joseph’s Oratory, which I quoted from earlier, reaches this climax: They know, they know, that suddenly their cares and orthopedics will fall from them, and they stand whole again. Roll empty away, wheelchairs, and crutches, without armpits, hop away! And I who in my own faith once had faith like this, but have not now, am crippled more than they. There you have it: a freethinking Montreal Jew, in whose bones the Torah was bred, inventing precise English lines to express envy for French Catholic piety. “Anything beautiful is not your own,” Cohen told a Jewish student newspaper in 1966. “When I write, I place myself in contact with something much more glorious than anything I can pull up from within myself.” Poetry was unlocked by reverence. But reverence might, ironically, embolden the poet to cross boundaries, to perhaps court one of those beautiful Westmount girls. And if you did, if you touched the dew on her hem, you could throw your crutches away. *Correction: A previous version of this post misidentified the election year that the Liberal Party came to power.
  8. Ne sachant pas trop où mettre ça, on pourrait se faire un fil avec des choses vues dans les rues de Montréal. Je commence avec: il y a une mega grue géante sur la rue René levesque ce soir. Si quelqu'un pouvait aller prendre une photo ça serai cool Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
  9. Jacques Parizeau n’est plus La voix du ténor des indépendantistes québécois s’est éteinte. Jacques Parizeau avait fêté ses 84 ans le 9 août dernier. Éminence grise de plusieurs gouvernements à compter des années 1960, professeur d’économie, ministre des FINANCES sous René Lévesque, chef du Parti québécois de 1988 à 1995, maître d’oeuvre du référendum de 1995, il a profondément marqué sa société. C’est son épouse, Lisette Lapointe, qui a annoncé sur sa page Facebook la mort de celui qui aura été «l’homme de a vie». Le pilier POLITIQUE est parti «tout en douceur, entouré de plein d’amour», a-t-elle écrit sur le premier coup de minuit. «Après un combat titanesque, hospitalisé durant cinq mois, traversant les épreuves, les unes après les autres, avec un courage et une détermination hors du commun, il a dû rendre les armes ce soir, 1er juin, un peu avant 20 heures. Nous sommes dévastés. Nous l’aimons et l’aimerons toujours.» Sa mort bouleverse bien sûr ceux qui voyaient en lui une sorte de phare solennel planté au milieu de la nuit de leurs rêves politiques, mais aussi ceux, nombreux, qui reconnaissaient en lui l’expression déterminée d’une vision sincère et originale du Québec. Habitué des complets trois-pièces et d’un maintien quelque peu aristocratique, celui qu’on appellera «Monsieur» est diplômé des Hautes-Études commerciales où l’économiste François-Albert Angers l’encourage à poursuivre ses études en Angleterre. Élu le 15 novembre 1976, il devient ministre des FINANCES du gouvernement de René Lévesque. Il reviendra enseigner dans son alma mater de 1985 à 1989, moment où il fait un pas de côté pour mieux pouvoir sauter à nouveau dans l’arène politique. En parallèle, il est un conseiller de première importance en matière économique dans l’appareil d’État qui se met en place au tournant des années 1960. Il est un de ceux qui jettent les bases de la Société générale de financement (1962) et de la Caisse de dépôt et placement du Québec (1965). Il va aussi suggérer une stratégie économique afin de faciliter la nationalisation des ressources hydro-électriques. On le trouve aussi mêlé à plusieurs réflexions qui donnent des outils à l’État pour valoriser les capacités de ses CITOYENS. Indépendantiste Ministre clé du cabinet de René Lévesque, il démissionne avec fracas du cabinet du gouvernement du Parti québécois le 22 novembre 1984, puis comme député cinq jours plus tard. Même s’il conservera toujours beaucoup d’affection pour René Lévesque, il ne tolère pas le virage que celui-ci affiche désormais en faveur du fédéralisme renouvelé, favorisé par l’arrivée au pouvoir des conservateurs de Brian Mulroney, aiguillé alors en cette matière par Lucien Bouchard. Chef du Parti québécois à compter de 1988, il tend la main à Robert Bourassa au moment de la crise qui entoure l’accord du lac Meech et accepte de participer aux travaux de la commission Bélanger-Campeau. L’appui à l’option indépendantiste atteint alors un sommet. Sa volonté de réaliser l’indépendance du Québec se montre résolue et déterminée. Le Parti québécois, répètera-t-il, est souverainiste avant, pendant et après les élections. Premier ministre À l’élection du 12 septembre 1994, il forme le NOUVEAU gouvernement majoritaire. Se met alors en place la stratégie référendaire. Chef du camp du «Oui», Jacques Parizeau convient néanmoins de s’effacer de l’avant-scène au profit d’interventions de Lucien Bouchard, chef du Bloc québécois, plus en phase avec la ferveur populaire du moment. Au soir du 30 octobre 1995, l’option du Oui passe bien près de l’emporter avec 49,42 % des suffrages exprimés. Ce sont 54 288 voix qui départagent les gagnants des perdants. Amer, visiblement ébranlé, Jacques Parizeau estime alors, dans un discours livré à chaud, que c’est le vote des minorités ethniques et l’argent qui ont fait perdre le référendum. «On a été battu, au fond, par quoi ? Par l’argent puis des votes ethniques, essentiellement.» Cette déclaration jugée malhabile fait tout de suite rougir les téléphones. Elle sera l’objet d’analyses multiples qui occupent une large place de l’espace médiatique dans les jours et les mois qui suivent la déconvenue référendaire. Cette sortie a sans doute accéléré la décision de Jacques Parizeau de quitter la POLITIQUE active, du moins dans des hautes fonctions, même s’il avait déjà annoncé son intention de ne pas rester en place pour gouverner une province. Critique Jacques Parizeau s’est fait particulièrement critique à l’égard du Parti québécois ces dernières années. Il va désapprouver notamment la politique d’une charte de la laïcité. Il soutiendra aussi ouvertement Option nationale, un jeune parti dirigé par Jean-Martin Aussant, sans pour autant renier son ancien parti. Jacques Parizeau ne cachera pas dès lors l’expression de sa profonde affection envers Jean-Martin Aussant dont il apprécie la fréquentation. En août 2014 à Montréal, à l’occasion d’un congrès de militants indépendantistes qui se veut neutre, il répètera que le Parti québécois n’a que lui à blâmer pour ses insuccès dont la cause tient à sa propension à cacher ses motivations. «À force de brouiller les CARTES, de toujours passer à côté et de cacher ce qui est l’objectif même du mouvement souverainiste, il ne faut pas s’étonner qu’à un moment donné, tout ça se dissout.» Jacques Parizeau aura su pour sa part demeurer fidèle à ses rêves avec une éclatante vigueur et une puissance de réflexion que TOUS lui reconnaissaient. http://www.ledevoir.com/politique/quebec/438678/1930-2015-jacques-parizeau-n-est-plus
  10. http://222levesque.com/ Situé dans le secteur Pont-Viau à Laval, le 222 Lévesque est une copropriété de 49 unités de style hôtel-boutique. À quelques minutes de Montréal, le 222 Lévesque ose par son style, sa personnalité, son architecture et son design. Il s’agit du seul projet à Pont-Viau à offrir une vue exceptionnelle sur la rivière des Prairies et le centre-ville de Montréal. Sans oublier que l’accès à Montréal est des plus facile grâce aux deux ponts (pont Viau et pont Papineau-Leblanc) et au nouveau métro Cartier situés à proximité. Le 222 propose un vaste choix d’unités de 700 à 1 346 pi ²
  11. As it was originally proposed in 1953 - so not exactly cancelled The 800 Rene Levesque was built 12 years later and a little narrower.
  12. Édit par Monctezuma : Voici une historique complète du projet, gracieuseté de Hildephonse: Été 1984 : Cadillac-Fairview projette d’inclure la salle de l’OSM dans un grand complexe multifonctionnel sur McGill College. Arcop dessine les plans ci-dessous. Le complexe chevauche la travée ouest prévue de la future avenue McGill College, ce qui crée de l’opposition. Juste après la guerre, l’urbaniste français Jacques Gréber avait proposé de conserver une large percée visuelle à cet endroit entre la montagne et le fleuve. Il y prévoyait deux places publiques dont l’une a été créée par les concepteurs de la place Ville-Marie. Le projet menace le concept et est contesté par les propriétaires voisins (qui ont respecté l’alignement proposé dans leurs nouveaux immeubles) autant que par les groupes de protection du patrimoine. Le projet sera annulé et l’avenue conservera son gabarit prévu de 36,5 mètres de largeur. 1984-12-05 : Drapeau annonce que le site Berri (maintenant la place Émilie-Gamelin) est à l’étude pour la salle de l’OSM. 1985-01-31 : On annonce une entente avec le promoteur Sofati, pour le site Berri. Arcop fait les plans de la salle (2600 places) alors que Jacques Béique s’occupe des équipements périphériques. (voir le rendu ci-dessous). Le projet comprend un parking souterrain de 600 places, une galerie de boutiques souterraine et l’école de musique de l’UQAM qui doit occuper trois étages au-dessus des locaux administratifs de l’OSM sur la face N-E du complexe. L’école doit aussi occuper une petite salle de 700 places côté ouest. Montréal aménagera un parc sur l’espace résiduel. Le maire Drapeau a réussi à convaincre le chef de l’OSM qui favorisait le site de Cadillac-Fairview. 1985-02-05 : Le choix est approuvé par le Conseil. Les analyses de sol sont faites en février. 1985-05-05 : René Lévesque confirme une subvention de 30 M $ pour la salle. 1985-07-11 : « “C’est bien ici que se trouve le centre-ville” lance Lévesque » Première pelletée de terre par René Lévesque et Jean Drapeau. Les plans ne sont pas terminés et le bail emphytéotique (99 ans de la Ville pour 1 $) n’est pas signé. Le projet est de 50 M $ dont 34 de fonds publics. La petite salle (800 places) est devenue optionnelle. 1985-08-19 : Les plans et devis préliminaires sont déposés. 1985-10-12 : Sofati s’impatiente car le temps presse : il faut 24 mois pour construire et la salle doit être prête pour la saison 1987-1988. Les plans et devis ne sont pas approuvés encore. Il y a des problèmes de négociations avec la STCUM, l’UQAM et les locataires du Métro Berri-UQAM. 1986-01-11 : « Tout est à peu près en place, mais… » titre La Presse, mais « rien n’indique que le [nouveau gouvernement libéral élu en décembre 1985] ait quelque intérêt que ce soit à stopper tout le processus engagé depuis deux ans. » 1986-01-19 : Le projet est plus ou moins mis en veilleuse. Les mois suivants, il sera jugé non prioritaire. 1986-01-24 : Le site d’Hydro-Québec face à Place des arts est proposé (St-Laurent, St-Urbain, Ste-Catherine, Dorchester, incluant le Monument national). 1986-10-16 : Le Comité consultatif du gouvernement recommande le report mais que la salle devrait être intégrée à la PdA. 1986-12 : Lise Bacon, ministre des Affaires culturelles donne son appui à l’îlot au nord de PdA : (Jeanne-Mance, St-Urbain, Sherbrooke, Président-Kennedy). La PdA est satisfaite, car elle trouvait que le site Berri était trop éloigné. 1988-09-15 : John Gardiner annonce pour 1991 un projet de square sur le site Berri. La place Émilie-Gamelin y sera inaugurée le 5 mai 1992. *************************** Il y a ensuite eu le projet de 2002 avec images ci-bas, gracieuseté de Gilbert. *************************** Début du message de Gilbert : Je n'apprendrai rien à personne en disant qu'il y avait, en 2002, un projet de développement sur l'Îlot Balmoral incluant une nouvelle salle pour l'OSM. Le projet a été annulé. Il était tout de même important, car 112 concurrents de 23 pays différents participèrent au concour pour le projet. 5 furent retenus pour le 2e tour. Sept images. Je vous donne donc la chance de voter pour le projet que vous aimez le plus parmis ceux du 2e tour! C'est juste pour savoir... ----------------------------------------------------------- Projet 1 Cohlmeyer Architects Limited / Provencher Roy + associés architectes / Jodoin Lamarre Pratte et associés, architectes (JLP) / Cardinal Hardy et associés, architectes ----------------------------------------------------------- Projet 2 NOMADE architecture / Les architectes Lemay et associés ----------------------------------------------------------- Projet 3 De Architekten Cie. / Aedifica inc. / Les architectes Tétrault Parent Languedoc et associés ----------------------------------------------------------- Projet 4 Saucier et Perrotte, architectes (Saucier+Perrotte) / Menkès Shooner Dagenais, architectes ----------------------------------------------------------- Projet 5 Busby + Associates Architects Ltd. / Proscenium Architecture + Interiors Inc. / Beauchamp Bourbeau Réal Paul, architectes / le Groupe Arcop ************************* Finalement, la salle de l'OSM voit le jour. Voici le fil : http://mtlurb.com/forums/showthread.php?t=108