Carte blanche to François Dompierre | Morning

With their unique pen and their own sensitivity, artists present their vision of the world around us. This week, we are giving carte blanche to François Dompierre.


I’m in the morning. As we are visual, auditory, olfactory, nomadic or sedentary. It is a state. I get up exactly at 5 a.m., coffee, reading the news and presto, outside, winter and summer, rain or shine. This allows me to observe the imperceptible changes in the color of time every day, to slip without it appearing from one season to another. As a bonus, I give myself the luxury of taking my day head-on, of imposing my rhythm on it rather than reacting to its own.

When I lived in the countryside, wandering around at dawn, I didn’t come across a living soul, apart from a few squirrels, a furtive cat and more rarely a deer in search of lost apples or hidden grass. But, since I gave in to the sirens (!) of the city and succumbed to the charms of the Plateau Mont-Royal, it is a very different fauna that populates my early mornings… although the runners who prance while waiting for the green light evoke very often the deer of my countryside!

I noticed that the morning people in the city were in no way similar to those encountered at other times of the day.

Few cell phones, a few headsets, relatively well-ordered cycle processions, disciplined motorists, non-existent road rage. It’s all fun. Better still, as we are always the same on our way, we end up recognizing each other and, can you believe, we greet each other.

My journey intersects the perimeter of Laurier Park, a place which, as we know, buzzes with activity at all times. However, unlike in the evening when — weather permitting — the senses are aroused by the smell of grilled merguez sausages or the clashing of pétanque, in the morning the entertainment is much more peaceful. Yes, very quiet but regulated like clockwork.

There is this strange sprinter who tumbles at high speed, rue Saint-Grégoire, to stop dead at the corner of Brébeuf and go up towards Gerry-Boulet at a senator’s train. There’s this summit meeting in the dog park, the masters discussing the piece of fat and the beasts plying each other. You get to know them, it’s like humans, there’s something for everyone, snobs, nice, aggressive, placid, angry, smug, jealous. Monsieur de La Fontaine would make it his happiness, that’s for sure.

There is this shy young lady with her dog on a leash who, approaching, nods and smiles at us. There is this other who, despite being overweight, goes around the park three times while we are doing one. She has all my admiration.

But I must tell you about the one we call “the reader”. A number cannot be invented. Regular like the Westminster carillon, it shows up every morning at the same time.

We see him coming from afar, with his clothes – threadbare, but perfectly arranged. A fan of voluntary simplicity? Who knows ? But the most astonishing thing is to see him sit down on a bench—always the same—and pull out of his jacket a book of philosophical essays, a collection of poems, a novel by Tremblay, stories by Maupassant , a biography of Stefan Zweig or, on summer days, a lighter read, a Louise Penny perhaps? Like Lucky Luke, he chews a blade of grass — there are no small pleasures — he reads for about twenty minutes, and when we pass by, he goes back in the opposite direction, gratifying us with a heartfelt greeting. Recently, we exchanged a few words. Insufficient to solve the mystery of this intriguing but benevolent person.

Rue Laurier is the ballet of mothers on their way to daycare. We have fun separating the hexagonal from the pure wool from afar. It’s easy, my girlfriend tells me: the color of the clothes. She is never wrong, the accent proves it. Be that as it may, their youngsters, all these beautiful people meet up a few minutes later for a croissant at the café-counter.

Corner Garnier, there is the one we nicknamed Santa Claus, a very nice homeless man, perfectly dignified. Some days, he declines any offer of alms: “I don’t need it today! »

But the highlight of this morning mop, at least for my girlfriend, is the chance meeting — when he’s not in Houston — of astronaut David Saint-Jacques, whom we discreetly greet.

Twenty-five minutes top time that inspired the woman accompanying me to new pantheistic reflections and me to realign my chakras!

A few fruits, a second coffee and I’m ready to start my day with a bang.


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