FROM THE ARCHIVE: Authors—once permitted to sit in their hovel and emerge once a year for a writer’s festival—have become social entities.

FROM THE ARCHIVE: There were then two glowing screens atop my desk; three, if you count my yappy little phone. I was a magazine editor at the time—or, as we now say, a “content creator.” Yet I spent my days not so much creating content as reacting to it.

Philanthropist Michael Audain’s new Audain Art Museum in Whistler is a study of British Columbia’s art of the past 200 years—and by extension, the story of B.C. itself.

It’s the most innocent doorstep in Canada. A line of senior citizens—eager as children at Disneyland—peer across manicured lawns and hold up shaky iPads to photograph the sweet and sunny house from Anne of Green Gables.

Painter Barry Oretsky is a matter-of-fact man, and he is not. At his Toronto studio, where he hunkers over a massive canvas, there is something both plain-spoken and mystical going on as he describes a small portion of his technique.

There is a lot that happens in the five milliseconds before Milos Raonic smashes his tennis racket against the ball he just tossed above his head. The head itself (with once wild, now professionally coiffed, hair) is locked back in rapt attention. Six thousand sets of eyes in the arena are focused on that little yellow ball.