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| Painting Canada - Hit or Miss
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Hit or Miss
painting with Sierra
Cape Breton Highlands National Park had been in my mind for weeks before our arrival. The rugged coast and mountainous terrain beckoned me to paint them. Our arrival on a sunny afternoon had me sure that this place would be all that I hoped it would be. We set up our camp and explored a bit, and then retired for the evening.
The next morning dawned wet and cold. No matter, I thought and set out anyway. As the rain intensified, I began to look for locations where I could paint under the hatch of my van. After an hour of searching, I finally settled on working next to a fish plant where I could park and paint protected from the deluge that was now pouring out of the sky.
As I set up my palette, I watched the fishermen coming in and out of the small harbour. Thinking myself akin to them, I could identify - especially today- with a life of hit or miss, and being dependant on the forces of nature. I continued to ponder the similarities between the fishermen and myself while I painted for a good part of the morning. Boats began to fill the harbor as the morning’s catch was brought in. The once quiet dock became a bustle of activity, with trucks backing in and out, forklifts loading and unloading and hordes of gulls feeding on the bits and pieces leftover. Gull droppings interspersed the rains. Occasionally they landed with an annoying splat! onto the hatch of the van and the wharf around me, sometimes dangerously close. The painting hadn’t been going particularly well, and I began to become distracted by the activity, not to mention the fishermen who began to notice me and watch over my shoulder. Some came back several times to check my progress. As the piece got worse and worse, I began to ignore it and spent more time talking to the fishermen. I decided to try my theory about how similar we were.
“Painting is like fishing,” I said, “Some days you get something, some days you don’t.” The fishermen hadn’t been very talkative, but one smiled and spoke up.
“Fishin’ ain’t like dat. We got quotas an’ seasons, minimum grading an’ such, a feller’s pretty much guaranteed to do all right, y’know.”
So much for my feelings of kinship. I turned back to the painting, which was certainly lacking something – but what? It must have been obvious that I was perplexed, for the fisherman pitched in again.
“Where’s your center of interest?” He asked, sounding like an art teacher. I was at a loss for an answer, because my painting was obviously missing one. The gulls began to wheel above the van. Suddenly one released his cargo directly above me, it found it’s way under the hatch, and landed with a disgusting splash right onto the painting and easel before me. The fishermen chuckled behind me.
“There it is.” I said, wiping my brushes and easel clean with a rag. I began to pack up, defeated. The fishermen began to lose interest and left as well. The gulls however, remained, and joyously rained their acrid droppings around me as I left the wharf.
Sometimes you have to know when to admit defeat.
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Harley Art Show
The rumble could be heard half a mile away, even over the crash of the surf behind me. A mother herded her children quickly back to their car as the noise grew louder and closer. Bicyclists on the boardwalk next to me wobbled and teetered, then pulled their bikes onto the grass at the sight of what was coming their way. I became nervous and distracted from my painting, wondering what exactly I should do next.
They came into sight just beyond the boardwalk; a dozen or more of them, dust billowing behind them as the rumble of their Harley-Davidson motorcycles obliterated every other sound. They rode choppers with saddlebags and big touring hogs – all shaking and black. Some wore armless leather vests, others tiny Nazi helmets, goggles and black tee shirts with faded emblems. Their bare arms reached high for the stretched handlebars as they sat far back and low in their seats. They rode up and onto the boardwalk, scattering pedestrians and cyclists before them as they made their entry – without paying – into the park.
I had set up my easel at the far end of a quiet parking lot, alongside a boardwalk that ran from the park to a small fishing village. It had been a peaceful morning of painting the colored houses and fields of wildflowers, with only a few of the usual tourist interruptions. I was just finishing up when the growling herd of chrome and leather and dust showed up. They roared by right in front of me, each one of them in turn making eye contact with me. I held my ground and stared right back. I began to reconsider my bravery as I heard them enter the parking lot and come to a stop a few yards behind me. I continued to work, hoping they would go away. They revved their engines, and for what seemed like a very long time I didn’t look back, but pretended to finish my painting. Finally I could stand it no longer and turned my head as calmly as possible, not sure what to expect.
They were lined up one beside the other, engines still running and headlights shaking. Some had taken off their goggles. There were tattoos and beer bellies and motorcycle boots. One finally spoke up
“Nice painting!” He bellowed over the engines.
“I like the colors!” Yelled another, revealing a few missing and broken teeth.
One fellow took off his dark glasses and smiled, giving me the thumbs up sign. Then, as one, they roared their engines and left the parking lot in a cloud of dust. The bicycles returned, and the sound of the surf too, and I managed to finish my painting in relative peace.
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Bilingual Artist
It was a slightly misty morning, with the sun just starting to break through. The tiny village of Cap Des Rosiers, just outside Forillon National Park began to sparkle and entice my painter’s eye. As I drove along the small town road, a small group of houses on a cliff by the sea caught my eye. I pulled the van into a small driveway and found a vantagepoint that would suit my purposes. I was just about to grab my gear and get started when the thought occurred to me; what if I was trespassing? I was very self-conscious about my lack of French, and I didn’t think I could handle myself very well against an irate French-Canadian property owner yelling at me, so I decided to try and get permission before painting.
I wandered down the road for a while, past a few brightly-colored fishing shacks and little seaside cottages. Not far along, I spotted two old fellows talking together on a small white porch. I considered my request and made my approach.
I don’t remember a lick of French. I took it in public school, and high school, but my real education came from the French side of the cereal box. Flocons de Mais. That’s Corn Flakes. So what do I do? I talk to the French like a Frenchman talking bad English. I guess that’s how they sound to me so I figure they’ve got to understand it, right? I walked straight up to those two old boys on the porch and gave it my best shot.
“ Bone-jewer? I can parg der?” I smiled, pointing along the road to my van perched along the seashore.
Both men looked at me blankly. One moved a hand-rolled cigarette to the other side of his straight mouth without touching it.
“ I am arteest, I wan to make painting der.” I continued to point at the van.
They continued to stare at me.
“ Arteest?……Painting?” I was beginning to doubt my ability to communicate with these two.
Suddenly one of them, the older one, began to speak loudly and quickly, pointing and gesturing wildly with his arms in the direction of the van. The other nodded occasionally in between puffs of his cigarette. Finally, I thought, they’re beginning to understand me.
“ So I can pain der?” I said, convinced of my success.
“NO!” the Frenchman shouted. “No! No!” He began to get louder and angrier, speaking once in a while to his straightmouthed friend, who smoked and nodded his encouragement. I was getting ready to give up and leave. The old man got even angrier at this. Finally his friend got up and walked towards an old bike leaning against the porch. He motioned for me to follow him. He got on the bike and started to ride down the road, cigarette still in his mouth, looking back often and waving for me to follow him. I ran alongside him all the way back to the van, where I stopped, but he didn’t. He continued to ride and smoke, his hands never leaving the handlebars, cigarette sticking straight out of his straight mouth, looking back often to see that I was behind him.
I didn’t know what to do, so I got in the van and followed him. I wasn’t sure how far he might go, so I followed – ever so slowly – past the fishing shacks and little colored cottages, down along the seashore road. After two kilometers he pulled his old bicycle into a driveway and stopped, waiting for me. I jumped out of the van, curious to see what great painting spot he had taken me to. He pointed to a little shack at the end of the drive. It wasn’t particularly attractive and certainly not anything worth painting, but I smiled and walked toward it anyway. The straight-mouthed man seemed satisfied and turned his bike back up the road.
“ Mare-see!” I yelled behind him, not sure what I was thanking him for. He waved, riding on and not looking back.
I walked up to the door of the house. There was a sign on it, shaped like a little artist’s palette. It was written in French, but I managed to decipher it.
It read, “ The artist will be back at two o’clock.”
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A room with a view
In real estate, the three most important things to remember are; location, location, location. It’s not much different with painting. Three steps to the left or right can mean the world of difference in composition, light, and whether a painting is successful or not. Such was the case when I set out to paint the rainforest.
I had decided to explore a trail that traveled through the forest to the beach, looking for painting sites. I got to the empty parking lot early and hoisted all my gear onto my back. At the start of the trail there were two outhouses, and I decided to take advantage of one while I could. (I really have come to appreciate outhouses on this trip – I’d like to write a book rating them for campers, you know - two, three and four stars; like hotels.) From my seat I nudged the door open with my foot – there had been no cars in the parking lot – and admired the view. A perfect painting lay before me, framed by the sickly green interior of the outhouse. (Which makes me wonder if the parks get some kind of a deal on sickly brown and green paint for their outhouses. Why not buy all the rejected cans of paint and really decorate those things? )
I set off again and explored the trail all the way to the beach, but nothing appealed to me nearly as much as the outhouse view. As I walked back, I considered the risks. It was a weekday, and early, and besides, the parking lot was empty and I hadn’t seen a soul on the whole trail. I decided to go for it.
It was impossible to set up inside the loo, for it was far too small and green to make paintings in. I chose instead to place my easel right next to the door, out of swing range, of course. The smell of toilet chemical was a bit distracting, but better than the alternative, so I endured.
You know where this is going. It took less than half an hour for the trail to begin to get busy. Some hikers walked right past me, too absorbed in their surroundings to even notice a fellow painting an outhouse. But most of them saw me, and I could hear their jokes and giggles well down the path. Kids were the worst. “Mommy, why is that man painting the outhouse?” and “ Hey, mister – that painting really stinks!” A myriad of other embarrassing questions and jokes walked past me for the rest of the day.
Because of the location of the trail, most people would have to enter the outhouse from the far side. They couldn’t see me until the last moment, just as they were about to open the door. Some, frightened by me, let out funny little gasps. Others turned on their heels and left, too threatened by my closeness to their personal space. A few smiled and said hello, then walked inside and went about their business like they were used to having artists paint next to them in outhouses. I did feel rather badly for some of the more obviously urgent cases, who out of embarrassment or fear turned around and left.
I was really beginning to regret my choice of location, except for the fact that the painting was going so well. I worked as fast as I could, hoping to get done before too many hikers would return from their excursions, and this time not be so patient or friendly. I hurriedly packed up my gear and walked the short hike back towards the parking lot.
I’ve been thinking again about that guide to outhouses. Maybe they could be rated on cleanliness, graffiti, paper availability, and of course, whether or not there is a view.
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The trout
Our daughter, Sierra, had been talking about fishing for six weeks. She had made up stories about fishing, drawn pictures of herself fishing and asked me when, oh when, would we go fishing. She had even located bait, a secret cache of worms hidden under a log near the fire grate. They were checked daily to make sure they were fresh and ready for any last minute fishing expedition.
My voice echoed and thundered inside the shell of our canoe as I carried it over my head down the path to Moab Lake. We talked about fishing, Sierra and I, as the sun glistened off of the little blue lake that we could see through the trees. I answered all-important questions about whether or not worms could see the fish coming to eat them, and when to let go of the yellow button on the dinosaur reel for the perfect cast.
Out on the tiny mountain lake, fish were rising for insects. Their little splashes were the only imperfections on a mirror in the mountains. We paddled through the centre, unzipping the lake with our wake, until we got to the tangle of fallen logs at the far end. I baited the little purple fishing rod. Sierra watched as if it were surgery. She raised the rod, checked her thumb on the yellow button, flung it with all her might, and frightened herself with a noisy plop! as her offering splashed into the water beside the boat.
I explained to her the art of presentation, and she tried again, this time with better results. Her gooey worm-gob hung suspended in the light rays of the shallow water.
The little bobber floated serenely and peacefully on the surface. I leaned back and faced the sun, closed my eyes and breathed in the mountain air. I smelled the dry pines and the new growth of the alders. Swallows twittered somewhere overhead. I began to drift like the boat…
“Daddy!” She whispered. “Daddy!!” I half opened the eye closest to her. The little bobber had come alive, diving below the surface once, twice, three times and not to return. Sierra held the little dinosaur rod as though it was Moses’ staff turned to a snake. She was about to toss the whole crazy mess overboard when I came fully to life. Snatching the rod from her hands I quickly set the hook. There was a bright silver flash in the water below as the trout began its erratic fight. Sierra’s eyes widened as she saw the rainbow-colored gem being drawn overboard, but she quickly decided it was all too much for her and would only face the front of the boat from then on.
I’m not sure if it was fear or guilt that had overcome her, but I took the opportunity to quickly dispense of the trout with the net handle. No amount of coaxing would convince my daughter to look back at the fading fish in the back of the canoe. She had set her face forward, and hardly spoke as we paddled across the lake.
“What’s for dinner?” Sierra asked as I worked in the tiny trailer kitchen.
“Fish,” I said with a smile. “I’m taking his guts out now.” At dinner she watched Linda and I eat with a look of disgust on her face.
We’ve put the little purple dinosaur fishing rod with the yellow reel under the bed for now, since Sierra hasn’t spoken about fishing for days.
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Memories of Frank
I walked slowly up the trail beside Morraine Lake. It was still very early, far too early for the tour bus people to show up, and a cool gray mist clung to the mountain peaks. The brilliant blue lake, still covered with ice in places, began to get smaller below me as I climbed the jumble of rocks and boulders to the viewpoint. The spruce trees, rich dark sap green, punctuated the azure and jade of the mountain lake. I began to notice the myriad of colors running through the rocks around me, and in my mind they became paint and color and brushmarks. As I thought about the timelessness of the place, I remembered what I had read in the writings of Frank Panabaker, who had first visited here in the 1920’s with his wife.
They had taken the train from Ontario, and bought horses and rented a cabin when they arrived. For several months he worked here, and he wrote about this very lake and the trouble he had painting it. He wrote about the difficulty painting with tourists around, and I wondered what he would think of the place now. It struck me that it hadn’t changed that much, and here I was painting this same lake as Frank, and yet things were so different. We have traveled here in a modern trailer, equipped with microwave and all the conveniences one could desire. These places that were once wild and relatively remote are now designed for maximum traffic flow, with pull-offs for better wildlife viewing. Millions of tourists cruise by these splendors every year, yet an artist today is struck by the very same thing that an artist eighty years ago may have been struck by.
As I carried on along the trail, over foot-worn roots and interpretive signs, I thought about old Frank Panabaker and his wife, making their way up this very trail on horseback, loaded with gear. Would he be inspired by the same colors, the same smells as me? Would they be marveling over the variety in the rocks, like me? Would glimpses of the blue jewel lake catch their breath, as it did mine?
All of these things filled my mind as I found myself at the peak of the trail. I spotted an overhang and clambered down to rest and enjoy the view. I leaned back against the rock and drank in the scene before me. The bright colors on the rock beside me caught my eye. I looked again. The colors were paint. Dashes and daubs of bright, thick oil paint were smeared over the rock beside me. The paint was old and weatherworn, but you could still see the mixtures that had their counterparts in the scene below me. I wondered about the artist – could it have been Frank? I imagined him up here, hurriedly sketching as I had been all week, trying to capture something of this place. Maybe it was a good day and he had marked these rocks in triumph, or maybe a bad one and he had done it in frustration. I had done both myself. I left my perch and carried on down the mountain, refreshed and encouraged in my journey.
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The answer my friend
I have found my enemy. He has followed me halfway across the country, sought me out in hidden corners of the land, and has always caught me unawares. Despite my best efforts to avoid him, my careful planning to be out of the places that I know he will be, he has found me – and tormented me. My enemy, you see, is the wind.
For a landscape painter, working outdoors with fragile easels, lightweight equipment, and delicate kite-like canvasses, the wind is a serious threat. I have seen many a painting ruined, often near completed, as it is ripped from my easel by a good stiff breeze. Inevitably, it will always land peanut butter side down in the sand, destroying it. Or my palette, full of rich thick paint, will be blown back towards me, smearing me with colors. Even the distraction of a hat being constantly blown off or an umbrella skidding across a field is surely enough to drive any artist mad. Not to mention how utterly stupid one looks chasing after these things. It really is no wonder people treat me as a spectacle whenever they find me painting.
But I’m used to that. I’ve been painting outdoors for years and I come prepared. Now, however, there is a new element. Not only am I painting outside, but I’m also dragging a twenty four-foot trailer across the country to get to my painting sites. A twenty four foot trailer acts a lot like a twenty four foot canvas would in a fifty kilometer an hour cross wind. It moves. A lot. So now on my days off from painting and fighting the wind, I get to drive and fight the wind.
I’ve seen a lot of wind on this trip already. I’ve seen rain going sideways, and I’ve seen birds flying backwards. I’ve seen little dome tents pop like squeezed pimples because of the wind. I’ve seen prairie houses with twenty foot high windbreaks built around three sides. In one park in Alberta, there is a hotel that the wind has shifted off its very foundation.
Yesterday I snapped. I had been working for a week in Waterton Park and the wind had been relentless. It was the kind of wind you could hardly walk in; you just sort of leaned against it. Everywhere I painted it found me and made my days miserable. At night, it would keep me up by howling and jolting our flimsy trailer. So as I stood on a hilltop, after retrieving my hat for the umpteenth time, I screamed at the wind. I screamed and yelled into the wind. And the wind just snatched those words and scattered them across the Alberta foothills, but I felt better. I still feel better.
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