Tom Thomson and The Fascination With The Whole Story, Not Just The Mystery Surrounding His Death

MY FASCINATION WITH THE TOM THOMSON MYSTERY HAS BEEN AS EXCITING AND INSIGHTFUL, AS IT HAS BEEN LIFE-ALTERING

WHAT BEGAN AS A MINOR COLLECTING INTEREST, SOON BECAME A CHALLENGING RECREATION IN CONTINUING EDUCATION

     It is now, finally, the end of January. As I look out my office window, here at Birch Hollow, it is snowing lightly, but not quite as cold as it was last evening, when even the dog had little interest in going for a walk; a trip she and I rather enjoy after supper. I imagine it is snowing in Algonquin Park as well, and by the sound of the weather forecast on the nightly news, we're all going to be heavily snow-laden, throughout the first weeks of February. Still, I would like to be heading to the park tomorrow morning, just to enjoy the scenery, but alas, we have to work at the store, to change some fixtures in preparation for the spring season. Well, at least we're thinking about spring, and we'll have to wait and see what the groundhog (or our dog) sees on Monday morning at daybreak. Got a feeling we're going to get six beastly weeks of winter before there's a let-up. So I content myself writing about Tom Thomson, and the good old days when we were camping regularly in Algonquin Park.
     We all felt it at roughly the same time. As we hit Baysville, on the trip to Algonquin Park, from our home in Gravenhurst. I can't explain it better, than to say it was a release from the normal fare. By the time we hit Dorset, on one of this camping trips, and got our grocery supplies and baked treats at Robinsons, the feeling of liberation had grown, and at Dwight, we were eagerly anticipating what it would be like, stepping out onto the shore of Canoe Lake to start our retreat to the wilds. We'd race to touch the water and whip shoes off, and then, with great pleasure, step into the water as if it was our saving grace at that precise moment. Healing waters. A restorative power we couldn't explain, other than to feel the electric aura had something to do with our family interests in Tom Thomson. It might be considered utter nonsense, to suggest that we felt his spirit in those first moments standing on that shoreline, dipping our feet in and out of the cold water, which felt good on the urban weary soles. It marked the beginning of a camping adventure, always with the purpose of investigating the lakeland Thomson had painted onto his canvases. The boys were pretty young, but they wanted to know more about this legend of Canadian art. It's one of the spin-off benefits or dangers of being in the writing and history profession; there is always the collateral effect, but in this case it carried more benefits than negatives.
     It's an amazing, uplifting feeling always, despite the preoccupation of the mind on something else; most likely on the material concerns of the day, to paddle a canoe slowly, gently, along an Algonquin shoreline, in the warm bluster of an autumn afternoon, occasionally letting the watercraft drift through the shadowy reflections of the tall pines, and craggy-faced rock and stumps, that Tom Thomson himself would have noticed on his own traverses of the lakeland. There are tales told by canoeists, who have found trace remains of Thomson's oil paints, scraped onto the stumps, contrasting the weather-worn softness and matted pine needles.
    When a robust wind breaks over the horizon hills, and depressions of the watershed, it hits down as if Thomson's spirit, is making this a more interesting, storied place. I have paddled and drifted around the Algonquin Lakes, fulfilling my need to connect to the place that invigorated the artist; satisfying my passion for these breathtaking scenes, around each point of land, beyond the mouth of rivers and creeks, over hillsides, and visible at the end of paths from the interior. To sit high up on a rock face, looking down on a windswept lake, a witness to the sculpted evergreens, boughs pushed outward, as if a diver preparing to jump into the churning water below. I've drifted along these shores, in the first light of spring mornings, and the last strong rays of a summer evening. I've paddled through the chop remaining after a September storm, and watched the northern lights fan through the sky, on autumn nights, while sitting by a campfire, either half slumbering, as I am inclined, or deep in thought. On each occasion, it has subtly come to mind, as an unresolved question, about what Thomson would have found interesting enough to paint, onto one of his birch panels, had he been a witness to this same splendour of the Algonquin lakeland, as has influenced me to such sweet surrender.  
     My history mentors, who I trusted to keep me motivated to self improve..., Dave Brown, an Outdoor Educator, and book collector, and Hugh MacMillan, a freelance archivist, and Canadian historian of considerable acclaim, made it very clear to me, that I had absolutely no right, none whatsoever, to consider myself an expert, even in my chosen field of antiques and, as a long serving regional historian. This was a rather rigorous blow to my ego. To be told, in no uncertain terms, that the knowledge to advance my professions, as both an antique dealer, and historian, was a cup half full; otherwise being woefully inadequate to consider myself true and responsible in either area of supposed expertise. It made me feel particularly vulnerable. In their company, I often did feel unworthy, until one day, when Hugh was staying over at Birch Hollow, on a trip from Ottawa, and Suzanne whispered to me, in one of these sudden downturns of spirit, that instead of feeling inferior to my mentor, I should surrender and allow myself to drink-in this new abundance of education; to inspire rather than detract. It was like an electric surge opening my eyes, and invigorating my mind, to the possibility, I might actually learn something more, in this life, if I stopped talking long enough to listen.      Fortunately, I came to this realization, of my general inadequacies, early enough in our relationship, that I was able to advantage both my professions, by listening to these two brilliant historical-types, who had so much of what I desperately needed to upgrade my skills and knowledge. I still thank Suzanne regularly, for setting me straight, about the values of continuing education. Leave it to a career teacher to sell me on the idea, that life is one huge learning curve, which really never ends; if that is, you have the passion to acquire more experience and knowledge. Hugh and Dave were so generous in this regard, and when they felt less resistance on my part, to accept helpful assistance, it was amazing how much I began to benefit from their shared wisdom, which by the way, was enormous. Both men have since passed on, and I will remain forever in their debt, for the tutoring they provided the senior student, who did very much come to appreciate their wisdom and shared adventures in the field of history and antiques.
     Dave Brown, who spent a lot of time canoeing and camping on the Algonquin Lakes, in his days as a counsellor, outdoor education instructor, for Camp Comak, on Lake St. Nora, in Haliburton, told me in no uncertain terms, that Tom Thomson's body was still buried in the Canoe Lake Cemetery. Hugh MacMillan suggested to me, that it was important to carry on the search for more documentation, and family accounts passed down through the generations, by interviewing all those who had kinship connections with the 1917 Canoe Lake community. Hugh, as a well travelled, and accomplished archivist for the Province of Ontario, had no doubt there were still Thomson relics to be uncovered, and new documents and journals to discover, if I was willing to devote the time the story deserved. I have never forgotten their advice, and have never stopped looking for new sources of information, to infill the holes in the history of Thomson's all-important Algonquin years. I thought I knew it all. It was a bit of a blow finding out the complete opposite. But thankfully, I had two rather persuasive mentors, who must have sensed I had the potential to expand my horizon, especially when it came to how I would be able to mix-it-up with the heavy-weight researcher / historians, well known in Thomson circles; who don't take kindly to interlopers, especially ones who don't have all the facts before declaring themselves experts. I needed the upgrade. They obliged. It's what historians are supposed to do, afterall. Set the record straight. Right the wrongs. Clear away the confusion!
     After years of researching, and writing about the mystery of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson's death, while canoeing in Algonquin Park's Canoe Lake, in July of 1917, I must confess, feeling the weight of the story fell entirely on the circumstances of the pressing issue; did he die the result of misadventure, or was he murdered by someone in that Canoe Lake community? I started to communicate with a number of key people, historians and writers, who had worked, at some point, and in a major effort, on Thomson's biography, and of course, his death. It's true that the mystery of his death can become so compelling, and challenging for those who love the intrigue it represents, to actually come to forget the real story of Tom Thomson. His art. His outstanding contribution to the changing art scene in Canada at the turn of the 1900's onward.
     I had a number of information exchanges, with David Silcox, a co-author of one of the most important books to ever be written about Tom Thomson. "Silence and the Storm," published in the late 1970's, following-up Judge William Little's unsettling but history challenging book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," was co-written with Canadian Group of Eleven Artist, Harold Town, and was not only a thorough study of the artist, but was magnificently appointed with full color panels of Thomson's artwork. I remember getting correspondence from him, at about the midway part of my Tom Thomson obsession, when he reminded me, how important it was, to never allow the tragedy of his death, and the mystery of how it occurred, to diminish focus on the significance of his painting; and its overall impact on the Canadian art scene at the time. And its continuing influences into this modern era. At first, I thought he was trying to reduce the historical weight, regarding the ongoing mystery of his death, and where, for example, Thomson's mortal remains are buried (Canoe Lake Cemetery, or Leith, Ontario). The more I thought about it, and judged my own pre-occupation to that point, I had to agree with David, an accomplished art historian, and artist biographer, that I had fallen prey to the mystery beyond sensible proportion. I had rather foolishly bypassed, what should have always been the main focus of my writing interest in Tom Thomson; that being his outstanding art work, and what it had done, to break trail for all the adventurous artists yet to come in that tumultuous period of unstoppable modernist influence. I didn't have to soul-search for long, before I realized how much Thomson's art, had grabbed me even as a public school student, looking at his re-printed art panels in the pages of our finger-smudged old textbooks. I spent a lot of time during those boring classes, traversing through Thomson's art work, as if I was with him in the bow of the canoe. Then there was the Thomson print hung at the back of the class, that kept drawing my eye, and the ire of the teacher trying to keep my focus, at the front of the room instead. But it was the realization, after this sensible advisory from David Silcox, that Tom Thomson's art work, had been the stimulus alone, to venture with canoe and paddle, into Algonquin Park; a lengthy relationship that drew in our entire family, from the mid 1990's, to camp and canoe regularly these same waterways Thomson took, to find his subject landscapes. It was the same influence that led us to take many trips to Kleinburg, to the McMichael Gallery, to see Thomson's work, the conserved shack where he used to paint in the winter months, (on display outside the main gallery), and the panels painted by members of the famed Group of Seven artists. It was the enjoyment of their art that drew me to these places, to celebrate his aspect of the Canadian experience. It was not, at this time, the mystery of Thomson's death, that drew us to either the park or the galleries that exhibited his work. I'd never thought of it this way. I suppose I had felt, it all blended together in terms of generating interest, but there's is no question, in retrospect, that art appreciation turned me onto Thomson, not the adventure to uncover his murderer. That came next, and here's why?
     The pre-occupation for me, with solving the mystery of Thomson's demise, began innocently enough. I had been following the weekly newspaper columns, in "The Weekender," back in the late 1990's, written by former trapper, Ralph Bice, (from North of Huntsville), who claimed to have met Thomson as a young man, while he was employed guiding and painting for himself, in the wilds of Algonquin Park, prior to the summer of 1917. In a column specifically about Thomson, he was critical of two points made by another biographer, (he was well aware of) who had written about the mysterious circumstances of his death. Bice, claimed that Thomson was a poor canoeist, with sloppy paddling skills, and could well have upset his canoe, most likely from peeing over the gunnel, while mid-Canoe Lake. Why would he pee over the gunnel? Bice figured that Thomson had consumed a snoot-full of liquor, and was just relieving himself at what he believed was a convenient location. Bice surmised that Thomson had simple fallen, rather toppled while tipsy, out of the canoe, hit his head on the gunnel, on the way into the water, knocking himself out in the process; and that the whole murder scenario was utter nonsense. This bothered me in a number of areas, because Judge William Little had died a short while before Bice wrote this column, and the challenge was directly aimed at Little's controversial book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," published in the early 1970's. I thought it was unfair to aim this at Little's book, so soon after he had passed away, and couldn't offer a rebuttal. Bice could have written this any time, but as it turned out, there was no one to challenge his assertion, that Thomson was a drunk canoeist, who was better with a paint brush than a canoe paddle. I knew some of the Little family members, who were living in South Muskoka at the time, and because I had always been interested in Bill's book, for some reason it compelled me to respond in some fashion. I didn't know enough at that point, to challenge Bice to a duel, or even send a letter to the editor, to challenge his opinion about Thomson.
     I finished the paper, while eating my lunch, and then decided to go uptown, here in Gravenhurst, specifically to the Salvation Army Thrift Shop, where I liked to visit a couple of times a week, because of their selection of interesting old books. I wouldn't have been in the shop, amidst the books, for any more than a few minutes, before, low and behold, I spotted the colorful cover of Judge Little's book, nose high on the shelf. I couldn't believe it. One minute, I'm reading about Thomson's apparent topple into Canoe Lake, the result of a peeing misadventure, and the next, I'm looking at the book that really put it out there; that the artist had most likely met with foul play instead. On top of this, the near-mint condition copy, was signed by William Little, and inscribed to a friend. Best dollar investment I've ever made. I made the purchase, headed back home, and in one long reading jag, I consumed the whole book with the aid of coffee and treats. By the way, as I was sitting in my chair, and reading this amazing book, I was suddenly drawn to check the name on a beautiful little watercolor, of an Algonquin lake, we had purchased at an estate sale a few months previous. I was reading the names of the group of friends, from the photo caption, including William Little, standing with shovels in hand, at the Canoe Lake Cemetery, where they had performed an unauthorized exhumation of a supposedly empty grave (it wasn't empty by the way), and there, for gosh sakes, was Jack Eastaugh. The watercolor was by Eastaugh, a well known painter, instructor, long associated with the summer camp programs on Canoe Lake. These were the beginning coincidences, of hundreds that have happened ever since, especially so whenever I come to devote myself to the story of Tom Thomson. As I've noted in previous blogs, about Thomson, ninety percent of my coveted research texts, on the story, have been acquired in Gravenhurst, including "Silence and the Storm," and Roy MacGregor's novel, "Shorelines," which ran a pretty close parallel to the final days of Thomson's life, and his sudden, mysterious demise. In other words, I haven't had to drive far, to get exactly the books I needed, to build a well balanced Thomson archives to draw on, for these regular feature columns and blogs.
    When I think back now, upon all the strange twists and turns, pursuing the story, admittedly more so, regarding his tragic demise, it's no wonder I've never felt comfortable dropping the story, for any great length of time. When I'm working even marginally, on Thomson hunting and gathering, writing the occasional feature story for regional publications, and this blog, things happen that remind me of the all the coincidences that have occurred, almost from the beginning. I was walking down the main street of Gravenhurst, one Saturday morning, shortly after running my original series on the Thomson mystery, in a newspaper known as "Muskoka Today," when the proprietor of the former Desu Used Books, popped out of the doorway, and asked if I could come in for a moment. Inside, she handed me a huge bundle of newspaper and magazine clippings about Thomson, someone had given her one day, that she had no other use for, than, well, giving it to me; seeing as I was continuing my research. Almost every other week, in the early going of the project, with only a modest amount of attention gained from the published series of articles, people were calling me, and dropping parcels of additional clippings off on our doorstep. I was getting letters from folks who had some knowledge of the Thomson mystery, and many tips about the potential murderer in the 1917 neighborhood of Canoe Lake.
     During most of these days, weeks and years, when a Thomson file was always open on my desk, I never had a dry well, working through the Thomson biography; and it put me in contact with others, who were publishing articles on the paranormal for example, all the way down the pike in story-line, to a number of other online writers / researchers, from the United States, working on other angles of the story; for instance, the unfounded claim, Tom made quite an impact in Seattle, Washington, when he was with his brother George, running a business school, prior to his full move into graphic arts; and then painting, when back in Ontario. It is said, by one researcher, that Thomson had been dating the daughter of a prominent business leader, and when she got pregnant, Thomson was encouraged to get out of town fast, or else. The same situation was said to have happened, with his alleged girlfriend, Winnie Trainor, in Huntsville, and Canoe Lake, and that she was pregnant with his child, at the time of his death. There is a theory bandied about, the drunken Thomson was beaten-up, after an evening social at a Canoe Lake cabin, owned by a friend, and died as a direct result of falling and hitting his head on a fireplace iron. It was a late night brawl with an old friend. It has been speculated that Mowat hotelier, Shannon Fraser, was avenging the Trainor family, for Thomson's error in judgement with their daughter. The fight may have been initiated by Fraser, to convince Thomson to do the right thing, and marry Miss Trainor in advance of the infant's arrival.      It is also thought possible, Thomson had demanded repayment of a debt owed him by Fraser, and when the request was denied, the men began to brawl. Here I am again, getting off the beaten path, because, darn it all, there's just so much intrigue to the story. It was so neat in fact, that I didn't want to stop work, researching the circumstances leading up to Thomson's death; I found just about any reason at all, to write just one more feature article, one more blog, and take even one more speaking engagement, to discuss the artist's demise. Yes, I was weighted to the bottom side of the story, such that I was trying to re-position the biography, to suit my interests. A foolish thing to do! I was too much an admirer of this art work to let this happen. The murder mystery had, for all intents and purposes, (as it shouldn't have been) become the story of Tom Thomson all on its own; the art accomplishment, almost secondary. Ridiculous! The words offered as advice, from David Silcox, hit like a heavy hammer on a large town bell. The blaring reverberation, of this, reminded me of my reversal of intention. I had intentionally reduced the significance of the whole Thomson biography. I had weighed the mystery as being more important than the reality of his trail-blazing art work. I was fortunate that I caught this misdirection in time, in order to make a full turn around, in my focus and emphasis for new writing jags, such as the updated ones this past week.
     When I began researching the biography of Tom Thomson, I had no relationship with Algonquin Park. For a decade, in the late 1990's into this new century, our whole family immersed in this beautiful region of Ontario, and tried to live somewhat, the bush life of Tom Thomson. We were all turned-on to his art, and of course, felt compelled to carry on the investigation of his death. But it did change our lives in a most pleasant way, and we owe it all to the work of a legend; and icon of Canadian cultural heritage.
     In the spring of 2017, I plan to put together a small but significant exhibition, at our Gravenhurst antique shop, of the artifacts and archives materials, I have gathered, and been given, since I first commenced my Thomson fascination. I want to include many other items that have been produced for the contemporary market, that pay homage to the landscape artist, from postal stamps, to greeting cards, framed prints to antique books, such as Blodwen Davies 1930 booklet, "Paddle and Palette," and Albert Robson's 1937 biography, "Tom Thomson;" and of course, Judge William Little's book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery." The collecting side of this story, is unbelievably huge, and I want to show you just how all-consuming it has become over twenty years - and just what fruits of my labors have turned up, beyond the print of blogs like these.
     I don't collect Star Wars toys, television memorabilia, baseball cards, wrestling memorabilia, blue willow china, jadeite, Depression glass, cufflinks, tie pins, or fountain pens. I do collect the memorabilia reflective of the short but brilliant career, of Canadian landscape painter, Tom Thomson. I am hopelessly mired in the nostalgia of fine art, with no desire to be rescued from my obsession.
     Published below, is a little editorial piece, I was asked to write last spring, for a promotional project being undertaken in the Almaguin region, by the Great North Arrow (a paper that has now unfortunately ceased publication). It was the shortest tribute I've ever written about Tom Thomson, but I'm told it was the perfect fit for the purpose of the promotion. Maybe you will think differently, but here it is!

The Inner Beautiful Storm of Tom Thomson

     It is said, by those who have witnessed the specter, that just before sunset, as the evening mist creeps low over the lakes, of Algonquin, the ghost canoe and paddler, emerge as a faint silhouette, against the background of windswept pines, and smooth, moss adorned rocks.  As in life, the stroke of his paddle does not make a sound. Was it really the ghost of Tom Thomson, who once called these Algonquin woodlands his home?  Or was it just a strange configuration of mist and shadow, traversing as a cloud, over the silver and black of open water?  What a thrill, to have been in the company of this legendary Canadian landscape painter, who interpreted the strikingly haunted, beautiful and storied lakeland. 

     He was known for his generosity. Tom Thomson would share his lunch, or dinner, with a fellow  traveller, he met on a trail. It was known he could bake a magnificent pie, from found blueberries, baking them inside a golden crust, in his homemade convection oven. He often allowed passersby, he met on portages,  to watch while he sketched. He was known to present admirers with finished sketches, if they showed a particular interest, in one of his painted birch panels. Those who were familiar with Thomson,  while he was living at Mowat, on Canoe Lake, would know that he had passed along a familiar path, because there would be paint dabs,  on tree stumps, where the artist had stopped to clean his brushes. 

    And if you had quietly approached the artist from behind, and stood for awhile, the voyeur, watching his application of paint onto board, might have become a little haunted as well.  There are those who knew him well, who felt he had a rare, and intimate relationship with nature.  Thomson's study of  the Northern Lights,  for example, evoked the sensory perception of coldness, isolation and loneliness, from those who viewed them.  His studies of storms seemed as if he had imbedded himself in the fury, to appreciate the full throttle of wind, rain, thunder and lightning.

    Each bold, smooth brush stroke, laps down into the long furrow of emerging wake. The traverse imprints a profound and contrasting depth, and breadth of shadow, paint and coloration, as impression whirlpools from the surface into undertow.

   The paddle is thrust into a furious gouge, deep below the surface of this reflective lake. Paint streams in a confluence of art and nature, in a light and shadow passage, skillfully, silently across an open, mirrored universe. The manifestation upon the painter’s board began, in this study of a season's reflection, as the deep, powerful paddle-stroke  propels the canoe toward the open bay.

    In this storied sanctuary, in the sage scented basin, of legend and spirits, the artist finds the portal to oversee creation. A hallowed place to live and paint, one side in the actuality of Algonquin, the other in the ethereal current of ecstasy. The poet is the artist, the environs the pinnacle of enlightened observation, between realities and illusion, the seen and unseen of the natural and supernatural.

    There have been park visitors, during the past century, who swear to have seen the ghost of Tom Thomson, fishing from the rocks, just below the Tea Lake dam. Others claim to have seen him at the Gill Lake portage, or watching over Canoe Lake, from the treed promontory of Hayhurst Point. The quiet, remarkable place, where his memorial rock cairn stands, as it was erected by fellow artists, shortly after his death, of alleged drowning, nearly a century ago, in July 1917. 

    Most lovers of Algonquin Park, would agree, that whether or not, they ever come upon the spirit of Tom Thomson, as a vision,  they're satisfied just to be immersed in the painted lakeland, with its own inherent, alluring spirits.  The consuming embrace of nature that inspired Tom Thomson to paint some of the most important art pieces in Canadian history. Algonquin Park inspires the artist in all of us.

Eric Brown Was A National Treasure and He Cut The Trail For The Contemporary Adventures In Canadian Art

THE NEXT MOST IMPORTANT BOOK ON CANADIAN ART, OF WHICH I HAPPEN TO OWN, AND IT IS A DANDY - "BREAKING BARRIERS"

ERIC BROWN AND THE NATIONAL GALLERY, BY HIS LIFE PARTNER, F. MAUD BROWN, PUBLISHED IN 1964

     From the Paris Exhibition in 1927, there was a review in a French art magazine, that stated the following: "(Tom) Thomson never fumbles. He orchestrates, with an imposing and decorative largeness, the rugged and sumptuous natural aspects that present themselves to his vision. His painting is strong, and without subterfuge, the painting of a man immensely concerned with the nature he depicts."
Of the exhibition as a whole, the same critic wrote, "It is this character of robust simplicity, of fine healthiness, which gives an impression of unity to this exhibition, in spite of the individual differences in temparment and execution. The paintings, as a whole, express this broadly decorative feeling which we have just noted in the style of Tom Thomson. These paintings are all imbued with a primitive and elemental poetry; the natural result of close communion with the grandeur of nature."
     The reviews at home, not so encouraging. The critics wanted Eric Brown's head, for selecting paintings for exhibit, without their consultation on the matter. They called him an art "dictator," who needed to have his "wing's clipped." Eric Brown defied them all, and we should be eternally grateful, he was stalwart in his convictions, to bring Canadian art into the modern era, forcefully when it was justified.
     "I have never required an art scholar's over-the-shoulder opinion, in order to fully appreciate a work of art. It has never been necessary to have a gallery curator explain the nuances of a work I appreciate. And whether I find a painting attractive, provocative, compelling or boring, it is a personal opinion I am comfortable with, whether or not my assessment ranks only among the untutored.
     "Just as one hears the howling wolves on a moonlit Algonquin night, the shiver I get looking at Tom Thomson's painting of the Northern Lights, is as genuine as might be felt by the critic, who may not want to admit such a sensation of awe. It is what Thomson desired, in emotion, from those viewing his art panels; to know a painting inspired feelings of a storied landscape, and all the mysteries each viewer might choose to concoct, from a stimulated imagination.
     "If someone, looking at his art work, found it to be "spirited," or "hauntingly cold" in appearance, the Canadian landscape artist, would listen attentively, as if it had been the highest praise possible; beyond the critic who might have observed some technical shortfall or flaw in composition. Thomson painted what he felt, and what he desired, and was indebted by honest appraisal from those who judged a painting without tutored, or prejudicial opinion. To these innocent admirers, who may have been passing by the dock at Mowat, watching him unload some of his sketches, from that day's work in Algonquin Park, he might also have given away these same panels, to the great pleasure of the recipients; for only the cost of a most fundamental observation. Which he benefitted from, as an earthy, innocent, unsolicited source of encouragement; he very much needed to move on with his work.
     "I can never casually dismiss the poetic, ethereal subtleties, or the soulful nostalgia, of knowing these places depicted in Thomson's art. Beyond the draw of heartfelt intimacy, and the deep, powerful undertow of attraction, what is left to interpret? What is left to question of alluring art, and clever artist?  Being unable to feel the deep vibration of inner spirit, that rises from the Algonquin soil, as the unseen witness, where Thomson once stood, overlooking a windswept lake, the critic alas has missed, in the subject painting, the energy that manifests like wind and waves, within its framing. The painting of a special place in time, that invigorates our senses, so powerful of its own accord, analysis based on the scholar's insight, is redundant before being spoken. This is my feeling about the paintings Tom Thomson created for us, as a gift to our national imagination.
     "If I should mire down with the lasting impression, his art panels have a haunting spirit, I am thusly happy to remain in this self imposed state of ignorance and delusion, about the finer points of what art is supposed to be, in its most refined state of exhibition."

     I was surprised to find this Tom Thomson overview, scribbled onto several open back pages, of another hugely important book, in Canadian art history. Despite tearing my archives apart, at least twice, in the past year, I couldn't find my 1964 hardcover copy of "Breaking Barriers - Eric Brown and the National Gallery," written by his wife, Maud, and published by The Society for Art Publications. The fact my copy of this amazing little book was missing-in-action, isn't anything knew for me, because I hide things all the time, always on the plan to keep something or other safeguarded. Take for example, the ten antique toy soldiers I put away last year this time; so well in fact, that they seem to have disappeared for good. I know they will turn up eventually, just like the Eric Brown biography, which I do consider of critical relevance to the Tom Thomson story, and to the launch and success of the Group of Seven artists, Thomson helped inspire before his death. But there's something extra attached to my discovery this morning, of "Breaking Barriers."
     Whenever I have initiated work on my own version of the Tom Thomson mystery, dating back to the mid-1990's, I have been inundated with coincidences, some that were pretty bizarre and always involved the surfacing of new information from the strangest sources. It deserves a blog on its own, which I will provided as a sort of catch-up explanation, following a review of the Eric Brown book. Seeing as I have been working on the Thomson story again this week, highlighting two rare books written by Blodwen Davies and Albert Robson, I really needed the Eric Brown biography, because he was the first director of the National Gallery; who, despite objection from numerous critics, validated Thomson's art work, and the eventual Group of Seven, by including select work from their collections, in major international exhibitions. The whole story of Thomson and the Group of Seven artists, can't be told properly without referencing the undaunted spirit for change, exerted by Eric Brown, for as it turns out, the good of Canada, and the promotion of experimental art generally. So I guess, when looking again today, I employed the old Thomson charm of "helpful coincidence," and took another scan of my art books. It took exactly one full minute, to find the red dust jacket, on the book in question. I don't know how I missed it before, or if Suzanne happened to find it somewhere else, and relocated it to my art bookshelf, but who cares, as long as it has been discovered and made available for purposes of this blog? Even stranger, is the little editorial piece, penned onto the open back pages, (published above), that I must have written a decade or more ago, when I was piecing together another newspaper series, regarding Thomson's mysterious death, while canoeing in Algonquin Park, back in July 1917. I have no recollection of doing this, but seeing as the material is in my hand-writing, it confirms that I had no intention of ever selling this book. I will occasionally write in some of my old reference texts, something personal, that will stop me from ever placing it in the store's book room for sale. It devalues them for re-sale, but endears them to me because of content. The short opening, was probably used when I was writing a year-long series of columns, for "Curious; The Tourist Guide, earlier this new century. I might re-write it today, if I wanted to use it in print, but it does hit the mark, as far as my opinion about Thomson's work, and the reason I will chase the story until my final days in this mortal coil.
     Now, a look at a great little relic of Canadiana, containing a story about one of our country's true pioneer visionaries, in the field of art.

     NOTE: I purchased the book, during an estate sale quite a few years ago, held by the Bennett family of Gravenhurst, at their parents' Sarah Street home. The book on Eric Brown, had belonged to Muskoka artist and author, Ruth Bennett, who had studied art with well known Canadian painter, Charles Comfort. She penned this onto the acknowledgement page, written by Maud Brown, when the author wrote, "My sincere thanks are due to the Trustees of the National Gallery of Canada, and its director, Dr. Charles Comfort, for permission to study the gallery's files and correspondence relative to my husband, Eric Brown's work." Ruth Bennett added a note on the margin of this page, indicating, "1932-37 - My instructor at Art College in Toronto," signed "Ruth Gaunt Bennett. Ruth Bennett by the way, was author of three books, including "Yorkshire Rose," "Where the Loons Call," and her best known effort, "Diary of a Muskoka Maid," an exceptional Muskoka-based story and biography, with a connection to the Village of Windermere, on Lake Rosseau. I purchased a large collection of books during this day-sale. Ruth's husband was Dr. Wilfred Bennett, Muskoka's former Chief Medical Officer of Health.

"BREAKING BARRIERS," THE STORY OF ERIC BROWN

     "Eric Brown, a young and unknown Englishman, won his wings as first director of Canada's National Gallery, and piloting it through barriers of resistance to change, public apathy and artistic orthodoxy, brought it to a safe landing in a terrain of recognition and respect. This very human story tells of the remarkable understanding and support given by an outstanding Canadian, Sir Edmund Walker, to his youthful colleague, of the effective work of the trustees of the gallery when only five in number, of lasting friendships and recurring conflicts, of starting married life on one hundred dollars a month, and of the close bonds of affection between husband and wife which carried them safely through all adventures," wrote his wife Maud, as a brief summary of the story yet to come.
     "It so happened that Eric's coming to Canada (from England), coincided with a vitally important time in the development of the country's art. A strong national spirit was developing. Painters were becoming dissatisfied with the academic approach to art, realizing that the rugged majesty of our landscape could not be portrayed with the brush of a Corot or even a Constable. And so the search began for a new concept and a new language of art. Eric (Brown) described this movement in one of his articles written in the early twenties, pointing out that something had happened, though when and where it actually began was difficult to say. The Canadian Art Club (including Morrice, Ernest Lawson, Horatio Walker, Homer Watson, William Brymner, Maurice Cullen, Suzor-Cote and Clarence Gagnon, among its members) seeded from the Ontario Society of Artists in 1907, and that awakened a spirit of rivalry," wrote Maud Brown, in her biography of her husband, Eric Brown.
     Eric Brown had written the following about this new and exciting direction coming down the pike. "Painters went west to the prairies and north to the wilderness and saw them with an introspective as well as photographic eye. Then one fine day the O.S.A. hung a picture of Tom Thomson's called 'Northern River,' in the place of honour and the National Gallery bought it, and the battle, though no one knew it, was joined because here was a new idea....here was decoration of a splendid kind, within a frame and what was more puzzling still, it was decoration plus character, the inmost character of the country it represented, to say nothing of the character of the man who painted it."
      Maud Brown writes, "Thus the new trend began, with Canadian artists beginning to see and compose decoratively, emphasizing pattern and color scheme, and searching out the spirit of their country. This was rebellion, said the older men; wait and see, said the tolerant; but the young in heart were glad. The most spectacular result was the formation of the Group of Seven (artists) in 1920. The story of these seven young painters who banded together in a protective and active alliance is too well known to need retelling here. One thing that I recall very clearly is a visit to Toronto at a time when at least four members of the Group were returning from their first sketching trip in the northlands of Algoma. Eric had been asked casually to go and see the sketches they had made. As so often happened, I went along with him, and as we went from one studio to another and saw the stacks of small sketches each had brought back with him, our astonishment and delight grew beyond belief. This was something different, something exciting! Eric waited with the keenest interest to see the large canvases that would ensue from such promising material."

THE WEMBLEY EXHIBITION

     "Eric's absorption in the gallery, and his fostering of the country's art as a whole, alerted him to every opportunity to promote their growth. When the news filtered through to him that the British Empire Exhibition, to open at Wembley in north-west London in 1924, would include a section devoted to the fine arts, he saw what a blessing it would be for Canada, if her contribution were well chosen and thoroughly representative - and what a disaster if its management should be assigned to some self-centered and narrow-minded organization," recorded Maud Brown, of her husbands negotiations to mount a dynamic and diverse exhibit of nationally significant art, at the prominent British showing. "He wrote post-haste to friends in England who gave him the names of the two men who were responsible for art at Wembley. He wrote to these immediately before they had time to make other plans. Setting the facts before them, with due emphasis on the rift that existed in Canada, he suggested that the task of forming a committee to select the Canadian pictures might well be left to the National Gallery. The authorities were in complete agreement and to Eric's amused delight, the upshot was that the manager of the British Empire Exhibition suggested to the Canadian Government that the Board of Trustees of the National Gallery was an appropriate authority to take charge of the Canadian Section of Fine Arts. There was nothing irregular or unusual about this procedure, but it offended the amour-propre of the Academy. It felt that the gallery was usurping its privileges and expressed itself emphatically on the points at issue. In retrospect, it appears plain that the academicians could not then be said to represent the art of the whole country; and their deep-rooted dislike of the unconventional and experimental in art was proof that, had the selection of the pictures been left to them, there would have been but meagre representation of those very artists whose works made our Canadian contribution such an outstanding success.
     "As the time for the British Empire Exhibition approached, the ever-faithful George Harbour was sent ahead to London to cope with the preliminary arrangements, and Eric and I followed, arriving a month before the opening day. The spring was wet and cold and 'Wembley mud,' was the byword of the day. For me, with no responsibilities except the typing of a few letters, it was fun to see the mushroom city grow. Eric's hardest job was to gain the 50 percent more wall space so badly needed for all the pictures chosen to be hung. The exhibition authorities told him over and over again this could not be done, but as with the man in the parable begging bread, importunity won the day. Art last came the crucial test, press day. Our pictures were well hung and looked well. They had colour force, individual attack, and deep sincerity. We waited unperturbed. The art critics, thirty or more of them, came drifting into the galleries. They had already seen the British, Australian, New Zealand, and South African contributions, and were looking more than a little bored. The Empire's art had obviously left them cold. Here it would be one more paragraph to add to their already hopelessly stereotyped articles; some of the confessed as much to us afterwards. But after their first look round, you could almost hear their gasps of surprise. Notebooks and pencils came out and there was a buzz of conversation. Here was something new! They talked to each other, they talked to us. They wanted to know if Canada really looked like this. Were the shadows on the snow really as blue as Albert Robinson had painted them? Surely MacDonald had exaggerated the brilliance of the autumn colours. Who were all these painters, and why had their work never been seen before? The show was a success and we knew it. No need to wait for the evening papers; the critics had been unanimous in their praise. One of them, I think it was Mr. Wilenski, came round to Eric the same evening to hear more of art in Canada."
      The art director's wife writes that, "I doubt if any other exhibition ever gave Eric so deep a satisfaction. He had nursed it along with the greatest of care because he was so keen that Canada should take her rightful place in the art of the day. What was more, his unfailing support of the modern movement in Canada was now abundantly vindicated. The next year, the second year of Wembley, Canada repeated her initial success with an entirely new group of paintings. The Group of Seven, well able to fend for themselves, had already won recognition in the United States. An exhibition of their paintings had toured that country with great success for two years and had got excellent press notices. In Ottawa it was a different story, when, in 1927, the trustees arranged to show the the pictures from Wembley in our own galleries. The canvases looked just as well. They still glowed and sang with colour. Here, you felt, was simplicity of method and a direct approach that surely would please. The opening night fame, and contrasted sharply with the press day at Wembley. A great many guests arrived. They were stirred, but not with admiration. There was more indignation than approbation. People bristling with anger asked me, 'How can your husband allow such things to be hung. Well, that was Ottawa in the twenties. Today these same pictures, many of them having found a permanent home in the National Gallery collection, are considered almost academic. Reproductions of them greet us everywhere. Thomson's 'Jack Pine,' Varley's 'Stormy Weather,' 'Georgian Bay,' and Jackson's 'Red Maple,' adorn the walls of homes and schools all over the country."
     "The part Eric played in nurturing contemporary Canadian art and in making it known outside Canada, I realized only much later," wrote his friend W.G. Constabe. "Once the exhibition at Wembley and Paris were over, his main business in London was with old masters, and it was with these that most of our earlier meetings and discussions were concerned. But I grasped at once that, for him, the old master collection at Ottawa was only one aspect of a single problem, that of making Canada conscious of the arts as an element in civilization and of stimulating the production in Canada of works of art on an increasingly high level."
     Sir Kenneth Clark, director of the National Gallery in London, noted of Mr. Brown, on news of his passing, that "Eric Brown was known to all lovers of art in the English speaking world, as one of the most sensitive and distinguished of all gallery directors. He understood painting as an artist, but he retained the detachment of the critic. His was, in fact, a supremely civilized mind in which great enthusiasm was concealed by irony, humour and tolerance. It was rare good fortune that the National Gallery of Canada, in the early stages, should be directed by a man of such distinction and so avoid the amassing of mediocre work which is the usual fate of growing galleries."
     Frances Loring wrote, "I felt that he was a much-loved friend and I owe him much gratitude for his unfailing help and appreciation. Art in Canada has lost its greatest champion. It would have been a hard struggle without his courage and help."
     When one looks at the transition of Canadian art, and we praise the artists who have made our creative enterprises so progressive on the world scene, we must also look back in time, to the true visionaries, who were willing to take a gamble on change of direction, expression and future ambitions. Eric Brown withstood an horrendous amount of criticism from those, of the art establishment in this country, who desired stalwart devotion to the way things had been for decades. Eric Brown decided otherwise, and with the help of exceptional artists like Tom Thomson, and members of the Group of Seven, he found the foundation to launch Canadian art into an exciting new era of experimentation and discovery.
    Eric Brown saw something in the work of the Group of Seven period artists, and certainly in the panels painted by Tom Thomson, that reminded him of his own intimate interpretations of nature, especially noted after one particular camping adventure to Algonquin Park with his wife Maud. If words could be interpreted as a painting, his little story would have looked like a Thomson panel. It reads as follows:
     "We had explored our lake afresh from the head of the creek, where the wolves had sung on moonlight nights, to the string of tiny lakes back of the shelter hut. We had sketched and photographed; we had climbed the hills to the stands of original white pine, where the morning mists hung so long after the sun had burnt them up elsewhere that we imagined forest fires, and were always wrong. We had watched a porcupine swim half a mile from an island to our beach without distress, and a swimming lynx had crossed our canoe one early morning and had stared us out of countenance from the shore. Loons, ospreys, pileated woodpeckers, had been nearer nieghbours than humans; and as for the deer, they had stumbled over our tent ropes and whistled round our camp most nights, and the salt we left in a hollow log was always gone by morning which probably explained their interest in us.
     "No form of travel equals the ease and comfort of paddling a sixteen foot canoe, loaded with two people and a month's supplies, and moving at a steady four miles an hour, in any depth of water, from a foot to a mile. As we washed the supper dishes and got our hands clean for the night, the heavens put on such a show for us by way of good-byes as we had never seen before and never have since. The auroa was blazing from every point of the compass. Red, blue, green and yellow streamers flamed and flickered, waxed from the horizon to the zenith and back again. We lay down in our tracks, with our heads on a log, and watched entranced. It was unbelievably remote and infinitely grand in its changing color, shape and movement. Words could do no justice, so we said nothing but occasionally pointed when the coruscations were especially brilliant. Our cup was as full as it would hold, and, when at last the flames died down and the stars returned to their duty, there seemed nothing more that nature could do for us. We almost hoped that we should never go back, for the sake of remembrance of it; and as it has turned out, we have never made that particular trip again."

Tom Thomson Part 4; Albert Robson's 1937 Biography Designed By Rous & Mann of Toronto

PART FOUR OF THOMSON SERIES
JANUARY 2015

ALBERT ROBSON'S 1937 BIOGRAPHY OF TOM THOMSON BEAUTIFULLY DESIGNED BY THE HISTORIC GRAPHICS COMPANY, ROUS & MANN, OF TORONTO

PRINTED BY THE RYERSON PRESS IN HARDCOVER - A RARE FIND AS A THOMSON RELIC

     I can remember one sparkling fall day, back in the mid-1990's, waking up, and with the beautiful sunlight cascading into the bedroom, shortly after sunrise, I felt I had to wake Suzanne up; telling her with unwanted enthusiasm, that it was a "Tom Thomson day." She knew what this meant, because I'd repeated it often, in the days we regularly camped and traversed the lakes and rivers of Algonquin Park with our then young lads, Andrew and Robert.
     On this day, it meant waking the boys up earlier than usual, and setting out the canoe and gear, in preparation for a trip up to Canoe Lake. We could load our canoe, and fasten it down to the van, in about thirty minutes, and Suzanne would set out the picnic dishes and utensils; and a bag of extra clothing, in the event one, or all of us, wound up in the lake by misadventure. We always picked up our food provisions at Robinson's Store in Dorset. It was a treat to have breakfast or lunch at the Canoe Lake store, before heading out onto the water.
     We arrived at the Canoe Lake Store, in time for a late breakfast, and watched as hundreds of park visitors wandered around the information centre, the store and docks, where many rentals were being set out by store staff, for eager novice paddlers; awaiting their canoes to be outfitted with paddles and life jackets. When we finally set out later that morning, our mission was to arrive an hour or so later, at Hayhurst Point, to have a picnic, high above Canoe Lake, and see the memorial cairn erected shortly after Tom Thomson's death, by J.E.H. MacDonald, and his son Thoreau, also a good friend of the artist. We had paddled by the site, but it was always late in the day, and an historic, spiritual place, we felt deserving of more time to experience properly.
     The day was magnificent in terms of weather. Cool with a breeze, but brilliant with that mature autumn sun, illuminating the colored leaves of the distant hardwoods, against the vibrant greens of neighbor evergreens. It was a smooth paddle, with four of us Curries in the canoe, plus our dog Kramer, at the bow. The water was still and reflective like glass, mirroring the azure sky and the painted landscape. It was in every way, a Tom Thomson day in Algonquin Park. We arrived at the Hayhurst Point dock, an hour and a half after we left the Canoe Lake beachfront, after a very enjoyable, calming traverse, over water having only light ripples to that point.
     We climbed to the top of the hill, where the memorial cairn is situated, and settled down at a picnic bench to enjoy our lunch and what can only be described as a spectacular view. After finishing, son Andrew went to the base of the cairn, to read the inscription made in Thomson's honor, shortly after the artist's death. I joined him at the plaque, and at my suggestion, he traced each letter of the words, as he read the content. As Andrew was a very thorough little fellow, who very much liked the art work of Tom Thomson, he was slow, thoughtful, and deliberate in his tracing of the letters. I helped him along, and also traced some of the lettering to help him move along, pronouncing out some of the words. In the middle of this, I yelled back to Suzanne, still at the picnic table, that we may be spiritually communicating with Thomson at this point, who may, in fact, still have been buried in the Canoe Lake Cemetery, just across the channel. (There is differing opinions as to whether Thomson's body was ever exhumed, by the Huntsville undertaker, charged with the task; as it was supposed to be, on order of the Thomson family, and moved to a family plot in Leith, Ontario).
     As we were still tracing out the letters of the plaque, I started to feel a cold wind hitting us from west to east, and at one point, it blew my baseball cap into the nearby tree cover. The words we were tracing, in content, read as follows:
     "To the memory of Tom Thomson, Artist, Woodsman, and Guide, who was drowned in Canoe Lake, July 8th, 1917. He lived humbly but passionately with the wild. It made him brother to all untamed things in nature. It drew him apart and revealed itself wonderfully to him. It sent him out from the woods only to show these revelations and it took him to itself at last."
     By time we had finished, I looked around to find Suzanne and second son Robert, trying to pull our paper plates and napkins out of the border trees, while out on the lake, the whitecaps were pounding at the canoe, pulled only halfway up the shore. I couldn't believe the transition in only a few minutes. It was a spectacular change of weather, even though it was still sunny without a cloud in the sky. When I took a closer look, back over the expanse of Canoe Lake, to where we had to paddle in order to return to the Canoe Lake Store, I saw a half dozen canoes overturned, with lots of folks tossed into the water, fortunately wearing lifejackets.
     After recovering our scattered picnic wares, we hustled down the hillside, to secure the canoe before it was swept away by the waves dashing over the stern. That's when I saw another three canoes, overturned between Hayhurst Point, and the former hamlet of Mowat. Suzanne and I pulled the canoe further up the embankment, because there was no way we could traverse the lake at that point. It was way too dangerous, and we had four family members to infill the canoe plus a dog and gear. We resigned ourselves to wait for a calmer period before re-launching. Had we conjured up the spirit of Tom Thomson? I had never seen the lake like this before, and we had done a lot of paddling through three seasons of numerous years prior to this. The rogue windstorm truly came out of the blue. It was getting late in the afternoon, by this point, and there weren't many folks up at their cottages, at this time of the year. If we were forced to shore, we would have had to seek shelter for the night. As Suzanne and I had work the next morning, and we didn't have a phone with us, to call our family at home, our failure to return would set off a panic, and inevitably, an expensive search for the missing Curries. We still kept it as an option, if we found it too dangerous to cross back over the lake.
     After about forty minutes, it seemed to die-down enough to allow us safe passage, at least to the adjacent shoreline, that we could stay close to, most of the distance back to the beachfront. We no sooner got halfway across, to Mowat, than the wind roared back to life, and nearly capsized us three or four times, before we could navigate closer to the shore. At first, we got into an east side marsh, and although it wasn't deep, we were being driven deeper within, and it was stopping our progress altogether. When we did emerge from the tall blowing marsh grasses, we got hit by the wind broadside, and it took everything we had, with four paddlers, to keep from over-turning. When we finally hit the Mowat shoreline, we could take the wind bow-first, which didn't help move us along, but at least wasn't tipping us over. The only problem was the waves rebounding off the rocks on shore, and then hitting us on the opposite side, creating a precarious rocking motion, than made the boys seasick. All along the route back, we could watch as area cottagers, in a variety of small watercraft, were trying to rescue canoeists dumped into the water, mid-lake, and it was showing overall as being wildly chaotic, had someone had been shooting a video of the windswept waterway. We managed to get back safely, but it was most definitely the most aggressive traverse we had ever known, on any lake; and we certainly would not have taken to the water that day, if we had known what was about to happen. There hadn't been any mention of a potential windstorm for that day, in that location. We always did our homework for those outings.
     So is it possible, if that is, you believe in the paranormal, that Tom Thomson's spirit turned Canoe Lake into the way he liked it most, as an artist; turbulent and vibrantly colored? It was certainly strange, that we were tracing the words of his memorial, at the time the wind began to huff and puff out there. Ever since I began working on the Tom Thomson mystery, in the mid 1990's, there have been all kinds of strange occurrences and coincidences, that quite honestly, made the researcher wonder, if the artist was trying to participate in the new-age investigation, into the circumstances, which ultimately led to his death. A flipped over canoe, a bump on the head, leading to a drowning by misadventure. Or was it the case he hit his head on a tumble onto the floor, during a fisticuff with Mowat hotelier, Shannon Fraser, still the most likely perpetrator of Thomson's death? Did Shannon Fraser and his wife, load Thomson's body in a hotel canoe, tow it by rowboat, out into the lake, in the Algonquin starlight, to be dumped then, quietly down into the depths, anchored by fishing line to a rock. It is said, Thomson didn't die of a blow to the head, but drowned according to the coroner's report. Thus, he would have been dumped into the water unconscious, but definitely not dead. Maybe Thomson's spirit desires to bring the matter of accountability back to the forefront, and blame assigned to the killer.
     Most researchers today, who have been fascinated by the mystery of Thomson's death, agree that murder is the most likely reason the painter died, on that July day in 1917. It rests largely on the detail, that Thomson was an expert canoeist, and on the calm day he left the Mowat hotel dock, there was nary a breeze, or waves to make the traverse to the Gill Lake portage, (where he was heading - just across the lake) more than a minor challenge or even inconvenience to what was normal to the outdoorsman. While we can't reverse the Coroner's report, on his death, we don't have to accept that foul play had nothing to do with the outcome. Many Canoe Lake residents, from that 1917 neighborhood, also thought murder was a distinct possibility.

ACCORDING TO ALBERT ROBINSON -

     "There was a mirror of the wilderness like one of his own clear northern lakes that reflect with extraordinary vivideness the beauties of the surround country and ever-changing skies." This quotation opens artist Albert Robson's 1937 biography, entitled simply "Tom Thomson," following up his 1932 book, "Canadian Landscape Painters, " and "Paddle and Palette," written and published by Blodwen Davies in 1930. The small format hardcover edition, was designed by well known Toronto graphics company, "Rous & Mann," and was printed by the Ryerson Press. This book was released twenty years following the alleged drowning death, of iconic Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, during a canoe traverse of Algonquin Park's Canoe Lake, in early July, 1917.
     Robson, a well known Canadian graphic artist and painter, had worked with Tom Thomson in the field of commercial art, for a period of time early in the 1900's, and composed a well written overview of his associate, his art career, and his personal life.
     I have used portions of Robson's book previously, but for the purposes of this short series of articles, I will delve into some of his other descriptions of Thomson, most will not have read previously. Robson puts the story together with considerable competence, and gives us a slightly different version of the artist, than provided by Blodwen Davies. Robson, of course, had worked and socialized with Thomson, giving him a distinct advantage in the biographical sense of the story.
     "Except to a very limited number of friends, Tom Thomson is a remote and mystical figure that broke into the art firmament with a sudden and dazzling brilliancy, and then disappeared as suddenly from the great unknown. During the last decade his career has been wrapped in mists of mystery and half truths somewhat obscuring a clear a clear vision of the man and his work. These facts remain, that in March, 1913, Thomson exhibited his first canvas, 'A Northern Lake,' at an exhibition of the Ontario Society of Artists in Toronto. This picture was immediately purchased by the Ontario Government. In July of 1917, his tragic and unexpected death carried away, at the age of forty, a man who in those short intervening years left a profound and lasting imprint on the art of Canada. The work which he produced during those four years is sufficient to proclaim him, beyond question, one of the most significant painters in the art history of the Dominion," wrote Albert Robson, to open the biography.
     "Thomson's truly amazing accomplishment is explainable mainly through the intensely passionate love he had for the lakes, woods and rolling granite-ribbed hills, of the country he interpreted so sensitively and so beautifully. He painted the lake country with firey concentration, rarely travelling farther than his beloved Algonquin Park, where Canoe Lake was his regular headquarters. Other Canadian artists had painted the north country before Thomson; it is both unfair and untrue to say that he discovered it as a paintable material. But it is true to say, that he was the first painter really, to interpret the north in its various subtleties of mood and feeling, free from influences of European traditions and formulas. His personal knowledge of the country and his inherent honesty dictated its own technical methods of expression.
     "It is not easy to explain,' writes Robson, "in words the power and magic beauty of Thomson's sketches. There is subtle insight revealed in the fluency of his expression, and intimate understanding that radiates from every brush stroke, lifting his paintings to the highest level of Canadian artistic achievement. He had that rare inner vision that sees beauty in subjects which would not commonly be called beautiful. Through windows of his own eyes he interpreted intrinsic truths with unerring accuracy. While many of Thomson's sketches are amazingly facile, there was no conscious arriving after cleverness, for cleverness is a superficial quality which casts a fog between us and true beauty of expression. In his work he adhered to the broad base of representation, weaving a selective concrete realism into a lyrical pattern glowing with vitality and sparkling with individuality."
     The artist points out that "Thomson did not travel the well-trodden highways of derivative painting, but made trails of his own where no man had stepped before. His passion for the woods was so intense that he could paddle the lakes and streams, and camp under the stars by himself, apparently without any sense of loneliness. The feeling of personal kinship which he thus gained resulted in numerous sketches of widely varying woods of the north, not usually observed by the more casual visitor.
     "While the pictures he produced between 1913 and 1917 represent his major contribution, the background and training for this magnificent outpouring explains to some extent the quality of his work. Thomson lived as a boy in the neighborhood of Georgian bay, and here his inborn love of the lakes, woods and streams, was nourished through his childhood. He was passionately fond of fishing, and in later years attained an enviable reputation as an angler even among the professional guides of the park. In the early spring, before the ice broke from the streams and rivers, he made his own tackle from beads, feathers and pieces of metal, with the loving hands of a true enthusiast."
    Robson remembers that "My first meeting with Thomson was about 1908. A tall, lanky young man in a dark blue serge suit and gray flannel shirt applied for a position in the art department of Grip Limited, where I was art director. He was clean cut, almost classical in features, with a mop of black hair combed down over his right forehead. There was something intriguing about Thomson, a quiet reserve, a reticence as he handed me a bundle of his work and asked if there was an opening in the art department. His samples consisted mostly of lettering and decorative designs applied to booklet covers, and some labels. A quick glance at his drawing revealed something more than mechanical and technical proficiency, there was feeling for spacing and technical proficiency; there was feeling as aesthetic approach to his work, and we quickly closed arrangements for him to join the staff. Shortly after hiring him I received a gratuitous and unsolicited telephone call from his previous employer belittling Thomson as an erratic and difficult man in a department. This was as absurd as it was untrue. Thomson was a most diligent, reliable and capable craftsman. Nothing seemed to disturb the even tenor of his way. Only once did I ever see him lose his temper and that was in 1912. A man under the influence of liquor got into the studio and made himself as objectionable as possible. Tom tried to continue his work, but when the visitor became personally abusive Tom's slow temper finally rose. He took off his coat and threw the visitor out of the building. The noise of overturning chairs and tables attracted my attention, but by the time I got there Tom was brushing imaginary dust off his hands and settling back to finish his drawing."
     "Tom Thomson possessed a complete and satisfactory world within himself. He apparently did not feel any great need for human companionship and so made friends slowly," suggested his painter friend, Mr. Robson. "When he joined 'Grip,' it was some time before he found common interests with other members of the art staff. Among the fellow workers in the department were such men as J.E.H. MacDonald, F. Horsman Varley, Frank Carmichael, Arthur Lismer, William Broadhead, Frank Johnston, T.W. McLean, Ben Jackson, Ivor Lewis and many others. These men sketched and painted in their spare time and during their holidays. Ben Jackson was an enthusiastic fisherman who arranged his sketching trips with angling opportunities. Thomson and Jackson were soon planning trips together, lunge fishing in Scugog Lake, or trout fishing in some favourite stream known to Tom. (Ben) Jackson took his paints along as a mild diversion from fishing and on one of these trips made a sketch of Tom which now hangs in the National Gallery, Ottawa. Jackson who had fished the streams of New Brunswick with crack fishermen, from the New England states said that he never saw anyone who could cast a fly with the ease and precision of Thomson. On some of these trips Tom began making the causal sketch, and occasionally joined other members of the staff on their sketching trips round Toronto."
     According to "William Broadhead, a brilliant young English artist, after listening all winter to McLean's stories of canoeing and camping in the wilds, was fired with a desire to see the country himself, and in the summer of 1911 Broadhead and Thomson set out on a canoe trip through the Mississauga Reserve, leaving the rails at Biscotasing. This was, I believe, Thomson's first experience of an extended camping trip in the north. It was also Thomson's first serious sketching trip. He brought back a number of sketches although he lost some in a canoe upset. These sketches were timid and self conscious, but had caught the real northern character. I recall one in particular of drowned land which impressed me as having the weird loneliness of the country. It was on this trip also that Thomson met Grey Owl (the Brit, Archie Belaney, portraying First Nation ancestry), now known in America and Europe as author and lecturer, who visited him in Toronto the following winter." (note: This was before Belaney was exposed by a reporter from the North Bay Nugget, I believe).
     "In 1912," wrote Robson, "In 1912 I became associated with Rous & Mann Limited, and several of the artists, including Thomson, followed to the new art department, where he worked until the spring of 1914. In the summer of 1912 Thomson took his first extended vacation in Algonquin Park, and brought back a series of sketches which showed a tremendous advance in technical power and purity of colour. Strolling up from the station in his woodsman outfit and carrying the bundle of sketches, he reported his return to work and left the sketches for inspection. We urged him to paint one of his sketches upon a large canvas, and gave him the keys and use of the studio on weekends. So 'A Northern Lake,' came into being in 1913, his first attempt on a large canvas. It attracted the admiration of his fellow artists, and to his astonishment was purchased by the Government of Ontario. J.E.H. MacDonald told Dr. J.M. McCallum of Toronto, about Thomson's north country sketches. The genial doctor soon looked him up and persuaded him to devote his entire time to painting. His art training had been and continued to be the association with competent painters. The few remaining years of his life he devoted whole-heartedly to painting, sketching in the spring, summer and fall, and returning to his studio 'Shack' on Severn Street to work on large canvases during the winter months.
     "The basic knowledge of design obtained through his commercial art training, explains the decorative beauty of composition and arrangements, which so marks his painting. In this respect there is a common bond between Thomson and J.E.H. MacDonald. Both were eminent and capable designers, and both approached the problem of landscape painting with a finely discriminating knowledge of form and arrangement. MacDonald, however, felt the appeal of a greater variety of subject matter, while Thomson concentrated with intensity on the Northern Ontario wilderness which claimed his whole devotion. Both of these men made important contributions to Canadian painting, evolving techniques which were personal and adequate and unclouded either by convention or tradition. The work of each was alive with charm of design and beauty of color."
     Albert Robson astutely noted, "From year to year Thomson grew in ability to summarize, in the beauty of his colour arrangements, in confidence, and brilliancy of technique. His paintings are frank and beautiful statements of the moods and inner meanings of the scenes freed of all extraneous and distracting detail. His sense of design and colour wove enchantments into a sketch, never cluttering or confusing it, but rather adding a richer and more subtle significance. Thomson left probably more than four hundred sketches, perhaps twenty important canvases with as many slighter or experimental pictures. His tragic and untimely death on Canoe Lake robbed our Dominion of a great interpreter of the Canadian wilderness - faithful student whose sincerity, unresting passion for the true and swift insight into the heart of all that was beautiful, gave him skill and power to isolate the essentials, which lifted his landscapes from the purely representative to the realms of personal creative art."
     Robson describes the revered Thomson painting, "The West Wind," with the follow statement: One can almost feel the cool west wind as it sweeps out of the purple hills across the turbulent lake, and sings through the gnarled and wind-blow Jack Pine in the foreground. This picture has caught the mood of the time and place, and transmits it to the observer, in a masterly and poetical interpretation. The movement of clouds and water both interpret the almost ceremonial pomp of the march of wind. The billowing sail-like curve of the arrangement of pine foliage adds materially to the suggestion of blow. The vague suggestion of harp shape in the Jack Pine is more than a beautiful space-filling arrangement; it may be a deliberate and fanciful liberty taken with actual representation to carry the suggestion of the music of the wind in the pines. This was Thomson's last large canvas."    
     Thanks so much for visiting with me today. Please feel free to drop in again soon. Lots more wild and wooly collecting and antique adventures coming-up. For anyone who thinks the antique and collectable business is dull and uneventful, well, I hope to change your opinion.

Bob Deans, Our Music Man Gone But Never Forgotten; Tom Thomson According To Blodwen Davies Part 3

Bob Deans playing Mendelson Joe's famous Guild guitar in the Currie's Studio

A BRIEF MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO A MUSIC MAN -

"RHYTHM PALS" MUST CARRY-ON, AS A TRIBUTE TO THE LATE BOB DEANS - AND YES IT'S ALL ABOUT THE MUSIC!

BRIAN DAVIDSON AND DAVE SMITH

     It may read, or sound a titch cliched, to refer to a mere mortal, as the "heart and soul," of a group. Any group? A gathering? A team?  How about a band? Was this alleged "heart and soul" individual, the very length of thread that bound it all together? The vein of togetherness, that made every meeting a social highlight? Yes, it is full of cliches, just as it is supposed to, afterall.
     Is it possible that any one member of a senior band, like the "Rhythm Pals," for example, can cause the earth to shatter, when they no longer suit-up for a show, or land in a familiar chair for a Saturday afternoon jam session? A severely felt "oomph" of "heart and soul;" a vigor diminished suddenly, and profoundly, by the loss of a bandmate?
     It does become more significant, of course, when this band is also made up of family members. When veteran musician, Bob Deans passed away this week, from complications of a long battle with lung disease, both Brian Davidson, and Dave Smith, would cross their hearts on the premise, their guitarist / vocalist, and songwriter, oozed heart and soul every time they got together; even if it was just to jam either in Hamilton, or here in South Muskoka. But there's more to this story, than just the abstraction associated with saying someone has "heart and soul," and that we are so sorry it has left us suddenly. Music appreciation, to these three lads, brothers-in-law, was at a zenith, especially at last September's "PALAPALOOZA," held at our vintage music shop, here in Gravenhurst. It was "a happening," if ever there was one, and it wasn't conjecture, that Bob Deans, as the unofficial leader of the band, was having one of those moments, as an entertainer, that defies the simple overview and general critique. Damn he was a good master of ceremonies. Bob led the show with his famous anecdotes, and warmed the audience up with one-liners, inside-joking, and a generous sincerity that always made him so darn endearing to everyone, who called him with affection, an old "mate."
     When Dave Smith, of Gravenhurst, let us know, just after eight o'clock Tuesday evening, that our old music buddy had passed away, while awaiting a lung transplant, at Toronto General Hospital, well, we were devastated, as was everyone else, who either played or cajoled with Bob Deans, over an abundantly fulfilling lifetime. It was just over a week ago, that I wrote a blog about Bob, with the purposeful intent, of boosting his spirits, while he was waiting so patiently for donor lungs. We wanted him to know, we were pulling for him, up here at his second home, in Gravenhurst, where he was more than welcome to visit, dwell, dawdle and lollygag-about, in our shop, for as long as his family would let him stay. They were kind to him this way, let me tell you, because he and his brother-in-law Dave Smith, seemed to enjoy all the music goings-on, that unfold here, as much by happenstance of visiting musicians, with time for a respite; who enjoy the spontaneous jams that would break out, in the back studio, all in good fun, all in the embrace of the music that heals. While it couldn't heal Bob's damaged lungs, it did make the last years of his life, with friends, the seniors he used to work with, (at a regional retirement home), work colleagues, family members, and musicians he had sometimes just met, so much more enjoyable and fulfilling. Bob Deans was a musician / song-writer until the end, who found being immersed in creativity and performance, even in the workings of his creative enterprise, a joyful life-preserver. He found inspiration even at some of the bleakest moments in his final days, and never truly gave up, on the plan to get back to good health, and re-visit those pals of his, for the next big Palapalooza in 2015.
     Even if you didn't know Bob Deans, you have known someone just like him in your past. Someone who had an inner fountain of energy, who always, despite adverse conditions, and unforeseen obstacles, prevailed goodwill upon all those he met, and was soon to call a friend. In the years of his illness, he persevered with life interests, and used his limited time, to work harder to cover all the bases, he felt needed tending. He didn't feel sorry for himself, and never gave up hope something would happen, that would get him the new lungs he required. Yet he had the inner strength to appreciate that there were many others needing transplants, who were younger, sicker, and even more vulnerable, never letting himself succumb to the feeling he had been forgotten, or given less than full attention to remedy his situation. It would be quite easy for most of us, of lesser constitution in this regard, to simply give up, and wallow in self pity, for lack of anything else constructive to do. Bob wasn't like that, and we have a lot of corroborating evidence to prove this; even to the last days of his life, being active on facebook, and "liking" new entries the boys, Andrew and Robert, had posted on their Currie's Music page. The first visitor to our new Currie's Antiques facebook page, last week, with a complimentary review, was Bob Deans. For as long as Suzanne keeps her facebook account, she will always see that first, all important, and kindly review, from a man who was terribly ill, but still so very full of ambition and creative interest in other people's lives.     I also got a wonderfully complimentary response, back from Bob, following publication of my recent blog, regarding his music writing prowess, last week; and it has been printed off, and placed in the binder, with all the correspondence I've received over the past thirty-five years, working with the media in Muskoka. This is my cherished keepsake courtesy Bob Deans.
     Bob, Dave Smith, and Brian Davidson, were a tightly knit country-style band, of hobby singer / performers, who never got so full of themselves, that they planned to quit their day jobs, to take to the road as an upstart bar band, set on taming the still wild west. They got together for fun, as a social / cultural pastime, that had everything to do with the enjoyment of playing music. It was a simple arrangement, with nary a complication, and never a contractual obligation, or need for legal liaison to work out any impasse. The only impasse, was finding the time, and convenient, central location, to get together. They found that last September, when we hosted the first, of what was supposed to be an annual event, to be known ever-after as "Palapalooza." It was for family and friends, so the band could officially release their first and only CD, which was a sell-out by the way. We even got invited to attend the after-party, at the Smith family residence, and although not quite the same as a Rolling Stones event, it would be safe for the reviewer to say, "by golly, a good time was had by all!" Bob, with oxygen assistance, that night, sat on the couch with the most beautiful ear to ear grin, a long of satisfaction, being comfortably situated, at that moment in his biography, as a husband, father and band member, with those he loved, and those contemporaries, he embraced in friendship.
     We're all deeply sorry about the loss of Bob Deans, who loved music as much as he loved people, and we offer sincere sympathy to all his family, on his passing. I think all who knew him, will benefit in the days and years to come, from having had access to his deep well of creativity, and his vast resource of courage, that made him a leader, even if that's not what he signed up for.
     Bless you Bob, for enriching our lives, and showing us what courage means when it engulfs heart and soul.
     Our first "Sessions" event, for Currie's Music, in April, at St. James Anglican Church, will be dedicated to the memory of Bob Deans. More information on this event, will be available in the near future, when the entertainment for the evening event is finalized.



NOTE: I don't know whether Bob Deans was an art lover, or knew much about Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, but seeing as he was in good humor about most things of social and cultural enrichment, I would like to dedicate today's part 3, in his memory. It is part of my continuing profile of the book "Paddle and Palette," the 1930 biography, written by Blodwen Davies; an intimate look at the life and times of an iconic Canadian painter.

PART THREE - PADDLE AND PALETTE - THE STORY OF TOM THOMSON, BY BLODWEN DAVIES, CIRCA 1930 (THE RYERSON PRESS)

The Maturing of a Landscape Artist, on a Mission to Capture Nature's Inner Spirit

(You can archive back in this week's blogs, to read the first two part of the small series)

     Every now and again, some visitor to Algonquin Park, while on a camping or hiking adventure, will see what they claim is a phantom canoe and paddler; silently traversing, without raising the slightest ripple, across the horizon of a misty autumn lake before sunset, or at sunrise, on a lake Tom Thomson used to paddle frequently, during his few years spent in the Ontario parkland. Is it the spirit canoe belonging to Canada's best known landscape artist, who died tragically during one of these canoe excursions across Canoe Lake? Maybe it is an illusion of light and shadow being distorted by the lake mist, tumbling along as silently as the artist's paddle dipped deep in the still, dark water; passing as he did in life and profession, to capture the essence of the Ontario wilds in this alluring place known for its resident enchantments and lore.
     There is no doubt, Tom Thomson immersed himself in his work, and his work, of course, was studying nature. His gift to us, were his amazing art panels, which have, without question, become iconic and storied in the years since his demise. Now we should return to 1930, to appreciate what biographer, Blodwen Davies, felt about the artist, based in part, on her interviews with colleagues, friends, and the residents of Canoe Lake, who remembered his travels through the lakeland, from his base in the hamlet of Mowat. Her observations are insightful, and contemporary to the time, which was bringing about huge changes in the previously conservative, Canadian art scene, stirred by the continuing advancements and maturity of the Group of Seven artists, formed in the early 1929's; a group inspired by Thomson shortly before his death.
     "A.Y. Jackson packed away his sketch-box and joined the army (First World War). Thomson always something of an Indian in spirit, moved out of the studio building into a shack which stood behind it (Now at the McMichael Gallery, in Kleinburg, Ontario). There he lived just as if he was actually in the north country, sharing the place during the day with Arthur Lismer," wrote well known Canadian author, Blodwen Davies, in this, the first full biography of the budding artist.
     "Meantime, Thomson's work had already gained some recognition. Even while he was painting his early, cramped sketches, Dr. J.C. McCallum, had sensed the latent genius of the amateur artist, and had encouraged him in ways which only a deeply sympathetic and understanding friend could do. Then, his first large canvas exhibited, called 'Northern Lake,' hung at the Ontario Society of Artists show, in 1913, was purchased by the Ontario Government. The National Gallery at Ottawa, purchased one or two of them for the national collection. While he was not selling enough pictures to support himself, yet his recognition was enough to show that there was a stamp of approval for his efforts."
     Davies continues, noting, "Yet Thomson's head was never turned. He was totally lacking in vanity and had little even of self-confidence. Lawren Harris sometimes stimulated his creative moods by slipping a canvas prepared for paint onto his easel without comment. Tom would be tempted and set to work on a large picture. Without doubt, some of his biggest paintings owe their origin to this friendly intrigue. Thomson became something of a curiosity in Toronto art circles. Sometimes he was disturbed and offended by too obvious curiosity; sometimes he was amused by it and might entertain himself by playing up to expectations, on his visitor's part, mumming an hour or two to puzzle or confound them. Rumour painted him a sort of wild man of the woods. However, Thomson eluded all those who would have exploited him, impatient of swank or vanity insecurity, or affectation. With a few of his good friends, his pipe or his mandolin, Thomson was at his ease, always sharing in the fun, though seldom obviously in it. Sometimes, when a book absorbed his interest, he would stay awake all night to read it, though he was not what might be called a great reader.
     "When he painted he was earnest and painstaking. Sometimes he would put aside his canvases, make another trip into the north, and the following winter, work them over again from further knowledge and observation. It is said that he worked best under the stimulus of resentment. Criticism drove him back to his paint box with determination, to outstrip his previous efforts. During 1915 and 1916, Thomson painted with increasing power and freedom. Theme after theme from Algonquin Park, and the wilderness around it was laid down on glowing canvas. Once he had mastered this or that phase of the technique of painting, he leaped on with astonishing assurance, toward new heights. Once he had grasped a principle it no longer troubled him. Even his methods were swift and apparently easy. His friends tell of many occasions on which they would work and struggle with a sketch, while Thomson was apparently idling away his time. Then in a leisurely way, he would open his sketch box, set up his panel and begin painting. Presently they would find that Thomson had captured the thing for which they had been striving for hours. The picture seemed to grow and ripen in his imagination before he attempted to set it down in paint. Nor did Thomson need to travel far to seek for inspiration. Two of his friends were once camping with him in Algonquin and decided to spend the day on a sketching trip. Thomson declined to join them, preferring a quiet day in search of pictures, and returned in the evening weary and not quite satisfied. 'Well,' one of them said to Thomson, 'I suppose you've had a lazy day.' Thomson agreed, but produced a sketch, painted from the door of his tent, which excelled anything they had done on the day's journey. But in his studio in Toronto, building up canvasses from his summer's sketching Thomson suffered from doubts and depressions. His eager visions outdistanced the cunning of his hand and he never felt satisfied with the results of his work."
     Davies, through her interviews and research, had a number of insights about Thomson, during the war years, up to July 1917, when he was alleged to have drowned, while traversing Algonquin Park's Canoe Lake. She writes, "The war worried him too. Jackson was 'somewhere in France.' Those who now regarded Thomson not only as a rare friend, but as a genius as well, dreaded the time when he might let his sense of responsibility outweigh the repugnance to war, and enlist. They realized that this voyageur with the spirit of an Indian would find it difficult to tolerate the discipline of army life. Thomson himself was anxious to put on khaki and take his share of defending in far away France, the country to which he was so passionately devoted. His friends, fully realizing the value to Canada as an interpreter, tried to prevent his enlistment. Thomson had little to say about it. They felt that their council had prevailed. However, Thomson was quietly making efforts to get into the army. Each time he was turned down because of some physical condition. Again and again Thomson slipped out of the park and made his way to a recruiting station, but the result was always the same. It was the verdict of the army medical officer, out of the advice of his friends, which kept Thomson out of khaki.
     "However, in the spring of 1917, Thomson again packed up his sketch box and dunnage bag, and left the military city of Toronto behind him and headed for Algonquin Park. He made his headquarters for the summer at Mowat Lodge, Canoe Lake. There he painted all spring, setting himself the unique task of painting a record of the weather. For sixty days, from the middle of April till the middle of June, he painted a sketch every day, following every subtle change from the going out of the ice to the richness of midsummer foliage. At noon of July 8th he set out across Canoe Lake with his supplies for another jaunt into the wilderness. By three o'clock that afternoon, he empty canoe was seen floating on the lake. It was several days later before his body was found. During that time his friends could not believe that Thomson was dead. They hoped and believed that he was lost in the woods."
     It must be understood, that the circumstances surrounding, first his disappearance, then the discovery of his body floating in Canoe Lake, after his empty canoe was found, to his burial and re-burial (Canoe Lake Cemetery first, Leith, Ontario second), there have been a lot of additions to the story embedded by numerous researchers and biographers, pursuing what has now become the Tom Thomson mystery.) Some of the details in the next paragraph have been altered somewhat by new information, generated by contemporary researchers studying Thomson.
     "He was buried first of all near the spot where he was found, but shortly afterwards his body was removed to Leith where it lies in the graveyard of the little old Presbyterian Church, which he had attended as a boy. On Canoe Lake stands a cairn erected by his friends to the memory of the artist who 'lived humbly and passionately with the wild. It made him the brother of all untamed things in nature. It drew him apart and revealed itself wonderfully to him. It sent him out from the woods only to show these revelations through his art; and it took him to itself at last'." The cairn inscription came from associate artist, J.E.H. MacDonald and his son Thoreau, who are credited with the establishment of the memorial on Canoe Lake's Hayhurst Point, opposite the hamlet of Mowat.
     Blodwen Davies, didn't publish her doubts about the cause of Thomson's demise, until her second book on the artist, self published in 1935, as a sort of companion text to "Paddle and Palette". She concludes her first book, by writing, "Thomson was a man who lived like a priest tending the alter fire in his own soul. Of schools and movements and controversies in art, he knew little and cared little. He was consumed with the necessity of putting on canvas what he knew of the north. Paint was his only medium of expression. Thomson made no pronouncements on the subject of Canadian art. Yet, mute as he was in every way but on canvas, he was nevertheless one of the most significant influences on Canadian thought. The shy artist had done more to stimulate love of country, in its present essence, in the hearts of young Canadians, than all the orators of his day. His work has a rare emotional quality which strikes a deep note of response from all souls that are in tune with their Canadian environment. Strangers see in his work a marvelous use of design and colour. Critics hail him as one of the few great landscape painters since Constable. But to those who know the country that he painted he is more than a great artist, he is the great interpreter.
     "Thomson did not perish that July day in 1917. Tom Thomson, the legend, is one of the most influences in the creative life of Canada. If his own particular field of work was in Algonquin Park, it does not follow that his interpretation was only of Ontario. Thomson's frank approach to the problems of painting Canada is quite applicable, and has been used as freely, in the Rockies and the prairies, as in Quebec and the Atlantic seaboard. While his subjects particularlize, his methods had universal meaning. Thomson was the product of his time, the blossoming of the Canadian genius. The dramatic qualities of his career, the brief years of achievement after seven-eighths of his life, had been spent in search of a medium, have given us the only legend in Canadian art. When Tom Thomson flashed upon the life of Canada, like a brilliant meteor, he was already a man, both very young and very old in spirit. He was neither a precocious youth, nor an old man reaping what he had sowed. He was a strange store of genius, suddenly set free, a soul with a newly discovered key to its treasure chest, and he flung out its jewels in ecstasy upon an astonished world. Thomson is no longer a solitary figure in Canadian art (circa 1930). Even in the intense emotional quality of his work, there are one or two who are his equal, and several more who have climbed to heights near him. But Thomson's essential greatness lay in the genius which carried him beyond the pace of men who in patient and tenacious devotion were clearing the trails for others.
     Today no other Canadian painter is so well known to the school children of Canada (paintings reprinted in textbooks). To them he is both man and artist. Thomson's pictures in many thousands of reproductions in Canadian homes, and schools, are icons of the new Canadian faith."
     Join me for tomorrow's blog, profiling the second book, in this short series of articles, composed by well known Canadian artist, Albert H. Robson, entitled "Tom Thomson," published in 1937. Robson wrote his first book on Canadian artists, with a mention of Thomson, one year after Blodwen Davies released Paddle and Palette in 1930. He also had worked, for a time, side by side Thomson at a graphics company in Toronto, and provides some excellent observations about his temparment. Please join me again tomorrow.