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.
No comments:
Post a Comment