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| See blog for description of what characters are saying |
THE WILD AND CRAZY THINGS WE CAN FIND OUT THERE - IF WE ARE OPEN TO POSSIBILITY AND UNTRIED POTENTIALS
WHAT WE'VE LEARNED TO ANTICIPATE FROM YEARS OF HUNTING AND GATHERING - "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BUY THAT ARE YOU?" DAMN RIGHT!
Suzanne and I were at an auction sale, at the former Dinosaur Park, on what some locals call the Windermere Road, in the Township of Muskoka Lakes, and a fellow, intentionally, or accidentally with a sudden hand gesture, bid on a concrete dinosaur; and was the highest and only bidder. He said he bought it for his wife, who apparently, had always wanted a concrete dinosaur for their front lawn. Well she got one, but it took a lot of money and heavy lifting machinery, to get it on a flatbed for delivery. In hindsight, maybe he wouldn't have bid on it, if his wife had been asked first, preferring instead to have him buy, for her benefit, a much smaller token of his affection; possibly a dinosaur in miniature, that could be worn as a broach or neckless. A lot less expensive, to purchase, and less difficult to transport home. Auctions are famous for the bid and buy-now strategy, and the worry about shipping later, shipping scramble; when it becomes obvious, the huge exercise machine won't fit in the trunk of the car, or strap easily to the roof racks.
Most of us in the antique trade have at some point, made a purchase that was way, way out of our comfort zone. Sometimes it's the perfect fit for our personalities, sometimes it's just simple auction madness, that compels us to show off for our friends. I bought a huge electric treadmill from a hospital auction, and it was so heavy and big, that when I was driving home, the three blocks to our apartment, the front wheels of our car were actually being bounced off the surface of the road, which makes it rather precarious to navigate. I told Suzanne later, once we got home safely, that for five bucks it was a good deal. She then suggested, with some merit, that I wouldn't have seen it as a bargain, if the fuzz had pulled me over, and given me a ticket for my error in driving judgement. I could write a book on these whacky purchases I've made on the antique hunt, during my forty years of flirtations with "the strange" and the remarkably "odd." And that's just hanging with my family. Here's an example of one of the more conservative "strange" purchases, that I simply had to share with you today.
I like finding what some folks would refer to as "the different," and even the "totally bizarre" when we are out on our regular antique hunting adventures. It would be pretty dull and unrewarding, even in the financial sense, if we only came back with the most predictable antique shop mainstays; you know, the vinegar crocks, medicine bottles, brass scales, pine benches, kitchen collectables, tables and quilts. We like a little magic in our mix, and while I don't always return with all the "strange" stuff we've come across, if I think it will intrigue our customers, and eventually sell for a wee profit, it will be coming home with us, from wherever we have found it within our region. I've turned down coffins and mortician's equipment, vintage dentist's drills, and old ambulance stretchers, usually because of cost, more than anything else. They would have been in the van in a flash, if the asking prices had been lower. I like having pieces in our collection that give pause to clientele, very much used to, and bored by, the "same old, same old," in antique shops coast to coast.
I get a real rush purchasing these unusual artifacts and heirloom pieces, that are a little bizarre but not so outlandish that we might actually offend our patrons. Can't do that for long and get away with it!
If you are British, or have roots back in old England, you might feel a little insulted by the strange satirical cartoon, obviously from a Canadian cartoonist's hand, as a takeoff on the well known "Bovril" advertisements, from the 1940's plus. We looked some of these cartoonish advertisements up, so we know what the spoof published above today's blog, is all about. It's just nasty to the poor Brits. This was found at a local antique mall, without any explanation attached. It had been jammed into a frame, that had compromised some of the precious art work, that some talented artist created in the late 1940's, or into the 50's, including the watercolor infilling, as can be seen on the characters' clothing. It really is an assault on the British and their obvious dependence on Bovril, to give then a beefy taste, when limited provisions, during the war and after, made beef products scarce. If you look at the sketches of mugs with spoons in them, you should be able to find seven, including one in the infant's hand, who also has his mother's fish in his mouth, that has obviously fallen from the newspaper wrapped fish and chips. (Woman with anchor tatoo on her arm).
What's significant is that it's original, first of all, and not a print that someone has colored-in. This is the genuine article. It was hung in a vendor's booth with a collection of other prints, and a few originals, that were the standard fare for such antique vendors. This stood out, let me tell you, despite the fact it had a very plain frame, certainly not the original, if indeed it ever had a frame after it was sketched and hand-painted.
From the top left of the cartoon, you should be able to see a depiction of a British battleship, framed with the words, "Rule Brittanyer." It would be "Rule Britania," if it was meant to be an accurate depiction. The cartoon bubble, with a comment from the western-suited chap, standing in the doorway, reads, "Wotcha 'ous the Bloomin Yank?" The chap sitting below, is yelling in the ear-horn of the military fellow with a wooden leg, "Just back from the Colonies, you know!" The decorated bloke, with the horn and cup of Bovril mixture, responds, "Hinjaw or British North Americaw." "Hinjaw" meaning 'India," and obviously it was a play on accent to have "America" end with a "w." The fellow in the middle, with the guitar around his neck, wearing a Hudson's Bay style jacket, with a Davey Crocket hat on his head, with a protruding feather, (and a British bulldog peeing on his boot), says "An there I was - surrounded by Red Hindian Savages from Albertee an a 'erd of Buffalo commin' down Bloor Street at me.....I give the old Hindian Chief wot for, with me trusty stencil knife, and I shoots the 'ead Buffalo right amongst the 'orns!" "Hindian," of course is "Indian," and "Herd," "Head, and 'Horns, are the correct words in the comic bubble.
The suited gent with a cup of Bovril drink, with glasses and a cigarette in his mouth, says "Allus yammerin about 'is stump ranch on Yonge Street an 'is hoil wells at Cherry Beach, an yet 'es been bummin' me woodbines ever since 'e harrived." Of course it should be "his stump ranch" which means an unproductive pioneer homestead, and "oil wells," at Cherry Beach, and it's "arrived" with out the "h." The reference to Woodbines is definitely Toronto, as is Yonge Street, Cherry Beach and Bloor Street. The elderly lady sketched to the right of the suited chap, comments that "Almost looks like one of us, don't 'e?" The woman with the bow in her hair, sitting below a portrait of Winston Churchill, comments, "Coo'er - ain't 'e a smasher!" The lady eating the chips from the newspaper, having an anchor on her arm, and sitting on a box of Bovril, replies, "Yus - Not arf! Good thing you 'ad yer 'air done!" Obviously it's "hair done." "Not arf," would be "Not half," the story, so to speak.
The interesting attachments to the cartoon, are the seven cups of supposed Bovril mixture, from the bottom right corner, to the baby's hand, to the lady with the bow in her hair, adding some mixture to her cup. The suited-gentleman has a cup and spoon in his hand, as does the guitar player, the military veteran with the hearing horn, and the vested bloke next to him, where the cup and spoon sit at his feet. The significance of the spoon, of course, is to mix the Bovril with water, I assume. It is rather a poignant piece, rather insulting to our British cousins, especially the way the bulldog is relieving itself on the newly arrived singer from Canada, Toronto specifically. Look at the fringed western style pants the young man is wearing. The kid sneaking away with his mother's fish, from the fish and chips is amusing.
This wouldn't have been appreciated by the manufacturers of Bovril, and it was definitely drawn to make fun of the promotional cartoons used by the company to promote their product. It's downright insulting to be honest, but a little bit funny none the less. What I would really like to find out, is who actually drew the comic most likely from the post war period. The ship illustrated in the frame above the doorway is circa World War I, but Churchill's portrait obviously makes it World War II or in the post war period. It could well have been a cartoon for publication, although I'm skeptical the content would have been allowed in newspapers or magazines from this period.
From a research point of view, the place we have to start, is with the slicked-backed, black hair fellow, in the doorway on the left side of the cartoon, who is wearing a western style coat and string tie, and who refers to the young man with the guitar as "bloomin Yank," meaning American undoubtedly. The Dave Crocket hat is the only American adornment, unless we were to consider the feather protruding from it, sitting on his head. The man wearing the western attire, smoking a cigarette in a long holder, has familiar features, that have appeared, at least in my recollection, in other cartoons from the period. Either this is intentionally copied, such as from a regular strip like "Our Boarding House," for example, is surely debatable. This character's features, will be the one aspect of the comic scene, as depicted by a talented cartoonist, that will, I think, eventually lead to discovering the creator, and where it may have come from, if not the heart of Toronto.
I love things like this, that present a little challenge now and again. I'm not confident we will ever be able to narrow down the artist responsible for the cartoon work, but in this case, the historical context, as rich as it is, carries just about as much weight. Suzanne still isn't sure why I like things like this, but she is used to my eccentricities in this way. She knows how many of these "strange" pieces actually sell, which is of course, the most important consideration. It's not like I'm beginning a new collecting trend or anything, by purchasing a satirical cartoon about the over consumption of Bovril.
Honestly, I think I would have given up on the antique business, and collecting as a hobby, if it wasn't for this deep seeded passion, to find the extraordinary amongst the run-of-the-mill. Don't get me wrong, the run-of-the-mill sells, and it's often what keeps our doors open, but really, you need some spice mixed-in, and for me, it's picking up a "storied" piece or two, every couple of outings, which tests you identification and specific research skills. I draw the line about buying some things, that might seriously offend my wife, sons, and customers. Everything else is fair game. By the way, we have a strict code of ethics, so there won't be any shrunken heads on display in our shop, ever. We'll keep them at home. Only kidding!
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Traded Canadian Artist William Harisch, 1917-1991 Montreal Based Artist, Painted Canadian Rockies
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Large Canvas Painted By William Harisch of Mount Cathedral, Yoho National Park, Purchased Today From Our Friends at Carousel Collectibles in Orillia; Their new shop opening April 1st
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THE CAR WITH PROVENANCE THAT GOT AWAY -
THE ACQUISITION THAT WOULD HAVE COMMENCED THE DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS
ANY ONE WHO HAS READ THIS COLUMN FOR MORE THAN SEVERAL MONTHS, WOULD RECOGNIZE INSTANTLY, (AND POSSIBLY ANNOYINGLY) THAT I WAS A HUGE FAN OF FORMER TORONTO SUN COLUMNIST, PAUL RIMSTEAD. IN HIS HEYDAY HE WAS ALSO A STAR COLUMNIST FOR THE EDMONTON SUN, AND THE CALGARY SUN. HE WAS A BIG DEAL ON PAGE THREE WITH THE SUNSHINE GIRL, IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY. I HAD A NUMBER OF REASONS FOR LIKING RIMSTEAD THAT WENT MILES AND MILES BEYOND THE CONTENT OF HIS DAILY COLUMNS. FIRST OF ALL, HE WAS A LOCAL LAD, HAVING SPENT HIS YOUTH ON A FARM NORTH OF BRACEBRIDGE, IN A HAMLET KNOWN AS "BEATRICE." HE AND HIS SISTER DIANE, PUBLISHED THE "BEATRICE BUGLE," FOR THE FORTY RESIDENTS OF THE RURAL NEIGHBORHOOD.
RIMSTEAD HATED SCHOOL LIKE I DID, AND WHEN HE WASN'T IN CLASS, HE WAS HUSTLING POOL, SOMETIMES WITH FUTURE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE GOALTENDER, ROGER CROZIER, (ANOTHER BRACEBRIDGE LAD) IN THE BASEMENT DIGS OF THE OLD A & P, ON MANITOBA STREET, WELL KNOWN AS "JOE'S BILLIARDS." WHEN HE GOT A CHANCE, HE'D STRING FOR ANY NEWSPAPER THAT WOULD HAVE HIM, AND HE ROSE THROUGH THE RANKS OF THE INDUSTRY BECAUSE HE WAS ENTERPRISING, A TOUGH COMPETITOR, AND A TRULY GIFTED WRITER OF HUMAN INTEREST STORIES. AS A STRUGGLING, ALWAYS BROKE NEWSPAPER STAFFER MYSELF, HIS TORONTO SUN COLUMN USED TO KEEP ME SHOWING UP FOR WORK, SUFFERING FOR MY CRAFT, AND GETTING BY WITH LESS MONEY BUT MORE HOPE FOR A BETTER FUTURE…..WHEN COMMON SENSE SUGGESTED PRETTY CLEARLY, IT WAS TIME TO MOVE ON. SNEAKING PORTIONS OF OTHER STAFFER'S LUNCHES, WAS ONE OF THE SIGNS THE JOURNALISM EXPERIENCE WAS INFLICTING UNDUE HARDSHIP. SHORT OF BEGGING, WE FOUND WAYS OF GETTING BY, AND IT REALLY PISSED OFF A LOT OF EMPLOYEES, FINDING ONE HALF OF THEIR SANDWICH MISSING IN ACTION.
I REMEMBER READING ONE OF RIMMER'S COLUMNS ABOUT HIS OWN ECONOMIC AND RELATIONSHIP FOIBLES, AND ABOUT HIS OLD CAR, HE CALLED "RUSTY RITA," WHILE SITTING ON THE BACK DECK OF A MAIN STREET APARTMENT. I WAS HALFWAY THROUGH THE COLUMN, LAUGHING TO MYSELF, WHEN I SUCKED BACK A HUGE, AWFUL TASTING MASS OF CONGEALED MILK FROM THE CARTON I'D JUST PURCHASED AT THE CONVENIENCE STORE. I WAS WORKING OFF A HANGOVER, LIKE RIMSTEAD DID MANY TIMES, (EXCEPT HIS WAS HAIR OF THE DOG), AND THIS MOUTHFUL CERTAINLY CONTRIBUTED TO A CLEANSING OF THE SYSTEM. I WAS VOMITTING OUT BACK FOR A GOOD HALF HOUR. GEEZ, I COULD HAVE SAT DOWN AT THAT MOMENT, AND WRITTEN THE BEST COLUMN OF MY LIFE……BUT MY TYPEWRITER RIBBON WAS SHREDDED, AND I DIDN'T HAVE A KEY FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE OFFICE OVER ON DOMINION STREET.
AFTER THE AWFUL BOUT, WHICH TURNED ME OFF MILK FOR ABOUT TEN YEARS, I WENT BACK TO READ THE COLUMN FROM THE BEGINNING, AND EVEN FEELING PHYSICALLY ILL, HIS RAGING SELF CRITICISM CHANGED MY FARE COMPLETELY. I THOUGHT, HOW INCREDIBLE, TO BE ABLE TO USE YOUR OWN HUMAN FRAILTIES, TO COMPOSE A COMPELLING COLUMN, TO ENTERTAIN THE MASSES. MOST OF THE PEOPLE READING THAT COLUMN, COULD RELATE TO HIS PROBLEMS…..BECAUSE THEY WERE COMMON MALADIES OF A TAXING ECONOMY, HUGE ONGOING LIVING EXPENSES, AND CHALLENGING MARITAL CHECKS AND BALANCES. CAR REPAIRS? I SPENT MUCH OF MY YOUNG LIFE, NERVOUSLY STARING UP OVER THE COUNTER OF THE LOCAL GARAGE, AS THE MECHANICS DEBATED, AND LAUGHED OUT LOUD, ABOUT THE COST OF REPAIRS ON MY RANGE OF PERIOD CLUNKERS; THAT I ABSOLUTELY REQUIRED TO KEEP MY LOW PAYING JOB. SO HERE'S THE THING. I, LIKE THOUSANDS OF OTHERS, HAD A RARE OPPORTUNITY, TO GET A LITTLE KEEPSAKE OF OUR FAVORITE WRITER, PAUL RIMSTEAD. THE ONLY PROBLEM, FOR THOSE THOUSANDS OF FANS, WAS WHAT TO DO WITH THE HULKING REMAINS OF THE LITERARY CHARIOT, "RUSTY RITA."
RIMMER HAD WRITTEN ABOUT RUSTY RITA HUNDREDS OF TIMES, IN HIS REGULAR COLUMNS, AND HONESTLY, BECAUSE OF HIS ATTACHMENT OF NAMES TO THE THINGS HE OWNED, LIKE "ANNABELLE THE WONDER HORSE," (THE RACE HORSE HE OWNED WITH SEVERAL BUDDIES), I STARTED NAMING MY CARS, BUT THEY WERE UNPRINTABLE CUSS WORDS I CAME UP WITH, WHILE STRANDED IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE WITH A SMOKING ENGINE COMPARTMENT. RIMSTEAD'S FAMOUS CAR HAD COME UP FOR SALE, AFTER HIS DEATH, I'M PRETTY SURE IN RETROSPECT, AND I REMEMBER TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW THE HELL I COULD CONVINCE SUZANNE, MY FRUGAL BRIDE, THAT I NEEDED PAUL'S CAR IN MY DRIVEWAY. I NEEDED THAT CAR IN MY LIFE. NOT THAT IT WORKED VERY WELL, BUT JUST THINKING ABOUT HOW MANY COLUMNS, MIGHT HAVE BEEN INSPIRED BY, AND WHILE DRIVING THAT MOTOR VEHICLE, HUMMING DOWN ONTARIO'S HIGHWAYS AND BACKROADS…..MADE ME BELIEVE IT WAS THE ICON OF THE INDUSTRY I'D BEEN QUESTING FOR. THIS CLUNKER OF A CAR, THAT HAD MORE MILES ON IT THAN ANY OTHER VEHICLE ON EARTH OR BEYOND, HAD BEEN A CURIOUS SOURCE OF INSPIRATION, AND BY GOLLY, YOU KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING?
SUZANNE TOLD ME, IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS, SHE WASN'T GOING TO ALLOW RITA TO BECOME A "CARDEN"
I love my wife dearly, but she has never been a very sensitive spouse, as far as my writing career goes. She'll come in to my office here at Birch Hollow, and "tidy up," whatever she determines is "a mess!" Very few guests have ever made it into this inner sanctum, for a number of reasons. Suzanne won't let people past a certain point in the house, because of my cluttering habits. Even under threat of violence, she would have to disarm a shooter, rather than follow instructions, to let them into my office. Additionally, she has no regard for my safe havens…..my familiar writing icons, sundry talismen, other assorted good luck charms (big, small and ugly), and the friendly chaos that reminds me of the work the night before, and the week before that…..and so on. My favorite poem, for long and long, has been "The Idea of Order at Key West," by Wallace Stevens, and this is the rule of my office. So she says, "Tough…..even Wallace Steven's partner had to straighten out his disorder from time to time." Okay, so you get the point. So how does a former newspaper columnist's car enter into it? Well, I think it was up for auction in Orillia, some how connected to the service station, near Bass Lake, where it was a frequent visitor. Rimmer was notoriously hard on motor vehicles. When he took a hiatus at a Bass Lake cottage, a local service centre got all his business. Rusty Rita was a demanding partner.
It was a long time ago, so I've forgotten how it all came about, other than it did…..and I spent a crazy 48 hours trying to convince my partner, that I needed Rimstead's car, in order to fulfill my writing capabilities. Well, you know, suffice to say, I tried every argument on the good woman, and nothing worked. Not even crying. It didn't work for me as a kid either. Merle would actually hit me, and command that I stop crying. Suzanne, having a softer touch, consoled me on the matter, but said she knew what happened when I got bored with my toys. She could see Rimmer's old car, being gradually consumed by the earth in our yard, and turned into what we call, here in Muskoka, "Cardens," which are old abandoned cars that begin to grow with seasonal plants…..with time and neglect. I was indignant. I would never have allowed that storied car, important to readers all over Canada, to be overtaken by nature. I would sit in it every day, with my pad and pen…..maybe even my typewriter, and compose columns for the local press. What a great angle. It would be big. "Local Muskoka columnist uses Paul Rimstead's former car as unique office space!" Tell me this wouldn't have been neat? Suzanne held her ground. I lost ground. We didn't have any money for such foolishness, she argued, and as well, we had credit card debt because of the repairs we had to make to the clunker we used every day.
Suzanne astutely pointed out, that while I like to glamorize Rusty Rita, because I was a loyal Rimstead reader, every day, I needed to appreciate that the foibles he wrote about…..including car repairs, the over consumption of booze, and marital issues, were warnings about a life path not to follow. His story wasn't for the faint of heart, because right down to some of his medical problems, Paul had a tough go of it…..and for the superstitious, like my mother for example, buying Rusty Rita would have been begging misfortune to stop for awhile at our residence. Gradually, I got the message, that my family……who never read Rimmer, by the way, didn't want me to get involved in the purchase of a car that had no redeeming quality, other than its questionable provenance, to a guy who had a lot of issues in life. Yet this is exactly what I felt was most alluring to the clunker, and its former owner, in the first place. Karma. Or something like that! Paul Rimstead had unknowingly led many of us struggling reporters, through many years of poor wages and crappy assignments……residency in tenements, with bare cupboards yet the occasional school-boy six pack of beer, on a payday…..and thus, he was the patron saint of all writers who triumphed over circumstantial adversity, to earn a readership.
A writing colleague asked me, during this great debate, what I would do if I owned "Rusty Rita," and I could sit in it all day long if I wished. "I'd sit in it all day, as I have wished," was my answer. It is my belief that Paul Rimstead was one of the finest writers in Canada, at the time, and if he had survived to this day, he would be the highest read columnist in the country. So yes, I have been in awe for many years, because I recognized that his rampant self criticism, and exploitation of his follies, made readers laugh and compare notes to their own life misfortunes. But what many didn't recognize, because of all the good humor and anecdotes, was the degree of writing proficiency it took, to accomplish this kind of entertainment quality. Many didn't credit his writing brilliance, and his creative genius, for getting and keeping us turning to page three, every day in the Toronto Sun. Sure we looked at the Sunshine Girl. I read Rimmer first. Always.
When I write about provenance, I always think about Rimstead's "Rusty Rita," and how she and I would have got along here at Birch Hollow for all of these years. Would my sons, Andrew and Robert wish to inherit the beast when I finally succumb? How many people even remember Paul Rimstead, who once, on a lark, ran for Mayor of Toronto….and scared himself because of how well he did for a first timer. I'm sure Suzanne was being quite reasonable, when she suggested we would not be able to upkeep the old car…..and neither could Rimstead. I suppose it might have become a "carden" but I would have considered it somewhat of an honor to a great Canadian columnist, to be sprouting beautiful wildflowers from its essence of literary provenance. But then, it wasn't to be a memorial to Rimmer afterall. Rather, it was to be a source of inspiration to a struggling writer, looking for the old Rimstead kick and throttle to win an audience. I had to do it my way. Paul would have put his hand on my shoulder, and told me the same thing. Inspiration comes from within, based on life experiences. My experience was that, defying divorce, I very nearly made a serious play to buy Rusty Rita. That was a long time ago. I wonder where it is now?
Here was a car with provenance. I would have looked pretty silly driving it around the region, with a sign posted in the window, indicating that this was the restored "car once owned by Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead." What was I hoping to accomplish doing that? There are books for that sort of thing! But it would have been neat for the short term!
This is one of my favorite stories when discussing the importance of provenance for an antique or collectable. As for value, it was all based on sentiment, not on the value of that poor down-on-its-luck automobile. Thanks so much for making my day, by taking a few moments to visit here. It means a lot to have you join me for this daily blog……which wouldn't exist without your ongoing support. So thanks again.
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