TOM THOMSOHN'S NAME AND WORK HAVE BEEN ATTACHED TO EVERYTHING FROM STAMPS TO GAMES AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN
A LOT OF MONEY HAS BEEN MADE OFf HIS ART AND HIS NAME - THE MYSTERY IS NOW PART OF THE MARKET VALUE!
Although I would clearly be lying, (and have to live with the writer's shame) if I was to say, it was the quality exhibition of Tom Thomson's art, that first compelled me to delve deeply into his biography, it is very much the case, that I had turned-on to his artwork, at roughly the same time, as the CBC aired its documentary, on what has become known as "The Tom Thomson Mystery." The early 1970's documentary, was based in large part, on Judge William Little's trail-blazing book of the same name, published in and around this time. I had first noticed Thomson's art work, reprinted in several school textbooks, we used at both Lakeshore Public School in Burlington, and later, at Bracebridge Public School, when our family moved north. I was far more interested, in staring at these works by Canadian artists, published in these musty textbooks, than what was going on in the equally musty classrooms. Thomson's paintings, contained in those books, that inspired me to look out the classroom windows with great, unfettered anticipation, when I was supposed to be paying attention to the teacher, conducting the day's lessons at the blackboard. When I'd get notes home from the teacher, complaining that I wasn't paying attention to the lessons being conducted, I guess it was the forewarning of things to come. I blame Thomson and the Group of Seven Artists for diverting my attention. Thus, and I say this with all sincerity, that for this pleasant distraction, from what I hated of classroom study, I therefore owe them a tremendous debt of gratitude.
Quite a few years ago, Canadian Art Historian, David Silcox, also known for his exceptionally well researched and illustrated book, "Tom Thomson, The Silence and The Storm," reminded me, in the throes of my obsessive quest for a Canoe Lake murderer, not to allow the "mystery" surrounding his death, to corrupt appreciation of his art work. It was the first time I'd even thought about the necessity of separating the two situations, of his life and work, and mysterious death, which as a novice to the study of Thomson, I had believed were one and the same. Of course, seeing that the mystery only had a relevance following his death, it was clear in retrospect, with a tad of sensibility, that his artwork didn't deserve the dark shadowing of what was being alleged, as an unsolved murder. Not making any overture, whatsoever, for all these years, of thinking myself qualified enough, to offer any more than a voyeur's perspective, on Thomson's painting capability, I continue to deny myself any privilege, to delve into this region, clearly the bigger part of the biography of the artist's life. It is sufficient to note, I think, that I continued to be compelled to remain in company of his paintings. As I can't possibly afford one of his original art panels, I have been able to satisfy my passions, by keeping a small library of his work, in prints, and of course, most of the related books that at some time or other, have made Thomson the theme of their stories. They are never far from my desk at Birch Hollow, and there hasn't been a single month in the past decade, when I haven't made a purposeful foray into the collection, to validate some tidbit of information, or just to refresh my memory about some painting, or sketch Thomson did, that paralleled some plant or vista I'd witnessed here in South Muskoka; or found on a casual stroll through the Bog, our neighborhood lowland, where wildflowers, leaning birches and venerable old pines, are both enchanting to the voyeur, and visually accessible for the artist and photographer.
Taking Mr. Silcox's advice, I have become far more aware of my own corruption, of placing too much emphasis on the mystery of Tom Thomson's death, and where he is buried, in either Leith, Ontario, in the family plot, or still in the Algonquin soil, in the Canoe Lake Cemetery. I am now fully aware of the separation, and even this week, I have spent the past five evenings, looking through David Silcox and Harold Town's book, "Silence and the Storm," amongst numerous other quality texts, offering full color panels, of his most memorable, and of course, nationally iconic paintings; of which most Canadians can easily identify. I have invested my time wisely in this regard. I have paddled many miles by water route, in Algonquin Park, in spring, summer and the autumns season, and there have been many times, when I've stopped, balancing with paddle across the gunnels, being gently rocked and haunted by the knowledge Thomson had once painted the same length, width and depth of panorama, gradually revealing itself from behind the shroud of evergreens and rock; and the intimate, chilled feeling in my bones, that I had seen it before. Published, I recall, in one of the books from my archives. Many times, since I began researching the biography of Tom Thomson, I have experienced the strange sensation, that comes from traversing Canoe Lake, the body of water that took his life, and suddenly, as if having seen his ghost canoe, appreciating fully, at that precise moment, I had been following the same route, stroke for stroke, Thomson paddled, when he was living and working in the hamlet of Mowat. This had been his paradise, and he shared it with us, and of this we must be entirely grateful, because it is an unending gift to Canada and Canadians.
In the past fifty years, of the 98 years Tom Thomson has been deceased, his name and art work have, without more than a thin shred of reservation, or consideration, been attached to many commercial promotions, targeting advertisements, and products, including postage stamps, and even family games for the cottage. When I began this short series of columns, as a preamble anniversary retrospective of past columns, (you can check them out on this site, and on our connected blog) I also announced our family's two year mission of acquisition, to accumulate contemporary Thomson-related articles (merchandise), and what are best labelled "souvenirs;" and of course representation of those large commercial reproductions of his work, visible today in the marketplace, exploiting his art and in some cases, the mystery of his death for profit. We've had a bit of a head start, on this project, as we have been collecting Thomson memorabilia for decades, but we expect the collecting odyssey ahead will be quite entertaining and revealing, about what Thomson's art and name represent in the commercial "for profit" sense. Methinks, the artist may not have approved, of some modern uses of his life's work. I suppose this would be the case for many celebrities, who have had their names and reputations hijacked for capital gain. The idea for us, was to hunt and gather as many of these tastefully appointed Thomson-adorned pieces, for an in-store display, to mark the occasion of the 100th anniversary of his death, in and around July 8th, 1917. It will be offered for viewing with best intentions, (and not admission fee) but it most definitely will show, (and I know this well in advance), how we (Canadians with profit in mind) have, without shame, taken ownership of his accomplishments, and in some cases his tragedy, in the mission to promote a plethora of diverse products and lifestyle luxuries, in order to secure that all important margin of profit.
So what do we owe Thomson for these intrusions on his biography? In a monetary overview, what is he owed, for the widespread use of his name and art work, for corporate, business and private profit? Would it be in the billions of dollars? Possibly the trillions! Well for one thing, to place above all else, as Mr. Silcox pointed out to me, we should make more effort to celebrate his art, for what it has meant to Canadians for all these years; and how our national identity, owes its cultural enhancement to his courageous mission to give the fledgling country something exceptional to hold close to our hears. Above what had been hopelessly mired in a conservative quagmire of romantic obsession, the infatuation with art that inspired pervasive melancholy, and hopelessly sentimental pastoral scenes, and landscapes, that appeared as if historic relics, only moments after the artist finished the final brush stroke. Tom Thomson gave us reason to see nature, as a powerful, enthralling and exciting force, of which we were its mesmerized, silent, and humbled witnesses.
The discovery of Tom Thomson's art, in earnest, as it first presented to the reluctant student, as witnessed in school textbooks, was in my mind, and limited perspective of possibility, back then, the open invitation to explore Algonquin Park; and our family has celebrated this relationship ever since. And it has meant, to each of us, throughout the experience, that profound, enthralling, naked excitement, of long overdue, enduring liberation. An escape, in mindset, from the persistent imposition of conformity; the stiff framing society will impose, if it gets an opportunity, influencing us as a matter of good economy, and convenience by association. But not by any keen desire, on our part, to be unjustly limited and overly defined in life, exploration, and expression. I found my own great escape, that sensation of breaking-free of conformity, by heartfully, and intimately celebrating Thomson's alluring depictions of paintings such as "The Northern Lights," the "Jack Pine," and "The West Wind". Thomson most certainly must have approved of this aura of liberation, during his however short relationship, with the immensity of the Canadian wilderness.
Printed below, are a few more of my archived stories (feature columns published elsewhere), borrowed from a twenty-five year old file, containing some of my initial forays into a biography, that honestly, I still feel unqualified as a writer / historian, to investigate, and then present as a story of national integrity. Tom Thomson represents a giant challenge for all biographers, as there are many twists, turns and crossroads to navigate, most of it through the obstacle-filled darkness of uncharted history.
Sunset encounters with the lone Algonquin canoeist
My very first trip to Algonquin Park after beginning research on the mysterious death of Canadian landscape artist, Tom Thomson, began and ended at the Tea Lake Dam. It had been one of Thomson’s favorite fishing locations, from the rocks bordering the rapids below the old dam. When I made my way down to the water-side that first day, it was as if I truly expected to encounter in one form or another,... his spirit, still hovering in the mist prevailing over that peaceful Algonquin alcove of water, rock and forest. It was as if for a moment in time, I was allowed to walk into one of his paintings to see from the inside out, how his inspiration had manifested by brush and paint onto board. I sat on a fallen log for a long while, listening to the gentle wash of shallow water rushing over the rocks mid-stream. When the sun burned away the morning vapor, the sunlight dazzled on the water as if there were diamonds tumbling along in the current. My sons threw small stones into the dark water to watch the splash and ripples generate in the sunglow, and giggled when the chilled water penetrated their shoes.....and toes. It was poetry in art. It was the comforting natural embrace of a most beautiful place on earth.....a place you could not casually dismiss, or forget amidst the memories of a million other visitations abroad over a lifetime. Here was the portal into legend, an entrance I willingly stepped through, in my own adventures into contentment, as author David Grayson once wrote about spiritual re-awakening, and explorations in nature.
I’ve spent many hours paddling the Algonquin lakes visiting places that had encouraged his studies and invigorated his ambition to capture stirring lakeland scenes from sunset and storm to spring re-awakening and haunted, spirit-full forests. On cold autumn evenings my wife and sons would sit for hours watching the fanning colors of the Northern Lights, over Tea Lake, another quality of the environment that had intrigued Thomson. There were friends and admirers of his work, who paid particular attention to his sketches of these enchanted rainbow lights, some remarking to him that the scenes were "cold and lonely" in appearance, and that pleased the artist, as this is what he had intended.
Whether we have been traversing picturesque Tea Lake, Canoe Lake, Smoke Lake or our favorite Rock Lake near the east gate, there is always a wonderful lingering aura of Tom Thomson....and many vistas around these lakes, at all times of the year and day, can remind one in a subtle way, of an Algonquin sketch made by his hand ninety two years earlier.
Those long time admirers of Thomson’s powerful landscapes may agree that Algonquin is forever haunted by his lake traverses by grey-green canoe. Pleasantly haunted of course. Each year there is a Thomson sighting.....a lone canoeist paddling gently, just after sunset, heading toward the watcher, only to disappear as strangely as it first appeared on the horizon. In William Little’s book, "The Tom Thomson Mystery," 1970, McGraw-Hill, pages 98-100, there is the first reference to the ghost of Tom Thomson.
There were persistent, year after year claims, all part of the escalating Tom Thomson legend, "that former guides had seen Tom in his canoe in various places in the Park. One such experience is described by a prominent summer resident in Algonquin Park only a few miles away from Canoe Lake. Mrs. Northway, her husband, and daughter Mary were vacationing in their beautiful summer home, Nominigan, on the east side of Smoke Lake. They had as their guest Mr. Lawren Harris, one of the Group of Seven’s leading artists and a close friend of Tom Thomson. Miss Northway recounts the following story, written verbatim as told her by her mother in 1931: ‘It was a very calm day last summer when my guide and I had been in a hidden, hill-locked lake, with the most diabolical modern apparatus to ensnare any unfortunate fish who would be taken in by the flashy advertising on a first class, well-hooked spinner. We had been up at dawn, and had travelled from lake to lake across portages which made my city lungs gasp, and over long stretches of still blue water into ponds where lilies bloomed. The winds had slept all day. We had talked through the hours, my guide and I, for he, as he smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, could discourse on many a thing and could weave tales of adventure or truth in which the incidents were all seen as under a strong magnifying glass.
‘It had been a happy day and ever so lazy. At dusk we were coming home, tired, rested, and at peace with the world. It was a tremendously still evening, you could hear the silence sing against your ear. The hills made strange, statuesque, figures against the haunting orange of the western sky, while the first star set its light akindle, as an altar lamp of the universe against the canopy of the afterglow. Even my guide’s tales had ceased, and through my mind drifted fragments of harmonies as if heard from a far away cello. Suddenly the voice of my guide shattered the silence. ‘They’re coming out to meet us from the portage.’ And turning toward the sunset I saw a man kneeling in a canoe that slowly came towards us. ‘So they are,’ I answered. ‘I guess we are pretty late.’
‘My guide turned from his course in order that we might better meet our herald, now a little less than a hundred yards away. I raised my voice and called and waved my hand, while my guide kept paddling toward the camper. But there was no response, for even as we looked the canoe and its paddler, without warning or sound, vanished into nothingness, and on the undisturbed lake were only our lonely selves and the shrieking loon." Miss Northway, in re-telling her mother’s story stated that "My father and Mr. Taylor-Statten, being practical people, on hearing the tale insisted it had been a mirage, but Lawren (Harris), a theosophist, was sure it was the spirit of Tom Thomson. His rationale was that those who depart before their time continue to haunt the lands they loved. My mother was inclined to accept Lawren’s interpretation much to my father’s disgust. A point that was much discussed but never settled, was what colour shirt was Tom wearing when he was drowned. (The ghost paddler had been wearing a yellow shirt)"
According to William Little, "This story of the phantom canoeist has become part of the saga of Tom Thomson. Lawren Harris, one of the last surviving members of the Group of Seven (now deceased), verified the above experience of his friend."
Maybe you are reminded of this curious presence while sitting at fireside, when you casually glance out onto the lake to admire the final rays of the July sun disappearing below the evergreen ridge. Possibly the sound of wind etching down across the hollows of the rock landscape, singing through the pines and knocking about the leaning birches, will remind you of a painter once. And maybe it will be the sound of water in the deep of night, lapping at the shore, that reminds you of the mysterious paddler, traversing the dreamy solitude, looking for a kindred spirit to awaken to the legend in which he dwells. It is not disturbing at all, to be in company of such an acquaintance.....enriching the grandness of Algonquin.
I would be delighted, absolutely enthralled, to have such an opportunity, to witness this spirited traverse of a misty Algonquin lake. Yet I have never visited this enchanted region of Ontario, and not, in some subtle way, been reminded of Thomson’s enduring stewardship of these magnificent lakes and forests.
Visit Algonquin Park this season and enjoy its spell-binding ambience. Just watch for crossing moose and other park wildlife. And watch for the lone canoeist!
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