An Artist Muses

Whenever I display prints of this painting (the original is long sold), inevitably it gets a big response from people of a certain 'vintage'...that is to say, MY vintage. It's a scene of an old Red Barn restaurant, one of a chain that started in the midwest United States in 1961 and eventually grew to 400 outlets in the U.S., Canada, and as far away as Australia. The particular Red Barn that my family would frequent was located on Merivale road in Ottawa.  The entire family (all eight of us) would load up in the family's Country Squire station wagon to make the trek.  That's why I've included the faux-wood-adorned back end of one of these cars in the painting. Arrival at the Barn meant having to choose which of the three "Hungries" would be best suited to satisfy your fast food cravings.  I can't remember which would typically be my choice, but I can probably guarantee it wasn't the fish one. What WAS very memorable was the little card...

In its short seven-year lifespan, my painting "Arriving at Union", has already had its fair share of the dramatic.  Finished in 2011, it was initially represented in a vanity gallery that shall remain nameless.  The gallery had this habit of frequently moving, so I prudently decided to rescue it from their inventory.  It then showed at the 2012 McMichael Autumn Art Show where an elderly German man came up to me and pointing to it, declared, "Of all der paintings in here...ZAT'S ze best von!"  Alas, not everybody agreed and the painting remained unsold. A few months later, a hole was punched through it as a piece of furniture was being moved through the narrow confines of my apartment.  Fortunately, it was repairable with a hit of glue on the back and a paint touch-up on the front. Next, I was approached by Ducks Unlimited Canada to participate in their fundraising program, which consisted of auctioning off prints of Canadian art at various venues acro...

We are experiencing a mid-September heat wave as I write this blog, so perhaps this will serve to help cool people down and remind everyone that more bitter weather may lie a scant few months ahead.  This is a Toronto scene from the Parkdale neighborhood circa 1924.  The delivery man is dropping off blocks of ice to residents for use in their ice boxes, which predated modern refrigerators.  Since this is a west end scene, the blocks were likely sourced from Grenadier Pond.  The Don River and Lake Ontario were also important ice sources at this time.  The painting is based on an actual archival photo, and I can't think of a colder job than this one, as undoubtedly the man's clothes weren't of the down-filled variety we have today.  I like to paint scenes of working people because I find it helps my pieces avoid being overly sentimental, a lurking danger for anyone who paints scenes of the "good old days".  Likely few people today have any ap...

In my relentless search for archival material to paint I typically resort to browsing the internet.  Sometimes, though, a perfect subject can be found in the family archives.  This is a case in point.  The photo here was taken by my mother, Helen, in 1957 in Yorkton, Saskatchewan.  It shows my eldest brother Gene (then two) having an impromptu bath in a tire rut beside the house, all the while under the watchful gaze of the family dog, Jesse. What was it that struck me about this photo, besides its familial appeal?  There's a certain timelessness to it on many levels.  It reflects the particular resourcefulness that children have in finding ways to amuse themselves.  It features that blend of rural/urban that was so characteristic of suburban spread in the 1950s.  And of course, it shows the eternal bond between child and dog, with the dog serving the role of both minder and playmate. My version of the scene is a little more streamline...

Many years ago, when I was a boy, my friends and I would toboggan in an old sand pit that we reached by going through a fence in the schoolyard, crossing some railroad tracks and walking about a mile through a grassy field.  Many an Ottawa winter night was spent in such a fashion.  We'd go up and down the hillside dozens of times until our legs were spent and the wrists of our parkas were ice-bound cuffs.  It was important to save just enough energy for the return trip, made through the knee-deep snow of the empty field.   Often as we headed for home we would hear the distant and eerie sound of a train's horn as it was passing through the level crossing at Bell's Corners, headed our way.  For some unknown reason, it became vitally important in our eleven-year-old boys' minds that we reach the tracks and cross before the train would prevent (only temporarily) our access to the fence and the schoolyard.  Onward we would race through the frozen night, all t...