Eyes on the Northwest

An ad for UBC's Museum of Anthropology recalled an old fascination and suggested my next summer camp project. As a child, I was given a small book titled (before the days of political correctness) Indian Children of North America that showed the lifestyles of "Indians" of the plains, the woods, the swamps, the deserts, and -- my favorite -- the Northwest coast. I loved the intricate carvings on the huge canoes and the zoomorphic artifacts, like a huge bear-shaped ceremonial bowl. When we came to Vancouver in the late 1970s, I was already predisposed to love the environment and the characteristic First Nations art.

For many years, we hiked or kayaked every weekend all year round, and every trip was an opportunity to indulge our shared weakness (or strength) for randomly collecting the stones, shells, and pieces of wood that captured our eyes. It didn't take many small bits of cedar, weathered or waterworn, for me to develop a personal theory about the origins of art like the Edenshaws'. Maybe it's very obvious, but I've never seen my theory referred to elsewhere. Take a look at these wood pieces of mine:

Get my drift? The rhythms, the concentric ovals, the eyes... Is there any doubt that these (and probably the swirl of oyster shells) inspired coastal First Nations art?

Here at summer camp, where the intent is to do a lot of splashing around, I decided to assemble some of my pieces in a long band -- like a silver bracelet perhaps?

I decided to work very loosely with a larger than usual brush on top of an old painting.

The final outcome -- "Eyes on the Northwest" -- was a personal amble into the past, recalling hiking trails and beach walks.


It was also an invitation to recall one of my all-time favorite works of art, a treasure at the MOA: Bill Reid's Raven and the First Men. Check out his exquisite piece (which stands about 10 feet high, as I remember) and see if you don't agree that its origin could be found in a morning's walk, gathering tidbits from the high tide line of a coastal beach.

A balancing act

Just before heading for summer camp, I finished a painting I'd been thinking about for over a year. I'd been reading about Berthe Morisot, "the female Impressionist," and came across a contemporary critic's assessment of the painting she submitted to the famous (in retrospect) 1865 Salon:

"Since it is not necessary to have had a long training in draughtsmanship in the academy in order to paint a copper pot, a candlestick, and a bunch of radishes, women succeed quite well in this type of domestic painting." (-Paul Mantz quoted in BERTHE MORISOT: THE CORRESPONDENCE, ed. Denis
Rouart)

Okay. Copper pot + candlestick + bunch of radishes = "women's work"? Very well. I can do that. I think I'll give it a try.


Some months passed as I finished my Astrological Plants series and then waited for radishes to be seasonable. Meanwhile, the idea came to me to use not just the named threesome, but three of each item and then to see how I could create a balanced, harmonious composition with the 3x3 subject matter.

Usually I play with compositional possibilities via thumbnail sketches, but once I had the June radishes before me, I saw that a quicker way would be to make small prototype objects which I could easily move around. By now, I'd realized that cast shadows could be an interesting design element and so I painted a small family of paper shapes: candlesticks, copper pots, radishes, and "shadows."

In one exciting session (which felt like a cross between playing chess and playing with paper dolls) I tried the pieces in various configurations. The prototype composition, shown here, was planned to sit against folds of background fabric which would run in diagonal opposition to the lines of the shadows.


Here's the final outcome -- which altered the 3x3 concept a bit when I split up one of the radish bunches. You can view the progression here.

The painting's title "Balancing Act" refers both to my compositional game and, with a small feminist salute, to Berthe Morisot herself -- and the immense balancing act she maintained between her role as the daughter of privileged 19th century Parisians and her compulsion, nonetheless, to be an artist.