Witch's brew or sweet treats?

 

Let's not use the stunning white-dotted Amanita muscaria for either brews or treats. The familiar fairy-tale illustrations don't provide ample warning for its toxic and hallucinogenic properties.  Besides, neighbourhood walks offer ample innocuous inedibles as feasts for the eyes.

 

Thinking of how I might brew up my own sweet treats for this fun and eerie time of year, I thought of a black canvas I created when I covered up a stale painting.  (Hmmm – is that what's called "deaccessioning"?   Sounds a little classier but my action doesn't fit the official definition)

 

On the black canvas, I planned to rearrange two slightly obscure master drawings that have always tantalized me.  Together, their monotones yield their own sweet treat.

 

The first is an intriguing drawing by Pieter Bruegel the Elder titled "The Beekeepers" (and Birdcatcher -- Be assured that a Catch and Release policy is in effect here).  

 

 Bruegel, by the way, is the painter of one of my top ten favourite paintings, "Hunters in the Snow."

 

The second is a drawing that surfaced in my Commedia dell'Arte research:-- "Punchinellos Cooking and Tasting Gnocchi" by Giambattista Tiepolo.

 

Not sure what gnocchi is?  For most of us, the store-bought version of this potato dumpling will have to do, but it's rumoured that ordinary mortals actually create their own -- if they have a magic kitchen to work in.

 

Put these two drawings (or parts of them) together and what do you get?  "Gnocchi with Honey."  Let's get cookin' –

 

Start adding a pinch of colour – not much is needed.

 

Push paint around to taste, and here it is – final version fresh from the honey shack:

 

 And if you've really missed the vibrant colours of autumn, here from the archives is "Cucurbit Immersive"(copyright 2021).

 

 

With the blink of an eye -- it's Harvest Season!

 

The frost is on the pumpkin – or at least it's been on the neighbourhood rooftops a few mornings; the Summer Camp "merch" has mostly been distributed; and the "Seven Views of Grouse Mountain" series is now installed to cover part of a patched-up basement wall.

 

Riding the bus one day, I was showered with a big bag of homegrown kale by a fellow rider.  It was the same week that my friend L. delivered Galiano Island apples and cherry tomatoes to my door, and….I couldn't resist.   I decided I'd use some of this abundance as props for a harvest-themed portrait in the manner of Arcimboldo.

 

When I first saw examples of his work, I thought he was an early 20^th-century surrealist.  But no. Although he was celebrated by artists like Salvador Dali, he was a 16^th century Italian Renaissance painter – and a court artist to boot.  His painting titled "Vertumnus" is a salute to both a Roman god and to the Holy Roman Emperor!  If you have the stomach for more politics, read here.

 

 

Okay – with some additions from the local grocery store, I splashed down my own version:--

 

Thinking of my cultured friends P and R, I at least had the grace not to try for Arcimboldo's "The Librarian"  -- although as retired specialized librarians, they just might find interesting the debate about the message of this painting.

 

In retrospect, I've wondered if Arcimboldo's weird vibes weren't responsible for the upheaval in my week – when my smoke/CO alarms went off in manic beeping and exclamations.  The Fire Department came and gave the all-clear, and the next day the alarm company replaced a defective unit – but I was a bit rattled.

 

Luckily this upset didn't interfere with a long-planned art tour north to Whistler, BC, for a fabulous exhibit of the works of Canadian artist Tom Thomson.  After that soothing (though exhilarating) experience, I decided to bring my week to a calm close with a small 8" x 10" study – not quite to Thomson's standards! – he made at least 150 in small size, leading in some cases, to his larger works.

 

Here's my little commemoration of a busy flock of white-crowned sparrows near West Van's Ambleside Beach where I waited for the tour group to convene.

 

At another gallery we visited on the Whistler trip, a bubbly artist named Jane Appleby showed us what real artists' "merch" looks like.  At the end of her talk, she gave each of us a pen with its small patterned swatch taken from one of her own paintings.

 

Summer Camp as an Olympic sport?

 

No, I guess not.  They tell me that Break Dancing is at last an Olympic category – but meanwhile, Summer Camp has yielded only a broken dancer.  As we wrap up this year's extended "summer," there have been disappointments.  That very inadequate clay.  The abundance of chilly days that made a grand outdoor papier-mâché splash less than feasible.  And the need to invent an explanation ("It happened") for why this Summer Camp went from July through September, instead of June through August – as it will again in 2025.

 

Olympic medal or not, there was the pleasant surprise of a spontaneous People's Choice Award for "Partial Eclipse."

 

And there was unintended encouragement from the likes of young Italian artist Guilia Cenci.  YES!!! – bring on all those found objects and oversized industrial whatzits.  My found objects are on a smaller scale than Guilia C's, but with this final Summer Camp project, I've come full circle from the tondo that kicked off July.

 

I had a terrific idea for this assemblage and began by gluing the pieces in a flowing design.

 

I then glued lightweight paper over the whole thing.

 

The last step was a lavish paint application and the final photo shoot outside against the garden's greenery. 

 

Alas, this product was not at all the subtly fascinating scene I'd envisioned when I titled it from the outset as "Up from the Earth" – an underground stream bursting from beneath old fallen logs and mosses.

 

In fact, on its completion, the realization came to me that it very much resembled the homemade landscapes and tunnels that a childhood friend's big brother constructed for his very large electric train layout.  (Do boys still do that?  I don't know – but the big brother, now in his early 80s, still has the essentials of that long-ago landscape – to which he added with his own sons).

 

Summary:  Summer Camp 2024 was not at all as satisfying as SC 2023 – but I'm already building a computer folder with topics waiting for next year.   And even though the last project was ultimately a waste of a bunch of perfectly good rusty old bits and pieces – I'm confident that more will come my way.

 

 

More views and lessons learned

 

There's a long, long trail a-winding, and we'll reach the end before long – so let's do a quick review.  First, it was reasonable to assume that Summer Camp would conclude when the kids went back to school – but not so, this year.  By a quirk of the calendar, we'll push through to the end of September. For now, this is the second and final installment of "Seven Views of Grouse Mountain" – if you didn't catch last month's introduction to this series, you'd better check that out first, or this might be incomprehensible.

 

Finally, whether or not you're committed to Summer Camp as a learning environment (and I've tried!), there are lessons small and large along the trail – the title image shows one unforgettable lesson.  I'd decided to use an untouched watercolour block for the seven paintings.  This worked perfectly until I finished the first painting and couldn't separate the glued layers.  One internet search later, I found it was simple, really. There's an inch-long stretch where the papers are not glued, and a sharp item like a palette knife can be inserted to slip around all the edges of the top sheet, as shown.

 

Now, onward and upward!  Following the previous format, I'll show the lead-up to each of my paintings with: -- One of my photographs of Grouse Mountain; a roughly comparable scene from Hokusai's "36 Views"; a somewhat comparable scene from a Group of Seven artist; finally, my attempted emulation of the scene in the manner of that artist.   Here we go --

 

Grouse View #4:  Photo looking across Trout Lake;  Hokusai's "Tsukuda Island in Musashi Province"; J.E.H. MacDonald's "On the Lake Shore Near Bronte;" my emulation.

 

 

 

Grouse View #5: Photo from Canada Place; Hokusai's "Shichuri Beach"; Franklin Carmichael's "Untitled;" my emulation.

 

 

 

Grouse View #6: Photo near the top of Grouse; Hokusai's "Mishima Pass"; Frederick Varley's  "Lynn Valley"; my emulation.  Note that Varley actually lived and worked in Vancouver for a time, and Lynn Valley is roughly at the bottom of Grouse's eastern flank.

 

 

Finally:  Grouse View #7:  Photo of snowy top from East Vancouver; Hokusai's "Teahouse at Koishikawa"; Lawren Harris' "Mountains East of Maligne Lake"; my emulation. (True confession:-- Harris is my favourite of the Group, but you wouldn't know it from this).

 

 

 

 Whew!  That was a journey – which recalls the expression, "running madly off in all directions."  To end on a sober note, let's go back to Lynn Valley and ascend the slope to the east and reach another prominence on our northern skyline – Mount Seymour.  As seen across the rooftops from my north window, it's part of my joy in this vantage point, a ready indicator of time of day, the mood of the weather, and the change of seasons.

 

After 12 years of savouring this little slice of view, I'm experiencing its final months.  Since Summer Camp began, an empty construction site has activated – the orange warning flags were posted, and the big digger sets noisily to work early each morning.  Eventually, a 6-storey building will fill the space.

 

I'm trying to be philosophical and accept one of life's big lessons that needs to be learned – change happens.   Silver lining?  Time will tell.

 

Light-headed in the mountain air

 

Taking a plein air field trip, as previously described, was a new experience for me.  But I regularly make expeditions – loosely defined, for my purposes, as any outing farther than six blocks from home and lasting more than three hours.  The best are even longer, like the commemorative day-trip I make to Grouse Mountain every July.

 

From our first days in Vancouver, the mountains have called to me, and now their voices sound plaintive as the City of Vancouver rushes to eliminate our historic "view cones".  I was stewing about this as two things happened within a week of my Grouse expedition.  In a studio clean-up session, I pulled out some old newspapers and saw a 2017 ad for an exhibit I wish I'd seen then – "Forty Views of Mount Baker" by a local artist who turned out wonderful work during his career as a pediatric ER physician and now continues into retirement.  Eventually, he produced 80 views of Mount Baker and many more paintings on other subjects, too.

 

Then, my friend M put me on to a Globe & Mail article about Sue and Jim Waddington. Now in their 80s, they've spent decades searching out the original settings for Group of Seven landscapes.  This charming video, introduced by their 12-year-old granddaughter, shows and tells their story.

 

Canadian readers of this blog (you didn't know its readership is international?!) need no introduction to the Group of Seven, but others might want a little background.

 

Clearly the stars were aligning for my next Summer Camp project.  Drawing from the same inspiration as the Mount Baker artist, I felt it was time to do my own series -- with thanks to the  original Viewer, the "Old Man Mad About Art" – Hokusai.  Checking out his "Thirty-six Views of Mt. Fuji", I was astonished to discover something I'd never thought about before – his famous  "Great Wave" is actually the first in this series, with Mt. Fuji in the far distance.

 

How many views would I paint?  Let's make it seven, one to emulate each of the Group of Seven artists.  So grab some trail mix and get set to go.

 

Here's the plan.  For each view, you'll also see my sources:-- A photograph of Grouse Mountain (taken by me, any old time in the past); a roughly comparable scene from Hokusai's 36 Views (think shapes, not media); a somewhat comparable scene from a Group of Seven artist (again, think shapes, horizontals, verticals, and paint handling); finally, my emulation of the scene in the manner of that artist.  Here we go:--

 

Grouse View #1:  The view from my north window (with my camera's setting bringing Grouse nearer and looking much larger);  Hokusai's "Nihonbashi Bridge"; artist A. Y. Jackson's  "Port Joli, Quebec"; my emulation in the manner of Jackson.

Grouse View #2:  Grouse from Bard on the Beach; Hokusai's "Mitsui Tea Shop"; "Northern Hills" by Arthur Lismer; my emulation, "Peaks."

 

And just one more, Grouse View #3:   Snow and flowering cherries in East Van; Hokusai's "Inume Pass"; "Near the Berry Patch," by Franz Johnston; my emulation, "Grouse from Lanark Street."

 

 

Whew!  I'd say this is already a long read for a long weekend.  We'll catch the rest of my Views the next time.  And now, as daylight fades, I'll sign off with a typical late-day view from my north window – unlikely to be further compromised by rampant development, at least for another ten years.