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.

 

 

Much ado about next to nothing

 

One of the pleasures of gardening in my little yard is unearthing old bits of stuff --  rusted hardware, a 1913 penny once (the house dates to 1912), and random oddities, like this guardian on the windowsill.  Add these to summer camp, along with readers' reactions, and anything can happen.

 

With this week's experiment, I offer a creativity salute to Friend P and her 8- and 10-year old grandsons.  Sharing news on summer activities, she mentioned that her friend (me) was also enjoying summer camp and that she ran it just for herself. (!)  The younger boy replied, "Cool!  Is she teaching herself something new?" (This is a family that sets the bar high).

 

Well, young A's comment was invigorating, and my thoughts turned to trying something I'd heard about somewhere – an artist who paints en plein air with his own little rig.  Since the days of the Impressionists, "en plein air" has evolved to become an enormous industry that markets supplies, equipment, and courses for painting outside.  The artist I dimly remembered paints inside little hand-sized tins, with paper affixed to the inside of the top, and paints available in the base.  Yes.  Really.

 

Packrat that I am, I have a few treasured tins from olden times, but I won't sacrifice them to Summer Camp since they're no longer made.

 

 I searched high and  low for tinned products at nearby stores and eventually found this:

 

The throat lozenges it contained would knock your socks off and were so distasteful, they've been consigned to the compost pile, but the tin did the trick.

 

 

Gluing a piece of good watercolour paper to the inside was the easy part.  Then I considered my watercolour paints – all old-timers – from which I'd need to make a small selection.  Should I use the familiar dry pans or the tube colours?  These were literally incomprehensible to me when I received a set in Grade 3 from my kind aunt then living in Germany.  (Yes, the Dutch Masters box is another treasured antique.) 

 

I found that 5 half-pans would fit the box, so here's my set-up:

 

Now, on to my rarely used watercolour brushes, which are different from acrylic brushes.  And at that moment, seeing them spread out, I decided not just to play in the studio or my back yard  – but to take an actual field trip!  What a concept – and very far from my zone of comfort.

 

This inspiration recalled a little travelling art pack I'd once won in a draw – perfect for the important job of protecting the brushes in transit.  Here it is, showing just some of its clever pockets …and a very dubious folding water container (which I deemed useless):

 

Water was essential, of course, and that also required some research since I don't routinely travel with a water bottle.  Back to the grocery store…and how about some Smart Water?  That could only help, couldn't it?

 

I strategized about nearby parks – minimal transit, possible scenery, a place to sit and spread gear – and then set off early to avoid the crowds.  (The real plein air guys are sometimes besieged by on-lookers).  Clark Park, just six blocks away, filled the bill – but on my walk there, I was almost waylaid by a pile of bricks!

 

Taking photos satisfied my brick fixation, and I moved on to my treed destination.

 

That day's hazy skies obscured the mountain view through the trees so I homed in on a tree grouping, across from a perfectly positioned bench.

 

 

My gear had travelled safely – and note my distinctive cap.  This summer camp, run solely for the proprietor, does not require distinctive T-shirts to identify its campers.

 

 With the tiniest brush, I set to work.  Here's an early stage when I saw that my limited colour selection wasn't necessarily the best.

 

As I puttered a little bit more, a woman came along with her dog – one of those adorable curly-haired types that you want to cuddle.  He didn't want a cuddle but he did hope for treats – and the woman quickly reined him in.  Then she said, "You're an artist!!! And you're painting!!"  She was completely entranced with the set-up and planned to tell her daughter about it.  (Daughter, I'd guess, cannot be older than 10).

 

I sat for a few minutes, letting the final version dry, hoping the grandsons would find "Cool!" a field trip that I took just for myself.

 

Over a cool drink at home, I reviewed the outing with satisfaction.  I didn't spill. I didn't get lost.  I learned things.  I didn't leave my identifier cap behind.  I had a nice encounter.  Then, properly hydrated, I moved on in my to-do list to sort a pile of papers and magazines that had been sitting around since early summer. 

 

And there I saw it – the source of my vague memory about an artist who painted in little boxes!!

 

This guy really knows what he's doing!! – and by the way, he orders his boxes in volume from Amazon.

Will I do the same?  Not a chance.  Let's remember that small things can take on an expansive life of their own.  Here's an unexpected Goji flower from a twig that rooted from last year and is now sending out robust 2-3 foot branches.  The grandfather of those clever boys has issued a caution about galloping Gojis, and I promise to keep things under control – whether vibrant plants or wild ideas.