I know you’re all wondering on what I have to say about Winnie. I shouldn’t reveal too much here as this is a big part of the story which you will learn in due time. Winnifred Trainor was set out to be one of the major tragic figures of the story, but she had her hand in the tragedy too. So let’s be clear. As I was not the mythic figure, she was not the tragic figure, either.
Winnie was 27 years old when I first met her in 1912. I was 34. At this age she was considered to be a spinster and at my age, I was a bachelor but the state of bachelorhood was much less called into question than spinsterhood. Men were expected to be free until such time they decided to settle down. This was not the case for women, and I believe this had a bearing on her parents’ view of her and of me.
To be sure, we had a grand time together. Each time going up North, I enjoyed her company as she was not like the other women. Practical (and mathematical she could tally a bill in her head with no paper and pencil), she had an equal love of the outdoors that she shared with me. We spent many pleasant hours together, fishing and canoeing. Her family came to know me well and had the (unstated) expectation that the relationship would become more formal one day.
March 10, 1917
Canvas are tough work. I hope to do my last canvas before I go North. I was looking through my sketches in the Shack (over 300) and decided to use the one I made when I was a Ranger in the Park last fall. I painted this sketch at Grand Lake when I was with Ed Godin. What I like most about this sketch is the shape of the tree. This tree was alone on the rocks and it was a windy day.
Continue reading “Starting on the West Wind”
I hope this letter finds you well.
I have done no sketching since the flies started. I have been doing some guiding but not as much as I would like. I had some Americans a couple of weeks ago and I have had some political men from Ottawa. There’s word that the Province might allow deer hunting to feed the troops at the front. There’s lots of deer, some are calling it an infestation, like the wolves, better to be eliminated for good of mankind, they say. I’m not sure of that. I get along with the wildlife quite well. Continue reading “Letter to Lismer, June 29, 1917”
The 45th Spring Exhibition of the Ontario Society of Artists is all set to open this upcoming Friday, March 9th.
I sent nothing this year. I’ll tell you the reasons why.
I had exhibited in OSA exhibitions previous years: 1913, 1914, 1915, and 1916. I had also exhibited at the Toronto C.N.E Exhibition, and most recently in Montreal. At first I was very enthusiastic to participate. To become member of the OSA was an honour. It was a validation of sort, but the honour started to wear off when I attended the socials. I felt like an uneducated fraud.
Despite the encouragement , if not outright pressure from Jim and Dr. MaCallum, I refused to budge. I had enough of the critics, especially the fierce attack by Carl Ahrens. Despite being quite satisfied by my works, I don’t feel up to the barrage, There are two things worse than having your name spelled wrong in the newspaper (“Thompson”) it’s being called a hermaphrodite or being served with a white feather.
Talk of conscription is louder than ever. Borden is in England and it’s a surety that when he returns, he’ll make the call up mandatory. Despite the white feather treatment, no one is volunteering anymore. I did have some enthusiasm at the beginning of the war, but after reading Jackon’s letter and seeing the endless reels at the Regent. I’ve determined it’s all a rotten waste.
With all that going about, sending something to the Exhibition is like fiddling while Rome is burning. I am going on to being four months in Tornto, after seven months away – my longest absence ever.
I need to leave soon and I might never return
Jack Pine. That’s the tree I painted.
I finally set it aside after considerable effort and am quite pleased with the outcome.
Despite it being a large canvas, I wanted to retain the feeling of a sketch painted on a board. I liked how the wood would show through and I wanted to do the same with this picture. I made the canvas like a large board. I painted it with a thin coat of dark orange. I tried to replicate as well as I could the colour of the boards I got from South River at the Standard Chemical Company.
Continue reading “Jack Pine”
This is Mark Robinson’s calendar from 1917.
Mowat P.O. Algonquin Park
May 27, 1917
I am sorry I did not give you a proper goodbye on Friday morning. Your train had left before I was up. I know that you were angry for all of the time I was spending with Dr MacCallum. I am sorry. We had planned a canoe trip and camping but with weather being so miserable he decided to stay at Mowat Lodge instead. The Dr and his son Arthur only stayed for four days instead of the two weeks so you can see why I spent all of my time with them.
You are back in Huntsville now. I don’t know when you’ll be back at the Manse. Your father will be down here for work but I don’t reckon I’ll speak to him, or give him letters to bring back. I hope this letter gets to you through the post. I left my sketches on the porch of your cottage late Thursday night. No one was up, so I left them on the porch in a potato sack that Shannon gave me. Did you take some back with you? I don’t remember how many I gave away but there should be forty at least. I think my exhibition went well, but many of the guests were too dazed with the war news in the papers from Toronto. I’ll check if they are still there and put them inside with my other gear. Shannon wants to charge me for storing extra stuff at the Lodge. Says he needs the room for his guests. I’ll keep my canoe off to the one side and out of the way.
Shannon does still owe me money. But he will be good for it. He says he needs to account some for room and board and I don’t have much choice but to stay at Mowat Lodge. The weather is poor and I need to stay close in case I get guiding work. A fair deal in some ways because business is bad all around for everyone. Shannon and Annie need some help putting in the garden and can be of some use being the gardener. I suppose you heard that Charlie Scrim isn’t doing well. Some days are better than others. I promised to spend time with him to help lift his spirits.
I doubt I’ll be doing any more sketching in the next while. Summer doesn’t have the colours I’m looking for and there’s little mood for art when the war is going so badly. The word around is that a conscription bill might go through. Up to 45 years in age. They need more artists fighting the Hun. Jackson’s still in England. I may see him there after all.
Well I’d better get this finished. It’s still early and I might have a guiding job today. Give my regards to your mother and sister. I may see your father here on occasion.