Roses do have thorns

The longest time I lived in one place during the ‘60s was 579 Jarvis Street, Toronto, 1965-67, the old ‘Massey’ family mansion which had been converted into apartments; I was assistant manager. Furniture was sparse but solid. The canvas “Living Tapestry’ (see post of October 4) was painted there, along with many other works, all painted in the kitchen which had a square table (and of course the essential tap water on hand).

My first solo exhibition at Roberts Gallery in 1965 was a success:“sold out”. Then in 1966 I received First Prize at the OSA show. On top of all that, there was the solo exhibition in Paris, May 1966 (more on this in a later post).

Meanwhile my thinking, inspiration and intuition were spiralling upwards, and changes in my work were noticeable since that 1965 exhibition at Roberts Gallery. Abstract or non-objective art (and Surrealism) allows you to give imagination free reign, within the discipline required from skill, in turn learned from experience.

Roberts Gallery was conservative with mostly “Group of Seven” or post-Group of Seven artists. There I was, an abstract artist. The dealer was so pleased with the success of the ’65 show, he offered me another solo exhibition to take place in February 1967. (For a novice, this was quite a coup.)

In preparation, I worked from first daylight to dusk, for nearly two years. (I always work in daylight, which allows you to judge and see colour at its best.) My paintings were becoming simpler, almost minimalist, but required complete awareness in order to prevent the ‘blank’ areas of the canvas from being splattered. Freedom and awareness was required in unison. It was vital for these blank or ‘void’ areas to remain pristine for my composition and imagery to maintain its strength.

For me, it was exciting and uplifting - - - through the joy of free creative exploration - - - to realize you can travel to far-away galaxies, enter microscopic realms, coral reefs, or go to Antarctica --- without actually having to ‘be there’. Virtual reality, forty years ahead of its time! Not only “the sky is the limit”, but the whole universe.

Back to Jarvis Street, one painting after another was born on that kitchen table (or depending on the size, on the floor). Since they were all done with acrylic, and mixed with water, I had to keep my canvas perfectly flat. Otherwise, the paint would drip and run downwards.

And then came the exhibition: here you can see some paintings at Roberts Gallery, done forty-two years ago. Notice their space-like quality, or what I call “micro-macro” nature. Keep in mind these were created long before NASA images of space we’re so familiar with today. (We were still two years from landing on the moon.) But - - - this major exhibition of ‘67, with forty-two works, was not the success of the 1965 show.

Understandably, clients came back expecting to see more of the same kind of paintings from two years earlier. Instead, they were faced with an evolutionary change. Of the 42 paintings, three were sold. Robert Gallery kept another three. This was Toronto in February, cold and snow. The landlord was not amused that his ‘manager’ was the creator of all those ‘strange and weird looking things’.

The ‘blow’ at the end of the show, of having to take all those paintings back from the Gallery, was intense. Plus, the landlord gave me notice. I am sad to say, that reluctantly, I took 32 of these paintings, and burned them in the fireplace.

Not because they didn’t sell, but because I absolutely did not know what to do with them. Also, because of the blank areas of the canvas which could easily be damaged. So I took it into my own hands to determine their destiny.

After this trauma, the shock of burning my own work, awoke me to the need of preventing suffering like this from ever happening again. I removed myself from the art scene and it would be another 5 years before a return to painting. Five years of introspection, worldwide travel, exploration and healing which in turn, set the stage for further evolution in my work.

The Mexican Troubadour

One of the last ships of the Alaska season was here the other day. Soon all will be quiet, at least until April when it starts all over again. While sitting on a bench at the sea walk watching the world go by on a grey Autumn day, I heard someone singing. There was a fellow seated at the next bench over. Some passengers from the ship, along with some curious locals and dog-walkers, gathered around him.

I walked over. He was greying at the temples, playing a guitar and singing Mexican songs. All alone, no ‘hat’ to collect coins. When one of the onlookers tossed him a coin, he suddenly stopped, put down the guitar, as if his dignity was offended, and quietly lit up a cigarette.

Slowly the curious crowd dispersed, leaving just the two of us. “Usted de Mexico?” I asked. “Si, amigo”, he replied, pleased to speak his language. “I work in the galley”, pointing to the docked cruise ship. I told him I’d been on lots of sea voyages and also lived in Mexico. When he told me he was born in the Yucatan (Merida), I mentioned I’d been to Chichen Itza & Uxmal, back in 1969, to visit and study the great Mayan temples.

He put the guitar on his lap to make room for me to join him on the bench. “I am half-Mayan”, he said. “Have you heard of the Mayan Calendar?” was his unexpected question. “Yes, I have”. He then asked, “Did you know my wise ancestors predicted in their calendar that, at the end of the year 2012, a catastrophic disaster will take place to our planet?”

I replied, “I hope not, but the way we’re treating our Earth and our biosphere, we’re certainly heading in that direction”. The fellow added, “That’s why I work on ships, to see the world while it’s still possible. I sing and play guitar (‘mucho problemas’ with security and the guitar), not for the public, but for me. It makes me ‘feliz’, happy”.

I invited him over for a coffee at our place located just across the road. ‘Muchas gracias, amigo, but I must get back to the ship. I only have a short time for my break, and need to go back, for more problems with my guitar and securidad. Adios!”, he smiled. In turn I wished him “Adios”.

He then slung the guitar over his shoulder. Although there was a lead-grey sky, I could hear him whistling the jaunty tune, “Cielito Lindo”. No sooner had he gone out of sight when I remembered a question I’d meant to ask about the venerable Mayan ‘liquer’ which bears our name: Bentum. 

Ah, well, maybe next time?

Two autumns, one for he who departs, one for me who stays.

Birth of a Painting & Death of a Mentor

“When you play the cello, I want to hear rainbows!”

Quote from Pablo Cassals to his cello students, when he was in his ‘80s

There are several works on the website http://www.vanBentum.org which show the evolution that took place in my painting from 1954 onwards. One work has been commented upon more than once: “Midsummer Night’s Dream”, 1960, an oil painting done at 150 Walmer Road, Toronto in my room at a boarding house owned by the family Kandelsdorfer from Vienna. The following is the story of how it was born.

During my brief time at the Ontario College of Art, one of my teachers (and for me, the best), was J.W.G. Jock Macdonald. Artist and teacher, Jock was a member of the 1950’s group “Painters Eleven”, contemporary Toronto artists.

He became my mentor and it was Jock who suggested I leave the OCA, because I’d already done so much work on my own; he must have felt it would be better for my development as a painter not to be constrained by the-then academic (and conservative) atmosphere at OCA.

Very fortunately, after I left the School, he visited once in awhile on Saturdays. He gave precious pointers and positive criticism on works in progress. Jock was a remarkable teacher; you felt as if he carried a small ‘flacon of oil’ and dripped a bit onto the flame of inspiration that burned within you.

It was Jock Macdonald who suggested I paint while listening to music. I’d always had ‘friendly relations’ with music, and have what’s called a musical ear. Jock told me “To listen with ‘eyes closed’, and when the music touches the strings of imagination and inspiration”, then start the recording again, and paint. He said, ‘Only when music and imagination blend into one will you be able to transform it visually.’

My collection of records was limited, all classical 78’s. (I also had a small radio, but recordings were better for this purpose.) Besides Chopin (Dino Lipatti), there was Debussy, Mussorgsky, Ludwig van Beethoven, Schubert, Mozart and Rachmaninoff. Also, I had one 78 album of Felix Mendelssohn’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream”.

It was a warm July day. Despite chewing through a pending divorce, I felt happy listening to his music. (Music is a calming and soothing antidote to “stress”).

“I create beautiful music for people in distress”, said Ludwig van Beethoven.

I had a large bay window which opened up to allow fresh air, permitting me to paint in oils and use linseed oil and turpentine; otherwise I would have been given notice by the landlady, for sure! After playing the recording over a few times, I set to work and finished the painting in one go. Thus “Midsummer Night’s Dream” was born on a beautiful July day, 1960, in Toronto. 

Thanks to the Bard, William Shakespeare, and to Mendelssohn who transformed the play into music, allowing me to give my version in another art form, painting. Jock Macdonald’s valuable suggestion about painting while listening to music fell on ‘willing ears’.

Later I did several other works inspired by compositions such as ‘Reflets dans l’eau’ by Debussy (see “Inner Reflections”, shown here); Ludwig van Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony; Ninth Symphony, “Ode to Joy” and Musssorgksy’s “Night on Bald Mountain”, to name a few.

These precious visits from my mentor Jock Macdonald didn’t last long, for in early December of that year, he died prematurely at the age of 63 of a sudden heart attack. This was a great loss to the art world in Canada, and to young students. He was a great teacher. Signing off for now, Henri (p.s. reproduction photos of “Midsummer Night’s Dream” are available on eBay at http://organiverse.org.

Post-Banff: wandering studios

We received some questions after the Banff posts, like “What happened to all those landscape paintings you did then? Your website only shows a few”. Another, “When was your first exhibition, and where?”, “Did the doctor continue to back you after you returned to Toronto?” and “Did you have a studio?” That’s what I mean when we say these blogposts create themselves.

To answer the first question, I gave all my paintings to Dr. Wilfred S. Goodman, who had made the Banff 1959 experience possible in the first place. These paintings are now spread out amongst his extended family including five adult children and grandchildren. We are in the process of receiving digital images of these paintings and will post them onto my website once they've all arrived.

My first exhibition auspiciously took place at Galeria Alberto Misrachi Mexico City's oldest and finest galleries, in 1963. All works were large watercolours done in San Miguel de Allende. This was followed by my initial solo show of watercolours, at the First Unitarian Church in Toronto.

Before that, in 1958 and 1959, I’d participated in annual group shows each spring at Hart House with the Colour and Form Society (of which I was President for a year). The Colour and Form Society was an innovative group formed by immigrant artists.

In 1965 my first major exhibition took place at Roberts Gallery in Toronto, featuring watercolours, and acrylics on paper and canvas.

Then in 1966, “Living Tapestry”, an acrylic on canvas (see photo) won First Prize at the major OSA (Ontario Society of Artists) exhibition held at the Toronto Art Gallery, now the AGO. One of the three jury members for this major OSA exhibition was none other than A.J. Casson, the last-surviving “Group of Seven” member. Since Casson was a renowned landscape and figurative artist, I felt all the more honoured to receive this Prize, and took pride in such recognition by him, for an abstract painting. (Keep in mind, this was just seven years after Banff 1959 and those changes in my style).

Speaking of 1959, to answer the question whether Dr. Goodman continued to sponsor me when I got back to Toronto, he paid for my tuition for the first semester at Ontario College of Art. But once the styles of my work changed in rapid succession (you could say ‘spiralling upward’ ), it was harder for him “to follow” me. And by now, understandably, his growing family (five children), and recently-acquired farm north of Toronto, needed his full attention.

The other question was, ‘Did I have a studio?’ No, I had to improvise. This was because of my nomadic way of living and shoestring budget. I moved from one place to another, renting rooms in boarding houses.

Also, in those days there were decrepit houses declared “unfit to live in”, but if the water source was still connected, I’d squat, and do my watercolours and acrylics (which also need that precious commodity: water). I lived in at least a dozen different dwellings within a few years - - - like a gypsy, without a permanent studio.

Hope this answers some of the questions which have come in from cyberspace. 

A question from Ireland

Someone wrote from Ireland to ask “where do you think Art is going, and is it still relevant today?” They also asked if I’d post a few more Aphorisms (see below).

Well, in terms where Art is going or if it’s still relevant today, true Art that is visionary, or which embodies the “Zeitgeist”, always points the way. Yet its message comes from the here and now.

Statesmen and pundits who keep a close eye on the ‘barometer’ or pulse of their citizenry would do well to observe today’s art forms --- whether it be plays, poems, paintings or contemporary performances.

Politicians like to keep the public at bay (“Don’t Worry, Be Happy”), while artists throughout time have always signalled there is still much work to be done, they warn us – if we can read and understand their messages - that “The Roses Have Thorns.”

Throughout the years, I’ve written several essays on Art. They’ve never been published on paper because we have never sent them to a publisher. The Aphorisms were submitted to a few publishers, but were returned by the ‘Thank you, but no thank you’ method - - -despite the fact the late, renowned poet Irving Layton gave them a ‘Bravo!’, which we enclosed with the submissions to the publishers, but this fell on deaf ears and blind eyes.

 To conclude this topic re: my “writing harvest”, I also write Apologues: Stories for the Young and Young at Heart” (otherwise known as children’s stories.) 

Meanwhile, to oblige our friendly person in Ireland and for you, here are a few more of my Aphorisms. Signing off for now, Henri

The deeper the whale

dives

The more visible

its ‘tail’.

When the children

are full of awe and wonder,

we send them to school.

Ater graduation

they are dull and empty.

We see many ads

What to do or take

When we have a headache,

but never how to prevent one

I wonder why.

When we look at lakes and forests,

waterfalls or snow-capped mountains - -

With financial gain in mind,

We have seen nothing at all.

We can be so Holy,

we can be so Passive,

We will go out and kill

to prove our ideals.

Waves were aflame

with foam in glowing colour

just before the Sun departed.

Banff, 1959 - Conclusion: "Open Sesame!"

There was a Swiss piano teacher that Summer in the Music Department at the Banff summer school, 1959. He loved hiking up to the higher elevations, above the timberline.

Often I joined his group, into that realm where Pika, Mountain Goat, and Bighorn Sheep roam. (This time I went along for the hiking, not field painting.) The change in my work also raised eyebrows of my landlady, Mrs. Parkin and her friends.

Later when I got back to Toronto, Dr. Goodman (who became the recipient of all my Banff landscape work) found the latest changes difficult to understand. The faculty must have noticed something within that I was not aware of. How about me? Well, I discovered a freedom with unlimited horizon. To be no longer enslaved to the conventional “real” in Art opened many doors, the most important being “Imagination”.

I always had a vivid imagination, but it was the faculty there who awoken it again. (However before attending the School, I’d already begun to break away from monotony of greys, greens and browns of mountain scenery. I included warmer colours. 

“Echoes of Native Art”, done later at the School and won all those awards I mentioned earlier, ventured already into ‘surrealism’.  No more crawling like a caterpillar. Instead, soaring as a “flutterby”. Once imagination is tapped, inspiration follows. Charlie Chan says, “Human mind like parachute. Works best when open”.

When Ali Baba approached the cave, commanding “Open Sesame!” , the grotto opened, revealing a bounty of treasure. In another story, the Genie in the bottle granted three wishes, after which he was liberated from the bottle, exclaiming, “I am free! I am free!” In my case, Aladdin’s lamp was rubbed, and imagination leapt out.

To experience, to explore, to discover: this is what creates real adventure. Who would have thought the pleasure and joy of all those happy adventurous moments doing field painting, ‘en plein air’ in the Canadian Rockies, would be the last time I’d paint landscapes?

Another type of joy would replace it, such as that of Schiller’s “Ode to Joy”, set to music by the immortal Ludwig van Beethoven. My outlook had changed, and now I was looking in, having “crossed the Great Divide”, in Banff National Park – of all places -- from “Landscape to Mindscape”.

Banf 1959, part 6

One week before the final days of the Summer session and end-of-season exhibition, my work became more and more imaginative. The whole experience was like magic. On stage, a magician makes some things disappear into the ‘unknown’, while I was making things ‘appear’ from the unknown. There in the Canadian Rockies of all places, I crossed the “Great Divide”, or what I call evolving from “Landscape to Mindscape” (c).

What is “real” in art? We think that landscapes, still life and figurative works are real. We recognize the imagery; we see, translate and therefore ‘identify’ with the work. It is all a soothing exercise. In reality, of course, whatever an artist depicts on paper or canvass – say a mountain landscape or waterfall, pine trees and mountain flowers -- we cannot actually smell the fresh pines, swim in the lake, climb the mountain or take a refreshing dip in cascading waterfalls.

Often such imagery makes us “identify” with them. There are several reasons for this, mostly sentimental. Of course, representational works are recognizable, and can easily be ‘critiqued’. (“The best sailors are on the shore.”) However, one cannot argue about taste and preferences. All of us know what we like, don’t we?

In a sense the so-called “real” is in fact “surreal” or abstract. We don’t deny the existence of these phenomena in Nature, on the contrary; they are the blueprints, building-blocks and foundation that inspire and guide us. But in my case, such phenomena was used as a launching pad.  Returning to those weeks at the Banff school, I’d discovered a hidden bonus. Tossed into garbage bins were tubes of oil, watercolour, gouache -- still with lots of paint, caps half on, but perfectly useable. Plus brushes of all kinds, including sable; these had been discarded by others. Material I welcomed and made good use of! 

Towards the end of that Summer session, many students and a few faculty were really surprised how swiftly my work had changed. Having set my compass to this uncharted direction of that vast ocean called Imagination, I embarked with joy on this new voyage of exploration, never to look back. With one exception: the person who sponsored my trip to Banff.

Dr. Wilfred S. Goodman of Toronto asked if I could visit his parents at their farm in Baldur, Manitoba before returning to Toronto. An eventful overnight bus ride from Winnipeg aboard the “Grey Goose Line” made this possible. While there. I did an oil painting showing their pond. 

This was the very last landscape painting I ever did. It is now with the Goodman family, together with all my other works from that eventful and pivotal summer, Banff 1959. More on that later. Signing off, Henri