Vancouver

Everything was five and a half years older than when I left home but then so was I—five of the most impressionable years of life past. I was glad some things had changed, sorry others had. I was sorry to say good-bye to my little self—I mean the little self that is always learning things without knowing that it is doing so.

It was nice now to go to church by choice and not be pushed there. It was nice even to miss occasionally without feeling “helly”. The Y.W.C.A. were now firmly established in a fine new building of their own and did not have to pray all over our floors. My sisters belonged to many religious and charitable societies. The choice was left to me—Ladies’ Aid, Y.W.C.A., King’s Daughters, a dozen others. I joined none.

There were no artists in Victoria. I do not remember if the Island Arts and Crafts Club had begun its addled existence. When it did, it was a very select band of elderly persons, very prehistoric in their ideas on Art.

It was nice to be home, but I was not there for long because the Ladies’ Art Club of Vancouver asked me to accept the post of Art teacher to their Club. So I went to live in Vancouver. The Vancouver Art Club was a cluster of society women who intermittently packed themselves and their admirers into a small rented studio to drink tea and jabber art jargon.

Once a week I was to pose a model for them and criticize their work. I had been recommended by one of their members who was an old Victorian and who had known me all my life. She was abroad when I accepted the post.

The Art Club, knowing I was just back from several years of study in London, expected I would be smart and swagger a bit. When they saw an unimportant, rather shy girl they were angry and snubbed me viciously, humiliating me in every possible way. Their President was a wealthy society woman. Floating into the studio an hour or more late for class, she would swagger across the room, ignoring me entirely and change the model’s pose. Then she would paint the background of her study an entirely different colour to the one I had arranged. If I said anything, she replied, “I prefer it so!”

Other members of the class, following her lead, and tossing their heads, would say with mock graciousness, “You may look at my work if you would like to, but I wish no criticism from you.” At the end of my first month they dismissed me. Perhaps I did look horribly young for the post.

On her return to Vancouver my sponsor sent for me.

“I hear the Ladies’ Club have dismissed you, my dear.”

“Yes. I am glad!”

“All were unanimous in their complaint.”

“What was it?”

“Millie, Millie!” she smiled, “You tried to make them take their work seriously! Society ladies serious! My dear, how could you?” she laughed.

“They are vulgar, lazy old beasts,” I spluttered. “I am glad they dismissed me and I am proud of the reason. I hate their kind. I’d rather starve.”

“What shall you do now?”

“I have taken a studio in Granville Street. The only woman in the Art Club who was decent to me (an American) has sent her little daughter to me for lessons. The child has interested her schoolmates. Already I have a class of nice little girls.”

“Good, with them you will be more successful. The Club’s former teacher was ‘society’. She understood the Club ladies, complimented and erased simultaneously, substituting some prettiness of her own in the place of their daubs, something which they could exhibit. They liked that. She was older, too.”

The snubbing by the Vancouver Ladies’ Art Club starched me. My pride stiffened, my energy crisped. I fetched my sheep-dog and cage of bullfinches from Victoria, added a bunch of white rats, a bowl of goldfish, a cockatoo and a parrot to my studio equipment and fell into vigorous, hard, happy work, finding that I had learned more during those frustrated years in England than I had supposed—narrow, conservative, dull-seeing, perhaps rather mechanical, but nevertheless honest.

Because I did not teach in the way I had been taught, parents were sceptical, but my young pupils were eager, enthusiastic. Every stroke was done from objects or direct from life-casts, live-models, still life, animals.

Young Vancouver had before been taught only from flat copy. I took my classes into the woods and along Vancouver’s waterfront to sketch. A merry group we were, shepherded by a big dog, each pupil carrying a camp-stool and an easel, someone carrying a basket from which the cockatoo, Sally, screeched, “Sally is a Sally.” That was Sally’s entire vocabulary. If she was left in the studio when the class went sketching she raised such a turmoil that the neighbours objected. Out with the class, joining in the fun, Sally was too happy even to shout that Sally was a Sally.

We sat on beaches over which great docks and stations are now built, we clambered up and down wooded banks solid now with Vancouver’s commercial buildings.

Stanley Park at that time was just seven miles of virgin forest, three quarters surrounded by sea. Alone, I went there to sketch loving its still solitudes—no living creature but dog Billie and me, submerged beneath a drown of undergrowth. Above us were gigantic spreads of pines and cedar boughs, no bothersome public, no rubbernoses. Occasional narrow trails wound through bracken and tough salal tangle. Underfoot rotting logs lay, upholstered deep in moss, bracken, forest wastage. Your feet never knew how deep they would sink.

I loved too the Indian reserve at Kitsilano and to the North Vancouver Indian Mission Billie and I went for long days, our needs tucked into my sketch-sack and great content in our hearts.

Vancouver was then only a little town, but it was growing hard. Almost every day you saw more of her forest being pushed back, half-cleared, waiting to be drained and built upon—mile upon mile of charred stumps and boggy skunk-cabbage swamp, root-holes filled with brown stagnant water, reflecting blue sky by day, rasping with frog croaks by night, fireweed, rank of growth, springing from the dour soil to burst into loose-hung, lush pink blossoms, dangling from red stalks, their clusters of loveliness trying to hide the hideous transition from wild to tamed land.

The foundationless Ladies’ Art Club of social Vancouver was crumbling; their President came to me, asking that I give up my studio and share theirs thereby lessening their rental. I refused. Then she said, “Shall we give up ours and come to share yours? Our teas of course—but,” smirked the lady, “prestige of the Vancouver Ladies’ Art Club behind your classes!”

“No, no, no! I don’t want your prestige—I won’t have the Ladies’ Art Club in my studio!”

The President tore down my stairs. I had not imagined Presidents could rush with such violence.

The first year that I lived and taught in Vancouver my sister Alice and I took a pleasure trip up to Alaska.

The Klondyke rush had been over just a few years. We travelled on a Canadian boat as far as Skagway, end of sea travel for Klondyke. Prospectors had left steamers here and gone the rest of the way on foot over a very rough trail. Those who could afford to, took pack-beasts; those who could not, packed their things on their own backs.

The mushroom town of Skagway had sprung up almost overnight. It consisted of haphazard shanties, spilled over half-cleared land. The settlement lay in a valley so narrow it was little more than a ravine heading the shallow, muddy inlet. Three tipsy plank walks on crooked piles hobbled across the mud to meet water deep enough to dock steamboats. Each runway ended in a blob of wharf.

Jumping gaps where planks had broken away, I went out on to the end of one wharf to look back at Skagway. Bits of my clothing and sketching equipment blew off into the sea.

Wind always moaned and cried down the little valley, smacking this, overturning that shanty. The little town was strewn with collapsed buildings. Crying, crying, the valley was always crying. There was always rain or mist or moaning wind. It had seen such sadness, this valley—high hopes levelled like the jerry-built shanties, broken, crazed men, drinking away their disappointments.

A curious little two-coach train ran up the valley twice a week. Its destination was White Horse. It followed the old Klondyke trail. We took it up as far as the summit. Here, side by side, where their land met, fluttered two flags, British and American. The train jogged and bumped a good deal. We passed through valleys full of silence, mocking our noisy little train with echoes because our black smoke dirtied the wreaths of white mist which we met in the valleys.

A stark, brooding, surly land was this, gripping deep its secrets. Huddles of bones bleached by the wayside—bullock bones, goat and horse bones, beasts for whom the lure of gold did not exist but who, broken under burdens of man’s greed, had fallen by the way, while man, spurred on by the gold glitter, shouldered the burdens of the dead beasts and pushed further. In the valley, drowned under lush growth, we stumbled upon little desolate log shanties, half built. The finger of the wild now claimed the cabins, saying, “Mine, mine!”, mossing them, growing trees through the mud floors and broken roofs.

“How do these come to be here?” I asked.

“Failures—men who lacked the courage to go home beaten. Most drank themselves to death. For many a gun was their last, perhaps their best, friend.”

No wonder the valley cried so! Of those who stayed in Skagway it was seldom said, “He made good. He struck it lucky!” The lucky ones went down to the cities, scarred by their Klondyke experience, seldom happier for their added gold.

We stayed one week in Skagway; then, taking an American steamer, crossed to Sitka on Baronoff Island.

Sitka had an American army barracks, a large Indian village, and an ancient Russian church. It also had many, many very large, black ravens, sedate birds but comical. They scavenged the village, calling to one another back in the woods. The male and the female made different squawks; the cry of one was a throaty “Qua”, the other answered, “Ping!”, sharp and strident as a twanged string. At the top of its flagpole the barracks had a gilt ball which had great attraction for the ravens. There were always three or four of them earnestly trying to get firm foothold on the rounded surface. It was amusing to watch them.

As we walked through the little town of Sitka I saw on a door, “Picture Exhibition—Walk In”. We did so.

The studio was that of an American artist who summered in Sitka and wintered in New York where he sold his summer’s sketches, drab little scenes which might have been painted in any place in the world. He did occasionally stick in a totem pole but only ornamentally as a cook sticks a cherry on the top of a cake.

The Indian totem pole is not easy to draw. Some of them are very high, they are elaborately carved, deep symbolical carving, as much or more attention paid to the attributes of the creature as to its form.

The Indian used distortion, sometimes to fill spaces but mostly for more powerful expressing than would have been possible had he depicted actualities—gaining strength, weight, power by accentuation.

The totem figures represented supernatural as well as natural beings, mythological monsters, the human and animal figures making “strong talk”, bragging of their real or imagined exploits. Totems were less valued for their workmanship than for their “talk”.

The Indian’s language was unwritten: his family’s history was handed down by means of carvings and totemic emblems painted on his things. Some totems were personal, some belonged to the whole clan.

The American artist found me sketching in the Indian village at Sitka. He looked over my shoulder; I squirmed with embarrassment. He was twice my age and had had vastly more experience.

He said, “I wish I had painted that. It has the true Indian flavour.”

The American’s praise astounded me, set me thinking.

We passed many Indian villages on our way down the coast. The Indian people and their Art touched me deeply. Perhaps that was what had given my sketch the “Indian flavour”. By the time I reached home my mind was made up. I was going to picture totem poles in their own village settings, as complete a collection of them as I could.

With this objective I again went up north next summer and each successive summer during the time I taught in Vancouver. The best material lay off the beaten track. To reach the villages was difficult and accommodation a serious problem. I slept in tents, in roadmakers’ toolsheds, in missions, and in Indian houses. I travelled in anything that floated in water or crawled over land. I was always accompanied by my big sheep-dog.

Indian Art broadened my seeing, loosened the formal tightness I had learned in England’s schools. Its bigness and stark reality baffled my white man’s understanding. I was as Canadian-born as the Indian but behind me were Old World heredity and ancestry as well as Canadian environment. The new West called me, but my Old World heredity, the flavour of my upbringing, pulled me back. I had been schooled to see outsides only, not struggle to pierce.

The Indian caught first at the inner intensity of his subject, worked outward to the surfaces. His spiritual conception he buried deep in the wood he was about to carve. Then—chip! chip! his crude tools released the symbols that were to clothe his thought—no sham, no mannerism. The lean, neat Indian hands carved what the Indian mind comprehended.

Indian Art taught me directness and quick, precise decisions. When paying ten dollars a day for hire of boat and guide, one cannot afford to dawdle and haver this vantage point against that.

I learned a lot from the Indians, but who except Canada herself could help me comprehend her great woods and spaces? San Francisco had not, London had not. What about this New Art Paris talked of? It claimed bigger, broader seeing.

My Vancouver classes were doing well. I wrote home, “Saving up to go to Paris.”

Everybody frowned—hadn’t London been a strong enough lesson but I must try another great city?

But I always took enough from my teaching earnings to go north and paint in the Indian villages, even while saving for Paris.

One summer, on returning from a northern trip, I went first to Victoria to visit my sisters. There I received a curt peremptory command: “Hurry to the Empress hotel. A lady from England wishes to see you on business connected with your Indian sketches.”

The woman was screwed up and frumpy, so stuffed with her own importance that she bulged and her stretched skin shone.

“I wish to see those Indian sketches of yours.”

“For the moment that is not possible; they are stored in my Vancouver studio and it is rented,” I replied.

“Then you must accompany me to Vancouver tonight and get them out.”

“Do you wish to buy my sketches?”

“Certainly not. I only want to borrow them for the purpose of illustrating my lectures entitled ‘Indians and Artists of Canada’s West Coast’.”

“Where do I come in?”

“You?—Publicity—I shall mention your work. Oxford! Cambridge!”

Her eyes rolled, her high-bridged nose stuck in the air. I might have been a lump of sugar, she the pup. Oxford and Cambridge signalled. Pup snapped, Oxford and Cambridge gulped—me.

“I shall see you at the midnight boat, then? You may share my stateroom,” magnanimously.

“Thanks, but I’m not going to Vancouver.”

“What! You cannot be so poor spirited! My work is patriotic. I am philanthropic. I advance civilization—I educate.”

“You make nothing for yourself exploiting our Indians?”

“After expenses, perhaps just a trifle. . . . You will not help the poor Indian by lending the Alert Bay sketches? My theme centres around Alert Bay.”

My interest woke.

“You have been there? Are you familiar with it?”

“Oh, yes, yes! Our boat stopped there for twenty minutes. I walked through the village, saw houses, poles, people.”

“And you dare talk and write about our Coast Indians having only that much data! The tourist folders do better than that! Good-bye!”

“Stop!”

She clutched my sleeve as I went out the hotel door—followed me down the steps hatless, bellowed at me all the way home, spluttering like the kick-up waves behind a boat. She stalked into our drawing room, sat herself down.

I said, “Excuse me, I am going out.”

She handed me a card.

“My London Club. It will always find me. Your better self will triumph!”

She smiled at, patted me.

I said, “Listen! England is not interested in our West. I was in London a few years ago, hard up. A well known author wrote a personal letter for me to a big London publisher.

“ ‘Take this to him with a dozen of your Indian sketches,’ she said, ‘and what a grand calendar they will make! England is interested in Canada just now.’

“A small boy took my letter and returned, his nasty little nose held high, his aitchless words insolent.

“ ‘Leave yer stuff, Boss’ll look it over if ’e ’as toime.’

“I started down the stair.

“ ’Ere, where’s yer stuff? Yer ha’n’t left any?’

“ ‘It is going home with me.’

“At the bottom of the third flight the boy caught up with me.

“ ‘Boss says ’e’ll see you now.’

“The elegant creature spread my sketches over his desk.

“ ‘America, eh? Well, take ’em there. Our British public want this.’ He opened a drawer crammed with pink-coated hunting scenes. ‘Indians belong to America; take ’em there.’

“ ‘Canada happens to be British,’ I said, ‘and these are Canadian Indians.’

“I put the sketches back in their wrappings.

“Teach your English people geography, Madam! Then maybe they will be interested in British things. Half the people over there don’t know that all the other side of the Atlantic does not belong entirely to the Americans.”

“By the time I reached home my mind was made up. I was going to picture totem poles in their own village settings.”