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Painting Canada - Memories of Frank
Memories of Frank
I walked slowly up the trail beside Morraine Lake. It was still very early, far too early for the tour bus people to show up, and a cool gray mist clung to the mountain peaks. The brilliant blue lake, still covered with ice in places, began to get smaller below me as I climbed the jumble of rocks and boulders to the viewpoint. The spruce trees, rich dark sap green, punctuated the azure and jade of the mountain lake. I began to notice the myriad of colors running through the rocks around me, and in my mind they became paint and color and brushmarks. As I thought about the timelessness of the place, I remembered what I had read in the writings of Frank Panabaker, who had first visited here in the 1920’s with his wife.
They had taken the train from Ontario, and bought horses and rented a cabin when they arrived. For several months he worked here, and he wrote about this very lake and the trouble he had painting it. He wrote about the difficulty painting with tourists around, and I wondered what he would think of the place now. It struck me that it hadn’t changed that much, and here I was painting this same lake as Frank, and yet things were so different. We have traveled here in a modern trailer, equipped with microwave and all the conveniences one could desire. These places that were once wild and relatively remote are now designed for maximum traffic flow, with pull-offs for better wildlife viewing. Millions of tourists cruise by these splendors every year, yet an artist today is struck by the very same thing that an artist eighty years ago may have been struck by.
As I carried on along the trail, over foot-worn roots and interpretive signs, I thought about old Frank Panabaker and his wife, making their way up this very trail on horseback, loaded with gear. Would he be inspired by the same colors, the same smells as me? Would they be marveling over the variety in the rocks, like me? Would glimpses of the blue jewel lake catch their breath, as it did mine?
All of these things filled my mind as I found myself at the peak of the trail. I spotted an overhang and clambered down to rest and enjoy the view. I leaned back against the rock and drank in the scene before me. The bright colors on the rock beside me caught my eye. I looked again. The colors were paint. Dashes and daubs of bright, thick oil paint were smeared over the rock beside me. The paint was old and weatherworn, but you could still see the mixtures that had their counterparts in the scene below me. I wondered about the artist – could it have been Frank? I imagined him up here, hurriedly sketching as I had been all week, trying to capture something of this place. Maybe it was a good day and he had marked these rocks in triumph, or maybe a bad one and he had done it in frustration. I had done both myself. I left my perch and carried on down the mountain, refreshed and encouraged in my journey.
Author: Tony Bianco | 0 Comments
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