Opposite Contraries (5 page)

[Trip in June 1933 to Pemberton, British Columbia, written on separate sheets]

As I knelt in the little Catholic church this came to me — crude pictures of Christ and the Virgin and St. Joseph, as the church was too little and poor to buy statues. Such a few moneyless Indians left in the village, such a full graveyard. The bare floor — no
benches or pews — the wooden altar built crooked and off-plumb by the Indians and smeared over with only one coat of paint — whitish leaning to pink and green as though odd bits of paint had been put together to make enough. The cheap coloured glass in the four tiny narrow pointed windows — one green, one red, one blue, one yellow. Six candles, three each side of the cheap crucifix. Some withered lilacs in tin cans and marmalade pots, and a few cheap artificial flowers. Above the altar, three pictures of Christ in homely wood frames, crudely fashioned with a cross cut in the top of each. Christ on the cross, Christ with the crown of thorns, Christ with the flaming heart of love. In the corner Christ again, one hand upraised in blessing, the other pointing to his heart, a wreath of thorns around it, blood drops falling. In the opposite corner, Mary and around her heart a wreath of roses. No sound but a mother hen outside calling her chicks and the chortle of blackbirds getting food for their young. Great peace. What was there, I asked, in the crude pictures on the wall that inspired your reverence? That lifted your spirit and satisfied surely? They were very crude, not works of art as the world counts art. And the answer came, no, “but works of spirit.” The makers of these originals had sought to portray not man or woman, but to find symbols for love, purity, holiness. With their minds on these things, something had happened — something had come into expression — something that spoke in wordless words to the soul. So, I said to myself, must I seek spiritual symbols, attributes of God in this that I would paint? See God in his creation, become conscious of the Maker in His universe without searching or struggling but being still and open to receive illumination with my mind always upon God, seeing in His manifestation symbols of the Creator.

I am groping horribly lost, trying to search for that thing. It is right here and yet I do not know how to find it, it is in me and yet so far away I cannot reach it. I don’t know where to look and I want it so badly I’m sick — yet I’m dumb and bound — if I only knew what binds me so I could tear it off. If my eyes were only not blind so I could see, and my numb senses so quiveringly alert and sensitive that I could feel in every fibre of me the ecstasy of comprehension. Oh you old fool. Come down. Clear out your heart and mind and soul. Fast and pray — the body material predominates so — I am a slave to the flesh, and the spirit strays and gasps — it cannot soar because it is weighted down by fleshy things. Good food, comfort, laziness, bodily ailments. Cannot the spirit dominate the liver? Throw out the depression, rise above inertia? I am a slacker.

What is it Ziegler said? “Do not try to
force
those great forests, woo them.” It is I [who] must seek first the true spirit of humble worship, the spirit of communion with the infinite, the allness of God in the universe. Perhaps it is
this
one must seek to find in others. I feel things clearer when I am away from humans in the woods. God seems there more — why? To be sure he is out there among the silent things but not among his highest life creations — man. One should feel him more when amongst those creatures made in his image and likeness — why is it we don’t? Man has answered God back, being saucy and irreverent. Dumb nature has obeyed, goes ahead according the seasons — lives silently — is the mystery of things and sings everlasting praise to the eternal.

In B.C., epochs ago, was a narrow lake three to six miles long, and on each side stood great, austere mountains frowning down upon its clear surface. Then came some gigantic upheaval and
one of the biggest mountains toppled and sat down plumb in the middle of the lake and filled [it] up so that it was doubled into two lakes, each 18 miles long. The southern is called Anderson Lake and the other one, Seaton. For a long time water slapped the sitting-down mountain, but after years the water made a bed for itself and the mountain that was dried out, and made rich land. Farms were planted here and the bare broken side of the mountain, which was worn and scarred, healed up, and a great forest of young pines covered it.

A wet day in camp. The rain pattered on the top of the Elephant all night. Mrs “Pop Shop” and I went for our nightly dip in the river. It was cold and took courage and much squealing and knee-shaking. Neither of us has the pluck to exhibit the bulges of fat before the youngsters, so we “mermaid” after dark. [
…
]

Mrs. Pop Shop is a blister. It’s such a little step over to my camp. My fire is cosy and the animals all about it and Henry hopping about. So she comes and she stays long epochs of time. She doesn’t sit but stands, first on one leg then on the other, and the fat of her sagging and the breath of her wheezing as her voice drones on and on and on. Unfortunately the “pop” trade is slump on these cold, dull days. Even the Rile-My-Biles don’t linger but snort and whiz up and down the highway without stop.
[
…
]

Two woodcutters whom I call Death and Destruction annoy me very much. They race past the Elephant, kicking up dust and making horrid noises. It is terror for the dogs and one never knows where they are coming and going. It’s a crime to let those wood trucks race through the park, cutting up the roads and messing up everything the way they do. What’s the good of the beastly authorities?

Henry is lots better and very happy and lucid. I catch him singing or at least doing unmusical noises. I’ve shut down on too much Pop Shop blight. The boys were here in our midst all day, making all the dogs bark and swarming into everything. I had the outfit to supper last night and so discharged my full obligation to the tribe. She’s an all-day sucker and the kids like sticks.

I have constructed myself a studio behind the van against the invasion of Rile-My-Biles on Sunday and the Labour Day holiday. I can’t shut out their squeals and smells but at least they can’t see me. It’s too dark to work in the van. I did a good sketch this morning. I am beginning to settle my neck in the yoke and forge ahead, dragging my burden behind instead of trying to push it ahead and getting my harness all snarled up.

It does my heart good to see Henry. He is so happy hearted and (for him) energetic and lucid — nearly normal. We joke along; he is eating and sleeping well too. One day of Rile-My-Biles is over. They were pretty thick and each brought out one or more dogs. My tribe had a dullness in them.

Well, I had just washed the dishes and self and was about to retire to the studio and work when “they came.” I told them I
was here and they might. Poor old dears. It is a little break in their snarling lives. The children go for each other as usual. I walked her among the cedars. She loved it all. Smoked incessantly and spat everywhere, her breath like a bad drain. She is always so ill used and thinks everyone is against her. She’d love to be out in camp with me. Oh, oh, oh! Cedars, cedars give me strength, ripe, mellow, subtle growth and tolerance. The old man loves Woo. Chuckles at her antics by the hour. I felt like a jelly bean that had fallen into hot water when they left.

[…] When Mrs. McVickers was staying with me (thank goodness she is dotty about animals too), one morning she lifted a superfluous pillow from the dresser where it had lain all night and there was a small black rat. Most would have hystericked and screeched. She called me. He was all in, nearly dead, mashed and battered. It was obvious he had come in with the coal for the bin in the hall had been filled the day before. Well, I put him in Susie’s box. They are not the local brown rats but frequent the wharves. Now there is white rat Susie and black rat Sammy. He is terrified of Susie, minds her much more than he minds me. Milk and food bucked him up and now it’s the deuce. How can I resuscitate him and then murder him? He is quite beautiful, he and his God life, the only one life in him.

Edith and Henry are going. She told me last night and cried, for the problem of Henry is becoming acute. He is so sane in some ways and so idiotic in others. He has run wild for years, roaming where he will. The thought of shutting such a one up is dreadful, yet he needs someone to control him. Edith can’t, [being] away at business all day. I can’t; he does not live in my
house but their own and resents intrusion. His days are spent in absolute nothingness. I feel if he only had some definite task, however light, it would be miles better for his mind and body. But who’s to set him a job? You have to work with him every moment. I’ve tried it; the minute you leave, Henry sits down and quits. He can work but he can’t stick. He hops on one foot all over the place. Thump, thump, thump. Thank goodness the lady below is out all day. It almost sends me crazy. He says he can’t help it, but I feel it is his empty useless life that turns all his thoughts in on his nerves. It prods them into all these exasperating gymnastics; he rolls his eyes and his tongue to give one the whorlies. Yet withal he is perfectly sane.

[…] I’ve been looking at A.Y. Jackson’s mountains in the C.N.R. Jasper Park folder. Four good colour prints but they do not impress me.
They might be done from photographs, magnificent subjects but decorative and commercial.
Now,
I
could not do one tenth as well but somehow I don’t
want
to do mountains like that.
They don’t feed or impress you, a look or two does. They have passed through his eyes but not his soul. His work never stirs me. It is easy enough to see for he is resplendent in illustration. Lots of it is interesting in colour and design, but it is not choice or subtle.
Shut up, me! Are you jealous and ungenerous? I don’t think it is that
. Something about the man riles me. He has one of those noses I never get on with anyway.

Susie is making love wildly to Sammy but he is morose and will have none of her. I ought to get rid of him but it seems so low down; it bursts the lamp of hospitality to drown after you have entertained and cosseted the wounded beast back to life.

Three visitors to the studio tonight. They sat in a row like three flower pots full of dirt and nothing growing in them. Stodgy, oh my! If it had not been for Susie and the dogs I’d have sobbed myself to sleep in front of their three noses. And as they exited, the man moaned out, “Your things have simply thrilled me.” Good Lord, if they take their thrills thus, how
do
they take their “bores”?

[written in Chicago]

[
…
] It is dark today, brooding and oppressed. The lake looks cruel, bottomless and hard. The wind has dropped and Chicago is still and sullen. No letters from Toronto or elsewhere. I did expect to hear today. My first letter to them was posted Thursday. Drat the mails! Or don’t they love me up there any more and are indifferent alike to my woes and to my coming?
Bess wished it was me coming for the Ex to stay with her instead of Sara Robinson — maybe she’s found Sara far more entertaining and won’t care if I never come. Can you wonder? Sara (I’ve met her) is young and attractive and clever and amiable.
Bess has reason to know me for a spit-cat and Lawren will be up to his top hair in the exhibition and too busy to think of old me at all. Emily, don’t you know by now that you’re an oddment and a natural-born solitaire? There is no cluster or sunburst about you. You’re just a paste solitaire in a steel claw setting. You don’t have to be
kept in a safety box or even removed when the hands are washed.
Tired, sick to death of Chicago and it’s snowing. No word from Toronto. What mails! Or is it the folks? Suppose I went without hearing and Sara Robinson was there? It might be awkward for Bess. But I’ll go when the week is up here, letter or no letter.

[Written on the train from Chicago to Toronto, November 8–10] Bathing beaches, statuary, monuments, parks, memorials, churches, schools, universities, orphanages, Chinese quarters, nigger quarters, Jews’ quarters, factories, foundries, department stores — all these on gigantic scales. Millions and millions and millions of tons of brick and stone, miles and miles of parks. But horrible, horrible. It was built up largely on blood— blood of innocent hearts — abattoirs. Chicago’s glory and wealth producer — blood! I was terrified we might go near the fearful carnage places on tour, but we did not. I think he said there were over 1600 old churches in Chicago. We visited the Elks’ Memorial in honour of the World War heroes, a lavish display. Maybe they do good in raising one’s thoughts but I wonder if it’s not mostly a desire to produce the best and the biggest monument. So much of the town rolled out to us in terms of “millions” and “biggests”— all sentiment seems crushed out by the ponderosity and money values. Nigger town is enormous. It seems so strange, the impossible barrier. Both human developing, growing beings. Will the gap ever be bridged? One does not see how it is possible. I can see the American Indian falling in step with the white races and the Eastern peoples —Chinese and Japanese — but I can’t see the niggers. I like them but I don’t feel sisterly exactly. [. . .]

There are mud icicles hanging under the motors. The railroad and motor road lie parallel and close. There is no privacy about these [workers’] homes; they stand bare and exposed on all sides. Your eye travels uninterrupted from their verandahless front door to the porchless back. The windows are like birds’ eyes that do not wink their lids, and their one-point gable fronts remind one of old women with middle-parted hair. The empty houses look as desolate as the last year’s birds’ nests. The sun pretended he was coming out and then went in and slammed the door. I don’t know where we are, in my country or their country, but it’s one country — North America, one swell land!