It's fall now and the birds are flying south

Things began to change a few days ago. It wasn't one or two birds visiting the bird bath, it was ten or twelve birds, most of them robins. Up to this time the birds were always, shall we say, polite? Well-behaved, considerate, they queued up, sat in the bird bath, and left. A few days ago the "politeness" was gone, they were bossy, assertive, and pushy. I suspect they were preparing for the long flight south, a last visit to the bird bath and then off they went. We've had some heavy rain this week, Wednesday was the last full day of summer, it's gotten a lot cooler, and the bird bath now sits empty. 

A Tiny Garden Near Here

I often walk by this garden on the corner of Nelson and Westminster Avenue, and I always admire it. Every house has a garden and many of these gardens are very nice, but I have not seen people stop to admire other gardens as they do for this one. This past weekend there was an article in the newspaper on the "tiny garden", and this would qualify as tiny. I think of my garden as small but it is large compared to this. The owners must be proud of what they have created.

 

Vincelli's Garden Centre, two

Here are the rest of the photos I took of Vincelli's Garden Centre, closed two years, gone back to nature, soon to be the site of a condo.

Vincelli's Garden Centre

Like many others, I always enjoyed visiting Vincelli's Garden Centre; it closed about two years ago. Many of the first perennial flowers I planted in my garden came from Vincelli's and they were always strong plants, good stock, and I still have them; in fact, these plants have multiplied and I've divided them so they're in different places in the garden. I guess the condo that is planned to be built here will begin construction one of these days, in the meantime the whole lot has gone wild. It looks great as is! The plastic greenhouse has been removed, the main building has a few broken windows, there is some old junk at the old entrance to the main building. Well, everything changes but it's sad to see the demise of a place that is dear to the hearts of so many people, including my own. If the garden centre at Reno Depot closed I would be inconvenienced but I wouldn't be nostalgic for the place; that's the difference between Vincelli's and where I now go for garden supplies. And I am not impressed with the idea of more condos. We are told the population is growing and we have to house people somewhere, that's progress, but I am not a believer in progress. Progress is overrated; I like things the way they are.  

Wild asters

These New England asters are growing near the senior campus of Willingdon School on Coronation Avenue near here; you see them everywhere, they're like weeds. 

"A Bird came down the Walk" by Emily Dickinson

A Bird came down
the Walk –
He did not know I
saw –
He bit an Angleworm
in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank
a Dew
From a Convenient Grass –
And then hopped sidewise
to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass –

He glanced with rapid
eyes
That hurried all around –
They looked like frightened
Beads, I thought –
He stirred his Velvet
Head

Like One in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his
feathers
And rowed him softer
home –

Than Oars divide the
Ocean,
Too silver for a seam –
Or Butterflies, off Banks
of Noon
Leap, plashless as they
swim.

"Within my Garden, rides a Bird" by Emily Dickinson

Within my Garden, rides
a Bird
Opon a single Wheel –
Whose spokes a dizzy music
make
As 'twere a travelling Mill –

He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose –
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted –
And then his +Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres –
And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us
If positive, 'twere we –
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity –

But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye –
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An exquisite Reply!

Birds preparing to fly south

Wild asters near Meadowbrook Golf Course

                                     

"Late September" by Charles Simic

The mail truck goes down the coast

Carrying a single letter. 

At the end of a long pier 

The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then 

And forgets to put it down. 

There is a menace in the air 

Of tragedies in the making. 

Last night you thought you heard television 

In the house next door. 

You were sure it was some new 

Horror they were reporting, 

So you went out to find out. 

Barefoot, wearing just shorts. 

It was only the sea sounding weary 

After so many lifetimes 

Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere 

And never getting anywhere. 

This morning, it felt like Sunday. 

The heavens did their part 

By casting no shadow along the boardwalk 

Or the row of vacant cottages, 

Among them a small church 

With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close 

As if they, too, had the shivers.

Prudence Heward by Evelyn Walters

Evelyn Walters' Prudence Heward, Canadian Modernist Painter

Prudence Heward, Canadian Modernist Painter (Friesen Press, 2022) is Evelyn Walters third book on the Beaver Hall artists, this time specifically on the artist Prudence Heward. Here we have a biography of Prudence Heward (born in Montreal; 1896 - 1947), and possibly the most accomplished member of the Beaver Hall group. The book is divided into the periods of Heward's life--beginnings, the twenties, the thirties, her early passing--and she didn't have a long life, she died at age fifty in 1947. Her life was her art, there is no division between the two, so we have many of Heward's paintings in this book.

Walters discusses Heward's life including Heward's personal reflections and these are often drawn from her correspondence with her friend, Isabel McLaughlin (see Note 1 below). We also have a discussion of some of Heward's most important paintings, a list of exhibitions in which her work appeared, where she studied art, her travels, and some information on and memories of her friends and family members. There isn't any gossip in the book, no scandal, Prudence Heward is not that type of person. How did she survive financially? She received a large financial gift from her wealthy and generous uncle, Frank Percy Jones; he freed Prudence and her mother from financial insecurity and set both of them up for the rest of their lives. 

In 1930 Mrs. Heward, Prudence's mother, bought a house at 3467 Peel Street and this became the location of Prudence's studio. At that time this was a prestigious area in which to live, it was a part of the Golden Square Mile where wealthy English-speaking Montrealers lived; so, not far from Prudence's home was the Van Horne mansion, the George Stephen mansion, Baron Shaughnessy's estate that is now the Canadian Centre for Architecture, and the homes of other prominent business men and their families. These entrepreneurs were successful and wealthy, but they were also generous philanthropists; they endowed and supported many charitable and cultural organizations (including St. Mary's Hospital, orphanages, and other progressive institutions; cultural organizations they supported included the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, the McCord Museum, the Mechanics Institute now known as the Atwater library, McGill University, and others). (See Note 2 below)

Heward is an example of  an artist who was wholly committed to her art, she spent her life painting and exhibiting her work. This single-mindedness is important for any artist, or poet for that matter, there are many diversions from following one's calling; but she had true grit. This is also the way of her ethnic and social class, they were fairly stoical, continued working despite hardships, and they persevered. Heward's major disadvantage was her bad health, her asthma, that ended her life at age fifty years.

All of Prudence Heward's most famous paintings are included in this book. The magnificent "At the Theatre" (1928), but also the equally powerful "Girl on a Hill" (1928), "Girl Under a Tree" (1931), "Farmer's Daughter" (1938), "Barns in Winter" (1926), and others. Some of her portraits remind me of the portraits Vincent van Gogh painted, this is perhaps a strange association; these portraits are not quite caricatures but aim to emphasize some particular quality Heward saw in her subject.   

This is an important book for both public and university libraries, and for individuals interested in the Beaver Hall artists, and interest in the group is still growing. I am very impressed by Evelyn Walter's text, the scholarship that went into research of the book, the timeline of Heward's exhibitions, the selection of Heward's paintings, and the readability of the book. As well, Friesen Press's high level of quality of book production, the weight of the paper on which the book is printed (there is no bleeding through of images from previous pages), and the excellent reproduction of Heward's paintings; it is not only very impressive but I doubt you could ask for better.  This book is a remarkable work of love for her subject, it would have made Prudence Heward proud.

Stephen Morrissey holding Evelyn Walters' new book 
on the life and art of Prudence Heward

Note 1: The Heward-McLaughlin correspondence, as part of the Isabel McLaughlin Fonds, held in the archives at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, could be a publishing opportunity for someone interested in editing these letters. It would add to our knowledge of Prudence Heward. This is not as far fetched as it might seem; the letters of other much lesser artists and poets have been published.

Note 2: I have always thought a dramatized version of the Beaver Hall artists would be popular on television--the city of Montreal as the setting, the architecture, the social milieu, and the many famous people who lived in the city; similar historical dramas have been popular, including Anne with an E, Murdoch, and Wind at My Back. Will it ever happen? Probably not considering the bias of the CBC for everything Toronto- and GTA-centric

"Robin Redbreast" by William Allingham (1824 - 1889)

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer’s nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our Thrushes now are silent, Our Swallows flown away, — But Robin’s here, in coat of brown, With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they’ll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough, It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, ’Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near. The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, — Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

"Dark August" by Derek Walcott

Dark August

     By Derek Walcott

So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all will not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.