excerpt
His scaffold was built, ladders leaned against the walls, tubes of paint –
by the carton – were stacked in the studio, and alarm clocks ticked beside
his narrow cot. He was ready to begin painting.
I felt very, very much that things had now solidified. This was now a fact,
and for the first time in this entire campaign, I actually knew that I was going
to make it – not only the painting, but also my fight for Nunavut. This
was it. It was now only a matter of physical labour to complete the vision.
There was a different feeling now. The desperation was gone, and there was
only a huge engine driving me. Now, there was only confidence. Now, I had
access to politicians, business people, media – an infrastructure so massive
and on such a personal level that I would be able to get this story through
and by hook or by crook it would come into being.
It occurred to him is his newfound euphoria – “We need to celebrate!”
He announced the “First Brushstroke” party and invitations went out in
the shape of artist’s palettes that hit the desk of every media contact in the
city. Every couple of days a new invitation in a different colour, embossed
with an Inukshuk, went into the mail. He called Keith and told him to
fill a plane with choice Arctic food. Bob Engels, the North’s most famous
bush pilot, volunteered to fly the northern contingent to Toronto. On
an evening in early September 1986, Ken climbed up on a ladder, from
which he made a speech to a roomful of people, and then splashed a giant
brushstroke across the towering, white canvas.
Then he settled into a routine that was to last for almost a year. He
painted the sky for several hours, slept for two hours, went back to work,
and then slept for two hours. As he painted he had a sense that this was
what he was meant to do – to paint on this scale. Every other painting
seemed too small – even the giant canvas that hung at First Canadian
Place was undersized. How could he ever go back to painting something
on a lesser scale? What he really wanted to do was buy Saskatchewan and
paint it from helicopters.
One day a woman, wrapped in a fur coat, swished in on stiletto heels.
She glanced around the studio and waved her arm at some paintings leaning
against the far wall. “I’ll have that one, and that one, and that one.”
“Madam,” Ken said from his perch on the scaffold. “I don’t know who
you are. I suspect you know who I am or you think you do. I would invite
you to go outside, take a walk around, come back in, and say – ‘Good
morning!’”
She took a step back. “Well! I have never been spoken to that way before!”
Ken waved his hand. “Go on! Go. Shoo… Shoo.”
She stalked out, and returned ten minutes later. “Good morning,” she said.
Manolis Aligizakis 