Tag: art

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

The media continued to be fascinated by him, the way an audience is
mesmerized by a performer who embarrasses himself inadvertently, on
a talk show. Ken had stepped so far outside the boundaries, had put on
a show so over the top, right down to the Inuksuit painted on the streets,
that the media haunted his studio just to see what would happen next. Ken
continued to feed them quotable lines that seemed to come effortlessly to
his lips, but that he had, in fact, been practising for months and years.
But, tidbits wouldn’t feed them forever. Eventually they would want to
stop nibbling and indulge in another meal – and the next banquet would
have to be bigger and better than the last.
He met Salvador Grimaldi for lunch again at Boccacio Restaurant, in the
Columbus Centre, and once again the architect came bounding into the
room, perfectly dressed in understated, expensive clothing, his eyes sparkling,
and his smile spreading goodwill around the room. Ken had a plan.
He told him that his next project had to be an even larger success than
the last, and described the two immense paintings he was currently working
on: one was a sixteen by sixteen foot canvas, featuring an Inukshuk set
against an enormous white cloud, that was intended for the Reichmanns.
Why the Reichmanns? Salvador asked.
“They are a very prominent family which the media and the public
have become very interested in,” Ken said. “They’re secretive and almost
impossible to approach. I’ve been studying them, and the information is
very sparse. I know they spent time in Valencia after leaving Eastern Europe,
and then they spent time in Morocco, and then from Morocco they
moved to Toronto: they started a tile business that immediately turned
into a raging success. Then, they went into high-end real estate development,
in which they have achieved even greater success. They are an
intriguing family – and just what I need. I need a Lorenzo de Medici.”
“I want to get to a place where other people cannot go. I want to sell
a painting to a man who doesn’t buy paintings and see it hung in the
foyer of the tallest building in the British Commonwealth – and have that
become a media event – even though they don’t like the media, that is
what I am after. What do you know about the Reichmanns that you feel
comfortable passing on to me? I get the idea you’re pretty close to them.”
Salvador allowed that he was close to Albert Reichmann, who preferred
to be called Mr. Albert. He had done his corporate landscaping and was
currently working on his personal property. “He’s a prince,” Salvador said.
“A merchant prince. He is a man of many talents, and I find it interesting
that you would have, instinctively, known that.’
Ken took Salvador to the studio to see the Reichmann and Yellowknife
Airport paintings, in progress. When he unlocked the door and switched
on the bank of lights, Salvador froze. The larger painting was nearing
completion while the other was only half finished.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

The Circle

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

“Yes, he spent so many years earning blood money, Bevan. I know; you’re
right. The agency is the first and foremost concern for all of you. The agency, no
matter what the result, no matter what the human cost,” Emily says, angrily.
Bevan knows this feeling of helplessness, this feeling of betrayal, and this
feeling of loss, particularly when the loss is for something you don’t agree with.
He knows all this because he feels that way most of the time himself.
“Yet, there is a reason why everything happens as it happens, my dear Emily,”
he says, as a way of inserting a sense of justice into something gone wrong.
“Also, don’t forget the police lieutenant mentioned that you told him, as you
told me, that Matthew was cleaning his service pistol that morning. After you
left, the accident took place.”
“Yes, Bevan, the accident took place while I was out with Cathy,” she repeats
monotonously.

The devastation is impossible to describe and the words are so humble and poor, trying
to explain to the flawless mind the inconceivable, the disappearance of logic, and
the return of mass mania for the slavery of feelings in the thirst for blood. The blood is
someone’s, anyone’s, as long as blood is shed and it paints the roads and the cobblestone
streets of this desolate place in red, this place that belongs to people who know
well the hunger and thirst for life.
The houses are mostly demolished; one cannot tell the wall of one from the yard
of the other—the doors, windows, gates, all destroyed. The roofs have collapsed and
walls lean on other walls as injured people try to hang onto one another in order to
stand. They resemble people trying to stay on their feet as others struggle to walk
uphill on crutches.
People shyly and full of fear come out of one hole or another, one by one, like
rodents in the fields popping their heads out to see the devastated condition of the
land and the devastated condition of the human race whose advanced technology
has enabled them to create so much destruction. People come out of their holes to
witness whether death has surpassed them, whether he went to the neighbor’s
house or took some unknown person; after all, Hades is here to take. They come out
of their holes to see whether Hades is still around in the form of a bullet from the
rifle of the soldier from the foreign land. The older ones have seen this before and
know well the pain and anger, but the children, for the first time, taste the loss of a
mother or a father who has died under the cement of their collapsed house, or the
loss of a brother or a dear friend killed by the non-discriminating bombs that fall
from the arms of the sky. The children run out into the desolate backyards and
behind the armored cars of the soldiers. They try to steal something of value…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186524

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562817

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

assion doesn’t come from this generation.”
“I was. I was raised in an ancient place by somewhat ancient people.”
“So, what do you propose I do?”
“I propose you find out whether I am telling you the truth.”
As he and Rocco left, Ken turned and said, “By the way, I think the gallery
should be called The Joseph D. Carrier Gallery.”
Carrier smiled. “Of course.”
Once work on the gallery began, Ken and Carrier met frequently. When
Carrier discovered that Ken’s paternal grandmother, Constanze Inocente,
was from Genoa, he declared that the connection made Ken Italian, and a
member of the community. With Carrier’s urging, Ken joined the Canadian
Italian Business and Professional Association, a dynamic and diverse
group that included doctors, lawyers, carpenters, and bricklayers.
As opening night of the Carrier Gallery approached, Ken suggested a
show of his Arctic paintings, on a massive scale.
“You haven’t sold any and you want to start off with a huge explosion?
Rocco asked. “What if it fails?”
“You’re sounding like my mother. What if…”
“I love the idea, but what a risk!”
“When you jump off a cliff, make sure you do it head first. Be honourable.
Do it big.”
What about the cost?” Rocco asked. “Who will pay for it?”
“All we have to do is commit to the vision and the rest will follow.”
Ken rented the warehouse next door to the framing factory, a space
large enough for his Arctic paintings. He painted the ceiling black, the
walls white, and the floor battleship gray. Then, he went to work on the
giant paintings. Rocco focused on the show. They needed a sponsor, Ken
said. The show had to be unique. Canadians didn’t care about the Arctic
so everything about it had to be special.
“If Canadians don’t care, why are we doing this?” Rocco asked.
“Because this story has to be told,” Ken said, explaining that the entire
saga had begun on a beach in Portugal. And that’s when it struck him –
Portugal would be their sponsor.
He wrote a letter to Dr. Antonio Tanger Correia, the Portuguese Consul
General.
Correia called. “Mr. Kirkby. As if you had to explain yourself! What a
delight to get your letter. We must have lunch!”
They met for a lunch that extended into dinner. Ken explained that he
wanted the invitations for the exhibition to come from the Portuguese
people, meaning the Consul General and the Portuguese Ambassador to
Canada. “I’m not asking for money,” he said. “I simply want you to issue
the invitations.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

When they immigrated to Canada, and settled in Toronto, they founded
a tile company and then became real estate developers. Their flagship
building was First Canadian Place, the tallest building in the Commonwealth.
Ken talked about them and gnawed on the information he had
like a dog on a marrow bone.
“Forget about them and come into business with me,” Henri said.
“Why try to sell paintings to people who don’t buy paintings?”
Ken finally looked at the books, which revealed that the frame factory
was struggling to stay alive.
“You can buy half,” Henri offered.
“Why would I buy half of a sinking ship?” Ken asked. But, he agreed
to become a partner. Perhaps, it would be a good idea to be seen as a
businessman instead of an artist. He might be viewed with more respect
and given more credibility. He would buy his half with orders for frames.
Henri agreed to build Ken a studio across the top of the factory.
Within six months, Ken had paid off the fifteen thousand dollars he
owed and moved into his new studio where he began work on two large
Arctic paintings – one for First Canadian Place, measuring sixteen by
sixteen feet, and one measuring slightly less, for the new international
airport planned for Yellowknife.
Marsha said, “You have no money and you’re going to create two giant
paintings that no one wants to buy. It makes no sense!”
It made sense to him, even though he had no explanation to give. He had
learned to listen to his inner voice, and it was telling him to paint the canvases.
Nobody’s doubts could stop him. He was going to show the world!
The new studio was too small for the massive paintings and so were all
the conventional canvases. He joined four lengthened panels with invisible
seams by bevelling the wood, squeezing the stretchers together with
clamps and creating knife-edges that melded together. Through painstaking
experimentation with a torque wrench, Vise-Grips and a canvas
stretcher he created a unique design that produced perfect tension on
every square inch of canvas. When the tension was perfect, he hosed the
canvas down to shrink it. One of his first canvases exploded, and one flew
off spinning like a propeller, but he finally got it right and made a sixteen
by sixteen and a twelve by fourteen foot canvas.
He was still mystified by his inability to sell paintings of the Arctic.
One day, while he was driving on Steeles Road near the Allen Expressway
a question leapt into his mind. “If you were limited to one image – one
object from all your experiences in the Arctic, and that was all you were
allowed to portray, what would it be?”
Inukshuk!
Ken was stopped at a red light. The light turned green…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

There is a deep hunger to have the sunshine of their former
homes, and of their great-grandparents’ former homes. There are these
stories that persist about how wonderful life was, and how sunny it was,
and how warm it was. But, with the exception of this little coastal strip,
this is a very cold country. You’re trying to give paintings of vast, distant
places that are freezing cold, to Canadians. Why would anyone, with the
psyche I’ve described, even think of buying one? They won’t even come
out to look at them.”
“Well, Jesus!”
“Go ahead – break my argument.”
“What else about these paintings then?
“One word – pretty. The Canadian art scene is almost non-existent,
but what passes for imagery in the public mind at large is pretty. Doreen!
Doreen! Bring some magazines!”
Fraser grabbed the top one, from the stack Doreen delivered, and
opened it at random. He turned two pages and pointed. “Look – here’s an
ad – it’s perfect. Isn’t that a pretty photograph? Do you notice that it has
a white, sandy beach, a scantily clad couple, and palm trees? People work
very, very hard to make money, so they can save some up and go to that
place – and it’s very pretty. That’s what is in their minds. You and I are the
children and grandchildren of peasants, and we have their tastes.”
Fraser reached into his pack of cigarettes, pulled out a fresh one, and lit
it from the butt that had almost burned down to his fingertips.
“It’s taken Europe an eon to get to its appreciation of art. You’re expecting
too much, too quickly.”
“But, if we don’t push we won’t get anywhere,” Ken said.
“It’s not just a matter of pushing the public. We have to find individuals
who will get behind this. It’s not just good old Alex and Ken who are
going to go and foist this on the country. It’s a much bigger story.”
Ken left the gallery deep in thought. Yes, there was truth in what Fraser
had said but it wasn’t the whole truth. Canada was ready for his paintings.
The Group of Seven was proof. Fraser thought they were rubbish too. If
he wanted to tell his story through his paintings, it wouldn’t be with Alex
Fraser by his side.
Unexpectedly, Ken received a letter from his Aunt Vicki in Madrid. She
had taken the photographs he had sent her, of his latest paintings, and
shown them to a popular gallery owner who wanted to exhibit them.
He tapped the note against his desk, read it again, and picked up a
pen. He wrote a letter to Mr. McEachern, the Minister of Foreign Affairs,
describing his good fortune in coming to Canada, and telling him how
he had arrived in this country. He wrote about his art and said that he
wished to go back to Europe for an exhibition in Madrid.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

When he entered the classroom, he sat on the teacher’s desk, his feet
dangling, and told stories about the Arctic. The children listened raptly.
He received another speaking request, and then another, and another.
He accepted all of them. His talks were a training ground for what was to
come. Fraser had been right. “”We’re not selling paintings; we’re selling
stories.”
He spoke to classrooms of elementary students and to older students in
high schools. One time he began with, “Before we get going I want to tell
you, just so that no fraud is committed here – I never went to school.”
The children gasped.
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it – that I’ve been asked to come and talk to
you but I didn’t go to school? Now, make of that what you will. I’m not
suggesting that you don’t get a formal education, but I am suggesting that
there are those of us who probably fare better if we don’t.”
He shared his thoughts on education – what it is and what it is not. He
wove his ideas into stories of the Arctic, stories of politics, and stories of
old mythology. His stories posed questions. “Why do we think things are
right and why do we think other things are wrong? Where did we get all
this stuff? Who wrote it down? Who says it’s true?”
His speaking invitations multiplied, until he could accept no more. He
met with the principal of one school that had made a request, and said,
“I want to speak to the whole school. Give me your auditorium. This is
a performance, and I don’t want forty-five minutes – I want the entire
afternoon.”
He asked that the banners in the auditorium be taken down, all the
lights turned off, and the windows curtained. He asked for one microphone,
with a long cord, and a spotlight on centre stage. There would be
no adults in the auditorium, although teachers could position themselves
out of sight where they could hear. The children were to come in and sit
on the floor. When they were seated, the room would be plunged into
total darkness, and the children would sit for three minutes in silence,
before he walked on the stage.
“Are you out of your mind?” the principal said. “These aren’t children
– they’re little animals! It will be chaos! You obviously don’t understand
children!”
“I probably do,” Ken said. “I was one once and I probably still am.”
“It can’t be done.”
“Fine. I live in a world where apparently everything can’t be done.
Have you ever tried this?”
“No.”
“Then, you’re educating children and giving them advice based on
things you’ve never done. That’s one hell of a way of going about things.
Well, that’s my offer – take it or leave it.”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

“Why?”
“A painting that is given is all but worthless. It’ll be up in the attic or
down in the basement before you know it. A painting must always be
well paid for and it will be up above the mantel quicker than you can
snap your fingers – and it will stay there. And another thing you need to
know – you never give wealth a gift. It’s one of the ‘middle classes’ really
bad habits.”
When Ken walked into the gallery in Kelowna, Jack Hamilton took
him into the back office and handed him an envelope. “I see you keep
very fancy company,” he said.
Ken tore it open. The premier had written that he would be delighted
to visit the gallery the next morning at eight.
At seven-fifty, Jack staggered down the steps from the apartment above
the gallery, in his rumpled pyjamas, unlocked the front door to let Ken
in, and shuffled back up the stairs. At eight sharp, a chauffeur driven car
pulled up, and Bennett stepped out. He gave Ken a hearty handshake, sat
down at a small table near the front of the gallery and asked to hear stories
of the Arctic. “I thought you were just going up there for a month or
two, but you seem to have gotten yourself lost up there.”
“In a way, I did,” Ken replied. “It’s a long story.”
“I want to hear it.”
He told the Premier about his adventures and the atrocious conditions
the people lived with. He talked about the famine and the disease, and the
autocratic rule of the church, the RCMP, and the Hudson’s Bay Company.
When he finished, he asked if there was anything the Premier could do to
help the people up there.
Bennett stood. “Let’s see your paintings,” he said.
They walked through the gallery.
“What do the red dots signify?” Bennett asked.
“It means they’re sold.”
“It looks like they’re all sold.”
“Yes, they are.”
“You must be doing very well.”
“Yes I am – I’m very lucky.”
“I’d say there’s more than luck involved. I know nothing about art but
I do like what you’re doing, especially that one,” pointing to a landscape
of rolling grasslands. “I’d be interested in owning that one.”
“I’m sorry,” Ken said. “I’m afraid the entire exhibit was sold before it
got here.”
He led him into the back office where three paintings leaned against
the wall. “These are not sold,” he said.
Bennett pointed to one of the high plateau on the Douglas Lake Ranch.
“I like that one. Where is that?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

“Sure. I’ll be happy to try that, but you know that while I’m doing that
I won’t be painting.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fraser said.
“I’m not worried. I just don’t want you to get in a huff about not having
enough paintings.”
“I said don’t worry. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m happy to do it for you in return for what
you’re doing for me. And I don’t want any money for it.”
“You don’t want any money! Well, I never – a man who doesn’t want
money. So what do you want?”
“I just don’t want you to get upset when my painting production falls
off because I’m doing other things for you.”
“Of course, I’ll be upset at your lack of paintings. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“But that’s not reasonable!”
“It’s quite reasonable in light of how you present yourself – as the one
apart – the one to whom the rules don’t apply – the one who walked in
here without an appointment. There isn’t a painter in the country that
would dare do that. And, your shenanigans in the Peace River Country
– and your wanderings in the Arctic – as if you owned the bloody place.
You put yourself forward, with a quiet aloofness, as the man who can do
everything and anything, so I’m sure it won’t be any kind of a trick for
you to be in two places at the same time, doing two different things at the
same time.”
“Well,” Ken said. “That’s not how I see myself.”
“Fine. But I’m only telling you how you portray yourself.”
“If I was who you say I am, I’d be able to get my Arctic paintings and
stories out to the public, and I can’t.”
“Your Arctic paintings are the only tentative part of you. You haven’t
come to terms with that subject. You’re unsure and it shows. Everything
else you paint is clear, simple, strong and sure-footed. But don’t be concerned.
In good time, all of this will look after itself. With your confidence
and your bloody single-mindedness, you’ll work your way through it. But
right now, you’re not there and I will neither show them nor recommend
them. In that area you have a long way to go.”
That evening, he related the conversation to Helen.
She laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised. You have an ego as big as
the world. You’re full of yourself. The long and short of it is that you’re
arrogant. Alex is right. You wander into a place, you give it the once-over
and all of a sudden, you’re going to fix everything, you’re in control, and
you’ll take care of it. That’s what it looks like from the outside.”
“It does?”
“Yes, it does. And what do you have in mind anyway? Where are you
heading with all this?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

While he studied, he periodically found himself distracted by the
thought of the one art gallery in Vancouver he had not approached with
his paintings – the Alex Fraser Gallery. Stories of Alex Fraser, and his
treatment of artists in his London and Vancouver galleries, had circulated
through the art community for years. Ken was angry with himself. He
was rarely afraid of anyone and had met no one in Canada yet who had
intimidated him. Alex Fraser’s reputation did.
He had heard that the man was irascible – so what? He had heard he
was powerful. Was it in his power to judge his work? What if he found it
wanting?
The only thing worse than his fear was the prospect of his disappointment
in himself if he refused to face it, so one day he screwed up his
courage, loaded his truck with paintings, and drove to 41st Avenue near
Boulevard in Kerrisdale.
He walked into the gallery, where an attractive middle-aged woman
asked if she could help him.
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Fraser if he’s about.”
“Mr. Fraser doesn’t see people without an appointment.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. I’m here and I have some paintings. Please, can
you ask if he’ll see me?”
She smiled and walked into a back room. A few minutes later, a small
man with slicked-back hair and icy, blue-green eyes walked out. He was
dressed in a perfectly fitted gray pinstriped suit, with knife pleats in the
trousers and shoes that shone like mirrors.
Exhaling a great puff of smoke, he lowered himself into a big armchair,
and placed two packages of Players unfiltered cigarettes and an ashtray
on the little gate-legged table beside it. Taking a fresh cigarette from one
of the packages, he lit it from the one in his yellowed fingers, and crushed
the stub in the ashtray.
Turning to the woman who had followed him out of the back room he
called, “Doreen! Doreen, I want you to tell the young man about manners.
Ask him does he understand the meaning of manners?”
“Mr. Fraser would like to know if you understand the meaning of manners,”
she said, turning to Ken.
“Indeed I do,” Ken said. “And I apologize for coming in without an appointment
but I was nervous and I managed to screw up all my courage
to come in – and here I am.”
“Doreen! Doreen, tell him he is quite right to be nervous in approaching
me. Ask him what it is that he wants.”
“I have some paintings and would like to show them to Mr. Fraser.”
“Tell the young man that I can’t bloody see his paintings, anywhere.
Where are his paintings?”

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

On By vequinoxIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

excerpt

With the Group of Seven paintings as
a template, he taught himself to paint again, working only on southern
landscapes. He took several to the owner of The Golden Key Gallery who
placed one in the window and sold it within two days. More sold during
the next few months, but then the gallery owner sold his business and
Ken was once again without an outlet.
Still, he persisted and one day, while sketching the bent shapes of driftwood,
in the dunes near the airport, it occurred to him that he could make
a profit from the abundance of wood on the beach. He purchased a pickup
truck and two chain saws, cut up the wood, wrapped velvet ribbons
around the most attractive pieces, and attached a card with his telephone
number. He left the wood on the front steps of the city’s grand homes
and within days, the orders came in. While he delivered and stacked the
firewood, he told the homeowners his stories of the Arctic, and when
they asked about his paintings, he would display the canvases he carried
in the cab of his truck. The Arctic paintings didn’t sell but the southern
landscapes were a hit.
He taught himself to become a storyteller, rehearsing every anecdote
he had, practising his tone, volume, order of words and, most importantly,
his choice of words. Where was the power of the story?
His clients listened, but showed little interest, so he made a list of every
service club in the city. Would they like a guest speaker at their next
meeting? Yes, they would like to hear about the Arctic, and so, Ken did
the rounds. Each audience contained a handful of people who showed
mild interest – the rest were bored, and often antagonistic. Sometimes
he was heckled, and a red tide of anger would creep up from his chest to
flush his neck and cheeks. Once someone shouted that he, and the rest of
the people there, resented an immigrant telling Canadians how to live in
their country and run their lives.
“That is hardly what I am doing,” Ken retorted. “I intend no disrespect.
I am simply here bringing information from a faraway place.”
His words dropped like ragged bits of paper to lie discarded on the
floor. Perhaps his stories were so outside the experience of most Canadians
that they seemed like tall tales – unlikely and unbelievable. There had
to be a better way to tell people about the Arctic but what was it?
His father told him that he was involving himself in matters that were
none of his business. He was not a citizen of Canada and until he was,
he should keep his opinions to himself. He responded that he was only
doing what he had learned at his father’s knee, in Portugal. He reminded
his father that Ken Sr. had not been a citizen of Portugal and yet he had
become deeply involved in the affairs of that country and had worked
hard to help the people. The Inuit were human beings in great distress, he
said, and he was trying to help.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573