Homer Watson House & Gallery
Kitchener, Ontario
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Remembering Homer Watson
3.0 - Jessie L. Beattie
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serv.focus(); } //--> </script> </head> <body leftmargin="0" topmargin="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0"> <div id="stChild"> <div class="sc" id="sc1"> <h4 class="float-left">1</h4> <span class="cmStoryLineText"> A MEMORY OF A GREAT ARTIST<br /> By Jessie L. Beattie<br /> <br /> It was June, 1934; clear air, blue sky, a light wind drifting. The sun-drenched countryside was gay with summer, and by the polished ribbon of the Grand, the little village of Doon lay in mesmeric stillness under the warmth of morning. I drove slowly over the brow of the hill toward it, then drew to the side of the stony road, got down and crossed through the fence where the river bank is highest.<br /> <br /> Many of you have seen what I saw there - down below, the reflecting stream, the fertile flats, then a riot of colour, blue iris, yellow mustard and marsh grasses, on the right the slowly mounting hills, rank with clover and topped by majestic trees, on the left, the old mill in ruins, and the hamlet itself, quiet, <!-SCT-->dreaming.<br /> <br /> That morning a herd of black and white cows stood belly deep in the cool water;<br /> A flock of ducks dipped and swam leisurely in dark shade beneath the willow; and closer and closer to shore a blue heron rested, one foot uplifted on a sun-whitened rock, musing on things past and on things to come.<br /> <br /> While I stood looking, another seemed beside me - a man, who, next to God, possessed this scene. Its beauty grew under his presence, for his art had made immortal the tranquil summer landscape. I imagined him as he had been through the years - seeking familiarity with every foot of the earth, every shrub and tree, river and sky in every mood; then hastening to his canvas and with sure strokes of mighty genius, blending in form and colour, the love of his soul for beauty, with the beauty of the earth.<br /> <br /> From a little girl I had <!-SCT-->known him as an honoured figure in the community. I had heard the well-worn stories about him - how at the untimely death of his father, he had been taken from school at the age of eleven to work as a man works to earn bread for his mother and her little family; yet today was as highly educated as any man in the country, by the daily use of his own intellect - a man who dared to think for himself - who, self-taught, had scaled the heights of artistic achievement, empowered by a mighty urge and by the tireless persistence of a dauntless spirit. I had stood before his paintings many times, marveling. I had heard him lecture; and in the company of others had been led by him through the galleries where his master-pieces hung; but that day a great desire for more came upon me - a desire to sit at his feet and unburden my soul. It was only a minute's forward journey to his door, but I hastened. If he should not be there..... But as I entered the gate I caught sight of him - he was reclining in <!-SCT-->a hammock under his beloved trees by the side of the big house, his eyes were closed and a look of peace was on his face. The sun sifting through thick foliage touched him kindly as if it knew that he was old and tired; as if it could not touch in any other way, on who has honoured it so often. His hair was white and he rested against a purple cushion; he wore a white shirt open at the throat, and gray trousers; his feet were shod in well-worn gaiters; beside him lay his cane and the long tube through which he was able to hear the voices of those who spoke to him. Near him sat a woman, who seeing me, rose and came forward.<br /> <br /> "I had to see Mr. Watson this morning", I explained, giving my name. "I had to see him".<br /> <br /> "Yes", she nodded as if she understood, "yes, of course; he will be pleased. I am his sister". <!-SCT--><br /> <br /> She led me to a chair beside the hammock and asked me to be seated; then very gently she touched him on the shoulder. <br /> <br /> "Homer, here's someone to see you", she said, her lips to his ear, "the girl from over the pinnacle".<br /> <br /> It may have been the mood which possessed me that morning, the hunger and thirst after the unattainable, which touched his human sympathies; or it may have been that, so near the end of the road, his always generous heart was quickened to the needs of one who stumbled along the way. Whatever it was, we became comrades in search of truth as well as teacher and pupil, that day, and we wept in each other's presence and were unashamed. "It is good to feel our weakness", he said, "and to see that nature is always greater than we are, we can only touch her in loving desire - we can never <!-SCT-->wholly clam her as our own. But only when we are true to her, as she is revealed to us, does our art live; then, through our medium she becomes immortal.<br /> <br /> "And if you would keep yourself free of littleness, do not clog the machinery of your mind with ill-fitting inventions of other men, however highly approved by the world they may be; but open it wide to the inpouring of the elements of truth found at the sources of life - in nature and human nature - and let them be blended and shaped in the mold of your own genius, be it great or small, whatever form of achievement is yours by divine right. There are fashions", he added grimly, "fashions in art as in dress, but those who follow them must not be disappointed if they are outdated in a few years of time. The great, will not notice them, for they know that production should be the result of personal experience - no two alike". He waved his hand toward the giant boughs above us. "If the <!-SCT-->maple took on the leaves of the oak", he said, "how silly it would seem".<br /> <br /> "Have you noticed", I asked him, "how many people wait to be told what is great before they will venture an opinion of their own?"<br /> <br /> "Never mind them", he smiled a little scornfully, "they are those who follow after, and their name is legion. The average man in the street has more reverence for beauty, and while we have him, there is some hope for us".<br /> <br /> The wind stirred in the trees; a humming bird with ruby throat came from the garden behind us and stopped to drink from a fluted white lily cup by his side. His eyes followed its departing flight a little wistfully. "We are laughably vain", he declared. "The fringe of life is all that has yet been explored, but we talk boldly as if we <!-SCT-->understood all. We have wasted generations in blundering, because we have limited ourselves by depending with childish ignorance on our physical sense of sight and sound to bring us true conceptions of what may be seen and heard. We are beginning to wake up, though, and to realize that we are still babes in understanding. But it is only when these senses fail us..... as mine are beginning to fail..... when the door of the beyond begins to swing inward...... as it is beginning to do for me...... that we find out our mistake". <br /> <br /> He paused and his pale cheeks were tinted with the glow of enthusiasm and his blue eyes were lit with fire. "I can hear very few common sounds now", he lifted the end of the tube significantly; "your voice through this is like an echo; but from beyond there......." looking toward the hills, "those who are gone are playing great symphonies; and I will tell you something", he <!-SCT-->leaned forward. "I can hear them!" <br /> <br /> The strength of his conviction was contagious; I nodded, believing, but did not speak; there was a fluttering in my throat of an emotion which dared not vent itself in words. "How often had I imagined 'Chopin, Beethoven, Mosart'", he continued, "the compositions that made them famous here were only preludes to the perfection of their art there; and it is so clear..... the music..... when it comes. I can pick out the different instruments, and my joy is more than I can bear; but at the same time I am stricken with grief that because of my own ignorance of musical composition, I cannot record their glorious harmonies for the world, as I believe they want me to do. It is the music of genious unbound, and I am helpless to do anything about it". <br /> <br /> For a minute he could not speak, and I found myself weeping with him. "I <!-SCT-->have loved music in an ignorant way all my life", he went on contritely, "and I have played a number of different instruments for my own pleasure..... from bass viol to Jews-harp, but outside of singing school, I never had a lesson. I was always a little proud of my accomplishments in that line", he admitted, smiling, "but now I regret my careless vanity. I cannot hear my own voice, you know, and when I am trying to reproduce some of the melodies, my sister tells me they sound like guttural groans rather than heavenly music.<br /> <br /> "And when", I asked softly, "do they play for you?"<br /> <br /> "When I listen for them..... when I am alone in my studio, or in the darkness of my room at night, when all that I have known is as nothing, and when what I am to know turns me from the desire for longer life on this planet, <!-SCT-->beautiful as it is..... <br /> You see, my deafness which has separated me from so much that I once enjoyed, has separated me also from the sounding brass and tinkling symbols of daily life; it has given me a temple of quiet where I may hear what others are deprived of hearing, by the noises of the physical world. And I am reassured..... they play great things..... beyond all greatness that they were capable of on this earth..... It seems to me that their intention is to give me proof that I am right in believing that it will be that way... for me...." <br /> <br /> His eyes were shining with conviction.<br /> <br /> "You believe it will be that way", I dared ask, "for those who desire?"<br /> <br /> "How else could it be?" he answered me, his aged voice firming with assurance. <!-SCT--><br /> <br /> "Have we been made by a Demon who would delight in our torture? Not if we have lived here at all, if we have begun, we shall finish. There will be another scene.... And another.... Each one more beautiful than the last". <br /> <br /> He spoke dreamily now; one of his hands transparently white, blue-veined, lay on his knee. The fingers moved eagerly as if feeling for the brush, then closed and were still. As he sat motionless, a passing butterfly, yellow striped with black fluttered near and came to rest where the knuckles formed a bridge of chiseled ivory. It opened its wings, then closed them slowly, as if to reveal every line and shade of its loveliness to the eyes that caressed it. While it remained poised, I could hear his breathing, soft and tremulous. As it flew away to the garden, he lifted his head, and smiled into my tear-filled eyes. <br /> "Only a few weeks <!-SCT-->ago", he reminded me gently, "it too could only surmise".<br /> <br /> from: Archives, Homer Watson House & Gallery </span> </div> <table id="scNav"><tr> <td width="172" style="text-align:left;"><a href="pm_v2.php?id=story_line_child&fl=&lg=English&ex=00000563&sl=4455&pos=1&scpos=1" id="scJumpFirst" class="scLink"><img src="English/CommunityMemories2/cm_images/sc_start.gif" width="10" height="9" /></a></td> <td width="170" style="text-align:right;"><a href="javascript:;" onClick="flip(this.id, 0, 1, 1);" id="scPrev" class="scLink"><img src="English/CommunityMemories2/cm_images/sc_prev.gif" width="9" height="9"></a><a href="pm_v2.php?id=story_line_child&fl=&lg=English&ex=00000563&sl=4455&pos=1&scpos=0" id="scJumpPrev" class="scLink"><img src="English/CommunityMemories2/cm_images/sc_prev.gif" width="9" height="9" /></a></td> <td width="174" style="text-align:left;"><a href="javascript:;" onClick="flip(this.id, 0, 1, 1);" id="scNext" class="scLink"><img src="English/CommunityMemories2/cm_images/sc_next.gif" width="9" height="9"></a><a href="pm_v2.php?id=story_line_child&fl=&lg=English&ex=00000563&sl=4455&pos=1&scpos=1" id="scJumpNext" class="scLink"><img src="English/CommunityMemories2/cm_images/sc_next.gif" width="9" height="9" /></a></td> <td width="172" style="text-align:right;"><a href="pm_v2.php?id=story_line_child&fl=&lg=English&ex=00000563&sl=4455&pos=1&scpos=1" id="scJumpLast" class="scLink"><img src="English/CommunityMemories2/cm_images/sc_last.gif" width="10" height="9" /></a></td> </tr> </table> </div> <div class="scSplit" id="scSplit" /> </body> <script type="text/javascript" language="javascript"> var scCount = 1; var scShowing = []; flip("scPos", 1, 1, 1); </script>
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