Basil H. Johnston and Maxine Noel (Ioyan Mani) Tales of the Anishinaubaek
Basil H.
Johnston, Tales of the Anishinaubaek. Illustrated by Maxine
Noel (Ioyan Mani). Royal Ontario Museum, 1993. Autographed by the
artist.
Because
of the cover illustration of man and mermaid, I grab this art book of
Ojibway legends the moment I see it at Value Village. Tales told by
the famous late Ontario writer and educator, Basil Johnston. It is
the work of the illustrator, Maxine Noel, which I recognize.
A Maxine
Noel "artist's proof" greets everyone who steps into my
condo. "Daughter of the Summer Moon." I have owned it since
1985, the year I was training in Kingston, Ontario. Exiled from our
homes, living a stripped-down life in "barracks," groups of
us would rent cars on weekends and tour the triangle, cruising for
antiques and art. At a gallery in a small town outside Ottawa, the
Brown Bear in Westport, this gold-on-white embossed drawing captured
my heart. I can't remember if I bought it on the spot or made a
special trip back to retrieve it. Somehow, I got it back to Kingston.
Kept it in my cell for weeks. Lugged it on to the commuter plane to
Toronto. Hand-carried it on the domestic flight to Winnipeg. Coddled
it in the taxi from the airport to my apartment on Wellington
Crescent. Displayed it proudly near the front door.
The
first time an old friend from home visits after my return to
Winnipeg, he stops on the threshold, staring at the brass-framed
white-matted paper - long hair, long skirt, daisies - and says: "I
see you have one of my cousin's paintings?"
"What?
Who? I bought it in Ontario. I know nothing about the artist."
"Ioyan
Mani," he says. "Walking Beyond. Maxine Noel. She's my
cousin. From Birdtail." (Calvin is Dakota, from Sioux Valley,
west of Brandon. But Birdtail is Birtle, three towns over, west, of
my home town of Oak River.) "She grew up in Arrow River." I
am dumbfounded. Arrow River is barely twenty miles from Oak River. I
have travelled thousands of miles and have come home with art work
made by a neighbour.
Of
course, those of us who read Jung do not believe in coincidence. What
is the mystery in art which speaks to secret parts of ourselves? What
is it that we recognize in gold ink on white paper which says to our
hearts "This is home. This is you."?
What is
it within ourselves which lets us respond to, acknowledge that "This
is me. This too is me."
I've had
this happen to me with other works of art too, especially with a
painting by Deryk Houston titled "Looking Over To Black Tusk,"
which convinces me that "there is a divinity which shapes our
end." Or, more specifically, that predestination is a reality.
But this is a story for another time.
Now I
touch the beautiful inscription in my secondhand art book, and I am
home again.
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