WATER COLOUR SKETCHING
AS ADVENTURE
By PHYLLIS PETERS

Sketching was most certainly adventure.
Anyone thinking it hadn't its ups and
downs — happy or unhappy moments —
active or awkward times, is much mis-
taken. So my companion and I found
out.

To begin with, let us go back to the
war years and across Canada at the same
time. From our Naval Establishment,
H.M.C.S. Bytown in Ottawa found a Tid-
dley group of “arty’’ Wrens on many
happy week-ends. One of these week-
ends took us about forty miles out of
Ottawa to a place called Wakefield, in
Quebec, in search of our much longed for
west coast pine tree. We found one, but
a poor example. However, after we had
settled ourselves to paint, or so we
thought, a very sudden and disturbing
interruption occurred. We found our-
selves deluged with ants — in our hair,
down our necks and quite literally, in
our pants! (Bell-bottoms then). Months
afterwards we found them in our cadmium
yellow. All the time the “little dears”
were being so active, our Naval Instructor
was trying to teach us something about
abstract painting — Mental strain, fast
changing weather, the drying rag paper
and approaching cramps from sitting —
AND ants — it was no picnic.

Sketching was like spring fever. We
couldn't push it aside, even on leave.
The time came when the desire was too
strong and we had to fetch out the old
water-colour brushes. C.P.R. trains seem
to breed this “intense aesthetic feeling’.
The box-like frustration of the tourist
coach gave us this urge. What mollified
us were the big and beautiful shapes of
the approaching foothills of the Rockies
and Kicking Horse Pass. The big black
porter, passing those frantic impressionists,
smiled indulgently, muttering to himself,
“Pity what the war does to some people
—poor souls’. Poor souls, indeed; we
were budding artists, or so we thought, as
there was much to learn ahead of us.

Now the end of the jong train journey;
wishing the train had gone a little more
slowly, yet not wishing it, sounds some-
what Irish, but that is how we felt on
those long trips home. This being our
last trip, was to end with our much
dreamed of discharge in view, rehabilita-
tion credits and, we hoped, the Vancouver
School of Art.

It was the Vancouver School of Art
alright, for there was Mr. C. H. Scott, Di-
rector of the School, lifting his bushy eye-

brows (big as hedgerows) and saying
"Stud'nts’. But before he had finished his
first lecture to us, we wondered why we
had touched a subject so deep as the arts.
For Art, like creation, is never ending,
always inspiring and continually baffling.
We were soon to learn that art took eighty
per cent thought and twenty per cent
application. Like the above mentioned
ants, application is tricky and sporting, too,
at times!

After the initial "dead life’’ period, as
the French so aptly call it, our very
learned and breezy instructor took us to
the circus that had come to stay for a time.
Dust collected on our palettes; elephants
swaying back and forth, camels chewing
their cud rhythmically, and monkeys
swinging to and fro on their bars made
us all feel quite seasick. Lions and tigers
hollering or roaring all at once made it
more than pandemonium. Great excite-
ment—just as Mrs. Lion and cubs posed
nicely for us, smiling with a catty sort
of leer, the cage keeper came and very
nearly drowned us with his hose. Mr.
Lion didn’t seem to approve of the keeper
or us. In a way we didn’t blame him.

fter all, he spent his day trying to
please roaring crowds and his exacting
trainer. Then to come back to his so-
called sanctuary, only to find “another
crowd of designing artists. Little did he
know we were actually admiring his
magnificent form, vibrant colour and
moulded anatomy! There was so much to
paint in the Big Top, it really overwhelmed
us. Quick action studies were abundant.
Clowns and monkeys were almost impos-
sible to interpret—but then they always
are. This proved to be a test of our
dexterity with a brush, if nothing else.

Vancouver's Chinatown took its rightful
place in art too. There were many inter-
esting expeditions made here. The Chin-
ese are a cautious and inquisitive lot, or
so we thought (and we must have seemed
the same to them). We sketched by the
hour on their crowded and_ bustling
streets. Once we sketched one of their
many poultry houses. Here the customer
likes to see his chicken alive before pur-
chasing. It was fascinating to watch these
people bartering back and forth in their
inimitable, musical, sing-song way. Our
real laugh came one day when we were
sent out to sketch one of their famous
Chinese eating places. We proceeded in
the usual manner with our drawing pads
propped up against our stomachs, conte
crayon in hand, etc., ready for work. We

hadn't been working long before we
noticed several Oriental faces peering over
our shoulders. This didn't daunt us, as
like well-trained seals, we were used to
such things, but when a stern English
voice was heard to say, ‘Move along
there, please; you are disturbing the
peace,’ it made us turn around and there,
lo and behold, was half of Chinatown
watching us! Should we have felt flat-
tered?

Chinatown was, bar none, the most
colourful to paint. Apart from the quaint
architecture, there were the people
themselves. A custom or habit of the
Chinaman is to stand with his hands be-
hind his back, either walking or while
sianding watching anything. It seemed as
though it was an instinct from by-gone
days. Anyway, all this took us to the
Chinese Times, where we found them
standing about four deep in this manner,
reading their long columns of Chinese
characters. The hands and arms made
most interesting subject matter for us as
the patterns of interlocking shapes created
rhythmic design in full.

We had often found people had the
wrong impression of us (poor misunder-
stood artists), or perhaps we should say
were misled by us. This was found to
be true as one day our instructor told us
to meet him in Blackburn's Public Market

_ (at the other end ‘of town) for our next

composition. This we did at the appointed
time, and so did the instructor, arriving a
little breathless, complete with beret. We
had only just gathered around him for our
instructions when we noticed several ad-
ditions to our group. Then it was learned
that they thought we were a line-up for
one of the much-wanted foodstuffs—buiter.
After this misapprehension we proceeded
to do the project. It turned out to be
chickens—dead this time.

Characters we all are, but some are
more interesting than others. The Missions
to Seamen provided this for us. Here we
found colour, local and otherwise. The
seamen who visit the Mission come from
all parts of the world, and represent
colour and skin textures unfamiliar to us
here. Some are dark, almost black; others
are mahogany, and some almost yellow °
ochre. Anyway, they are varied and
many. The difference between Javanese
(Indonesian now), Jamaican, Lascan, Fijian,
East Indian and all the fair races of the
Scandinavian countries, presented much
for our palettes. We have often spoken to
these men. Apart from the interesting
places we have heard them speak of, and
where they themselves come from, we
find they are artists too—not always in
pigment, but in many other ways.

We met one old chap—an Englishman,
who was an engineer by profession. He