Moved again

We landed on our feet when we moved to Vancouver Island two years ago. The first place we found to rent was perfect, a lovely house in suburbs like no other, surrounded by the sea, five beaches and a small neighbourhood that resembled an English village. We were in a house that seemed like it was placed in the middle of a park, where deer, rabbits, raccoons and other animals would visit, including a resident owl that would hoot at us in the middle of the night. And flowers, there was an abundance of flowers, tall trees, and hummingbirds. One hummingbird hovered a couple of feet from my face one morning as if to ask for more food in the feeder. It was a thrill. The air was clear like pure oxygen, except for the odd ship motoring past on the far side of the trees. And though it was not a waterfront property, it was still a small paradise. It was quiet, real quiet. But we missed the vibrancy of downtown living. So we moved.

Victoria is a vacation town where cruise ships visit while on route to Alaska, each one letting off a small town's worth of people each summer morning. Other ships ferry people from Vancouver, Seattle and nearby Port Angeles, across the Juan de Fuca Straight; so our small city gets lively.

Except for living in the San Fernando Valley on the outskirts of Los Angeles and for a short while in the outer suburbs of Toronto, I have always been a part of a vibrant downtown culture. I like a safe city where you can walk or take a good public transportation, where busses are plentiful and they take you almost everywhere, where a car is a waste of money, except on those days when you crave a drive to the country. So we found a new home near Victoria's harbour area, in the heart of everything, surrounded by an old neighbourhood adjacent to the downtown core.

Of course, the noise level has risen. Seagulls squawk, cruise ships blast their horns, passenger ferry's sound their arrival and the hustle bustle of everyday city living makes itself known. I hear neighbourhood conversations, guitar picking from a nearby balcony, crow conventions. I smell coffee brewing, barbecues sizzling and the fresh aroma of horse dung from the sightseeing carriages that drive tourists around. I hear a small band entertaining at a local old age home. Construction and hammering is also factor, as others also want to experience the charm of downtown living.

It was a month ago that we moved and downsized to our rental townhouse. That was the most difficult part. We still have boxes everywhere. A few years ago, both my wife and I had large houses with lots of "stuff". We downsized to move in together, but somehow we still managed to hang onto too much, and we traveled from place to place with too much. This time we are determined to cull.

Downtown is filled with a cacophony of life. It was a wonderful move, indeed.

Point No Point

A birthday surprise took me to the shores of the Straight of Juan de Fuca, to a small rustic cabin perched high on a rugged cliff at the edge of the world, with a seascape that stretched west to Japan and south to the shores of Washington State.

Why did they name this place Point No Point lodge? What was the point? For me, it was a celebration of a life. I had now reached the tender age of an official old man; semi-retirement, pension, free flu shots, a better price on the bus and theatre tickets, and many more perks of maturity.

So, my point for being there was for contemplation. Where had I been? Where was I going? Here, I was looking out at the end of land like the end of life staring back at me. Was I approaching cliff's end? Was the world?  Point No Point had a point for me: the balance of life itself.

The excursion was very much in the Now. We traveled west along a beautiful, tree-lined country road with lush green foliage that pointed us toward our hide-away along the cliff tops. This day it supplied its own drama; torrential rain, sleet, hail and high winds. And the logs of the tiny cabin rattled and the windows beat with spewing water. It almost seemed as if the cabin was going to be lifted off its perch, like Dorothy's home in the Wizard of Oz, far away, or, down to the black rock beach below where larger than normal breakers rushed and smashed at the base of the cliff, shuddering us. Outside the weather was wild, but inside we lounged. With a cozy fireplace to keep us warm, we added a log or two, painted pictures and read mystery novels.

Obviously, my life continued on those first days of a new age, enjoying the company of my wonderful wife and savouring the delicacies of fine cuisine at the lodge restaurant.

So why contemplate, as long as we were healthy and making meaning in life? We even managed to skip a few rain drops to dunk in the hot tub that was primed and ready to warm our bones.

Unfortunately, as with the rest of life, the days flew by too soon, and we were off on our journey home with a great many more future moments to contemplate in the months and years ahead.


QUOTES
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

- Robert Frost

"Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields."

- Christopher Marlowe

"Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in awhile, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean."
- John Muir

"There is a fountain of youth: it is your mind, your talents, the creativity you bring to your life and the lives of people you love. When you learn to tap this source, you will truly have defeated age."
- Sophia Loren

Point no Point Lodge
http://pointnopointresort.com/
Our Cabin #14
http://pointnopointresort.com/room/cabin-14-cozy-cabin/

Voyeur

Immersed in the meditation of sketching, I was suddenly jarred out of my reverie by a shrill voice. 

"Are you from around here?" 

I looked up from my park bench to see a rather large white-haired woman with a Corgi dog. They were both staring at me from the beach. 

"Yes," I said, with a smile, fully expecting to be speaking with yet, another friendly fellow-Cadboro Bay villager.

 "Are you a voyeur?" She asked. 

Odd question, I thought. I was immediately inclined to offer my silly sense of humour and respond 

with a "yes," but, I paused and allowed my rational brain to take over, realizing that this person might be serious. 

"What's that?" I asked, feigning ignorance while pondering her situation.
"Don't you know what a voyeur is?" she steamed.
"Someone who spies on others?" I politely replied.
"Were you taking pictures of me and my dog on the beach?"
"I take pictures of the beach, the houses, the boats, the logs. I'm a sketcher." I told her. "I draw pictures then record the colours with my camera for later paintings. Would you like to see?" I asked, politely holding out my sketchbook.
"Well, no. I guess I'll have to believe you," she replied.
"I'll show you if you'd like." I offered, again.
"No." She said bluntly, turning around and walking off down the beach.

As the English expression goes, I was gobsmacked, astounded, utterly astonished that someone would think I was literally a voyeur. As I resumed my sketching, I thought about the word, "voyeur." I suppose I have always been an observer, a witness, a recorder of others. That's what a photographer is. That's what a sketcher is. That's what a human being is. But a voyeur?

I packed my sketch pad and headed down the beach to catch up with this woman. I wanted to tell her that I had been a photographer all my life and that I had never been called a voyeur before. However, when I did catch up with her, she began telling me she didn't like sketchers and photographers, saying they interpreted the world like journalists, with a point of view that wasn't necessarily the truth. Her attitude was anything but congenial. I tipped my cap and wished her a good day.
"I'm trying to have one," she shouted after me as I walked away.

A beach walk is a good place for contemplation and thought. Was I a voyeur? The dictionary says that a voyeur is an obsessive observer of sensational or sordid subjects; a person who derives sexual pleasure from secretly observing other people, or a person who enjoys seeing the pain or distress of others. Over the years, the word has been used very liberally to mean an interested watcher; someone who just enjoys observing life. Hence, among friends, I used to say, in fun, that I was a professional voyeur. But from this woman's point-of-view I was spying on her when I took some simple pictures of the beach.

Voyeurism itself has been around since the world began, when one neighbour peered in on another to see what they looked like in the flesh. In the past there have been "peep shows" at fair grounds, or fun shows where observers peer into machines to see women taking off items of clothing. Photographic or sketching of erotic art is considered voyeurism. Playboy, Penthouse and other magazines depicting naked bodies cash in on humanity's lust for erotic images. Today, the Internet is filled with graphic depictions of erotica to stimulate the masses. War photographers have often been referred to as voyeurs; people who record killing happening in front of their lens without lending a hand to help the person or people being photographed. 

For me, a lifetime as a photographer, cinematographer, film maker, sketcher and an interested observer did not make me a voyeur in the bad sense of the word. I was not the bad spying, sexual, deviant, stalker type. But I had photographed people without their permission. I had filmed people around the world, in many countries for documentary films. I had sketched people in coffee houses as life studies without their permission. So how many of the people that I had photographed or sketched without their permission would have objected had they known I was recording their image? Surely, this didn't make me evil or a bad voyeur?

Photographers, film makers, television directors, artists of all kinds have used humanity as their muse since time began. Leonardo Da Vinci and Michelangelo sketched caricatures of people in their local pubs to eventually fit into their great masterpieces. Great composers were influenced by street musicians and folk songs from many cultures. Shakespeare and Hemingway found their art among the voices of ordinary folk. So for a photographer to shoot a scene that includes some people is quite normal. Life drawing/sketching nudes or photographing nudes is also considered quite a normal exercise.

The beach lady had spotted me snapping innocent pictures for my sketches and paintings, so, clearly, I was not guilty of voyeurism. But this experience has made me realize that one word can mean so much depending on its interpretation. Voyeur ...  good, bad, evil or innocent? Voyeur can mean erotic sexual peering, i.e, Peeping Tom, or taking dark, secret sexual photographs. Or, it could be totally innocent observation through art, photography or human curiosity. 

We are all innocent voyeurs. We all observe each other. That's how we learn. We see others and, through them, we see ourselves, gain knowledge, live our lives. Our visual interaction and understanding of others is the essence of who we are. We are people watchers, whether through our own eyes or someone else's eyes, such as via television, magazines or motion pictures. What is a movie but a peering into someone else's life? What is television but a means to bring others into our lives? But, then I ask myself, is not the United States NSA spying program a form of government financed voyeurism?

As a child, I was an observer. As an adult, I was a professional witness. I can have fun with the word, but could I ever admit to being a voyeur to strangers? No. The word itself has such a sigma that to admit you observe others, as a voyeur, is like giving small-minded people a rope with which to hang a good reputation. So, I use the word "visual artist." And that is what I do.


QUOTES:

"Any photographer who says he's not a voyeur is either stupid or a liar."
- Helmut Newton

"I feel as though the camera is almost a kind of voyeur in Mr. Bean's life, and you just watch this bizarre man going about his life in the way he wants to."
- Rowan Atkinson

"Neighbours are the most indecent sort of folk around.  Nothing but voyeurs and gossipers. As a community we would be much better off without them."
- Bauvard - The Prince of Plungers

"We've become a race of Peeping Toms.  What people ought'a do is get outside their own house and look in for a change."
- John Michael Hayes - Screenwriter for Hitchcock's Rear Window

A Creative Life

EVE

Two-thousand and thirteen started in an unusual way when a piece of firewood in the wood pile caught my attention. It had curves. I plucked it from the pile and examined it. Somehow I could see a figure within. I found a sharp knife and started to carve. The floor of my office soon began piling thick with wood shavings, and within a couple of days this slowly diminishing piece of cedar took life as a fat figure, then a thinner figure. It was feminine, so feminine. I sanded it for a soft finish. The most difficult part of the carving was her neck. It needed to be carved carefully and I didn't want my sharp knife to slip and decapitate her. I left the face blank, not carving it at all. I really need more experience with faces. The wood slowly came to life as a small statuette about the size of an Oscar. I call her Eve. She's the first, full woodcarving I have ever done, and I'm very proud of her.

Carving is not easy. Every new experience takes concentration. Next, I carved ten wood spirit faces that stare down on us from the living room wall, each with their own personality, but after carving a couple of wooden kitchen spoons and spatulas, and a futile effort at a Madonna and child, I stopped. I had destroyed two good sweaters with my sharp knife and almost sliced off an extremity or two. Too dangerous for this rusty carver.

In the spring I bought a new small sketch book, a set of pencils, an eraser and a sharpener, and I began to draw anything that I found interesting. The sketcher in me re-emerged, and soon, the water-colour artist. It's now been a year of sketchbooks and water-colour books filled with my new drawings and paintings, and they all sit proudly on my office shelf. I am now just about to complete my first full, all water-colour book of urban art. There is only one of these books. Like Eve. They are products of the creative energy that flows though and drives each of us, and it gives me such a sense of accomplishment.

We all have it in us to do something creative. We are all born creative. The world itself is a work of art, this great, perfect ball of blue and life. Or, as the Beatles song says, "Because the world is round it turns me on." Well, the world of creativity and art turns me on. It always has.  And, I have made it my calling to live in this creative world since I was a child. I was also very fortunate to have made my career in the artistic world of cinema and television. Funny thing is, there has been no one who has been able to dissuade me of the pleasure of creating something, although some have tried.

Creativity and art are the essence of who we are as human beings. Everything we take for granted in this manufactured world has been created by innovators and artists, and people who were no smarter than anyone else. What hasn't been created by us? We have the basics of the flush toilet and plumbing, the light bulb and electricity, the car and the mechanical engine, the computer and world wide communication. Everything we use that gets us through our day was invented and created by someone or a group of innovators and artists. So why isn't art, creativity and innovation the top subjects taught in schools?

To create something from raw beginnings and bring forth an emotive or practical entity, is us. A painting could bring awe, a melody could tugs at heart strings, a motion picture could tell a story that may connect and influence others, a well designed building could function as a structure that enhances a street scape and evokes a culture, a knitted sweater could keep you warm.

For me, I have experimented with many arts and creative endeavors. I've written songs, short stories, film scripts and poetry. I was a choir boy, I play music, I've acted in plays, directed and photographed films, photographed super models, sketched portraits, carved statues, designed apartments and coffee houses, and have photographed many major cities from helicopters. I have created businesses that create. But there are many things I still have yet to do; perhaps write a novel, paint a masterpiece, build a house, write a new Christmas song, help elect a government that holds our environment as sacred.

Society likes to define people in a singular word, a sentence or an elevator pitch. However, people are not that shallow; never have been, never will be. We are all multi-dimensional and multi-talented creatures who must continue to grow, evolve and transform our world.

No matter what age you are:

Don't be passive. DO!

Do something, build something, create something.

Don't let the grass grow under your feet.

Build life and live it.

Embrace an art and CREATE something.

Create an emotion for someone. Even my little statue Eve has brought smiles to people's faces.


QUOTES
"Being is not just a thing you are, it is also a thing you do."
- Seamus Heaney

"I can't think of a case where poems change the world, but what they do is they change people's understanding of what's going on in the world.
- Seamus Heaney

"All I have, really, is my creativity."
- Jack Abramoff

Island Sketching

Grenville Bridge  Vancouver BC

Through out my life, I was always finding ways to be creative. It seemed to be in my nature. I didn't always succeed with everything I tried, but whenever there was an opportunity in front of me, I jumped.

In my younger years, I used to have fun with drawing and sketching, among other things. But that was before I got really busy in the film business. Then, I'd jokingly tell film producers I could film, photograph or sketch their scripts, but they never took me up on the offer to sketch.

Now as I age into antiquity, the film business has slowed for me, so I started sketching again. It started with simple drawings. One a day. Then I became the "mad sketcher," filling small sketchbooks with pencil drawings, pen & ink and water-colour creations. I began to search the Internet for other artists and sketchers who loved the art like me, and I was really inspired when I found the Urban Sketchers group from Seattle. This is a group started by an illustrator/reporter, Gabriel Campanario who works for the Seattle Times. He has inspired a world of closeted artists to go out, find their "tribe" and sketch together.

I didn't know there was such a pent-up demand for something like this, but it certainly inspired me. You don't have to be a really good sketcher to join the group. But, as with most things, the more you practice something, the better you get. The Urban Sketchers website now has a huge following around the world.

So, I was looking for an associate group in my city, Victoria; but I found none. Victoria is a wonderful little city filled with artists and artisans of all kinds, but there was no group that regularly met together to sketch. However, I did find a Vancouver group. They are loosely associated with Urban Sketchers, and I noticed that the organizer had a familiar name.

Sigrid was a classmate of mine at a teachers college in Vancouver. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of years, but I emailed her anyway and asked for advise on how to start a sketching group. She told me that I really didn't have to be associated with Urban Sketchers: I could start a unique Vancouver Island group through a website called Meetup.

It was three months ago I started "Island Sketching." Three months and eight sketching meet-ups later we have twenty-six members and counting, and it's slowly growing, with about half of them being regulars. Victoria is filled with great places to sketch, so we have no problem finding interesting locations for the group, i.e. Fisherman's Wharf, St Annes Academy, Craigdarrock Castle, Cadboro Bay, etc. The list for future locations is endless.

Island Sketching group members range from expert, seasoned artists to total beginners. We all learn from each other and the many drawings that emerge from this group show a wonderful, artistic range. Artists can look at the same thing, but the variations in artistic work are amazing. People are having fun and we arrange to have a creative discussion after each sketching at a local coffee house. Here, we comment on each other's work and take photographs for the website. It truly is a great feeling to have started something that people of all ages and vocations can enjoy together.

Sigrid is our Guru and sends us encouragement across the Straights of Georgia from time to time. Her group in Vancouver is so successful that it has now grown to more than 300 members. I recently asked her what she would do if all 300 showed up at once. "Head for the hills," she told me.

Sketching is a meditation, a mind clearing, a "NOW" activity. And to be around others who just like to draw is very refreshing. Here you see artists in their raw state, at the beginning of their art. Most artists are introverts and work very easily on their own. Then, there are individuals who will hesitantly join groups like ours and enjoy being in the company of like-minded people. It's about being a part of something bigger than yourself that recognizes you. It's about getting up, getting out, leaving your egos at the door and doing.

As Woody Allen said, "Eighty percent of success is in just showing up."


QUOTES:

"Just Do It" - Nike

"Every artist was first an amateur."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Make art into a regular part of your everyday life."
- Danny Gregory


Island Sketching: http://www.meetup.com/IslandSketching/
My sketches: http://brrhart.blogspot.ca/

Urban Sketchers: http://www.urbansketchers.org
Seattle Sketcher: http://blogs.seattletimes.com/seattlesketcher/

Vancouver Urban Sketchers: http://www.meetup.com/Vancouver-Urban-Sketchers
Sigrid's personal website: http://www.urbansketcher.ca/

Santiago El Grande

One moment I was walking into a small unassuming art gallery, the next I was startled and surprised to be confronted by an awe inspiring, artistic, emotional volcano.

I was on a working assignment in the provincial capital city of Fredericton, New Brunswick, and had a couple of hours to myself. I decided to go for a walk and immediately found the Beaverbrook Art Gallery next door to the hotel. It is a quiet, low-lying structure, in no way artistic in it's design. But, to my mind, any art gallery is worth a look. I opened the door and wandered in.

Salvador Dali - Santiago El Grande of 1957.

There it stood before me. Seducing me. This magical gigantic oil painting filling a large wall. But this is no ordinary painting. This is a true masterpiece:  Santiago El Grande by Salvador Dali.

Never before had I been stopped in my track so dramatically by such an overwhelming feeling given to me by a painting. An almost 15ft tall canvas.

In the painting, Dali pays tribute to Santiago El Grande or Saint James the Great, the Patron Saint of Spain. James is riding a gigantic life-like, white horse rearing up out of the sea surrounded by a huge dome-like structure. Hanging over James is Jesus Christ on the cross ascending into heaven, while angels are depicted flying around the horse's head. Gala, Dali's wife, stands as a cloaked figure in the bottom right corner. The vivid colours of blues, whites and warm skin tones are dramatic.

Salvador Dali was a classical artist with a major twist of surrealism. He was quirky and funny. He was astonishingly finely detailed and wild at heart. Each of his creations is totally original and it is a wonderful fascination for those who suddenly discover another Dali to explore. Dali is just as new and vibrant today as he has ever been. He fills the void of a population yearning for something new, something more. And he fills it with each fresh glance at his work. This painting fulfills all that Dali was and is: A master of fine art.

It was originally painted for the Spanish Pavilion at the 1958 Brussels World Fair. Then, it was offered to the Church of Spain, only to be refused. Dali then sold it to his friends, Canadian financier Sir James Dunn and Lady Dunn, who eventually donated it to the Beaverbrook Art Gallery.

This is not one of the most well known of Salvador Dali's creations, but of all the Dali compositions that I have seen, and I am a Dali fan, this is the most magnificent and awe inspiring. And, it has been said, "This could be one of the best works of art ever painted."

Do your artistic passions a favour and visit Santiago El Grande at the Beaverbrook Art Gallery. 

Memorial Speech for Mother

Hello, my name is Brian. Pauline is my mother. She always will be.

As a remembrance, I'd like to thank her for some of the things she gave me.

First ...  how to giggle. I have giggled more in my life with my mother than with any other human being. We'd be in "gut-wrenching" stitches over some of the most trivial things. I remember at one time setting up a camera to take our picture together. The camera was in place and the timer was set to trigger the shutter. The picture was going to be perfect. I was to run in and take my place beside her, and smile. We were the only ones on the beach and the setting was so picturesque.

I pushed the shutter, then ran to get in the picture before it triggered. As I got beside her, I slipped and bumped her, almost pushing her over. Well ...  all of a sudden she started to giggle. I didn't know why, 

I didn't think anything was funny. Perhaps it was my seriousness she found so funny. Somehow her giggle got to me and we laughed and laughed and we couldn't stop. We were in stitches and it continued long after the picture snapped. Each was spurring the other on, and we must have laughed for fifteen minutes: You know, those giggles you just can't get out of.

She was a very, very funny lady.

She taught me to be silly. Silliness is one of the most wonderfully insane ways of sustaining your sanity.

She sang us songs: Songs like "Three old ladies locked in a lavatory," and "There was an old farmer had an old sow," which she sang in a Devonshire accent. She was born and brought up in Devon, you know.

She taught me many life sustaining things, like the fight to find culture in everything. She introduced me to the arts, the symphony, the opera, painting and the theatre. And we went sailing. We went to museums, art galleries, castles, countrysides and we crossed the ocean. She even sent me on a school trip to Switzerland when she couldn't afford it.

When I was a teenager she sat me down and pointed the finger at me.
"I'm worried about you, what are you going to do with your life?" she said.
I was a dreamer. I wanted to see the world, maybe be a beach bum. I never really wanted to work.
I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know," I said.

She then said one of the most important things a parent can say to a kid.
"What do you like doing?"
I knew this was an important question. I needed to find an important answer. I finally said,

"I kinda like taking pictures."

She helped me to get my first job in photography, which led to a lifetime career as a photographer, a cinematographer and a film maker.

I did travel the world but I never became a beach bum; the work's too hard.

I have been at one with the arts and creativity all my life, thanks to my mother's push and inspiration.

People wanting a tickle might think of entertainers, but Mum could make us laugh, and she tried to entertain us throughout her life. And that smile: Oh that smile that was so infectious.

When she was lying in her hospital bed, very ill after a stroke, and was very slow to respond, I leaned in and whispered to her,
"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
With out a hesitation came the response,
"To get to the other side."

She never lost it.

I have a quote by George Bernard Shaw, who said:

"Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh."

Thank you Mum.
Keep em laughing

Fingal's Cave

From a very young age the music of Felix Mendelssohn's Hebrides Overture (Fingal's Cave) has haunted me, mainly because of my love for the sea. I was born by the sea, lived by the sea and I love the sounds, smells and the sights of the undulating rhythms and the unrestricted wildness of the ocean. Just sitting and watching huge waves crash onto rocks fills me with euphoria: Truly a magnificent part of nature to be unquestionably respected.

Mendelssohn's music can paint a picture of the emotion itself. Within the music, one can hear the rolling ocean, white caps on the waves and breakers crashing onto cliffs and rocks. One also gets a sense of the majesty and grandeur of a great cave filled with strange rocks, like organ pipes pointing to heaven. Composer Johannes Brahams said of the music, "I would sacrifice all my works to have been able to compose an overture like it."

Many years ago, when planning a trip to Scotland, I was excited by the idea of taking a trip to the site of Mendelssohn's inspiration for the Fingal's Cave Overture.

The cave is situated on the small island of Staffa, near Mull in the Western Isles of Scotland. The name commemorates the third century Irish hero Fionn MacCoul who had his headquarters on Staffa and supposedly defended the Hebrides against pirate attacks.

My traveling companion hadn't visited Britain before, and Scotland was her introduction. Happily, she also loved Mendelssohn's music, for the Western Isles in rough weather can be quite a miserable experience. One needs a purpose to be there.

The ferry to the island of Mull departed Oban in the West Highlands at 8.00am. Loaded with mail, fresh supplies, locals going home and visitors like ourselves on the last guided "Three Island Trip" of the season to Mull, Iona and Staffa.

As the ferry boat motored out of Oban Harbour in the cool morning mist, the sea breeze and salt air was fresh on our faces. Out past the breakwater and the ever-flashing lighthouse we steamed, the strange sight of a Parthenon (McCraig's Tower) looking down on us from high on the hill over Oban, sitting like a crown on the head of an ancient Scottish King.

After a 45-minute crossing to the Island of Mull, the ship's bow broke the calm waters of the Firth of Lorn, an inlet off the fierce North Atlantic ocean. The weather was fine, but the forecast was not.

From high a rocky outcrop and dominating the barren landscape, Duart Castle kept guard on the approach to Mull as we sailed through the misty rain. Many battles were fought here, as with all the castles in Scotland. This day the cannons were silent.

As we landed at Craignure, a strange mixture of Scottish and Scandinavian accents filled the air as we waited for our bus for the drive over the moors to the far western shore of Mull. A retired group of blond and white-haired Swedes were here; not to rape, pillage and settle these shores, as their ancestors the Vikings had done. Today, I presumed, they were here as music lovers.

The bus bumped and weaved across the cold, wet, barren moors picking up the odd resident or two and dropping them off a couple miles later, then picking up some more.

The steady rain blended with the scenery and a raw atmosphere of foreboding clawed the mountain tops. This was definitely the place where ghost stories originate, where large crags protrude from massive bald highlands that tower high into the enveloping low clouds. My imagination could see visions of Highlanders charging through the valleys dressed in their kilts, waving sabers to ward off the encroaching enemy.

At Fionnphort, we jumped aboard the M.V. Laird of Staffa for our nautical journey out to Fingal's Cave. Putt...putt...putt. It was an older motor boat struggling under the helm of a young, but experienced Captain navigating the protected passage between the islands of Mull and Iona. To our left lay the famous Iona burial ground of 65 Kings of Scotland and Norway, including William Shakespeare's characters, Macbeth and Duncan.

The ocean was noticeably rougher out past the shelter of the islands as the tiny vessel heaved as graceful as a horse in slow motion. It was full of tourists, about twenty five, including the group from Sweden and a couple of young men who were seated at the stern. They, too, must have been music lovers because I heard one turn to the other and say, "I wonder if they'll play the tune when we get there?"

The rain held, but not for long. Staffa was a 45-minute journey, and we rode up and down and over the sea like a cork. In the distance we could barely make out the dark shape of the island. It got colder and more blustery and the sea's swells were getting larger; the wind strengthened and the rain returned.

Somehow the music was there with me. I knew the piece so well. Of course Mendelssohn had been inspired by the same kind of weather. You could hear it in the music, and it kept playing over and over again in my head. Then the cave loomed ahead and I could see the waves building up from the west and heading for the Island to crash onto the rocks as breakers. 

The Captain's voice came over the small speaker telling us that it would be too dangerous to land everyone at the cave today; the seas were rough and people could be swept away by rogue waves. He had thought of landing at an other part of the island, but decided not to as the weather was getting worse; the tide was rising and the sea was getting rougher. This was the scene that the music portrayed so perfectly.

There it was looming over us, the open mouth of a large, cavernous shape carved by earth's upheaval and centuries of heavy pounding by the Atlantic Ocean. The island of Staffa is made of basaltic columns caused by the steady cooling of lava as it came into contact with the cold bedrock. As we studied nature's rugged work, we were being bounced. The waves would roll under the boat, lifting us high, then continue and break on the nearby rock columns with an energy of magnificent proportions.

(Fingal's Cave, Island of Staffa  by Thomas Moran)

The Gaelic name for the cave is An Uamh Binn, "The Melodious Cave:" Particularly appropriate on hearing the thunderous sounds emanating from the cave's mouth, as the water hit the inside walls.

Mendelssohn's music described this agitated place perfectly. In fact, when the twenty-year-old composer visited the cave in 1829, he became quite sea sick. Not a healthy experience, but one to make a lasting impression.

Our Captain decided for the safety of everyone, to turn the boat around and head back to the sheltered passageway between Mull and Iona.

Now we were heading into the wind; the spray was worse than a heavy rain storm, as the small boat rode the large waves. All were huddled in the bottom of the boat. Many were sick and all were quiet as the journey back took twice as long as the passage out.

I kept looking behind at the cave and the lonely island. "The Lonely Island" was Mendelssohn's first title for his music, but what caught my eye were the two young men sitting at the stern of the boat, getting the full force of the wind and salt water in their faces. They were reveling in the experience.

My companion and I felt a little sick and were soaked to the skin, but this was truly living the experience. Now, every time I listen to Mendelssohn's overture, I re-live the thrilling experience. A moment I'll never forgotten.

Art is the great connector. We, as individuals, are moved by the creative spirit. Creativity is something we are all born with and it makes us find life in a most profound way. Whether we inspire others through something we have created; art, music, painting, theatre, or one of the other great mediums, or we are inspired by someone else's creation, art gives us a new way of looking at life. In art and creativity we find the experience of being alive.

Edited parts of this essay were originally published in The Toronto Star travel section - 1987



QUOTES:
"In order to make you understand how extraordinarily The Hebrides affected me, I send you the following, which came into my head there."
- Felix Mendelssohn

(From a 1829 letter to his sister Fanny, in which he included a musical sketch of the opening notes of The Hebrides)


"Many composers, before and since, have used music to depict the physical world, but in Fingal's Cave, Mendelssohn set an example that has never been equaled."
- Geoff Kuenning

"Though everything else may appear shallow and repulsive, even the smallest task in music is so absorbing, and carries us so far away from town, country, earth, and all worldly things, that it is truly a blessed gift of God."
- Felix Mendelssohn

"Without music life would be a mistake."
- Friedrich Nietzsche

"Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life."
- Ludwig van Beethoven




This is my favorite rendition of this wonderful piece of music.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcogD-hHEYs


"Moods of the Sea" -1941
A cinematic tone poem of seascape set to the music of Mendelsshon's Hebrides Overture 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlbAoGSslAQ


Three Island Tour: Mull, Iona, Staffa
http://www.staffatours.com/