Outside The Walls

Humanscapes
Outside The Walls
69
Humanscapes
70
Anecdote (Nicaragua)
I
n March of 1982 I was becoming disenchanted with
the neatness of my life. It was too comfortable and
needed to be closer to the barricades. Since I was
not given to self-indulgent holidays, I was looking for
someplace I could make a contribution or make my
life count. Age and experience can often be a handi­
cap. You immediately start thinking of the problems
first and then never get out of your chair.
The minute Nicaragua crossed my mind I took
up the phone and called Pastor Valle Garay, the
Consul whom I had known through
the Trojan Horse, a Latin/Greek
nightspot in Toronto, and through
the Companeros, a compatriot
band who performed there. He
suggested it wasn’t the best time
to go there, so soon after the
revolution. That made me more
determined. Suddenly I found
myself rushing around getting a
visa and a letter of introduction
to Ernesto Cardinal, Minister of
Culture, and to the Deputy Minister
of Defense for the northern region.
Plan ahead!
The minute I’m on board the plane
I begin to question my sanity, but
I also remember never regretting
similar acts of insanity or feelings
of social responsibility. We changed
planes in Miami, where I met a Canadian businessman,
Bill Parrel, who was returning to Managua where he
lived. We sat together and he gave me his card on
parting and said to call if he could help. I proceeded
to get my luggage and dis­covered it had not been
put on the plane! My worldly possessions, including
travelers cheques, were in that bag. I was told to
call the next day. Later I learned that many Contras
(anit-Sandinistas) worked at the airport and tried to
obstruct travelers.
Humanscapes
It was late evening. I got a cab into Managua and
stopped at a hotel. Checking the rates it was easy to
see there was no way I could afford it with the cash
in my pocket. This was getting serious: no money,
no Spanish, no belongings. Suddenly I thought of
Bill Parrel’s card in my pocket. Luckily he was home
when I called, and when I explained my problem he
invited me to join him and his wife for dinner at a
restaurant. It took an hour to flag a cab by which
time it was dark. An hour and a half later I arrived at
the restaurant to find it closed. But I heard my name
being called, and saw Bill Parrel and his wife across
the street. He bought dinner and invited me to stay
at their house until I got my luggage. He was in the
import/export business, had a car, and his wife was
71
from a wealthy family who were anti-Sandinista. She
spoke no English. I finally spent a day getting my
bag from a huge warehouse. Suddenly I had money,
so I took the Parrels to dinner to reciprocate their
kindness.
Bill made a call to the Ministry of Something on my
behalf and, after another day, I was sitting across
the official’s desk. He was not enthusiastic about my
request—as if they didn’t have enough problems!
However, he said he would have someone call me
about getting where I wanted to go. Nothing. Two
days later I phoned his office and was told by the
secretary that she had called and left a mes­sage for
me with Bill’s wife. I never got the message. She
was anti-Sandinista.
I moved into a small
hotel nearby. The
desk boy, Antonio,
spoke English and
enjoyed making calls
for me. He said he had
lived in Florida, had
a pilot’s license, and
was pro-American.
I asked him why he
didn’t move there. He
said it was because
he loved this fuckin’
country. He was a
real Chauvinist pig.
Humanscapes
72
Humanscapes
After several calls to Ernesto Cardinal’s office it
turned out he was in Germany. A young Australian
pho­tographer there suggested I move to Hotel Casa
Fiedler. It was like a bus terminal for young friends
of the Sandinistas from around the world.
I was finally directed to the Ministry of Culture
where I met Rosario Murillo, who lived with and
later married President Ortego. She as stunningly
beautiful, intelligent, and spoke perfect English. I
tried to persuade her to have Nicaragua join Arts for
Peace in Canada and make it international. There
was never enough time!
73
She introduced me to a young guy who was a
manager in the Ministry of Culture. When I explained
the difficulty I was having getting transportation
up north to make some drawings he said he could
arrange it in two days. My time there had run out. I
had to catch a plane home.
Among the highlights of these trips are the people
you meet. There were hundreds of Yanks there who
opposed U.S. intervention, like Steve McMillan, who
hated Ronald Regan with a passion. We hung out
together and laughed a lot. He spoke Spanish and
did film work and knew his way around. His favourite
cabbie, “William”, drove us ninety miles north
to visit a town that had been heavily strafed by
Batista’s airforce as an act of vengeance. We
visited a sewing co-op run by ex-prostitutes. The
government paid for their supplies and helped
market their goods to provide employment. While
I was drawing them, Steve was teaching them
English: “We are strong, independent women.”
Then I overheard one say, “How you say “fuckie”
in English?”
Steve and I exchanged letters later. He wanted
me to have an exhibit in his home town of New
Haven. He sent me some Nicaraguan publications
with encouraging comments, which I kept. Later
I heard from a mutual friend that Steve had
committed suicide with a gun. His father wrote
to me and came to visit in Toronto. Steve had
had a bad marriage and clearly had suffered, but
was a really good guy, and a real friend.
Humanscapes
74
CBC Interview
W
hen I got back from Nicaragua, a
producer at CBC Radio heard of
my trip and decided to do an interview
with me. Having been through this sort
of thing before, where the interviewer
con­trols the conversation, I did some
homework to decide what points to
get across.
First question: What were
impressions of Nicaragua, Bill?
your
Answer: The first impression I had
was of the large number of Americans
who lived there, and of visitors from
around the world who marched in front
of the U.S. Embassy once a week at
Sam to protest American intervention
there. Next was the story of Nancy
Donovan, an American nun who had
been captured by the Contras in the
north and forced to bury victims they
had tortured to death. When asked
if she had a message for President
Regan she said, “You can tell him
these Contras he is supporting are murderers and second delay before it is aired; he decided it was too
assassins and he will have to ask forgiveness from anti-American. Besides, he was close to retirement
God.”
and didn’t want to risk any flak.
The interviewer apologized profusely but it is not
Next question: When is your next show, Bill?
likely the public would be aware of what had hap­
The producer who had been monitoring the interview
pened in the interview. Although it was insulting I
signaled the interviewer to cut it. There is a ten
felt good about having got across a few points.
Humanscapes
75
Toronto’s Regent Park
I
first heard of the Centre
for Creative Opportunity
through Lynn Connel who
helped me while writing “People
in Struggle.” Her daughter,
Sienna, was full-time director of
this activity in Canada’s largest
public housing project. I was
invited to do some workshops
there, which prompted me to
get involved with the children’s
after school program.
During this period the CBC
did a twenty-two minute
documentary at my studio
called “The Art of Protest,”
so they decided to shoot
some footage at Regent Park
during a portrait drawing
demonstration.
It was an excellent production
of adults and children working
with a model. The video was
shown peri­odically on CBC
Arts and Entertainment Sunday program for over
a year. On discovering it I inquired about using it
for educational purposes. After paying $300 for
music royalties they provided half a dozen copies,
which were offered to schools, libraries, and art
classes. A forty-five minute video was also done
of a demonstration I did at the Eastern School of
Commerce by the teacher and students, which is
still in use.
The sketches I did of kids at Regent Park were signed
“Stapleton” so whenever I was leaving they would
say “Goodbye Stapleton!”
Humanscapes
76
Once a shy little girl
about five who was
always outside the
circle looking in
while clutching
her doll for
security quietly
asked if I would
draw her pic­
ture. I said if
you can sit still
for two minutes I’ll
draw your picture.
When it was done
she disappeared and
returned in fifteen
minutes with two
beautiful little
velvet cushions
she’d made and
presented to me. I
have them hanging
on my easel.
I feel fortunate to have been involved with the
centre. Their brochure has one of my sketches
showing “the rules” composed by the children and
a note from “Venerable Cabbagetown Artist” Bill
Stapleton.
After some ten years attending the Centre in the
capacity of artist, (adversary), board mem­ber and
fundraiser, I still experience feelings of humility
and compassion for the many children and adults
I’ve had the privilege to meet. I also feel anger that
it is treated as a charitable organiza­tion. What is
offered at the Centre should be guaranteed every
human being and backed by govern­ments from
every level. It is a human right.
Humanscapes
77
Humanscapes
78
Humanscapes
79
Waiting for Jesus
I
n 1984 I visited the Guatemalan Refugee camps.
The country had the worst human rights record in
South America. It was described as a business where
90% of the land was controlled by 10% of the rich
landowners, while United Fruit and American mining
corporations wanted to extend their con­trol. Under
Regan, Guatemalan troops were being trained at the
American School in terror tactics, such as butchering
adults and children whose bodies are thrown in
streams to terrorize those peasant
fami­lies downstream.
One hundred thousand refugees
occupied ninety camps along the
border with Mexico - many in jungle
areas. Archbishop Romero, with
whom I spent an hour, told me of
families fleeing through the jungle
at night to avoid being strafed by
U.S. owned helicopters. The Mexican
government and refugee organiza­
tions provided help.
Accompanied by friends Don and
Cathy Fraser, I arrived in San
Crystobel to network a trip to the
camps. A young American was shot
by the troops when we wandered
across the border.
I was told about Luci Moran, a
Belgian nun in sneakers and jeans
who headed the CARGUA Committee
to aid refugees. We needed her help to gain access
to the camps. By way of testing our intentions she
enlisted our help as artists in making VD posters for
the camp.
That night when I returned to my flea-ridden hotel,
there was a note from Luci. “Jesus will pick you up
at 10 in the am.” I went to sleep thinking here I am
waiting for Jesus.
Humanscapes
After an hour and a half drive on a rough road we
arrived at the first camp, occupied by about 200
refugees living in plywood and thatched huts. When
it rained their mud floors were flooded. In the first hut
we were met by Maria, her husband and two small
children. She was a women of tremendous grace
and dignity with a warm smile. I made drawings,
both of which I still have. Upon leaving she provided
us with a plastic bag of fruit. The children pointed at
it on the table so we wouldn’t forget. The remainder
of the day was spent drawing parents and children.
I tossed kids in the air, doing summersaults until my
arms gave out.
Before leaving I played a few tunes on my mouth
organ to entertain some children. Suddenly, at the
sound of music, 200 refugees came running to listen.
I desperately tried to think of some Latin tunes,
but only Canadian folk came out. Overcome by my
limitations I had to stop. We waved goodbye and
left. I wanted to cry.
Luci and I corresponded for a year afterward.
She was an inspiration. A benefit show in
Toronto raised $2000.00. A painting
I did, which was based on
events described to me
when I was down there,
I called “Massacre of
the Myans.” It was
banned by the Toronto
Morality Squad. It was
called obscene!
80
The following year I went back to Nicaragua where
I met Luci again. She was showing people how to
plant soy beans. Now that I am 85, my stamina
for drawing is limited, so I am always waiting for
Jesus.
Humanscapes
81
Sheshatshit
skimming the treetops, shattering the peace of their
land, frightening children and animals.
n 1989 I attended a meeting at the Quaker Meeting The Mulroney government had described the land
House on Lowther Avenue in Toronto. Three Innu as “unoccupied” to NATO allies - British, French,
women were there to appeal for help against the low- German, U.S., and Canada — who were financing the
level flying from the Goose Bay air base 40 miles from exercises. A film of Sheshatshit revealed the pover­
their village, Sheshatshit. It was packed. Dressed ty of the village of some 800 run-down dwellings, no
in their traditional clothing, one of them, Elizabeth paved roads or sewage system, schools, or library,
Penashuit, spoke in faltering English. The other or street lights - a picture of desolation. Many people
two women stood silently with tears in their eyes. in the audience were crying, including me - tears of
She described the devastating effect of warplanes anger. My decision to go there was automatic.
I
Humanscapes
82
Humanscapes
83
Networking provided the name of Bob Bartel, a
Mennonite minister who lived there. He checked
me out, and when I explained that my reason for
going was to raise money for their defense fund, he
agreed to meet me at the Goose Bay airport. Upon
arrival I was approached by a short man who saw
my painting equipment. “Are you Bill?” I said, “Yeah,
how’d you know?” He said, “Well, you look kind of
lost.” He drove me 40 miles to the village where he’d
arranged for me to stay with Mary May Osmand, her
hus­band, originally from Newfoundland, and three
kids. They had a nice house, which they had built
them­selves.
The first night I was talking about our country,
meaning Canada. Mary corrected me. „Well, this
isn’t Canada; we’re a separate country.” The Innu
had never deeded their land to the white man.
Humanscapes
They see it as still belonging to them. I jested, “You
mean I need a visa to come here?” She replied, “No,
our friends are welcome; you can stay.” I stayed
eight days and never stopped working. Native people
have a cer­tain quiet dignity - not pushy or forward.
The Innu have almost lost track of their own culture.
It has never been recorded.
Greg Penashue, a musician, played me a tape of his
music group. They sounded like a rock group. He
84
translated the words: “When I’m in the city I feel
weak and powerless. When I’m in the country I feel
strong and free.” I tried to persuade him to take up
the sound of the drumbeat, which was their original
music, and build their sound around it. But white
influence was there to stay.
The roar of the test planes was devastating the
hunting and their way of life. The mothers were
angry to see their daughters attracted to Goose Bay
as prostitutes and their
sons to the alcohol. In
frustration, the women
organized the first “sit-in”
on the airfield. They got
to it by scaling the fence.
Two hundred protesters
were
imprisoned,
including Jim Roach, a
young priest who lived
there with them. They
contin­ued their sit-ins.
Mary and Michael Pasteen
were their elders and
lived in a tent 3 miles
“out of town.” When
Michael
explained
I
wanted to paint her, she
refused. Then he made it
clear that it was to raise
money for their defense
fund. She agreed to
sit. It is one of my best
paintings
Humanscapes
85
Bancroft
W
hen Emma Taylor, my granddaughter, was 6
she lived with her family in the country near
Bancroft, Ontario. Periodically her mother Lynn
would take her to Toronto to shop and visit. On one
occasion she brought Emma’s friend Angie who was
eight. She had been raised there in the country and
had never seen a city. On the way Lynn stopped at a
craft shop in Yorkville leaving the two girls in the car.
Two motorcycle hoods held up the store next door.
There were gunshots and the police arrived. It was
like a movie. Next down to my place where paintings
and drawings cover the walls. Angie had never seen
drawings of nudes. To her they were ‘bare naked
women’.
“Does your Grandpa do these?” she inquired.
Lynn tried to explain how artists have to learn to
draw anatomy and draw models without clothes.
Angie said, “You mean they just stand there and let
him do it?” The following day after they returned
home, Angie’s older brother visited Lynn. “Next time
you go to Toronto Lynn, would you take me?”
Humanscapes
86
Anecdote (San Miguel)
J
ulian McGee, a nephew of E.P. Taylor, told me this
story of his two uncles. Fredrich, brother of the I
Canadian tycoon E.P., was a well-known artist and
member of the Communist Party in Montreal. I One
of his paintings is featured on the cover of Michael
Ondaatje’s book In the Skin of a Lion. Fredrich once
visited E.P. at his estate
on Bayview Avenue in
Toronto. E.P. had proudly
showed
Fredrich
over
his vast estate and his
thoroughbred horses and
cattle. They wound up in
a stable where Fredrich
leaned down to play with
a litter of kittens. E.P.
inquired, “Well, what do you
think of it all Freddy?” Still
playing with the kittens,
Freddy replied, “Nice little
kittens you have Eddy.”
The next time I came
across Fredrich Taylor was
in San Miguel, Mexico,
about 1969. We had mutual
friends such as Barker
Fairley and his son Tom.
I was with Don and Cathy
Frazer at the time.
One day I dropped in on Fredrich and his charming
wife. We had many things in common both political­
ly and artistically to talk about. Upon mentioning
what impressive characters the local police were,
Fred said I would be wise to avoid them.
Humanscapes
The next night, Don and I passed the police
headquarters in the town square. One was leaning
against the wall under a lamp with his gun beside him;
another squatted on the floor with a cape. It was like
a page from Daumier. We kept walking then squatted
against a wall. We couldn’t resist a few fast sketch­
es. A peasant sitting near us went over and spoke
to the gendarme. He approached us and reached for
my sketchbook. I was waiting for his appraisal, but
instead he tore out the sketches, and then did the
same to Don, including the cover of his book.
I was overcome with fury, enough to kill him. But he
was armed, a whistle from headquarters. We were
5000 miles from home and didn’t speak the language
and obviously had broken some unwritten law. A
crowd gathered and a Mexican businessman tried to
explain we were artists from Canada and he was an
ignorant peasant with a gun.
I was so mad I didn’t sleep that night. First thing in
the morning I told the manager of the hotel attached
to the Art Institute what had hap­pened. He asked
if we would go to see the mayor with him. I said I
would go to see the President. At the meeting with
the mayor, who spoke no English, he began lecturing
us that drawing policemen was like invading g their
souls. Listening to this crock made me madder so I
argued that the police were public prop­erty like the
statues in the park. In Canada we can draw our police
and military — in England visitors from around the
world photograph the guards at Buckingham Palace.
Why can’t we draw your police as visi­tors to your
town?
87
The mayor picked up the phone and the hotel
manager said he was talking to the police chief about
lec­turing the police force on how to treat visitors.
The hotel manager thanked us profusely for telling
him what happened. The previous year the American
Psychiatrists Association had had a convention there.
Some of them looked like “hippies” with long hair
and beards. The police took a group into the jail and
cut their hair, including the eight-year-old son of one
of New York’s leading shrinks. When the news hit
the fan it blew all over America. San Miguel never
recovered. That is why the hotel manager was so
grateful for hearing our story.
A foreigner can
live in
Mexico
for
years
but if he
offends
some official,
for any reason,
he can be shipped
out of the country
on 48 hours notice!
Humanscapes
88
Humanscapes
89
April 28, 1995
A
recent invitation to have an art exhibit in Cuba
led to my attending a meeting of the Canada
Cuba Friendship Society, held at the Board of
Education offices in Toronto. Lisa Marachuc, one
of their members who had helped me select the
art to be shipped, mentioned that she had heard
about the Spanish Civil War from veterans like Paul
Shup, current chairman of their
dwindling group. Some years
ago I had done a painting of the
Mac Paps called Los Canadiennes
(6’ x 4’). Paul had kept it in his
apartment and trotted it out
for public meetings. When he
recently moved to Havana, the
packers crat­ed the painting in
error and shipped it with his
furniture. He hung it in his office
and got so many com­pliments
and comments that he decided
I should have a show there and
meet some Cuban artists.
He came back to Toronto a few
weeks ago and came to visit
me and look over some of my
artwork. I told Paul about my trip
to Spain in 1989 to attend the
soth anniversary of the Spanish
Civil War. Ross Russell, who was
chairman of the eastern division
of the Mac Paps, and I traveled together. He told me
about the last time they visited Madrid—the Canadian
Embassy had had a big party for them. I said, “Well,
how about calling the Canadian Ambassador and
arranging another party?” He phoned, and the next
day, we all attended a “party” at the Embassy and
met the Ambassador. A tallish guy in a business suit
Humanscapes
approached me and introduced himself as the Military
Attache. He started suggesting to me that he knew
all about the war and that we were all communists
who took our orders from Moscow. He wanted my
card with my name and address. I had difficulty
keeping my “cool” and explained that I wasn’t in that
war and referred him to Ross Russell. Ross gave him
the true facts and didn’t lose his “cool”. We were
ushered into another room for cocktails. I saw the
Military Attache approach Joe, a frail litt Pap from
Winnipeg, and accuse him of b communist. Short,
tough Joe Glen over­heard it and pushed his face up
to his saying, “RCMP... I can smell you a mile away!”
The guy took off.
On the way back to our hotel I was getting really
mad and told Ross he must report this outrage to
the Ambassador and insist on an apol­ogy for this
insulting treatment. We were on the move and I
don’t recall if there was a reply. Every embassy has
a “Military Attache!”
While in Madrid there was a large reception and the
guest of honour was Dolores Iburarri, known there
as “La Passionaria.” During the war she was a leader
of the Spanish Communist Party. Her impassioned
speeches encouraging the Loyalists became world
renown. “No Passeron” (They should not pass) and
“It’s better to die on your feet than live on your
knees” were typical slogans.
Although ninety, this frail stately woman sat at the
head table for an hour signing autographs. Crowded
around her table were TV cameras from around the
world, including the CBC. I had given up hope of
90
doing a sketch of her when suddenly there was an
exit of press and I managed to get a pen and ink
like­ness of her. Her secretary got her to sign the
drawing for me. The Mac Paps reproduced this sketch
and sold copies to raise funds for their book.
One night in the lobby of our hotel, Ross and I
arrived to hear a loud argument ensuing between
two of the Mac Paps. Bill, the big one, had been
an officer and was accusing Joe, the short one, of
being “yel­low.” “You transferred out of the regiment
to Communications so you wouldn’t get shot.” Fifty
years later, the incident was still festering.