The 60's Art scene

The Vibrant Art Scene of the 60s: A Personal Journey
Embarking on this narrative is both exhilarating and challenging—a delightful puzzle of memories that swirl together like paint on a canvas. Instead of adhering strictly to timelines, let me invite you into the vivid chapters of my artistic journey, a tale woven through the colorful threads of venues and the unforgettable characters I encountered.

Chapter One: The Awakening of an Artist

From a young age, I felt the heartbeat of creativity pulse within me, yet it took a while to truly grasp what it meant to be an artist. After my time in the Navy, I dove headfirst into the world of silkscreen printing, crafting intricate, twelve-color decals for pottery. When the business relocated to Creemore, I set my sights on Toronto, where I immersed myself in the vibrant atmosphere of the Yorkville folk scene, often finding solace at the Village Corner. It was here that a school friend, Muriel Frisque, introduced me to a treasure trove of artistic camaraderie.

Through Muriel, I met John Smith, a folk singer from Nova Scotia who boldly claimed the title of Toronto's "dirtiest folksinger." His performances at the Village Corner were legendary, drawing crowds eager to sing along to the tunes I had cherished on Oscar Brand records. That connection opened the door to a whirlwind of unforgettable encounters with artists like the 'Dirty Shames'—Chick Roberts, Jim McCarthy, Carole Robinson, and the incomparable Amos Garrett.

One night, at a gathering with the Dirty Shames, I returned home for a bottle of booze, only to find a friend of Carole's who had just come from New York. As she sang "Girl From the North Country," her voice wrapped around us like a warm embrace, leaving us utterly captivated.

Chapter Two: The Mariposa Folk Festival

My journey led me to the Gate of Cleve, where I became entwined with the creative genius Ken Danby, who was designing the Mariposa Folk Festival poster. This vibrant network introduced me to Ed Cowan and his brother Wally, and soon I found myself as the Assistant Food Manager at the 1963 Mariposa Festival in Orillia.

As Wally and I scrambled to set up food booths, I found myself sharing a motel room with a guy who was the epitome of cool. Chip Monck, a lighting expert from New York, had a hippie spirit and round blue sunglasses that perfectly matched his laid-back vibe. But on the eve of the festival, Chip appeared crushed—he had broken his most critical light, and without it, his business would suffer. After a heartfelt conversation, we bought the replacement together, charging it to the festival. Little did I know that I was helping one of the key figures behind the legendary Woodstock Festival.

With support from sponsors like Canada Dry, who generously treated us to dinners and drinks, the festival buzzed with energy. I even organized a van full of frozen pizzas and hotdogs, working alongside carpenters to keep everything running smoothly. However, amidst the excitement, I had a minor mishap—a collision with the TR3 of none other than lord Athol Layton, the wrestler. It took him five long years to track me down for insurance!

As the festival unfolded, I reveled in the chaos, often collapsing into the back of the van, where I found a delightful girlfriend to share my adventures. The only hiccup? The bakery’s delivery of fresh rolls at 4 a.m. was a rude awakening!

I can still hear the mayor of Orillia’s comical introduction: "Last year, I said the Town is Yours. This year, we would like it back!" The cash flowed in from our food booths so rapidly that my trusty Volkswagen bug became our makeshift vault, its back filled with cash under a blanket, while Wally and I wielded the keys like secret keepers.

One memorable day, I wandered into the festival office to grab some change, only to stumble upon Irving, the accountant, counting stacks of cash. Startled, he pulled a gun—only to sheepishly apologize when he recognized me.

As the festival came to a close, I helped with the cleanup and received half of my pay, with promises of a check for the rest. After a few weeks of waiting, I sought out Jack Wall at the Fifth Peg, who, in a twist of fate, offered me a week of free dinners and shows. That week turned into a delightful dining experience alongside the legendary John Lee Hooker—yet, as it turned out, Jack was less than honest, failing to pay most performers and vendors, leaving a trail of disappointment in his wake.

As I delve deeper into my kaleidoscopic journey through the electric 60s art scene, I can't help but marvel at the vibrant tapestry of experiences, friendships, and unforgettable moments that have sculpted my identity as an artist. Each chapter I recount feels like a vivid brushstroke in the grand masterpiece of my life, bursting with color, chaos, and the unmistakable spirit of an era that danced to its own wild rhythm.
My adventure took an unexpected turn when I returned to Uxbridge and found myself entwined with the Goodwood Go-Kart Track, owned by my high school pals, Bill Bell and my lifelong companion, Gary Hodgkins. Times were tough for them, caught in a financial bind, but they conjured a brilliant idea—a colossal go-kart weekend extravaganza infused with the soul of a hootenanny, complete with a tent city reminiscent of Mariposa.

The plot thickened when Bill’s uncle, a would-be bootlegger, met an unfortunate fate—after lighting up a cigarette, he crashed his van, loaded with thousands of dollars in booze, into a telephone pole. He ended up in the hospital, and in a twist of fate, I suddenly found myself stepping into the role of the bootlegger. With a massive tent pitched amid the bustling tent city, I transformed stacked beer cases into makeshift beds, draping them with blankets. My trusty Volkswagen Beetle became a clandestine treasure trove, concealing pints of whiskey tucked under seats and stashed in every nook and cranny.

The weekend kicked off with a Friday night dance featuring Jay and the Majestics, where I promptly slipped Eugene Smith (Jay) a mickey of whiskey to lift his spirits. The crescendo of the festivities reached its peak on Saturday night at the hootenanny at Island Lake, where John Smith and an eclectic crew belted out tunes around a roaring bonfire. I parked my van at the heart of the action, just a stone's throw from the haywagon stage, conducting my little trade in the midst of the revelry.

But just as the night seemed to reach its zenith, the sirens wailed, and chaos erupted. Police descended from all directions, raiding the venue like a scene from a movie. Heart racing, I locked my car and made a beeline for the nearest hill, scaling a tree to evade capture. I perched there, hidden in the shadows, until the crowd dispersed around 3 a.m. When I finally dared to return to my Volkswagen, I found my precious stash untouched. With a sigh of relief, I drove out past an oblivious OPP officer who waved me through the gate as if I were just another harmless soul.

Sunday rolled around, and in a bid to clear my dwindling stock, I slashed prices, only for fate to strike again—another police raid! As officers combed through the maze of a couple of hundred tents, I found myself perched on a hill with Ken Danby, who was nursing a broken leg on crutches. We watched as the police searched every tent but mine, leaving me baffled by my uncanny luck.

Despite the close calls, the business began to dwindle, and soon, my days of selling booze turned into nights of camaraderie with Hodge and Bill, as we indulged in our dwindling supplies. Even six months later, I’d stumble upon forgotten bottles in my car, remnants of those wild days. Ultimately, the track succumbed to bankruptcy, and our escapade came to an end. I caught a final glimpse of John Smith at Webster’s Restaurant, looking worse for wear after his girlfriend had tossed him out, leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back—now donated to the Salvation Army.

And so, the tapestry of my adventures continued to weave itself, a reflection of an era that was as unpredictable as it was unforgettable.
Desperation can lead us to unexpected places, and for me, it was a quaint farm just west of Uxbridge in 1965. I was itching to return to Toronto, so I took a job at the factory where my friend Jack Mackie worked. While waiting for my new gig to kick off, I settled in with Jack and his family, who welcomed me with open arms.
But life on the farm wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Enter Ming—a gargantuan Chinese gander with a personality as fierce as his size. Ming ruled over his flock of geese like a feathered overlord, and woe to anyone who dared to trespass into his territory. Approaching his domain was a game of cat and mouse, where the stakes were high and the only safe haven was a quick dash from the car to the house.

One fateful evening, as the moon bathed the farm in a silvery glow, I was perched on the porch, a cold beer in hand, waiting for Jack to return from his shift. The night was serene, but suddenly, I felt a peculiar brush against my leg. To my astonishment, it was Ming, standing there like a feathered sentinel. Fear flickered through me, but something playful sparked in my mind. With a mischievous grin, I tapped his beak with my beer bottle. To my surprise, he opened his beak, and I poured in a splash of frothy beer.

What began as a moment of folly turned into a delightful bonding experience. We shared that bottle like old friends—one sip for him, two for me—until we parted ways, both feeling a little lighter.

When Jack finally arrived, he burst through the door, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Jesus, that old gander is acting weird tonight! He looks like he’s staggering!” I couldn’t help but chuckle as I recounted our unlikely toast.

From that night on, Ming and I became inseparable pals. Gone were the days of frantic sprinting from his wrath. I strolled through his flock with newfound confidence, even ventured near the nests to gather eggs, and Ming would let me scoop him up without a second thought. Every now and then, we’d share a cold one, two unlikely companions in a world where friendship blossomed in the most unexpected of places.


 A Journey into the Heart of Artistic Rebellion

In a world where metal and machinery ruled, I found myself at the pinnacle of my factory career, proudly wielding the torch as a Stainless Steel Tubing Welder. Yet, despite my hard-earned promotion, my heart yearned for something more vibrant, more expressive. My ambitions to join the Ontario College of Art were dashed by mediocre math grades, but instead of sulking in defeat, I chose a new path: to immerse myself in the spirited realm of artists.

That’s when I stumbled upon ‘The Pilot,’ a legendary haven known as the Mecca for artists—a sanctuary where the illustrious gathered. The place pulsed with creativity, and Barry Hale, the art critic for the Telegram, was a regular fixture there, chronicling the stories of the creative souls who frequented its doors.

However, my factory shifts posed a problem; I could only venture there around noon, a time when the artists were conspicuously absent. I remember my first visit vividly, seated at the bar with a sandwich and a beer, feeling like a fish out of water. Next to me sat a sharply dressed man in a gray flannel suit with a neatly trimmed mustache, sipping a martini. His name was Jack, and he was a genuinely nice guy with a wealth of knowledge about the art world. We struck up a friendly rapport over the weeks, but the artists Barry wrote about remained elusive.

Curiosity got the better of me one day, and I asked Jack if any artists ever hung out there. He chuckled and explained that they usually arrived later in the afternoon, retreating to the mysterious back room. I hadn’t even noticed it before—a cavernous space cloaked in shadows, adorned with a continuous upholstered seat and tables scattered about. One wall was mirrored, while the other bore a bizarre mural, adding to the room’s enigma.

Determined to uncover the artistic magic, I began arriving at 5 PM, and soon I was able to identify familiar faces from the articles—most notably Jerry Santbergen, the featured artist of the time. Then there was Markle, an unlikely guru of sorts, who wore blue jeans, a navy sweatshirt, and rubber boots, yet commanded the room with his brilliance and wit. He held court at The Pilot, claiming his throne in one of the cozy alcoves, and woe betide anyone who dared to occupy his coveted seat.

The 5 o'clock crowd was a tight-knit group, a self-proclaimed ‘In Crowd’ that made newcomers feel like outsiders. I was one of those outsiders, initially ignored and overlooked, but my desire to break into the art scene kept me hovering on the fringes, eavesdropping on conversations filled with lofty terminology that often left me scrambling for a dictionary. Even Santbergen, though more integrated, seemed to navigate the periphery, just like me, having recently arrived from Saskatchewan.

Then came a pivotal night in February 1966. I drifted into The Pilot around ten o'clock, the vibrant crowd long since departed. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I spotted Markle entering with a guest. My heart raced as I recognized the man beside him—Bob Dylan! I was starstruck, too intimidated to approach. I merely exchanged a nod with Dylan, my mind racing as I tried to absorb the moment.

The following day, I returned to The Pilot at 5 PM, eager to hear Markle's recounting of the previous night’s encounter. As he regaled the crowd with tales of his conversation with Dylan, I felt an electric shift in my status. Markle spotted me and beckoned me over, inviting me into the inner circle. “Hey man, you saw me here last night with Bob Dylan, right?” he exclaimed. With that simple question, I was welcomed into the fold.

Soon after, I found myself attending art openings, mingling at parties, and exploring a new lifestyle filled with creativity, camaraderie, and, yes, the occasional indulgence. The factory job, while once my pride, became a source of conflict. I had risen to leadership, even becoming president of our union, but jealousy from a coworker led to sabotage, and I was demoted for a time. This turn of events didn’t deter me; rather, it propelled me toward my true calling.

With spring in the air, I finally made the leap—quitting my factory job and moving into a house on McAlpine near Yorkville, the same street where Markle resided. Somehow, I managed to secure unemployment insurance as an ‘unemployed shepherd,’ and it felt as if my artist’s journey had truly begun. The artists at The Pilot were impressed that I could count Jack Bush as a friend, elevating my status among them and drawing me deeper into the vibrant tapestry of the art world.

And so, my adventure unfolded—an odyssey of creativity, friendship, and the relentless pursuit of artistic expression—one that would forever change the course of my life.

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