I might have stumbled into a horror film.
Double- checking the sign on the door, “ Painting 101- U of S.”
No mention of movie sets.
I gazed at an ocean of tattoos, multiple piercings and assessing eyes, most dressed in head to toe black.
Little house on the prairie ( me) meets Goth. Oh oh.
Dropping the class after first semester, I left the wake of mysterious smoke and frightening classmates, behind.

I didn’t find community at U of S, but I did with Ida who I cleaned for on weekends. A classified ad brought into my life two incredible women who left their footprints on my heart. They encouraged me to pursue art. I did my best to convince them it wasn’t the life for me.

Ida lived thru the war, buried two husbands. She managed to live independently until I met her, at 88, when her sight had begun to fail.
When Ida interviewed me from her hospital room, dressed in a little blue cardigan, her trustee suggested I was to young. ”she’s only 18,”
Ida thought differently. We became friends, an unlikely three some. Ida, Lenore, her 70 year old weekly caregiver, and I.

I noticed the art immediately.
Entering Ida’s apartment, it was hard not to. Her walls were filled with airy landscape water colours, drawings and collages.
Mustering the courage to inquire about them, she answered quietly,” oh, my son did those, he is an artist. He lives in Spain now’.
I was transfixed, not just in the execution of the pieces, but in the variety, the scope of genres and mediums. The stunning beauty.

I asked my Prof about him . “He is famous, word is that his Mother still lives here, but no one knows for sure”.

Ida gave me the honour reading Stephen’s letters aloud over tea. Stories steeped in colour, typed on tissue thin paper carrying the scent of faraway places.
I wrote Ida’s dictated loving replies.
So began my relationship with Stephen Andrews, one of Canada’s most known and reclusive artists.

Ironic, an art student – drop out, in contact with an Artist my Professor had only read about, who’s work hangs in the National gallery of Canada and the Smithsonian.

Stephen Andrews National Gallery of Canada

When Ida passed, I wrote Stephen stories of her, how I would miss my close friend. I received a grateful reply. He too, had heard stories of me, ‘his Mother’s youngest dear friend.’
We corresponded for years. He sent photos of his mountain studio, garden and himself. We met in person on his return to Saskatoon, delivering a painting to the hospital who cared for his Mom.

He was so reclusive, at a Vancouver show, an imposter introduced himself as Stephen. No one, including the gallery owner had ever met him. I signed the guest book from the owner’s private office, writing “I thought you would be here. Sorry I missed you.”
He called later from Spain to apologize, he never attended openings, and wondered what was the gallery like?

I was planning to visit him in Spain when he became ill. We stayed in touch until he passed in 1995. I cherish his gift, an autographed book, published on his 70th birthday. I finger the tissue thin paper of his typed letters, imagining the scent of a far away mountain studio.
He told me pursing art could be a good life, it had been for him. His latest work, collages of parchment & stamps came from a secret wish to be a garbage man.”It gives me pleasure,” he said,” to give value to that which has no value”.

I have never taken another art class since that year at U of S, but I am blessed to know great mentors. I have been moved by the likes of Stephen Andrews, Mina Forsyth, Robert Genn, Julia Hargreaves, Al Pace, Gary & Joanie McGuffin.
Diverse, their work, awe inspiring as the role models they are. What makes the great artists great?
If you ask me, they share these traits: passion, work ethic, humour, ego-less confidence, and purpose beyond self.

Art can be a good life. I hope somehow, somewhere, Ida, Lenore and Stephen know I live the good life, partly in thanks, to them.