Thursday, August 20, 2015

Dream 25 "The Lightkeeper's Daughter" (Arabella Radelmüller, 1815)

At first, everything was calm. She dreamed she was out on the sandy spit of the island with her parents. The lake was still and peaceful; the sky an endless Canadian blue. But then there came a sudden storm. The sky went purplegreen. Black waves crashed across the beach. Thunder shook the air. Her mother swept her up into her arms and rushed toward the safety of the cabin, fighting through the howling winds.

Arabella could see it all over her mother’s shoulder, moments frozen in the brief flashes of lightning: her father racing across the sand toward the darkened lighthouse; a 100-gun ship of the line heaving through the waves, dangerously close to the shoals; her father throwing back the lighthouse door and disappearing inside; a jagged bolt of electricity splitting the sky. The lightning struck the lighthouse in a shower of sparks and a billowing cloud of smoke. When it cleared, the beach sizzled, sand had turned to glass, and the lighthouse was gone. It had vanished.

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Arabella Radelmüller was the daughter of the first lightkeeper of the Gibraltar Point Lighthouse. He was murdered there in 1815; some people say his ghost still haunts it. Today, it's the second oldest lighthouse in Canada and the oldest building in Toronto still standing on the spot where it was built. 

You can read the full story of the lighthouse and Radelmüller's ghost here. Explore more Toronto Dreams Project postcards here.

Monday, August 17, 2015

That Supposed Map of Pre-Contact North America


There's a map making the rounds on Facebook right now, which is being shared as if it's a map of pre-contact North America. You can find it here. But it doesn't show pre-contact North America at all — it's trying to show what the boundaries of the First Nations & Inuit would look like in 2015 if contact had never happened. And it's not even an accurate representation of that alternative history: the borders it uses are borders that were formed, in part, as a result of European contact.

The map above — which is from the 1970 edition of the National Atlas of America (and is hosted online by the University of Texas); you can find a full-size version of here — is a more accurate attempt to show what it looked like before Columbus sailed across the Atlantic, although it bizarrely only shows the land below the (then, of course, non-existent) border between Canada & the United States. And it doesn't give a date.

NPR writes about another attempt here and there's another one here, too — both of which include the territories where Canada is today. But they face challenges too. Some Indigenous people, for instance, were nomadic. And there is no set date for first contact: Indigenous nations encountered Europeans at different times in different ways.

It's also important to remember, I think, that the borders between the First Nations weren't static: they changed over time just like any other borders do — lots after the first Europeans arrived.

The Wendat (Huron) were at Toronto when the first French explorers turned up in the early 1600s; by the 1660s, the Seneca (part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy — which the Europeans called the Iroquois) had villages on the Humber & the Rouge; by the time the British came to found our modern city at the end of the 1700s, the Mississauga were here — which is why we refer to the land where the city of Toronto is today as "the traditional territory of the Mississauga."

You can read more about the complex history of the First Nations in the Toronto area in this post from Suzanne Methot, a Cree writer and editor who also runs a consulting service aiming "to build understanding and awareness of Aboriginal histories, perspectives, and experiences."

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Thanks to Adriana Alarcón for pointing out the lack of a fixed date for first contact and the way nomadic cultures complicate attempts to make fixed maps like these. And to the commenter below for sourcing the map above.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Mary Pickford's Most Magical Photographs


Back in the early 1900s, Mary Pickford wasn't just one of the most famous people from Toronto. She was one of the most famous people from anywhere. At the height of Pickford's film career, at least one reporter called her the most famous woman who had ever lived. When she married her fellow movie star Douglas Fairbanks Jr., it was such big news that ecstatic fans broke out in riots everywhere they went on their honeymoon. It was, according to some, the beginning of modern celebrity culture. And there's no question that Pickford was one of the very first movie stars — her golden curls were a Hollywood icon in the days before films had sound.

So, as you might imagine, Pickford was the subject of countless photographs. She was shot by many of the best-known photographers of the age. But some of the most striking come from a man who has mostly been forgotten. 

His name was Nelson Evans. He's been called "Hollywood's Early Forgotten Portrait Photographer." He ran his own studio on Hollywood Boulevard (just a couple blocks from the famous intersection of Hollywood & Vine). But his career in Los Angeles was brief. He didn't settle in L.A. until he was in his mid-20s. Just a year later, the United States entered the First World War — Evans enlisted and was put in charge of photography supplies for the air force. When he returned to Hollywood, he only had a few years left to live.

But in those few years, Evans made his mark. He was a pioneer, helping to invent the entire practice of Hollywood portrait photography back in the days before movie studios realized how important photos could be — movie stars were still forced to commission their own publicity stills. The Evans Studio was, according to the National Cyclopedia of American Biography, "one of the largest and best equipped in the world." Which meant that Evans could use backdrops, props and special lighting effects to create entire worlds.

He died in 1922, at the very oung age of 33. He would quickly fade from memory. But his photos lived on. And some of his best and his most magical are the photos he took of Mary Pickford:



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It's not easy to find information about Nelson Evans online, but you can find some at the invaluable "Finding Nelson Evans" blog here and a post about him at the L.A. Daily Mirror history blog here.

I wrote about Mary Pickford's nightmare honeymoon here. And about here life in general here. Toronto also used to have a movie theatre named after her — it stood on the north-west corner of Queen & Spadina, where the McDonald's is now — which I mention in my post about the history of that intersection here.



This post is related to dream
04 The Silver King
Mary Pickford, 1900


Monday, August 3, 2015

John Graves Simcoe, Napoleon Bonaparte & The Politics of Horse Shit

This is a photo of horse shit. But it's not just any photo of horse shit. This horse shit is on Woodbury Common — a beautiful patch of heathland in the English countryside. And with horse shit on Woodbury Common, you can tell a story about the founder of Toronto — John Graves Simcoe — and about a man who challenged him to a duel over that dung.

This was a few years after Simcoe founded Toronto. He'd come back home to England by then, returning to his country in a deeply troubled time. England was at war with France.

The French Revolution had started many years earlier; it was already well underway by the time Simcoe and his family left home for Canada. But things had gotten even bloodier while they were gone: Simcoe founded Toronto in July of 1793; the Reign of Terror began just a couple of months after that, while the Simcoes were living in a pair of fancy tents pitched at the mouth of Garrison Creek. 

And even there — six thousand kilometers from the guillotines of Paris — news of the atrocities reached them. In August, the Simcoes were visited by a pair of fleeing French aristocrats hoping to settle in Upper Canada. They told a morbid story about King Louis' botched attempt to escape his captors. By the time they shared that anecdote, the French king had already lost his head.

A few months later, Marie Antoinette followed her husband to the guillotine. News of her death took many weeks to travel across the Atlantic and up the St. Lawrence to the Canadian frontier. When it did, Simcoe marked the occasion with solemn respect. That evening, the settlers of Toronto dressed all in black, postponing the dance they had planned for the night. They might hate the French, but they were staunch monarchists — many of them had already suffered through the horrors of the American Revolution and were deeply upset by the idea of yet another bloody, democratic uprising.

It was a frightening time. The French Revolution sparked decades of war between France and the monarchies of Europe, including Britain. At the very same time that Simcoe was busy planning the first few blocks of Toronto, he was also busy worrying that the war back home would spread to North America. Even now, French revolutionaries were stirring up trouble in the United States, trying to get the Americans to join the war and invade Canada. Some had even travelled into Québec, where they hoped to convince the French Canadians to rise up and launch their own revolution. As the Simcoes slept in their tents at night, they worried that at any moment an enemy ship might sail over the horizon — or enemy soldiers burst from the woods. Simcoe's wife, Elizabeth, had nightmares about it.

John Graves Simcoe
Things only got scarier when they began to head home for England. As the Simcoes sailed out of the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, French warships were waiting. They chased them out into the Atlantic, seizing other English vessels who were sailing nearby. As the Simcoes' ship dodged icebergs off the coast of Labrador, Elizabeth and the children hid themselves in the cramped quarters below deck. They could hear guns in the distance. It took weeks to sail across the open ocean before the Simcoes finally reached the safety of home.

Even then, it wasn't over. The British would be at war with the French for most of the next twenty years. And things would only get worse. By the time the Simcoes got back to England, a new French general had begun to make a name for himself. Napoleon Bonaparte would prove to be one of the most brilliant and most power hungry dictators in history.

The wars against the French would dominate the rest of Simcoe's life. In the end, he would die fighting them.

But first, he had an important role to play. Simcoe didn't always get along with his superiors, but he did earn the respect of some of the most powerful men in England: Prime Minister Addington, Admiral Nelson, the Duke of York; he even spent time with "Mad" King George. His experience was especially respected when it came to military matters. He'd been one of the most celebrated heroes on the British side of the American Revolution. And as the first Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada, he'd been responsible for preparing the defences of the new province in case of an American invasion. And so, just a couple of years after his return to England, Simcoe was given a new job: preparing part of England in case of a French invasion.

At times, it seemed as if that invasion could happen at any moment — especially once Napoleon was in charge. Having already expanded his empire on the Continent, the French general began to assemble an army to bring England to its knees. Two hundred thousand men were being trained on the coast of France: the Armée d'Angleterre. A whole flotilla of barges was built to carry them across the English Channel. For a while, Napoleon was even toying with the idea of deploying the world's first air force: a fleet of hot air balloons to support the attack. There were rumours of a giant tunnel being dug beneath the Channel. And of a massive raft powered by windmills. To pay for it all, Napoleon had already sold the Louisiana Territory to the Americans. He was so sure his invasion was going to succeed that he built a triumphal arch to commemorate it before it had even happened.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Channel, Simcoe was getting ready for the invasion. The British government had put him in charge of the entire defence of the West Country. Devon, Cornwall and Somerset would be under his command. If the French landed there, Simcoe and his men would answer with a scorched earth campaign. They would evacuate all women and children, the elderly and the sick — and all the livestock, too. Everything they left behind would be destroyed. The French would find nothing to eat.

Instead, they would be met by the biggest military force Britain had ever assembled. More than six hundred thousand men were ready to fight — nearly 10% of the entire population of England. In the West Country alone, Simcoe was in command of twelve thousand men.

Woodbury Common
But they weren't all experienced soldiers. Professional troops were joined by volunteers and conscripted militia. They needed lots of training. And to do that training, Simcoe sometimes took them to Woodbury Common.

Woodbury Common is high in the gorgeous green hills of Devon. It's just a few kilometers from the Simcoes' summer home in the seaside town of Budleigh Salterton. And it's not too far from their country estate in the Blackdown Hills, either. It's a beautiful place: gently rolling hills covered with flowers, shrubs and short grass. It's typical heathland; in fact, if you look up "heath" on Wikipedia, the first photo you'll see is a photo of Woodbury Common. It's one of England's official Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

At the very highest point on the Common, you'll find a patch of trees. They're growing on the remains of massive earthworks. The big ditches are what's left of the ancient Woodbury Castle: an Iron Age hill fort built in the days of the druids; it's more than two thousand years old. From the lands around the castle, you can see for miles and miles in every direction — all the way back down to the sea. It's the perfect spot for a military base. In fact, the British army still trains there to this day.

And so about two hundred years ago, you could find thousands of Simcoe's troops camping on Woodbury Common as they awaited Napoleon's arrival — and with those camping men came hundreds of horses.

That, finally, bring us to the horse shit.

With all those horses trotting around, there was, of course, plenty of dung on Woodbury Common. And the question of who was ultimately responsible for it — Simcoe's troops or the local land owner — sparked a fight that nearly ended in a duel. But not for the reason you might think.

The principal owner of the lands around Woodbury Common was a man by the name of Lord Rolle. History would eventually remember him as the man who tripped during Queen Victoria's coronation and rolled down the steps to the throne. He and Simcoe didn't get along at all. Rolle was pretty pissed off by the inconvenience caused by all the men camping on the Common. And he was even more pissed off by the fact that they were cleaning up after themselves. Simcoe was making sure that all the horse shit was being collected and taken away. Rolle was furious. He wanted that horse shit for himself. It was valuable manure.

Rolle began a letter-writing campaign. He complained to the authorities, insisting that tradition dictated that any horse shit left by the military on common land belonged to the local lord of the manor: him. Simcoe was stealing his shit. And if Simcoe got away with it, it would set a dangerous precedent: any British general would be allowed to trample the rights of any lord. The question of the horse shit on Woodbury Common, Rolle argued, was a question of importance to every single subject in the British Empire.

Simcoe, for his part, sent a flurry of his own letters arguing the opposite. And as the letters flew back and forth, the fight escalated. Before long, Rolle was ordering his men to physically stop Simcoe's troops from removing the shit from the Common. The dispute was getting so serious that it was eventually forwarded all the way to the man in charge of the entire British military: the Duke of York (the son of "Mad" King George III and the guy who Simcoe had originally named Toronto after — back when it was still known as the town of York).
 
Woodbury Castle
In the end, Simcoe lost the battle of the Woodbury Common horse shit. His orders came directly from Whitehall — the heart of the British government at Westminster. The manure belonged to Rolle. He would be compensated for the shit that had already been taken away. And he would be allowed to keep any dung produced by Simcoe's horses in the future — as long as he sold it to the public at an appropriate discount.

But Rolle still wasn't satisfied. He was so angry with Simcoe that he challenged him to a duel. He wanted, he declared, to have a fist-fight with the founder of Toronto.
 
Simcoe was not impressed. Gentlemen, he replied, didn't fight with their fists. It was unseemly. If Rolle wanted to have a duel, they could have a duel: with pistols or with swords. It didn't count if there was no chance you might die.

Rolle backed down.

And so did Napoleon. The tiny French Emperor never did invade England. Instead, he marched his army east into the heart of Europe. But it wasn't the end of Simcoe's connection to the man. There was one sad chapter left to come.

It didn't take long for the French army to invade Spain and Portugal. The Peninsular War — as it was called — would rage for years on end. It was a bloody campaign. Tens of thousands were killed or wounded. Simcoe's own son, Francis, would die during the Siege of Badajoz in Portugal. (Just a toddler when Toronto was founded, his parents had jokingly named their log cabin in his honour: Castle Frank. We still remember it today in the name of a subway station.)

By then, John Graves Simcoe was already dead. He died during that same campaign. His preparations for Napoleon's invasion had earned him a promotion: Commander-in-Chief of the entire British army in India. But just before he left for his new post, he got new orders: his services were once again desperately needed in the fight against the French. Simcoe sailed to Portugal. But the ship he sailed on was damp and newly painted. He had always suffered from terrible respiratory problems — in fact, that's why he'd been forced to come home from Canada.

Simcoe was deathly ill by the time he made it to Lisbon. He would never recover. He was loaded back onto the same sickly ship and sent home across the Channel to England. He died in Exeter just a few days later.

As for Napoleon, well, he did finally make it to Devon one day. But it wasn't at the head of an invading army. Instead, he saw those rolling green hills from the deck of a British ship as it sailed by. It was all over; he'd lost the Battle of Waterloo and was now being held prisoner. Defeated for the final time, the French general asked if he could retire in England with a small parcel of land. His request was refused. The British didn't let him off that ship; he was never to set foot in Devon. Instead, they kept sailing, taking him far away to the isolated island of Saint Helena where he would live out the rest of his days in peace and frustrating quiet.

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More than two hundred years after Simcoe founded our city, Toronto is still wrestling with the question of who is responsible for our horse shit. You can read more about that on the CBC News website here.


The first person to alert me to the story of Simcoe and the shit was Michael Downes at the Fairlynch Museum in Budleigh Salterton. You can find the museum at their website, on Twitter, and on Facebook.

Simcoe's biographers, Mary Beacock Fryer and Christopher Dracott, cover the story in their book, which you borrow from the Toronto Public Library here or buy here.

You can learn more about Napoleon's brief stay in Devon in Devonshire Magazine here.

Photos of Woodbury Common and Woodbury Castle by me: Adam Bunch.



This post is related to dream
01 Metropolitan York
John Graves Simcoe, 1793

This post is related to dream
30 The Conference of the Beasts
Francis Simcoe, 1796

This post is related to dream
34 The Upper Canadian Ball
Elizabeth Simcoe, 1793


Friday, July 31, 2015

Emerging Artists at the Gardiner Museum

Oh hey, so I don't think I've mentioned this on here, but when I'm not busy Dreams Project-ing I work as the Creative Lead at a little marketing and communications agency. We're called Ripple Creative Strategy. We mostly work on stuff for not-for-profits and cultural institutions and the like. One of our most recent projects is a series of videos about the new exhibit currently showing at the Gardiner Museum — which, since you obviously enjoy history and art and stuff, you might quite like.

It's the Gardiner's yearly showcase of five emerging Canadian ceramic artists. The public gets to vote for their favourite; the winner gets a bunch of money and the RBC Emerging Artist People's Choice Award. The voting is open until the end of this long weekend and the show runs all the way until the end of August.

You can learn more about it on the Gardiner's website here.

The artists were all fascinating people to talk to, with interesting thoughts on the incredibly long history of clay and how their own experimental, contemporary artwork fits into that ancient tradition. I'll embed the video that serves as a quick little overview of the exhibit below. And you can watch very short videos with the results of my interviews with each of the artists: David R. Harper; Lisa Henriques; Veronika Horlik; Derya Akay; and Zane Wilcox.

You can also learn more about Ripple — and what I get up to over there — over here.
 

Monday, July 27, 2015

Dream 18 "Russell Creek" (Peter Russell, 1799)

Peter Russell dreamed that his sister Elizabeth had fallen ill. She’d taken a drink from the creek that ran through their property at Petersfield and within moments it seemed like her mind was failing her. She went quiet; stared at him blankly. When he asked, she couldn’t even remember his name.

Russell was in a panic. With his heart hammering in his chest, he hurried off to look for help, sprinting down the path of the creek toward the town below. He met plenty of people along the way — and they all agreed to help. But every time, they paused first for a drink. And as soon as the creek water touched their lips, they forgot who Russell was and what he’d asked of them. By the time he reached the outskirts of the town, there didn’t seem to be anyone left in York who remembered anything about him at all.

He collapsed — out of breath, dejected, exhausted — in the middle of the road. And when the new Lieutenant Governor came to him with a cup and suggested that a drink might do him good, Russell didn’t fight it. He just dipped the cup into Russell Creek and drank deep until he forgot who he was.

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Peter Russell was a slave owner, a gambling addict and Toronto's first truly terrible leader. He temporarily filled in as the head of the province while John Graves Simcoe, the Lieutenant Governor who founded our city, was sick at home to England.

You can read more about Russell's life on Spacing here. Explore more Toronto Dreams Project postcards here.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Toronto's Small Piece of a Wonder of the Ancient World

You'll find him on the third floor of the Royal Ontario Museum. He's tucked away in a quiet, easy-to-miss corner far at the back of a room filled with artifacts from Asia and the Middle East. He's a big, snarling, golden lion on a field of blue brick. And once upon a time, he was part of one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Two and a half thousand years ago, the ROM's lion sat at the heart of the city of Babylon.

Back then, Babylon was the greatest city in the world. It was home to 200,000 people — more than any other city on earth. It stood on the fertile banks of the Euphrates River, in a spot that's now part of Iraq (not far from Baghdad), but was then in the middle of a mighty empire that stretched all the way across the Middle East. The Babylonians ruled everything from the shores of the Mediterranean in the west to the Persian Gulf in the east. And their ruler was one of the most famous rulers in history: King Nebuchadnezzar II.

Nebuchadnezzar is best remembered for being in the Bible and for being a great warrior. He waged war against the pharaohs of Egypt. Captured and destroyed Jerusalem. Brought Tyre and the Phoenicians to their knees. Under his rule, Babylon flourished. And to celebrate his empire's wealth, he embarked on ambitious new construction projects, lavishing the city with some of the most famous landmarks in history. It was Nebuchadnezzar who finished building the giant tower in his city — thought to be the source of the story of the Tower of Babel. And it was Nebuchadnezzar who is said to have built the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. It's not entirely clear if they ever really existed, but that didn't stop them from being listed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

And the gardens weren't the only Babylonian wonder on that list. The walls of the city were just as impressive. During his reign, Nebuchadnezzar made them even more so. In about 575 BC, he built a new entrance to the inner city — it was the most spectacular of them all.

The Ishtar Gate was a great double-gate the size of a fortress, towering nine storeys into the air above the citizens who passed through it into the inner city. It was built of bright blue brick; the technology required to make a glaze of that colour is so advanced that even today we're not entirely sure how they managed to pull it off. It was dedicated to Ishtar — the goddess of love, sex, fertility and war — and became the focal point for a yearly religious festival, as enormous statues of the gods were carried by huge crowds down the wide street toward the gate.

A small part of the Ishtar Gate
In fact, the street itself had been included in the construction of the gate. There were bright blue brick walls extending along either side of the processional way, decorated with golden flowers, dragons and bulls. Plus: lions. Lots of ferocious lions. The big cats were the symbol of Ishtar.

It wasn't until hundreds of years later that tourists from Ancient Greece began to travel around the Mediterranean making lists of the most amazing things they saw. They liked to call their lists "The Seven Wonders of the World" — an ancient version of a travel guide. And when they did, they made sure to visit Babylon. Many of the oldest versions of the list included the Ishtar Gate, or even all of the city's walls.

But by then, Babylon was in ruins. The empire had crumbed. It didn't last long after Nebuchadnezzar's death. Soon, the Persians swept in from the east and conquered the Babylonians. The great city fell into disrepair, doomed to be buried by the shifting sands. In time, history and legend were mixed and confused. More than two thousand years later, no one was sure if Babylon had ever really existed at all — or if it was just a wonderful myth.

It was in the early 1900s that the city was finally discovered again. It was a self-taught German archeologist who found it. He spent the next eighteen years digging at the site, uncovering the mysteries of the ancient metropolis. His most impressive find was the enormous blue gate. The ruins were dismantled; the bricks shipped to Germany where they were cleaned, catalogued and then reconstructed. The Ishtar Gate now stands in a museum in Berlin — at least, part of it does: not all of it could fit inside the building.

Many of the beasts who once stood watch over Babylon's processional way have now found new homes in museums around the world. There are dragons and bulls and lions in Istanbul, Copenhagen, Munich and Vienna, in Boston and Chicago and at Yale, at the Louvre and at the British Museum and at the Detroit Institute of Arts.

One of them even came to Canada. In 1937, just before the outbreak of the Second World War, the Royal Ontario Museum bought one of the lions from the State Museum in Berlin. He was shipped all the way across the ocean to a new home on Bloor Street. And so today, one of Nebuchadnezzar's snarling lions stands tucked away in a corner of the ROM, watching over Torontonians and tourists as they marvel at a tiny slice of one of the Wonders of the Ancient World — nearly ten thousand kilometers away from the ruins of the marvelous city that he once helped to guard.

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You can watch a whole documentary about Nebuchadnezzar's Babylon on YouTube here. And there's a short video about the Ishtar Gate here.

You can access the ROM's own webpage about the lion by scrolling down this search page here (for some reason, linking directly to the web doesn't work, sorry). You can learn a bit more about the gate from the Ancient History Encyclopedia here. And there's a bit more about the archaeologist who discovered the ruins here. And on Wikipedia here.

Saddam Hussein was convinced he was the reincarnation of Nebuchadnezzar. He had his palace built on a spot overlooking the ruins of Babylon, and constructed a smaller copy of the Ishtar Gate which was going to be used as the entrance to a museum that never got built — the whole getting executed thing derailed his plans. His government had also asked that the Germans return to the Ishtar Gate to Iraq.

UNESCO reported that the American occupation of Iraq caused "major damage" to the ruins of Babylon. You can learn more about that on the United Nations website here. Or even read the full report as a PDF here.    

Photo of the lion by Adam Bunch. Photo of the Ishtar Gate at the museum in Berlin via Flickr user "Rictor Norton & David Allen".