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Tom Thomson's mandolin 
author: David Newland  www.davidnewland.com

Beneath separate protective plexiglass cubes, in the climate controlled confines of a public art gallery in the small city of Owen Sound, Ontario, sit two amazing antiques, each replete with history. One is the painter's palate of Tom Thomson. The other is his mandolin. And while one still sings its stories loud and long, the other is forever silent.

Ironically, it's the palate whose notes still ring out across time and distance. Just a quick glance around the room reveals several dozen of the paintings that sprang from its colour-crusted surface not so long ago. In their shades and shadows the landscape that Thomson captured with his brush still echoes, a muted chord that hangs like a haze in the air. The forms of the black spruce trees, the ripples of moonlit waves, the organic meander of a springtime stream still form a chorus together that sings of life, of the land, and of the swift hand of the man who touched and sang it all. That quiet palate still reverberates with the notes that Thomson once coaxed from its humble wooden frame.

Not so, the ancient mandolin. This unusual instrument (triple, rather than double-strung) is as silent as can be. History records that Thomson loved to play music. But where are the tunes he strummed now? The mandolin was heavily restored - one can only imagine what an artist, a woodsman, a fisherman, a canoeist put this fragile instrument through in its time. But no amount of restoration will make it play his tunes again.

Did Thomson pick out the reels of his ancestral home in Scotland? Did he hum along with ancient Gypsy melodies? Did he learn the shanties of the lumbermen whose woods he shared, and strum them into life? Perhaps he learned the popular tunes of the day by lantern-light in his little canvas tent, camped on the edge of nowhere with only music for company.

A little research might shed some light on the bare facts of the matter. His life is, after all, a matter of public record. But if the facts can help illustrate the story, they will never bring lost songs to life.
We know Tom Thomson as a painter, one of the greatest ever to paint this land. What songs did the painter sing? Did he love to stroke the strings as he loved to wield the brush? Did he grace the night with sad, sweet odes to the heart of the vast wild north?

Only a lonely mandolin knows for sure, and under a clear, hard modern sky, that mandolin is forever silent and still.

~ End ~


These songs and poems are dedicated to the memory of Tom Thomson




Creation 
(song from Wildwood CD)

I remember the first time
I saw those northern lights
Dancing in the night sky
Tears were in my eyes
I fell down to the ground.
Thought I was seeing some vision
of a brand new world.
Thought God showed me his version
of a creation yet unborn
of a creation yet unborn.

I didn’t know what to do
I laid there on the ground.
My head filled up with colours
I hadn’t seen before
I hadn’t seen before.
The stars they made a sound
some sweet celestial melody
I never heard before
I never heard again. 

Don Charbonneau


Wildwood
words and music Don Charbonneau

Sometimes I get so tired of this life that I lead
the hustle and bustle of this big city dream.
I left that place this morning and been paddling all day
trying to get as far away of my big city way.

My campfire smoke is rising to the stars
it seems tonight.
I can't think of anyplace I would rather be
than in this wild wood , this wild wood
this wild wood tonight.
In this wild wood, this wild wood
this wild wood tonight.

When summer has gone and snow is on the ground
you'll find me in the city with my wild wood dreams.
Painting pictures from sketches I've done
of northern lights and moose on the run.

My campfire smoke is rising to the stars
it seems tonight.
I can't think of anyplace I would rather be
than in this wild wood, this wild wood
this wild wood tonight.
In this wild wood, this wild wood
this wild wood, tonight.

Sometimes I get so tired of this life that I lead
the hustle and bustle of this big city dream. 


Northland [My Algonquin Home]
words and music Don Charbonneau

I don't mind it here alone under this northland sky.
Where the wind blows through the birch trees
and the colours fall gently to the ground.
I’m all alone again... in my Algonquin home
Here I am again... in my Algonquin home.

There's a red sun on the jack pine tonight
and I'm lost in the beauty of this land
and a short time is all I had
on this sacred ground ... my Algonquin home
on this sacred ground... my Algonquin home.

I took some friend out here to paint with me
and they all agreed that this land was free
and they all went home with some colours of the fall
taken from my Algonquin home
taken from my Algonquin home .

I lost my life here on Canoe Lake
but my soul I did find
and a piece I left behind
to help you paint this northland sky
here in my... Algonquin home
here in my... Algonquin home.