Michael_Stones
Member
To narrate is to tell a story. Whether factual or fictional, a story’s structure contains a plot (ideas or events) and narrative (presentation of the plot). Photography’s introduction into written narrative began with Anna Atkins botanical text British Algae: Cyanotype Impressions (1843) with botanical specimens illustrated by photograms. The following is an illustrated story about an abandoned hotel near my home. Comments and criticism about this venture are welcome.
My buddy Ed suggested a beer at the Empire Hotel on Simpson Street soon after I arrived. Simpson Street links the former Fort William with Port Arthur before they amalgamated into Thunder Bay. Although once a busy commercial street with grand hotels and exclusive stores, all that has gone. Fire destroyed the West Hotel; the abandoned Empire awaits demolition; more storefronts are boarded-up than serve any remaining customers. Even the hookers moved to streets with richer pickings, leaving behind a residue of junkies and homeless people.
Around the time of our visit, someone on the Internet described the bar at the Empire as “a notorious dope den and popular hangout for prostitutes and junkies.” My recollection is more positive. The barman was a jovial Newfoundlander distantly related to Ed. They are a unique people, those Newfies. Their homeland is a wonderful-terrible island of rugged beauty where nothing and nobody survives by usual rules. Invention becomes the mother of necessity; dilemmas get resolved in offbeat ways; laughter is no less dispensable to life than bread and water. Such a lifestyle explains why Newfoundlanders pine for their Rock when away too long. Our host named his bar Newfies and dealt with homesickness by bringing Newfie art to the Empire Hotel.
At the beginning of each week, he’d sketch an outline of an outport scene that covered an entire wall. The drawings were typically of flat-roofed houses overlooking a rocky shore, with sailors fishing from dories and seagulls and puffins circling overhead. Then, when the evening wound down, he’d get the patrons to color to the scene.
I though our host was winding us up when he bellowed, “Now here’s some brushes and paint. You lot, you start coloring that drawing to match this ‘ere photo. Good bright colors, mind you now. Fine and foolish is what I want.” The patrons, except us, were junkies, alcoholics and dirt-cheap hookers that lived in the hotel; all of them on some sort of pogey. Amid much banter, laughter and downing of beer, that’s just what we did. A good time was had.
“So what happens when the painting’s done?” I asked mine host as the bar was closing. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, boy, that’s a silly question,” he replied. “Why I’ll whitewash yon wall an’ launch them boats again. I’ve lots more photos to draw from. Nothing’s better for these ‘ere folk than this.” Therein lies more common sense than any crowd of help professionals could muster between them.
The photo above is from a series of the Empire Hotel in its abandonment. The one below is a blow-up by the top left window. What do you see? I see pigeon poop paintings of a man and a woman below the window, and what might be a skeleton on the window itself. Could pigeon poopery be the next fad in art? Let’s not denigrate those birds as artists, though. Just as the Newfie bartender turned the residents into artists, the pigeons made them objects of art. Like him, they made good with what they had. Their work honors the former residents, those artists whose portraits now adorn the outside wall of the Empire Hotel.
Around the time of our visit, someone on the Internet described the bar at the Empire as “a notorious dope den and popular hangout for prostitutes and junkies.” My recollection is more positive. The barman was a jovial Newfoundlander distantly related to Ed. They are a unique people, those Newfies. Their homeland is a wonderful-terrible island of rugged beauty where nothing and nobody survives by usual rules. Invention becomes the mother of necessity; dilemmas get resolved in offbeat ways; laughter is no less dispensable to life than bread and water. Such a lifestyle explains why Newfoundlanders pine for their Rock when away too long. Our host named his bar Newfies and dealt with homesickness by bringing Newfie art to the Empire Hotel.
At the beginning of each week, he’d sketch an outline of an outport scene that covered an entire wall. The drawings were typically of flat-roofed houses overlooking a rocky shore, with sailors fishing from dories and seagulls and puffins circling overhead. Then, when the evening wound down, he’d get the patrons to color to the scene.
I though our host was winding us up when he bellowed, “Now here’s some brushes and paint. You lot, you start coloring that drawing to match this ‘ere photo. Good bright colors, mind you now. Fine and foolish is what I want.” The patrons, except us, were junkies, alcoholics and dirt-cheap hookers that lived in the hotel; all of them on some sort of pogey. Amid much banter, laughter and downing of beer, that’s just what we did. A good time was had.
“So what happens when the painting’s done?” I asked mine host as the bar was closing. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, boy, that’s a silly question,” he replied. “Why I’ll whitewash yon wall an’ launch them boats again. I’ve lots more photos to draw from. Nothing’s better for these ‘ere folk than this.” Therein lies more common sense than any crowd of help professionals could muster between them.
The photo above is from a series of the Empire Hotel in its abandonment. The one below is a blow-up by the top left window. What do you see? I see pigeon poop paintings of a man and a woman below the window, and what might be a skeleton on the window itself. Could pigeon poopery be the next fad in art? Let’s not denigrate those birds as artists, though. Just as the Newfie bartender turned the residents into artists, the pigeons made them objects of art. Like him, they made good with what they had. Their work honors the former residents, those artists whose portraits now adorn the outside wall of the Empire Hotel.