|
The White Anvil ... An Arctic adventure to be true.Where steel brakes on an Anvil of Ice.
It is continually asked of Barry Barnett, the artist, how he gets his information on the subjects that he paints. For the most part, the answer is simply, "just from being there." Spending time learning about one's subject is how Mr. Barnett captures the moment: whether deep in the Florida Everglades; whether experiencing life among native Americans in a southwest pueblo; whether climbing along desert passes, cautiously moving among buffalo and elk or gliding over desert mountains on silent wing; whether swimming through reefs of gold and turquoise among shark and barracuda or spending time with dolphin and manatee learning their approach to life below the silent service; or, on the Arctic's White Anvil. 
January and February of 1997 found the artist as a guest of 2 Royal Canadian House Artillery above the Arctic Circle. The White Anvil is a name given to a region along the Northwest Passage by the artist. Victoria Island and the hamlet of Holman are located over 300 miles north of the Arctic Circle. It is a place where life is forged on an anvil of ice. Those who call this place home are a unique people known as the Inuit. They are a people who hammer out their living on the White Anvil and build for the future of their race in an environment that is unfathomable to most of us. A gentle and ice wise people of the northern lights, the Inuit were most gracious to one completely out of his element. 
Experiencing the unbearable pain of freezing during a whiteout was a test of Mr. Barnett's determination to know the habitat of those who call the White Anvil home. David Kapatana, Dan "The Man" Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman, Louis and Barry left base camp to run David's 40 or more kilometer trap line. It was the first time the artist had ever seen a naked wolf. With only time for a quick glance, he later learned of this poor creature's fate and he realized the use of the Arctic wolf's hid for protection against subzero temperatures. 
Barry was glad Dan was a big man and that he was operating the scaddoo instead of himself. Something about using Dan as a wind brake made most of this trek through that frozen world a little more bearable. Being a son of the South, Mr. Barnett had never been so cold...or so out of place. 
Their first stop was a group of tents banked with blocks or ice. Tent City is the name the artist gave the battery's encampment. He also promoted the Major to Mayor. Not a comparison appreciated by the Major, but a point of honor on that frozen lake nonetheless. Mr. Barnett had observed the construction of an igloo prior to this trek as well as the comings and goings of those frozen souls who called Tent City home during their brief tour. With only three or four hours of twilight remaining, one had to make the most of every effort away from base camp or the tents. Every effort was calculated for survival. 
This day was clear. The wind calm and the horizon sculpted by the bluffs of Holeman . All gave contrast to the endless hours of darkness and ice storms. It was on this clear and beautiful day that Mr. Barnett felt he had made one of his greatest blunders in human relations by addressing an Inuit female as "Sir." This ranked somewhere in the neighborhood of addressing a Colonel as Lieutenant for an entire afternoon or not acknowledging a toast to the Queen of England. Of course, these events were in other parts of the world but were etched deep in the "what not to do next time," part of the artist's memory. The design of the Inuit woman's parka with a starburst of wolf and wolverine fur over sealskins should have been a dead giveaway to her sex. So, a quick retreat into embarrassment and a plea for the warmer skies of Florida helped to mask his clumsiness and ignorance at that moment. After a few photos, the small caravan of three scadoos, with David's sled in tow, left Tent City and made their way into a frozen valley where the western gates of the White Anvil stood. 
Not experienced in racing across ice at a rather fast speed, the artist's hasty preparations left much to his liking. The frozen air soon worked its way into the hood of his parka and the front of his skull began to freeze. With a brief stop and an assisted adjustment by Louis, the three scadoos with David's sled drawn behind arrived on a high bluff and the first of David's traps. A steppe jutted out from this high bluff as if it were a viewing platform for the heads of state in one of Moscow's May celebrations. The scadoos slid to a stop and the four adventurers stepped from their frozen mounts. Standing as pylons high on the edge of that tall bluff, they watched a line of scadoos returning to their base on that frozen Victorian lake some kilometers behind. The line of scadoos resembled a small train far below as it made its deliberate and isolated return to the roundhouse. Another exercise and a show of Canadian sovereignty had been made by the members of that small train of scaddoos. Warm tents and rations were their well earned reward. The artist wondered if anyone in Canada or the United States knew of this place and the watch that was kept by those below. After the small military train of scadoos made their way out of the valley below, attention was turned to the one stamping his mukluks in an effort to maintain the blood flow in his feet. Dan asked David if he had a stove in his sled and, of course, "no" was the reply offered in the exchange. David asked the artist if his feet hurt. The artist growled which indicated a form of "yes." David said, "That's good. If they stop hurting, we start cutting." It was at that moment that the artist created a new dance made of quick stamps and expressions of pain mixed with some effort at a nervous smile. David was holding a large black metal bar that looked like a cross between a club and a machete. The artist did not know if David was joking or not. It was the look of seriousness on the faces of Dan and Louis that confirmed the moment. The dance step immediately became a bit faster. 
David led the artist to a Musk Ox that had joined his fellow prehistoric ancestral relatives in the endless game of life and death. Its frozen carcass was food for those that were fortunate enough not to step into David's traps. An Arctic fox was not so fortunate. Trapped in steel jaws, it's eyes where black and it's breathing short. Pain had been its companion for many hours. A quick effort to photograph this beautiful but torn creature was made by the artist. The fox's eyes looked through the artist to his soul and both it and the artist knew that this attempt to record it's being only delayed the inivitable. With gloves removed, the artist scrambled to replace the frozen batteries in his camera but with no positive result. With the pain of frozen air now affecting his hands, the artist tucked the camera back into his parka, recovered his chapped hands and ask David to end that tormented soul's journey. The fox pulled back hard against the steel. With his leg a cluster of frozen blood, he became another page in the story of survival on the ice. Though another fox would hunt that valley and climb its tall bluffs, at least the Inuit remembered the spirits of those it killed in the rythmic beat of their drum dance. 
The Arctic sun revealed a beautiful day, however short. David told us we had another 35 kilometers to go. His worried expression caused Dan to inquire about the source. David told his companions that the sky would change. A sense of amazement cam over the three non-Inuit travelers at David's ability to forecast the weather. David wanted to know if the artist could go on. His response was that he did not come so far to stop now. With the fox secured in the sled, the three scadoos maneuvered down the bluff and with great speed raced toward the flat horizon. 
Louis did not need his goggles. His wind screen and wolf skin gloves shielded him from the dropping temperatures as they moved ever further onto the White Anvil. His kindness in sharing them with the only member of the party without a wind screen was most appreciated. They allowed the artist to observe the sun as it moved swiftly to its long sleep. The shades of purples, oranges and reds mixed with streaks of blowing ice hypnotized that artist against his increasing pain. By now, the pain had moved from his feet to his knees. Only the immersion of his mind into the colors of that sunset removed the discomfort that increased continually. David brought his scadoo and sled to an abrupt stop. We, who followed, dismounted and stretched our legs as David went about the task of removing a fox from around a rock that was covered in white. By now, they understood David's concerns when they were high on the bluff. The wind blew hard now and the only thing they could see were each other. Dan knew and voiced the fact that their lives were in God's and David's hands. The statement made in purely manly tones said, "if it where not for David we would be (expletive deleted) out of luck." Somehow David seemed unconcerned. 
The next stop was at a shadowy shelter used by trappers. Dismounting for the last time before the long and final run to base camp, David once again collected yet another fox. The others marveled at how David knew where his traps were. They had watched as David used the wind blown ice as a primitive compass for it blew only in one direction across the Arctic floor. David followed it's trail as if it were a finely sketched treasure map. To show his wit, the artist proclaimed David's skills as a guide through this ice storm. With ice hanging from his parka, David said in a humors voice, "Hell, I was lost there for awhile." At that point Dan and Louis pulled the artist's shaking glove covered hands from around David's neck as he cried in loud expressions of anxiety, "What do you mean you were lost." Though all were actions directed toward the humor of the moment, the air around them was thickening and the sun had hidden itself in a shroud of white. They laughingly mounted the scadoos for the final time and chased David across the White Anvil and back to Tent City. 
The artist acknowledges the traping and guide skills of David and expresses his appreciation to Dan and Louis who live and work for the benefit of the Inuit. But, the painting and sculptures created to this date and in the years to come would not be possible without the research gained at the invitation and support of the Canadian Forces. So many to thank and so few words to use. 
The White Anvil ... An Arctic adventure to be true. The White Anvil...
|
| 1-386-503-5921 |
Gallery Location: 1 King Street, Suite 116 , St. Augustine, Florida U.S.A
(Across from the Saint Augustine Yacht Pier.)
Entrance from the old plaza or the riverside.
Mailing Address: P.O. Box 353699, Palm Coast, Fl. 32135-3699 U.S.A
Copyright © Barry Barnett/Artist International 1996 through 2009 All Rights Reserved