I was fascinated by Canada as a teenager. It came from
looking at pictures in books that I borrowed from the local lending library and,
while I appreciated the skyscapes of the prairies, it was the grandeur of the
mountains, the lakes and the forests that had the most appeal. There was also
the sense of scale and the vastness of it all.
The interest in the Canadian landscape re-surfaced when I was
an undergraduate. Fascinated by animals and plants, I knew that I wanted to continue
to study Biology by conducting research in the field. I mentioned this, together
with my feelings about the boreal landscape, to one of my lecturers and he kindly
put me in touch with possible research supervisors in Canada. These contacts resulted
in several provisional offers, providing I could get funding from teaching assistantships or research
grants. However, nothing more came of it and I stayed in the UK; my fascination
for boreal landscapes being given reality when I studied lakes and rivers in northern
Sweden and in Finland. It was in these countries that I could get a sense of
wilderness; of something that appeared to show no influence of humans. I can
sum up this sense by using, as illustration, Gallen-Kallelas’s painting Lake Keitele (see below). Gallen-Kallela
was a seeker of “virgin Nature” and I can easily empathise with that [1].
During my undergraduate years, I spent many happy Saturdays visiting
the National Gallery and the Tate Gallery (as it was then) in London. Torbay,
where I grew up, was not a centre for looking at a wide range of paintings and
I felt drawn to the galleries and to certain works. It wasn’t because of any
skill that I had in art, as I have no artistic talent, but I felt a strong connection
with some of the images and the way that landscapes had been portrayed. It was
similar to looking at pictures of Canada when I was younger - something “clicked”
and I didn’t know why, nor was I interested in thinking about that.
As an old man, I realise that my interest in the boreal
landscape, and the various ways in which it was illustrated in great paintings,
were part of the same identity – I am an unabashed Romantic with a love of the
sublime. The latter possibly comes from a religious upbringing that clearly
influenced me, even though I left formal religion when I was twelve. It now
takes a nebulous form, but it is certainly there (and not only in paintings,
but also from music and poetry). While artists like Caspar David Friedrich and Harald
Sohlberg introduced Christian symbolism into their paintings of sublime
landscapes, there seems to me something even more powerful if the landscape
overwhelms without any obvious theistic force (although theists might suggest
that I was just being blind).
It’s not to say that I don’t appreciate both natural and
painted landscapes that do show human influence. The Renforsen rapids on
the River Vindel in northern Sweden always fill me with awe [2] and, during the
spring flood caused by snow melt in the mountains, there is something about
their impressive power that certainly stirs the soul. There are, however, so
many signs of human influence here: bridges, paths, a hotel, a café, mill
buildings, car parks, etc. that one realises it is far from wilderness. If part
of the splendour of being in wilderness comes from tranquillity, Renforsen,
other rapids, and raging seas are part of another kind of awe; that which
contains an implied threat. Compare Gallen-Kallela’s Lake Keitele with Johan Christian Dahl’s The Lower Falls of the Labrofoss (see below) to see examples of
this contrast. Both portray the sublime.
Of course, the art and aesthetics of the sublime have been
written about many times and I’m not saying anything new. Rather, in a
pretentious way, I’m trying to understand my personal view of landscape and
what has made me so enraptured by some natural and painted scenes. I’m hooked.
