Another example of how TamO'Shanter has been illustrated.
Tam O’Shanter has been the inspiration for many artists. These old prints are the original illustrations to the poem by John Faed
John Faed (1820- 1902)
First published in 1892 Title:
Tam O'Shanter and the Witches
Illustration to the poem of Robert Burns
One of Burns' best-loved tales is the story of a farmer from Maidens who, against his wife's good advice, gets into trouble as a result of his fondness for drink and an eye for the lasses. The poem is a favourite feature of Burns Suppers across the world and many Scottish pubs will give a free dram or two to anyone who can give a good recitation, start to finish, a good recital means in a good rendering of the old dialect.
The story, which was inspired by the local tales Burns heard as a boy, is set in Ayr and Alloway, and reaches its scary but comic climax at the old Brig O'Doon. Burns based the poems characters on his own friends and characters he knew from the local taverns. In her memoir of Burns, his wife, Jean Armour, recalls watching him laughing as he walked along the banks of the River Nith, gesturing wildly and composing the poem out loud.
Perhaps more than any other of his poems, Tam O'Shanter captures the spirit of poetry that was first awakened in the young Robert Burns, sitting around the fire in Burns Cottage and listening to the ghost stories of old Betty Davidson.
The late medieval Brig O’Doon was chosen by Burns for the climax of his tale, Tam O’Shanter. It spans the beautiful river Doon, the auld brig (old bridge) gives visitors a chance to walk on the very spot where Tam’s mare, Meg, made her last heroic leap for freedom - leaving her tail still in the clutches of Nan, the “Cutty Sark” witch.
This is a rehash of an old Multiply post. On one of my visits to my daughter while she was living in Ayrshire, we visited an exhibition of paintings by Scottish artist Alexander Goudie depicting the famous Burns poem, ‘TamO’Shanter’ .
http://www.robertburns.org.uk/Assets/Poems_Songs/tamoshanter.htm
Robert Burns' epic poem "Tam O'Shanter" is widely hailed as the Scottish bard's finest work. But one of the greatest and funniest ghost stories ever written is scarcely intelligible to non-Scots because it is written in the rich lowland Scots dialect of more than 200 years ago.
Now an exhibition aims to make "Tam" more accessible, telling the story of his wild, drunken ride across the Brig O'Doon, to escape pursuing witches, in a series of paintings valued at £500,000.
The 54 paintings, by the Scottish artist Alexander Goudie, have gone on display at Burns' birthplace, Alloway, near Ayr, and will eventually go on tour throughout the world.
Each painting represents a successive stanza in the poem, which was compared by Sir Walter Scott to Shakespeare's best work and is declaimed around the world at Burns' Supper nights.
Every Scot understands full well: "She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, / A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum." But not many other folk realise that this, one of the easier passages of "Tam O'Shanter", translates as: "She castigated you for what you are, an inebriated waster, all talk, babble and bluster."……………..or words to that effect.
Goudie's paintings, commissioned for the planned but subsequently stalled National Gallery of Scottish Art and Design in Glasgow, were in danger of being sold off in separate lots before the Scottish multi-millionaires Brian Souter and Tom Hunter intervened with £500,000 pounds to keep the collection together.
Its permanent home will be at the South Ayrshire Art Gallery at Rozelle Park, Alloway. The gallery curator Elizabeth Kwasnik said she believed the paintings will attract more visitors than ever to Burns' country. "We also intend getting them out on tour. There are huge Burns' appreciation societies in every country in the world, including China, Russia, Hungary, the Czech Republic and Japan."
To view the entire collection, each with the appropriate verse written underneath, visit here. This is well worth the effort of visiting, I loved these paintings as soon as I saw them, and the tiny reproductions you see on your computer screen does them no justice at all. But; you can see what an extraordinarily good draughtperson Goudie was, despite the fact these paintings are almost cartoon like in places, his talent and skill shine out.
A little biographical information and some more paintings here.
Alexander Goudie the artist
http://www.alexandergoudie.org.uk/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexander_Goudie
Finally, just so it all makes sense, the poem with translation.
http://www.robertburns.org.uk/Assets/Poems_Songs/tamoshanter.htm
the video
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Tam o' Shanter (Original)
When chapmen billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses.)
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:-- Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither--
They had been fou for weeks thegither!
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
wi' favours secret,sweet and precious
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious.
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You sieze the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white--then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.--
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg--
A better never lifted leg--
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire;
Despisin' wind and rain and fire.
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare, in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Chairlie brak 's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.--
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll:
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!--
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He scre'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.--
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some develish cantraip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light.--
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murders's banes in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi blude red-rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which even to name was be unlawfu'.
Three lawyers' tongues, turn'd inside out,
Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout;
Three priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinking, vile in every neuk.
As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens,
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder did na turn thy stomach!
But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie,
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie,-
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for he wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was, and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason ' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy commin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle -
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail;
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
No, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed;
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy joys o'er dear -
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
Tam o' Shanter (Translation)
When the peddler people leave the streets,
And thirsty neighbours, neighbours meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to take the road home,
While we sit boozing strong ale,
And getting drunk and very happy,
We don’t think of the long Scots miles,
The marshes, waters, steps and stiles,
That lie between us and our home,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame (wife),
Gathering her brows like a gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath, to keep it warm.
This truth finds honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he from Ayr one night did canter;
Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.
Oh Tam, had you but been so wise,
As to have taken your own wife Kate’s advice!
She told you well you were a waster,
A rambling, blustering, drunken boaster,
That from November until October,
Each market day you were not sober;
During each milling period with the miller,
You sat as long as you had money,
For every horse he put a shoe on,
The blacksmith and you got roaring drunk on;
That at the Lords House, even on Sunday,
You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that, late or soon,
You would be found deep drowned in Doon,
Or caught by warlocks in the murk,
By Alloway’s old haunted church.
Ah, gentle ladies, it makes me cry,
To think how many counsels sweet,
How much long and wise advice
The husband from the wife despises!
But to our tale :- One market night,
Tam was seated just right,
Next to a fireplace, blazing finely,
With creamy ales, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnny,
His ancient, trusted, thirsty crony;
Tom loved him like a very brother,
They had been drunk for weeks together.
The night drove on with songs and clatter,
And every ale was tasting better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
With secret favours, sweet and precious;
The cobbler told his queerest stories;
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
Outside, the storm might roar and rustle,
Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man so happy,
Even drowned himself in ale.
As bees fly home with loads of treasure,
The minutes winged their way with pleasure:
Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious,
Over all the ills of life victorious.
But pleasures are like poppies spread:
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow fall on the river,
A moment white - then melts forever,
Or like the Aurora Borealis rays,
That move before you can point to their place;
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form,
Vanishing amid the storm.
No man can tether time or tide,
The hour approaches Tom must ride:
That hour, of night’s black arch - the key-stone,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in
And such a night he takes to the road in
As never a poor sinner had been out in.
The wind blew as if it had blown its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed,
Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed:
That night, a child might understand,
The Devil had business on his hand.
Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg.
A better never lifted leg,
Tom, raced on through mud and mire,
Despising wind and rain and fire;
Whilst holding fast his good blue bonnet,
While crooning over some old Scots sonnet,
Whilst glowering round with prudent care,
Lest ghosts catch him unaware:
Alloway’s Church was drawing near,
Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.
By this time he was across the ford,
Where in the snow the pedlar got smothered;
And past the birch trees and the huge stone,
Where drunken Charlie broke his neck bone;
And through the thorns, and past the monument,
Where hunters found the murdered child;
And near the thorn, above the well,
Where Mungo’s mother hung herself.
Before him the river Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars throught the woods;
The lightnings flashes from pole to pole;
Nearer and more near the thunder rolls;
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Alloway’s Church seemed in a blaze,
Through every gap , light beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! (whisky)
What dangers you can make us scorn!
With ale, we fear no evil;
With whisky, we’ll face the Devil!
The ales so swam in Tam’s head,
Fair play, he didn’t care a farthing for devils.
But Maggie stood, right sore astonished,
Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, vow! Tom saw an incredible sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
No cotillion, brand new from France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
In a window alcove in the east,
There sat Old Nick, in shape of beast;
A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large,
To give them music was his charge:
He screwed the pipes and made them squeal,
Till roof and rafters all did ring.
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That showed the dead in their last dresses;
And, by some devilish magic sleight,
Each in its cold hand held a light:
By which heroic Tom was able
To note upon the holy table,
A murderer’s bones, in gibbet-irons;
Two span-long, small, unchristened babies;
A thief just cut from his hanging rope -
With his last gasp his mouth did gape;
Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted;
Five scimitars with murder crusted;
A garter with which a baby had strangled;
A knife a father’s throat had mangled -
Whom his own son of life bereft -
The grey-hairs yet stack to the shaft;
With more o' horrible and awful,
Which even to name would be unlawful.
Three Lawyers’ tongues, turned inside out,
Sown with lies like a beggar’s cloth -
Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck
Lay stinking, vile, in every nook.
As Thomas glowered, amazed, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they linked,
Till every witch sweated and smelled,
And cast her ragged clothes to the floor,
And danced deftly at it in her underskirts!
Now Tam, O Tam! had these been young girls,
All plump and strapping in their teens!
Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel,
Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! -
The trousers of mine, my only pair,
That once were plush, of good blue hair,
I would have given them off my buttocks
For one blink of those pretty girls !
But withered hags, old and droll,
Ugly enough to suckle a foal,
Leaping and flinging on a stick,
Its a wonder it didn’t turn your stomach!
But Tam knew what was what well enough:
There was one winsome, jolly wench,
That night enlisted in the core,
Long after known on Carrick shore
(For many a beast to dead she shot,
And perished many a bonnie boat,
And shook both much corn and barley,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her short underskirt, o’ Paisley cloth,
That while a young lass she had worn,
In longitude though very limited,
It was her best, and she was proud. . .
Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,
That skirt she bought for her little grandaughter,
With two Scots pounds (it was all her riches),
Would ever graced a dance of witches!
But here my tale must stoop and bow,
Such words are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked
(A supple youth she was, and strong);
And how Tom stood like one bewitched,
And thought his very eyes enriched;
Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full of lust,
And jerked and blew with might and main;
Till first one caper, then another,
Tom lost his reason all together,
And roars out: ‘ Well done, short skirt! ’
And in an instant all was dark;
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees buzz out with angry wrath,
When plundering herds assail their hive;
As a wild hare’s mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts running before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When ‘ Catch the thief! ’ resounds aloud:
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
With many an unearthly scream and holler.
Ah, Tom! Ah, Tom! You will get what's coming!
In hell they will roast you like a herring!
In vain your Kate awaits your coming !
Kate soon will be a woeful woman!
Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg,
And beat them to the key-stone of the bridge;
There, you may toss your tale at them,
A running stream they dare not cross!
But before the key-stone she could make,
She had to shake a tail at the fiend;
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,
And flew at Tam with furious aim;
But little knew she Maggie’s mettle!
One spring brought off her master whole,
But left behind her own grey tail:
The witch caught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, who this tale of truth shall read,
Each man, and mother’s son, take heed:
Whenever to drink you are inclined,
Or short skirts run in your mind,
Think! you may buy joys over dear:
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.
This man is one of the first artists whose work I came to admire. I was quite young and didn’t know any thing about art when I first came across him and I was drawn to his bright colours and decorative shapes. When I went to Art College, age 18, I remember the lecturer being very superior about Gauguin and pointing out the anatomical faults in his figure drawings and lack of any real perspective in the landscapes. Being young, and a bit uncertain, I came to agree with him, I didn’t publically admit to liking this work for a very long time. But now I’m not young or uncertain, I’m old and cynical and sometimes wish I could go back in time and tell that lecturer he was wrong. 
Eugène Henri Paul Gauguin, french artist born 7 June 1848, died 8 May 1903)
He was a leading French Post-Impressionist artist whose talents were only properly recognised posthumously. After his death his experimental use of color and style, that were noticeably different from the other Impressionist painters, became appreciated and his work gained in popularity.
He influenced many artists who came after him, notably, Pablo Picasso, and Henri Matisse. Once Gauguin’s art began to rise in popularity, the Russian collector Sergei Shchukin added many of them to his private collection. .Gauguin’s work, with its bright colours, anatomically incorrect figures and the slightly ‘off’ perspective paved the way for the Primitivism style of art which was to follow. 
Biography;
Married a Danish woman, Mette-Sophie Gad in 1873 and over the following ten years fathered five children to her. By 1884, Gauguin had moved his family to Copenhagen, where he pursued an unsuccessful business career as a tarpaulin salesman.
His wife became the breadwinner by giving French lessons to trainee diplomats. His middle-class family and marriage fell apart after 11 years when Gauguin returned to Paris and began painting full time.
In 1888 he spent nine weeks painting with Van Gogh in Arles, it was during this time he first suffered periods of severe depression. He traveled to Martinique in search of an idyllic landscape and worked as a laborer on the Panama Canal construction;
In 1891, Gauguin sailed to French Polynesia to escape European civilization and "everything that is artificial and conventional" He wrote a book titled Noa Noa describing his experiences in Tahiti. There have been allegations by modern critics that the contents of the book were fantasized and plagiarized.
Gauguin left France again on 3 July 1895, never to return. His time away, particularly in Tahiti and Hiva Oa Island, was the subject of much interest both then and in modern times due to his relationships with several of the Island girls. 
Gauguin’s offspring almost formed an artistic legacy, of the children from his marriage; Jean René became a well-known sculptor and a staunch socialist, Pola (Paul Rollon) became an artist and art critic and wrote a memoir, My Father, Paul Gauguin. 
Gauguin also had several children by his Island mistresses: he had Germaine with Juliette Huais, Emile Marae a Tai with Pau'ura; and a daughter with Mari-Rose. There is also speculation that the Belgian artist Germaine Chardon was Gauguin's daughter. Emile Marae a Tai, illiterate and raised in Tahiti, was brought to Chicago by French journalist Josette Giraud in 1963 and became a respected artist.
In French Polynesia, toward the end of his life, sick and suffering from an unhealed injury, he got into legal trouble for taking the natives' side against French colonialists.
On 27 March 1903, while living in the Marquesas Islands, he was charged with libeling the governor, M Guicheray, and given three days to prepare his defense.
He was fined 500 francs and sentenced to three months in prison. On 2 April, he appealed for a new trial in Papeete. At the second trial, Gauguin was fined 500 francs and sentenced to one month in prison.
At that time he was being supported by the art dealer Ambroise Vollard. Suffering from syphilis, he died at 11 a.m. on 8 May 1903 of an overdose of morphine and possibly heart attack before he could start the prison sentence. His body had been weakened by alcohol and a dissipated life. He was 54 years old.
Gauguin was buried in Calvary Cemetery (Cimetière Calvaire), Atuona, Hiva ‘Oa at 2 p.m. the next day.
It’s the twelfth night, the decorations are down and packed away and I’m supposed to be going back to work tomorrow. I came across this Canadian environmentalist, conservationist and wildlife artist over the Christmas holidays.
He hasn’t always painted in this realistic style but this is the style he uses now in homage to the natural environment he loves so much. The ones I’ve chosen have a winter theme, but he paints the scenery and wildlife in all seasons and all weather conditions. I chose these in keeping with this present time of year, the holidays are over but spring is still a long way off.
http://www.robertbateman.ca/
what he says of himself;
"I can't conceive of anything being more varied and rich and handsome than the planet Earth. And its crowning beauty is the natural world. I want to soak it up, to understand it as well as I can, and to absorb it . . . and then I'd like to put it together and express it in my paintings. This is the way I want to dedicate my work."
-Robert Bateman
Information from
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Bateman_(painter)
Bateman was always interested in art, but never intended on making a living from it. He was fascinated by the natural world in his childhood; he recorded the sightings of all of the birds in the area of his house in Toronto.
He found inspiration from the Group of Seven; he was also interested in making abstract paintings of nature. It wasn’t until the mid 1960’s that he changed to his present style, realism. In 1954, he graduated with a degree in geography from Victoria College in the University of Toronto. Afterwards, he attended Ontario College of Education. Although the stage was set for an expert wildlife artist, Bateman moved on to be a high school art/geography teacher.
However, he still painted in his free time. It wasn’t until the 1970s and 1980s that his work started to receive major recognition. Robert Bateman's show in 1987, at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC, drew a large crowd for a living artist.
Bateman also has approximately six books devoted solely to his paintings. Bateman's decision in 1977 to produce reproductions of his paintings through Mill Pond Press has been criticized by some who feel that the reproductions are "overpriced posters that cheapen the legitimate art market". The reproductions are popular items, being sold in print galleries across Canada and more internationally.
In 1999, the Audubon Society of Canada declared Bateman one of the top 100 environmental proponents of the 20th century.
Today, Robert Bateman lives in Saltspring Island in British Columbia with his second wife Birgit Freybe Bateman. Robert Bateman Secondary School in Abbotsford, British Columbia, Robert Bateman High School in Burlington, Ontario, and Robert Bateman Elementary School, Ottawa, Ontario are all named after him.
In 2000, Bateman began the Get to Know program in British Columbia to educate young people about nature and to inspire youth to connect to the natural world.
In 2005 Bateman volunteered for an assessment of chemicals present in his body that had a proven negative health effect. The assessment was sponsored by the organization Environmental Defence.
In 2007, Robert Bateman and Birgit Freybe Bateman gifted Royal Roads University with original art, gicl̩es, photographs, sketch books and artifacts Рvalued at over $11 million. Royal Roads is currently fundraising to build the Robert Bateman Centre.
The Robert Bateman Centre aims to be an education centre with a range of accessible and relevant programming. The Centre will be situated in Hatley Park National Historic Site and will showcase green building technology.
John Faed (1820- 1902) 
The late medieval Brig O’Doon was chosen by Burns for the climax of his tale, Tam O’Shanter. It spans the beautiful river Doon, the auld brig (old bridge) gives visitors a chance to walk on the very spot where Tam’s mare, Meg, made her last heroic leap for freedom - leaving her tail still in the clutches of Nan, the “Cutty Sark” witch.
