"You May Find Yourself" Peter Smith Sept 28, 1959-Oct 18, 2009
I loved my brother very much. But I hate that I am the one left to commemorate his dance to the music of time. Peter should be the one to say who and what he was. During his life too often because he suffered from schizophrenia Peter was robbed of his autonomy and right to define himself.
So, I am posting today a small selection of the art he produced with his commentary- as well as some excerpts from emails and remembrances from his wife, his dad and critics.
"Perhaps, it's a little scary, but the mystery surrounds us and is us, and one can only look on in wonder." Peter Scott Smith
“I am not a pessimist, because I know we are constantly changing by time or experience. I don’t know how long I've left to live but my existence has been a good experience despite my schizophrenia. I'm glad to be alive because it’s been a fucking blast. Peter Scott Smith
… I am always looking for a kind of sublime beauty … one that keeps someone to look again. There is a certain amount of pleasure dealing with uncertainty as long as your not fooling yourself about being uncertain. Peter Scott Smith
If your uncertain about being uncertain I figure your half way there. On my part to be fair dealing with uncertainty is easier to deal with if you have a roof over your head good food to eat and someone you love to share these things with. Peter Scott Smith
As Peter’s wife, I recall him at work in his studio. I had seen him frown at the components of an art piece; heard him hammering and sawing. Knew he was spattering paint, sticking on pictures and stickers — wrestling with forms, designs and ideas. Peter’s wife Maria
As we rummaged around in Toronto’s curiosity shops together, we always found images and objects to inspire us, taking it all in — together. Sometimes it was the images of another artist, but just as often it was scientific diagrams, photos of natural phenomena or even oriental carpets.
In his works, a universe inhales and exhales; domino dots and the heads of screws glisten like stars, while oil-painted cars on clogged expressways carry passengers to unknown destinations. Toronto, Art Curator
Peter sketched the demons that plagued his mind when he was imprisoned in the solitary confinement of extreme mental illness. Harry Leslie Smith
He was able to coalesce the bombardment of urban commotion and dollar-store detritus into intricate harmonies that engage the eye, heart, and mind—compulsively yet gently enticing the viewer to recognize affinities in the midst of chaos, so that the headlights of cars may be enjoyed on the same plane as a multitude of stars in the sky.
“You could have died from your heart attack. But I didn’t and you won’t either, Pete from this lung thing you have.” Peter and John talking during the summer of 2009
Substack is telling me I am reaching my length limit. Peter left hundreds of completed art work. Some is in private collections, others in galleries. Much is entombed at his widow’s farmhouse. One day I hope I will be allowed to liberate them.
It’s end of the month, and I am struggling to make my rent. If I don’t I don’t think I will do well on the street at the age of 61. So your help either through a subscription or tip is appreciated. I need around 6 new yearly subscribers to make my rent.
But with 3 days to go, it is getting tight.
Like so many others, my survival is a precarious daily undertaking. The fight to keep going was made worse- thanks to getting cancer along with lung disease and other co- morbidities which makes life more difficult to combat in these cost of living crisis times. Take Care, John