Featured image: Digby, Nova Scotia – Discover Nova Scotia through Maud Lewis’ eyes | Photo by daveyandsky via Tourism Nova Scotia

Places to experience Maud’s life and art

By Sandra Phinney, Contributor, Atlantic Canada

In the early 1950s, my mother drove my sister, me, and some friends on Sunday afternoons 100 kilometres from our home in Yarmouth to Digby, Nova Scotia, to skate on an indoor rink. On the way back, we often stopped on the side of the road in Marshalltown at what I called “The Gingerbread House.” It was the home of a female folk artist. 

The woman was short, and her wispy white hair was loosely tied back in a bun. Hunched and gnarled like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, my friends thought she was creepy but she didn’t scare me. Never having known a grandmother, I secretly called her “Granny.” Granny always had a shy smile for us. She was tiny and reminded me of a bird. When she painted, because her hands were arthritic and misshapen, she held onto a brush like a chickadee clutching a branch.

Granny’s small house was close to the road. It was only 12 feet by 14 feet with a small loft. Outside, there were flowers, birds, and butterflies painted on its single window, the front door, and shutters. The inside was pure whimsy. Every surface popped with more painted flowers, birds, butterflies and animals, all rendered in bright primary colours. The only thing I didn’t like was the rancid smell—a cross between mushed green bananas and turpentine—probably from the paints she used and rags that were never cleaned. Sometimes, my eyes itched.

There was always a stack of Granny’s paintings on a chair next to the door or in a pile under the window. Some had prancing horses that pulled sleighs through winter scenes, while others had red-yoked oxen with giant eyelashes and big brown eyes that always looked befuddled. 

Mama would pick up a painting from the top of the pile, then give the woman the asking price of two dollars. Sitting at a small table across from the wood stove, a long-legged old man with a frown and a face full of whiskers kept watch with his beady eyes. Nodding, he took the money and put it in a blue Players Tobacco tin in the middle of the table. He never spoke. When the old woman turned back to see us out, Mama would slip another two dollars into the pouch of her apron, and whisper, “This is for you.” Granny tilted her head, smiled, and looked at the floor.

I later learned that Mama bought the old woman’s paintings as an act of charity. She knew the couple was in dire straits, but she considered the woman’s work child-like. The paintings were used to start fires in our big living room fireplace; none survived.

Maud never took an art lesson and never visited an art gallery, yet her work is pleasing to the senses, full of joy and unbridled happiness. I’ve often wondered where she found the courage, determination, and optimism to get on with living. Looking at Maud’s paintings gives me the feeling that she simply turned the world upside down then said, There there now. See? Everything’s OK. The world really is a good place.  

Maud Lewis sites of interest to travellers

In 1984, after Maud and Everett had been dead for 14 and five years respectively, the Province of Nova Scotia purchased their neglected home for the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia (AGNS) in Halifax. Fourteen years later, The Scotiabank Maud Lewis Gallery opened, featuring the fully restored Maud Lewis Painted House inside the gallery’s own walls.  It is truly a marvel, considering it is enclosed in the gallery in its entirety, just as it was when I visited her as a child. The AGNS also has a substantial body of Maud’s work. And, occasionally, there are exhibits of her work at the AGNS’ satellite gallery in her hometown of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.

In the village of Seabrook, on the outskirts of Digby, you’ll find a replica of Maud and Everett’s home, built by a retired fisherman, Murray Ross. Murray has done a remarkable job. Although his website reads like a dog’s breakfast and is top heavy with things the family sell related to Maud, you’ll find the actual site uncluttered and lovely.

About 10 kilometres away is a stunning steel frame where Maud and Everett lived in Marshalltown, designed by world-renowned architect Brian MacKay-Lyons. At night, it is lit up and you can see through the steel frames. I always like to imagine what life was like inside those walls.  Adjacent to the house is a lovely garden and picnic area, with informative interpretive panels.

A short drive onto the North Range Road close by will take you to a small cemetery with Maud and Everett’s tombstone. 

Maudie—the movie

Of course, even if you can’t visit these sites in person, you can get a great overview (and understanding) about her life and times through watching Maudie starring Sarah Hawkins and Ethan Hawke. Although the scriptwriter/director took some liberties with a few historical facts (after all, it’s a movie!) they kept the essence of her story intact and did a remarkable job.

A bonus for me was to visit the site where most of the movie was filmed in Keels, Newfoundland. Mind you, filming Maudie in NL is a bone of contention with Nova Scotians as the government of the day had dropped its subsidies to film companies back in 2015; otherwise, we like to think it would have been filmed in my home province. But I got over grumping about this when my travels to NL brought me close to Keels this summer. Once I learned Maudie had been filmed there, I visited this darling village not once but twice. 

Selvy Mesh, the second-generation owner of the general store in Keels where a few scenes were shot, reminisced about the making of the movie. I loved spending time with him, and having chats with customers who came in for everything from cheese and bologna, to mailing a letter. Selvy’s turned the rear of the building into a small café with lots of big windows.

I planned my second visit to arrive around lunch and had visions of having a big bowl of pea soup or chili, but Selvy had closed the café for the season. Instead, I bought a jar of pickled mussels and later ate them in the car close to a large rock face featuring hundreds of holes the size of my fist, referred to locally as “the devil’s footprints.” And that, dear reader is a story for another time.

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