“Doreen had a funny sense of humour. Well, maybe not so funny. One time at camp she put somebody’s bed up in a tree. A lot of people might not think that was funny. I guess it would depend on whose bed it was.
“I had seen Doreen before, but didn’t really know her. She was aware that Barbara Howard and I, recently graduated from OCA, were looking for a place in Toronto, and she told us about the possibility of a studio in Mona Bates’s house at 519 Jarvis Street.”
Mona Bates had been a piano prodigy, giving her first public recital at the age of seven. As a concert pianist she had toured Europe in the early twenties, finally settling in Toronto in 1925 and opening a studio in the Jarvis Street house, an old Massey mansion, where she taught for forty years. Doreen Uren was one of her special students. Through the young girl’s recommendation, Frances and Barbara moved into a small ground-floor studio at the Jarvis Street address in the summer of 1951.
The years 1951–53 were hard, both financially and psychologically. There was the initial euphoria after four years at OCA and the excitement of stepping out into the world of art. This was quickly followed by the harsh realities of no job, no money, and no prospects. “I had finished studying at OCA,” said Frances, “so there were no more cheques from the Department of Veterans’ Affairs. No one was beating a path to my door, and I had no income other than a few dollars in my pocket that I’d put aside from my counselling at summer camp, and any bit of private sculpture tutoring I could scrape together, and a few dollars working part-time for Dr. Williams, the vet.” At one point, in the spirit of quid pro quo, Frances painted the entire third floor of the Jarvis Street house in lieu of rent. OCA, too, offered the opportunity to make an extra dollar or two, but sadly just the opportunity. “I taught a night class there for Jacobean Jones, the sculpture instructor who had replaced Emanuel Hahn. It was just for that first winter after I left the school. Jacobean hired me as her assistant. It was never officially recognized, so I never got paid. I was told later that she was notorious for doing that sort of thing.”
Frances couldn’t understand how she and Barbara Howard existed in the cramped Jarvis Street studio. “We almost murdered each other, trying at one and the same time to both live, and work, in that small place. Our work area was no bigger than the average kitchen. In fact, our work area was our kitchen. My stand, that always had a work-in-progress on it, was in front of the sink, and next to me was the gas stove. Behind me were Barbara’s workbench, Barbara’s easel, and Barbara. She was usually working on a large canvas, often four-by-six feet or bigger. If I were working on a small piece — and even a small sculpture takes up a surprising amount of space — we would literally be working back to back.” One of Barbara’s works that was hung over Frances’s bed actually fell on her one night.
“One of your heavier works,” said Frances, rubbing her head.
“Mmm,” said Barbara.
“Heavy with significance, a weighty subject,” said Frances.
“Mmm,” said Barbara again, examining the corner of the canvas that had struck Frances’s head, then replacing the painting above Frances’s bed.
“I think she was more concerned over the condition of the canvas,” said Frances. “But, really, the Jarvis Street studio was just an impossible situation, a crazy idea. But you don’t know until you try it.”
Frances had always been interested in music — listening, singing, and playing. In the navy she was the Wrens’ answer to Édith Piaf, and during her last three years at OCA she played second violin (“very badly”) in the University of Toronto’s symphony orchestra. There were close ties between the university and the art college, on more than just the academic level, so Frances — holding the view that if you want something, ask for it — went to them and asked to play the violin. “The experience opened my eyes to new dimensions in music. It was a wonderful time, an adventure. It also showed me, once again, that people aren’t going to be aware you want something unless you let them know. Most of the time they’ll give it to you. Often they’ll be delighted you asked.” Generations of people who have been in business for themselves have recognized this as the Entrepreneur’s Rule Number One.
In the latter part of 1952, Barbara Howard left Jarvis Street for England, and Frances stayed on in the small studio. During this period she was still working for the veterinarian Dr. Edith “Bud” Williams (nicknamed “Bud” for unverified reasons, though the story is that a tiny niece or nephew couldn’t pronounce “Edith,” which is the way many of us get our nicknames). Williams shared accommodations with her friend Dr. Frieda Fraser on Burlington Crescent just south of St. Clair Avenue. Frieda, a tiny woman, barely a hundred pounds and to a great degree a recluse, was professor of preventive medicine at the University of Toronto.
“I first met Bud just before I went into Sunnybrook Hospital,” said Frances. “Ruth Holmes, who taught museum studies at OCA, introduced me. I worked for Bud part-time after school for three years, and continued after graduation while I was living on Jarvis Street.”
Dr. Williams was the vet who looked after the cats belonging to Frances Loring and Florence Wyle, known in the art world as “The Girls,” two Toronto sculptors already famous for their art, and their parties. “When Frieda and Bud learned that I’d never heard of them, Frieda and her veterinary companion had us all together for dinner, and The Girls invited me over for tea the next day at their studio, an old church on Glenrose Avenue near Mount Pleasant Road and St. Clair Avenue.”
In 1913, when The Girls first arrived in Toronto from the United States, they took a studio in the Church/Lombard area, where they lived and worked as sculptors for seven years. In 1920, they moved to the old church on Glenrose and remained there for the rest of their lives.
Frances Gage’s first impression of their church was of a large room crammed wall to wall with sculptures, dust, and cats. She had never seen so much sculpture. “It was wonderful!” A.Y. Jackson, a frequent visitor to the church studio, called it “a most colourful place!” He said that in many ways it was the art centre of Toronto. And the parties! “What wonderful parties they put on!” said Jackson. “Artists, musicians, architects, and writers were proud to be invited to a Loring-Wyle party.” Rebecca Sisler, an old friend and fellow sculptor, remembered “the regular gatherings when everyone came and mingled among the sculptures (which were) in various stages of completion, and were part of the background.”
“Their parties were a legend in Toronto,” said Frances. “There was always a ‘little bit’ to drink. Frances Loring liked her rye whisky. The neighbours, all the members of the Group of Seven, and a lot of other people came. I didn’t get in on any of the really wild parties, when The Girls were in their prime. I went to a couple of them later on and helped with catering and giving out drinks, but they weren’t as wild in those days. A.Y. Jackson painted a cardboard Christmas tree, and they always put that up in December. Emily Carr was there once, but The Girls were not impressed with her, or she was not impressed with The Girls, one or the other. Pity, because she was such a great woman.”
It was through The Girls that Frances met Helen and Charlie Band. Charles Band was a prominent businessman and philanthropist, and former president of the Art Gallery of Ontario. Frances, quite frankly, considered Helen a saint. “They lived in Rosedale, near the Sherbourne subway station. Helen knew The Girls were always short of money, so she arranged for Duguid’s, the wonderful Yonge Street butcher, to send The Girls a package of meat twice a week. And these were steaks! I had some myself. Florence Wyle sometimes fed a steak to a neighbour’s dog. This big fat dog would come to the window. ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she’d say and he’d get a steak.”
The Bands had a wonderful collection of works by the Group of Seven.