Harold Town—never Harry, always Harold.

 Harold Town—never Harry, always Harold.

I first met him at the Pilot Tavern. He wasn’t a regular, but we fell into a long, wandering conversation that ended with an invitation back to his place. We headed straight for the den, where he pulled two quarts of Scotch from a cupboard, handed me one along with a glass, and gave me the tour. The house was a gallery of his own work—massive, impressive stuff. We eventually ended up in the basement, drinking and "shooting the shit" while perched on the antique carousel horses he collected. He even showed me an old X-ray machine he’d been experimenting with; looking back, I’ve often wondered if that machine was what eventually killed him. By the time the Scotch was gone, he’d found me some blankets and a couch to crash on.

The next morning was the usual blur of heavy hangovers and quiet coffee before I slipped out. I dropped in on Harold several times after that, always after midnight, and I was always welcomed with a fresh bottle of Scotch. I remember catching glimpses of people in the mornings—maybe a wife or kids—but I was never introduced.

One night, after the Pilot closed, I made the mistake of dropping by with Duke Redbird. Harold went ballistic. He told me in no uncertain terms never to bring friends to his house. But then he clocked my guest. "Hey," he said, his tone shifting instantly, "aren't you Redbird, the president of ACTRA?"

Just like that, I was forgiven. He handed us each a bottle of Scotch and took us on the tour. After we’d made a significant dent in the booze, Harold’s persona shifted; suddenly, he was a "native," an ally to Duke against the "white man"—me. He spent the night describing one of his favourite memories: paddling a canoe through a thick fog in a friend's swimming pool in Claremont.

I liked Harold a lot. He was creative, brilliant, and notoriously difficult. He was easily slighted and perpetually critical. I visited his studio a few times—a space once owned by A.Y. Jackson. It was overflowing; he’d even bought the studio next door just for storage, and that was packed to the gills, too.

One summer night, I stopped by to see if he wanted to hit an artists' party on Spadina. It took some prodding, but he finally agreed, despite his paranoia that every artist in the city was out to take verbal shots at him. He grabbed a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Vodka, and away we went. We lasted about an hour. Predictably, people started sniping, and Harold wanted out. Since I was driving, we grabbed the Vodka and bolted.

Flying up Spadina, Harold swore he’d never attend another "artist" party again. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, "Doesn't Iskowitz live around here?"

I pulled over and pointed to a lit third-story window. It was a sweltering night, and Gershon Iskowitz’s studio window was wide open. Harold stood on the sidewalk, screaming at the top of his lungs: "GERSHON! ISKOWITZ!" over and over. Gershon finally appeared, looked down at us, and silently pulled the window shut. We drove off laughing.

Around that time, I got into sailing. One night, Harold told me I could have his sailboat. It was a 40-foot yawl of some famous design that he co-owned with his dentist and Jack McClelland. He got their permission and I was ecstatic, picturing a masterpiece based on the photos. I gathered some buddies and drove to Kingston to claim her, but it was a tragedy. She’d sat uncovered for three years with the hatches open. She was rotted beyond repair.

Shortly after, I went sailing in the Caribbean for fifteen months. I lost touch with Harold, and he never really forgave me for the absence. I ran into him at the 22 a few months before he died. He gave me a hard time—"Some friend you are"—still as contemptuous of cancer as he was of everything else. But the spark was fading; the disease was wearing him down.