Doug Brinkman, social artist, activist, Indian Group of Seven, Group of Seven, 9/11 Truth, War of Retribution, Afghanistan, Omar Khadr, Civil Information Activism Edmonton Citizen Free News Sharing and Social Artistry
"Standing together as individuals, they tried to tear us apart. So they could isolate us individually .... But we stuck together" - Alex Janvier
"Your best work, when you do it, will always upset the general public – they're always a few years behind you." - Jack Bush
Doug Brinkman: I started expressing my creative self as a kid with a box of crayons on my parents' basement walls and inside the pages of my grandfather's leather-bound encyclopedia collection. So my parents began to supply me with a steady stream of paper and pencils with which to draw and expand my creativity. In secondary school I studied commercial art and printing, and took extra courses to learn photography and produce short video features. In my twenties I learned to fly, earning a private pilot's licence, and moved to Edmonton from Toronto. In my 40s I hiked the West Coast Trail on Vancouver Island 3 times and once to the Rose Spit on Haida Gwaii Island. Living in Edmonton I continued a career as a graphic arts craftsman operating mostly Goss high speed web offset newspaper printing presses, first for the Edmonton and Toronto Suns and finally with the Edmonton Journal (Video). I volunteered with Edmonton Community Theatre, painting sets and doing public relations. 
"Art must take to the road and risk all for the glory of adventure." - Lawren Harris
Inquiries richardwtc@gmail.com
Phone 780.424.1538

Back page gallery 1924 Art Project by Doug Brinkman
In 1924, Lawren Harris and A.Y. Jackson went into Jasper’s wilderness, to document and paint its beauty. That same year marked the opening of the Art Gallery of Alberta. The gallery showcased exhibits that followed those artists’ journeys. I spent months there sketch studying thier works. In the of summer of 2014, I travelled to Jasper's wilderness, to paint its beauty the way they had done 90 years agoYouTube: 1924

Civil Information Activism
Respect for People, Property and the Rule of Law
9 Afghan Boys Gathering Firewood: 2000-2001, 2013, 2015
March 3, 2011: KABUL, Afghanistan — Nine boys collecting firewood to heat their homes in the eastern Afghanistan mountains were killed by NATO helicopter gunners who mistook them for insurgents, according to a statement Wednesday by NATO, which apologized for the mistake.

The boys, who were 9 to 15 years old, were attacked Tuesday in what amounted to one of the war’s worst cases of mistaken killings by foreign-led forces. The victims included two sets of brothers. A 10th boy survived.“We were almost done collecting the wood when suddenly we saw the helicopters come,” said Hemad, who, like many Afghans, uses one name. “There were two of them. The helicopters hovered over us, scanned us and we saw a green flash from the helicopters. Then they flew back high up, and in a second round they hovered over us and started shooting.”

The Seattle Times
By Alissa J. Rubin and SANGAR RAHIMI

Canada's War of 9/11 Retribution 
declared January 2007- Continued...



Omar Khadr, The Man, The Law - Playlist
A great credit to you & your professionalism.Your work affirms our values. Dr. Stephen Nicholas Xenakis, American psychiatrist and military officer.
Social Artistry and Civil Information Activism since 2007
. text.
Tom Thompson was my mentor, but it was never his paintbrush you see,
but like wings of a dove he rode me above, pine wood thickets Algonquin he took me
The Painter 
September 1994

Swirl N' Splash
As paint meets up with canvas, 
and inspiration fills my head
of images that mirror my soul

Colour spreading danger, 
a new creation is born
can you see the holy fragments
of a coming celestial storm

Lovers wrestle territory 
eyes so real like soul
flesh tones look so eerie 
be not timid come take hold

Have I caught your attention?
Have I taken you someplace else?
do my images seduce your boundaries
are you feeling any doubt?

Tom Thompson was my mentor, 
but it was never his paintbrush you see!
But like wings of a dove he rode me above, 
pine wood thickets Algonquin he took me

look at me, look inside my naked frame
am I a fraud with paint brush 
Or like some god creating being?

Judge me...and you'll be judged!
Remember always our dreams.

Take hold my spirit when I am gone
for the love of my creation with in my canvas your own reflection may it tickle your spirit I hope you’ll see me.

Naikoon

Its the spirit that dwells in the forest
it's the external expansion of sky
it's the holyness within the water
it's the reality our existence in time

I long for you pine trees, sweet scent
I long for the thickets of life
I long for the sun, Moon and Morningstar
the pounding Thunder and flashing light


It's the spirit that dwells inside of us
it's the external expansion of time
it's the holyness us we must live by
it's the love you can see in my eyes

I long for winter snow, North wind blow
to launder my soul and cool my teeth
I long for the cool waters to lick my toes
wash the husk from my tired weary feet

Naikoon's Sunset rinse's me whole
from her wind, salt and eternal time
her sweet sounds of soft falling rain
within the expansion of my mind

A Moment
This Space
This Time
A Song by Doug Brinkman

Can I share a dream with you
Of mountain peaks, sweet smell of dew
Tomorrow is gone , this world is used
Soon there is nothing left to abuse

Chorus
Ripples on moon lit waters
Stars their dim lit shine
Wind sails softly over
A moment, This space, This time

Magpie flys high and cries out a song
Of the good times now they are gone
Cold winds of winter they whisper to me
Of the changes in the seasons
The frost on the tree

Winter goes by spring won't be too long
Ice world of color will fade by the sun
Sweet willows of May they whisper to me
Of the changes in the seasons
Sweet flowers green leaves.

In the Lions den

I saw the lion
By this side of the sky
Watching me with
Silent gaze
By the rock and salt
San Won de Fuca
Surrounded by waves
As children at play

This place is known
The Cullite cove
By the tenderfoots 
Who nurse sort feet.

But I'm thinking
we found the Lion’s den
and we are his guests
By this side of the lion
in evening we sleep

Saffron Sunsets

I'm laying still on my bed
saffron sunset's in my eye
tries to be a colour it's not

Dust bugs lay motionless
under my bed constrained.
Outside my window the sounds
of children laughter while playing.

Their cries seem to mix with
the groaning of traffic,
and sky overhead
thunder heads.
I look back to my walls
washed in the sunlight
and I’m humbled by my own
era of deathly declines.

My years have turned days into hours
weakened my knees
and carved my thickening middle.

Hmmm
saffron Sunset's and constraint buggies
have ways of sending my mind a trek
thoughts of love gone by,
relationships of vertigo,
bitter vinegar wines,
skies of emptiness and
a world of addicts and pimps

We all experiance this
in some way.

Hmmm
deep I sink into sleeping abyss
of constraint bugs and slumber.
Take away the dust buggy boos
that fogs my brain waves in luie.
Wash me down in saffron sunset
put me under so not to wonder
of a life so remorsed in blue

Salted uneven
November 1998 

Sun flared dogs
burn a path
to my eyes,
from the sultry
and lustrous
Tin roofs
on the corner
of a shadow
like a billboard sign,
pigeons compete
for positioning
and room.
I'm hot and believing
that I'm salted uneven
from a sun
that has etched me
and toasted beyond pleasing.
I'll not waste my time
nor be charred and refined
so the cool shade
of a city black elm
I'm anxious to find.

Salted Uneven Pt2

More and more these days my life seems
separated from the constant measure of self
Instead more of that free spirited fire
lives deep in my marrow somehow now.

Look there! 
upon the rooftops of tomorrow's sunrise
a crowd of politicking pigeons,
 coo ing, coo ing, coo ing...
nipping away at each other's lice
O yeah, just another day for our type
Just piling up more bird quack of Shiite.
eventually , It all decays and dries
into yesterdays crusty shadows.

And there I am in a sunlight cafe
I'm ready to be a part of life again
here on the razors edge of doubt.
as the winds decide my fate
today I shall simply bathe 
as I am... I’m salted uneven...


Shyann
1997

Shyann
 young and able
Shyann queen of 95Th. street

No more can she control
her frustration and tears
From more of her masters
blows, She'll end up dead
she fears

Tomorrow she thinks
she can run
Tomorrow she'll wait
for the beast to sleep
get some government welfare
stay away from 95Th. street

mean street
hopeful dream
a bleeding spleen
No welfare handout
no promises to keep
dashed her slats
her foundation
from out under 
black and blue
are her only
true colour
Back on her beat 
with broken wing
Shyann
 young and able
Shyann queen of 95Th. street


The West Coast Trail
To Dave and Bonnie
1996

My friend
we made it!
take hold
this moment...
her back
we broke it.

She gave us 
her best,
by land and sea
put our hearts
to the test!
Till our spirits
came washed clean.

Thank God
for today!
Tomorrow
our trail is
through,

with torn skin
and ligaments,
and our hearts
in solitude.

God bless
the hikers
of tomorrow,
Who walk
this grueling trail,
and introduce them
to whom they are
when they
walk the
West
Coast
Trail


El Mozote
A Song by Doug Brinkman, Dec. 1998

Stick ball in the meadows
Is what the children would play
Carlos ,Hesos Rosillita
are just a few of the names
The children of El Mozote
are the future of El Salvador
los niños del EL Mozote 
son los niños de El Salvador

Maria run for your life
they got their loaded guns
Go and hide in the jungle tonight
get out from under the sun
 Take what children you can
Leave behind the rest
For the lives of a few
Could save the ones who are left

U. S. trained gun men
With therte bloody bayonettes
Wasting little children
and the mothers who resist
How can this be
From the land we call free
can fund a bloody slaughter
in the name of Liberty
Liberty…

Reagan has certified
that up is down,
black is white, In is out
This war must be peace
Senators and Congressman
You must share the blame
cause they killed them
just like chickens
down in El Mozote
El Mozote …

The children of El Mozote
are the future of El Salvador
los niños del EL Mozote 
son los niños de El Salvador

Indian girl

Indian girl staggers
on oil soaked road
staggering in hot sun
lethargic slow mo.
her glance sunken
tears cured of petrol
destination no where
a fading flower foe

Indian girl staggers
she trips and falls 
to the oily road
A fallen flower of love
A fallen flower of hope
From the womb of
mother earth she was
suppose to be....
Indian princess
born to be free
Who was that?  
unknown father 
Who was that?
brain dead mother
An Indian princess
she roves the reserve
no purpose known
a blossom torn
no part of us,
alone

L'Ecole Polytechnique
1989
(15 young souls died that day)
Dec 6/1997 

used and abused
from early day
a newly child born
to a loving mother
hard handed father
the assault began
in the early 50s
to a frighten child
who had demons in 
his the closets
over the years 
it was quite clear
that tears, and lax
bowels may never
restrain, from beatings
from his peers, and daddy.

lucky it seems ,
the wee otters dreams
were filled with
love, life, and happyness
recieved 
by the love of mother
and a wise grandfather
strengths, wisdom
the love carried the otters
spirit through
his struggles, and lifes 
unfairness for years.
friends turning sour
wives who dishonor
broken vows, promisses
sucked into a bastion of lies

To society, 
Im white and male
evil and not to be trusted
right
wrong! Truth be said
Im a child of the wind
a hawk with fierce eyes
sharpe edged tallons
I am love with-in,
a playful loving otter 
scars from my father
from malicious women
from the bullies in my neighborhood
not demons , but people...
dam we like to blame the devil

I thank the sky and wind
for the heros in my life,
and the song birds of whyte, 
mother earth father sky 
fellow otters, who refused to break
my skin, but instead sow love

Cause I really could have been messed up!

 Montreal a human was born
caged and abused, he killed... 
14 humans died
because of his insane rage
Marc Lepine, a monster
we aren't born a monster!
his abusesers,
soured his spirit into decay

BANG,BANG,BANG BANG BANG,BANG,BANG,BANG,
BANG,BANG,BANG,BANG,
BANG,BANG.............

Mother earth, 
Grandfather sky

Mother earth
Grandfather sky
god the enforcer
the pie
in my eye
holy your
presence
water of truth
sweet fire
your essence
the lamb
and a fool
are you vain of
what we've become?
Our planet deteriorates 
head first for chaos

These are the days 
of moving freeways,  
and nights
of accelerating evils
back biters
back sliders
back seat riders,
puppets and poets
cancer corpses 
dominating forces
fortified extraterrestrial right
to left wing swingers 
the small few who
control me and you
control masses with
confusing religion
devalued dollars, pesos,
 yens, liras
beastie dealers and demons
Judges n movers shakers,
n takers and Reapers
lacking in spirit 
void of faith 
scorched from logic 
leaving us a tad
thirsty and hungry
fired into angry 
indigestion
 full of tears
apprehension
Upon a moon lit dawn
Late night rituals and
religious ceremonies
bewildered by fantasy
n wetted dreams
and nightmares...
just dreams
so go back to your homes
n go back to your bar stool
soak your heads in dish liquid,
scented with lavender
and wish you were on a star

Mother earth,
Grandfather sky...
Do you look the other way
and not hear the cries?
Is forgiveness required
before we can fly?
or should we sit here
foot up, relax and sigh
Hey mother, Hey Grandfather
Are we only graded grains
of lunatic seed
scattered to barren floor
at basement bargain prices 
into out of life n lies
revolving door.

Why are we teased and
sometimes lost from our
most yearning desire 
love


love is to love
is to be loved, 
is to give love 
and to receive love  

Through a cracked speaker
Sept 97 

It's ok
I'm ok now
lithium influences
calm my karma
as did a hike on
leaves of cool
autumn
paradise today
Its all good

I,m soaking
back Skuly
black coffee
reclined
Singly 
in a forest
of stools and 
table tops, among
distant articulates
of absent
conversations.
Inspired by its
sounds of Zulu
sasses sizzles
absorbing deep
into my marrow
causing sharp 
discomfort
within my bones.

I see my inspirations
a fowl, through
the cracked and 
buzzing wall
speakers, resonance's
of Sahra voice saying...
We burn in heaven
like we do down here.

Trails (body , soul)
March 1997

Shaky first steps
to a cold March day
fifty odd pounds my backpack display
I venture to the valleys dim first light 
my cutting of a new trail 
I will delight

I'll do more/less eight hours of hike
of my will be challenged by test 
this seasons first cold bite
my breath on elm tree sings of
solitude and silent surrounds me
in this snow crystal tomb

Home bound I'm tired now
Soon March moon
casts her shadows over me
shadows my foot tracks
I am blind by nights darkness
and I strain to see
mostly I trust my body and heart
to guide me home body and soul 

Venus
1998

Wonderfully forever
Charlotte's Shores
memories of driftwood
sand dunes 
boreal forests
and her slow mo
ocean waves
and tides
giving the world
her share of sun salt
and promises

Venus holds
center stage tonight.
her slow mirrored glimmer
shines like diamonds
scattered on Ocean canvas

how can I
as one
be so bold
so arrogant
mislead myself
of what I am
before the night
before the eyes
of Venus
in the palm
of Charolettes grasp

Wynona
Feb-1999

Softly
Tenderly
Wynona looks
Chiseled
tightly wrapped
and pissed.
I'm dizzy from
the heights
that follow
and turned on 
momentarily
by her attitude.
Wynona
woman of mis fortunes
or caught by 
a photographers eyi
stranger in my mind’s
electro circuit
and neon eye

Wynona
black Harlem
Negro shades
razors edge
sticky point said
on blood on blood.
My memory of her
scabs me over and itches
into wishful desire
in empty prison cells
to hold you close
in my arms,
and to kiss away
your tear forever.
but a fuzzy fly buzz
lodges her wing
into my eye
and my vacant tongue
can taste only her memory
of salt, her skin
skin upon skin.
Like Daniels beauty
for the love of
for the love of
your pain
your pain
that razor edged pain.
Your point is well said,
a cuts to the bone
and conjures up
smooth liquid ceriese
my river of my love 
for Wynona
spilling outward 
to the floor.

Still your pain
never see’s the day
caught from within the
black and white
mist
Your being dark
and void of life 
you’ve become
the dust that
questions my heart.
Wynona
gripping that dagger
Hiding her troubled pout
eyes filled with salted tear
from a unstable minds eye
your black and white

Indian Tale
Nov 12, 2000 
(river ice flow)

I saw the river
flow flow flow
with ice shields of buoyant colour
glow glow glow

What leniency these colours 
cause rocks to hitch a ride
upon these ice flows transit glide

And over here and over there
It sounds like a rolling grey whale
creating themes of serenity
of Indian ice flow tales
Indian tales from momentous time
along the banks of the Saskatchewan
you’ll hear these parable whines

Clack Clack women
Observations from an 
embattled male
1997  

Dam those witches of East wick
and dam the witches of Perth
dam the witches who tear away
at a hungry man's bloating girth
Witches of vicious attitude
who despair and without a care
tosses my heart like a rag doll to the wind
grounds my name into toxic polluted air.

Dam those angry singing Alannis’s
women hurting and full of despair
dam the witches of watered gossip
who think that their lies are fair
dam the witches of evil rumors
dam the witches me-itis greed
dam their conspiring tumors of talk
that grows in gardens like killer weed
Cackles of women's
Cafe conversations
women huddled
together
all over the dizziness
of city live.... tonight 
caught up in cackle
conversations, 
cross legged
bags at sides 
or tossed to soiled floors  
cackles of women
conversations
with those
painted smiles
painted eyes
painted styles
and painted lies

like hen house Clucks
mouths in full motion
lips spitting words
of concerns and notions 
they echo off walls
echoing electric buzz
of laments and
her torments 
resentments and
her battlements,
chastisements
and yes of course few compliments,
Oh did you get that at sears?
I got my hair done at man of tears
do you like it how it shines
I rinsed it myself with limes 

My husbands 
impotence
his malcontent
negligence and
imprisonment’s of 
me in the kitchen
bare footed and pregnant
I want to be free free free..... as a dove......
I miss that burning love
Think I’ll join that
women’s club...
You know the one
the womans liberation front!...
Oh your going to bingo Friday
Naw, He’s just watching TV
that bum of mine
wasting away!
 into a lump of clay...

then a quiet thought...

Bone of an ass

I parked my ass on an outside chair
immersed into another night cafe scene
for another evening like so many others
I’ll suck on addiction, the powerful caffeine

“Caffeine , the strongest of blends
if you please,
chocolate covered biscotti”

while I hide behind
my polarising night
scanning the
plebeians of whyte.

Mmmmm sweet women's faces,
fresh eyes, soft tender smiles,
silk supple multi coloured skin
walking in the drizzle of neon light 
in confidence

in tune

in heat

along the lubricous sidewalks 
the beat of Whyte avenue

“Dam!”

My mind pines for female company,
for the sweet scent of femininity.
My eyes touch there eyes,
and I sense
they may have caught my starring
I look the other way 
Hmmmmm still
sipping my evening blend of miracles
trying to appear like I'm the coolest
My heart leaps in love and lust. 
these fragile lovelies!
Oh these female strangers.
I undress them all naked !
in the corner of my heart’s
perverted fantasies.
In my dreams I will walk the ends of
White avenue with you all. till alas
all this catches up to me
tears at my hear, and eats way at me
torn and feeling quite forlorn.

alone once more

God ...maddening, bounce my
brains and scatter my remains 
into the Avenues dusty road. 
beat my brains with the jaw of a ass
tear out my hungry soul

 leave me alone 

Leave me alone with evening blend
and my chocolate covered biscotti
alone in my mind once more

non pertinent affairs
much to do with not
 August 1997

Sunlight portrait
luster headstone flares
from bars and cafe's
from salons and back ally ways
gathering social affairs
small talk
small talk
whispering 
sweet nots
sweet nots
into the air
a wind
without direction
a toil 
without flair


Destiny on a breeze
1994  

Life will make
its toil with me
There no two ways
to this certainty
We are destiny
on a breeze
It is who we are
and what we will be

Life can be a riot
or a soft silhouette
We face many dangers
in this earthly armpit
Love hope and peace
we need and require
But most fall wayside,
follow other desires

Death will make
its foils with me
There no two ways
to this certainty
We are destiny
on a breeze
It is who we are
and what we shall be

 No one knows
what time or day
When death comes to feed
on our lump of clay
The body of life is like
a corn field in fall
It grows up in season,
Till harvest takes all

Half Witted Jips
Oct 2000

Flying niggle 
entertain my hairy arm 
winds blows fall 
leaves coloured glow
another flare sunbeam
hot pig iron
craven fastens
my eye lid closed
Creature creeps 
on my elbow soft
collecting skin dust 
from uncertain zone
linger upon the edge
of unconsciousness 
Empty thoughts fixed
on hierarchy bough

Half witted JIPS!
have tried to brave
climbing tree tops
flying charade

From March 30, 2015 to May, 2017 this painting was shown freely with it's story shared to the public. The painting was used to defend free speech in Edmonton by those who shout, use bull-horns and loud speakers to express themselves. I used it to defend my own right to freely express myself with art in public after I was banned and threatened by Gov. officials.  The painting was retired, given to the poet.
March 30, 2015: I did my first outdoor art show in the streets of Edmonton beginning in front of the downtown Shaw Conference where I was inspired to paint my first social art painting titled The Poet & the Judge, We First Nations, Métis and Inuit and ending my show on the Alberta Legislature grounds. After the closing of the Truth and Reconciliation Alberta National Event March 30, 2014, I published a YouTube 'Mom got her voice today' that featured Elizabeth Potskin reciting a poem with the Chair of the TRC Murray Sinclair standing behind her and encouraging the crowd outside the Shaw conference center to listen. 
2015 The Poet & the Judge, We First Nations, Métis and Inuit art project
2014 'Mom got her voice today'
March 30, 2014 Free News Sharing YouTube
'The Truth will set you free but at first it will piss you off' - Murray Sinclair
March 30, 2014 'Murray Sinclair looks back and reflects on the #TRC ' re-published Mar. 31, 2018 YouTube

Art tells a story that every life has a story
I express art to extend the stories from my citizen news reporting on YouTube beyond the internet, out into the public square of our communities to help bring people closer together, to share ideas, solutions and tell thier own stories. I have learned from listening to others share thier stories that it's just as important as our right to free speech because if no one listens how can our speech be free?    
March 28, 2018 sketch study (left) inspired by William Townsend's 1952 landscape Alberta (Banff) currently on display second floor of the Art gallery of Alberta.
March 26, 2018 Sketch study of 1952 William Townsend with student at the Banff Centre.
Sketching hones my creative skills and builds confidence and understanding - Doug Brinkman

William Townsend 
(British, 1909-1973) came to Canada for the first time in 1951 to teach painting in Banff, Alberta. For the rest of his life he returned repeatedly to teach in Alberta, surveying the state of contemporary painting across the country while en route. Sharing lessons of modern painting from London, Townsend promoted Canadian art and artists internationally.

On display at the Art Gallery 
of Alberta until July 1, 2018  
AGA : Continued
William Townsend, Sketch Study Feature
Civil Information Activism is Active Citizenship
while respecting People, Property and The Rule of Law, Serving Edmonton Since 2007
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