Death by Depiction:

Absence in the Landscapes of the Group of

Seven and in Margaret Atwood’s Death by
Landscape

Lara Lee Meintjes

Abstract: In Strange Things, Margaret Atwood remarks, “in Canada, most tribes were
never exactly conquered; more typically, they were done out of their land through
trickery involving legalistic paper sleight-of-hand or through simple encroachment”
(Strange 38). This essay reads Atwood’s 1990 short story, “Death by Landscape,” not
only as a tale about the shocking disappearance of a thirteen-year-old girl but also one
about the vanishing of Canada’s indigenous inhabitants through a related sort of
prestidigitation: the erasure of native Canadians from the landscapes depicted by
Canadian painters. In representing the landscape as virgin wilderness, the painters deny
and thus erase its original inhabitants and as these images become part of Canada’s
record — her visual and symbolic history — the inhabitants of these places vanish from
that record: a sort of death by landscape.

In July of 1917, Canadian painter Tom Thomson drowned in Canoe Lake,

Algonquin Park. He was swallowed by the very landscape he depicted with such vibrant
and idiosyncratic color in his expressive, almost fauvist, paintings several of which hang
on the walls of major museums in Canada and beyond. Thomson was associated with a
collective of Canadian landscape painters known as the Group of Seven, working
between 1920 and 1933. Although Thomson died before the formation of the Group of
Seven, his work and relationship with the other painters were major contributions to the
founding of the group and to the development of a distinctive style of Canadian
landscape painting. The painter’s demise is not the only absence shaping the movement
that would come to define Canadian artistic identity. Conspicuously absent from the
beautiful and silent expanses reflected on the canvases of the Group of Seven and their

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associated painters are human beings, and indigenous human beings to be specific. This
may at first seem to simply be one of the conceits of landscape painting, but consider the
doctrine of Terra Nullius under which land that is deemed to be unoccupied or
uninhabited may be granted, by the crown, to her various colonial interests (Rogers, et.
al). These paintings would go on to form a cornerstone of Canadian cultural identity,
and for all of their extraordinary beauty, they nonetheless depict a landscape devoid of
inhabitants: one wild, rugged, and ripe for discovery – terra nullius.
Thomson’s life and work clearly influences the development of this school of
painting, and it is likely that his unexpected death also played a role in the creation of
his myth. In David P. Silcox’s The Group of Seven and Tom Thomson, Thomson’s
paintings are referred to as “the visual equivalent of a national anthem, for they have
come to represent the spirit of the whole country” (Silcox), and Thomson’s
contemporary, Arthur Lismer, asserted that the lone tree in Thomson’s “The West
Wind” is “a symbol of the Canadian character, unyielding to the wind and emblematic of
steadfastness and resolution” (Lismer). Thomson painted Canada, but it may be argued
that, in a sense, he also created Canada. Montaigne once wrote, “I have no more made
my book than my book has made me” (de Montaigne 437), and this sort of reciprocal
construction appears to be occurring in the creation of the Thomson and Group of Seven
landscapes — in painting the Canada they chose to see, these artists were creating the
Canada they painted: a place ripe for exploration and discovery, a landscape devoid of
inhabitants or human history. In representing the landscape as virgin wilderness, the
painters deny and thus erase its original inhabitants, and as these images become part of
Canada’s record — her visual and symbolic history — the inhabitants of these places
vanish from that record: a sort of death by landscape.
Margaret Atwood, is, of course, another Canadian treasure and it was through her
writing that I first encountered Thomson. Atwood’s 1990 short story, “Death by
Landscape,” is, like Thomson’s, a story about absence. It centers around the shocking
disappearance of a thirteen-year-old girl and how this trauma shapes, or perhaps
absents, the life of her best friend. But after reading it a few times, I was less certain
about that — is it a tale of childhood friendship and loss at a summer camp in postwar
Canada, or may it be read, perhaps, as an ekphrastic analysis of the landscape paintings
produced by the Group of Seven during this same period?

Margaret Atwood Studies, vol. 16, 2023, p. 35

Reading Atwood’s story, I wondered if I could map her references to the painters and
their works to see if the resulting map would unearth some literary treasure — a story
within, or perhaps beneath, a story. I was perplexed by the sheer amount of space she
grants them in what is otherwise a characteristically spare and balanced narrative. The
tracks that they leave on the landscape of her story surely have to mean something.
While considering these tracks, I found myself staring at Subhankar Banerjee’s
photograph, “Caribou Tracks on Wetland III.” In this image, a vast beige expanse is
crisscrossed with irregular trails that look, at first, like jellyfish tentacles straggling
purposelessly through muddy water. Once the image resolves, offered a sense of
perspective more by its title than by any clearly discernible horizon or natural feature,
the viewer becomes aware that they are looking at a landscape marked by a past
presence. The tracks symbolize the progress of a herd of now absent caribou. By drawing
attention to the herd’s traces, the photographer highlights their absence.
Banerjee’s caribou traces are notable as evidence of the presence of animals at
some, now vanished, moment in the near past. In the great Canadian landscape
paintings of Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven, even traces of the land’s inhabitants
are absent, erased. Atwood’s “Death by Landscape” occupies a middle space between
these two extremes: her characters exist in the memory of the narrator, Lois. So, in a
sense the story becomes Lucy’s tracks. But in the memory Lois recounts, her friend
disappears without a trace. We are told, “there had been no sound of falling rock; there
had been no splash. There was no clue, nothing at all. Lucy had simply vanished”
(Wilderness 114). Although this excerpt refers to a missing girl, it could just as easily
apply to the people missing from the Group of Seven paintings — they have vanished so
completely that they appear to never have existed at all.
In a lecture entitled “The Grey Owl Syndrome,” delivered at Oxford University in
early 1991, Atwood remarked “in Canada, most tribes were never exactly conquered;
more typically, they were done out of their land through trickery involving legalistic
paper sleight-of-hand or through simple encroachment” (Strange 38). Perhaps the
paintings of Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven enact a different, more insidious
sort of prestidigitation; they simply erase the inhabitants of the landscapes they depict,
thus leaving a vacuum in which many and varied forms of Atwood’s “Grey Owl
Syndrome” might be performed.

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 “Vanish” is a curious word, particularly as it may be applied to art — on its own it
embraces a peculiar lack of agency: somehow people simply vanish, nobody “vanishes”
another person. But in reality, things and people don’t simply vanish. And as paintings
are objects created by people, any absence must be presumed to have been introduced
intentionally. Paintings, particularly those depicting a space with some defined sense of
perspective, frequently include a vanishing point, a place on the canvas to which the
artist’s (and viewer’s) eye is drawn by the lines created by the placement of objects in the
composition. In Brian Rotman’s Signifying Nothing, he explains the vanishing point as
a space “unoccupiable by a person or indeed any physical object” and further describes
how the role of this site is to organize the depicted objects “into a coherent unified
image” (Rotman). Rotman argues that the elements of the painting depend on the
vanishing point for their coherence within the plane. What makes this so remarkable is
that the vanishing point is not an element in itself; it isn’t even a thing that is there; it is
merely a location on the canvas at which the various planes intersect. Essentially, it is an
invisible thing that, in its very absence, holds the whole composition together — the
focal point of the painting is an absence.
This is also true with regard to Atwood’s tale: Lois’s story is about the
disappearance of Lucy. Lois’s whole life becomes, after the vanishing, about this single
mysterious and traumatic moment. Atwood’s narrator tells the reader that Lois “can
hardly remember, now, having her two boys in the hospital, nursing them as babies; she
can hardly remember getting married, or what Rob looked like…” and that “it was as if
she was always listening for another voice, the voice of a person who should have been
there but was not. An echo” (Wilderness 117). Atwood’s use of “echo” here is revealing —
echoes too are traces, audible tracks in the landscape, the sound of past voices reflecting
off of the present environment. Lois’s recollection of Lucy’s disappearance is so clear
that parts of the retelling happen in the present tense, even while the tale is evidently
being recounted by an elderly widow, decades after the event itself. Lucy’s vanishing
becomes the vanishing point on the canvas of Lois’s life. How might this relate to a
famous school of Canadian landscape painters though? And how might noting and
meditating on the absence of the original inhabitants of the land that these painters
depict as empty and silent come to lend depth, or perspective, to their paintings and to
Atwood’s fable?

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 Our first introduction to Lois takes the form of a house tour; the reader learns
that she lives in an apartment overlooking Lake Ontario. Her view of the lake is
mediated by the frames of her large windows. Lois’s aversion to all forms of living
terrestrial nature is established within a few lines as we read about her relief at not
having a lawn, nor having to worry about ivy creeping into brickwork, nor squirrels
entering the attic. In an especially revealing moment, we are told, “the only plant life is
in pots in the solarium” — a curiously controlled kind of plant life, potted and glassed
off, a sort of nature-in-captivity (Wilderness 99). An odd parallel exists between the
solarium and her collection of paintings: “Lois is glad she’s been able to find an
apartment big enough for her pictures” (Wilderness 99). These are hung salon style, in
blocks ascending the walls. Landscape paintings define the represented landscape,
creating boundaries and limits through their perspective, their painted edges, their
framing of the scene they depict. They are then further controlled through framing and
even further so through hanging in the fashion described, in which they reside in an
ordered grid alongside countless other paintings, other places, huddled together on
apartment walls.
Lois’s apartment is somehow blissfully devoid of living “nature” but is then
crowded with representations of the natural world. And these paintings are not just any
landscapes, Atwood devotes considerable space to detailing the paintings with which her
protagonist shares a home: “Lois has two Tom Thomsons, three A.Y. Jacksons, a Lawren
Harris. She has an Arthur Lismer, she has a J.E.H. MacDonald. She has a David Milne”
(Wilderness 100). Even before she begins describing the scenes depicted within the
landscapes, the extravagance of this collection is clearly established through Atwood’s
masterful use of anaphora: “Lois has…She has… she has… She has,” and in case the
reader mistakes this extravagance for a demonstration of wealth alone, the author
prevents this error by establishing that Lois purchased the paintings at a time when the
artists “were not nearly as well known” (Wilderness 100). The point, it seems, is not that
this wealthy old woman owns fancy paintings, but that she owns these particular
paintings. And thus, the reader is invited to closely examine the paintings within the
context of the story, or the story within the context of the paintings.
The landscape in which Lucy vanishes is called “Lookout Point,” and in an eerie
moment of foreshadowing Lois remarks “what you were supposed to see from there was

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not clear” (Wilderness 111). This landscape is Lois’s blind spot, her own vanishing point.
She can describe it so clearly, and yet she cannot find the thing that she lost within it.
Lois describes the path up to the lookout as “dry earth and rocks, big rounded pinky-
gray boulders or split-open ones with jagged edges. Spindly balsam and spruce trees
grow to either side, the lake is blue fragments to the left” (Wilderness 111). In a manner
reminiscent of Lois’s searching within the paintings, I long to match this description to a
particular painting, but I cannot. The Group of Seven paintings are varied in their
subjects, but all of the painters interpreted the Ontario landscape within their particular
style — it could be almost any of them. The path up to Lookout Point certainly has
echoes of Lois’s descriptions of the paintings she owns though. These include “pictures
of convoluted tree trunks on an island of pink wave-smoothed stone” and “a lake with
rough, bright, sparsely wooded cliffs” (Wilderness 100).
Atwood’s narrator illustrates the ubiquity of these images in Canadian
consciousness at the time of Lois’s retelling, explaining that “their work later turned up
on stamps, or as silk-screen reproductions hung in the principals’ offices of high schools,
or as jigsaw puzzles, or on beautifully printed calendars sent out by corporations”
(Wilderness 100). Stamps imply a sort of government sanction, and also demonstrate a
defined contribution to the creation of a national culture. A full set of Group of Seven
postage stamps was issued in May of 2020 to mark the 100th anniversary of the group’s
first major exhibition — even thirty years after Atwood’s story the Group’s hold on
public consciousness remains compelling. Silk-screen reproductions imply mass-market
appeal, and puzzles introduce the images to the nation’s children, embedding these vast
and empty landscapes in public consciousness from an early age. Through drawing
attention to these paintings within the short story form — an infinitely accessible and
public medium — rather than within the more limited world of the academic essay,
Atwood expands their audience and also the impact of any commentary she might be
making on their role in the shaping of a Canadian national identity1.

1I recognize that this is an imaginative reading of Atwood’s story, indeed, what one professor of mine
referred to as a paranoid reading (although probably not in the Sedgwick sense), yet Atwood was certainly
thinking about the shaping of Canadian identity during this period as it forms a cornerstone of the
Clarendon Lecture Series in English Literature, which she delivered in spring of 1991 at Oxford
University and later published as Strange Things.

Margaret Atwood Studies, vol. 16, 2023, p. 39

 The Group of Seven paintings remain highly visible in Canadian public life. I
visited the Art Gallery of Ontario’s website while researching this essay and was
unsurprised to find walls of Lawren Harris paintings marching off into the distance,
marking the header images of various pages including one entitled “the AGO
Collection.” Atwood’s approach, if this story may be read as art criticism via ekphrasis, is
sound. If one is to question the Group of Seven’s impact on public consciousness, it
makes sense to approach this criticism in a similarly public format. These paintings have
come to form part of the cultural bedrock of Ontario, and perhaps even Canada more
broadly. And these renderings of the landscape are utterly gorgeous, layered and
complex and lushly smothered with unexpected color, but are they misleading?
Thomson’s paintings are named for the spaces they depict; they are called Canoe Lake,
and Tea Lake Dam, and Path Behind Mowat Lodge, and so on. All of these spaces are
within Algonquin Park in Ontario; surely people exist in these spaces, even if they are
just summer visitors?
Lois spends her childhood summers (and her life apparently consists only of
summers and winters, there are no liminal in-betweens in this tale) at Camp Manitou.
“Manitou” is an Algonquian concept which reflects the fundamental spiritual life force of
all beings: this life force is omnipresent and exists in all things, from human beings
through the environment, to non-physical things such as events (Bragdon). This naming
choice is intriguing because, on one level, it assigns a sort of consciousness to the
landscape, lending an eerie intensity to the title and to the vanishing itself; on another,
it reflects the connection between the aboriginal peoples of the region to the landscape
itself, and on yet another level, it introduces what is to build up to a veritable litany of
acts of cultural appropriation.
Cappie, the camp leader, whom Lois describes as “never one to be much
concerned with consistency, or with archaeology,” performs a kind of hybridized Native
Americanness as she sends her charges off on a canoe adventure (Wilderness 108). This
ritual merges elements of the war, whose reverberations provide a backdrop to Atwood’s
story, with a Disney-style Native American theme. Cappie emerges with three red
lipstick streaks on each cheek, the counselors wear two streaks, and the campers one.
War-paint hierarchies and the singing of taps are performed alongside the playing of
cheese-box tom-toms and the delivery of parting speeches in cringeworthy pidgin.

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Cappie wears “a twisted bandanna around her head” with “a row of frazzle-ended
feathers around it” and everyone is wrapped in blankets (Wilderness 107). Lois admits
that she finds it “disquieting” from her adult perspective but also that she was
enchanted by it as a child (Wilderness 107). Cappie tells the campers that they will “go
where no man has trod,” and even as Lois notes the marked canoe routes and the named
campsites they will be exploring, she feels “the water stretching out, with the shores
twisting away on either side, immense and a little frightening” (Wilderness 107). This
enchantment is visible in the landscape paintings too, and the painters of these works
were almost certainly engaged in a related performance of belonging in and to this place.
Lois “wanted to be an Indian. She wanted to be adventurous and pure, and aboriginal”
(Wilderness 107). And perhaps Tom Thomson did too. Thomson would disappear into
Algonquin park for months at a time, supported by a generous patron. He came to know
this landscape intimately, traveling vast stretches of water by canoe and living a solitary
existence just a short distance from his life in Toronto. From photographs, letters, and
journals, we know that Thomson fished and gathered other food within the park,
painting portraits of vistas he found especially compelling and then moving on,
nomadic. On their canoe trip, the campers of Atwood’s tale travel a mapped path from
established site to established site in a pantomime of exploration and discovery, just as
the settlers did; as Thomson did; and possibly as one does when wandering the hallway
depicted on the Art Gallery of Ontario’s website.
By highlighting these artists and their works in a story about disappearance and
landscape, Atwood encourages her reader to consider what roles these two concepts play
in the symbolic and cultural work done by the painters and their artworks. Atwood
creates a landscape of her own through her narrator’s description of the paintings and,
later, through description of the Ontario landscape itself. She makes the absence of the
indigenous inhabitants of this landscape evident through acts of appropriation and
performance — the vacuum created by their absence is filled by vacationing children.
The home and away binary so often explored in folklore and fable is evident here, as it is
evident in William Cronon’s “The Trouble with Wilderness,” in which he writes about
“the removal of Indians to create an “uninhabited wilderness” within which “tourists
could safely enjoy the illusion that they were seeing their nation in its pristine, original
state” (Cronon). Cronon explores how the concept of wilderness forms part of US

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national identity, how it contributes to America’s frontier mythology, and critically, how
“once set aside within the fixed and carefully policed boundaries of the modern
bureaucratic state, the wilderness lost its savage image and became safe”—safe enough
for summer camps, perhaps.
In a history that parallels the one detailed in Cronon’s explanation of the
founding of the US national parks, it isn’t just culture that is appropriated by the
campers and the painters — the land upon which these white suburban children perform
indianness and upon which the painters staged their frontier dreams is also
appropriated. Where did its inhabitants go? Did they, like Lucy, simply vanish? Or, were
they first cleared from the land and then, through vanishing from representation itself,
from memory? The official website of Algonquin Provincial Park states, “For most of
Algonquin’s history, human settlement was not a very important element. Scattered
family groups of aboriginal peoples came to fish, hunt and pick berries, but their
numbers were never large. It was not until the 1800s that big changes came to the
rugged Algonquin highlands” (Friends of Algonquin Park). This strange representation
of regional history denies the presence of the very people after whom the place is
named. The “big changes” of the 1800s were the result of white settlers moving into the
area, changing the flow of the river and thus the shape and composition of her lakes, and
introducing widespread logging. The Beaver Wars of the late 1600s had decimated the
Algonquin (who had sided with the French) and shortly after this, settlers began to move
into the area in large numbers.
In 1763, a royal proclamation was issued by King George III, ostensibly
recognizing the territorial rights of the region’s original inhabitants, and yet within less
than a decade the people found themselves fighting a losing battle as they attempted to
retain access to their ancestral lands and their way of life. Pushed ever further out to the
fringes of their territories, bands representing the various groups within the broader
umbrella term of “Algonquin” petitioned Canada’s Governor General for land in this
region to be set aside for them. Although an agreement was reached, the Algonquin
peoples living within this region were not granted timber licenses. Further, they were
barred from preventing logging on their lands by those, white settlers, who were
granted timber licenses. In 1893, Algonquin Provincial Park was created and designated
as a timber and wildlife reserve (Luckasavitch). When the indigenous inhabitants again

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requested formal recognition of their land rights in and near the park shortly after its
creation, then Superintendent David Thompson wrote, “The formation of a settlement
of Indians on the borders of a territory of this kind would, in my opinion, be attended
with great danger to the preservation of game in the park. You know the predatory
habits of these people, how they roam about, and how difficult it is to keep watch of
their movements in the forest” (Thompson qtd. in Luckasavitch). A strange statement
indeed, when contrasted with the declaration on the park’s current website regarding
when “big changes” began to occur, and with the evidence provided by the decimation of
the region’s old growth pine forest in the seventy years from the issuance of the first
logging permit in Madaoueskarini territory (now in Algonquin Park) in 1836.
As Algonquin park was expanded, the indigenous inhabitants were moved out
into nearby townships, losing not just their ancestral land, but their community, their
way of life, and — to some degree — their identity. The statement on the park’s official
website reflects the prevailing understanding of the human history of the park. Through
physical removal and denial of access, to removal from the record through the rewriting
of the land’s history, and later through being painted out of the landscape, the Native
American is vanished, opening up the landscape to serve as a stage somehow
reimagined as “pure” and “adventurous” upon which fantasies of discovery and
domination, and indeed, of “aboriginality” could be performed.
Around the time that Thomson and the Group of Seven began creating their
lavish cenotaphs to Ontario’s mythic wilderness, a Boer War veteran named Taylor
Statten created the first summer camp for boys from the nearby cities within Algonquin
Park. He envisioned it as a place “focused on teaching woodcraft and natural lore”
(Taylor Statten Camps). A camp for girls run by Statten’s wife Ethel followed a few years
later. Echoing Lois’s assertion that “in those days … it was birds for girls, animals for
boys,” this camp was named Wapomeo, which means “birds of sunshine and laughter”
in Ojibwe (Wilderness 103). It was here, in 1917, eight days after vanishing beneath the
surface of Canoe lake, that Thomson’s body washed up on the shores of Little Wapomeo,
an island later reimagined as summer camp for girls where they would spend their
vacations crafting and canoeing and writing their own new Canadian wilderness myths.
Lois describes her collection of landscape paintings as “holes that open inwards
on the wall, not like windows but like doors,” and she is troubled by a presence in them,

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remarking that “despite the fact that there are no people in them, or even animals, it’s as
if there is something, or someone, looking back out” (Wilderness 118). She is haunted by
the very absence of people in the landscapes, and perhaps we should be too. In “Vision
and Painting” Norman Bryson refers to the vanishing point as “the anchor of a system
which incarnates the viewer, renders him tangible and corporeal… a visible object in a
world of absolute visibility,” consider this idea of absence and incarnation, in the
context of the story and the paintings: Lucy’s disappearance created the Lois that existed
after that event, that particular point in time (Bryson). Who, then, does the
representational banishment, the vanishing, of the Native American make if not
Canada? Canadian identity, insofar as it is tied to the landscapes rendered by the Group
of Seven, is created by the settlers’ erasure of the land’s human history. The Group of
Seven painters created a record of what they believed the Canadian landscape looked
like and embedded that image in popular consciousness. Atwood brings absence to the
conversation that began with the creation of these paintings through her tale of
vanishing. Where before we had vast and painterly virgin wilderness, we now have a
vanishing point, a significant absence — and the perplexing question of what to do about
a past that we are apparently still unready to confront.
In his photographs, Subhankar Banerjee offers us tracks as evidence of the
presence of vast herds of caribou at some point in the near past and if that isn’t enough,
he also offers fields of caribou skeletons in his other photographs — concrete evidence of
the destruction wreaked on the rapidly changing landscape by climate change, itself the
ultimate expression of unchecked capitalism. Thomson and his compatriots offer us a
trackless absence as a form of invitation, but their erasure of human history is made
conspicuous when introduced through the lens of Atwood’s story. Atwood’s fable deals
not with capitalism itself but with one of its allies — settler colonialism — and she
refuses us the tidy satisfaction of a body. “Because [Lucy] is nowhere definite, she could
be anywhere”: this disturbing category of traceless absence could easily apply to the past
inhabitants of Algonquin Park — moved into the nearby towns, denied access to hunting
or fishing or any ties to the nomadic lifestyle they previously enjoyed; they are
swallowed by society much like Tom Thomson was swallowed by Canoe Lake. And as
Lois remarks in Death by Landscape, “how could you ever find anything there, once it
was lost?”

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 Works Cited
Atwood, Margaret. Wilderness Tips. Doubleday, 1991.
---. Strange Things. Oxford University Press. 1995.
Bragdon, Kathleen J. The Columbia Guide to American Indians of the Northeast.
Columbia University Press, 2001.
Bryson, Norman. Vision and Painting: The Logic of the Gaze. Yale University Press,
1983.
Cronon, William. “The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature.”
Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the Human Place in Nature, ed. William
Cronon. W.W. Norton & Co., 1996.
de Montaigne, Michel. Essays of Michel de Montaigne. Translated by Charles Cotton.
ed. William Carew Hazlitt. Gutenberg Press, 1877.
Friends of Algonquin Park. “Cultural History.” Algonquin Provincial Park.
http://www.algonquinpark.on.ca/visit/history/cultural-history.php.
Lismer, Arthur. “The West Wind.” McMaster Monthly, vol. 43, no.4. 1934. pp. 163-64.
Luckasavitch, Christine. “A Brief History of the Madaoueskarini Algonquin People.”
Muskoka Region. 6 June 2019. https://www.muskokaregion.com/community-
story/9422211-a-brief-history-of-the-madaoueskarini-algonquin-people/.
Rogers, Alisdair, et. al. “Terra Nullius” A Dictionary of Human Geography, Oxford
University Press, 2013.
Rotman, Brian. Signifying Nothing. Stanford University Press, 1993.
Silcox, David P. The Group of Seven and Tom Thomson. Firefly Books, 2006.
Taylor Statten Camps. “TSC’s History.” Taylor Statten Camps.
https://www.taylorstattencamps.com/tsc-history/

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