I have a confession to make. I'm having an affair. It's a romance that has been going on for years. Should I tell, or have you already guessed? My love affair is with Canada.

If I were to compare Canada to a great work of architecture, then its keystone must surely be the Niagara region. For this charmed peninsula between the Great Lakes is where the seeds of the civilized Canadian society which we enjoy today were planted and nurtured.

In the late 18th century, Southern Ontario, once a vast wilderness home to the Mississauga first nations and the intrepid explorers of New France, suddenly found itself home to a critical mass of several thousand new immigrants, the American loyalists who trekked north, determined to start over, after their lives were shattered by a political revolution in the 13 colonies. Many of these people had been stripped of their homes and lands, and they were ostracized by former friends and relatives who were on the opposing side of a struggle for a different kind of nation. Sound familiar?

Millions of immigrants from other lands and other conflicts have come to Canada in recent times, but we often overlook the fact that the colonial Americans who sided with Britain were among the first ethnically cleansed, politically incorrect refugees to seek safe haven here in this heartland of central Canada.

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You know his name, but how much do you know about Ontario's visionary founding father? As a young British soldier, John Graves Simcoe fought for 6 years in the American revolutionary war against George Washington. Simcoe was on the battle field when the British army finally surrendered at Yorktown, Pennsylvania. With the Treaty of Separation of 1783, when Britain finally recognized its former colonies as the new United States of America, a seminal period in English Canadian history began -The Loyalist Decade.

The British had lost Boston, Philadelphia and New York. Two giants of our colonial history who are largely ignored by Canadians today were Sir Guy Carleton, later knighted Lord Dorchester, and Sir Frederick Haldimand. From 1783-93, in a Salvage and Rescue Operation unprecedented in North America, these two military leaders supervised the evacuation of thousands of Loyalist refugees to the newly created Maritime provinces and Quebec. By the end of this crucial decade, when Toronto was officially founded by Simcoe in 1793, more than 50000 refugees from the new United States had made their pilgrimage into Canada. This was a major turning point in the evolution of the modern Canadian society we know today.

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In 1781, Simcoe had returned to Britain as a wounded veteran of the American war. He met and married a young heiress named Elizabeth Posthuma Gwillim. (She was named Posthuma, because her mother died in childbirth). They started a family, he became a member of parliament, and lobbied to realize his dream of recreating a New British society in the western Quebec wilderness which would soon be renamed Upper Canada, later Canada West, and finally, Ontario. Simcoe's Reward was a Canadian Paradise Found to replace the Paradise Lost of the 13 colonies. In a word, Simcoe kick started Ontario, Canada's largest and most populous province. Though a staunch Anglican, he was a firm advocate of multiculturalism, encouraging a host of new immigrants that included Quakers, French Royalists, German Lutherans, Highland Scots Catholics, and black slaves who were soon to be freed under legislation which Simcoe himself authored, abolishing slavery in Upper Canada nearly 70 years before Abraham Lincoln did in the United States.

This ongoing Canadian commitment to provide safe haven and opportunity to those fleeing upheaval and oppression must never be undervalued. Now I am neither old stock English nor pure laine French, yet I'm proud to call both languages and cultures my own. I have invented a name for a third group of Canadians whom I represent. The acronym is PEEVED, (are you listening, Quebec?) which stands for Practically Everybody Else Vaguely Ethnically Defined.

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My own grandparents fled war-torn Europe to make new lives in a younger Canada in the early 1900s. One grandfather, a veteran of the Russian-Japanese war, made his way to Edmonton via Vladivostok in 1912. The other came from Romania to New York to Toronto. If we think it was tough for our grandparents, - at least there were cars, railroads and electricity, - try to imagine the bleak wilderness that confronted the first settlers of the 1790s. The lakes and rivers were the highways of the 18th century, and before Simcoe's Queens Rangers literally hacked Yonge and Dundas Streets out of the bush, Ontario was crisscrossed by a few mysterious Indian trails and portages known only to aboriginal peoples and those fearless French Canadian adventurers, the coureurs de bois.

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Joseph Bouchette, a French Canadian boat captain on the Great Lakes wrote in his memoirs, of the first time he piloted governor Simcoe to shore in the summer of 1793 after an overnight sail from Niagara to found the the new capital at Toronto:

I still distinctly recollect the untamed aspect that the country exhibited when first I entered the beautiful basin. Dense and trackless forests lined the margin of the lake, and reflected their inverted images in its glossy surface. The wandering savage had constructed his ephemeral habitation beneath its luxuriant foliage, and the bay and neighbouring marshes were the hitherto uninvaded haunts of immense coveys of wild fowl.

Elizabeth Simcoe, who has left us a national treasure in the form of her diary, wrote and sketched continuously during their 6 year sojourn in Canada - Here is one luminous excerpt from August of 1793, just after they landed in Toronto harbour. "I rode on the peninsula from one till four. I saw loons swimming on the lake; they make a noise like a man hollering in a tone of distress. At a distance they appear like small fishing boats. The air on these sands is peculiarly clear and fine. Some Indians of the Ojibway tribe came to visit us from near Lake Huron.They are extremely handsome and have a superior air to any I have seen; Some wore black silk handkerchiefs covered with silver brooches, tied right round the head, and scarlet leggings with blue broadcloth blankets. They brought the Governor "a beaver blanket to make his bed" as they expressed themselves, and invited him to visit their country."

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So Niagara is where the central Canadian experience took shape, and tonight you are a vital part of this historical continuum. My own connection with Brock University has been a happy one. I've lectured here at Canadian Studies seminars, and encountered receptive teachers and students who were eager for more knowledge about our storied past that is so close to us and yet unknown to so many. I've corresponded with professor Michael Ripmeester who has shared with me his exhaustively researched thesis on the Mississauga Indians and their interactions with white society on the north shore of Lake Ontario during the 19th century.

This honour you have bestowed on me is especially meaningful, as I was a university- trained artist. The place of the artist in the academic community is relatively recent. Up until the 60s, the university wasn't the recognized educational milieu to pursue for artists who took themselves seriously. Bachelors and Masters of Fine Art are relative newcomers to the degree-holding ranks of higher education. But I studied art history and languages and philosophy first, and I now realize that nothing could have better prepared me for becoming a painter than to have discovered Plato, Chaucer, Giotto, Racine, Edvard Munch, and Emily Carr.

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One lesson I've learned along the way is that you should consider everything you do as a rehearsal for what comes next. The undergraduate years you have just completed are the Dress Rehearsal for The Great Play that opens tonight, one hopes, for a long and successful run. There will be drudgery. And there will be magic. Be on the lookout for one of life's great perks - Serendipity. Chance. Luck. The Unexpected. If you have the presence of mind to combine serendipity with own intuition, you may find yourself on a roll. When you come to understand the significance of failure and rejection, which artists deal with throughout their lives, you shall overcome, and you shall fly.

As a student at the Sorbonne in Paris in the 60s, I kept up a lively correspondence with Margaret Atwood who was doing post-graduate work at Harvard. Serendipity brought us together a few years earlier when we were both working at an Ontario summer camp. I was the Arts & Crafts instructor. She was the Nature Girl. Once, standing in a muddy field, with a group of campers at her feet, she summoned me over and asked me to stroke a toad in front of the squirming kids to prove I wouldn't get warts. For the record, I did , - go over and stroke the toad, and I didn't, - get warts, that is. After the kids were safely tucked in bed, we would sit by the lake watching the sunset and slapping mosquitoes and I'd recount a repertoire of budding artist grievances to her. I had and still often have this gloomy habit of collecting injustices, real or imagined, when something didn't go the way I thought it should. In my letters I would grumble about a teacher or a critic who wasn't the least bit interested in, as Atwood called it, The True Beauty of My Inner Soul. She'd write me back, saying practical things like, "Never mind, some day you'll be painting God's murals in the sky and they'll all be roasting in hell." Innocent Revenge Fantasies, they were born out of impatience, the desire to succeed, and to show the world I was a contender.

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Last month while visiting Queenston Heights on a splendid fall day, a friend talked me into climbing to the top of the Brock Monument. By the time I got halfway up the 235 circular steps, I began to feel dizzy and short of breath. I kept stopping to rest, but I continued on up, convinced that the reward of a stunning view of the Niagara river and escarpment would make the sweaty effort worth it. Well, I did get to the top, and ended up somewhere inside General Brock's hat with just enough room to peek out of a tiny porthole at a less than sweeping view. "Is that all there is?" I puffed, massaging my sore knees, and began the long descent. When I got to the souvenir shop at the bottom of the column, I found a rare book on The Loyalist Exodus I'd been trying to locate for 2 years. Serendipity.

As with each new generation, yours is faced with a different set of challenges than mine was. Thirty years ago, Canada's communications prophet, Marshall McLuhan, predicted the instantaneous information age we are now living in, where the media bombard us relentlessly with daily doses of electronic gossip and the Global Village is no longer earthbound. The usual bad news about airplanes plummeting and busses plunging continues to crowd the airwaves, only now the electronic highway must be shared with growing hordes of cyber geeks interfacing with Internet web sites.

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Your challenges - finding jobs, doing fulfilling work you love, being able to afford a decent place to live, having meaningful relationships, caring for others, - none of this is as straightforward in the 90s as it was even one generation ago. Lifestyles and rules are changing. Despite the Internet's marvellous capacity for accessing the world from your computer screen, it will never replace life's simple and enduring joys. Breathe fresh air. Plant a tree. Drive across Canada as soon as you can. I did at age 23, and it imprinted me for life. Walk beside the Bow River near Banff as it spills out of the Rockies. Visit the fortress of Louisbourg on Cape Breton Island on a foggy day. Take a ride on the Maid of the Mist. Without a raincoat.

Few Canadians take the time to appreciate what this country has to offer us. Even around the corner. A half hour from here, north of Burlington, in the woods near the village of Campbellville, I discovered an Iroquois longhouse recently rebuilt on the site of the original which anthropologists have dated back to the late 16th century. Last month, I took a visitor from Paris, the son of the celebrated French minister of Culture André Malraux, to see it because he wanted to experience something indigenously Canadian. As we went inside the primitive cathedral built of wooden pine poles and stretched animal skins, his comment was "C'est fabuleux. " And you know, it was.

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Many years ago, I recall, my high school art teacher, a little tyrant, set out a vase with a daffodil in it, and commanded the class to "Start Work!" We began scratching away with our coloured pencils. When she hollered, "Pencils Down!" I proudly held up my drawing in which I happened to add some blue shadows to the yellow part of the daffodil. Miss Hudgins looked at my drawing scornfully and a wicked smile crept over her face. She said, "Now Charles, we all know daffodils aren't blue, dear. 3 out of 10, plus two detentions for being a smart aleck." She also said, "The trouble with you is you think too much." Right then and there I had a flash, and vowed that never again would I allow the scourge of mediocrity to undermine my tenacity of spirit. Tonight, we celebrate everyone who thinks. And the reward is the gift of discernment. The mindful over the mindless.

These past years of study have no doubt been enhanced by the friendships you have made here. Hang on to them. Some of you may have found your life mates. Others may have found kindred spirits. Thirty years from now you'll know what I mean. Sitting among my friends tonight is a former classmate from my University of Toronto graduating class of 1964. Then she was a diligent young woman who spent more hours in the research library than practically the whole class put together. Today she is a respected art historian and world authority on the paintings of Vincent Van Gogh's Paris period. Now I'm no match for Van Gogh, but Prof.Bogomila Welsh had the grace and forbearance to write a biographical essay for a recent book on my work. At times she got so exasperated with me, she declared. "I'll never work with a living artist again! Dead artists don't give me hassles." But she persevered, and I'm the luckier man for it. And her friendship has given me strength.

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There are several dear friends here tonight, whom I consider to be fellow travellers. You have teased and inspired me, supported and consoled me through the roller coaster ride of this artist's journey. Your loyalty has been, as my niece Jennifer would say, Totally Awesome. And golden Serendipity -my parents are here, and my sister and her family. From my father, a true gentle man and an extraordinary raconteur, I inherited an uncanny ability to remember jokes, a talent which I never thought much of until I realized how few people can recall the parts leading up to the punch line. An example:

Four doctoral candidates are required to write a thesis on the Elephant.

The English student writes "The Elephant - Its Lifestyle and Habitat".
The French student writes: "On The Love Life of the Elephant".
The American student writes: "Towards a Bigger and Cheaper Elephant".
The Canadian student writes: "The Elephant - A Federal or Provincial Problem".

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My mother, an irrepressibly youthful legend in her own time, has given me some of my most quotable quotes. When she turned a vibrant 80, she announced with great conviction, I'm not 80, I'm 65 U.S. When I was 12 years old, she counselled me with this immortal line, "if you want to paint, paint the bridge chairs." I know, you just wanted me to do something useful. Well your wish has come true. We now have a Doctor in the family. My sister had the dubious fortune of following me in high school where our infamous art teacher said to her, "well dear, you have pudgy fingers and no co-ordination, but we'll give you a pass because you're Charles' sister." Needless to say, my sister Karen is a brilliant survivor.

You all know the saying, If the system doesn't work, Change the System.

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Tomorrow morning I fly to Saskatoon to address the Canadian Artists Union western conference. Yes, there is an artists' union in Canada. And you know why? Several years ago, some of us came to the conclusion that the system wasn't working for artists. In public museums across Canada everyone from the curators to the janitors was paid, but guess who wasn't being paid? The artists. So a bunch of us got together and lobbied the government to establish a fee schedule for artists exhibiting in public galleries. Artists, like people in general, come in many political stripes. At one end of the spectrum there are the armchair leftists or as the French call them, Gauche Caviar. They shun the market place, or pretend to, and believe the state owes them a living simply because they chose to be artists. At the other end are the self-promoting artist-entrepreneurs who do their own thing with or without state financial help, getting by on their wits and chutzpah. There are arguments for both sides of this issue - because in most parts of this enormous country the market for contemporary art is often marginal and unpredictable. Now I have been asked to speak on the following topic: Living Well is the Best Revenge: How Artists can lead a Rich and Fulfilling LifeBefore They're Dead.

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My advice? Find your unique connection to the universe. Cultivate it. Cherish tradition as you delight in change. The philosophers tell us that everything alive is in flux. And in the perpetual process of becoming, we are continually renewed.

By the way, do you know what the philosopher said to the hot dog vendor?

He said, "Make Me One With Everything!" Well, tonight you have made me feel like I am one with all of you. So I salute you, and wish you all Serendipity, and Discernment, and I offer my heartfelt thanks for this honour.

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