I Ink, Therefore I Am

“I’ll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.”
— William Shakespeare. Henry VI, Part I

IT WAS A FRIDAY EVENING in June 2014, a night for celebrating poetry. The occasion was the annual Griffin Poetry Prize, the venue The Fermenting Cellar, in Toronto’s Distillery District in the old Gooderham & Worts factory. On that same night, in the limestone-walled chamber built for brewing whisky, a new film was conceived: The Colour of Ink, about what Samuel Johnson called “the black liquor with which men write.”

The film’s creator, Brian D. Johnson, had retired four months earlier from working full-time as a senior arts writer for Maclean’s magazine. He was networking that night, putting the pieces together for a documentary about poetry, Al Purdy Was Here, a tribute to the late folk-hero poet. At the post-awards party, Johnson felt an anxious tap on his shoulder.

Jason Logan, an art director and graphic designer who used to work at Maclean’s was clutching a small dark bottle. He had heard that Johnson had interviewed Margaret Atwood and he wanted an introduction to her so he could present her with a sample of his home-made walnut ink. She’s not here, Brian told him, though it’s funny you should ask, because I was just interviewing her this afternoon. Jason was disappointed, but before the conversation ended, he blurted out:

The film is about so much more than ink

“I’m the guy behind Al Purdy’s statue’s