Welland History .ca

The TALES you probably never heard about

Friends pay tribute to Frances Turnbull

Renowned local artist ‘saw beauty in everything’

By Marie Chamberland, Tribune Staff Writer

[The Evening Tribune 24 July 1990]

Welland- Glowing memories of local artist Frances Turnbull are seeping through the shock felt by friends after her tragic death Sunday.

Turnbull, 89, died when her River Road home caught fire at about noon.

The matter is still under investigation.

Yesterday Cliff Miller, an inspector with the Ontario Fire Marshal’s office said while no cause had been established, he had no reason to believe it was anything other than accidental.

Neighbors said Turnbull’s home had been the target of vandalism over the years.

Francis Turnbull was simply a woman of her times—The  Victorian era”, said friend Larry Cooney “In her paintings you felt that she displayed the themes of those times. She remained focused all her life and didn’t necessarily conform to society’s beliefs. If people didn’t accept her, she didn’t necessarily care.”

Cooney and his wife Carol aren’t quite sure when they met Turnbull.

“She just came into our lives,” Carol Cooney said.

“We enjoyed her so much,” Larry said,”she was kind of like one of the family.”

Turnbull sometimes spent Christmas with the Cooneys,

“She  always talked fondly of her family,” Carol said.

Widowed in 1967, Turnbull had one daughter, Deborah Peddle, who works in the performing arts.

“You loved her,” said Carol, about the local artist. “She saw beauty in everything and she was a very kind person. I just never heard an unkind word from her.”

Having grown up not far from where she lived in a sprawling white house which featured huge upper and lower verandas, Larry said he always knew of her.

Carol said Turnbull was unique; her own person—even when it wasn’t fashionable.

Turnbull did a portrait of the Cooney’s three children about 15 years ago Instead of accepting money for it, she had them make a donation to her church.

A scholarship fund for art students is being set up by friends in Turnbull’s name.

“I think that is a fine idea,” said Ruth White, an artist and instructor who was a longtime friend of Turnbull’s.

“I knew her…as a kind, sensitive and generous person,” she said.

She said she thought neighbors’ descriptions of Turnbull as eccentric were derogatory.

“The things that were said about her—the dreadful headlines and the following comments are as shocking as her death,” she said referring to a Tribune article which ran Monday.

“She was my dear close friend. A truly Victorian lady and a first-rate artist and teacher of fine arts,” White said last night.

She said as a young woman Turnbull studied at the Albright Knox  Art  School in Buffalo.

The Cooneys said she continued taking art classes most of her life, always seeking perfection in her painted likenesses.

“Anytime she exhibits anywhere, she wins a prize,” White said.

“The day before the accident,” White said “She was working on a painting of chrysanthemums,”

White said Turnbull should be remembered with “respect and admiration for a lifetime of creativity that touched all who knew her.”

Bill Cyopik, another local artist and longtime friend, said he was struck by the fact Turnbull remained “excited” about every painting, right to the last stroke.

He said she retained vivid vision of people’s facial features for months after she completed their portraits.

Many of her paintings were given as gifts to the people in them, or as in the Cooneys case to their families. Turnbull didn’t paint to make money.

“She did it because she was good at it,” Cyopik said.

He said in her youth, Turnbull was “the belle of the ball,”

“She was very attractive, always well-dressed. She was interested in everything and she was excellent with a golf club,” he said “She was an all-around great lady,”.

  1. On 19 September 2018, Ron West Said,

    I met her in my teens. Probably around the mid 40′s. I was passing by and noticed her working in her flower bed, dressed as I envisioned that a proper English lady of the times might,Not in gardening clothes, but in flowered dress and gloves. I spoke to her in a passing way, probably a ‘hi’, or “nice flowers.”
    I had a Tribune paper route in the neighborhood, frequently passed the striking house, wondering occasionally of the history and residents. She returned my salutation as I recall, “hello boy”, and gestured to me..come. I took the few steps back to her as she was asking, ‘Do you know about turtles?” That seemed a curious question, which is why I remember the event these years later.

    ” I do I suppose, I replied. Have kept some in a copper tub, and gathered their eggs on the Creek side.”
    “Well, It seems I have a nasty turtle in my fish pond, do you think you could help remove it? It seems to be biting the fish tails.”
    “I could try, I shrugged.”
    Led to the back there was, as I now vaguely recall , smallish pond of sorts. It wasn’t deep, and it didn’t take long to catch her unwanted guest. I took it across the road and flung it over the wooded bank into the adjacent creek.
    Following an appreciative “thank You,” I nodded a ‘You’re welcome”, and took my leave.
    I passed that house dozens and dozens of times until 1950 when I moved
    I was born not more than a block or so away down River Road, and for some reason wondered, had she known my Granny Banks, or Mom. I wished on reflection that I’d asked.

    One day, months before she died I was out walking on my lunch break and found myself a street away from the once elegant ‘White House’. I wondered about her. Directing my steps to her home. I noticed the house to be in disrepair. The porch roof was held up with propping boards, and the house looked to be maybe deserted. Still, I’m here I thought, nothing ventured….
    I looked around,thinking, the back looked most likely given the condition of the front.
    My knock was answered by a youngish lady. I was pretty sure, not her daughter. I asked if I might say hello. Having answered questions as to my “business there”. I was told to wait. In time, she came. I told her I had rescued her goldfish those years ago, that I’d been born ‘down the street at the then, Charles Banks house.
    She had kindly received me, somewhat puzzled. Then, not recalling the turtle event, but nodding a recollection of Granny Banks.
    I asked if there was a painting I might buy. She looked at me for a disconcerting time, then said ‘No’ but wait here just a minute, I’ll be right back.”

    In a few minutes she returned.’Here” she said, “for the help”, ( I assume the turtle?), and she handed me a single (copied), page. A seated girl, titled “Scout Hut”, signed Frances Turnbull .

    I’m looking at it now from time to time as I write. , It’s posted on the back of my office door. I think of her in her garden, each time I open that door, or pass down River Road….and in memory, ‘my proper lady’.

    Some indeed, do, leave a lasting impression

  2. On 20 September 2018, B Said,

    Morning Ron

    What a wonderful recollection of your time with Frances. I did not know her; only about her. Wish now I had met her. Thank you for sharing. B

  3. On 20 September 2018, B Said,

    Hi Ron

    Have you seen the articles on Francis Turnbull in Prominent Citizens-Tales. Have a peek.B

Add A Comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.