Parr’s legacy in Inuit art—and Canadian art as a whole—has been the subject of many conversations. His vision was singular, his method unmistakable, and both were shaped by a life lived largely on the land. It’s astonishing to think that Parr was nearly seventy when, in the spring of 1961, Terry Ryan encouraged him to begin drawing. His memories of a traditional way of life—a life tethered to animals and the hunt—were vivid, and those memories coursed through every line he drew during his brief but prolific career.

This drawing, an early effort from the 1960s, is emblematic of that first period. It is not narrative but declarative—a catalogue of abundance more than a story unfolding. The page, strikingly full, reveals a quiet order: animals outnumber the lone hunter, yet they do not jostle for space. There is no chaos here. Instead, each creature—polar bear, seal, walrus—slots neatly into the negative space left around it, as though Parr were instinctively organizing the natural world itself.

The lone human figure feels almost celebratory, flanked by his three dogs, noses trained on the bounty before them. The long, squat proportions of the page might suggest an offcut—a scrap of paper hurriedly handed over. And yet, there’s an undeniable charm in the result, as though Parr saw potential where others might see imperfection. It is an image of a remembered life: measured, abundant, and alive with quiet reverence.