The Lynx, 1965

painting of a lynx in the snow

Christopher Pratt, The Lynx, 1965, serigraph on paper, edition 1/20, 43 x 74.8 cm, The Rooms, St. John’s. 

The Lynx stems from a rare, charged encounter Pratt had with a lynx in the wild. The animal’s gaze locked with his and remained there, the cat never turning away. That stare stayed with Pratt and became something more than just observation. For him, the lynx became a mirror. In the resulting image, the lynx stares directly at the viewer, its oversized body taut, set against a stark, empty landscape. It is alert, solitary, and unyielding—a projection of self-possession and wildness that echoed Pratt’s own inner world. The intensity of that gaze—refusing to turn away—invites an uneasy kind of recognition.

Greyscale painting of crow and raven soaring over snowy landscape

Christopher Pratt, Crow and Raven, 1978, serigraph, edition 35/45, 40.5 x 60.6 cm, The Rooms, St. John’s. 

Painting of a moose standing inf ront of a transport truck at night

Christopher Pratt, Moose and Transports, 1993, oil on canvas, 83.8 x 114.3 cm, private collection. 

For Pratt, animals were never simply subjects of observation; they were symbolic. This interest threads through works like Crow and Raven, 1978, and Moose and Transports, 1993, among others. They embodied vulnerability, solitude, and survival—qualities he quietly mapped onto himself and his home province of Newfoundland and Labrador. Pratt was acutely aware of how the province’s landscapes were being reshaped—how hunting, industrial developments, and environmental change were altering habitats, determining which animal species endured and which disappeared. “The more I thought about it,” he wrote, “the more I realized my images of animals were autobiographical. In this context, The Lynx is a psychological portrait, both personal and provincial.


In contrast, consider The Sheep, 1971, which offers a gentler reflection. Based on animals seen on the Southern Avalon Peninsula, the sheep lies calmly on the grass, turned in profile, enclosed by a series of wooden fences. It is a quiet image—still, contained, and contemplative. “Sheep,” said Pratt, “come burdened with a load of symbolism I want to avoid: to me they mean St. Mary’s Bay.

A sheep laying down in front of a fence

Christopher Pratt, The Sheep, 1971, serigraph, edition A/P 1, 34.7 x 78.9 cm, The Rooms, St. John’s. 

Together, these two works reflect the emotional range of Pratt’s practice: one fierce and direct, the other reserved and inward. Through these images, Pratt places himself—subtly—within the landscape. The animal becomes a surrogate, its stillness and strength echoing his own. This merging of self, symbol, and place is central to his practice. 

Gallery

The Lynx - Art Canada