Toller Cranston was my role model — and I’d only met him once

Toller Cranston turned with a flourish and we followed him through the entrance to a maze of vine trellises and fountains and spiral staircases.

The Canadian skater and artist who passed away on Jan. 24 at age 65 lived in a 15-bedroom psychedelic mansion in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, where I work at a rural school.

My parents, Helena and Peter, had come to spend Christmas and on that afternoon, we found our way to Toller Cranston’s home and gallery.

We hadn’t been fans. I hadn’t even heard of the man before this visit. But one of dad’s friends, Lilianna Kantor, heard where dad was going and got all excited. Turns out she’s a huge fan of Cranston’s art. If there was one thing dad had to do in San Miguel, it was find the studio.

Find it we did.

With no introduction, the man greeted us like we were long-lost relatives and walked us into his gallery.

It was like David Bowie’s Labyrinth lair except with decorative ceramic plates instead of hidden doors and an Olympic class figure skater instead of a babe.

Seven thousand ceramic items, he told us. “I take an Olympian enthusiasm to whatever I do.”

The white walls were covered in his sprawling, abstract paintings and at least three skylights lit up the loft ceilings.

Half-empty wine glasses littered every surface as if the party from the night before had ended mere hours ago. In hindsight, I suppose it was still going because after about 10 minutes of introductory small talk Cranston announced that he was about to offer us something that he forbade us to refuse.

“The princess of Cyprus gave me a sensational gift last night that you absolutely must try.” And he left the room while my parents and I exchanged questioning looks. Cranston returned holding a bottle of champagne. He smiled slyly, popped the cork and we toasted successful careers and the Labyrinth’s Goblin King.

After the four of us had finished the bottle, the artist took us on a tour of his mansion. As we passed through the kitchen, he stopped with a thoughtful pause, opened the fridge and handed us each a plate with cake. “It’s a Siberian recipe,” he announced.

Then he resumed the walking tour.

Cranston was full of questions — and observations. And for reasons I do not understand, he told me I was going to be canonized and so naturally I followed him around for the next hour like a lost puppy looking for validation. It did not come. Instead, Cranston pulled out a book of prints.

“How do you spell your name?” He was preparing to give me an autographed book.

“E-w-a,” I replied.

“What?”

“E-w-a.”

Cranston narrowed his eyes. “. . . That’s your name?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what you are called?”

“I relearn it every morning.”

In all honesty, the spelling of my name shouldn’t have even mattered to Cranston. If I was the one about to be named a saint, I should be the one signing autographs. Alas his pen was speediest and he handed me the signed print.

Then we told him how we had come to learn about his place. He grabbed another book and signed it to Lilianna.

We were leaving and he made me promise to come by for breakfast soon.

Hearing of his death last Saturday was devastating. Not only was I planning on coming back for breakfast, but I was seriously going to ask him if he wanted a roommate. I had been apartment hunting and I knew he had at least six extra rooms he might be willing to offer. Living with a person as remarkable and eccentric as Toller Cranston would have been lovely. The man had become my role model — and I’d only met him once.

Originally from Toronto, Ewa Frances Carter lives in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.