Everything had worked out, but she still had nothing. Even Thomas, her heart and soul, was determined to deny her. Worse, he had seen how small she really was. He wasn’t from here, he wasn’t one to be attached to such a mundane place. She’d always had this place and the stories. It was the foundation of her life, and her life might fade, she believed the place would remain tangible and whole. She’d dedicated her life to elevating the settlers of Chatham County, who wrapped the land around them like a quilt, the best bits bound together—farms and fences, families and friendships—each patch filled with the hues and textures of homes and fields and businesses. Yes, some pieces were covered with new bits of cloth—oil and energy, chemical industries. Some lines had changed, but she appreciated the layers and handled them skilfully with her curatorial gloves.
The Bones: Fulfillment, Chapter 14 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)
She carried a tray with tea to the front porch, tapping on the door of the good parlour to let TinTin know it was ready. To call him out from the wired madness and to have another human being sit with her before the great void. Clem stared out at what she knew was a landscape only because a horizon line hovered in the distance. It had not been visible in earlier in the day, blotted by a mist rolling off the river, and just recently withdrawn. The horizon line, she noticed, might be fat or thin, far or close, depending on how dense the air was, how the sunlight struck through this veil between heaven and earth. Without the horizon, there was no landscape, only a void to be filled by the imagination. There was nothing to draw upon but sadness or fear. Her fingers gripped the tray for a moment longer, then she set it on the table.
The Bones: Fulfullment, Chapter 5 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)
The clouds over the shore were rent apart like a cloth, and the west-tracking sun burned through. A goddamned rainbow sprung from the gully to the south of him. It arced out over the lake as though painted with a sponge. The colours were brilliant. He shivered, wondering if it was a cruel harbinger of destruction, like the rainbows two weeks ago. But what if it was portent of incredible good fortune? Thomas patted his pockets and found a camera. Leticia’s. He could delete the photo later if things didn’t work out. Quickly, he snapped the photo as dark clouds from the west closed in on the rainbow. He almost teared up. The sunlight still shone through the cracks with the strength of a god’s finger. Brilliant, angelic light.
The Bones: Crossing, Chapter 12 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)
Passing through the white fog gave the impression that the canoe stood still. There was no receding shoreline for Leticia to judge the speed or distance. Her shoulder and neck ached from the tension of holding the compass out for Rebecca to navigate. She couldn’t imagine how badly Rebecca and Miles would hurt by the time they reached the Canadian shore. The needle swung as they hit incoming swells and crossed the shore currents. Once out in the cooler deep water, the fog finally lifted. Wraiths of mist swirled around them.
The Bones: Crossing, Chapter 10 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)
“The GPS says the phone is here. That Pi should be here.”
“This is weird, even for Pi.” Clem looked at the GPS location, then around the area. She dialed Pi’s phone to hear the ring. It came from above, from the branches of the great tree. TinTin boosted her up to get it. It was still ringing, and he reached out for it, hung up on his call.
“We don’t want to know how it got there, do we?”
“In the name of science we do, so let’s see what he’s done.” TinTin scrolled through the functions, found the most recent date stamps. “He was recording, so he wouldn’t have paid attention to our texts.”
They looked at each other. “Better play it.”
Crackles, pops. It’s ozone man, coming from the ground. It stinks like a bad connection on an electric streetcar. Violent pops. The unmistakable sizzle of electricity. One, two, three explosions, like artillery. Four, five, six. Seven. A hit, no warning whistle to proceed it.
TinTin felt ill.
The Bones: Crossing, Chapter 7 by Laura Wythe (available on Amazon)
I’m done with disasters for now. And yet, there is still work to done, both personally and as part of the collective that lives on a shared planet. If there’s one thing that has remained true in 2020, it’s the connection to earth and the precious air we share. How visible that space is now! I work through electronic media, I visit and take courses in the same way. People I see in person are masked, with all that evokes. The trees, rivers, lawns, gardens, birds, critters, bugs, sky and weather remain immediate and true to form. One of my favourite “earth” connections this year is the food that a CSA farm delivers to my doorstep.
My novel, The Bones and the art show that followed its publication needs to wrap up one last thing before I move on to the next large project. I would like to finish sharing with everyone the rest of the work from Text to Textiles, the display of illustrations I made for The Bones. Some are sold, others are nested safely for another day.
Text to Textiles was based on the idea that the main driver of the plot in The Bones, Catherine, is the head textile curator at the Royal Ontario Musuem. She goes back to her family farm which is inundated with flood waters to gather textile artifacts and also to search out for the bones of Tecumseh. One is a great motive, the other rather obsessive, patriarchal, colonial, etc., etc..
There seemed no better way to illustrate The Bones than through stressing common Ontario Loyalist textiles after they are embroidered with traditional stitches. Less traditional materials are used to highlight Catherine’s daughter’s views. And then there are emboideries on silk with somewhat Gothic representations that link to another character and the silk memorial embroideries that would have been popular with Loyalists after the War of 1812.
I will make individual posts with the text below to carry on where I left off, but for now, enjoy the slide show!
We whisper a message and it gets passed along. It’s never the same in the end.
This piece started in a paper stitching class, with picture hanging wire coiled to run through a press to emboss a square of paper. It looks like an old-fashioned telephone cord. Later, I treat green cotton rag paper with konjac paste, and fold and crumple the paper. It is quite sculptural. The feel is of old paper, like matchbooks, kept and folded until they become more than paper. Like memories. once fragile, but oddly more permanent through repeatedly turning them over. I take the coiled wire from the embossing and pierce this paper. A telephone connection is made. I list telephone ideas and choose 2 for a conversation that didn’t quite happen. As I stitch, I ask why not? Why didn’t they connect?
I remember this colour of green: Call the Office. The paint trim around the tired old windows of this London establishment matches the paper perfectly. Like the paper, it is crumpled but stands up well despite much abuse. It’s where you might meet someone and promise to call.
The fencing is a chance encounter in a craft store, looking for something else. Shiny aluminium mesh to go with the picture wire. Jagged edges.
Let all the land be flooded, let everything be drowned, but not this one hope that in her lifetime she would find the hero who’d died in the field beside her farm. Ever since she could remember, the rumours of the whereabouts of his bones floated up and down the settlements along the Thames watershed. She had to be the one to find them.
On New Year’s Eve, a deluge dropped into the subway line at Union Station, rupturing it along the waterfront. The electric power surged and the deaths were swift. Party goers floated to the surface. Lake Ontario had breached the base of Toronto and muscled its way into the underground maze of concourses that linked high rising towers in the business district. Engineers tried to pump the water out but the lake shoreline, formerly at 76.5 metres above sea level, rose by 15 metres and currently lapped along the length Queen Street West. The city’s core stability was lost. Towers rocked like old frigates abandoned at sea. They crumbled. The city was disrupted beyond repair; the true exodus of power began. Bay Street would rebuild in Winnipeg, of all places, leaving the lower concourses to run like sewers.
For the next while, I am posting the illustrations for my climate change novel, The Bones. The book is launched and the illustrations have been exhibited. Getting the right format for an illustrated version is my next challenge. In the meantime, enjoy the short excerpts along with the illustrations.