For two sessions I was transfixed by the meditative quality of splitting wood and the awareness of how your mind makes the cut and your arms simply follow through. Now, 45 minutes into my third session, and already tired from a hike up Monarch Mountain, I just stared in defeat at the axe buried within the huge stump.
Gernot appeared at the corner of the woodpile.
In a strained voice, I confessed "It's stuck."
"Did you try the over-the-shoulder method I showed you!" he asked.
"Yes," I sighed. "...again, and again."
Gernot stood there, making no attempt to rescue me or his axe. I mustered my last ounce of strength, raised the eight-pound axe with its captive ten-pound log over my head, and drove both as hard as I could towards the ground. To my utter amazement, three dazzling pieces of wood fell apart and released the axe. Gernot just nodded and continued along his way. Rejuvenated by this small discovery, I continued splitting the mother-, then the grand-, then great-grandmother-of-all-logs for another 45 minutes.

The Atlin Art Centre is about more than artists learning to chop wood. The school of Gernot's dreams--built almost single-handedly by his will and his embracing vision--its guiding principle is to make whatever you do important. This goes for everything from developing artistic concepts to carrying out daily chores. In the safe and healing woods of Atlin, Gernot helps artists to reawaken their creative curiosities by encouraging them to respond with all their senses to the environment. In hikes to the "Mystical Forest" up to the volcano called Ruby Mountain, onto the glacier of Llewellyn, or at evening slide shows and group critiques, he demonstrates how truthfully and purposefully nature composes. It is not ours to copy, he suggests, but to discover and celebrate in our work and life. Looking at a Trembling Aspen tree, he points out the transitional link and visual anchor between trunk and each limb. He calls the surface-form-relationship between bark and branch a "totally truthful marriage."

If I am also to be totally truthful, I must disclose that I came to Atlin through a partial scholarship Gernot generously offered to a CARFAC-BC member, which was awarded by draw. I saw my win as a ticket to summer camp; not to a school but to a retreat like The Banff Centre was for me in 1986. The difference was that in Banff I hadn't realized how beat up I felt until a few weeks into my stay.

I flew into Whitehorse (a two-hour drive north of Atlin) already aware of the lashings I took on all levels. Twelve years after graduating with my BFA, with 17 solo exhibitions and 15 international credits, I was still toiling in obscurity and poverty. I had two solo exhibitions that debuted in public galleries in Vancouver in 1997. One show was the culmination of five years of work. Nothing happened. No reviews, sales, or invitations. Grants still eluded me.

Indifference is more devastating than the worst reviews, so I threw myself into helping an art society flourish--and found instead more criticism. I recognized long ago how very difficult being an artist in Canada can be, when jobs, financial and volunteer commitments, and family pressures keep fracturing time and energy. I had no convincing argument against my husband's and my friends' "why bother!" attitude towards my career as an artist.

Hiking each day in Atlin, sketching from life, and doing the daily "Professional Doodle" exercises that Gernot demonstrated, I reconnected with my mark-making and finally listened to my own needs and desires again. The doodles became more revealing and I was shocked by their message.

Members from our group came to Atlin from as far away as St. Kitts, Cornerbrook, Brisbane, Port Townsend, and Boston. We ranged in age from a 17year-old high school student to a commercially successful painter and grandmother from Maine. Together in the wilderness we experienced very personal visions and revelations--coined by past alumni as the Atlin High. Was it the intimacy of evenings in the outdoor hot tub while the Northern Lights played above us, The camaraderie of keeping a tiny fire fueled for 36 hours as we cold-smoked our salmon! Could it have been the impromptu consolatory breakfast we all prepared-pancakes and fresh berries-when our last chance to go to the glacier was cancelled due to poor weather! (We had the sad distinction of being the first of 29 groups in 15 years unable to make the glacier trip.)

Perhaps the bonds we forged were more basic. We all understood the relevance of making art in our lives, but we needed to be reminded by Gernot that we are primarily responsible for making our own art important - and that the answers lay all around us, if we stopped to look.

On a jagged ledge near the top of Monarch Mountain, with ink, brushes, and sketchbooks by my side, the view was clear. I understood that my next creative act would require all my courage and commitment, and now I knew it was time. I had long ago bought into the false belief that you couldn't be considered a serious artist if you were a mother; that the years raising a child were lost for artmaking. Now my thoughts turned inward. I acknowledged that if I was to continue to grow as a person and as an artist, I must say yes to life, whatever personal triumphs or disasters lay ahead. I was finally ready for motherhood--a revelation I found more surprising than my husband who, fortunately was ready and eager upon my return home.

Yes, my life has been magically and systematically turned upside-down since Atlin. If all continues to go well, our baby will be born around July 31. I have also begun a new series of prints and, thanks to e-mail, I am participating in an "electronic roundtable" with five artist friends from Atlin.   Above all, we are trying to live what Gernot teaches:

Julie McIntyre is an artist/printmaker living in Vancouver.
 

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