Norman's totems are disintegrating under a tarp in Bobcaygeon. When we rolled the one on the left, piles of sawdust fell from tiny boreholes. Ants have made their home in his work. Life goes on.
Later, in the Curve Lake cemetery, we were too busy scanning the markers to notice the darkening sky. By chance, I looked up. Within seconds, branches had scattered across the graves and the wind was whipping sand into our eyes. We ran to the car. A sign?
Young winter moon
Artwork by Norman Knott. Millennium Park, Peterborough.
Spent the afternoon in snow and boots with a storyteller who does an uncanny impression of a muskrat. Or, at least, what I am now convinced a muskrat must look like.
With the new year comes promise. Chi miigwetch.
Research mode
If you read my post about Norman Knott's old studio last year, you may be interested to know that I've made some valuable and heartening connections of late. Watch for more details in the coming months.
The ghost of Norman Knott
Back in my late teens, I worked for a local bigwig in his gift shop / gallery in the wizened heart of downtown Oshawa. We kept a small inventory of First Nations artwork, including a few pieces by Norman Knott, an Anishinaabe artist from Curve Lake. Our family cottage is part of the rez-owned land, and I know Knott's work had been at Whetung, a gallery in the village. (People drive from all over the Kawarthas to visit Whetung every summer.)
Around that time, a large, oddly-shaped structure appeared on the side of the road across from the Curve Lake dump. I have murky memories of a sign that said Teepee (or Tipi?), and I think it was Norman Knott's gallery / studio / home. Despite my curiosity, I don't remember us ever stopping the car to check out his wares.
Anyway, it's boarded and abandoned now -- Mr. Knott passed away back in 2003. Last Saturday I took a walk up the road to check out the building's remains.
Everything is appropriately decayed. There's a ton of creepy junk on the building's perimeter, especially near the back of the property: old mattress springs, a rusty child's bike, some broken windows, et cetera (photos here).
Clearly I wasn't the first person to discover this treasure. Smashed windows indicate previous infiltration, and beer bottles with semi-recent labels are littered across the property. However, what's cool is that the place is still filled with equipment and supplies -- even a few unfinished carvings*. One of the locks was broken, so I pushed the door and a cool, musty breeze hit my face. I peered inside at piles of clothes, books, papers and art supplies, all covered in a few years' worth of dust.
That quick look was enough to spook me. I chickened out and didn't explore what could have been the most fascinating part of my adventure. But it's still cool, right? Maybe next time I'll gather the nerve to go inside.