The last of the snow came on May the eighteenth this year, and melted away soon afterwards, our annual week of spring close behind.DSC_0012A

Budding leaves unfurled overnight, and like a miracle waiting to happen, we made it on time. Summer is here for us too!

Time is of the essence, though. Winter up here isn’t really a season, but a state of mind, Vie, one of my secondary characters, warns Liam and Éolie upon meeting ;-). So, so right. Then again, we do have a longer ski season, and lots of après-ski time, and my characters love it, and so do I. But I digress.

Bearing that in mind, come visit my chronicles from time to time whenever you feel like it this summer. I’ll be posting pictures, sharing some of the real places behind “the” scene, literally, before they’re all buried back under five feet of snow, and all you’d see is the color white on white. Or close to. 😀

Every time we go down to the village, my characters are right there, next to me, having their own conversation, doing their own thing (no wonder my husband thinks I’m nuts, he keeps interrupting them ;-), not me).


“Vous aimez?” the artist, a young woman in her twenties with intense green eyes, and light-brown hair with golden highlights, asks Éolie. Her name is Anaïs Desgroseilliers, the bio reads.

DSC_0024“Oui, beaucoup,” Éolie says, a finger trailing along a swirl of water carved within, her gaze enthralled by the stylized fossil fish etched to a dull polished shine onto the rock.

“You’re the artist behind the boulder groupings standing in front of the village school?” I ask, looking up from the pamphlet.

“I am,” she says.

“We love them!” Éolie exclaims. “Your snowy owls taking flight in twilight skies, spilling out of an open book, they’re truly amazing.” Anaïs’s face glows with quiet pride.

DSC_0003“You’re so kind, thanks. L’Harfang des Neiges is Québec’s aviary emblem,” she says. “If you’re interested in indigenous art, I’ve etched larger ones that are part of Les Jardins du Précambrien.” She reaches for her portfolio, showing us pictures of fifty feet tall scalable boulders etched with sleeves of different flora and fauna, one on top of the other like a layered totem. The rocks are part of a groomed forest with graveled trails inviting everyone in for a leisured walk.

“It’s really impressive. That’s in the village, right?” I ask, and she nods.

“They’re closed in winter, but every summer, they showcase international art exhibits on site, besides the permanent ones like mine, and it’s really worth the trip back to the village,” she says.

“We’ll make sure to.” I look over Éolie’s shoulder at something else that’s caught her eye.

INCANDESCENTLY.

 

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