Arriving at Kangiqsujuaq, the tundra is flowering. The runoffs make excursions sublime. Tasting each little plant as the caribou do at a distance. Flower, foliage, and
root. Neither is poisonous. At the end of a twig, three little berries like red currants. Are they the only ones? Paying attention to them. Drawing the foliage when the
weather is fair, the seagulls when it rains.
The ice grips the mountainsides, but the permafrost is thinner and thinner. Still it
fills the crevices and adds to the weight of the mosses and the lichen. Forming a fold.
There is white light from ice floating in the bay blue with cold water. And there is the light of small rivulets that join up and transform into a cascade before pouring into the sea. White on ultramarine, or white on Sienna earth and shaded soil.
The mountains in the distance constantly change colour with the clouds, the fog and
the twenty days without frost.
When the tide is right, nets are thrown out. Harvesting the fish before the errant
dogs make a meal of them.
Rod-fishing with friends late in the evening on the shore. Or using a harpoon like this one, thrust into the heart of the beluga. The sea reddens. At low tide the meal is
served and everyone has a piece. In no time, the carcass is freed of its meat. The tide
rises again. The traces are erased.
Gyrfalcon, like a sun over my head. It cries. Understanding that its nest is nearby.
Another gyrfalcon answers. They’re a family. Their protest has made them visible.
Reviewing all the sketches on the long way back. Kangiqsujuaq.
The artist would like to acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts.