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Reading of From the Beehive

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Reading of The Albatross

Lionsteeth

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Lionsteeth by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 8×10.

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

The Middlemost Winter

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The Middlemost Winter by Elle Wonders

 

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

Wrath of Saint Flannon

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Wrath of Saint Flannon by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Stretched canvas. 11×14.

©Elle Wonders 2017

Blink

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Blink by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 12×12.

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

The Midlands

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The Midlands by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.

©Elle Wonders 2017

 

The Kelpie of River Spey

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The Kelpie of River Speyer by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

Many Moons Ago

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Many Moons Ago by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Gallery wrapped canvas. 18×24

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

Après la Danse

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Après la Danse by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 16×20

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

 

A Dot Without Memory

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A Dot Without Memory by Elle Wonders

 

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 16×20

©Elle Wonders 2017

This Is Only A Test

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This Is Only A Test by Elle Wonder

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.

©Elle Wonders 2017

Radiohead

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Radiohead by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

The Timekeeper

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The Timekeeper by Elle Wonders

Acrylic. Canvas panel. 11×14.

 

©Elle Wonders 2017

Hollow Tree at Lanhydrock

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Photo by Peter Levers

When I think of little hollows, I think of a hollow in a tree, or in a thicket of brush. I think of the slight concave area just above a hip, or collar bone. The dip at the top of a man’s shoulder, or the soft depression at the top of a woman’s inner thigh. But I also think of the hollow places we all have inside us, that most will never see. Those small voids that become full when we experience extraordinary love, and intense connection. These are the hollows that draw us in, and make us seek ways to fit together.

This stunning photo is by photographer Peter Levers. It is very similar to the image I have in my mind when writing Little Hollows Beckon, and it captures the mood of my story incredibly well.

The Cocoon on Glasgow Street

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Photo by Elle Wonders  –  Amish Country, Ontario Canada.

The first time I heard the song “Hey There Delilah,” it was playing on the radio, in my little blue rental car. It was Sunday morning, and I was packing up the Toyota Yaris in Jack’s driveway, rushing to get to the airport in Toronto to catch my flight home.

Jack was busy writing down driving directions on a very small sheet of memo paper, because I realized I had no idea how to get back to the city from his house on Glasgow Street. I leaned against the driver’s side door and watched as Jack concentrated on writing. The sun had turned his hair blonder than ever and it was still tousled from the night before. I reached out and rested my hand on his arm, trying to memorize how it felt when our skin touched. He looked up and smiled because he knew.

I looked around one last time and thought about how much I would miss Waterloo and this old historic house that had become our cocoon for the past ten days. The overgrown vegetable garden, our large sleeping nest in the living room, the bright yellow kitchen where we sang Bob Marley songs while making enormous batches of homemade guacamole, leaving the entire city without avocados.

I thought about our leisurely drive out to Amish Country and how we stopped at a farm to buy peaches. I photographed the Amish family who sold us fresh produce from a large wooden wagon, as their overdressed children ran through waist-high, 19th century fields.

I thought back on the days we spent camping on the dunes of Lake Erie. How we swam all day in the warm waves of that vast lake and then sunned our wet, tired bodies on faded towels. We were so content lying side by side on the shore, pretending that our days weren’t numbered.

I thought of our last evening at the lake and how we relaxed on the beach in our camp chairs. Our feet sunk into the warm sand as we drank the last two cold bottles of Corona from the cooler. The water was calm and our world was right, until the conversation changed gears. Jack started arguing about child labor laws and the gross injustice of retail clothing stores, and sweat factories. In the end, he stormed off, leaving me with a half-finished bottle of warm Corona in my hand and feeling a bit homesick.

Jack was ten years younger than me. He was not long out of college and was still at the age where he thought he could change the world. I loved that about him, but his strong opinions were sometimes a point of contention. So when he didn’t return after our argument, I packed up the folding chairs and walked back to our campsite, seeking refuge from the now swarming mosquitoes. Meanwhile, Jack walked inland and meandered through trails of low brush, strolling obliviously past the numerous signs that warned of dangerous parasites and the high threat of lime disease. Just after dark, he showed up at our tent with an apology and a tick. Once the small bloodsucking insect was killed, I calmed down and we made up.

When we woke the next morning, we saw that Jack had also brought poison ivy back with him to the tent, because two oval rashes appeared on the insides of my thighs. Within a few weeks the rashes healed, but the poison ivy left scars. Six months later the scars were completely gone. I cried the day I noticed their absence.

“Hey there Delilah, don’t you worry about the distance, I’m right there if you get lonely, give this song another listen, close your eyes… I’m by your side.” We said our aching goodbyes and with a brave smile I backed out of the gravel driveway. With a heavy heart, Jack waved as I left our cocoon and eased my way back into the world he helped me put back together. And as promised, he was there by my side, every time I closed my eyes and visited Glasgow Street.

Visual Stories

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Artwork by HenriAltersLife

 

The Weight of Want

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Photo of Elle Wonders by E. Andreas  –  Artwork by HenriAltersLife

 

“He draws a pastèque bath in a large wooden tub, and they sit nestled in bunches of melon, crushed under the weight of want.”

– E. Wonders, The Dirty Little Shrine

Umbra

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Photo of Elle Wonders by E. Andreas   –   Artwork by HenriAltersLife

It came in rushes, then slowed – that longing for a place that wasn’t enough. Her skin glowed around his shadow, and with her ear to his heart, she let it pulse.

– Elle Wonders, Pour Mon Bzou

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