RENDER/SURRENDER
Last week I was camping [glamping] on an island in Northern Ontario. The Baba Yaga hut in which we slept is awash in unsealed spaces, openings just wide enough for sunlight or mosquitos or record-breaking smoke from wildfires to seep through.
At what point does the meter move from exposing my children to the wonders of wilderness! to exposing my children to wild harm? This is the never-ending question, on repeat—I don’t mean this as a time-worn parenting riddle; I mean: specifically, right now, in July, 2026, because of the state of the world, thanks to our species, hence forth, forever and ever, amen. Sorry to harsh your mellows, dear readers with dependents! But you already knew this much to be true.
Somehow—despite the smoke that canceled outdoor games and pool parties a couple of years ago—somehow I managed to block that all out. With open arms I welcomed every white cloud and bright blue sky in the intermezzo between then and now. I’m as cognizant of the ravages of climate change as the next fella, but there’s just something about smoke in the air that brings everything into immediate focus.
The hazed dot of sun. The orange sky. It probably has something to do with the limbic brain, our primordial drive for self-protection. Smoke means: gather your young and run!
So it’s hard to sit back and pop a La Croix and watch FIFA (using your phone as a wifi hotspot in an effort to provide a sense of normalcy to your soccer-loving kindred) when everywhere outside things are burning and everywhere inside things are screaming, your central nervous system shouting, GET OUT NOW! GO! GO! GO! while you attempt to sit casually and crunch a kettle chip.
And that’s just my version of events, glamping in the ash—which in the grand scheme of things is a pretty fortunate spot in which to find oneself. I wasn’t driving away, flames licking my tires. I wasn’t leaving behind a community with no promise of return. I was simply enduring, and trying to act normal in front of my kids, who will soon inherit this place. The Earth.
Regardless of my privilege in that moment, I still woke that dawn to an orange sky, and the orange broke me. I was devestated.
Later that evening, I would be devestated all over again—for good. Prior to all the everything, we won tickets to a concert. The music pummeled my heart like a meat tenderizer. After 3 hours of cold, filtered air, hot coffee, and transcendence, I got my fight back. I only wish my dog could had been there with me. And the bear we passed on the road. And the moose calf in the ditch. And the speckled fawn on the street. And the teen porcupine in the tree. And. And. And.
I spent this past week back at home, trying to process my unwashed emotions. There’s soot in the corners of my heart. I’ve been playing around with woodcut printmaking for some time, thanks to the encouragement of some artist friends familiar with my love for working with wood. It felt like the appropriate medium, salvaged pine.
My first attempt to render the physical experience of the wildfires felt like a failure, at least in end work. The process itself—of gouging and nicking and removing and adding—was cathartic. The end print left me wanting.
Then I washed the cut in the sink, and as the water pulled the red ink away, the woodblock transformed before my eyes. I look like I’m washing blood from a steak, I thought. And then I thought some more about rendering.
What does it mean to render?
But oh, to render! This is a word deep and rife with meaning, so many concrete meanings, so much metaphorical fodder! I thought about rendering fat from meat, slicking from the bone. The process of pulling away and collecting, of separating in order to make something new.
And to render one’s experience, to attempt to pull all of the things together—the orange dawn and the FIFA and the child coughing and the ash on the barbeque and the scintillation of the mandolin and the hot coffee in the crisp indoor air and the nausea and the mosquito on the cheek and the one little foot, peeking out from the comforter—to render all of this into one expression. On wood. In words. In dreams.
And to render—also to give something, to give back—Jesus said to them, “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” And they marveled at him. (Mark 12:17, English Standard Version). What is Caesar’s? What is God’s? And is the space between the two large enough for particulate matter to seep through, deep into my child’s lungs (like trees fractilic, ever rooted and branching)? And are we marveling?
After washing the woodcut like flesh—my flesh, any animal’s flesh, a marbled T-Bone steak—I returned it to my desk in order to look at it again. I wondered what would happen if I used green ink instead of red, and so I tried it. The results were disappointing. Picking it up to wash, I observed the image again, but upside down.
Instead of a forest burning, it looked like young trees, blooming. I don’t know what to tell you, except some kind of transformation, some kind of rendering, took place in that moment—in the image, in the air, in my chest.
My body surrendered. My hands held the wood.
For a few minutes I just stood there, marveling.
FODDER
Hey, that band I told you about? Hear for yourself! Boy howdy, the Andrew Collins Trio—give ‘em a listen; they sure know how to put on a good time!
MY ART/EVENTS
No events to speak of at the moment, but I’ve had the great good fortune to spend some time this week in my art lair.
I find wood burning/carving medatative, and I hold my thoughts on things (and then move into a no-thought zone) while I’m in the making.
Lately, I’ve been pondering the idea of a spirit over the waters, a fierce spirit hovering here to protect the animals and children—the children of war, of fire, of famine, of our bad decisions, of this good green Earth. I imagine some kind of seraphim creature (if you’re familiar with my work, you won’t be surprised—eyes!) or hamsa, the open palm with eye, a symbol of protection, looking out for the little people among us. We really f*%#d this gift up, we ruthless humans of the past few generations, and I’m counting on some otherworldly help to support the kids (and perhaps smite a few data centers along the way). Amen. So mote it be.
As always, if you like what you see (here or in my online portfolio), reach out! Most of my original work can transmutate to more affordable prints and other everyday art!
With gratitude,
MERKAT