“Artemis Woods” – gouache painting on watercolor paper © D. Yael Bernhard
The most meaningful art arises from experience. The more memorable the occasion, the more potential for depth in the art that expresses it. Artemis Woods was one such painting for me, inspired by a unique experience in the backwoods of central Maine, where I spent a week in the autumn of 2001. I was an active hunter at the time, and for my 40th birthday decided to go on a one-week guided black bear hunt. Internet searches were awkward at best back then – but I managed to find what seemed like a reputable place, and secured my spot several months in advance. When I showed up with my compound bow and long gun, my camouflage and camping gear, I was the only woman among the nine other hunters who had traveled from all over the eastern United States that week, hoping to bring home bear meat and a bear pelt.
Fortunately, the guides were seasoned professionals and set a respectful tone. I was treated as an equal – but I did not sleep in the large hunting cabin with the men, and pitched a tent out in the woods instead. This way, the sounds of television, beer mugs, and belly laughs didn’t disturb me. I slept with my belly to the earth, trying to ground my fears.
It wasn’t the bears I was afraid of – it was the fear of getting lost in the vast and unknown wilderness. My guides had hunting rights on paper logging lands that stretched for hundreds of miles, through forests of fir trees so dense and dark, you couldn’t walk through them. To reach our individual tree stands, we drove down dirt roads that wound endlessly around lakes that dotted the land like leopard spots, completely confounding my sense of direction. I had only a primitive flip phone in an area with sketchy cell service. Each day I was dropped off at a tree stand in an unknown location around midday, and left alone there until after dark. I trusted myself and my weapon, but it was hard to trust strangers.
I also trusted the forest, and by the third day of sitting motionless and silent in my treestand, hour after hour, watching and listening, breathing and waiting – I fell in love with my new surroundings. Successful bear hunting depends on knowing the lay of the land, the direction of the wind, the flow of scent-bearing air currents at dawn and dusk, and the location of food such as ant colonies and wild berry bushes. After a time, I began to see the bears as a living expression of the forest itself. The bear’s patterns are sculpted by the topography of the land, its weather conditions, its rock formations and groves of different trees. Insects, plants, fish and soil are spun into the bear’s flesh and fur, blacker than black. The cries of ravens and eagles and scurryings of rodents train its sharp senses. Its great claws are a response to the rough terrain, and its strength and endurance are forged by the deep winters of the northern forests.
Then I, too, began to merge with the forest, drawn into it like a single strand into a great weaving. The passing hours, the arc of the sun, the movements of the wind all made up this weaving . . . and for one whole day, the cries of bear cubs and snorting of their mother were with me, just out of sight. I heard her ripping off the bark of a log and snuffling in loam and grubs underneath. I felt immensely privileged and blessed to witness this with my own ears. When dusk fell and the wing of an owl nearly brushed my cheek, I ceased to care if I shot a bear or not – I just wanted to commune with the forest that was their home. When I shared this feeling with my guide, he smiled. “That’s the true spirit of hunting,” he said.
This intermingling of human, animal, and forest became the subject of this painting. They are all knitted together. The colors in the painting are those of dusk in those dense woods where I spent that rarefied week of my life. The woman is the spirit of the forest, her forehead bearing a crescent moon like Artemis, goddess of the hunt, and of the mother bear – for Artemis stands at the gate at both ends of life, presiding over birth and death.
In the end, the forest did place a bear in front of my crosshairs on the last day of the hunt, in the very last hour of daylight. She was barely ten yards away when I shot her – once I was sure she did not have any cubs – a perfect heart shot that dropped her instantly. This was a moment I’ll never forget. But even greater than this immensely nourishing gift of the forest that enriched both my body and soul, was the forest itself. Frightening and vast, cruel and inhospitable, gentle and patient, dark and mysterious, the forests of Maine had grown on me, and I did not want to leave. I remember feeling sad on the long drive home.
Though the meat of that bear is long gone, I still have its pelt, as well as its claws, the copper sabot slug that lodged in her breastbone, and several paintings that grew out of the experience, including this one. The original, a small gouache painting, is for sale; please inquire if you’re interested.
A good week to all!
D. Yael Bernhard
https://dyaelbernhard.com
Have you seen my other Substack, The Art of Health? In addition to being a visual artist, I’m also a certified integrative health & nutrition coach with a lifelong passion for natural food cooking and herbal medicine. Now in its second year, this illustrated newsletter explores cutting-edge concepts of nutrition. I strive to make relevant information clear and accessible, and to anchor essential health concepts in unique images. Check it out, and if you like it, please subscribe and help spread the word. Your support keeps my work going!