Winter’s End

As the last whispers of winter fade, and the promise of spring hangs crisp in the air, step into a realm where the stark beauty of the season’s end meets the burgeoning energy of new beginnings. This contemporary art exhibit captures the liminal space between frosted landscapes and the first blush of thaw.

The Quiet Colony Whispers of green tongues curl from the tree’s breath. Not growth, but memory—etched into rough skin. Time blooms sideways here, slow and certain. A quiet conspiracy between light and lichen. Nothing moves, yet everything is listening.

Whispers of green tongues curl from the tree’s breath. Not growth, but memory—etched into rough skin. Time blooms sideways here, slow and certain. A quiet conspiracy between light and lichen. Nothing moves, yet everything is listening.

The Quiet Colony

Jamie Bell April 14, 2025

The warming days of spring reveal more than thawing ground—they unveil life too quiet to announce itself....

Snow Cones for Caribou The caribou’s dark eyes scanned the white expanse, finally settling on the familiar green fringe clinging to the shadowed branch. Each snow-laden strand of lichen was a tiny beacon, a frozen delicacy in the vast stillness. It nudged its muzzle through the icy crystals, a fleeting taste of earth and survival in the heart of winter’s hold.

The caribou’s dark eyes scanned the white expanse, finally settling on the familiar green fringe clinging to the shadowed branch. Each snow-laden strand of lichen was a tiny beacon, a frozen delicacy in the vast stillness. It nudged its muzzle through the icy crystals, a fleeting taste of earth and survival in the heart of winter’s hold.

Snow Cones for Caribou

Jamie Bell April 14, 2025

Hidden Ecosystems The northern landscape, often perceived as a monolithic expanse of white in winter, pulses with...

The Silence Between Seasons

Jamie Bell April 14, 2025

The last snowstorm arrived quietly, as if it knew it was out of place. Spring had already...

The Last Snow Knows

It falls without urgency, this last snow—drifting more from memory than sky. It does not bite or blind; it merely lands, as if out of habit. A gesture. A goodbye. It traces the old logs like a lover running fingers over a sleeping face, not ready to leave, not ready to stay. There is no storm in it—only the quiet insistence of something finishing itself. Beneath it, life waits—wet, thawing, uncoiling in shadows. The snow does not know it is the last, but the earth does. And in that silence, the air holds something tender: not an ending, but the echo of one.

The Last Snow Knows

Jamie Bell April 14, 2025

The logs lie quiet beneath a final whisper of snow, like forgotten verses in a poem winter...

After the Bark The tree dreams in textures now. Bark has been replaced by memory. Weathered lines recall the touch of wind, the breath of moss, the quiet tension between collapse and stillness. This is not death, but the long, slow rehearsal for return — to soil, to silence, to something shapeless yet whole.

The tree dreams in textures now. Bark has been replaced by memory. Weathered lines recall the touch of wind, the breath of moss, the quiet tension between collapse and stillness. This is not death, but the long, slow rehearsal for return — to soil, to silence, to something shapeless yet whole.

After the Bark

Tony Eetak April 11, 2025

The tree dreams in textures now. Bark has been replaced by memory. Weathered lines recall the touch...

Where the Sky Fell Sideways The sky folded under the weight of something forgotten. The buildings stay still not because they want to, but because they’ve been asked to remember a world that no longer runs upright. What if time shifted its axis, and only snow noticed?

The sky folded under the weight of something forgotten. The buildings stay still not because they want to, but because they’ve been asked to remember a world that no longer runs upright. What if time shifted its axis, and only snow noticed?

Where the Sky Fell Sideways

Tony Eetak April 4, 2025

The sun didn’t rise. It drifted. Everything else followed—snow, buildings, memory. Now we live sideways.

Above the Silence The sky above the Arctic doesn’t shout. It murmurs. These clouds are not weather — they are memory in motion, frost turned to breath, breath returned to sky. Look too long and you forget where you end and the sky begins. Up here, nothing is separate. Everything floats.