Who Will Carry the Pall?

Henry Art Gallery_Ann Hamilton Opening-054

I walked into the Henry on a sunny November afternoon expecting to spend a lot of time there. I was waiting for my companion to get out of a meeting, and that gave me an opportunity as rare as the sunny day: enough time to move through an installation slowly, enough time to read everything. Ann Hamilton’s the common S E N S E is incredibly well-suited to an attentive, curious reader. Words and the act of reading words form a kind of fulcrum for the show’s exploration of what it means to touch and what it means to be a human animal in a world of animals. Continue Reading

Ron Pattern

Ron Pattern is a signature member of the Northwest Watercolor Society and an associate with the National Watercolor Society. He calls his paintings a “visual diary” of his life. work on his website: patternart.net. Pattern’s next show, “Places & Things,” opens November 7th at Allied Arts in Bellingham, WA. Continue Reading

Interview with Ron Pattern

TheWave

While Bellingham Review publishes quality literary work from across the continent, our featured visual artist for the Fall 2014 online edition lives right here in our rainy bay town. In each of his paintings, Ron Pattern honors a locale or scene we know well. It is our pleasure to share his art in this issue so that you, far-flung readers, can picture our place. Continue Reading

Lonely Species

My partner made me ears from old suede gloves the color of charred brimstone. She pasted fake sheep’s wool in the center; an illusion of depth. I glued the ears to cardboard and pinned the ensemble to a headband.

Hearing seared me: my neighbor’s spit dissolving venison between its teeth, the cat on the first floor breathing on the window’s glass, a rustle in the crisp leaves below the old alder across the way.

I robed my neck in a fur stole, painted my face with whiskers, felt a coarse growl fill the low space of my throat. Just under my chin I fastened the GPS tracking collar, a hand-forged mechanism made from a headlamp and tinfoil. I left quietly, a cloud slipping over the moon. Continue Reading

The River Mother

I am probably nine years old, barefoot and balanced on a mossy rock in the middle of the Brandywine River. My two older brothers and I are stepping across the river, rock by rock. Our ears are full of the rushing sound of water, tumbling over and around the rocks in frothing, coffee-colored cataracts, roiling with mud. Continue Reading

Coyotes

I was little when the coyotes came back. They’d been gone so long, people had almost forgotten about them. But they started moving south from Canada again when I was eight or so—shadows, slipping in and out of the woods, elusive gestures of high-held tail and then nothing but the swaying movement of tree branches. We knew they were there.
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