John Bauer, a Songbird, and Hope

Artist John Bauer drew trolls. And he drew them in such a way of inner truth that his work is still recognized a century later as inspiring modern faerie artists. But by the time he died in a tragic boat accident in 1918, he had given up on painting any fey subjects. 

A friend, Ove Eklund, told a magazine many years after Bauer's death that even though the artist never said so directly, only mumbled about it, he knew that Bauer believed in all the creatures he painted. Eklund said that when he went on walks with Bauer through the forest of Lake Vättern, the artist's descriptions of the creatures he thought existed were so sincere, it made Eklund believe as well.

John Bauer stopped painting trolls and fairies in 1915, ostensibly so that he could focus on more serious art, and larger canvases. But there was another influence on his decision. The Wikipedia article on Bauer says that in regards to the trolls, he "'was done with them and wanted to move on.' The war in Europe had altered Bauer's vision of the world and he stated that he could no longer imagine it as a fairy tale."

Since I read this part of Bauer's biography I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Of course the artist's actually believing in faeries is speculation based on only one friend's word. But this laying aside of "childish things" like whimsy and wonder, faerie faith and stories that end with hope...there is a proven larger pattern from this time period. The Golden Age of Illustration died a decade after World War I began. And it's so easy to understand why. Bauer was absolutely right. The violence of The Great War was anything but a fairy tale. But he was absolutely wrong: fairy tales are needed when hope is dim. Tolkien wrote Lord of the Rings inspired by his experiences in the trenches of World War I.  And also, there’s a reason why Bauer himself is remembered for his whimsical paintings, not the ones he made after his outlook turned bleaker.

 The artists of the early 20th century didn't have the resources that we do now, for good and for ill. I’ve heard it said many times recently that the internet overloads us with more news, more hurt, than we are equipped to handle. The empathetic soul wants to work to fight every injustice and they pour in at us like an ocean. But the internet also gives us a tool: each other. We have the capacity to remind each other of the importance of art, even and especially in trying times.

The work you do, the art you create, the stories you write, the hope you let burn like a flame inside during times of tyrants and hate, brutality and senseless violence...they matter. Those who manage to keep hoping, keep believing, are guarding the eternal flame of what we have to come back to. It's the whole damn point of the fight to begin with.

I went to the woods this morning because they are my church. The grove of fallen trees covered in moss that I call "The Faerie Castle" was beckoning me. And I wanted to do something, to create something that was an outlet for all my roiling emotions. My fear, my anger, my grief, my helplessness. I carried a candle (the ground was wet and it was lightly raining) and wore my glowing antlers. I filmed a short reel I posted on Instagram with no caption, because who can summarize all the feelings we feel right now? And then I took a few portraits, touching the wet mossy branches, leaning my head against the twining latticework of trees that make up the "walls" of the castle. 

The forest was quiet, other than the occasional call of a crow, and the sound of a hiker walking by on the nearby path. I started to film another video, and as I sat in the castle with my eyes closed, a songbird (a Carolina wren) started an exuberant song in the castle directly above me.

It was a beautiful and cheerful call, echoing out across the grey and silent morning in a way that was impossible to ignore, and it was a moment of pure magic. It was a message. Sing your song, dear one. Sing it out into the dreary winter. Sing in a season when no other birds are singing. Don't stop. I came across a poem last night that includes the line "You know what my triumph was, my victory? I was open, I stayed so wholly open, that I heard the birds and the gift the Spring is singing."

Spring is coming, dear ones. I have to believe it is. Don't give up on believing in daily magic. Don't let the doom seep so far into your heart that you can no longer draw the wondrous creatures of the invisible world. Splash your vibrant colors across a world gone bleak. Sing loudly. 

And believe the evidence of your own eyes and ears.