Process: Gabrielle in la Gaspésie

Saint-Tharcisius

Went to a public reading of Le temps qui m’a manqué by Gabrielle Roy at the Maison de la Culture Marie-Uguay. Published posthumously in 1997, it was intended to be the third section of her autobiography La détresse et l’enchantement.

Hearing her words spoken out loud by Marie-Thérèse Fortin was quite moving; in fact, the next day I went to the library to find the book so that I could read it on the train on my habitual Montreal-Ottawa commute. Quite fitting as the book mostly takes place on a journey. Memories resurface for the author brought on by the rhythmic nature of the train moving on the rails. She loses track of where she is as well as the time such that she is lost in her thoughts and emotions, rememorating her mother who had recently passed away.

Often while on my bike trips in search of my lakes, I’ve experienced that same sensation: at times in the moment (feeling the sun on my back, sweating or forcing my muscles), and at other times, absent, miles away in my thoughts brought on suddenly by a colour, a shape, or a smell.

I could relate to much of what Gabrielle Roy wrote about in this particular work, not so much as a fellow author — though the writing process does feature in my art practice, it is more of a tool to elucidate my ideas in my working process — but as an artist. The paragraphs where she described her creative process were the ones that resonated for me. I understood her need to search for a room of her own where she could write.

As a Franco-Ontarian, I was equally moved by the excitement she felt in discovering Québec, as an outsider in sorts hailing from Manitoba. I understood her desire to visit L’Assomption where her mother once had lived, the urge to reconnect with her roots.

She described her longing for a quiet place to write, but she did not seek out extreme solitude as she would make herself a “makeshift” family in her many refuges: her room in Rawdon in the Laurentians, her room at Miss Maclean’s house on rue Dorchester, and her much sought after room with the McKenzies in Port-Daniel.

This section where she recounts her train journey to the Matapédia Valley is riveting; the sense of traveling to the unknown, to find something one is searching for without yet knowing what it is. At the sight of a house on the hill in Port-Daniel, she disembarked from the train and negotiated to secure the best room in the house — prized for its view of the water.

While on my Gaspésie bike trip, I experienced a similar feeling. In search of my waypoint in Saint-Tharcisius, I cycled in circles through bright green fields and sparsely forested areas. I eventually found what remained of Angers bridge/pont Angers (A-10) – soft and shredded pieces of rotten wood embedded in the middle of a pathway in a field.

 

View Panorama A-10 Angers Bridge / Pont Angers July 7, 2003

 

While taking photographs in the round, I noticed the path lead to a little white house with a red roofed barn beside it with the bluish Monts Notre-Dame in the distance. A simple pastoral scene that struck me by its sheer beauty. I had to fight the urge to follow the path right up to the house and knock on the door. I could appreciate how the tranquility of the surroundings could help bring forth creative pursuits.

I could fully understand the happiness and relief in finding a room where she could deliver herself to her need to write — that feverish production period where all is heightened and the usual daily routines pass by the wayside or are done with haste (eating, drinking, washing, social events). The important thing is to not interrupt the flow, to keep at it while alight with all that buzzing.

She describes spending a night out in the storm by the water, shivering and feverish. These high emotions must have been due in part to the full consciousness of knowing that she was doing exactly what she was meant to be doing.

I was surprised to discover that Gabrielle only managed to work on Bonheur d’Occasion three times a year, when on breaks from her job. It subsequently took her three years to write the novel. How many times have I had to put my Tongue Rug project on the shelf because of pressing deadlines at work or my thesis?

Planning a train trip this summer to visit a friend in Winnipeg; 375 rue Deschambault will definitely be a stop-over.