The Storm

The Storm, 1880
Pierre-Auguste Cot (French, 1837–1883)
(click painting for detailed view)

One of my favorite paintings is The Storm, by Pierre-Auguste Cot, which hangs at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In the painting a young couple is depicted running in bare feet away from an impending storm. Together they hold a blanket over their heads to protect them from the rain, but the dark-haired, dark-skinned man is insouciant, his hand firmly grasping her waist, his tunic tightly wrapped around his waist, while a horn juts phallically outward. The light-haired woman is dressed in a body-length sheer garment, her pale skin exposed beneath. The woman is gazing upward with trepidation while the man's eyes are set clearly on the woman, with love, lust and a bit of bemusement.


When I first encountered The Storm at the Met my breath was taken away, and a slightly painful feeling arose in my chest...similar to the experience of what is called in The Godfather, "the thunderbolt"—love-at-first-sight. The Storm resonated with me visually and psychically. I found the portrayal of emotion captivating, the clinging sheer garment brilliantly executed, her naked body beneath enticing, and the use of light on the couple in conjunction with the dark background an eery über-reality. I identified strongly with the young man, having gravitated to the role of protector from a very young age, and often finding myself reassuring loved ones that things are not quite so dark as they seem. 

A few years back I found a print of The Storm on the street and Heather encouraged me to have it framed. I hung it directly in front of my desk, where the tops of books I've written touch the bottom of the frame, as if attempting to siphon inspiration. Interestingly, the young daughter of a friend who saw the print in our apartment asked if it was a picture of Heather and me. I chuckled, because I don't think the two figures resemble us except in the broadest sense—dark and light, male and female, and curly hair versus flowing. Perhaps the young girl picked up on something about our relationship, and saw it limned in oil on canvas. 

Two months into her final struggle against leukemia, when things weren't looking so well, Heather asked me, "Am I going to make it, Vinny?" I looked at her, smiled and reassured, "You're going to make it." I wasn't as sure of my words as I seemed, but it was my role to be optimistic. I thought it wouldn't serve her to voice my doubts. In retrospect I wish I could have uttered something closer to the truth, and that she would have been able to hear it with equanimity. But this is asking too much of her. She was brave enough, fought enough, gave enough. So in that moment we stayed within our roles: Heather worried and I minimized. She was as vulnerable as the young woman in The Storm; I as ostensibly strong as the young man.

Now as I look at this painting tears come to my eyes. The smile has been wiped off my face...the danger was real, and I didn't fully see it. The storm rolled in and I couldn't protect her...I failed in my role...none of us can truly have that kind of influence over people or events...we are at the mercy of randomness and free will...chaos and design. Before her illness I walked through life with the attitude of the young man. I thought Heather's anxiety toward the future immature, but in truth she was always ahead of me, more developed, realistic. Was I a fool to see only my love for her?  


When I first brought the print of The Storm to our home, Heather had not seen the original, and we planned to view it at our next visit to the Met. This is one of the many things that we never got to do. Her sister Lizzy is also an ardent admirer of this painting, and we now plan to go to the Met together to see Cot's masterpiece; in such fashion we will bring Heather there with us, and we will study it through our eyes and her spirit, and no doubt contemplate the many storms that surround us all.

The Storm, as it hangs in our apartment

Springtime, by Pierre-Auguste Cot, 1873
same couple, different vibe

Refuge and Remembrance: Saying Goodbye to One Feather

Originally published in the Destiny Star (“The Wyrd Voice of
Faerie Camp Destiny”) Spring 2011 issue

By JoyBoy, aka Vincent Collazo

The first few days after my beloved One Feather died of leukemia this past August, I had friends and family staying and visiting with me. Then I decided I needed to be alone in our home for more intensive grieving. A week of this proved a bit more than I could handle, and I desperately needed to be with people again. I thought of going to Destiny for Labor Day Weekend with a few faerie friends, to fulfill two of One Feather’s last requests: to spread some of her ashes on the land and hang, somewhere near the kitchen, a poster of paintings of faeries that she’d designed. When I saw there was a Virgo gatherette scheduled for that weekend, which was being promoted as a low-key affair, I thought it might be best not to bring my heavy grieving energy to Destiny at that time.

One Feather at Faerie Fashion Show, Destiny 2008

However, when Bambi emailed to let me know that that weekend they’d be planting the cherry tree my sister and brother-in-law were donating to the land to serve as a living memorial to One Feather, I knew that I had to be there. Besides, I now reminded myself, sanctuary is there for when you need it, not on a schedule. Certainly the Virgo gatherette would be able to accommodate me and my grief.

Captain Moonlight, Wally and I were the first to arrive on the land. It was such a gorgeous day I suggested we immediately go to the brook. I wasn’t prepared for the torrent of emotion this would evince—One Feather and I had spent so many delicious hours soaking up the phenomenal beauty of that place, most often staying until the sun was low in the sky. The Captain held me as I sobbed while Wally held space.

I received much love and healing from that long weekend at Destiny. The gathering unfolded wonderfully, and I was very grateful for the “normalcy” of daily faerie magic. Support came in so many ways—it was especially meaningful to speak with a few faeries who’d also gone through the ordeal of losing a partner to an untimely death. I literally cried myself to sleep in my tent and no one complained, though my wailing was at times fairly loud. I felt safe to do this, felt the energy of others surrounding me in the dark, holding me, comforting me.

On Sunday we drove the cherry tree from the kitchen to the lower meadow near the brook, which someone had suggested as a planting site, and which resonated with me as the right choice. A hole was dug and we discussed and decided the best way to plant and protect the tree. Once it was safely in the ground and watered, about a dozen of us circled around the tree and spoke about One Feather. Orange had posted on Lucy his memory of One Feather at a fire circle, singing one of her favorite songs, “American Tune” by Paul Simon. I invited others to join in as Orange and I sang it in One Feather’s honor. One part seemed most appropriate:

And I dreamed I was dying
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly
And looking back down at me
Smiled reassuringly

The group then processed to the brook, taking turns spreading One Feather’s ashes along the way. When we arrived we sat on rocks and grass; a few more people spoke, but mostly we were silent. One by one, and two by two faeries drifted away. This ritual was very much like One Feather: unpretentious, deceptively uncomplicated, quiet and powerful.

I returned from the gathering with a clear head, knowing that I needed to re-engage with life, even as I continued the grieving process. Never had the value of faerie sanctuary been more brilliantly clear or personally important than it was that weekend. While any trip I make to Destiny will forever evoke memories of One Feather’s life and death and the time spent with her there, it will also bring back this restorative weekend and the transformative gifts I received. I remain grateful not only to the thirty or so faeries who were present, but to all who have made Destiny a shining reality.