A weekend at the camp

FR

I know a summer camp wood shop that bears the melted scents of gas, wet forest and dust. Its doors are large and let all the cold light come in at once, on the thousand little things spread on every surface. All those little things seem to be what keep the cabin standing among the trees, humble and proud at the same time. A cabin filled with the music of the machines, Mauricie’s radio station and the cawing of the crows.

I have been loving this shop for a long time. I wish it were my grandfather’s. He would have told me a story about the bear trap hanging at the ceiling, and perhaps, he would have shown me how to use his tools. Anyway, this time, I had my cellphone. The photos didn’t quite capture the richness of the space but they may give a glimpse of the perfect mess that gives workshops a soul.

- Ariane M.L.

 

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