I joined Elizabeth Erickson’s memorial at MCAD on Saturday, June 21, 2025. It was a mystical experience (with friends Denisea and Susan). Hazel Belvo and others spoke at the ceremony. I hadn’t thought of professor Erickson in many years, but I need to write my Grand Marais Art Colony story. My first trip there introduced me to Denisea, and she recommended I attend a class Elizabeth was teaching a year or two later. Decades ago I wrote the story and my friend Nicole’s mother (who often acted at The Guthrie) wanted me to publish it. Sadly, I don’t have my original version, so I want to write it again. Even though my memory from over forty years ago has faded significantly.
It goes like this:
When my son Cullan was a toddler, I was at a point where I could not risk living with his emotionally abusive father anymore. I decided to take a trip out of town, on my own, to spend time thinking about how to move ahead. My new friend Jeanne C. told me about the Grand Marais Art Colony, which I had never heard of, so I signed up for a class taught by a female painter and a female writer. The painter was one of the founders of WARM (Women’s Art Registry of Minnesota) and the writer had been the editor at a teen magazine where Steve, my former art-director boyfriend, had also worked. That was a perfect choice for me, since I always wondered: am I an artist or a writer?
I had recently bought a tiny used car, a brown Chevrolet Chevette. It was a long drive up along Lake Superior, at least six hours on a Sunday, about the same amount of time it takes to get to Chicago. The journey was sunny and gorgeous, full of crows, maybe ravens. Dozens of them seemed to follow me from Duluth to Grand Marais. It felt like synchronicity: my middle name is Lenore (Poe’s “nevermore”) but I think of it as Raven. I’d never seen that many black-birds on any of my trips through northern Minnesota.
The cabin I rented (#5) was on a precipitous cliff on Pincushion Mountain, maybe a mile or so out of town, with an expansive view of Lake Superior. I drove past it first to locate the Art Colony, and then I returned to the old log cabin. I parked my car in front of the door, grabbed my suitcase and headed inside to rest for the night. My class would begin early the next morning.
The simple cabin had a bit of a spooky vibe. I figured that was because of the age and the dark, wooden interior, something I was used to after spending many summers at our family’s 1909 log cabin on Lake Mille Lacs. I laid down on a dated double-bed. The mattress was not very comfortable, but after my hours of travel I was able to fall asleep.
A powerful lucid dream shook me in the middle of the night: I saw my little car parked on the edge of the bluff. It fell, rolling and tumbling through the trees and into the lake. Then I heard a loud knock on the solid, carved door. I slipped out of bed and opened it to see a dark-haired woman standing in front of me. A witch? A spirit? She was very stern. She told me that Grand Marais and Superior would be covered in fog until Friday morning, and that is when she would leave for the south. Her body evaporated, and I closed the door. She has reappeared in my dreams for many years: after I moved to Rustic Lodge in Minneapolis, she came to tell me the 1903 house had been built for me.
The Grand Marais dream overwhelmed and shocked me. Woke me up. I turned on all of the lights in the cabin. Ghost-crows filled the space and flew over my head. Was I imagining that? I wasn’t sure, as I had never seen ghosts before. After a while, I was able to sleep, fitfully, until Monday morning. When I got out of bed, I went to a window to pull up the shade. Just as the witch had said, the mist outside was so dense I could not see the lake. The day before had been lit by a brilliant-blue sky. Now it was gloom.
I dressed myself and ate a small breakfast, then headed outside, opened my car door and turned on the key. Nothing happened. The engine was completely dead, another shock. I had driven for more than six hours with no issues at all. Now I would have to walk into town to make it to my first day of class. The thickness of the swirling grey clouds around the Superior forest trail made me apprehensive. I could hardly see fifty feet ahead. Would bears or wolves leap out at me? When I arrived (safely) in Grand Marais, I found a car repair business and asked them about my broken vehicle. They said they would tow it and work on it by the end of the week. That seemed like a relief. How else would I get home?
I stepped up along the steep road to the diminutive former church that was the Art Colony. It was antiquated, white and sitting at the top of the hill. On a normal day there would be a huge view of the bay, but I could not see the lake at all. I entered the single-room studio. There was an open stage at the far end where the altar must have been. All of the students were women. I sat down on a chair. Soon the instructors for art and writing entered the stage to greet us.
Sandra Menefee Taylor, an artist from WARM, told us that artist Hazel Belvo was unable to attend. Hazel’s ex-husband, famous Ojibwe artist George Morrison, was very ill, therefore Sandra was teaching instead. I have paid attention to George’s art over the years, especially the pieces that are at the MIA (Minneapolis Institute of Art). I love them. Denisea has one of George’s paintings at her house, which must be worth thousands of dollars.
We students introduced ourselves and that is when I met Denisea. Of course because our names are nearly identical, we spent a lot of time getting to know each other. She said her mother had given birth to a baby girl named Denise, who passed away, and that is why her mother named her Denisea, the second-born daughter. Denisea had just graduated from MCAD (Minneapolis College of Art & Design). Hazel Belvo had been her art teacher at St. Paul Academy and provided her with a full scholarship to MCAD. Hazel, one of the founders of WARM, later became the Chair of Fine Arts at MCAD.
Because of Hazel’s many paintings of The Witch Tree (Manidoo-giizhikens, or Spirit Little Cedar Tree) in Grand Portage, that is one of the trips we made during our days at the Art Colony, in spite of the fog. It is a tiny, ancient cedar overlooking the lake, sacred to the Ojibwe, who traditionally leave offerings of tobacco to ensure a safe journey on Lake Superior (the tree is now considered off-limits to visitors unless accompanied by a local Ojibwe band member). It felt like a highly spiritual experience for me. I was the last one to leave the Witch Tree and head back onto the hiking path. It reminded me of the giant photograph of a cedar overlooking a waterway that my father bought in my childhood and hung on our living room wall. Another Witch Tree.
Midweek I visited the repair shop and they gave me bad news: no one had recently refilled oil in the engine, including my partner and the seller, which killed the motor. It had to be replaced. They were unable to do the work in time for me to leave. Cullan’s father had a friend who owned a flat-bed truck and was willing to drive up on Saturday to carry home my automobile. An expensive nightmare.
I made a second decision during the middle of our curriculum: it was meaningful for me to focus on art, not writing, at this point in my life. I recognized the “English teacher” (although forgetting her name years ago) but she never acknowledged me, even though I had met her many times at the office on Lake Street, the corner building where The Suburbs used to practice their music in the basement. Working on drawing and painting was strongly inspiring, and I have followed that path until now. Elizabeth’s beautiful poetry from her recent memorial makes me realize I could have been both an artist and a writer.
During the days of Superior’s muted weather, we classmates spent time hanging outdoors together at restaurants in Grand Marais. One evening we even traveled to the Naniboujou Lodge, decorated with beautiful and colorful Cree paintings. I was happy to be away from the haunted cabin as much as possible. The energy was so unnerving that I kept the lights on at night when I tried to sleep. I told my dream story to quite a few people, and six or so decided to have a sleep-over with me at the cabin on Thursday night, before our last day together at the Art Colony. We found enough room for everyone to slumber, although we stayed up very late, sharing stories. All of us saw dark and spectral veils swarming over our heads. We agreed: this place is full of spirits!
Friday morning we woke up to a completely clear sky. Apparently my dream guide had left for the south, as she predicted. Perhaps the thick haze followed her, or dematerialized over our Great Lake. A few years later Denisea decided to rent cabin #5, and she told me that particular bluff was a sacred site for the local indigenous people.
Day notes:
I bought the book “Witch Hazel” to help inspire me for my 2025 resolution: write!
Jeanne carved several large wooden ravens years ago, and they still live at her house. They were displayed at an art gallery in Grand Marais, and I attended the opening. We both love birds, but she is the Bird Mother.
Decades-ago Denise
