Page 90 of Folds
Wendell Cribbon's monumental wood carvings stand as adefining contribution to the evolution of modernist sculpture in the early 1960s. Through a masterful command of flowing, continuous lines and an innovative approach to form, he reshaped the visual language of the medium, challenging conventions and expanding its expressive potential. His work did not merely participate in the modernist movement—it helped redefine it, setting a new standard that would influence generations of artists.
Long before I became aware of the fact that he was my secret uncle, the impact of his vision had already reached me, a testament to the enduring power and significance of his artistic legacy.
Wendell never had a family, and somehow he thought my work was good enough that it deserved fostering. We spent every minute we possibly could inside his state-of-the-art workshop upstate. And even though neither of us said it aloud, we truly loved each other.
Uncle Wendell was my platonic soulmate.
Which is good, because the romantic soulmate position has only had the most regrettable of applicants thus far.
I grab my duffle and the springed door snaps shut behind me. I throw it on the table, unzip, and dig around until I find the square of paper. I put the envelope under my arm and pick up the ultralight sleeping bag roll before I head over to the bedroom corner.
I pull the wool blankets from the unfortunately lumpy-looking mattress and smooth my own bedroll over it before I sit down. I frown as my butt sinks several inches against the creaky springs. I make a mental note to add buying a new bed to the to-do list before opening the wrinkled envelope in my hands.
I've read the letter Uncle Wendell penned me months before he died. A letter I didn't know about until his estate attorney gave it to me, along with the entirety of his sprawling art empire.
Dearest Sloane,
I thank my lucky stars every day that we found each other. I know our time together was short, and I feel like we’ve only just scratched the surface of truly getting to know one another, but I dobelieve that the universe gave me the wonderful gift you are for a reason.
I have no heirs, not in the way that matters. And those who might lay claim to what I leave behind do so with the wrong kind of hunger. They would sell my collections piece by piece until all that’s left of what I’ve built here is something meant to impress a wealthy, vapid dinner party guest. I can't bear the idea of that's how I end.
I choose you as protector of my legacy—and in return, I give you everything: the money, the art, the townhouse. But most importantly, I hope I’m able to give you the connections I have in the sculpture world, and the financial freedom so you’ll never have to compromise your vision for the sake of a living wage.
There is so much I wish I could see—the work you will create, the beauty you will bring into the world, the mark you will leave behind. It pains me to know I won’t be there for it. But if I can be even a small part of helping the world recognize your brilliance, then I will consider my life well spent.
Love you always,
Uncle Wendell
P.S. When you need inspiration, the cabin will always provide.
His shaky hand made the ink smear toward the postscript, and I'm glad now that he's not suffering.
I had to hold back the tears in his attorney's office, and the shock of what he's given me hasn't truly worn off yet.
But protect his legacy I will. During his life, Uncle Wendell never gave me a lick of bad advice. So now that I'm searching for the focus of my next wood carving, something to honor the chance he's giving me, I'm going to take his advice.
I prop my shoulders up on a pillow from the sixties, resting my chin on the windowsill, and take in the sunset reflecting over the blue waters of the lake below.
Come on, cabin, gimme the inspiration I need!
I’ve got one foot in dreamland when I hear this faint little tapping sound. At first, I don’t really notice it—background noise to whatever fantasy my brain's crafted. It comes and goes, a faint percussion.
Then suddenly—plop.
A cold drop hits me right on the forehead.
My eyes snap open. I just lie there for a second, confused, trying to figure out what just happened. My brain feels stuck on autopilot, like it hasn’t caught up yet.
Then another one—plop.
Same spot. Cold again. I flinch as I'm ripped from sleep's warm arms—now I’m wide awake.
I look up, but it’s dark and I can’t really see anything except the pinpricks of light coming through the old roof of the cabin. But then the quiet build-up, like a tiny pause…
Plop.
Another drop hits, and this one runs down the side of my face toward my ear. It’s uncomfortable, and now my pillow feels a little damp too. I bring out a hand from my sleeping bag and shiver.
