1976 saw Sherbrooke St. becoming an arts venue, but only until the city’s mayor decided otherwise
The city of Montreal welcomed the Olympic Games in 1976. Along with the sporting events, art pieces were showcased and organized throughout the city. Corridart was one of them: an urban exhibition displayed on a long portion of Sherbrooke St. going from Atwater Ave. to Pie-IX Blvd. Curator Melvin Charney led the organization of the event, which presented various installations, exhibitions, and performances. He was interested in the history of the street, and the historical value of its buildings.
The event saw a variety of artistic creations. Pierre Ayot presented the sculpture La croix du mont Royal, a large illuminated replica of the mythical Mount Royal cross. Another piece entitled Mémoires de la rue was composed of scaffolding structures on which images and art pieces would be placed. Large red plastic hands pointing at different elements of the urban landscape, such as buildings or streets, were also a notable element of the exhibit.
Politics quickly took a large place in the evolution of the event as the exhibition was dismantled less than a week after it was launched, ordered by Mayor Jean Drapeau. This occurred during the night of July 13, four days before the start of the Olympics. Drapeau believed the artworks did not fit the aesthetic standards that would properly represent the city for this international event.
Charney had not aimed at presenting a clean and perfect Montreal. On the contrary, according to art history professor and researcher Johanne Sloan’s analysis of the event in the book The Other Architect: Another Way of Building Architecture, the curator’s approach was to “insist on the cultural value of domestic and vernacular architecture, and of streets themselves.”
Charney had done extensive preliminary research for this project. He analyzed the history of the buildings, the sidewalks, and their placement in the public space. Therefore, the location where the artworks would be placed was meticulously chosen so that the architectural heritage of the city would be integrated in the exhibit. The goal was to make art accessible to pedestrians and encourage them to engage with it.
For Charney, the street was itself a representation of the city’s cultural background. “The physical traces of the streets define a bond between people and the city as a collective, public artifact that subsumes individual buildings,” he wrote in 1977 as published in the book On Architecture: Melvin Charney, A Critical Anthology.
The presented artworks tackled themes related to the history of Montreal, its urban development, and activism in the community. Artist Françoise Sullivan presented a creation titled Legend of Artists. This piece featured archives of meaningful art movements in Montreal. They were displayed in large boxes placed on top of steel legs, and each contained objects, texts, and photos recalling a specific artistic practice. Those mini-exhibitions were placed in arts venues as well as in front of the homes of artists who inspired Sullivan, such as Paul-Émile Borduas and Émile Nelligan.
Legend of Artists reached passersby and accompanied their walk on Sherbrooke St. while providing a historical background on cultural events related to the site. Charney’s creation for the exhibition also touched on historical features, but through one monumental work. Entitled Les maisons de la rue Sherbrooke, the piece was a life-size imitation of an apartment building’s facade. The empty lot where it was presented was previously occupied by Victorian style buildings that had been destroyed by the city.
Charney’s installation replicated the aesthetic of the new modern buildings that were built in the neighbourhood. The piece engaged with reflections on the treatment of the city’s architectural heritage.
Despite its short existence, Corridart is still recognized today for its ideas regarding the reappropriation of everyday urban spaces by pedestrians. According to Sloan, Charney was “proposing a theory of the street itself as the site of urban knowledge.”
Following the destruction of the exhibition, a group of artists who had participated in it sued the city of Montreal for $350,000. The controversy around this project became famous and the plaintiffs eventually received a total of $85,000 12 years later through a settlement agreement with the city.
Music is often criticized for being too mainstream, or straight-up weird, but an individual’s favourite music usually boils down to its uniqueness or simplicity
Today’s musicians juggle an oversaturated market, leading them to question how they can stand out among the herd. With Apple Music and Spotify playlists updated weekly, musicians clash as they struggle to reach for the top of the list.
Artists who can incorporate popular and inventive elements in their music offer new, palatable experiences to the average listener. When a new track sparks discussion, whether it is outlandish or watered-down, it often still plays a pivotal role in the progression of music culture.
Here are some ways artists can navigate the vast landscape of the pop industry.
The popular and the experimental
Experimental music is a genre in itself, but if we look at Fiona Apple, for example, we find an artist who is innovative within the popular scene. Fringe music, another label for this category, may be too inaccessible and isn’t a realistic approach for budding musicians hoping to make a living off of their music.
We can take a look at Hallin’s spheres to better understand the spectrum of modern music. Named after Daniel C. Hallin, this communications theory is defined by Oxford Reference as a negotiation between three concepts of journalistic objectivity. In this diagram, the centre circle refers to the consensus of public opinion, the middle circle follows ideas of legitimate controversy, and the outermost circle describes fringe society.
If we repurpose this diagram, we can look at how music can be received by an audience. That is: music in the mainstream, music that tests what a listener can enjoy, and music that is disliked or misunderstood by a large audience.
When music is labelled as artistic, it is usually because it strives to add something that has not existed before, or improving on something performed in the past. In contrast, the popular artist is hoping to gain recognition for a widely accepted sound.
Art music may be an appropriate way to label it, then.
Lady Gaga, for example, who has ruled over the popular scene for the last decade, recently dropped a reimagined look at her 2020 album Chromatica. One year later, Dawn of Chromatica takes the core structure of her popular dance hits, and reinvents it with help from extraordinary talents like Dorian Electra, Mura Masa, Rina Sawayama and many other experimental artists.
This eclectic album redux broadens Gaga’s audience and takes a real turn towards the eccentric. For Lady Gaga, her embrace of the weird isn’t abnormal, but it gives us the chance to explore Chromatica’s “what if” moments.
So, in my definition, art music represents a form that leads away from wide recognition in the hopes of finding new and refreshing avenues for a song, style, and genre.
Music stuck somewhere in the middle
Between charting music and music far outside the mainstream exists the middle, where we find music that aims to entertain the listener and also test their limits.
Within the genre of pop, we find new approaches from artists like Billie Eilish, who makes pop music stylized by her dark, carefree personality, and Hubert Lenoir, who brings a free-spirited, offbeat energy to his pop music.
The rise of music curation in streaming services has also created new opportunities for musicians to stand out, even in an oversaturated market.
Due to numerous specialized playlists and radio stations, listeners can find more and more unique music experiences. This wide-ranging curation tends to favour popularity but highlights emerging artists or bands as well. Under streaming services, there is a renewed desire to find obscure music that does something novel.
It’s worth noting that music evolves, and so does its audience. What may be received at first as fringe music can become accepted over time. Playboi Carti’s discography, strangely enough, shows this within a short timeframe. His singles and albums have often been received as underwhelming at first listen, but increase in popularity over the following weeks.
Virality plays a role in music progression too, as one single can establish a new music style and become a highly sought-after product. One example is Justin Bieber’s remix of “Despacito,” which brought forth a wave of reggaeton music to North America. Recently it has become equally important for record labels and streaming services to care about both experimental and popular music.
The scope of music
Upon observation, art and pop music function as a dichotomy. Together, they add balance to music culture with a centralized approach that places the audience first. You couldn’t have smash hits from Doja Cat without Nicki Minaj paving the way, and there also wouldn’t be an Anderson .Paak without pretty much any R&B or funk artist ever.
Releases that are too accessible can quickly start to feel commercial, as if it were a product. Oftentimes, artists are hired to make promotional music for a movie, which usually leads to safer music that panders to an audience. One example is the soundtrack for Suicide Squad, which featured a diverse range of artists but led to music with small thrills and inconsequential impact.
Music that is too experimental is susceptible to gatekeeping and can distance and confuse a fanbase. The reason why a fanbase becomes confused arises when an artist chooses to reinvent itself to the point of a loss of identity. For example, after nearly 15 years of transformations, Ye’s last three albums have left many longtime fans feeling left behind.
More generally, pop cannot continue existing without innovation, however minimal, and too much attention to experimentation can unravel a demographic. Therefore, both streams of thought cannot live without the other.
In the end, consider what you would like from your own music favourites. Do you want your music to be at the cutting edge of the industry? Would you like it to continue perfecting sounds you have grown to love?
Regardless, music pushes forward and it’s interesting to remember what your favourite artists contributed to the ongoing evolution of music.
Artistic duo Geneviève and Matthieu derive inspiration for their latest performance from investigative TV shows and movies
Artistic duo Geneviève et Matthieu will present their new creation titled M. Gros at La Chapelle Scènes Contemporaines theater from Oct. 12 to 15. The performers bring the audience into their universe in a non-narrative multidisciplinary creation built around the themes of investigation, identity, and the art world.
Some of the props Geneviève et Matthieu use in their new creation include fake skin placed on stools, masks with long dark hair attached to clothes hangers, a large piece of fabric piled at the back of the stage, a cotton candy machine, a guitar that plays by itself, a large rope, and a collection of knives.
Their piece is based around the idea of the Mr. Big police investigation technique. This technique aims to solve unsolved crimes through the work of undercover police officers who use infiltration techniques to get to know the suspect. The artists were inspired by investigative TV shows and movies they love. They also thought the name Mr. Big was poetic and could correlate to many ideas, such as the chocolate bar, the body, and the rock band of the same name.
Geneviève et Matthieu have been working on M. Gros for two years now, with it constantly evolving. Improvisation is a crucial part of the performance: the artists have a script that lists the main events of the show, but the way in which they transition from one to the other changes every time.
The artists view the improvisational aspect of their work as a challenge; one that allows them to constantly try new things. “We want the freedom we are giving ourselves to show through because that is all part of playing games, when you start a game of Clue you don’t know how it’s going to end, so it’s the same for us, it’s the idea of how it will end and what shape it will take,” said Geneviève.
The duo is also accompanied on stage by a mad curator who hates contemporary art, and a visual artist who hides behind the different objects on the stage. “It is a roleplay and there are many declensions, but always under the same theme of our identity, who we are, what we hide and what we reveal,” explained Geneviève.
M. Gros is an investigation game Geneviève et Matthieu set for themselves. They are using movement, music and text throughout the performance. As the investigators, their target is specific: they are taking over the art world. The idea came to them after pondering what would be the worst thing that artists could lose. The answer to this question was their ideas. Therefore, the performance also reflects on the contemporary art world.
Geneviève et Matthieu have been working as artists since the 1990s. They also founded an artist centre in their hometown of Rouyn-Noranda called l’Écart. The Biennale d’Art Performatif de Rouyn-Noranda performance art festival which presented its 9 edition in 2018, is another project they initiated. All the art pieces they’ve encountered influence their practice. Their knowledge enriches the show as they touch on the history of performance art.
Geneviève et Matthieu are both trained in visual arts. They are also musicians who wrote and produced five albums. The performative aspect of their work appeared later in their career, with their pieces La Jamésie and L’opéra d’or.
Geneviève explained that the creation of their performances was always driven by the props they use. Also, the multidisciplinary aspect of their work is an important part of their creative process. “We always present in different contexts whether it is a theatre, an art gallery, it is really something we are looking for because it gives us the opportunity to work differently and to be influenced by the context,” said Matthieu.
After its run at La Chapelle Scènes Contemporaines, M. Gros will be presented in another form at the Pierre-François Ouellette art contemporain gallery from Nov. 13 to Dec. 18. For them, the exhibition space gives the audience a way of interacting with the props that is different than in a performance space. “When we are in an exhibition space, we have another relationship with the artwork which includes more proximity… in the way we will install it, the work of art will have another life and the objects will interact with each other in a different way,” said Geneviève.
M. Gros is presented in partnership with the Phenomena Festival. Tickets for the M. Gros show are available on the La Chapelle Scènes Contemporaines website.
This exhibition features 51 artists, each presenting work that examines the human connection to the natural world
MOMENTA Biennale de l’image is back for its 17th edition, taking over Montreal gallery spaces and outdoor sites to reflect on the relationship between nature and the senses. Going on until Oct. 24, the visual arts biennale features 15 exhibitions, including an outdoor garden, a virtual reality city tour and four performances.
Curator Stefanie Hessler proposed the main theme of the event: sensing nature. Along with curators Maude Johnson, Camille Georgeson-Usher and Himali Singh Soin, Hessler organized projects and exhibits related to their thoughts on this theme. One of MOMENTA’s projects this year is an urban outdoor garden created by artist T’uy’t’tanat-Cease Wyss, and is situated on the corner of Berri and Ontario St.. Titled TEIONHENKWEN Supporters of Life, the work brings together a large variety of ancestral plants such as raspberry, corn, tobacco, and basil. They stand as a little herbal island in the middle of downtown Montreal’s cacophony, filling the air with smells of flowers and herbs.
Wyss has a practice of creating such gardens in places where urban life has taken over and plants do not grow easily anymore. The multidisciplinary artist and ethnobotanist chooses plants that would originally grow at the place where the garden will be situated. TEIONHENKWEN was created with a desire to showcase ancestral plants, and allow communities and animals to be in contact with them.
Another MOMENTA presentation is exhibited at the Fonderie Darling. Curated around the work of six artists, the art event is titled Worldmaking Tentacles. The curators imagined a post-apocalyptic world taking place in 2071. For Jessica Sofia Lopez, the cultural mediation and audience development coordinator at MOMENTA, this exhibition is particularly rich as it is “very political — it’s very charged and really it invites us to take agency of our own ignorance.”
When entering the space, Julien Creuzet’s three art pieces are the first to be seen. The French artist presents a hanging sculpture made of diverse materials collected over time, a printed collage, and a short film. The psychedelic video touches on the problem of Kepone pesticide found in banana plantations in Martinique and Guadeloupe. Jamilah Sabur’s Mnemonic Alphabet follows, and includes three brightly-coloured canvases. The artist creates a new language, putting forward the idea that languages might fail to represent the world accurately.
Tejal Shah’s Between the Waves speaks to the exhibition’s theme in video form. The artist created a world in which creatures wearing white plastic outfits with insects on them and ballet shoes live in two settings. On one screen, the audience can observe them exploring a dumping ground set amidst a town. On the other screen, the creatures move in a deserted landscape.
In Sandra Mujinga’s work, clothes are the central subject as the artist presents three laminated leather outfits, which are meant to invoke thoughts on the invisibility of marginalized communities. Mujinga also presents video experimentations with images coming together to create abstract creatures.
Tabita Rezaire’s INNER FIRE series is displayed at different places in the room. The five hanging works of art explore ideas of the “multiple identities related to archetypes of the Black woman,” as explained in the exhibition’s program. Rezaire layers images and references to the body, nature, and spirituality in appealing creations.
Charlotte Brathwaite’s video project completes the show with a reflection on past and future realities shown through video clips and excerpts from texts. Bringing together the thoughts, hopes and beliefs of 51 artists, this year’s MOMENTA exhibit presents a rich tapestry of programming that promises to remind each visitor of the strength of nature.
OASIS immersion’s latest exhibition showcased several unique presentations that were guaranteed to transport individuals into unforgettable worlds
Exhibited at the Palais des congrès de Montréal, OASIS immersion’s latest show Inspirations sought to inspire its visitors by showcasing the artistic prowess of Quebec. “Inspirations is about hope, optimism and reaching one’s full potential,” explained Denys Lavigne, co-founder and executive creative director of OASIS immersion. “Through a carefully constructed collection of audiovisual experiences, our goal was to connect with our audience in such a way that would trigger something inside, and empower them in taking action on something they feel passionate about.”
Lavigne and his colleagues planned to achieve this goal using the immersive properties of the three rooms located in the OASIS immersion studio. The 105 laser projectors and 119 surround sound speakers enable the OASIS immersion team to create customizable 360-degree projections on the walls and floors in each of the three rooms.
The immersive nature of the exhibition became apparent as soon as one stepped into the first exhibition room, known as the portail. Mellow music interrupted by bird sounds played loudly as colourful shapes merged and shifted across the walls and floors. Seated visitors were given the opportunity to look upon poignant, ever-shifting walls as swirling multicoloured lines ran across their backs. Touching tributes written by loved ones adorned the walls and served as introductions for the exhibition’s main artists.
“We felt [loved ones] were the best ambassadors to relay the backstory of each topic and share the type of authenticity we wanted to provide our audience to set the stage for the exhibit,” Lavigne explained. “Secondly, because in more traditional museum environments you’ll often have exhibit introductions that intellectualize a theme, [or] a topic to a point [where] it creates a disconnection between the art and the visitor; we did not want this to happen, and favoured a more intimate approach that best suited the tone we had chosen for the exhibit.”
Next, visitors could enter a room known as the teleporteur room, where they would be transported across the world. From the depths of the Pacific to the International Space Station, the ground beneath their feet was constantly shifting. Accompanying sounds varying from thrusting spacecraft engines to rocking waves helped to captivate the audience.
After their journey through Earth and space, visitors arrived at the final immersive room, known as the panorama, where the bulk of the exhibition waited. Visitors were treated to several different audiovisual presentations, including a production by YouTuber Émile Roy that highlighted some positive aspects amidst the gloom of the COVID-19 pandemic.
In this room, onlookers were also transported across the Pacific Ocean, where they were given the chance to discover unique flora and fauna. Amidst this vast expanse of water lay breathtaking islands with lush forests and bursting volcanoes. Visitors also got the chance to observe the incredible people who call these islands and waters home virtually.
In addition to this, visitors were also treated to an ethereal performance by pianist Alexandra Stréliski. An animated projection of the talented musician walking among a forest of three-dimensional neon shapes could be admired during this presentation.
The panorama room also featured a presentation detailing astronaut David Saint-Jacques’ journey from humble engineer to space pioneer, as well as a presentation that featured a rendition of hygge through dance directed by Vallée Duhamel. In Scandinavian culture, hygge is a way of life that prioritizes enjoying the present and establishing deeper connections with others.
The final presentation of the exhibition was an ode to Quebecois creativity. The spirit of Quebecois culture was a fundamental element in this presentation. “In a way, this project is homage to the creative spirit in Quebec and Montreal, and how it’s been recognized globally,” Lavigne added. “We sometimes take it for granted, but the rich cultural environment in which we live is a privilege that we need to handle with care, and we wanted to play a small role in enriching its outreach.”
Overall, this project was a vibrant experience that granted visitors the opportunity to travel to far-flung spaces and enjoy the richness of Quebecois artistry without ever having to leave the Palais des congrès. It was also a great way to spend a Saturday night for individuals who may have been looking to broaden their horizons.
The Inspirations exhibition was displayed at the Palais des congrès de Montréal.
This exhibition featured four unique installations from a group of Concordia grads
Groundwater, an exhibition stemming from the imaginative minds of four Concordia grads, took place from Sep. 15 to 19. Alexey Lazarev, Manuel Poitras, Loïc Chauvin, and Constantinos Giannoussis each presented their own unique installation, while also collectively adhering to a specific idea. Lazarev explained that “though the projects are all different, in one way or the other, we deal with processes that are hard to be seen. We came up with the name ‘Groundwater’ as something present, important, but hard to see.” The exhibition also places importance on exploring the permeability of borders. Whether these borders are geopolitical, conceptual, or physical, they vary for each artist.
The first installation is Lazarev’s Memory Fabric III. This work features images from his family archives in St. Petersburg, as well as photos he acquired from the St-Michel Flea Market. These photos are presented as an installation of woodblock prints that have been meticulously pressed onto several rolls of 60-foot paper. It is evident that Memory Fabric III was an intricate project for Lazarev to take on. He explains that some rolls of paper took approximately eight hours to produce. Observing these prints, the viewer is overcome with a certain nostalgia. While these memories do not belong to the viewer, there is something hauntingly familiar about the faces that stare back. When it comes to creating art, Lazarev is inspired by the themes of finding oneself, finding one’s place in the environment, feeling out of place, and dealing with different types of anxieties.
The next installation in the exhibition is titled DIY Flood: the reading room from Poitras. This work features several pieces of furniture and décor that are upended, dangling over a carpet. On the carpet rests a small table that showcases several books, all of which share a common theme: capitalism. Although the sound of running water is soothing to many, this certainly isn’t what the artist was going for when he crafted this piece.
“The installation is relaxing, but also discomforting, because of the water’s contact with these objects, which we usually assume to be safe,” explained Poitras. The artist also notes that his work tends to explore the natural world and environmental processes, especially regarding climate change. Fraught with anxiety, this piece confronts the often turbulent relationship that humans share with the natural world.
This work evokes an unsettling feeling: water tubes weave through the furniture and decor, serving as a stark reminder that our own materials and lives could very well be reclaimed by natural elements. It’s difficult for the viewer to not reflect on their own relationship with their environment, while also reflecting on how much they rely on the materials around them.
Next in the exhibition is Chauvin’s Ellipse. Chauvin’s work seeks to explore the connection between creation and destruction in both the natural and cultural world. This installation may look unsuspecting at first glance, but with careful examination, viewers can discern a subtle image amidst the grain of the laser engraved wood panel that the artist uses. The scene depicts a clear-cut forest. Next to this work is Produit Dérivé. In this work, Chauvin presents a small piece of wood that has been, as he explained, “put back into circulation in nature as plastic simulacra of the original object.” The piece of wood is accentuated by a light grey background that is reminiscent of a serene body of water.
Finally, there is Giannoussis’ 740 Avenue 80 Laval. This installation introduces a garden, recreated from Giannoussis’ memory of his grandfather’s. There are plum pits scattered in a patch of dirt, which are juxtaposed with wooden boxes arranged in a square and feature delicate paintings of ripe plums. There is a feeling of loss that arises when observing the discarded pits among the dirt. In Giannoussis’ artistic statement, the artist explains that despite his grandfather’s recent move to a new location, he still exhibited “an awkward but benevolent devotion to this now-lost space.” This work exhibits the deep ties that both the artist and his grandfather share when it comes to their idea of home. The vibrant purple of the painted plums offers a sense of vitality to the piece, and is a tender attempt at keeping the artist’s important memories alive.
Groundwater offers an intimate glance into these four artists’ notions of home, culture, and the natural world, as they encourage viewers to reflect on the environments they now inhabit, or may have in the past.
How unpacking the history behind the art of my home country led me on a path of self-discovery as a native Cypriot
It was an average winter day in 2006 at my gothic revival-type apartment in Budapest. My former Cypriot boyfriend and I had only been dating for three months and brief discussions of moving in together loomed out in the open. Well, that was until he exclaimed to me with fury that we needed to break up. The reason? His belief that I wasn’t good enough of a homemaker.
His irritation did not come as a surprise to me. He would often shame me for my cooking, cleaning and all around lack of classically defined “homemaking skills.” At first I thought this was an absurd reason to end our relationship. Eventually, reality set in and I began to feel shame and question my self-worth. “Are all the other qualities and skills that I bring to the table invalidated because I do not know how to make moussaka and clean dishes the proper way?”
I thought of the women in my life. Looking at my Cypriot friends and family, all I could see were “worthy” women that were perceived by many as perfect homemakers. These women did it all and never complained.
Part of me envied their ability to multitask and manage it all perfectly; a real prize for any man out there. I had no other real-life examples of what a healthy relationship was supposed to look like. I wasn’t even quite sure about what it meant to be a woman. Based on what I had been told, our role as homemakers was to take care of the house, cook, sew, take care of the children and be willing to have sex at all times. At first, I considered these ideologies relics of the distant past. In my attempt to develop my own identity, I subconsciously equated the word homemaker with my self-worth.
My family held the same belief. “How else are you ever going to become a mother and take care of your children?” I told them that I would meet somebody that loves me for the way I am. I also expressed, with conviction, that homemaking should be a shared responsibility and not just mine. Although no words were spoken after that, their expression said it all. Disappointment, pity, contempt. Cracks with my family ties had just begun.
In an unexpected opportunity to revisit the past 14 years later, a research scholarship offered to me during my art school studies led me down a crucial path of self-discovery. One that forced me to question my identity as a Cypriot woman, my life, and the day my ex-boyfriend broke things off for my unwillingness to accept an oppressive reality that I was expected to conform to.
I chose to centre my research around crafts and practices in ancient Cyprus and Cypriot women were at the centre of my focus. The topic of women and crafts in Cyprus during the 19th and 20th centuries was one that interested me. Growing up, I heard several stories about women and crafts of the past from my family. These stories were meant to teach us about weaving patterns, finding materials, and about the necessary labour-intensive process of homemaking with “primitive” tools on a daily basis. However, it was important for me to draw information from factual existing research to inspire my art practice.
I sought to develop a deeper understanding of how these women chose threads, colours, and materials to dye their fabrics, and how they made ink as part of their everyday ritual and practice.
As I dove deeper into my research, I was in awe looking at the beautiful patterns and weaves that these women created using basic tools, since the majority of them were poor.
I discovered how multiple households would come together to help each other “dress” the loom that took up an entire 10 foot x 10 foot room. My research motivated me to complete my tea towel and play a part in bringing forward a beautiful craft that has been partially forgotten.
I was going to attempt to weave a tea towel, learn to make ink that I was then going to use to paint my artwork and possibly compose an installation. I spent the next few months taking weaving classes, ink making classes and purchasing the necessary equipment to dye fabric — thus, walking in the footsteps of my ancestors and their craft practices through my own lens.
The weaving of the tea towel was well underway and I was beginning to get the hang of using the floor loom. Although this is not something I had done before, I felt an enormous amount of joy throughout the entire process. “It must be the bloodline of women that came before me that is now manifesting/speaking through me during this process,” I thought to myself.
As minutes, hours and days passed happily finding myself on the loom, a sense of dread and melancholy arose in me. I could not explain why I was feeling this way, “it must be the labour intensive process of weaving that is taking a toll on my body,” I reassured myself. I decided to take a few days away from the loom and focus on the writing aspect of my work. It was this moment when my feelings for the art that stood in front of me took a darker turn.
Initially amazed by the intricacy and beauty of the art, I soon realized that my vision of ancient crafts from Cyprus and women from the past had been heavily romanticized.
I came across a research paper titled The dowry in Cyprus during the twentieth century (1920-1974): from the agricultural society to a commercial economy by Chatzitheocharous-Koulouridou Panagiota. The “dowry” or proika (in Greek), was a term that I was familiar with from a young age. By definition, a “dowry” is a property or money brought by the bride’s family to her future husband at the time of marriage.
I often remember my grandmother talking about this. She would tell me how she had made me a number of quilts, blankets, bed covers, baskets, etcetera for when my day came. Eventually, these items were going to be the dowry that my family would give to my future husband. Initially, I felt proud looking at the large stash of handmade items made with love for me when I got married. The truth is, I did not fully realize the truth behind the dowry system and its impact on Cypriot women of the past.
After emerging from my office having spent days reading this paper, I came out a different person.
The research paper focused on the dowry system that was taking place in Cyprus during the 18th and 19th century; as a contract between the village priest and the two families that arranged the marriage. According to Panagiota’s paper, the village priest was the dignified middle man that negotiated the terms between the groom’s parents and the parents of the bride. Once the contract was finalized, the bride’s family, and by extension the bride herself, were given a deadline to fulfill part of the dowry/contract.
The contract included land, money and animals in cases of a wealthy bride. It was a list of items that brides had to make in order to prove their ability as acceptable homemakers. The bride had to display the complete list of items required by the contract. Additionally, the entire village would have to come to her house to view her worth as a homemaker, which was later followed by a visit from the priest who would decide whether the contract had been fulfilled. Her fate was sealed, her worth was decided, her label as a homemaker was given.
These stories struck me like lightning. Although well hidden, the remnants of this relic belief system are still visible to this day. While a dowry may not be explicitly required and a contract is not formed, the idea of evaluating women on their ability to manage a home is a perspective that I believe is still prevalent to this day. I’ve faced the consequences of this mindset head-on.
I was taught from a young age about the expectations that I had to fulfill as a daughter entering womanhood. I was meant to have children and become a good homemaker. I can still hear my mother, aunts and grandma telling me and the other girls in the family — “Pay attention, you will need to learn these skills for when you get married.” I never heard them say this to any of my male cousins.
These parasitic ideas are woven into us since early childhood in more ways than one. It was a form of daily brainwashing performed by family members, teachers, politicians and even the media. Eventually you began to suppress yourself; their job was done. The stories that I came across revealed how these patriarchal ideals employed craft and material practices as means to suppress women. My findings expressed the reality that weaving and suppression went hand in hand.
Diving into the waters of my research led me on an unexpected journey. One that unveiled the darker reality behind historically romanticized pieces of art. One that unearthed the voices of those who had been suppressed for decades. Voices of women that were silenced by men and other women — such as mothers, grandmothers, aunts, etcetera — that were meant to protect them the most. The same voices that were meant to protect me.
The dread took over me as these stories occupied my mind. My weaving time at the loom began to feel like a chore. The act of weaving itself brought up conflicting emotions along with more questions than answers for my art practice. “How can I love something that was used to suppress women? How can I identify with a culture that takes the freedom and artistic expression of women and transforms it into a weapon against them?” These were questions that I asked myself over and over again.
My tea towel was not complete when I chose its new identity. I named the artwork Weaving Blood. I named the artwork Weaving Blood, which reflects the idea of weaving until you bleed and numb yourself from the emotional pain and burden you experience. Weaving with joy that slowly turns into dread and blood, just like the transformation of my feelings during this research project. Weaving your way into womanhood, where you lose your virginity and everyone wants to see the blood on the white sheet to prove your purity. Weaving with the hope that you wake up from this play of fate that birthed you a woman. Weaving to prove your worth.
A principle stands out to me when I look at my art pieces: we control our body, we control our craft, we control our threads. My journey of unravelling my identity as a Cypriot woman has just begun.
I began to unravel — and will continue to unravel for a very long time — romanticized relics from my fabric of life. I am beginning to heal the parasitic thoughts that poisoned my mind as a young child by weaving my own ideas and perceptions. In doing so I am re-writing the stories of and for many Cypriot women of the past as well as the present. Stories that unveil their resilience while being minimized into mere objects, ready to manufacture craft goods and children. While these may have been uncovered stories of the past, their impacts loomed heavily on my experiences in the present.
I met my husband in 2014. He is tall, kindhearted and a better “homemaker” than what my family ever expected me to be. What struck me the most when we first met was that he was not your “typical idea” of what you would expect from the category of “man” in a relationship; at least compared to some of the guys that I’d been with in the past.
He knew how to take care of himself and kept things tidy, which was no longer left as a job for me. He had a profound joy for cleaning and organizing. It was refreshing to meet someone like him. Even though I exhibited confidence in finding a partner with such noble qualities, deep down I never deemed it to be possible.
My husband never placed traditional expectations on me or pressure me into changing who I am as a modern woman. He accepted me for who I am while embracing the idea of homemaking for the both of us. It was a match made in heaven.
By the time we got married, the rift between my family and I had grown bigger. I kept my marriage a secret. While I was happier than ever to have met the love of my life, my family didn’t hold the same approach. When a whistleblower eventually informed my family that I was married, they callously and dispassionately announced that I was “his problem now.”
I didn’t hear much from them after they found out about our marriage. To them, I was just a piece of property for sale that had “finally” been sold and taken off their shoulders.
At the time, I could not understand why having an additional X chromosome gave anybody the right to dehumanize me to a mere burden. I often contemplated how my external physical attributes “made me” a woman and laid the fertile ground to manufacture disheartening ideologies about what exactly a “woman’s place” was.
I rejected my family’s given identity and embraced my new life and the beginning of a journey I could never have imagined.
We welcomed our daughter into the world in 2017. Today, it’s become imperative for me as a mother to show my daughter on a daily basis what it means to be a woman and embody the potential of womanhood.
Expressing how historically rooted gendered oppression has impacted my life experiences through my art is important to me. Turning to my art is my way of creating something new with my life and showing my daughter that our history does not define us.
The stories that I’ve shared are only a tiny fraction of the suppression and abuse I endured growing up. The reality is much more stark and complex. That is why I choose everyday to do the work and strive to heal, and re-write my story while re-discovering my identity and being a role model for my daughter . I do it to heal and I always strive to be an example for not just my daughter but for all women out there who are actively and maliciously being suppressed by their “benefactors.”
Accepting the suppression is normalizing it, and normalizing it means more of it. I urge women and anyone reading to create your own ideals, to work towards healing, eliminate and replace these ideologies that infested our minds on the grounds that others are superior to us. Our handlers no longer have power over us. We hold the keys to our own innate power within us. Seek it, find it, embrace it — and above all, embody it.
The Shock Value Collective projects images onto Maestria's sales office as a form of critique of real estate, May 30, 2021
Concordia students produce art interventions criticizing real estate in Montreal, encouraging the public to discuss housing issues.
An art intervention was staged on the Maestria Condominiums’ sales office in Place des Arts on Saturday, May 30. A group of four Concordia students and their professor were behind it.
Known as the Shock Value Collective, Thomas Heinrich, Gabriel Townsend Darriau, Christine White and Madelyn Capozzi, along with their professor, Marie-Sophie Banville, hope to stimulate discussions about an issue that Montrealers know all too well: the housing crisis.
Last week’s art intervention, led by Heinrich, is the first of four that will occur throughout the summer. These research projects are the culmination of the first iteration of Excess and the City, a course given by the Anti-Speculation desk of the Office of Rules and Norms at Concordia.
Heinrich’s intervention, Concrete Capital, projected images onto the luxury condominium project, located on a small yet highly valued piece of land.
Folks taking advantage of the end of the curfew in Montreal walked by the projection, some curiously lifting their heads to see what the buzz was about. Passerbys read “700 000 000” on several images — the projected cost of Maestria’s luxury housing project.
The zeros in the million dollar figure were sometimes replaced with the Google Street View screenshots of the piece of land over the last two decades; showing how little it has physically changed.
Heinrich views critiquing real estate through art as a “very unusual” way of approaching the subject. He explains that students who study financial real estate are normally those who wish to become developers, or simply, “financially savvy.”
Maestria, who’s major investors include the Fonds immobilier de solidarité FTQ (Quebec Workers Federation), also happens to be the largest real estate development to have set foot in Quartier des Spectacles, according to a press release from 2019.
Along with investing $700 million in luxury condominium projects, the Quebec Workers Federation recently boasted about investing in social housing projects. But in comparison, the Fonds immobilier de solidarité FTQ told The Concordian only a total of $116 million was spent towards building and renovating 6,091 low- and middle-income household units across the province.
The Fonds immobilier de solidarité FTQ said in a statement to The Concordian that they knew nothing about the art intervention, nor were they approached by the collective.
In fact, it was not the Shock Value Collective’s intention to shame Maestria, and by extension, the Fonds immobilier de solidarité FTQ. According to Heinrich, those who participate in these projects work within “what they believe is right.”
Their goal is rather to invite “regular people” to ask the following question: Why is there a growing housing crisis in Montreal?
The students’ professor, Banville, believes that not understanding why the housing crisis is happening adds a “layer of anxiety” to those affected by it.
The artist’s role in answering these questions, according to Banville, is by “making the issue visible, more understandable, and being able to feel [it].”
With that in mind, Banville has faith that the projects put together by the Shock Value Collective have the power to engage the audience on an emotional level.
Founded by Concordia Communications students Hannah Jamet-Lange and Shin Ling Low, Collective 4891 aims to foster a safe space for artists to create, regardless of their artistic medium.
“Our goal was always to create a safe space for people to share their art in,” said Jamet-Lange, adding that they wanted to make room for people who perhaps didn’t yet have the confidence to sign up for open-mics or more professional performance settings. “We felt like everyone was doing so many cool things, so many cool art projects, and we really wanted to see it in a context outside of school.”
The group initially organized art events in Jamet-Lange’s apartment. In fact, the collective is named after their old apartment number. In order to provide a platform for emerging artists to expand their practice and experience, the collective often took photos and videos, giving the creators a chance to add to their portfolio. However, despite being titled a collective, the team only consists of Jamet-Lange and Low, both of whom do everything from hosting the events to assembling their zines.
“We would love to make the collective a more literal sense of ‘collective,’” said Low, adding that they are interested in expanding their team in order to continue producing and hosting community projects and events.
“During [the open-mics] people would oftentimes build confidence during the event, after hearing other people perform and then decide on the spot ‘Hey, I’m going to perform something after all,’” said Jamet-Lange. “If people have the confidence and want to perform something they should have the availability to be able to do so.”
However, when the pandemic hit, they had to restructure the format in which their events were delivered, all while staying in line with their mandate of making art accessible to all.
Therefore, they decided to start a zine. The Community Care Edition of the Collective 4891 Zine features the work of over 20 creatives. In addition to serving as an art project to showcase the work of emerging artists, the zine also doubles as a fundraiser for Black Lives Matter.
How so? In order to obtain a copy of the zine, those interested are encouraged to make a donation to the cause of their choice — going local is highly encouraged — and submit proof of their donation. In return, those interested will receive their order by mail.
The zine features everything from paintings to poetry, giving people a chance to display what would have otherwise been placed on a wall or performed at one of the collective’s open-mics.
To accompany the launch of their inaugural zine, the collective will be hosting a virtual artmaking event and launch at the end of April. Here, artists who contributed to the zine will be able to share their work, in an effort to allow people to connect with the art and artists who contributed.
For more information about Collective 4891 and their upcoming launch event, follow them on Instagram or Facebook. Those interested in receiving more details on obtaining a copy of the zine or donating to a cause, visit this website.
How the Harrisons’ multidisciplinary practice tackled environmental issues
Known as “the Harrisons,” Newton and Helen Mayer Harrison were trailblazers in the eco-art movement. Their collection ranged from manifestos to maps, and sculptural installations. If a viewer didn’t know, they might interpret their work as data rather than art.
The couple’s multidisciplinary practice, which ranged a variety of disciplines, explored forestry issues and urban renewal, among others. This led them to collaborate with biologists, urban planners, architects, and more.
What makes their work particularly fascinating is not solely the aesthetic aspect of it, but rather the fact that each piece could be viewed as a solution to ecological issues.
“Our work begins when we perceive an anomaly in the environment that is the result of opposing beliefs or contradictory metaphors,” they said, according to a statement on their studio’s website. “Moments when reality no longer appears seamless and the cost of belief has become outrageous offer the opportunity to create new spaces – first in the mind and thereafter in everyday life.”
In fact, in the 1960s, the couple pledged they would exclusively create art that involved environmental awareness and ecosystems.
The Harrisons offered a unique take on art and its purpose, demonstrating the ways in which society’s inclination towards beautiful things makes them more likely to care about important issues if they are exhibited in a tasteful way.
“All of the sudden people are looking at the environment in one way or another, and they’re looking differently,” said Helen in a video of their sculpture Wilma the Pig. “In other words, it’s bringing their attention in a way that is meaningful.’”
The work was displayed at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles for their 2012 exhibition Ends of the Earth: Land Art to 1974, a remake of one of their earlier installations titled Hog Pasture, wherein the creative duo recreated a small live pasture within the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. They had intended on bringing a hog into the space, however, the museum refused.
Among their other large-scale projects is The Force Majeure (2007 to present). The ongoing series is a manifesto for the present and the future and offers proposals to adapt to a changing world.
In fact, the Harrisons started the Center for the Study of the Force Majeure at the University of California, Santa Cruz, a research centre that enables the collaboration between artists and scientists in an effort to design projects that respond to climate change.
Despite art being often deemed unimportant, the Harrisons’ works and legacy demonstrate the ways in which art can serve as an alternative way of discussing important issues.
“Why not artists?” reads a statement on the Centre’s website. “Art is the court of last resort – and our best hope.”
Four Montreal-based creators share the impact of COVID-19 on their analog media practice
The hashtag #printisnotdead on Instagram has accumulated over 395 thousand posts as of April 2021. Not too bad for a medium that has been accused of irrelevance for the entirety of Gen Z’s existence.
Yet, it still manages to stick around. The COVID-19 pandemic has highlighted the importance of physical touch, with some feeling negatively impacted by the lack of it. Print, or analog media, is often more labour intensive, hands-on, and time-consuming than digital equivalents, usually yielding less predictable results.
So… why would anyone painstakingly hand print a poster when you could design it in Photoshop, and have it printed in a matter of hours? Has the pandemic had any effect on print? What even is paper art?
Four Montreal-based creators who have adapted, reworked, or dove head-first into an analog practice during the lockdown explain the connection to The Concordian.
Caitlin Yardley / Disposable Film
Caitlin Yardley, a Journalism graduate, is experienced in digital media production. For a recent birthday, she was gifted a disposable camera to experiment with.
Like many ‘90s kids, she used a one-use film camera as a child, explaining that her family has albums upon albums of old photographs. But it wasn’t until the lockdown that she fell for film.
“I really want to preserve every moment now,” said Yardley. “I love the permanence of getting my film developed and holding onto a photo, or when I hand a photo to a friend I’ve had printed it feels really special. So that’s been what has led me to continue with the medium.”
Because of the pandemic, some of Yardley’s friends have moved away and she sees less of the ones that are around, naturally. She explained that the experience has led her to cherish the time she spends with loved ones even more and that film photography is an enjoyable way of making the moments “concrete.”
“I always lose the photos on my phone, or even on my [digital] camera, I’ll upload them somewhere and forget about it,” explained Yardley. “But I’ve been printing off these photos and sticking them on my wall.”
Something that Yardley likes about disposable film cameras is how accessible they make photography, especially compared to high-tech DSLR cameras or finicky 35mm film, which require the user to have experience and skills the former doesn’t.
“With some analog film it’s different, but if you just have a disposable camera anyone can get a super cool photo,” said Yardley. “If I’ve had a bit too much to drink I can snap a photo and as long as the flash is on I know it’s going to be good.”
Yardley explained that disposable cameras are very user friendly, requiring only two controls to function, meaning it’s also easy and quick to instruct others interested in learning about the medium. “As long as your finger isn’t over the lens that’s all that matters,” she said.
“With digital, you can take 100 photos to make sure you get the right one. With film, you have one moment realistically, maybe two, to line up the perfect shot and that’s it,” said Yardley. “You don’t know what you captured, you don’t know if it was just your fingerprint. Three weeks later when you hand the film in and it gets developed — then you know … It’s just not an experience you get with digital.”
Yardley explained that this is exactly what makes disposable film unsuitable as a tool for fast-paced, precise photojournalism required at a protest, but that she will continue to make sure she has a disposable camera ready for capturing special events creatively.
She encourages anyone interested but hesitant of the medium to try it out.
“Pick up a disposable camera and if you do have the pleasure of being around people you love, go out and try to shoot something,” said Yardley. “It’s going to be beautiful no matter what.”
@gorelickart / Linocut Printmaking
@gorelickart* is a Montreal-based artist, in her first year of Studio Arts at Concordia University. At the start of the pandemic, the multi-disciplinary creative found themself living in a small studio, shared with a now-ex partner and a cat. Painting, also a part of their artistic work, proved a good way to collect cat hair in a small space.
They took a printmaking course at Concordia during the fall term and started to learn more about the many distinct forms that fall under the umbrella term of printmaking.
“I didn’t use to draw or do any realistic work, but in printmaking, I’ve started to explore that with linocut and intaglio,” they explained.
Compared to linocut printmaking, which developed in the 19th century, intaglio is a grandmother, originating in the 15th century. Intaglio could be described as chemical engraving — the design is etched onto the plate and then acid is poured over it. Intaglio and linocut are on opposite ends of the printmaking spectrum because the former is an example of incision printing, where the design is essentially inside the plate. Linocut and woodcut, require the artist to carve away everything but the design, making it stand out from the cut-away parts in an almost 3-dimensional manner. They are examples of relief printing.
She was initially drawn to lino, which is short for linoleum, the same material also used as flooring, to create a @gorelickart 2020 stamp for her paintings.
“I bought a 4 by 6-inch piece of rubber, and obviously my stamp was tiny so I just started experimenting more with that,” said @gorelickart.
YouTube videos and a can-do attitude proved helpful.
“I just got the tools and started doing it. I was just carving on my couch, with the block in my hand. So whenever I would miss or [the block] would slide a bit I would stab myself and be like ‘Ahh!’ As I was presenting my piece someone in my class was like ‘You know you’re meant to use this thing to keep the block in place … That would have been good to know, but I guess that’s part of the process of teaching yourself.”
Like many analog methods, linocut printmaking involves several labour intensive steps. Carving a block and printing it are two separate tasks, and @gorelickart prefers the former. They use intaglio inks, which can be hard to clean up and stain easily. She chose a composition of a fish created earlier in the year as one of her favourites, as it is one of the pieces she has cared enough about to go through the process of printing and not just carving.
“I really love carving, I find it’s such a relaxing process. I can do it very absentmindedly, almost like knitting,” she said. “I just sit on the couch, [carving] my block and watch TV and it’s really relaxing. Versus printing that’s more technical, and I’m more stressed about not getting ink everywhere.” They use intaglio inks which can be hard to clean up.
@gorelickart explained they live alone and don’t see friends often with respect to the pandemic regulations. Tactile parts of their artistic practice, such as carving, working with stained glass, and clay have proved deeply helpful in terms of dealing with the difficulties that can lead to.
@gorelickart was inspired by another artist on Instagram using small scraps to make recycled stamps. It prompted them to start reusing their wine corks and linoleum scraps to make custom stamp-sized designs.
“When I was doing bigger blocks I would have so much waste from my carvings and I was like ‘Oh my God I need to do something with this’ … So I just started making tiny little carvings and putting them on the corks. They’re so cute and I love them, but now I have so many I’m like, ‘What do I do with these?!’”
In the future — commissioned stamps, or ones with letter grades for teachers are a possibility but, “Right now I’m just making them for fun when I have extras,” they said. “Printmaking is a pretty low-waste art form compared to painting but it’s important to use everything. Before I was just throwing my wine caps out, so I was like this is pretty perfect.”
Silvana Toma / Papermaking
Some might assume the term “paper arts” means art drawn or painted on a piece of paper. Not Silvana Toma, a lifelong paper collector who likes to leave journals and notepads empty, finding them prettier that way.
Toma visited Japan a couple of times and was fascinated by the process of washi papermaking, a thin yet super-strong paper handmade locally, using ancient methods.
“Even though I enjoy both, I’m more drawn to analog [than digital]. It’s so tactile and hands-on that it helps me disconnect from the world for a little while and only focus on what I am doing in the present moment. Because of this, it’s been super beneficial to my mental health too. It’s also as close to a form of meditation as it gets since I can never sit still for too long,” explained Toma.
She turned her affection for stationary into concrete action, launching NoteStorii, a handmade paper shop, in early 2021.
“In some aspects, lockdown helped since I probably wouldn’t have launched so soon if I wasn’t forced to stay in the house and actually work on this. In general, there’s no easy part about starting a business, especially when you’re a one [person] show,” said Toma, detailing the specific challenges the pandemic has imposed on her fledgling business. The physical store closures made it difficult to source materials, the increased use of Canada Post caused shipping delays and on top of everything, lost packages “didn’t help.”
Papermaking is a highly tactile art, requiring multiple technical steps to get to the final product. A benefit to small-batch paper is that it has a significantly lower eco-footprint than coated, commercially produced paper.
Scraps can be recycled into new paper, but it’s important to understand what its texture is before committing to making it into sheets. This wasn’t always possible with online shopping, sometimes leading to unusable supplies, paired with high shipping costs for Toma.
“I think I’m not the only one who’s been living through the lens of social media pre-pandemic, always plugged in, always going somewhere and checking items off of my endless to-do list. The lockdown forced us to face who we really are beneath the filter we put up for the world, and we either weren’t ready for the reveal, or we didn’t like what we saw. It can cause a lot of anxiety and unrest you know — realizing you don’t really know yourself? I think analog mediums help us tap into a creative side that we’ve perhaps forgotten about; we can take time to think clearly, instead of frantically searching for answers even though we’re too distracted to ask the right questions,” she continued.
“At first I saw papermaking as something only professionals with huge studio spaces could do. I’ve learned that a small workspace doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the process. It’s also an inexpensive hobby. You don’t need fancy equipment, big machinery or grade A pulp to start off. I began with a kitchen blender and still use the same one, recycled newspaper and a DIY frame from the dollar store. With a bit of patience and willpower it’s a rewarding process,” she said.
“My favourite part is peeling off the dried sheet and stacking them for the final press. The peeling sound and motion feel incredibly satisfying, and so is seeing the final product,” continued Toma. Making paper is physically intense and messy — but it’s a labour of love for the creative entrepreneur.
“I remind myself that cleaning up means I get to come in to a fresh start tomorrow.”
Le Lin / Book Arts + Print Media
Le Lin is a prolific presence in the print world. In their final year of Graphic Design at Concordia University, Lin has shown art books in several exhibitions, produced multiple zines, and co-founded the Queer Print Club (QPC) two years ago — to name just a few of their analog accomplishments. However, he’s also seen aspects of his communal practice, like participating in Expozine, or a print swap the QPC co-organized with Yiara Magazine, become impossible due to the pandemic.
Lin has approached book arts from multiple angles, studying binding and conservation methods that the average person has likely never heard of, seeing a book as a unique 3D artistic creation, as opposed to just a vehicle for other people’s words and images. The distinction is important.
“I always design for print … I use very specific papers. I really care about the transparency and the papers and the materiality of the book itself … A lot of my books you can fold stuff out or it’s bound in a particular way,” he explained.
Lin combines their skills as an artist and graphic designer to create art books. A set two, handmade by Lin, were recently displayed in Dear Family: twenty years ago was just yesterday, at the Pierre-François Ouellette gallery, from March 17 to April 3, as a part of the annual Art Matters festival.
“When [people] open [one of my books] and see that I’ve done the whole cover, embossed the cover, and screen printed most of the transparent pages and then digitally printed all of the other pages and sewed stuff in and they’re like ‘Woah you can do that!?’ and I’m like yeah, you can do anything!”
Lin is in Design, but they have made the effort to pursue printmaking classes throughout their undergrad career, emailing teachers tirelessly to get into the courses needed to further their practice.
“This year shifted a lot. I really wanted to take papermaking and 400-level screen [printing] classes and other hands-on classes like bronze casting but because of COVID, I can’t go in, so I’ve been taking more coding and web design classes. I have made three zines this year but they’re not printed by me,” said Lin.
“One of the projects I’m working on is making a web platform for zines, so you can upload PDFs and it turns into flipbooks online, so it’s kind of bridging that gap. I haven’t partaken in much printing at home but it’s more like translating my practice onto an online skillset,” he continued.
The site features zines by Lin, as well as some that others have uploaded. Taken from the word “magazine,” what makes a zine distinct from traditional media is that they’re self-published and have a long history related to activism or the dissemination of information that is helpful to marginalized communities. They’re known for their blend of educational, personal, artistic, and affordable content.
“I like making things that are accessible … With my work I try to make it super precise. If you can read it, you can understand it.”
*Identity has been withheld for safety/privacy reasons.
An artist who speaks her truth through intimate art-making
Social media does have its advantages; it allows people to discover and connect with the many talented artists that share their work on social platforms.
I came across Montreal-based artist Lana Denina’s Instagram account a few months ago while scrolling on the application’s explore page. The colour palettes she uses and her detailed illustrations of faces caught my eye.
Denina, who is of Beninese and French origin, is currently studying Marketing at Concordia. She remembers copying drawings from her childhood books when she was six. Then, she started painting.
Her style is unique. Denina’s art illustrates modernity and authenticity, exploring human relationships, body movements and morphological diversity.
My paintings are greatly inspired by our era of beauty and technology,” says Denina. “I also incorporate a lot of modern fashion into my art.”
Denina combines digital art and painting, representing people of colour is important for her as she feels they should be more included in contemporary art.
She looks up to different cultures. For instance, she gets inspiration from the art of the Shōwa era, a period of time in Japan that signified the reign of the Shōwa Emperor, Hirohito, from 1926 to 1989. Denina also admires Dan masks, traditional objects created by the Dan people, an ethnic group from Côte d’Ivoire and Liberia. According to The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the masks are integrated into the hierarchical system that governs political and religious life.
Her paintings are designed differently from each other. Some pieces are darker, whereas some are lighter; it all depends on Denina’s mood. The faces depicted in the artworks were envisioned by the artist, creating new beings. “They all are made-up faces from my imagination. It’s a mix of various faces I saw over the internet or in real life that I thought were unique,” said Denina.
Moi vouloir Toi (2021) is an animated painting depicting a woman with a snake on her head looking at a man. The background changes colour, from green, purple, to a fading red, giving life to the artwork.
L’ocean du regret (2021) is a self-portrait of Denina from the series Wet, a collection of paintings she created where water is always present. In this painting, viewers can observe Denina standing in the water, with a cut over her heart. The piece is about giving one’s heart to someone fighting personal battles and the way it can be harmful for both people. The piece is painted with dark red shades, making the painting seem more intimate since it’s a self-portrait and red is known to signify intimacy and passion. It’s as if Denina was portrayed in her vulnerability.
I want to show my process of evolving throughout adulthood but also tell love stories,” said Denina. “Love is extremely powerful because it transforms people into vulnerable beings. It unveils the true nature of people.”
Loving myself, suffering with myself (2021) is another astonishing work, illustrating a woman in a red background, sitting on a red couch looking at viewers. This painting is about self-love and the way it can be challenging to accept one’s self. “I mostly love my sad paintings,” added Denina. “ They express powerful feelings.”
Her most recent work, Puedes oírlo (2021), which translates to “you can hear it” in Spanish, is animated work, showing a couple sharing an intimate moment, while the sound of a heartbeat can be heard. This painting seems to be a remembrance of a past relationship, where one still remembers the heartbeat of a partner that they once heard; a sound that never left.
I’m attached to all of my paintings. All of them are unique and capture a particular emotion I was feeling at the time they were created,” said Denina.
She possesses the skills to fabricate her art with different materials. Duo Tone is a set of velvet rugs, each with a different illustration on them. She also designed a woven throw, inspired by the Suri tribe, a community from Ethiopia. A woman meditating can be seen on the throw.
“I want to tell stories about life, the good and the bad sides of life. Every human being on Earth is different and has [their] own story,” said Denina. “I want to represent people as much as I can.” For the moment, Denina is working on a silk scarf she is designing.“The sky really is the limit, I have so many ideas. Lots of new projects are coming up soon but cannot be revealed yet!”
Viewers can keep up with Lana Denina’s work on her website and Instagram.
