Skawennati, Skins and Second Life

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A screenshot from Th’owxeya: The Mosquito Story, created during the Skins Machinima Workshop in Vancouver

A group of new avatars are learning how to fly. We’re on AbTeC Island, the virtual headquarters for Aboriginal Territories in Cyberspace, a research network based at Concordia University of academics, artists and technologists whose aim is to encourage the creation of self-determined Indigenous spaces online. In 2015, AbTeC launched the Initiative for Indigenous Futures <abtec.org/iif>. One of their major efforts is to teach various computational technologies to First Nations youth, through the Skins Workshops on Aboriginal Storytelling and Digital Media.

Six participants of the Museum of Anthropology’s Native Youth Program are learning to maneuver the virtual realm of Second Life as part of the Skins Machinima Workshop. Hence, the flying.  They are led by Skawennati , a co-director, with Jason Edward Lewis, of AbTeC, and CAG’s artist-in-residence for August. Assistants Erica Perreault and Darian Jacobs (a Skins “alumni”) also joined us. The workshop, held in Vancouver for the first time, was their longest machinima workshop yet, boasting four days of instruction and production. The word “machinima” is a portmanteau of machine and cinema and describes a technique of making movies in video games. It has been around for several years, and the participants were shown examples of machinima created in Halo, Minecraft and the Sims. In past iterations of the Skins workshop, participants re-created scenes from Star Trek and even a poetic “nature” documentary of alien plant forms.

“We [talk] about Indigenous self-representation in media,” said Skawennati, who has led previous Skins workshops in Kahnawake and Montreal. “An important part of that discussion is to underscore the richness of our traditional stories.  However, AbTeC decided long ago that the participants can tell any respectful story that they want to.”

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The artist Skawennati with participants of the Skins workshop in Vancouver. Photo Credit: Mackenzie Reid Rostad

The participants decided to split into two teams, each focusing on a story special to one of their nations. After deciding on the narrative, they worked on storyboarding and character development. A part of the workshop focuses on animating the characters to “act” and also build the set pieces needed for their stories. The NYP participants created sets that reflected their traditional culture, such as a painted big house and carved posts.

Skawennati chose to begin her artist talk at the CAG with her own avatar introducing the concept of using Second Life as a communicative medium. The clip was originally created to serve in the place of the artist herself, as she was unable to attend a conference and decided instead to send her representative avatar to speak for her. Skawennati also screened episodes of TimeTraveller™, a machinima series that follows a man as he uses a virtual time traveling device to re-visit specific moments in history.

In the Vancouver workshop, each team was given a budget of 2,500 Linden dollars or about $10 in Canadian. The money was spent purchasing clothing, set elements and specific modifiers for key characters. A perk of digital production is the high level of customization, as well as the boundless potential for creative expression.

The machinimas created by the Native Youth Participants will premiere on the CAG website in September.  

–Ines

Interview with Diane Borsato, Part 2

This is Part 2 of an interview with Toronto-based artist Diane Borsato. Click here to read Part 1.

There’s such a range of tensions and contrasts in your work. In particular, I find it striking that although a particular project could take years of research, learning and networking, it might only be up for a day or a single occurrence.

Sometimes there’s no immediate audience, too. Like Terrestrial/Celestial (2009-2010) was just astronomers, mushroomers, and a couple people from the gallery, which is all we needed. We can’t have an audience to something like that, it would interfere. For me they’re conceptual—it was an event, a story for art history, an idea that was enacted. They’re not always performative, like for an audience.

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Terrestial/Celestial, 2009-2010

There’s something very special in that moment when everything comes together and then is gone.

I guess it’s like a dance. Sometimes I think of myself as a choreographer. I can’t control what everyone does, but for that work, I basically said “Mushroomers you do this in the morning and astronomers you do this at night. We’re going to do this in the same day and we’re going to go look down and look up.” It’s a gesture. We’re going to think with our senses and think with our imaginations and do that in one day, so it’s a kind of composition or choreography. But there’s a lot of agency on behalf of the participants. And I learn more about the work while it unfolds, and after looking at the documentation.

Like with the beekeeping, I realized the comportment of beekeepers and their ability to affect the temper of other creatures and vice versa. The more I got into it, tried to explain it and re-enact it as a performance, the more it became clear that this was meditating. This was just meditation. And I’m not a meditator in a formal way, so I couldn’t really do it without the support of a guide.

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Nuit Blanche 2013. Your Temper, My Weather, 2013

But what was interesting was that beekeepers were just so good at it. You can’t just ask anyone to do silent performance art for five hours and stay still. I mean, there was meditative walking in it too, but the beekeepers kind of just got it instantly, which was really amazing. And together, 100 of them sitting silently (for Your Temper, My Weather at the AGO in 2013), focused and calm, breathing slowly—that was a very moving thing.

I was curious about your work Cemetery (2015), in which you eat an entire ice cream cone while standing in a graveyard. What brought that piece about and what were your thoughts while making it?

I sometimes make these huge pieces with a hundred people and it’s really stressful; a year of emailing and establishing trust and practicing, which is exhausting and stressful. And then I have to make these little impulsive pieces that are done in a day, that I have control over. This work was actually made in a few days, but it was one of those impulsive, Ì-just-need-to-make-something pieces because all the flowers were blooming in Toronto in the spring and it’s so short. I made that piece and I sent it to a former professor, a really interesting scholar and an expert in Japanese gardens, zen landscape aesthetics, ceramics, and so many other things like radio and French astronomy, Allen Weiss. And he told me it was the most surprising expression of mono no aware that he’s ever seen.

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Still from Cemetery, 2015

Mono no aware is what the Japanese invoke with cherry blossoms, an awareness of the ephemerality of life. An awareness that death comes, that this is brief, that time is passing. I think it’s something that blossoms will always evoke. I’m not easily in this moment. I’m kind of like “it’s almost over” as soon as it’s the most beautiful. It’s so brief and so wonderful, and the brevity is part of the beauty. As I understand it, mono no aware is a feeling that you get when you have that experience, when you see the cherry blossoms falling like snow. That sad and poignant feeling. And I think that’s what the ice cream was about. The feeling of your body and the pleasure of this sensuous sweetness, creaminess, and cold. Ice cream is such an immediate, almost basic bodily pleasure. And the cemetery is, well, the end of all those things.

In a past interview, the writer mentioned your work Boquet (2006-ongoing), where you steal flowers from a neighbor’s yard. I remember they called your work very gentle, which was surprising to me, because you were still stealing.

Yeah, exactly. I do worry when the work is described as sweet, or dismissed as trite. Though indeed the gestures are very small. I did a piece a long time ago when I was a grad student called Touching 1000 People (2003). I had read this study about how people can be touched really insignificantly, like when you’re getting change from somebody and you don’t even remember being touched, but it actually affects your experience of the situation and how you feel about that person. I was curious about gesture at its most minimal. What is the tiniest gesture that has an effect in the world. I think I’m at a threshold of sensitivity, where I’m really curious about small gestures and the reverberations. So sometimes they seem like small gestures, but when you focus, there’s a lot to explore. It’s almost like a minimalist approach. It’s a unique place for visual art to explore.

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Touching 1000 People, 2003

But in terms of gentleness, it’s actually a mode of moving, of touch—that I do aspire to in work, and study in my pieces, I think. A combination of lightness in an act—that moves and feels, that knows, or cares, that pushes forward or through…Maybe it’s an antidote to aggression, a proposal for an alternative mode of exacting influence or power. It shows how much is possible, and visible—with small openings and discreet rearrangements.

 

Tea at Gallery Gachet

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Gallery Gachet will be offering tea and conversation on August 25 from 1 to 3pm.

The atmosphere is animated with lively, comfortable conversation as the gallery fills with the subtle aromas of tea. For the duration of Dylan Miner’s solo exhibition, Michif – Michin (the people, the medicine), Gallery Gachet is hosting a public gathering once a week for visitors to sit and share. Tomorrow (August 25) will be the last session before the exhibition closes.

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Pine needle and horsetail tea. Photo credit: Kay Slater

The teas are loose leaf, contained in leather containers that might hold a combination of pine needle and horsetail, dried mushrooms or another deeply aromatic selection. With a hot mug in hand, I join the table placed at the center of the gallery; the heart of the exhibition. The conversation flows easily from Star Trek to horror films, sleepwalking to lucid dreaming, indigenous representation to arts initiatives and Pokémon GO.

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Printmaking at Gallery Gachet in early August

The discussion is framed by the prints of medicinal plants created by Dylan and a group of participants in his printmaking shop, held in the gallery earlier this month. Dylan hand-carved images of birch, salmonberry, dandelions and more, then created a natural dye with blackberries harvested from the DTES. The prints stand vivid against the white walls, the rich splashes of pulpy dye lending a near-haptic quality. Some of the plants featured echo the varieties Cease Wyss described during a plant walk through Stanley Park organized with Dylan.

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Prints made by Dylan Miner. Photo credit: Holly Schmidt

The exhibition runs through August 28. For more on Dylan Miner’s activities in Vancouver, click here.

–Ines

Interview with Diane Borsato, Part 1

Diane Borsato is an artist who often works with naturalists, hobbyists, and amateur organizations—including mycologists, astronomers, and beekeepers in projects that examine social and sensorial modes of knowing. She is currently working on a new project, The Moon Is Often Referred To As a Dead, Barren World, But I Think This Is Not Necessarily The Case, which will culminate in an exhibition at the CAG. For the work, Diane will invite several Ikebana masters from the modern Sogetsu school to participate in a collaborative workshop and installation. The practitioners will work with seasonal materials, and the materials and space of the CAG. She will also provide a conceptual framework for materializing a dialogue between the worlds of Ikebana—often a highly technical, rule-based traditional cultural practice, and contemporary art—with its own unmistakable tropes and cultural specificities

The work is part of an ongoing series that examines aspects of learning, practicing, and exhibiting arrangements of flowers. The title is from a statement made the modern sculptor and Sogetsu founder Teshigahara Sofu in Kadensho: Book of Flowers. Diane has been studying Sogetsu ikebana for several years. The artist sat down to answer questions about her work.

You began university as a theater major. Can you tell me about your early career and how you made the change to art?

I was always looking longingly into the sculpture studio at York University through the glass. In some ways I felt like I didn’t want to work with people, the way I did in theater school. I loved this romantic idea about artists—which I recognize now is a mythology—of being alone with materials and using my hands, being covered with clay and plaster, and having this really physical experience. And the idea of studio work satisfied my more introverted side, wanting to have a private, reflective practice. But I started making sculpture and very quickly I was interested in using ephemeral materials like food and plants. Making these kinds of sculptures with these ephemeral materials meant they were time-based, and that led naturally into making video and even performance. I was interested in artworks that were alive, that changed, that were not entirely predictable or under my control, that grew, or died, or dissipated. And then a more time-based practice also led into, ironically, a more social practice.

I like learning from other people and I like learning together with other people. It’s a kind of educational project; I’m really curious and I like experts. Sometimes I find it comforting that somebody might know everything, that everything could be known! And that I might know everything if I had the tenacity and discipline to practice as much as they do, which I never do. So I try to stand near them and ask a lot of questions. I’m especially attracted to people who have a deep curiosity and investment in something that has nothing to do with their job or money. They do it for love, they do it not just as some extreme obsession, but as a way to be in the world. Like people who spend decades memorizing Latin species names, I find really fascinating. What do they know with that level of literacy in a subject? They are the ones who have dug in really deep.

Often in my pieces, I’m not the expert, I’m not teaching anybody else to do anything. I can just be in the crowd and let people do what they normally do, except with a conceptual twist. I have this piece called The Chinatown Foray (2008-2010), where I asked the mycological society in Toronto if we could do a foray—which is what we do every Sunday. We go in the woods, collect species and bring them all back. But could we do a foray in Chinatown, could we do it where there are medicinal shops and grocery stores and markets?

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The Chinatown Foray, 2008-2010

They really liked the idea, a lot of the members are Chinese and they were translating and creating species lists. Some of the women knew how to cook stinkhorns, cauliflower fungus and stuff we weren’t finding in the forest, but that are also species of Ontario and eastern Canada. We brought our guidebooks into the supermarkets, we brought the same tools, our baskets, our magnifying glasses. There were species in our books that were said to be inedible, but they were for sale in Chinatown. They were edible. Guidebooks and the history of naming plants and animals has always been problematic and exclusive, so it was interesting to bring into collision the market and these traditions of naturalist foraging and natural history practices. Also to mix up expertise and important knowledge in ways we hadn’t experienced in the woods.

What is your process like in developing a new work? At what point does a hobby become something that you’re interested in developing into a piece?

I dislike the word hobby, I have to think of a better word. I call them my preoccupations, because they all have their own history and established culture around them, and they’re serious pursuits for people. I guess when they’re not your job, which is the case for most of the practitioners, it’s called a hobby, but it sounds trivial. Like it has no significance, it’s just a pastime. I mean it’s the kind of thing people do for love and with tremendous commitment. If you think about astronomy, and in many pursuits, there are amateurs who are also making significant contributions to a professional field.

My whole life I’ve been interested in learning things. We go to Nova Scotia every year, [my partner] Amish is from there. He wants to run up mountains, which I can’t do. But I was overwhelmed by the moss and the colorful mushrooms everywhere, so I picked up a field guide. It was something I could do when I went. I could learn it, enjoy it, and not get poisoned. Learning the names of things and reading field guides is a special pleasure, it feels like belonging where you are when you know things by name. I love to be in the woods and know the names of plants and mushrooms. I like to stand under the Vancouver sky and know those clouds are cumulus and up there it’s altostratus.

I don’t do these things so I can secretly make them into art, I do them because I’m really invested and I’m curious. I know there will be great insights, tremendous and moving experiences.  I took a beekeeping class with my dad. We have two hives in Mississauga that we keep together. I didn’t intend for it to become a work, but I’m at the point now where when I feel something coming on, I go with it. Just recently it’s been apples. This year I’m into amateur pomology and I’m reading apple books and I’m grafting my apple tree and I’m meeting apple community experts like specialty Arborists and Urban Orchardists. And that’s it, I expect it’s going to be art for sure. I’m doing these things increasingly intensely, with increasing enthusiasm, kind of like a serial obsessive, and I can’t help but be an artist in them as I participate. It’s a way of thinking, it’s a way of responding, it’s a way of knowing, it’s a way of being in the world. I can’t help it.

We have a tradition in Western art universities in this moment, teaching students with an emphasis on art historical references, and contemporary artist affinities, and much of my students’ work have these things as their core references. Art is the subject of their works. I’m encouraging my students to gain broader knowledge and interest, to join clubs on campus, like join a horticulture club, tag birds, go on a mushroom foray, work at an insect collection – do something other than looking at art, so you know about something else. So you have a subject, you have an investment in something outside of this self-referential bubble. For me, I trust that if I’m curious and enthusiastic about something, even as an amateur, I bring a new perspective and then I can bring some of the insights from that field back to my home of contemporary art, school and teaching. There’s a meaningful exchange that can happen. And life is the subject.

Interview with Maddie Leach, Part 2

This is Part 2 of an interview with New Zealand artist Maddie Leach. Click here to read Part 1.

The complexities of the relationships you’re building in your process seem to reflect the way your viewers have to approach your work. It’s sort of the antithesis to the way a lot of artistic consumption happens today, which is in quick, digestible tidbits. The fact that you can’t do that with your work speaks to the level of engagement that you invest in the research process.

My good friend David Cross who’s an artist and a curator always asks, “What’s retrievable for an audience?” What about the backstory, essentially. I often have to find ways to frame these stories in a way that the research becomes apparent to people in different contexts. I can do it as a slideshow within an artist’s talk, or as a publication, but the work itself is difficult if you just encounter a piece of it. I’m thinking a lot about the way my work keeps refusing to be whole. It is partial; you might experience an aspect of it but perhaps not all of it. With If you find the good oil for example, hardly anyone saw the block going into the sea, only about five of us, but there was also a large painted text on the façade of the town’s public gallery and a series of letters and a photograph that appeared in the local newspaper and later a book. I can describe it as a constellation of parts—so the work can be seen in multiple ways, and only some people will manage to see all of it.

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If you find the good oil let us know, 2012-2014. Courtesy of the artist.

In this way my works definitely resist cohesion, and I think some critics would say that type of practice makes it really difficult to “get the work.” I wonder sometimes myself, am I just making this really hard for people? Is there too much work to do on the part of a visitor or audience? You have to go in and read a publication or you have to look at a website, there are clues to follow and imaginative effort to make. It’s interesting how some people will and other people won’t, and I accept that.

What I like about your work is that it doesn’t try and turn your research into an archive.

Through my research process I often discover fantastic, interesting texts and images and think, yeah, I could put this all together! But the question is how to make it into an artwork and not a research archive or display. I return to questions around the connection between things, what are the possibilities of this material, and what is created by leaping over gaps and placing disparate claims together. I’m really interested in the idea of asking an audience to engage their imaginative powers. I think sometimes you can have found material all laid out in front of you, and it’s undoubtedly interesting but you’re not actually asked to undergo a process of active connection between components, because the documentary process has provided everything for you. I think it’s always good to resist that. I’m also aware that heavily researched art is a current trope in contemporary practice and we need to continue to question its effects. You can get really caught up in finding and uncovering remarkable things which are just amazing in themselves. I think the challenge is to say what is the artwork going to add, what does it complicate?

Reading other articles and texts that have been written about your work, the word ephemeral comes up quite a bit. And it got me thinking about whether or not your work is ephemeral. There might be no resulting archive, but you’re making an impression on people’s memories. Even your meetings in Vancouver had people saying “I haven’t thought of that before.”

I often think it’s not about a disappearance, but rather something that moves into another form. A good example of something that didn’t “disappear” is a project I made where I put a custom-built 16-foot sailboat on top of the national museum in Wellington as a temporary sculpture commission [My Blue Peninsula, 2006-07]. It was there for about seven months on the roof. Then the boat came off the roof, and I was left with this large object and a fundamental storage problem. It was a fully functioning sailboat, and I was attached to it. I kept it. I kept it in someone’s boat shed, then it was on my driveway, then in my garage, it moved back and forth. After having had it in storage for nearly a decade, last year I decided to give it away to a friend of the guy who helped me build it. I also gave him the set of plans we had used and we agreed that it ceased being an artwork. It has moved into the world as a boat and it’s no longer My Blue Peninsula. It’s not my project anymore. In this way, the project has ended and has taken another form. There was also One Shining Gum—a project that involved sending one whole Eucalyptus tree (cut into logs) to Chile—that eventually was burned as firewood. There were the barrels of water that got lost in Jakarta [The Blue Spring/Mata Air Murni, 2015] and are still in existence in the world in some form—probably poured out into a river or a drain, who knows where they are, it could still be sitting in its containers in the back of a Jakarta warehouse. So these objects might be seen to undergo a sort of disappearance, but their physical presence is transformed.

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My Blue Peninsula, 2006-2007. Courtesy of the artist.

One of the most memorable moments I’ve had as an artist was with If you find the good oil. I was sitting with executives from Australian Worldwide Exploration (an oil company with rights to drill and extract in New Zealand waters), in this huge boardroom and I was asking them if I could get my concrete block out to sea on one of their supply boats. But first they had to understand the project and I told them the whole winding narrative of the whale oil that wasn’t whale oil. I remember thinking how amplified the absurdity of the situation was. They all listened very attentively and then said “…Hmm.” I realized at that point that not only had I taken up three men’s time and interrupted their working day, but they had listened to this complicated story about the movement of a substance, and I think it was at that point I became really aware that the work was operative right in that moment, in that imprint of the story. No matter how small, perhaps it’s still something they might recall. I wouldn’t go as far to say it’s about changing hearts and minds, but I’m increasingly interested in these moments of intervention into contexts where poetic concepts don’t normally circulate.

Read more about Maddie Leach’s visit to Vancouver here.

Interview with Maddie Leach, Part 1

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Maddie Leach shooting the Fraser River. Photo Credit: Mackenzie Reid Rostad

Artist-in-residence Maddie Leach sat down with us at the CAG to discuss her practice (click here for Part 2 of the interview). Often described as “ephemeral,” her work creates astoundingly expansive connections that bring together organizations, corporations, and city offices. For three weeks in Vancouver, she researched the Simon Fraser Monument, located on the New Westminster quay off the Fraser River. The monument, originally commissioned as a single plinth in 1908, came to incorporate a bust of the historic figure in 1911.

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Unveiling of a bronze bust for the Simon Fraser Monument, October 4, 1911, New Westminster, BC. Photo Credit: City of New Westminster Archives

Considering how research-based your work is, there’s an organic element to the development of each piece. When you start a new project, do you begin with a particular result in mind? Has there ever been a time when you hoped for a result and it didn’t happen?

I think something always turns up, but sometimes it turns up quicker than others. One might be looking for something along the way in a slightly different context, and then over to the side this other thing emerges and that is actually more interesting.

When I was here last time, I wasn’t at the point I’m at now. I was trying to follow a trajectory of thinking about the river, about logs on the river and the sawmill industry—which is related, but not where I’m at now. At the time I was interested in trying to find a special edition book that was published in the 1980s in which Beautiful British Columbia Magazine [today just British Columbia Magazine] claimed that one of their photographers and a helicopter pilot found the source of the Fraser River up in the Rockies. They talk about how it emerges from the ground under a rock, as a trickle that forms a puddle and then gradually becomes the gigantic waterway we are familiar with.

In 2011 when I went to Tasmania on my first research visit for Iteration: Again I arrived at a set of ideas quite quickly, within just a few days actually, to do with signal communication across the island in the early part of the 20th century. I guess in some places idiosyncratic histories are more immediately available to you, but in a larger place like Vancouver you could go in so many directions as to how you would want to respond. I do think for me it’s like a mapping exercise in finding ways to locate yourself, and a process of how you exclude certain things.

So once you arrive at a site, it’s an instinctive response to what you see and learn about?

One of the common things for me is trying to locate something that a narrative gets built around, so it’s not necessarily that a new object has to come into being. It might be that an existing object, for example the Simon Fraser monument, becomes the specific point of focus and I propose an adjustment to it rather than making a whole new thing. Lately I’m quite interested in forgotten or ignored sculptural presences in public space and working from this point, rather than going “there’s nothing here.”

By re-activating objects that are extant, and also the fact that a lot of the threads you work with are socially and politically situated, your work becomes a way of remembering certain histories that have been, if not forgotten, then lost.

I think the project that causes some confusion for everybody in that regard is If you find the good oil let us know which included a 1-ton concrete block going into the sea off the coast of Taranaki in New Zealand. It’s a piece that can be read in several different ways and, at the level of rules and regulations, this gesture simply translates as the “dumping of waste at sea.” I think I work with what are distinctly ambiguous gestures—perhaps they are becoming more pointed than they used to be but ambiguity has been in my work for years. As a deliberate working method I’m not trying to be blunt, not trying to go “this is wrong, so therefore, this is right.” I suppose that’s why Simon Fraser interests me now because he carries a complicated legacy. On the one hand there’s a heroic narrative around him and on the other hand there’s people saying he’s actually an explorer who’s not really been given the credit he’s due. Many British Columbians don’t know anything much about him and he died in relative poverty. It’s quite an interesting set of circumstances I’m trying to steer and balance. That’s not to say that the project doesn’t have an opinion, but I think if the ideas can address conflicting narratives as a point of tension then that’s where it gets far more interesting.

A lot of the issues you deal with are quite sensitive. How do you navigate those political situations, and have you ever been met with resistance? Such as the work you did in Western Australia, From where she was standing?

By giving people the proposition with as much information and sincerity as possible, and not leaving information out in order to get an outcome the way I might want it. It’s a process of careful observance of the divides and tensions that exist in a local context and working around the edges of that, because for me part of the requirement is a clear recognition that I don’t come from that place, that I’m there for some weeks, or a few months or I might come and go over a couple of years. I think many of my recent projects, by the nature of what they propose, are trying not to make a reductive or black and white issue of something but to find a space that complicates the rhetoric.

Read more about Maddie Leach’s visit to Vancouver here

Intertextual: Art in Dialogue

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An excerpt from Prison of Grass by Howard Adams was read at grunt gallery on August 3.

CAG artist-in-residence Dylan Miner co-hosted with Amanda Strong an Intertextual: Art in Dialogue reading last week at grunt gallery. Dylan selected two texts to read aloud as a group: the introduction and first chapter of Maria Campbell’s Halfbreed and selections from Howard Adams’ Prison of Grass: Canada from the Native Point of View. Both centered on historical conflicts in the late-19th century between the Métis community and the Canadian government, with a focus on Louis Riel.

The excerpts were in response to Amanda’s show at grunt, which comprised three sets and a collection of dolls from her upcoming stop-motion animation, Four Faces of the Moon. The 12-minute short film will make its world premiere at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival.

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More than 35 people were in attendance to listen, speak and learn about the Métis experience, history and culture. Bannock and tea was served to bring an atmosphere of visiting, a reference to Dylan’s ongoing series, The Elders Say We Don’t Visit Anymore. 

Intertextual: Art in Dialogue is a roving reading group held within various Vancouver galleries. The program aims to examine/critique and create/support a community based in text, recognizing the process of selection and concomitant erasure that occurs in any process of representation.

Dylan’s solo exhibition at Gallery Gachet runs through August 28. Click here for more about his practice.

–Ines