Dreaming in Dollar Signs: Russna Kaur at W Projects

Installation view of Russna Kaur: DREAM MACHINE (try walking on a path of splinters with no shoes) at W Projects. Photo: Dennis Ha. Photo Courtesy of W Projects.

DREAM MACHINE (try walking on a path of splinters with no shoes)

W Projects

Vancouver, BC

September 30 – November 18, 2023

By Lauren Lavery

The other day, as I was browsing through unreasonably high prices for olive oil at the grocery store, a woman standing nearby exclaimed, “Why are grocery prices so expensive?!” This moment verbalized my internal thoughts and further solidified the main source of my recent anxieties—money.

Maybe the question I really want to ask is, who doesn’t think about money these days? Amongst the plethora of many things that I think and worry about—a ceasefire in Palestine, climate catastrophe, what I’m going to make for dinner—money consistently floats to the top. In this post-capitalist, consumer-oriented society, we are living at a point in human history that is constantly bombarded with billions of ways in which we should spend money. Despite the increasing cleverness of targeted advertising and AI-curated mood boards, I am personally finding myself more and more alienated from consumption culture at large, but instead more obsessed with the concept of “having” money. How life-changing would having a large sum of money be? What amazing things could I achieve and experience with said money? What about the confidence and peace I could achieve in knowing I could support my friends and family for the foreseeable future? In its essence, these are all questions that make the concept of the lottery so indisputably irresistible.

Installation view of Russna Kaur: DREAM MACHINE (try walking on a path of splinters with no shoes) at W Projects. Photo: Dennis Ha. Photo Courtesy of W Projects.

In Russna Kaur’s solo exhibition DREAM MACHINE (try walking on a path of splinters with no shoes) at W Projects in Vancouver, her distinguishable brightly-coloured abstract paintings are not hung against bare white walls, but on a sea of old lottery tickets. The walls of the entire gallery have been painstakingly wallpapered with (a small portion) of her father’s collection of lottery tickets. Since he immigrated to Canada from India in the 1980s and learned about the prospect of the lottery, he has made a daily ritual of purchasing a ticket. Additionally, his practice includes the dutiful saving and notation of each one, which he stores in dated and numbered plastic bags in suitcases in the basement of their family home in Brampton, Ontario.

Installation view of Russna Kaur: DREAM MACHINE (try walking on a path of splinters with no shoes) at W Projects. Photo: Dennis Ha. Photo Courtesy of W Projects.

In my conversation with Kaur at the gallery, she revealed this information with a sigh and shake of her head, adding that her whole family is perplexed by his lifelong fascination. However unconventional this habit may seem, the accumulated mass of tickets and their physical presence in actual space makes real society’s collective obsession with aspiring to instantaneous wealth. It’s the ultimate dream of any immigrant or underdog story, to strike it rich despite the impossible odds stacked against you.

The collage of lotto tickets spans approximately ten to fifteen years as you move around the gallery, and through this time travel the colour and aesthetic design of the tickets also transform. Beginning in a white base with light green accents, then transitioning through a period of orange in the late ‘90s, and finally returning to the green and yellow scheme, the tickets ebb and flow on your eyes like a wave lapping the shore. But if that description is too cliché, how the subtle gradients of the tickets both collide and integrate themselves with the vibrating lines of Kaur’s paintings was thrilling.

The artist often works on separate panels that are then placed together for installation, resulting in the thickly layered lines either connecting or terminating at the divide. Brightly coloured abstraction can come off as superficial, however, Kaur skillfully defies easy interpretation with the constantly surprising tactility of her surfaces, mixing paint with sand, sawdust, and cut canvas, or through incorporating letters of the alphabet. When compounded with her distinctive bright, often neon colour palette, the textures transform into a kind of alien landscape, pushing the abstraction into otherworldly dimensions.

Installation view of Russna Kaur: DREAM MACHINE (try walking on a path of splinters with no shoes) at W Projects. Photo: Dennis Ha. Photo Courtesy of W Projects.

Viewing Kaur’s work is always a pleasure, but it is in this in-person experience where the details truly sing. Against the backdrop of what feels like a thousand tickets, suddenly the weight of her experience growing up as the oldest daughter in a Punjabi family comes into play. Is it any wonder that Kaur’s father dreamed of the impossible of supporting his family through the luck of the lotto? It’s through this generous and intimate gesture of the tickets that the artist provides the viewer insight into both the eternal optimism and desperation of yearning for a better life.

Now that the show is down, the allure of the lottery continues its physically tempting presence to us in the usual ways. Long lineups of people waiting for their turn at the BC Lottery kiosk in the mall snakes around a set of stanchions, not unlike the thick brushstrokes of Kaur’s paintings. As I walk towards the exit with my expensive bag of groceries, I think about Kaur’s father’s daily ritual that inspires his undying faith and optimism despite the hurdles he has endured throughout his life. If he does finally win one day, maybe that proves that dreams do come true. However naive it may be, I’d also like to believe that this world exists, a humbling reminder to keep pursuing and creating the reality I want for myself and the world. One in which we aren’t always thinking about money would be a nice start.

Seeing Me, Seeing You, Seeing Us: Ebonix’s video games activism

Danielle Udogaranya, Eden, 2023. Copyright The Sims, EA, Courtesy of the artist.

FOTO/INDUSTRIA 2023
GAME. The industry of game in photography.
Bologna, October 18, 2023 – December 8, 2023

By Irene Bernardi

Why is it important to recognize oneself within the world of video games?
Is it a matter of moving away from an uncomfortable reality or is it just another way to define existing? The content creator, DE&I games consultant,[1] and 3D artist Danielle Udogaranya aka Ebonix, answers all of these questions, creating avatars to include the Black community inside the world of video games.

Due to her content that gives space to Black people, women, and other under-included groups in the gaming sphere, Udogaranya became a diversity activist, and her work has been featured on Apple, BBC, Vice, The Verge, The Guardian and many other platforms.

Born in 1991 in London (UK) with African and Caribbean heritage, she joined her father in playing video games at a young age. While doing so, her perspective changed as she noticed more and more stereotypes related to Black culture in these games, which appeared to be mainly aimed at a male audience. The stereotypical portrait of Black individuals in video games often depicts them as Black men with curly hair, oversized sweatshirts, and baggy pants, typically cast as protagonists involved in crime, shooters, or dangerous gangs. Ebonix initiated a thoughtful reflection on countering these stereotypes, particularly by narrating stories that explore the richness of Black identity and leveraging the communicative influence of video games as a political platform.

Danielle Udogaranya, Mind Games, 2023 Copyright The Sims, EA, Courtesy of the artist.

This media mirrors the essence of one’s inner self, unveiling significant aspects of one’s character through the process of gameplay. Some individuals immerse themselves in gaming to escape reality, while others are fueled by the excitement of competition. Nevertheless, the most thrilling aspect of games is the ability to achieve extraordinary feats beyond the bounds of reality. This becomes even more impactful when the game allows you to create a character with your skin tone and hairstyle, offering a personalized and inclusive experience.

These two different topics are crucial to Udogaranya’s work in 2015, after the release of the popular simulation game The Sims 4. This type of game creates the possibility of entering a parallel world where your character lives a real-life experience, with the objective of staying healthy, working, and having social relationships.

Danielle Udogaranya, Breakthrough, 2023 Copyright The Sims, EA, Courtesy of the artist.

The artist noticed how once again, Black people do not have the option of creating their own avatar within the game, except by choosing curly hair and a single skin colour. In 2017, she started to practice 3D modelling to create different types of avatars with multiple choices of skin and hair, taking inspiration from graphic design to the shining world of art, including Jean Michael-Basquiat and Cameroonian graphic artist Maxime Manga. Udogaranya focuses particularly on the creation of the hair as it is a fundamental part of Black culture, despite being completely absent in the creation of the simmers[2].

“I want developers to think of us as works of art when they want to insert us in games.”[3]

Her work is not a simple series of portraits of Black people but a political act: activism and inclusivity extend beyond the confines of the physical world and find resonance in digital realms, where enduring battles unfold.

Installation view Seeing me, Seeing you, Seeing us, FOTO/INDUSTRIA 2023, Fondazione del Monte di Bologna e Ravenna,photo by Luca Capuano, courtesy of Fondazione MAST, 2023.

In 2020 the developers of The Sims accepted Udogaranya’s criticism and added more than 100 shades and hairstyles to the game, an important step in this industry. Often, there is an ignorance on the part of white developers regarding the profound significance of hair in Black culture. It is not a mere stylistic choice, but a heated political topic rooted in the legacy of chattel slavery.[4] The ongoing transformative wave goes beyond the confines of the gaming industry, encompassing a broader societal shift. Ebonix champions for heightened representation, advocating for greater inclusion of Black individuals in influential roles such as writers, artists, directors, producers, and beyond. This aims to secure and amplify the voices of the Black community in game life and beyond because the universe illustrated by Udogaranya materializes not only on computer screens, tablets, and cell phones but in tangible reality.[5]

Danielle Udogaranya. Black Lives Matter Rally Pack (poseback) made for the simblr Black Lives Matter Rally organised by Circasim and Simflux, 2020, Credits to Marigold, Youn-zoey and Sincerelyasimmer.

During COVID-19, protestors found new ways to express themselves through video games; Ebonix organized a Black Lives Matter rally in The Sims where more than 200 players participated in this event with t-shirts including the slogan of BLM. She says, “The community response was astounding. It felt like a real turning point.”[6]
The significance of this action extends beyond the simple act of “playing a game.” The rally organized within The Sims serves as a virtual representation of reality, emphasizing that the value of Black lives matters both in the real world and the virtual realm.

Danielle Udogaranya’s exhibition Seeing me, Seeing you, Seeing us is part of FOTO/INDUSTRIA 2023, VI Biennial of Photography on Industry and Work, promoted by Fondazione MAST, Bologna. This year, all 12 exhibitions — 11 personal and one collective, set up in 10 locations in the city centre and Fondazione MAST— have the main focus on the industrial of game in photography, where “Udogaranya’s exhibition explores game as a societal tool, amplifying diversity within a world that not only redefines the core concept of identity but also elevates it as the central element of play, extending into real-life experiences.”[7]

To view more of Danielle Udogaranya’s work visit her website or Instagram.

[1] DE&I — Diversity and inclusion — is an expression that refers to programs, policies and processes that support different groups of people within the same organisation. Promotes equal representation for people of different ethnicities, religions, genders, and sexual orientations.

[2] Typical Sims avatar, characterised by an emerald prism on the head.

[3] Danielle Udogaranya, Seeing me, Seeing you, Seeing us, www.fotoindustria.it

[4] Allisa James, Black hair and black bodies in gaming, 28.12.2022, www.techradar.com

[5] Francesco Zanot, GAME. FOTO/INDUSTRIA – VI Biennal of  Photography on industry and work, Fondazione MAST, 2023, Bologna, pp. 186-187

[6] Schofield Daisy, Black Lives Matter meets Animal Crossing: how protesters take their activism into video games, 7.08.2020, http://www.theguardian.com.

[7] Francesco Zanot, GAME. FOTO/INDUSTRIA – VI Biennal of  Photography on industry and work , Fondazione MAST, 2023, Bologna, pp. 20-21

Qualeasha Wood’s Manic Pixie Magical Negro

Qualeasha Wood, Installation shot, System Maintenance, 2023 (L) and Dirt Off Your Shoulder – Jay Z, 2023,(R) Manic Pixie Magical Negro. Photo courtesy of Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick.

Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick

November 10, 2023 – December 16, 2023

By Jordan A. Horton

Manic Pixie Magical Negro is the latest solo presentation at Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick by the New Jersey-born, Philadelphia-based artist Qualeasha Wood. This show arrives after Wood’s recent exhibition at the Pippy Houldsworth Gallery in London and residency at the Studio Museum of Harlem, among other feats. Wood’s latest works probe the intersection of traditional craft and digital iconography, resulting in stunning tapestries and tuftings about the virtual and the digital reality of Black womanhood.

The exhibition title is an amalgamation of the two Hollywood tropes, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl and the Magical Negro. Both were termed in the early-aughts and found root in past stock characters in film. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl is typically a white female character who is often quirky and provides emotional support and inspiration to the male protagonist of the story. Meanwhile, the Magical Negro offers a type of folk insight to better the white male protagonist to achieve his goals. The Magical Negro archetype tends to be infantilized and treated with a pearl of childish yet ancient wisdom. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl is often portrayed as a one-dimensional character, where as the Magical Negro is often used as a plot device. Both archetypes are limiting as they reinforce white male dominance and deprive non-white and non-male characters of any depth or development. Wood explores how the internet shapes her experiences as a Black woman by positioning the two tropes. In Manic Pixie, Magical Negro, we witness Qualeasha Wood forge her own archetype, one that is for and by the Black woman of the digital age.

Upon entering the gallery, two of Wood’s tapestries greeted me, showcasing her signature style. The textiles consist of the artist’s self-portraits, which she calls pretend screenshots. These pretend screenshots came to be after she was doxed by a right-wing Facebook group she was trolling. Instead of being at the whim of cyber-incels, she has since incorporated phone and laptop photos of herself in her artwork.[1] Throughout these works, she wears an angelic white lace corset with golden beaded halos illuminating her image. Her hands bear red exit wounds that indicate crucifixion nails that once impaled them. Wood’s archetype reframing is still considered magical in its constant incorporation of divinity.

Qualeasha Wood. System Maintenance detail. 2023. Woven Jacquard, Glass Beads. 56 x 82. Manic Pixie Magical Negro. Photo courtesy of Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick.

On the tapestry System Maintenance, Wood gazes back pensively. In the top right corner is an executable file named younghotebony, which belongs to Wood. This file’s label refers to a popular category in pornography. The suggestive presence of erotic content alludes to a third trope best described by its fetishization and objectification of Black women and their bodies. Through her gaze and naming, Wood reclaims this trope as one that is self-imposed.

Behind her, the view of Microsoft’s rolling green hills and clear skies is obstructed by several pop-up windows. Amidst the minimized windows and pop-ups that disrupt the digital landscape is a note page that lists Wood’s reminders. They include taking her medications, keeping up with her skincare routines and dental hygiene, and staying off social media. Don’t look. In her list of daily self-care rituals, we see the harm of digital engagement brought on by social media to one’s well-being.[2] Amongst the note previews, the threads of the remaining notes glitch, keeping the information of Wood’s other notes out of sight for unwanted eyes to see.

Technology, much like Wood, requires consistent maintenance and care to ensure optimal performance and longevity. The Microsoft setting and Wood’s list illustrate the ever-shortening proximity of life away from keys, colloquially known as AFK, and towards a hyperreality. While the actual landscape of hills exists, they are most known by their untouched digital rendition. AFK no longer holds the same meaning as it did in the early stages of the internet. Physical and augmented boundaries were much clearer when internet access was tied to the clunky desktop. However, in the age of social media and high-speed internet, we carry our online lives everywhere. As a Black woman, identity is inescapable; hyperawareness is a default even when perception isn’t desired. The oversaturation of content is now a compromise between well-being and perception. To opt out of content bombardment is a much-needed act of preservation.

Qualeasha Wood. To Catch a Predator. 2023. Tufted Wool and Acrylic. 104 x 82.5. Manic Pixie Magical Negro. Photo courtesy of Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick.

Walking deeper into the gallery space, I am introduced to Wood’s tufting. On a small tufting, a chat bubble whispers for ASL?, the internet slang seeking one’s age, sex, and location typically in chat rooms. The artist’s interest in gaze and surveillance is further emphasized by animated, emoji-like eyes peering from the shadows in another tufting. At the end of the corridor, large tapestries and tuftings warm the gallery walls.

Wood’s most vulnerable selection of work is thoughtfully placed furthest into the gallery. The large tufting To Catch a Predator may range in material and subject matter of the tapestries on the surface. In it, framed by a Microsoft Paint border, a silhouetted figure sits in front of a computer monitor as white hands and eyes encroach. Chat bubbles crowd the figure, seeking connection and information to deepen their familiarity. This Black figure, as indicated not only in color but by her hair puffs, is an abstract representation of the artist, conceivably relatable to many who perused the corners of the internet in their youth. A blue window screen frames a scene in which the figure looks at a computer. This demonstrates the collapse of physical and digital interaction.

Qualeasha Wood. From left to right: ~Circumambient~ alt. Asunder (2023), To Catch a Predator (2023), Screensaver (2023). Manic Pixie Magical Negro. Photos courtesy of Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick.

 Perhaps much bolder when shrouded by anonymity online, cyberspace for Black women warrants as much mystery and spectacle as physical day-to-day interactions. Our avatars are mere extensions of our being. The trinity of the tapestries and tufting encapsulate the double-edged sword of the online realm. While To Catch a Predator presents the dangers and dark corners of the internet. The tapestries ~Circumambient~ alt. Asunder and Screensaver show Wood’s self-liberation and redefining of the digital world to her liking.

Manic Pixie Magical Negro reminds us of the interwoven connection of digital and IRL. The same issues faced IRL are mere extensions of the ones encountered online. Rather than being merely subjected to these, Wood challenges the concept of digital dualism. Cyberspace is not something to log in and out of but rather something to carry with you. With the rapid progression of art and technology alongside an international reemergence and appreciation of craft arts, Qualeasha Woods ever so boldly carries these multitudes with style and profundity.

Manic Pixie Magical Negro continues at Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick (178 Norfolk St, New York City, New York) through to December 16th.

[1] Shaad D’Souza, “‘I Don’t Worry about Holding Back’ – How Qualeasha Wood Turned Being Doxed into Wild Tapestries,” The Guardian, May 8, 2023, sec. Art and design, https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2023/may/08/qualeasha-wood-doxed-wild-tapestries.

[2] Qualeasha Wood, Manic Pixie Magical Negro – Gallery Kendra Jayne Patrick, 2023, https://gallerykendrajaynepatrick.com/Qualeasha-Wood-Manic-Pixie-Magical-Negro.

An Interview with Raha Javanfar: Sympathy for the Devil

On theatre, moving hearts, and rock’n’roll

Raha Javanfar performing as part of Sympathy for the Devil at Soulpepper Theatre. Photo by Camille Ng, courtesy of the artist.

By Alexia Bréard-Anderson

I sink into a velvet-lined seat in the centre of the audience, holding my breath as the overhead lights dim at Soulpepper Theatre. The air around us is thick with anticipation as silhouetted musicians step onstage to take their place among a myriad of scattered instrument stands, a grand piano, and tangled microphone cables. We hear a whispered one-two-three and BAM! We’re hit with a thunderous explosion of power chords, a relentless jumpstart into a spectacular theatrical journey of the Devil throughout music history.

Adorned in sequined pants and a feathered jacket, Raha Javanfar embodies the rebellious spirit of rock’n’roll, slamming her guitar in the opening medley of ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ alongside the striking Juno-nominated vocalist SATE and a stellar crew of bandmates whose creative synergy casts an otherworldly glow on the stage.

With intricate compositions of the Baroque era to headbanging heavy metal riffs and everything in between, ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ plunges us into a realm of art and darkness, an exhilarating musical tribute to the eternal allure of the Devil.

Born in Iran and based in Toronto, the brilliant multi-instrumentalist, artist, and theatre designer takes us backstage to discuss her creative process, background, and influences.

Raha Javanfar headshot. Photo by Zahra Saleki, courtesy of the artist.

Alexia: Your creative practice is so incredibly diverse. You’re an artist, you play multiple instruments, and you’ve performed, written, and designed many theatre plays. Tell us about your journey: where did it all begin? How does it all connect?

Raha: I grew up with classical music training that taught me a lot early on in life: practice, discipline, rigor. But it wasn’t all for me during my youth, particularly my teenage years. I craved anarchy and something messier… so I gravitated towards theatre. That’s not to say that discipline and rigor don’t exist in theatre, of course they do. But my young mind perceived more ‘play’ in making plays than music at the time. I ended up pursuing a post-secondary education in theatre production, which is how I became a lighting designer. But I’ve always been restless in my art and eager to widen my horizons and extend my practice in all directions.

I brought music back into my life through playing in rock and country bands and eventually started to make a place for myself in the Toronto music scene. Because I was so connected to both music and theatre, many theatre artists began extending invitations for me to participate in their projects as a musician. Anyway, on and on it went, and I’m lucky to have collaborated with so many genius artists throughout the years, all of whom I have learned more from than I could ever quantify.

Time and time again, we witness the pressure placed on artists to be ‘coherent’ and easily ‘categorizable’… to follow a predetermined path towards success or recognition that prioritizes profit over soul. One glance at Raha’s multiple bands – from playing the fiddle in the Western Swing Band The Double Cuts to being the front-woman bassist and vocalist of Maple Blues Award nominee blues/R&B band Bad Luck Woman & Her Misfortunes – reveals a nonchalant resistance to this – and how often the antidote to this is to be in community with others, to create and witness artistic expression together.

Raha Javanfar and SATE. Sympathy for the Devil at Soulpepper Theatre, 2023. Photo by Camille Ng, courtesy of the artist.

I was absolutely blown away by ‘Sympathy for the Devil,’ which you created and directed the music for. Can you talk about how it came to fruition? Did the Devil come to you in a dream?

‘Sympathy for the Devil’ is not quite your usual ‘concert’ in the traditional sense and not quite a play. We call them docu-concerts at Soulpepper, which is a format that was started by long-time Soulpepper Slaight Music Director, Mike Ross. I’ve had the honour of performing in several of these concerts and it was a thrill to create one of my own. To be honest, the idea was a seed that was planted years ago, and I barely remember how I came up with it. I’ve always been fascinated by the story of Paganini being accused of having sold his soul to the devil to be the greatest violinist. And of course, there is Robert Johnson too. Those two stories, along with my love for the Devil Went Down to Georgia were enough to catapult me into the creation of this entire show.

Sympathy for the Devil at Soulpepper Theatre, 2023. Photo by Camille Ng, courtesy of the artist.

‘Sympathy for the Devil’ has a unique energy that echoes an impromptu, late-night jam session with friends. The chemistry fostered by everyone in the cast was infectious. As Music Director, what was the process of bringing these performers together, and how has it differed from past plays you’ve participated in?

If there’s one thing I did truly right on this project, it’s the people I picked to work with. The musicians in the band are extremely gifted and more importantly, generous with their art and creativity. I spent a lot of time in advance arranging the numbers. We had a workshop last summer with some of the same (but also some different) musicians during which time I had the opportunity to try out some of the arrangements and finesse them. It’s lovely to hear that it gives the energy of a late-night jam session because, to be honest, the process was anything but! Unfortunately, the rehearsal schedule for these shows leaves very little room for collaboration or ‘jamming.’ I had to arrive with a very specific plan in mind. But of course, there were many moments in which something was missing, or something didn’t feel quite right, and the band contributed their musicality to filling some of those gaps.

‘Sympathy for the Devil’ presents a stellar cast of performers including Brooke Blackburn, Rebecca Hennessy, SATE, Jenie Thai, Neil Brathwaite, Naghmeh Farahmand, Michelle Josef, and Royce Rich: whose rendition of Giuseppe Tartini’s ‘The Devil’s Trill’ was the most goosebump-inducing solo violin performance I’ve ever witnessed.

In addition to your kaleidoscope of artistic pursuits, you’re also an educator. You teach violin, piano, and music theory both privately and in different schools, as well as lighting design at Toronto Metropolitan University. What drew you to teaching, and what’s your favourite part about passing on the knowledge?

I love teaching. This year, I had to pass on the TMU teaching position because I was too busy with this show. But I feel like I always gain so much from any opportunity to educate others on the arts. Perhaps it sounds selfish, but the truth is that I learn so much from teaching that it’s always worth pursuing it for my own betterment and development. Kids, especially, are so open-minded and open-hearted. It is so fulfilling to see them absorb everything and send it forward.

Sympathy for the Devil at Soulpepper Theatre, 2023. Photo by Camille Ng, courtesy of the artist.

We’re in such a pivotal moment in time. Amidst so much destruction, rage, and despair… we’re witnessing movements for peace and justice across the globe that remind us how much everything is truly connected. For you, what role does music play within it all?

Not just music, but the arts in general, are the only way I know how to wrap my head around anything. I’m not a religious or spiritual person, and sometimes when there’s so much darkness, it’s hard knowing where to find light. For me, it’s always in books, poetry, music, and art. A single piece of art can help express all the complicated feelings that so many of us have about the world. At the same time, it can bring people together. It can remind us about the humanity that exists in each one of us. It can challenge us to think in different ways. In a world where we’re all so divided, I know it’s impossible for a piece of music or theatre to change anybody’s mind. But it’s definitely possible for it to move their hearts, and sometimes that’s enough.

What’s on your radar? What spaces, people, and projects are blowing your mind?

The incredible Toronto music scene. There are so many gems in this city… Drom Taberna and the Cameron House have lots of great stuff bubbling out of both every night of the week. So many music venues have done a great job surviving the pandemic and continuing to provide opportunities to Toronto musicians. The Drom Artists Collective is a group of extremely talented and wonderful people, who are putting out all sorts of cool stuff. And I know it sounds super biased, but I’m very excited about all that Soulpepper Theatre continues to do, particularly the docu-concert series!

What’s on the horizon for you once ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ closes?

I’ll be turning my attention back to my band, Bad Luck Woman & Her Misfortunes. I’m also performing in the next Soulpepper concert, On A Night Like This, as well as co-creating a concert called Ladies of the Canyon that will be premiering at Soulpepper this spring.

Sympathy for the Devil is showing at Soulpepper Theatre until November 26, 2023.  You can follow Raha’s projects on her website and Instagram.

Being-With, Being Known: Critical Fictions by Hannah Godfrey

Critical Fictions by Hannah Godfrey. ARP Books. Image courtesy of the author.

By Jaz Papadopoulos

“Learning changes when relational context changes.”

  • Leanne Betasamosake Simpson[1]

“[W]e could not hear a melody as melody if our immediate appreciation of the note before our ears was not accompanied by our ‘memory’ of the note just before and an expectation of the note to follow.”

  • Eva Hoffman[2]

 

Between the covers of Critical Fictions, the latest collection from poet, storyteller, and art writer Hannah Godfrey, a pulse beats: a lineage and testament of queer intimacies is alive.

The five artists discussed within its pages––Derek Dunlop, Kristin Nelson, Hagere Selam shimby Zegeye-Gebrehiwot, AO Roberts, and Logan MacDonald––Godfrey knows on personal levels. Winnipeg is a mid-sized Prairie city, full of artists and social atmospheres in which to meet them; it would be difficult not to. I have also met most of the artists in question. We’ve shared dance floors, studio visits, and the occasional diasporic lineage-seeking trip back to the home country. Herein lies the crux of the text: where formal fields of discussion and analysis traditionally prioritize distance, objectivity, and supposed lack-of-relationship, Critical Fictions knows that we must “hold things to understand them, not as a means of tactile analysis, but…as a means of being-with.”[3]

At her Winnipeg book launch, Godfrey was asked about her choice to write about the work of artists she knows. (The text goes so far as to name one of the artists as chosen family.)

Somewhat bashfully, Godfrey shared that she considers this book a “book of love,” a text about artists and artworks to whom she feels affectionately and intimately connected. Godfrey’s assertion––the right to write about those she loves rather than see it as a conflict of interest––is a transgressive act prioritizing proximity and intimate knowledge over normative analysis. This is especially poignant in a queer context: we know so little about our queer ancestors, our history, and our culture; it becomes imperative to share the queer stories that we do know well.

Beyond relationships themselves, Godfrey introduces readers to the codes of queer history and art, while role modeling curiosity and the process of meaning-making. Godfrey’s book intimately and responsibly documents queer bodies of work, ensuring they are not lost to time, spatial distance (physical artworks that only exist in specific places, if also the internet), and the erasure of hegemonic narratives. 

RELATIONSHIPS, KNOWING, AND UNDERSTANDING

Intimacy need not be complicated. It can simply be the act of knowing: pink is Derek Dunlop’s favourite colour; he rubbed this part of the painting with his fingers. Such simplicity gives a sense of purity and an ability to see things as they truly are.

Dunlop is an artist making prints and installations, many of which the book discusses in relation to queerness, cruising, and the outdoors. One piece in particular, an installation titled Garden, is composed of “found objects and mud taken from the banks of the Assiniboine River in Winnipeg.”[4]

Knowing this river is key to understanding this piece. I have walked its banks innumerable times, in all seasons, save for when it’s flooded its paths. Godfrey, a Winnipeg resident for nearly a decade, has also developed a familiarity with the river, going so far as to audio-record river walks to play on her former community radio show, MonkeySparrow. Without knowing this river, one might see metal, cement, and rocks when looking at Garden. With more proximity, one would know that this river is a site for gay cruising and is one of the flows that brought colonial expansion into the Prairies. Downtown, it connects with the Red River, a site often dredged for Missing and Murdered Indigenous women.

Neither understanding is truer. Just as we come to know a friend better over time, so too we can better understand art by learning more about it. It’s not that you can’t or don’t know the art, but that you can always know it more.

Intimacy allows a depth of understanding. It assigns meaning to the codes embedded in queer culture and artwork alike. Godfrey’s use of association shows how one can labour to make meaning. It doesn’t try to be exclusionary, but it does not hide from the simple fact that closeness leads to understanding.

CODES AND UNDERSTANDING

Codes: an in-group language composed of symbols that communicate information, often in layered ways that require the navigation of many possible meanings.

Godfrey is aware of how her own units of meaning––words––are also encoded symbols and wields them with both precision and generosity. Just as Godfrey supports the reader in learning some of the codes in art and queer art, she makes clear the sheer quantity of choices that (can) go into creating artwork.

The outcome? There is no reason to shrug something off because “it just doesn’t make sense” or you “just don’t get it.” Take AO Roberts’ Say It Ain’t So: a series of prints where, at first glance, four words are printed on a darkly painted background. In fact, the text is hollow, “nodding at the porousness of language and context,”[5] and the “paint” is actually lampblack: smoke captured by the page, seemingly in motion around and within the outlined bodies of the words. Each set of words is from a particular era in human history––all different eras, but all pre-Industrial religious ones. Recognizing these different components as intentional communication choices leads to a much broader meaning than simply seeing four unusual words on darkly printed paper.

Finally, Godfrey supports readers in their own efforts to both perceive art and interpret her wordage. For example, she writes “The partialness (incompleteness) of Dunlop’s depictions speaks to the partialness (bias) of information and dissemination.”[6] By connecting the two distinct concepts of incompleteness and bias through a shared spelling––partialness––Godfrey offers one mode of recognizing artistic meaning through a sort of linguistic/conceptual repetition. Similarly, she identifies motifs of bondage to refer to a sexual practice, a form of kinship, and indebtedness.

In this way, discussing art––especially within the specificity of queer art––almost becomes the work of translation. Anne Carson’s translation of Catullus prompts the question, “There are so many words associated with each one; how does anything ever get translated or settled upon?”[7]

FOOTNOTES, PHOTOS, AND PARENTHETICALS

Critical Fictions’ abundant footnotes and absence of photos further assert the value of lineage and reciprocity.

The footnotes––averaging over 50 per essay––highlight both lineage and context as important modes of understanding. Though Western culture’s art writing prioritizes the individual (and the intellect of the individual), other more collectivist cultures prioritize stating where you and your family are from, from where you learned ideas, and who your mentors and teachers are. Choosing to use footnotes, rather than a less visible Endnotes section, lays it all on the table: there are citations for quotes, but also extra contextual information, tangential references, and statements of gratitude to those who directed Godfrey’s thinking and writing.

The effusiveness of Godfrey’s citation points to her valuation of lineage and interconnected webs of knowledge and offers readers a path forward should they wish to continue exploring one of the topics discussed in the book.

Often, art writing is accompanied by photos––visual aids so the reader may see what is being described in the text. Critical Fictions offers no such concession. Relationships take effort and reciprocity. The piles of words thought, written, and ordered over 219 pages show Godfrey’s efforts: years of viewing, pondering, discussing, researching. The act of opening an internet browser and searching for the works and exhibitions described is the reader’s (optional) task. To understand something is to work to understand it; you will only be led so far without reciprocity. True, I did not look up each piece discussed, but I did search for each artist’s website and exhibit––all were easily found online, Zegeye-Gebrehiwot’s yaya/ayat the only one behind a paywall, and a modest one at that ($3).

This itself seems a light-handed approach to coding and withholding, demanding reciprocity. All the information is available but is not quite placed in your palms. To understand, you too must do some seeking.

Another way to interpret the lack of images might be a resistance to the impulse to mistake images for the Truth. In her section about Logan MacDonald, Godfrey quotes Daniel Francis in his discussion of the use of photography as a colonial mode of knowledge-creation: “The image-makers returned from Indian Country with their images and displayed them as actual representations of the way Indians really were.”[8] Where images assert an objective representation of photo-as-thing, a relational approach to seeking and understanding engenders a much more nuanced and subjective perspective. [9]

It must be said eventually, and here seems as fair a place as any: the structure of this book is unusual. It is composed of five sections, each concerned with a particular artist, each bisected into two smaller sections: an essay, and “Fictions.” In the Fictions, Godfrey responds to each artists’ work through creative writing: poems and short stories.

One story, “Found object (fur stretcher, elastic bands)” imagines the scene that led to the creation of Dunlop’s Device for speaking to the dead, (fur stretcher, elastic bands, 2016). Godfrey weaves together themes identified and discussed in her essay––wilderness, haunting, cruising, erotics, backtracking, colour––and builds a rather beautiful basket in which to hold the sculpture––28 coloured elastic bands tightly wrapped around a wooden fur stretcher, evoking cock rings, a door, a tombstone.

“Homage to Hannah Arendt” (within Kristin Nelson’s section) is an experimental poetry piece made entirely of punctuation. Where many would leave such a work to “speak for itself”––without regard for its (il)legibility in the eyes of a viewer––Godfrey kindly leaves a footnote explaining the piece’s meaning. In this way, she props the door open behind her, letting the reader peek through and understand. Through this generous guidance, Godfrey leaves her readers more and more ready to understand a future experimental encounter.

This approach to artwork––casting a wide net of associations and seeing what stays––is replicated in Godfrey’s fictions. It shows how creation begets creation, and though a piece of art has its own background, references, theoretical underpinnings, and meanings, there is an entirely other world of production made by simply creating something so that others may digest it and be spurred to their own thoughts and creativities. One way to perceive art is to seek to conceptually understand it; another is to be spurred into creativity.               

FIN

Make no mistake, this book is rigorous. I learned enough to sprout a prosaic collection of queer art history, no doubt. And yet, as is Godfrey’s style, it is a discourse given amongst friends, shoulder-warming on a couch surrounded by books. It is a reminder of what rigor can look like in queerness, before such political efforts were moved behind the doors of academia, hoarded by button ups and thick rims. It is the table before us, full of snacks, this one from an uncle’s olive trees in the Peloponnese, that one a recipe passed down from a beloved past friend, this bottle inherited from a lover long gone who we may still taste on our lips. The stories that live on in the quiet places, between kin.

[1] Leanne Betasamosake Simposon, As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom Through Radical Resistance (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2017), 165, quoted in Hannah Godfrey, Critical Fictions (Winnipeg: ARP Books, 2023), 196.

[2] Eva Hoffman, Time (New York: Picador, 2009), 65, quoted in Critical Fictions, 79.

[3] Critical Fictions, 203. A concept shared in reference to Logan MacDonald’s artist talk.

[4] Ibid, 37-8.

[5] Ibid, 154.

[6] Ibid, 21.         

[7] Ibid, 58.

[8] Daniel Francis, The Imaginary Indian: The Image of the Indian in Canadian Culture (Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press, 1992), quoted in Critical Fictions, 205.

[9] Similar arguments against photos-as-truth are made by Orientalist theorist Edward Said.

Taking care but letting go: A Conversation with Jagoda Dobecka

Where are the worlds that flowers long for? Local Memorial Fest, Bródno Sculpture Park, Warsaw, Kacper Szalecki and Frajda Natychmiast performing The story of two flowers growing on opposite banks of the river, photo by Wojtek Kaniewsk.

By Juliane Foronda

Pansies, friendship bracelets, karaoke, and shared meals all function as gentle tethers into the tender practice of Polish artist Jagoda Dobecka. Based in Wrocław, and a current PhD candidate at the Jan Matejko Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, Dobecka’s work deals with notions surrounding loss, grief, memory, and nostalgia. With a commitment to gathering being a strong pillar in her work, she often invites the public to join her in planting a garden, sing sad songs, or come and cook nostalgic dishes together.

Jagoda’s practice has this beautiful way of making you laugh just as much as it will make you cry. I often find myself smirking through tears whenever I’m fortunate enough to experience her work in person. The courage to choose the path of vulnerability often goes unacknowledged in a world where softness isn’t always seen as a strength. Her work challenges the norms of hierarchy, patriarchy, accessibility, and most other social conventions in manners that may appear so obvious or simple, but are laced with layers of consideration, comfort, and care the more that the works unfold and let you in.

This conversation sheds light on how much we can learn from our surroundings, the importance of saving others from loneliness, and the necessity of community. Her work is a reminder that much like flowers, strings, songs, and food, we can be something more when we’re united—we are stronger together than we are apart.

Juliane: Can you explain why you make work and what your practice is about?

Jagoda: I am creating or building temporary safe spaces where people can exchange their experiences and emotions. These can be performative events such as dinners, karaoke, or meetings to make a garden together. The important factor of those events is participation and encouraging the guests to take part. Materially, I mostly work with text, food, and plants. This is the framework that I’m using to talk about and share the painful experiences that are connected with loss, grief, nostalgia, and longing. I feel that we can sometimes censor ourselves and we don’t want to share those experiences with other people for different reasons, and I thought that it could be helpful to have that kind of space to talk about stuff and feel a sense of community.

To you, what makes for a safe space?

As the host, I think a lot about the space and its arrangement. I like open spaces such as gardens and parks that often have good connotations and some significance to the project itself. I also consider what guests might expect and what they might be willing to give. I’m just building a frame, which is very easy to build again. For a performative dinner, I bring the table, chairs, and food and invite people to come together. I try to be cautious and observant and to make people who are participating feel comfortable. At some point, I think I’m also trying to be invisible and let visitors hold the space as they are. I’m just starting it, but then other people are kind of doing whatever they want with it. It’s a lot about taking care of the whole situation, but also letting go.

Roots of Community, performative dinner in collaboration with Tomek Pawłowski-Jarmołajew, sessi.space, Brno, photo by Polina Davydenko.

Do you see the guests, in a sense, like materials in your work?

Both yes and no. I started making this type of work quite recently so after almost each event, I interview the people. If I know them already, I can text them afterward and ask questions about their experience and their overall feelings. I’m also trying to be critical and see how people are interacting with the whole situation and get their feedback on it. It’s an important part of my research to listen to people and what they have to say about the whole experience. It’s usually positive stuff, but sometimes people complain or say that they didn’t feel so good when something happened. It’s priceless to have that sort of feedback and to see how I can navigate that next time and consider what to change. During the actual events, I don’t think I have ever seen them as material.

Speaking of research, what do you think the purpose of your artistic research is right now? What are you currently working on, and what has led you to this point?

I was in this moment in life when I felt that everything collapsed, and I really needed some support. Then I realized that there are plenty of people like me out there. I thought that maybe I could somehow create, as I said, this frame, where we can meet and talk about things and just have nice experiences of being together. The events are open to everyone, so whoever comes is welcome to participate and become a part of this temporary community. The range of personas is wide. I know that bonds were created during these events as people got to know each other. I call it temporary, but it doesn’t have to be.

It’s not something special I’m doing. Most of these things happen anyway in life: people already meet and have dinners, sing songs, and read books together. Since I work in the arts, I was also thinking about the institutional and non-institutional context in relation to the types of events I have. Every art institution is talking about care, how they should be more open and more welcoming, and asking a lot of questions about how to do this. I wanted to see if it’s possible to build this space within an institutional context. I’ve made a lot of events myself or worked with artist-run spaces or more independent spaces, but then I also did a few events with art institutions, and I can see the difference. I think that the art institution has stiffness within its structure. It also translates into the events since people are less…open, or less free, or whatever.

Do you see a big difference in the demographic or groups of people that would come to maybe more of an ad-hoc or DIY event versus one that’s run more formally with a museum or another institution?

Yeah, one difference is that I see many more elderly people coming to institutions. I think the reason for this is that many artist-run spaces, especially in Poland, don’t have such a long lifespan. They usually exist for two or three years, and then they die, so these spaces also attract younger people who are usually the ones who are showing in, curating, and creating them.

Friendship bracelet, 2022, photo Piotr Blajerski.

I know you have a background in painting. Can you speak more about how you consider your materials and media in your current practice?

I do have a background in painting, which I think I suppress the more that I focus on other things that I’m more interested in. I can divide my practice into two parts when considering materials. One part is the participatory events. I bring food, karaoke, plants, or texts from books – the meeting is the material. Then there’s this other aspect to my practice where I like to create objects or just interdisciplinary works that could be more traditionally exhibited. For example, I made this huge friendship bracelet, which was three meters long. I wanted to recreate the friendship bracelets that many of us used to make when we were kids as a sort of statement, but also a monument for those relationships that we had when we were young. I got really invested in finding the perfect ropes.

I don’t feel that attached to any material or medium. I think that a very strong basis for my work is text. Making notes or writing things that happened to me. I was recently introduced to automatic writing, which is great. After you experience something, you just write for 10 minutes – whatever comes to your head. It’s like a nice source of raw material that you can use.

Where are the worlds that flowers long for? Local Memorial Fest, Bródno Sculpture Park, Warsaw, Wake Karaoke, photo by Wojtek Kaniewski.

It appears the concept tends to inform the material(s). I also wanted to talk about how a lot of your work deals with grief and the themes that surround it. Do you see grief as inspiration, or what’s your relationship with grief in relation to your work?

I think it’s similar to what you asked about the people who are participating in my events, I see grief as both a material and an inspiration.

I experienced grief, and I’m still experiencing it. And I know that every person who is dealing with this topic also has their own experience as well. I know that each experience is very different; it’s not the same for everyone. It really is both the material and inspiration in one since my own experience of it acts as a material in a sense, but I am also inspired by seeing grief in a broader context where I can just see that it is a loss in a more general sense. What’s the difference between grief and longing? I’m just thinking about those things and how it all binds together. I think grief is a material inspiration.

I think one thing I’ve always found quite special about your practice is how you don’t shy away from heavier topics (such as grief), but, at least from my experience of your work – it doesn’t consume it. You pull in quite nostalgic things to offer a different perspective.

Yeah, I feel like this wasn’t a fully conscious decision to use these nostalgic elements, I think it was just purely subconscious.

Then is it a bit of your personal way of coping?

Probably. The thing with nostalgia is that it is also a sort of loss. And I’m very heavy into nostalgia. I’m nostalgic about all the things and it’s sometimes embarrassing, but I’m really that person who remembers things like games and snacks from when we were younger with a deep fondness. Nostalgia is a loss of sorts, but it’s maybe a bit lighter, or at least within a broader recognition of loss. Nostalgia is emotionally lighter than grief so maybe it’s just preparation for the heavier topics. We can first face the nostalgia to see the comfort in loss. As I said, it’s not something that was really intentional, but it might work as this sort of blanket that you’re wearing to feel safer as you see that things are going away.

It could also be about accessibility. I think this sort of juxtaposition of karaoke, for example, which is a really fun activity that we do with friends to have a good time, but then we’re doing grieving karaoke which is all sad songs about dying, loss, and grief. So, we kind of have both because we settle into the party activity, but with those popular songs that are extremely sad and heavy (because I usually use well-known pop songs), so everything feels kind of like a party.

Thinking about accessibility, maybe it also helps to make it a less scary topic than some people could perceive. I interviewed some of the guests taking part in the grieving karaoke and they said that at some point they felt extremely good and safe being surrounded, and they had this desire to do something festive. After they started singing Viva Forever by Spice Girls, they began to cry as they thought about all kinds of teenage memories and other thoughts came back, like losing their first love. They said that it was so strong emotionally, but at the same time, they felt good because they were with people.

For a recent project, I wrote a script for a performance, which is based on a legend with a dragon, witch, and magic potion. It has the framework of a school theater play, which is not too serious. However, it also talks about more difficult things like a tragic death, grief, being stuck in a cluster of cultural expectations, and being in a toxic relationship. I guess I use nostalgia to open up these bigger conversations.

I also see time as a strong thread in your work, both in terms of concept and literal duration.

More recently, my works have become ephemeral. I don’t really care if some of the things that I create will survive over the years. I’m more focused on the process and being with the people right here right now. I guess a good example could be the Grieving Garden, which is a garden with plants that symbolically refer to death, but also to rebirth, grieving, and many elements that could relate to death, like memory. I’ve planted a few of these grieving gardens since, and they were all made in public spaces, so everyone who feels like visiting can spend some time there. So, they exist, but for a limited period of time because eventually, the plants begin to die. Firstly, because some of them are very seasonal plants, and they live only for one season. Sometimes the weather conditions are also quite hard, and some plants might need more water, or more wet surface, or ground, while others don’t.

It’s also very intuitive. I wasn’t thinking about it in a way that part of the installation is that it has to die. It just happened when I did it the first time and then I thought that maybe there’s some sort of beauty in that as well, that it’s something temporary. If people who I planted the garden with want to continue to take care of it, then it’s great, but if not, I’m okay with that. The garden is also a reflection of life because something dies and then something is reborn out of it, like this circle of life.

Grieving Garden, 2021, view from the MeetFactory studio, photo by Richard Hodonicky.

There’s a constant connection to nature in your work. It seems like something that’s also used a lot to talk about life or time spans as well.

I spent my childhood outside because I was raised in a small village, so I was always deeply connected to nature. It was just part of my everyday life, like running around the hills, being in the forest, or swimming in the river. But then I moved to the city, and I forgot about it. When my brother died and I was experiencing that kind of grief for the first time, I felt that I really needed some grounding. I needed some connection with the planet, and I needed to know that I was here for a reason and like this soil was happy to have me here. I found this in nature; it was like an explosion. It was soothing, but then also gave me a lot of energy to go through these very difficult times. I’m grateful for this and that it stayed with me.

I’m also thinking about going back to my roots, where I came from, and why I love it so much. I just started to use that kind of relationship that I have with nature in my artworks and that just became a starting point for considering many important issues for me. I’m interested in my relationship with nature, but also the relationship of nature, humans, and non-human actors that do not project anthropocentric perception. Is it even possible to do or get closer to that state? I think a lot about how we can use some wisdom from nature and apply it to our everyday life.

You can find more of Jagoda Dobecka’s work on her website and Instagram.

The Queer World of Relationships: In Conversation with Francesco Esposito


Francesco Esposito self-portrait, 2023, Courtesy of the artist.

By Irene Bernardi

The photos taken by Francesco Esposito tell more than meets the eye. They are visual poems that narrate what new generations are experiencing in an increasingly complex world. Through the lens, the Italian artist tells the delicate relational entanglements of a polyamorous couple that he follows step by step in their personal growth. 

Born in Naples in 1997, Francesco Esposito moved to Bologna where he started his artistic career. He attended the Academy of Fine Arts in Bologna and received his BA in Graphic Arts and MA in Photography. Esposito’s works have been exhibited in major art events such as Open Tour and Art City promoted by the Academy of Fine Arts of Bologna, IBRIDA Festival of Multimedia Arts, and BASE Milano.

Irene Bernardi: In your early work, you expressed yourself through graphic signs and engraving, then later you switched to photography, using a completely different medium. Did you ever find a meeting point between the two?

Francesco Esposito: Absolutely. I have been taking photographs since childhood. Later, I started combining these two disciplines and making photogravures. My approach to etching was born from the desire to learn about a new medium of expression and the extreme similarity between these two techniques. Both mediums involve the use of external agents to create an image. In the case of etching, the agent is acid that etches the material, while in photography it is light that impresses a photosensitive surface.

IB: The themes you deal with in your photographs are relevant to today’s society, which tends to suffocate us more and more and homogenize us as a function of productivity: we need to be perfect and neither feel nor demonstrate our emotions. What drives you to confront these major issues characteristic of Generation Z?

FE: Being born between two generations has exposed me to changing ideals and perspectives on life. This [has] had a significant impact on my perception of the world and my artistic expression. Becoming aware of the major issues that have come up in our society at the level of mental health and sexuality, I decided to make them central themes in my poetry. I am talking and taking pictures about these issues to contribute more information and awareness for part of the public.

Understanding and acceptance of sexuality can have a direct impact on people’s mental health, while mental health can influence self-perception and one’s relationship with sexuality.

Worry, 2022, Courtesy of the artist.

IB: Looking at your portfolio, I was very impressed by the Worry series where you discuss when anxiety becomes pathological and the sufferer dissociates from reality, losing control of it.
What technique did you use to make these shots? How did you conclude that it was the best method to render that feeling of loss and dissociation?

FE: When I decided to start this project, I was going through a period in my life fully involved with this theme.
The choice of this technique came from the idea of “glow,” something that blinds you, distances you, and alienates you from reality. I wanted to reproduce these “glows” by using flash on smooth, reflective surfaces; however, the result did not satisfy me. However, I continued to think about the idea of reflection, something that we cannot eliminate, something that often attracts and obsesses us.

The solution came when I visited an Anish Kapoor exhibition in Venice: the Indian artist used distorting mirrors, which made me realize that the distortion effect could best represent my state of mind. So, I began taking photographs of my everyday life using the bottom of a bottle as a distorting filter.

Installation view, QueerPandèmia. Artistic contaminations of other kinds, 2023, Base Milano, Courtesy of Riccardo Ferranti

IB: Your latest project, People’s House, has been selected to be part of QueerPandèmia. Artistic contaminations of other kinds, an exhibition hosted at Base Milano as part of Milano Pride in July 2023. This show by ULTRAQUEER, a project of TWM Factory, aims to give space, voice, and representation back to the Queer community, centering the discourse on how it is perceived by the outside world. Reflections take place on queer identity and its relationships, going through tools, struggles, and new practices with which to invade spaces and gain a place in the world.

The People’s House series includes very complex and delicate shots that run through the lives and relationships of Enea and Luna, a polyamorous couple living in Bologna. How did this collaboration come about?

FE: After becoming interested in the topic of polyamory, having never had this kind of relational experience, I realized that I could only know more about this topic by getting to know people living in that kind of relationship. Conversing with some friends, I met Luna and Enea who gave me the possibility to collaborate with them, making me [closer to] this world.

IB: Photographs of their daily lives are accompanied by shots of natural elements that dialogue with forms and compositions that the bodies create. Flowers, stems, shoots, but also water and light, reflect the relationship of mutual love and trust that polyamory creates, as in the relationships between plants and natural elements.

Nature is wonderfully homosexual, non-monogamous and queer, which is the basis of Queer Ecology(1) theories. This scientific theory aims to unite queer theories and ecology to shift paradigms from binary, rigid, and heteronormative ways of understanding nature toward interdependence and fluidity. How does this theory relate to your shots?

People’s House, 2022, Courtesy of the artist.


 FE: These shots representing nature, aim at an analogy with polyamorous relationships. They don’t have a scientific basis, they are only metaphors for this. Often, we are wrongly pointed out to how the queer, polyamorous world is “against nature.” I tried to metaphorically counter this word with these shots.

People’s House, 2022, Courtesy of the artist.

“Today, polyamory is often misunderstood as strictly sexual behaviour or an open relationship. In reality, this kind of relationship implies much more: it implies bonding, involvement, freedom, and shared growth with multiple individuals, just as it happens spontaneously in nature.”

IB: I think this quote from your project is very important for today’s society to revisit the concept of a “natural relationship” by stepping out of heteronormative dynamics—the queerness of nature has long been ignored, suppressed, and dismissed to reflect society’s underlying prejudice against non-heterosexual and non-cisgender identities.

What reflections arise from this project of yours and your personal experiences?

FE: People’s House is not exclusively about polyamory, but also about freedom and spontaneity. Realizing this project, meeting people, and talking to the people who were part of it, I realized how there is no difference between a polyamorous relationship and a monogamous one. It is often considered a happy little bubble, but what makes it true and equal to monogamy are precisely the same issues that are faced.

Spending time with people who collaborated on the project, I also decided not to focus on the sexual and carnal dimension of this type of relationship more than necessary, but more on their sentimental reality, on the understanding that is normally created in any type of polyamorous or non- polyamorous relationship. This is precisely to depart the idea of polyamory from the concept of an “open” or exclusively sexual relationship, something which it is often confused with.

People’s House, 2022, Courtesy of the artist.

IB: Your photographs give a very strong and pleasing intimacy and delicacy. Is there a shot (or more than one) that is particularly meaningful to you?

FE: It’s hard to find one shot that I consider more meaningful than the others, precisely because from a personal point of view, each shot tells the story of the path that I took with the people I portrayed. Therefore, they all have great meaning for me, even the discarded images.

If I had to choose the most emblematic ones, I think they would be the one depicting hands crossing and the one in which two guys lying in bed, naked and conversing with each other. The first is because I think it is also the one that best summarizes the entire work, the second shot chosen I find is perfect for explaining how much intimacy and freedom there is between each individual member in that relational situation.

IB: As the last question, can you share some visual and non-visual artists who have accompanied you in your personal artistic process?

FE:In this last period I was very inspired by the shots of photographer Ute Klein (2).She is young but with her photography she creates bonds between people by intertwining their anonymous, unidentifiable bodies.
These bodies have souls, feelings and just like the bodies of Enea, Luna and their partners: intertwining they tell us the beauty and fragility not only of their story but of the stories of all.

You can find more of Francesco Esposito’s work on his Instagram @serafjno. You can find out more about Base Milano on their website and Instagram. Check out Ultraqueer on their website and Instagram.

You can find the QUEER PANDÈMIA book here.

1 Ingrid Bååth, Queer Ecology, Explained, https://www.climateculture.earth/

2 Ute Klein, https://cargocollective.com/uteklein


Part One: Ash Barbu and Natalie Bruvels in Conversation

Maximalism and the Postmaternal

Cat Attack Collective, Walk in the Park, 2023, Ottawa City Hall Art Gallery. Image: David Barbour.

In this two-part dialogue, spanning contemporary feminist theory to modernist art criticism, independent curator Ash Barbu and interdisciplinary artist Natalie Bruvels reflect on the relationship between maternal caregiving and collaborative authorship. Specifically, they discuss the recent exhibition Walk in the Park (2023) created by Cat Attack Collective, an artist duo consisting of Bruvels and her 11-year-old son Tomson. Walk in the Park transforms the white cube Ottawa City Hall Art Gallery into an expansive environment that blurs the line between the surreal and the everyday. Building from the prior exhibition Abound (2022), presented at the Ottawa Art Gallery, the installation incorporates co-created paintings and sculptures of recycled, accessible materials that intersect and overspill. In the exchanges that follow, through considerations of accumulation, refiguration, and immersion, Barbu and Bruvels propose readings of ethics and aesthetics that foreground the inherited context of the work of art.

Ash Barbu: I often think about research as a parallel life process in which we grant ourselves the freedom to move beyond the limits of the merely possible. Having recently completed the first year of your doctoral studies, how does your academic work reflect your experience as a mother?

Natalie Bruvels: I’m drawn to the concept of the postmaternal, coined and developed by theorist Julie Stephens. This term offers a useful framework to address how caregiving, maternal subjectivities, and maternal epistemologies are erased in university spaces. It is also a framework that allows us to examine how the catastrophic effects of this erasure are objectified in visual culture. During this period of research as a PhD student, I have immersed myself in different concerns about maternal theory. The layered experiences of mothers are incredibly diverse and need to be taught. And they need to be taught in a feminist way. After all, caregiving is a component of reproductive justice. For the time being, I’m exploring questions of pedagogy rooted in a post-structuralist analysis of words that don’t yet exist—words that we need to make sense of our experiences. In the previous year, completing my MA during the pandemic, I don’t think I saw anyone. Researching and homeschooling was difficult. But I had the opportunity to take Andrea O’Reilly’s maternal theory course at York University, which saved my sanity. To be clear, it saved my life as a researcher. It was the first time I saw someone get up in front of a class and unapologetically create space for this discussion.

AB: In academia, sometimes we wander into what feels like an empty landscape. It can be intimidating to create space for yourself lacking the comforts of disciplinary foundations. At the same time, it is a sign there is more to be done there. What we need is more, not less disruption. How do these theoretical interventions on the postmaternal figure in your artistic practice?

NB: A few years prior, during my time in the MFA program, I began thinking about caregiving through alternative forms of collaboration. I always liked the idea of Tomson and I coming to the Visual Arts Building on weekends. As a parent, you try to give your child experiences that will stay with them. I decided we should go ahead and create something new. It was a learning experience, as I had to rethink the meanings we traditionally assign to authorship.

To begin, I assumed that the work would be prescriptive—that we would follow my idea. I quickly realized, though, that I couldn’t be in control. Yes, I’m responsible for this individual’s safety and well-being. But he is going to do exactly what he wants to do, for as long as he wants to do it. What I want to say, though, is that the work is freeing. Completing an MFA, you’re often probed and expected to have the answers. To say that I can’t anticipate where this work will lead in the future might seem like a deficit. Yet it is the only truthful answer. Right now, I’m taking the studio back into our home. We aren’t collaborating much as I try to put the space back in order.

Cat Attack Collective, Walk in the Park, 2023, Ottawa City Hall Art Gallery. Image: David Barbour.

AB: What about the feedback this work has received? A mother and child working together in the spirit of spontaneous production—this is far from conventional artistic research methodology. I sense you have faced gatekeeping regarding the so-called sanctity of art, both institutionally and interpersonally.

NB: There is the question of artistic merit. I have heard people say: “Why should I be looking at this?” While others might bring up the topic of exploitation, which enrages me and sometimes makes me cry. If there is anyone in the room who genuinely cares about this child, if there is anyone who will suffer the consequences of a lack of love, it is me. And if you’re not feeling protected, if you’re overworked, if you’re exhausted, if it is the wrong time in your menstrual cycle—all these things can add up to the point where you lose your equilibrium. Let’s say it can make it hurt more. In another context, I face gatekeeping from simply saying the word “mom” in an academic setting. There is also gatekeeping concerning the acceptable structure of the nuclear heteronormative family. Further, I have seen critics borrow from emancipatory feminist discourses in ways that deviate from their original intent. In the end, we are speaking about a single mother living below the poverty line, trying to raise her kid during a pandemic with no help. Having this conversation today, I feel the need to foreground that sense of judgment.

AB: I have spent a considerable amount of time thinking about Cat Attack Collective’s exhibition Walk in the Park at the Ottawa City Hall Art Gallery. From this collaborative, immersive installation, I see two subjects in dialogue, learning and unlearning from one another through artistic experimentation. I can’t help but think that the question of exploitation acts as a form of silencing.

NB: It serves to erase maternal subjectivities from the public forum of art spectatorship. As an MFA student, I immediately knew that the limitations brought on by COVID would interfere with my ability to complete the coursework and develop my studio practice. So, whenever the question of ethics is raised, I wonder why we refuse to consider the opposite point of view? How is this mother going to make new work? She must simultaneously provide care and find an activity that is engaging for her child. Therefore, they are now a collective. If that collective doesn’t exist, she is not making art—that studio practice is erased. What does it mean that we are ignoring this inherited social context of artistic production?

Cat Attack Collective, SS Same Boat, 2022, Ottawa Art Gallery. Image: Justin Wonacott.

AB: Walk in the Park troubles neutral, apolitical readings of maternal caregiving. Through a variety of display strategies, you directly engage the context of your arrival to the gallery space as a mother. To this extent, the exhibition is concerned with means as opposed to ends.

NB: Prior to this exhibition, in 2022 we created an ambitious mixed media work for the final MFA exhibition at the Ottawa Art Gallery titled Abound. In the middle of the gallery sat a towering floor-to-ceiling boat wrapped, draped, and tied in colourful reusable plastics. We called it SS Same Boat. Completing the degree, everyone kept telling me: “Oh, Natalie, you’re fine—we’re all in the same boat.” I often use titles to play against the aesthetic. They allow me to express the inner workings of my discontent, particularly in an acerbic, humorous way. For our current exhibition at the Ottawa City Hall Art Gallery, we wanted to reuse the materials from SS Same Boat. Tomson said he wanted to make trees—it wasn’t a long brainstorming session. The title Walk in the Park is beautifully straightforward and utterly facetious. And I would like both things to remain true. One does not erase the other. Instead, the premise and the critique are always already held in tension. Representing the complex relationship between a mother and child through an accumulation of art objects—it is a fantastic puzzle.

Today, many mothers are making challenging feminist work about the maternal—we don’t hear about it. 

AB: How might we situate this complexity, art historically speaking?

NB: In Western art history, these interactions have been romanticized by individuals who are not mothers. One concern is the curatorial siloing that occurs. We have been led to back into the corner and be a niche. To call motherhood a niche—this itself is an important piece of evidence that demonstrates how we have internalized such restrictive ideals. Today, many mothers are making challenging feminist work about the maternal—we don’t hear about it. I’m not even sure that we have the eyes for it. I include myself in this category. This observation is partly based on philosopher Julia Kristeva’s essay Stabat Mater (1977). She uses psychoanalytic theory to describe what happens when we look at the artistic motif of the “Madonna and Child,” or any idealized representation of motherhood. For Kristeva, it hardly matters if the viewer is a mother or not—they will identify with the image of the child. And this identification with the child involves a primary narcissism. It is that transportation to a place where I’m nourished, where my needs are met, where I receive care before I had a care in the world. Looking at the “Madonna and Child” is like taking an aesthetic drug. Therefore, when we encounter something like a feminist rendering of the maternal, there is room for profound disappointment, affectively or psychologically. With Walk in the Park, the viewer happens upon a scene that seems ultimately unfulfilling. It is an unsettling landscape of entangled contexts. Here, something rendered historically invisible contends with the problem of what it means to be seen.

You can read Part two of Barbu and Bruvels’ discussion here.

—

Ash Barbu is a writer, curator, and researcher who holds an M.A. in Art History from the University of Toronto. A recipient of the Middlebrook Prize for Young Canadian Curators, they have produced numerous group exhibitions foregrounding the limits of reparative visibility, including Words Unsaid: Autobiography and Knowing at the University of Ottawa’s Department of Visual Arts (2023). Their recent writings have appeared in publications such as OnCurating, Peripheral Review, and Esse art + opinions. Barbu lectures on queer theory and trans studies locally, nationally, and internationally.

Cat Attack Collective consists of Natalie Bruvels and her son Tomson. They are a multidisciplinary collective working primarily in painting and large-scale installations. Established in 2020, Cat Attack Collective has exhibited at the University of Ottawa, Art Mûr, the Ottawa Art Gallery, and along the Greenboro Pathway as part of Microcosm, the City of Ottawa Public Art Program’s COVID-19 pilot initiative.

Natalie Bruvels holds a Master of Fine Arts and a Master of Arts in Contemporary Art Theory, both from the University of Ottawa. She is currently enrolled in the Feminist and Gender Studies PhD program at the University of Ottawa. Bruvels is researching maternal subjectivity in art and visual culture, while advocating for caregiving supports in a university setting. Bruvels has presented the work of Cat Attack Collective at various academic conferences, including the Museum of Motherhood in St. Petersburg, Florida. She has subsequently published writing in The Journal of Mother Studies.

Tomson is in grade six and is happy to be back at school in person to spend more time with his friends. He loves dodgeball and has a special affinity for zip-ties as an artistic material. He is the youngest artist to have his work exhibited at the Ottawa Art Gallery.  

“The Professor’s Desk” by Zinnia Naqvi: Mayworks Festival

Zinnia Naqvi. Before the Settlement – Professor Chun’s Desk, Inkjet Print, 2023.

Interview by Aysia Tse

“The Professor’s Desk” series by lens-based artist and educator Zinnia Naqvi features archival materials from four specific cases of racial discrimination in or about Canadian universities. Naqvi uses her own student/professor’s desk to frame these cases of systemic racism and considers the impact and legacies of each case, reflecting on the ongoing struggle for racial equity and justice in academic institutions.

As a selected artist for the 2022 Mayworks Labour Arts Catalyst, Zinnia Naqvi worked with the Asian Canadian Labor Alliance (ACLA) with support from OPIRG Toronto to create the photo-based series “The Professor’s Desk.” The series was co-presented with CONTACT Photography Festival at the Whippersnapper Gallery from May 4-31st for the 2023 Mayworks Festival of Working People and the Arts. Mayworks’ Labour Arts Catalyst is a program that helps to facilitate the collaboration between local labour organizations and artists. As Naqvi describes, her creative and research processes for this project came together organically. After connecting with the two ACLA chapters based in B.C. and Ontario, Naqvi accessed an online archive of digitized materials from ACLA’s 20 years of activism which was her jumping-off point for her research.

I spoke in depth with Naqvi about her process, creative and political considerations for each of the six images in the series, and what she has learned from research into Professor Kin-Yip Chun’s case.

Aysia Tse: Can you discuss your deeply collaborative and multi-focus research process for this series?

Zinnia Naqvi: ACLA hired filmmaker Lokchi Lam to make a video for their 20th anniversary. Lokchi spoke to members and gathered many materials from past events they supported and organized them into five Google Drive folders. One of the folders they made was about instances of anti-Asian racism on Canadian campuses was called “White Fear on Campus.” Lokchi Lam put three events together; Professor Chun’s case, Maclean’s Magazine “Too Asian” article from 2010, and the W5 CTV News segment from 1979, which is what I [made] the project about.

Professor Chun was exploited and wrongfully denied a tenure track position four times at the University of Toronto in a span of 10 years. In 1998, Professor Chun launched a complaint with the Ontario Human Rights Commission for unjust dismissal. His case soon attracted national and international attention.

On the panel, Chris Ramsaroop was one of the founding members of ACLA Ontario, and a student at the time of Professor Chun’s case. He was very actively involved in supporting Professor Chun’s case and there were a lot of student organizers, so he was able to give me insight on the significance of the case from a student perspective. I teach part-time at the University of Toronto and was able to access historical newspaper databases by having institutional access. I found all the Toronto Star articles written about his case specifically and visited their picture collection at the reference library to access images. It was through my own digging that I then found out about OPIRG and the Dr. Chun Resource Library of feminist and critical race theory. Professor Chun donated funds to support the library during his case and it was later renamed after him.

Zinnia Naqvi. After the Settlement – Professor Chun’s Desk, Inkjet Print, 2023. Courtesy of the artist.

Aysia T: It’s great to hear how bits and pieces of the research came through. OPIRG sounds like a cool grassroots organization whose work relates to what you’re doing. So that was a great collaboration opportunity.

Zinnia Naqvi: Yes, I reached out to them while I was making the project and they generously agreed to support the panel and partner with Mayworks. As a result, we [could] fly Professor Chun to Toronto for the panel. It was interesting looking at this case 20 years after it happened because it isn’t part of the collective memory of the current students.

When I came across this research that Lokchi did, what stuck out to me about Professor Chun’s case was that someone was able to speak out against such a big institution as the University of Toronto and take them to court for racial discrimination. As someone who teaches sessionally in universities and has recently been a student, I have dealt with instances of racism or prejudice in the institutional space. However, to prove that in a court of law and in front of the Ontario Human Rights Commission is significant. There’s a report called the Chun Report that’s a very comprehensive study of the case and all the events that unfolded. It illustrated how toxic the environment was and how blatant the racism was that he faced. I realized that it got to a point in which he had no choice but to take legal action from the school because his treatment was damaging his life and career.

After he reached an initial settlement, he received significantly more discrimination or hostility from other people in the department. Journalists like Margaret Wente wrote very damaging articles in the Globe and Mail, saying that Professor Chun was just trying to get attention. Still today, Professor Chun takes care to not call the University of Toronto racist or any specific person racist, but rather he was talking about systemic racism at a time in which people were not used to hearing that term. That’s another reason why his case felt so significant because it started to change the discourse and language around these issues.

In the Chun report, there is an account stating that at one point Professor Chun was put in an office that had sewage, cockroaches, and mice in it. That’s when the report started to paint a visual picture for me. I started to imagine how experiencing that might look or feel. So that’s the approach I decided to take with this project, to frame it within the space of the office. I’m placing myself in his shoes in a way, but it’s a flex space that’s my imagination of what his desk would be like.

Zinnia Naqvi.What’s Behind the Diversity Numbers?, Inkjet Print, 2023. Courtesy of the artist.

Aysia T: Your desk compositions feature small details including those cockroaches that allude to these important aspects of Professor Chun’s case. What are some of the symbolic considerations you had when curating these pieces? Can you walk me through your thinking about the details you included?

Zinnia Naqvi: With “Before the Settlement,” I wanted it to be this space that’s in between balancing his career as a seismologist, who studies earthquakes and teaches physics. He talked about the personal significance of what this case caused him. He is also a father and there’s a family photo on the desk. He’s an incredible scientist – he received a lot of national funding for his extraordinary research. A lot of that got sidestepped because of the case and the toll that the case took on his life and his career.

The second image is called “After the Settlement.” That’s when I’m imagining the case taking over even more of his life. Things start to get messy and unravel even further.

Then there are also the other images that address different instances from ACLA’s archive. With the images of the controversial 2010 Maclean magazine “Too Asian,” I wanted to show the article and then there was also a book that I have placed on top of it, which was made directly in the aftermath of the article in which many scholars address Anti-Asian racism in universities.

The other image shows the cover of the same Maclean’s magazine, and it was interesting to me to see this image of two students with the Chinese flag that was taken, from what I understand, without their permission. However, the cover image of the magazine is of this very happy-go-lucky white student and the contrast of that was interesting to me.

It also started to make me think about diversity images and when images of diverse people are used for profit. Those images are used to attract students to apply to schools, but then a lot of people who are working or studying within those spaces are not actually supported. This also relates to the other image of the posters; those are current posters that I took from both University of Toronto and Toronto Metropolitan University where I work. It was interesting that I would see a lot of the same posters in both schools. There are a lot of posters about mental health studies, tutoring, and scholarships. It just shows the precarious financial situations of students, especially international students who are brought to these schools and don’t have citizenship status and are not able to work or are limited to how much they can work.

The last image I made is about the W5 CTV News segment from 1979. CTV aired a special that was [essentially] saying that international students were taking the place of Canadian students, especially in medicine and dentistry programs. Then there was a rebuttal by the Chinese Canadian Council, saying how that was factually incorrect and very racist, and there were a lot of protests about that. I have included excerpts from that news segment, articles about the protests, and then again, my school materials and other props to situate these issues in physical space. With these three cases from the past, it was significant to see how the rhetoric was so similar from 1979 to 2010 and continues today.

Zinnia Naqvi. What’s Behind the Diversity Numbers?, Inkjet Print, 2023. Courtesy of the artist.

Aysia T: As a part of the Mayworks Festival programming, you had a public talk with Migrant rights organizer Chris Ramsaroop, moderator Furqan Mohamed and of course Professor Chun about his story and wider conversations about Indigenous, Black, and racialized workers in academic institutions. Can you share more about this discussion or any highlights that came out of that conversation?

Zinnia Naqvi: All the materials I took about Professor Chun’s case were from public archives. But it also felt like at the end of when I read his report, I wasn’t sure where he lived or if he would be interested in the project, but it felt important to me to reach out to him. He originally had said that he would like to be part of a Zoom panel and then later, he said he wanted to come in person. This was significant because it has been 20 years since his case closed and he hadn’t spoken publicly about it for a long time.

What I was interested in with research on Professor Chun’s case is that I wanted to pay homage to his struggle because now, especially in the arts, we’re seeing the flip side of what he had to go through. We’re seeing now that institutions are aware of their lack of diversity and are trying to rectify that by holding targeted BIPOC hires. We’re aware that there’s a problem that’s trying to be resolved. There are still a lot of flaws in that process too as it can be tokenizing. A lot of times people are again invited into the institution, but they’re not supported once they’re there.

But we are at least in a moment where people are openly recognizing that there’s a problem and I do think, we [must] thank people like Professor Chun for making that part of the discourse. He sacrificed a lot to shift the public conscience and I wanted to pay homage to him in this project. Now that we’re in a different moment that still needs a lot of work, but we are trying to make change. We discussed that he wasn’t the only person who had public legal battles with universities in Canada. Many other racialized scholars are still in legal disputes with schools for not being supported or for speaking out against discrimination.

…You’re expected to keep your head down and be grateful that you’ve been given any place at all, even if it’s a precarious one.

Aysia T: I imagine you’ve been thinking about your own role or your own experiences within the institution and with your students. How has that informed your thinking about this project?

Zinnia Naqvi: I was thinking a lot about my own experience, but also about my students. Although I was and am a minority student and faculty, especially in the arts programs that I was in, I was also born here, and I wasn’t an international student. That was one thing I wanted to also be aware of as I was making the work.

We don’t always think of professors as workers because there’s a certain prestige that comes with the academy. That was another thing that stood out about this case. To me it felt like Professor Chun did everything right, he went to these Ivy League schools, and he did everything that you’re supposed to do on paper. Yet you’re expected to keep your head down and be grateful that you’ve been given any place at all, even if it’s a precarious one.

I was thinking about the way that my students, especially the ones who are international students, manage work, worry about grades, and all the pressure that the school puts on them. I’ve had a lot of support from the institutions that I’ve worked at but again, I feel that has come at the expense of others who have come before me.

Aysia T: I think some people dislike when people ask, “What do you dream of?” or “What would be an ideal change?” but I’ve learned to ask it anyway because it’s important. Do you see this work as a call to action for better support for BIPOC artists, students, workers, and staff within academic spaces? What do you hope to see in the future regarding these topics?

Zinnia Naqvi: I’m teaching a digital photography class at U of T right now, and I brought my students to the [Professor’s Desk] exhibition on the first day. It’s funny because it’s a photography class, and I’m making this very political work.

It’s always an awkward space because sometimes as professors, we don’t want to push our own work or our own research too hard. But I would hope that showing this work makes students feel like they can talk about these issues within the space of the school. It’s interesting with Chris Ramsaroop and some of the other student organizers who helped Professor Chun’s case, many of them are working in universities now.

I’m not sure if students today would do a one-week sit-in at the president’s office where they slept there for a week in support of Professor Chun. I just don’t think that we protest in the same way as they did in the nineties. But I think it just shows the impact that students have in these cases. I’m not sure if young people feel like they can make that change [through the idea of collective action]. I think this can be an example that they can. It takes a lot of resources and a lot of confidence to be able to do it. I think it’s also amazing and important to remember. They were able to create collective action and Professor Chun really got the most support from his students. I think talking about these issues and feeling like we can also be peers with our students is important.

You can view all of the images from “The Professor’s Desk” series online on the Mayworks Festival website and read more about OPIRG Toronto’s work on their website.

You can find out more about Professor Chun’s case through the Chun Inquiry.

Check out more of Zinnia Naqvi’s work on her website.

From Women to Everyone: In Conversation with Mulieris Magazine

Muleiris team. From left to right, Greta Langlianni, Chiara Cognigni and Sara Lorusso. Photo by Arianna Angelini.

Interview by Irene Bernardi

Mulieris Magazine was born in 2019 in Italy as an online platform. Greta Langianni and Sara Lorusso, the founder and co-founder, with the collaboration of Chiara Cognigni as graphic designer & Art Director, wanted to create a space for women and non-binary artists who usually find themselves on the margins of the art scene. Mulieris is a Latin word that means ‘of woman’: the magazine started online and has a printed issue in which the team asks women and non-binary artists to work on a specific theme.

This year Mulieris celebrates its fifth birthday—In addition to the print magazine with the fifth open call that has just ended, the opening of Mulieris Studio marked another big step for the community.

Irene Bernardi: I want to start at the beginning: I remember your first print issue Shapes. After all this work and success, what would you like to tell yourself about the past looking back now?

Sara Lorusso: After all the hard work of these years, I would try to motivate us! The project managed to grow and become more important and concrete; for all the times we thought of giving up or did not know where to start, I would like to tell ourselves that with calmness, perseverance, and determination, we came out much more mature and enriched.

Mulieris Magazine. Photo by Sara Lorusso.

How important is having an online platform and a print issue? What strengths and weaknesses have you found in using these two different media?

SL: The online platform made it possible to attract a part of the public that would never have bought a printed magazine. The audience of a print magazine is very specific, and we have always thought that Mulieris is purchased first for the topics and then for the design. In the end, we created two different communities and now they coexist together.

Talking about connection is very important for us, especially since today’s society wants us to be more individualistic: creating connections with others is the last chance to save us.

The Degrees Between Us is the name of the publications’s latest issue about the power of connections, and how far we are from each other. Every person on the planet can be connected to every other person through a five-degree chain: many times, I wonder how healthy these connections are and how important they are for everyday life. How important do you think it is to talk about connections in today’s society?

SL: Talking about connection is very important for us, especially since today’s society wants us to be more individualistic: creating connections with others is the last chance to save us. Mulieris for us was just that, in fact, this issue is about us. We were completely lost at the end of university, it seemed impossible for us to enter the creative world and so we tried to create a space for ourselves and for all creative women who were trying to make their work visible.

Installation view of the exhibition DREAMTIGERS.The Rooom 2023. Photo by Alexa Sganzeria

On the occasion of ArtCity 2023 in Bologna, Mulieris opened the exhibition DREAMTIGERS curated by Laura Rositani in collaboration with the concept studio The Rooom. Six international female artists, Lula Broglio, Alejandra Hernández, Joanne Leah, Sara Lorusso, Sara Scanderebech, Ayomide Tejuoso (Plantation), and The Mosshelter by Marco Cesari, lead the visitors in a sort of “dream world” where plants, humans, and animals mutate and dance together in the secret gardens of unconscious. What do you want to tell with this exhibition?

SL: The works in the exhibition are choreographies of bodies with blurred faces and are stills of animalistic details. They are the tigers mentioned by Jorge Luis Borges in his book Dreamtigers[1], those animals so admired in childhood and only to be encountered in dreams. Dreamtigers is talking about us, we are “tigers” to know. I quote an excerpt from the critical text written by exhibition curator Laura Rositani:

“The works create a succession of visions that immerse us in a fusion of animal, plant, and human worlds. They are a network of cracks to rejoin a sphere of memories. They are ever-changing, vegetal extensions, they are curtains ready to open. Through photography and painting, they look like snapshots of a past event that does not want to give up. They are dreams from which we no longer want to wake up. The surfaces of the works acquire volume and tactility, becoming unreachable to our senses.”

I have a question for Laura Rositani, the curator of DREAMTIGERS. I visited the exhibition twice and it reminds me of some passages from the book The Promises of Monsters by Donna Haraway, a book that is undoubtedly complex, but reasons about the relationship between human and nature. Haraway cites Spivak[2] and explains how nature is “one of those impossible objects that we cannot desire, that we cannot do without and that we cannot in any way possess”[3]: once we wake up from the ‘“dreamtigers” where everything coexists and mutates together, what awaits us in the real world?

Laura Rositani: I’m very interested in your association between the exhibition, this publication, and with Donna Haraway’s studies in general. “Dreamtigers” was meant to be a safe space, unreal at times and suspended in space and time. The nature portrayed is a changing nature, a hybrid one.

The awakening, the return to the real world is probably very disappointing. In reference to what you were quoting: we cannot be without nature, but neither can we possess it. Nature is not an essence, a treasure, a resource, a womb, a tabula rasa. Nature cannot be grasped in its totality, nor can its boundaries be established. Let’s consider what it is currently happening in Italy with continuous climate emergencies.

Perhaps the only way is precisely what Haraway points us to: to think of ourselves as virtual, that is, able to do things together.

Orchid Flowers. Artwork by Sara Lorusso.Installation view of the exhibition DREAMTIGERS.The Rooom 2023. Courtesy of Alexa Sganzeria and the artist.

In DREAMTIGERS, a few of your photos are also included in your first photo book As a Flower published by Witty Books. Specifically, the picture of the orchid, a beautiful flower that is usually fragile. In the image, the flower definitely refers to a vulva, but with an almost punk and rebellious hint, with these piercings hanging from the petals. Could the main picture represent the mission of Mulieris and the studio?

SL: I usually say that this photograph is a self-portrait of me in 2017 when I took it. When I took that photo, I did not yet know that I suffered from chronic pelvic pain and I had not yet come out as a queer person; this made me smile a lot because I knew practically nothing about myself but now, looking back at that photograph, things appear clear and simple to me. I like to find new significance to my photographs and associating this picture in particular with Mulieris and our mission as a project could be very powerful.

The last question is about the future of Mulieris: do you have any new projects on the horizon?

SL: There are many projects planned, the most imminent of which is the release of the new issue and the Launch Party on 23th of June in Milan. We are also organizing a new exhibition in collaboration with an art gallery in 2024!


You can find more about Mulieris Magazine and Studio Mulieris on their website and you can pre-order the new issue on Frabs Magazines.

View more of Sara Lorusso’s work on her website and Instagram, and her book As a Flower.

[1] Borges L. Jorge, Dreamtigers, translation by Mildred Boyer and Harold Morland, illustrated by Antonio Frasconi, Texas Pan American Series, 1964.

[2] Theory by Gayatri Spivak, american philosopher of Bengali origin. Active in the fields of postcolonialism, feminism, literary theory and gender studies.

[3] Haraway D., The promise of monsters: a Regenerative Politics for Inappropriate/d Others, Routledge, 1992, pg 37.