Finding a Place: In Discussion with Jude Abu Zaineh

Portrait of Jude Abu Zaineh by Kamryn Cusumano. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Interview by Adi Berardini

Jude Abu Zaineh is a Palestinian-Canadian interdisciplinary artist-curator working at the intersection of art, food, science, and technology studies, as well as maintaining a neon art practice. As she describes, her work “develops alternate archive practices and investigates themes of culture, displacement, storytelling, diaspora, and belonging, through decolonial and feminist perspectives.” Her bio art process often includes cooking Palestinian meals for community members and analyzing the bacterial culture, through scientific modes in Petri dishes, capturing its decay and shifts over time. 

I first met Jude back in January 2020, shortly after the opening of the group exhibition, Through Clenched Teeth at Forest City Gallery, which included her work entitled Maqlouba | مقلوبة’ featuring multiple orange glowing Petri dishes. Afterward, we all went out to London’s beloved bar, Poacher’s Arms, known for its karaoke rooms and basement vibes. At the time, Jude was near the beginning of her Ph.D. studies, bringing her to upstate New York, which she is now wrapping up. I feel fortunate to have met Jude and follow her practice and accolades at a distance, and grateful for her support of Femme Art Review and building up feminist spaces in a climate that often only shows interest in tearing them down.

Jude speaks more about the heartbreak of the relevancy of her work at this time of political and social aggression towards Palestinians by the Israeli government and military forces, and the cumulation of years of occupation and apartheid rearing its violent head. She discusses Palestinian resiliency and the power of art to foster connection during a time when it’s deeply essential.

Studies in Colour + Flora .Jude Abu Zaineh. 2022-ongoing mixed media in agar, petri dishes Photos by Michael Valiquette.

Your practice is quite interdisciplinary since you work at the intersection of art, food, science, and technology. How did you first discover the connection of working across these disciplines?

I’m an artist first and foremost, but I’m very curious about the sciences. That curiosity drives the way that my mind works when I’m thinking through making artwork and all the things that I’m conceiving creatively that I want to materialize in the world. And then I’m also very food motivated. It just almost seemed like a natural coalescence of art, food, science, and culture. It all just came together when I was doing works that are rooted in bio art or in sci-art, eco-art, where it’s science forward.

I’m approaching a lot of the things that I’m doing in the same way that I’m working through doing something in the kitchen and I’m following a recipe. To me, working out of a lab or a science space is not any different than following a recipe. You have your sets of ingredients, your tools, and your methodology, you’re following a series of steps, and voila, you’re left with whatever the final product or output may be. That was like my introduction to familiarizing myself with these unfamiliar science spaces because I’m an artist working in an interdisciplinary way.

I’m not entering these spaces as someone who’s fully trained and has the language and the technique and all these things. But I’ve built that repertoire over the years. And it’s one of the ways that helped me break down those barriers, almost like my own imposter syndrome of working in these spaces—It’s not any different than me putting something together in my kitchen. Once I break things down that way, in my mind, it makes it more accessible.

Often, I’m talking to people who haven’t come across this idea of bio art or working with food or any of these like biological materials or in a scientific way. In the production of contemporary fine art, I’m breaking it down to almost small bites, (no pun intended). It demystifies how inaccessible science might seem to be and it makes it more accessible to people as viewers, as audiences and to engage with the work. Making all these spaces accessible has also been a driving force in my work. And sometimes it’s just as simple as to distill the work and to talk about it in ways that there’s almost like this universality to the understanding and the language.

Everyone knows how to do something in the kitchen. We all have to eat. So, when you start to mirror these relationships, it just clicks, and it makes sense. I don’t want to invalidate the work that scientists do, and the importance of what they’re doing by kind of bringing it down to this nominal and rudimentary level. But I just think about the context of my work and what I’m doing, and it helps it to be more palatable. And so naturally, the culture and the art and all these things come together very easily, because when I’m working and making these very culturally specific foods, then it just ties everything together.

I love the idea of making it more accessible because there can be a gender imbalance in science and tech as well.  

I think gender imbalances play in all aspects of these spaces. Even just thinking about the domestic sphere when we’re thinking about food and cooking and often where the labor falls and some of these are cultural nuances. It’s just kind of the patriarchy. I think that unfortunately, all of these spaces are gendered, and these disciplines are gendered, but it’s just how we break these barriers and break these boundaries and invite others to join in that change. It’s small changes, but it is overall a collective change over time.

لو يذكر الزيتون غارسهُ، لصار الزيت دمعاً  | If the Olive Trees knew the hands that planted them…Their Oil would become Tears. Jude Abu Zaineh. Vinyl collage. 34’x 16’. 2022. (after Mahmoud Darwish) Installation shot from solo exhibition, In the Presence of Absence, image courtesy of Art Windsor-Essex.

Your 2022 exhibition In the Presence of Absence at the Art Gallery of Windsor [Now Art Windsor-Essex], curated by Noor Alé, explores your relationship with Palestine through archival images, literature, and cultural traditions. Can you speak more about your thought process around this exhibition and how it addresses belonging, diaspora, selfhood, and culture?

I think especially now, in hindsight, given both the political and physical aggressions that are happening in Palestine, I don’t think the work collectively reads that much differently. I just think that their level of potency has changed. It’s a really unfortunate thing for me when my work becomes extremely relevant because of these circumstances. Of course, we all want to make work that’s important and relevant and something [that can] create some meaning and maybe enact some change or whatever it may be. It’s just happening for all the most awful reasons. 

A lot of the pieces in the show were very much about building accessibility and community and thinking about representation and even education about the topic of Palestine, Palestinian identity, and the Palestinian experience, both from my own personal and direct lived experiences as a Palestinian and all the stories that I’ve inherited and carried throughout my life—My family and my lineage and just some of the atrocities that they’ve also directly experienced sort of get passed down. And I was trying to reconcile that relationship with a place that is my home that I connect with on so many levels, yet it is a place that I am exiled from, that my family’s exiled from.

We were forcibly displaced like many Palestinians, it’s unfortunately also a story that’s too common, sadly. And it was a lot of work about that longing for a place that exists that yet feels very out of touch because of all these racial and political boundaries that are so misplaced and so misinformed. It attempted to connect and reconcile that relationship but also invite others in the community who were feeling this sense of home and belonging and longing for a home that once was that may never be.

There is also a lot of nostalgia running through in my practice. I mean, just overall, but I think it was a beautiful opportunity for me to exercise that muscle, which was fun and equally heartbreaking. And I think right now I’m looking at it through this lens of heartbreak because of everything that’s happening.

Hunā wa hunāk (here and there) | هنا و هناك. Jude Abu Zaineh Petri dishes, digital prints 15’ x 18.’ 2022.
Installation shot from solo exhibition, In the Presence of Absence, image courtesy of Art Windsor-Essex.

I was particularly excited about one piece in the show, Hunā wa hunāk. I made this series of Petri dishes and put out a call for photographs for people who belong to the diaspora from the Southwest Asian and North African region, to submit any archival photos or photos that meant something to them about their respective homes and families. There is a lot of intersectional understanding and solidarity in terms of these exiled experiences and this hybrid identity of belonging and not belonging to more than one place. That also became this beautiful exercise of building community and sharing stories, and it was very wholesome and healing. All of these things are as equally heartbreaking as they are poetic.

That particular work meant so much to me because it was an invitation to others who are not in the mainstream narrative and especially not in these cultural institutional spaces. It’s not the type of audience who are typically at the forefront and who are represented. It was also very powerful to have people come into the exhibition and become a part of the work. I think it all boils back to what we were talking about earlier with your first question in terms of accessibility and representation.

tend to grow (watermelons). Jude Abu Zaineh. Varying glass tubes and gases, electrodes. 12’ x 30.’2022. Installation shots from group show, She Bends: Redefining Neon Legacy; Museum of Glass, Washington. Photos by Michael Valiquette.

You have recently taken the neon art world by storm. I was wondering if you could expand more about your neon practice and how you reference Palestinian symbols of resistance like watermelons, olive branches, and Arabic calligraphy. What first drew you to neon as a medium?

I’ve always been fascinated by neon as a medium and I’m very tactile. I love the sensory experience of physically making my work and handling my own work. And being involved in the process of making it and understanding the material in every way that I can.  

I think that I was thinking through language, the nuances of language, translations, and failures of translation, especially in the context of the East meets West journey. How again, there are barriers because of language, miscommunications, and misunderstandings. And sometimes in those tensions, there can be something wholesome and very human and a beautiful way to connect. I have made many Arabic calligraphy and text-based works communicating the nuances of language and sometimes like these funny little mishaps that happen in language.

بتهون(الماء بيافا) | Bit-hoon (this too shall pass // Yaffa waterscape) Jude Abu Zaineh. Argon in clear glass tubes, electrodes, transformer, handmade artist frame 36” x 29” x 5”  2023. Installation shot by Michael Valiquette.

The natural progression was that it makes sense to make these pieces that are text-based out of neon because neon at its most basic level is a communicative material. How we engage with it in the public sphere is through signage, and usually, it’s communicating some form of action like, “Come in, We’re Open” or a business name, and it’s usually very tied to capitalism and consumerism. And I love the idea of taking these expectations of a medium and using it to talk about and convey these very intimate and personal experiences that are on the opposite end of the spectrum; it’s not about this commercial usage. It’s like this vulnerability and intimacy that is also being put on display. I just also love the tensions of using that specific medium in this way. 

But neon is a tricky discipline or material to work with because it relies on a mentor and mentee relationship to learn the craft and the practice and hopefully become an expert in some capacity. There’s a big commitment. It’s also historically an industry that is white male dominant. And so, there are also barriers to entry in place in that you can’t just go into an art and craft store and buy the materials and buy the tools that you need and just on a whim start playing around and seeing what happens. It’s not that accessible. Long story short, I knocked on a bunch of doors and I was turned away—It was very frustrating.

I wanted to make the work myself and I couldn’t find someone who would take me on, even as an apprentice or in whatever capacity where I could just go in and do it myself. [I didn’t want to] come up with the idea and pay someone to fabricate it for me. It just felt like such a disconnect from the way that I work and the stories that I was trying to convey in my work.

I ended up going all the way to San Francisco and I was based in Windsor at the time. And now in hindsight, I’m so glad I was so stubborn and didn’t take no for an answer. I just kept trying and trying. Anyway, I ended up meeting this amazing neon bender, Meryl Pataky. She was just a wealth of information and knowledge and was keen about opening her studio doors to someone like me, someone so opposite of what the industry norm is. She’s the co-founder of this collective called She Bends and their whole mandate is to make neon accessible, especially to women and femmes, and people who are typically underrepresented in this discipline and industry.

It’s like the stars weirdly aligned and I got to spend some time with her in San Francisco, learning the basics and trying to figure out my way around this difficult medium. I just couldn’t get enough of it. And I kept at it and kept making work over the years in the space of neon. I’m grateful that I’ve had some amazing experiences since then [with] my work being curated into some shows that are all neon-based. 

I think it’s also like a metaphor and reflective of Palestinian resilience. And the determination in the face of all of these boundaries and barriers like literal apartheid walls and sieges. There’s still this really beautiful display of humanity and resilience and will to do the best you can with what little you have. And to me, neon has been such a reflection of that.

tend to grow (watermelons). Jude Abu Zaineh. Varying glass tubes and gases, electrodes. 12’ x 30.’2022. Installation shots from group show, She Bends: Redefining Neon Legacy; Museum of Glass, Washington. Photos by Michael Valiquette.

Then in terms of actual symbols I’ve been working with, I made this watermelon series in 2022. I’m very proud of this work, but I’m just so sad that it’s even more potent and relevant and needed today. The watermelon is such an important symbol for Palestinians and Palestinian resistance and liberation because the Zionist state has made the Palestinian flag illegal in all of its forms. And so, the watermelon became a stand-in for the Palestinian flag because it represents and mirrors the same colors of the Palestinian flag, red, green, white, and black. Artists and advocates started using the watermelon instead of the Palestinian flag as a symbol for protest advocacy liberation, and all social justice. 

Six months ago, I think it read differently than the work does today, which is also an interesting thing. In arts and culture, meanings are constantly changing. I think the meaning of the watermelon will always be tied to social justice and not just for Palestinians, but again, collective liberation and justice for all the places and all of the people that have been ravaged by imperialism and greed and colonialism and white supremacy and so on.

FORMations, Installation shots from Southwest Seen; Museum London (2023). Photo by Shutter Studios, courtesy of Museum London.

Here in London, your installation FORMations, as part of Southwest Seen, consisted of film stills displayed on the exterior side of Museum London. Can you expand on FORMations and how it reflects the natural ecology of food and flora in the region through Petri dish culture and references to your cultural heritage?

This work was a process response to the lockdown of COVID and everything being in limbo for almost three years. I was kind of in this space of isolation. I was in a new country and program and just felt isolated from all the facets of life and community. One of the ways that I was trying to reconcile that was by going on a lot of walks and trying to familiarize myself with my new homestead in upstate New York.

This was also a response to all the social distancing and all the social isolation that we had to be in because a big part of my practice where I’m making things in Petri dishes revolves around community gatherings around food. I cook and host a traditional Palestinian spread of food for people and that becomes the first part of the process of how I make the Petri dishes. After, I document the growth and decay over time. Then, all those images make their way into these large kaleidoscopic installations, and they manifest and materialize in so many ways beyond that. 

The challenge at the time was replicating that without being able to gather with people. A lot of us turned to a lot of different hobbies and a lot of different things to keep sane during that time. And for me, it was going on a lot of walks. It was solitary and very isolating, but I felt connected to the spaces that I was occupying differently. I was paying a lot more attention to my surroundings. I went urban foraging and gathered whatever things I could find on the sidewalks. I was also thinking about what I was eating and how I could collect, swab, and use my own leftovers and different specimens from around me that I could then corroborate and include in the Petri dish cultures. All of these Petri dishes that I made in the process of creating formations also became like an archival footprint of the specific moment, place, and time. I was spending a few months in upstate New York and then I would go to different parts of Ontario, mostly between Toronto and Windsor and the 401 corridor. All these things that I had gathered made their way into the experimental film that you saw through the building at Museum London from the outside.

I was also very consciously thinking about the work of Ron Benner outside. He has this tended garden, As the Crow Flies. It’s this beautiful, colourful ecosystem and landscape that is right outside this beautiful pristine new building. I was thinking also about a lot of the colors of that natural ecosystem and how can I kind of mirror and reflect that a little bit in the work and see it as in conversation, the inside and the outside, the built environment with the natural environment.

Most recently, you co-curated a show ‘As I Find My Place’ with Farnoosh Talaee at The Next Contemporary, which focuses on personal and collective journeys of exile, migration, and adoption, focusing on placemaking and place(lessness). I was wondering if you could speak more about your process around curating this exhibition and how it first came together.

It was a collaborative effort between me and Farnoosh and it’s all about this feeling of reconciling with reality and all of these awful things that we’re trying to make sense of, politically, geographically, socially. We were trying to find artists who could occupy the space that we knew had the vocabulary of making work that was in dialogue with these collective journeys of exile and thinking about placemaking and placelessness, migration, all of these intense journeys of trying to belong, but also understanding that there’s this not belonging that’s thrust on many of us going through these experiences.

I feel like I have such a responsibility when I’m wearing my curator hat. What are the stories, people, and dialogues that we need to see that we’re not hearing enough of? I think those are questions that are constantly going through my mind and that I’m constantly grappling with. I think as an artist, and as a curator, I’m always thinking through how we break down these barriers and how we let more and more people in. I know for Farnoosh, that’s an important thing for her too, and in her space at The Next Contemporary she’s very deliberate about curating very thoughtful shows that touch on all these things in that representation is important in an intersectional way. Right from the [start], we were kind of speaking the same language and thinking about it similarly. There’s a responsibility to what we’re doing and that was at the forefront of this project.

We have a beautiful roster of artists [Participating artists include Ibrahim Abusitta, Hiba Abdallah, Saks Afridi, asmaa al-issa, Basil AlZeri, Nuveen Barwari, Rehab Nazzal, Parvin Peivandi, Maya Perry, and Larissa Sansour] and they’re all engaging with these topics in different ways with different material explorations and bringing their own respective histories and personal experiences about these feelings of longing and belonging and exile. Both the installation of the works, but also the power of each of these artists’ works individually and as a collective—it’s so powerful.

You can check out more of Jude Abu Zaineh’s work on her website and Instagram.

How to Stare at the Sun

Moira Hayes. Citrus 2022. Photo courtesy of the artist.

By Moira Hayes

Of all the things in life that are hard to look at, nothing has plagued me so acutely as the sight of a beautiful woman. When I see an attractive woman, I look away and I try not to look back. I’ve been asking my friends, my family, and random people in bars if they share this affliction. They don’t! So, why?

I’ve asked myself the following questions:

  • Am I just extremely shy?
  • Am I comparing myself?
  • Could it be Catholic guilt?
  • Do I feel embarrassed that I crave someone unattainable?

The answer is a resounding “Yes” to all of them. I am shy and I am comparing myself. My internalized homophobia, implanted at a young age by the Catholic education system, tricks my brain into believing that other queer people are unattainable entities, constantly out of reach. Light years away.

Step 1: Accept that you love the Sun.

For a long time, I felt like accepting that I was queer was admitting defeat. Yes, everyone who looked at me in high school as the token lesbian was right. Yes, any suspicions from my extended family were proven true. Yes, you got me, you are correct—I’m gay.

Winning is a learned skill that can only be achieved by a seasoned loser.

When I was in high school in the 2010s, queer communities emerged as an unavoidable presence in mainstream media. Huge shows like Glee, Pretty Little Liars, and Teen Wolf had queer characters. The widespread exposure to queerness was groundbreaking. Suddenly, it was very trendy to be gay.

In the showrunners’ attempt to keep up with this trend, queer characters were ushered into narratives to fill this new requirement. Unfortunately, it was also easy for writers to usher in the generational tragedy attached to the queer community, i.e. the AIDs crisis, or centuries of homophobia from both religion and state. Queer characters can’t just be characters, they always come with baggage. How else could the majority of (straight) viewers sympathize with them?

So, it kind of sucked. In her 2021 thesis work, Elizabeth Bradshaw explores this phenomenon in queer narratives:

“Punishing queer characters—through heartbreak, death, or overt punishments—is such a common device used in literature and film that it has earned its own nickname: Bury Your Gays. This trope dictates that when a same-gender love story is present, one of the characters must be destroyed in some way by the end of the story.”1

Step 2: Get burnt to a crisp for the first time.

The multiverse of acceptance and fan fiction can keep a sad, closeted teenager alive until real-world destruction inevitably grabs hold, but here’s the thing: I didn’t want to be destroyed. I wanted to win, but it didn’t come easy. Winning is a learned skill that can only be achieved by a seasoned loser.

I have lost many times. It turns out that accepting love also comes with accepting heartbreak. My personal queer narratives were less deadly than the fictional ones but were not by any means sunny.

My body of work Hey Sunshine! was conceived in the aftermath of a breakup. While it was initially helpful to attach a single person to the symbol of a Sun, it quickly gained greater meaning. I cast the Sun in my narratives opposite myself to embody everything in life that I cannot control, the actions and opinions of others, bad timing, unavoidable distance, and even the weather.

Moira Hayes. Spit! 2022. Photo courtesy of the artist.

I’ve accepted that all I can control are my own actions and reactions. I take responsibility and control of my own autonomy. I can choose to move forward or remain stagnant. Often, this invaluable introspection is achieved through hindsight.

In Spit! I invite destruction, disguised as love, into my life. Whilst damaging myself, I put my relationships with others at risk: my ability to communicate with others is obliterated, I drain all my energy until there’s nothing left, and all the light in my world is gone. By the end of the piece, my dependency on love relies on a single entity, and I’m burnt to a crisp.

Heartbreak sears like a sunburn. It stings until time has soothed it into a memory.

Step 3: Regroup, reflect, and slather yourself in sunscreen.

Self-reflection is one hell of a drug. Let’s talk about beautiful women again, starting with the female gaze.

I grew up experiencing a lot of anxiety around older women because I was always mistaken for a boy. My short hair and aversion to dresses led a lot of women to believe that I had walked into the wrong public washroom. I was ill-equipped as a child to navigate such a situation. (Recall that I am shy.)

I hated when people would question my gender, strangers comparing me to their preconceived images of a woman. (Recall that I am also comparing myself.) I grew contemptuous of the gendered answer because it ultimately aligned me with the perpetrator of my problem: other women.

Then comes the tidal wave of high school, plaid quilts, polo shirts, and a girl shrieking in the change room before gym class that none of us better be lesbians. Oh, good. That’s perfect. Something infinitely worse than being a girl who is routinely mistaken as a boy—being a girl who liked other girls.

Moira Hayes. Birth. 2022. Photo courtesy of the artist.

In Birth, a run-on sentence emphasizes the sudden and unexpected rush of falling in love. Detailing a strenuous morning, starting by going to work. The narrative winds into a full-body experience until I answer the call, ushering forward a new possibility of love. Behind the words, runs a telephone cord as a reference to communication while also signifying an umbilical cord.

Despite my gut instinct to look away, brought on by previous hurt and historical evidence that people can be cruel, I choose to pick up the phone. Love isn’t a game, but that’s never stopped me from trying to win.

Step 4: Get burnt again, probably.

Citrus bemoans the heartbreak at the end of a relationship. The narrative in this piece is punctuated with the image of a Sun, “the fruits of my labour, on fire in the heat of your…” The piece is accusatory and the background yellow layer of vinyl wrinkles outward, its words lifting at their edges and repeating themselves to not be forgotten.

I have lost many times.

Moira Hayes. Hotter than Hell. 2022. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Step 5: Acquire sunglasses.

I dated someone in university who kept a semi-nude photo of a famous lesbian as her phone lock screen. I admired the boldness, despite the extremity. Not only is it something I would never do, but it’s also something I never considered I could do.

When you type the word Cool into iMessage, the first suggested emoji that comes up is the smiley face wearing sunglasses. The nice thing about sunglasses is that nobody can see where you’re looking, you just look cool.

In Hotter than Hell, I adopt a skeptical view of the Sun’s dramatics. I breeze by the grandiose envisioning of Hell and brush off the Sun’s opinion. I’m over the dramatics of a relationship, the theatre of winning or losing emotionally. I push my sunglasses further up my nose.

Staring into the Sun for extended periods of time will blind you, no doubt. Just plain old looking into the Sun is so intimidating that we invented sunglasses to shield ourselves; it’s self-care. It could be designer or dollar store self-care, but either way you look cool.

How does one stare at the Sun? Exposure therapy with an equal measure of self-preservation.

Here’s what you need:

  • 1 pair of sunglasses for confidence 
  • 1 light year (distance and time) for perspective’s sake
  • 1 bottle of SPF 30 sunscreen for pragmatic reasoning
  • Acceptance of heartbreak, for when the sunsets
  • Acceptance of yourself, to see yourself through and through and through and through

Good luck!

PSA: Please don’t stare at the sun during a total eclipse without proper eye protection.

This feature can be found in our third print issue with the theme of Censorship. You can find a copy here.

  1. Bradshaw, Elizabeth. The Male Gaze and the Female Gays: Reimagining Queer Narratives in 2021,Texas Scholar Works, 2021, 58. https://repositories.lib.utexas.edu/server/api/core/bitstreams/44fe4abb-97ed-44d4-a81d-dd8512109074/content ↩︎

The Anti-Autonomy Device: The Hays Code, Tits, and Le$bean Poetry

Joanne Leah. Skin-Encapsulated Ego. Photo courtesy of the artist.

By Chimera Mohammadi

Imagine you’re a film censor, dedicated to protecting the morality of American cinema from such threats as “sexual perversion.” Which of the following would you flag as objectionable?

  1. A man is chased through the streets by a group of homeless boys he has sexually assaulted and is cannibalized by them
  2. A cop hunting a gay serial killer turns gay and begins to murder gay men himself
  3. Two adults pursue a Queer romantic relationship

According to the Motion Picture Production Code—A.K.A. the Hays Code—the answer is C. 

Now, imagine you’re a content reviewer, working hard to clean smut off social media. Which of the following do you find disturbing and/or sexual enough to warrant erasure?

  1. A person breastfeeding a child
  2. A highly sexualized photo of a woman’s breasts
  3. Anti-LGBTQ+ hate speech and harassment

Quite frequently, the answer is A.

Do these answers seem similar? While the Hays Code [officially] ended in 1968, it still maintains a powerful grip on the media we’re allowed to consume. Censorship, from the Hays Code to social media guidelines, is an anti-autonomy tool that strips women and Queer people of their own stories, replacing them with narratives that perpetuate their objectification and vilification. Queer trauma porn and horror continue to be celebrated in mainstream media, while authentic Queer stories, art, and poetry are erased. Depictions of women’s* bodies dominate art, advertising, and the visual landscape of our culture, but women’s bodies on social media are harshly policed. The seemingly paradoxical and arbitrary facets of modern censorship faced by Queer and women artists can be explained by its use as a tool of oppression.

In 1934, the American film industry established a set of censorship guidelines: the Hays Code. The list—which included “white slavery” and “ridicule of the clergy”—listed number four as “any inference of sex perversion.” This vague phrase served as a catch-all for Queerness, reducing it to any deviation from the norm and an active threat to any viewers who recognize it. 

In the decades that followed, Queerness was exhibited near-exclusively as a symptom of villainy. Answer A comes from the 1959 film Suddenly, Last Summer, a box office hit that grossed $9 million despite being a “preposterous and monotonous potpourri of incest, homosexuality, psychiatry, and, so help me, cannibalism” (—the New Yorker). Answer B is the plot of Cruising (dir. Friedkin 1980), which—despite protests by gay activists horrified by its representation of Queerness as a contagious and fatal disease of the mind—saw a box office total of $19.8 million. Movies such as Psycho (1960), Silence of the Lambs (1991), Insidious: Chapter 2 (2013), and even Tár (2022) are only a few highlights in a long line of films that frame Queer people as the main perpetrators of sexual violence.

For the decades (if not centuries) that Queer people have been the cultural scapegoats of sexual aggression, our voices and creative output have been silenced or hidden. Following his repeated removal from Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, and Vimeo, Queer artist Gio Black Peter hosted a private exhibition with 15 other censored Queer and female artists in 2018. The majority of the suppressed works displayed Queer/female intimacy and bodies in playful, lighthearted photography. Even non-sexual Queer self-expression is policed; Instagram and Tiktok have repeatedly erased Zoe Leonard’s politically-charged poem, “I want a dyke for president.”

Alix Marie. Mammography 2, 2017.30 x 20 cm. Photograph printed on glass. Photo courtesy of the artist.

The same myth that equates Queer people with sexual predators equates women with sexual prey. In most of the films listed above, women are the helpless victims of Queer sexual violence.  The camera uses female nudity as a way to reduce women to their bodies, and their bodies to manifestations of desire/temptation—think of a dead Marion Crane lying on the shower floor and the body parts littering Buffalo Bill’s hideout. This is acceptable when the art produced is used to amplify the sexual subjugation of women, but not when it threatens the dominant understanding.When the body of a woman is shown for any purpose aside from heterosexual male gratification or the promotion of unrealistic beauty standards, it becomes objectionable. 

Victoria’s Secret boasts 76.3 million followers on Instagram and 3,816 posts, the vast majority of which depict models in lingerie. According to digital watchdog collective Salty, VS even has a hand in shaping Instagram’s female nudity guidelines. But while VS is allowed to display and profit from women’s bodies, artist Clarity Haynes is not. Haynes’s oil paintings of trans and female torsos are not sexualized, but tender, thorough, realistic, and human. Instagram constantly blocks and flags their work, and their account (@/alesbiangaze) has been repeatedly threatened with deactivation. From Mammography 2 by Alix Marie to the Venus of Willendorf (for crying out loud!), non-sexual depictions of women’s bodies are restricted due to their “sexual nature” by Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook. But as creators find ways to get around AI policing on social media, could these censorship guidelines be backfiring?

Clarity Haynes, Mariam, oil on linen, 58 x 74.5 inches, 2022. Courtesy of the artist and New Discretions.

The Hays Code necessitated the practice of queercoding, the reduction of Queer representation to a subtextual wink at stereotypes, such as a swishy walk, a slight lisp, or the gardenia-scented handkerchief in The Maltese Falcon (1941). We can find similar practices on social media today. Algospeak is the most literal example, a mutated online dialect that obscures ban-worthy words from AI censors with bizarre spelling variations, like “le$bean” for lesbian, “corn” for porn, “leg booty” for LGBT, and “cornucopia” for homophobia. Women post photos under “#fakebody” in an eerie attempt to trick AI into classifying their bodies as objects to get around nudity guidelines. Artist Joanne Leah (@/twofacedkitten on Instagram) is inventing a new eroticism incomprehensible to AI by painting her models in outlandish palettes and decontextualizing their body parts. 

We learn more about the true purpose of censorship from what is allowed than from what isn’t. When the Hays code banned Queer protagonists and allowed Queer villains, it told audiences that Queerness and Queer people were evil, perverted, and malevolent. Today, our contradictory social media guidelines tell women that their bodies are not their own, but sexual objects for the consumption of the masses and the exploitation of private companies. However, the anti-autonomy device of censorship is ultimately incapable of true erasure. Just as the Hays Code birthed underground Queer symbology, algorithmic censorship is birthing a new taboo absurdism, often more provocative than what it was initially intended to hide.

*As an AFAB, non-binary person, I know that referring to a quintessential “woman’s body” is reductive. Some non-binary and trans bodies may be perceived as female, and some women’s bodies may not. I’ve opted to use language that reflects the binary ideology under which non-male bodies are policed.

This feature is from our third print issue with the theme of Censorship. To purchase a copy, please visit our online shop.

The Queer Electronic Dream of Dinah! The Album & Film

Dinah Thorpe. Dinah! performance and film at Array Space. Photo courtesy of the artist.

By Kalina Nedelcheva

In the quaint Array Space at 155 Walnut Avenue, Toronto-based queer electronic musician Dinah Thorpe performed Dinah! alongside a film which interprets each one of the 17 songs on the album.

Throughout the performance, Thorpe established a synergy between the ebbs and flows of her delicate voice, which sometimes accompanied and at other times contrasted the unpredictable urgency of the instrumentals and the visual language of the film. The cinematography oscillated between the abstract and the everyday, juxtaposing texture and shadow play with experiences of living and navigating the urban environment. Some shots—such as the interpretive dance by collaborator Patricia Allison framed by trees, fallen leaves, and a busy street in the background—were endearing; others were eerie and confrontational. For example, Thorpe presents documentation of the fences and signs that the City of Toronto put up as part of its efforts to remove homeless individuals from park encampments. The sequence and the lyrics of this track remind us of the protests, policing, and the demand for safe spaces for vulnerable citizens that have been going on since January 2021. The beats and lyrics reflected these narratives, shifting between a calming lullaby and heavier, industrial prowess. The experience of Dinah! blends a sense of immediacy and a softness particular to queer identities. The rhythm kept listeners grounded throughout and the artist’s commitment to activist causes was clear and decisive—Thorpe concluded her performance in a tee proudly claiming: “PRIDE IS ABOLITIONIST.”

I had the opportunity to chat with the artist before the Dinah! release show where she elaborated on the creative process for this album and film.

Dinah! album portrait. Photo by Janet Kimber. 

K: Can you tell us about the journey of creating your upcoming album, “Dinah!”? How did the process differ from your previous albums (considering the pandemic context)?

D: It’s hard to talk about the whole process because it spanned for so many years. I always write alone and that didn’t change during the pandemic. But it was a different kind of isolation than experienced in previous artistic work. There was the context of panic and also not being able to go see art in person or be within artist communities outside of Zoom. I got a ukulele bass and a sequencer/sampler, which has helped me make beats in a new way. I felt like these two instruments kept me afloat in the pandemic. With no shows on the horizon, I could concentrate on just writing and not think as much about how to show things in a live context. A lot of the beats in the new album are from that beat machine and practicing for the launch of Dinah!, made me realize that I ended up playing bass on more than half the songs.  

K: How did this period of isolation impact your relationship with your voice and your approach to music-making?

D: It impacted everything—both the content and the structure of the songs. I feel like the things that I was writing about changed. And you know, there’s a particular structure that emerged where it’s sort of quiet and then it’s full-on panic, like a dense, fast panic. I’m not doing that structure anymore, so it feels like a particular pandemic song structure. I also started writing more instrumentals during that period of isolation. I think that was the result of not knowing what to say at all and finding it easier to translate things musically and not lyrically.

K: Your music has been described as “home to both the emotional and the physical.” How did you balance these elements in Dinah!, and what was your creative process like in achieving that balance?

D: As you know, dance parties were not a thing for such a long time and maybe still are not the easiest thing to go to COVID-wise and so, I started dancing more in my studio. I’m not a dancer, but I found that when I would do exercise videos, I’d also have a dance party. I also found myself more drawn to making dancier music. It was such a particular time for the body, remember? I don’t mean to say it’s over for folks but just acknowledging this scary, intense time for the body. At the same time, your body was trapped in one place. I guess I started using my body in different ways. I started doing a lot more yoga in the pandemic which changed my singing; it made me a better singer, which was not part of the plan. It just happened. Moving my body in these new ways helped me have a little bit more of an integrated practice for myself.

Now, I’m moving towards performance that involves lip-syncing, dance, and stripping, which is a whole other direction of embodiment. My practice had to become more integrated during the pandemic because my studio was the place where I could do things with my body when all the other things I usually did—like basketball, for example—were not available. And now, I am taking a cardio dance party class which is humiliating because I can’t keep up. But it’s teaching me to move my body in different ways and I am curious if that will make a difference in my work.


Dinah Thorpe. Dinah! performance and film at Array Space. Photo courtesy of the artist.

K: Your album features a “dynamic frisson,” with starts and stops that seem to mirror the unpredictability of the past couple of years. Can you speak to how you captured this sense of propulsion and tension throughout the album?

D: So, I love a wall of sound—like, I totally love a wall of sound and songs that do that well in all kinds of genres, not just in electronic music but also in band and classical music. I also really love singing quietly and with lots of layers of harmony in a way that you can hear the different parts. And I love bringing those things together, like having a wall of sound and having 10 vocal tracks with harmonies at the same time. The songs in Dinah! reflect the time of the pandemic because it was a very quiet time and a very introspective time, but it was also a time of utter panic and chaos internally. The wall of sound and the more folky, lyrical quietness ended up co-existing in some cases. I find it interesting to try to put them next to each other and see if I can make a coherent narrative that contains both. In some structures, I also like to do an arc where it’s a slow build, slow build, explode, and then the end.

Dinah! Film still. Courtesy of the artist.

K: Have you ever thought about your songs as lullabies?

D: I think that I aspire to write a lullaby but I’m not sure that I would be able to write a lullaby and then not throw something else in to wake the baby up at the end, you know?

K: Maybe it’s not a traditional lullaby but a queer lullaby. Like, wake up to the world and your identity!

D: Totally! Or like songs of queer seduction…the seduction of sleep, the seduction of sex.

K: How do you define queer seduction?

D: Well, I can’t speak for the audience, but people reflect to me that that’s been their experience of a show. I enjoy it when that happens because that’s my memory of going to inspiring concerts. You can’t figure out whether you want to be with them or sleep with them at the end, right? For me, all those early concert experiences were with queer musicians. I mean, I hope I engender that in people too but that’s also weird. Like, it’s this weird thing we project onto artists, right? It’s partly that music is very seductive when people are good at it.

But the other side effect of being a musician for me is that sex can’t involve music in any way because I am too involved in it, and I will check out of the thing that’s going on and pay more attention to the music. I feel kind of jealous of people who can set the perfect vibe by putting on music. Occupational hazard, I guess.

Dinah Thorpe. Dinah! performance and film at Array Space. Photo courtesy of the artist.

K: As an activist and athlete, how do you see your identity intersecting with your music, particularly in the realm of queer alt-electronic music? How does your personal journey inform the themes and messages in your songs?

D: All of the pieces that you’re talking about, like the piece of me that plays basketball and organizes basketball community and the piece of me that organizes for Palestinian liberation, which I’m involved in as much as I can be, make their way into my work. There is a track on the record about helping unhoused folks who are being violently evicted from a park by the police, for example. These pieces are just who I am. They inform my work in that way and vice versa; it just gives me the strength to do other work that I do that’s hard. I’m interested in doing activism in different ways. There’s the sort of obvious way of participating in marches and there are less obvious ways like delivering food to people who need it. I don’t mean to say that I’m doing everything on the activist spectrum, but I like to engage locally and be aware of horrendous global events to try and figure out how to make change happen.

Dinah! Film still. Courtesy of the artist.

I think everyone should be involved in this stuff. As artists, it is our job to look around and see what’s happening. In this sense, we are even more responsible because our job is to observe and reflect. Being an artist, a queer, an activist, and being an anti-capitalist and an anti-racist are all a part of me, and I don’t know that I can say which caused which. If you’re an artist, you’re likely living inside a system where you don’t get paid for your work so presumably that would make you identify with other people who don’t get paid for their work, right? And maybe you also recognize that other people do way harder work than you that they get paid badly for.

I want to be in community and a big way that I have found to be in community is through activism. And I feel like once you have a sense of how messed up things are, then there is no choice but to try to do something about it.

K: What do you hope listeners will take away from experiencing your music?
D: I always think of music as company and as therapy. It’s the thing that you put on while you’re making dinner and maybe you wiggle a bit, or it helps you through your day. I don’t know, it helps you with boring chores. And then the more active pieces are the emotions. I think we’ve probably all had the experience where we’re having a feeling, maybe we don’t even know what the feeling is, and then suddenly we’re listening to the perfect song for that feeling. Maybe the song causes us to dance down the street or to suddenly bawl our eyes out. I do this work in order to work through things and I hope my music works this way for other people, as well.  

K: Can you tell us a little bit about the film you made to go with your record?

D: It’s been a fun, interesting, and difficult project. I think working more in film partly came from the pandemic. There is a video for every song. I wasn’t sure how the film would be as a whole since there are 17 songs but having finished it, I think it does cohere; there are themes and a pace to it. So, you can experience the album by listening to it or you can experience the album by listening to it and watching the videos at the same time. It’s funny, at the very end of the project, I thought, why did I do this to myself? But I just wanted it to exist.

You can find more of Dinah’s music on her website and Bandcamp.

Cycles of Longing: In Conversation with Rima Sater and Laura Acosta

Installation view of Rima Sater & Laura Acosta, You Can’t Have Honey Without An Onion, 2024. Photography by Rachel Long / Saros Creative.

Interview by Adi Berardini

“Can you ever fall short when you’re longing?” the voice echoes in the expanded film You Can’t Have Honey Without an Onion on view at Forest City Gallery by Rima Sater, a Lebanese-Canadian artist based in London, ON, and Laura Acosta, a Colombian-Canadian artist based in Montreal, Quebec.

While I view the film projected onto the floor with a water tank placed overtop, I feel like I’m peering down over a cliff ledge with midnight blue water surrounding me. As the artists describe, the film is what they’ve coined a piece of troppy sci-fi, with a nostalgic yet futuristic feel; the tropical landscape is often superimposed on the figure so that they become a chameleon to their surroundings. The film looks at feelings of alienation and invisibility, diasporic longing for a place, and the bittersweetness that is inherent in this experience. You Can’t Have Honey Without an Onion also explores the maternal and intergenerational trauma of displacement, a topic that echoes deeply at a time when over 1.5 million Palestinians are facing forced displacement from Gaza and a genocide by Israeli forces.

“No matter how displaced you feel someone is feeling similarly,” the voice in the film rings, at times distorted, with the type of ‘70s music you may hear in an infomercial. Desire is multi-faceted, not solely reserved for a person, but for a place, for a home. As the narrator also states, “There is no pain that lasts a hundred years or a body that can sustain it.” 

In this interview, Rima Sater and Laura Acosta discuss their collaboration, the process of working on the film and exhibition You Can’t Have Honey Without an Onion, and the accompanying writing workshop. 

Installation view of Rima Sater & Laura Acosta, You Can’t Have Honey Without An Onion, 2024. Photography by Rachel Long / Saros Creative.

What first brought you together to collaborate on this film and exhibition?

Rima: Laura and I have been friends for a very long time, and we first collaborated in 2015.

She was doing a residency at the FOFA Gallery at Concordia and invited me. Long story short, we did this other residency together and we had a sound and performance piece that was about this character that we made up named Iris Breeze. It had a lot of big philosophical questions about this woman daydreaming and similar themes to what we had introduced into this piece as well. I got into this residency in Brazil, and then reached out to Laura and asked if she wanted to come. Then we ended up going together, and it just happened. I [figured] I’d bring some film, and Laura brought some textiles and costuming. We both had things we’d been writing about and wanted to use for something. It came together organically and became this film piece. 

And then it wasn’t until we [thought that] maybe we should apply for a show that we figured out how to put it all together. It made sense. Everything just fit together and fell into place so naturally.

Laura: I think Rima and I have an overlapping interest in creating this surreal world out of real life, which is this tendency to want to daydream and have escapist fantasies. I think we both have a similar way that we deal with pain or anxiety, which is through absurdity and humour.

Our friendship is based on this ongoing banter where an image will get so absurd to the point where it’s like just a completely different world from real-life experiences. In our close friendship and being two brown women who grew up with immigrant parents, we have such a similar upbringing and similar experiences of alienation that humor is a way for us to explore all of this through absurdity is where our work overlaps. Even that first collaboration that we did together [had] this tropical feeling. Like how to go on vacation, escapism, and creating grandiose ways of thinking of how to live this tropical luxury life while demonstrating this sort of dissatisfaction with reality, flipping it on its head and making it our own through humor and surrealism.

Rima: A lot of our conversations when we’re together or apart, you could take any of it and turn it into a script. Nothing that we wrote was inauthentic to the things that we were feeling or what we’d say to each other. It’s almost like transcribing a text thread between the two of us. It would be how we make these connections and play on words. We have this kind of like téte a téte thing where one of us says one thing, and then the other person makes a joke out of it based on one word from that thing. Then it just evolves, but it always comes full circle in the end. It’s funny and ridiculous but rooted in sorrow.

Installation view of Rima Sater & Laura Acosta, You Can’t Have Honey Without An Onion, 2024. Photography by Rachel Long / Saros Creative.

The film explores themes of belonging and alienation of foreign bodies referencing sci-fi. Can you speak further about the meaning and inspiration for the film?

Laura: At the time, for some reason, I remember we were at the Covent Garden Market, and we were talking about our mothers and this idea of how there’s this normalized sense of suffering that they have. And that’s where the Arabic saying came about that Rima brought up, “You can’t have honey without an onion.”

Rima: My mom said it one day to me in Arabic very loosely. And I was like, I love that. In Arabic, there are a lot of idioms, but they also play on words of each other and there’s a lot of rhyming. It’s these little cheeky things that I’ve been learning as I grow up as well. And that one just stood out to me so much because it’s so simple. It’s just like, yeah, you can’t have honey without an onion. It makes so much sense.

Our relationship to this matriarchal pain comes through with just being inherently born in the cultures that we’re born in and being women.

Laura: And then there’s the counterpart to it from Colombia that was, “There’s no pain that lasts a hundred years or a body that can sustain it.”

We’re thinking about these sayings a lot and this idea of maternal lineages. And I think we were almost talking about how we have this sorrow that isn’t ours sometimes. Like we were just kind of born with it. Our relationship to this matriarchal pain comes through with just being inherently born in the cultures that we’re born in and being women.

That unfolded into a larger theme of alienation because that’s our situated knowledge, but we want to make work that appeals to all types of experiences. Under the system that we live in, we’re all living with alienation. We’re all so separated and not comfortable with who we are, it’s not made for people like us to be comfortable.

Laura: Then Rima had this residency in Brazil lined up and she invited me to it, and at the time I was playing with sort of reflective textiles, and so we thought, okay, why don’t we speak about the idea of visibility, belonging [and] not belonging, through a visual sort of story, and then obviously, Rima has all the knowledge of capturing image with different formats, so it became a play on where to put these bodies inside these landscapes.

We went to an island in Brazil, so it was all very tropical, in line with what we were talking about before. And then it became this conversation about what bodies are visible, what bodies are invisible, and what it inherently means to be human, to feel alienated without even knowing what you’re alienated from.

Installation view of Rima Sater & Laura Acosta, You Can’t Have Honey Without An Onion, 2024. Photography by Rachel Long / Saros Creative.

Rima: And I think just the word alien lends to the sci-fi theme as well. Sci-fi [films] are so absurd but also incredible since they predict a lot of things. There are so many movies that have predicted certain technologies, so they’re also very modern at the same time as being this sort of strange, otherworldly thing.

We coined a term, “Troppy sci-fi,” which was the genre we decided to put this film under, and with our work in general, it made sense with what we were doing. It had a bit of this otherworldly sort of aspect to it. I think that when we were writing our parts, and we collaborated and put them together, with self-reflection as well, [we thought] where did these emotions come from? Where do these things stem from? 

And not to be psychoanalytical, but also just thinking maybe this happened when I was a kid, or this is what I learned, or thinking about things that your parents had gone through and maybe how that imprinted on you and led [and influenced] your experiences and the way that you react to stuff.

Installation view of Rima Sater & Laura Acosta, You Can’t Have Honey Without An Onion, 2024. Photography by Rachel Long / Saros Creative.

Your exhibit is very immersive and references water with the dark blue walls, lighting, and water tank over the film screening. Can you speak more about the symbol of water? It lends itself well to tropical sci-fi, having the water over the film too. Was it difficult logistically? 

Rima: It’s the simplest of all the ideas that we had. We really wanted to honor the water because we were on an island, and we were just surrounded by water and there were waterfalls everywhere.

It was just like a very symbolic element to our experience at the residency, so we wanted to make sure that it was part of the piece as well. We were like, “Oh, maybe we’ll do a waterfall wall,” we just had all these ideas. And then one day, I was home, and we were like, “What about like a pool?”

And we [thought] “This is great. Let’s do a pool.” So, she came over and we went into my bathtub and filled it up and took my projector and made sure that it made sense. So then from there, we had this box fabricated and waterproofed when we were in Halifax. And it was so simple otherwise, but so effective. It translates into the film and how there are different perspectives within itself, as well as how people can view the content.

Laura: The water is meant to represent many things, but more and more the piece feels like this daydream that we’ve been trying to describe, even from our first piece with Iris Breeze, this feeling of being so inside your head.

Having everything blue and with water lights and an underwater feeling, I equate it with the subconscious. Even as we’re talking now, it’s making me reflect on our friendship and the importance of female friendships is how much therapy you give to each other, it’s unbelievable. It is like full therapy sessions where your one experience can be dissected into everything your family represents, your entire experience of who you are.

I think more and more about this piece, and the text that Sandi Rankaduwa wrote, which is a gorgeous piece of writing. It took me more to this place that it’s not meant to be an outdoor place, it feels like being inside a daydream or a subconscious state.

Rima: At the Khyber, we both visualized it as being its own thing that you could immerse yourself in and get lost in it too because you have the lights reflecting all around you that emulate the water and then the water within itself. But being there, it was also trying to make it like this calming and reflective experience at the same time, as well as addressing these heavier topics. A lot of people have seen the piece and been like, I feel like I just went through a therapy session, reflecting on their own experiences with the themes that we had.

So having it at FCG (Forest City Gallery) and having it in this very perfect little box, gives it more of that feeling of “I’m in here. I have to be with this, and I have to be with myself, and I have to be with my thoughts.” The more we do it, or the more time that passes, different things stand out. It’s amazing how it’s evolved.

Installation view of Rima Sater & Laura Acosta, You Can’t Have Honey Without An Onion, 2024. Photography by Rachel Long / Saros Creative.

Can you speak more about the writing workshop and what inspired you to do a workshop as well?

Laura: The workshop came about because the Khyber was interested in community engagement. Shout out to the Khyber, they’re doing cool stuff over there and making sure that the community is reflected in what’s happening inside the space and it’s part of everything that’s happening in the space.

They [asked how we would want] to do a community engagement exercise. And we started talking about the process that we have towards creating our work, which starts with this conversation, a banter, and then this production of a score in a way. And that score becomes the starting point for images or for movement or whatever we come up with.

Then we came up with fun exercises for a group of people to write a story together. We also didn’t know what the outcome of that was going to be, which was cool because you get people’s prompts and then see how people explore their personal experiences, but through a playful way and in a group setting.

Rima: The prompts [encourage] you to reflect on your experiences with the themes of alienation, belonging, and grief, anything we cover in our work, then write down a sentence, a word, just anything that comes to mind. Then we just rip it all up and put it into a little hat or bucket anonymously. And then from there, you pick stuff out like this Mad Libs game. 

When we did the workshop this time around, because we had two separate groups, we noticed that both of us had done it a little bit differently but still stuck within the same theme. For example, we did like the who, what, where, when, why, and sometimes how. You’d pick something out and then ask everybody, “Where do you think this fits in?” [From there] you write that down and then have everyone describe that and elaborate on it a little bit more. Then we differentiate between sound bite and narration and eventually turn it into something that could be a script.

Everyone loves it because it’s collaborative and writing can be so personal. Even though people were writing very personal things, deconstructing it in a way that was a bit absurd or silly but also very profound, allowed people to enjoy it more and see the different ways in which writing can take forms.

Laura: That’s the beautiful thing about collaboration. When it’s non-hierarchical, there’s no leader. Then you slowly start seeing what role each person takes. Some people speak more, other people like to take a moment and say something when they feel it’s right. And then as the story starts unfolding, you can see it start turning on in their heads, and they start creating more stuff. It’s a cool experience because also we never know what’s going to come out of it.  

You Can’t Have Honey Without an Onion was on view at Forest City Gallery from January 6th to February 17th, 2024.

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.