Complexifying this notion of truth: in conversation with Anna Karima Wane

Anna Karima Wane. Installation view of a rememory that belongs to somebody else at Museum of Impossible Forms (Helsinki, FI). Photo by Rong-Ci Zhang. Photos courtesy of the artist.

By Juliane Foronda

I vividly remember when I first met Anna Karima. It was in Dakar, around a table full of food, under the shade of a mango tree. Now looking back over two years later, and reconnecting in one of the most unexpected places, I can’t imagine a more fitting first encounter. 

a rememory that belongs to somebody else was recently on view from May 4 – 12 at the Museum of Impossible Forms. This solo exhibition by Helsinki-based Senegalese artist Anna Karima Wane was filled with gestures, questions, (hi)stories, rehearsals, and radical acts of hospitality that echo far beyond the formal parameters of the work. In the space, I first noticed the CRT television screens scattered across the floor playing a four-channel video titled, How to Eat a Mango, with a large rug and a seating pouf in front of the screens, inviting guests to take their time and get comfortable.

Along the wall were photographs of archival material that documented her research trip in the Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer, coupled with hand-written journal entries ripped straight from her notebook, with their hands being present both literally in the photographs, as well as through the vulnerability of teared pages. On one wall were two longer texts that share the stories of two women in her family, Aye Touré, and her grandmother. These stories fill the space with a mix of authority and tenderness.

Finally, there was her dining table that was transported from her home in East Helsinki. On the table rests a few more journal entries, trivets with images of colonial Jamaica from her grandmother’s home, and laser engraved napkins with digitally altered images of colonial Kindia. There were also chairs around the table that gently offered themselves to host the guests, giving everyone a place to sit, consider, and rest.

Anna Karima immediately offered me a cup of mint, jasmine, and orange blossom tea upon arriving at this conversation, and told me that this is the tea that her mother makes for her back in Senegal. My hands naturally wrapped around the mug to take advantage of the warmth.

Anna Karima Wane. Installation view of a rememory that belongs to somebody else at Museum of Impossible Forms (Helsinki, FI). Photo by Rong-Ci Zhang. Photos courtesy of the artist.

Juliane Foronda: We’re sitting here now in the middle of your exhibition at the Museum of Impossible Forms in Helsinki. How did this work come to be?

Anna Karima Wane: The first thing was The Story of Aye Touré, which I wrote in 2020 when I was first starting to look into this story. I was very inspired by Saidiya Hartman’s Venus in Two Acts and thinking about the importance that is given to the archives and how we find our place within this record that has tried to erase our histories. Then going to France and going through the Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer in 2022, and having that experience was a little bit surreal in many ways. I remember writing in my notes that I didn’t know what I was looking for. I was taking these images of files and documents, but also wanted to show myself within it and think about my own position in this. I wanted to also bring back this idea of the gaze into it and talk about why we are doing this. This is a document. It has been kept, sure. But then, why am I looking for it? And how does me being here change the relationship to whatever this notion of truth is? The archive erases a lot of lived experiences and a lot of lived realities. I had to keep reminding myself that this is not everything. It’s interesting and you can keep going back to it, but you cannot give it too much weight.

JF: It’s interesting to hear you talk about the gaze, and maybe stretching that into ideas of performance. In the show, the video work is perhaps the most obvious performance or performative piece. But then I also see your hands being very present in the archive photographs showing that it’s your perspective, your gaze. It’s not just any generic gaze from online archive documentation, but a person’s hand is holding the documents. It’s a Black person’s hands holding them, a family member’s hands holding these things. It’s quite powerful to document yourself in these photos.

AKW: I think that at some point I was hesitant about including these images in the show, and I think I still have a lot of work to do with them and about the conversation that I want to have with my grandmother about these things that I found. I really wanted to think about this exhibition as a book in a way while thinking about how I tell these stories. Writing is also an important part for me throughout this whole experience and for my practice in general. I really wanted to write about these experiences and write about the process of going through the archive.

This idea of the exhibition as a book was a constant thought, but the first thing I considered when thinking about how the show would look was that I want it to be like a living room. And even more so, capturing the idea of my grandmother’s living room, even knowing that there’s no way I can recreate that, but I was thinking about how I can make myself comfortable within the space so that I can better host people within it. That was an important question for me because I feel like I have some concerns with exhibition-making, so I just had to think through how I would be able to create that space for myself. Up until the last minute, I was thinking if I should bring in the table, because it’s my actual dining table from my apartment, and I was just thinking about what kind of table I want to have in the space. For me, it was very important that it was the kind of table that you feel like you can gather around as opposed to a desk or work table. Once I wrote the journal entry about the tables, it was clear that I had to bring it in.

JF: You opened your exhibition text with a quote from Toni Morrison’s Beloved. I just want to expand a bit on the term “rememory” and slightly step away from Morrison’s telling of it and talk a bit about your perception or knowing of the term.

AKW: The term rememory kept coming back up, and it was something that I was really thinking about because Beloved is one of my favorite books. I thought back to the beginning of this project in 2020, when I was stuck inside like everyone else, and I was thinking a lot about motherhood and about parenthood in many ways. I read Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, and then Are You My Mother? in close succession, and was thinking a lot about the “good enough mother” idea from Winnicott. I was reflecting a lot about that, and these ideas of anger at the mother. I started describing it almost as an anger at the mother for not being able to protect herself.

That was also something that I found in the story of Aye Touré. Just hearing it from my grandmother and the way that she was almost erased from her own story and trying to feel these “zone d’ombres,” and thinking about how to tell this story. Beloved is also in that context of thinking about this character of the mother and the choices that she has to make to protect herself and to protect her children. This idea of rememory really stuck with me for a long time – that it is a memory, but also thinking about the action. Even in the quote that I use, she talks about the moments when you walk through a memory that belongs to somebody else, and this active participation in the act of remembering and memorialising. That’s something that resonated with me.

Anna Karima Wane. Trivet from the artist’s grandmother’s home. Photo by Rong-Ci Zhang. Photos courtesy of the artist.

JF: You touched a bit on the role of the archive in this work. The two of us share a deep affinity for archives and have spoken many times about all the curious things you can find in these spaces, but also the heavy bias that comes with an archive. How was your experience working in the Archives Nationales d’Outre-Mer?

AKW: The first things I looked up before I even found these documents was “Guinea 1895 to 1910” and having this wide range of this time period that Aye Touré was there to try to get an idea of what that would have been like. I was reading all these documents and I remember writing in my notes about how the fact that this is so boring is a failure of the archive to capture real life. It was just these dry letters back and forth, they felt so sterile and divorced from reality because in these letters, it’s not like they’re organizing a picnic or something, they’re actually committing acts of violence against people and yet they managed to be completely detached from that. That was the first thing that kind of struck me throughout reading these documents. As I kept going, I just kept thinking, what if I miss something just because I got bored? I wasn’t so much interested in the documents themselves as I’m interested in what is not there, and what is in between the lines, and the things that are there are omitted a lot of the time.

JF: One thing I’ve always found quite interesting with archives is that sometimes the need to preserve kind of stops things in the archive from living or continuing to live. Maybe that’s their paradox.

AKW: I definitely agree with that. I think a lot about when you and I went to the Hotel and Restaurant Museum archives last year and I just remember that photograph of the woman making sausage. In the description, it says something like “hostess making sausage”, and in parentheses are the ingredients. That has really stayed with me because it’s not just telling you that this person is making sausage, but it’s in a way giving life to this archive by giving the recipe to follow. It made me think a lot about how you give life to the archive. I think the handwritten notes were also my way of giving life to these things.

JF: It’s also important to think of the responsibility of the archivist and those who work in collections to give them life. These conscious or unconscious decisions to omit or include certain things, or to decide what’s considered important, factual, or necessary information to include or exclude is a lot of power and responsibility.

AKW: That’s something that I think about a lot for sure. One of the first people who came to see the work spoke to me about the gap – about the fact that you’re telling a story, but you’re not telling the whole story. You’re kind of leaving these gaps and being able to kind of sit in between the gaps and not having to say “everything” because you can’t do that. I think that’s one complication of my relationship with archives, which is the fact that it’s often seen or considered as the truth, but for me, it’s more about complexifying this notion of truth. Like, what does that mean? I go back to this idea of walking through a memory that belongs to somebody else, and not taking for granted everything that is written down, but also finding these connections and relying a little bit more on things that you cannot explain.

Anna Karima Wane. Handwritten note. Photo by Rong-Ci Zhang. Photos courtesy of the artist.

JF: That makes me think about the unfair assumption that written language is more powerful or more important than other forms of language or communication. I’m also curious about your use of language in the show because I find your use of language very intentional here. It’s present in various ways throughout the show whether that’s in hearing your voice talk about mangoes, seeing your handwriting, or reading the texts that you wrote. How did you navigate using language in the show? 

AKW: It was a bit instinctual and not very planned out, but from the beginning I had the idea that I was going to make a book. I think in words a lot of the time, it’s just one of my preferred forms of expression in a way. It helps me process and create connections between the things I’m thinking about. I feel very attached to writing as a practice. 

JF: There’s also the multilingual reality of your work. The entire show is in English other than the text on the archival documents, which is in French. Then thinking of maybe even communicating what you’re researching to your family, that would likely be in Wolof. And we’re in Finland, where Finnish is the primary language. For me, it’s quite curious to think of language in relation to translation. And not just translation between different languages but thinking about how we translate what we see into words, or how we translate an experience into a conversation, or something like that.

AKW: I’ve been thinking about how I’ll share this work with my family, and how the translation would have to be in that direction, strangely enough. I would have to consciously move things towards French or Wolof. There was one text that didn’t make it in, which was about Malinké, my grandmother’s language, and thinking about generational shifts, how things are being transmitted, and how we’re kind of losing a little bit as we go along. It’s also interesting that there’s so much text here, but people are still asking me what the archives are saying. I don’t know… you don’t need to know everything that is being said.

JF: It’s also interesting to think of how language and translation can be an assertion of power because you’re framing things in a certain way. The translator is the one in control of how things will be presented and how perspectives can be shifted. For example, we’ve had this conversation before about when it’s convenient to use “foreign” versus “international” when talking about people, specifically in an arts or academic context. Maybe this example is quite relevant not just to the show here, but to your lived experience in Finland so far.

AKW: Exactly. Showing this work here made me have to think through these questions in Finland, which is a white environment. So, thinking about how this work is related to my family and very personal things, it’s strange in many ways for me right now, because I do feel like I’m in a way sharing myself with people who don’t have a lot of context.

This past year I’ve been thinking a lot about my time in the USA making my bachelor thesis, which was about representation and different ways of representing and talking about Black women, and how much of that was a response to the environment and how much of that was coming out of a need to justify my presence or my existence in this space. So, when working on this, I had to think to myself, what do you want to do? and not just, how can I make everyone understand where I’m coming from? That’s been a really big question for me to try and navigate.

I’ve been reading and rereading this article called Traces, Signs, and Symptoms of the Untranslatable by María Iñigo Clavo and they talk about artists from the Global South or from marginalized communities feeling like they need to translate that context in their work. The text was more specifically talking about Native American practices and how people are kind of shifting certain things to a Western context in a way that will make the Western audience feel like they understand, what really needs to happen for them to understand is a complete shift in their mindset.

JF: Or understand that they don’t know yet and that maybe it’s a learning opportunity for them.

AKW: Yeah exactly, it’s completely different. That’s a question that I have a lot of the time and trying to also find a certain balance. I understand that I’m here. I’m in Finland. I’m at this white institution, and this is the institution that’s going to give me a degree. But then, how do I still make things happen on my own terms without feeling like I have to completely contort myself to fit in? Because I was thinking, too, what does it mean to show this work in Finland? Do people get it?

There are so many memories in the house, so many different people who have passed through it. It’s a very charged place for me in many ways.

JF: Exactly. This show talks about Blackness, Black Ancestry, and womanhood, but it also talks about hospitality and hosting traditions in general, which are widely different in Senegal than in Nordic countries, like Finland. The way you’ve translated all of that in a way that’s understandable by the local audience, but also unwaveringly true to yourself is impressive.

It’s also interesting you say that a priority of yours during the exhibition is making connections because to me, this show is all about relationships. You said in the exhibition text that the work roots itself in the relationship you have to the women in your family, but also their relationship to the men they love and raised. Aside from that, I can also see the work itself as evidence to your relationship to place and your relationship to culture.

I think about my grandmother’s house a lot. I grew up there also, so it has been my home for many years. I think a lot about how much life there is in that house and how I’ve lived there from the beginning of it when we moved there in 2000. I feel very attached to that place specifically, and to how there are the spaces in that home that have their own choreography that have been developed over many, many years. It’s like a language that has developed over time and a comfort that has developed over time. When I go back home, I always like spending so much time in that house as well. There are so many memories in the house, so many different people who have passed through it. It’s a very charged place for me in many ways. It’s also very connected of course, to Senegalese culture in many ways in these ideas of hospitality or teranga, as we would say. I won’t say it’s unconscious, but it’s just part of the fabric of the place and of the culture I come from. Obviously, I’m always going to offer food, it’s not even a question.

JF: Exactly. I’ve experienced living and working in Nordic places for a while, so I’m familiar with the reality of what’s hospitable to some is overbearing to others, or what’s hospitality to some is vacant to others. There’s a lot of learning that there’s not one version of hospitality. There’s not one way to host.  Even if you’re practicing hospitality, that doesn’t mean that the people receiving it are necessarily feeling hosted. It’s curious how drastically hospitality can differ. What is hospitality to you, especially now being here in Finland?

I think a lot about my studio at school, where I’m sharing the biggest corner space with two of my friends and there was a lot of discussion about what that space could be. Early on, I had this talk with my studio mates, Joel and Romance, about us being able to kind of carve the space that’s open to everyone. If you have it, why not share it?

I think it really relates a lot to the text I wrote for the show about my grandmother always hosting people because as soon as I left home, I became that person. I didn’t even know. When I went to boarding school in South Africa, suddenly my room was where everyone was hanging out. In college in the US, where I lived was just like always open for people to come in and that continued to happen when I moved off campus and my mom came to visit, and she asked me: why do people always come here when they have a problem? Now there’s more intentionality behind it for sure. Now I’m trying to find my boundaries, but I think there’s a big part of me that knows that if someone needs something, I’m just going to be there.

Anna Karima Wane. Installation view of How to eat a Mango (2023). Photo by Rong-Ci Zhang. Photos courtesy of the artist.

JF: Sometimes some people don’t realise that something exists until they experience it. Like Senegalese level of hospitality, for example. These things that are just common practice to you are suddenly extraordinary to some, and probably confusing to a lot of people as well. So, if we’re talking about what hospitality is to you, I think it’s simply you. It’s how we were raised. It’s how you live and navigate the world. It’s knowing that your ancestors are firmly watching you to make sure you offer people something.

AKW: I guess sometimes these things are just ingrained. It’s not something that is always conscious in these cases.

JF: In thinking of that and talking about school and your studio, I think it’s also important in the context of this show to talk about how this is your MFA show. Final MFA work is typically shown in a group show on campus at Uni Arts Helsinki, and you are the only person out of over fifty students to make the conscious decision to pull away from exhibiting not just in the group show, but outside of the institution completely. You instead are exhibiting your work at the Museum of Impossible Forms. Can you tell me a bit about that decision to step away from exhibiting with your class and what led you here?

AKW: Yeah, in my acknowledgements I thanked the bus driver that left me in London.  That was shitty, but it was a moment where I was just stuck in that bus station with my phone dying or dead most of the night and I just went through these cycles of thinking like, what is art? What am I doing with my life? What’s the point of all this? And then in the next five minutes, I was writing all these ideas for new work. I was also thinking about what it means for me to show my work in this white institution, and how I want my work to be seen. At that point, I already had questions, but I hadn’t even had my biggest problems with the school yet, to be honest. It was just starting. 

Finland is very specific. This is not the first time I moved countries, yet I feel completely lost because their system has so many rules, and there’s no support or guidance for international students. I also don’t feel heard in many ways. Especially on issues like racism, there’s a lot of ignorance. I remember this class that I took my first semester, which was about documentary in contemporary art and the teacher talked about the history of documentary. After a few days of class, I realised that I was going to have to be the one to bring up colonialism because the teacher had still not brought it up at all. I studied documentary in college so I couldn’t understand how you can speak about the history of documentary and not talk about that, and not talk about how documentary in many ways was started to capture the other. I eventually spoke up and said that I feel like the history of documentary is very much rooted in the oppression of marginalized people, and then the teacher just goes, “okay,” and that was it. It made me think a lot about why it is often the labour of the person of color to bring up racism, racial injustice, or racial ignorance.

JF: Yeah, we know that institutions are rarely safe spaces for those in the global margins, but I’m curious about what your Finnish peers are doing when they hear about your experiences. Are they standing with you? Are they the ones speaking up and calling this stuff out?

Yeah, I do feel like I found some people who do. I mean, Finland is really white and ignorant overall, but I’ve never met allies like I’ve met here. Of course, the people who are in charge still are not listening or don’t care and that’s unfortunate. 

JF: I do want to speak a bit more about not only the active choice to not have this show affiliated with the institution, but more so the choice to step out on your own.

AKW: The first thing I wrote during that sleepless night at the London bus station was, “You want to put them on shaky ground.” What I meant by that line was the impression I got from my school was that: you are invited, but this is not yours, this is not for you. So, we come in with the feeling of being an unwanted guest in a way. I knew that I couldn’t exhibit at the school because it’s so much about consumption, and I did not want my work to be there. And I don’t want to be tokenized. This work is extremely important to me and is extremely personal, and I don’t want it to be consumed in that way. I’m also concerned with the intentionality of people who will come. Not everyone is going to come here and that’s okay.

The Museum of Impossible Forms (MIF) is one of the spaces that hosts exhibitions without charging artists, which is rare in Helsinki. Their mission statement is very much involved in practices that deal with archives, and that deal with BIPOC, and are centered around people whose voices are not always heard in the mainstream Helsinki art scene. For me, it was kind of obvious at a certain point. I had a studio visit with Chris Wessels, one of the co-founders of MIF who I had connected with at one of their events. We had a lot of conversations around the work so I reached out to him about if MIF would host my MFA exhibition. Maybe it was also the right time because they had just moved here a month and a half ago and this is the first exhibition in this new space. It’s been a good space for this work and allowed for it to stretch out, which I wouldn’t have had at school for sure.

JF: Yeah, it’s easy to say as we’re currently sitting in the exhibition itself, but this is a complete show. It’s not a one-off project to fulfill something in class. This is work that in many ways, you started well before your MFA, before you knew that you would be showing in Finland. It’s a solo exhibition in its own right and it being your MFA work is (at least to me) very secondary to it.

AKW: I feel I was lucky, and I am incredibly grateful. Not just to MIF for hosting, but to the many people who have supported me through this process. Many of my friends are also working on their own thesis and still found time to help and support me in various ways. It all leads back to community… I had a whole part in my thesis about “What is community?”. 

JF: Well, what is community?

AKW: What is community? I don’t have the answer. 

JF: You have a whole section in your thesis.

AKW: I do have a whole section. It was mostly questions, let me tell you. I feel like working on this project and making this exhibition, I’ve been held up and supported by many people, and by a community of people. I think I didn’t expect it either. I’ve been running around talking about community building and doing all this stuff to try and make it happen. I quickly realized that the school and the institution were not interested, but that it was resonating with other people. I just feel like in making this show, I’ve also felt like the energy that I was putting out, I was kind of experiencing firsthand.

To check out more of Anna Karima Wane’s work visit her website or Instagram.

Labour Care: A Poem & Conversation with Camila Salcedo

Photo of Labour Pains curated by Emma Steen for Mayworks Festival of Working People and the Arts at Workers Arts & Heritage Centre. Photo by Carolyn Combs.

By Kalina Nedelcheva

Labour Pains, an exhibition curated by Toronto-based curator and writer Emma Steen for Mayworks Festival of Working People & the Arts 2024 at Workers Arts and Heritage Centre, takes the body of the precarious worker as a starting point. Within the context of a capitalist system that approaches the body as a tool to be exploited in the name of profit — where accessibility and support often come as an afterthought or are completely ignored — the body is in constant danger of breaking down. Labour Pains surveys the challenges workers with varying needs and abilities face while accessing healthcare. Steen brings artists Camila Salcedo, Peter Morin, and Sean Lee and Birdie Gerhl together to explore the uncertainty of freelance employment, Indigenous relations to healthcare, disability, accessibility, and Crip Politics. The exhibition frames healthcare as a labour rights issue while shedding light on the sinister capitalist and social structures that prevent healthcare from being accessible for all.

The following interview is an experimental conversation with multi-disciplinary artist Camila Salcedo who contributed a series of care objects to the exhibition. Through a series of conversations with artists and cultural workers who have experienced serious brain injuries, Camila reimagines homemade remedies through a creative lens. While the objects figure as acts of care from one precarious worker to another, they also touch upon the risk of healthcare privatization for freelance artists and the financial strain unexpected illnesses or injuries can have on the precarious body. Drawing inspiration from the artist’s playful approach to guiding attention to bodily ails under capitalism, the interviewer paired each question with a poetic verse that reflects and responds to Camila’s practice and the ethos of Labour Pains in general.

Camila Salcedo. taking care: brain injury stories (2024). Photo by Kafayé Clarke. Image courtesy of the artist.

stone-walled to

hear my thoughts;

misshapen and delirious,

though, still here;

at least they’re still here;

What has been your experience with the healthcare system?

Camila: I’ve noticed that doctors don’t have a lot of time and often, you have to advocate for yourself a lot within the healthcare system. Nurses and other types of healers — like massage therapists and chiropractors — have been angels in my experience because they pay attention to the emotional aspects of health issues; they’ve treated me more like a human being whereas oftentimes doctors just want you in and out. Doctors want you to get better as quickly as possible so you can return to the capitalist lifestyle.

It is apparent to me how little mental health supports exist to guide one in dealing with the healthcare system. It is not very holistic. I’ve also had drastically different experiences, depending on whether I was covered by insurance or not at the time of my visit. When you don’t have insurance, it is more difficult to navigate the system.

It is apparent to me how little mental health supports exist to guide one in dealing with the healthcare system.

Emotional support and mental health integration in the healthcare system is necessary and should be a priority. Recently, I’ve been reading a few books — one of which is The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture by Gabor Maté — that point out how stress can cause different types of illnesses and issues to the body. There is a huge correlation between experiencing stress and the efficacy of healthcare that is missed.

keep working, still working

still working, keep working;

I feel my body rumble

because of the intensity but

my thoughts are calm;

they must be calm.

Camila Salcedo. taking care: brain injury stories (2024). Photo by Kafayé Clarke. Image courtesy of the artist.

How do you embody the precarity freelance workers experience in the healthcare system through your art?

C: I am an artist who is in a precarious situation and that seeps into my work because when I don’t have funding, I am unable to make the work. That in itself is part of my process. The pieces I made for Labour Pains also touched on this. I interviewed three individuals —  musician and facilitator Carmel Farahbakhsh, curator and educator Patricia Ritacca, and musician and media artist Katie Kotler — who’ve had brain injuries in different capacities. I asked what tools help them in alleviating their symptoms and had conversations with them about the challenges they’ve experienced in accessing care.

With Carmel, we discussed how there should be more funding for administrative assistance for disabled folks. With brain injuries, people might have difficulties being on screens so there needs to be additional support that would help with that. In my conversation with Patricia, we chatted about insurance and how not having access to physio and other types of care work can exacerbate symptoms. These conversations informed the works I made for Carmel, Patricia, and Katie. I wanted these wearable art pieces to respond to their symptoms while visually conveying some of the topics that came up in our conversation. Katie, for example, spoke about how brain injuries are invisible, even within queer and disabled communities. People may not often believe you because you’re not showing physical symptoms of pain. I used neon colors in Katie’s pieces to account for that. It was also important to draw on their personal style because I find that a lot of disability tools are clunky and ugly. I wanted my pieces to be fun and something my interviewees would want to wear. I see it as a labour of care toward them because when I had intense symptoms, they really created a sense of community care for me.

Speaking to each other can be a huge help in navigating the system. Wage transparency is a great example of this. For people with chronic pain, discussing and sharing strategies about how you are making it work is important. Spaces like Tangled Arts and Mayworks Festival are doing a great job; they really consider disabled artists. I do think access is improving over time in the arts sector but I want to see more of it. In one of my recent curatorial projects with Mending the Museum, we put a clause in the artist contract that stated if the artist experienced any sort of health issue that prevented them from completing the work, we’d still honor paying them for their time. I’ve had students in the past who’ve paid for my sewing classes asking me for additional time and resources. We need to be aware that sometimes someone might not be able to show up in a timely way or deliver within a specific timeline. There is no such thing as an art emergency. There is no rush, even though the world tells us that there is. I would like to see more art spaces embrace that mentality.

it’s locked away

behind the pain of labour,

a hand reaching out;

still reaching,

keep reaching;

it grasps at the thread of my hope.

Camila Salcedo. taking care: brain injury stories (2024). Photo by Kafayé Clarke. Image courtesy of the artist.

What are the remedies for your labour pain? Are they obedient/disobedient (toward the system)?

C: I’ve tried navigating the terms of stability versus instability as an artist and explored to what degree I felt okay inhabiting those levels of comfort. At times, this meant having part-time jobs in order to sustain my practice but after spending two weeks in the hospital last year with severe health problems, this is no longer the case for now. Even though I don’t discard it as a possibility, I am unable to work an office job in the same way right now.

in the realm of precarity—

health, is it only for some

and not for others?

how do we decide?

How do you categorize the objects you exhibit in Labour Pains?

C: My objects can be described as helpers. The work is about caring for each other and wearable art is an expression of that but also a tool. My goal is to honor and take care of my community in response to how these folks have shown me care throughout the years.

hope that there is better,

hope that there is care;

what is care?

Camila Salcedo. taking care: brain injury stories (2024). Photo by Kafayé Clarke. Image courtesy of the artist.

Are there any radical ‘traditions’ for the healthcare system that you feel would be useful to a movement toward healthcare for all?

C: Community care happens naturally. At the opening of Labour Pains, Emma Steen, the curator, mentioned that without being prompted all the artists in the exhibition incorporated people they worked with in their artworks. It was evident that collaboration and coming together within the community was really important for this project.

Anytime I’ve experienced heavy health problems, I’ve been bolstered by an entire community of friends, family, and chosen family. Community Care should be translated more systemically within the healthcare system. We should have a team helping us out and not one singular doctor who refers us to a specialist. People have specialties but it would be better to have multiple people helping to come to a solution to your health problem. We should have a therapist, a nurse, and so on. They should be able to communicate better with each other too. I think that would really help. There should also be more accessible ways to access health insurance. We do have free healthcare in Canada but there are so many levels of care that are more holistic and natural that are not covered. Oftentimes, those are more useful. Family doctors usually prescribe you medication whereas other types of care work help you more somatically.

You can find more of Camila Salcedo’s artistic work, workshop offerings, and practice on their website and Instagram. For more information on Labour Pains and the wonderful artists involved in the project — visit the Mayworks Festival website here.

What if I Knew? by Mona Sahi: On Censorship and Brutality in Iran

Mona Sahi – “Metamorphosis” (fragment), 2023; scratch on birch panel. Image courtesy of the artist.

Curated by Asal Andarzipour

Harcourt House Artist Run Centre

July 28 to September 9, 2023

By Freyja T. Catton

Mona Sahi is an Iranian artist who now lives in Edmonton, Alberta. Shortly after she arrived in Edmonton in early 2021, Sahi befriended fellow Iranian artist and curator Asal Andarzipour, who arrived in Edmonton in 2018. Sahi and Andarzipour are kindred spirits, both women artists who grew up in Iran around the same time. In the summer of 2023, Andarzipour curated Sahi’s inaugural Canadian exhibition at Harcourt House Artist Run Centre in Edmonton, Alberta. What If I Knew?[1] ran from July 28 to September 9, 2023, and shows Sahi’s multidisciplinary works from the past year that confront brutality in Iran.

The catalyst for What If I Knew was the death of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini. On September 13, 2022, Amini was arrested and beaten by the morality police in Tehran, Iran for wearing her hijab improperly. Arrests and beatings by the morality police have been commonplace for many years in Iran, but this was the first known death as a result. Amini’s death sparked a global uproar against the morality police and the religious government that sanctioned them.[2] Protestors are still being attacked by government forces, sometimes murdered, sometimes vanished. The Kurdish Jineaology (feminist) phrase “Jin, Jian, Azadi” was chanted at Amini’s funeral,[3] and the English translation, “Woman, Life, Freedom,”[4] has become the motto of the current feminist movement in Iran.

In Edmonton, Sahi and Andarzipour were horrified by the news of Amini’s death. They felt helpless being so far away and wanted to raise awareness of the events to help. One of the most compelling ways they have done this is through the powerful combination of Sahi’s art and Andarzipour’s writing. In What If I Knew, Sahi uses her art to initiate conversations about the consequences of corrupt power. Andarzipour uses her writing to provide context and understanding of the events for a Western audience with her extensive knowledge of Iranian history and art history.

Mona Sahi – “Self Portrait”, 2023; acrylic on canvas. Image courtesy of the artist.


Absurdity of Oppression


            It is important to understand that the culture of Iran is a separate entity from the religious government. The over 2,500-year-old culture of Iran refers to the people—family, friends, and cultural and regional memory. Iran moved to a centralized and constitutional monarchy, the Qajar Dynasty, in the 1800s[5]. During the Pahlavi Dynasty from 1925-1979, women’s clothing became an inseparable part of the political scene during the time of Reza Shah Pahlavi. Political unrest and uprisings in the 1970s led to the end of the Iranian monarchy in 1979. It was replaced by the Islamic Republic at the end of the Islamic Revolution, which remains in power to the present day.

The Islamic Republic can be described as theological colonialism[6], as it oppresses civilians and imposes strict legislative sanctions on the cultural practices of Iranians. Women’s clothing has been a point of legislation for the last hundred years or so, but hijabs have been compulsory for women since 1981.[7] Sanctions such as dress codes are enforced by the morality police. In 1987, the Islamic Republic created the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance to monitor and guide the ethics, values, and narrative of Iran.[8] This includes approval or banning of art exhibitions, films, writing, and journalism.

Censorship and brutality often go hand in hand with oppressive regimes. Iran’s Ministry of Culture and Guidance and the morality police work in tandem to oppress civilians, especially women. Art, films, TV shows, music, and other creative and intellectual pursuits are frequently banned for promoting unapproved values. Intellectuals and film directors are sometimes killed or go missing. Censorship seeks to limit dissent, prevent access to “the real story,” and control the intellect of the people, while brutality seeks to impose physical limitations on what the body and mind can do. Strategies of censorship and brutality reinforce each other to prevent civilians from resisting the prescribed norms of the government regime.

Resistance doesn’t have to be obvious, but it does need to be intentional.

Resistance

Resistance doesn’t have to be obvious, but it does need to be intentional. How women resist oppressive regimes is linked to how they live and celebrate their personal lives. Sharing rumours and gossip can be a method of resistance against government propaganda. Dancing and celebration of life can show resistance against bodily and cultural control. Personalizing a hijab or using images of houses to represent people are both subtle and subversive expressions of freedom. As a practicing artist in Iran, Sahi displayed her paintings and learned how to use metaphors and symbolism to communicate without inviting censorship.

Protests like “Woman, Life, Freedom” are significant and powerful displays of resistance. Civilian protests have popped up regularly throughout Iran’s recent history in 2019 and 2022. In 2019-2020, the “Bloody Aban” protests erupted in response to prolonged economic hardship.[9] 2022 saw the death of Amini and the protests that erupted in response. In each, the police response was violent and resulted in civilian death. With faster news cycles, it seems like the cycle of protests has been speeding up in recent years. Censorship issues worldwide are linked to misinformation, banning of resources, discrimination, harassment, and civilian violence or judicial brutality. Catalyst moments like the death of Amini point out how absurd oppression can be. The political becomes personal because what happens in the news is happening to people like us. This could be us.

“Mona Sahi: What If I Knew?” – fragment of the exhibition installaton. In the background (l-r): “End of
the World” (2023; acrylic on canvas), “At Least We Are Safe” (2023; acrylic on canvas); on the floor:
“1,500 + ….” (2023; ceramic on black sand). Photo copyright by Jack Bawden.

What If I Knew?

Sahi’s work in What If I Knew? includes paintings, drawings, ceramics, an audio piece, and interactions from the audience. Instead of tempering her message to avoid censorship, she now has to avoid making the intense topic too overwhelming for either herself or the viewer. To develop her visual language for a new audience, Sahi has been experimenting with new mediums—particularly performance, installation, and audio. Each project focuses on different aspects of the brutality in Iran.

Upon entry to the exhibition’s opening, Sahi invited visitors to wear a blindfold over one eye. This visual limitation simulated the experience of protestors in Iran, hundreds of whom were shot in the eyes by security forces during the 2022 September uprisings.[10]

Black and white drawings of embryos combined with the title prompt the realization that we do not know what anyone will grow up to become, or the impact that one person’s development will have on the world at large. Who is responsible for the development of dictators who condemn protestors? What if I knew this baby would grow up to become an oppressive dictator? Could I have prevented the deaths of my people?

1500+ responds to the protests in 2019-2020 when the Iranian government violently cracked down on peaceful protests. Placed in the centre of the gallery, this installation is a series of cast and painted ceramic bullets arranged upright in black sand. The bullets look highly realistic, and the upright grid formation resembles soldiers standing at attention. “People went to the streets for peaceful protest because of the price of gas, and the government massacred 1800 people,” explains Sahi. “The black sand is a symbol for oil. People are dying for it, we’re losing our lives. The actual number of bullet shells is more than that because the regime never stopped killing people.[11]” If the piece had been created in Iran, Sahi could have collected actual bullets off the ground. Instead, the bullets are recreated with ceramic clay from 17 different molds of the same kind of bullets used by the government against protestors.  By recreating them out of clay, Sahi references religious narratives of human creation from clay, pointing to the use of the Islamic religion for oppression and control in Iran.

Can You Hear Me Now? is an audio piece that responds to the death of activist Mohammad Moradi by recreating the sound of someone drowning.[12] Moradi’s suicide in December 2022 by drowning in the Rhône River was a final act of protest—a demand for people to listen to the atrocities in Iran. He was far away from Iran, feeling helpless and trying to get people to pay attention. It did not work. Sahi reminds us of his story and asks the same overwhelming questions that Moradi did. How do you get people to listen? What do you do when no one is listening?

Sahi and Andarzipour demonstrate how to use art as an act of resistance. By addressing this emotional weight head-on and by speaking from personal experiences, they remind us of the connections between cultural resilience and resistance. They suggest that by being aware of historical precedence, we can replace corruption with transparency and accountability. We can use art to resist censorship and to note the absurdity of oppressive regimes.

Each piece is inspired by one specific event relating to brutality in Iran, but the overarching messages apply to other experiences. 1500+ could be interpreted as protest art about gun violence in the United States. Can You Hear Me Now? shares feelings of overwhelming helplessness and/or violence. The embryo drawings could connect to the politicization of reproductive health. The common thread between these stories is the brutality that corrupt governments impose on civilians and the weight of anxiety and survivor’s guilt that results.

Artist Mona Sahi and curator Asal Andarzipour at the opening reception of What If I Knew, July 28, 2023. Photo by Kamyar Pouyeh.

In Sahi’s work, medium and imagery are used in combination to convey meaning. Each piece in What If I Knew? relates to a defined point in time, such as the deaths of 1500 protestors in 2019-2020, or the death of Moradi in December 2022. The exhibition is timeless in that it talks about how colonialism uses specific methods of censorship and brutality to impose control over a civilian population. Sahi shows how the Islamic Republic government uses censorship to impose colonial ideals and ways of life onto a population with its own distinct culture, as well as how the Islamic Republic uses brutality to reinforce those ways of life and to punish resistance.

Sahi’s art and Andarzipour’s writing work together to resist messages from the Islamic Republic and to prioritize lived experiences. They use their position in Canada to identify atrocities, name those responsible, and seek justice. Reconciliation is only possible if we know what is happening.

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

[1] Mona Sahi: What If I Knew? Harcourt House Artist Run Centre, July 28-September 9, 2023.https://harcourthouse.ab.ca/mona-sahi/

[2] “Mahsa Amini: What we know after 11 days of protests in Iran.” Maziar Motamedi, Al Jazeera, September 28, 2022.

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2022/9/28/what-we-know-after-11-days-of-protests–in-iran

[3] “CMHR marks anniversary of Mahsa Amini’s death in Iranian custody with display of Woman, Life, Freedom banner.” CBC News, September 15, 2023.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/manitoba/hajar-moradi-banner-mahsa-amini-death-human-rights-museum-1.6967751

[4] Woman Life Freedom. Accessed October 26, 2023. https://www.womanlifefreedom.today/

[5] “Iran (Persia), 1800-1900 A.D.” The Metropolitian Museum of Art. Accessed October 26, 2023. https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/ht/10/wai.html

[6] “How the Islamic Republic colonised Iran” by Maryam Aslany and Rana Dasgupta. The New Statesman, September 25, 2023. https://www.newstatesman.com/international-content/2023/09/islamic-republic-colonised-iran

[7] “Parliament Passes New “Hijab and Chastity” Bill” by The Iran Primer, United States Institute of Peace, September 25, 2023. https://iranprimer.usip.org/blog/2023/sep/25/parliament-passes-new-%E2%80%9Chijab-and-chastity%E2%80%9D-bill

[8] “Responsibilities and organizational structure of Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance” by the Secretariat of Supreme Council of Cultural Revolution. Iran Culture, August 3, 2008. https://web.archive.org/web/20080803173726/http://www.iranculture.org/en/nahad/ershad.php

[9] “Iran: More than 100 protesters believed to be killed as top officials give green light to crush protests.” Amnesty International, November 19, 2019. https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/press-release/2019/11/iran-more-than-100-protesters-believed-to-be-killed-as-top-officials-give-green-light-to-crush-protests/

[10] “Eyes That No Longer See: A Story Of Resistance, Exile, And Sorrow” by Maryam Moqaddam and Masoud Kazemi. Iran International, September 28, 2023. https://www.iranintl.com/en/202309286011

[11] “The List: Mona Sahi’s What If I Knew? at Harcourt House confronts brutality in Iran” by Fish Griwkowsky. Edmonton Journal, August 4, 2023. https://edmontonjournal.com/entertainment/local-arts/the-list-mona-sahis-what-if-i-knew-at-harcourt-house-confronts-brutality-in-iran-2

[12] “Activist Moradi’s death in France shakes distressed members of Iranian diaspora” by Arab News, December 31, 2022. https://www.arabnews.com/node/2224426/world

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.

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.