April 21, 2020, by Steacy Easton

Photo courtesy of Brandon Canning

1. This year, the Bronx Museum showed dozens of photos by Alvin Baltrop, shot in the late 1970s. Baltrop was hard of hearing, black, and a Jehovah’s Witness. The photos were of the piers--industrial, and underdeveloped, and mostly used for queer recreation.

2. The piers, both the specific ones that Baltrop shot, and others--as far away as Brooklyn, were written about often--in the memoirs of Samuel Delaney (the SF writer), and David Wojnarowicz (artist and novelist), Arthur Hollander, and Tim Dlugos (Poet). They were photographed--again by Wojnarowicz, by Peter Hujar and Larry Fink (who was a mostly closeted lawyer for the New York Department of Transportation). They were intervened with, by performance and installation artists.

3. In her book, Cruising the Dead River: David Wojnarowicz and New York's Ruined Waterfront Fiona Anderson, thinks about life on the piers as “cruising ghosts” ---as the industrial refuge of the buildings, holding bodies in the dark, the work in the shadows. But there is another kind of ghost--I doubt much of the writing happened at the piers, this was not ethnographic research, someone taking notes with pencil in a reporter's notebook.

4. A photograph was taken, as an aide de memoire, and then that photograph, the physical incorporation of the memory, would be developed elsewhere. The history of public and urban sex is the history of actions that occur in the dark, and deveolp a kind of history, told quietly from hand to hand, the ephemerality of the space and the empherality of communication building up into the concreteness of bodies. As George Chauncey notes in Gay New York, the cruising grounds around the water were the result of the police closing more central cruising grounds in the 1960s, because of the presence of the World’s Fair. The sexual utopia that was so well-documented, then, occured in New York, for a little over two decades, from the 1964 World Fair, to the sex panics because of AIDS in the 1980s, and the tearing down of the piers in the mid-80s. Cruising always occurs, the methods and places change.

5. The photos are small enough, and awkward enough, plus knowing Baltrop’s biography, and the recalcitrance of commercial printers to handle these materials, and the popularity of printing work in bathrooms, it would make sense that these prints  were domestic, most likely in the bathroom. In the case of Baltrop, the methods and places were set by photographs processed in a tiny bathroom . I wonder what else happened in that bathroom, the room in the house that is the most obsessed with all kinds of bodily containment, a semi-public room, that must be difficult to hide.

6. Baltrop, like Vivian Maier (who also developed in the bathroom), has been returned to us as a kind of folk hero--big museum shows, big coffee table books, careful essays indicating how his photos were about deliberate aesthetic choices as much as anything else. Looking at Baltrop photos--they are often out of focus, they spend as much time on the architecture of the piers as the bodies of sunbathers, they are the backs of people more often than they are the fronts of people--they seem private archives, tender, and maybe a little bit timid.

7. There is this conversation, sometimes about Hujar especially, but about other queer photographers from the 1970s, about being lost, or not being well known. When it comes to Hujar, lost means less famous than Mapplethorpe, but Hujar had the means and the ability to print beautiful shots (see for example the catalog from 1976: Portraits in Life and Death. New York City: Da Capo).

8. Those shots were of people who were semi-famous, or at least famous enough in his scene--a scene that could pretend a kind of demimonde glamour, but had enough money coming in, or at least enough social capital, that no one had to print in bathrooms. There are erotic photos by Hujar, straight ahead, high toned studio work, that are ravishing. His work on the piers is ravishing. The collapse of a sex act on the piers, and the sex act in a studio, the abiliy to aestheticize both, becomes a kind of Ghent Altarpeice of desire. Nominally able to be folded in on itself, nominally able to be carried, but really intended for those whose resources make the carrying a hint of form, more than anything else.  This can be carried, but we all know that it doesn’t need to be.

9. Thinking about that social capital--there is this famous photo series of Wojnarowicz (Arthur Rimbaud in New York), taken in and around the piers, of a figure in a Rimbaud mask---Rimbaud on the subway, Rimbaud in Times Square, Rimbaud on Coney Island, Rimbaud pissing (again the bathroom), Rimbaud masturbating, Rimbaud shooting up, Rimbaud on the piers. No matter how broke Wojnarowicz was, and no matter how restless he was, there is this sense of having done the work, the lurid quality of this work amerolited by an obsession with this fin de siecle figure--Rimbaud as hipster, which makes the pleasure seeking another kind of distance--one shared with punks like Richard Hell or Patti Smith.

10. Baltrop’s photos are tiny, less than four by six sometimes. They do not have the arch distance of the studio, they never quote 19th century french poets. They are vest size things, marking a smaller and perhaps more personal ambition.

11. This is why, half way through this essay, I want to talk about my favourite Baltrop--one less about desire, and more about danger, but whose danger seems less performative or hip. Baltrop sometimes shot the graffiti found in these fallen down spaces, but the graffiti was not Haring, or other such luminous figures, and it was rarely skilled. In one photo it is a shot of a room, collapsing, on the left side of the comopositon, a lop-sided, lumpy, drawing of concentric circles, like a target, like a labyrinth, cryptic and unknowing, it seemed ever so slightly ominous.

12. The ominous quality seems real here. Getting to the piers took some amount of work--Delaney, in his “Motion of Light on Water”, talks about mazes of trucks, and stacks of tires, bigger than human scale. Douglas Crimp, the queer theorist, art historian and early proponent of Baltrop’s work,  reminds us that there was an elevated highway, waiting to be reconstructed for most of that period, providing a physical impediment---literally marking the territory between the city of New York and the Hudson. This borderland, depending on oral communication, a tiny outland, carved by neglect, assignations noted after the fact, allowed anything to occur.  

13. Anything included the conceptual artist Gordon Matta-Clark’s Day’s End where he cut a large circular hole, in the center of a concrete piling, letting light in, making monumental that which was tiny, making public that which was liminally private, marking space in the language of loose affiliations, in ways that seemed monstrously led by ego.

14. I find the tiny photo of the drawing of the concentric circles, even in their awkwardness, lack of scale, their failure as drawings, more poignant than Orzoco’s large, immaculate hole. I find the mostly badly printed photos by Baltrop more poignant than the large scale shots of Hujar. I am worried I am buying into the myth of authenticity.

15. Authentic desire is always suspect. Unmediated desire is always nerve wracking. The men would go to bars near the piers--places like Kellers or the Ramrod, they would get drunk, and they would wander over to the piers. They played working class in the bars they came from, and in the places they ended up--sometimes literally, wearing workwear, the rough trade bars replacing in their own, gentrifying ways, the longshoremen bars that were there before. The mirror of a mirror, the prole fetish replacing actual proles, as much of a queer tradition as fucking in places where people haven’t fucked.

16. But Baltrop mostly took photos during the day, his photos are blazed by direct sunlight. The conversations by theorists and writers of this period were mostly the dark--what dangers held in the day for Baltrop.

17. Then, there was a photo he took of the entrance to an abandoned industrial warehouse, a sheet metal building, semi or truly industrial, maybe twenty feet high. Emblazoned on this entrance, in an almost elegant cursive, was the phrase, “Pick Pocket watch for your wallet – Paradise,”

Steacy Easton, Documentation of Action, Hamilton Tennants League, King Street East 2020

Steacy Easton, Bedbugs (Cladding on James and Hunter), 2019

18. I don’t know if the title is Crimp’s, another curator--it’s not Baltrop, I don’t think that he titled his work. I would have also titled it, Pick Pocket Paradise, watch for your wallet, but that’s beside the point. I have so many questions--how many pickpockets make a paradise, how do you secure a wallet in the dark, in the midst of sex, how many wallets do you think were lost, is there anything prophylactic that could be done to prevent theives, was this considered just a cost of doing business--this oral tradition of rough trade stealing, or being careful around rough trade, or what my friend, after her stereo was stolen for the third time, in a rapidly devolping neighbourhood in Montreal, a kind of gentrfier’s tax. Who wrote the message--did they bring paint with them, did the message prevent any pickpocketing? Did Baltrop take it as an example of landscape--like he took photos of decrepit piers and the light through holes in roofs or windows? Did he take it after his own wallet was stolen?

19. There is the message of formal graffitti, high art murals, camp reminders of neo-classicism, again the arch irony, the wink and the nod. There is informal graffiti, the scrawl of desire--the important measurements, what one wants, the phone number. There is little documentation of the informal graffiti at the piers--little notation of the ballpoint pen messages, and there is much documentation of large scale graffiti, of those infamous murals. Baltrop’s photos move somewhere between the two, the concentric circles, deliberate and accidental, the message was not quite clear, sort of intimate and imprecise as Baltrop’s printing. But the pickpocket warning--the script has a kind of slumming elegance, the site is well composed, the composition well considered--the warning made aesthetic. This is the space between formal and informal.

20. Though it was an unofficial warning, the pickpocket graffiti had some notion of formal writing--the alliteration between pickpocket and paradise, of course, the aphoristic quality of a paradise for pickpockets--but also how it was written---there was some attempt at a kind of calligraphic loveliness. The question returns to me, how do we aestheticise a warning?

21. This is a question that seems relevant to not only where I am living now, but how I am living now.  The ruins that Baltrop, et al photographed, the ruins were accidental--it was people carving lives in the midst of an economic failure, an attempt to create a new social life in the 1970s, economic downtown and sexual liberation working as a singular force. In my hometown, at the grinding crush of an uneven economic recovery, the warning has yet to be aestheticised.

22. There was a baptist church in Hamilton that had existed since the 1890s. A few years ago, everything but the facade was torn down. They were going to build a thirty one story condo tower behind it. This is a very popular movement in Toronto, something called facadism. I don’t know if this is better than the giant modernist elementary school that has been bought by a Condo developer, and has been left to rot. Or the two early 20th century high schools that were left without students, and have not been restored in any real sense. There are also dozens of commercial and apartment spaces that have been bought by the city for an LRT that will never be built. (Each of the buildings bought up has had brightly coloured canning painted over them, marking them as city space, no longer available for people. Brandon Canning’s photographs of King Street and these claddings are instructive here.)

Photo courtesy of Brandon Canning

23. I have not been at the high schools that have yet to be torn down, I don’t know what decadence occurs in them. They are working class spaces, and we don’t imagine that they are working class spaces--they are outside of a middle class imaginary. I don’t think that work will be made from the ruins, in the same way that Hujar or Wojnarowicz made work from the ruins. There is not even a Baltrop of Delta High School, no well composed photographs of either the informal or formal graffiti that Hamilton is constructed by.

24. I keep thinking of the facade on the baptist church. This failed condo tower, this kind of tottering example of our own collapse. There have been formal interventions and informal interventions. A Vietnamese student group hung lanterns on the cladding for New Year's, and for most of two months, you walked through this tunnel of red and gold. There was a wheat paste mural of waterfalls and tigers, for a while, that peeled and rotted. There were endless tags, and then when the developer got sick of the tags, there was an actual official graffiti wall--which is its own parody.

25. There is one piece of graffiti, poignant and artless, that keeps being written on the cladding outside of the facade. It’s the same handwriting, and it has an address--often public housing, a complaint about that housing, often bed bugs, and an exhortation not to move there. It is done in black sharpie, a small notice against an expanse of white wall. The tigers are gone and the lanterns are gone, and the official developers graffiti wall is gone, and they pay enough attention to whitewash the wall, and so every two weeks or so you see a little notice, about bed bugs and city housing and not moving there.

26. One of the things that is lost with cruising, is that it can be classless--one of the things that Delaney notices in his memoirs of sex, maybe a little bit optimistcally, is that with the piers, there was a certain amount of class mingling. There were people who were playing at working class professions, but also people didn’t ask for credentials when hitting on each other. The language of desire was so narrow, and so explicit, that other efforts--at least in that moment were lessened. The sexual networks and the social networks of the poor, overlapped--the whisper networks, informal oral gossip, the note of where to find a place, what is safe and what is dangerous--warnings unaestheticised had a similar space. The sexual networks now require a cell phone, and a data plan, and real estate--the constant question, is can you host, and those who cannot host, are sloughed off.

27. I think about the ruinous church, and the buildings bought and left to rot, and I think of the little hand writing about bed bugs. I think of how we communicated, and what is left when that communication disappears. Walking from the center east of Hamilton, downtown, I walk by the shell of a house that has been burnt down. The house held one of the last remaining Single Residency Occupancy houses, now its own ruin, left undocumented. I think of the houses with strangers gathered in run down houses, that I saw when I was looking for housing in September, and how little of those networks were documented, how little of it was shot, and how little of it was written about--but maybe I was outside of the networks of communication--I wonder if there is a Baltrop of Hamilton rooming houses.

28. Will we know, before they are torn down. The notice mentions city housing, mostly, so there are public private partnerships that seem to be less vermin heavy. City Housing though takes more than ten years to get into. One of the local facilities, beloved by the media, to be the solution--has a director who tells horror stories about these SROs in churches and at religious conferences. These horror stories about rooms above bars, strip clubs, and those run down rooming houses, raise money for new buildings for people to live. The discourse of the street, has been replaced with the language of the bureaucrat--this is it’s own kind of aestheticization, it’s own kind of warning, made even quieter, by the decade long waiting list, by the narrative of saving the poor, by the problem of taking people’s voices away--of mandatory room checks, and necessary paperwork.

29. There has to be careful not to romanticise, to not remake those Rimbaud photographs, to not put a mask of degeneracy ... not to curate other people’s desires. The literal writing on the wall tells us that the oral networks of working class poverty have a written component, but to preserve those networks, to treat them as a kind of medium, with its own communication, is present and real.

30. The problem with it being present and real, is that it is not for those who are not poor--it is not for those who have the social capital or economic capital to attempt to save. It is making a life, a network of survival, and perhaps thriving, in a world that is hostile, that makes ruins, lets buildings to rot, refuses to house, or build, make silly and temporary decisions--thinking about the formal network, and the informal networks of resistance, thinking about the anonymous person who wrote that gorgeous warning that Baltrop decided to preserve, and the artless notice on the walls of where to avoid vermin, let this be present, refuse to have it collapse into metaphor.

Steacy Easton is a writer and artist, currently living in Hamilton. They are interested in the intersection between class and sex, and visual cultures outside of traditional designations of “fine art”. 

Instagram: @pinkmoose4eva
Twitter: @pinkmoose

Creamcheese, Chimeras and Cheetah Print

IBS The Musical by Jonah Strub at The Front Room Gallery in Waterloo, ON

October 19, 2019

January 16, 2020 by Rebecca Casalino

Jonah Strub’s IBS The Musical, the artist’s first solo exhibition, was installed at The Front Room Gallery run by performance artist and painter Tess Martens, in her home in Waterloo on the evening of October 19th. The Front Room Gallery is nestled in Martens’ uptown Waterloo neighbourhood, its entrance marked by the bright glow coming from the gallery crowded with people and a sandwich board announcing IBS The Musical: Jonah Strub ft. Athena McQueen.

Melonia Katz 2019 porcelain, photo courtesy Rebecca CasalinoMelonia Katz, 2019, porcelain. Photo courtesy of Rebecca Casalino

Upon entering the exhibition you are greeted with a towering orange paper maché beehive of hair that extends from floor to ceiling. The exaggerated doo is supported by a heavily contoured face surrounded by a pool of cheetah print fabric and a blue fur collar that appear as if they are melting into the floor under the weight of their hair. The beehive is d

etailed in spirals to match the curls dangling by her ears. This character is Strub’s alter ego and drag persona Loxanne Creamcheese whose features are used in Strub’s paintings and ceramics. Strub spoke about his relationship to his drag persona saying, “Me and Loxanne are one and the same. She is the embodiment of my fruitiness, the quintessence of my flamboyance. As much as it pains my digestive system to say this, Mz. Creamcheese is, and will eternally be, inside me.”

Women Who Made Me Gay 2019 oil on paper with Emily Reimer and Jonah Strub singing karaoke in front Women Who Made Me Gay, 2019, oil on paper with Emily Reimer and Jonah Strub singing karaoke in front. Photo courtesy of Rebecca Casalino

Moving past the pillar of Loxanne’s hair into the main space, visitors are greeted by nine portraits hung in a tight grid with the title “Women Who Made Me Gay” installed in a bold pink glitter font above. Painted in a gestural, highly textured style, Strub uses contrasting colours to make each portrait pop with a glamorous gritty finish. Strub says he uses, “bright oil colours, fast brush strokes, and high contrast shading” on heavily gessoed canvas so the work feels wet like it’s shaped by choppy waters. He takes inspiration from make-up contour videos, adding titanium white as a highlight, and explores how shadows carve a face. I recognized a few of the “Women Who Made Me Gay” straight away spotting Lea Michelle being ‘slushied’ in Glee, Tracy Turnblad with her huge highlighted hair and double chin singing in Hairspray, Lady Gaga wearing her Kermit the frog dress, and Jonah’s mom lounging on a bench. These autobiographical references give a deeply personal tone to Strub’s exhibition. The choice to include the portrait of his mom became obvious when I recognize her walking around the gallery laughing with visitors and taking pictures of her son with relatives in front of the art. Her supportive presence makes her inclusion in the installation even more personal and lovely.

The Katz Family, 2019, porcelain. Photo courtesy of Rebecca Casalino

The main space features a set of shelves where the artist has installed five ceramic cats with Strub’s face, complete with his distinct nose and trademark moustache, coated in differing outlandish patterns. More like house cats than sphinxes, Strub’s humour is evident as he glazed a watermelon pattern on the body of one cat with a red face spotted with black seeds, while another cat is covered in small cheetah print interrupted only by an orange caterpillar moustache.

Gay Bugs, 2018, acrylic and glitter on canvas; Straight girls tell me I’m fierce, 2019, ceramics and eyelashes; Mz. Kasha LaPesach. Photo courtesy of Rebecca Casalino

As viewers round the corner through the kitchen they enter a small backspace where snacks, alcohol and the PWYC (pay what you can) donation bowl are set up. Across from the cheese and crackers is a table with more ceramics featuring a sphinx with a cheetah’s body and the artist’s head dressed up with a little pink scarf, blush and painted red nails. A ceramic reclining man is splayed out on the table, Garfield mug in hand, wearing a shirt and tie which contrast his skimpy black underwear and thigh-high shiny pink zebra print boots. These chimeras spark a dialogue between the masculine and feminine aspects the artist combines within his campy works. Strub states this explicitly in his artist statement writing that he “hopes to create conversations around the true meanings of masculinity, femininity, and outrageous up-dos in a society that has too many gender restrictions and not enough cheetah print.”

Before the karaoke commences Martens reminds visitors to donate to the artists. The Front Room Gallery is an alternative space that compensates artists through PWYC contributions from event attendees. Athena McQueen then warms the crowd rocking a backless metallic top, and a purple and teal sequin skirt with matching iridescent shoes. She kicks off her set by singing “Sweet Transvestite” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a cult classic in the queer community. McQueen also pokes fun at Strub’s passion for musical theatre mentioning his weekly karaoke outings during his time at the University of Guelph. Strub then takes the stage wearing tailored cheetah print pants, zebra print socks, an amber turtleneck and glamourous dangling gold earrings. He performs “Somewhere That’s Green” from Little Shop of Horrors in a ridiculous falsetto that has the gallery giggling. The inclusion of karaoke in the exhibition activates Strub’s work as visitors embrace the spirit of camp singing songs such as “Since U Been Gone” or “Fergalicious”.

Girl Toys, 2019, oil on canvas. Photo courtesy of Jonah Strub.

IBS The Musical was a casual gathering of people with connections to the gallery or Strub. It was a BYOB event, which made it more accessible financially and created a more comfortable house party environment. The creation of alternative spaces, like Front Room Gallery, allows artists to explore avenues of funding outside of the traditional method of government grants. These kinds of art spaces that occupy unorthodox environments; like warehouses, beaches, or artists’ homes are geared towards practices that thrive in less formal surroundings. The PWYC method supports this underground aesthetic of crowdfunded projects that are created as a direct reflection of the needs of the surrounding community. Alternative forms of financial support risk being frowned upon as ‘low-brow’ by some sects of the art world; however, the realities of the scarcity of space and increasing rent prices have made these alternative venues even more valuable in allowing emerging practices to gain momentum.

Sunny Katz, 2019, porcelai. Photo courtesy of Rebecca Casalino

The installation in Martens’ home presented challenges unique to these types of venues and Strub tackled them expertly as the exhibition moved through a domestic space. The choice to stage the karaoke in front of a wall filled with paintings activated the main space and incorporated the painted works as an element of the performance. I would like to end with Strub’s promotional description of IBS The Musical, “If you like cheetah print, mediocre Cher impressions, and genetic predispositions to digestive issues, this is an event you don’t want to miss!”


Rebecca Casalino is a Toronto artist and curator maintaining her practice through deeply personal collaborations in her community and sheer will power. Currently focusing on drawing and multiples, Casalino has also previously worked in video, performance, sculpture, and installation. Casalino completed her BA in Studio Art, with a minor in English, at the University of Guelph in 2017. She co-managed VS Studios from 2017-2018 running numerous social practice projects. Casalino is currently an MFA candidate at the OCAD University.

Above the Belt, Below the Bush in North Bay, ON

September 7-27, 2019

Exhibition Texts, October 29, 2019

Above the Belt, Below the Bush, curated by Minor Hockey Curatorial took place in a partially developed space in North Bay, ON. The exhibition featured work by Adrienne Crossman, Dayna Danger, Tyler Matheson, Dominic PInney, Walter Scott, Jordyn Stewart, and Mary Tremonte and ran from Sept. 7-27, 2019.

Photo courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

The following writing includes three seperate texts that were originally featured in the printed catalogue accompanying the exhibition. 

I. About the Exhibition
Robin Alex McDonald, Exhibition Co-Curator

Co-curated by Minor Hockey Curatorial (Robin Alex McDonald and Alexander Rondeau), Above the Belt, Below the Bush revels in the extra/ordinary fusion of queer glamour with the rural aesthetics of Northern Ontario.[1] Collapsing the division between hyper-masculine cultures of hunting and sport and queer/femme textures and materials (including leather, glitter, fluorescents, and sheen), the exhibition meditates on queer negotiations of geographic-specific visual and cultural codes. Some of the artworks in Above the Belt, Below the Bush playfully engage with fantasies of northernness, rurality, and Canadian cultural identity in order to call these homogenizing stereotypes into question; others shed light on actual issues faced by northern communities. Dominic Pinney’s Untitled (for Vaughan), for example, draws a connection to the heightened rate of motor vehicle accidents in the north, while Adrienne Crossman’s No Future -- the title of a prominent queer theory book [2] -- takes on new meaning in light of the damaging dominant attitude that youth must leave northern communities if they are to succeed in their academics and careers.

Dayna Danger. Photo courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

Housed in the former site of Lefebvre’s Source for Adventure (an outdoor equipment store whose collection of fishing, camping, and hunting gear was destroyed by fire in 2012), Above the Belt, Below the Bush opts not for the sterile atmosphere of the white cube gallery but for the grunge and covertness of a building mid-renovation. Similarly, not all of the pieces in Above the Belt, Below the Bush can be immediately read as queer works (or even as works about queerness), and not all of the exhibiting artists self-identify as part of the LGBTQ2S+ community. Instead, the queerness of the works included in this exhibition is largely produced within our readings of them, as curators and queer subjects, as well as from their material and aesthetic connections to queer histories of camp and glamour.

While queer camp is typically understood as loud and outrageous (as in the raunchy films of John Waters or the feather-boas of Elton John), queerness itself often demands an oscillation between hyper-visibility and invisibility (as in underground gay nightclubs or brightly coloured hankies hidden in plain sight.) Queer theorist José Esteban Muñoz suggests that “[q]ueerness is often transmitted covertly. This has everything to do with the fact that leaving too much of a trace has often meant that the queer subject has left herself open for attack.”[3] This may be especially true in the north, where the perception of higher rates of homophobic and transphobic attitudes often activates queer invisibility in the same way that wild animals activate camouflage. Here, the knowledge and conscious manipulation of how one appears or “codes” vis-a-vis other gendered, classed, and racialized codings becomes a crucial survival tactic for marginalized people. The use of actual camouflage prints in works by both Jordyn Stewart and Walter Kaheró:ton Scott gestures toward this critical element of queer covertness while still holding onto cheekiness and parody (whether in the form of a meandering desirous hand, or a pink-camo scrunchie).

Jordyn Stewart. Photo courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

As Estraven Lupino-Smith writes in their meditation on queer urban ecologies, camouflage is a tactic shared by queers and “wild animals” alike.[4] Noting that queers often use the same concealed wooded areas for cruising grounds that coyotes, foxes, and falcons choose as sites to hunt, play, and rear their young, Lupino-Smith suggests that these multi-use areas of “wilderness” “remind us that there are things beyond our control” and “other ways of being in the world.”[5] Such observations also contest the dominant assumption that urban environments are the only places where queer people can thrive, asserting instead that meaningful queer subcultures persist even where they are imagined to be nonexistent or under threat.

This myth of absence – which suggests that queer subjects do not exist in northern or rural communities – has its historical roots in settler colonialism and Canadian nationalism. Since settlement, the misrepresentation of Canadian wilderness as empty, uninhabited lands provided grounds for settlers to violently colonize Indigenous territory and displace Indigenous peoples. In short, the lands now referred to by the colonial name “Canada” were deemed a kind of utopia; a source of endless possibility, ready to be claimed, extracted, and developed. The taming of the exoticized and “unruly” wilderness was achieved primarily through the division of land plots, establishment of public parks, and creation of the forest, mining, and fishing industries, but the imposition of the (cis)gender binary (with itsassociated division of labour), compulsory monogamy, and compulsory heterosexuality also played a significant part.

Certainly, non-Indigenous queers had (and continue to have) an active role in processes of colonization and the naturalization of settlement as well. As Scott Morgensen claims in his book, The Spaces Between Us: Queer Settler Colonialism and Indigenous Decolonization, non-Indigenous queers have a long history of “resolv[ing] their exile through land-based relationships to disappeared Native people.”[6] Keeping this in mind, we hope that this exhibition’s curatorial claim – that queers do, and always have, lived in rural areas, northern areas, and all other areas that they/we are believed to be absent from – does not risk suggesting that non-Indigenous queers have any greater legitimacy to these lands than our fellow non-queer settlers. Rather, we hope that the aesthetic fusions explored throughout this exhibition can serve as a reminder that many of the acts, relations, and gestures now understood as “queer” have always existed in this place. Although they have been rendered invisible through settler colonial constructions of “heterosexuality,” they have not been erased. They persist, camouflaged and coded.

[1] Within this exhibition, the coexistence of queer aesthetics and the popular aesthetics of northern rurality is considered to be “extra/ordinary” in that it is both extraordinary (remarkable and striking) and extra ordinary (ubiquitous and quotidian).

[2] See Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004).

[3] José Esteban Muñoz, “Ephemera as Evidence: Introductory Notes to Queer Acts,” Women and Performance: A Journal of Feminist Theorist 8, No. 2 (1996): 6.

[4] Estraven Lupino-Smith, “Morality Cuts: Uncovering Queer Urban Ecologies,” Guts Magazine 9 (2018),

[5] Ibid.

[6] Scott Morgensen, Spaces Between Us: Queer Settler Colonialism and Indigenous Decolonization (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 2011), 6.

Robin Alex McDonald is an arts writer, academic, and independent curator currently living and working on Robertson-Huron Treaty territory and the traditional territories of Nipissing First Nation. Their published work can be found in several magazines and journals, including n.paradoxa, nomorepotlucks, Queer Studies in Media and Popular Culture, and Literature and Medicine.

II. Curatorial Statement
Alexander Rondeau, Exhibition Co-Curator

Having grown up in rural small-town Northeastern Ontario, the aesthetic considerations of the artists within Above the Belt, Below the Bush resonate with me in a way that is entirely familiar, eerie, and hopeful. Although the conceptual framework of this exhibition is in many ways deeply rooted in aesthetics, there is also a local buy-in for most Northerners in so far as these aesthetics are largely derived from recreational cultures, including fishing, hunting, and hockey. These cultures and their aesthetics are ubiquitous in Northern locales, but they are also almost entirely exclusionary of queerness; as I have found, these cultures are often paradoxically indoctrinating as they are inherited - or imposed - as a generational transference.

I am acutely aware that curatorial practices in Northern Ontario - especially in smaller, rural locales - are few and far between. Growing up in the North, I was never exposed to critical artworks and did not know that curators even existed until moving to Toronto. After moving back to the North, I realized that my curatorial practice was formed alongside metronormative sensitivities and that exhibition making should be informed by regionalisms that are often too easily overlooked or discredited by urban communities. 

Having curated exhibitions in small rural Northern towns, I have learned that there is absolutely room - and need - for contemporary exhibitions, particularly those with works by marginalized and underrepresented artists. It is my hope that Above the Belt, Below the Bush can accomplish a queering of the familiar by prompting an important reconsideration of cultural codes and visual norms that permeate hegemonic social and cultural understandings of identity in small Northern communities. Admittedly, North Bay certainly does not feel small (compared to the community in which I grew up, which had more cows than people), but it also doesn’t feel large enough to escape the omnipresent trend of camo and sporting wear as popular fashion.

Tyler Matheson. Photo courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

While looking over potential works to include in the show with Robin, I was particularly struck by Tyler Matheson’s Hockey Sticks Affixed With Glitter as it is somehow aesthetically both over- and under-stated. But mainly, this work resonated so deeply with me as someone who grew up playing hockey and ultimately quit due to my extreme discomfort as a queer person within hyper masculine hockey culture. Although the works in the exhibition are critical of the aesthetic and cultural folds to which they are responding, I would argue that they also make space for QT2S folks to reconsider themselves in relation to the cultures in question, as I myself had to reconsider my relationship to these fabulous hockey sticks.


Alexander Rondeau is a queer, Francophone interdisciplinary artist, curator, and writer from New Liskeard, Ontario. He holds a BFA in Image Arts from Ryerson University and is currently an OGS-funded MFA candidate in the Criticism and Curatorial Program at OCAD University. Rondeau’s research-driven artistic practice is largely lens-based hybridizing photography, sculpture, and performative site-specific interventions highlighting the complicated intersections of queerness and Northern rurality. He has done several residencies including MAD in Sigulda, Latvia and has had several group and solo shows across Ontario including a Featured solo exhibition during the 2017 CONTACT Photography Festival. From 2018-2019, Rondeau was the Program Coordinator at the Near North Mobile Media Lab in North Bay, Ontario.

Walter Scott. Photo courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

III. [untitled]
GHY Cheung

It started as a joke. I had bought an iridescent party ornament, one of those things you unfold into a quasi-sphere, clear partitions fanning into honeycombs around a central axel. I saw it in a café and thought of you. How it would unsettle the otherwise no-frills logic of your apartment. Out of place and absurd by way of contrast, sparkly and most certainly gay. Carrying it nascent and tucked neat into my backpack I made my way to yours.

I had sweat through my usual black on black uniform by the time I rounded the corner, as much from the heat as from the idea, now irretractable, that I had somehow miscalculated. The imagined charm of my gesture gave way. What if you hate it but feel pressured by polite convention to pretend otherwise? Your building in view at the end of the street. What if a gag gift is a weird thing to give you when I’ve only met you twice before? Steps away. What if this gives you the impression that I think all queers are magpies, oriented by our genetic makeup towards shiny things?

A 2014 study by scientists at the University of Exeter concluded that magpies are not instinctively attracted to shiny objects. Their reputation then was likely the result of anecdote—Gioachino Rossini’s 1815 opera, European folklore and children’s stories—with an admixture of observer bias. It would be easy to flip my metaphor here into a disavowal of any inherent queer claims to flamboyance or fabulousness (and strictly speaking this would not be inaccurate, though I imagine it would read, with certain inflections, like an assimilationist assertion of queer ordinariness). My instinct instead is to press the myth. To see what happens if we take seriously an insistence on textures and materials that glitter, sheen, fluoresce—that are, more broadly, iridescent—as relevant codes of queerness. To renegotiate how these qualities are thought of in relation to queerness. To say in a tone that suggests at once a statement and a question, there’s something queer about iridescence.

Adrienne Crossman. Photo courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

Iridescence. Noun.

1. The collective glint off every mirrored facet of a disco ball, itself the globe of an alternate, more glamorous planet

Iridescence has an ornamental feeling, twice over. It emanates from objects and coats nearby surfaces. Animated by the aesthetic theories of Ernst Bloch, José Esteban Munoz locates in the ornamental a kind of potentiality. In theorizing that both queerness and utopianism are about dreaming the then and there, Munoz aligns the queer desire “to render the world as ornamented” with the utopian desire to image another world beyond the limits of the current one, to reach for new ways of being, forms and quantities of pleasure impermissible in the here and now. [1] 

2. The blur of hues that constitutes the world as seen through the teary, anticipatory eyes of a daydreamer

Ornament, like daydreaming, enacts partial fantasies. Iridescence as relics of queer utopian dream-worlds.

3. The feeling of your bedroom once we’ve suspended the ornament under a light, walls liquified into the dreamscape of a Wong Kar-Wai sequence

Sometimes the decorative flies in the face of utility, gets in the way of its substrate-object working. And what if this is a failure that is a refusal that, in Jack Halberstam’s words, “allows us to escape the punishing norms that discipline behavior” and reorients us most forcefully towards another time, another place, another life? [2]

4. The play of colours caused by differential refraction of light waves that tends to shift as the angle of view changes

In its flash, iridescence has a particular relationship to visibility. As an expression of difference, it has been used in spectacular, often creative, and always confrontational ways in the world of queer nightlife, drag, performance art, a way for overlooked queers to demand attention. The performed fabulousness of iridescence continues to carve out space in a world that doesn’t comfortably reproduce the contours of queer lives.

From royal flycatchers to tiger beetles, shimmer is mobilized by iridescent animals to a different end as a matter of survival. Flickers and changes of colour variously facilitate camouflage, startle and distract predators, and cause confusion about a prey’s position and location. Iridescence then not only attracts the gaze but tricks and directs it, diverting just as it draws attention, its effect both visibility and a kind of opacity.  

Dominic Pinney. Photo courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

All photos courtesy of Alexander Rondeau

5. A lustrous quality or effect

By turns tacky and mesmerizing, iridescence also invokes visual pleasure. But what to make of an association between queerness and visual pleasure when it can look so much like escape, sedation, complacency? If being queer is to uphold queerness’s historical commitment to the broad critique of processes that produce, recognize, and normalize identities, pleasure becomes a corrective necessary alongside the serious work of being queer. It is defiant of burnout. Here then the possibility of pleasure as respite rather than desertion, iridescence as care extended to weary queers.

It started as a joke, but iridescence has taken on real resonance for me within our friendship. This is a queer relationship in many regards, but significantly I think because it tends towards a way of life imbued with the possibility of reaching a relational system through sexual practices. [3] We’ve kept in touch even though I’ve left the city where you continue to live, largely on the strength of the vernacular we’ve developed, the quirks and codes, including ones that have cohered around this ridiculous ornament I gave you. It’s a coincidence that this object that would take on such significance, that continues to index our friendship, happens to be iridescent. Thinking again, it’s also as if the ornament both presaged and precipitated our future social relations. There were perhaps imperceptible (queer) qualities and certainly a weight of queer history that drew me to the ornament, that drove me to bring it to you. Iridescence took on, for me, new queer resonances not by chance or through some alchemy, but because of a kind of insistence, because I was already leaning into the myth that there’s something queer about iridescence.

[1] José Esteban Muñoz, Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (New York: New York University Press, 2009), 143.

[2] Judith Halberstam, The Queer Art of Failure (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011), 3.

[3]  Michel Foucault, “Friendship as a Way of Life,” interview by R. de Ceccaty, J. Danet, and J. Le Bitoux, Gai Pied, April 1981.

GHY Cheung is a writer and artist currently splitting his time between Katarokwi/Kingston and Hong Kong. His work considers the possibilities of using built environment and public spaces against or aprt from their design, queer space and spatial practices, and the imaginary confluence of personal family and queer histories as a reparative measure. In his inquiries, he centres queer kinships as method, archive, and sustenance.

Jenn E Norton: Slipstream at Kitchener-Waterloo Art Gallery

June 26 – September 22, 2019

September 9, 2019 by Danica Evering

Jenn E Norton, Slipstream (video still), 2018. 6-channel video installation, 10:40 min. Courtesy of the artist. © Jenn E Norton.

This text is a response to Jenn E Norton’s exhibition, Slipstream (2018). The exhibition consists of an immersive installation under the same name. A multi-channel video of a dancer wearing a silk robe stretches across six large mirrored video screens, arranged in a ring in the dark gallery space. Bringing together Art Nouveau aesthetics, augmented reality, and 19th-century technologies, Norton considers Loïe Fuller’s (1862 – 1928) often-imitated serpentine dance and mirror room apparatus. A dancer, inventor, chemist, and designer, Fuller is recognized as an innovative figure of both modern dance and projection technology. Jenn E Norton is a Guelph-based artist whose work in interdisciplinary media (video, installation, sound, and kinetic sculpture) often explores technology and design histories, visualizing invisible forces and uncanny imaginaries.

Curated by Linda Jansma and Crystal Mowry, the show is touring through six art spaces in off-centre cities. It is currently at the midpoint, having travelled from exhibitions at the Robert McLaughlin Gallery in Oshawa and Mount Saint Vincent University Art Gallery in Halifax. It will continue on to the Judith & Norman Alix Art Gallery in Sarnia (October 4-January 5, 2020), Kelowna Art Gallery in Kelowna (Spring 2020), and Dunlop Art Gallery in Regina (Fall 2020). This reflection comes out of a conversation with Norton (cross-legged on the floor) within the installation in the Kitchener-Waterloo Art Gallery, which runs from June 26 to September 22, 2019.

I. The Circle

Slipstream: a current of air or water driven backwards by a spinning propeller. She has placed six large screens in a ring in a dark room. A dancer in a fluttering silk robe moves around us from screen to screen tossing her arms up and down like great wings. An immense sound circles, a rhythmic chopping. In sprays of white silk underlit by technicolour light, you read shifting forms: flower, cloud, bird, flame, butterfly, wave, snake. Jenn E Norton’s travelling exhibition spirals into the past, returning to dancer, chemist, stage designer, and inventor Loïe Fuller—or perhaps pulling her into the present, or both. Norton explores Fuller’s serpentine dance. Part skirt dance, costume, and early experimental projection surface, it was central to Fuller’s popular stage performance at the Folies Bergère in the late 1800s. I am reminded of Janet Cardiff revisiting Tallis’ 40-part motet. A circle is a container, to be inside it feels holy. The video rises and falls; it has the narrative crescendo of any good performance. Yet the beginning bleeds into the end. Being born is a little like dying. Can a loop have a beginning?

Jenn E Norton, Slipstream (installation detail), 2018. 6-channel video installation, 10:40 min. Courtesy of the artist and the Kitchener-Waterloo Art Gallery. Photo: Tyler Young © Jenn E Norton

II. The Gap

Before I talk about the screens first I need to tell you about the spaces between them. My eyes follow dancer Katie Ewald’s video presence as she crosses the screen, and then there is space, a moment in time when “she” exists in the gap. I can’t see her, she has disappeared from the screen. But she is there, running for a few heartbeats (with the eccentric small-stepped gait Fuller was famous for) through the space between. As we sit cross-legged on the floor, Norton tells me about Zeno’s paradox. Zeno imagined an arrow in flight. In each given instant we look at it, it is occupying a space at rest, motionless. Time is entirely composed of instants. As the arrow flies from the archer’s crooked fingers to thud taught at the target’s trembling heart, it flickers in the air through dozens of instants: points of stillness that we understand to be motion as we draw a line in the gaps between. Video itself is a set of still images that we read as motion in the aggregate. A gap bridged by a cognitive leap.

III. The Mirror

No one true. The screens are slick, shiny as a mirror and showing myself back to me as much as they display the video. Surely she has placed six large reflective screens in a ring intending this slippage between my physical standing form and the life-sized dancer. The screens’ placement and surfaces are the second of Fuller’s inventions Norton has drawn into this space: a mirror room patented in 1893. This ring of mirrors (aligned just so) allowed Fuller to dissolve into herself, hundreds of identical women moving in unison. Those who saw her dance in the moment were awe-struck, wondering which was the real person and which the reflection. [1] Flickering between actual and image, suspending disbelief. Unlike Fuller’s mirrors lining up perfectly to create the illusion of an infinitely unfolding mass ornament, [2] these mirrors are slightly oblique. They reflect imprecisely, my reflection ends after three repetitions. There is something humble about this result—a spectacular optical environment (thinking of other mirrored rooms) does not eclipse the experience. These mirrored angles are more oblique, complicating the reading and pulling in those between them.

Jenn E Norton, Slipstream (installation detail), 2018. 6-channel video installation, 10:40 min. Courtesy of the artist and the Kitchener-Waterloo Art Gallery. Photo: Tyler Young © Jenn E Norton

Jenn E Norton, Slipstream (installation detail), 2018. 6-channel video installation, 10:40 min. Courtesy of the artist and the Kitchener-Waterloo Art Gallery. Photo: Tyler Young © Jenn E Norton

IV. The Invisible

I can’t see the air but Norton and Fuller remind me it’s there. Each sweep of the Serpentine Dance’s giant wing shows its force, guttering and stirring up currents. In sprays of white silk I read other invisible forces which share our space: light, heat, electricity, sound, data, radio waves. A slipstream, a current of air propelled by the dancer’s whirling arms underneath backwards in time. I remember that our bodies are not where our selves end. We extend outwards with each movement, each sound we make pushing molecules in the air. Tiny impacts and gaps, impacts and gaps until it reaches a listener. Covert instants strung together in a long trajectory. Fuller’s invention makes visible the invisible, something Norton is similarly interested in. La fée d’electricité, an electric spirit. I can’t perceive the air’s power, until I push against it.

V. The Grasp

My eyes follow the dancer’s sweeping presence as she crosses the screen, and then one sweep turns into a brushstroke. A thick metallic 3D trace lingers, holding the gesture (though nothing can truly linger in video, and so in a few moments it disappears). It feels in the same vein as experiencing something out of the ordinary in public. Did you see that? These are gleaming tendrils, referencing Art Nouveau’s metals and curves of those who would have been Fuller’s architectural contemporaries. Within the video itself they are very sparing, traces that hint at the many loops and curls visible in an earlier augmented reality facet of the installation that the low light of the exhibition space made technically unattainable. The gesture is fleeting and this trace makes it sculptural, gives it weight and a shape. Like Zeno’s arrow, the 3D trace holds the instant against the fluid passing of time. A moment held then fading.

Jenn E Norton, Slipstream (video still), 2018. 6-channel video installation, 10:40 min. Courtesy of the artist. © Jenn E Norton.

Jenn E Norton, Slipstream (video still), 2018. 6-channel video installation, 10:40 min. Courtesy of the artist. © Jenn E Norton.

VI. The Matter

Can a loop have an end? Carefully, admiringly, Norton both pulls Fuller into the present and returns to the other’s past. It is an earnest, tender connection across time. Genes, words, seeds, inventions. There are many ways to reach the future. Each is unstable. Each portal can be temporary, unexpected, inconsequential, significant, dormant. Fuller was an innovator (mirror room patented), the great-great-grandparent of a field, though for a large part she dissolved into herself. Her arrow has appeared in instants, lit up by scholars, writers, artists, and admirers in the century that followed. Norton is conceptual kinfolk with theoretical physicist Karen Barad, who writes about matter(ing) across time. Barad writes, “remembering is not a replay of a string of moments, but an enlivening and reconfiguring of past and future that is larger than any individual.” [3] Through this multifaceted act of remembering, Slipstream enlivens an active relationship that goes beyond cause and effect. Something more interactive, circular, and relational, it proposes connections across time. A charge. Between solid things—flesh, silk, atoms—and the spaces between them—idea, resistance, imaginative leap. An arrow flickering through time but never reaching a target. An electric spirit, crackling through the gap between cloud and ground.

[1]  Rhonda K. Garelick, Electric Salome: Loie Fuller's Performance of Modernism, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 45-46. 
[2]  Sigfried Kracauer, The Mass Ornament: Weimar Essays (Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag 1963; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995).
[3]  Karen Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007), ix.

Danica Evering was born in Cobourg and lives in Hamilton, ON. Through writing, organizing, sound composition, and curation, she works through difficulty and belonging, reaching out intentionally, and complicating narratives. Her SSHRC-supported MA in Media Studies from Concordia questions power dynamics and insider/outsider relationships in social practice through interviews with artists and creative analysis of her own field work. Evering’s semi-fictional writing has taken the form of audiosculptural biographies, soundwalks, and an experimental play. Her analysis has appeared in No More Potlucks, Lemon Hound, Public, and Kapsula, and other publications. She was a founding member of the editorial collective of Publication Studio Guelph, a sibling studio of an international publishing network that attends to the social lives of books, and participated in the creation and development of the Benčić Youth Council, a radical arts education program for youth in Rijeka.

Cold Waters Symposium & Media Arts Festival

Review, August 15, 2019 by Imogen Clendinning

In mid-June I was graciously invited to North Bay, Ontario to attend this year’s Media Arts Network Ontario (MANO) conference, the Cold Waters Symposium & Media Arts Festival. I was contacted a month earlier and invited to participate in the Remote Studios program, a kind of free form residency, artist camp. This two day experiment allowed emerging and mid-career makers and artists from the Northern Ontario region and beyond to meet, collaborate and share their ideas. As part of the residency, artists were given access to a monastery turned arts institution— affiliated with Nipissing University. At the end of the two days, attendees of the media conference were invited to an Open Studio event where the participating residents had the opportunity to share our practices and conceptual framing.

Photo courtesy of Vanessa Tignanelli

On the first day of Cold Waters I met thirty artists from North Bay, Thunder Bay, Sault St. Marie, Souix Lookout and a number of other locations. We shared our backgrounds with one another, our conceptual interests, and discussed the nuances of creating safe space (this is no small feet). This conversation embodied part of my more general experience at Cold Waters 2019: the conference encouraged difficult and necessary dialogue to develop between artists and administrators from across Canada, yet these conversations were often limited by allotting only an hour or two for discussion. This kind of tight scheduling created a tension of feeling; somewhere between optimism and frustration. The fact that these complex issues were being addressed frankly was motivating. Just as I would find myself enriched by one discussion or thought, the hour would end and everything was reset. This often hindered deeper discussion of complex issues. Through powerful group dynamics and well formed panels MANO was able to bring to the forefront several sociopolitical issues, but there was less time dedicated to brainstorming nuanced solutions or possibilities. This critique is not strictly relative to the Cold Water Symposium, I often feel that the strict timelines imposed by the structure of conferences can potentially inhibit thorough discussion.

Over the next two days, I would fruitlessly scour the old monastery for technology or supplies. The overachiever that I am, I was compelled to use this as an opportunity to make something new, something that could in some way respond to this experience and place. I filmed a short video, messed around with an old episode of Star Trek on tape and attempted to make something clever with an Anne Rice audiobook on cassette. Needless to say, I wasn’t able to marry Anne Rice to Star Trek. My error was in attempting to respond to the Remote Studio as a short-term residency, rather than an opportunity to develop a community of emerging makers through this experience. On the final day, thirty artists gathered over two floors. Some gave short artist talks (notably artists Jeremy Saya and Tyler Levesque), some screened short films (including Cole Forest Stevens, who is currently beginning a project sponsored by ImagiNative). Performance artist Tejhler Leadbeater, video/performance artist Katie Huckson and myself set up in the basement and offered more casual drop-in experiences with our arts practices.

During the Remote Studio program I was fortunate to connect with Taylor Jolin, an Ojibwe artist from Baawaating (Sault St. Marie). Jolin is a multidisciplinary artist whose work often explores themes of non-verbal communication, banality and paranoia. Jolin is currently working with The Indigenous Women’s Anti-Violence Taskforce, an Indigenous-led group dedicated to restoring and protecting the honour and value of Indigenous women, 2SLGBTQQIA+ and gender diverse people in Baawaating. I contacted her after Cold Waters had ended. I wanted to speak with another emerging artist about their experience at the Remote Studio, and learn more about their practice.

Jolin had opted to give an artist talk on the final day of the Remote Studio, telling me that as casual as the short residency was, it was the most publicly she had ever spoken about her work. Certainly, this section of the conference allowed artists of different ages, backgrounds and practices to occupy time and space at the Cold Waters Symposium. This led to a feeling of overarching support at the conference; as a young maker I felt that my art was relevant and my labour was respected. Jolin similarly expressed that she was anticipating that the event could help legitimize her practice. The ability to present her work during the conference led to a fruitful peer critique, and the opportunity to network. Jolin says that forming these connections can be so vital to one’s art practice, especially for those who live in smaller Northern communities.

Photo courtesy of Taylor Jolin

One of the more fruitful aspects of the Remote Studio program was the ability to learn about each other’s art making. I was particularly interested in Jolin’s Remote Viewing series. A collection of still images captured by Jolin of different snapshots taken from online surveillance cameras documenting natural environments; what looked to me like a kind of Big Brother tourism. In speaking about the project Jolin said, “Remote Viewing is so nebulous to me right now, which feels appropriate because that's also how I perceive the nature of the surveillance cameras. New ones pop up and disappear every day, the placement of some seemingly arbitrary, but I can't dedicate enough time to track the behaviour to know for sure.” The mysterious nature of these floating cameras is sometimes interrupted by architectural and industrial landmarks like wind turbines, which embody human presence. She states further that, “As an Indigenous person who wasn't raised with traditional land-based teachings I've struggled with my relationship to land and place. I don’t feel connected to the ‘yours to discover’ camping and nationalism narrative, or the land is medicine spirituality.” Her investigation of disparate places speaks to a disassociation with more familiar natural landscape. To Jolin, it is possible that she feels more connected to disparate places than to home. These different relationships with place are vital. One of the more nuanced elements of the symposium was the recognition that artists in the North do not relate to the land in the same kinds of ways, nor do we have idyllic relationships with it.

Near the end of the conference I attended a screening of short films, all created by artists and filmmakers from the Northern Ontario region. I was particularly struck by the wit and honesty at play in Amanda Lindenbach’s video-work Oui, je suis une pute. I contacted her after the weekend had ended to speak about her experience at the Remote Studio program— and to learn more about her film. Lindenbach is a “queer, fat, Mad, (dis)abled, spooning, francophone, sex worker, porn maker and interdisciplinary artist. She is a student of fine arts, sociology and electronics; committed to pleasure activism, neuro-inclusivity, slut celebration and the expansion of video art” (Lindenbach). Similar to myself and Jolin, Lindenbach emphasized the prevalence of this being a unique opportunity to formally present her work to a group of peers of young artists and curators. She says, “So much of my energy is focused on creating, producing, exporting and I rarely take the time to hold and care for the work.”

Photo courtesy of Amanda Lindenbach

In Oui, je suis une pute, Lindenbach uses her form, dramatic lighting and spoken word (spoken French and English subtitle), to recount her experience as a pornography artist and sex worker. The video was born from Lindenbach’s response to a particular critique that referenced her work as a pornmaker and sex worker, rather than the art being discussed. I wanted to know more about the different advantages of using digital media to tell stories and share lived experience. Lindenbach responded by saying that “digital media for storytelling provides a constellation. I enjoy the effectiveness of telling digital stories with image, audio, text and all of the interconnected narratives - conscious and subconscious - that appear within the mix.” The effectiveness of intermedia practice to communicate cerebral function and human experience was used by several artists at the Cold Waters Symposium, including Lindenbach.

I also was interested in the presence of translation in the video. Why include the French language with English subtitles in the film? Lindenbach explained that the video is in French because it is her first language. The process for this piece began with bilingual video journaling in both French and English. “I decided to share the French parts because I first learned sex-negativism and slut-shaming in that language.” Lindenbach’s video piece was one of the only representations of French language at the symposium, and it used language as a marker of identity. Lindenbach’s video used individual history as a mechanism for storytelling, effectively intertwined with stylistic effects, dramatic lighting and the performative.

The Remote Studios program allowed me the opportunity to meet these artists, among many others, learn about their processes and ask questions. The richest aspect of this event was the space and time to meet other young folks who continue to make relatable, challenging and critical work, and to meet arts administrators who are dedicated to collaboration. It’s electric to take a break from a failing art experiment, to then stumble into an invaluable conversation about funding a media arts project, or to enter a discussion investigating the importance of decolonizing the artist-run centre. Every lunch break was a mind warp.

At Cold Waters the respect for diverse opinions, culture and lived experience was palpable. This recognition and openness was part of what allowed for these innovative conversations to take place. The event exposed arts administrators and artists from urban hubs to the mind-bending work that is being produced outside of these sectors. In more rural places in Canada, it is easy to feel as though you might slip into obscurity, or as though you are tragically disconnected. MANO’s Cold Water Symposium seemingly celebrated difference, and sought to build a bridge.


Imogen Clendinning is a media artist and arts administrator who lives in Windsor ON, and hails from North Bay ON. Clendinning identifies as a cisgender femme maker whose found-footage videos deconstruct tropes and signifiers used in cult cinema. Clendinning acts as the Programming Coordinator at Artcite Inc., an artist-run centre focused on bringing contemporary arts to the Windsor-Essex region.

Taylor Jolin

Amanda Lindenbach