Post-past aboriginal art panel

Last week, I posted on a panel at the AGO on Sunday called "Are we past the age of an aboriginal art show?", which grew out of Globe and Mail critic Sarah Milroy's scathing review of the AGO's recent Remix show, a small, but nonetheless omnibus-intended exhibition aimed at addressing the dilution of identity in the current generation of First Nations' artists. Sorry I can't link to it; it's behind the Globe's proprietary online curtain.

Milroy didn't just not like the work, she dismissed the conceit as outdated, simplistic and pedantic. Judging by the response I've received, it hit a nerve.

I couldn't go to the panel myself, but Sally McKay did, and she's offered a detailed play-by-play of the event here. It makes for great reading for those interested, so do have a look.

Locked Lips: Nick Aoki at Narwhal

A couple of weeks ago, Nick Aoki opened his first solo show at Narwhal Projects on Queen West. Nick's one of the family, of course, showing at Steve Cober and Kristin Weckworth's gallery at Magic Pony many times over the years, as one of the estimable Team Macho crew, but this is the first time he's struck out on his own in his home town.

The work's not really what I was expecting; gone (for the most part, anyway) is the Macho-esque silliness, the laughs supplanted by something much darker (though the titles maintain the Team sense of the ridiculous; that's "Locked Lips, Purple Hips," right.)

Aesthetically, his tableaux are remiscent of horror comics, but lushly-rendered and dark, dark, dark. Aoki says the work "explores the modern day struggle between skepticism and belief, mortality and philosophy." The result is a richly-rendered, dark fantasy nightmarescape where light struggles to be seen amid the shadows -- and loses. Until Sept. 20.

Toronto Biennale, 2011?

Today in the paper, I wrote about the proliferation of biennial (and triennial) exhibitions large and small, all over the country and the world, and a general lament for the lack of same right here in the biggest art scene in the country, Toronto. 

Phil Anderson, the director of Gallery 1313, helpfully pointed out to me this morning that there was, in fact, a group trying to do just that, slated for July 2011. It's funny that no-one in the art world that I spoke to was aware of it; but checking out their web site, it's understandable how we all missed it. 

The "Toronto Biennale," as it stands, is very much a grassroots, volunteer affair dreamed up by some members of the small but mighty (and growing) art community out near Bloor and Lansdowne; so far, it has no programming, sponsorship, funding or curatorial staff. 

But you have to admire the chutzpah. Fern Bayer told me that, with projects like this, it all comes down to who wants to fight for it and make it happen; white knights have come from more unlikely places, haven't they? If nothing else, maybe this group will finally light the fire that's been slow to burn here for decades. Stay tuned ... 

Moses Znaimer: TV impresario, bus-stop bubble-bather, boomer-publisher ... curator?

The friendly feed from Akimbo tells me that the Propeller Centre on Queen is putting out a call for submissions for an upcoming show to be curated by the pony-tailed king of all (Canadian) media, Moses Znaimer.

We all know Moses founded the CityTV empire, slid out the back door a few years ago amid a corporate reorganizing, and moved on to a handful of ventures less fraught with the vagaries of big-media politics (and there are plenty, believe me).

Lately, he's kept himself busy promoting his two classical FM radio stations -- which he shills for from the cozy confines of a bubble-bath, the evidence of which is plastered on TTC buses and streetcars, among other things -- and making baldfaced stabs for CBC Radio 2's fleeing oldsters, who, the theory goes, chafe at the new (and, if I may say) vibrant eclecticism now found on its previously-moldy spot on the dial. And, oh, yes, he also founded a company developing therapeutic medicines derived from marijuana.

On top of that, Moses' pet project has been Zoomer magazine, aimed at hyperactive baby boomers (like the man himself) who embrace the idea that age is a concept, not a reality (tell that to my 38-year old knees, Moses).

In any case, true to form, Moses' curatorial conceit is pretty blatant Zoomer promotion, but also true to form, it's still clever: In his own words, Moses aims to curate a show called "The Last Taboo," based on his "Zoomer Philosophy" that "aging is sex for the new millennium, the topic we don't discuss openly, the thing that happens to other people, behind closed doors. In deference to this last taboo, people of age have been denied their right to sensuality, to adventure, to any unconventionality that can't be smiled fondly at by a condescending universe. In a way, they have become an invisible demographic."

Well, sure, if you consider owning most of the world and running it "invisible." Whatever the case, Moses invites artists across the country to submit on the subject; just a wild guess that those under 50 might want to direct their energies elsewhere.

On the very same page, I learn that the Star's own Chris Hume is also curating a show at Propeller in January. Called Public Realm, it invites artists to propose radical reimagings of the dividing line between public and private, in a way that gives public space a powerful, galvanzing force -- something Chris knows a fair amount about. Sold.

AGO symposium: "Are we past the age of an aboriginal art show?"

A final pre-weekend note: On Sunday, the AGO is holding one of its symposiums on a topic near to my heart, "Are we past the age of an aboriginal art show?" 

That's a clunky way of asking, I suspect, if such explorations as the AGO's recent Remix show, of a roster of artists of various North American aboriginal heritages, has any business being staged in the context of race. 

My colleague at the Globe and Mail, Sarah Milroy, didn't think so; her review of the show addressed the work a little bit, but spent much of its space dismembering the conceit as naive, simplistic and outdated (for the record, in my own piece, I quite liked some parts, not so much others, but had only slight quibble with the curatorial frame, which was that it felt a little retread; I took it more as an opportunity to discuss a broader question-- the one the symposium is addressing itself. Milroy and the show's curator, Gerald McMaster, a First Nations' Cree, are on the panel Sunday). 

In any case, I  suspect Sarah's weariness at such shows comes less from the shows themselves than her own perspective, privileged as it is, as a long-time critic in a country rife with such identity explorations (I'd venture to say that no-one has seen as many shows on this theme in the last decade as Sarah, and I can see how it could be a little exhausting). I'd agree that Remix had its simplistic aspects; but in a public institution that aims its programming at broad audiences (and not necessarily learned critics) that seems excusable to me. 

More to the point, though, is how racial identity politics could ever cease to find resonance in North America, or be relevant. Much of the post-modern era of art-making, by white, black, First Nations or any other of the many races that make their home here, has engaged the continuing -- and often brutal -- inequities of post-colonialism that still ripple through society today; I think of people like Jeff Wall, whose work is rife with an anxious unease about the darker side of such things as urban cosmopolitanism and segregation in suburban enclaves, and I don't see that priority fading any time soon. 

Even more so, though, for First Nations artists who only a few generations ago began as a culture to embrace conceptual and contemporary practices; in this country, at least, nobody can lay claim to a clearer view of the brutality of colonialism, and its fallout. We live with that fallout every day. It has shaped our world physically, and psychographically. Are we past the age of an aborginal art show? Maybe the better question is: Are we past the age where difference and racial politics matter? I know my answer. What's yours?

Art, migration, and the next big thing

A few days ago, I rambled out a post about Loop Gallery's final show on West Queen West, and how it signified the final throes of the neighbourhood's rapid transition from down-and-out urban fringe to organic art zone to weekend playground for the city's suburban fun-seekers. 

A well-meaning editor suggested that, in light of this, it might be a useful exercise to chart where art was headed next. I wasn't sure I agreed. Partly because I've been down this road so many times before, and partly because a) I didn't want to resort to the pedantic, tut-tutting rhetoric that always seems to colour these kinds of tales, and b) I didn't want to be a booster of art's beneficial bacteria status, either. 

At the same time, neither did I want to be ambivalent -- I find it heartbreaking to see genuine urban texture and difference, whether fostered by an art community or any other kind, whitewashed and priced out of the market by the arrivistes attracted by the patina they create, if not the actual context itself (the fact that patina is the only thing that remains in the aftermath is symbolic of the lack of authenticity these kinds of transformations engender, but I digress). 

I keenly remember WQW almost a decade ago, before the Drake, when the only storefronts were second-hand appliance shops, dimly-lit convenience stores, shady donut shops -- and galleries, most of them rough and tumble, DIY affairs, held together with spit, polish and the collective passion of the people involved. Previous generations have similar memories in different locales -- Yorkville in the 70s, Queen + Spadina in the 80s -- but here in particular, the evolution, up and out, has been shockingly quick. 

So, to make a long story short, I did it (it's in the paper Saturday). I was asked to choose three (no more) potential new roosts for the migratory art community (sorry, Junction): I picked Dundas + Dufferin, Bloor + Lansdowne, and Leslieville -- the latter largely because, generationally, the east end hasn't gotten much credit for being part of the larger art scene, and there's some good stuff out there. 

Having done it, I did try to explain the dynamics in the context of a hope that it might be different this time: On Dundas, for example, many of the galleries own, not rent their buildings, which means they leave when they want to, not when their rent spikes. 

I'm still not sure what it accomplishes, if anything. Maybe it helps to be reminded; maybe it's because I feel like I've done exactly that so often that it feels oddly futile. Am I right or wrong? Or, as I suspect in this case, just mildly irrelevant?

Slow on the (with)draw ... but nonetheless ...

My colleagues at the Star's city desk beat me to it, but I still wanted to make a little mention of Kelly McRay's Bank on Art project, which has recruited a few dozen local artists to provide images for an ATM at 952 Queen West.

The project was launched alongside the Foreign Legionnaires show I wrote about at Edward Day, where McRay is co-director (I failed to notice the Bank on Art part of the puzzle, embedded, as it was, in a different announcement, alas).

In any case, I'm not terribly tempted to comment on the enormous carrot dangling from the stick, which is the simplified art/commerce discussion this seems to be trying to prompt. I will, though, say that McRay has proven to be willingly experimental is his efforts to expand audiences -- particularly when it comes to the shameless promotion of his own roster, which comprises much of the ATM project -- by unconventional (and, some would say, baldly hucksterish) means.

I'm thinking specifically of the show McRay curated Edward Day held a few years ago on behalf of Volvo Canada, that I wrote about in the Star; the conceit was that Volvo would commission a handful of artists from the Edward Day roster (some of them, including Andrew Morrow, at right, and Jesse Boles, above, also appear on the ATM) to do "Volvo-themed work."

It was, to my mind, unprecendented art-world product placement (Volvo parked its new model, a C30 coupe, in the gallery for the exhibition); and somewhat predictably, cries of "sellout!" echoed from the rooftops of Queen West.

I was a little more ambivalent; while I didn't care for the hucksterish aspects of putting young artists in the position of having their practices infiltrated by corporate marketing, I could see McRay's point at the time about expanding the audience. Whatever the case, McRay's not shy about breaking some of the sacrosanct (and often imaginary) boundaries between art and commerce. I'd be interested to hear what you think.

For the record: Bank on Art, in my view, may put art in a public place, though I don't think the tiny, fuzzy screen is the best showcase for, say, Morrow's epic, fantastical mash-up battle scenes of popular culture crossed with Delacroix-esque history paintings, or Boles' large-scale, cooly observant photographs of industrial incursions. But something, as they say, is better than nothing, and McRay is trying to expand the project to the Gladstone Hotel and possibly Yorkville.

A final note: The roster is impressive, from Governor General's Award winner Tom Dean through mash-up granddaddy John Oswald, Camilla Singh, Cheryl Sourkes, and Alex McLeod.

EDIT: This just in (March 3/10): As Kelly McRay notes below, the project has indeed expanded, to 150 artists, some represented by the gallery and plenty not. See the web site for further details.

Now accepting donations: The Star's online art gallery

I was emailing with Kristan Horton recently, about his upcoming solo show at Jessica Bradley Art + Projects. Unprompted, Kristan kindly offered a site-specific (pardon the pun) permanent installation for the Star website, which you can see above.

The motif, of course, is the Star's navigation bar, infused with Kristan's particular crazy-clever imagination. A button for art? Sounds good to me. I'm going to try to convince the higher-ups to install it on the navigation bar as a permanent link to this blog. You can help me out by petitioning for the same through the comment section here, or just write to them at tepeditors@thestar.ca. And it goes without saying, any further donations to this site will be gratefully accepted ...

EDIT: My bad -- DON'T email tepeditors! They have enough to deal with. Best to register votes in the comment section ...

Return, triumphant: Lauren Hall at DepARTment and Peak Gallery

Lauren Hall, who fled our lovely little country for Berlin not long after graduating from Waterloo's Fine Arts program in 2006, is back in force at the moment, showing in two places along the burgeoning Dundas West art corridor. The venues speak to Hall's rapidly evolving career; the first, the brand-new(ish)  DepARTment (caps are theirs) at 1389 Dundas West, a cultural marketing agency with ties to various art instutions like the AGO that maintains independent gallery space on its main floor; and the much more established Peak Gallery, which shares the post-industrial art compound on Morrow Street with Olga Korper and Christopher Cutts.

The piece above, Doctrine of the Hinterland, is outside at Peak, the result of Hall's entering gallerist Zack Pospieszynski's Walls Competition, which is more or less that: An open call to emerging, unrepresented artists local and global to take up the considerable space on Peak's summer-bare walls.

Hall's work for the competition, an angular crystal-like form rendered from silver bubble wrap, was arresting -- enough that Pospieszynski signed Hall, a young unknown to his roster. He also gave her the gallery's outdoor space for another piece, Doctrine of the Hinterland (above), a simply-rendered mountainscape of such disposable materials as green plastic pallet wrap and simple wire clothesline.

Hall keeps her references close: From obvious engagment of the Minimalist aesthetic (I'm reminded of Dan Flavin's fluorescent tube sculptures, which he returned to the hardware store once his shows were done -- at least, before they started selling for six figures) to an embrace of the widely-held conceit of using synthetic, disposable matertials to render the heroic signifiers of our natural landscape, creating an obvious polemic between form and material, and the implied content.

That being the case, I was actually more interested in Hall's work at the DepARTment; here, the sculptures, which share floor space with work by Jebal Dolson, seem a little less of a one-liner, and more ominous in their intent. Like her orginal wall work for Pospieszynski, the DepARTment (man, that's tough to type repeatedly) pieces are geometrically complex, silvery, weird; almost molecular, the implication -- of elemental building blocks of matter, rendered from sparkly trash -- gives pause. They're also, it can be fairly said, gorgeous, which helps complete the picture. A lot.

All that said, Hall's 'unknown' status appears set to vanish; following this work, she's been chatting with the National Gallery about the possibility of showing there -- which, three years out of an undergraduate degree, is not bad at all. Stay tuned.

Dear Dad: Alice Gibney at Board of Directors

I recently received an email from an artist I didn't know named Alice Gibney. As you can imagine, this happens a lot; there are way too many of them, and, as we all know too well, far too few of me.

For the record, I read all of them. This one had me reading twice. "From the Gut," the subject line said. Gibney, a recent OCAD grad, explained how she had a solo show at Board of Directors on Queen Street; she then went on to explain its genesis.

Last year, not long out of school, Gibney went to New York to participate in a residency. The day after her arrival, she received a call from home; it was her mother, telling her her father had had a heart attack. A rushed, panicked plane ride later, and she joined her family by her father's side at the hospital. He was unconscious. Three days later, he had passed. In May of this year, Gibney went back to New York to complete the residency; the work at the gallery is the result of both that interrupted residency, and a very long year of debilitating grief.

I relate this story not just to illuminate the work, but to highlight something I believe about art generally. I'm often in awe of the clever intellectual gymnastics of which artists can be capable, reference-laden works that comprise the entire western pictorial tradition, and the history of critical discourse in a single piece. Impressive, to be sure.

But for me, work with raw, visceral energy, communicating something undeniably human, isn't just the best work -- it's the only work. Gibney passes this test. Her drawings are a barely-controlled flood of incomprehensible emotion, as is always the case in personal cataclysm; her drawings run the gamut from all-enveloping despair to tender humour, grieving her loss while celebrating her father's life. You can feel this work in your bones. All great art comes from the gut. Gibney found hers the worst way possible, but maybe found herself along the way. The show closed on the weekend, but Gibney's work can be found on her site at www.alicegibney.com.