September 21- October 7, 2023

liza-sokolovskaya.com

Liza Sokolovskaya’s first solo exhibition, It is the Closest We Will Be, is a humorous and poignant exploration of materials and memories, featuring oil paintings, textile works, acrylic skins, small sculptures, and papier maché objects. The concept for the installation is an artist’s live-work studio, the environment filled with images, detritus, and treasures from Sokolovskaya’s life, sometimes autobiographical, and at other times fictional. The works in this show are strongly suggestive of the idiosyncrasies of memory, its permeability, the way it fades and is distorted. Certain things, people, places, and questions haunt us. The show is focused on Sokolovskaya’s experience as an immigrant and her migratory life, travelling from Uzbekistan to Montreal, to New York, and then returning home. This show is a sort of homecoming as she was raised in Montreal, but left for several years to study in New York City.  Sokolovskaya was born in 1989 in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, and her family immigrated to Montreal when she was a child. 

Sokolovskaya moved to New York City in 2016 when she began studying at the New York Academy of Art. NYAA has an esteemed MFA program, and is known for classes which focuses on technique and working from live models. After graduating, Sokolovskaya maintained a strong studio practice, during which she has explored painting pleinair painting, oil painting on mylar, textile art, making shaving cream monotypes, and more. Her experience at the prestigious NYAA refined her painting practice, but also seriously loosened her up and gave her oeuvre a sense of cohesion. She learned how to paint the figure from life, to work more quickly, and to paint more boldly with larger brushes. The result is that her paintings are more dynamic, immediate and approachable and they mesh successfully with her more experimental and playful pieces. 

When you enter It is the Closest We Will Be, you start with a mix of new and old, prints, paintings, and two fibre works, on the whimsically-painted early 20th century walls. The choices make more sense as you take in the entire exhibition. To our left, we see the distended torso of a woman with long brown hair hanging in tendrils like Medusa’s snakes, a fragment of the artist. We cannot see her face, but this oil and oil pastel painting’s title, Disease or Desire, asks the question most on the viewer’s mind. Golden Tooth, Beaded Eyes a stuffed and beaded textile piece that looks like a mask almost seems to mock or threaten us as we approach, like a gargoyle warding off those who may not appreciate the show with its bared beaded teeth and beady eyes. On the walls of the hallway leading to the main exhibition room, we see two more fresh oil paintings from this year. Curved, in cool violet, blue, and lemon yellow, is a self-portrait nude torso  that shows a body that seems to bend in a stretch, or perhaps just an odd position as she uses the selfie camera on her phone. Also pinned up in the hall is a painting of the arm of the artist’s father painted lovingly and softly against the luminous folds of a pink duvet. The works in this transitional space set the mood for self-reflection and family history.  A bright abstract acrylic skin shows us that things are about to get weird. 

Entering the unconventional main exhibition space, the viewer is probably unsure whether they are intruding upon a private studio, as there is an odd combination of coloured walls, paintings on the wall, odd works scattered about, furniture, and objects which are not normally seen in an art gallery. In the corner to the right of the entrance is an artist’s working station. On a drawing table are a sketchbook, a few art supplies, and a papier mâché Opus card that would definitely not get you a ride. Upon closer inspection we find a lumpy paper cup with questionable ability to hold a drink, and a papier mâché painted apple core, surprisingly detailed, evoking an image of the artist having just left off sketching and snacking. Set up near the work station are a bra with detailed eyes, both seductive and creepy with beaded eye-whites. You can imagine a needle piercing the eye again and again, and lower eye lashes dangle strangely. Above this bra, as if just stripped out of it, are pearlescent white papier mâché sculptures of the artist’s champagne glass breasts. Kitty-corner to those works is the shape of Sokolovskaya’s belly, and above it, gold-tipped breasts. 

Attention grabbing works a bit further into the space are the bright acrylic skins hanging near the middle of the gallery that are made to look like human skins. They are both funny and grotesque, draped over coat hangers suspended on a closet bar, as if the dotted paint garments are the artist’s human self waiting to be put on. The skin, our largest organ, allows us to feel, to touch and be touched, and to a figurative painter, the skin is so important. The way human skin looks in different light, the way it can reveal our inner workings, our muscles and bones underneath, the ripple of cellulite, the pulse of blood, our fragility, our textures. To paint skin well is to have mastered one of the most difficult things there is to paint. 

Pinned unstretched on the wall near the skins are oil paintings of Sokolovskaya’s lover posing with them. It is a bit meta, since the acrylic skins are rendered in a painterly, almost pointillist or pixelated way, and then we have two paintings from this year of the skins posed with real humans. In My Bed, shows lovers’ legs stick out from under the bed covers along with the feet of her acrylic skin. It makes me think of someone sitting with the memory of a person who is about to fade away, vanish into little dots of colour. These paintings show intimate scenes, that are a bit comical and also sad in a way. They remind me of how we sometimes cling to outworn relationships, to who we thought our lovers were, to the memory of them. On the other canvas, Your Arm, Sokolovskaya’s lover’s arm is embracing the skin of her body left behind, as if she shed it like a snake and he remains in bed with what is left of her. The human experience is inherently tied up with mortality, with wear and tear, with love and loss. Sokolovskaya touches upon this with quirky curiosity and a touch of existentialism. The unstretched canvases themselves speak to the transitory nature of the artist’s relationship between New York and Montreal. They were rolled and put in her luggage and brought on the train from city to city.

In painting, Sokolovskaya often makes portraits, painting models in class, friends, and most typically, herself. She is interested in moments that are unposed, unusual, funny, and even unflattering. Conventional beauty is not a primary interest to her in making work, and she even explores what many would call ugliness, and yet her work is often beautiful because of her skill with light, colour, and her ability to seemingly effortlessly render skin, bone, and body through a series of dynamic, rapid, yet keenly observed brushstrokes.

Perusing the show feels as if you are creeping in voyeuristically on a private space of the artist in an intimate moment. The ghost of Sokolovskaya—painted loosely on a clear curtain— showers nude in a corner, while on the bed a slice of New York margarita pizza waits for her. Blue-rimmed bowls from her childhood in Uzbekistan and round, hearty Uzbek bread are memories waiting to comfort her, while on the futon bed is a Tarot spread of three cards perhaps indicating a question about the future. The thick cards, the Tower, the Fool, and the Magician, set the tone for change and upheaval, with a touch of hope.  The cigarettes which discretely fill the space, in corners, on the sheets, in a bowl, suggest the persistence of a habit, or anxiety. The butts glow with life, skillfully painted, they seem hot and flammable. Some are long with ashes, and some are even gold, as if they are fantasy cigarettes. Sunny side up eggs are scattered around on paper plates, and even loose on a shelf, making the place appear both strange and lived-in. Are these dreams of eggs? Who is this messy, hungry person? 

We find her painted loosely in the corner on the shower curtain, a nude brunette, soaping her pits. Acrylic skins of a one-piece bathing suit and bra and panties hang beside. Perhaps the artist is showering paint from her body, or returning from the pool, and will get dressed afterwards, have a cigarette, and think about her next painting while eating her slice of pizza or finishing her eggs. On the bed we find an acrylic skin of a sock that looks like it could have come out of a Phillip Guston painting.  Papier mâché Opus and Metro cards make it especially clear the on-the-ground relationship to both cities Sokolovskaya has, and they are strikingly accurate, but also cartoon-like, somehow, in the way they are rough and thick, the opposite of what the sleek familiar cards are. The most erotic painting in the show, Red Body, is an oil painting tacked up by the shower, a pink torso of Sokolovskaya done from a steep perspective that calls to mind nudes one might send to a lover late at night, as seemingly huge fingers graze the bare surface of her pubic mound and her breasts fade off into darkness. The image is faceless.

There is a zest for life here, a hope for the future, and a nostalgia for the past, what could have been, what was and what wasn’t. The works call to mind the way that memory functions, they are wobbly, melting away in a moment. Memories are not as clear from year to year, and eventually they become memories of memories, cartoon-like. Sokolovskaya’s first solo show is a synthesis of everything that came before, and a promise for what is to come, when she returns to Montreal—as this exhibition foreshadowed—to live and work. As in Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey, however, she doesn’t return empty-handed. She returns with new knowledge, new skills, new relationships, and the drive to create new works. She also returns with the aim to create community, which she has been doing for a few years now with her Artist Confluence project that she is bringing to Montreal. 

It is the Closest We Will Be is a strong first show from an artist keenly interested in personal reflection, materiality, and experimentation. Deeply considered and finely executed, the works in this show don’t take themselves too seriously. Sokolovskaya seems to have an innate understanding that life is best felt deeply and lived lightly. To do being human well is to be powerfully present while remaining skilled at all the release and letting go that necessitate the mortal experience. In this installation there is a fascination with the self that is the pursuit of many figurative painters, especially young ones—the questions “Who am I? Where have I come from? Where am I going? Why am I here? Can I make others understand me?” arise from all deep thinkers and feelers. But beyond the personal, there is also a fascination for what it means to be human, what it means  to deeply inquire, to deeply seek to understand and interpret one’s own human journey, which, although unique, is an experience we all share.

@Liza.Sokolovskaya

Atelier Suárez, Belgo Building #325

As you enter the space you are aware that this is something different. It is not a white formal cube. You might even be a little confused. You’ll stop in your tracks for a moment, trying to figure out if you are welcome or trespassing. At the entrance, you are greeted by 4 large scale paintings and as you look around the space, you see a chair with some clothes on it, white socks and high heels on the floor below it, red candles burning, a wig and with the corner of your eye you notice a blue shirt hanging on a hanger. Right in front of you, there is a big blue painting. A man is standing with his back to you, in a blue bathroom, brightly lit by the sun coming through a window. Does the shirt belong to the man depicted? He is naked and is taking a step towards the sink. You are witnessing an intimate moment and you are unsure if your presence is known or not. Will he be surprised if he turns around? Are you allowed in? 

These are the questions the viewer is facing in this show. What For My Maddened Heart I Most Was Longing presented in Atelier Suárez, is Kara Eckler’s first solo show in Montreal, which displays works spanning two decades. The title comes from Sappho’s Hymn to Aphrodite translated to English by William Hyde Appleton. In the hymn Sappho treats themes of love, devotion, desire, religion, and heartbreak, Kara Eckler’s show touches upon themes of intimacy, sexuality, eroticism, and mysticism. There are ten large scale paintings on the walls and 16 smaller pieces that are presented off the wall. The space around them is filled with familiar objects like lingerie, bottles, candles, ropes, bags, shoes, and wigs which complement the work. This presentation heightens your awareness that these paintings are part of lived reality, they are the artist’s experiences. In this show, you can’t help but feel a little voyeuristic, shy, and awkward, facing things that are usually kept private.

Sex and intimacy so often stay behind closed doors, in password protected folders, in erased browser histories and whispers. However it is also an important element of our human experience that we cannot ignore. Kara Eckler courageously opens up, allows you to witness her and her loved ones, which hopefully prompts you to open up in return. The nudity isn’t shocking as one might expect, it’s vulnerable and real. It isn’t the lustful gaze of a voyeur, searching scenes that titillate, but the loving gaze of a participant, someone who shared these moments. You are privileged to be invited into the world of those depicted. 

Two narratives emerge in the show, the one of the painted world and the one of the real life objects. These objects play a double role, some are a way into the painting, an element that comes to life and allows you to understand what is happening, others present a riddle. In the forefront of The Witches’ Sabbath, which depicts two female figures reclining in bed, you see a wine bottle and a glass, you’ll notice the same dark glass bottle, right underneath the painting, sitting on the floor, like a relic of moments past. On the floor by Watching, Waiting, Waking, a dark red canvas, depicting a reclining female and a small, curled up male figure in the background, you see a candelabra. Are these candles here for illumination or part of a magic ritual? You notice the female figure’s harness and the hint of wings on the male. The piece feels both calm and eerily gloomy, as if the two are stuck in some sort of wasteland or limbo. The uncertainty you feel about the meaning of this piece is repeated in others and heightened through surreal elements of extra limbs, doubling, recurring characters, and fantastical elements throughout the show.

Kara Eckler’s foray into mysticism started early. In 2002, after receiving her BFA in Painting and a BA in Creative Writing in Albany, NY, she moved to Canada to study Tantra and meditation. You can clearly feel the influence of that, both in the paintings as well as the presentation.

Kara Eckler has undeniable skill and ability to paint in an idiosyncratic way. You can connect to her works through their humanity and vulnerability as well as by appreciating the beauty of putting oil paint to canvas. She is striving to show the viewer the reality she has witnessed or participated in, but she is also allowing her medium to enhance that. She is not here to spell out everything for you. She might render a plant, a glass, a foot, a breast, but she is also allowing the freshness of a quick first layer to show in a hand, a window, or a bed. These painterly moments make you wonder, is this a memory or a fantasy? Are those your memories and fantasies? 

In the middle of the room stands a painter’s stool, with coils of rope and a paintbrush, which feel like metaphors of the themes of the show. The brush points to a visible love for painting, particularly oil painting. Large canvases, bold thick brush strokes, saturated colours, and human figures almost life size are the hallmarks of a painter in love with the medium. Rope on the stool that we see tied as a pentagram harness in The Witching Hour remind us of power exchange practices, magic, rituals of binding and constricting, but also the incredible need to trust the world and to let go, just as a painter does in the studio.

What For My Maddened Heart I Most Was Longing is a bold challenge thrown at the viewer. The taboo surrounding the themes explored might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it is undeniably daring to open yourself up as Kara Eckler does. These paintings depict nudity, sex, and mystical practices. The scale is imposing, the people real. No-one is hiding under the hairless, peach coloured, blended skin of french academicism. What you see, is what was lived. 

Liza Sokolovskaya

To anyone who lives in cities like Montreal or New York City, space is a luxury; to live in a 250-square-foot studio apartment in the downtown core, one must make creative choices to maximize the use of available space. Thankfully, artists thrive on limitations. Perhaps that’s why both of these cities have such reputable art scenes. 

From April 13 to May 6, the smallest studio in the Belgo Building invites you to Petit et Intime: Exploration de peinture, textiles et photographies, an opportunity to discover over 41 small-scale works from a group of artists hailing from Montreal to New York City. The studio-turned-gallery unites an eclectic mix of paintings, textiles and photography, all of which are 12” x 12” and under.  

When you happen upon the studio entrance on the fifth floor, you first peer into a whimsically painted corridor lined with artwork, beckoning you to wander inside. Following the trail of tiny frames, colourful fibres and canvas, you emerge into a cozy main room, flooded with light from two large windows. There, I was greeted by co-curator and figurative painter, Kara Eckler. 

Liza Sokolovskaya, painter and mixed media artist based in Brooklyn, is the other half of the curating duo that sought to gather the works of independent artists deserving of a closer look. 

“We asked the artists to submit up to ten of their smaller works, including studies that may lead to larger works in future iterations, and we selected two to three for the show,” said Eckler, “there are so many talented independent artists out there who are not represented by galleries, and we wanted to give their work the attention we felt it deserved.” 

The two curators deftly arranged the submitted works into a cohesive narrative, despite the pieces originally sharing no thematic connection aside from their scale. Featured artists include visual artist and writer Lauren Anders, painters Sophia Skayafas and Zachary Sitrin from New York City, painters Madeline Richards, Ben Williamson, Mary Hayes, Heather Euloth, Heidi Daehler, Jessica Joyce, Karine Guyon, Alex Coma, Colette Campbell-Moscrop, and Luis-Fernando Suárez, photographer Lekui, and painter and fibre artist Lea Elise, from Montreal.   

To fully immerse yourself in the experience of Petit et Intime, you must accept the invitation to stop, lean in and decipher. Though the works are small in size, each one draws you in with a powerful inquisitive force, daring you to explore far beyond the boundaries of the material. 

This challenge to examine the content through the container’s surface becomes immediately apparent with the very first set of pieces flanking the gallery entrance; Study for The World Made Strange and Study for Butterfly 1, two pastel studies by Madeline Richards. In both pieces, we see human limbs emerging from a body of water, held afloat by soft pink flotation devices. In Study for the World Made Strange, the limbs are almost disappearing below the surface, seemingly flailing to remain visible. In the second frame, a body glides at the surface, buoyed by floaties arranged in a way that resembles butterfly wings. These pieces set the mood for the exhibition, where the viewer will be in a constant state of negotiation as to whether to tiptoe gently along or dive right in.

In Pensées roses by Kara Eckler, a woman sits upright in her bathtub, gazing down at her naked body, her corporeal shape hidden by the edges of the tub. Though the scene is voyeuristic, the painting has a rather soft and tender quality. This feeling lingers as your eyes drift onto its neighbouring piece, Built a home for you by Heidi Daehler, where you observe a deer through what appears to be a porthole window. In both cases, the viewer does not wish to disturb the subject, but instead hold space for their vulnerable stillness.  

As you round the corner, the works become more abstract, such as a triptych of paintings from the series titled Touched by Jessica Joyce. The soft, bruise-like surfaces of the panels include visible hand marks, tempting you to press your digits against those of the artist, typically considered a forbidden act of connection between the art and the observer. Come closer, but keep your hands to yourself. 

Playing against this soft stillness, the brightly coloured abstract fibre work of Lea Elise vibrates alongside neon abstract works Bewitched and Utopia by Karine Guyon. In this moment, the formerly gentle signal jams, producing textures and visuals reminiscent of glitch art. You might wonder what would happen, should these threads of wool, silk, and linen unravel, or the strokes of oil pastel lift off of the page. What messages would we decode from them? What immense web would they create?

Before reaching the main room, I was intrigued by a tiny set of hands with their thumbs and index fingers joined together, welcoming us to the next stage of our journey. The Polaroid photograph captured by Lauren Anders, Untitled (Hands) is mysteriously charming. Again, the viewers are asked to pause and wonder if we are meant to understand what is being communicated through a gesture.

At the heart of the exhibition, every available surface at eye level offers delight. Unbound by its size limitation, the collection presents a satisfying range in scope of perspective, such as an interpretation of a planetary surface captured in Sué – Chibcha by Luis Fernando Suarez, or the speckled night sky in Amateur astronomer by Ben Williamson. Seeking feelings closer to earth, there is the heartwarming simplicity of Softscape by Heather Euloth or the teenage angst that exudes through the watercolour in Canicule – Étude by Mary Hayes. 

Especially after a long period of isolation brought about by the Covid-19 pandemic, there seems to be a renewed appreciation for the ways in which people might share spaces, as well as a growing need for the revival of communal artistic experiences. To Eckler, there is momentum gathering towards more collective art initiatives, and opening her studio to other artists was a small step towards much bigger things. 

  “I took over this space at the start of the pandemic, and I was working here during the lockdowns and curfews. When things started to calm down, I felt a shift, where artists were really itching to get out and make things happen,” shared Eckler, “There’s a really strong art community in Montreal. I’ve received a lot from it, so it’s nice to be able to give back and share this beautiful space with others.” 

Moving through the gallery, it was easy to forget the limitation of space and focus instead on the abundance of spirit that was gathered there. I ended my visit with Liza Sokolovskaya’s Night Pool, where I stood peering into the depths of an empty inground swimming pool. It is quiet now, undisturbed, but I know that when the sun rises again, it will come alive with all kinds of people splashing around, treading water, their bodies rendered weightless. 

Petit et intime runs until May 6 in studio 531. 

Mia Sandhu

Mia Sandhu is a Punjabi-Canadian artist, born in Canada, currently residing in Toronto. She is an artist who often works with issues of immigration, identity, femininity, and sensuality. Seeing You, Seeing Me, Seeing You was Patel Brown’s second exhibition at their Montreal gallery, and Sandhu’s first solo exhibition in Montreal.  These works explore, among other things, the relationship between pleasure and shame. Her figures appear to be at ease with their bodies, confident in their sexuality, at home in their environment and being seen. Perhaps they are so relaxed because some of their most personal  physical features, their faces and genitals, are obscured by clouds of black smoke-like veils. The exhibition consists of many works on paper, made with gouache, watercolour, pencil, and charcoal. Paintings on paper are surrounded by vintage furniture (loaned from the personal collection of Patel Brown Montreal gallery director Roxanne Arsenault) and installation elements that create a homey, stylish, and pleasantly kitschy environment for her works. Her inspiration here comes from her collection of vintage erotica, her work as a set painter in the film industry, and her family photos from the seventies, all of which contribute to the aesthetic.

I first discovered Mia Sandhu’s work at the Patel Brown booth at the Papier Art Fair a few years ago in Montreal. I remember her work as exemplary in the use of materials, and striking in her portrayal of the erotic. It was a breath of fresh air at an art fair where senses are overloaded, making a lot of work seem underwhelming. Sandhu’s works on paper stood out and I was delighted to find them again at the fair in the following years. Patel Brown is a welcome new addition to the galleries in the Belgo Building, as an established gallery that is strongly curated, very contemporary, with a brave sensibility that doesn’t shy away from the erotic and the weird, traits which aren’t that common in Canadian art spaces. As a Punjabi-Canadian of mixed cultural identity, and Sandhu’s works have long examined cultural hybridity. Her work often conveys mixed feelings and experiences, dealing with polarities such as shame and self-love, belonging and alienation. 

The women in these paintings continue the connection to Sandhu’s last solo show at Patel Brown in Toronto, Golden Girls, except here, the figures are often pregnant, and the overall feel here is more erotic and bizarre. Luxuriating in their own feminine power and grace, bedecked in vintage stockings and heels, sporting full 70s-style bushes, the women seem to be part of a secret sisterhood, perhaps Sapphic, perhaps platonic. They tease us, they enjoy their own existence, and they look at us with the same curiosity with which we regard them. These women see us, the viewer, seeing them. Sandhu’s women are playing up this exchange, legs spread over the arms of a chair, frank gazes meeting ours. These women’s soft, lavish pubic hair mimics the colour and texture of their smoky crowns. Though the smoky veil that enshrouds their visages, these women peer at us with a steady and sometimes flirtatious, sometimes inscrutable regard. There is an erotic exchange of energy in watching and being watched, and these women are disrobed in a way that heightens the eroticism of their bodies and situations. They seem to be fantasy images, yet they are simultaneously beings in and of themselves. Spirits of an idealized 1970s, when free love was the thing and many people had sexual awakenings via breaking down of self or societally imposed sexual mores and conventions.

Many of the women in this series are pregnant, but they seem to be so frankly, ripe with creativity and self-possession. There is no sign of a husband or children around, and the demands of childrearing do not beckon. The sense of the pregnancies in this series seems to be in the way that women are creative goddesses of mystery, rather than possessions intended to extend the tribe and lineage. All of the women who are visibly pregnant in these works seem to be in the last month of their pregnancy, ready to bring new life—new creation—into the world, thereby transforming themselves and the lives of their babies forever. In this way, we are reminded of the artist’s role in bringing new work into the physical realm.

Mia Sandhu has a delicate, skillful touch, a mastery with line that makes one peer closer to admire the skill in the rendering of floral textiles and the details of gorgeous houseplants that surround her figures, enhancing the atmosphere of time and place. There is a pleasant contrast between the opaqueness of gouache with the translucency of watercolour, especially layered here over creamy, warm-coloured paper.  I am reminded of the rich history of erotic paintings on paper in Asia, examples of which can be found in humourous Japanese erotica, and often philosophical Chinese paintings, which represent slices of daily life, and the harmony of yin and yang represented in both sexes taking equal pleasure in each other.  More importantly is the connection to Sandhu’s own heritage, there is a long tradition of gorgeous erotic paintings on paper in India. Sandhu’s interest in putting her figures in domestic environments, surrounded by bold colour and patterns harkens to the rich history of erotic art in Asia and India, but as a contemporary painter she brings a soft but confident touch, contemporary line and rendering skill, a personal inquiry, and a sense of playful taboo. A woman, especially one raised with an awareness of Eastern culture and mores, would have a keen sense of what is acceptable and not acceptable in terms of sexual expression and modesty. The historical predominance of Christian Anglo-Saxon values on colonial Canada makes this country also not so open to sexual expression, feminine pleasure, or self-possession, feminine sexuality is only acceptable if it is a thing to be consumed and profited from by someone else. Such influences are still quite palpable here today, though of course to a much lesser extent than in the past. I do not doubt that the mixed cultural heritage Sandhu possesses has contributed strongly to her interest in portrayals of concealing and revealing. Probably it the contrast between the two states, the sense of becoming, of transition, that makes these works so compelling.

In A Vessel to Hold 4, a heavily pregnant woman regards herself in the mirror, she seems to be calmly admiring what she sees. The Vessel to Hold paintings speak of the way a mother holds their baby within, and the comforting sensation of being held, and perhaps, to hold one’s own soft, round curves, or that of another. They speak of what it is to nurture and be nurtured, and of the embracing, supportive nature of womanhood and sisterhood. A Vessel to Hold 9, a pregnant woman is attired in a diaphanous blue blouse, her swollen breasts and nipples visible over her large belly, which she holds proudly while regarding us. She seems to ask us to admire what she has made. She sits heavily with physical presence on an antique chair of soft wood and wine-coloured velvet. A Vessel to Hold 10 shows two pregnant nymphs, wearing vintage stockings and lace, luxuriating playfully on a bed lush with blue and white curtains, from which wild Queen Anne’s Lace flowers emerge. Sandhu’s pregnant vixens do not allow for the Madonna and whore duality, they convey the sexy magic of a voluptuous pregnant woman, who can still be desired and desire even though she is a mother-to-be.

In the Chrysalis paintings, the figures are again covered with thick black smoke, but they are wearing transparent fabric, perhaps gauze. The title of this mini-series implies they are emerging from silken cocoons, resplendent and transformed. In many Eastern countries, influenced by Muslim traditions, women are veiled, but these chrysalises do not conceal, they reveal the glorious transformation of the feminine body, perhaps from childhood to puberty, then maturity, pregnancy, and beyond. In Chrysalis 6, the curvaceous woman kneels on a bed, regarding us with almost frightful self-possession, eyes just points of piercing light through the darkness. She appears before large golden rings, dried flowers, and plants—familiar as installation elements in this exhibition. 

In the Waxing and Waning paintings, women disguised by floral shrouds are paired together to play, support, and embrace each other. Waxing and Waning 16 presents a figure concealed by a floral fabric leaning in to caress a reclining woman whose breast is nearly exposed as she receives a red finger-tipped embrace. The black cloud seems to seep like liquid over the bodies and the bed, almost as if it is an extension of the fluid energy of the couple. Sexual symbolism is apparent in Pussy Willows and Cat Tails, we see the “tail” of the figure, clad in a thong. The bullrushes, or cat tails, look phallic, paired with the delicate toes of the pussy willow branches. 

A play on words, and with a nod to popular culture, the bodies in Mia Sandhu’s Bawdy paintings could be considered raucously, joyously nude and lewd. They’re playing in decidedly kitschy 70s environments, enjoying their physical forms and showing off. Full, heavy breasts, costume jewelry, furry armpits, and more greet us. The woman in Bawdy 37 has a leg thrown over the arm of a wicker chair, revealing white panties. She is holding an apple, like Eve, yet shameless. This work is intriguingly presented on a wooden shelf, flanked by retro decorative elements, against a white and mustard-coloured floral patterned wallpaper, almost as a shrine. This style is reflected in Bawdy 36, where a white opaque-stockinged nymph coquettishly draws a stemmed flower between her legs as she kneels on the floor before a chair and houseplants. The painting is flanked by campy candle holders against a different type of vintage-style wallpaper. These works by Sandhu create a scene that reminds us to gracefully, playfully enjoy while asking ourselves: what is the nature of self, embodiment, and pleasure?

The signature black smoke around the women in Seeing You, Seeing Me, Seeing You, is like a dark nimbus, light but thick, allowing us to see curious, sensual eyes through the clouds. The black veils are almost afro-like, echoing the dense bush between their legs which obscures and mystifies their vulvas. The nipples and areoles are lovingly rendered, with great attention to variations of colour and texture which make them remarkably lifelike.  Sandhu’s women are queens, Goddesses, courtesans, porn actresses, mothers— archetypes of luxury, physical and emotional nurturing, and sensuality.  Their veils obscure their identity, cloak them in anonymity, beyond reproach or identification, rendering them archetypal. They play, exploring the connection to the other, to the world, within self-designated realms of boundary and safety. exposed and concealed.

Instagram: @patelbrown @mia.sandhu

Photo credit: Kyle Tryhorn @gingerhorn

Louis-Bernard St-Jean’s latest solo exhibition, Lieux Sauvages, at his studio-gallery, Espace 230, is his most current exploration of colour and texture using oil paint on panels and paper. These works are inspired by his ventures into the Quebec wilds, in places such as the Laurentians, in Lanaudière, near the Missisquoi River, and the Saguenay, where he hiked and paddled, and of his dreams to visit tropical climes and lush rainforests. This series reflects the peace and quiet of nature, where the artist finds a safe space away from the bustle of the city amongst the wildlife and the waters. 

I’ve watched St-Jean’s art career for the past several years with interest, and it is clear that he is a devoted painter. His technique of using palette knives to create abstract compositions has developed significantly and steadily over the years.  Born in Montreal in 1979, St-Jean’s higher education was in other fields, he is a self-taught artist. Still, don’t mistake him for a parvenu, painting is in his blood. Going back several generations, his ancestors painted the canvases that adorn churches and cathedrals in and around Quebec City. His parents were artists, collectors, and art dealers, and to say St-Jean grew up around art would be a vast understatement. He was raised around some of the best Canadian and Quebec art that was being made at the time, and which esteemed highly today. Unaware that he would later become an artist himself, painting was steeped into his subconscious. The entire family home was filled with works by European greats such as Salvador Dali, Joan Miró, Automatistes such as Jean-Paul Riopelle, Paul-Émile Borduas, Marcelle Ferron, Marcel Barbeau. These works were beside Abstract Expressionist Joan Mitchell, lyrical abstractions of McEwen, Quebec landscape painters of the 20th century such as Marc-Aurèle Fortin, Stanley Cosgrove, Plasticien Fernand Toupin, the Group of Seven and many others. St-Jean started painting in his early 30s when he wanted art for the walls in his home, but nothing suited his aesthetic sensibilities and fondness for textured paintings. Painting soon took over his life, and he quit his mainstream career in 2015 to be a full-time artist.

Being surrounded by such great art from Quebec and beyond, St-Jean was significantly impacted by the culture of painting of that time, which includes, of course, the ethos of the Automatistes, as well as the ideals of the Plasticiens who came after. Both movements influence his work, though it is more on an intuitive or subconscious level, fitting for the work of someone influenced by the Automatistes. The Montreal-based Automatistes formed an artistic movement that shunned religion and institutional education and sought to tap into the unconscious mind. The group’s members extolled the virtues of creating without pre-planning. St-Jean pulls on Automatiste styles of painting with his penchant for using the palette knife and other tools, shunning the traditional brush thusfar. He is an experimenter who pushes how far painting can go, building up surfaces with significant layers of oil paint, which create challenges to overcome, but he seems to enjoy pushing himself and his works to their limit, even creating successful works of thick impasto oil paint on paper, a notoriously delicate and fragile medium. With a keen sense of craftsmanship and attention to detail, attention to surface qualities of form, light, and colour, St-Jean also has a kinship with the Plasticiens which were one of the only locally-driven art movements to originate in Quebec. Responding to the Automatiste’s pursuits of intuitive creation, the Plasticiens sought to focus on form, structure, and the harmonies that can be obtained within a set of self-created rules. The best artists draw on both intuition and form to create works that stand the test of time and move beyond trends and fads, which St-Jean has accomplished in these works. 

We need to remember the words of the Automatistes in their groundbreaking manifesto, Refus Global, that changed the artistic and philosophical nature of Quebec when considering the current state of contemporary art: 

“To break definitively with all conventions of society and its utilitarian spirit! We refuse to live knowingly at less than our spiritual and physical potential; refuse to close our eyes to the vices and confidence tricks perpetuated in the guise of learning, favour, or gratitude; refuse to be ghettoed in an ivory tower, well-fortified but too easy to ignore; refuse to remain silent — do with us what you will, but you shall hear us; refuse to make a deal with la gloire and its attendant honours: stigmata of malice, unawareness or servility; refuse to serve and to be used for such ends; refuse all intention, evil weapon of reason — down with them, to second place!…Make way for magic! Make way for objective mysteries! Make way for love! Make way for necessities!”

In today’s art world, one is expected to have a master’s degree in painting from the right schools, exhibitions at the right institutions, and to be represented by the right galleries in order to earn respect. While those achievements have real value and are coveted by artists today because of the access and success they confer, let us not forget the worlds of our influential forebears, the Automatistes who rejected the dominance of institutions as crippling to independent thought and creation. Let us celebrate artists like St-Jean who are dedicated enough to their path as an painter to forge their own way when necessary. St-Jean took the initiative to create his own space to exhibit his work at his studio, turning it into a quasi-gallery where he sometimes brings in other artists to exhibit. Let us bring these two solitudes—the institutional and the independent—together in collaboration, support, and respect. 

Louis-Bernard St-Jean is known for his dramatically textured oil paintings, which are not simply intuitively placed impasto, but rather dense layers of oil paint in multiple colours which are chopped up using the palette knife or other tools to create unique effects. Lieux Sauvages continues these pursuits. St-Jean’s artistic concerns are to stretch the limits of the medium, of the capacity of what his hand can do, what paint can do, and what can be done with various tools without using a brush. He works in large format to very tiny, from heavy works of deeply layered oil paint on wooden panels to fragile, diminutive pieces on Arches paper. As a painter, he works in tight series but is continually moving forward incrementally and experimenting. The signature qualities of his works include precision, boldness, delicacy, sensitivity, craftsmanship, and attention to detail. After completing his last monochrome series in black and white, St-Jean turned to phthalate greens, green earth, sap green, olive green, viridian, and other pigments to show the varied tones and hues that nature gives us. Typically working in vertical or diagonal lines which cut up the composition of the canvas, we are given shimmering effects as the glistening oil catches the light. With their diagonal or vertical cuts into the surface of the painting we receive an impression of weather, of rain or wind. The way the light changes due to alterations in weather is reminiscent of the way the light shifts when you as the moving spectator view these paintings as you walk by them.

Les voûtes tranquilles, or “tranquil vaults”, presents thick greens shown in the gallery space as a vertical composition, giving a sense of the vaulted appearance of the spruce forest, which perhaps inspired the architects of cathedrals of Europe that later came to Quebec. When viewed horizontally, as it can also be presented, this painting is a bit like a dark and brooding Monet, a pond in the middle of a forest at twilight, reflections of the wood on the water.

Rêveries équatoriales shows us vertical cuts that, in context of the title, make me think of a violent monsoon in a deep rainforest, where bits of light peek through, illuminating the rich and dense plant life. The title of Vous êtes ici, or “you are here”, plays off the maps we see in parks, when we find ourselves in the moment, located perhaps in a place we wish to be or do not wish to be. A small canvas, it reminds us how small we may feel, like a little point on a map in a vast national park ready to be explored. Les hibiscus, beyond the greens of this series, contains touches of red and white showing under from the oil paper.

One of the best in this series, Morphologie des plantes, seems to pull on Automatiste and Abstract Expressionist influences. We have the sense of movement, texture, and colour which emerge from the land that St-Jean and his ancestors dwelled on through so many generations. The movement of the light against dark contrasts in this painting give a sense spontaneity, a work full of life and the joy of creating. The way the strokes of lemony electric green strike the eye are similar to the way light, dancing in a constant state of movement and change, penetrates the canopy of a forest to reach the humble moss and plant life below. 

In another intimately-sized painting, Asclépiades, or “milkweed”, hints of podlike forms in a grassy landscape are closely regarded. We see touches of white, a sense of milkweed fibres which are impossibly soft and pure feeling. Écoumène was inspired by a trip to the Jardin d’Ecoumène in Launadière; this painting could be a topographical perspective of a verdant landscape, or at the same time, the opposite—a sense of an up-close view of the forest floor.

The works in Lieux Sauvages reflect the verte tendre that greets us in early spring on the mountaintops of the Laurentides, the deep greens of the dense canopies of the bush, the flashes of light through the leaves of a dark forest. I am reminded of the vastness that is Quebec and its complicated history, and the colonization of indigenous lands, where this territory was entirely once simply wild. I am also reminded of the long winters, which makes Canadians appreciate the green months even more. Of battles fought on and for these lands, and the people who return to nature here to seek peace and renewal. The spirit of the land spoke to St-Jean in these works, through his observations of various present moments, and they convey the sense of pleasure and peace with their strong colour, movement, and light.

What I found most striking about Fait ou défait, c’est idem, Galerie Deux Poisson’s fourth show, was how collaborative it was, how well the works of these four artists worked in a sort of humble synergy that was at once nameless and named. The show was curated by artist and writer Benjamin Klein, and the curation was strong in this group show; I find group exhibitions are exceedingly hard to pull off, as they too often seem forced, like a gaggle of people compelled to hang out awkwardly. Either they don’t seem to relate at all or they are gathered simply by common theme or medium, having nothing else to bind them together. In this exhibition, however, that was not the case. It had a real grassroots feeling, a sense of true collaboration and excitement. I am going to refrain from describing each work individually; the spirit of this exhibition is the sense of unity and togetherness that makes all the pieces work as a whole. 

Fait ou défait, c’est idem, translated as “done or undone is the same”, alludes to the process of art-making. How does one know when a piece is completed? Is it ever truly done? An artist can stop working at any point and call it finished, no one can ever truly know when a piece is completed, including, oftentimes, the artist. It becomes a choice, an intuition, or it could come with being fed up or having a deadline. The word faire in French means both “to do” and “to make”, so, evocatively, the show’s title could also declare, “made or unmade, it’s the same.” One’s making and one’s doing carry the seed in the same word, as well as its opposite, as from the moment we are born—or made— we start dying. 

The first thing one would encounter when entering the gallery is, ironically, a painting by Malcolm McCormick entitled, The End. It’s roughly but tenderly composed, with black “photo corners” and white script declaring “The End” in the middle. It is plaintive, mock sentimental and also cute. Smears of mustard-paint allow one to see the underpainting as if through a screen. 

If one doesn’t strictly make the rounds, the visitor would likely then notice the impressive installations at the room’s centre. On the floor is a piano-shaped wood and cloth structure titled The Sparrow on the Hill Sees the Fool Going Around by Malcolm McCormick, a painter who also works with drawing and installations. Inside are works on paper by Mathieu Lacroix and Rachel Crummey, and ceramic hands by Michelle Furlong, along with found objects. There is a play on collaboration here, music is more frequently made in a group, multiple instruments and players create greater complexity than one individual is capable of. 

Behind this piece, on a white block rests a piece by Lacroix, another legless piece—do we have a leg to stand on without our friends and collaborators?—is a three-legged chair propped up by stacks of papers and drawings, with a ceramic hand by Michelle Furlong pointing to a spot in the stacks. After this, certainly one could not help but be drawn to the immense in situ mixed media wall piece and installation by Rachel Crummey and Michelle Furlong towards the back of the gallery, titled Experience no. 2, after a piece by John Cage. Layered with bold and gestural marks in charcoal, graphite powder, acrylic paint and spray paint, the eye follows the energy of two artists and one can’t help but visualize their process, working together, erasing the work of the other, wondering if they worked in harmony or at times, adversarily. I think of how Robert Rauschenberg came to de Kooning to ask him if he could erase one of his drawings, which was allowed. Klein told me that he witnessed the process, allowing the artists to work uninterrupted, and saw how many times it could be completed, yet a new movement and shift began. It seemed a process fraught with dynamism and energy. The piece is so energetic that it cannot be contained to the wall.

A large piece of cheap-looking wall-to-wall carpet was contorted on the floor and subjected to the treatment of paint, recalling Furlong’s crumpled painted canvases. Most of the works in this show walk a thin line between ugliness and beauty, humility and humour. A leg made of black faux fur projects from the wall, reminding me of Dada creations. The piece sports rope of a gaudy purple shade, connecting the wall to the folds of carpet like an umbilical cord, its colour standing in stark contrast to the rest of the piece’s monochrome.

A painted disc of carpet stands alone like punctation on the floor, and large strips of black velcro and fringe with what appear to be large black pasties could suggest a crude face. The sort of feminine grunge aesthetic of Crummey and the slick, cool aesthetic of Furlong make an uneasy but pleasing contrast which gives the work a sort of personhood, even beastiness. I imagined it being made with John Cage playing in the background, the artist’s gestures and erasures moving to the sound like the surges of a symphony. 

Scattered throughout the exhibition are Michele Furlong’s shiny, black-glazed ceramic hands pointing, squatting and hiding. They made me think of Thing in the Addam’s family, and their ubiquitousness felt as if they were the same hand, everywhere. They seemed at times to be the hand of the curator, invisibly and gentling guiding your attention. 

Rachel Crummey is an award-winning Toronto-based abstract artist (and writer) working with painting, drawing and installation. Her work is layered, rich, and informed. She is an emerging artist who received her MFA from the University of Guelph in 2014. Her work is most successful in series, and this exhibition has a few of her works on paper, oil pastels on paper and acrylic on board or canvas. Her play of lines and layering is often very graceful. As in Experience no. 2, her installations in charcoal and graphite look like traces left by a ghost or the residue of a spirit or slug, but it could also be a kind of unusual wallpaper, worn with time and peeled away in strips. Her small works in this show are subtle in comparison to the collaborative installation, and quite accurately she describes her work as a “softly moving web.” One of her most engaging pieces here is a network or lung of actively tangled blue lines, made from oil pastel on paper.  Much of her work is very tender and touching, and improvisation plays a strong role in her practise. 

Malcolm McCormick is a primarily a painter (and drawer) but is also a multi-disciplinary artist. He’s from Vancouver and came to Montreal as an MFA candidate at Concordia. He’s spoken of being interested in colour, the formal aspects of making, collage-style work and things that are non-monumental and subtle. His work is sometimes wryly humorous and it has a sensitive yet painterly touch.

Besides The End, another funny piece sits on the floor saying: Take Me Home. Another work is an invisible house where all you can see are illuminated windows and a hastily painted, blue-steel background with brown ground and green grass, uneven letters imploring the viewer. Does the artist wish to go home, or the painting? Every painting for sale in fact says this wordlessly, and it was charming to have it so imploringly stated as it wasn’t even hung. His other oil painting, Banging Your Head Against a Warm Rock was textured with pebbles and almonds. Overall, McCormick’s work is deceptively simple, endearingly unostentatious, but skillfully handled and exploratory.  McCormick said in an interview for his Kelowna Art Gallery duo exhibition in 2017: “ I like to make things that show an accumulation of decisions, and to leave traces of each decision so that the viewer can come into it and get a sense of how this thing developed over time”. The poetically titled, “Looking into His Ear” is a painting layered with transparent polkadot fabric, which leads one to visualize the layers and channels of the body and the delicacy of listening and looking. 

Michelle Furlong is a Montreal-based multi-media artist, a recent graduate of Concordia’s Painting and Drawing program. Her work frequently consists  of cutouts, textiles, texture, silhouettes, sharp contrasts, soft forms, stylized shapes and often, a cold, almost graphic, design. working primarily in paint, drawing and sculpture. Her work is largely concerned with the body, and hands are a major player. Her drawing sits on the floor in the corner, and is layered with outlines of hands, much as a child would use their own body as a starting point for making shapes and forms, and paint with their fingers. The effect of the ghost-like hands layered in blacks and whites and layers of charcoal, using negative space, and tucked away on the floor is at once haunting, playful, and evocative. There is a sense of ephemerality and whimsy, an awareness of temporality, of the limitations to the corporeal form in Furlong’s work. The hands play throughout the gallery, dark and shiny, slick, but not sinister.

Mathieu Lacroix is a Montreal native and multidisciplinary artist who received his BFA at UQAM.  His grid of drawings here are reminiscent of architectural drawings, but also de Chirico. Some are on vellum, some on brown packing paper. There are elements of collage, and they are all cleverly composed, contemporarily-aware works that aren’t precious at all, which is why, I suspect, he titles all of these works NON ART. They fit perfectly with the drawing theme of the exhibition and the sense that creativity will continue and art will be made regardless of the means at one’s disposal. These are unpretentious drawings, and, despite being a rather conceptual show, Fait ou défait, c’est idem is also quite unpretentious and certainly process-oriented.  Lacroix’s drawings contain a sense of resilience in their delicacy. His work uses reclaimed and recycled materials such as cardboard, ordinary, cheap substances. Art can and will continue without expensive materials and resources that often make it the domain of the privileged. Lacroix’s playful sculpture, NON ART: Chair, calls to mind the absurdity of Dada, a three-legged chair. Is it a comment on academia? The third leg is made of theory, of drawings, of studies. All of his works in this show are labeled emphatically NON ART, and then given a secondary title, in this case, NON ART: Chair. As an artist he to seek to connect to the ordinary and mundane through his subject and media, then thwart our expectations. These drawings engage with formal abstraction and imaginary space. We see a square building with grass growing out of its centre, long black hair pouring down like a waterfall; we see what may be a railroad station with water emerging through it being transformed in shape by its passage through the building, the rails of which pour with light, a power station, an A frame building overruled by a flow chart, a collision of realities and geometries, an unusual combination of formal fascination and dreamy imagination. They could be diagrams made on acid or instructions for or by aliens for human society. 

The works here as a group, and even individually, don’t say “I, I”  they say “us, we”. There is a particularly Montrealaise spirit here, a sort of “struggling artist”, communal sensibility of resourcefulness, resilience and joie de vivre. There is strong sense of line, of hesitant but necessary declaration and bold erasure. The marks made by the individual on the world, the lines that tie us together. The connections. The overlap, the influence. The give and take. This exciting and ground-breaking exhibition is a sign of innovative work both in artistic production, support for emerging artists and dynamic curation taking place at Galerie Deux Poissons and bodes well for future developments. Galerie Deux Poissons is a blessing for the artistic community of Montreal for its role in maintaining the importance of the Belgo Building as a Montreal landmark which has recently lost some important galleries.

In characteristic style, the gallery space in Projet Pangée for this show is filled by a series of paintings complemented by a few sculptures produced by another artist. This time they had a figurative painter who is a formalist in Delphine Hennelly, and an abstract sculptor enamoured with magic and the subconscious in Mickey MacKenna. Both are a little mythical in choice of subject, riffing off of art history (early modernism and minimalism, respectively) and both artists work with line and stylized forms in distinctive ways, possessing also a dynamic, developing practise which is of keen interest.

It is difficult these days to paint something in a style that seems at once innovative and genuine, but Delphine Hennelly has achieved that with these strong paintings. Hennelly’s works are primarily formalist paintings interrupted by figuration, or figurative works interrupted by formalism. This body of work, in which all but one painting consists of figures painted over with mostly horizontal lines, was inspired by tapestries. Hennelly recently obtained her MFA from Mason Gross School of the Arts in Rutgers, New Jersey, and her BFA in 2002 from Cooper Union. She was born in Vancouver to parents who produced and acted in their own theatre productions and spent her childhood in an artistic milieu surrounded the shapes, forms, and garments of theatre production. It seems apparent that this mixture of creativity with the formal structure of family was formative to her. After that, Hennelly spent some years of her youth in Montreal, and is now residing in the United States.

Delphine Hennelly is a self-professed formalist. She has an interest in colour theory, and her colour choices are unusual, pinks, greens and browns abound, not usually the most compelling when seen together, as the combination is reminiscent of 60s fabrics and decor, but here they work with great luminosity and resonance. The unexpected colour choices and juxtapositions are highly satisfying. Speaking of being sated, the layers of these paintings were referred to on Pangée’s Instagram as “cake” and indeed they do seem moist and edible. Although they are painted without impasto, they are lush and generous and the visual placement does call to mind a multilayered cake. Hennelly cleverly combines her colours, the flavours of various styles, iconic imagery and decorative motifs.

Hennelly is an omnivore artist, gobbling up textiles, ceramics, British political cartoons, the French school of early modernism, and so on. By chance, while looking at another exhibition, she found a way to apply the construction of a tapestry to the construction of a painting. In these works, her competent hand weaves figuration and colour into the warp and woof of the canvas. She begins with the figures, then clean lines, then messes them up, or “wears” them, to capture the look of aged tapestries and their worn out threads. At other times she begins with the structure of the lines. Beyond these line-centric paintings, Hennelly has a strong sense of line in the sense that drawing seems facile to her, and she performs it without much modelling. I was surprised and intrigued to learn about the pace and timing of her process. She takes one to two days to select the colours of her painting, and can take as little as couple of days to a week or two to complete the painting itself.  Many of the images selected to sit behind the lines of these paintings are inspired either formally or thematically by classical drawing and sculpture. Yet, she isn’t afraid to use decorative elements which could adorn plates, children’s books, or fill the comic section of a common newspaper. Also apparent is her interest in feminist theory and the representation of women. Hennelly has spoken about the shift in her work to representing women with a consciousness of equality, rather than as objects to be looked at and desired. By utilizing fine art and the decorative and textile arts with equal focus for her inspiration, Hennelly levels the playing field and seems to take the stance that one is not superior to the other. Her older work explores femininity, what it is to be a woman, sensuality, and the body. Hennelly also deals with motherhood, protection, new life, maturity, different phases of life, and heavy topics such as the suffering of refugees, mass migration and world crises. There aren’t answers being provided here, rather there are questions presented upon which we can ruminate in the form of visual meditation on her canvases. 

The figures which you can see, more or less, by peering through the haze and maze of lines, are mother and child, the child in pink, which appears to be the protagonist of the series. Storytelling takes a backseat in these paintings, which don’t come off very figuratively, and even less autobiographically, rather they are inventive and exploratory. Hennelly is a sensitive artist whose works are often inspired by current events, social justice and the suffering of humanity, and while these themes seem to be part of what gets her in the studio, what keeps her there are the formal problems of painting. She is also interested in what lies behind and ahead in terms of art history and contemporary painting. She is an artist who is always pushing herself, experimenting, questioning, puzzling, exploring.

Memories of a Haecceity, shown in the gallery space literally in opposition to all her other works, is an example of her previous style before being intercepted by the lines and geometric forms which the viewer is compelled to see through, but sort of denied. We see a mother and child in simplified, stylized forms with shades of the classical and the illustrative. The mother holds a shaft of wheat and the pair seem to be climbing over a pile of boulders in a desert landscape with a sunny, partly cloudy sky. Haecceity is from the Latin haecceitas, a term from medieval scholastic philosophy. Haecceity is a person’s or object’s thisness, or particularity. The choice in titles is unusual since the imagery chosen doesn’t have a particularity, or a “thisness”, but the paintings do.

The Infant Praxiteles again shows a mother and child, and this one very tapestry-like as the lines are horizontal and not interrupted with other patterns. Praxiteles was a Greek sculptor who was credited with being the first person to sculpt a life-sized statue of a nude woman.  With its classical theme, strictly horizontal structure, and the title, I think of lineage, artistic and human. I think of how we pass down images throughout history, of influencers and influenced. I think of how objects like tapestries are passed down, and how we pass down our genetics, our ideas.

There is an intense repetition of motifs and even very particular images throughout Hennelly’s oeuvre. There is a sense of annihilation of meaning in this aggressive repetition, which could almost be likened to the practice of psychotherapy where one becomes desensitized to difficult topics by constant exposure.  The overarching theme of the exhibition is that of the mother and child. There is a sense of idealizing this familial relationship through classical, pagan means, and Hennelly has spoken about trying to get away from Christian ideology and imagery when painting such subjects. She often uses repetition in her work as a way of breaking down and exhausting an image.  Her tendency to over-produce one motif over and over recalls the mass production of advertising and posters, cue Andy Warhol. She destroys the image until all meaning is almost stripped away and we are left with the forms. 

The Matrix paintings I found almost impossible to decipher. With some difficulty I could make out the pink of a baby’s legs and some foliage at the top of the painting, perhaps a maternal figure sheltering the child, and some rocks. The composition vaguely recalls Renaissance art. The etymology of the word matrix is complex and fascinating. Stemming from mater, or mother, matrix literally means “breeding female” in Latin. It came to mean “womb” in late Middle English as well. The word effectively plays off its mathematical or formal meanings in modern use, where a matrix is “a rectangular array of quantities or expressions in rows and columns that is treated as a single entity and manipulated according to particular rules”, or structurally: “an organizational structure in which two or more lines of command, responsibility, or communication may run through the same individual”, according to the Oxford English dictionary. Perhaps the structure, the DNA foundation, the whole becomes more important than the individual here.

The typically horizontal lines that we view the figures through in these paintings call to mind digitization, as when looking through fuzzy, moving lines at a channel you aren’t subscribed to, giving the viewer a voyeuristic sensation as we struggle with our perception and desire to recognize forms. There’s a sense of the figures being imprisoned too, and bound to the surface. There’s a flatness to Delphine Hennelly’s work which lends it a perhaps stronger relationship to the abstract than one would assume, certainly more so than in her previous work. Her older work, lovely formally, is quite flat, very posterized in appearance with its uniform colours reminiscent of old advertisements in their simplicity. I like that she is engaged in a dynamic exploration, not keeping all the lines horizontal, experimenting with adding shapes as in The Matrix 1, Untitled and The Matrix 2, with their circles and triangles and squares further thwarting a figurative read. I particularly enjoyed Venus and Cupid for, admittedly, the easier interpretation of  the scene behind the jittering lines of the bars of paint, and how the pink eye of Cupid peers through, as if between apartment blinds. All in all, Delphine Hennelly is a challenging, inventive artist who is well-deserving of the mounting attention being paid to her work.

Although Mickey MacKenna, when first encountering her sculptures, seems to work exclusively formally, her pieces are self-portraits. Her process is poetic, imaginative and exploratory. She is a young Toronto artist who recently graduated from OCAD University with a BFA in sculpture, and she commences her MFA at the Royal College of Art in London this year; her career is taking early traction.

In Last You Saw Me, the perpendicular assembly of this wall piece is striking with its combination of a thin horizontal steel bar and soft organic material to be found in the sea sponge at each end, reminiscent of a crucifixion. By their placement and shape, the sponges are like helpless hands, waiting to receive, to soak, to grab. They are held mercilessly apart by the bar of steel, while the body (or twine with its clinging chamomile flowers from the tower of Bollingen of Jung) dangles down in resignation. The sponge absorbs what it can, what it must, in this case, the gutter water of Toronto. We are met with the high and low here, the delicate and the relentless, the natural and the man-made. As earthly beings we take in everything from our environment, from the base pollution of our corrupt surroundings to the flowers which bloom perennially, reminding us those who inspire and motivate us.

I was told by the director of Projet Pangée that the tall yellow standing piece, entitled Favia Blumen—made of wood, specifically plywood and driftwood, along with a wasp nest, chamomile flowers, sage and thyme from the tower of Bollingen of Jung, crushed seashells, and acrylic paint and varnish—represents the artist’s ego when feeling confident. I love the mix of playfulness and seriousness that is apparent upon delving in MacKenna’s work. Yellow is the colour of the solar plexus, the seat of the ego-self. The egg yolk yellow piece stands like a cartoon cutout, or one of those two-dimensional representations made out of cardboard of celebrities. A splat-shaped stand supports the piece which rises like a stem and then splits off in two stamens, topped at the throat of the taller section by the wasp nest which is dotted with herbs. It could be a parent and child, or a figure divided in two, or a plant reaching for the sun and reflecting that radiance in its own yolky glow. The imagined buzzing of the wasp nest suggests voice and even aggression, and the shorter protrusion, if seen as part of a singular figure, could be a little phallic. Thus, this sculpture does give a successful impression of self-satisfaction and happy egotism along with a bit of cockiness. Of course, once you know the title it sort of gives it away in that favia is a kind of coral and Blumen is German for flowers. It definitely looks like it could be part of a coral reef but knowing this piece is autobiographical is certainly more evocative.

MacKenna’s more low-sitting floor piece which could be mistaken for an end stand; The Fish that Caught the Hague is a piece of alabaster resting on a small table of lovely burned ash wood. I enjoyed the seemingly worn-down lines of wood, the way it looked gently and carefully burnt, the contrast of the moon-like alabaster, the richness of the wood-brown, and the way the edges of the alabaster were softened to suggest a skull. The title seems absurdist, a bit Dada, I couldn’t draw much in way of an analogy, but it sparked some curiosity and played up the absurdist quality of the piece itself, in that it was presented as an ordinary object or something that may be around the house, but it certainly isn’t. 

Nights with the Wild Boar is a standing, or rather, walking, sculpture made of driftwood, plywood and acrylic paint. It was motivated by MacKenna’s trip to the Black Forest. 

This gumby-legged piece in a sort of olive-ochre has a head that bites from its foot like a snapping turtle, and a hollow inner core, like a Dali figure. As in Favia Blumen, this figure is narrow and flat when seen from one perspective, and then comes to life when seen from the other perspective, much like a streamlined, less human Giacometti. Just going by the appearance of this sculpture and the title, you can sense its menace, mystery and determination. MacKenna constructs her sculptures as self-portraits and has an interest in Jung; we can read her works as pieces of herself, fragments which comprise a whole. It would be interesting one day to see many of them gathered together in a retrospective, forming a unity of Self in projection. In her solitary travels to the Black Forest, MacKenna had some profound experiences which she shared with me. I think it would be most fruitful to hear it in her own words: 

“My time in the Black Forest was an important part of a trip I took alone through Europe last fall. I stayed in Gengenbach which is a small and strange historic town nestled in a valley of the forest. Looking back on that time is a thicketed phantasmagoric montage. It was a time of psychological purging on all fronts and I’m grateful for the cosmic brew I had to swim my way out of. I spent my days running, meditating, writing and reading Carl Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections which is a retelling of his life from his earliest memories. At night I had vivid dreams bordering on night terrors and panicked fevers unlike anything I’ve experienced. It was a rebirth of some sort. The sculpture Nights With The Wild Boar (2018) is a portrait of that time. I found out weeks after I left Gengenbach that the Black Forest is known for its healing properties and many rehabilitation and retreat centers are hidden throughout. Wild boars run through the forest and are responsible for a handful of human deaths each year. Many believe the Black Forest is home to fairies, gnomes and spirits. 

After my time in Gengenbach I took a job in Switzerland in the farm country outside of Zürich. All of these disparate elements came together so swiftly and sweetly. I continued reading Memories, Dreams, Reflections as I found myself wandering the streets of Zürich and Basel in stride with Jung’s recollections of his life in these exact places. I felt a strong need to at least be near the Bollingen Tower and specifically the stone carvings. On a day off I drove to Bollingen which consists of a playground, a four car parking lot and a few large houses on the lake. The tower is unmarked and not open to the public but it was a cold and rainy Tuesday in November and I recognized a turret through the thick trees surrounding the property. With wind at my back that felt as though it was Jung himself I jumped the fence, then the stone wall, skinny dipped in the lake and meditated with my back upon the stone cube he carved. I can barely describe it. It was the most magical day of my life!” 

Mackenna relates to substance in a sort of magical way, much like the ritual art we call fetishes, or how a shaman works with objects and plant medicine to cause them to relate to meaning in a way that connects matter to the astral planes, bringing healing and insight. She imbues her materials with power, meaning and revelatory identity but also sensitively works with them to draw out and highlight their own innate significance and character. Her work is magical in the sense that its creation is in tune with the mysterious, transformative process known as life, which is deeply connected to art-making itself. Magic is perhaps only something we do not yet understand, but its mystery fills us with awe and humility. Mickey MacKenna’s work reminds us of the energy we imbue in objects, and the energy inherent in matter/physical existence itself.

This current exhibition at Projet Pangée is the perfect remedy for any end-of-winter blues, as its content is a romantic expression of the wonders and warmth of wild, blooming gardens and orchards, bright summer skies and special moments nature has to offer. The Flowering Songs is a collection of memories, imaginings, and glimpses into the spirit of a young womanâ€s youth: Darby Milbrath. Immediately recognizable is her expressionist style of painting. While not full realism, the viewer understands the manner in which the colours and forms are distorted to evoke the imageâ€s mood. In the first painting of the show, the two figures in the foreground are reminiscent of Henri Matisseâ€s dancers, and the rest of the image could practically be an homage to van Gogh. So, if you are interested in viewing or collecting a contemporary Canadian version of this style of painting, The Flowering Songs comes highly recommended.

Upon entering the gallery, consider Songs Of Experience a map and legend of the different settings of Milbrathâ€s featured work. The wild forest, cozy garden and distant interior introduced here could very well be the location from which the artist paints these glimpses of her past and imagination throughout the rest of the exhibit. In a few of the paintings, the figures are seen from a distance, like those mentioned above, and are gestural, interacting with the spaces and exploring the vast gardens. However, this mood is not reciprocated in the figures shown up-close in Love and the Blue Butterfly, Washing The Bedding, Wedding Moon, and Claire, Sick in Bed. Rather, their expressions are melancholic, disheartened, and even ill. These individuals are also not whole, unlike their smaller counterparts. Only faces and incomplete portions of bodies are shown, often blending in with their surroundings, they pale in comparison. With their colour being so washed-out and muted, perhaps they are to be understood as incomplete and fading memories. The contrast between these representations and the charming, romantic environments they occupy is intense and even unsettling at times.

Nevertheless, the overall effect of this juxtaposition in addition to Milbrathâ€s use of strong complementary colours is successful in forming a unified piece. The blues paired with oranges and the reds with greens result in a harmonious image. Vibrant red-oranges and deep blues and greens animate scenes of wild gardens, flowers, and fruit. Even the bright moon and sun are part of the nature upon which they shine with equal luminescence (see Red Moon in the Orchard).

More than anything, Milbrathâ€s current work is a celebration of natureâ€s beauty; a subject that clearly has had a great influence on her as an artist. The compositions, which are generally triangular, have flowing floral patterns and smoky, textured backgrounds that are married from top to bottom, un-phased by background, middle ground or foreground planes. Her rendition of hanging fruit and flowers, especially in Fruits Of Paradise, gives a sense of exuberant elegance like that of eighteenth-century Rococo and Chinoiserie interior décor. Their stems, leaves and flower petals evoke exquisite chandeliers and fine jewelry, demonstrating natureâ€s beauty reflected in art. In addition to the paintings hung on the walls, fresh apples overflow from a large planter in the center of the room and a vase of aromatic seasonal blooms rests on a stand, both providing a romantic perfume to the space and a physical presence of what the viewer sees in the images.

The Flowering Songs, open to the public until April 14, 2018, is a lovely escape into an artistâ€s secret garden and its design will surely transport the viewer into a realm of wonder and imagination.

Sarah Osborne is a young artist, who has recently completed her MFA at Concordia University and is now presenting an intimate exhibition of six paintings at Galerie Lilian Rodriguez titled Oeuvres Récentes.  The series of figurative works are marked by a bright palette and a focus on the female form. Osborne has been producing paintings of increasing flatness and luminosity which appear to be influenced by Pop Art and “Bad” Painting. This diverges from her recent focus on still lives which call to mind Warhol and various Americana, beer and other beverages, cigarettes and food products presented in a way reminiscent of advertising. Her older work was more painterly in terms of brushwork and texture, with shades of Dana Shutz and Phillip Guston, featuring plates of food which could be splashed on billboards or Instagram feeds, hot dogs, smoked meat sandwiches and so on. However, her recent work also speaks of youth and the joy of being alive, of simple pleasures and shared human indulgences.

The works in Oeuvres Récentes are painted in heightened, saturated colour—summer sky blue, dandelion yellow, lurid salmon pink, stop sign red. When we spoke, Osborne expressed an interest in painting the female figure. It isnâ€t immediately obvious that they are autoportaits because of her use of composition and cropping. We are reminded of the way women portray themselves in social media, and how that relates to the depiction of women in art history, the muse, the object of desire, the looked upon. The work doesnâ€t take a direct political stance on this subject, but can be understood as a celebration of the freedom involved in the ability to represent oneself as one wishes to the world, through the internet, through sharing images of oneself, and through painting, a realm of true agency and imagination. Her figures are largely flat, but marked with some personal characteristics, a scattering of moles, the ubiquitous red painted nails. Osborne stated that she typically portrays herself more solidly framed than she is in reality, and her washily-rendered figures often seem robustly present, although cartoonish.

With their sense of joie de vivre, Sarah Osborne creates works which seem influenced by “Bad” Painting, especially the work of Joan Brown with her sense of negative space and even, bright colour, as well as the naïve rendering of her figures and her use of the personal. In terms of “bad” painting, the perspective often isnâ€t quite right, and sometimes it is far off, the brushwork can be rough and brusque—but other times it is delicate and sensitive, betraying itâ€s “bad” style—figures seem cut-out and float in space or sink into the tiles. Flesh is rendered one-dimensionally in sunburn pink while other parts of the painting receive more varied treatment. Alex Katz also comes to mind with these recent paintings as a possible influence, with his advertisement-flat figures and arresting spaces of colour.

Pieds croisés dans les Tropiques is the first painting one encounters, just outside the little room in which her work is shown. Small and unassuming, against an orange-pink sky, tropical plant fronds frame feet clad in 80â€s style sandals, toes painted red. The style is crude, the mood is irreverent and fun. Another small painting, Journée parfait is a small canvas, a windswept landscape with a flat blue sky and a green field of Queen Anneâ€s lace. Itâ€s an American dream devoid of irony. Autoportrait avec chemise allemande is thoughtfully cropped, just a view of a neck spotted with a constellation of moles, and a white embroidered shirt, the flowers of which look like delicate stains against the pure white fabric. The blue tie for the shirt is rendered convincingly and tenderly, you can feel the playful weight of it drawn down by gravity.

Staring at the Sea reminded me of Janet Wernerâ€s recent work in some ways, as it is hyper-feminine with a focus on the strands of the blonde hair of the figure seen from behind. The enormous black bow is the most dimensional object by far in this painting, and we are more drawn into its voluptuous curves than the turbulent sea to which the figureâ€s attention is apparently directed. There is no real mood, just physicality and a sense of tranquil emptiness. It is these compositional aspects which make Osborneâ€s work is so reminiscent of Pop.

The Yellow Lobby could be a cheeky hotel guest showing up or departing clad in only chunky ankle boots and a long army-style jacket. Even the floor seems offended, the lines of the tiles curving away from her. The yellow of the lobby is indeed charming and it is offset by a green more subdued than most colours in this body of work, the stark black and white of the tiles and the shock of red nails.

Even in the most personal painting of the show, Texting in Bed at Night, remains anonymous. These could be found images off the internet, but they are not, they are self-portraits. We donâ€t get a sense of loneliness, or salaciousness, despite the view of her buttocks covered in panties boldly framed by a circular mirror, the brushwork around which is quite lovely. The wall is red as fresh blood and the curtains behind the figure are illuminated by prismatic colours, yet the night beyond seems black and lightless. Despite the isolation and fragmentation of these figures, we donâ€t get a sense of the inherent disconnection of social media culture in these works. As a millennial, Osborne seems completely ensconced in it, for those who grew up with the internet, interacting with it is second nature. Itâ€s Pop culture, unquestioned, enjoyed and not criticized.  Yet, this work does not fail to raise questions for the viewer about the influence of social media, the way we share ourselves in fragments, which are distorted views, postcards of the self. We are invited into an intimate world that is somehow also distant and removed. In making herself an odalisque, cutting herself into pieces and flattening and denying her identity, Osborne is claiming the self-image as opposed to being the muse. She has made herself her only muse thus far, but a sort of secret way, not in the show-off sense of Instagram fame. If this work is feminist at all it is understated. These paintings are more gently curious; self-curious, world curious, visually appreciative. Sarah Osborneâ€s paintings express what it is like for many to be alive and young today, infused with an appreciation for the ordinary things around them in a complicated world.

In this, Cynthia Girard-Renardâ€s second solo exhibition at Galerie Hugues Charbonneau, the work was inspired by the film of the same title, Love and Anarchy by Lina Wertmüller. Large acrylic paintings in dirt brown, green and bright pink, they are fashioned in an old cartoon style. The background consists of prints from the bark of trees and the faces of the figures derive from the artistâ€s own butt prints in gouache forming the mask-like heads of the characters. We are called to remember Carolee Schleemanâ€s body prints, the sex-positive and earth-oriented work of Annie Sprinkle and the erotic, female-centric art of Dorothy Iannone. Girard-Renardâ€s paintings draw us into the sexy and amusing interplay of mother earth, performers and nurse characters with authority figures, perhaps being treated for their fascism and misogyny. We are also presented with the artistâ€s oft-present wordplay, as well as playful forays into subversive sexuality, history and politics.

While Girard-Renard seems to believe that love is anarchy and that sexuality has the power to overturn corrupt patriarchal power structures, Wertmüller has a more circuitous attitude. In Love and Anarchy, the hero is an innocent farm boy drawn into a plot to assassinate Mussolini. The drama is largely situated in an Italian brothel, and the hero is aided by an anarchist prostitute. Complicating matters, he falls in love with another prostitute, leaving him torturously torn between passionate, blissful life and a frightful, violent death. Her film raises questions about love, violence, and power while presenting problems with anarchy and revolution. Is personal love a wrench in the gears of anarchy? Is love is the opiate of the masses? Is resistance truly futile, yet heroic, foolish efforts must be made anyway? Is love is the opposite of fascism? We are reminded of the inevitability of love and death, and of the tenuous, but precious nature of freedom. The film raises questions but doesnâ€t give clear answers, as is the way with good films. Although it received criticism from many feminists of the time for how women were portrayed as prostitutes, in hindsight we can now see that there is also an anarchic side to prostitution, and the film can be seen in this light. Prostitution falls outside of tradition and marriage, and it is outside of love but comes from a place of seeking connection and intimacy. The female leads—prostitutes all—in this film were loving, human characters with real passions and struggles of their own, well-rounded characters.

At the end of the film, the quote from Errico Malatesta appears: “I wish to repeat my horror at attacks, which besides being bad, are in and of themselves stupid because they harm the very cause they are trying to serve. But those assassins are also saints and heroes, and they will be celebrated once the brutal facts are forgotten, and all that is remembered is the idea that inspired them and the martyrdom that made them saints.” Thus, Wertmüller implies that violence isnâ€t the best method whereby fascism may be ended. Then what is?  Cynthia Girard-Renardâ€s reply conveyed through this series, is that love is, sexuality is, the rise of the feminine principle and celebration of the body and the earth are the answer. The paintings in the artistâ€s series focus on earthy browns, vivid green and luscious pinks, reminiscent of the earth and tender places of flesh. In Câ€est la fin de la monde, Mother Earth reclines, reading the French translation of Fifty Shades of Gray. The eye is kept busy with the textures of the tree rubbings in the background contrasting in colour from the viridian green of the snakeskin figures dancing above her. We see figures giving way to abandon, with the reflection of a factory smokestack in the eye of one character, and a mushroom cloud, an atomic bomb, perhaps, girded by a horizon made of hearts. Do we make love while the earth burns down? It seems to say, “this horror exists, yet we do too, and we go on loving.”

Pesistons ensemble et unis features police whose power is subverted as their forms are made humourous. One officer, face bearing Girard-Renardâ€s bum print as ever, is wearing a cheetah print thong and fishnets, and his feet terminate in ice cream cones. The other officer has limbs made from tree limbs, so his body rhymes with the dark background. Theyâ€re goofy, playful, ridiculous. Their power is taken away and they are made into figures of fun.

Infirmière activism shows a nurse wearing a strange net outfit paired with a strap-on, partnered with a patient wearing nothing but boxers and argyle socks. Psilocybin mushrooms are tucked away into the corner, and the figures themselves are repeated in miniature to the left of the canvas. The atmosphere is one of the dopey intoxication of pleasure. A balm for a sick world.   In Triolet antifasciste, prints make two of the trioâ€s heads into pumpkin-like forms, one figure of which bears penises instead of fingers. Above, the birds say: les fascists sont partis ouf. These antifascists seem to be performers, their outsized shoes are transparent and one figureâ€s outfit is striped and animated by the face of a living animal. The female figure in pink has exposed breasts and vagina and embraces Mr. Penishands. She has arms made of foliage, again harkening to the idea of woman as connected to nature and pleasure.

Another pumpkin-headed figure appears in Viva la vagina, this time a woman who emits a pink cloud from between her legs which says “good spirit” while dancing with a Medusa-like figure that is standing in its head, with the words Viva la Vagina written across the chest. In a canvas also adorned with condoms and candy, we can read at various points, fou good spirit, jâ€ai bonne nouvelles, viva la vagina and “resistance against the regulation of our bodies”. This one seems to be about pure joy and celebration. Finally, Plaisir fétichiste dâ€une militante antifasciste consists of a foot-licking male figure sitting on the floor, orange penis engorged, as he reveres the elephant-faced pink female figure. He is snail-footed, and hearts emanate from his groin. The woman says “no place for hate”.

Cynthia Girard-Renardâ€s work is often highly political, insightfully historical, but always filled with love, playfulness, and humour. She never lectures or condemns or brings us down, quite the contrary. Her series Love and Anarchy takes inspiration from a classic film and gives it her own take, one filled with hope, that love and sex can be anarchic forces capable of enacting change through personal relationships. We are reminded of the absurdity of focusing on personal issues while the world is burning down, but also how life goes on, no matter what happens in the political sphere. We may as well take what happiness we can where we can find it. And perhaps that can still make the world a better place, in the small motions of joy.