Tag: bc

“White Dresses” – Ruth Daniell

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At the open house held the day after the wedding
you did not recognize the bride until you asked

and your mother pointed her out to you.
Surrounded by wrapped gifts and ribbons,

she was wearing an elegant pant suit appropriate
for a garden party, but you were unimpressed:

you remembered the white gown of the day before,
the tiny pearlescent beads sewn all over its bodice

and the flowing skirts, the way the music swelled
around the fabric as she danced with her groom

and it made you understand something big
and important was happening to the bride

and you thought it must have something to do with
the fact she was beautiful. If I had a dress that pretty,

you said with all the wisdom of your five years,
I would wear it every day. Your mother laughed

and the anecdote became famous in the family
as you grew up. Truth is, you still feel this way,

sometimes. Your own white dress is sheathed
in plastic at the back of your closet and you worry

you will never again be as beautiful as you were that one day
you wore it. You worry it is important to be beautiful,

that there are so few ways for you to be seen in this world
because you were a girl and now you are a woman.

these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the work of Nicolas V. Sanchez

“Natural Behaviours” – Ruth Daniell

Witchcraft

On Wednesday you find a white-crowned sparrow
dead on the front step. On Thursday a halo of grey

feathers on the front lawn. You think mean thoughts
about the neighbour’s cat. On Friday you see him,

a handsome silver-coloured fellow dashing
under the wet cedars. He has no collar or bell

and he probably kills for fun. Studies report
that cats don’t only kill when hungry

and they are the number one killer of wild birds.
You have been watching the sparrows for weeks,

cheered by their haphazard foraging, their hopping,
scratch-scratching on the ground. You listened

to their thin, sweet whistle. You admired their black-
and-white heads, their pale beaks, their bodies

chubby and energetic. Wednesday’s dead bird
seemed diminished: suddenly slimmer, elegant,

none of the pleasant enthusiasm of breath and noise.
Thursday’s halo of feathers just felt unfair, obvious:

You hate that birds die. You hate that cats kill them.
But you do not hate cats. No, you hate how difficult it is

to feel good about the ways you love the world—
selectively, prejudiced towards the beautiful

and the gentle, towards the ones that remind you
least of yourself, or most. It is nesting season now

and the birds are tending quietly to their young
and you think, If they can do it, so can I.

You rub your rounding belly and you wonder.
Some conservation experts recommend all cats

be kept indoors. Yes, you think. Save the birds!
Let them all return to their carefully hidden nests.

But what do you know of feline happiness? It is
only an accident of desire that you love the birds

first and foremost, that you have spent so much time
imagining their lofty fealty to the sky, learning

their modest dedication to twig and egg and song.
It takes very little for you to feel guilty about the cats

allowed only limited natural behaviours, felt mice
and braided yarns, chicken-flavoured snacks.

When you see a cat looking out of a sun-filled window,
you do not know if you witness your own longing

or the creature’s—if you fail, as you so often do,
to forget your own feelings, to see the world

as another soul might: all that exquisite light,
that darkness, the life fluttering in the trees.

 

these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the work of Nick Liefhebber

“The Ice Show” by Erin Flegg

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The vet only had two appointments for the day, morning or afternoon, so I took the 3:45. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing I could handle until after the ice show was done.

When I arrived at the rink it was full of parents stringing twinkle lights and plastering the boards with black paper and clear hockey tape, setting the scene, and by 2 p.m. when the lights went down the place was packed. The first small group teetered out onto the ice and I was suddenly emotional, my eyes misting over. It happened again as I watched my oldest senior skater perform, in a dress that clearly wasn’t made for her, a routine we finished three days ago. The salty intrusion confused me for a minute. I had been so relieved to be done with the season, my official ties with this town dissolved, that it was unexpected. They’re good kids. I didn’t want them to think I was abandoning them.

When the final number was over the other coach and I were called to center ice. I didn’t listen to what the announcer said and instead spent my last few minutes on the ice looking at each kid. All winter, so many hours spent just keeping track of them all. The announcer had to call Ava’s name several times before she heard it and rushed over to grab two bouquets and skate them over to us. Lisa hugged her so I hugged her too, but I worried it was the wrong thing to do. I had spent more time shouting across the rink at her than saying nice things when she was close by. Pay attention, stay in your position, leave that other kid alone. But maybe she felt just as strange, had shot her hand up in the air when whatever parent bought the flowers asked who wanted to present them, eager as usual for any chance to stand out, forgetting for a moment that she didn’t actually like me very much. We assembled for a group photo and I squatted next to one of the smallest kids, holding one hand while she used the other to snake broken bits of Doritos through the cage on her helmet and into her stained mouth.

I told Lisa I had to go, grabbed my backpack and walked across the street to the vet. It was just a small white house with a sandwich board out front on the weekends when they were in town. I walked in still holding the bouquet of flowers and worried the vet tech would think I’d got them for the cat. I didn’t want her to think I was the kind of person who would buy a bouquet of flowers and bring them with me to put down my cat. I tried to hold on to the flat, easy feeling from the end of the show, skip like a stone over this part, but my partner arrived with eyes swollen and the cat in his plastic crate and I sank back down. I lifted him onto the exam table and he flopped to one side, too weak to be either curious or upset. The vet shaved a small patch on his front paw, slid the needle in and he was gone.

these words by Erin Flegg were inspired by the work of Kelsy Gossett

“Tinaja,” by Ruth Daniell

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The views expressed in the texts do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.

 

Sometimes you wish you could forget your body,
walk away from its needs and all the ways you believe

it fails you. You are not always kind. Just now
you are scrambling up a canyon. The rock is red

and the sky is blue. This is your first time in the desert
and you had not expected to be so in love

but you are. You love the deep blue sky
and the yellow and orange and red sandstone

and the creosote bush and the Joshua trees and
you note with curiosity that the beauty doesn’t

make you less aware of your small self,
it doesn’t take you away from your body. No,

instead your body is a marvel, too, a marvel
that carried you to these other marvels, the sky,

the rock, the creosote bush and the Joshua trees and
now, finally, to the tinaja, this natural basin

carved by wind and filled with rare desert rain. It is
uncommonly wonderful: cool and green and quiet.

Your own body took you here. It is wonderful, too,
to notice your body in this way, when so often

you notice it only when you are hungry or thirsty
or tired or too hot or too cold or you have to pee

and you’re miles from the nearest rest stop.
Your body will be inescapable for your entire life

but you will not be ungrateful. You will press
your hands onto the smooth sandstone

and feel where the wind has come and gone
and will come again and slowly change the world.

 

these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the art of Sonia Alins Miguel

On #Alllivesmatter: “The Sting Of The Jellyfish”

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There’s a mural in the street that says ALL LIVES MATTER. A few days ago, it said BLACK LIVES MATTER.

As I stare at the defaced artwork, I begin to understand that the great sin of our time isn’t hatred. It’s apathy. It’s the impulse to surrender to your default settings, to your pre-configured notions of who somebody is based on how they appear. To assume, rather than think. To fear, rather than learn. Hatred has agency, it has intent. Hatred is a spear, ground to a fine point over hundreds of millions of years to serve a single purpose. It knows only one end, and therefore it’s limited. You dig? We can overcome hatred. But apathy? Apathy is easy, unassuming; it’s a jellyfish floating in the waves. Shifting and amorphous, it poses a far greater threat to the ocean than the spear, it’s callous indifference spread to all those around it via a simple touch. The  jellyfish is content in its carelessness, happy to administer its sting to both the tiniest fish and the greatest whale, as though they have fought the same current all their lives. Except they haven’t

This is why BLACK LIVES MATTER is an anchor, a rallying point for the marginalized and disenfranchised victims of systemic violence, and ALL LIVES MATTER is a mindless platitude, a jellyfish whose deadly sting serves only to satisfy our base impulse towards indifference, our desire to look beyond the pointed issue towards a world where we may all float along, unaware of to whom our ignorant stings are being administered. That’s the non-polyp ideology;  float on and care not who runs afoul of your tentacles, for your conscience will remain clean. You didn’t make the ocean violent, and therefore you don’t feel responsible for the structures that exist before you, around you, inside you. This is how indifference has become our new prejudice, how a lack of awareness has become far more toxic than even the most hateful of voices. When everyone is content to say nothing, even the quietest utterances of discrimination can be heard.

word by Josh Elyea

colour by Andre Barnwell 

Andre Barnwell was born July 7th, 1984 and raised in Toronto but currently resides in Vancouver. Ever since moving out west in 2013, Andre has been inspired by the city’s art community and motivated by the accessibility to the tools he needs to pursue his artistic passion and desires. Graduated as an animator from Ontario’s Sheridan College he was exposed to various styles and media to create art even though he prefers to use digital as a means to an artistic end. Fascinated by the human face, most of work is portrait based ranging in different colour schemes, particularly his blue and red monochromatic digital studies.

Outside of portrait work and digital sketches, he enjoys music, film, travelling, and building his brand, Sex N Sandwiches. He looks forward to collaborating with artists such as sculptors, photographers and musicians for future projects. With the world getting smaller with the help of technology, he implores artists and art lovers to follow his growth via social networks and eventually to international stages.

Keep it growing!

Professional Contact: 
Email: andrebarnwell@gmail.com

Social Contact:
Twitter: @AndreBarnwell77
Instagram: AndreBarnwell77

The author’s words do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.

listening to the sewer

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Above and below surfaces, things fall apart.

*

I am slick and black but I am not like you. Undulating beneath New York City pavement and thrashing against walls of concrete, my slippery skin has begun to wear. I am speaking to you when you are not listening, filaments of plastic wrappers bind my teeth but I have not lost momentum. The weight of the ocean is throbbing against the tunnels of your subway trains and cars, threatening collapse of cherished architectural capital. How much longer will the patchwork of your tired men hold up the cohesion of this city?

*

See my shadow as I pass, roaming pre-historic. Feel the echoing THUMP of my tail as you unlock your bicycle from the post, a little tipsy after midnight.

Watch the bathwater drain from the tub and listen for the suction as I inhale your pubic hair, phlegm and soap scum. My belly is pulsating, white, smooth and heavy and I am sick on your waste; hear me groan.

See the ripples and cracks in the concrete, press your ear to open gorges in the sidewalk and listen. I am speaking to you when you are not listening: Hear me as the F train exhales upon arrival – look down for a moment between the platform and doors that rattle.  

*

As you stand immobile on that subway train hurtling underground, remember your mortality. This city constructed with imperial dreams and blood, shrouded with fears as my hard, black dorsal fin propels me through the organized chaos, the quick of my tail displacing the debris, my underbelly pulsating, white, smooth and pristine.

As the tides rise, feel me coursing through the underground arteries – hear me gnash my teeth and see my shadow pass silent beneath your feet.

*

Above and below surfaces, things fall apart, and you are bound to one another. You glide over oceans, across invisible lines, to reach each other. Return to Montréal and see how colours turn outside your window, suffused with light: you steep handpicked medicine in cold glass jars, wrapping threads she wove around your wrists. You have eaten the fruit: wet strawberries from California, the mint and green grapes she sliced into halves.

word by Alisha Mascarenhas

colour by NYCHOS