For two weeks this September, I got the chance to participate in what was essentially my dream art gig: an art and science residency at an aquarium / research station inside a national park. Huge shout-out to Grenfell Art Gallery, Creative Gros Morne, and Bonne Bay Aquarium and Research Station (BBARS) for organizing this whole amazing experience.

I was one of six artists selected to be in the residency’s inaugural cohort. While our individual residency periods were scattered over the summer / fall months, I was lucky enough to be there at the same time as two of the other artists (Tanja Geis and Janet Davis). What a gift to get to learn about their practices, see them at work, and see how their artistic brains processed and responded to the environment we were all immersed in.

The loose plan I had pitched in my application was to make (roughly daily) small mosaics, just little sketches really, inspired by what I was learning, seeing, and experiencing. However, the organizers reinforced several times that there were absolutely no expectations for my time there. My only job was to be inspired and follow my curiosity. If I didn’t produce a single thing, that was completely fine. It was a little unsettling to have so much freedom, especially in contrast to the symposium in Rosarito just a few months prior (which was also wonderful, but there were definitely expectations for those two weeks!). 

Within 30 minutes of arriving at BBARS in Norris Point, Newfoundland, I had held a 12-pound, 96-year-old lobster, met a top hat-wearing sea urchin, and learned I would have 24/7 access to the public aquarium. And within the hour, I was out foraging around town. I brought absolutely zero materials with me. I wanted anything I used to be local, since that’s a key part of getting to know a place.

Important disclaimer: while I did forage in and around Norris Point, the town is not actually part of the national park (although it’s surrounded by it). Any excursions into the park did NOT include foraging. This is a rule that I take very seriously. None of my materials are ever taken from protected areas. 

Over the next two weeks I stayed fairly close to “home”, partly because there’s something nice about slowly getting to know a place, partly because I want to save my exploring for when R can be there too. But I did get to go out on the BBARS boat a few times to explore Bonne Bay (one time I got to help haul comb jellies from 100m down!) and also did a few small roadtrips into the park with my fellow artists. 

Immediately I fell in love with the rocks. I mean, how could I not? And the plastic on the beach. Ugly, sobering, but also full of inspiration. In my first foraging trip to Wild Cove—one of my most frequented beaches—I kept finding fishing tags. Not really knowing why, I picked up every one I saw. And I kept doing that each time I was out. By the end I had accumulated 227 tags. 

I couldn’t explain why I was so taken with the tags. It certainly wasn’t the colour (ha!), and it wasn’t the shape (so flat and regular). But there was something… When the folks from the Atlantic Healthy Oceans Initiative (AHOI – winner of the best acronym award) saw my pile of tags, they told me about a research lab that actually uses the data from the tags in their work. In a nutshell: the tag tells them where it originated and the year it was issued, and then they also know where and when it was found, so they can use them as a proxy for understanding flows of ocean plastics more generally. The kicker: the lab—Max Liboiron’s Civic Laboratory for Environmental Action Research (CLEAR lab)—is one whose work I have long admired thanks to my day job, and now I got to send them data! I was helping do science! 

I also became quite captivated by one of the invasive species of the area—coffin box bryozoan—which I would find covering (mostly) seaweed that had washed up. It was beautiful and destructive and you know that is the sweet spot for me. I even got to look at it (and some other beach finds) under the microscope! SCIENCE!  

The more I explored the beaches, the more I was drawn to the chaos of the wrack line, where seaweed, rocks, driftwood, trash, shells, and more were woven together. This became a sort of point of reference in many of the little sketches I did while I was there. 

Some pieces I made were purely for fun, just playing around and enjoying the things I was finding. Like making a shale sea urchin. Or playing with assorted non-shale stones I picked up. Or filling an intact lobster tag with bits of lobster claw and stone. Sort of a way to let my mind wander and process while my hands stayed busy with easy work.

But most pieces riffed on that interplay of materials in the wrack line. Wrapping hard materials (stone, driftwood) in soft ones (washed-up rope, seaweed – both regular and covered by coffin box bryozoan), mixing and matching natural and human-made materials. And learning important lessons, like seaweed and thinset don’t mix (to be fair, I could have guessed this, but it was the only adhesive I had with me, so I threw caution to the wind). And learning that I don’t want to use the fishing tags as-is—I need to find a way to transform them (there were some initial experiments involving a BBQ and a tin can…).

As part of the residency, I’ll be making a piece that will travel back to BBARS next year to be displayed alongside those of my fellow artists in residence. The idea for it is semi-solidified in my brain, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise. As you may have guessed, it will be influenced by that natural/human-made contrast, the wrack line, and the data from the fishing tags (science!). It will also likely be shaped by thoughts of relationships and changes (big and small) over time (short and long) – a mental rabbit hole that the work and comments of fellow artist Tanja Geis sent me down. Anyway, stay tuned for that in the new year!

For the non-mosaicists reading, here’s the symposium in a nutshell: a dozen or so artists from all over the world are invited to come and each make a mosaic about the symposium’s chosen theme, and they have a little less than 2 weeks to do it (which, in mosaic terms, is Really Fucking Fast). 

This was my first symposium, and I was one of only three who had never participated in one before. To say I was nervous is an understatement. Looking back, it was a whirlwind of hard work, creative exchange, and belly laughs (and a few moments of mild stress). As someone with a non-art day job, spending two weeks in the studio all day, every day, surrounded by ridiculously talented artists was both a luxury and a privilege. Would I do it again? Yes, absolutely, without hesitation. 

What’s neat about the symposium is that the work you do there is your work, and it’s good work. But if you were given the exact same prompt in your studio, the work you’d produce would be very different. At the symposium you’re constantly adjusting to your circumstances – working fast, adjusting on the fly, using what’s available (did a lot of us raid the pile of construction debris outside the studio? Yes, yes we did), adopting a slightly different order of operations, incorporating inspiration and advice from the people around you, trying to keep your brain just one step ahead of your hands… It’s an experience that pushes your creative limits, but in a good way.

The theme for this particular symposium was “Gender, culture, and migration.” Certainly a rich theme that allowed for all sorts of interpretations and explorations. Even my normal environment-focused work could have found an easy connection there. But I chose to take a little detour from my usual and, instead, do something quite personal. 

So, before I introduce you to my piece, let me (re-)introduce myself:

Hey, I’m Julie, and I’m non-binary (they/them).

The more I thought about the theme for the symposium, the more I knew I wanted to do something about gender and, more specifically, something that incorporated some of my own gender journey.¹ Not because my experience is exceptional, but because: 

1. The transphobia flying around right now is a LOT and just being a visible trans person out in the world feels significant. (Note: while I identify personally as non-binary, the general rage I feel in these Unprecedented Times makes me feel drawn to identifying politically as trans.) 
2. Representation matters! I don’t often see myself reflected in depictions of trans and gender-diverse folks, which has led to a lot of imposter syndrome and self-doubt (even though logically I know that there is no one right way to be trans or non-binary). So if sharing my experience can help even one person who also feels and/or looks this way,² then that’s reason enough to do it. 

Quick aside: I’m using footnotes in this post to add some colour commentary about my own experience. Like all footnotes, they are not required reading! (Using them is also a little ode to R, who never met a footnote she didn’t like, and I do so love her.) 

Anyway, back to business. My symposium piece is called “Disruptive without apology” and it’s both a depiction of my personal experience and a meditation on being trans or gender non-conforming in today’s political climate. It’s my torso (yes, I laid down and traced myself as a starting point), but modified to be a bit more abstract because abstract is my jam. The lower portion is meant to evoke a feeling of heaviness and hostility (aka the world around us). This is in contrast with the lighter upper portion, which speaks to the freedom that comes with figuring out who you are, doing things that align with that, and being accepted by those who matter in your life. I can’t tell you the sense of calm that has come with figuring out who I am,³ with each person I’ve told and was met with immediate joy and acceptance (the high fives, hugs, big smiles, heart emojis etc. have all warmed my heart), and how my relationship with my body has changed as I’ve done things that make me feel more and more at home in it (e.g., haircuts, muscles, clothing). 

The top surgery scars⁴ in each piece serve as places of both conflict (outer and inner) and also creation, and the use of obsidian (hard, aggressive, static) and wood shavings (natural, flexible, evolving) helps underline this point. I did bring the obsidian with me because I knew I needed something harsh and violent, but I left the obsidian’s counterpart to chance. Imagining the piece before I left Canada, I thought maybe I’d go grab some shells from the beach, but the artist next to me (Armando Reyna, Mexico) was shaving down some wood to use in his piece and on impulse I grabbed the shavings off the floor. I love that they are softer and more ‘alive’ than shells would have been, and also that they tie me to another artist.

My favourite serendipitous material, however, is the silkworm cocoons from Grana Carrer (Argentina). One day she walked by and said my piece reminded her of a metamorphosis. I agreed that the idea definitely fit with my narrative, and the next day she quietly passed me a handful of cocoons saying, “For your metamorphosis.” This is the magic of the symposium – these unexpected gifts, whether material, technical, creative, or philosophical, from other humans who each approach a shared passion from their own unique perspective.

The material that really piqued people’s curiosity was the layers of graffiti paint. For me, in the context of this piece, they represent freedom of expression, individuality, and the many layers that make each of us up and that we reveal or hide in varying combinations. These paint layers are paired with glass in the colours of the trans and non-binary flags (and there are two little ‘flags’ peeking out from two of the cocoons). And yes, I only represented two flags among many (e.g., genderqueer, gender fluid, agender, pangender, and the list goes on), because these are the two I identify with and I’m not in the habit of speaking for other people (see Footnote 4). 

People were also really curious about the asphalt (I assume because it’s such a humble / ‘ugly’ material), which is aggressively hemming in the graffiti paint in the lower half. I could have used any chunky material there, really, but I liked the asphalt because it made me think of those resilient plants that spring up from a crack in the pavement, despite their harsh surroundings. 

The other material of note is several small letterpress X’s (the gender marker on my driver’s license⁵), one of which is roughly where the belly button would be, representing the gut feeling that I have had several times along this journey letting me know I’m on the right path (e.g., realizing I was non-binary, coming to understand both my euphoria and dysphoria⁶). 

A final note on the title of the piece. As I was thinking about all the different terms I had heard for gender non-conforming (gender expansive, gender diverse, etc.), I remembered gender disruptive. Thinking about that term compared to the others, it felt to me like it was more active and unapologetic. And from there it was a short mental hop to the title. For me, it’s a bit of a reminder to myself and to the trans community to take up space and to be visible (if you want to and are able to do so safely) and to do so without apology. Because we deserve nothing less. 

1. I say “journey”  because that’s what it has been and continues to be. I didn’t just wake up one day, realize I was non-binary, and that was that. To arrive at where I am now has taken years, and it hasn’t been a slow, steady evolution – it has been periods of stability, punctuated by aha! moments and rapid change. In a lot of ways, I continue to surprise myself, but in a good way. ︎
2. Most of what I tend to see online is young, transmasc folks on testosterone (so: facial and body hair and muscular, squarer bodies), with stories of crushing gender dysphoria. Well, I’m closer to 50 than 40, no plans to go on testosterone, I have curves, and my dysphoria is subtle (see Footnote 6). I know I’m not alone, but man, it’s been tough to find people who look like me. ︎
3. I was late to the party (read: past 40) with respect to figuring out my gender. But when it came, it came in a flash. I had always known I was somehow uncomfortable with the term “woman” but figured I was just immature or a tomboy or something. In lockdown, a friend posted a video of someone reading a children’s book about gender. It described the gender identities of a bunch of different kids and one was (paraphrasing): “So-and-so is neither a boy nor a girl – they just feel like themselves.” Immediately, I thought “OMG I AM SO-AND-SO” and was flooded with this sense of relief, like everything just clicked and there was this huge weight off my shoulders that I didn’t even realize had been there. So there you go – a 40+-year-old figured out they were non-binary from a children’s book. ︎
4.  I’m currently waiting to get top surgery. Why do you need to know this? You don’t, really, but I want you to know it because it’s important to me that in my mosaic work I don’t speak for other people and/or appropriate their stories. So there’s a reason I included top surgery scars and not bottom surgery scars (or scars from any other gender-affirming surgery), any sort of nod to HRT, etc., because those other experiences are not mine to talk about. My decision to get top surgery came in a sort of roundabout way. The catalyst: a non-gender-affirming hysterectomy that ended up feeling gender-affirming AF. And whereas once I had thought it was too late for me (see: Footnote 2 on being exposed predominantly to young trans folks), I suddenly realized it wasn’t. ︎
5. My license expired this year, so when I went to renew it, I changed my gender marker to an X (which felt way better than I anticipated). But my passport doesn’t have the X, and probably never will. Not because it’s not available in Canada, but because it would open me up to possible travel restrictions and potentially be a safety issue. ︎
6. My first experiences with dysphoria (a term I strongly dislike) were actually the opposite: euphoria (e.g., going to the barber and cutting my hair short, wearing a men’s button-up shirt, getting more muscular at the gym). I thought to myself: well the euphoria can’t exist without some degree of dysphoria, so I started to pay more attention. And it was there. But it was more subtle than the very binary depictions you usually see out there (which led to a lot of imposter syndrome and “Am I non-binary enough?” angst). In general, my dysphoria is more like the difference between fine and great, not the difference between terrible and great. Sometimes it’s like wearing a pair of pants that are a bit too tight – you can still do stuff, but you’re aware of the ill-fitting pants and are just slightly uncomfortable. Most times it’s like choosing between bananas (they’re fine, I’ll eat them, I don’t actively dislike them) or raspberries (YES PLEASE THE BEST FRUIT EVER). ︎

If you are in or around the Kitchener (Ontario, Canada) area, anytime from March 1 to June 30, 2024, please make sure you stop by Homer Watson House and Gallery to see my latest solo show: Rigged. 

Back when I was on the Bonn Park podcast as part of the 25th anniversary celebration of the City of Kitchener’s Artist in Residence program, the hosts Sara and Marshall asked me what was next for my art, and I said “taking down Big Oil.” Well, Rigged is that. It’s basically me being very angry with Big Oil and capitalism and everyone and everything that props them up. 

The show has ten pieces, seven of which are me ranting, and three are more solutions-oriented so you don’t leave totally dejected. Topics I cover include: Big Oil’s pivot to plastic, the cozy relationship between law enforcement and Big Oil, the industry’s misinformation shenanigans, the various bailouts they get even while they pay huge shareholder dividends, the most elegant climate solution we have (keeping fossil fuels in the ground), and more! 

And if you’re a mosaic lover, this show is extra special because there is a second mosaic show in the gallery at the same time! Heather Vollans will also have a show running concurrently, showcasing her love affair with materials. 

The opening reception is March 1, 7-9 pm, and I would love to see you there! If you can’t make it to the opening reception, but are planning to come see the show sometime during its run, feel free to drop me a line and I’d be happy to meet you at the gallery (day job permitting). 

It’s funny, as soon as I began sketching it out in my head I started making better choices. I said no to things I would have said yes to before without hesitation. I started protecting my time and my energy. I feel like I’ve given myself breathing room. 

The final product isn’t overly complicated (jump to the end of the post to see it), and I won’t walk you through every part of it, but let me take you on a quick tour of the highlights. 

The obvious starting question is: do I have time? Like really have time, where I’ll still have a semblance of work-life balance and I won’t be tired and grumpy and resentful? Also, when I say yes to things like artist talks, that usually means I need to take a vacation day at work, and I’m not particularly keen on spending my vacation days trading one job for another. So the question isn’t only do I have time, but also, is this how I want to spend my limited time? 

Another very important one is that I am done paying to participate in shows. Application fees are ok. Participation fees are not. Also not ok: insanely high out-of-pocket shipping expenses, especially if they’re for international shows, because the stress that goes along with international shipping just isn’t worth it. And bonus points will go to shows that pay me (hello CARFAC fees!). 

The same goes for speaking gigs. I did some speeches this year that I spent huge chunks of time writing and practicing for—because I’m not a natural public speaker and I want to do a good job—and I didn’t get paid a cent. I did this knowingly and willingly, but I’m done with that. On the flip side, there were also those that compensated me very fairly for my time, which was much appreciated! Now, if you just want me to show up and do a general artist talk that I’ve done a million times before, sure, maybe… But if you want me to produce new content, you need to pay me for it, just like you would pay to buy my art. It’s all work. 

While I don’t need the money (thank you, day job), when I don’t insist on getting paid for my work, it undercuts those artists who do earn a living from their art. So, everyone say it together: Pay artists for their work! 

Now, because of the kind of art I do, there will always be exceptions to this rule, which is why I’ve built in flexibility. Like if it’s for a good cause and will really make a difference, but it doesn’t pay, then OK, let’s talk. Or if I’ll get something out of it (other than money), that’s great. Like if I’ll learn something, or if I’ll make important connections, or if it helps move me beyond the traditional mosaic circles. Those, to me, are all valid and important reasons to say yes. But those one-way gigs where I’m the only one giving? No thank you. Only two-way streets from here on out. 

You’d be surprised how much fluff just these few rules cut out. And for what does make it through the first few hurdles, I’ve built in two final checks to ensure I’m making good choices… 

One of the things that has become really apparent to me during the pandemic is just how much shit white men get away with. Of course I knew this before, but I really experienced it first-hand during the pandemic and it’s both exhausting and infuriating (and also sort of grimly fascinating how these dudes are just so shameless). So one of my final checks is: Would they ask a white dude to do the same thing for the same money / under the same conditions? (And also important: would he say yes?) I will channel my inner white dude for a quick sec to answer that, before the final check, which is where I usually fail hard: am I doing it because I feel guilty saying no? I have been roped into so many things in the past because of that.

So that’s it! I am going to print this out and slap it up on my studio wall. Here’s to making good choices, avoiding burnout, getting paid (sometimes), and growing and thriving! 

Anyway, I thought maybe I should catch you up on a few things I’ve been doing around the internet over the last several months, in case you want to read/listen. In addition to talks at three of the big mosaic association conferences (SAMA, BAMM, and MAANZ, oh my!), here’s what I’ve been up to: 

• There’s an article about my work in the inaugural issue of “Mosaic & Glass” magazine (subscription required). With Mosaïque Magazine coming to an end, Mosaic & Glass will fill an important niche with high-quality content about the mosaic art world. Be sure to subscribe!
• I got to record a podcast with the fine folks of Bonn Park Podcast, as part of the 25th anniversary celebrations of the City of Kitchener’s artist in residence program.
• I’m in a book, along with so many amazing mosaicists from around the world! You should pick up a copy (ideally from your local independent bookstore). Renée Malaval Antoine did such a fantastic job both curating it and providing insightful commentary. 
• I did a little written interview about my work as part of composer/pianist Nina Danon’s “Art and Nature” blog series. 
• I was featured in One Resilient Earth’s “Open Mind” series, where they ask artists the same questions, sort of like a Proust questionnaire.
• My art got used on the cover of a peer-reviewed scientific journal (One Earth)! 
• I participated in a panel about art-making in the Anthropocene as part of a series organized by the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland (ooh fancy!). They were talking about putting the recordings online, so if they do I’ll be sure to share the link.

Also, if you happen to be in either Quebec City or Auray (France), you can catch my work on display in two shows:

• Quebec City – “M comme mosaique” at the Villa Bagatelle. This is a smaller version of the fabulous all-Canadian show that happened in Paray-le-Monial (France) this past summer. On until December 4, so plenty of time to get there!
• Auray – “The Mosaic Experience” at the Chapelle du Saint-Esprit. Another expertly curated edition of this biennale featuring some amazing international artists. Show runs April 9 – May 22.

Summer is coming and I have lots of outdoor projects on my list, trails to hike, and even some travel lined up. BUT I am also very excited to be getting back into the studio to create a lineup for a solo show that will be happening in 2024. I won’t spill the details yet, because it’s so far away, but I’ll be sure to give you plenty of advance warning and lots of sneak peeks. Stay tuned!

The tech bro billionaires of Silicon Valley (Bezos, Gates, Musk, and the like) are increasingly wading into the climate sphere. Yep, the same dudes who are flying to space just because they can and who have ridiculously large personal and corporate carbon footprints. Those dudes. Unsurprisingly, they’re betting heavy on slick technological fixes to climate change, like Carbon Dioxide Removal (CDR). You know, the solutions that don’t disrupt the status quo. The ones that shore up (and, who are we kidding, undoubtedly increase) their personal wealth, power, and influence. 

Technological solutions like CDR aren’t a problem per se. There’s no doubt we’ll need them down the road, especially to tackle the sectors that are the hardest to decarbonize. But one of the problems with billionaires bolstering these technologies is that it makes us tunnel visioned when it comes to climate solutions. We risk losing sight of the amazing diversity of solutions at our fingertips right now because the wealth and influence of tech bro climate philanthropy is shaping the agenda (while conveniently helping them dodge taxes). With no training or expertise in climate science or policy, merely capitalist self-interest and ego, they shift public opinion, drive industry toward certain solutions, and influence government decisions. 

You’ll often hear climate folks talk about needing a silver buckshot approach rather than a silver bullet approach to climate change. The billionaires are after the silver bullet. And it’s an attractive silver bullet because it means they don’t have to fundamentally change their lifestyle or underlying systems (the same systems that made these guys rich in the first place). Just keep on polluting and we’ll suck it out of the air later. 

“Do you know how hard it is to remove CO₂ from the air using the machine? It’s really, really hard. It’s a lot easier just not to put it in there.”

Jonathan Foley

The problem with chasing the CDR silver bullet is that it locks us into one path, fixating on something that may or may not work at the scale needed, and we won’t know for quite some time whether we’ve bet on the right horse. We know from recent IPCC assessment reports that urgent action is needed now, not in a few years/decades when these technologies may or may not mature and be scalable. The good news is that there are plenty of solutions available today, and we can and must start with those. 

Project Drawdown is a great resource for understanding the various solutions we have available to us. Many of the top solutions available right now are nature-related: conserving, restoring, and better managing our forests, grasslands, wetlands, and agricultural lands. And unlike technologies designed to suck carbon dioxide out of the air and that’s about it, nature-based solutions come with so many co-benefits. They provide clean air and water, support biodiversity, buffer communities from flood, drought, fire, and extreme heat, provide recreational opportunities, and so much more.

The mosaic is based on that tension between natural and technological fixes, even though the suite of solutions at our disposal is far broader than just nature (but remember, this mosaic was inspired by that ridiculous tweet). The little wiggly forms were meant to evoke nature both in their form and the materials used (driftwood, petrified wood, cork, nut shells, etc.). As I was working, I remember thinking about the billionaires: can’t see the forest for the [shiny, technology-encrusted] trees. The bottoms are shale, which I often use as a stand-in for fossil fuels or emissions, so here it’s the carbon sequestered and stored by these ecosystems. 

But there’s one of the nine forms that’s different: the one for the billionaires. That one is entirely made of gold, e-waste, and some slices of core sample and copper pipe (the last two being a nod to the type of carbon capture where companies pump the CO₂ right back into the earth to—ironically enough—force more oil out of the ground). There’s also a silver bullet casing there, to contrast with the buckshot in the rest of the mosaic. I hate that billionaire form. To me it’s just so flat and uninteresting compared to the others. It’s lacking in depth, variety, and life. And that’s exactly the point. 

I know it’s tough to compete with billionaires, but my hope is that we can resist getting seduced by their promises of silver bullets. Because compared to all the other options we have at our fingertips, their tech fixes are both boring and dangerous. 

Feeling slightly panicky, I broadened my search beyond climate change and glaciers, and in nearly no time at all, I had stumbled upon an article about invasive Canadian beavers in Patagonia. Something just clicked and I immediately knew this was the topic for me. Not only did it fit neatly in my Anthropocene series, where I had already covered biodiversity loss from a general angle, but it also offered a very tangible Canada-Patagonia connection. (For those who don’t know, the beaver is the national animal of Canada.) 

If you haven’t heard the story of the beavers of Patagonia, here it is in a nutshell. Back in the 1940s, the Argentinian military transported a few dozen Canadian beavers to Tierra del Fuego in the hope of starting a fur industry. I mean, what could go wrong? Sigh. Fast forward a few decades and the beaver population in the area has now ballooned to roughly well over 100,000 (some estimates put it closer to 200,000), while the fur industry completely failed to take off. 

In their native habitat, beavers play the role of ecosystem engineers, modifying the landscape in many beneficial ways. In fact, by letting them go about their business they can actually help us face some of the challenges climate change is throwing at us (e.g., drought, flooding, etc.) by helping manage water resources naturally while also creating important habitat for other species.  

But take them out of the environment they’ve evolved in and, well, just like pretty much any non-native species, there are bound to be consequences. And that’s what happened in Tierra del Fuego. Unchecked by predators, the growing beaver population has flooded large tracts of land, killing native lenga forests, which are not adapted to flooding (unlike their North American counterparts). The white, dead trees left once beavers move in are known as ghost or phantom forests. They’ve also created new ecosystems that are highly suitable to other invasive species (e.g., mink and muskrat), further compounding the damage they’re causing. The impact that these invaders have had on the landscape has been called “the largest landscape-level alteration in subantarctic forests since the last ice age.” That is no small thing. (If you want to read more about the beavers, I suggest this National Geographic article.)

The rivers I incorporated into the design aren’t random. They’re based on old Canadian fur trading routes, with the dams I built marking some of the trading posts. Why use Canadian trading routes instead of Patagonian rivers? To put it simply, I wanted to play with different but related notions of invasion. For me, there was an important parallel between the destructive effects of invasive species (all in the hope of starting a fur industry) and the destruction brought about by the Canadian fur trade hundreds of years earlier, both on the beaver populations (which nearly disappeared) and on Indigenous Peoples. This was a key connection to include because our national narrative here in Canada tends to be one of pride when talking about the fur trade and how it shaped our country. We have a tendency to gloss over the fact that the fur economy came at a high cost to Indigenous Peoples (their health, social structure, economy, etc.), and the harm of the systems and structures it put in place continues to this day.

While this piece began as a spark of inspiration when reading an article about invasive Canadian beavers, as I moved through its conception and execution I became increasingly excited about the connections to social and cultural issues. In my hiatus, I did a lot of thinking about how I want to start shifting my work to increasingly address the bigger and more complicated intersections of environmental degradation, racism, colonialism, and capitalism, where environmental and climate justice are inseparable from social justice. While I’m still deep in thought about how, exactly, to represent these ideas in mosaic, this piece is one small step in that direction. 

My studio is still shut down, so I don’t have any new art to share with you, but I did want to let you know that I wrote an article about my work for American Scientist. This project has been a few years in the making. Actually, I got their first email asking if I’d write a column for them way back when I was in France rescuing my piece from customs (remember that saga?). But we just couldn’t seem to get our respective timelines to align until this winter. Thankfully, once things got rolling, they went quickly and now it is out in the world for all to read. The whole process was pretty interesting, especially the opportunity to work with a professional editor (gosh that’s intimidating!), and I’m thankful for the experience and for the chance to share my work with a broader audience. Anyway, pop on over and take a read!

First: I’m getting a new studio! I’ll probably write more about this in a future post, but the general plan is to knock down some walls to join my small basement studio with the rec room, making it one big(ger) studio. I’ve already packed everything up, so the hiatus has officially started.

Second: I am exhausted. I’ve been going almost non-stop for a year, pulling together the line-up for my solo show while also working full-time at my day job. It felt like a gruelling pace, getting up early, staying up late, working weekends, and barely pausing between projects. I need to do non-work things. I need to recharge. 

Third: Two weeks before my show opened, we had to put down our beloved dog, Dexter. I am heartbroken, even now after a few weeks have passed. Even if I had a studio to work in and the energy to actually do the work, I feel like I have completely lost my mojo. He was a huge part of our life, was my best photo assistant and studio companion, and walking with him was an integral part of my creative process. Life is not the same without him and my heart needs time to heal.  

So I’m stepping away for a bit. I’ve got some mosaic-adjacent projects to tackle (like a sorely needed website overhaul) and a lot of non-mosaic things to do, like just having a life. I’ll be back after this fallow period, likely with ideas just bursting out of me and the energy (and new studio!) I need to make them happen. And don’t worry, I’ve packed a go bag with some essential mosaic supplies in case I get itchy fingers before my studio re-opens. 

Thanks for understanding and I’ll see you on the flip side.

If we’re going to survive the uphill battle ahead of us (read: the seriously apocalyptic shit headed our way), we’re going to need our communities. They are key to helping us draw down our emissions, live lighter on the planet, and weather the literal and figurative storm. What happens when our communities are tight-knit and there’s a high degree of cooperation, inclusion, reciprocity, and caring? For starters, we start sharing things. Just like the classic “borrowing a cup of sugar from a neighbour” (which helps build social capital—please see this brilliant graphic article for more on this), we might also start sharing things like tools and appliances, a bumper crop of tomatoes, or our knowledge and skills for planting, mending, building, etc. These kinds of communities—where sharing is common and people know, trust, respect, and care about each other—are also more resilient. Neighbours check up on each other, especially the most vulnerable in their community. This is especially important in extreme events, like heatwaves or floods or blizzards. And I’d like to believe they are more equitable and just, because environmental issues are, at their heart, justice issues rooted in colonialism, slavery, discrimination, and inequality. 

So, while your instinct may be to put up walls and protect what’s yours, this is not the time to hunker down and go full prepper. There has been some great writing coming out lately on this. If I could recommend just three things to you, it would be these (because who doesn’t love a little reading for extra credit?):

1. Chelsea Vowel’s (@apihtawikosisan) epic Twitter thread about “Law for the apocalypse: Kinship out of fracture”
   “This is merely one example of the many ways in which Indigenous peoples continue to survive our own post-apocalyptic (and ongoing dystopian) realities. We survive and thrive not because we have become insular and suspicious, though these feelings exist! But rather, we maintain, through all the violence, the firm belief of the importance of kinship as a way to resist oblivion. It is all that has kept us alive, and I humbly assert that our existence as human beings on this planet cannot be assured by any other approach.” 
2. Tim Hollo’s “As the climate collapses, we can either stand together – or perish alone”
   “At this point in history, now that we have locked in ecological disruption on a scale our species has never known, we must learn the lessons of ecology. And the number one lesson is that resilience is the key. Resilience, not dominance, is the real strength, especially in hard times. And the secret to resilience is connected diversity, cohesion, cooperative coexistence. That means that in many ways our most important task right now is to build social cohesion while learning to live within natural limits.”
3. Eric Holthaus’ “Climate change is about how we treat each other”
   “But the fix is not simply technical. The too-familiar apocalypse narrative leaves no room for justice or regeneration. We must do better. Somehow, we must also learn to treat each other better. […] We need to know, viscerally, that we can no longer abandon our neighbours in their time of greatest need. We need to relearn our interdependence. There is the alternative. The way to write this story that doesn’t end in apocalypse.”

So this mosaic is about that coming together. About building something together that honours all of us and is better for all our voices. And let me tell you, after making nine pieces in a row about environmental death and destruction, this was a balm for my soul. 

I sat with the title—”Communion”—for a long time. It was the first title that came to me, but my atheist self resisted it because it has a really clear association with Christianity for me. I didn’t want to privilege or alienate anyone or any worldview. That was definitely not what this piece was about! But I mulled it over as I worked in the studio, and I just kept coming back to this one word. Nothing else fit quite right. So the non-religious meaning of communion is the one I’m using: “an act or instance of sharing” and also “intimate fellowship or rapport.” As in “to commune with nature.” And it also shares a Latin root with other fitting (but just not quite title-worthy) words, like communal and community. 

I received 71 contributions from all over the world. The stories that came with these bits of people’s lives and places moved me deeply. In some ways, they were my favourite part of the whole project. I’ve compiled a little book of them, which you can grab as a pdf here. I will also have it available wherever and whenever “Communion” is shown. It was originally going to be much more elaborate and detailed, with names and locations of contributors, and a map of where each contribution ended up in the mosaic. But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to focus on the stories and the relationships. To set aside individuality. To encourage a slow, intimate exploration. So the book is anonymous and it’s in no particular order (e.g., not organized by material or continent or anything else).

I put all of these contributions together to make a map of Pangaea, that supercontinent that once existed. I liked how it provided a reminder of how we were all once from the same piece of this planet and are kin no matter which way you slice it. I also liked how it served as a sort of geological bookend to this new era of the Anthropocene. 

One last thing (since a handful of people have asked): I’ve decided that “Communion” is not for sale. Or rather, that I have some strict stipulations when it comes to a forever home for it. Because it was such a collective effort and is meant to be explored and shared, I don’t think it’s fair for any one individual to own it. That would very much go against the spirit of the piece. Ideally, I would like “Communion” to live in a public place, to be explored and experienced by the community. But since that is fairly unlikely, I will be its steward for the time being, showing it when opportunities arise.   

And with that, all that’s left to do is say a huge thank you to everyone who contributed. The generosity of your contributions—the fact that you entrusted me with very special parts of your lives—completely bowled me over, and I hope that I’ve done them justice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go borrow a cup of sugar from the neighbour.