Chapter
one: Don’t die ur so sexy aha x

There is this
running joke about Canadians being too friendly. Apologizing too much – I never
paid much mind to it until I was word vomiting a string of sorry, excuse me and
another sorry. An apology can mean so little depending on the nuances – how it
is worded, if it is an “I’m sorry IF x happened” as if it’s a presidential
debate being broadcast on CNN. If I wanted to be gaslit about reality, I would
sign up to go on a reality dating show, thanks very much. I would like to offer
an alternative to the Canadians say sorry too much trope – perhaps other people
aren’t apologizing enough. Does Donald Trump really seem like someone who would
say sorry if he tripped you? Personally, I think sorry isn’t in his vocabulary,
but that’s besides the point. We are not family members at a holiday dinner
debating politics, but if you’d like to my direct messages are open and I’ve
prepared a power point. Surprise, I found some pictures of you from high school
doing something super embarrassing (wearing a Halloween costume) it isn’t
problematic, but the vibe is just weird enough to make me everyone feel
slightly off put. As a teen with severe cystic acne who had to go on Accutane
(this is NOT a plug for Big Pharma), I am all too aware of my digital
footprint. I remark to my parents often about why they let a 15-year-old get
Facebook, as those Facebook memories are relentless documentation of the fact
my brain was not fully developed.

Hot tip: telling everyone their decisions
which are equally as questionable as your own who are under the age of 25 that
they will understand your perspective once their brain is fully formed is both
passive aggressive and a bit condescending. Do I stand by it as a woman on
the cusp of their thirties? Yes. Is that information truly helpful to anyone
going through anything ever? Not in particular. However, I do think we all need
to be humbled at times, me included. My brain is often floating in space, moving
backwards like a planet in retrograde, relishing the past with no regard for
the present. During the pandemic, I met a psychiatrist in the brutal chill of
March – before climate change turned snow into rain. I remember him asking “any
more trauma?” repeatedly as I distilled 25 years of my life into a 30-minute
appointment. I have by no means had a difficult life – but my family history of
Bipolar Disorder Type 2 did not give me any advantages. Being diagnosed and
treated after a quarter of my life passed by brought both an enormous sense of
grief as well as relief. I cried for days straight – pointing the finger at all
those in my life who had gaslit me and told me it was all in my head. I mourned
the version of me – so desperate to feel better but without the tools and
support to do so. Apparently, it is not a normal university experience to want
to jump in front of a subway train or feel big emotions to the point of
insomnia. However, I did go to art school, so I mined the depths of my emotion
until I was swimming, not drowning.

When I first
started medication, I was worried I would lose my spark, the spark being
unstable brain chemicals and crying spells that lasted for days. There is this
sickening realization that medication only brings me into a window of tolerance,
and it is not a well-executed magic trick. When I say I am constantly working
on myself, I mean it. Except when I am mindlessly scrolling Tik Tok and
dissociating. Thanks to my incredible care team (mostly my therapist) I feel as
grounded as I have for as long as I have. I do wish sometimes my range of
emotions was like an emotionally constipated avoidant attachment style twenty-something
year old man, but I would not be myself in that way. Playing the role of
someone who feels less, when I feel deep in my bones, like an ache in the
middle of winter – cold, all consuming has allowed me to create art. If I could
describe bipolar disorder type 2 – I would think that it is alike to canoeing
in frozen water. In lieu of adequate mental health care (because that DOES NOT
EXIST IN THE MODERN WORLD) here is my checklist of reasons getting mental
health help in any form might be helpful.

1.      
It is affecting your sleep, eating, and ability
to do everyday tasks (two-week insomnia period, anyone?)

2.      
Your intrusive thoughts are out of control.

3.      
You put yourself in situations where there is
the potential for danger.

4.      
You start arguing with people you care about
regarding things that don’t matter.

5.      
Crying nonstop, or feeling nothing nonstop.

6.      
Suicidal ideation or thoughts that it might be a
better option to be dead.

7.      
Feeling a gut urge to seek help.

8.      
Too many suicide jokes (pointing at myself)

During a visit to Chicago in late May, I had the pleasure of visiting the iconic city of Chicago, which included a day trip to the AIC. Although the trip itself would obviously excite me as an aspiring and practicing image-maker/ student, prior to the visit I had booked a study room visit with Heather Roach, the Photography Collection Manager. 

After spending a few hours visiting exhibitions such as The New Contemporary which showcased works by the likes of Nan Goldin, Cindy Sherman, and Barbara Kruger (see images below), I finally got to view three works by John Baldessari. 

I was lead to the Mary L. and Leigh B Block Photography Study Room, which is accessible by appointment Tuesday-Thursday from 1:30-4:30pm. Heather explained to me that Baldessari’s works had been quite popular that week, as they had never been out of storage from the archival system. She also shared that one of IMA’s own graduate students from the Photography and Film Collections Management program had interned this previous summer in their department. Ryerson has many professors and alumni who have in some way or another gained experience in the industry from their time spent at the AIC. The three specific works I had the pleasure of seeing by Baldessari were: Five Pickles (with Fingerprints) in The Shape of a Hand, Spaces Between (One Risky), and Yellow (with Onlookers). 

Due to no other appointments being made on the day of my visit, I got to spend a very substantial amount of time examining and writing about each work.  The first two works (multimedia pieces) both seem to derive from certain aesthetic choices such as the use of monochromatic imagery, with an added layer of paint on top which has been said to create a disconnect between the viewer and the subject, which is interesting in comparison to the monumental physical scale of these two works. The work consisting of Five Pickles (with Fingerprints) I thought was a clever and satirical approach to the classic still life; as well as a clever deconstruction of the human anatomy; as critics sometimes say that Baldessari himself has a very satirical approach to the standard rules of subject matter, composition and presentation, as well as the meaning of each of his own works. 

Although I could spend a lengthy amount of time discussing each work in depth, I wanted to simply showcase what a wonderful experience I had at the AIC. I encourage anyone with the opportunity to view an artist’s work whom they derive inspiration  from to view and get as close to any work they may have access to. It definitely has helped me concentrate my own art-making and the experience will continue to help me grow as an artist.  

Cindy Sherman, Untitled #87, Chromogenic Print, 61 x 82cm.

We Will Not Become What We Mean to You, 1983Gelatin silver print121 x 184 x 5 cm

Nan Goldin, Self-Portrait, 1978/95Sixteen silver dye bleach prints; edition number three of three92 x 138 cm

Spaces Between (One Risky), 1986Gelatin silver prints148 x 90.8 cm,

Yellow (with Onlookers), 1986, Gelatin silver prints, with applied color99.5 x 69.3 cm

Five Pickles (with Fingerprints) in The Shape of a Hand, 1975, Chromogenic color prints (5) mounted on paper, edition 55/60, from the portfolio “Artists & Photographs” (1975)12.6 x 8.8 cm (each image/paper); 50.8 x 61.0 cm (mount)Chromogenic color prints (5) mounted on paper, edition 55/60, from the portfolio “Artists & Photographs” (1975)12.6 x 8.8 cm (each image/paper); 50.8 x 61.0 cm (mount)