Presented as poster-size reproductions of his original ink-on-paper images, El-Khairy’s art provides powerful visual critiques of current events in Palestine and the Middle East. El-Khairy, whose family was displaced from Jordan in 1948, possesses an intimate perspective of the occupation that is palpable in each image. One striking piece called Cirque du Soleil exposes this oppression with jarring symbols that would likely strike home for both Palestinian and Canadian viewers. In it, an acrobat from the Canadian circus company of the same name practices contortion on an Israel Defence Forces (IDF) tank. A crowd surrounds the base of the tank, watching the acrobat’s mesmerizing performance.

With the caption “You might be flexible, justice isn’t,” the piece calls out the company and the uncritical international public that is failing to question this complicity.

For anyone who has attended a Cirque du Soleil performance, the image comes as a slap to the face, a stinging wake-up call, clearly alluding to the company’s Tel Aviv tour in 2013. With the caption “You might be flexible, justice isn’t,” the piece calls out the company and the uncritical international public that is failing to question this complicity. This unexpected marriage between the graceful entertainer and the violent vehicle emphasizes the link between a seemingly innocent act and the perpetuation of war.

El-Khairy’s work also addresses police brutality and Indigenous solidarity, drawing on his experiences of living in Canada and the U.S.. His piece From Ferguson to Palestine links global systems of colonization, white supremacy, and imperialism. The image portrays a man of colour holding an ignited torch in an unidentified setting and a police officer clasping a machine gun. The man has braided hair and wears a effiyeh, and is thus symbolically tied to two different identities that share a common oppressor. The setting’s anonymity plays into the universality of racial oppression and the destruction of bodies of colour, while the lit torch is an empowering beacon of resistance and solidarity.

“Visualizing Palestine” evades explicit, gory photographs, yet still resonates with painful realities.

Infographics from the research group Visualizing Palestine echo El-Khairy’s vivid stories but instead use hard facts and statistics. The images include charts, graphs, and maps that reflect Gaza’s water crisis, the demolition of Palestinian homes, illegal Israeli settlements, and ceasefire violations.

Providing an accurate alternative to the mainstream media’s biased statistics, the graphs also avoid the dehumanization that usually accompanies these numbers. Rather, they are infographic narratives that utilize imagery to accentuate the scale of damage inflicted on Palestinian communities. In a diagram of water supply appropriation in the West Bank, for example, the thickness of the water pipes shown stretching from an aquifer to Palestinian or Israeli homes indicate the drastic inequities of supply.

Another powerful graph shows a bulldozed Central Park. The caption reads: “Uprooted. The number of uprooted Palestinian olive trees = 33x the trees in Central Park.” Presenting the destruction of a site beloved by many, the image evokes a strong, personal response from the viewer.

With carefully chosen symbols, visual storytelling thrives in this exhibit. “Visualizing Palestine” evades explicit, gory photographs, yet still resonates with painful realities. Without sensationalizing, it communicates facts and individual experiences side by side, and gives a collective group the recognition it deserves. Most impressive in the exhibit was the facilitation of a dialogue between the oppressed and those complicit with the oppressors, providing a non-violent medium for communication. As Hoyos tells The Daily, “[Art] has no borders; it has the power to challenge the status quo, which is to silence, erase, abuse, and oppress the Palestinians.”

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Jane is left completely isolated in the upstairs room of a mansion, and prevented from doing any physical activity. She is instructed by John to merely rest, or remain passive, voiceless and withdrawn, causing her to deteriorate into compulsiveness. Her room is lined with a yellow wallpaper which quickly becomes the object of Jane’s obsession. As time passes, Jane begins to realize her wrongful confinement, questioning her husband’s intentions as well as her own apparent ‘illness.’ The more aware she becomes of the absurdity, the more desperately she tries to escape. She begins to imagine a woman plastered behind the wallpaper, moving about the walls yet remaining trapped inside. In identifying with this figure, Jane grows horrified, and becomes convinced that the woman (or she herself) must be freed.

Directed by Grace Jackson, the play stars Connor Spencer and Rachel Stone both as Jane. Jackson breaks up Jane’s narration between the two actors, intending for them to be in conversation. She means for this to be symbolic of “the different aspects of a character,” as she tells The Daily in interview. Having two women on stage at once also creates a sense of solidarity, with both actors effectively and harmoniously portraying Jane’s inner complexity. Spencer’s eyes in particular stand out, engaged and animated as the character develops.

Writing becomes Jane’s liberation; in this way, the play presents a form of female rebellion against the confines of a patriarchal establishment.

The set is bordered by patched yellow bedsheets, meant to represent the wallpaper; as if alive, the sheets billow slightly. These subtle choices echo the illusory woman trapped behind the paper. Her presence, too, suggests that the paper is animate. The lighting creates a shadow on the sheets when cast at one of the two actresses, projecting an image of a shadowy ghost. When asked by The Daily to expand upon the meaning of this visual effect, Jackson explained that the woman behind the paper was “left up to the viewer’s imagination.”

This play has a feminist appeal. The symbolic nature of the room and the wallpaper alludes to a woman’s enforced, societal role as an object being domesticated. Framing Jane’s situation as a consequence of a man’s diagnosis further evokes these themes of patriarchal oppression. However, the oppression evolves into a story of resistance, as Jane begins to fight back against her captivity, tugging at the bed that is nailed to the floor. With the story relayed through Jane’s first-person narration, her voice becomes the focus, whereas John’s is left unheard until the end – he is rendered the passive figure.

Though the story of Jane is set in Victorian England, it rings true today as it grapples with the social effects of how mental illness is constructed. During this era, hysteria was a common medical diagnosis, meant to keep women removed from the public sphere. Jane’s condition epitomizes this history, making it clear that her condition is imposed rather than inherent.

Jane confronts such themes through the process of finding her own written voice, which is a profoundly feminist response. As Jane narrates the story, she frequently turns to her diary, even though she is instructed not to. Writing becomes Jane’s liberation; in this way, the play presents a form of female rebellion against the confines of a patriarchal establishment. As Jackson explains, “the process of writing is her way of fighting back.” This mirrors Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s act of writing the original story after having gone through a similar experience, Jackson notes. “We are meant to experience the story through Jane’s words,” she says. The story, as written by Perkins and brought to life by Jackson, becomes an emblem of female authorship, a strength and voice that ultimately breaks out from the wallpaper, exposed for all to hear.

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Nadia Myre presents “Oraison” as a response to her nine-year endeavour, “The Scar Project.” The project engaged various communities like schools and cultural centres, in a collaborative exploration of memory and its permanence. In an interview with The Daily, Myre explained that “The Scar Project” had initially been inspired by a previous project of Myre’s where over 230 participants partook in beading over the Indian Act with red and white beads, a process that took fifty to seventy hours to complete. Myre, an Algonquin member of the Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg First Nation, described this as “a way of representing one’s identity with Canada, addressing the elements that had been lost,” and reclaiming them. The theme of Indigenous identity in Canada appears to be a strong, underlying element of the inspiration for the “Scar Project,” grappling with collective wounds. The exhibit too sheds light on how certain individual scars are intertwined with shared histories of oppression.

With “The Scar Project,” Myre sought to explore internal scars and how memory can manifest itself on the physical body. With fibres and threads, she invited participants to sew images of their physical, emotional, or psychological scars on canvas. Myre also intended to create a healing space, where participants could recognize their scars, unravel them, and find closure through creative expression.

“Oraison” presents a projection of all the pieces sewn by the participants, photographed by Myre. Ten or so canvasses projected consecutively all show similar, swirling forms; the pieces are grouped together based on patterns such as common subject matter or shape. The recurrence of these themes throughout the pieces is deeply thought-provoking, pushing the viewer to question what compelled these unrelated individuals to represent their completely different stories in such similar ways. The physical scars in the pieces appear more linear, whereas more tangled, complex shapes portray internal wounds. Some scars take symbolic shapes, like hearts or snowflakes. None of the shapes particularly stand out; rather, what makes an impression is the unity found amongst the pieces, despite their different creators.

Also striking is the wide basket which sits the main room, made of threaded wooden shards and filled with red cloth bundles which are “meant to be symbolic of prayer,” Myre noted. With each scar that’s experienced, Myre adds a bundle to the basket to symbolize of validation and support. During the vernissage, the projects’ participants also added bundles to the basket, effectively conveying a sense of continuity. The basket creates an open, secure, and comforting space, there to gather and hold us when we feel the need to be held. The threading of the basket almost mirrors the threaded scars.

The main space also includes a red net being slowly lowered to the ground, expanding and shrinking as it rises and falls. According to Myre, the netting is symbolic of “going out and harvesting these scars.” The broad netting acts as a breathing lung, bringing life and relief onto the darker subject matter sewn into the exhibit. Rising and expanding, it creates an open space for the stories and scars to be held. The basket and the netting also function as visual symbols of how these experiences are ongoing but can still be experienced collectively based on the emotional undercurrents that tie them together.

The participants’ pre-recorded stories form a sound overlay for the exhibit. Their words convey the sadness, frustration, and anger behind the scars in a more profound way. The participants’ voices bring the stories to life, and gives each one a tangible character. Some of the stories touch on the deaths of family members, or relationships that went awry. In one narrative that stands out, the speaker describes their sister, saying, “My scar: missing her is my scar.” The fragmented stories are quite short – that they stream and flow into one another echoes the concept of collective memory. Though the experiences differ, they can all be brought together to coexist in one harmonious space.

The common thread running through all these scars is the profound impact of memory on the human spirit. Despite this unifying thread, however, the themes addressed by the exhibit sometimes feel broad and vague, leaving a sense of yearning for more depth and specificity. Perhaps it would’ve been helpful to know the background of each participant’s story, or what specific aspect of their identity they felt had been scarred – their gender or role as a daughter, for instance. These details are only hinted at in the exhibit.

What “Oraison” does best is translate the powerful and personal effect of “The Scar Project” as a form of communal healing into an immersive experience. Through the layering of different mediums – photography, sculpture, and sound – Myre mirrors the broader significance of the exhibit: the rendering of seemingly different scars into a healing collective.

The  “Oraison” exhibit is open until Saturday, December 13 at OBORO.

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Set in a small flat in Britain, John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger explores how the tangled emotions and insecurities of four roommates and friends inspire and infuriate in the apartment’s close quarters. Jimmy (Harrison Collett), an agonized industrial worker, is married to Allison, a woman confined by her traditional duties as a housewife. Having experienced his father’s death firsthand at the age of ten, Jimmy is a damaged, self-pitying husband who demands both obedience and emotional support from Allison, resulting in a tumultuous and abusive marriage. Cliff (Alex Bankier), Jimmy’s only remaining friend, lives with them in their flat, providing emotional relief for both Jimmy and Allison as well as comic relief for the play. As the show unfolds, affairs and anger drive the characters apart and bring them back together, exposing the twisted bonds of abuse and suffering.

While the play deals with themes that are difficult to put on display, the treatment of these themes by director Shanti Gonzales and the cast makes the show engaging and powerful, instead of unwatchable. Each character is portrayed as having their own personal struggles, fears, and contradictions, making it impossible to identify a villain or to distinguish ‘good’ characters from ‘bad.’ Gonzales effectively relays these character complexities to the audience by bringing out the nuances in their relationships.

Each character’s vivid awareness of the reality of pain keeps them on the constant brink of an emotional breakdown – and the audience constantly on the brinks of their seats.

Jimmy in particular is emotionally abusive throughout the play, making it difficult to render him likeable. But while his behaviour borders on evil, his upsetting character is broken down by his own self-loathing and fragility, which draws the audience in emotionally. The necessary trigger warning at the start makes it clear that Gonzales is conscious of Jimmy’s problematic nature. In an interview with The Daily, she explained how she dealt with his abusiveness with care. “It does help us to remember that he is a human being,” she explained. “I think that abuse [in theatre] crosses the line when people lose sight of the humanity of it all.”

Collett is remarkable as Jimmy – his on-stage energy is tangible. He lets himself take up large amounts of space, with a physicality that is both brash and unhinged. Through his anxious physicality and clear emotional investment in Jimmy’s character, Collett reflects the remnants of Jimmy’s past relationships, how he blames and constantly resents his past and present self, and how such thoughts continuously rip him apart. Gonzales notes that Collett was given a lot of freedom with the character. “He and I trust and respect each other immensely, which was critical as we approached the characterization of someone like Jimmy.”

While the all-consuming nature of Jimmy’s character could potentially obscure the rest of the play, Look Back in Anger is as much a study of relationships as individuals. The tensions between Jimmy and his lover, Helena (Kate Hamilton), as well as between Allison and Helena, are expertly developed and drawn out. The two women in particular listen and communicate well with each other onstage. With the actors so invested in their roles, an intimate relationship also develops between them and the audience members.

Given this intimate relationship, the audience cannot help but to become intensely engaged in the high emotions that run throughout the play. In one of the more emotionally-charged moments of the play, Allison falls to the floor, reciting her final monologue about wanting to be corrupt rather than neutral. Each character’s vivid awareness of the reality of pain keeps them on the constant brink of an emotional breakdown – and the audience constantly on the brinks of their seats.

At the heart of this show’s poignancy is the resemblance of the character’s fears to those we find within ourselves – fears that include emotional dependency on another person, the precluding vulnerability, and the pain of acknowledging both. Most profound, however, is the fear of one’s own humanity. The play awakens the vastness that’s buried within us, kernels of the unknown that terrify us. Gonzales’ production skillfully brings the audience, the characters, and the actors together in order to face these realities wholeheartedly.

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In vaudevillian, circus-like style, the actors arrive onstage as a Pierrot troupe, a style of travelling entertainment popular in early 20th century England. The troupe’s members take on different voices, often of soldiers or clueless diplomats, to narrate the moments leading up to and during the war.

Though the play’s subject matter is serious, it treats the war as a humourous satire. The humour often centres on cultural stereotypes, such as high-strung Brits or haughty Frenchmen. These absurd caricatures are overplayed with nearly flawless comedic timing which adds to the contagious onstage energy. Some actors effortlessly speak in French and German, while others pull off quite the impressive range of British, Russian, and Austrian accents. This renders the characters more believable, momentarily drifting away from satiric comedy to ground the show back in the harsh reality of its original context. When Connor Spencer, the show’s director, talked to The Daily about the talent onstage, she explained that she was looking for actors with “a willingness to play.” The growling British commander, played by Anni Choudhury, particularly stands out. Choudhury abandons all restraints and embodies every inch of this explosive character.

This playfulness also comes through in the show’s singing, dancing, and spontaneous guitar playing. Through the use of exaggerated musical numbers, Littlewood originally intended to make the subject matter more accessible, as explained by the director in the program. She hoped to abolish sentimental views of the war by using laughter as a tool to engage the public. Accordingly, the Players’ production artfully uses the heavy subject matter as over-the-top entertainment while also quietly critiquing war. The actors’ powerful voices ring out as almost sickeningly sweet. Spencer told The Daily that she hopes to show the twisted contrast between what was actually happening on the frontlines, and the propaganda and glorifying songs that civilians were exposed to back home.

Technically, however, the show is much more subtle. The lighting is clean and simple. Similarly, the main costumes mimic the basic style of Pierrot, a ‘sad clown’ archetype of French pantomime theatre known for his foolish naïveté. No character wears khaki, perhaps because soldier attires could evoke the very sympathy and sentimental imagery which the play aims to counter. Rather than creating the familiar, heroic soldier characters, this effective aesthetic choice casts them as absurd and lost individuals put in unnecessary situations. Speaking of the normalization of war, Spencer said that “[war] veterans are treated as heroes, when in reality, they’re all flawed characters, like the rest of us.”

The set, simple but deliberate, consists solely of wooden boxes and a monitor that screens old photographs and devastating statistics of casualties during peak moments of tension in the play. Here, the absurdity of the war appears in its dark reality, an effective and grounding contrast to the exaggerated style of the rest of the show. On a platform at the back of the stage, live musicians provide the soundtrack. The interaction between the musicians and the characters, though limited, contributes to a sense of breaking down the barriers commonly found in theatre.

This absence of the fourth wall is the most striking aspect of the production. From directly asking the audience questions to sitting amidst audience members, the cast creates an intense, refreshing intimacy between themselves and the audience. These interactions also highlight the humanity of the actors, the characters, and those in the audience. The personal dynamics foster a collective hatred toward the unjustifiable price of war, that is, the senseless loss of human lives.

Spencer also spoke about the effect of treating war as satirical, and its relevance today, as this year marks the 100th anniversary of WWI. With reference to this anniversary, Spencer again lamented how the war is “celebrated rather than commemorated.” She went on to say that “this [celebration] is how violence is normalized,” and that our focus should be on the uselessness of the war itself. With downcast eyes, Spencer concluded, “We haven’t learned from our mistakes.”

Spencer’s echoing of Littlewood’s original concerns should not be taken lightly. Today, as in 1963, the absurd glorification of war is an issue that needs a critical spotlight. Thought-provoking on one hand and entertaining on the other, this completely student-run production provides such a spotlight in a way which is bound to amuse and impress.

Oh, What a Lovely War! runs from October 22 to 25 at 8 p.m. at Playersí Theatre (SSMU building 3rd floor.) 

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