All that inner conflict about bar soap etiquette usually followed at the end of the night. Once, on one of our first evenings together, we came home drenched in sweat. We had spent hours on the floor, raising brows watching each other’s convulsive dancing, the excitement of learning how our bodies moved together carrying us through the night. We headed straight to the shower. I made it cool the way I like it, but the cold of the first stream of water shocked your muscles into spasm, and I quickly turned the hot tap to the end. Then, I pressed you in the corner of the tub – the water pricking our scalps with its warmth, – and kissed you for what felt like hours under the steam, mind dazed with alcohol and infatuation. The vapour seeped into the ceiling, and on the next day I noticed a crack in the plaster. The heat and moisture had peeled it off, leaving a hole above the corner we had nestled in. That carving marked the first territory we lay claim to together.

The next night you spent in my home, you barged in and hurried to kiss me, shoes still on, every step leaving a shadow of dirt on the kitchen floor. I froze in horror watching your unruly advancement defy my shoes-at-the-door rule, but as your features fell into a crooked smile, I softened into indifference.

With time, my apartment felt smaller, as you inserted yourself into every corner and crevice. The space morphed to accommodate you – the furniture became ours. I relinquished the domestic status quo too, condoning your disregard for my hygiene obsessions. In an attempt to resist your occupation, I started suggesting we leave the house more; maybe I anticipated losing ownership. But whenever you came around, it was too hard to leave.

When you finally made your way to my bedroom, you didn’t take your clothes off, which made me afraid that you’d soil the fresh sheets. Still, if I had known we’d break up on Sunday, I wouldn’t have washed them that morning.

I remember you with all my senses. I see your face and read your text messages in my head, but that’s not what consumes me. Your smell is more obsessive.

After you left, the rose-scented soap remained untouched for a while. In my anger, I didn’t want anything that had touched you on me, but a part of me was also saving it for you, certain you’d come back. Eventually, I started the hot water, took the soap, and grazed my body with it like it was your hands and eyes and hair. I looked up at the ceiling: the crack suddenly seemed more like a scar than a map of our story. It was the perfect trace, cut out on our most boisterous night together. Now, it stared back at me, echoing your permanent silence.

At night, I started hearing scratching on carton and metal in the kitchen. The walls began to speak to me too, as if something was moving inside and gnashing through the plaster to get closer to me. I would scare myself seeing shadows run across the hallway. One was brown, another was black – like the traces of the soles of your shoes. The paranoia of living in a haunted house became an entertaining distraction to loneliness. Yet it couldn’t last, you had invaded my brain like rodents had my home. I could hear the strident ringing of claws on tin wires over and over in my head, as your last texts scurried through my brain, nibbling at the grey matter. Home is where the heart is; you left mine scarred.

I remember you with all my senses. I see your face and read your text messages in my head, but that’s not what consumes me. Your smell is more obsessive. A textureless illusion, it blurs reality and fantasy by unsolicitedly conjuring up your image. The pillow always soaked in your scent; it smelt like warm milk. When you’d get up early to leave, I would press my face in it and inhale deeply to preserve your essence throughout the day. Every morning, I would inhale you.

In such cases as when a foreign smell is more persistent, I make sure to scrub it off me during my morning shower. That way, the memory of warm milk brews up again.

Even after you were gone, I would still taste your scent in my mouth when I’d breathe in. It had the texture of linen; it was mossy but rough, and I would picture it wrapping around my body. Every time it hit me that you weren’t here and that you weren’t coming back, I’d feel the fabric tightening, pricking me lightly.

Now, my head lies on sweat stains, and the smells on the pillow beside me are always different. The novelty of the unknown is exciting, and yet it is your milk-scented skin that remains imprinted in my brain. Mixing it with the pungency of other encounters like last night’s beer stench spoils the whole thing rotten.

Still, I can enjoy these other aromas for their aggressive immediacy – the way they wrench you out and replace you – but they are all passing. The wind blows some away without me even noticing.

Sometimes, an odor lingers on. One night, at a dinner date, the chef generously topped my date’s salad with purple rings of raw onions. I think he liked me very much and wanted to leave a strong impression, so he later covered my whole body in onion kisses. The acidity stung in some places more than others, but his obliviousness was most potent in the intense and unsuspecting leer he gave me while leaning down to whisper in my face. I could feel the fabric of his breath weaving like gossamer around my head, smothering me. Pickled groin, that was the texture of his smell.

In such cases as when a foreign smell is more persistent, I make sure to scrub it off me during my morning shower. That way, the memory of warm milk brews up again.

I arrived here three years ago from a small Eastern-European country where the scent of roses and yogurt is all-over. Since I moved into this apartment, many smells have come and gone, taking me to new places, but none have brought me home. Lying next to you, I could envelop myself in your petaled gust, and see the roses and the morning dew in the park beside my house in my hometown. I could wander its streets again, and I could inhale the quiet wind as it crawled under my sleeves. Now, I long for you the way I do for home: knowing it’s not the city I want but its fragments.

Looking at you then, I didn’t recognize the boy grinning at me in the bathtub. He was perfect, hiding behind roses.

I exhale, and feeling the stream of air leave my mouth, I imagine you leaving, too. But here comes another breath, and you pour yourself back into my throat, and stick to my lungs. Like a broken bone, you stick out and press against my heart. You scratch it lightly but incessantly. The only way to get rid of you would be to exhale you all and shut you off from my system.

Exhaling onto a page, and in the brief intervals between taking breaths, when my lungs are empty of milk and my vision clear, I see that maybe that night in the shower I wasn’t in love. Maybe I was too drunk to situate the feeling – was it a flutter in my stomach or lower, a pang of arousal? Did I, in my desire, mistake my infatuation for a long-term commitment?

Your secrecy left many gaps. Sometimes, it seemed like you wanted to say things, but you’d stop yourself mid-breath; other times, unforeseen dejection would force you into complete avoidance. You retreated from my house as quickly and as quietly as you had gained control of it. All these decisions you made yourself, and I had become a visitor in my own home. There was no way I could invite you back into a place I no longer owned.

I paced around the abandoned space, chasing after mice instead of blocking the holes they had made. The walls were riddled with questions of what I could have done to keep you, or how I could have helped you feel better. Yet, these were only nuisances, distracting me from the bigger crevice that should have been blocked the moment you left. The void in the bathroom ceiling where roses grew and milk dripped; the container of our short-lived idyll.

The smell of rose valleys has tainted my memory, and although the reminder in my bathroom is comforting, it’s not you, and it keeps me from moving on.

I still think about the finality of your last words: “we are clearly not on the same page and I am done.” Your message left no room for interpretation, and yet I wonder again what you meant by that callous “I am done.” You are done with what? Certainly, you are done interacting with me. But are you done thinking about me? Missing me? Did you erase everything once the words had left you and had appeared on my screen?

When I ran into you, you put up a convincing act for the above argument. You’re a man of your word – I respect that. As you passed by me like I am any other stranger, I really believed I had been erased. There’s a crushing clarity to realizing there is no going back to what had been.

Seeing you outside, on neutral territory, with the scent of your skin drifting away in the breeze, I was blind to your smell. The impression of warm milk had cooled down in your complexion, leaving it cold and vacant, eyes blackened by the low brim of your hat. It seemed as though for a moment you struggled to lift your head to meet my gaze then gave up, or perhaps you didn’t want to. Looking at you then, I didn’t recognize the boy grinning at me in the bathtub. He was perfect, hiding behind roses. Finally, I got a glimpse of the real you: aching, though resolute in continuing alone.

When we broke up, you claimed that we weren’t on the same page. I now see that you had written yours out, while I hadn’t. I was stuck cramming all the world’s love poetry on a single line, eager to save space for more words; for the poems I’d write for you. You stopped me mid-sentence, of course, I was hurt. No one likes to be interrupted. I became obsessed with the parts I had completed, rewinding them in my head, and rewriting them over and over. Roses and milk, shower steam, your eyes and smile. Nothing real. I’d put hopes into a rose-tinted future which but mirrored the fantasy of the past. But I moved away from my native country to seek a different life, not to relive fragments from my old one. The smell of rose valleys has tainted my memory, and although the reminder in my bathroom is comforting, it’s not you, and it keeps me from moving on.

Now, I paint over the ceiling and, room by room, I begin to reclaim my home. Nostalgia fading, your body becomes a blurry silhouette in a predictable bathroom scene, your voice a murmuring echo in the kitchen pipes, and your smell is almost indistinguishable amid the fall breeze.

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The myth of the tortured artist – the mysterious creative genius who suffers but creates beautiful work – is a troublingly seductive story to believe in, insofar as it implies that pain is beneficial if it is productive. However, it is an actively harmful stereotype to those who create and consume art. The romanticization of mental illness and the way in which an artist’s mental health is seen as collateral damage in the warpath to creating “good” art is extremely common; struggling is often seen as a necessary step to achieving greatness in the creative field.

Have we, and do we still, condone the destructive behavior of artists who struggle with mental illness? Do the rose-tinted lenses through which we view art play a part in dooming artists to seek and tolerate pain in order to be productive?

As the legacies of great artists come to have a life of their own, the artists themselves become dehumanized.

Vincent Van Gogh is, among other things, known for his love for the colour yellow. He is believed to have consumed the toxic paint in what was allegedly an attempt to poison himself, but the cult belief still remains that he ate the paint because yellow was a “happy colour,” and he wanted to “feel happy, too.” His destructive and dangerous behaviour is misconstrued by the public to fit the myth of artists who “suffer for their work.”

Other artists, however, have channelled their struggles in ways that showcase their artistic mastery and deftness. Frida Kahlo suffered from depression throughout her adult life. She also struggled with various severe physical disabilities. One of her most popular paintings, “The Two Fridas,” shows two depictions of herself holding hands; both have visible hearts on their chests, one of them broken. She has said, “my painting carries with it the message of pain.”

Similarly, part of the self-aggrandizing mission of the Romantics was to establish the artist as a greater being and to attach a sense of heroism and divinity to all things which were deemed poetic. Solitude and isolation were seen as necessary features of making artists good at their craft; self-destructive attitudes were seen as empowering. The opening lines to Poe’s story “Eleonora” proudly declare madness as being the “loftiest intelligence,” and that “all that is profound spring[s] from the disease of thought.” Romantic artists, such as Poe, themselves perpetuated the myth that having a mental illness equals a greater creative output. They did so to cope with problems like addiction and depression as well as to advance the mission of Romanticism of portraying artists as transcendent superhumans. However, the values attached to being “poetic” are prevalent in contemporary society, too. We rationalize suffering, because it furthers our notion of the tortured artist, which puts pressure on artists themselves to self-destruct in order to create.

When we fail to recognize the circumstances under which the art was created, we are complicit in placing the work of the artist before their wellbeing. Artists deserve treatment for their mental illnesses whether or not they are able to articulate their pain through their work.

In a more modern example, Amy Winehouse also channels her experiences into her art. She struggled with addiction and mental health issues. In one of her most popular songs, “Rehab,” Winehouse sings about her experiences with rehab and conflicts she had about the value of rehab for her wellbeing. The concepts of addiction and rehab that she sings about are commonly romanticized and disassociated from their painful contexts in reality. Much like other artists, her personal trauma led to her material success and while she struggled openly, the media still romanticized her experiences and public persona. At the time of her death, an album of her most popular songs was released, showing that even in death, her experiences were exploited under the guise of appreciating her art. This has been a continuous trend when valuing the work of artists with mental illnesses; the public has capitalized on their pain and struggles during their lives and after their deaths.

Perhaps the reason the myth of the tortured artist is continuously upheld lies in the great art suffering is believed to have produced. Van Gogh, Kahlo, Poe, and Winehouse are all artists whose work has outlived them. In that sense, as the legacies of great artists come to have a life of their own, the artists themselves become dehumanized. While this has no direct repercussions for artists who have already died, it does have an effect on the ones actively striving to leave a legacy. Oftentimes, we consume art in an uncritical way, and we detach the artist from the art piece. This, in turn, plays into the continued disregard for the mental health of artists and the romanticization of their illnesses.

In detaching the art from the artist and simply appreciating the latter, we are accepting – and in the eyes of those struggling with mental illness, even welcoming – Poe’s alcoholism and the deterioration of his mental health as necessary casualties to his work. In doing so, we are placing more value on his work than on his life. When we fail to recognize the circumstances under which the art was created, we are complicit in placing the work of the artist before their wellbeing. Artists deserve treatment for their mental illnesses whether or not they are able to articulate their pain through their work. The myth of the tortured artist becomes most dangerous when it identifies a person’s pain as a source of creativity, rather than acknowledging it as harmful. Turning an artist’s pain into marketable art is not a consolation prize for struggling with untreated mental illness.

The post Don’t Suffer for Your Art appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Kosta Karakashyan, a Bulgarian-Armenian choreographer and dancer, worked with the organization Voices for Chechnya, now simply known as Voices, to offer support to the victims. To engage society on this matter and to ultimately put pressure on the Russian government, Karakashyan looked to his craft. His creation, titled “Waiting for Color,” was released on August 27. “Waiting for Color” is a short dance documentary film that shows solidarity with those impacted by the persecutions by focusing on the brutality and despair of the victims during their detainment. Through it, Karakashyan urges us to be compassionate viewers and proactive members of society, and to donate and provide support to the local LGBTQ community at www.lgbtnet.org.

“Waiting for Color” is performed by its creator in a six-and-a-half-minute long monochrome dance piece. Set in an eerie Brooklyn warehouse, the film’s primary emotions are paranoia and hopelessness. When I spoke to Karakashyan, he told me that one of the most terrifying things for him about these persecutions is that undercover police men tricked victims into getting caught. It is this idea of surveillance and insidiousness that shapes the film’s overall ambiance.

Possessions such as “a moist towelette” or “a manicure set” may be harmless in the hands of Chechen women, but they are dangerous when carried by local men; they become the victim’s scarlet letter. It is as if his forehead is branded with the word “FAG.”

The choreography is marked by jagged repetitive movements which do not build up to anything, but rather disintegrate to the echo of biting lines like “we have proof that you’re a fag. You bring shame to our people. You shouldn’t exist.” The soundscape of the work, composed by Julien Leitner, is comprised of hollow music and distorted thumping sounds which gradually descend, as if to evoke a slowing heartbeat. Yet, the choreography is more directly led not by the sounds but by the victims’ testimonials. Collected from 33 survivors and made public by the Russian LGBT Network, the testimonies narrate the work throughout. As the heart and soul of the documentary, they are also the main conductors of the movement in the piece. In fact, Karakashyan’s dance is at times a reflection and at times a reaction to the lines that are being read, blurring the boundaries between narrator and character.

One scene follows the testimony of a Chechen man who was arrested and tortured on the suspicion of being gay. It constitutes a detailed inspection of the suspect’s clothing at the time of the arrest. Hissing into the speakers in a sinister murmur, the victim lists the inventory of the leather bag he was carrying, which ranges from “a moist towelette to a manicure set.” These possessions, harmless in the hands of Chechen women, are dangerous when carried by local men; they become the victim’s scarlet letter. It is as if his forehead is branded with the word “FAG.” Once exposed, the victim is arrested and disarmed of all belongings which propagate homosexuality. Then the torture ensues.

Yet, the choreography during the reading of this testimony does not reflect the idea of powerlessness. On the contrary, as the victim reveals the reason for his arrest, Karakashyan tightens his body into a poised, defensive stance, as if preparing for battle. He slows down and tenses his muscles, bringing the focus to his posture. While the speaker lists his belongings and draws ever closer to his verdict, Karakashyan’s body assumes a position that exudes strength. Here, he seemingly takes on the role of a toreador inciting a bull before plunging the spear into its body. The imagined bull is the cop, and the bullfighter the gay man. In this way, the victim’s feminine handbag is weaponized, and the reason for his detainment is turned into a source of power. This is not an attempt to romanticize or to negate the harsh reality of the Chechen persecutions, or of the countless cases of brutality against members of the LGBTQ community around the world. Instead, Karakashyan’s jarring choice of movement here carries tenacity, and it proclaims our right to fight injustice.

A sunlit background spurs out of the past monochromatic one, creating a disconnect between the grim reality and the hopeful future as envisioned by the dancer-artist. Karakashyan said that he wanted to put an optimistic spin on the work by using the image of a rainbow as a symbol of color and hope.

The title “Waiting for Color” is also juxtaposed against the bleak reality of the victims’ situation. As they lie in the torture room, humiliated and degraded for their alleged identity, the detainees are likely waiting not for colour, but for death. One testimony admits that “in that moment, we lost any hope of coming out alive.” While throughout the film Karakashyan is a silent visual mediator for the testimonials, here he faces the camera and utters the line in a distorted voice. In so doing, he inserts himself into the story, and imagines being in the place of the victim. When I spoke to Karakashyan, he opened up about this pivotal moment in the film and what he hopes it communicates. He said, “it is impossible for us to imagine what being tortured in that way and for those reasons feels like. I wanted the audience to confront how horrifying this is.”

Facing the macabre becomes inevitable in the following scene, as it depicts a physical embodiment of torture. Here, the sounds and background whispers intensify and are made incongruent to the jolted, writhing movements of the dancer. Karakashyan is fully immersed in the torture dance scene to the point of losing control. Although physical and psychological pain haunts the entirety of the film, this seemingly novel freedom and volatility of the movement give them a new form. The choreography in this scene emulates electrocution, and the pain from the torture practice is made even more visceral by Karakashyan’s gasps, shrieks, and his slicing movements which look like failed attempts at escape.

Suddenly, he wrenches himself out, making his escape. This episode takes the premise of the film to another plane, one of colour. A sunlit background spurs out of the past monochromatic one, creating a disconnect between the grim reality and the hopeful future as envisioned by the dancer-artist. Karakashyan said that he wanted to put an optimistic spin on the work by using the image of a rainbow as a symbol of color and hope.

He hopes that it is only a matter of time until people from all around the world can express themselves freely, and that until then, “we are all in the waiting room together; waiting for color.” He admitted that there is no positive outcome or conclusion to this case yet, but that the best thing we can do is to evacuate the victims and help them start a new life somewhere else.

Rainbow Railroad, a Canadian organization fighting for the rights of LGBTQ folks around the world, has helped immensely in minimizing the harm done to Chechen members of the community. Their support lies in orchestrating the relocation of a number of victims of police brutality. Karakashyan’s optimism for the situation derives from the fact that the number of police searches on members of the LGBTQ community in Chechnya decreased when this issue was finally addressed internationally last year.

Although we are still far from eradicating culturally-ingrained violence and hatred around the world, Karakashyan is adamant that staying vigilant and putting greater international pressure on the government to start an official investigation into the state’s abuse of power are crucial components to seeing tangible change.

Waiting for Color is available to watch on Karakashyan’s artist facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/kostakarakashyan/videos/308395116655076/ .

The post The Dance for Human Rights appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The piece in LaRochelle’s words […] is a “community-generated mapping project that geo-locates queer moments, memories and histories.”

Queerness, for that matter, falls anywhere on the sexuality or gender spectrum, and it is up to the contributors to curate the experiences worth publishing. Posts range from bittersweet memories of romantic escapades to tear-jerking coming-out stories from the ’60s, though the occasional (graphic) disclosure of where people have lost their virginity also crops up — for example, “I sucked my first dick here, while my dad mowed the lawn outside. Summer of ‘03.” Posting is anonymous, which perhaps invites potential oversharing. Some stories are NSFW(not safe for work, explicit), though LaRochelle is adamant that such content is a core part of queer culture, and that as such, it has a rightful place on the website. They are not wrong. The project is a public celebration of queerness aiming to increase the community’s visibility by giving its members a voice, and sex has always been integral to the community’s culture, from bathhouse sex to Grindr debauchery. Using the vehicle of communal sharing, “Queering The Map” presents a platform for the local LGBTQ+ community to feel united and heard.

The word ‘queer’ in the title of the project “Queering The Map” is cheekily employed as a verb that stands for claiming queer space. Constructed this way, it suggests spreading and dissemination of queerness in space, but also, a viral spreading, a contamination. Turning “queer” into a verb reappropriates the threatening power of “queerness,” putting it in the hands of queer people themselves.

“Queering The Map” expands on the community’s complicated relationship to public space. A space of violence and rejection, it is also known as a sexualised place, especially for gay men.

The project is a political statement in the guise of a love affair. The affair is one between people and places: a universal fondness for and connection to the settings that shape our memories. Attachments to places happen regardless of one’s sexuality. What makes “Queering The Map” political, then, is that by “claiming” spaces on the digital map, the LGBTQ+ community expresses its queerness in a public manner. It constitutes a coming out, but instead of coming out of a closet, people are out on the streets, or at least in cyber space. “Queering The Map” expands on the community’s complicated relationship to public space. A space of violence and rejection. Nevertheless, some parts of it have also been known as a sexualised, especially to gay men. The ownership of space by queer people has therefore been predominantly masculine, and, in that framework, the project proposes a more inclusive ownership of space by its format, its fluid membership and qualifications to add an entry. In this sense, one could say that “Queering the Map” is an online adaptation of a Pride Parade. With sufficient exposure, it could be as impactful as a march.

As a mapping project that asserts the presence of one community over others, “Queering the Map” has to contend with its own colonial implications, especially in the context of North America. LaRochelle says they are aware of the efforts required to “avoid reifying colonial practice,” and they shared that “the question of what a queer spatial politics that is investing in decolonization looks like is one of the primary concerns of this project.” Their goal with the framing of “Queering the Map” is to succeed in making it “coalitional with Indigenous land politics.” The decision for it to be on a digital platform rather than existing in the physical environment is one way in which this is tackled.

“Queering The Map” expands on the community’s complicated relationship to public space. A space of violence and rejection, it is also known as a sexualised place, especially for gay men.

The reminiscent entries document a queer history written by the community, though not necessarily for it. Anyone can get lost reading here; the range of styles, length, content and locations is exciting aesthetically, and its breadth is captivating. Space has already been ‘queered’ on 6 continents (Antarctica, you’re next!), which also means that the project is growing with haste. Since it is local to Montrealers, however, it currently looks like it is becoming a travel journal for Canadians to use to share their queer experiences abroad.

The content is unfiltered and unmonitored in the sense that it evolves organically, though LaRochelle reserves the right to delete offensive posts. They did not seem easily offended, though. When I asked them if they were worried about launching the website and giving control over to the public, they coolly responded that that had been the plan from the beginning. “Participatory work interests me. If anything, I put my energy into becoming a facilitator for the project. I see it as something that I created the conditions for, rather than something I ‘designed.’”

When I asked them if they were worried about launching the website and giving control over to the public, they coolly responded that that had been the plan from the beginning. “Participatory work interests me. If anything, I put my energy into becoming a facilitator for the project. I see it as something that I created the conditions for, rather than something I ‘designed.’”

During the vernissage, I also got to chat to LaRochelle about what inspired them to create “Queering the Map,” which they also discuss in the foreword of the book. As it happens, all it took for the idea to emerge was an emotional event now pinned on their map. They recalled the moment, saying “I was biking home one day when I passed by a tree where I’d met one of my first partners. There was an intense feeling that I recognized in biking there; a feeling of queerness coming from action. In that sense, I became interested in capturing the feeling of queerness in relation to specific environments, and to then map them out.”
“Queering the Map” is LaRochelle’s Residency Project at the Concordia Fine Arts Reading Room, which they took up in Fall 2017. They are currently finishing their BFA in Design and Computation Arts. Their minor in Sexuality studies has informed recent projects such as “Queering the Map.” LaRochelle and their collaborator Tess Kuramoto are now working on developing a speculative wearable/installation project, that gathers participants bio-data and uses it to animate a series of post-human sculptures.

The post Archiving queer histories appeared first on The McGill Daily.

My Saturday evening is cut short by a school paper I finish around midnight. On my way to bed I grab a book to lull myself to sleep. Eileen Myles has written a memoir about their late dog Rosie, titled Afterglow. I am hardly twenty pages in when I forget it’s nighttime and begin to mull over how the story resonates for me as a dog owner, literature student, and young person.

The questions I asked Eileen largely arose from the gut reaction I got from reading Afterglow. Eileen Myles is a rock star in the American literary scene and an activist for women and LGBTQ+ rights. They boast an impressively versatile catalogue; a dog memoir being the most recent addition, and also the reason for their upcoming visit to Montreal.

The McGill Daily (MD): This is your first memoir! What prompted you to write it and why now?

Eileen Myles (EM): I was living in San Diego in 2006 as a college professor and I had this dog, Rosie, and she began dying. As a writer, my response to my situation is usually to document it, and so that’s what I did. I started doing an account of her dying moment by moment. It eventually turned into a memoir, but it took about 10 years, counting from the first writing morning in September 2006 to 2017 when it was published.

MD: How did writing the memoir change your perception of Rosie? Did it affect the way you remember her?

EM: It both limited and expanded it. When you write about something, some memories have a way of covering others. That’s why I’m surprised when I see a video or hear someone else’s story of Rosie, because that’s not the dog I know. Now I largely know the dog I wrote about. But then there are fictional aspects to the memoir, too, for a number of reasons. One is that I was reading a lot of science-fiction around the time she was dying, so I decided to make it a fantastic account as well.

MD: The fantastic makes itself most evident in the part called The Puppet’s Talk Show. It’s after Rosie’s death, and she becomes a talking character in this episode. Did you give her a voice to have a conversation with her in the afterlife?

EM: Yes. In the early drafts Rosie still wasn’t speaking, and people asked me if she would, which got me wondering about the conditions under which she would. Then I remembered I had these childhood puppets! I decided they would have a talk show and invite Rosie, and that would create the occasion. What’s great about this for me is that I could use the art context of my childhood to give my late adult dog a presence. I suppose that this was a way for my childhood and my adulthood to come together through the loss of this dog. That was the sweet experience.

MD: A lot of the book is composed as a conversation, even though it is one sided eg. you talking to her [even though she is dead]. Then there is this moment in the book where you talk to an animal communicator [like a medium]. How are these things different? Did you feel differently? Is writing about her as therapeutic as talking to her?

EM: Like with anything you are enduring, you keep poking and touching it and looking for ways to deal with it until it stops. In this sense, in the duration of the book I was filling a wound, and I thought of animal communicators. I didn’t know anyone in particular back then, but my friend mentioned it at dinner once. When she created this accidental possibility, I eventually moved towards it. The experience was definitely akin to therapy. It was like going to a priest. It was interesting, too, because it was another way of getting information about Rosie, as well as of occupying myself during her death. Talking to her added a different dimension, which was definitely beneficial.

MD: You refer to Rosie as “your teacher” several times in the book. Why?

EM: Anything you let into your life changes the root of your existing – your dog, your parents. I always wanted a dog but I didn’t get Rosie until well into my adult life. And she affected it more deeply than I thought she could. She brought me to the ocean and to other places, uniting these disjointed parts of my life. My dad died when I was a kid, and back then it didn’t make sense to me, but being with Rosie in her dying gave me a way to understand [that]. I suppose I needed to see someone close to me die and not run or be too young to comprehend.

MD: There is an episode in the book where you imagine your father is there, reincarnated in Rosie. Is Afterglow memoir only to your dog or is it symbolic of something else, too?

EM: It is definitely an homage for Rosie. The book is what my idea of a dog monument looks like. But as with all projects, you inevitably bombard it with thoughts until it becomes its own being. Writing is a performance of having, knowing and loving something and it’s a hit-and-miss process of making that thing come alive again. When I first looked at Rosie, her eyes reminded me of my dad’s; their gaze was the same. The familiarity is uncanny to think about, and it may come from the fact it was just the first fit of intimacy. I certainly had a kind of intimacy with my father, too. So I ran with the idea of the two of them as one.

MD: One of the issues that is more present and palpable than you might expect from a dog memoir is rape. You refer to it as “stealing someone’s envelope.” Can you elaborate on that?

EM: It’s a metaphorical way of saying that we are protected by the boundaries of our body. I could walk into any public space, and when turning a corner, someone who feels like the space is theirs – usually a male, – will lightly touch my hips to get around me. That touch is an intimate kind of touch which men feel entitled to. It’s cultural. As for its place in Afterglow, if rape turns up in a text where you wouldn’t expect to see it, then that moment is a metonym for what it feels like to be raped.

MD: Do you mean that it literally invades the narrative?

EM: Exactly. Rape is something you don’t expect will happen, and it’s something that’s not supposed to be there. It works the same way in a literary setting.

MD: The fact that Afterglow is a dog memoir didn’t deter you from being outspoken about your views and pushing the envelope of political writing. How did you reconcile writing a memoir while also inviting a political discussion?

EM: I am a part of a world of writers who like to mess things up and turn things on their head: in novels, I use my own name; in poems I document and report; a memoir? – I make it half fiction. I love blurring the boundaries of genres. I enjoy the gender-genre resemblance, too, because I think that neither is ever what they are supposed to be.

MD: As a university paper, we strive to represent young people. In that line of thought, do you have any advice for aspiring writers?

EM: Yes! Find the books that excite and re-root you and read. Read widely! And just write in volumes instead of trying to write perfect things.

Myles will be reading at the quaint comic bookstore Drawn and Quarterly on October 24.

The post Blurring the boundaries of genre appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Despite Eskimeaux being a solo recording project, Gabrielle Smith exudes a sense of welcoming collaboration through her indie-pop music. The singer/songwriter played at Bar Le Ritz on September 21. Eskimeaux began in 2007, and in nine years has seen many members come and go, but has always been Smith’s creation. The current ensemble is made up of Gabrielle Smith, Felix Walworth, Jack Greenleaf, and Oliver Kalb. Smith’s musical stylings are comparable to a cross between early Tegan and Sarah and Beach House; she captivates audiences with her angelic voice, and delicate synth melodies to match, balanced out by a full robust drumbeat and a steady simple guitar to pull it all together. The evening unexpectedly evolved into a sort of instrumental musical chairs as all the collective members played the supporting instruments for each other. First Kalb lead, then a change of arrangement brought Smith to centre stage, and finally hauling his massive bass drum to the front, Walworth closed the show.

When Smith performs, she moves carefree with a certain childlike sincerity, tapping her feet and knocking her knees as though everything is fresh and new, making the stage feel like home. She is not jaded. Perhaps it’s a combination of her youthful familiarity and respectful structure of the collective which leads music review websites such as Pitchfork to remark, “somehow it feels as if Smith is lending her ear to you, rather than the other way around.” When I approached her after the show, this opinion was validated. My introduction was immediately met with a variety of enthusiastic questions that came from Smith rather than myself. Despite her melancholic melodies, off-stage Smith radiates excitement giving the impression that she is exactly where she should be. Her music features a unique synth/folk crossover, matched with piercing lyrics that articulate the pains of heartbreak and growing up, which, given Smith’s child-like demeanour, creates a new level of believability. It is no surprise Smith’s lyricism is so poignant. When asked about her musical inspiration, she told The Daily, “I feel like I’m influenced by everything, as a lot of my music is made up of reactions to tiny moments that I can’t let go of from my day.”

In terms of her writing process, Smith begins with poetry. “Usually I write poems that then get turned into songs,” she told The Daily, “the music usually has to fit around what’s being said in the poem. Then the poem gets edited to fit into the music.” This is when her creative supports come in; while she retains songwriting as a completely independent aspect of her music, calling it “super private.” However, the instrumental is a group effort. She “bring[s] the band in for arrangements, a stage at which the song tends to change a lot. I rely on my band to help me trim the fat, both arrangement-wise and structurally, and hopefully to record the next record together.” The mutual respect and understanding between Smith, Walworth, Greenleaf, and Kalb undoubtedly comes through in their recorded music, but even more so in their collective performance. Together, they effortlessly establish an atmosphere of welcoming comfort, which invites audiences to come listen and stay a while.

— Anya Kowalchuk

Groovy Groenland

As Groenland’s concert begins, Sabrina Halde proves her enthusiasm by bouncing across the stage, with her long blonde hair flyng behind her. Simon Gosselin, the bassist, is bouncing too. In fact, we’re all bouncing. Club Soda is springing from its foundation to happily bump into the sky. Montreal indie band Groenland is just that groovy.
After having launched their second album, A Wider Space, on September 16, Groenland presented a concert on September 22. Led by Sabrina Halde and Jean-Vivier Levesque, the band weaves electronic elements with stringed instruments and vocals to create a cheerful pop sound with a lot of rhythm and a great deal of heart.

“With all of this space that we’re not using, I thought we could make something out of it,” sings Halde in “Distractions”. Like children building improvised blanket forts in the corners of a room, Groenland builds spontaneous, fantastical songs with instruments that are less often used in the pop genre. For example, Vivier plays a mouth accordion – think a miniature keyboard connected to a saxophone-like mouthpiece with a long springy tube. Then there’s the violin, the cello, and the horn section, which are not often seen in pop but really shine in Groenland.

Groenland appeals to a wide range of ages – from small children, to twenty-somethings, to middle-aged adults – because they make indie pop that combines the best of both worlds: the creativity and experimental nature of indie, and the catchy energy of pop music. But don’t assume that pop implies simplicity; these are complex, masterfully woven pieces. Most songs are a perfect balanced triangle of sound. There are the plinky electronic rhythms, then the smoothly soaring strings section, and it’s all brought together by Halde’s velvety powerful voice. Compared to Groenland’s previous album, The Chase, it’s easy to see how the band has matured. Songs on The Chase are much more electronic, with less integration of the different instruments. In A Wider Space, it seems like the songs have a more complex narrative structure, with an introduction, middle, and conclusion

— Maya Keshav

The Kills stay loyal

Alison Mosshart’s voice soared over Montreal’s Metropolis on September 21, making forays with scruffy-sounding old hits and hypnotic fresh ones. Playing from their new album Ash & Ice, The Kills rocked the stage alongside 60’s garage-band L.A. Witch. The POP Montreal website describes The Kills as “bluesy-punk,” though they are often referred to as “indie rock.” However, their delivery on the Metropolis stage transcended genre. From explosive garage-rock beats and intense visuals, the unceasing energy in the room promised to turn the inebriated audience into at least one half of the record’s premise by the end of the night: Ash.

To set the stage for the night, an image of a volcano was revealed. This motif represented one half of Ash & Ice’s enigmatic album cover, and accurately depicted the electrifying nature of the show. A crowd of teenagers and adults gathered by the bar, eager to grab drinks before the drums kicked in. Red lights signaled the volcano’s eruption, alerting the crowd. They sprang to the main floor, while Mosshart was ushered on-stage by the beginning guitar riffs of “Heart of a Dog,” played by Jamie Hince. During the opener, the duo professed their devotion to the night’s audience as they sang “I’m loyal, I’ve got the heart of a dog.”

When the punk song “Hard Habit to Break” commenced, band and audience alike clapped along rapturously. Two minutes in, however, the yellow glow of the stage and the initially playful tone of the song were gone, replaced by an extended version of the hard instrumental bridge. Lights pulsated to reveal the indie rock star’s slicing body movements and hair flips. The audience followed her every move, a testament to Mosshat’s hypnotic ability.

The dynamism of this first set was created by the duo’s fiery presence and theatrics. Mosshart jumped and prowled through the stage, and was in full control. At one point, she commanded the crowd to stretch their hands toward the ceiling with a theatrical swish of her own, leading to a full-on wave. The contrasting voices of the duo worked their magic best when Mosshart rose with force and a certain huskiness above Hince, whose deep-toned vocals in turn added softness and texture to the songs. The two created an ambiance that rests comfortably in the indie corners of rock between knockout garage and a soothing blues.

The energy at Metropolis came to a lull when a few analog ballads ensued, which reset the ambience as if to evoke Ice, the second component of the show. Accordingly, the backdrop changed colour to a cold, apathetic blue as Mosshart murmured the lyrics to “That Love” into the microphone, concluding that “it’s over now […] that love you are in is all fucked up.” This set integrated some older tracks like “Pots and Pans” and “Baby Says,” the drowsiness of which precluded Mosshart’s propensity for theatrics.
The Kills shared sentimental moments with the audience. If anything, their performance seemed tailored to a group of friends nostalgic for the past, creating an intimate atmosphere that allowed for a deeper understanding of the musicians. As Hince played a solo interlude, Mosshart leaned in for a kiss with a blissful smile, bobbing her head in gratitude.

The concert was a concoction of versatility and familiarity. The Kills venture off into new sonic avenues with Ash & Ice, introducing fresh electronic sounds to their established sledgehammering rock. This played off exceedingly well live, demonstrated by the intoxicating way the audience grooved along to the elating ‘O-Ohs’ of “Doing It To Death,” the album’s lead single. The Kills concluded the narrative they constructed throughout the concert by finishing the way they started – with a volcano exploding behind their backs. The band had lived up to their name: they killed it.

— Panayot Gaidov

Smoky Leif Vollebekk

A small group of devoted fans climbed the narrow staircase to the Rialto Theatre’s rooftop on September 24th to hear Leif Vollebekk’s last performance of a sold-out concert series, featuring respectfulchild. With a balcony stage framed with edison bulb string lights and vintage lamps and only the Outremont streets and sunset sky as a backdrop, the rooftop was converted into a quirky and easygoing concert venue that suited the performances that it would hold.

The opening act, respectfulchild, started off the evening on a contemplative note. A mysterious figure in a hooded cape, the solo artist seemed to cast a spell over the audience, using unusual violin pieces that innovated beyond traditional violin techniques and whispering vocals layered together in an interesting fusion of live instrumentals and on-the-spot sound editing and live looping. The resulting effect hovered at the border of hypnotic tranquility and unnerving eeriness. The Treaty 6, Saskatoon artist who rightly describes their sound as “ambient underwater fairy music” on their website, is a musician to check out for fans of experimental instrumental artists like Hungry Ghosts.

The second performer was one of my favorite artists, Montreal-based singer Leif Vollebekk. Leif’s style is so evocative that it can be difficult to express it properly, except to say that it is a wandering style. This is the kind of music that belongs on misty-morning road trips or hazy railroad station platforms – it expresses the bittersweet sentiment of watching travellers pass and feeling that you can go anywhere in the world, but knowing that the price of being a wanderer is living with “could-have-beens” whenever you leave.

In a show composed of mostly new songs, his signature style was still in full force. He is one of those rare artists who sound better live, as the extent of his emotional connectivity cannot be contained on a record and his vocal talent is not one that needs the recording studio to refine or enhance its sound. When he started playing, he seemed to lose himself in the song. The resulting performance was full of energy and enthusiasm for the nomadic stories his songs held. His new lyrics, filled with a sense of wanderlust, love, joy and regret, found a perfect dynamic with his sound that alternates from smoky to clear, and from intense to soothing and dreamy seamlessly. Unassuming and honest in his interactions and banter with his fans between sets, he created an intimate and homey atmosphere, even offering sweaters to shivering audience members in between acts.

What impressed me most about POP is how, despite the fact that this is a quickly growing event, still manages to create an intimate, friendly setting. At their events, musicians relax and watch the performances of the other musicians of the evening in the crowd and hang around after the show, chatting with fans in an unrushed ambiance and models and designers mingle with fans and Instabloggers. The boundaries between artist and audience become blurred as a new understanding of these diverse, enigmatic artists is discovered.

—Octavia M. Dancu

Florals and fur at Fashion POP

Confession time: despite being a lifelong Montrealer, I have never been to POP Montreal. In honour of their 15th edition, however, I was able to make up for it by attending the POP Fashion show, held at the Rialto Theatre. While many view POP as primarily a music festival, it offers a variety of events for everyone to enjoy – including record fairs, art workshops and exhibits, film screenings, and fashion events.

The evening air buzzed with camera flashes and anticipation as Montreal’s fashion set gathered for what was sure to be an interesting and inspiring night. People from all strata of the fashion world could be seen at the pre-show cocktail party: first-time fashion show attendees trying to take discreet Snapchat shots of impossibly tall models lounging by the bar, fashion photographers and high-profile local Instabloggers flitting through the crowd to catch the perfect candid shots and designers explaining their inspirations and fashion muses. It was a kaleidoscopic visual treat, even before the show began. Wherever you would turn, a new intriguing choice would present itself; a flash of sequin, an intricate lace design, a bold hair colour or lipstick shade.

Fashion POP showcased pieces from up-and-coming designers A MAN x Cholo 58, Laugh, Markantoine, Onlookers, S3ttl3r47 and Whitewalls Worldwide, exploring the struggle between different ideas on the direction of fashion: should high fashion be wearable or aspirational? Should clothes seamlessly reflect our lives, or aspire to be art?

The first designers, A MAN x Cholo 58 and Laugh, worked primarily in Yeezy-esque neutrals, showing oversized coats in beige and grey which gave the model dramatic, bulky, larger-than-life silhouettes and comfortable-looking textures. This set the tone for the rest of the evening, with oversized looks appearing in almost all of the other collections.

One standout piece was a distressed denim dress paired with a chunky gold chain necklace and a brazen pink fur slouched across designed by Markantoine. The look combined luxury with grunge in a bold yet jarring statement. Markantoine continued this study in contrasts by pairing a brown fur coat with a black hoodie underneath, continuing the theme of exaggerated opulance juxtaposing street-style staples. This collection came across almost as social commentary on the conflicted ideals of this New Americana vision that is still struggling to define itself: a covetousness for status and a desire for true authenticity and experience. The collection closed with a statement coat and dress that departed from the previous juxtaposition with their matching scarlet color, ending off on a cohesive note.

The next collection was designed by Onlookers; their pieces were minimalist and streamlined, with sleek blue and grey dresses, and tailored coats. The elegant shapes, subtle colors and lines of the garments created a thoughtful palate-cleanser from the busier and sometimes jarring collections that preceded it. This collection seemed one of the most versatile in the whole show —I could easily see one of those dresses being a good choice for a cocktail hour or a networking event.

The winner of Fashion POP 2016 was S3ttl3r47’s dreamy romantic collection, where soft, flowing florals and lace met whimsical tailoring in an aesthetic that could be described as Wes Anderson meets dark urban fairytale. This collection spoke to me as haute couture more than the rest because some of the outfits blurred the boundary of art and clothing.

Crowd-favorite Whitewalls Worldwide closed the show in a roar of applause with accessible urban streetwear, channeling the current athleisure and 90s revival trends into a collection that seemed current yet approachable. With these last two collections, the struggle between the two fashion ideals is thrown into sharp relief – should haute couture remain engaged in the pursuit of art, or should it seek to please the general public that experiences it and work towards enhancing wearability instead?

—Octavia M. Dancu

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