don’t give a fuck what you think about me / And I don’t give a fuck ’bout the things that you do / And I don’t give a fuck what you think about me, what you think about me / So yeah, fuck you.
— Charli XCX, “What You Think About Me”
We are not the same.
Dear art,
It’s been a long time. I have to admit that I miss writing to you. You never made it an easy business though, reviewing the places where one finds beauty and the messy politics that get stirred up in the cyclical endeavor of making and responding to art. So much has transpired since we last spoke. A titan in publishing and Canadian art fell. COVID-19 measures closed the doors of galleries for a period of time. A recession looms (never a good thing in the arts). Still, here I remain, searching for truth. Too bad there’s no truth in art (it’s not like it’s Art).
As you may have garnered, dear reader, there are a few different characters in the mix. There is Canadian “art,” the industry wherein I work and have worked for a decade now. Canadian art is a network of galleries, critics, publishers, academics, artists, benefactors, collectors, and not-for-profit organizations. Of course, there’s also Art. What is Art? Entire classes are taught to answer this question. Art is pre-discursive and, to live artfully, is as innate to life as breathing and eating, if you ask me (that said, I’ve always been a romantic). Then, there is “Indigenous Art” and Indigenous art, a distinction I discuss herein.
Here I stand, facing you once more, cloaked readers and art lovers, and I’m at a loss of where to begin. I did, indeed, see some art since we last parted ways. I wish I could simply write about that art now. What’s it like to be in some faraway city with ancient architecture sinking deeper into the sea with every step you take on its land, with your parents footing the bill? What is it like to have the decadent time to search only for beauty and have no sense of what it means to live to survive? It’s not all dreary. Truth and love brought me here, too. At my core, I’m just another scene kid who gets my dopamine hits from looking at things. I don’t know where to begin because how can I simply talk about “Indigenous Art,” and Indigenous art, without acknowledging that the meaning of these terms are in flux? How can I talk about “Indigenous Art” without talking about the grief so many Native folks are contending with right now?
Read full column here.
Jas M. Morgan 