Quiet Time

We live on a magnetic planet. And for this, be grateful! Thanks to earth’s magnetic field, we are conveniently shielded from harmful solar winds. It’s not an equal opportunity solar system, folks. Our own geology is fairly swell, but magnetism on Mars has not been so convivial. As NASA has recently demonstrated, the martian atmosphere has long ago been stripped away, for lack of protection.

Here on earth, our magnets are in order. But they haven’t always been in the same order.

I want to note something that I find interesting about our planetary magnetism: polarity. Throughout earth’s history, this magnetic orientation has frequently flipped. The last time this happened was nearly 800 million years ago, when there were of course very few compass needles around, to point to any semblance of what we now call North.

Earth’s Magnetic Field | Image: ESA/ATG Medialab

But before the Brunhes–Matuyama reversal, there were many other reversals: in fact, a record of earth’s magnetic polarity is recoverable from the ocean floor. When molten rocks harden, they “remember” the magnetic direction in which they were pointing while fluid. This, coupled with the measured movement of these rocks (outwards from their point of origin), can amount to a kind of bar-code chronology. Scientifically, it is every manner of fascinating. But for me, the pattern also represents an aesthetic and spiritual point of departure. Consider in particular, this helpful interpretive tidbit, addressing the large uninterrupted area near the centre of our barcode:

“During the middle of the Cretaceous period, the polarity of Earth’s magnetic field remained stable.” —John A. Tarduno

Geomagnetic polarity over the past 169 Ma, trailing off into the Jurassic Quiet Zone. Dark areas denote periods of normal polarity, light areas denote reverse polarity.

Ahh, stability. It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it? For eons and eons, earth does all this flip-flopping, unable to decide which way is up, and then suddenly in the Cretaceous, you get this immense 30-million-year calm. A rather extended sabbatical, perhaps? But even the longest (procrastination) break comes to a close. Before long, the magnetic polarity was back at it, swapping its orientation every one-to-ten million years or so. I like to imagine our planet as dedicated to a task: committed to a fruitful rhythm; throbbing with the pulse of north and south; a creature of habit.

As a graduate student, I find the current pace of (my) life to be fairly fast and intense. I inhabit the polarity of on-and-off in terms of sleeping and studying. But it’s also good to zoom out. In the thick of things, I can be reassured that in due time there may yet be another (eon-spanning) break. Do you imagine yourself on a continuum of switched-on and switched-off? What kind of occasional Sabbath do you celebrate?

Read More


disfigure it out

It wasn’t what I was anticipating for October’s art crawl, but when Andrew McPhail asked whether I’d be willing to perform for “disfigure it out”, I was all over it. Like band-aids on a face. Because how often do you get the chance to meditate for 90 minutes at hundred dollar gallery? Not every day. I recommend the experience to anyone and everyone. By the end of it, I had intimate knowledge of the bust’s complexion: the deliberate layering over the nose, the angled accents across the forehead, and the absence of any covering over the ears. For obvious reasons I was also grateful for unobstructed nostrils, and for a comfortable sweater (the October breeze was never far away). The real interest though was in the comments of visitors. Being objectified as a “work” of art as in “is this your work?”, and being in earshot of, and privy to such comments as “I guess he can hear everything we’re saying”. Aside from issues of the mask, and the current political discussion in Canada (orbiting around Zunera Ishaq) about the niqab, I also had my own aesthetic reflection on the experience. There’s nothing like a good Zen meditation. And there’s also nothing quite like an accumulation of band aid (solutions). They so seem to reach a point where their collective layers begin to constitute the kind of crust that isn’t merely superficial. Do you think it’s fair to call this band aid collective an appendage with substance?


Thanks to Maureen Paxton and Andrew McPhail for the photos and to hundreddollargallery for being so affordable.

Read More

Whirlygig in Action

and behold, all is vanity

I’m a real bird! Tweet! Tweet! —@Teutul

“I’m a real bird! Tweet! Tweet!” A pithy pet epithet? Spoken in true budgie form, it may well have been Teutul’s 2002 squawk of the year. Testicular cancer has since taken the bird (and his epic mustache) from us. In lieu of real songs sung by real (feathered) fowl we now have real flying animals trading real TWTR stock on the NYSE: #concisely #commodified.

The pizzazz in 1868 Bremen was no less breezy with Johannes Brahms’ Denn alles fleisch es ist wie gras offering a musical ReTweet of @DeuteroIsaiah‘s 30-odd character jewel. If parrot memes lack staying power, your social media campaign can always rely on grave reminders about mortality. On the other hand, grass tends to come up again in the spring. And the flowers of the field? Their glory is blooming perennial!

“I’m a real bird! Tweet! tweet!” —@Teutul

Whirlygigs, too, participate in all sorts of recurrence, coming up (semi-annually) at you me gallery in Hamilton, Ontario: a veritable smorgasbord of pinwheels, bright colours, rotating knives, defaced currency, flashy chrome, waddling ducks, and other such frivolity. After all these years of wind in the willows (and the trousers) @Fragonard remains fluent in the rhythms of the swing. The fickle muses of whimsy persist.


My own contribution is a twitter-powered web application that attempts (within the constraints of screen real estate and bandwidth) to keep a pulse on global breezes, tornadoes, gales, tempests, and the like. Chosen tweets are allotted a radius, speed, and decay rate to suit. Digital wind, it turns out, takes you to fragile and festooning places alike: from lingering tribute songs for Princess Diana to nimby turbine protest rallies in rural Kent.

I don’t decry the fact that “Let your words be few” has come to mean a 140 character limit. Nor do I resent those residual necks-of-the-woods where it continues to mean “shut up and listen”. The gravity that accompanies a typhoon such as #Soudelor on its way through southeast Asia is the same gravity that keeps you on your feet. Of course our words need not be solitary, poor, nasty, or brutish. But if we keep them short, they may remain ablaze with their own particular poignance. In the spirit of shortness (of breath, of life, and perhaps of tweets), Randy Newman urges us not to be short-loved, while Robin Williams contemplates worm food and the rosebuds of Robert Herrick as a motivation for seizing the day.

Tweets rotate on a screen while Bryce Kanbara and Brian Kelly survey whirlygig setup progress at you me gallery
Tweets rotate on a screen while Bryce Kanbara & Brian Kelly survey setup progress at you me gallery

My own brand of Carpe Deim relies heavily on a PHP code framework at 140dev, as well as jQuery and circleType. When you collaborate, the number of ways to chase the wind increases exponentially. In lieu of Koholeth’s chasing the wind (often framed as a depressing prelude to deeper truths about the fear of God), it occurs to me that there is also a lot of joy in the chase itself. The wind comes and goes where it pleases. But along the way, there is bound to be a human with a turbine (or a twitter account) to celebrate its ferocity. Keep calm and vanitas on.

The semi-annual whirlygig show is on view at you me gallery, 330 James Street North, from Sept 14 (art crawl) – Aug 13 (super crawl weekend). Opening reception: Friday, Sept 14, 7-10 pm. Gallery hours: wed-sun, 12-5pm.


Read More



Google’s neural network spends a lot of time looking at fuzzy creatures (dogs, mostly). And now it can’t help seeing them everywhere it looks. I relate to this. The way I see the world is also profoundly shaped by my experience. There’s a lot to think about here beyond rose coloured glasses (or Dog-shaped spectacles). As a collage artist, I’m not sure what to feel: inspired? Threatened? I have more questions than answers.

The way I see the world is also profoundly shaped by my experience.

On the one hand the machine behaves in a seemingly playful way. Upon feeding it (the algorithm) Communio , one of my sculptures from 2011, Deep Dream managed to find puppies even in the curvature of mussels and water lilies. Is this an instance of a machine demonstrating resourcefulness? Or is it merely incessant projection? The self absorbed worship of a puppy god? What really is going on when you turn pattern recognition upside down? If you repeat something often enough, does it automatically become true? Isn’t this iterative digital insistence miles away (from how children look at clouds)? Isn’t the abundance of eyes creepy? Is google playing God an Ophanimic scale?

I’ll have to keep mulling on this. But I have to admit it’s at least as much fun as it is sinister. Why not take a zoom, and see what you find. You can also Download the dream image.

Read More

Athabasca Falls

In, Out, Up, Down

Neither the carriers of a Christ-yoke, nor the navigators of heavier spiritual paths, ever quite escape the ego on this side of (the) Jordan. Nietzsche might see the ego as an opportunity (and I sympathize with the will to power), but for the rest of us power is suspect, and the ego remains a human problem. To disconnect from the ego, we (seek to) reconnect with the Divine. Easier said than done, as omnipresent beings tend not to publish their GPS coordinates. So where are we off to?

“Love the world as your own self.”-Lao Tzu

Eastern mystics recommend an inward orientation: “Seek the divine inside yourself”. I find echoes (of this posture) in the urgings of the self help universe to “seek within”, in Obama’s impetus to “be the change” and in the claim of Jesus, that “the kingdom of God is within you“. The urge to turn inward also aims to amplify a divine core. “Namaste” drives away the ego by excluding it from the field of vision.  When one says “the divine light in me honors the divine light in you”, no mention is made of darkness. We assume one another to bear in completeness (the image of Christ).

On the other hand, it’s a risky business, to carry divinity around. The ego may well claim (divinity entirely for) itself. And so, Christians have also been known to insist on a Creator / creature distinction. Your separation from – and dependence on – God is real, and humility is therefore natural. God is sovereign, but you are Just a Reflektor.


“Thought you were praying to the resurrector; turns out it was just a reflector. (Just a reflector)”-Arcade Fire


The wisdom in this kind of self-emptying, is to seek God not only within, but also without: looking outward but also and especially upward. Enlightened persons are said to have reached a higher state. Numinous experiences on mountains (and with burning bushes) are echoed in all kinds of texts, including the Hebrew “unto the hills“. Rudolph Otto’s “wholly other” is far above (my) petty humanness. Interestingly, when Jon Foreman looks at the Stars, he claims the dual benefit of not only seeing “someone else”, but also of feeling “like myself”. Credence to the vertical.

“Do not love the world”-Jesus

It seems that self-empowerment and self-emptying wind up being very close to the same thing. Whether you actively exclude the ego, or fill up your heart-home with suficient goodness to crowd it out by default, the cow poop seems either to sublimate either way. By the time it traverses the Athabasca falls, you won’t be able to find it back.

Read More

Gymnosporangium juniperi-virginianae

Cedar-Apple Rust

With the month of May having expired, I picked up my Gyres artworks from The Jordan Art Gallery this week. Though conversations with George Langbroek tend to fruitfully peel away the hours, I got away in time to stop by at Balls Falls Conservation Area. Distracted by sights and sounds near the trailhead, I did not even make it to the falls! Alongside an uncommon abundance of bird species (including bluebirds, woodpeckers, and various other musically-astute finches), I took note of a bizarre community of squid-like entities that appeared to burgeon on several of the Balls Falls cedars. What are these that are arrayed in orange robes? And from whence came they?

Mom, do we come from spores?

It turns out that Cedar-Apple Rust is a wind-borne fungus that alternates in its choice of host. Depending on the position of its lifecycle, you might find them attached to either a cedar or an apple tree. In an apple year, it manifests simply as leaf spots. But in a cedar year (especially after a late spring rain) you get these otherworldly growths. I can’t help but envision their tentacles as part of some underwater steampunk fiction. But for now, just enjoy the orange glow:


Read More


Happy Birthday (Mister / Darling)

When airplanes (in literature and song) fall from the sky, there is liable to be some manner of “Happy Birthday” whether your name is Conor Oberst or Salman Rushdie, whether you perish or are reborn. Even if another name or fate possesses you, there may yet be candles and cake.

To demonstrate, I have interwoven selected words from Conor Oberst’s “At the bottom of everything” and from (the audiobook of) Salman Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses“.

Oberst: “There was this huge Mechanical Failure and one of the engines gave out”
Rushdie / Narrating: “Flew too close to the sun is that it?”
Oberst: “And they started just falling and 30 thousand feet.”
Rushdie / Chamcha (trying to reason the miracle out of existence) “God, we were lucky, he said, How lucky can you get?”
Oberst (strumming percussively): “It’s a birthday party. It’s your birthday party: happy birthday darling.”
Rushdie: “Born again, Spoono, you and me. Happy birthday, mister; happy birthday to you.”

Oberst, having published his song “At the Bottom of Everything” in 2005, follows chronologically after Rushdie’s 1988 Satanic Verses, but perhaps both the artist and the author exist rather in the imaginary place that might be described as a perpetual birthday.

Read More


Dregs and Legacy

Dregs. Leftover (cocoa) bubbles in a cup. Satisfied traces in a swig-wake. Just accidental patterns? Or is there art(fulness) in what you leave behind? Our legacy of consumption isn’t merely a hot button issue. Every slag story is also about nourishment. There’s more here than a byproduct: it’s also the proof of savoured pudding.

Historically, our social, political, and cultural leaders each drank deeply from the nourishing fountains of their time: family (or lack thereof), place, inner persona, outward pomp. So what’s left in the cup after that final, satisfying gulp? What can you see in that circle (or square) of hot chocolate, tea, beer, mineral or pulp? What crystallizes into view at the bottom of everything?

I really like the layers in this image. Each swallow, having lowered the liquid level by requisite millimeters, has made its own foamy cocoa-mark on the mug’s vertical gradient. But what really makes this a geological experience is the apparent crackle of dried mud at the bottom. This is truly a draught-turned-drought.

Picture these fissures slowly forming: the mug left on a desk in the wee hours of the morning, witness to the weak whittling of a man with a deadline. The mug (weeks later) still sitting tight, now lost behind stacks of paper, succumbing to dehydration. The porcelain polish finally peering through the barren bark. Abandoned. And yet: what a vigorous life this creature is privy to!

What really makes this a geological experience is the apparent crackle of dried mud at the bottom.

And that’s the humanity of it. What I see in the dregs is evidence of hands and heads and hearts of all sorts. And there are all sorts! The engaged and employed as well as the arrogant and empty. Some dregs commemorate brain cells agonizing over determinism and technology, over diamonds and skulls, over Kermit the frog. Others mark a desperate drowning.

  • Which particular chamomile leaves induced the necessary calm to craft the great nonviolent social movements?
  • What kind of sweet residual communion wine might mark the aftermath of ritual bliss?
  • What foamy remnants of one too many beers might have observed the murder of a spouse?

Dregs are a kind of leveller. We’re all thirsty for something, and have all known both satisfaction and its opposite. Many a refueling (or remushing) of mind has had to do with the draining of a draught. What we end up doing with those legacies is up to us.

Beyond the flourishing finality of a deep, guttural “Ahhhh”, and the loud heavy-fisted plunking of pewter on hardwood, our tales seem often to trickle away in dishwater. Even heirloom china, carefully handled (in and out of its crystal-cabinet home) is all too often found in shattered remnants on the floor.

But the human vessel?

At the bottom of our own earthen souls, we seems to have every lingering intention to endure.

Read More