Category Archives: Art

Transhistorical Artistic Fusion, Europe/Travel, Revolution, and the Power of “Hamilton.”

I was first acquainted with Hamilton: An American Musical sometime in the past year and, as I am stubborn and often quite reluctant to indulge in popular fads, I ignored the hype and refused to listen to the soundtrack. This attitude lasted until the end of May. As the effervescently brilliant Lin-Manuel Miranda wrote, “There’s nothing like summer in the city” and, in this respect, he is right — there is nothing more tedious and painful than staying home for the summer in my hometown, filling my nights with Jeopardy! and awful dermatologist appointments. I decided to give Hamilton a try when I’d finished my tenth book of the summer (and it wasn’t even June — always the charming socialite, I am), in part to combat my anxious and, at times, depressive episodes of boredom and impatiently waiting for the new school year to begin. Truthfully, I am more than a little antsy to jump start a new artistic project that is going to take over my life next year — that I am currently unable to talk about in any way but relates immensely to what I am about to tell you: I needed something to occupy my mind — Hamilton, it seemed, was it. Hamilton, and the absolute genius that is Lin-Manuel Miranda, changed the course of my summer. This summer, that of 2016, has been officially dubbed my “HamiltEnlightenment,” my “Lin-Manuel MiRenaissance,” if you will. Here’s why.

*Note to reader: this is going to be a bit of a longer post because it chronicles my arts-based adventures through Europe — if you’re looking for more Hamilton, you might want to skip to the end. Apologies in advance. I have a lot to say this week.

It begins at the start of May with an extensive summer reading list. I poured through the Complete Plays of Sarah Kane in the first week of the month, while getting ready to embark on my two-week European extravaganza (which, don’t worry, I’ll get to later on in this post). Each of Kane’s plays entrapped me in their web of provocative absurdity, touching on raw and emotive themes such as torture in life and death, redemptive love and raw human connection — riddled with Shakespearean tropes and completely up to interpretation with regards to staging. I had spent the later parts of April attending local Shakespearean lectures and sneaking into alumni association events where I had the privilege of hearing local professors speaking about the dangers of misinterpreting “realism” in the theatre. And so I began my independent studying this summer learning about challenges to the form (in theatre and literature), revisiting A Clockwork Orange, the Iliad, Oedipus the King, and many other favourites along the way. To understand challenges to the form, I thought, I had to understand the form itself and perhaps the earliest examples of it — that’s where my classical Greece craze came from. Let’s move on.

My studies continued overseas in Berlin, where I spent a handful of days dipping in and out of the most renowned museums with some of the (for lack of a more compelling adjective) coolest exhibits I have ever attended. Those of you that know me well know that museum-hopping is a favourite pastime of mine, and to say that the Deutsche Histories Museum (and the others in Berlin) outweighs those in London is a huge deal (as we all know, the English are notorious for stealing some of the greatest artifacts from historical excavations) but it’s true — I loved seeing all of Kathe Kollwitz’s art in the flesh, fawning over Napoleon’s hat and sword from the Battle of Waterloo, seeing French Revolution and World War One/Two propaganda and, most incredibly, all of the mind blowing reconstructions at the Pergamon Museum. The Market Gate of Miletus and Ishtar Gate took my breath away — the exhibitions on Islamic and Babylonian Art were equally fascinating. Another special shout-out goes to the Alte’s German realism and French impressionist collections, and the Neues Egyptian/Ancient Civilizations collection. I took a great picture with the bust of Homer. I have too many photos to recount, but they will be up on my 500pix in time. I was also lucky enough to catch an original production of Tosca at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, which really doesn’t relate to the synthesis of my points at all but is worth mentioning. (*Note to reader 2.0: “Vissi d’arte” changed my life and I feel like Tosca is a breeding ground for sociopolitical allegories).

What I loved about Berlin, and what will end up relating back to Hamilton, is this: Berlin, this city of movement and cultural innovation, once crippled by war — once bullet wounded and sick in hope for restoration — now blooms and triumphs in a bold kind of rebirth, now leaks with remembrance and respect for yesterday but thrives on tomorrow’s energy. On the art and voice of a new generation of skeptics and creationists, of people that dare — of artists, of connoisseurs of the impossible. Berlin is this cool harmonic enmeshment of the past and the present, of the historical and the contemporary, and of progress and tradition. I thought about this a lot during my time in Europe, upon visiting the John Lennon wall in Prague and watching beautiful musicians busking, upon sitting in a church and listening to classical organists while Amy Winehouse blared from a speaker just next door. It was an honour to be there.

As I said, we were off to Prague next, which had an intense amount of personal significance for me as the city itself was a metaphor implemented in my first play, Anonymous — my heroine, Imogen, was (essentially) seeking self-knowledge and fulfillment in the unknown. “Prague” was supposed to represent “the unknown”, because blah blah blah, that’s all you need to know for this post to make sense. I could go on forever, Anonymous is bloody metaphor city. I’m a crazy person. The Franz Kafka museum, and specifically the installation based on The Castle, left me speechless. I visited an old bookstore and sat for hours watching the city after my daily touring, surfing between Voltaire and Sophocles (note to reader: I read Candide in a church. Irony?) But here’s what kept popping up: the art in the galleries of the old buildings and churches — they were all painted in a kind of postmodernist, contemporary style, catering to the form and not idealizations of realism. I saw Macbeth at the Prague State Opera which, by the way, is the most beautiful building I have ever seen in my entire life, which differed entirely from Tosca in Berlin because it was in a sense experimental. All of the costumes were very transhistorical, often a sort of business-casual, sometimes minimal depending on the character — and the set had a degree of abstractedness — but Macbeth and the Lady’s costumes were period, and so much else was contemporary! There we are again — this enmeshment! Here, in the 21st century, that seems to be where all the energy in Europe is concentrated: somewhere between the old and the new, the strict religious and the strict secular, the tradition and the experiment. It stinks of fragmentation! I love it!

I didn’t stay long enough in Budapest to see anything to add to these points, but what I did see was an incredible Picasso exhibition at the Hungarian National Gallery, right up in the Buda castle complex. And many other cool things. I wrote some music on a red bench by this field overlooking the city, and saw some beautiful churches and lookouts. It felt as the other two did, though — fragmented, scrapbooked if you will.

And now, back in Hamilton (ha-ha), my [Alexander] HamiltEnlightenment. Why the craze?

The first song I heard from Hamilton was its opening number, Alexander Hamilton, describing the protagonist’s early life in the Caribbean as a “bastard, orphan, son of a whore…” (ask me to rap anything in the show. I’ll do it). I was attracted to the show at first because — well, who couldn’t be?! The show thrives on incredible poetic lyricism. Just look at the intricacies of the rhyme schemes in Lafayette’s fast raps, each play on words a fireball. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard in a recent broadway show — just listen to Eliza’s haunting ballad, Burn, about “erasing [herself] from the narrative.” Every song is brilliant.

The songs themselves, however catchy, weren’t what really raked me in — it was Miranda’s sheer ingenuity behind the very idea that got to me. Alexander Hamilton, in his day, was known for his power of speech — his extraordinary voice that fuelled the American Revolution. What LMM does by taking this biographical tale (inspired by Ron Chernow’s book) and translating it to hip hop acts as a sort of retelling of history — juxtaposing the revolutionary “voices” of the past/of the forming of America with the revolutionary “voices” of the present — this of course being hip hop artists, many of which are of visible minorities in the States, who face as much discrimination as immigrants and anti-Brits did in the days of Alexander Hamilton. Despite these cultural and ethnic biases, however, Hamilton prevailed and reached success through the power of language and speech; hip hop, because of Hamilton, now does the same. According to the show’s creator in a 2009 performance at the White House (when the Hamilton Mixtape was still a barely-developed concept album), [Alexander Hamilton] “embodies hip hop” because of this. Hamilton asks us to consider again and again, “who lives? Who dies? Who tells [our] story?” It is a landmark cultural event not just in the development of musical theatre, but for visible minorities in North America — especially performers! We see non-Caucasian actors playing iconic “white” historical figures such as George Washington and Aaron Burr… imagine the impact this production is having on any previously held notion about “type-casting!” The perfect example of cultural and historical enmeshment! Oh, boy! It’s everywhere! Art!

Anyways, I could go on for hours, but the whole thing really is brilliant. Hamilton is telling a story in America’s history that looks and sounds like what America has become, what it is now. It deserves every Tony it is nominated for. It is REVOLUTIONARY in so many contexts.

Here’s the point I want to make moving forward — look how much Hamilton is in the public eye. Look at all the (much deserved) critical acclaim [Pulitzer Prize, Grammy, you name it] it has been receiving by (again) challenging the form, daring to be unconventional, daring to make a social and political statement — just by its own artistic genius. Hamilton is the landmark cultural event we need in society today, to bring people together and to urge them to create and dare. I have no doubt it will shed a lot of light on the theatre industry, and (I hope) bring audiences to respecting and loving these new changes to the stage. I talked a little in one of my last posts about being open to change and unique interpretation on classical/Shakespearean works, and how important it is to embrace your local to be universal. It all comes back to Hamilton. For a lot of the general public, it will start with Hamilton. And here I am, in my hometown (ALSO “Hamilton” — whoo! Look at how that worked!), back from travelling all around Europe just to rediscover the muse here, right in my bed in the city I’ve always known, my Hamilton: The Revolution book beside me and my hair in thick, curly, blonde knots.

I even started a scrapbook that toys around with this idea of personal, social, and artistic fragmentation, because it’s clearly taken over my life.

There’s a note I wish I could end this on. I wish I could talk about how I intend to move forward with this idea, how I want to use all that I’ve learned abroad with that I’ve learned at home to make something new of my own — something toying with fragmentation — something accepting of the past but thriving on today’s energy… but, like I said at the start of this post, there are some things (happening in the near to distant future) that currently lie outside the range of things-I’m-allowed-to-talk-about… however, when the time comes, I’m sure you’ll all be the first to know.

I don’t know how to end this — it’s been one hell of a post. It still feels unfinished, but I want to get back to my crazy reading schedule and I’ve got an orientation retreat and job training this weekend. I have to wake up early, wash my hair, and cover my acne scars. Hey, I’m not perfect! Scars are pretty, too.

Oh! And, by the way, everyone should read Hamilton: The Revolution. It’s worth the money.

I’m sorry I don’t post much but, when I do, it’s always a doozy.

Camille over and out.

The 58th GRAMMY Awards - "Hamilton" GRAMMY Performance
NEW YORK, NY – FEBRUARY 15: Music director Alex Lacamoire and actor, composer Lin-Manuel Miranda and cast of “Hamilton” celebrate on stage the receiving of GRAMMY award after “Hamilton” GRAMMY performance for The 58th GRAMMY Awards at Richard Rodgers Theater on February 15, 2016 in New York City. (Photo by Theo Wargo/Getty Images)

Community Arts, Education, and the “Legitimacy” of Creation

“The unfed mind devours itself.” – Gore Vidal

My inspiration starts here: I spent my first St. Patrick’s Day as a 19-year-old University student at the local museum, sitting in on a lecture by award-winning Newfoundland director Jillian Keiley entitled How to Make the Performing Arts Thrive Locally, Regionally, and Nationally as a part of the “Public Matters” series (Museum London). Keiley has reached national audiences for years by bringing pieces of Newfoundland into every show she directs; right now, she is in the midst of producing a piece (reworked to be set in her homeland) for the Stratford festival. She spoke of LePage and Tremblay, and the importance of setting in art — to be universal, in the words of Tremblay, we must be local.

This hit home for me — enough, it seems, to take time out of my hectic finals schedule to write an extended blog post about it. First of all, I’d been interested in Tremblay ever since appearing in a production of Albertine in Five Times as a part of the Sears Ontario Drama Festival (we went to Provincials!) in 2014. I began thinking of all the renowned Canadian works that were set or inspired by a specific town or landscape… Stephen Leacock’s Sunshine Sketches…, Ann-Marie MacDonald’s Fall On Your Knees… Tremblay’s La Maison Suspendue… the list is infinite. Even the most celebrated of plays are set in a very specific atmosphere and location — think A Streetcar Named Desire. This got me thinking about my local environment, and the artistic communities thriving around it…

Keiley spoke a lot about popular arts, and how difficult it is to promote Canadian theatre to the masses in the shadow of “Ed-Mirvish-Toronto/New-York-City-Broadway-Musical” culture. This reminds me of a discussion I had back in February with Top Girls director Vikki Anderson after attending a lecture on campus about the play’s adaptation for the Shaw Festival. People go to the theatre to feel cultured — more or less promoting an illusion of being cultured — not necessarily to contribute to the ever-growing theatre scene in Canada. We come to the theatre for the experience — for the grand period costumes and intricate period sets, more like it — but we leave dispirited, with ignorant criticism and expressive distaste for the modernizing of Shakespeare and Wilde. As Canadian (and/or global) theatre-goers, we are constantly exposed to modernized adaptations of Shakespearean classics — just look at elements of the Benedict Cumberbatch Hamlet. The Stratford Festival takes especially creative liberties with its productions — I have heard many things about its past production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. I remember hearing about these modernizations — liberties with costumes, time periods, and gender-bending — and questioning the authority of the directors and producers to make such bold changes. Why? Easy — I wanted to think myself cultured and feel it in my blood and guts. It’s all part of the (I hate this word, but I’m going to use it) pretentious “know-it-all-because-I’ve-read-A-Doll’s-House” attitude surrounding popular theatre culture. I myself was included in this for a long while. Shame on me.

I also remember being in tenth grade and hating Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet (1996) which, despite its mixed reviews, is quite obviously a “fan favourite.” I looked down on all of these adaptations, as did most of the people I surrounded myself with at the time, and now here I am at University, writing and directing my own material for the first time, expecting artistic perfection and fearing anything but.

We so often think that “modern” adaptations of classics (or just modern works in general!) are not intellectual, or that they are not legitimate; we so often undermine the work in our community for New York City and travelling-musical-theatre-companies-coming-to-Toronto. But how can we ever expect the arts to thrive in our communities if we are not in constant support of them? I have come to realize, from all my years dabbing in arts communities, that creative competition is one of the largest threats to the ingenuity of local artists. If we do not dare to create in our home cities or use our immediate environments as inspiration, then how are we ever to achieve this universality in our art? Community support is something I strongly admire about the new and developing Theatre Studies program at my University (in which I will major along with an Honours Specialization in English Language and Literature). I look forward to learning more with each passing year, and sharing it here with an anonymous sea of internet-stalkers and blog surfers.

As artistic entrepreneurs in our schools, cities, and communities, it can become habitual to succumb to jealousy (or, in some cases, crazy Darwinian “survival-of-the-fittest” attitudes when it comes to competing for roles — I’ve seen it all, trust me) when there is so much competition in the field. I feel that I was lucky to mature in a school environment rich in arts education and promotion, however I also feel that it fostered a sense of entitlement in me, and perhaps in others in my program. I was guilty of over-competitiveness at times and, in some ways, still am. Auditions were always about who was the best, who was the worst, who knew the most, and who was the most “educated” in theatre. Ridiculous, I know, for a band of high school students, but hey — I’m not exerting myself from this! It’s not until you come to University that you realize how little you know, and how little you’ll probably always know.

At the end of my twelfth grade year, as I’ve stated before, I made the decision to abandon a possible career in the arts to pursue political science; this, as we know from my Love Letter to the Muse, lasted about three months. Whereas many people that I know have gone on to study the dramatic arts at nationally renowned institutions, I have gone on to study English Literature and theatre in a city with a strong sense of community where so many new and exciting projects/endeavours are being cultivated. I am so fortunate to be where I am, and would not want it any other way. My now-local community has secured a real sense of home in me, something that I’ve never before experienced in an arts environment, where people are encouraged to grow — critiqued but not discouraged — and where there is a secure sense of belonging, of wanting to contribute to a bigger picture.

It is so easy to be ignorantly critical; this is something I am still working on in myself. Let’s be real — eighteen and nineteen-year-olds have limited experience to just about everything; at this stage, all we can do is put ourselves into our learning and hope for the best. This reminds me of 1960s pop art and just postmodernism in general, people going into art galleries and seeing modern paintings and saying, “I could do that!” Well… you didn’t. You didn’t do that. So why not reward those who did, abandon this sense of artistic entitlement, and reward yourself for learning something new about a work?

I look forward to devoting the next 3+ years of my life to learning, to expanding the environments that have given back to me so much over a period of just seven months, and to fuelling new projects and contributing to the arts on a wider scale. I only hope that others will continue to do the same because, together, our achievements can be limitless.

Crafting and Conquering “Anonymous” – A Reflection

“everything worthwhile ends. we are in the perpetual process now: creation, maturation, cessation.” — john logan, red.

“write, write, write… i cannot escape myself, though i feel that i am consuming my life.” — anton chekhov, the seagull.

“risk! risk anything!… do the hardest thing on earth for you. act for yourself. face the truth.” — katherine mansfield (journal entry, 14 october 1922)

2016 begins here: I spent my January/early February in rehearsals for my show “Anonymous,” which I both wrote and directed as a part of a one-act University play festival. Here is what I have to say about the process… 

It’s been two years since I saw John Logan’s Red down at the Pearl Company, and when I began my first draft I was constantly thinking of the relationship between Rothko and Ken — the power in dualism between two actors onstage. I was adamant that my script have underlying feminist vibes, and with Chekhov’s The Seagull (and also Hedda Gabler — Ibsen, I love you!) being two of my all-time favourite plays, I made a point to work on crafting strong and/or atypical female characters. I thought of how much I loved Caryl Churchill and 19th century theatrical realism.

I wanted to write a little more on seeing my own words come to life — on the experience, the triumphs and pitfalls, and what it means to open yourself up to vulnerability. I believe as artists, and I touched upon this in my earlier post about the ingenious Marina Abramovic, it is our duty to transgress personal and social boundaries for the sake of creation. It has taken me awhile to craft this post — I intended to publish it earlier, but after the performance I found myself overwhelmed with anxiety and needed a week to compile and organize my thoughts… now, they are ready to be written and shared.

The Writing

I told my high school drama teacher and long-time mentor, Mr. Iachelli (who continues to be a driving force in all that I do) that writing and directing a play was like having a child and putting it up for joint custody with a family of strangers. He appreciated the analogy. I thought I’d start with it here.

“Anonymous” came to me during rehearsals for One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. I can’t remember what I was reading at that point — I think it was Vonnegut’s Mother Night, but by then my interests were with the San Francisco Renaissance and that wasn’t about to change. I kept the project a secret until it was near impossible; I even went so far as to send the script in under a pseudonym, “James/Jamie Cavanaugh,” and I have to admit that I fairly enjoyed playing God for the short while that he was alive. Every second was a big, dumb, self-deprecating thrill.

It’s not much of a secret that I write. What with my zany blog articles circulating around the web, writing and directing a play wouldn’t seem like that much of stretch to the naked eye. However, when the majority of your cyber-published content is photojournalistic and comically self-reflective (and often deprecating), you feel in a sense sheltered from your literary ambitions which often transcend WordPress… this was the kind of writing I never shared. It was something I wanted to explore, and something I can continue to develop confidently having opened myself up to this kind of experience.

The Concept

Here’s my pitch: “Anonymous” is about an electric young woman (appropriately named) Imogen who, upon reconvening with an old childhood confidant overseas, discovers that her friend has been furiously writing a novel about a woman he’s fallen in love with. The writer, Gabriel, intends to submit the book for publication, partially to establish himself in the literary world but mostly so that the woman of his desires will read it. As this “love story” advances, three characters dressed entirely in black (and called “the muses”) come alive to perform monologues, each revealing more about Imogen’s life and what brought her to Gabriel’s loft.

Without giving you the full SparkNotes version, the play ends as each character’s illusions become shattered: Gabriel finishes the novel prior to realizing that the woman haunting his thoughts is nothing like he envisioned her to be, and it is revealed that Imogen has been lying about her whereabouts and living a wild life travelling the globe with stolen funds in a desperate attempt to escape modernity.

The play ends up being a question of what in the hell kind of conditioned routines we’re stuck in in this world, what control we have over our emotions, what complications exist between our desires and reality, what pitfalls prevail of being or having a muse, and what faces we share (or choose to share) with the world — are we all really “Anonymous?”

That being said, capturing all of this in a 30 minute time slot, especially in a venue traditionally associated with slapstick comedies and light-hearted political satire, was a challenge. I feared the thought I was trying to provoke would not come through, and whether it did or not in the end speaks to where I have yet to grow. I want to learn more every day.

Art as Autobiography

They tell you to write what you know, but never to give yourself away. I came into the project already knowing that I was too close to it. Not only had I chosen to write and direct, but the stories I’d used for the muse monologues (/extensions of Imogen’s thoughts and experiences) were real. It was easier this way; for someone who has spent so much time journaling and writing travelogues, it was fun to craft my experiences into works of fiction. I was proud of the monologues, but I felt that I became overly attached to the characters as a result and I fear this may have clouded my judgment in the rehearsal process. If I ever rewrite or reboot the show, I might have to kill a select few of my darlings. I would never want anything I create to turn into a vanity project — that would be my worst nightmare.

Art as a Collective

Like I said, I came into “Anonymous” knowing that I was very close to the script. I was curious in what my actors thought of it or of the characters. Rehearsals became really interesting because, through their interpretations of specific lines or bits, we began recreating the roles and the significance of certain parts I wouldn’t have otherwise considered. It was unbelievably eye-opening, despite the fact that I would come to rehearsal to get intensely psychoanalyzed everyday (remember — those are my real stories!). When your own script is out there and on the line, it’s hard to not become a totalitarian director. However, I’m glad I felt that my cast was able to fuel the interpretive process.

My lead male actor asked me how I would describe his character (Gabriel) at one the first ever rehearsals. I remember saying (half jokingly, but with serious undertones) “Easy. His favourite book is Catcher in the Rye. (and if you’ve read Catcher in the Rye, you’ll get the joke). At the second to last rehearsal, in the middle of the scene, that same actor reached into his back pocket and started reading a copy of Catcher in the Rye and incorporating the novel into a select few of his lines. It was hilarious and perfect; that’s one of my favourite stories. The little jokes and inferences weren’t just mine anymore; they belonged to the cast. That was one of the most heartwarming moments for me.

Art as Truth

What I failed to realize at first was this: through “Anonymous,” I’d created an inescapable paradox. The story is about writing — about what kind of truths can be created or recognized through fiction, and about how we can use art as means to justify our insecurities or idealizations about the world. …Well, if art is fiction and authors are prejudiced, then what does that say about me as a first-time playwright? Who am I to write about knowledge and truth and art when I may barely know myself? Are we all really “Anonymous?” Who am I to make that claim? A blonde girl in a red dress, teasing a canary…?

“Anonymous” was the light at the end of the long wintry tunnel that was January. It kept me sane and focused during the storm, which included a course overload, a busy musical rehearsal schedule, and coming to terms with a recent metal health diagnosis… it wasn’t easy. Looking back and now understanding what Professor Bentley was talking about in that “therapeutic culture” lecture on Wordsworth, I know that giving myself so fully to the project and often being terrified of possible repercussions was worth the scare — to have others come into my world, if only for thirty minutes, was more than enough. It was therapeutic.

All of this being said — I need everybody to know that I was so insanely proud of the unbelievably talented group of people I got to work with for this project. My actors killed it up there and, now whenever I look back through the script, they’re all I can envision. Everybody was so dedicated and sweet. I couldn’t have wanted anything to go any differently. I hope they know how grateful I am and how much I appreciate their hard work.

I am always my own worst critic. I’ve returned home until winter classes resume in six days, and I feel at rest finding the steady balance between the chaos that is first year University life and the peace that comes with rejuvenating back home (Oh my God! — I feel like Jack Duluoz in Big Sur! …Sort of). I believe it is so crucially important to create your own work, not for recognition or for some kind of resume-booster, but to contribute to the local art world and — I don’t know — just be a human being. It’s good to feel like one sometimes. Whatever the future may hold for me and my ridiculous wants, “Anonymous” will stay with me forever.


‘The Artist [Was] Present:’ on Abramovic, Art, Expression, and Coincidence.

I saw Marina Abramovic’s The Artist is Present for the first time around September of this year, quickly becoming enthralled with her unique, hypnotic creative endeavours and powerful voice in the art world. I went on to countlessly re-watch the documentary, padding my free time with interviews and articles chronicling her successes and contributions to the artistic community. I told family and friends about her; I spoke of her in casual conversation. I have made an unbreakable promise to visit the Marina Abramovic Institute when it opens.

I’d like to talk a little about her undertakings before continuing with my trademark personal story. My favourite display of hers was called Rhythm O, performed in Naples in 1974. This six-hour piece involved the artist standing dead still in front of a live audience and table with seventy-two objects placed on a table before her body. The audience was given instructions to use said objects on her in whichever ways they felt necessary. They included: a rose, honey, wine, a feather, scissors, nails, a knife, and a loaded gun with one bullet. The installation was meant to test the relationship and limits between herself, the artist, and the audience.

When I told my mom of my fascination with the Serbian artist, she took to the web and came across this experiment. She too took an interest in the work, however found it deranged that somebody would open themselves up to such violation. In those six hours, audience members took it upon themselves to cut her, draw blood from her skin, and intrude upon her in every which way. It was said that Abramovic was so dedicated to the experiment, she would have let the public rape or kill her if that was their will. My immediate response was, “That isn’t the point. Is what she opens herself up to in a vulnerable environment deranged, or are the physical actions of the participants deranged? Who committed the moral crimes, and what does that say about us?” This is where the brilliance of Abramovic seeps through; whereas classic and contemporary artists have set out to expose humans’ raw, animalistic desires through words and visual art, she uses her body as a medium through which society can reflect itself. Perhaps mankind is self destructive, and subconsciously vouches for exposure to pain. Abramovic not only tests limits between herself as the passive subject and the audience as the participants, but challenges human behaviour in light of destructive opportunity. Bringing these notions to the physical world is powerful, tragic, and enlightening.

This is what I feel contemporary artists should strive to channel. These courageous and limitless experiments reach far beyond a stage or canvas, and are able to seep through the minds of the public to promote arousing thought. In a world so enhanced by technology and the ever-present pressures of social media, finding an artist that can shift their work back to the bare inner workings of mankind is refreshing and moving. I have found such inspiration in Abramovic and her pieces, so much so that I find myself re-evaluating my relationships with several of my creative endeavours. I find that I have almost used her to fuel parts of myself that I fear to expose, and can only hope to someday challenge my own artistic limits. Now, does that mean I want to stand in front of people with a loaded gun and have them place it to my scalp? No, this is all highly subjective and metaphorical. Don’t get your hopes up.

Here’s where my story takes a turn.

I was doing some reading up on the Marina Abramovic Institute (MAI) late a couple nights ago, listening to her incredible TedTalk for the third or fourth time. I began clicking around some related websites and found myself on a forum talking about the power of the documentary. I came across a little blurb saying that the exhibit took place at MoMA 2010 which, ironically, was the year I traveled to New York City for the first time. My entire childhood, I find, was fuelled by travel, exploration, and the solace I would find in discovering parts of myself abroad; I have already touched upon this in some of my previous posts on this site, and will continue to write of my experiences in later articles. My first time in NYC was an ethereal experience. I was just starting to discover the hungry little art monster that lives within my soul and truly began learning about art and theatre for the first time. Here are some of my favourite photographs I snapped during this time. Please enjoy the stylized visuals of thirteen-year-old me.

My curiosity began to take over, and I began googling the exact dates of Abramovic’s installation. I realized the exhibition opened in March of 2010, which was exactly when we found ourselves in the city. I decided to re-visit some of the photos you see above, which are all stored on my black external hard-drive where my entire life is chronicled like some kind of immaculately detailed, autobiographical chapter book.

After minutes of looking, I came across this photo: a sign marking the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art, where the exhibition took place. I started shaking.


By this point, I was scrolling through the rest of the photos at lightning speed until, at last, I found this one.

DSC01141And that was when I realized that I was present for one of my favourite artist’s most successful exhibitions when I was just thirteen years old, and didn’t know it until five years later. What a story. You might call it fate acting in a mysterious way; you might call it ignorance, for I attended the exhibit in its opening week when it hadn’t yet bursted with popularity. You may call it chance. I call it incredible.

I sincerely hope that several of you take it upon yourselves to watch The Artist Is Present. It is a brilliant documentary and I can not recommend it enough. I have nothing more to say.

A Love Letter to the Muse/My Own Version of the “Coming Out” Story

I was thinking about writing this post in the middle of a lecture on Keats and romanticism, listening to the round echoing of my favourite professor’s voice chant the last two lines of Ode on a Grecian Urn in subtle singsong, watching the girls in front of me type away and sip at their Tim Hortons cups, watching the quiet boy near the right side of the classroom wonder what to say next.

Let me give you a visual: surprise, surprise! I’m in a sleek, navy blue turtleneck. My 1950s-rimmed glasses came in last week, and my unruly curls are just hanging out of all kinds of places. Let me tell you — throat infection aside, this has been the most emotional and important week of my time here at University. I’m about to tell you why.

It started with the closing of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. After the show ended, we were all onstage taking our final bows and something just cracked in me and — conventionally unemotional-in-social-situations Camille — just started bawling. In my eyes at least, it was just the world’s biggest disaster. I tried to play it off by saying that I was crying because I knew I would miss the show and the people and I’d never felt so at home in my life, etc. etc. (which is true and partially it), but here’s the full truth: I knew I’d made a wrong turn somewhere. For half the cast party, I was all philosophical and miserable because of it. And I hate genuine misery.

By this point, it’s no surprise that I have devoted my entire life to the arts. I’d spent the last four years of high school lingering around the theatre, directing and performing and indulging myself in every artistic endeavour I could find. It was just something I did — I couldn’t control it. Without it, I’d go mad. I’ve always known that.

I came into University in the Social Science faculty with the dream of pursuing a degree in Political Science. I thought it was practical. I’d gotten very interested in law in high school, and figured poli-sci was an acceptable avenue to explore before applying to graduate programs. I imagined I’d get some government job somewhere, perhaps in politics, and wear fancy woman-blazers to work every day. I’d still do arts on the side from time to time, but they wouldn’t be my focus. And I’d be super rich, you know, and own lots of clothes from stores I’d never even think of going into now. That’s the kind of life I imagined for myself, again, because I thought it was practical. Let me get straight into the nitty-gritty.

This week, I dropped out of my political science module and social science faculty here at school to pursue a double degree in the arts. That’s the best way I can put that. If you want me to elaborate, I’m not quite sure how. I made the executive decision in this same English class about two days ago. I decided it was time to start being honest with myself — I hate political science. University poli-sci is just the worst. It’s boring and philosophical and makes me want to die. Four more years of that?! I’d go nuts. That’s the truth of it. I’m going nuts now.

So I figure I’ll double honours major in English Literature focusing on textual Theatre Studies.

Anyone and everyone that knows me could see this one coming. My teachers in high school, my roommate, my friends not only from back home but here at Western… even my mom. It was inevitable. The arts found me for good, god damn it. With this degree, I’m not only going to be able to study plays, directors, and forms of theatre, but physically perform (and possibly direct in the future — I hope so) in various productions every year. It’s the best of both worlds. It’s perfect for me and for what I want to do.

Furthermore, my parents have been nothing but supportive… however, I know that they feel this choice was a “step back.” They both think that I will never get a job in the arts; they’re banking on me applying to law school in four years. Which I still will, because my interest in law is and always has been genuine.

I feel so relieved. Mostly because, for the first time, I have no idea where I’m going to end up after graduating post-secondary. That excites me in a way. Having been raised by two travel enthusiasts has certainly widened my sense for adventure and uncertainty.

You know, when I was hanging out on Skype with my dad the other day telling him about my decision, I felt like I was filming one of those “coming-out-as-gay/lesbian/+-Youtube videos.” It was horrifying. I was sitting there ugly-crying, going “I’m sorry, I know you don’t approve or understand!/You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every day living and breathing all of this all of the time/I can’t shut it off, it’s like a reflex, like nothing else holds any importance/I can’t stand to be headed towards something I’m not completely immersed in and in love with when I’ve found my passion, found where I am mostly myself/I belong to this…” And, GOD, all this cheesy shit that sounds like I’m a delusional thirteen year old tasting love for the first time.

But let me tell you — if you’ve ever known what it’s like to live and breathe something completely, something that enthrals you and captures your entire state of being so much so that it fuels your whole god damned life and every piece of it — those are feelings you can’t repress. If you feel you were truly made to study something, to explore and indulge in something, to feed your soul with something, then that’s what you should be focusing on. Even if there’s a chance you might end up poor for a few years of your life. It should be a risk you are willing to take, to wake up in the morning and think to yourself, “I love what I study. I’m where I should be.” That is the kind of person I want to become, and those are the kinds of people that I admire with every part of myself. People with genuine passions, things that drive their minds forward.

Another thing I’ve learned: you can’t hide from your true self at University. Oh no, you’re completely on your own. Alone sometimes, with your thoughts and doubts and things that make you tick. You might as well accept them, because fuck, you’re just never going to change. I know I never will.

*Breathes long, heavy sigh of exasperation, looks around the University Community Centre wistfully at a group of tourists seeing the place for the first time. Takes in the air, watches the clouds roll by, hopes it doesn’t rain. Pathetic fallacy? Wonders how to end this blog post. Smiles to self. Things of emotional, inspirational quote to end this thing on, but for the first time there are no actual words.