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REWILDING MODERNITY LISA BALDISSERA

Tradition…involves, in the first place, the historical sense…a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence. — T.S. Eliot, “Tradition and the Individual Talent”

The exhibition Rewilding Modernity is named for a new ecological practice, “rewilding,” which aims to return tracts of land to their wild state and to “renature” them by populating them with species of flora and fauna that most closely approximate their original inhabitants. As well, the practice attempts to create “what might have been” had their evolution continued uninterrupted. The intent of this movement is to reclaim natural landscapes but also to accept the new genera that arise from their reclamation, thereby opening windows into both the past and the future. Biologist Elizabeth Kolbert, writing in The New Yorker on the European rewilding movement, discusses what she terms the administrative and existential province of Flevoland, a new territory in the Netherlands that was formed with land reclaimed from the Zuiderzee by a massive dredging project undertaken by the Dutch government in the 1950s. Flevoland, incorporated in the 1980s, was originally intended to be used for industry. Instead, a group of biologists successfully petitioned the Dutch government to allow them to create a Paleolithic landscape. The biologists proceeded to stock the new province with animals they believed would have inhabited it in prehistoric times, had it not been underwater. Replacing extinct animals became a uniquely modern moral quandary—aurochs, for example, were replaced with a breed of cattle produced in Nazi bioengineering experiments. Other species, imported from Scotland and Poland, bred

prolifically, and the massive new area was so successfully repopulated that Der Spiegel magazine dubbed it “the Serengeti behind the dikes.”1 The biologists behind the project proposed, however problematically, to reformulate the idea of nature itself. They attempted to explore the unfinished business of evolution within one prescribed area, creating a useful, if limited, laboratory that allowed them to grapple with issues that are almost overwhelmingly complex. Similarly, this exhibition seeks to “rewild” modernity by considering the ruptures, shifts, and new ways of seeing to be found in modern and contemporary art practices. It also acknowledges the 77-year-old legacy of Emma Lake, and its continued influence today, in the context of global visual culture. Rewilding Modernity lays the groundwork for further examination of the national and international forces that produced modernity and its regional expressions. It asks how we would reclaim, or “rewild,” this discursive landscape—and what we would populate it with now. What are the forces that produce modernities, in their many forms? The exhibition also poses questions intended to tease out the various strands of modern art production: How has the history of modernity been recorded and framed? What influences have shaped our organization and privileging of this knowledge?

A work can become modern only if it is at first postmodern. —Jean Francois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge

The administrative and existential territory occupied by modernist practices has become newly open-ended and generative, perhaps recognizing that the limitations imposed by post-modern critiques, as well as the activation of necessary addenda—such as queer theory, post-colonial and feminist debates—are no longer diametrically opposed to, but are, rather, recalibrations of the modern project. To explore these theoretical territories, Rewilding Modernity examines contemporary art and the unique history of modernity. Serving as a visual think tank, the exhibition considers the inherent presence of modernism in the art of today, which both celebrates modernity and attempts to imagine its future. Featuring works by prominent Canadian and international contemporary artists, plus a selection of works from the 1950s to 1970s from Saskatchewan and abroad, the exhibition is not meant to be a survey but, rather, proffers a series of questions and the critical juxtapositions that reveal them. Work in the exhibition that was created at or influenced by The Emma Lake Artists’ Workshops is particularly revelatory. The Workshops, established in 1955, were short-term summer residencies that ran until the closure of the campus in 2012. The influence that resulted from their first decade especially forms a major part of Canada’s artistic legacy and provides a context in which to consider the late modern period in art from a regional perspective. The Workshops were led by eminent visiting artists and critics from around the world, including New York critic Clement Greenberg; American artists Larry Poons, Kenneth Noland, and Jules Olitski (all included in this exhibition); as well as, in their second decade, by American composer and artist John Cage; and English sculptor Sir Anthony Caro. Fascinatingly, Saskatchewan had been

Jennifer Steinkamp, Sharpie, 2009; Wally Dion, Star Blanket, 2006

well publicized internationally, and the early workshop leaders very likely read about the election of Canada’s first socialist government there in the 1940s. Feature articles in the New York Times and Time magazine described how Saskatchewan, far from being a philosophical backwater, was serving as a modern laboratory for the development of progressive ideas. The establishment in 1948 of the Saskatchewan Arts Board, the first arts council in North America—modelled after the British Arts Council—as well as Tommy Douglas’s universal healthcare initiatives, contributed further to the idea of the province as a beacon of social progress. In spite of this media coverage, the curiosity of the first workshop leader, Barnett Newman, about the “tundra” was based on a belief that Saskatchewan and Emma Lake were more remote northern frontiers than they were. Rewilding Modernity creates connections between local and global by considering Canadian artists working within modern traditions in other regions, as well as American artists whose practices reflect and build on modern concerns. Curator Kirsty Bell has commented on the “culturally loaded source material”—contemporary works that call on latencies in earlier pieces while reconfiguring them within a contemporary environment of new media and popular culture.2 The result is an exhibition that functions as a whole rather than as a chronology of modernisms with a focus on individual works. More importantly, it gathers fissures/ruptures that suggest new interpretations of the earlier work, interpretations that have only been able to emerge in the subsequent decades of formal and theoretical enquiry. New examinations of modernist practices by subsequent artists move away from futuristic aspiration and

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function more as an intuitive harbinger of how events occurring in “that” present held within them a surplus that could only be alluded to—that, in fact, strategically, a naming of future possibilities was overly restrictive. The example of Roy Kiyooka’s work Untitled (Hoarfrost) from 1960 is instrumental. Presented side by side with contemporary works, the painting’s stunning eccentricity—understood 53 years ago within a formal purity—is revealed, demonstrating how the framework for discussion may shift over time. Contemporary works by artists Robert Youds, Robert Christie, and General Idea that are included in Rewilding Modernity make reference to mass production, commercial signage, and the urban fabric. Rather than removing the influence of pop art from a discussion of the modern, it is embedded here in Youds’s Dirty words, salt air breath and all your midnight changes (2013) and General Idea’s Shaped Ziggurat Painting #3 (1986), as well as in Robert Christie’s The Red Studio (2012). Placed alongside the architectural conceits of Kenneth Noland’s constructed work, conventions such as the signature “spray paint” used by Jules Olitski and Kenneth Lochhead are both understood and problematized within demanding new referents. Jennifer Steinkamp’s Sharpie (2009) animates the architectural environment of the exhibition space itself, and Wally Dion’s Star Blanket (2006) returns the digital to the analogue, playfully calling upon one of the most contemporary of abstractions, the Internet. Within the space, Anthony Caro’s Untitled “drawing” in metal is set within range of John Cage’s Diary: Emma Lake Music Workshop (1965), with its framework of 100 words per day for 15 days that signals a refocusing on conceptual apparatus for work, and also foreshadows what was to come, as the studio became laboratory and the artist was understood as researcher.

In a second room, Polly Apfelbaum’s work, which has been referred to as “fallen painting,” once again animates the architecture of the gallery. Bring Back the Funk (2013) suggests the contemporary focus on the agency of viewers who, as they move from one installation tableaux to another, navigate a contemporary subjectivity, received notions of history, and the metaphysics of direct experiences with artwork. Viewers are also refusing accepted chronologies, instead drawing on formal and conceptual resonances that create connective tissues and that refute non-rhizomatic historical containment. Medrie MacPhee’s series of drawings of proposed architectures imply a kind of filmscript narrative for the psychic possibilities and inversions of the built environment and its effect on contemporary life. The viral pink of Arthur MacKay’s Pink, Red and Black (n.d.) set against Grandfather Will Come Again (1987) by Bob Boyer (who noted the influence of his teachers at the University of Regina and its modernist framework) creates a necessary problematization of the formal. Dion’s starblanket motif in the preceding room and Boyer’s blanket works demonstrate Indigenous forms of circulation and authority, directly referencing social and shared knowledge, while problematizing Eurocentric and non-Indigenous metanarratives associated with Greenberg’s critical framing of the late modern period. Youds’s three circular paintings from the series Your Constant Waterfall (2012) underscore this impulse, allowing viewers to reconfigure their “imagery” by sending the painting into a literal tailspin, while a cheeky “plywood stamp” reminds us of the early modern preoccupation with landscape in the Canadian canon. Referencing a Fordist system of mechanization as one of the core byproducts of the industrial revolution, a mock assembly-line of image production is wittily implied by the artist’s hand-printing of each painting—although, in this case, action is returned to a “cottage industry” in the artist-worker’s studio. Dorothy Knowles’s Blue Landscape (1965), produced before her conversations with Clement Greenberg, demonstrates the artist’s interest in finding a language of abstraction without refusing an image-making impulse, acknowledging that both representation and abstraction are conceptual practices. The result is a portent of Greenberg’s own encouragement of Knowles’s core engagement with landscape. These investigations of the Saskatchewan artists included in the exhibition reveal the way in which the regional becomes a macro-cosmology for the international, rather than the reverse. The exhibition is a beginning, an exploration, a laboratory. It outlines territories and discussions that themselves require repopulation and reconsideration: the particularities of the regional, the expanse of the global, popular culture, and the social networks that shape our times. We hope that the exhibition will rekindle conversations that may have been considered prematurely closed, and that new creative tools will emerge to navigate the unfolding impulse of modernity, an impulse that continues to inform contemporary life.

__________ 1

Quoted in Elizabeth Kolbert, “Recall of the Wild,” New Yorker, December 24, 2012.

Kirsty Bell, “Wade Guyton: New Forms of Modernism; ambivalence and ambiguity; ‘an act of processing,’” Frieze 93 (September

2005), http://www.frieze.com/issue/article/wade_guyton/.

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10 Bob Boyer, Grandfather Will Come Again, 1987

ART AFTER CONTEXT BARRY SCHWABSKY

What is the artist’s elective place? The one in which he or she really lives and works or some other? Barnett Newman, for one, sought an environment without “impediments of memory, association, nostalgia, legend, myth, or what have you,” as he said in “The Sublime Is Now,” and he thought he’d found it at Emma Lake. But memory, association, nostalgia, and so on can make things possible as well as impede them; whatever Newman was trying so hard to escape was in himself as much as in his relation to the world around him. We can always ask about the place of the artist but perhaps the more pertinent question is how big, how expansive is that place? It’s a question that resounds not only through the history of art but in every part of the history of culture. Ezra Pound, reviewing James Joyce’s Dubliners, posited a distinction that may seem obscure: “Good writing...can be specifically local, but it must not depend on locality.” What does it mean to be local without depending on locality? Probably something like what Jorge Luis Borges—a universal writer from a supposedly peripheral country—meant in his essay “The Argentine Writer and Tradition,” when he declared that “we should feel that our patrimony is the universe, and we cannot limit ourselves to purely Argentine subjects in order to be Argentine; for either being Argentine is an inescapable act of fate—and in that case we shall be so in all events—or being Argentine is a mere affectation, a mask.” In the literature of the United States, probably the strongest sense of regional identity has existed in the south, and therefore it may not be accidental that the most influential American writer of the 20th century, worldwide, was undoubtedly William Faulkner. And it is possibly from him that a southern writer of the following generation, Flannery

O’Conner, learned that local identity “is not made from the mean average or the typical, but from the hidden and often the most extreme,” just as her colleague Walker Percy came to understand the reason there were so many good southern writers: “Because we lost the war,” he said. Today, we understand that anyone with a reliable Internet connection can be networked and therefore not peripheral. But the present-day compulsion to be in touch, by virtual means, with as many people as possible as often as possible has not had as a concomitant any sense that it is less urgent to travel as widely as possible and see and touch and converse with as many people, places, and things as one possibly can. It’s fascinating to me how big exhibitions like Documenta, which used to be occasions for people from several continents to gather in one spot in order to constitute some kind of art public together—and of course to some extent they still are—have also become occasions to send small groups of people to far-flung places, as when OkwuiEnwezor staged Documenta “platforms” in Vienna, Berlin, New Delhi, St. Lucia, and Lagos in 2002; and in 2012, when Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev staged parts of the exhibition in Alexandria, Cairo, Kabul, and Banff. With his usual wit and discernment, Maurizio Cattelan seems to have made fun of these junkets in advance when he staged the Caribbean Biennial in 1999—a week-long island vacation for a few friends with no art involved beyond the declaration that it is so. As for me, I found it striking that at the centre of her globe-trotting Documenta, Christov-Bakargiev had placed none other than Giorgio Morandi, an artist who hardly travelled at all, rarely taking more than an hour’s journey from his home town of Bologna, and only once roaming outside Italy, when he ventured across the Alps to Switzerland. In contrast to Newman, with his desire to stand in a place where there was a clear horizon in all four directions around him, Morandi liked to paint landscapes he could observe from an open window—sometimes, it seems, through binoculars. And yet it is clear that Morandi is one of those artist who, like his near-contemporary Borges, took the universe as his patrimony and found no reason to express it other than by painting the arrays of bottles he incessantly rearranged on his studio table or the hills and houses he could glimpse from his window. In a way, Morandi—one of modernism’s inner dissidents—turns out to be a harbinger of the age of the Internet, where the single “window” that sits on your desk promises to put you in touch with all the world’s information at once, where you no longer have to go anywhere to explore the totality of available images, texts, and maybe even experiences. The medieval French theologian Alain of Lille is supposed to have defined God as “an intelligible sphere whose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.” Centuries later, both Giordano Bruno and then Blaise Pascal used the same metaphor, not for God, but for the totality of His creation—that is, the natural universe, “the reality of things,” or as Wittgenstein would define it, “everything that is the case.” But as Borges warns in his essay “The Fearful Sphere of Pascal,” the Italian thinker used the metaphor with a sense of exultation, whereas for his French successor it only expressed dread, a feeling of being “lost in time and space.” Today the Internet may be the intelligible sphere whose centre is everywhere and whose periphery is nowhere, and it likewise provokes divided feelings, both exultation and dread.

Floor: Polly Apfelbaum, Bring Back the Funk, 2013; Left to Right: 9, 18, 12–15

Perhaps more surprisingly, a similar borderlessness can be attributed to the art world, and likewise it is hard to know whether this should please or disturb us. Where is its centre? Here, there, and everywhere. As Lane Relyea writes in his recent book Your Everyday Art World, “Prestige now accrues not to any single city, exhibition, or art event, but to the lines between, the routes of connection, distribution, and circulation that interlace the various centres and gatherings.” For Relyea, the nightmare is that this levelled and networked art world is merely reproducing what the artist Andrea Fraser calls “the joys of insecurity, flexibility, deferred economic rewards, social alienation, cultural uprooting and geographical displacement” that the neo-liberal economy is imposing on the world as a whole—and on the relatively poor and powerless in particular, as any employee of Walmart can tell you. There’s something to be said for that view, although it is hard to articulate in a way that might not foster the illusion that the norm for most workers was ever economic security, social integration, or cultural centrality—a kind of reactionary fantasy that has always greeted social change of any kind. More to our point, perhaps, is that the networked art world fosters its own illusions about the kinds of equality it embodies. The very existence of a specialized realm of “art” implies hierarchy, starting with the hierarchy of what can be considered art and what can’t. Even in the era of what Boris Groys calls “equal aesthetic rights,” the mural on the wall of your local pizza parlor is unlikely to be entitled to consideration as art, and with good reason. Perhaps more urgently, whatever does make it past the threshold is still incessantly ranked. Do you prefer Gerhard Richter or Georg Baselitz? Oh, so you like Richter, do you? Well,

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which are the really outstanding Richters and which are merely ordinary examples of his production? And despite everything, doesn’t he ever fall on his face and produce something that’s just bad? Even admitting that a bad work by a great artist will be in many ways more interesting than a good work by a merely average artist, should we really pretend to overlook the fact that it is also nonetheless still a failure? And so on. A hierarchy of value is absolutely indispensable to art as such. But those values are just as necessarily unstable. It might even be said that art is quintessentially the realm in which conflicts over value are played out. But in our present situation, the bases for judgment have become increasingly unclear. The absolute proliferation of information, to which the Internet has rendered us witness, only makes that much clearer an underlying situation that was already the case nearly 50 years ago, when Lawrence Alloway, who was in many ways the clearestthinking and farthest-sighted art critic of the time, used the example of the Venice Biennale to show how art is essentially “subject to the communications network of our time,” with the 1968 Biennale merely one of 113 “official exhibitions and fairs in Italy, some international, some local” that year, having to do with merchandise ranging from aeronautics to children’s books, containers to automation. In this context, he explained, “some of art’s talismanic solidity”—what Walter Benjamin had called its “aura”—“is reduced by the increase in connectivity.” Already, then, he realized that with the very beginnings of the Biennale at the end of the 19th century, “we face a quantity of works and spectators without precedent in history,” and more importantly that this historical change, which had been developing really since the advent of the salons of the 18th

century, meant above all that criteria of value could no longer pretend to be stable or universal. This was why, in the early 19th century, William Hazlitt was led to lament that “the decay of arts may be said to be the necessary consequence of its progress”— an idea with which a critic like Clement Greenberg, more than a century later, would have readily agreed. Alloway, by contrast, argues that by incessantly relocating art within ever-changing new contexts, the proliferation of information was making art more various, both in the sense that the quantity of distinct possible aesthetic positions multiplies, but also in the sense that any particular work is constantly opened to new reading. In particular, he argued, “the global scale of art today weakens the consensual effect of national groups of critics anxious to define their own country’s art as normative.” The globalized present is what George W.S. Trow called “the context of no context,” in which, as he warned, “people began to lose a sense of what distance was and of what the usefulness of distance might be.” Or even if we don’t forget the distances that separate us, we no longer know how to measure them. And yet, at minimum, we must all know ourselves to be potentially audiences for works that were never made with audiences like ourselves in mind, and that, likewise, those of us who make art, who write, who make music or whatever, must know ourselves to be making works that will possibly be seen, read, heard by people who have aesthetic presuppositions that are quite alien to our own. And the making of our work must somehow incorporate this awareness—though how to do so is up to each of us.

WORKS IN THE EXHIBITION

1. Polly Apfelbaum Bring Back the Funk, 2013 dye, synthetic, velvet dimensions variable Courtesy of the Artist and Clifton Benevento, New York

8. General Idea Shaped Ziggurat Painting #3, 1986 acrylic on canvas 160.4 x 240.2 x 10.2 cm Collection of the Mendel Art Gallery. Gift of Sandra L. Simpson 1993

2. Bob Boyer Grandfather Will Come Again, 1987 oil, acrylic, chalk pastel, charcoal on blanket 192.0 x 231.4 cm Collection of the Mendel Art Gallery. Purchased with funds from the Canada Council Special Purchase Assistance Program 1987

9. Roy Kiyooka Untitled (Hoarfrost), 1960 oil on Masonite panels 150.8 x 181.0 cm Collection of the Mendel Art Gallery. Purchased 1991

3. John Cage Diary: Emma Lake Music Workshop, 1965 text installation (from A Year From Monday, New Lectures and Writings by John Cage) 304.8 x 304.8 cm

10. Dorothy Knowles Blue Landscape, 1963 oil on board 121.9 x 152.4 cm Collection of the Artist

4. Anthony Caro Table Bronze Lullabye, 1980 cast bronze and brass welded sculpture 17.8 x 40.6 x 33.0 cm Collection of Terry and Sheila Fenton

11. Kenneth Lochhead Grope Colour, 1974 acrylic on canvas 170 x 335 cm Collection of the University of Saskatchewan. Gift of Colin Lochhead 2004

5. Robert Christie The Red Studio, 2012 acrylic, canvas, plywood, steel, plinth 243.8 x 195.6 cm Courtesy of the Artist and Art Placement Inc.

12. Medrie MacPhee Flow, 2011 mixed media on paper 57.2 x 76.2 cm Collection of the Artist

6. Wally Dion Star Blanket, 2006 printed circuit board, brass wire, acrylic paint, copper tubing 170.0 x 177.8 cm Collection of the Saskatchewan Arts Board

13. Medrie MacPhee Study for Zip, 2011 mixed media on paper 57.2 x 76.2 cm Collection of the Artist

7. Mina Forsyth Big Green, 1982 acrylic on canvas 68.8 x 86.5 cm Collection of the Saskatchewan Arts Board

14. Medrie MacPhee Treacherous Landscape, 2011 mixed media on paper 57.2 x 76.2 cm Collection of the Artist

15. Medrie MacPhee Desert Gas Station, 2011 mixed media on paper 57.2 x 76.2 cm Collection of the Artist 16. Art McKay Pink, Red and Black Painting, n.d. enamel on Masonite 121.9 x 121.9 cm Collection of the Saskatchewan Arts Board 17. Kenneth Noland Flares: Slow Curve, 1990 acrylic and Plexiglas 243.8 x 35.6 cm Collection of Terry and Sheila Fenton 18. Jules Olitski Hoyo Two, 1970 water-based acrylic on canvas 193.0 x 35.6 cm Collection of David Prytula 19. William Perehudoff Nanai No. 20, 1970 acrylic on canvas 165.5 x 198.4 cm Collection of the University of Saskatchewan. Purchase 1970 20. Larry Poons Louise, 1978 acrylic on canvas 204.5 x 93.0 cm Collection of Terry and Sheila Fenton 21. Jack Shadbolt Dark Abstraction, 1964 Lucite on Masonite 153.2 x 122 cm Collection of the University of Saskatchewan. Purchase 1967

22. Jennifer Steinkamp Sharpie, 2009 video installation dimensions variable Courtesy of the Artist and Lehmann Maupin Gallery, New York 23. Robert Youds Dirty words, salt air breath and all your midnight changes, 2013 acrylic paint on hollow wood doors, reflective vinyl 365.8 x 213.4 x 61.0 cm Courtesy of the Artist and Diaz Contemporary, Toronto 24. Robert Youds Urban Tribe, 2011 pine wood slabs, LED lights and programmer 61.0 x 182.9 x 457.2 cm Courtesy of the Artist and Diaz Contemporary, Toronto 25. Robert Youds Your constant waterfall: Bowen, 2012 acrylic on canvas on aluminum, steel components 132.1 cm diameter Courtesy of the Artist and Diaz Contemporary, Toronto 26. Robert Youds Your constant waterfall: Denman, 2012 acrylic on canvas on aluminum, steel components 132.1 cm diameter Courtesy of the Artist and Diaz Contemporary, Toronto 27. Robert Youds Your constant waterfall: Galiano, 2012 acrylic on canvas on aluminum, steel components 132.1 cm diameter Courtesy of the Artist and Diaz Contemporary, Toronto

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Mendel Art Gallery would like to express its appreciation to colleagues, lenders, sponsors, and funders of this exhibition. We sincerely thank Kent Archer, University of Saskatchewan Art Collection, and Belinda Harrow, Saskatchewan Arts Board Collection, for their generous assistance in coordinating loans to the exhibition. We also thank private collectors David Prytula and Terry and Sheila Fenton, as well as artists Robert Christie and Dorothy Knowles, for their generosity in lending to the exhibition. We acknowledge the support of the Interdisciplinary Centre for Culture and Creativity at the U of S, Susan Shantz, Marcus Miller of the Art and Art History Department at U of S and Snelgrove Gallery, and Jeanette Lynes of the MFA in Writing Program at U of S for their kind collaboration and support of travel and public programs for Polly Apfelbaum and Barry Schwabsky, participants in the project. We sincerely appreciate the collaboration and support of David LaRiviere and PAVED Arts for co-presenting an artist talk with Jennifer Steinkamp, and Dagmara Genda and Bart Gazzola for their collaboration in the presentation of a master class on art writing with Barry Schwabsky at AKA Artist Run Centre. In addition, we extend sincere thanks to Art Placement, Saskatoon; Diaz Contemporary, Toronto; and Lehman Maupin Gallery and Clifton Benevento Gallery, New York, for support in the coordination of this project. The Mendel also wishes to thank its public funders—the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and SaskLotteries—for their ongoing support. Finally, we sincerely thank Kramer Ltd. for its sponsorship of this exhibition.

Published to record the exhibition Rewilding Modernity, presented from September 27, 2013 to January 5, 2014 at the Mendel Art Gallery, Saskatoon, Canada. Curated by Lisa Baldissera. Cover: Jennifer Steinkamp, Sharpie (detail), 2009, video installation, dimensions variable Photography: Troy Mamer Publication design: Jillian Cyca COPYRIGHT Publication © 2014 Mendel Art Gallery Individual texts © 2013 the authors All rights reserved. No part of this digital publication may reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a license from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright license, visit www.access-copyright.ca -800-893-5777. ISBN 978-1-896359-85-4

950 Spadina Crescent East P.O. Box 569 Saskatoon, SK, Canada S7K 3L6 Tel. (306) 975-7610 The Mendel Art Gallery is a non-profit organization supported by donations and grants from the City of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan Lotteries, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Canada Council for the Arts. www.mendel.ca

Jennifer Steinkamp, Sharpie (detail), 2009