THE MAKING OF VIRTUAL MISS GERMANY: THE INSIDE STORY MICHEAL BOYCE COMPUTES THE LAW OF AVERAGES NUMEROLOGY CONTEMPORARY ART AND IDEAS
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AVERAGES
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Computed over time, excising the extremes, we're left with it: the neither bad, nor brilliant. Composed of instances mapped onto a notion that describes little but itself, it nonetheless reassures, provided one does not count as mismatched. But can its centre hold? Or is it just process engineering malapplied to the human domain in order to keep the trains running on time? We foreground ought but the middling.
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Averages PAGE 2, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
Q+A THE MAKING OF VIRTUAL MISS GERMANY
8
CORRESPONDENCE
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Above: “Factory” By Chen Chieh-jen, 2006, Video Still, from the Exhibition “Nowhere but Here”, currently at the Western Front, unitl January 18, 2007, Courtesy The Artist.
F E AT U R E S Artists Projects
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THE EMPTY CENTRE BY BRADY MARKS AND SERENA KATAOKA
T 18
A BETTER VERSION | NOVEMBER 2ND BY REBECCA LEE CUTTLER
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TO GROUND ZERO BY JEREMY TODD
Text 11
NOTHING SPECIAL BY ELIZABETH HAND
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DREAMING OF SHARKS BY CRAIG CAUDHILL
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AVERAGE EXPECTATIONS BY STEVE PENTIMENTO
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ANNA AND THE RAIN BY ZDRAVKA EVTIMOVA
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THE LAW OF AVERAGES BY MICHAEL BOYCE
Images 10, 14
AVERAGE
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BY BYRON BARRETT 12
8 EIGHTS FROM THE “FIRST REMAINDER SERIES”
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 3
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Averages PAGE 6, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
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Q&A
Who is the most beautiful woman in Germany? An official jury tries to answer this question each year. In January 2002, it chose Miss Berlin to be the most attractive woman (see below right). But is she really the most beautiful?
Virtual Miss Germany A Composite
The department of psychology at Regensburg University, in cooperation with
Is the average arrived at by superimposing deviations
German Television Channel Pro 7, procured facial portaits of all the contestants
until they amalgamate, or by removing all but the
(below), and, based on previous research results computed a new face out of
average? In other words, is it the result of an additive
all original faces by using the a type of morphing software that had been used
or subtractive process. And are we more likely to accept
to compute what tests confirmed to be stereotypically attractive features:
the results of the fomer than the latter?
Left: attractive female features Right: unattractive femal features
The resulting “virtual” beauty as well as all other original faces were evaluated with respect to their attractiveness by a representative sample of people in a local shopping center.
On the left: the “real” Miss Germany 2002 (Miss Berlin) and on the right: the “virtual” Miss Germany, whose face was created computed by blending together all contestants of the final round and was rated as being much more attractive.
The results are clear. The virtual face was rated by far as being most attractive. On a scale reaching from 1 (= very unattractive) to 7 (= very attractive) it obtained the highest score with an average of 6.2 and let Miss Germany lie far behind having an average score of just 2.8. None of the 47 asked test subjects rated the real Miss Germany as being more or at least equally attractive than the virtual one. The study can be found at: www.uni-regensburg.de/Fakultaeten/phil_Fak_II/Psychologie/Psy_II/beautycheck/english/index.htm
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 7
CORRESPONDENCE
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From: Christoph Keller Subject: KIOSK Art magazine archives & exhibition Date: October 21, 2007 3:10:30 PM PDT To: frontmagazine@front.bc.ca Dear friends and contributors to the KIOSK archives/exhibitions, The ongoing exhibition at Midway Contemporary in Minneapolis has been extremely succesful and very much welcomed by the MidWesterners. Lots of people have seen the archive at Midway, so that the show has been prolonged until the end of November. Then the archive will return back to Europe to be on show at Galerie Art & Essai, Rennes, France 23 January - 28 February 2008. This will be the 21st presentation of the KIOSK archive. Again, I would like to thank you all for your continuing support and participation. All the best, Christoph Keller
CONTEMPORARY ART AND IDEAS
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PAGE 8, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
REPEATABLE | FASHION
Girlby Elizabeth Fischer Mention averages, and more often than not, of all the notions and concepts available, it seems to make people think of fashion. In this case the story of what could be characterized as a near miss. ...for lack of anything more interesting to do, i’m walking around a street with the most expensive stores, you know, the ones with the stuff that one usually only sees in magazines, oh ya, i too have looked and nay, even coveted. you know, the cool stuff. the exclusively cool stuff. the exclusively cool stuff that one sees in pictures taken by vogueishly bone-degenerated fashion photographers, the pictures one flips through on long airplane rides or fingerpecks on the net when ones is supposedly occupied in serious intellectchual researchings, click-ooopsing an accident, yikes, fashion porn, what is that silly person wearing, okay, i too am a sinner, i too have indulged, hepmelawd i have aspired. to own a dress. and there it is, in the window of maxsomethingfrench, there it is besaintedly behaloed and alight, there it is complicitly fluttering a languid, beckoning sleeve in my direction, a dress, my dress, the special dress, the imaginative intelligent dress, an expansively expressive phantasm of a dress, a seductive and irresponsible chaos of a dress, the ultimate spend your rent-money dress. waving to me. me. so i look around, take a deep breath. step in. intrepid me, i walk up those granite stairs into that fancyass store, don’t i. in my holey army pants and running shoes, hair not brushed for days, i step on in, don’t i. (i’m here to see a dress, i could say, steely-eyed, glancing around. and then i could resolutely walk over, reach out. and touch. run my hand over fine shivery softness. cause i do want to know, i do want to know. i want to know what’s it like, that life, where hairs and hides get shaved numb and are worm-urine dyed into to furious glows to drape the sad-faced exotic goats). and pointy anxious noses, birdlike, twitch to my approach: will she cashmerepoke with a finger grimied just for the occasion. will she besoil, bewilder, begarbage berabble, bedrool? those boots pliantly planted toe to heel. which i espy on the shelf then itch to try, i whisper may i and do, blue leather twilight over ankle do smooth. and don’t they feel nice and. lightsteppingly sweet, but no thanks, say i, they hurt my feet. then i skip down the street and buy some striped socks. for three euros five…
Elizabeth Fischer is currently in Barcelona.
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IMAGE | PHOTOGRAPH
Averages PAGE 10, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
Above: Average. by Byron Barrett, 2007
TEXT | FICTION
I met a regular guy once, with a name like Mike, Chris, or Dave and I fell really hard. He was perfectly unexceptional. He lived in a middle class neighborhood, in a medium sized city, he didn't smoke, he went to school, he drank sometimes but, was never the one who, at a party, puked in the sink, the flower bed, or the pile of party-goer’shoes near the door. Everybody liked him. He took me on a proper date that involved beer and burgers and we had our first kiss in front of a television set. I imagined how we looked, there on the couch, pulling at each other's one-size-fits-all cotton t-shirts, his hands running through my medium length hair. He never seemed to have too much spit. I thought we must have looked beautiful. I lived in mortal dread that he would discover my awkward tendencies, flaws, and shortcomings. I wouldn't let him look into my face too long lest he should discover the asymmetry of my eyes. I hid my hands behind my back to shroud my crooked fingers. I made sure to eat only when food was offered but never everything on my plate. I accompanied him to three parties, at which I drank a reasonable amount, we made out only so much as was charming, and I managed to offend no one. Afterward, I woke up alone and in my pajamas. He told me I had been perfect, that everyone had said so. He invited me to his house to watch the 'game'. In his stark living room I If the average, by definition, is arrived at by defining the mean from among the exceptional, then defining the exceptional as average is just mean.
felt like a pink, plastic lawn flamingo among his manicured friends. Smiling, I tugged at my ill-fitting 'that-girl' * costume, all the while eyeing a girl who seemed to wear hers effortlessly. His friends explained the game to me, as
Elizabeth Hand
it pummeled its way across the television screen, and though I tried to listen,
Someone told me once—or maybe I read it somewhere—
He broke up with me that night. I suppose I knew it was coming. I knew I
that beauty is not extraordinary. Beauty is just the perfect
would betray myself sooner or later. I only wondered what gave me away;
combination of average features. Each piece and part
where had I shone through? Was it the outfit? The other girl's had been
ought to neither be too big or too small. Everything
blue; maybe my grey was too morbid. It could've been the third slice of
should be in perfect balance and harmony. No matter
pizza. No one else ate so much. Maybe I was drunk and I hadn't realized it.
how close I feel I have come to reinventing myself in
How many bottles of beer did I drink? I should have bought blue.
Nothing Special
I was really making a grocery list. When it was all over, I felt guilty and defeated and I wished that I had paid attention.
beautiful perfection I realize I have gone the whole day with ketchup on my shirt and I might have been the one
We sat together in awkward silence for a moment or two and he offered me
who tracked dog poo in the house. My yoga instructor
a beer. I mustered the strength to ask, "Why?". I expected him to say
advocates my desire to seek the perfect balance. In fact,
something along the lines of, "It's not you it's me" , "I'm gay", or "I'm moving".
she seems to speak of nothing but. So, I sweat and strive
Instead, he told me what, I guess, he really thought. Without hesitation, he
to achieve this ideal while each over-extended muscle
said, "You're not the nicest girl I've ever met but, you're not the nastiest.
rips and screams to be somewhere between God and
You're not the ugliest girl I've ever met or the prettiest. You aren't the
the gym. My mother thinks I ought not obsess about
smartest or the dumbest girl ever. You're perfect, just not... special."
perfection; it's not healthy to think too much. But, my boss wishes I would give the idea some serious thought,
Once my heart beat resumed, I told him: "That is the worst thing anyone
work harder, and stop getting drunk on the job.
has ever said about me in my whole life."
* refers to the kind of girl who is so clean and together, you feel messy just looking at her. Other girls secretly wish that this girl would get fat. Elizabeth Hand is Vancouver's adopted daughter. No one can remember where she came from and she can no longer say whether or not her stories are real or fiction; she's told them too many times. She concedes to the possibility of gross exaggerations but, would never admit any specific incidents of embellishment.
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IMAGE | NUMEROLOGY
Averages PAGE 12, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
Above: 8 Eights, from the “First Remainder Series: poets, painters, composers, critics, culptors, slaves”, currently showing at Form–Space–Light Gallery, Seattle curated by by Josef Keppler, 2007, josephfkeppler@yahoo.com
TEXT | FOOD FANTASY
by Craig Caudill
Dreaming of Sharks ( A shark’s dining manifesto)
Yesterday I dreamed that I was laying on top of a floating raft. Despite possibly being the only survivor from a boat crash, I was relaxed, calm, peaceful, while allowing the oceans current carry me according to its own direction. When, all of a sudden, I felt this deep painful chomp, chomp, chomp, sensation on my side. I looked to the direction and I found a shark biting into me hard. I began slapping and punching and kicking and screaming. After the shark left I began looking at my wounds. Which, surprisingly, were superficial. Now exhausted from the excitement I lay down to fall asleep. When waking up again. I found an envelope laying next to me. “Who could it possibly be from?” I wondered as I opened the letter.
Dear Craig, You fought me off fair and square, upon which I must admit you are a fighter. But don't let that fool you into believing you are tougher then me. I was only playing with you the first time. I'm writing to let you know that I'm very, very hungry and I intend to eat you ASAP!!! You can struggle, that’s fine. I expect that. In fact I find it quite exciting. So struggle if you want, I don't mind. Yours Truly, THE SHARK
Although the letter was threatening and I don't take threats very lightly, I also found him to be very concise and straight to the point. His penmanship was remarkable.
Craig Caudill is a freelance writer and video artist. He has been published in magazines such as Poetry Salzberg Review, Parameter Magazine, Sien und Werdern, Zygote in my Coffee, and Mount Zion Press. He is currently working on his memoir, and two novels of fiction. Above. Daily Average Body Lengths of Sardines taken at Monterey during eight seasons, 1919-1927
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 13
IMAGE | PHOTOGRAPHY
Averages Above: Average Photography by Byron Barrett, a Vancouver photographer involved with the likes of Fracture Industries and CBC 3. PAGE 14, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
TEXT | PROTOCOL
Average
Expectations by Steve Pentimento
I went to an artist's dialogue. As an impostor — not understanding even the meaning of a dialogue with ten, but along for the company, anyway. How will they do this? We sat around a table and got handouts. One man was drinking coffee from a dirty jar. One man with white hair kept sighing. One woman in a tight brown dress and winter boots, who may have been anorexic, led the discussion — she had passed out the xeroxed copies of paintings, and a sheet of quotations from artists, writers, and critics. She asked me my name but called me Richard twice. She was nervous. I can't remember her name either. She read something from "A River Runs Through It" about casting flies. I kept thinking, the funny thing about fishing writing, when it gets fancy, it sounds like masturbation: "I was excited but kept my arm cool and under control....I let it float on until the vertical periscope of my eye or brain or arm or where ever it is told me my fly was over the edge of the nearest osiers." "What are osiers," a lady asked. She looked like a retired schoolteacher. She had some kind of powerful liberal forcefulness bursting out her bosom. Page boy gray hair. Nobody said anything. “Dogwood”, I mumbled. “What, says our leader?” “Dogwood” I said a little louder. Such a smartass, I'm thinking, “why don't you shut up”. I'm turning red. I feel like I'm crashing a party. “Don't say another word!” I'm yelling at myself inside.
Steve Pentimento is the pseudonym of a painter and writer who would prefer to publish under a pseudonym.
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 15
continued
Average
Expectations
by Steve Pentimento
We have more quotations on the yellow sheet of paper in our
"What do you think?" she says again.
handout. Jasper Johns, 1982. Excerpts from John Berger, on Picasso. Max Beckman. I'm reading ahead. She's asking Richard
"I don't even understand it," I blurt out. “Shut up”, I'm thinking.
a question. Everybody has turned to a picture of a face with a
"What does he mean 'reproduce' something? You can't reproduce
scroll on top of it, rolled open and sand-dollars floating above
something. I don't even know what he's talking about. You don't
it. I don't know much about surrealists. We turned to that picture
reproduce something when you paint, you're just waving your arm
because she did that.
around."
"Richard," she repeats, "would you read the Beckman quote?"
"Let's not get hung up on the word 'reproduce'“ says the schoolteacher.
I look up from the scrolled brainpan. I see she is staring at me.
The man with the white hair sighs.
As are the others. "It's Steve," I said. "You look like a Richard," she says. “I do”, I say. I'm thinking it's a compliment. Anything
"No, no," says the woman in the tight brown dress, "this is just what
but what I am. There's a sharpness to her voice. I think she's
I want to know. I'm having a problem with this. In my own work. What
going to really going give it to me.
do you mean?"
"...if you want to reproduce an object, two elements are required:"
I'm drawn into her self and its personal struggles like a maribou fly
I read, "first, the identification with the object must be perfect;
in the lip of a fat brookie. She's defending me. We're both stuck
and secondly, in addition, it should contain something quite
together.
different. This second element is difficult to explain. Almost as difficult as to discover one's self..."
I'm turning red again. "Painting is an act," I say, "It isn't reproduction!"
"What do you think of that?" she asks everyone. No one answers.
“Oh, fuck”, I think, “I said ‘reproduction’. And I bet she hasn't had
I sit and wait. No one says anything. The clock is ticking. I have
children. She can't. No, no, no, paints, paints, paints. No, reads, reads
nothing to say.
reads, then tries to paint like what she reads. The dress. The dress and the boots. Shut the fuck up!”
"What do you think of that, Steve," she says. I don't know how to answer. Everything I do is injurious. The Midas touch in
"I don't understand the difference between the painting and the self,
reverse. Or no, the Midas touch is the Midas touch, what does
the painting and the object, the self and the object, anything he's
that mean, “in reverse”. Like being turned to gold is fun, so the
talking about. ‘Perfect?’ I don't know what he's saying! Every portrait
opposite is a drag?
is a self portrait. Every painting is a self portrait. What does he think. He can escape?"
Averages PAGE 16, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
The schoolteacher asks if we can look at the painting— “now”.
People laugh.
A really beautifully final "now". Like introducing order and sanity into the kindergarten. Nobody says anything else. So we comply.
They thought what I said was funny.
We look at the opened head with sand dollars. Careful details there,
It is, I guess. What did I think it was? Yes, yes, it was funny. I'm
lovingly painted with technique. Nobody says anything, again.
funny.
“It's my fault. It's my fault.”
Does she like me? This is what I think. It's not right. This isn't the purpose of an artist's dialog. She keeps calling on me. And I keep
Eventually a woman in a pink vee neck sweater says she doesn't
wondering. Did we fall in love over what we said about art? Did
like it. She also says she will be sixty next week, and laughs. Others
we think of each other that way? Did we jump in the sack and go
say they don't like it either.
nuts? Did we accidentally have children years later. Little thin ones? And sneak quickies in the bathroom on Sundays?
"Why don't we like it," says the thin woman, looking at me. For the next hour, I talk a lot. We look at ten paintings. I give up. She has me hypnotized. I speak like a zombie. I am under her power.
Manic, I guess. I don't know what I say. I don't want to hurt anybody.
It is a monotone. "I don't know about surrealists. They try to escape
Nothing I say means anything. In the end we all put on our coats
the cognitive. They try to do that by means of the cognitive."
and leave.
"Could you speak up," says the man with the white hair, "we can't
It is grey and raining outside. Cold drops on my hair. I'm a block
hear you over here."
from the coffee shop. I like that you can go down the stairs from the sidewalk and slip in, like it's a speakeasy. There's a couch where
"I don't know about surrealists," I say, “They try to escape the
sometimes people even sleep, with maybe a knapsack by their
cognitive. They try to do that by means of the cognitive."
side. And the light is coffee-colored. And people need shaves. And some people write on paper at their tables. Some draw doodles.
I feel sorry for them, the surrealists, trapped in their world of the
And I think about stuff. Like airplanes. Sitting there, afraid of art.
brain, spewing seashells as dollars, symbols painted cleanly,
Thinking about airplanes.
attempting to break themselves of the mind. I hate them, too. Always losing. Bound to lose. Using the mind to escape the mind. But making money at it. So popular. I hate smugness. Hate myself. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!”
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 17
ARTISTS PROJECT | TEXT & DRAWING
Averages PAGE 18, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
Rebecca Lee Cuttler is a writer, visual artist, and recent B.F.A. graduate of Emily Carr Institute. One of her recent short stories, "Varanasi", was a prizewinner in the Federation of B.C. Writers' Literary Writes competition, featured in a live reading at this year's Word On the Street festival. Another story, "Street Carnival", will be published shortly in an Ottawa-based literary journal, The Puritan. Above: August 14th, Top Right September 4th, Bottom Right: October 17th, Pencil, 2007
by Rebecca Lee Cuttler A Better Version | November Second Arriving at a representative average is a delicate balance between the definitive and the iterative: We must either chose what we think is representative, or produce a wide enough sample for the representative to emerge as its result. Either way, it is a leap of faith.
Last night I dreamed that both of my legs were amputated. I realized this with a slow understanding and complex, haunting acceptance that I can now only barely grasp. First one leg and then the other was removed just below the buttock, by a doctor. I vaguely remember being in a deserted plaza just outside his office, an expansive architectural space, all glass and steel, grasping the fact that my legs had been replaced by prosthetics. I was not angry or upset at the loss; if anything, I was relieved by my relief from those burdens. The first thing that I wondered about was what it would be like to make love without legs: with my replacement limbs removed and leaning in a corner, me with just withered stumps. I decided that it would not be an impediment; it would just pose different parameters. I realized that I could walk on my prosthetics. I tried it out and was a bit shaky at first, with ghost-pain radiating above my nonexistent knees, but not nearly bad enough to stop me. I realized a great sense of newfound autonomy. Wearing my hospital gown I began to walk faster and faster with a rolling, uneven gait. My new legs were made of metal beams, and longer and stronger than my flesh ones had been. Enviable legs. I walked out onto the crowded street. Eventually, I realized that I was tired and in a bit of pain. I suddenly remembered what the doctor had told me: that I had worn out my skin-and-bone legs from walking too much and too quickly, and that I would have to take care to preserve these new ones. I slowed down. When I woke and realized that I still had my old legs, I was flooded with disappointment.
Rebecca Lee Cuttler writes: "A Better Version" is a diary entry of mine that I recently rediscovered and typed up; it recounts a dream exactly as I remembered it, with a theme of replacing or improving upon the average self. "November 2nd" is also a diary entry, but it is of a different type: in this piece, I work with text visually, writing and rewriting over the same page until all written meaning is completely destroyed (or averaged out), and it becomes an aesthetic creation.
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 19
ARTISTS PROJECT | ASSEMBLY
Averages 20 FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
The Empty Centre
by Serena Kataoka and Brady Marks
This piece is a collaboration between Vancouver media artists Brady Marks (cf. http://www.inter-mission.org/bradymarks.html) and Vicoria -based Ph.D. candidate and writer Serena Kataoka
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 21
TEXT | FICTION
François went to the kitchen and made sandwiches for her. There were dirty dishes in the sink and her shoes and stockings were everywhere in the corridor. She wore socks of different colors and she had put on one of his sweatshirts, the first one she stumbled across. Sometimes she wore his leather jacket, too. That day she had not aired the room, and at noon the curtains were drawn although the window was not that big. François loved to look out of it. He watched the warehouse full of ramshackle used cars and felt some of the tension fall out of his body. He talked again to Monsieur Grandjean, the owner of the “Voiture – Vente et Achat” who assured him for the thousandth time one could buy the cheapest used cars in Brussels in his honest though shabby shop. She translated her books and breathed the stale air. This time she didn’t even look up. When he brought her sandwiches, she wolfed them, forgot about him almost right away, and François went to sleep, imagining she mumbled something under her breath. Rain had got accustomed to her voice and waited by her side, staring at her dictionaries, at her curses and at the old computer. François slept on the mattress around which CDs, sheets of paper and her books were
by Zdravka Evtimova
Anna and the Rain
scattered. Well after midnight, half-awake, he felt her lying beside him. She didn’t wait for him to drift out of sleep. She kissed him savagely as if to punish him. She loved him without saying a word then suddenly called him names as bad as November downpours. François couldn’t live
Mathematically, the average is an abstraction arrived
like that any more. He couldn’t bear the stale air that waited for him every
at by extrapolating from data gathered in the past.
night. He hated her dog and her love: it was a moment of sunshine that
Living our lives on the other hand, demands that
slipped behind a cloud, leaving him starving in the fog of Brussels.
we anticipate the average by extrapolating from data that will not be available to us until the future.
He had tried to go away several times, but Rain followed him, his steps
How do we hold the resulting tension?
like raindrops hitting the pavement.
In the evening, her dog waited at the front door. Its name
* * *
was Rain and his steps sounded like raindrops rolling down a windowpane after midnight. François thought he remained
Anna was a poor eater. Her face became paler and more impenetrable as
in that town because of the animal. If he went away Rain
she wandered among the used cars, not bothering to answer the question
would starve. Anna forgot to feed him and didn’t give him
of the kind-hearted Monsieur Grandjean — a scraggly lanky old Belgian
baths. She worked day and night on her short stories or
in a blue overall — who wanted to know what he could do for “ma petite
translations, and the in the books she translated into French
belle.” The dog brought autumn in its wake and it almost always started
roared oceans of love and hatred. There was no food at
to drizzle when Rain went out.
home, she stared at her computer like a bat, her hair disheveled, her dictionaries scattered under the table, on
François feared that one day the dog would die among the dictionaries
the floor, in the corridor.
and the characters in her short stories. He suspected that if he left that place, Anna wouldn’t come back to that window to the north, and the light
Rain lay in the corner on his tattered pillow and looked at
of her computer would burn all the characters she had invented.
her. She swore at the long sentences and drank constantly, milk from a bottle or strong black beer which made her
There wouldn’t be anybody there to open the window and get rid of the
eyes glisten like those of a sick man. She ignored that
heavy, idiom-riddled air, which she adored. François was sick and tired of
François had come home; she poured milk into a saucer
her silly love. She slept atop his chest, her skin as thin as the wind, Rain
for Rain. Sometimes she gave Rain beer, too, and he snarled,
watching them, quiet, more and more miserable, his fur thin and falling
his teeth shining, wild and sharp.
off with old age.
Averages PAGE 22, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 5
One day François left for good. Rain followed him, his eyes glowing
That day, François got out of the taxi, calm and reserved. He had a
in the mist. Even after François caught the bus the dog ran after him,
good job in Oostende, he made a lot of money. He hoped he had
his fur dirty and shabby, a scrawny old thing that brought the autumn
forgotten the shabby and deserted street. No way. He knew every
fog and left it to live above the spire of the quiet church Notre Dame
inch of it.
d’ Evere. Anna had told him that winters began and ended in Notre Dame d’Evere. He loved the quiet short January afternoons that were
He felt like running to her building but had a drink instead. A glass
born in the streets around the church. François would be sorry if a
of brandy always helped him. The speedway and the cars had gone,
truck driver or a motorcyclist ran over the dog: the animal had sensed
and there were no tunnels either. The house waited and the puddle
that this was the day François would leave.
was there, big and black like autumn. Suddenly he heard raindrops behind his back. It was raining, it was raining indeed!
That day, Rain ran after the bus to the railway station. François jumped onto the first train on Platform 1 headed for Oostende, the noisiest
There were no peaceful afternoons and silver rains in the town on
Belgian port ,which he had never liked. The dog gave a howl and
the North See where he lived. There were clean carpets, brand new
dashed after the train, but soon lost the game and collapsed on the
electrical appliances, neatly arranged books and pictures in his house.
rails, frail and miserable in his thinning fur. François heaved a sigh of
There wasn’t a single dictionary there. He had told his wife that, years
relief when the train pushed its way into the tunnel and Rain disappeared
ago, he knew a girl, a translator, and he had spoken about the
from sight, his howl dissolving in the rain. I hope he wasn’t run over
characters in her short stories. His wife threw all dictionaries out of
by a train, François thought.
their home. She loved him and looked after him very well. * * *
He noticed a vague silhouette. A woman appeared. She was so thin and pale that François could not breathe. The warehouse was silent.
Later he often tried to drive away the thought of that cold room, of
Suddenly it stopped raining. She was the most beautiful girl he had
the window onto the rows of used cars and the big black puddle
ever seen.
around the warehouse. He saw her computer that spewed out words in the night, and hated to think that now there was no one to make
He thought of his clean house with the carpets and books and pictures
sandwiches for her.
on the walls. He thought of the train that would take him home, crossing West Vlanderen to return to the building she lived in.
Many times, he felt like running back to the house, the used cars where she probably talked to scraggly Monsieur Grandjean. When François
François could hear the raindrops fall. He couldn’t move and he knew
thought about that man he was glad he lived in a big noisy town far
something had broken inside him. The vast plains of West Vlanderen
away from her short stories. The monotonous West Vlandren, the cars
had not helped. The brandy hadn’t either. The tunnels were all gone.
on the speedways, the winter and the tunnels separated him from her
He turned around. A dog, scraggy and weak, stood behind him. The
dictionaries. François hated the bridges, which lead to her street. He
man felt like shouting. The dog’s fur was shabby and miserable but
tried to blot out the memories of that place, so he bought a dog and
he loved it. The dog, whose steps were raindrops, stood still and
called him Rain, too, but his bull terrier didn’t have autumns and
watched him. There were silver Brussels afternoons in his eyes. They
peaceful fog in his eyes, and didn’t look shabby the way her dog did.
sparkled with joy, they were happy François had come back. Many autumns and winters François had loved that dog.
François sometimes wondered what had happened to her, but he had no more life to waste. Of course, he found another girl who was
“Rain, Rain!” François whispered.
sparklingly clean and healthy. She loved him and she didn’t make him think of old computers, black puddles and rows of used cars. It was
The dog trembled, approached him and let him touch his shabby
odd that once in a while he could hear quiet raindrops in his dreams
back. “How’s Anna,” François said.
— very odd. * * * In early summer, he crossed the West Vlsnderen that stretched between him and the rows of old used automobiles. He didn’t go on business. He didn’t even want to meet Anna. Perhaps, at the back of his mind he hoped he might glimpse her, nothing more, nothing more.
Averages Zdravka Evtimova was born in Bulgaria and lives in Brussels, Belgium, where she works as a literary translator. Her short stories have appeared in various journals around the world including USA, Canada, UK, Germany, France, and Japan. Awards incude the Radio BBC (UK) world short story competition (2005), the“Utopia worldwide short story competition” in Nantes (2005) and the Lege Artis short story competition in Leipzig (2000).
FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 23
ARTISTS PROJECT | BEGINNINGS
Averages PAGE 24, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
Jeremy Todd is an interdisciplinary artist living in Vancouver who has been working for the past year as an interim Director/Curator for the Richmond Art Gallery. His contribution to this issue is derived from an ongoing project at www.notsentletters.blogspot.com.
TEXT | FICTION
by Michael Boyce
The Law of Averages
This is the story of an average bear who is not a bear at all, but rather a man, and not a very bearish man at that. Joe Blow from Cocomo is actually a lucky lad transformed by a random event at the big company picnic,
Average is as average does, folk wisdom has it.
where he'd gone to get lucky. This was a mistake because he needn't go
Acting averagely, in that case, is not an average
anywhere to get lucky, being born that way, and thus always lucky anywhere.
act but rather a matter of deliberately not acting in a non-average manner. Which may or may not
Experimentalists have discovered a law which decrees that if you naturally
be understood by average folk.
excel at something without trying, then pushing it can be detrimental. It's a curious law, but it does seem to be consistently applied. Joe Blow has never tried to break that law because he always simply rides out his good luck. But anyone can have a moment when they take for granted what they are capable of doing normally, and then risk the chance of doing something differently. And that's what he did at the picnic. Everybody works at the big company, unless they work for one of the smaller companies that trade with the big company. These little companies are like the birds that clean the teeth of the hippopotamus. And being so connected to the big company, they were all at the picnic too. It’s a big deal near the end of every summer. When evening comes everybody old enough goes off for a drink to the Juke Joint or the Strawberry Charisma or Wine Fountaine – or if they’re really saucy, to the Water of Life. Some younger people go watch movies about dramatic romances, or killer adventures that they later dream about and live their secret lives according to. Other younger people, more eager to be older, hang around the Juke Joint pretending they could get in if they wanted to. They listen hard to hear the music coming out of there, and some of them start dancing in the parking lot. Others, young and old, prefer to go to Darby’s Derby Roller Rink and skate around while they hold hands and stuff.
These little companies are like the birds that clean the teeth of the hippopotamus. Joe Blow from Cocomo makes the rounds, going here, going there, never staying anywhere too long, never getting pegged as one thing or another, as part of one group or another. He knows there is a good way to blend in, and a bad way to blend in – a good way to show up, and a bad way to show up – a good way to stand out, and a bad way to stand out. And he likes to be the way a Ninja is: One moment be invisible, and then, surprise, suddenly show up, standing out larger than life, and then disappear again. But at the picnic he changed his pattern slightly. He saw a girl, Gretchen, and tried to get lucky with her. But just as he was trying, some other guy randomly showed up. He wasn't trying to impress himself on Gretchen, though, like Joe was. He was trying to steal her purse. He was an average thief, yet prone to sudden movements like a snake. But to Joe, the movement of the thief happened like slow motion. He quickly saw the thief moving in, and that Gretchen was caught between them.
Michael Boyce is a writer coming from the east coast, now living on the west coast, who is writing different kinds of things in different kinds of ways. His first novel, called Monkey, was published by Pedlar Press, and he is now just finishing a second one, called Anderson.
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 25
continued
by Michael Boyce
The Law of Averages
Gretchen only saw enough of both of them to see a crash was coming and to brace herself for it. It was up to Joe to stop it all from happening. The thief, diving at the purse exposed and vulnerable, noted too late for changing course, the intervening presence of Joe Blow, who like a superhero, swooped in between the thief and his target, took a hold of him, and mastered the thief's momentum to redirect him to the ground, where J B held him fast. Standers by surrounding them, having seen it clearly, conveyed to arriving guards which was thief and hero. Gretchen was delighted and amazed. Her exclamations made Joe believe that he was going to get lucky. Having played the hero, he expected a reward. But that's not the way it went because hero's aren't expected to expect to be rewarded, and knowing that convention, nobody, including Gretchen, bothered offering. She was thrilled, yes, but wasn't feeling amorous.
It was up to Joe to stop it all from happening But people were impressed. And news of what he'd done traveled fast, earning him an almost instant reputation as a hero. But, the sort of hero based upon the basic goodness of an average Joe. Actually, they said he was an average bear, not an average Joe, which was a kind of inside joke that stuck because it happened at a picnic. (They were referring to a famous cartoon bear known for being smarter than the average bear, confounding a ranger, and stealing picnic baskets. That bear, a sort of anti-hero not typically endorsed or celebrated any longer in such stories as are now made for children, was made parallel to the thief, and the average bear by extension made better for being good, if not clever.) This did not please Joe much, but how could he protest, given that the reputation was supposed to be good currency? And, even if he did protest, it just would be received as modesty peculiar to such good and average bears. Some thinkers question how legitimate and accurate it is to categorically determine anything as random. Nevertheless the term, like a reputation, has currency regardless of any scrutiny by such thinkers, especially since they are ignored largely anyway. And reputation does to the random event something more penetrating than the thoughts of these thinkers do with random theory, for it makes of any act, seemingly or actually random, an opportunity to normalize it by blessing its motive as reasonable, rational, and retroactively, predictable. So Joe Blow the average bear, not at all average, and not at all a bear, was caged by this reputation, which ought to be a good thing, but for him it was imposing, conspicuous, and totally random. He tried to get what he already had, and earned randomly the dubious distinction of an heroic average man. Now everybody saw him, knew him, but didn't really like to get too close to him. He was arrested by the law of averages. He didn't even get the girl. For, as it happens, despite her gratitude, Gretchen fancied someone more unusual, and, she blushes to admit, a little bit more bad.
Averages PAGE 26, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
WESTERN FRONT PROGRAMME EVENTS
January - February 2008
The Western Front Society (est. 1973) is an artist-run centre that focuses on the production and presentation of exhibitions, performance art, new music, media including video, audio and telecommunications, publications, spoken word and a bi-monthly arts magazine. Through a residency program, local, national and international artists are invited to create new works in this interdisciplinary environment. The Western Front is a member of the Pacific Association of Artist Run Centres (PAARC), the Independent Media Arts Alliance (IMAA), B.C. Association of Magazine Publishers (BCAMP), the Canadian Magazine Publishers Associaton (CMPA) and the Alliance for Arts and Culture.
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NEW MUSIC
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EXHIBITIONS
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MEDIA ARTS
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STAFF AND MEMBERS
The Western Front is committed to the representation of all forms of diversity in its programming, membership, administration and audience development. It promotes and welcomes the participation of people of Native ancestry and members of Canada’s many different cultural communities. For current events and programme information, visit: www.front.bc.ca
FRONT, PAGE 27
WESTERN FRONT EVENTS: January - February 2008
NEW MUSIC
Atomic Saturday January 26, 2008 at 8PM Western Front $18 General Admission/ $22 at the door Tickets available through Coastal Jazz (604-872-5200) and Ticketmaster (604-280-3311 or visit ticketmaster.ca) “One of the most exhilarating groups on the European circuit” (The Guardian, UK)
Fa k e J a z z We d n e s d a y s p re s e n t s . . .
Fake Jazz Friday @ The Western Front Friday January 11, 2008 at 8PM Western Front $7/5 An evening of experimental, underground and collaborative DIY music guest curated by Jeremy Van Wyck and Bill Batt, creators of Fake Jazz Wednesdays. This special edition of the weekly series features four local groups, Totally Ripped, Black Dicks, her jazz noise collective and B.C.V.C.O. PAGE 28, FRONT
Atomic, a key exponent of the “new wave” of Nordic jazz, was formed in 1999 by five important young musicians from the burgeoning jazz scenes of Sweden and Norway. Combining the powerful, cutting-edge Oslo rhythm section of Håvard Wiik on piano, Ingebrigt Håker-Flaten on bass, and Paal Nilssen-Love on drums with the Stockholm front line of trumpeter Magnus Broo and saxophonist Fredrik Ljungkvist, the quintet is one of the hottest acoustic ensembles to have emerged at the turn of the century. Atomic plays original music that mixes grooves and modes with a distinctive approach to free playing. Presented with Zula and Coastal Jazz & Blues Society
Faun Fables
Shakuhachi & Koto Duo
Friday February 1, 2008 at 8PM Western Front $15/10
Sunday January 13, 2008 at 8PM Western Front $15/10 available at the door
A category-defying musical entity, Faun Fables is Dawn McCarthy’s vivid imagination come to life in song and theatre. It has been attracting a devoted and eclectic following since 1999 – with numerous national and international tours and four record releases made available worldwide on Drag City Records.Dawn founded Faun Fables to explore human pathos and its nonhuman roots in musical and physical storytelling forms. Her current Faun Fables ensemble includes violinist Meredith Yaynos and multi-instrumentalist Kirana Peyton, with appearances by long time collaborator Nils Frykdahl of Sleepytime Gorilla Museum.
Tokyo-based virtuoso performers Curtis Patterson (koto) and Bruce Huebner (shakuhachi) make their Canadian debut with the Further East/Further West concert series. A presentation of Vancouver Pro Musica.
Photograph by Heiko Purnhagen
FRONT, PAGE 29
WESTERN FRONT EVENTS: January - February 2008
EXHBITIONS
Nowhere But Here Cao Fei, Chen Chieh-jen Curated by Steven Tong December 15, 2007 - January 18, 2008 Opening Friday, December 14 at 8PM Western Front Exhibitions is pleased to present Nowhere But Here, a two-person exhibition featuring two recent videos by Chen Chieh-jen and Cao Fei, guest curated by Steven Tong. Chen Chieh-jen’s work takes the impact of the flight of industry and labour from Taiwan as a starting point. In the 1990s much of the country’s industry was transferred to mainland China to take advantage of cheap labour. In Chen’s film Factory (2006), workers of an abandoned garment factory in Lian-fu, Taiwian were invited to come back to the abandoned building and re-enact their former jobs as seamstresses. In a similar exploration of industrial workers in the Asia, Cao Fei’s video work Whose Utopia? (2006) depicts the imagined lives of factory workers in mainland China. The video is the result of a residency program at the Oshram light factory in Shen Zhen where Cao Fei engaged workers to make a newspaper. Over the course of the video the lives, desires, and identities of the factory workers are enacted through songs written and scored by the factory workers themselves. These two videos draw attention to the internal displacement that churns the social fabric of China and Taiwan, which again has come to resemble the industrial era when farmers were displaced to make way for the infrastructure that this era required. Chen Chieh-jen has exhibited internationally, including presentations at the Bienal de São Paulo, Venice Biennale, Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume in Paris, and Taipei Biennial. Cao Fei lives in Guangzhou where she produces films, photography and theatrical works. She has been included in international exhibitions such as the Third Fukuoka Asian Art Triennale, Fifth Shanghai Biennial, the 2006 Sydney Biennale, the Serpentine Gallery, London, Migros Museum, Zurich, Fondazione Sandretto Re Rebaudengo, Turin, Astrup Fearnley Museum of Modern Art, Oslo, the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, and the Musee d’Art Moderne de la ville de Paris, Paris.
PAGE 30, FRONT
Factory, Chen Chieh-jen, 2006, video still, Courtesy the artist
Lida Abdul Curated by Candice Hopkins and Makiko Hara January 24 - March 1 Opening: Wednesday, January 23, 8PM Artist Talk: Saturday, January 26, 2PM In collaboration with Centre A Western Front Exhibitions is pleased to present a survey solo exhibition by Kabul-based artist Lida Abdul, in collaboration with Centre A and curated by Candice Hopkins and Makiko Hara. A forthcoming publication featuring an interview between art historian Pamela M. Lee and the artist will be published by Western Front Exhibitions as part of a series of books featuring interviews with contemporary artists. Abdul's video, film, photography, installation and performance works explore relationships between architecture and identity in post-war Afghanistan. Architectural ruins, many the result of numerous wars, appear throughout her landscapes as both real and surreal images. While acknowledging the devastation of conflict, the gestures of the men, women and children depicted amidst the ruins in these works evoke, among many things, the survival, recovery and resilience of a war-torn country. Lida Abdul (b. 1973) was born in Kabul, Afghanistan. She lived in Germany and India as a refugee before relocating to the U.S.A. Abdul has exhibited widely including solo presentations at the Afghanistan Pavilion at the 51st Venice Biennale; Central Asian Biennial; Kunsthalle Wien, Vienna; Banff Centre for the Arts, Alberta, Canada; and Museum voor Moderne Kunst Arnhem, Netherlands. Her work has been included in group exhibitions at such venues as the Sao Paulo Bienal, Brazil; the Kwangju Biennale, South Korea; and the Singapore Biennale; Centre d’Art Contemporain de Bretigny, France; Milwaukee Institute of Art & Design, Milwaukee; ifa Galleries, Berlin and Stuttgart; Spencer Museum of Art, University of Kansas, Lawrence; Australian Centre for Contemporary Art, Melbourne; Le capcMusee d’Art Contemporain de Bordeaux, France; and Le Parvis, Centre d’Art Contemporain, Tarbes, France. Lida Abdul is represented by Giorgio Persano Gallery, Turin.
This exhibition is co-presented by Vancouver 2010 Cultural Olympiad. Above:“What We Saw”, Lida Abdul, video still, Courtesy the artist and Giorgio Persano Gallery,
FRONT, PAGE 31
WESTERN FRONT EVENTS: January - February 2008
MEDIA ARTS
Art's Birthday 2008 at the Western Front January 17th at 8 pm, Free Admission "Attic" performance by Anna Friz, Eileen Kage, Roberto Paci Dalò, Jean Routhier, Absolute Value of Noise, and E.D.R. Special live stream from Tokyo with Don Chow. "Art's Birthday" is an annual event first proposed in 1963 by French artist Robert Filliou. He suggested that 1,000,000 years ago, there was no art. But one day, on the 17th of January to be precise, Art was born. According to Filliou, it happened when someone dropped a dry sponge into a bucket of water. Modest beginnings, but look at us now… This year's celebrations at the Western Front focus on the creation of an "acoustical re-electronic remix device." "Attic" uses a variety of speakers and microphones to turn the attic space into a giant feedback chamber. This is similar to physical reverberation chambers, but whereas reverberation chambers are typically sealed and separated from external sound sources, attics tend to pickup and amplify natural ambient sound (noises in the street, animals, birds, rain, wind, creaking, etc.). Through the collection of speakers and microphones, the artists will introduce alien sounds into this acoustic space—remote webstreams, noises made in the performance space, and audio from tape. As the evening progresses the sonic currents will be used to create a towering "birthday cake of the future", complete with electric discharge, and strange illuminations. Cake and Cava to be served at the conclusion.
Judy Radul Artist-in-Residence February 4th - 29th, 2008
PAGE 32, FRONT
Celebrated Vancouver-based media artist Judy Radul will be developing the technical aspects of a major new video production project. The project is based on ongoing research into the performative and media aspects of the contemporary court of law. The working title of the piece is "World Rehearsal Court". Radul's time at the Western Front will be spent developing new servo-controlled, programmable, repeatable camera movements for the series of live cameras that will be used in the installation. Specific trajectories will be designed for the cameras with the objective of providing viewers with an alternate perspective on the built environment in the gallery. This environment will refer to the theatre of the court, law, judgment, evidence, reiteration, and testimony. The completed work will be first shown at the Morris and Helen Belkin Gallery in the fall of 2009.
FRONT, PAGE 33
WESTERN FRONT
THE WESTERN FRONT
ORGANIZATION Staff Director/Curator Media Arts Programme: Alissa Firth-Eagland (media@front.bc.ca) Director/Curator Exhibitions: Candice Hopkins (exhibitions@front.bc.ca) Guest Director/Curator New Music Progamme: Ben Wilson (newmusic@front.bc.ca) Guest Curator Performance Art Programme: Natalie Loveless (perfart@front.bc.ca) Directors/Co-Curators FRONT Magazine: Leanne Johnson, Andreas Kahre (frontmagazine@front.bc.ca) Bookkeeper: Ann Hepper (bookkeeping@front.bc.ca) Technical Directors: Eileen Kage, Ben Rogalsky, Sandra Wintner (tech@front.bc.ca) Exhibitions Assistant: Mark Soo (exhibitions@front.bc.ca) New Music Assistant: Kara Gibbs (adminassistant@front.bc.ca) Operations Manager: Devona Stevenson (admin@front.bc.ca) The Western Front would like to recognize the work of our current interns: Elizabeth Hand (FRONT Magazine) and Sunran Elizabeth Park (Media Arts). , Sustaining Members Jack & Maryon Adelaar, Robin Blaser, Cath Bray, Coat Cooke, Chris & Sophie Dikeakos, Karen Gelmon & Peter Busby, Martin Gotfrit & Patricia Gruben, Mark King, DD Kugler, Friedel & Martin Mache, Sheila MacPherson & Bill Smith, Gary McFarlane & Paul DeGuzman, Peggy & John McLernon, Bernice & Frank Miller, John & Helen O'Brian, Judy Radul, Abraham Rogatnick, Jayce Salloum, Anna Stauffer Western Front Board of Directors Kate Armstrong Erin Boniferro, President Diana Burgoyne, Acting Treasurer Lorna Brown, Vice-President William Enwright Juan Gaitan Charo Neville, Secretary Geraldine Parent Keith Wallace
The Western Front would like to thank the following volunteers for their hard work at Toque Alison Murray, Tina Froschauer, Laura Macdonald, Robyn Croft, Sam Rudolph,Elizabeth Hand, Mathew Angela, Werner Thomas, Anastasia Koutalianos, Alesia And thank you to this years' Vendors Georgie Russel Simply Read Jacqueline Robins Mono: Heather Martin Gailan Ngan Hobs Snobs Doodlepuffy Denise Cordrey Open Cupboard Sarah Edmonds Kimberly McErlean Emily O'Brien Contexture Bee and Hornet CocoChowFun Allee Wells Stephanie Oliver Sporty and Squeak Perro Verlag Leanne Johnson Thank you also to the Western Front Staff and Board!
The Western Front is grateful for the support of our members and the following:
Western Front Foundation
PAGE 34, FRONT
The Western Front Foundation was formed in 2001 to build an endowment fund that will ensure the longterm sustainability of the Western Front Society. Your gift to the Foundation will leave a permanent legacy, generating interest to support the work of the Society for many years to come. The endowment is managed on behalf of the Western Front Foundation by the Vancouver Foundation. Help us to build a secure future. For information on how you can support the work of the Western Front Foundation, please send email to info@front.bc.ca, or call the Western Front directly at 604-876-9343. www.vancouverfoundation.bc.ca/GrantInformation/Media.shtml
Rent the Grand Luxe at the Western Front! The Western Front's Grand Luxe Hall is a fantastic and affordable venue for a wide variety of events including concerts, film/video screenings, literary events, musical/theatrical rehearsals, community meetings and private parties. Among its assets are great acoustics, an intimate atmosphere, in-house technical assistance / equipment and a charming historic character. The Luxe is approximately 50' long and 25' wide with 14' ceilings and has a capacity of 120, seated or standing. Week Day Rates (Mon-Thu) Artist/Fundraiser $425 Private Event $500 Business $600 Week End Rates (Fri – Sun) Artist/Fundraiser $500 Private Event $625 Business $750 Hourly Rates (ex: meetings, rehearsals) Artists $30/hr + $10 booking fee Private $45/hr + $15 booking fee Call Devona Stevenson for more information: (604)876-934, Tuesday to Friday from 12pm to 5pm.
CONTEMPORARY ART AND IDEAS
January Sunday WF Exhibitions Nowhere but Here to Jan 18 Or Gallery if lost then found Kristin Lucas to Jan 13 Open Space Hoffos and Pulp to Jan 19 6
Monday Presentation House Tim Lee to Jan 13 charles h. scott Andrew Dadson to Jan 13 Artspeak Kerry Tribe to Jan 19 CAG Henrik Hakansson to Jan 13
Tuesday 1
Wednesday 2
Thursday 3
Friday 4 Gallery Gachet Broken Barricades group show opens to jan 27
Saturday 5
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Or Gallery Work Dignifies Johanna Unzueta opening 8pm
WF New Music Fake Jazz Friday van Wyck and Batt performance 8pm
Surrey Art Gallery Forty-Part Motet Janet Cardiff opening 2pm SFU Gallery The Dating Portfolio Susan Bozic opening 3pm
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WF New Music Shakuhachi & Koto Duo performance 8pm
Open Space Sally McKay residency to Feb 9
Jewellery Bau A Bird in the Hand leannej opening 7pm
PuSh Festival Internation Performing Arts Festival opens to Feb 3rd www.pushfestival.ca
WF Media Arts Art’s Birthday celebration 8pm
MH Belkin Art Gallery Exponential Future opens to April 27 RAG Breukelman Szoke/McDonald opening 6:30pm Pacific Cinematheque Return of the Samurai opens
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Open Space Quantal Strife opens to Mar 6
charles h. scott gallery Trust in Me opening 7:30pm Cineworks Optical Allusions screening 7pm
WF Exhibitions & Centre A Lida Abdul opening 8pm (both locations)
MH Belkin Art Gallery Exponential Future opening 8pm RAG Breukelman Szoke/McDonald curators 6:30pm
CAG Fastwurms opens to March 22 Helen Pitt Mind of a City opening 8pm Artspeak Triple Bill Isabelle Pauwels opening 8pm
WF New Music Atomic performance 8pm Presentation House Anne Collier opens to Mar 2 WF Exhibitions & Centre A Lida Abdul artist talk 2pm
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Averages
Special feature: The FRONT index of useful terminology
PAGE 42, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
Middled , adj.
[PmidPld]
ADVERTISERS’ Events CALENDAR
February Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday WF Media Art Judy Radul Resident Artist
Friday 1 Wf New Music Faun Fables Dawn McCarthy performance 8pm Dance Centre imbole Roundhouse performances 8pm opens to Feb 16
Saturday 2
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Gallery Gachet Internal Guidance Systems group show opens to Mar 29
The Ironworks Time Flies Coastaljazz performances 8pm to Feb 9
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Jewellery Bau Grand opening opening 6:30pm
FRONT Magazine Advertising copy Deadline frontmagazine@front.bc.ca
RAG Breukelman Szoke/McDonald artist talk 2pm
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Grunt Gallery Materiality and Otherness Rolande Souliere opens to Mar 29
Access Front & Back auction and limited edition t-shirts auction 8pm
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12 Cineworks New Cineworks screening 7pm
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Cineworks Studio Optical Printer Workshop Yun Lam Li workshop
29 SFU Gallery Student Exhibition 2nd & 3rd year opening 7pm
1) Made out to appear inclusive, while catering to the lowest common denominator
Averages FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1, PAGE 43
Averages PAGE 44, FRONT, VOLUME XIX, NUMBER 1
imbolc
{ in
the belly }
Co-presented by The Dance Centre and
Directed by Carolyn Deby (UK/Canada) Friday February 1 - Saturday February 16
Dancer: Catherine Andersen
Sadie as herself
at 8pm (no shows Sunday/Monday)
TICKETS 604 231 7535 www.ticketstonight.ca INFO 604 606 6400 www.thedancecentre.ca
ONE OF VANCOUVER’S STAND-OUT ARTS EXPERIENCES OF 2006…
Photo by Chris Randle
SITE SPECIFIC DANCE AT ITS MOST INVENTIVE… The Georgia Straight on sirenscrossing’s city:skinned
imbolc media sponsors
LABAN