POP! POP! POP!
Woo Publication c Fall 2019
It’s not personal, it’s my personality:
o b s e s si v e
“Distracted – O
Lucia Ponce c @lucia_ponce_l digital illustration c 2019
Pascale Jean c @pascale.papercut digital photography c 2018 The contrast of colour and the cones thrown in an empty fountain; this is a rendition of extra in everyday life. Appearing almost staged, this scene pops from its ordinary setting, making you do a double take. The excessive number of orange pieces and the ridiculousness of the situation — the fountain being closed only on one side, for example, makes this mundane scene strangely flamboyant. It breaks the grey of the city, adding just enough nonsense among the structured buildings.
One Could Have Been Enough 5
Fruits Sweet Fruits Triet Pham c @triet._.pham silkscreen print c 2019 A print of South East Asian fruits that remind me of homeâ&#x20AC;&#x2030;...
Naomi Boyd c found objects & wool c 2018
Dangle, Snipe, Knit, Purl
At the Age of Five At the age of five I was fearless. As a child, identity seemed fluid, and it felt limitless. We could be bold, or we could be random. The ways of expressing ourselves felt boundless. And while there isn’t a definitive moment in a coming of age journey, there’s often a point in which we feel less inclined to do that bold thing, or be that outrageously random. It happens quick like flicking a light switch or as gradual as outgrowing your favourite pants, once hitting your ankle, now preparing you for a great flood; ankle exposed. The flood comes in with great authority and high demand. You must now manage your behaviour; take full control and responsibility for your actions. Be independent. Think before doing. Determine what serves you; release what does not. Put yourself out there. Don’t come off too strong. Form an identity that will get you places in the
world. Figure out what you want to be in the world. Set goals. Be realistic. Get organized. Other people have lives, and are busy doing what you’re doing so yes, sometimes you will be lonely. A kind of loneliness that feels cold, and damp, and can seep slowly into the core of your bones. So look after yourself. Look out for yourself. In the midst of all these things, it’s hard to remember what life was like before adulthood came streaming in; sweeping away birthday parties, hopscotch, stupid questions and whole afternoons dedicated to dress up and games of make-believe that stretched and pulled our imaginations. It is hard to believe that there was a time for afternoon naps or time reserved for play. Children are often promised to spend some time everyday with or around things for no other reason but to entertain them, to be fun, and to make them happy. When we were children we were blessed with abundant resilience and a Herculean-like state of boundless energy. Aches and pains were of no significance. Taking time to recover from mental exhaustion was of no relevance. When we were children we had implied freedom of speech; we said what we wanted.
Alex Westcott c @alexvwestcott Woo Editorial
So look after yourself. Look out for yourself. No doubt we said some stupid things and consequently learned lessons about our surroundings, each other or ourselves. These lessons felt profound, and they felt inspiring. All day, everyday, our screens collect and perpetuate grim details of the world; how cold it can seem. Instead of discovering the science behind the green in the leaves, we stumble upon the leaders of the world smearing violent language across twitter feeds. Spreading fear for our future. Fear for the generations after ours. We fear rejection, our existence, our meaning and our purpose. We tighten the boxes we have been placed within. No room to wander, and explore. No room to get weird, outrageous, or random. Society slamming doors in our faces, claiming that we are not to enter. “These opportunities weren’t made for you. Look elsewhere. You’ll find where you belong.” When we were children a wounded knee was detrimental. Little did we know, heartbreaks from whatever the source may be the most difficult to heal. Bedtime was once the worst time. Who
would have thought that bed would become a warm and safe getaway from the world outside. The stomach sinks to a far greater depth when the industry says “thank you for applying though” then when you hear “no” after asking for a third sweet. When the world feels so unkind and unfeeling, consider revisiting simpler moments of the past. Ones that make you smile, or explode with laughter. Jump around, dance to that song that’s way past its prime but brings you right back to the time when it was the anthem of your life. Always ask questions; even if it may seem dumb; chances are you aren’t the only one wondering. Continue to learn and to grow. Dress up for yourself. Dress down for yourself. Normal isn’t inherently good. Feel human. Explore human feelings. You can eat that third sweet. And if you have the gift of time, think critically about the boxes we’ve confined ourselves in that once didn’t exist at all.
900 baby teeth casted in plaster
Jordan Utting c sculpture c 2018 10
Rachele Ogbunigwe c mixed media c 2018 11
Sawyer Anderson c mixed media c 2019
Ant Colony Vy Le c @thaovylng mixed media c 2019 Sometimes I am almost convinced that we are all destined to be certain personalities, to follow certain paths, and to end up in certain places. There are many possibilities, but they are limited, and we can never escape this restriction.
Aviva Davis c @avivadavis_final.ai digital illustration c 2019 This was part of a series promoting celiac awareness.
If I Eat Gluten 14
Alex Louise Hill c @alexlouiseart digital illustration c 2019
t ulis So
st uli So
Darkness surrounds me. My body moves by itself. My back straightens, I sit up. My eyes are open, staring into the abyss, a never-ending black hole. Am I awake? Am I conscious? Or is my body making its own choices? Somewhere in the distance, miles away, a voice — slow approaching. Travelling through time and space, slowly but surely. And then right next to my ear, “Hey” It rings. The sound so jarring, the black hole I was staring into, quickly collapses. My eyes come to, and the real world appears. Dark, full of fear, and almost strange.
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Sanya Arora c @sanya_designs Woo Editorial
But every day. My body did what it wanted, walked where it wanted. Unconsciously. The comfort of the abyss long forgotten, I questioned my consciousness. I questioned why I questioned. Because in my dreams I was satisfied. In reality, I am agonized. As if longing for this adventure, I set off on another journey. Towards the comfort of nothingness: an endless space, where time is of no consequence. This time, I didn’t just sit up, but went on an elaborate journey. Scheming. In the cold, dead hours of winter, I took my blanket travelling. Treating it like treasure, I hid it in a dark corner. Hoping no one would ever find it. A quick moment of forgetfulness, and then, I was in bed, woken by a shiver. Upset, frustrated, and cold, I woke up others in the house. The treasure hunt began.
The comfort in the nothingness, felt like a child discovering a new toy. My body longed for it. Unconsciously. One adventure wasn’t enough. Two weren’t enough either. But every day. My body did what it wanted, walked where it wanted. Unconsciously. Opening bedroom doors. Opening kitchen cabinets. Opening any latched surface. Speaking languages others didn’t understand. Asking questions that made no sense. An occasional scream. Talking, Walking, and Talking again. But unconsciously. I wondered, Am I leading two lives?
Kobie Gingras-Fox c @manybeeskobie digital illustration c 2019 That feeling when your parents donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t show up exactly when they said they would
Vanishing Act 18
Annie Yu c @annieyouuu watercolour c 2018
Jeong Min Ahn c oil on canvas c 2018
Can Series #1 Recently, I have been experimenting with still-lifes featuring trash and recyclables. This painting attempts to promote thoughts of consumerism and its relationship to the ecosystem. In painting these objects, I also inevitably portray the potential beauty that can be found even in things often regarded to be without value, such as these used and disposed off objects. Hyperrealistic painting requires an obsessive attention to detail, and in giving this attention to an object rendered in this style, the object is arguably elevated and beautified in a way that suggests value.
Avi Farber c ceramic c 2018
This piece was fired in an anagama kiln for six days. The flowing color comes from the flame path in the kiln, as well as the use of elm, cottonwood, and pine.
Wood Fired Flask
I can see the shape of the horizon before me, the great long expanse of what lies beyond. The scent of ash coats my tongue, and I roll it around my mouth, round and rough. I feel a sharp ache from the scrapes and cuts on my arms, and the wetness at the hem of my shirt is due to the water at my legs, or maybe the cut along my stomach. I was taught that the apocalypse would be dark, and a dull grey. Instead, it is a bright crimson. When the end of the world came, it was not a slow, agonizing death. It was brief and uncertain, like staring too long at something until it begins to transform, stretching, eating away at your brain until it is unidentifiable. If I was asked what I was doing when the world came to a halt, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sure I could conjure up some memory of making dinner, or hailing a taxi outside in the rain, but no one is here to interrogate me. Perhaps there is a great Somewhere Else, where the end has not arrived. Perhaps a planet still spins on and babies still cry and people still brush their teeth next to one another when they wake up in the morning. Perhaps someone has yet to discover that I am here, or I am somewhere, floating alone in a vast
Madeleine Salomons c @ madeleinesalomons Woo Editorial
wasteland where my name has become a grainy, blurred object in my mind that I can’t see the shape of. I hope someone finds me soon.
Ah, well. At least I tried.
I suppose I’d better start moving, I think. I’m sure I’ll stumble upon that Somewhere Else at some point. If there are history books to be written, I’m certain there are those that would call this a type of divine retribution. The Earth needed a good scrub, as one does when there is a stain, or an impurity, or a gaping wound that needs cleansing before stitching it up. I wonder if there was a version of Noah this time around, or if rebirth is a privilege only afforded to those who will do some good. Maybe I’m doing all this walking for nothing. Maybe the great Somewhere Else is just as empty as wherever I seem to be. However I seem to be. Ah, well. At least I tried. I wish someone would tell me the difference between being reborn and being leftover — if it is possible that whoever decided there must be an end looked at me and said, alright, you’re staying here. Have I yet to reach my own end? Have I already established a new beginning, without knowing it? I am not sure if this is a genesis or an exile.
I pause in my slow wade through the water and take a breath. When I scream, my voice cuts through the thick silence and it is like the ripping of a blank white page, a jagged sound that does not echo. If there is someone else, or something else, hovering in an extraneous existence as I am, I hope they hear me. It is becoming clear that the search for Somewhere Else is a futile one. I am tired, exhausted by this feeling of being dispensable. It is an emptiness I do not prefer. In another life I will be just enough. I will feel full. I want to feel full again. I take a breath, again, but this time I do not scream. Instead, I sink beneath the water. I let out a sigh. No one needs to hear me now.
Link to video: youtu.be/5Z24â&#x2026; aiGExc
… If Slavery Were a Crown
Sola Olowo-Ake c @kehindeolowoake poetry & film c 2019
... If Slavery Were a Crown is a visual representation of the royalty of the black race through the Yoruba Nigerian Perspective. The project contains three fashion garments that tell the story of a slave's journey to kingship — Elusoji (the slave arose), Eluyela (the slave is deserving of success), Lufadeju (the slave, because of a crown, is greater) — with each garment having specific functions. In this project, the word Slavery is a metaphorical term for the black race. The word is used as a reference to fashion’s misrepresentation of black people. Crown, however, is used as it appears, to depict royalty. If Slavery Were a Crown, therefore means, if the black body was seen as royal, this is how it would look.
Glare The linework was done with a black ballpoint pen. I poured boiling hot water over it to get a faded purple colour, then finished it with a light coating of acrylic gouache, and gloss medium. The drawing is of my three sisters, focusing on their glares.
Novalynn DiGuistini c @novalynn82 pen & acrylic c 2019
Got a Little
Carried Away Shaving This Morning
Monique Germain c @monique_germain charcoal c 2019 27
Dasha Yildirim c @dasharonii watercolour c 2019 28
Air Roots in Wet Air and T wilight This work is one part of a series where a vision of life that is boundless, free-flowing, and un-curated by human ideologies is explored. The strange and unknown are welcomed and embraced. The invented and nonexistent are encouraged.
Emma Baldwin c @emmah.baldwin watercolour, paper & nails c 2019 29
Penang Hazel Xianghui Ho c @hazeandmirrors pen & ink c 2018 30
Vintage October Christine Fwu c @cfwu.design dual-colour risoprint c 2019
A daily challenge calendar exploring historic ephemera and the values embedded within. It takes the form of a traditional advent calendar and includes a prompt for each day to look into designâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s past. The calendar helps to understand and appreciate â&#x20AC;&#x153;what used to beâ&#x20AC;?, and inspire people to bring back the old ways and styles of making.
The Morning Report Extra! Extra! Read all about it! You’re just in time, For the morning news bit! I’m paid to tell you this — You’re here to hear! The world’s falling apart, And extinction is near! Another school’s been shot up! A man killed his children! A driver lost control — Here’s a wounded civilian!
The Morning Report Rights are being stripped! People deported! Kids are in camps, As previously reported! I see you losing interest So let’s get you back quick — Here’s a five-ingredient recipe, And a new party trick! Now that you’re back, The turtles are dying! This kid’s terminally ill — Look at her mother crying!
A word from our sponsors — Don’t try to resist! Sneer at work unions, And never assist!
Monique Germain c @monique_germain Woo Editorial
You’re born to be poor! You deserve what you get! Die unhappy, And buried in debt!
The Morning Report
Back to our program — Stop your eyes glazing over — Look at this sweet viewer, We gave a makeover! This kid sold her toys To fund her dad’s surgery! Here’s another billionaire Committing perjury! That hunk who you loved Once raped his co-star! We think it’s her fault, From what we’ve heard so far!
Become apathetic Stop trying to fix it It’ll make it far easier For others to profit What Eliot rejected Is now our aim Today’s no different Tomorrow will be the same
“Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear” Nothing will ever change.
Strike In this video projection, I carefully constructed the word “Strike” letter by letter from individual matches and then set fire to the entire structure. In the video, we see “Strike” burn explosively, collapse, and reform into its original configuration, as if by magic. The video is an infinite loop of dramatic failure. This process took inspiration from my feelings of futility towards collective organizing as a viable form of political engagement. For example, the works of artist Claire Fontaine, as well as my research into the early history of labour unions and collective action, e.g. the 1888 London match girl’s strike. I am interested in complicating the connection between art and politics by intervening with humour, the absurd, and the occult. According to Urbandictionary.com, “extra” is an adjective reserved for behaviours that are completely unnecessary but over-the-top, dramatic, outrageous or overzealous. I think this piece qualifies perfectly, because why write a paper about autonomous Marxism when you can hot-glue 3000 matches together into an ironic homonym and set that shit on fire?
Ada Dragomir c @ada_dragomir_ video projection & sculpture c 2019 34
The Lottery Winner
Darius Fultz-Zentner c @saxamuhphumpet oil painting & collage c 2019 36
A Reticent Fury of the Red Monkey
Michelle Hong c digital drawing & painting c 2019 This work tells the story of a time when apes are taking over the world, seeking revenge against humans for their control over nature. In this story, the monkeys cooperate with extraterrestrial creatures deriving supernatural powers. The figure of the monkey transforms into an unusual object with undefinable components. Its face has a calm expression to show that monkeys can evolve to control their feelings and move into a position to suppress humanity.
Doan Truong c @bom.ttd digital illustration c 2019 38
What’s Art Doc?
As a non-binary / genderfluid artist, I find inspiration in art history that overtly alludes to, or presents, nonbinary subjects. I also find collage to be integral in both art critique, and expressing non-binary identities, as it furthers the idea of “not quite fitting in” to the framework society has presented. For me, this collage is “extra” because Bugs Bunny is expressing himself in a very dragesque way on a horse that is “extra” in all the right ways.
Vincent Chorabik c @vincent.chorabik collage c 2019 39
Teeth The first sign that things were going wrong was when my teeth began falling out. “That’s strange,” said the doctor. “Are you drinking your milk?” “Yes,” I replied (although, without my teeth, it sounded more like “Yeth”). “Well, are you perhaps teething? Are you secretly an infant?” “No. I am thirty-seven years old.” This I knew with confidence. “Well then!” she threw her hands up in frustration. “I just don’t know what’s happening. Go home and get some rest maybe. See if that helps.” And so I did. c c c The second sign that things were going wrong was when I could no longer see the colour blue. “Clara,” I whispered, since my girlfriend and I were at the cinema, “I can’t see blue.” “What?”
Teeth “The ocean on the screen. It should be blue, but it appears grey to me. You don’t suppose there’s something wrong with the film, do you?” “No, dumbass,” she said lovingly, “it looks blue to me. What’s wrong with you? You’re ruining the movie. Shut up.” And so I did. c c c The third (and final) sign that things were going wrong was when my foot detached itself from my leg. I duct taped it back on, and hobbled to the nearest pediatrician for help. His office was on the other side of town, underneath a bridge, and as such took a long time to limp to. “You’re at the wrong place. I am a pediatrician, a doctor who specializes in children. What you are looking for is a podiatrist, someone who specializes in feet,” the pediatrician explained. “Oh, well, would you like to see my foot anyway?” “Not really,” he said. “But sure. Undo the duct tape.” And so I did.
Genki Ferguson c @iamgenks Woo Editorial
The pediatrician held my foot in his hand, suspicious. In another room, I heard an infant crying. “Let’s go to the town doctor for this.” And so we did. “I remember you!” she said. “Your hair was falling out!” “Close,” I replied. “It was my teeth actually.” “Whatever. Show me your foot.” I undid the duct tape (again). Her office was cold and white and smelled like nothing. She poked my foot. It deflated like a balloon. She then poked me right in the middle of the chest, and just like that, both of my arms fell off. “Oh! I see!” “What is it?” the pediatrician and I asked in unison. “You’re simply falling apart!” “Of course!” said the pediatrician. “It’s so obvious!” “I’m falling apart? Is there any cure?”
“Not really. But don’t worry, it happens all the time. People have been falling apart quite a bit lately. You’ll just have to get over it,” she said, offering me a half smile. “Get over it?” “Yes, just try not to think about falling apart for a bit. I do it all the time, and look!” she waved her arms around. “Not falling apart.” “Indeed,” said the pediatrician. “Just try to get over it.” And so I didn’t.
Carrie Braybrooks c carriebraybrooks.com photography series c 2018 42
ahhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhh h hh
Jayde Tecson c @yeboji photography c 2018
creative beings, wait for the waterfall to pour out idea after idea, wait for inspiration to connect all the puzzle pieces together, wait for the door to be unlocked that blocks all our ideas from pouring out, so we wait for inspiration.
Megan McClennon c poetry c 2019 44
Country for Old Men What happens when you feel unwelcome in a place where you initially seemed to belong?
Tammo Fouad c @teafood analog photography series c 2019 45
Colophon WOO is available at Emily Carr University and READ Books. The views expressed in this publication do not reflect those of Emily Carr University or the editors and publisher. Inquiries can be addressed to the Directors at firstname.lastname@example.org ÂŠ 2019 including all content by the artists, authors and editors. All images are reproduced with the permission of their artists. Woo assumes all work published here is original and the work is the property of the submitting students. All artwork titles and student names are trademarked or copyrighted by their respective owners. Woo gratefully acknowledges the support of students, alumni, faculty, the Emily Carr Studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Union, and the Administrative Board at Emily Carr University. EMAIL c email@example.com WEBSITE c woopublication.ca FACEBOOK c woopublication INSTAGRAM c @woopublication @facesofemilycarr Printed with Hemlock Printers. The typefaces used in this publication are: Freight c designed by Joshua Darden Circular c designed by Laurenz Brunner This issue is limited to 350 copies. WOO PUBLICATION 520 E 1st Ave, Vancouver, BC V5T 0H2 2nd Floor