Woo Spring 2017

WOO spring 2017 stories

woo

Ester Tรณthovรก Design Team Ying Tang Cindy Wu Katrina Megan Yu

Adi Berardini

Art Director

Lula Christman

Creative Director

Yuriy Kyrzov Banban Zhao

Media Director

Editor-In-Chief

the team Joy Kim

Illustrator

Nurzhan Kabdrakhman

Eric Cheun

Media Team

Sanya Arora

Nicole Sitanski

Karishma Bhindi

Editorial Team

Adi Berardini

Sincerely,

In the midst of a political time here in North America, where people’s rights are under question due from unfounded hate and discrimination, perhaps our stories are the most important binding agent. Stories are something that fuel the power of understanding. Although we may be vastly different, if I hear your story I might be able to empathize with your situation. Listening to another person’s story gives you a fresh perspective. In this life we have only one body so tell me your story, make me understand. Spill the details of what makes your story special.

When one hears “stories” many different things come to mind: a children’s book, a short story, even a tale told at a party. However, the submissions we received for the Spring issue often proved to have a dark twist to them. Stories can be humorous and light-hearted, but they can also be raw, emotionally charged, and telling of a certain point in history.

The stories we received were quite somber.

editor’s letter

woo spring 2017 | stories | I was bitten by a pelican when I was little.

There are 3 off-duty bus drivers in uniform sitting around me on the handicap seats, presumably going home after their shifts. The driver sitting opposite me is a colossal man, with large arms, a grey handlebar mustache, and large red running shoes. The street lights passing by occasionally illuminate the silver reflective tape on his safety jacket, shining directly into my eyes. He looks absolutely exhausted.

I can tell by the reflection of the dark glass behind him that he is watching a video on his phone. Something that oddly enough gives me a little bit of joy, to see such a comically large old man equally as technology-addicted as the rest of us. He looks up from his phone, his eyes meeting directly with mine, it was almost as if he knew he was being mentally recorded to later be used as a prop in my story, and he was not pleased.

The bus is packed. It’s only 7:30pm but you’d swear it was midnight. I’m reluctantly sitting in one of the reserved handicapped seats, and the shame is eating away at me. It was the only option available, and to my relief there are two other able bodied people sitting beside me as well. So if there is any judgment directed towards me for my seat choice, at least it will be spread among all three of us. The calming lullaby of the traffic outside reminds me of car trips as a child, when I could fall asleep without worrying I’d wake up without my wallet. It was going to be a long trip to White Rock, and everyone on board seemed to be armed with their cellphones, ear buds and data plans.

There is also something oddly fascinating to me about seeing an old white guy casually joking with another old, but clearly not white guy. Why is this? Why do I findt his interaction

Even though I’d very much like to get to my destination as fast as possible, I found myself enjoying observing these men doing something other than driving a bus. It’s odd, I deal with bus drivers almost every day, but apparently I seem to forget that they’re people too, who have inside jokes, watch videos on their phones and apparently will make the time to chat with each other, whether we like it or not.

We break at a large bus stop in the middle of an area I’m not familiar with. The driver, who was also an old white man, opens the door and begins shouting from his seat at a man sitting about 15 feet away on the bench outside. I arch my neck to see behind my sleepy large friend opposite me and realize the man on the bench is also a bus driver, except unlike all the old white guys sitting around me, he is wearing a turban and has an tremendously long beard and moustache reaching his belt. The bus is still at a complete stop and we have been here for longer than a minute, with no one getting on or off, so I pull out my headphones and conduct a mini investigation to see what all the commotion is about. Before long I realize they are happily shouting about their shifts, laughing about some scheduling conflict or something, with no concern for the fact that there are roughly 40 passengers listening to every word they’re saying.

the 421 to white rock

clayton wadsworth

I recall seeing fabulous pictures of the “International ESL Class” going on adventures, getting to go pick pumpkins at Davidson’s Orchard, having sleepovers, all of these things naturally were very well documented on Facebook. Pictures, so many pictures. Oh what it must be like to be put into a tight-knit group of students, each more different and exciting than the last, where you are all experiencing living away from your family in a strange town, in a new country, with

It wasn’t as if I had never met a non-white person before, far from it in fact. When we did have a classmate who was Black, Asian or Latino, they were always on an exchange, and were only here for 6 to 9 months. Believe me when I say that no one was more captivated by them than I was. I would try to be friends with them, possibly a little bit too hard, but there always seemed to be exclusivity they had, that I did not meet the requirements for.

so remarkable that it made it into a story? It likely has something to do with growing up in an almost exclusively white community. Come to think of it, I probably never once saw my father talking to a man wearing a turban.

Hopefully not due to any reason other than the fact that no one wore a turban in my small town, but I know that is not entirely certain.

“Hi mom...” I hear the girl sitting across from me answer her phone, before transitioning into a short conversation in language I did not know. We make eye contact briefly; I crack a small smile instinctively, which she returns before continuing on with her conversation. Maybe this is why I always liked bus rides in the city — you get to experience the world.

The bus stops. A young Asian woman, who appears to be roughly the same age as me, if I had to make a guess, replaced the large driver. She looks very comfortable.

Usually when I ride the bus at night I become a chameleon of sorts. I blend into the walls and seat and try to avoid any unwanted attention that might be directed towards me. I still remember my first bus ride in the big city. No one was speaking English. No one was speaking French either, my other fluent tongue. It felt as if I was no longer a part of my own country anymore. Wait, let me rephrase that: it felt as if I was no longer in the Canada that I knew growing up where I did, how I did.

just each other. I remember I always wanted to go on an exchange, I had never left the country after all, but it wasn’t financially realistic for my family.

julia pepler | one year of homes | digital, archival, photo collage, 2016 woo spring 2017 | stories | The upstairs library door needs to be opened.

gemma goletski | dogshit | ink & coloured pencil, 2016

woo spring 2017 | stories | Journalists used to have to typeset their own articles (yes, upside down and backwards).

I wish someone could order all my disorders in number.

Thoughts in my head outnumber just like the stars in amber, while the legs move in lumber my hands move in jumper, this discoordination is somber

My name defies wonders, but my heart thunders as things are going asunder

I’m in a deep slumber where things are cumber, my mind secretly wanders what is it that i’m going under?

Is it some blunder? or a brain tumour!

rebounder

karishma bhindi

Shannon Pot | meaning-making lullaby | ink & pen, 2016

WanJun Liang | lost and found | installation, 2015 Lost and Found is an interactive project that functions in a conceptual way by inviting strangers to exchange their personal memories of something that they lost. Participants are invited to match a drawing according to a random lost and found story that they picked from the envelopes. After the drawing and story are matched, participants put both of them in the envelope and mail it back to the owner. By randomness and chance, the owners would have an experience of finding their lost property back by the help of a stranger, or receive another lost and found story.

woo spring 2017 | stories | I have difficulties memorizing my own number because I don’t call myself very often, if at all.

klaudia niwa | An abc guide to making your planet happy (spread 1) | digital illustration, 2016

una gil | fuse | triptych monoprints, 2016 This piece depicts my struggle of adjusting in a new country after living in another my entire life. For seventeen years, I lived in sunny Manila, with the comfort of my family and friends.

When I moved to Vancouver, I had to live in a completely different place, get used to everyday rain showers, make new friends, and take on new responsibilities. It was extremely hard for me to adjust, and I struggled to make the most out of my time here—I kept thinking about the happier times back in my hometown. The elements of each location are faded, imperfect, and fragmented, representing the struggle to combine my old life with my new life instead of keeping the two worlds separate from each other.

woo spring 2017 | stories | In my first track and field relay, I passed the baton to the wrong team.

xueyi wang | fungi | mixed-media on paper, 2016 I awake to see this different world, beautiful as an illusion. Moss and other fungi boasting various colors covered the ground and the mountains. Among them, there were big mushrooms that could move and walk with their roots wriggling in the mud. They gather around me with curiosity.

woo spring 2017 | stories | I’ve always wanted to meet all the boys and girls written and sung about in love songs.

I remember when we went shopping for Halloween costumes. I wanted to dress up as Batman and Catwoman but you said we’ve done it two years already.

I remember when we sat on the roof watching a meteor shower and each time one passed over, you just happened to miss it.

I remember when you told me I’m the only person you look in the eye when you have conversations.

I remember when we talked about nothing inside the car in front of my house until 5am.

I remember pushing you off the dock when we anchored.

I remember the fear I felt when I took a boat for the first time and the embarrassment I felt from you laughing at my terror.

I remember when we went fishing down by the abandoned creek. Even though it took us 3 hours to catch one fish, we dined like it was the finest meal.

I remember when we went to the carnival and you won a stuffed dolphin that was yellow and obnoxious and fuzzy, which is unlike a real dolphin at all.

I remember when we travelled to the pool house for the first time and like a lesson on the first day of school, learning to hold a wooden stick was the basic exercise to begin the course.

I remember the first day I began writing things down so I don’t forget.

I remember when you asked me if I remembered who you were.

I remember when you comforted me when I was crying for our son who died 7 years ago.

I remember when you carried me out the bathtub when 180 minutes passed by instead of 20.

I remember when you got me from the police station because I couldn’t remember where I lived.

I remember when you smiled woefully the third time I forgot your birthday.

I remember your slight exasperation when you corrected my spelling when I gave out the wrong address to the bank.

I remember when you held my hand guiding me as I tried to pronounce the dishes on the menu of our favorite restaurant.

I remember when you were in the hospital and someone brought you a cake topped with pineapples before I did.

I remember when you were in the hospital and I brought you a cake topped with pineapples.

sticky notes

Kachelle Knowles

Christine Wei | A Big World | triptych monoprints, 2016

They might not be able to sing.

The morning came soon, the snow still falling, accumulated on the ground. A knock on the door, a skip in my heart beat. As I opened the door, our eyes met, we hugged. The longing, patient and impatient, gone; the distance that had been between us, irrelevant. All that remained was stories, stories to be shared, and stories to be made.

Up high in the sky, the clouds looked like tufts of cotton peacefully suspended in mid air. The first rays of the sun fought its way through the fluff and reached towards me. An intermingling of whites and oranges and blues, it was a spectacular view. I couldn’t distract myself anymore and checked the flying time left. Another eight hours to go, I waited, impatiently…

Silver flakes made their way down, some ambling along the way, others more in a rush to reach the surface. They shone against the dark blue sky, little white clouds, disintegrating as soon as they reach my outstretched hands. A damp kiss, and gone forever. The stars not somewhere far in the sky anymore, but falling down on earth in these little whispers. There was an air of longing, patient waiting. The warmth of the indoors beckoned me, and as I made my way in, the flecks kept falling, unperturbed…

snow-struck

sanya arora

Mariana Trujillo-Lezama | utopía | etching, estisol transfer & watercolour, 2015

woo spring 2017 | stories | My brother said “I saw your art friend with a beard” and I replied, “that doesn’t narrow it

down much, you have to be more specific.�

yuriy kyrzov | defence mechanisms | mixed-media, 2016

amy brereton | gloom | ink on paper, 2016 woo spring 2017 | stories | I looked at the stars longingly. I love stars. He said “You miss home. You’re one of the stars.

kelly chen | the blue spector | paper cut comic, 2016

That’s all. Don’t be sad”

woo spring 2017 | stories | Tried to watch black mirror to find some entertainment during grad year and of course

I get to keep the dogs and the guns. You get the cats and houseplants.

I don’t want the fucking cats, I get the antique cutlery!

Oh alright, you get to keep the cutlery and I’ll throw in the garden.

After 80 metres we get a divorce.

We take a metaphorical chainsaw to the house. Split it right in half.

We laugh, and then he turns to me and says,

“Let’s pretend we’re married for 80 metres” I said, “Okay, let’s convince people..

They’ll ask how did we meet?

On the street, of course!

We found a rabbi and everything!

It’s 10pm, I’m walking to the bus after work and alongside me is a genuine looking old man on a bicycle (not a crack head, just eccentric).

We chatted about needles and scary high school nurses and how watching professional bicycle races on the street makes for good air conditioning.

He bikes away. I get on the bus.

The cp…. huh CPL ?

The communist party of Lithuania? You just made that up! You can’t make things up!

“Of COURSE I can, why not!? OUR WHOLE LIFE TOGETHER has been a joke, one big lie. You’re my ex-husband and what ever happened to the cats!?! They’ve all probably became jazz musicians and gotta beg for their catnip!

He consoles me, “Fair.”

I had to catch the bus.

“Have a goodnight dear, nice chat, see ya in the afterlife!”

“You too sir!”

Pleased with our agreement without the need for a fictional lawyer, Somehow a train drove through our minds and we couldn’t think of an acronym for the trains that go across Canada.

Deal!

small talks with strangers

emma canning

Joni Taylor | The Writing on the Wall | installation, 2016

that didn’t work out.

Cecil Lu | Easter Sunday (page 1) | ink, 2016 | read the rest @ https://www.enhades.com/eastersunday/

woo spring 2017 | stories | These mountains that you are carrying, you are only supposed to climb.

Maria Duque and Josiah Yu | sun, moon and talia | photography, 2015 Sun, Moon and Talia is a photo essay that re-imagines the tale of The Sleeping Beauty. Based on the medieval folk tale Sun, Moon and Talia, the original tale behind The Sleeping Beauty, this photo essay combines aesthetic elements of classical art, combined with a modern minimalist aesthetic. This series examine an example of censorship in storytelling, and the hidden violence behind pop culture.

woo spring 2017 | stories | A brief history of purple: in Greek, the word was porphrya, a shellfish-derived dye that

And I get old, until the dream deep inside of me is just a flicker of a hope - never lived to its fulfillment. Instead the endless routines I strictly follow are blinding me. It shows in

RUHIG !

After a while I believed there is no way out. The colours and advertisements are so bright but the gates stay closed for me. Suspicion and numbness. I talk to myself but I am not listening.

I’m passive and my spirit has been utterly crushed bit by bit since I was a child! Who has the time and energy to the put the pieces back together? It is what it is and you will not change it. Es ist wie es ist und DU wirst das nicht ändern! Ich will nur einen Abend nach Hause kommen und alles ist erledigt!

The system: I ended up wandering alone in the waste land of hopes and promises that were never kept. I relied on the outside! Du darfst nicht schwindeln.

Time doesn’t exist, therefore we can always time travel.

However, there are individual times: interactions of atoms in your brain, everyone else’s brain and the world around you. We sculpt our thoughts, we sculpt our brain times, every single day, every single minute! Meine größte Zeitverschwendung ist, dass ich Liebe bei den Menschen suche, die mich gar nicht lieben, aus welchen Gründen auch immer ! Ich gehe weg und suche mir Orte, an denen mehr geliebt wird!

I am a little piece in the system and the system formed me! Can I still learn to love, show affection, open up?

my clothing, in my face, in the words I say, in the people I interact with. The impression I make on them, and how I can feel them building a distance while they are trying not to hurt me. Even my own family! When I see people showing affection to each other, it not only confuses me, it hurts me, me personally. Was kann ich denn noch erhoffen?

behind curtain response one

diana hanitzsch

garment makers used to create the colour.

Alina Senchenko | behind curtain | c-print

you will never know me you will hear of me in forms of statistic

Maria Margaretta | missing and murdered aboriginal woman #4001 | mixed media porcelain and thread, 2016

in ways that denounce my character and dehumanize my existence you might see me with my braided hair on a flat piece of paper smiling with the words any information but you will never know me you will never know what was taken from her from him from them you will never see their tears under the covers at the end of each day as they recall the way I said goodnight as they remember our last exchanges Mom darling you will never know the fear of knowing she could be next look both ways dont make eye contact you will never know how she needed me how I needed her how she will wonder everyday how he will blame himself how they will never know you will never know because it is unspoken because I am invisible because I put myself in this situation you will never know because I am disposable because I am devalued because I am female because I am aboriginal because I am dead.

woo spring 2017 | stories | I tried to feed an ostrich once when I was 3 but it bit my hand.

Aidan Johnson | para | relief woodcut on masa paper, 2016

woo spring 2017 | stories | My friend’s cat rolled over on her back the first time she saw me, in return I rolled over on

What kind of challenges does the interplay of text and images bring to your work? Advantages?

Trying to gauge the size of speech bubbles and making sure that the text fits seamlessly with the visuals is one of my biggest challenges. Even though in the last few years I’ve gotten much better at it, I could always work on it more! The advantage is that people function in a visual and a verbal setting, so comics seems to kind of reflect that.

To me comics are an interesting blend of prose and the visual.

The relationship between the written and the visual is one of interest to me whether each language supports each other or conflicts each other. Another thing that is unique to comics is panels. This is one of the only mediums that has the ability to represent time through spatial divisions.

Yes and no. Most of my stories are within the realm of psychological, alternative realities/fantasy/sci-fi, so many of my characters experience things I will never experience.

But at the same time, some aspect of the personal always plays out in my stories. Sometimes, characters would be exaggerated fragments of myself. Other times I’ll be asking personal questions as the theme, or trying to understand my own struggles through a different situation. None of my stories have myself explicitly as the focus, but I’m also not going to pretend that my own life has nothing to do with the stories I make.

Do your stories draw from personal life experiences?

What can comics do for you that other forms of storytelling can’t? (In other words, what lead you to express your ideas in this medium and why?)

Storytelling has always been an outlet to express myself and explore questions that don’t have answers. In a way, storytelling is an investigation of my own beliefs and experiences from an external viewpoint. I first began to depend on stories to make sense of the world during my rather traumatizing elementary school days, realizing that there was always another side of the story (and often an underrepresented one) and that the world is a zillion shades of gray.

Why is storytelling important to you, and what do you like the most about it?

kelly chen

nicole sitanski’s comic panel with

my back and scared the hell out of the poor thing.

Right now I’m really enjoying Noragami, which has some interesting concepts about the role of gods and the lives of humans. Of course, it has lovely art. I also love Sandman, which has some amazing panel experimentation.

What are some of your favorite comics you’d recommend someone to read, and why?

Ahhhh, so many. In all honesty, anything and anyone can influence me. When you take inspiration from many places, I find that artwork becomes much more complex and interesting. I do have my biases though, as I am a huge fan of psychological stories because they make me think. Another huge influence would be Tsubasa by clamp because it was the manga I read. Thanks to them, I got hooked on comics.

What kinds of stories or creators influence your work? (If you have a specific story or artist in mind, please include it!)

woo spring 2017 | stories | I went shopping in superstore, and read the aisle “imported food” as “important food”.

Comics are both the most flexible and the most accessible form of communication I can think of. You can do almost anything with them. They can be autobiographical, journalistic, fantastical. They can use any medium; and hop from one medium to another. Also, the fact that they’re still kind of considered “low art,” and are more answerable to pop culture than to academia, is freeing in its own way. I feel like I can talk to people from a greater variety of backgrounds than I could in any other format.

What can comics do for you that other forms of storytelling can’t? (In other words, what lead you to express your ideas in this medium and why?)

I’m gonna go right ahead and admit that all of my characters are me. That might be narcissistic. Anyway, I’m also working on a short comic right now about a trip to Wreck Beach I took in November when I was processing the events of the American election. It’s the first time I’ve done anything autobiographical (usually sci-fi is more my thing) but I’m actually really into it and I think I’ll do it again.

I think that any type of creation is a way of making sense of your life, and for me, creating stories out of the world I see around me feels like the most natural way of processing it so that I can have conversations about it with other people. I write journal entries, poetry, stories, and comics, and all of those are about the world, making sense of the things I see, hear, taste and touch. Right now, I am writing about a future in which the 1% have wrecked the world and left the 99% to pick up the pieces feels like the realest way for me to use my practice to create a dialogue about what’s going on politically in the world—even though that future also contains bounty hunters with laser guns and android space pirates.

I do wordless comics a lot. Badly chosen text, especially clunky dialogue, kills atmosphere so quickly. I think the most interesting effects you can get are when there are two different things going on in the text and the images.

For example, a character is doing one thing but thinking another, or you have the images from one scene but the dialogue from another one. That type of contrast is so cool. Bonus points if the interaction between the text and images builds a third meaning that wouldn’t exist in either on their own. That’s comics, baby.

What kind of challenges does the interplay of text and images bring to your work? Advantages?

Do your stories draw from personal life experiences?

Why is storytelling important to you, and what do you like the most about it?

susie wilson

nicole sitanski’s comic panel with

This One Summer by Mariko and Jillian Tamaki is one of my favourites. They’re a Canadian sister act, and it takes place very close to my home in Ontario. It captures that really awkward, awful couple of years of pre-teenhood really beautifully. Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosh is also great—it’s a webcomic about the artist’s life illustrated with incredibly simple but hilarious MS paint drawings.

What are some of your favorite comics you’d recommend someone to read, and why?

Indie fantasy comics from the 80’s and 90’s have got to be my biggest influence, particularly the Finder series by Carla Speed McNeil. It’s an intricate dystopian fantasy that has had chapters being released almost continuously since 1996, and it kills me that it’s still so unknown.

What kinds of stories or creators influence your work? (If you have a specific story or artist in mind, please include it!)

Rodrigo dos Santos | mindful journaling | sticky notes, 2016

How are you feeling today? During one week, nine people shared their feelings, activities and impressions about their day. The stories lived in that week became a series of design artifacts that embodied feelings of joy, anxiety, fear, and desire. Both Journal Sculpture and the Lifetime Scroll represent the human stories that are grounded in a continuum and evolving structure. The stories we live and reflections we have every single day are aggregated to the end of this long spiral thread. Unrolling them can reveal a trajectory full of choices, decisions, and learnings.

woo spring 2017 | stories | I was waving at my friend, but a stranger waved back at me, we exchanged very

Augusta Lutynski | evocative clothing | textile, 2016 Scott Wilson | voice of design | digital media, 2017

awkward glances as my friend walked towards me.

Hoda Hamouda | mapping the (un)official | print, 2014 Mapping the (un)official compares the testimonies of survivors from Indian Residential School (IRS) and speeches by Duncan Scott Campbell (head of the Department of Indian Affairs from 1913 to 1932). It is under Scott’s direction that all First Nations’ children became obliged to attend Residential Schools. Based on the same number of words, this word cloud reveals hidden patterns in their testimonies, and in the speeches of Campbell.

woo spring 2017 | stories | I’m Manchu but most of my cultural understanding comes from popular court dramas set

Yuriy Kyrzov, Lula Christman, Brooke Taylor | futura exhibit design | installation, 2016

in the Qing dynasty too (sorry mom).

natalia gomes franca | sensory storytelling | visual & tactile materials on paper, 2016 Every person has a story. In the summer of 2016, I conducted co-creation workshops intended to draw insights from a group of psychologists on my thesis work: Design for Empathy. Using sensory storytelling techniques psychologists developed personas that had difficulty relating to others and attributed meanings to the materials provided. They created deep and complex human descriptions and helped me better understand some of the challenges we face in connecting with others.

woo spring 2017 | stories | I broke my rock garden rake this morning.

sophy xie & maria jose Hernandez Cos | upside down | photography + writing, 2016 Tears and regret mixed with onions and garlic made for the best morning after anchovie frittata.

This project explores typography—something usually presented in 2d format—in a 3 dimensional space we asked participants to interact with the prototypes of different letters and photographed each one. The stories are inspired by the photographs.

woo spring 2017 | stories | Place an avocado pit with toothpicks on its sides on top of a container of water with its

kayla kerrone | chapter one | photography, 2016 Chapter One, Exploring new lands, getting lost and saying good-bye, for awhile.

This is a story about love. Not just any sort of love­—hard love. Love that takes sacrifice, patience, and a lot of crying in airports. Everything in my life has sort of shifted since being in a long distance relationship; The way I sleep, the way I distract my thoughts, how I am constantly imagining his invisible presence beside mine, and how everything seems to remind me of him. I didn’t plan on choosing someone from Germany, but life is funny that way. They say time is precious and I’ve never understood until this point in my life. This past summer I met his family and I felt like every day was disappearing faster than the sun itself. Every morning I felt this anxiousness because I knew that I had one less day with the person I wanted 100 more with.

For the past year, my camera has acted as a witness and captured these fleeting moments. I created a timeline representing memory and documenting the effortless times we shared. This work is about cherished moments and the mundane world that reminds me of the past. This story is about exploring new lands, getting lost and saying goodbye, for a while.

bottom touching the h2o. It will begin to grow an avocado tree within 8 weeks.

woo spring 2017 | stories | Once I checked the date on some mentholatum I had taken from my home when I

You opt to look at the art instead, ignoring any passing judgment directed towards you. Oversized paintings made from charcoal, oil paint and other mysterious concoctions capture your attention. Candy pinks, purples, cerulean blue and jet black swirl together. They are rather lovely, but you can’t help thinking that the rust on the outside of the building is just as interesting. Subsequently, you feel guilty.

The curator has a high nasally voice and wears suspenders.

Quite a few other people have arrived— a few intellectuallooking white men and young women in their 20s wearing mom jeans and caps. Whenever you walk into this gallery, you feel a somewhat pompous wave of judgment coming your way. These people assume they are better than you since most of them are esteemed in their profession. To them, you are just a commoner with an interest in art. “Jeez,” you say to yourself. “How can I be like them? So metropolitan and successful.” You internally sigh.

You walk past a rusted tin barricade with metallic marker scribbled on its surface, which strikes you as endearing.

Some weathered things are beautiful with years of character marked on their surface. The barricade is propped beside an industrial building, the moisture tinting it a burnt sienna colour over time. The way the sun shines on buildings at dusk makes everything seem that much more beautiful. You walk towards the the warehouse, the location of an art opening in a gentrified part of town.

You feel slightly awkward and out of place, but at least you left the house. Gold star to you, my friend.

“Ah, finally.” You say to yourself, relieved. You go over to your friends and give them a hug. Now you can seem like a normal social being. You and your friends catch up, discuss assignments, gossip, talk about the weather and what you’re working on. After all, this is an art opening. There isn’t much time to get that deep. Oh, and you talk about the art in the show, since that’s a good conversation starter.

Then you realize there are books in a secluded corner.

“Wow, books,” you say to yourself. “These are interesting.”

Once the room fills with people, you take refuge in the book section. You sit down on the cold concrete floor and read a zine by an artist from your hometown. It’s homemade charm makes you smile and detest the social situation less. Glancing up from your page, you recognize some people you know.

You decide to progress to the wine bar, which is really just a makeshift table with chairs the servers sit on. You look at the price and it’s five dollars for a beer. “Should I do it?” you ask yourself. At the liquor store you could buy a six-pack for that price. You decide to splurge since it goes towards the gallery, even though you’re an art student and you could use the money. People spend way more at the bar, right?

art opening woes

adi berardini

oscar flores | finally naked | photography, 2017

moved out for college and it expired 2 years after I was born.

Melina Querel | remapping and deconstructing canada | photography, 2016 Remapping and Deconstructing Canada is a durational walk across Canada, the walk has completed four provinces in the Spring/Summer of 2016. It is an exploration of my body’s physical limitation, rethinking Canada’s landscapes, and the concept of time.

Cecilia Sanchez Navarro | pueblo mágico | digital photography, 2016

woo spring 2017 | stories | I once needed a wheelchair in the Las Vegas airport due to atopic eczema, but the staff

Simon Bermeo-Ehmann | hoses | 120mm film, 2017 were all laughing because they thought I partied too hard and sprained my ankle.

woo spring 2017 | stories | A spider bit me when I was little… still waiting for my superpowers.

Weak, came from her father.

She grew up in a household with her oppressor.

Weak constantly appeared to her, telling her over and over that she couldn’t do it.

She would have never known

She met Worthless in grade one.

She didn’t realize who Worthless was until it grew on her.

Her teacher had given it to her like many of her other classmates, only a few were labelled important.

She is not sure if her teacher knew the extent of the damage giving them Worthless would cause, but for her it would be eight years until she felt important, that she had something to offer.

In her middle school, an art teacher showed her and encouraged her to dive head first into art.

Escaping from the past, she found herself creating creatures and stories, a world full of endless possibilities.

labelled

megan mcclennon

A name, repeatedly thrown at her by many adults.

Instead of helping her, they labelled her.

Bad kid, bad kid, bad kid.

During elementary school, many teachers would deliberately showcase to other students that she was different.

Isolating her, making a lesson out of her, treating her like a Bad kid.

Strength, until one day, when she was standing on her lawn with her mother and brother beside her and her father on front of her.

He was screaming and yelling but she knew her mother was in potential danger and she was going to protect her, at any cost.

She was lucky, her father didn’t throw a punch but that day she found Courage.

Because of her past labels, She only has one residual echo, Insecure.

Whispering negative message at the most inconvenient times.

It’s an echo that will remain, until she learns to see the beauty in herself Instead of focusing on her flaws.

Her parents were told by these teachers that she would never graduate, let alone be able to go to university.

They were telling her parents to give up on her before she ever had a chance but her mom didn’t accept what teachers were saying.

Instead, she helped her daughter to see that Bad kid was just a name used by people who misunderstood her.

One day she would finally see past Bad kid, to her future was in her hands.

A still from Megan McClennon’s film ‘Labelled’.

megan mcclennon | revealing bad kid | clay, liquid latex, wire & fake moss, 2016

sydney switzer | grandmothers | inkjet print, 2016 This photograph was made several weeks before my grandmother passed away from cancer.

Bringing up questions of remembrance and identity, Grandmothers calls to light transitions and memory in relation to rituals of aging.

woo spring 2017 | stories | Once I misread “martial arts” as “material arts” on clubs day, I thought that it was a new

art genre, and ended up in a kung fu club.

And by geez! The head honchos of these establishments They fly off their handle, let me tell you!

Let me think a bit…

If I were to make a statement about myself, I would share a short story And say Cultural indifference is generally, as a political and legal rule, measured in bloodlines So, whenever I’m menstruating I tend to squat far less often in the woods And more on sidewalk corners Front doors of video stores Pharma pseudo save And art schools And I sell em’ back the histories of all my hairy business and say “Follow these lines I’ve left for you for you for you” (see I know that my fair skin doesn’t sell quite the same as my quantum).

Mallory Amirault, mal.amirault@gmail.com Mi’Kmaq Metis, the continental drift-breed (you know the one) Phone #: N/A Performance artist with a mouthpiece for the subversive But, hey, you could label me a primitive feminist, it’s probably more postcolonially correct (and are you? an ally?)

Currently, my lifeblood stays cemented So I said it, to mean it, when I say That we are still here We are an ancestral word lost to colonial codas But we know what it is, without being able to say it We know what it is

They don’t buy it, they like our cultures but not us and my eyes twist in their corners trying to see the memory salivating inside of their mouths as they continue to shout I cannot see anything but feel them and grow boozey with their spit I clutch my wound and hobble off smiling at the ground that I know undulates beneath my feet despite the cement (at night, I’ve seen them come back to lick up the ‘mess I’ve made’, they like our cultures, but not us)

Scoring their ugly words into my sides like where christ was wounded But if I stay squatting Below their hot air and hovering bellies The moon will pull my arms above my head Lifting them up through their ugly words Tugging on my forefinger To point to something that resembles ancestry My lips weld into spheres and I say, “Look, look, I am beautiful”

artist statement

mallory amirault

Miller — designed by Font Bureau This issue is limited to 350 copies.

Woo assumes all work published here is original and the work

Emily Carr University.

faculty, the Students’ Union, and the Administrative Board at

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Room 241B North Building

respective owners.

Woo gratefully acknowledges the support of students, alumni,

Woo Publication

and student names are trademarked or copyrighted by their

is the property of the submitting students. All artwork titles

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All images are reproducedwith the permission of its artists.

The typefaces used in this publication are

Printed with Hemlock Printers.

© 2016 including all content by the artists, authors and editors.

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Woo is available at Emily Carr University and Read Bookstore.

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