Installation view.


Aaron Jones, “Police Sport Du Rag” (2018) Paper Collage, 29” x 39” framed.
Sean Ross Stewart, Flora and Creosote” (2018) steel, 80 x 3/4 x 26 x 16”.

Hanna Hur, “Fever ii” (2017) watercolor, china marker and color pencil on linen, 30 x 40”.
Installation view.  Susy Oliveira, “Come Back as a Flower” (2019) photo collage, 46.5” x 35” framed.


Sean Ross Stewart, “Flowers 16” (2018) oil acrylic, soil, wax on linen over wood, 16” x 12”.

Sean Ross Stewart, “Flowers 17” (2018) oil on linen over wood, 14” x 11”.

Garrett Lockhart, “Support” (2018) crayon, coffee, mixed media, laser print on cotton, salvaged wood from babycrib, metal hardware, 8 1/2 x 11 3/4” framed.
Grayson Alabiso-Cahill, “Sterling Road, November 2019” (2019) c-print, 11 x 14” framed.

Stan Douglas, “Schmoo” (1996) laserlight jet print, 28 x 33” framed. 

Walter Scott, “Tanya Dognelly” (2017) colored pencil, grease pencil on paper, 14” x 17” framed.

Jenine Marsh, “Wire Graft 1” (2019) Edition 1 of 3, flowers, synthetic rubber, found wire, polyacrylic, 3 x 4 x 6.5”.

Trevor Mahovsky & Rhonda Weppler, “The Known Universe” (2017) pigmented polymerized gypsum, epoxy, steel, cheese cloth, 198 x 133.5 x 53.5”.
Darby Milbrath, “Milkmaid” (2016) oil and natural pigments on linen, 16 x 18 x 1”.

JD Banke, “Decorative object” (2018) acrylic on canvas, 12 X 16”.













BENDING TOWARDS
THE SUN

FRANCES ADAIR MCKENZIE
JD BANKE
LIAM CROCKARD
PATRICK CRUZ
STAN DOUGLAS
HANNA HUR
AARON JONES
LAURIE KANG
JENINE MARSH
DARBY MILBRATH
SUSY OLIVEIRA
WALTER SCOTT
SHANNON GARDEN JANA STERBACK
TREVOR MAHOVSKY AND RHONDA WEPPLER
YYZ ARTISTS’ OUTLET
Mar 30 — Apr 7
2019





Again today I watched you leave and tried to follow. Found nothing but darkness in your wake. Granulated by your absence like a lover newly acquainted, now I only hope you’ll stop by again tomorrow. Fruitless is to chase you, somehow you always wind up at my back, Dawn’s fingers waltzing over my shoulders onto my breast. Neck of a crane, these swollen eyes are pried open. Why do you demand my pivot? that I remain dancing circles for you? Why mock the path straight and narrow, it’s been many times I’ve practiced this dance so, why, over? again I dream that i follow you, beyond the edge into the unknown. On a pathway where the light never escapes me, not over the horizon’s selfish ambit, out of view. We could see this as progress, no? I do like to keep moving, I do have trouble staying any one way for too long. I’ve always fought reliance on habituation, cycles are suspects in the transgression of living just once. Oh yes i’m being dramatic as always but its a recipe of your making. Could we not just learn to talk like adults about this? Then you’d say to me, “in the endless pursuit of this imagined, faultless life, you may waste so much time running, breathlessly, trying to catch me, that you’ll never sit long enough to know the pleasure of a butterfly picking you as its place to land.” It is a lesson of circuits: energy produced in a self-reliant loop that seldom tires of itself. I remember now that restlessness  is exactly what destines Orpheus to a heart full of darkness both by night and day. That is, it is not you who spites me, but myself. You watch from behind, the choreography of how I dance thru darkness to find light. With a face to the moon, I bend towards you, sun.


“A sun card reversed is still a sun card” (2019) by Kate Kolberg





With the mild wind, with the first rain showers the alder bark swells, and pale green 
colors the bushes.
And by the brooks, by the sudden sprung black ditches
running with foaming cold snow water, in the pits, in wet underbrush, 
in pools of water–
the pussy willows begin to bleach and yellow.
In the air a cool dampness, the smell of frost and wind,
but soon the water in the ditches will drain,
the pastures will dry,
and by the rivers, in the ditches, in wet bogs
will spring up clusters of yellow marsh marigolds.
The whole yard smells: of new buds, boards stacked in the sun, light frost – and gutted potato pits, the smell of fresh new grass. 
And the faintest breeze brings from the bushes the smell of alder and juniper, and smell of fresh buds, catkins and leaves;
and from the fields – the smell of fresh water, of drying meadows, foamy crusts, the first coltsfoot, swallowwort, dandelion, the smell of flooded ponds, the sun's warmth, and the last of the dirty snow lying in the loamy ditches. 
And when from the bushes yellow with golden catkins drifts the first whistling on alder bark fifes, – gentle tapping with a knife-handle –
ah, now really the winter won't come back – now it is spring!


“How Sweet the Smell of Spring” (1972) by Jonas Mekas