Ginny: Ioana Dragomir
Are these part of the works? Are we meant to wonder as much? Is this intrusion by the domestic onto the public space a matter of convenience or calibrated critique?
Kevin Andrew Heslop (b. 1992) is a hyphenate whose debuts as a poet, curator, playwright, filmmaker, and screenwriter respectively appeared with Gordon Hill Press (2021), McIntosh Gallery (2022), TAP: Centre for Creativity (2022), Astoria Pictures (2023), and Rose Garden Press (2024), with a non-fiction debut forthcoming from Gordon Hill Press in 2025, a multi-media vibrotactile installation alongside Roxanna Bennett and Leslie Putnam forthcoming in 2026, and a two-volume collection of dialogues first published with Amphora, Centred Magazine, The Miramichi Reader, Parrot Art, The Devil's Artisan, and The /temz/ Review forthcoming from Guernica Editions in 2027 and 2028. An agnostic polytheist of Nichiren Buddhist practice born Canadian to Danish and Celtic ancestry, he lives abroad.
Are these part of the works? Are we meant to wonder as much? Is this intrusion by the domestic onto the public space a matter of convenience or calibrated critique?
At scarcely thirty years old, Huhtala has proven a sophisticated command of material efficiency at the nexus of all the big (forgive me) post-modern themes—frustration, alienation, and impotence vis-à-vis ceaselessly absurd industrial momentum. But the genius of the work is its tragicomedy.
Indeed the guard almost seemed to have been hired by the curators to bring to the viewer’s awareness the context of an oppressive regime, on which the work with which the viewer is initially confronted, was designed to comment …
I used to have recurring dreams as a child of somebody drowning; and I always knew who it was. But these dreams stopped. And one day I was on my way to class at university and this dream came to me: it was kind of like an apparition, and it felt kind of odd, and the next day I got the phone call.
The everywhere filigree of enpencilled architectural guidelines throughout Côté’s work suggest the work is, in some ways—and in contrast to instances of exquisite, even masterful detail—half-imagined, or, if you’d prefer, half-dreamt, akin in space to the swirling translucence and precise geometry of a dream partially inhabited at waking.
If there is a word in English that will do to describe existence at all it is perhaps miracle and it is perhaps the job of the artist to situate the miracle for us, as Falk does—to remind us of the miracle when the grooved fat of habit suppresses our appetite for it.
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