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Mayworks 1

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Liste 1

Mayworks 2

Liste 2

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Western front

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Bracy Appeikumoh was the Editorial and Programs Assistant at _C Magazine_ in 2024, in partnership with OCAD U Career Launcher. She is a writer and mixed media artist whose work centres reimagining desire and pleasure wholly divested from the diktats of empire and all of its baggage. Her erotic fiction takes place in queer futures embodying queer pre-colonial pasts; her non-fiction ponders how we get there. She is burdened by the urgent need to restore, preserve, and disseminate Indigenous ways of being and knowing. Octavia E. Butler, bell hooks, Audre Lorde, Toni Morrison, June Jordan, Lorraine Hansberry, Maya Angelou, Claudia Jones.

Editorial Conception

Joy Xiang (she/her) is a writer and editor, born in Shanghai and based in Tkaronto/Toronto. Her work and life engages erotics, migration, material flows, and media nostalgia and futurity. She is currently Editor at _C Magazine_. 

Editor

Maandeeq Mohamed is a writer and researcher and the Associate Editor of _C Magazine_. 

Associate Editor

Designer

Publisher

In this issue’s extended editorial note, Bracy Appeikumoh asks, “Was utopia, like extra lives, envisioned as a means of escaping death?” Among the haunting contradictions of living in the imperial core, whose violences seek their own immortality, to seize a different kind of “extra life” takes an extra real imagination. Across virtual game worlds, ancestral inheritances, unfinished revolutionary histories, artists’ data storage, and more, contributors to C160 reflect on extra life as a state both surplus and sacred—what persists in age-old cycles of decay.


Extra Life

Review

Elliott Ramsey is Curator at The Polygon Gallery. He has sat on numerous art juries and advisories including the Sobey Art Award, the VIVA Awards, the Portfolio Prize, and the Barbara Spohr Memorial Award for Photography. His recent exhibition “As We Rise: Photography from the Black Atlantic,” featuring work from the Toronto-based Wedge Collection and presented by Aperture, is currently touring.  


_Never have I ever_. The rules of the game are simple:
someone says, “Never have I ever…” followed by something that they’ve done. Anyone who’s also done it takes a drink. And there is plenty of drink here. The filing
cabinet at the front of the room is stocked with alcohol:
red wine, white wine, Jameson, beer. There’s a squat glass bottle of tequila, and a Ziploc bag of limes to pair with it. Autumn Knight has come prepared.

This is all part of a performance piece, titled _Documents_. The game of “Never Have I Ever” transpires before _Documents_ opens to the public—a secret, unlisted
performance, by invite only, for a Black audience.

The atmosphere at the beginning is relaxed, even
festive: a gathering of friends, old and new. Knight dances breezily through the aisles. At the front of the room,
her set consists of a table and chair and filing cabinet,
blandly bureaucratic, sitting in cold juxtaposition to
the warm and convivial mood. High up the wall, close
to the ceiling, is a grid of four projected images. Each is a cloudy red circle, at first glance resembling lunar
eclipses, except that there’s a fleshy quality to them.
They look like images captured inside the body.

Knight doesn’t address these images at first. She begins by inviting the audience to come closer; to scooch
in, and round out the rows so that they fall out of an austere and linear formation. From here, she transitions
into her charismatic oratory, halfway between stand-up comedy and spoken-word poetry. She reads from a paper but liberally goes off-script, laying out the structure
of this performance—a performance that she has mounted five times before, in Houston, Champaign, Montreal,
Ottawa, and Toronto. Vancouver is its sixth stop on her “North American Tour,” and apparently the largest all-Black audience yet.

_Documents_ unfolds across six chapters. In each, Knight teases apart the systems of verification that one
must navigate to prove one’s legitimacy. “Never Have I Ever” transpires during the first chapter, on class. She counterbalances levity and gravity: libations can be equally serious and silly, and the way she weaves across
this fine line sets the tone for the whole performance.

Sometimes, hilarity interrupts, unscripted. When Knight
says, “Never have I ever relied on food stamps,” only to be met with an audience cry of “We don’t have food stamps in Canada,” her gobsmacked disbelief conjures laughter even as we contemplate difficult circumstances.
And even though class status is the first topic of discussion, race looms large over it. Race is the theme of the second chapter. Knight asks the rhetorical question,
“Do you speak your native tongue?” On the subject of
migration, across borders and seas, citizenship is the
third chapter of _Documents_. For this, Knight has printed a large blow-up of her own driver’s licence and passport. It circulates throughout the crowd, laying bare
her vital statistics. There’s more to come. She rummages in the filing cabinet and produces…Grapes. Bread, cheese, a whole rotisserie chicken,
still implausibly warm, which she cuts and hands out
in pieces to anyone who wants some. On the one hand,
it seems on the nose, even uncomfortably caricaturing,
to be serving her Black audience chicken. On the other
hand, this hard pivot from documentation to picnicking marks an utter dismissal of the very notion of proof
and validity; a rejection of being reducible to one’s date
of birth, place of birth, assigned sex at birth.

Birth: those four images still hovering overhead are
the inside of a uterus. Knight discloses this as she transitions to the fourth chapter, on gender. She ponders
aloud how race becomes gendered. She asks, “Is your
gender connected to misogyny?” which raises an internal
question: _how could it not be_? Interiority is key to the
fifth chapter, sexuality, during which Knight asks those
in attendance to close their eyes and picture the person they most want to be intimate with. There is no
obligation to share. This is, rightly, safe from any
form of documentation.

Thus, it is bleakly, tautologically funny when the sixth chapter—occupation—consists entirely of Knight asking the audience to document this event. After all, if it isn’t on social media, did it really happen? For all her refutation of perfunctory and performative systems of proof, Knight brings it full circle, back to the ways in which people now police and validate one another. Instagram is administrative; TikTok is hierarchical. Twitter—
yes, we still call it Twitter—is a bureaucratic nightmare.

So it’s a relief when _Broad: Say Less_, a collaborative sound performance between Knight and Lisa E. Harris, washes all this away. The Libby Leshgold Gallery transforms from the institutional blankness of Knight’s office to a sonic chamber, lit with blue ambience. Harris stands in a spotlight, wearing a shaggy fur hat and black dress. As its title suggests—say less—the performance moves beyond words; Harris sings as if speaking in tongues, moving from scatting to what sounds and feels like a spiritual. The only discernible words are recordings of her family members—her grandmother and her nephew—which loop in the soundscape she’s building. Even
then, the words are hard to parse.

There is music, too: high, eerie, tonal music, a series of pitches that Harris appears to manipulate with her body. It looks as if she is physically compressing or stretching the sounds between her hands. In a way, that’s exactly what she’s doing. Her instrument, the theremin, is played without physical contact, with position sensors that translate movement into sound. Its inventor, Leon Theremin, developed it by accident while working on Soviet state–sponsored security devices. It’s a poetic conclusion to Knight’s _Documents_, refashioning surveillance into art.

After Harris is finished playing, Knight is nowhere to be found. The 8pm performance of _Documents_ is the public, interactive reading that the website promised. It consists of a filing cabinet, standing unattended. Those who rummage through it may find empty booze bottles and half-eaten snacks: tangible evidence of life lived.

Writer

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Broad: Say Less and Documents were performed on 22 November 2024 at the Libby Leshgold Gallery in Vancouver.

_Broad: Say Less_ and _Documents_ — Lisa E. Harris and Autumn Knight

At the back of Wil Aballe Art Projects is a loft space. The small mezzanine, tucked high up the soaring white walls, is primarily used as the gallerist’s office. A presentation of artwork here might seem provisional, even lost, amid the venue’s rustic beams and skylights. But the work of Vancouver artist Justin Somjen dialogues fluidly with architecture. Or perhaps it is not dialogue, but incantation: the work enchants the architecture. 

 

The solo exhibition “Spines” comprises four artworks: relief sculptures in ornate, hand-carved wooden frames, finished with thick, velvety-smooth paint. Within each frame, moulded white figures are arrayed like charges on a coat of arms. Most are flora and fauna, but there are other symbols, too—candles, padlocks, ribbons. Some forms are chimeric, appearing natural at first glance but revealing their mythical hybridity on closer inspection. The figures play in both two and three dimensions, appearing at once emblazoned on the wood and also animate, inhabiting the frames. 

 

In _Frilled Agama_ (2024), the titular lizard hisses at the centre of her frame, neck fins flaring out over her eggs. She seems to recoil into a dense, powder-blue habitat. Flowers unfurl their tendrils beyond the borders of _Hand Feeding’s_ (2023) rich red frame, the centre of which shows a finger dropping blood onto the trigger hairs of Venus flytraps. 

 

The frames do not have glass. Rather, epoxy resin lattices wend across them, loosely screening the figures from the viewer. The beasts of _Dogfight_ (2024) are stark white against the black background, evoking an urban scene glimpsed through a chain-link fence: two strays wrestling, struck by a floodlight at night. Yet, their almost heraldic forms—and the nearby presence of the legendary basilisk—make the image suddenly mystical. 

This collapse of the contemporary with the arcane, and the archaic, is partly why these works are so rewarding to read against architecture. The works in “Spines” entangle and experiment with centuries of design, which makes for an unexpected encounter at the top of a staircase in Vancouver’s Railspur Alley. At the same time, each frame contains such an engrossing depth of visual allegory that the surrounding architecture may cease to matter at all. 

  
An allegory of what? The exhibition’s title gives clues. Spines are skeletal structures and key conduits of the central nervous system; they are also defensive mechanisms, like quills and spikes. The creatures in “Spines” are engaged in acts of defence, perhaps against the viewer, whose spine allows them to stand upright. There are links, both poetic and tangible, between the human backbone and the terrors of the ongoing Holocene extinction. Somjen’s pale menagerie may be read as calcified remains, or delicately engraved cameos carved in remembrance of something lost. 

 

The final work in the exhibition, _Methuselah_ (2025), is named for the planet’s most ancient living organism: a bristlecone pine tree, nearly five millennia old. _Methuselah’s_ screen isn’t rigid and white, but sinuous and dark green, like its asymmetrical frame. Here, life persists—with all its spines, in their multitudinous forms. 

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"Spines" ran from 6 March to 30 March 2025 at Wil Aballe Art Projects, Vancouver.

“Spines” — Justin Somjen 

Zach Ngin is an art worker and writer based in Providence.

The earliest work in Sarah Elawad’s exhibition is a risograph zine titled _in the bloom of their joy and the flower of their happiness_ (2023). Its transparent plastic cover
is adorned with an assortment of puffy stickers: blooming hearts and flowers, a love-struck kitten, Buttercup
from the Powerpuff Girls with tears spilling out of her
eyes. Each page inside is similarly maximalist: pixelated hearts and flowers form a kind of affective moiré
pattern, too deep and layered to be teased apart. The
feeling of sentiment is so strong that it seems to dissolve, like the powdery quality of printing itself, into
your hand, in alternating shades of romance, adoration, and devotion. One page is full of messages that
recall WhatsApp “Good Morning” graphics (“May God ease your morning and may God ease your affairs,”
one reads); other pages recall Arabic-language advertisements and retail signs. Several spreads are entirely filled
with terse phrases: “BEDAZZLED SPIRITUALITY”; “LAND OF THE BLACKS”; “REUNITED SOULS”;
“EID MUBARAK.” At times, the messages are so sweet they contain a premonition of loss. On one page,
a central pink blur is encircled by lines of incantatory text: “True love is not a flower, true love takes time to grow. True love is not a flower, true love must be forever. True love is not a flower, true love is stronger.”

Aside from this zine, the works in the exhibition
date from the past year of acute crisis in Sudan. Across these works, the exceptional circumstances of mass
displacement and genocide meet more familiar diasporic
affects of longing and love. The exhibition, titled “May
We Return,” was part of the Seeing the World through
Sudan conference convened at Brown University in
October by Bayan Abubakr, Jordan Mulkey, and Luvuyo
Equiano Nyawose. Centring the perspectives of Sudanese scholars and cultural practitioners, the conference
sought to examine recent events in Sudan within deeper historical and political context. The December Revolution of 2018 was a breakthrough against decades of
state oppression, but this victory was soon threatened
by forces of reaction, including a military coup against
the transitional government in October 2021. In April
2023, war broke out between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF).
Many thousands have been killed and many millions
displaced in the ensuing violence, ethnic cleansing, and
famine. In line with the analysis of writers and organizers like Lina Dohia and Rabab Elnaiem, among others,
the conference organizers framed the current crises as
counter-revolutionary wars against the people’s uprising
and its resistance committees. Elawad’s work is shadowed by an awareness of this ongoing dispossession.

In an accompanying pamphlet, Elawad states simply
that the exhibition is “a prayer spoken in unison, for all
those who no longer feel they have a home to return to.”
The exhibition is named after a large-scale tapestry that
shares the zine’s psychedelic palette and curlicued lettering. Its protodigital knitwork shows a layered pattern
of fruits, leaves, and other plants native to Sudan, along
with the titular text. The work was inspired by a recorded
conversation with the artist’s father, in which he described his home—one that was taken amid the recent war.
The tapestry expresses the hope for reunion with the fruit
trees and the land. Nearby, a short animation echoes
this sentiment. The text “May We Return” is overlaid
by neon flora and clips from Sudanese cooking videos: a dish being stirred in a pot, leaves being separated from a stem. The visual maximalism of these works
makes it difficult to extricate the text: perhaps this
style indexes the layers of distance between here and
there, home and here. But the message is never anything other than heartfelt.

A second textile work, _Gateway to Freedom_ (2024), is
composed entirely of strips of patterned fabric, indicating the artist’s interest in everyday acts of adornment.
Its boxy geometric pattern resembles tile-work and quilting, but also perhaps an array of windows on a computer
screen (the artist’s background is in graphic design). Its
narrow horizontal strips of floral fabric also recalled,
for me, the tactile pleasures of stray ribbon or washi
tape. Nearby hang three watercolour paintings on paper
mounted on satiny fabric. These works veer between
illustration and abstraction: red roses are stretched, copied, and haloed by fields of gold, surrounded by line-work that recalls calligraphy, textiles, topography, and
crowds. Fragments of protest signs can be glimpsed
among the rallying masses: this imagery was drawn from
the past year’s demonstrations for both Sudan and Palestine. Land, in these works, is inseparable from the people who raise their voices in defence of it.

Elawad is ultimately interested in the tender space
where public speech meets private memory and desire.
Much like the collaged messages in her risograph zine,
the images in her exhibition shuttle between a variety
of scales and registers, from the bold print of banners
and shop signs to the handheld intimacy of text messages and love notes. During a walkthrough for conference attendees, Elawad shared that displacement in
Sudan has also meant that members of her family have
experienced unexpected and bittersweet reunions. Even
as her work anticipates a future return to land and home
in Sudan, it is equally concerned with the encounters
that take place in the interregnum or the break: souls
reunited around kitchen tables, at protest marches,
and in WhatsApp groups.




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“May We Return” ran from 11 October to 31 October 2024 at Granoff Center for the Creative Arts, Providence. Guest curated by Bayan Abubakr, Jordan Mulkey and Luvuyo Equiano Nyawose.

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“May We Return” — Sarah Elawad

Feature

Shalaka Jadhav is based between Block 2 of the Haldimand Tract (Kitchener, ON) and Treaty 1 (Winnipeg, MB). Their research interests on spatial positionality and critical geographies of grief and public memory can be evidenced in exhibitions and programs they have curated in Halifax, Winnipeg, Kitchener, and Toronto. Shalaka has held roles at OCAD University and Blackwood Gallery, and is the Co-Director of Textile, a hyperlocal arts collective in Waterloo Region that supports writers and artists through mentorship, publishing, and curation. Trained as an urban planner, Shalaka took the advice of an aptitude test to pursue curatorial studies, and practices as a researcher, curator, and writer.

Yasmeen Nematt Alla is an Egyptian immigrant and settler on the unceded and stolen lands of Tkaronto and Waawiyatanong, Turtle Island. Her practice creates machinations that attest to the existence of the Brown Disabled Queer Self, resisting systems programmed to forget us. She has most recently exhibited at the Winnipeg Art Gallery, Bronx River Art Center, Heaven Gallery in Chicago, and Xpace Cultural Centre in Toronto.

Poppies ferment in a glass vessel. An _athan_ clock calls for prayer. Artists and art workers Shalaka Jadhav and Yasmeen Nematt Alla reflect on religion, death, life, and more life, grounded in Nematt Alla’s installation _7anajer_ (2024)—named for larynges, a collective singing. _7anajer_ is an investigation of death as a state of existence and a futurizing of life beyond the apocalypse—a word that comes from the Greek _apokálypsis_, meaning “uncovering,” a derivative of the verb _apokalýptein_, meaning “to take the cover off,” a compound whose first element is the preposition and prefix _apó_—meaning “off” or “away.” Apocalypse means uncovering for the sake of revelation.

In pausing the premise of “death as finality,” _7anajer_ is instead a reminder that we will keep singing. This conversation considers the rituals and responsibilities held in practices of prayer, how we make space for resistance when we honour death and dying, and who is afforded extra lives.

> **Shalaka Jadhav: Our conversations—unexpectedly to me—return to those about death, and I’m thinking about notions of commonality between our upbringings and their rootedness in faith. Can you speak more about how these topics bridge into one for you?**

**Yasmeen Nematt Alla:** Growing up Muslim, existence was divided into two realms: _dunya_ and _akhira_. _Dunya_—an Arabic word directly translating to “the world”—represents the current physical realm we occupy, one defined by labour, caretaking, joy, suffering, and an unrelenting race toward the _akhira_. In contrast, _akhira_—the afterlife—was not only a place of judgement, but also a realm of reward. It promised the flourishing of seeds planted during the _dunya_: acts of kindness, perseverance, and faith. It was imagined as a space where the weight of living was finally lifted, where life didn’t feel so heavy.

As I grew older, _akhira_ became a source of comfort, a reminder that this existence is not final. When I return to the soil, it will not mark an end but rather the beginning of a new journey—one beyond the burdens of the _dunya_. Perhaps in death, I will find a place where anxiety does not dull joy, where the unknown no longer haunts, where I can exist in the embrace of loved ones, with Friday dinners and laughter uninterrupted by life’s heaviness. In death, we end—and in death, we begin anew.

>**SJ: _Dunya_ is a word I recognize in both Hindi and Marathi; I didn’t realize its etymological roots in Arabic. In the ways you’re highlighting _dunya_ and _akhira_, I’m thinking about my curatorial interest in fermentation, pickling, and preservation. I recall there were always various achars at homes we visited, growing up across cities in India and in Dubai (my parents’ friends in Dubai were primarily of the Indian diaspora). In the ways that food can sometimes form a mental snapshot of a place, I remember, as each family would share the lineage of the achar, a window into their lives before their migration. Since 2017, I’ve been making kombucha on and off, comforted by its rhythms and how shareable it was, akin to achar perhaps. In 2020, like for many, fermentation and preservation projects took over the counters of my kitchen, and in 2021, while in school, I was thinking about these kitchen projects and specifically “kitchen project time,” an alternative timekeeping to digital calendars and reminders. In some ways, preparing for fermentation projects has some of the properties of _dunya_: they are of the earth, having full lives in gardens and farms, perhaps in the hands of stockists, before making it into our hands. In a studio visit we had together, we discussed one of your works, _7anajer_—I’m wondering how you were considering _dunya_ and _akhira_ in this work?**

**YNA:** I feel like so much of my work considers these two ends and beginnings. _7anajer_ was my final work during my graduate experience at Cranbrook Academy of Art, in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. I remember thinking that the Cranbrook grounds deserved to hear the call of prayer, that this land—one that felt artificial in a way I could rarely grapple with—often made me feel like a stranger in it. I wanted to enshrine it with a call for prayer, almost like a call for the _akhira_ during the—perhaps at times frivolous—_dunya_.

I always felt at home whenever I heard an _athan_. Bloomfield Hills is located near Dearborn, the first Arab-American majority city in the US, with 55 percent of its population of 110,000 claiming Middle Eastern or North African roots. This meant that if I was ever in Dearborn, I heard an _athan_ from a nearby mosque and it never failed to delight me. I wanted to replicate that moment of recognition, of the _athan_ arriving, calling, out of seemingly nowhere, to me, and to others, for us to gather in the _dunya_ as we await an _akhira_ to come.

_7anajer_ (larynges in Arabic) is an installation made of a glass vessel holding poppies, olive oil, and vinegar. The olive oil ferments, the vinegar pickles, the poppies sit, trapped, held, alive and not. Five times a day on the site, an _athan_ clock offers the call for prayer, allowing this entity to make a calling for both the heavens and the earth. _7anajer_, for me, became this investigation of death as a state of existence and a futurizing of life beyond the apocalypse.

The piece was placed in a bog on the grounds of Cranbrook Academy, a site that, for the past two years, I had struggled to find myself within as an artist. I intended the work to serve as a tomb—a burial site—for martyred Palestinians, for Arabs, for my kin, and for myself. The bog felt like an appropriate setting for this gesture. Yet, even in its placement, the piece felt like a performance. It became a burial site for bodies that were never found, placed in a bog that was man-made—a constructed imitation of the natural. This dissonance made me question the nature of my act: what do we do when our gestures of care begin to feel like performances of grief? How do we reckon with the helplessness of envisioning liberation while remaining unable to activate it?

>**SJ: I’m really sitting with those questions lately, too, especially yeah, how to escape the clutches of helplessness and how important that is in envisioning and building toward a more liberatory politic. In this spirit, there’s lots of excellent writing floating around about the increasing privatization of spaces, hyper-individualizing, and the ongoing loneliness epidemic. When we stop sharing collective space, our shared responsibility to and with one another runs thin. I’ve been yearning over the last few years for some of the embodied experiences of being a part of a church congregation: the commitment from a group of people gathering regularly, who may not always be on the same page, but especially the collective singing, and how it instils a sort of collective effervescence. There’s a sense of intense shared emotional activation and unison standing among the pews, akin to the feeling in the stands at sporting events, and also to moving as a wave of people at protests and demonstrations.**

>**I think back to _7anajer_’s English translation to “larynges,” how the larynx functions as a voice box for producing sounds, but also how it plays a role in allowing us to breathe. These conversations cannot be held without naming COVID-19, which put our world on pause, precisely because it is a respiratory disease that inflames and swells the respiratory system and directly affects our breath. During the pandemic, conversations around disability, surveillance, and police brutality converged, presenting a political opportunity for protest against the social conditions that enabled these crises. Then, on October 7, 2023, we saw eyes turn sharply to the ongoing dispossession of Palestine, and the urgency to tap into our collective voice surged again. You asked a great question during our studio visit: “How do the dualities in _7anajer_—oil and vinegar, life and death, holding and releasing—reflect the tension between routine as stagnation versus as liberation?” Perhaps we’ve fallen out of this routine our bodies crave, of shared voice: singing together, rallying together. In my hometown in India, tablas provided rhythmic and percussive accompaniment to the hymns we would sing, a contrast to the churches I attended in Canada, where the organ’s sustaining chords guided congregational singing. Seemingly, we need both rhythms to sustain a collective voice: the crisp, sharp strikes of the tabla, and the harmonic depth of the organ.**

>**Growing up in a Christian household was inherited, as for many, through my parents and extended family practicing the faith. While both Islam and Christianity share a sentiment of renewal in death, I’ve never felt encouraged to consider the afterlife; rather, I found a fearfulness in fulfilling a version of a “best life” to get there. I grew up knowing that there would be a Day of Judgement, where my life’s “goodness” would be evaluated and considered alongside a faithfulness in my relationship with God. In the Christian faith, Jesus Christ gave his life so we may see a life forgiven of our sins. While this is rooted in a sense of relief and a deep sacrifice rooted in love, in practice, I felt a pressure of living a “good life” despite abiding by the “rules” that would bring me to salvation. Similar to Islam, the storytelling in Christianity is shared through a common text: in Islam, the Quran, in Christianity, the Bible. In there being a text, unlike religions with an oral storytelling tradition, there’s a sort of interpretation that is perhaps more “fixed,” as the forms of oral storytelling are inherently more interpretative. When I left the church, I left with many unanswered questions: how do we live a good life? Why is it structured around being God-fearing? Why was the history of spreading Christianity so violent in the ways it refused a coexistence, if Christianity itself centred non-violence and care?**

**YNA:** Totally. Organized religion has historically been a vessel through which people in power take away agency and exert coercive brutality against communities. It has bred violence, coloniality, manufactured consent for genocide. And yet, and yet, and yet. So many of us seek out this calling for the collective, this calling for a caretaking of one another, this calling for the beyond. Liberation is also found in a notion of _God_ that is expansive. God is, yes, this unknown entity, the universe, the Earth, the land, death, but it is also my mother, my sisters, my friends laughing as we cook together. Religion becomes a relational politic of existing, a questioning of surviving, of becoming, of liberating our souls from the confines of a coloniality that was enforced upon us. Perhaps these religions are really a way of telling us that we are still discovering what it means to exist.

Your question is both simple and devastating: _how do we live a good life?_ And in many ways, I believe I’m asking for a similar answer, but slanted: _how do we live toward a good death?_

We’re witnessing an unfolding of the world in ways that feel unimaginable, and
we are beginning to redefine our radical existences in ways that I find simultaneously gut-wrenching and heartwarming.
As artists and cultural workers, we wake
up each morning wondering, _okay, what
now, how do I be good? How do I live a
good life? How do I continue surviving
with those whom I love surviving with me
to the beyond?_ And it feels endless and
hopeless, and the other night, my roommate and I cried while watching a show
together over ice cream, and that morning, I watched Palestinians return to
their homes after 15 months away, and in both instances, I felt like God was with us in the room. It felt like _7anajer_,
the vessel, the oil and the vinegar, the
poppies, and the bog were calling for us
to a beyond I am reaching for.

> **SJ: I love that, and I’d love to think more closely about the bog as the site for _7anajer_. In a sense, a sort of “uncovering” (thinking back to the etymology for apocalypse) is ongoing across the wetlands in Ontario, to
further carve into the land and clear
land for development. In November
2022, Doug Ford, the leader of Ontario’s Progressive Conservative
Party, presented omnibus legislation that effectively disconnects policy mechanisms that enable understanding wetlands (the umbrella term that bogs fall under) and conservation areas as connected systems. [^1] By imposing this colonial thinking of categorizing and attempting to disconnect these natural systems, the deterioration of natural heritage and the loss of bogs as carbon sinks is inevitable. Natural systems don’t follow borders; rather, humans impose borders on natural systems to attempt to control them. Natural systems require connections between one another for survival.**

> **Healthy peat bogs are carbon
sinks, and act like sponges, absorbing run-off and preventing flooding,
allowing for a slow release of carbon
back into the atmosphere. When
bogs dry out, for example, disrupted by agriculture or development
pressures, the carbon stored in bogs
over time starts to oxidize in the
form of planet-warming carbon dioxide. Perhaps I’m choosing the
romanticized version here, but I’m
especially drawn to bogs, and their
undisturbed quality as oxygen-free
environments, offering protection
from the quicker decay of oxygenated environments.**

> **Something I keep coming back
to with _7anajer_ is the importance for
viewers to not come to full and complete conclusions about either why these poppies have been planted
into this vessel, or why they have ended up there. Instead, there’s an
invitation for possibility, perhaps
asking, what legacy are we memorializing, and what residue does
that memory work leave behind for
generations to come? I so appreciate how this work gestures to the memory-keeping manner of peatlands, while recognizing that these processes of gurgling and preservation are ongoing and invisible. Maybe what’s gurgling beneath the surface is the natural first question to ask, but the more difficult question is, perhaps, if we can find it in ourselves to give the unseen the space to fester.**

**YNA:** Isn’t that the biggest ask? Giving ourselves the permission to believe in the unseen and the unknown. Futurizing builds itself on a similar structure of faith: belief that a day will come where
we are more than we are now. I’m lucky,
honestly. I come from a culture full of
building faith upon the unknown. A vision of renewal is echoed in the ancestral knowledge of my people. The bog
as a site of the unknown offers a space
for the work and the audience to expand the vastness of the vessel in which the work is being held. How does the bog connect to the rest of the environment? Does it connect to someone I know but is far from me? Where does it end? Where does it begin? We talked about how _7anajer_ means larynges, the organ in the throat that contains the vocal cords. The glass vessel acts as the voice box of the bog, where sound should exist and be expelled from. Yet it is filled, with the poppies, with the liquids, holding them for both safekeeping and for a preparation for screaming.

> **SJ: I’m working on an exhibition essay where I’m digging into the terminology of “dirty data,” a phrase used in customer management systems. It can be understood as rogue data, data that’s inaccurate, incomplete, or inconsistent in a database: think giving a telemarketer a fake number, or handwriting your name onto a clipboard and the person digitizing it misses a letter. Dirty data is seen to be a hazard, a barrier: it means that the process of extraction (in this case, extracting “insights”) is taken off course. It makes room for inaccuracies, biases, and inconsistencies, resulting in unreliable insights and compromised decision-making. Most importantly to these customer management systems is that dirty data can be costly, measured as lost productivity. In _7anajer_, the processes are incomplete, they can’t yet (or perhaps ever) be tidied up. There’s a similarity in the limbo that dirty data enforces—it is material, but it is also not yet resolved. I see that with the visual of the oil and vinegar in _7anajer_. Yet, the _athan_ clock keeps time, keeps the structure in a sense.**

**YNA:** This concept of dirty data here is so intriguing. Thinking about this work as “untidy” satisfies the often spiteful part of me. I’ve sat with what it means to offer unresolved thoughts and questions to our audience members as artists. Dirty data seems to want to reject this unsettling. However, I think we both can agree that we are unsettling toward this rejection of the systems that govern us toward submission. The prayers of the _athan_ in the piece and in real life are callings for gathering, calling for mourning and ululations of temporality, and they do offer a structure. But! This structure is a flawed one. The _athan_ is set to Alexandria, Egypt’s coordinates, not the site that this clock existed in (Bloomfield Hills). The _athan_ times were not in accordance with the land that it settled on, furthering this complication of the other, of bringing the far near. Is prayer a space to build extra life where we exist both here and there? Can an _athan_ be a turning point for another life? Can it happen five times a day every day? Are rituals routine or are they a chance to re-begin life by intentionally surviving until the next ritual, as in staying alive from one prayer to the next: is sleep a small death until we are reborn in wake?

I don’t have many answers to these questions, if at all. But I am sitting with them in ways I didn’t know I was able to before. Perhaps we’re not supposed to reach them in this life. Perhaps the answer is to align ourselves with messiness, errors, disruptions, and a deep faith in a beyond we cannot see. The answers are often found in the cracks, after all.

[^1]: Fatima Syed, “Ontario weakens watershed protections (again) as natural resources minister gets new powers,” _The Narwhal_, March 7, 2024, [https://thenarwhal.ca/ontario-conservation-authorities-changes](https://thenarwhal.ca/ontario-conservation-authorities-changes)



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Spirituality

Yasmeen Nematt Alla and Sha-laka Jadhav use the former’s installation 7anajer (2024) to think through the continued sense of liberation that persists through age-old cycles that include death and decay.


To Enshrine an Ululation

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_The first time I met you, I had to look up. Dressed in a bright red dress, bejewelled crown, and
dreadlocks wrapped in a bun, your already tall figure appeared so much larger to my child self. As
you, Camille, were grinning from ear to ear, my mom introduced you to me as Miss Canadiana—
your Canadian beauty queen alter ego. It was not until a few years ago, as an adult, that I thought
to ask who Miss Canadiana was. As a child, it didn’t occur to me that the identity you performed
was simply made up. My childlike belief in a Black Miss Canadiana preceded a loss of innocence,
when as an adult I realized that Black life was tied to non-being. And so, I always come back to
you, Camille, and your ability to reconcile with such difficult histories in a way that disrupts how
we approach our past, present, and future._

<br/> <br/>


The following is a lightly edited interview with Camille Turner on the occasion of “Otherworld” (2024–2025) her solo exhibition at the Art Museum at the University of Toronto. The exhibition showcases
both old and new work, inviting viewers
into the Afronautic Research Lab (2016–ongoing)—a futuristic space filled with
article clippings, textbooks, and tools
that shift how we engage with colonial
archives. Turner offers us a powerful
methodological framework we can use
to approach these histories—one that
is deeply relevant to our current political landscape.


> **Kai Trotz-Motayne (KT-M): While
“Otherworld” centres on the figure
of the Afronaut, or African space
traveller, I want to start our conversation with where it all began: your
_Miss Canadiana_ performance (2001–2019).**

**Camille Turner (CT):** I came to Canada
from Jamaica when I was nine, and I feel
like there was never a moment where I
was not reminded that I did not belong.
_Miss Canadiana_ was a way of trying to
reconcile with both that and the multicultural way that Canada loves to see
itself, as this haven that welcomes everyone. There was a contradiction that
I was living with, and in one specific moment, _Miss Canadiana_ was born. I was
walking through a mall in North Bay and
everybody was just staring at me. In what
felt like a self-protection mechanism, I
just dreamt up this ironic character that
represented Canadianness. I saw myself
fully dressed in that one split second.

> **KT-M: Performance is a persistent
tool that you use throughout your
practice. How does performance,
rooted in critical storytelling and
the Black radical imagination, address the frustrations and questions central to practices like the Afronautic Research Lab?**

**CT:** I was teaching at New College [University of Toronto] at the time, and I
would always bring my students into the archive. I would tell them to find evidence of Canadian slavery. I would give them the name and date of a Canadian
newspaper, show them how to use the microfiche readers, and just set them loose.
They would see people being sold among
all the goods and services—people who
had bounties on their heads because they
stole themselves. I really loved those sessions because they were so powerful and
I didn’t have to say anything. Students
were experiencing a Canadian history
that was silenced, and they had all kinds
of questions. It was a very transformative moment for my students, and also for
myself, who witnessed them witnessing
their own history. And so that’s what I
wanted to bring to the public. At the
same time, I was asked to participate in
a group exhibition at the University of
Toronto Art Museum, and it was there
that I set up the first Afronautic Research Lab in 2016.

> **KT-M: Memory is often seen as
unreliable in historiography, but in
the Caribbean, we rely on informal
knowledge systems. In 2022, you
created _Nave_, a multimedia installation commissioned by the Toronto
Biennial of Art. On your website, you
write that _Nave_, “explores the entanglement of colonial Canada in
the transatlantic trade of enslaved
Africans through links between the
nave of a church, the hold of the
ship, the tomb, and the womb of the
world.” [^1] The work included performed rituals by yourself and Emilie
“Zila” Jabouin, accompanied by Ravi Naimpally’s oceanic sound track, and Ésery Mondésir’s cinematography. _Nave_ embodies ancestral memory, resilience, and the enduring strength of the African diaspora. Can you talk about how Caribbean
oral traditions and histories inspired
this project?**

**CT:** I decided that _Nave_ was going to be
an homage to the enslaved peoples that
were transported into the Americas on
ships built in Newfoundland. The earliest churches in Newfoundland were also
erected by the same builders and the same wood used to construct these ships.
This connection is what I wanted to look
at. When we arrived in Newfoundland, we
realized that the church that had been
found for us to film was not even made of
wood! Nothing had seemed to be working as planned. Feeling resigned by all
that was going wrong, I went to express
my defeat to my friend Emilie, who would
later become central to this project.

While working on _Nave_ I also learned
of Iwa Agwe, the Haitian god of the undersea world who brought those thrown
off slave ships into an underwater layer.
I was telling Emilie about this, and she
said, “My goodness, I have this song.”
She then sang “_Depi m soti nan Ginen_,” a Haitian Kreyol song evoking an ancestor who survives and triumphs over the
Middle Passage. [^2] Emilie’s performance of
the song was included in _Nave_. This song
is exemplary of everything that we brought
with us over the ocean and into our bodies—it’s encoded in our songs, in our dances, and in our worldviews. This all comes together in _Nave_. It was by chance that
the people around me at the time, like
Emilie and Esery, had their own stories
and songs that became integral to the
project. The song Emilie sang was an homage to our journeys across the Atlantic.
She plays an ancestral character that emerges from the ocean, and she’s reminding the African diaspora of where we came
from, and of what we’ve overcome.

> **KT-M: I was just talking to someone
the other day about the Caribbean
attachment to water and its ties to
the Middle Passage, and they told
me about Drexciya, the Detroit music duo that takes from the Haitian
story of Iwa Agwe as well. These cross-Atlantic stories that we created help us better sit with the violence attached to our existence.**

**CT:** Imagining into these histories is a way to empower ourselves, and to realize that life didn’t end. That we are still alive. I often think about how there’s absolutely no way for me to know whether my ancestors were on these same ships I’m studying.

> **KT-M: That unknowing is what brings us together. We convene around a shared history—one that “Otherworld” was speaking to—of communal knowledge systems. When I entered, I realized that you actually hear the exhibition before you see it, which is very Caribbean. It felt like entering a Caribbean household.**

**CT:** Julian Henriques said that Caribbean culture is primarily sonic. [^3]

> **KT-M: In thinking of Caribbeanness, I am going to ask you another loaded question: are these Afronauts duppies or jumbies? Or do they occupy a different ontological space for you?**

**CT:** That's a very interesting way of looking at them. The Afronauts in my practice were actually inspired by the Dogon people of West Africa. They say that their knowledge comes to them from the Nommo of Sirius B. This prompted me to ask: if the Nommos can come here, then what’s stopping us from going to Sirius B?
This idea of us leaving the planet is what
started my work on Afronauts. I am interested in collecting knowledge from different places, while always knowing that
Earth is our home, no matter how many
generations have passed. It is also important to realize that the Earth is in danger,
and our beloved planet needs our help.
And so, we Afronauts have come back
home to save the planet. Although, it’s interesting to think about these Afronauts
as ghostly figures. I hadn't thought about
it in those terms. To be Black and to be
Canadian is already like being a ghost.
Dionne Brand says to be Black in the diaspora is to live as a fiction. [^4]

> **KT-M: I also understood the Afronauts as people coming from another world. What if enslaved peoples weren’t killed during the journey over the Middle Passage? What
if instead, like those rescued by Iwa Agwe, they were able to flee this
world, and are now coming back to
tell us their story?**

**CT:** There are a lot of different forms that
the Afronauts take, but they always come
from the future. For instance, there is a
woman Afronaut in _Nave_ that walks along the coast of Newfoundland as a kind
of ghostly figure. She comes from an era
that she calls “the time of awakening,”
and arrives in our present moment, “the
time of silence.”

> **KT-M: What is the role of death in
all of this?**

**CT:** The Afronaut almost defies death.
If you think about time as simultaneous,
and not linear, then we’re sharing space
and time with those who are departed
and those in the future. Time is this continuous now. So in a way, death is of no
relevance to the Afronaut.

> **KT-M: The two words that came
up the most in the exhibition were
“dreams” and “haunting.” As much
as the exhibition is about haunting,
it’s also about dreaming. I was thinking about how in the Caribbean, too,
the two words (and worlds) are so
entangled because we are taught
from a young age that spirits visit
you in your dreams.**

**CT:** In Jamaica we often call these types
of dreams _travelling_. Through these dreams, you can travel to a different world
and access things that would be physically impossible to access. But in dreams,
there is no separation between the worlds of the living and dead. Everything is
all one.

> **KT-M: Community is such a strong
part of not only creating “Otherworld” but also showcasing it. Can
you speak to the role of the participant or the viewer in the exhibition? When entering the room, the viewer becomes an Afronaut, and
therefore part of the work itself.**

**CT:** I see “Otherworld” as an invitation
to take part in this conjoining of past
and present, in order to dream a different dream. I’m inviting everyone to be
part of this story. I centralize Blackness
in what I do, but everyone is invited, and
everyone is a part of that story. They have
different relationships to that story, but
it’s basically an invitation to come and witness. I am not the subject of the work—
the subject of the work is whoever is there
witnessing. I’m just the vehicle that facilitates this witnessing.

> **KT-M: Your immersive arts practice
began with sonic walks: guided journeys that weave soundscapes
and vivid storytelling to uncover and
animate the hidden histories embedded within a landscape, allowing participants to experience the past as they move through the very
spaces where it unfolded. [^5] From sonic walks to the Afronautic Research Lab, how has your approach to storytelling and community engagement changed or grown?**

**CT:** My current approach to storytelling
is very different from when I first began
my practice. I try to include the embodied experience of walking on the street as
part of my teaching, because I think that
people learn so much from experiencing. In contrast, when I first started this
work, my teaching focused primarily on
where I was situated. For instance, when
I was performing _Miss Canadiana_, the
work of engaging history still felt a bit
new for me. Instead of stepping into history, I was pointing to it. In later years, I
tried to find different frames and different ways of getting people to step into
and experience history in embodied
ways. It wasn’t until I learned about Peggy Pompadour, from historian Afua
Cooper, that I was able to approach different ways of telling embodied histories. In the archive I met Pompadour,
who alongside her children, was enslaved to Peter Russell (after whom Toronto’s Russell Street is named). Pompadour ran away from him on numerous
occasions. She was a woman who would
have walked the same streets I walked.
I lived right where she would have worked, on a big farm owned by Russell
around what is today called Peter and Queen Street.

> **KT-M: I feel like Canada is so much more haunted because histories of state violence are still being unearthed.**

**CT:** I absolutely agree with you. There’s
just so much that has been overwritten.
A buried silence. I always begin where I
am located, so when I lived in the neighborhood surrounding Peter and Queen
Street, I decided that I wanted to know more. This inquiry opened up this whole
world of Black diasporic histories. I walked
through a door and now I can’t go back
to the world where I didn’t know about
Pompadour working and escaping Peter and Queen Street.

> **KT-M: To me that is the crux of your work—these alternative lives in another world or a parallel universe. Your retelling of how learning about Pompadour was akin to entering a new world is what a political awakening must be like.**

**CT:** Yes, absolutely. And through the
figure of the Afronaut, I’m trying to
give other people the tools to be able
to encounter these other buried histories as well. Anyone can be an Afronaut, or researcher.

> **KT-M: You spent your early years in
Jamaica, your formative years in Toronto, and now you move between Toronto, Los Angeles, and Costa Rica. Your life, like the astronaut, has been defined by movement—can you tell us how that inspires you?**

**CT:** On a trip to Senegal, I realized the
histories of slavery that I encountered
there were intertwined with the histories
of slavery that I encountered in Canada. In Senegal, as I was looking at the Atlantic Ocean, I thought, “My God, the same story that haunts me over there, in
Canada, is haunting me here, in Senegal.” A year later, I found myself looking
at the same ocean, this time from the
coast of Newfoundland. I recognized
this transnational version of myself on a
journey through places where I’m piecing together this story that I’m part of.
Ultimately, this is a story that accompanies me everywhere I go. Standing at
the door of no return, I realized ancestors were waiting for me, so they could
say, “She’s here. Finally.”


[^1]:  Camille Turner, “Nave,” accessed February 13, 2025, https://www.camilleturner.com/nave

[^2]:  Laurent Dubois and Jacques Pierre, “Depi m Soti Nan Ginen,” _Transition (Kampala, Uganda)_ 111, no. 1 (2013): 2–3.

[^3]:  Sabine Sörgel, “Julian Henriques, Sonic Bodies. Reggae Sound Systems, Performance Techniques and Ways of Knowing,” _Volume!_ 13–2, no. 1 (2017): 226–27.

[^4]:  Dionne Brand, _A Map to the Door of No Return_ (Toronto: Vintage Canada, 2001).

[^5]: Camille Turner, “Sonic Walks,” _The African Canadian Literature Project: Primary Source Documents, Videos, Web Materials_, accessed February 2, 2025, https://www.yorku.ca/acc/sonic.html

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eunice bélidor is a curator, researcher, and writer born and based in Montreal. Her current curatorial research focuses on letter writing as creating affective archives; she is interested in the intersection of epistolary writing with care, feminism, anti-capitalism, and racial issues.

What is the Safe Word?

Liliona Quarmyne is a dancer, choreographer, actor, singer, and organizer based in Kjipuktuk/Halifax, on the unceded and unsurrendered territory of the Mi’kmaq people. From Ghana and the Philippines, she has an eclectic background that has taken her through many performance styles on four different continents. She performs and creates both as a solo artist and with various companies, facilitates community programming, and is an experienced curator and artistic director. The scope of Liliona’s artistic work is broad, but is particularly focused on the relationship between art and social justice, on the body’s ability to carry ancestral memory, and on the role the performing arts can play in creating change. Liliona loves to work in collaboration and community, and is mom to two wonderful kids.


_proxy_ by Mo Glitch: Text

Salena Barry is a writer from Toronto, Canada, who is currently based in London, UK. She was a 2021 Frieze New Writer and a 2022 Jerwood Writer in Residence. She has written for institutions including Delfina Foundation and Site Gallery as well as for publications including _Frieze, ArtReview,_ and _Emergent Magazine._

Weaving Through the Binary: Qualeasha Wood's Textile Inheritances

EJ Kneifel is a friend of a twin of a twin, author of _VIO-LETS_, co-creator of _P8s, ORANGING, CATCH_. Their ekphrasis: (_Exclaim!, Adroit, mRB, PRISM_); their poetry: (_Canthius, Peach, Malahat, Arc, TIMBER, Vallum_). EJ loves to host, and most recently hosted ALL THE BIRDS WE HEAR IN TREES BUT NEVER SEE. Next, they will host Nivi.

Composition: The Hardest Part Is Getting to the Beginning: On Lily Wang's _Silver Repetitions_

Jasmine Gui is a Singaporean-born interdisciplinary artist, arts programmer, and PhD student based in Tkaronto/Toronto. She works in paper, ceramics, tea, and experimental book formats through the inter-arts and publishing space Teh Studio. 


Different Things in Different Scenes: Encountering Ichi-go Ichi-e in Tea

D. St-Amour (they/she) is a writer, book-maker, and recovering arts worker. Since 2011, St-Amour has held curatorial, administrative, and research positions at a range of institutions, including the AGO, the Walter Phillips Gallery, Art Metropole, and Galerie SBC. St-Amour regularly writes about artists’ books and publishing practices through the lens of visual arts and media history, and is slowly publishing a series of queer sci-fi and speculative fiction books through their slow-press project, specific. place (with co-editor S F Ho). Recently, St-Amour completed an MA in Art History/Visual Cultures at York University, and is currently an MLIS candidate at Western University in London. 


Anni Araújo Spadafora (she/ her) is an interdisciplinary artist based in Toronto. Her work spans performance, music and sound, and textiles. She regularly studies at the Marshfield School of Weaving (Vermont). Recent project and performance sites include Extrapool (Nijmegen, NL), Milieux Institute (Montreal), Gardiner Museum (Toronto), The Khyber Centre for the Arts (Halifax), and the Art Gallery of Ontario. She is also a founding member of the band New Fries, who have released music with Telephone Explosion Records (Toronto) and Soul Jazz Records (London, UK). New Fries has toured across Canada and internationally and opened for The Pop Group, Neil Hagerty, The Ex, and Xiu Xiu (among others).


Marking Time Spent Absurdly

Amanda Shore is a white-settler arts worker, critic, and curator based in K’jipuktuk (Halifax, NS). 


Love Made Object

matt lambert is a non-binary, trans, multidisciplinary collaborator and co-conspirator working toward equity, inclusion, and reparation. Their practice is based in polydisciplinamory, entangling making, writing, curating, collaborating, and performing. lambert is currently a PhD Researcher at Konstfack in Stockholm, Sweden, in Artistic Practice in Visual, Applied, and Spatial Arts. Their research focuses on mapping collaborative movements with craft through a developed methodology of cruising. They have published, curated, exhibited, and been collected internationally. 


_Exploratory Touch_ by Trevor Novak: Text

Now in its 16th year, [the C New Critics Award](https://cmagazine.com/programs/c-new-critics) is designed to help identify, develop, and promote the work of emerging art critics, and to encourage creative discourse on current art practices. Writers are invited to submit an 800-1,000 word review of a recent exhibition, performance, publication, or moving image work, by **May 30, 2025.** The winner will receive $750, editorial support to prepare their article for publication in a future issue of _C Magazine_, and a two-year subscription. All participants will receive a one-year subscription.

For the purposes of the award, an emerging writer is defined as anyone who has not published more than one piece of writing in a recognized print or online publication, exclusive of student-run journals and magazines. The competition is open to anyone residing in Canada, regardless of citizenship status, and to Canadians living abroad.

Exhibition and performance reviews must address work that occurred no earlier than January 1, 2025, whereas book and moving image work reviews must address work made in the past two years. Submissions must not be previously published, or slated for future publication elsewhere.  See our [submissions](https://cmagazine.com/about/submissions) page for more information for writers. 

One submission per person. Upload your submission here at [award-submission.cmagazine.com.](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfmdQtEJQBWkGhRk_0tfc7d--3DYdLYqMeiO6VN9WcrKpeEYA/viewform) Mail or fax submissions will not be accepted. Please let us know of any accommodation we may provide during the application process. Note that measures are taken to ensure that the identity of entrants remains unknown to adjudicators. If you have questions please direct them to [editor@cmagazine.com](mailto:editor@cmagazine.com)

Submissions will be assessed by Joy Xiang, Editor at _C Magazine_, alongside **Christina Battle** and **Dr. Andrew Gayed**, who we are pleased to welcome as this year's external jurors.

New Critics Jurors 2025.jpg

**Christina Battle** is an artist, curator, and writer based in amiskwacîwâskahikan (Edmonton), within the Aspen Parkland: the transition zone where prairie and forest meet. Her practice focuses on thinking deeply about the concept of disaster: its complexity and the intricacies entwined within it. She looks to disaster as a series of intersecting processes including social, environmental, cultural, political, and economic, which are implicated not only in how disaster is caused but also in how it manifests, is responded to, and overcome.

Battle’s practice prioritizes collaboration, experimentation, and failure; she has exhibited internationally in festivals and galleries as both an artist and curator.

www.cbattle.com 

**Dr. Andrew Gayed** is Assistant Professor of Art History and Visual Culture at OCAD University, where he teaches courses on global contemporary art. An Egyptian-Canadian art historian, Dr. Gayed has an academic background in diasporic art, queer visual culture, and Middle Eastern art histories. Before joining OCAD U, Dr. Gayed was the Visiting Scholar at NYU’s Center for the Study of Gender and Sexuality where he researched the artistic practices of the queer diaspora. Gayed holds a PhD in Art History and Visual Culture from York University, where he was awarded the Provost Dissertation Award, and earned an M.A. in Art History, and a B.F.A. in Visual Arts. 

Gayed's research is located at the cutting edge of interdisciplinary and transnational inquiry in art history, gender studies, and critical race theory. His scholarship has appeared in books including the _Routledge Handbook of Middle Eastern Diasporas_ and _Unsettling Canadian Art History_, in addition to peer-reviewed journals including _Journal for Studies in Art Education_. Dr. Gayed’s first monograph, _Queer World Making: Contemporary Middle Eastern Diasporic Art_, published with the University of Washington Press (2024), shares innovative new research in visual art and culture that transforms our understanding of queerness and multiculturalism. By studying contemporary art, _Queer World Making_ foregrounds decolonial politics and unexpected histories of homosexuality in the Middle East as a way of better understanding the issues today that queer diasporic people of colour face.




---

**Congratulations to Louis-Philippe Savard, winner of the 2024 C New Critics Award!** Savard impressed the jury with [his review of "The Traces That Remain"](https://cmagazine.com/articles/the-traces-that-remain-shaya-ishaq-po-b-k-lomami-zinnia-naqvi-lan-florence-yee) at MAI (Montreal, art interculturels), which was curated by eunice bélidor and featured the work of Po B. K. Lomami, Zinnia Naqvi, Shaya Ishaq, and Lan “Florence” Yee. His piece carefully considers the moment of encounter between exhibited works and their publics, with respect to subjectivity and the politics of the archive, and it was published in C159 Mirror Mirror. 

**We would also like to congratulate Lins Demchuk** on being named runner up for her review of Audie Murray's exhibition, "To Make Smoke," at The Mackenzie Art Gallery, Regina. The jury noted that her piece also functioned as a meta-commentary on the genre of the exhibition review itself. Demchuk offered a generative critique of the interpretive contexts within which the category known as "Indigenous art" is engaged, without losing sight of the exhibition itself. 

Thank you to everyone who participated! We are also very greatful to Nadia Kurd and Alice Ming Wai Jim, who adjudicated the award alongside _C Magazine_'s Associate Editor, Maandeeq Mohamed.

Call for the 2025 C New Critics Award 

Award

The annual C New Critics Award is designed to help develop and promote the work of emerging art critics. This program gives _C Magazine_ the opportunity to identify and support promising new writers, who often become regular contributors. Writers are invited to submit an 800-1,000 word review of an exhibition, performance, publication, or moving image work by the annual deadline. The winner receives a financial award, editorial support to prepare their article for publication in the forthcoming issue of _C Magazine_, and a two-year subscription. All participants receive a one-year subscription. 

*Submissions must not be previously published or slated for future publication elsewhere.


For the purposes of the award, an emerging writer is defined as anyone who has not published more than one piece of art criticism in a recognized print or online publication, exclusive of student-run journals or magazines. The competition is open to anyone residing in Canada, regardless of citizenship status, and to Canadians living abroad.

Submissions are assessed by _C Magazine_ editors and external jurors, announced each year. Note that measures are taken to ensure that the identity of entrants remains unknown to adjudicators.

Submission deadlines vary from year to year. Exhibition and performance reviews are expected to address recent work, occurring no earlier than this year. Reviews of book and moving image work must address work made in the past two years.

Submissions are restricted to one per person. Upload your submission here at [award-submission.cmagazine.com](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSfmdQtEJQBWkGhRk_0tfc7d--3DYdLYqMeiO6VN9WcrKpeEYA/viewform). Mail or fax submissions will not be accepted.

Please let us know of any accommodation we may provide during the application process. More information for writers is available on our [Write for Us page.](https://main.d2v45yttl0ocvf.amplifyapp.com/opportunities/write)



Submissions

C New Critics Award

Program

Applications for the 2024 C New Critics Award are open until May 30.

Program information

The C New Critics Award is designed to help develop and promote the work of emerging art critics. This program gives _C Magazine_ the opportunity to identify and support promising new writers, who often become regular contributors.

Now in its 16th year, the C New Critics Award is designed to help develop and promote the work of emerging art critics. Submit by May 30, 2025.

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