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Current Exhibitions:

Deanna Bowen | A Harlem Nocturne
April 5 to June 16, 2019
B.C. Binning and Alvin Balkind Galleries

“The event that is documented does not fully coincide with itself. . . . It constitutes a trace, which is pedagogically oriented toward the future. One needs to learn from it.”
— Thomas Keenan

“The invention of photography. For whom? Against whom?”
— Jean-Luc Godard and Jean-Pierre Gorin

It is hypothesized that dark matter, which cannot be directly seen, accounts for a great amount of the total mass of our universe. Its existence is inferred from the gravitational effects it appears to have on everything else. One could imagine, therefore, that dark matter is in fact responsible for configuring the relationships of all things to one another, binding person to person, people to place and present to past. When I think of the focus of Deanna Bowen’s artistic gaze, I imagine a kind of dark matter. Her practice concerns itself with histories of Black experience in Canada and the US—often connected directly to her own family—that remain below the threshold of visibility, not because they are impossible to see but because they are difficult for the majority culture to acknowledge. Mining overlooked archives and forgotten documents, Bowen makes use of a repertoire of artistic gestures to bring traces of a complex, deeply personal and often violent past into public visibility.

Bowen’s solo exhibition at the Contemporary Art Gallery, A Harlem Nocturne, comprises two separate trajectories of research that follow the artist’s maternal lineage in Canada. In one gallery, a four-channel video installation presents footage from On Trial The Long Doorway (2017), a project co-commissioned by CAG and Mercer Union, Toronto. It focuses on a lost 1956 CBC teledrama titled The Long Doorway, in which Bowen’s great uncle Herman Risby played a supporting role. It tells the story of a Black legal aid lawyer tasked with representing a white University of Toronto student charged with violently assaulting a rising Black basketball player. The Long Doorway is potent for Bowen because Canadian culture so infrequently, in her words, “takes up questions of race in its own place” and because the issues the episode examined in the mid 1950s are no less urgent today. Conspicuously, no recordings of the teledrama exist, so Bowen used the recovered script and set design notes to experimentally re-stage the work with five Black actors, each of whom performed multiple roles throughout the exhibition’s public, video-recorded rehearsals. Just as the original script refuses any resolution to the tense questions it poses around race and class, visitors to Bowen’s multi-channel video installation at CAG are confronted with an amalgam of overlapping readings of the script, and we must follow the cast through myriad threads of dialogue as they parse out the scenes and deconstruct them from their own positions. Off-site at the Western Front, a single edited cut presents Bowen’s re-staged teledrama in its entirety.

Across the hall in CAG’s larger gallery, a second major suite of works presents a terrain of research that Bowen undertook in Vancouver in 2017–18, recovered from civic documents, newspaper clippings and numerous personal and organizational archives. This material traces a series of interconnected figures who formed an integral part of Vancouver’s Black entertainment community from the 1940s through the end of the 1970s. It includes Herman Risby, who performed in numerous Vancouver theatrical productions; renowned dancer, singer, songwriter and choreographer Leonard Gibson (who shared the stage with Risby in Vancouver’s Theatre Under the Stars 1952 production of Finian’s Rainbow); internationally recognized American choreographer, dancer and anthropologist Katherine Dunham, who performed with her company in Vancouver in 1947 (Gibson joined the company on stage as a last minute replacement and was then offered a scholarship by Dunham to study at her school in New York); Vancouver-based jazz vocalist Eleanor Collins, who appeared with Risby and Gibson in Finian’s Rainbow and was the first Black artist in North America to host her own television program, the CBC variety series The Eleanor Show (1955) (for which Gibson served as choreographer); Bowen’s first cousin once removed, Choo Choo Williams, a shake dancer (who took dance lessons from Gibson) and co-owner, along with her husband Ernie King, of the Harlem Nocturne nightclub at 343 East Hastings Street, from its establishment in 1957 until its sale in 1968. As Black bodies living and working in a settler colony rife with societal and institutionalized police racism, they were at once invisible and hypervisible, variously admired, embraced, exoticized, surveilled, discriminated against and violently attacked. They enjoyed certain celebrity in their local milieu and endured differing degrees of prejudice, bigotry and segregation. What these recovered documents ultimately reveal is the picture of a complex, varied and intersectional Black community in Vancouver, one offering a powerful counterpoint to common narratives that oversimplify the city’s Black presence by containing it within the spatial, economic and temporal confines of Hogan’s Alley.

We encounter these figures in the exhibition by navigating a field of archival evidence—evidence being precisely that which is not self-evident and becomes evident only through the eyes and ears of others. Bowen is careful to preserve what the theorist Allan Sekula calls the “radical antagonism”[5] of the documents’ different modes of pictorial address (the structures of power underlying grainy newspaper images and FBI files differ vastly from those of promotional headshots, televised dance numbers and family photographs). She translates each document into a discrete form, in an explicit effort to bring them into visibility. We regard choreographic notation, reinterpreted and re-performed dance sequences, large-scale wall vinyl, framed prints, photocopied transparencies, hand-painted signs, sculpture, a book work and, off-site elsewhere in the city, a billboard. Everywhere we are confronted by Bowen’s tools of retrieval and viewing, whether overhead projectors, lightboxes or flatbed film editors; in fact these apparatuses are often the only means through which the material becomes visible and legible. Such legibility, however, is simultaneously challenged by the many registers of blackness that comprise A Harlem Nocturne: a darkly luminous black in the lightbox and video works; a light-absorbing black flocking; draped black chiffon and black redaction. These different modalities of black speak not only to the obstructions and opacity Bowen encountered in her research efforts, but also to her strategies for protecting communities close to her family by avoiding a repetition of the overexposure they endured in their public and private lives.

A Harlem Nocturne takes up many of the concerns currently shaping discussions in photography and Black visual studies. Africana studies scholar Tina M. Campt urges her readers to consider photographs as dynamic and contested sites of Black cultural formation and as “an everyday strategy of affirmation and a confrontational practice of visibility.” She follows feminist theorist and photography historian Laura Wexler in stressing that “what we learn of the past by looking at photographic records is not ‘the way things were.’ What they show us of the past is instead a ‘record of choices.’” Campt extends this to suggest that photographs offer a record of intentions as well, as “it is only through understanding the choices that have been made between alternatives—learning what won out and what was lost, how it happened and at what cost—that the meaning of the past can appear.”

Bowen’s work also reminds us of photography’s power to categorize and contain. As Sekula contends, to achieve legitimacy photography relied heavily on the archival model. “We might even argue,” he suggests, “that archival ambitions and procedures are intrinsic to photographic practice.” In his influential 1986 essay “The Body and the Archive,” Sekula describes the way that, “in a more general, dispersed fashion . . . photography welded the honorific and repressive functions together.” He continues:

“We can speak then of a generalized, inclusive archive, a shadow archive that encompasses an entire social terrain while positioning individuals within that terrain. . . . The general, all-inclusive archive necessarily contains both the traces of the visible bodies of heroes, leaders, moral exemplars, celebrities and those of the poor, the diseased, the insane, the criminal, the nonwhite, the female and all other embodiments of the unworthy.”

Perhaps this “shadow archive” is ultimately Bowen’s dark matter—a system of representation that cannot be seen directly but silently constitutes the all-encompassing structure within which Black experience was contained, made visible and variously vilified or admired in twentieth century Vancouver (as elsewhere). In daylighting its evidence, Bowen’s objectives are forensic. She understands how to search for these traces, because she too inhabits a body that is subject to this same system’s principles of organization. And therein also lies the force of her work, her visual and material mattering of that archive—both its residual and potential meanings—because, to borrow the words of artist Hito Steyerl, “a document on its own—even if it provides perfect and irrefutable proof—doesn’t mean anything. If there is no one willing to back the claim, prosecute the deed, or simply pay attention, there is no point in its existence.”

Presented in partnership with Capture Photography Festival. On Trial The Long Doorway was commissioned and produced through a partnership between the Contemporary Art Gallery, Vancouver and Mercer Union, a centre for contemporary art, Toronto. Production support was provided though a Media Arts residency at the Western Front, Vancouver. Additional support provided by Clark’s Audio Visual.

Rolande Souliere | Frequent Stopping IV and V:
April 5 to September 22, 2019
CAG Façade and off-site at Yaletown-Roundhouse Station

The multi-media practice of Australia-based Anishinaabe artist Rolande Souliere entangles the visual language of hard-edged geometric abstraction with that of contemporary traffic signage to consider how colonial infrastructures mark both spaces and the people inhabiting them. Her solo exhibition Frequent Stopping IV and V presents new large-scale, site-specific work at the Contemporary Art Gallery’s two public sites: its street level façade and the nearby Yaletown-Roundhouse Station. This exhibition draws from Souliere’s ongoing body of work that creates interventions using caution tape and street barrier patterns in immersive, muscular installations.

Souliere has a long history of working with the materials and metaphors of the road. Earlier sculpture and installation projects, often using compositional strategies of repetition through stacking, wrapping, weaving and binding, have incorporated automobile tail-lights and headlamps, GPS systems and reflective roadside signage. Stripped from their usual contexts and redeployed within the gallery space, these seemingly universal symbols are uncoupled from their role as wayfinding aids and instead suggest the extent to which regulatory bodies dictate our movements on the land, and the role of the automobile in the hungry expansionism of North American colonial infrastructure.

In her Frequent Stopping series, Souliere’s use of red-and-white and black-and-yellow caution tape—commonly used to flag roadside construction, potential hazards or obstacles in our urban environs—has a very particular point of origin: the long legal battle fought by her own Michipicoten First Nation to settle their land claim. As members of the Ojibway Nation, the Michipicoten people have lived for at least the past 7000 years along the Michipicoten River—a major trade route to James Bay—at the north-east edge of Lake Superior. In 1853, Ojibway Chief Totononai signed the Robinson Superior Treaty on behalf of his people and was granted a promise from Canada that a reserve would be surveyed and set aside for the Michipicoten Nation. That reserve, however, was not sited in its rightful place at the mouth of the river (unsurprisingly, a location identified as economically strategic for settler development in Northern Ontario), but an area several kilometers west, forcing the relocation of the Michipicoten community with dire implications for its economic and social stability. Those who persevered on the reserve were compelled to move again in 1897 when gold was discovered (and the land purchased by a developer), and a third time in 1899, when their new reserve land was sold to Algoma Central Railway Company. Between 1900 and 1970, the Michipicoten were forced to relocate a total of five times further, by which point they were completely cut off from their traditional territories. In 2000, the Michipicoten filed their land claim. To prevent further sale of the originally promised land while the claim was under negotiation, the Nation attempted to register a “caution” on the land which, in Canadian real estate law, formally notifies the public of a concern that requires resolution before the land can be sold. However, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled that a First Nation could not register cautions on land to prevent its sale. Despite these many obstacles, the Michipicoten finally won their land claim—the second largest in Canadian history—in 2008.

In Frequent Stopping IV and V, Souliere materially and metaphorically renders such “cautions on the land” ultra-visible, as highly public notifications of the many outstanding debts to Indigenous communities and the many territories—including those of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh Nations upon which Vancouver sits—never ceded to the state. Rather than suspending caution tape temporarily between two points in space as we normally encounter it, the artist fixes it directly to walls and windows, marking space in a gesture that speaks of permanent visibility and reclamation, delineating lines that cannot be drawn and redrawn. The pattern of the tape proliferates and repeats itself to become disorienting, thwarting our predisposition to simply “follow directions.” Souliere stacks the tape pattern in alternating orientations to dizzying optical effect, creating entire planes of flat, graphic colour which are then “woven” in meta-patterns across the surfaces to which they are applied. As the Frequent Stopping series multiplies across spaces in city after settler city—public installations have appeared in Sydney, Toronto, Halifax, Montreal and now Vancouver—Souliere’s project remains resolute in its aim to point to the ways our perception of boundaries shifts according to perspective and to the fact that so many Indigenous land claims—despite being first pressed decades or even centuries ago—have yet to be resolved.

Compellingly, Souliere’s artistic practice was established after she immigrated to Australia, and it has developed in direct dialogue with many Aboriginal communities there. Australia offers another stark example of the logic by which Indigenous peoples worldwide have been stripped of their land title and sovereignty: Captain Cook’s account of the Indigenous people he first encountered in what is now Australia stated that they had “no form of land tenure because they were uncivilized, which meant the land belonged to no-one and was available for possession under the doctrine of terra nullius.” Mohawk scholar Audra Simpson points to the ways that the notion of terra nullius—or “empty land”— illustrates the differential power of one account over another “by establishing the terms of even being seen.” Souliere’s work is pointedly illustrative of Simpson’s point about presence and the ability to be seen. Her unmistakable, ultra-high visibility installations aim to counter the disproportionately empowered political apparatus that has rendered her people invisible to the state, even on the land to which they rightfully belong.
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