. (1 Mr. Bill hick mentality immigrant song dance the fantasy right or wrong Jerk of all trades but master of none if he’s your folk hero i'm buyin’ a gun “selling marketing that’s the name of the game in everything” european village plastic stone wall his glorified idol is a shopping mall the market is ripe he’s doin’ well but just what is it he has to sell? ignorance greed and complacency cloud your vision “til you can’t see apathy glut and bedazzlement a shred of reason? out the door it went all this in the guise of “development” vour death wish is holland sent R. G. Mungicake Palestine Washed-out embers, in liquid red. — constant Acid tears erase flesh numbed — gutted lives, gorged souls. Keith Daniels Burnt Return The hand held in fire Burning to the bone One dares not take it away For one has already dared to put it in And the poser laughs He would never attempt such folly Comfortable in his facade And yet The facade is all there is So the laugh is not real But the burnt hand is They say that, with pain comes pleasure I say with pain comes learning And learning is not pleasure For ignorance is a way of attaining bliss Now I take my charred hand And let it heal My hand throbs as a reminder My eyes no longer see happiness all around My heart aches for the past. Jerry Stochansky A. L. Meikle Vessel lama vessel Selves are the travellers Travelling on different roads Stopping and starting at different times Amplified speech Pooled idea Tama vessel Actor’ s facade for a coating Surrounded by vessels All carrying passengers Trying to locate home Not realising there is none And so I wander As everyone does Buying time And some buy it discount To store it in case of war But the war is confined Inside the vessel. Jerry Stochansky the unspoken phrase She never wrote poetry for him anymore. Their actions were metaphor And words were not important. The phrases left unsaid Came between them Like a thin red line. A slash that carved itself Into a canyon , An abyss Into which she foolishly fell. Virginia Achtem Planet of the Arts Page 9 veka ae ry i Bi ntire (B, 4 wild precision of colour for Jen I loll against the sidewalk, is this really me as I stagger, hum and lilt my boozy voice, laugh at the cars that pass me as I sway, the luscious scent of spring flowers nostrilling me toward home. oh, lama rare but happy drunk this night as I choose_my way carefully through the reverently tended gardens of this city. the flowers gleam phosphor red, yellow, blue, white in the cool night air, their scent infuses me — lightheaded I delicately pick my way to our doorstep and giggling down the hall, quiet, quiet giggles, I leave you a note in bad french — ma cherie les fleurs are for you. in the morning my reckless bouquet, the wild precision of colour, we wonder at its journey home in some happy stranger’ s arms. Robert Gore How Many Minorities Can You Be At Once? Reprinted from the Universities Art Association Journal, winter 1987 edition. Last year I participated in a documentary- style video project called I am an Artist. My name is... by Elizabeth McKenzie and Judith Schwartz. There were 100 of us who came to the camera to declare ourselves. We all began in the same way -- a silent majority speaking out! My anxiety before the camera, the instrument for this public declaration, was similar to my anxieties about the upcoming panel at the Victoria UAAC (Universities Art Association of Canada) Conference: How should I present myself? What aspects of my life should I reveal and discuss publicly? Should I take a personal or impersonal stance? What would give me most credibility? Should I discuss my work only or do I mention my children? I replayed many scripts in my head and in the end, I spilled the beans at the moment of truth - “lost my cool”- as they say and spoke very personally - mentioned my children and my husband, even named each one and felt very exposed and foolish. But at the same time also felt that it had been an important experience which provoked many questions. During the first screening held for participants only, we shared the intimacy of initiates of a strange ritual. Our collective anxiety about viewing ourselves was so intense, it had a palpable presence. When the lights came on, in unison, we drew our first breath; then a torrent of reaction flooded the room. “I looked awful”, “I talked too much”, “T talked too little”, “I said stupid things”, and so on. Why were we all so anxious? Why were we there at all? What were we trying to say and do? Was there a common theme or purpose to the exercise? For weeks I tried to make sense of the experience which continued to disturb me - a parade of faces and voices, no grand rhetoric, no riveting authoritative, commanding presence - just a collection of individual epiphanies. The UAAC conference in Victoria provided the perfect forum for a discussion of the concerns I felt; so I organized a panel consisting of women artists, at various stages in their careers, with an assortment of backgrounds and experiences to sort out and clarify “the issues”. Maybe someone else knew “the answer’. Our group consisted of Elizabeth MacKenzie who had co-authored the video tapes; Landon MacKenzie, painter, mother, teacher ; Joyce Wieland, well-known artist and film maker; Margaret Priest, artist, teacher, mother; Arlene Stamp, artist; Merijean Morrisoy-Clayton, artist, teacher, mother; and myself, artist, teacher, mother. Our first meeting was a repeat of the video tape experience - a series of personal anecdotes, agreement that there were issues for women artists but definitely clarifying and articulating concerns for fear of sounding “bitchy”. Georgia O’ Keefe was adamant about recognition as an artist, as good as and better than “the men”, not as a woman artist. But the fact that we even have to make that separation is part of the issue, part of our consciousness as “women artists”. The panel “In a Different Voice” in Victoria presented a variety of styles. We were leather; we were cotton; we were black; we were technicolor. We were tough and serious; coquettish and witty; high-speed and personal; low-key and objective. We talked about our work, our lovers, children, students, husbands, colleagues, but with a desire for credibility and with a great self- consciousness about being a)women, b)artists in a den of academic, predominantly male art historians. The obvious male minority in the audience were targeted for conversion or approval. But with all this raw material at hand, there was relatively little discussion after the panel’s presentations. This was puzzling. Afterwards, a male historian audience member asked “why we were all so defensive? Why did we trivialize our work with self-depreciation?” It hadn’t occurred to me or the others that we were - but I believe that he was right. The burden of being a minority has taken a heavy toll. The questions were all there but we didn’t think to ask them because we accepted certain conditions as obvious; for example, Margaret Priest talked about a respected instructor at art school who recognized her ability by warning her not to marry, in order to be a “serious artist”. Landon MacKenzie has worked stylistic changes with pregnancies the way Picasso’s transitions were influenced by his mistresses. Likewise, Joyce Wieland’s work was influenced by her lovers. Do pregnancies, marriages, lovers, make women less serious than men? Is there a double standard? Who are our role models? Tough women who isolate themselves and give up everything for their art (Georgia O’Keefe, Emily Carr), female...neutered for public consumption - nuns and martyrs in the cause? As artists we are marginal to society. As women artists we are further marginalized. In my thinking about this, I compiled a list of minority’s positions held by the panel as a group; they include artist, woman, immigrant, orphan, single parent, single over 30, childless woman sculptor, and so on. How many minorities can you be at one time? It is our position as the “minority” which gives us our strength by providing us with a different vision, another point of view, a questioning of the status quo; but the burden (continued on page 10) ptr Mr. Bill hick mentality dance the fantasy right or wrong Jerk ofall rades ‘but master of none if he’s your folk hero i'm busin’ a gun “selling marketing that's the name of the game in evervthing’ ‘european village plastic stone wall his glorified idol isa shopping mall the market is ripe he's doin’ well ‘ut just what is it Ihe has to sell? ignorance greed ‘and complacency ‘cloud your vision il you can't see ‘apathy glut ‘and bedazzlement ‘shred of reason? ‘out the door it went all this in the guise of “development our death wish isholland sent R.G. Mur Palestine Washed-out embers, in liquid red. Acid tears erase flesh numbed gutted lives, gorged souls Keith Daniels Burnt Return The hand held in fire Burning to the bone One dares not take it away For one has already dared to putitin And the poser laughs He would never attempr such folly Comfortable in his facade And yer The facade is all there is Sorthe laugh isnot real But the burnt hand is They say that, with pain comes pleasure 1 say with pain comes learning And learning is nor pleasure For ignorance isa way of attaining bliss Now I take my charred hand And fer it heal My hand throbs as a reminder My eves no longer see happiness all around My heart aches for the past Jerry Stochansky Ch.e Vessel Lam a vessel Selves are the travellers Travelling on different roads Stopping and starting at different times Amplified speech Pooled idea Tama vessel Actor's facade for a coating ‘Surrounded by vessels All carrying passengers Trying o locate home Not realising there is none ‘And 50 I wander Asevervone does Buying time And some buy it discount To store itin case of war Bur the war is confined Inside the vessel. Jerry Stochansky the unspoken phrase She never wrote poetry for him anymore. Their actions were metaphor ‘And words were not important. The phrases left unsaid Came between them Like a thin re line. A slash that carved itself Into a canyon An abyss Into which she foolishly fel. inia Achtem Planetofthe Ans Page 9 Tislor 7 AG wild precision of colour forJen Holl against the sidewalk is this really me ‘as Estagger, hum and: my boozy voice, laugh ‘at the cars that pass me das I sway, the luscious scent of spring flowers hnostilling me toward home tit oh, Lam a rare ‘but happy drunk this nigh ‘as choose my way carefully through the reverently tended gardens ofthis city the flowers gleam phosphor red, yellow, blue, white in the cool night air, their scent infuses me — lightheaded 1 delicately pick my way: toour doorstep ‘and giggling down the hal ‘quiet, quiet giggles Tleave you a note in bbad french —ma cherie Tes leurs are for you. in the morning ‘my reckless bouquet, the wild precision of colour we wonder a its journey home in some happy stranger's arms Robert Gore How Many Minorities Can You Be At Once? Reprinted from the Universities Art Association Journal, winter 1987 edition. Last year I participated in a documentary style video project called I'am an Artist My name is... by Elizabeth McKenzie and Judith Sch ‘came to the eamera to declare ourselves. We all began in the same way ~ a silent majority eaking out! My anxiety before the camera, strument for this public declaration, \was similar to my anxieties about the ‘upcoming pane! atthe Victoria UAAC ersities Art Association of Canada) Conference: How should I present myself? ‘What aspects of my life should I reveal and discuss publicly? Should I take a personal or impersonal stance? What would give me ‘most credibility? Should I discuss my work ‘only or do I mention my children? I replayed ‘many scrips in my head and in the end, I spilled the beans at the moment of truth lost my coo!” as they say and spoke very personally - mentioned my children and my hhusband, even named each one and felt very exposed and foolish. But atthe same time also felt that it had been an import experience which provoked many questions. During the first screening held for participants only, we shared the intimacy of es of astrange ritual. Our collective anxiety about viewing ourselves was so nse, it had a palpable presence. When the lights came on, in unison, we drew our first breath; then a torrent of reaction flooded the room. “I looked awful”, “I talked too much”, “I talked too little", “I said stupid things", and so or ‘Why were we all so anxious? Why were We there at all? What were we trying to say ‘and do? Was there a common theme or purpose to the exercise? For weeks [tried to make sense ofthe experience which continued to disturb me - a parade of faces and voices, no grand rhetoric, no riveting authoritative, commanding presence - just a collection of individual epiphanies. The UAAC conference in Vietoria provided the perfect forum fora discussion ‘of the concerns I felt; so | organized a panel consisting of women artists at various stages in their careers, with an assortment of ounds and experiences to sort out and "Maybe someone else *. Our group consisted of wie who had co-authored clarity “the iss knew “the answer artist and film maker; Margaret Priest, artist, cher, moth Merije mother; and myself, arti 1g Was a repeat ofthe video tape experience - a series of personal anecdotes, agreement that there were issues for women artists but definitely clarifying and articulating concerns for fear of sounding bitchy”. Georgia "Keefe was adamant bout recognition as an artist, as good as and. better than “the men”, not as a woman artist. But the fact that we even have to make that ‘separation is part of the issue, part of our ‘consciousness as “women artists ‘The panel “In a Different Voice” i Victoria presented a variety of styles. We were leather; we were cotton; we were black: we were technicolor. We were tough and serious; coquettsh and witty; high-speed and personal; low-key and objective. We talked about our work, our lovers, children. students, husbands, colleagues, but with a desire for credibility and with a great self consciousness about being a)women, bjartists in a den of academic, predominantly ‘male art historians. The obvious male minority in the audience targeted for conversion or approval But with all this raw material at hand, there was relatively litle discussion after the ations. This was puzzlit Afterwards, a male historian audience member asked “why we were all so defensive? Why did we trivialize our work with self-depreciation?” It hadn't occurred tome orthe others that we were - but I believe that he was right, The burden of being a ‘minority has taken a heavy toll, ‘Landon MacKenzie has worked stylistic changes with pregnancies the way Picasso's by his mistresses. id's work was Likewise, Joyce Wiel influenced by her lovers Do pregnancies, marriages, lovers, make women less serious than men? Is there a double standard? Who are our role models Tough women who isolate themselves and give up everything for their art (Georgi ly Carr, female. neutered for public consumption - nuns and martyrs in the cause? ‘As artists we are marginal to society. As ‘women artists we are further marginalized. Tn my thinking about this, [compiled alist ‘of minorty’s positions held by the pan ‘group; they include artist, woman. ant, orphan, single parent, single ‘over 30, childless wor ‘on, How many minorities can you be at one time? tis our positon as the “minority” which gives us our strength by providing us with a different vision, another point of view, a {questioning ofthe status quo: but the burden (continued on page 10)