FRASER VALLEY ARTS, CULTURE, AND COMMUNITY LIFE
Published by
Winter 2020
Katie Stobbart EDITOR
Jess Wind EDITOR
Dessa Bayrock LITERARY ARTS CURATOR
Aymee Leake VISUAL ARTS CURATOR
Christopher Towler SOCIAL MEDIA
LAYOUT & DESIGN
Jennifer Hickey Katie Stobbart CONTRIBUTORS
Sydney Hutt Kier Junos Jessie Somers COVER PHOTO
Extinction Rebellion Fraser Valley - Facebook
Review:
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Watercolour art by Jessie Somers
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New artist collective builds custom studio
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Poems by Sydney Hutt
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On the cover
Environmental movement comes to Abbotsford
How does a person feel deeply for the suffering of others without burning out themselves? 4
Rest today to fight tomorrow Lessons from physiotherapy by Jess Wind I blew out my knee in 2016. Two surgeries, many hours of physio later and I continue to field questions about if I’m better.
elbow into my glutes while I breathed, and whined, and swore. Was this the day I would weep through the pain, or involuntarily kick him?
In physio one day, we were checking my gait: how I walk, how I plant my foot and move off it to take another step. We were checking how this gait changes as I adjust the movement, increase the impact, or the incline. How does my body react when we add new stressors?
The mind and the body, as I’ve come to know and have yet to learn, needs rest. Go too long without it, and we forget how.
What we quickly noticed is persistent weakness in some of the core muscles that make up my posterior chain — the muscles from neck to calf along the back of the body. These weaknesses, my therapist identified, were a result of never turning off. Years of overcompensating from injury, recovery, and sitting in front of a computer had taught my body to always be on, always be working. So he asked me to lie down on my side, and he punched me in the ass. The sudden jolt shocked the muscle into finally, blessedly, turning off. Then he dug his
Dr. Hannah McGregor, an assistant professor in publishing at SFU and host of the podcast Secret Feminist Agenda grapples with this relationship in her February 7 episode. She asks how we might mitigate feelings of being overwhelmed by how much of everything there is. With the constant onslaught of bad news (and occasional good) curated and fed to us by the Zuckerbergs and Dorseys of the world, how does a person feel deeply for the suffering of others, without burning out themselves? What happens when that well of empathy dries up? We give up. We find ourselves paralyzed by the hellscape of current news media and, McGregor explains, “in the face of that overwhelm we can have a tendency towards stasis … This feeling of overwhelm can
In essence, we atrophy our give-a-fuck. But what if resting means fighting harder for the change we want to see? Artist, designer, and philosopher, Henry James Garret, owner to popular Instagram account formerly known as DrawingsofDogs (now HenryJGarrett) claims in an Instagram caption promoting his forthcoming book titled: This book will make you kinder, that he has always been taken with what makes us kind — what drives a person’s nature for empathy. The book’s description describes a similar relationship to the one McGregor grapples with: “[it explores] the sources and the limitations of human empathy and the many ways, big and small, that we can work toward being our best and kindest selves for the people around us and the society we need to build.” The emphasis is mine. For our empathy to be worth anything to anyone, we need to be aware of our limitations. We need to set boundaries around our capacity for empathy so we keep caring, so we keep advocating. It starts with recognizing that rest is not the opposite of action. These are not mutually exclusive concepts — they are essential to moving forward effectively. I think back to lying on the mat with my physio’s elbow digging into the small fascia that have long been working to keep me
mobile, finding knots that I didn’t even know exist, and I am reminded of his logic. Force the muscles to turn off, so they can rest and heal, and so they can come back stronger. Your body can’t continue to work from a place of constant fatigue. But for many, working from a place of constant fatigue is reality. At the time of writing, the RCMP continue their government-sanctioned invasion of Wet’suwet’en land and Indigenous nations across our shared landmass continue to lack access to drinkable water, trans people continue to have their rights and existence debated in public lectures, and the world is notso-slowly burning around us. The rules of late capitalism tell us to keep moving, keep producing, and they tell us to do this on the backs of the most vulnerable populations to maintain marginalization, justify violence, and perpetuate gross imbalances of power. What if, instead, we radicalize our rest today, so we can fight tomorrow? So, I deleted Twitter from my phone. I’m taking back agency over my news curation and giving myself permission to take breaks. I’m setting boundaries and learning to stick to them, so I can rejoin the fight. If the body has a chance to rest, it comes back stronger. We owe the world, and each other that much.
Rest is not the opposite of action ... both are essential to moving forward effectively.
be deeply depoliticizing.”
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Global environmental movement arrives in Abbotsford If humans sustain emission-causing activities at the current rate, this decade might be one of the last before Earth’s temperatures rise to 1.5C above preindustrial levels, according to a report from the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC). Hundreds of international and regional governments have declared climate emergencies, and many activists continue to fight for more intensive change. In January, Angela Zimmerling and Eric Chong set-up the first meeting of the Fraser Valley chapter of Extinction Rebellion (XR) in Abbotsford’s Clearbrook Library. XR is an international organization engages in willful, but peaceful, civil disobedience to spur government action on climate change. XR activists in Vancouver continue to welcome arrests at their numerous demonstrations. In the Valley, Zimmerling mentioned two road blockades that XR once set up in front of Abbotsford City Hall. Chong said that motorists “assaulted them.”
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Activists have perpetrated acts of civil disobedience for decades.
Greenpeace, which Zimmerling joined in the ‘70s as a 10-year-old in Vancouver, was an early adopter of such methods. Ecologist Rex Weyler wrote that merely explaining ecological science isn’t enough, and that issues like climate change need to resonate with people’s emotions. Zimmerling said that conventional approaches like writing letters to MPs “just don’t work,” and that “inconvenience is necessary.”
The global Extinction Rebellion movement saw its genesis atop London’s Parliament Square in October 2018. There, protestors 1,500 strong declared rebellion against the U.K. Government. XR demands that governments take radical action to halt biodiversity loss and reduce greenhouse gas emissions (GHG) to net-zero by 2025. For comparison, IPCC states that limiting a temperature increase to 2.0C will require achieving a carbon-neutral economy by 2050.
EXTINCTION REBELLION FRASER VALLEY SEEKS TO EDUCATE AND EQUIP ACTIVISTS BY KIER JUNOS XR Fraser Valley’s inaugural roundtable held an open discussion around activist philosophies, and issues at the core of the climate change issue.
Crozier.
The attendees could be counted on two hands. They included PIPE-UP Network’s coordinator Lynn Perrin, former NDP South Surrey candidate Stephen Crozier and other community members from different sides of the political spectrum.
They also discussed the failures of the government. Despite continued demonstrations and marches, the group seems to acknowledge that the changes they demand from governments isn’t happening fast enough.
“How do we rewire society?” asked
The group identified capitalism and consumerism among the inherent problems driving climate change.
Extinction Rebellion Fraser Valley organizers (from left) Eric Chong and Angela Zimmerling begin a roundtable discussion at Clearbrook Library in Abbotsford, B.C. on Jan. 18, 2020. PIPE-UP director Lynn Perrin and former NDP candidate Stephen Crozier were among the attendees. Photo by Kier Junos.
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“INCONVENIENCE IS
NECESSARY”
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Photos Extinction Rebellion Fraser Valley - Facebook
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“Don’t expect any cooperation from the government,” said an attendee named David, who described himself as an “ultra-conservative.” “There are different influences on governments and we have to recognize that,” said Crozier. Zimmerling said the last big win she saw in the Fraser Valley was the defeat of the Sumas Energy Two proposal in 2002 (SE-2). SE-2 was a natural gas power plant that would have been built in the U.S., and would have impacted air quality in the Valley. Thousands of people in the Fraser Valley opposed the plant, signing petitions and attending protests. While the City of Abbotsford has succeeded in reducing its corporate emissions for its recorded years, Zimmerling and Chong criticize the city for not being as exhaustive as they could be.
Zimmerling said that including a tractor-tow in the programming of the Abbotsford Agri-Fair, for example, doesn’t show the city’s willingness to integrate ecological action wherever possible. Abbotsford’s council also declined to declare a climate emergency in 2019. When a government declares a climate emergency, they basically acknowledge human-caused climate change and that current preventative measures are inadequate. “Although city council did not declare a climate emergency, the city understands its role in working to reduce CO2 emissions, and has been taking steps to reduce emissions corporately and in the community as a whole,” the City of Abbotsford said in an email.Abbotsford’s current vehicle fleet accounts for 52 per cent of its corporate emissions. They plan to replace the fleet with alternative fuel vehicles, and reduce the fleet’s
The Fraser Valley branch of Extinction Rebellion (XR) hosted an informational roundtable at Clearbrook Library in Abbotsford, B.C. on Jan. 18, 2020. Photo by Kier Junos
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The recurrence of a large flood could cause up to $30 billion in damages...
emissions over the next 10 years. They currently aim to reduce GHG emissions by 40 per cent per capita by 2040 from 2007 levels. The city’s recent utilities master plan includes provisions for an expected sea level rise, which would exacerbate flooding along much of the lower Fraser River. While snowpacks will be smaller in the future with the changing climate, the snowmelt would be faster and accompanied by higher rainfall during the spring freshet, said Steve Litke, a senior program manager at Fraser Basin Council. The recurrence of a large flood, like the Valley flood of 1894, could cause up to $30-billion in damages if dykes failed or overtopped. Nearly every sector would bear the brunt of such a flood, from transport to local food supply. “The projected scenario for 2100 would be almost two-metres deeper than the 1894 Fraser River Flood,” said Litke. “It will be important to monitor the evolving climate science to inform future flood planning.” Farther down the Fraser, neighbouring municipalities including the Township of Langley, White Rock, Vancouver and New Westminster are among those who have declared climate emergencies.
In Canada, 494 governments have declared climate emergencies, according to CEDAMIA, a declaration-tracking resource. Chong said that climate declarations are a big step.
emergency
He is aware that activism demands dedication. Zimmerling said that people need to be willing to get arrested. “It is going to take a major push,” she said. She added that XR isn’t for everyone, and they acknowledge that burnout is a major reason for people to leave the movement. “We have march and rally fatigue,” said Perrin. XR seeks to address this issue with “regenerative activism.” Zimmerling said that “self-care is built into the movement,” and that XR has groups dedicated to supporting activists. The movement sees this organized selfcare practice as a distinguishing element when compared to other climate activism movements. XR maintains a number of different resources for activists that range from
literature on arrestee welfare, to “open homes” where activists can rest. Such locations are currently available only in the U.K. XR is still building resources for children and young people. The XR Fraser Valley roundtable discussed the critical role of youth in the environmental movement, but none were present at the table. Among the largest youth-driven movements is Fridays for Future (FFF), where young people leave school on Fridays and participate in climate strikes. A handful of weekly strikes continue in the Lower Mainland, according to FFF map data that tracks global protest participation. “A protest indicates discontent to a politician,” said Chong. Politicians are looking to gain political favour, Chong said, and that with broad support, he’s confident change will occur. XR Fraser Valley aims to hold more roundtable discussions, plan more demonstrations, and attempt to centralize activist efforts in the region.
Sponsors Needed FINANCIAL SPONSOR Financial sponsors enable Red Press Society to pay honoraria to performers and artists featured at Raiseberry each year.
FOOD & BEVERAGE SPONSOR Food & Beverage sponsors have a unique opportunity to set the flavour of this annual event, and may attend to showcase their products to potential customers.
PROMOTIONS SPONSOR This year we are seeking a promotions sponsor to assist with the costs of printing posters, event signage, and other materials for Raiseberry.
SILENT AUCTION Silent Auction sponsors contribute local artisan creations and Fraser Valley expereinces to our highly anticipated annual silent auction at Raiseberry.
Looking for other options? We are happy to accommodate your needs as a sponsor. Let us know how you would like to support us, and we will work with you to make it happen.
Contact us at info@raspberrymag.ca to become a sponsor.
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JESSIE SOMERS
Jessie Somers is a practicing artist who graduated in 2010 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts from the University of the Fraser Valley. Being drawn to natural, earthy themes, she explores our sense of self in the atmosphere, collective consciousness, spirituality and environmental awareness. Watercolor has always been her favorite mode of creative expression, finding it to be connected to the nature of living and the most fluid in translation from mind to painting. More recently Jessie’s work has involved using Art Resin to finish her pieces as an alternative to framing, this adds an element of immediacy to the pieces, not being held behind glass.
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Jessie Somers Art & Illustration
West Coast
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Beneath the Waves 16
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Octopus
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Golden Dawn
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Whale Song
The end of the world, and hope, and hopelessness GENERATION X BY DOUGLAS COUPLAND By DESSA BAYROCK Douglas Coupland’s career begins with an eclipse: in the first three pages of Generation X, his first novel, the protagonist flies to Manitoba to witness the shadow of the moon snuffing out the sun.
“And in that field, when the appointed hour, minute, and second of the darkness came, I lay myself down on the ground surrounded by the tall pithy grain stalks and the faint sound of insects, and held my breath, there experiencing a mood that I have never really been able to shake completely — a mood of darkness and inevitability and fascination — a mood that surely must have been held by most young people since the dawn of time as they have crooked their necks, stared at the heavens, and watched their sky go out.” This passage suspends time, place, and the concept of traditional generations; past and future blend together, and every young
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it’s a story about three 20-s who move to the desert the strange, unnatural spe cities they live in a small unimportant jobs in the ser and spend their days off sitt in the sun telling each othe an attempt to batten down too fast that things no lo kind of apocalypse is forth powerless to stop it that th all of humanity will be a pa person becomes part of the same collective. This eclipse is chilling, unsettling, proof that even the most stable elements of the world — the sun, the sky — are subject to change, to subversion, to destruction. What other frameworks will these characters be forced to see evolve or disintegrate? I’ve been thinking a lot about Generation X lately, which is to say I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately. I’ve been thinking about my own anxiety. I’ve been thinking about how everyone I know is tired. I’ve been thinking about how fast the world feels, how quickly time goes by, how quickly January slipped through my fingers.
I’ve been thinking about the fact that a weekend is a social construct, that we’ve been trained to think of Saturday and Sunday as icons of rest, and yet that more and more they feel like two more days of the week passing too quickly, cramming themselves too full. I’ve been thinking about deleting Twitter and Instagram from my phone. I can never quite bear to do it. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot. And I’ve been thinking about Generation X.
It’s a story about three 20-somethings who move to the desert to escape the strange, unnatural speed of large cities. They live in a small town, have unimportant jobs in the service sector, and spend their days off sitting around in the sun, telling each other stories in an attempt to batten down the fear that life has become too fast, that things no longer make sense, that some kind of apocalypse is forthcoming and that they will be powerless to stop it. That they will be a part of it, because all of humanity will be a part of it. Humanity won’t just endure the apocalypse; humanity will be the apocalypse.
The apocalypse is this warped sense of time, this constant anxiety, this feeling that we’re all just insects beetling over the planet, crawling and eating and destroying and crawling and eating and destroying.
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somethings to escape eed of large town have rvice sector ting around er stories in n the fear that life has become onger make sense that some hcoming and that they will be hey will be a part of it because art of it So our heroes run to the desert, to the smallest, sleepiest, brightest town they can find. They find each other, there. And they tell each other stories, as though it will waylay the sense of impending doom they all share. As though it will waylay the impending doom itself.
I first read it when I was 16, and I hated it, because I felt invincible, because I thought the characters were too worried about nothing. I read it again at 19 and loved it, swore by it, carried it around like a safety blanket. I read it again when I was 22, when I wrote a Master’s thesis about it, about the apocalypse and its purpose in fiction, about Douglas Coupland and his fear of the future. This thesis was very dear to me, and it gave me nightmares, and it remains one of the most personal things I’ve ever written. Parts of that thesis have been repurposed here. I’m afraid to read Generation X a fourth time, because I’m afraid I’ll start weeping and be unable to stop. So much has changed since it was published in 1991, and yet so little.
I’m trying to decide if I still believe that stories can save us. I’m trying to figure out if there’s anything we can do to stop the apocalypse, which seems more and more impending every day. I’m trying to decide what to do with my anxiety, with my endlessly scrolling Twitter feed, with the fact that time moves so quickly, now, that it seems unstoppable. Which is, of course, because it is.
I’m trying to figure out what to do with my own sense of helplessness. With the realization that the apocalypse isn’t the product of humanity but is humanity, all those people who vote for Trump and support pipelines through Indigenous territory no matter what the cost and don’t believe that the homeless or destitute or drug-addicted deserve compassion. People who see vulnerability as weakness. 23 People who relish the relentless commodification and consumerism and capitalism
I am trying to act with compassion I am trying to build my life with care I carry books to a housebound friend I stand in the cold with 100 people and stop traffic in protest against the RCMP invasion of Wet’suwet’en land I donate money to a science fiction magazine trying to reimagine and reqrite what feels like an inevitable future a terrible future a capitalist future of a million people beetling around the same city, crawling and eating and destroying.
For two full months in 2011, I seriously considered moving to the desert. I researched land costs and flora and fauna and bought a book called How to Build a Barn or Shed, which is where I intended to live. It’s hard to think about the future for too long before I begin to agree with the protagonists of Generation X, who seek brightness, and simplicity, and the kinds of fables they can tell one another as the sun goes down. But I never followed through.
It’s not an option any more, to run away to a place where the apocalypse can’t touch you. The apocalypse touches everything.
And we have to do everything we can to beat it back from here, the land we stand on where we are, our current cities and landscapes and homes. I am trying to act with compassion. I am trying to build my life with care. I carry books to a housebound friend; I stand in the cold with 100 people and stop traffic in protest against the RCMP invasion of Wet’suwet’en land; I donate money to a science fiction magazine trying to reimagine and rewrite what feels like an inevitable future, a terrible future, a capitalist future.
I pull Generation X off my shelf and flip through it, remembering the way that Coupland filled the margins with anxious aphorisms. WE’RE ACTING LIKE INSECTS. NOSTALGIA IS A WEAPON. STOP HISTORY. I want to tattoo these aphorisms on my body. I can’t bear to reread it. Not yet. But soon.
I choose to believe that stories can save us. I choose to believe we will listen. When the time comes. When the apocalypse drifts over us like ash. STOP HISTORY. I hope we will.
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Send your original unpublished writing to info@raspberrymag.ca for consideration in our next issue.
Artists creating community Abby Arts Collective provides new studio space for local artists KATIE STOBBART A new shared art studio has opened in East Abbotsford, filling a gap in Abbotsford’s small-venue arts community. In some ways, Abbotsford is a city of makeshift arts venues. Its small music venues are breweries and one carport; one of its two art galleries is a small house; and studio space takes the form of second bedrooms, basements, and garages. While a few larger venues exist (Abby Arts Centre, Matsqui Auditorium, Abbotsford Centre, the Reach Gallery Museum, and the new Railway space), it can be a challenge for local professional artists to set down roots without adequate spaces to perform, showcase, and create work. It’s a widely recognized gap in the arts community, brought up
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routinely at all candidates’ meetings on culture, strategic conversations about the city’s cultural future, and at other fora for discussing local arts. It’s also a niche that guided entrepreneurial artist Jesse Klassen to build a custom shared artist studio called Abby Arts Collective. Klassen is perhaps a rare combination of artist and construction worker, but he used his experience and contacts in both worlds to construct a unique, trailblazing addition to Abbotsford’s small arts venues. The idea sparked during his personal search for a professional arts studio where he could conduct his practice, and then gained traction as he realized there was a collective need. “I saw a need I had, and looking into
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“There’s a natural community that forms ... working in the same space.” how to resolve it, I realized there was a broader need. Through collaboration with other people, it was a need I could fill. And along the road, I came to realize I had a responsibility to do so,” says Klassen. Shared arts studios are not a new concept; many exist in Vancouver and beyond, with tangible benefits for artists working in multiple media to collaborate, exchange feedback, and form community. New Westminster’s 100 Braid St. Studios, for instance, offers more than a dozen rentable industrial studio spaces to artists, and being part of the community there yields opportunities to show work, be
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promoted regularly on social media, discounts to arts events and pop-ups, and even an annual career coaching session. While sharing space might be a challenge for those not used to the idea, many artists have found it supports and enhances their artistic practice. “Although being limited with the amount of space at times, working in a shared studio … has helped propel me and make me more proactive with my work,” writes Frances Hogg for a blog on Bussey building, a shared professional studio in the UK. “It also helps me broaden my practice to become more
multi-disciplinary. As well as the dayto-day benefits of working together, sharing a studio can develop a shared public consciousness with your work, help alleviate a level of insecurity, and prepare you for exhibitions.” Hogg’s studio points out that the feedback environment students learn in close quarters at art school often becomes “a compulsory part of their creative process,” meaning shared studios can be key for many artists to thrive in their work among professional peers. Klassen agrees, citing his time in UFV’s senior studio as a source of inspiration for the art collective project.
“One of the things I loved about the senior studio, which is one room cordoned off for multiple people, is everyone working in the same space. There’s a sort of natural community that forms out of that. One thing that has been valuable in my own practice has been to call someone up and say, ‘Can I get your opinion on this?’” For example, Klassen explains: “If I’m working on a painting, I might call a videographer friend or a sculptural friend or a dancer. To get the perspective of another artist, you can see the work from a completely different viewpoint and enhance your work through that.” It can make practical sense, too.
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In an exploration of coworking relationships between artists, Artsy spoke with East London’s Francis Upritchard, a sculptor who works collaboratively with designer Martino Gamper.
couple people, my parents included. They said they’d love to support me, but that this didn’t sound like a viable money-making scheme. I said I would do some research and get back to them on that because I think it is.”
“I don’t have to double up on tools,” Upritchard told Artsy. “Martino has a saw bench, welding setup, [and] tonnes of screws and fittings, which I pilfer from freely—along with the scrap wood piles.” Their arrangement saves money, and also means extra sets of hands for lifting heavy art pieces or materials.
And after considerable research and in-person interviews with fellow artists and organizations, he returned to prove that a shared artist studio had real potential not just to cover its expenses, but to turn a profit.
But there are reasons this kind of studio environment, among other small arts venues, isn’t readily available in Abbotsford. For one, there’s an assumption that because the arts aren’t viewed as lucrative, arts organizations are destined to be non-profit charities that struggle to grow with limited funding and hopefully, donors. The myth of the starving artist is pervasive. After looking for a studio space for about six months, having graduated and moved out of the senior studio with nowhere to store his materials, Klassen was continually stymied by too-high rents and spaces that don’t make sense as an art studio: there’s too little lighting, inadequate ventilation, and low ceilings that prevent contemporary arts practices. “Artists are told, the only restriction to your practice is the size of the space you work in,” Klassen says. So, he started to dream up what an affordable, open, bright, and wellventilated art space could look like in Abbotsford, drawing on his experience as a construction worker. “I kind of grew up in [construction],” he explains. “My dad owns a 30 construction company. So I presented the idea of building a space to a
“I put together a plan, with a space for 10 artists renting at $250 per person.” With that in mind, Klassen calculated it would take about 10 years to recuperate the costs of building, with the costs of renting the space factored in. “That’s a really good investment. As far as investments go, you don’t recover your costs in 10 years—more like 20 or 30 years.” Shortly after re-presenting his pitch, Klassen had the buy-in he needed to get started. Then came the work of City approval, which Klassen says didn’t come easily. One of the challenges to this kind of project is that the City of Abbotsford does not have a zoning definition that accommodates an art studio or collaborative workspace. This, Klassen suggests, is an area where the City could do better as it develops a strategy for arts and culture (a process currently underway at time of writing). “It’s one thing to say, ‘arts and culture’ and another to have an entrepreneur with a plan. If there’s no definition, we can’t integrate it [with the City’s plans]. Even if what we’re doing here is a huge step in the right direction,” says Klassen. There are examples to follow if Abbotsford did seek to define
“The only restriction to your practice is the size of the space you work in.”
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a wider range of cultural venues. Although Vancouver is a much larger city than Abbotsford, it has expansive zoning definitions, with three possible art studio designations: studios for the production of music or performing arts, studios for visual arts such as Klassen’s, and a designation to allow shorter term cultural use in a space. Vancouver also has funding available for professional artists who need studio space but for whom cost is prohibitive, among several other cultural grant streams. But after a few such hurdles, the final
project approval came, and Klassen’s team were able to start work on the building. Inclusive of space for 10 artists as planned, other key features of the studio include all the elements Klassen was looking for: high ceilings, good light, good ventilation. “We wanted to give an opportunity for contemporary art to be made, so if someone wants to create a 10-foot mural, they can. We designed the space to be larger than life. You walk into the opening area, and [the ceiling] vaults up to 20 feet.”
Early days in the studio JESSE KLASSEN I put on my studio coat, I make myself a pot of tea, and I grab my headphones. Right now, I’m finishing a large canvas painting that has been an ongoing project for the last six months; it will be the centrepiece of a show in September 2020. I’m also starting a new series of five paintings that I’ve been planning out for a little over a year! When I get to the studio I almost always start by smearing paint on my fingers — just a little — it’s kind of a ritual act that sets me at ease and gets me in the right mindset for art-making. I only noticed myself doing it a few months ago, but I have a feeling I’ve been doing it for several years. At this point I step back from my work, close my eyes, and visualize the next step. Sometimes it’s a specific detail like in the large canvas I’m finishing, and sometimes it’s just about being bold and messy. When I finish the session, I give my station a quick clean — I get pretty messy when I’m working — organizing tubes and cans of material, cleaning any brushes I may have used. In a collective studio, considering the other artists is important, so I move my things to the side when I’m finished so other artists can maximize space if they need it.
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“It’s a functional, contemporary studio— not just a garage we’re trying to repurpose.” There’s also a mezzanine with an office workspace, under which the ceilings of the main studio area are 11.5 feet high, still much taller than the average nine feet found in makeshift spaces like spare bedrooms. “It’s a functional, contemporary studio—not just a garage we’re trying to repurpose. It’s filling a gap in the valley community: we don’t have anything like that,” Klassen says. In the short term, Klassen is looking to get things rolling and connect with the community, so the collective will have opportunities to do shows or public works in conjunction with existing spaces like Kariton House, the Reach Gallery, and the City. “[Right now] it’s my dream and vision,
but I want to get more people involved so we can make it our dream, our vision,” Klassen explains. “There are lots of arts things happening in Abbotsford: we’ve got Raspberry, the [Abbotsford] Arts Council, the Reach, UFV… we even have our own arts store, HOFA, and other things popping up that support the arts. I want to integrate into that. We’re not trying to pioneer a new avenue for artists, we’re trying to add to what’s already in existence.” For now, the Abby Arts Collective building is up, several artists have moved in, and the studio serves as a quiet space, 2,245 square feet tucked away on Sumas Mountain, out of the city bustle, for those artists to create, collaborate, and form community.
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Sydney Hutt is an English major, writer, and mom of six year-old twin girls. She loves the Victorian era, horror movies, big cups of tea, and long nighttime runs in the rain. You can find more of her writing featured on such websites as A Practical Wedding, Thought Catalog, Motherly and in Motherly’s new book This Is Motherhood, as well as on her personal blog: MySoulAjar.com
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Ladybug Keychain Twilight run, first night below zero. There are no sidewalks down here― I jog the road, skipping potholes to my pulse. Shoes collect pieces of pavement, the great diaspora of forgotten decades. Almost home, I thought I saw a guy trying the handle on my parked car. I’m so jumpy these five blocks, like when Clayton from Toronto took me to a bar and I was scared of the working woman stomping by: “Relax! She’s not here for you!” Later, I got this ladybug keychain that looks cute but will scream if you pull off its wings ― you can hold the keys between the fingers of your closed fist. I’d forgotten the keychain that night, but bolted over anyway like my sneakered feet might mimic those big heels scraping concrete, the way some women stop being scared of the dark ― or maybe they’ve just adapted, are always afraid. But when I got there I saw that he’d only drawn a shaky heart in the frost icing my passenger window. The neighbour’s maroon blanket-curtain flicked through December like a knife. 37
Marcus I wish I knew the boy, not just flickers of him that move like the shadows behind the windows of your neighbours’ house. I try to capture him, hold him to the light; it paints the creases around his eyes, the white slash by his brow where a hammer kissed, not long ago. Ruddy skin tattooed by the days before me are places on a world map, crossed out, coloured in. Chin, a dull knife, scrapes me raw. Bits of flaxen hair still split the brown, premonitions claiming new territory along his scalp, popping up like headstones. But he brought over potted bulbs once, said, ‘I thought you’d like to watch them bloom’ and I tasted interred sweetness that crawled aching from the soil for me.
Liv at night her feet hang in the hook of my hands, curve warm against my palms. I never find time for this during the day, to feel the way her cheek, sticky from sleep, molds to mine, toothpaste breath sweeter than the days I stubbornly claim away from her. She’s softest here, when she stops stiffening, lets her steel frame fold against my stomach. It remembers her always; even now, though it’s been three years, it still aches for those three months. Can’t think too much about her then, the way I’d been surprised she didn’t look like I’d expected her to. Seemed more like a misplaced organ at two pounds, neon skin stretched translucent. I knew she was mine when she cried; for us it’s mind over matter undercooked lungs that could hardly breathe, let alone scream and did it anyway. Now she’s still sharp juice, but safely sunset-hued and I must remember to remember these moments, her sound in my arms the way her bed bends and pours us back together like shadows pooling in the dark.
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Don’t Stick A Butter Knife Down Its Throat When It’s Still Plugged In Spent Friday evening unclogging the vacuum. Knew it needed probiotics or something when it belched invisible smog, left my lungs all sooty from that mechanical IBS: Irritable Bag Syndrome. After some prodding it threw up the residue of plastic wrap, torn notebook pages, black screws, a ball of yarn made from human hair. But it still wouldn’t, couldn’t inhale; we have that in common. Finally found the real blockage, a blackened ball of furled fabric, lingering fragment I’d bought last winter to reupholster our dining chairs. It wasn’t near the trachea like I’d thought but held up high, trapped by the filter− the stain told me it must have been living there for a while, quietly hoarding all of our days.
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Canyons I put on coat, shoes, purse, before stuffing two pairs of crumb-coated toes into worn sneakers, seal safely with Velcro. On my hips the girls are more than half of me, warm like fresh loaves. I click begrudging buckles, heat the car and soon we’re off. The twins whoop with hands against grimy windows, trying to catch the wind. They call this “mommy’s mountain” they don’t know how right they are; been scaling and sliding down it my whole life. Shoots and ladders made of “Caution: Road Ices” pavement where gravel spits from tires, splits glass and bare shins. As a kid I’d clip a card to my bike spokes, cruise these concrete waves, new engine sputtering triumphant. Back then, even a crash felt good, like you’d lived a little, tasted tangy earth. I could spend days picking pebbles out of scabs and still ache for that speed, the way the well-worn roads always seemed uncharted. Now I lurch through traffic lights, school zones, always reaching back, waiting for velvet blackness to recall that flavour of summer sweet grass, pedals’ hot impression on naked feet. I drive with my knees, lean into wide turns with a subtle lift of my hips ― still here but never again that free. Once in a while I’d take my hands off the bars and let the air undress me, arms spread eagle I could fly.
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Contributors Dessa Bayrock is a Fraser Valley ex-pat who lives in Ottawa with two cats and a variety of succulents, one of which is growing at a frankly alarming rate. She used to unfold paper for a living at Library and Archives Canada and is currently a PhD student in English, studying literary awards and the production of cultural value. She really likes books and has a tattoo of Mount Cheam on her arm. You can find her, or at least learn more about her, at dessabayrock.com, or on Twitter at @yodessa. Jennifer Hickey lives in the heart of Chilliwack, BC, where she coordinates community events. She has worked for the Chilliwack Arts Council and the Abbotsford Arts Council, and studied Visual Arts and Graphic Design at UFV, in addition to Hospitality and Event Planning Management. You can find her sampling delicious Fraser Valley food and beverages, exploring local art galleries, and observing zany occurences throughout the Lower Mainland. Sydney Hutt is an English major, writer, and mom of six year-old twin girls. She loves the Victorian era, horror movies, big cups of tea, and long nighttime runs in the rain. You can find more of her writing featured on such websites as A Practical Wedding, Thought Catalog, Motherly and in Motherly’s new book This Is Motherhood, as well as on her personal blog: MySoulAjar.com Kier Junos is a multimedia journalist and national television producer based in the Lower Mainland. IG: @kier.tv Twitter: @kierjunos
Aymee Leake studied visual arts at UFV, and is a staunch arts advocate in Abbotsford. She has been an enthusiastic administrator and coordinator in a variety of organizations, including the Abbotsford Arts Council and a number of galleries. In 2016, Aymee was nominated for the Christine Caldwell Outstanding Arts Advocate award. She’s quirky, passionate, and patently hilarious. These days, you can find Aymee painting eyes and firing up the kiln at the Clay Cottage. Jessie Somers is a pradcticing artist who graduated in 2010 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts from UFV. Katie Stobbart is the founder of Raspberry and Red Press Society. She has a B.A., Honours English in Creative Writing from UFV. On an average day, you can find her writing, painting, or tending to her apartment jungle. On a special day, she’ll be embarking on wild adventures in Dungeons & Dragons or blogging about nerddom and mental health. Christopher Towler is usually buried under pugs. He has an MA in Communications & New Media where he studied toxic masculinity in gaming from McMaster and a BA in sociology from UFV. Chris used to work in theatre across Metro Vancouver. And PS: will gladly kick your ass at Super Smash Bros. Jess Wind teaches Communications at the University of the Fraser Valley and is an editor at Raspberry. She has an M.A. from Carleton University, a B.A. from UFV, and enough zombie research to survive the apocalypse. She’s a pop-culture nerd, a retro-loving geek, and a writer of many things. She also shares a birthday with Harry Potter.
Raspberry is a magazine devoted to Fraser Valley culture and community life. Established in June 2016, Raspberry publishes reviews, event coverage, and other local content online and in print. You can follow us on social media for updates on our progress, information and insights on the Fraser Valley arts and culture scene, and more.
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Governance Red Press Society is a non-profit organization dedicated to raising the profile and stimulating the growth of Fraser Valley arts, culture, and community life.
Jess Wind
Hannah Celinski
PRESIDENT
BOARD MEMBER
Dessa Bayrock
Lian McIntyre
SECRETARY
BOARD MEMBER
Aymee Leake
Christopher Towler
TREASURER
BOARD MEMBER
Katie Stobbart
Shea Wind
EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR
BOARD MEMBER
f RaspberryZine
f RedPressSociety
t @RaspberryZine
t RedPressSociety
i @RaspberryZine
i RedPressSociety
www.raspberrymag.ca
www.redpresssociety.ca
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