In mouth them like words, Angela Henderson welcomes viewers into a space that feels quiet, careful, and a little mysterious. On view at StFX Art Gallery from February 25 to April 4, the exhibition brings together graphite drawings nestled within free-standing wooden structures that subtly shape how you move through the gallery. Her line work shifts between intention and instinct, between the clarity of design and forms that seem to rise up from somewhere harder to name. The installation feels like a living archive, one that asks you to slow your pace, come closer, and spend time with images that do not resolve all at once. In this conversation, she reflects on ambiguity, restraint, and the conditions she creates to allow something unexpected to surface.

Your title, mouth them like words, feels tactile and embodied. Where did that phrase come from?

A lot of the titles I’ve used in the past have come from poetic references—Anne Carson and Forugh Farrokhzad—but not this one.

My partner is a poet, and reading his work influences me. I think I’m inspired by the embodied quality of words on the page—language in any place, really. Lately, a lot of my work has resulted in hybrid forms that are hard to name. I was thinking about the mouth as the place where we speak language. There’s this visceral, mouth-like quality that feels close to naming but also to being unable to name.

If I were to think about a mouthful of ambiguity—how would I name it? I don’t know. That’s kind of where the title comes from.

Many of the forms feel pared down, almost elemental. What draws you to that economy of line?

My background is in design, particularly architectural and spatial design. I’m interested in material quality and structure. Often my drawing practice veers toward the maximal—more and more and more—but the structures that hold those forms feel like metaphysical devices. They’re frameworks that hold ambiguous life forms or images.

There’s a contrast there. The structures are drawings in and of themselves. I imagine them as part of a lifelong system—an ongoing design and development of these forms. They’re members of a kind of evolving structure.

Where did this body of work feel most difficult?

There’s always a lot of fastidiousness in what I do—time spent. In the drawings, especially, I’ve developed a practice that tries to create the conditions for something meditative, where the subconscious can come forward. It becomes about drawing and witnessing what emerges.

That sounds good, but often it’s frustrating. Creating those conditions isn’t always easy. It depends on mood, on the day.

I’m also a parent. There’s guilt—long periods spent alone are when that process becomes most accessible. Sometimes I feel guilty for that. Other times I feel like I’m not spending enough time with myself. It’s a difficult balance.

Do you think of these works as contemporary, or as belonging to a longer timeline of mark-making and symbolic practice?

Both. There’s something pre-verbal in the work. Through the process I described, forms emerge that are hard to name. I relate that to ancient or pre-verbal knowledge.

At the same time, practices like tarot or divination tools project a way forward. They depart from rationalist binaries—right/wrong, good/bad—that we see increasingly in society. There’s hopefulness in ambiguous or mysterious tools. They propose alternative ways of seeing and naming.

How do orientation and scale shape the viewer’s experience?

You have to look at my drawings with dedication. Often your body comes very close to the paper. The viewer is rewarded by spending time.

In this exhibition, I thought about ambulating—about circumambulation, which suggests ritual or spiritual practice. Ambulation isn’t a straight line; it’s circulatory. I also tried to insert my own body into the forms, literally, through scale—heights, widths.

I wanted to create a scaled environment that slows the viewer down and brings them close to the surface.

How does a drawing begin for you? And how do you know it’s finished?

A drawing begins as curiosity or observation. I often work with found forms. I might trace something—blind contour, physical objects, or carbon tracing. The reference point is intuitive, often coming from walking, being in nature, observing trees, leaves, insects—things outside my window.

I’ve also worked with psychoanalytic practice for about eight years. I use tools that access subconscious thought—active imagination, for example. 

I don’t use erasers. The drawing evolves. I follow what emerges.

As for finished, it’s a feeling. When there’s enough depth and complexity, I feel it’s complete.

The works hover between abstraction and something almost legible. Are you interested in that threshold?

Yes. Ambiguity is a goal in my work. I value holding multiple things at once without resolution.

I’m interested in how images unfold and contain many references. I love the work of Marcel Dzama, for example. I feel a trajectory toward identifying figures or reference points that could develop a narrative quality.

How did the installation shape the meaning of the work?

When I installed the show, I realized I had designed the wooden forms to meet and facilitate the drawings. I imagine those structures returning in future exhibitions to house new drawings—like a growing archive.

I was trying to create a quiet archive. The line work and forms reference botanical drawing—the way we archive and document plant or animal life.

Can you speak about your material choices—graphite, coloured pencil, mylar?

Many materials come from my design background. I use CAD for structural designs. The washi paper I work with is incredibly responsive to graphite—it holds it in nuanced ways. At times it feels like a dead end, but it does something specific.

In this show I experimented with watercolour paper in the central form. I’m interested in moving toward tracing papers or translucent materials—where drawing becomes more three-dimensional.

The blue pencil comes from architectural construction lines. When plotted, those lines disappear. They’re subtle construction marks.

There’s quietness in the exhibition, but also tension. How do you think about restraint?

My process can be obsessive, right up until the night before installation. I’m always trying to pare things down.

There’s restraint in how the pieces fit together, the structures that tilt and move, almost like flat-packed furniture.

I grew up in a small closed religious community. Dogma is something I’m embedded with but push against. Restraint sometimes comes from setting rules: no colour, one colour, this paper only. Creating conditions through limitation.

There’s much more work that isn’t in the show than is. Sketches upon sketches—my own archive in manila folders.

Do you think of drawing as a form of divination?

I like that idea. Without erasers, drawing becomes like watching clouds. “Oh, there’s an ear—I’ll follow it.” Sometimes I almost speak to it: Why are you here? What are you showing me?

It may sound strange, but I’m trying to draw from subconscious space. Perhaps even from a collective unconscious—the roots under trees, the mycelium.

The divination, if anything, is about creating conditions for unfolding and then letting it happen. Witnessing and participating while trying to quiet the thinking mind.

Everything begins with close observation—botanical forms, trees, leaves, insects. But once that reference is on the page, it departs. The visible is the starting point. Through process, it becomes post-observational—an unfolding.

Ross Nervig is the Editor of Visual Arts News.

Emily Lawrence & Kylie Dyment. Still from Mouthfeel. Photo: Erica Flake

Artists Kyle Alden Martens and Emily Lawrence both create playful work that subtly destabilizes traditionally heteronormative arenas—sports for Martens and mainstream porn and Martha Stewart cooking demonstrations for Lawrence—while making their audiences laugh through any discomfort of not knowing the new rules of the game.

For Martens, humour has always provided a way of “bringing people to subject matter that’s maybe more touchy or emotional,” he explains. Visual Arts News’ podcast host David Dahms chats with Martens about subjects ranging from where he finds creative inspiration to why it’s important to respect some people’s decisions to keep their sexual orientation a secret. The artist discusses how his own experiences growing up in “a painfully small town in Saskatchewan where the reality of queer people is something that’s hidden to make their lives easier” continues to inform the work he does today. “Within my practice there’s an underlying theme of being closeted or a hidden sexuality, or this repression out of necessity. Humour is kind of a way to bring that topic up without kind of being a downer.”

Emily Lawrence discusses topics ranging from the divide between art and life (or lack thereof) to the role of seduction as a powerful tool in her work. “I think initially people are drawn into the type of work that I make and very seduced, but once they’re there, there’s a lot that happens,” explains Lawrence. “When they’re in, people are maybe surprised or disgusted and there’s a flipping of [the seductive elements].” Lawrence employs a maximalist aesthetic in much of her work, “pulling people in with excess and spectacle,” while ultimately destabilizing constructs related to one’s identity and role in society. She takes on multiple identities when she creates work, playfully embracing a plurality of self.  “I think that even when I’m present in my work, I’m creating a character and wearing a costume.”

Emily Lawrence, installation view of Hodgepodge. Courtesy of the artist

Emily Lawrence & Kylie Dyment. Still from Mouthfeel. Photo: Erica Flake

Emily Lawrence & Kylie Dyment. Still from Mouthfeel. Photo: Erica Flake

Kyle Alden Martens, performance still of SOFT PLAYERS. Via: kylealdenmartens.com

Kyle Alden Martens, performance still of SOFT PLAYERS. Via: kylealdenmartens.com

Installation detail of Equipment. Documentation by Jordan Blackburn & Brandon Brookbank. Via kylealdenmartens.com

Kyle Alden Martens, performance still of SOFT PLAYERS. Via: kylealdenmartens.com

Kyle Alden Martens, performance still of SOFT PLAYERS. Via: kylealdenmartens.com

Marigold Santos, asuang, Forton, fiberglass, synthetic hair, calcite crystals, paint, pigment and steel, 157.5 x 53.3 x 53.3 cm, 2011; Photo: Guy l”Heureux.

Artist Marigold Santos creates the kind of work that resonates with viewers on a deeply personal level, as you discover talismans and symbols embedded in each piece that feel as though they’ve been placed there just for you. Inspired by the terrifying tales of mythical monsters she connected with as a child, Santos unravels her memories and experiences to form her own personal myths, inspiring viewers to do the same.

Lizzy Hill interviews Santos, following her recent exhibition MIRROR/MOTHER (fragments) at Eastern Edge in St. John’s, about her fascination with the occult, the influence of folklore on her work and her identity as a Filipina/Canadian woman.

Marigold Santos, shroud (dirty harvester/Jodorowsky’s hat), ink on paper, 55.9 x 76.2 cm, 2015; Photo: Stacey Watson

Lizzy HiLL: What impact did your family’s move from the Philippines have on you? Where is home?

MARIGOLD SANTOS: Our immigration is a huge part of my work, as I reflect on it as a time of change and adaptation at such a young age—it sneaks up on you, and you are so unaware of the process. I didn’t know how to speak English, and then in no time, I did. I was a young girl when we moved to Canada, and all I wanted to do was become Canadian, fit in, whatever that meant—learn pop culture, learn the language, learn the social politics of children. A lot of the colour palettes and designs of the time make their way into my work. I consider Canada my home, but my roots are very important to me. I explore what they mean, in tandem, everyday, and in my work.

LH: I have to admit, when looking at your work, Blanket Asuang (Big Sister), I had to Wikipedia what an “asuang” was and found out that it’s “a shapeshifting monster” that combines traits of “either a vampire, a ghoul, a witch, or different species of werebeast” from Filipino folklore, which sounds quite terrifying! Were stories of these creatures part of your upbringing or did you discover them in later life?

MS: The folklore of the Philippines is incredibly special and rich, and the stories vary depending on the region and the storytellers. That is what I most love about folklore in general—the idea that there are many elements that remain the same, but that through the oral sharing, variations can occur and thus change and transform the narrative. They are also ever-evolving and changing, informed by their landscape—an organic and definite, yet intangible thing.

My aunt, Tita Rosel, was pretty much responsible for introducing me to the asuang, and its many characteristics. When I started making work that addressed multiplicity and fragmentation (and referencing my family’s immigration from the Philippines to Canada as a departure point) it was so fitting to look at the figures in my work as asuangs also, reconfigured to speak about a greater sense of self-hood and fragmentation. The asuang inherently severs from the waist, and divides itself, discarding it’s lower half, while the upper half hunts in the night, and must rejoin it’s lower half before night’s end, or risk dying fragmented.

LH: There’s a clear fascination with the macabre in the works on view in BLACK MIRROR [Santos’ recent exhibition on view at Ontario’s DNA Artspace and Hamilton Artists inc, as well as Calgary’s Pith Gallery]. I’m thinking of one painting in particular where you feature a golden corpse serving as fertilizer for a beautiful array of flowers and foliage. Is death and what comes next something that you ruminate upon often? Or would you say you use death more as a metaphor for something else?

Marigold Santos, re-grounding (detail), 2011 / marigoldsantos.com

Marigold Santos, light as a feather, stiff as a board (1), charcoal, chalk, phosphorescent, fluorescent paint, pigment on canvas, 274.3 x 434.3 cm, 2011; Photo: Guy l’Heureux.

MS: The golden piece is the third of a triptych [the first two are light as feather, stiff as a board (1) and (2)] and features a re-occurring figure that is in the process of levitating—whether about to float, or about to sink. The figure is caught in interstitial time and space. It began as a series that played on my themes of multiplicity and fragmentation, accessible magic and childhood games and folklore. So this third one, re-grounding, is the figure fallen, in the process of decay and decomposition, and is in a space that is partially recognizable, but at the same time a void realm. The cycles of death and rebirth, creation and destruction, attachment and detachment, woven and unravelling are present in this piece. Because my work is cross-referential, I thought it applicable to include this older work in with BLACK MIRROR [BM] because it relates to my previous themes, but also addresses the current ones in BM, those of selfhood, empowerment, concealment and revelation, light and dark (in bodies of light, and in passions and desires).

LH: There are elements of magic and ritual at play in your works, as you integrate talismans like teeth into your art. One gets the sense that the works themselves are designed to be part of some unknown ritual, evoking hidden spells upon the viewer—Is the occult a pure academic interest for you or does a belief in the supernatural play a role in your personal and creative life?

MS: The weird, the otherworldly, the supernatural, the occult, horror and fear have always been part of the landscape of my everyday, even as a child—especially as a child! My parents didn’t shelter me from all things horror-themed because I was drawn to them so much. Perhaps this is why I incorporate the awkward and scary into my work. I’ve always liked to scare myself; I still do. What it is about these things is that they require a sense of belief to make them work, because they are unexplainable and unknowable. So we push boundaries as kids to see how they affect us, what we fear, what we can take, what we can’t.

Objects in my work that appear to be talismans of sorts are just that. They stand in for the power of belief we place on things, to make them magic—to make them real and have a dual life, beyond what meets the eye. The body in my work always appears fragmented to an extent, and the severing from a whole also stands in for a greater talisman. And when this conceptual body comes together to make new configurations, new conversations, new dialogue, can occur. And the possibilities are what make them magic and powerful.

LH: BLACK MIRROR directly references the tool painters in the 18th century used to frame their scenes. What drew you to this reference?

MS: The reference to the black mirror as a tool used by painters is not so much about who was using the tool, but how it was used. Painters would turn their backs to their subject matters and view the reflection through the black mirror, which enabled them to cancel out the visual noise, and helped them to compose and edit their imagery. I loved the idea of turning your back to the thing you wanted to see and then re-inventing it, creating a new visual narrative. In my work I want to edit and re-configure experience and ideas and thought into my own myth.

LH: in Shroud (overhead) and Shroud (crouching), we see two different images of human characters huddled together so closely that it’s impossible to make out what kinds of interactions they’re having with one another—There are secrets being kept from us as the viewer, which I read as a theme in your work. We live in an age of the confessional personal essay, where many of us spew our deepest secrets on social media—Do you feel something is lost when we move farther and farther away from having a private inner life?

MS: The images of figures draped in shrouds began with BM, and I’ve since continued to create figures with this reoccurring cloak of fluidity and ink. It can be read as oil, or dirt, or rot, or mud, or blood or the cosmos even, but what is most important for me is that the shroud represents experience. It is not a physical garment, so much as it is an image that stands for a second skin. For me the shroud does not hide or conceal (even though at first glance it appears to) but instead it reveals—it is a choice to wear our experiences as informed by our ever-evolving surroundings that make up the fabric of our lives. In terms of private and inner lives versus the public, I think it’s important to always have a choice, and to be able to have to right to practice that choice. There are things we want to keep special and secret and there are things we want to share.

LH: Can you tell me a little bit about what the creative process is like for you? Do you work from life? From memory? With a plan of what you’re going to draw?

MS: Drawing can be very intuitive for me, and sometimes it can be very organized and planned. Sometimes I’ll draw thumbnail sketches of what I want a drawing to look like, but minimally, because I love letting the drawing take place all at once, to include the unexpected marks, to allow it to live, and then each mark you place invites you to respond. I work from both life and memory, from models (myself mainly) and from references. I listen to a lot of music when I draw, lots of heavy metal, lots of Dolly Parton and audiobooks—and eat a lot of snacks along the way.

Marigold Santos, black hole, 2013. Photo: Guy L’Heureux

Jordan Bennett, “Sky Container,” 9 in x 12 in. Courtesy of the artist.

ERYN FOSTER: You were in Venice this summer representing Newfoundland (along with Anne Troake) at the Biennale. How was that experience? What was the response to your installation Ice Fishing?

JORDAN BENNETT: The opportunity to exhibit Ice Fishing at the Venice Biennale was great. It has been very well received throughout the past few months with a large number of visitors interested in both Anne’s work and mine. Venice is an amazing and unique city and being part of such a grand event is something I will not soon forget. It was exciting to see so many viewers come into the exhibition and interact with the installation. The curator of the exhibition, Chris Clark, did an amazing job choosing the works to be part of the show. Anne’s work really gives the viewer a sense of Newfoundland in spring and summer. It’s very poetic in nature. I feel that my work gives a glimpse into the ways of being and existing on the land and water during the long Newfoundland winter months.

EF: Did you feel any stress or pressure in preparing for your show in Venice? Or did you approach the opportunity as you would with any other exhibition? 

JB: I approached it with the same mindset as I would have with any other exhibition. The only difference was ensuring the work was securely protected in rugged crates to withstand the long trek. It was truly an honour to be included in the official programming of the Venice Biennale.

Jordan Bennett, “Double Rainbow,” acrylic on wood, 12 in x 16 in. Courtesy of the artist.

EF: You are now in the second year of your MFA at UBC Okanogan. What is it like for you living on the other side of the country? Do you feel that the experience of living out West has influenced the way you make and think about art?

JB: Living in the Okanagan is quite a beautiful experience. Being in a MFA program is definitely a change of speed, as now I am balancing both my ongoing art practice and completing a thesis and exhibition. Being out West has really allowed me to explore new ideas, materials, and methodologies within my practice.  [In September] I was at a conference, Performing Turtle Island, in Regina. During his presentation, the academic and actor Michael Greyeyes said, “Being so far from home allows the lenses in your eyes to refocus on it.” This resonated with me, as this is precisely how I feel about being out West.

EF: Can you tell me a little bit about your MFA thesis project? From what I understand, you are looking at the parallels and similarities between the visual cultures of the Beothuk and the Mi’kmaq? What brought you to this research?

JB: Yes that is correct. My thesis work is re-imagining the traditional art forms of the Beothuk and Mi’kmaq into a contemporary art discourse. Through this new work I am making a series of carvings accompanied by sound to create an immersive and interactive environment.  My ongoing research came from thinking about the shared history of the traditional people of Newfoundland— the Beothuk and Mi’kmaq—and how centuries of their shared history have been reduced to vague one-liners and inaccurate interpretations, assumptions, and statements by European explorers and settlers on the island. Through creating this new work, I am bringing an Indigenous perspective to the assumptions and myths regarding the historical, physical, and cultural erasure of the Beothuk by European settlers. This is exemplified by the death of Shanawdithit in 1829, who is believed to be the last of her people.  In Shanawdithit’s testimony, recorded in the 1827 diary of Bishop Inglis, she recalls that “the Beothuk and Mi’kmaq held relations and had a partial oral understanding of one another for centuries, but in the last 150 years this relationship turned for the worse.” This statement has been one of the factors that has driven me to create artworks rooted in re-imagining a space for both nations to coexist again.

EF: And how has this research informed your creative practice?

JB: Through this research I’ve been employing mediums that I have not explored in a long time such as drawing, painting, and I’ve also been learning wood-carving. Recently, I had the amazing opportunity to visit and learn from fellow artists Dean Hunt, Shawn Hunt, and their father Bradley Hunt of the Heiltsuk Nation. Bradley and his sons are very well known for their mastery in carving amazing cedar panels and totem poles, pushing the limits of both material and visual. I had the honour of spending two weeks with them in their studio, learning techniques of which I am employing in this new body of work. Through researching Beothuk and Mi’kmaq visual culture, I have been creating new drawings based on Porcupine quill designs from the turn of the 19th century along with the drawings of Shanawdithit and Beothuk items and articles found throughout Newfoundland archaeological digs. These new drawings are the basis for my new carvings.

EF: Having grown up in rural Newfoundland, do you feel the landscape and the culture of the island has influenced you as an artist in any particular way?

JB I grew up in the town of Stephenville Crossing on the west coast of the island. I believe that the whole reason I am an artist is based on the landscape and culture of this place. The landscape is both beautiful and brutal, growing up only a rock’s throw from the Atlantic Ocean really makes you appreciate the power of where you come from. My ancestors have lived in this area off the island for countless generations and I think that through a tie like this, you are born with an inherent connection to the land. In our community, as with many other communities in Newfoundland, we still greatly depend on the land for sustenance, be it food or spiritual.

EF: Once you have finished your MFA, do you think you will you move back East? Or do you have some other ideas as to where you might go next?

JB: I would love to move back home. If the opportunity arises, I would be back in a minute, the east coast holds a very special place in my heart. I am also not against going somewhere new that might hold exciting new opportunities.