Reliquus is a non-linear visual narrative of how art makes art, an installation of shadow boxes paying homage to artists who have directly impacted my artistic practice. Borrowing from works of art I admire, I steal source materials and visual language with abandon. Mimicking inherent artistic styles and modes of production, I reauthor these artworks imbuing each with something personal; a lock of hair, a keepsake, a milestone or memory of personal significance and importance. In so doing I engage in a coalesced conversation - making public the intimate dialogue an artist has with another artist’s artwork - a place where conceptual ideas are discovered and assimilated. These boxes are created in pairs: one box acting as a physical and conceptual construction wherein I interact with a specific artist’s artwork. The second, through the use of text, recapitulates the influence the artwork has had on my practice. Together, these didactic couplings attempt to make private moments public as I engage with artworks I revere. The outcome is a co-authored visual diary - a personal reliquus.

It was years ago now and most of my memories from my first trip to Paris are hazy, I do however, remember with vivid recollection crouching near a lamppost just in sight of the Centre Pompidou scraping dog poo off my shoe with a stick. I was disgusted by my misfortune yet anxious with anticipation to join the long queue mounting to see her work. I like to think seeing this show was a manifestation of good karma. Her theatrical installation was just so visceral - each room carefully curated - it had the capacity to make me feel her memories and experiences as if they were my own. It changed me. From her, I learned that an artist’s concept is only as good as the arsenal of objects they use to present it.

When I was first introduced to his body of work I struggled to understand its significance. By that time he was already canonized as an important artistic figure and his work carried with it an intellectual cache. I remember pretending to like his work, I guess, in order to avoid humiliation. His performances seemed outlandish and his repeated use of felt and fat appeared disingenuous and anti-aesthetic. After years of being silently dismissive I found myself standing in front of ​Felt Suit b​eing a​sked to justify its presence. Surprising even myself, I convincingly defended the artist’s choice of materials, conceptual basis and historical significance. I was left rather shocked by my response. I suppose, unconsciously my insolence masked a deep appreciation of his work. It would be the last work I would dismiss with such haste.

He was a good friend, teacher and mentor. Our relationship evolved slowly out of an invitation to be one of his life models back in the 90’s. Our friendship really blossomed due to conversations that were ignited in those sessions. They were deep and varied. I would love watching him draw me, watching how his wheelchair moved about the studio from paper to model and back again. His disability did not hinder his ability, and I remember and appreciate how his artwork was a retelling of his history. When I moved from the Maritimes to Toronto for school, he was my gossip hound informing me of all I was missing at home and I was his eyes in the art world in the big city. His funeral would be the most difficult I would ever attend - I miss him terribly. The constant narrative in my artwork was nurtured, developed and is a reflection of his direct mentorship.

It is the only artwork I recall from my first ever trip to the MoMA. That’s it, that’s all. I remember being enveloped by its size and intoxicated by its rich red color. I stayed with it for an awkwardly long time and its impact remains the same years after our first encounter. It remains somewhat of a pilgrimage. I visit it at least twice a year. I could walk to its exact location blindfolded. I dread the day the MoMA puts it in cold storage.