A journal for storytelling, arguments, and discovery through tangential conversations.
Thursday, January 23, 2025
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Public Parking
Public Parking Publication is delighted to announce the participants involved in our editorial residency for 2025. For this program, we aim to work with thinkers who are adjacent to or outside the realm of the arts as part of Public Parking’s ongoing efforts to broaden the scope of ideas we feature and the communities we reach. This project invites guest editors to be residents with the publication over an extended 12-month period. Throughout this time they will work with our team to publish a series of either self-written or programmed texts. Previously we've hosted eunice bélidor, Tammer El-Sheikh, and Amy Fung. This year, we are very happy to welcome Nasrin Himada and Shiv Kotecha.
Wednesday, January 22, 2025
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Emilie Tamtik
The following short story is a companion piece to my short film DATUM. The film examines salt, the mineral on which the human body runs and upon which human trade and civilization is built. Interestingly, the main export of salt mines is road de-icing salt, which would render the mine obsolete if climate warms to the point that we no longer need road salt. The salt mine is an underground space of extraction entangled with predicting the conditions of the above ground. Set in an ambiguous future past, I imagine the retired salt mine overtaken by servers of a climate archive operation—DATUM (Decryption of Atmo-Temporal Umbra Megafacility). Originally, the facility’s aim was to turn databases of climatological data into accurate weather predictions, but once weather became fundamentally unpredictable, the facility began to use its 4D climatological simulation theatres to reenact vignettes of past climates. Secular pilgrims looking to connect with the irretrievably lost could retrieve their retroscopes here.
Friday, January 17, 2025
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Gabrielle Willms
After spending time with Natalie Baird and Toby Gillies, your attention starts to shift. Suddenly, you’re attuned to small moments and encounters. What might seem mundane – a conversation with a stranger, a discarded offering on the boulevard, the warm afternoon light – takes on an unassuming beauty. You start to suspect that everyone around you is secretly a delight, and they’d tell you a good story if only you’d ask. As artists and arts facilitators, Baird and Gillies bring a generosity to their work that’s infectious. In their world, ideas
abound in everyday life, and anyone can make art, even if they may not know it yet. In fact, the city is full of budding artists in unexpected places, tapping into their creativity under the duo’s gentle facilitation.
Friday, January 10, 2025
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Filip Jakab
Suppose that the most visceral and heart-wrenching kind of writing can purge you of suffering, cleanse your soul somehow. In the case of Ariana Reines’s writing, this is not merely a theory but an actual truth. To those unfamiliar with the force majeure of Ariana Reines I would say that her occult, intrepid, and soul-seeping writing is a modern spell. More than simply providing a way out of the perilous mess that we, the world, and our souls find ourselves in, Raines’s work serves as a proposal.
Ariana Reines, a Salem-born poet, playwright, and performing artist now based in New York, writes with an ancient and bleeding voice, deglamorizing contemporary poetry and writing at large.
Reines is the author of A Sand Book (2019)—winner of the 2020 Kingsley Tufts Award and longlisted for the National Book Award—Mercury, Coeur de Lion, and The Cow, which won the Alberta Prize from Fence in 2006.
Wednesday, January 8, 2025
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Tammer El-Sheikh
I spent a few days at Columbia University’s Rare Books and Manuscripts Library with the collected papers and correspondence of the late Palestinian-American literary scholar Edward Said (1935 – 2003). An errant scrap fell from one of the files. On it, Said made a list with the names of two of his love interests, and the costs and benefits of pursuing those relationships. One was white, and the other with ties to the Middle East. ‘Fitting-in’ with Said’s Anglo-Saxon academic set, on the one hand, and with his network of Palestinian and Lebanese colleagues, family, and friends on the other hand, was the main concern, as I recall. I didn’t photograph it so I can’t be sure. It seemed irrelevant, an odd bit of archival gossip, or worse, a diminishing look at the merely pragmatic reasoning of a giant of 20th century thought. But looking back on this intrusion of Said’s private, romantic life into the record of his professional one, that little piece of paper has steered my sense of his work as a critic of Orientalism in literature, policy, film, and occasionally art. His anxious exercise in family planning resonates with writing on the “affiliative bonds” amongst European and American experts on the Arab-Islamic world – on the way in which those bonds have constituted something like the authority of family relationships for white authors who regard the minds, customs, and bodies of Arabs as essentially, or “ontologically and epistemologically” distinct from those of Europeans.
Monday, December 30, 2024
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Michael Martini
It’s difficult to trace back 2024 in the arts. Perhaps it’s because the story of the year is so much better defined by movements in and around the arts rather than through the events of certain artworks. Perhaps it’s also because us artists have an admittedly warped sense of time. I’m not speaking figuratively of any a priori existentialism, but practically. In one sense, we tend to run on the professional/scholarly calendar rather than the traditional calendar. But also, us artists arrange ourselves in one year to be able to pay our rent the following year by applying for a project for five days three years from now. Well nonetheless, I will try to tell the story of 2024 in the arts. I will hyperlink some less-than-perfect sources, say from Instagram rather than the CBC, but I have good reason. When it comes to certain news stories in the arts- cough, cough, stories related to pro-Palestinian activism- stories did not just fly under the radar of mainstream news, but it seems the radar was deliberately moved. Money was sparse in 2024. The inflation crisis and its preeminent feature, the housing crisis, renovated the financial reality of many artists and cultural workers. A coffee in the dingiest café now costs twice as much as it did a couple years ago, and rent for the dingiest of studio apartments all the same. Combined with notoriously newsworthy rejections rates for public funding grants, many artists found themselves in cross-organizational brainstorms, mutualization support groups, or filling out fix-me surveys from arts councils.
Saturday, December 21, 2024
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Marisa Gallemit
I rarely remember my dreams, but when I do they are fantastical. My dreams are exceptionally vivid or banal but somehow revelatory. Sometimes I dream of my late parents and I choose to believe that they are letting me know they are keeping an eye on things.
While working for decades as a server/bartender, my sleep cycle regularly included a specific stress dream. Unwelcome and unpleasant, my colleagues called it a “waitermare.” Typically this dream would feature a scenario wherein I navigate spectacular obstacles to complete a service-related task. For example, I attempt to cross a busy multi-lane highway with a tray full of drinks or I am made to snake through an enormous, pulsing crowd with hot plates piled up and down both arms, searching for my section. Serving is taxing work which calls for physical and social hardiness over long hours. In all work, as most of us know, the strain of full-time hours can bleed into even the sanctuary of REM.
Wednesday, December 18, 2024
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Conor Williams
What we witnessed in 2024 was the culmination and confirmation of several cultural trends that began to come into focus in the early 2020s. In the plague year of 2020, over 350,000 Americans died from COVID-19. The World Health Organization estimated that over 3 million people died from COVID-19 worldwide that year. This pandemic, along with the murder of George Floyd, rocked the United States and the world into uprising. The following year was marked by an uprising from the other side–a violent far-right insurrection at the U.S. Capitol, encouraged by President Donald Trump. The next few years under President Joe Biden felt–at least for a while–eerily normal, but this normalcy was merely an illusion. While the political establishment applauded the restoration of democratic norms, culture continued to move rightward.
Thursday, December 5, 2024
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Adrienne Huard
“When you’re doing corpse paint, do you go over the mustache or not…?” Justin Bear L’Arrivée laughs amongst a group of BIPOC metalheads. We were all getting ready for the evening’s events at a table in the back of Urban Shaman Contemporary Aboriginal Art’s gallery space in Winnipeg’s Exchange District, where Justin acts as Artistic Director. The exhibition is titled “Warpaint,” a solo show by Swampy Cree, Dene, and Mennonite artist Brianna Wentz. Everyone at the table (save Justin and Laura Lewis, another incredible Winnipeg artist) modelled for Brianna back in 2022 in preparation for this exhibition: she invited a group of BIPOC women, gender-diverse, and queer metalheads to be photographed for her large-scale painted portraits. Her concerns, among many BIPOC women, gender-expansive, and queer metalheads, punks, and alt-goths, are that we have experienced the ongoing intersections of racism and heteropatriarchy within these music scenes that have been touted to be “anti-establishment” and “anti-status quo.”
Tuesday, December 3, 2024
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Austen Villacis
Jo-ey Tang’s curatorial practice is difficult to describe; words tend to sneak around a corner just as I become aware of their presence. If I had to describe it in three, far from singular ways, I would say Tang's practice embodies slowness, centers artists and their works, and tends to turn host institutions inside out, exposing the internecine and externalized methods and processes of contemporary exhibition-making. Tang began his career as an arts editor for the literary magazine, n+1 and photography editor for Condé Nast before earning his MFA in Studio Art from NYU in 2011. During grad school, he worked as The Notary Public to organize exhibitions and other programs out of his NYC apartment. He would go on to curate exhibitions for Palais de Tokyo in Paris, the Beeler Gallery at Columbus College of Art & Design, Columbus (CCAD), and most recently, KADIST in San Francisco, among others.
Tuesday, November 19, 2024
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Madeline Bogoch
I ran into Alexis Auréoline at an art opening a few months before conducting this interview. As we got to talking, he revealed that his favourite ice cream flavour was French Vanilla, with an emphasis on the distinction—it had to be French. I was amused by this choice, but later, after having had the pleasure of sitting down with Auréoline to discuss his work— which is similarly subtle and precise—I consider this preference to be essentially on brand.
Auréoline is a Francophone Métis artist working across photography, painting, and frottage. He is perhaps best known for his large-scale cyanotypes—a cameraless photographic technique that involves treating the canvases with light-sensitive chemicals and allowing the image to slowly develop as the surface is exposed to UV rays. Patterns emerge across Auréoline’s art practice.
Saturday, November 16, 2024
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Danny King
It’s a testament to Kazik Radwanski’s faculties as a cinematic storyteller that his two most emotionally resonant movies are arguably the ones in which human faces hardly appear. The seven-minute Cutaway (2014) and the 15-minute Scaffold (2017) form a remarkable diptych of psychological implication and physical detail, portraying construction-worker protagonists whose visages remain unseen. Cutaway focuses on its hero’s dirt-caked hands as he grasps various power tools, applies tape to a cut on his palm, and responds to texts from a pregnant friend. Radwanski could have layered an explanatory score over these images, but he sticks to the mundane sounds: the whine of the machinery, the hum of an ultrasound appointment. Scaffold might not deal with a plight as life-altering as this, but in depicting the house renovation work of a pair of recent immigrants to Canada, it reaches similarly insightful heights through its curation of tactile gestures. As the men attend to their duties, peeling away walls and climbing ladders, their chitchat emanates from off-screen. They delicately negotiate their dynamic with the widowed homeowner who hired them, fielding her complaints about dust and weighing whether it’s OK to use her bathroom.
Thursday, November 14, 2024
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Hannah Strauss
Diyar Mayil is a sculptor who lives in Montreal and is originally from Istanbul. This is an incomplete list of materials found in her work: cherry wood, silicone, ceramic, salt, brass, battery-operated motor, latex, glass, gold, raw silk, aluminum, hair, velvet, satin, PVC, rubber. Most of her sculptures take the form of household objects and are titled to reflect this: “Dustpan”, “Medicine Cabinet”, “Mop”. They are tables, clocks, beds, brushes, books. Sometimes these objects get put into motion in performances. Although they are, in contour, ordinary objects, Diyar’s sculptures are designed to be weird: the mop is made of glass, a 10-foot-long wood and fibre brush sits on the floor of the gallery with the affect of a slug or a crocodile, a table’s fleshy palette makes it repellant rather than inviting. This push and pull between known and new, comfort and disturbance, is central to Diyar’s work and how she talks about it.
Tuesday, October 15, 2024
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Petra Bibeau
In 2018 José Freire of Team Gallery announced through Artnet that he was “quitting art fairs” citing the corporatization of the art world. Degrowth, as it has been proposed to western markets and production is a clear plan, it’s the psychology that cripples its application in a growth-based society.
Over the past year multiple significant New York galleries that have been in business for over 10 years have announced closures. These announcements come via social media as clients, dealers, and artists all take part in adding a “thank you”, broken heart emoji, or a preemptive “looking forward to the next chapter”.
Tuesday, October 8, 2024
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C.M. Crockford
The aftereffects of violent deeds – abuse, genocide, sexual assault, extractions of labour, property, and resources – travel through time and space. Neuroepigenetics researcher Isabelle Mansuy suggests, “adverse extreme experiences in childhood can modify the body so much that it can have imprints or traces even in reproductive cells.” These acts burrow inside human DNA strands, and our descendants may never escape their echoes. When it comes to music, chord progressions, notes, and melodies linger as well, finding their way back into the current moment, as if to confirm Carlo Rovelli’s observation of Newton’s laws: “there is no distinction between past and future.” The notion of history as a single linear progression, where post-Enlightenment thinking liberates the modern human from dull, bloody violence and “savagery,” is a grim joke, and one thing modern art does is serve as a counter-argument to this subtle, unacceptable tyranny.
Wednesday, October 2, 2024
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Georgia Phillips-Amos
In the YouTube caption to her music video “Stick of Gum,” the Palestinian-Canadian recording artist Nemahsis (Nemah Hasan) tells her audience it’s a love song: “what more can I care for than where I come from and who I come from?” The tempo of the song and video builds gradually. The opening frame is an intimate scene of the musician sitting beside an older female relative on a balcony in Jericho. As the camera pulls back, a web of laundry lines on the roof comes into view, and Hasan joins in taking down the socks and dish towels.
Thursday, September 26, 2024
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Tammer El-Sheikh
The Belleville Club at 210 Pinnacle St. is closed, but I’m two weeks late for S’s celebration of life here anyway. I found a dive bar around the corner to sit down and get this started. There’s a small pile of thick dust beside my tall glass of Coke, but the spill on the first table I tried was still tacky, so I think I made the right choice. I wonder if S was ever here. I wonder how many times he walked across one of Belleville’s old bridges or posted up underneath them for teenage misadventures. He grew up in this town, and he’s probably buried here too. Had I arrived on time I would know, but I’m bad at this. I’m not sure how to mourn, but my attempt is permitted at this table.
Sunday, September 22, 2024
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Keli Safia Maksud
Since moving to New York a few years ago, my mornings have become about keeping time or being on time. I wake up at 6:00am, go to the gym at 7:00am, get back home at 8:00am, shower at 8:10am, drink a cup of coffee 8:30am, get ready at 8:45am, and leave my apartment at 9:15am. I walk the same route each morning turning left once I am out the house, then a slight right at the end of the road and then left again where I finally arrive at the subway station ten minutes later. These walks to the subway station are mindless, a kind of muscle memory that moves my body from my apartment to the train. Even on the days when I am running late, my body drives into autopilot picking up my walking pace so I can make it on time. Yet, each year around spring, my time keeping is disrupted by what often seems like a sudden appearance of a rosebush in full bloom. Suddenly time slows down as I stop to look at these roses, to witness this rebirth. Without fail, I always attempt to take a picture of these roses – an attempt that’s filled up my camera roll over the years – and then I stare at them in awe for a few minutes before moving on. As I walk away, I wonder how I don’t remember anything about my walks to the station or even this street that I’ve walked down for the past months up until this moment when the earth feels like it’s coming back to life again.
Wednesday, September 18, 2024
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Will Buckingham
“The body decays, the mind follows it,” Zhuangzi said. “Can you deny this is a great sorrow? This is how human life is: is it always this bewildering?”
The word Zhuangzi uses for “bewildering” is máng. The character — 芒 — represents the awn of a head of grass. It is the hazy bristle, the beard you find on a stalk of barley. I think of a field of barley shimmering in the breeze, the air becomes indistinct. I think of how you can’t see the precise boundaries where the barley stops and the air begins. There is fuzz, confusion, softness.
Life is máng, and death, too, is máng. Both stages of life are profusion and complexity, entanglement and mess; both bewilderment and blur, like the awn at the end of a stalk of barley. How can you tell where the joins are?
And if, as Zhuangzi says, there is great sorrow here, the sorrow is not that of despair. It is closer to uncertainty, a puzzlement in the face of the fact that life and death are so damned hard to pin down. Zhuangzi, contemplating life and death, asks: “How is it only me who is bewildered?” Then he pushes his perplexity further still, asking, “Are there any others who are not bewildered?”
Thursday, September 12, 2024
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Alana Traficante
Summer last year artist Simon Fuh built a custom speaker stack, made one failed attempt, and then a successful one, moving the speakers out to the banks of Toronto’s urban ravine system for an all-night rave. The rave was to follow in the lineage of a series of studio parties he threw in his hometown, Regina, in 2019, and SUGARLOAF, a party he organized under the Bloor Viaduct in Toronto, with Pumice Raft in 2022. The night of the first attempt, following an infamous rainout, he and friends moved the speakers back to his shared studio in The PATH—an underground pedestrian walkway that links towers in Toronto’s financial district and various downtown tourist attractions—and instead, a dozen friends came by for a spontaneous party.
Tuesday, September 10, 2024
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Katherine Williams
“Almost all things beckon us to feeling, and turnings send wind-messages,” wrote poet Rainer Maria Rilke. “Who tallies what we do? Draws us away from the old abandoned years?”
To tally––in other words, to compute––is a particularly finite act. It precludes being, produces mere information, and deals in the discrete and the objective. It processes those former years, that “everything,” as an object of data and deduction. What we do, however, is quite un-computable; it is those old abandoned years that we remember, at once a collection and a collecting, a process in flux rather than a stable object. It is a past and a present, or a present attendance to the past. In this, it bears much resemblance to an archive. When we turn to the images and inscriptions that the archive preserves, there remains a sense of semantic openness––these murmurings of ephemera seem to hint at their own significance. However, an expansive archive is bound when subject to this dutiful tallying. The “everything” is indexed in eternal storage, unable to be forgotten––to compute and catalogue is to tame it. Perhaps there are alternative ways of being with the archive that gesture toward something beyond registration, reference, and historicity.
Courtney Stephens is not a computer. Her films resemble a more oblique notion of histories and presences, of pieces and wholes. Working between nonfiction and experimental forms, her work follows threads of geography, memory, and other mediations; archival footage often leads the inquiry
Thursday, September 5, 2024
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Maude Johnson
Everyone has a different perspective and tolerance to workload. My vision of the art world has changed over the ten years I’ve been contributing to it. While it has a lot of positive aspects (or else I wouldn’t work in this field), I feel like it is based on idealized beliefs and unhealthy work ethics. If you’re employed by an institution, you’re expected to work full-time and visit exhibitions/attend openings in the evenings or weekends. There isn’t a lot of flexibility in terms of schedule and the pay rarely makes it possible to work part-time. I always had a good work capacity, but it led to a lot of stress layered in my body. I wasn’t very aware of the consequences that this could have on my mental health and in the fall of 2019, after a busy year of work, I burnt out. Five years later, I’m not sure if I fully recovered from it.
Wednesday, August 28, 2024
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Nic Wilson
I know a lot of things about Audie Murray. I’m not sure how much of it is relevant to her art practice. I know her brother works on trucks in his spare time and I know what high school she went to. She has told me about her dreams. I know her child’s name and how she takes her coffee. I know how her kitchen is arranged and what is in the fridge: Babybel cheese, firm tofu, and at least three varieties of berries. She told me that when she is depressed and the idea of cooking food is unimaginable, she eats cubes of tofu with nutritional yeast. It is also one of her son’s favourite things to have for lunch. I often wonder how much I can know about someone’s art based on being friends with them. Murray grew up on Treaty Four land in oskana kâ-asastêki (also known as Regina, SK). She is a Contemporary Cree-Métis artist with community connections in Lebret and Meadow Lake.
Tuesday, August 20, 2024
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Pychita Julinanda
In Indonesian, we have an idiom to describe a person like Riksa Afiaty: kecil kecil cabe rawit. Kecil means small. Cabe rawit is a type of chili that really stings. The idiom means to describe a small person who has an astounding energy and capabilities not to be underestimated because of their small figure. Riksa talks for hours during the interview, with almost nothing to be left unmentioned, and could go on for even longer if she didn’t have to run on other errands. I met Riksa for the first time at KUNCI Study Forum & Collective, a place where we often warmly gather. I was visiting Yogyakarta, and for the first time I got to know the people in the city’s arts scene. She hosted me in her house, and that was where the magic happened. She and Theodora Agni, her partner-in-crime, hosted me so well, and they listened well to my concerns when we talked for hours about the contemporary arts scene. I didn’t know how accomplished they both were, and I surely hadn’t known a lot of Riksa’s curatorial track record until I thought I should be in conversation with her.
Thursday, August 15, 2024
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Shazia Hafiz Ramji
I like white paintings, and this gives me anxiety. Kazimir Malevich. Robert Ryman. Michael Buthe. These makers of white paintings are synonymous with high art made by white men in the tradition of minimalism that has come to be regarded as pretentious, elitist, and transcendent. What does it mean for a racialized queer woman like me to like white paintings? I was recently reading the poet Kazim Ali’s new and selected works, Sukun, and was relieved to find that he too likes white paintings, specifically those by Agnes Martin, the Saskatchewan-born, Vancouver-raised, America-educated artist known for her “grids” – large square-shaped canvases primarily featuring horizontal lines.
Monday, August 12, 2024
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Laura Demers
A milky, earthy aftertaste lingers in my mouth. An egg-sized lump of fresh butter sits in the palm of my hand, roughly enveloped in bark and moss and zealously held together by twine. My bundle is ready to be buried in the mire. Hamilton-based artist and curator Maria Simmons creates and nurtures sculptural installations that function as living ecosystems unto themselves. Last January, we had a chance to reconnect during a bog butter workshop and tasting, which Simmons hosted as part of a series of food-based artistic interventions presented by the Creative Food Research Collaboratory. Gathered around simple foods — bread and butter — we sampled the artist’s bog-aged Lactantia® and created our own butter vessels to re-embed in the muskeg come springtime.
Tuesday, August 6, 2024
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Ainsley Johnston
Preservation has two meanings: keeping something of value intact, protected, and free from decay, or, alternatively, preparing food for future use by preventing spoiling. To preserve ideas, things, and places is to slow the passing of time to maintain their original state. Preserving food, however, is to transform it. For example, through fermentation, food can be preserved via a metabolic process that generates new products from sugars through the absence of oxygen and the introduction of microbes. Static or active: to embalm or to pickle. The act of preserving spaces and objects is historically that of the embalmer, but, in a zymology of architecture, fermentation transforms them anew. In 2019, I worked in an architectural archive, where sketch models, material experiments, drawings, furniture prototypes, books, and artworks lined three floors of wood and acrylic vitrines: a wunderkammer of “waste products” of the architectural process. Inoperable windows and blinds were permanently drawn. I envisioned the contents of the archive fermenting, ideas and concepts transforming as people extracted new possibilities from the leftovers of architectural thinking.
Wednesday, July 31, 2024
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Gabrielle Willms
Owen Toews’s debut novel Island Falls (2023) is hard to describe. Half tale of unfolding friendship, half clinical report of a segregated mill town in the Canadian prairies, the enigmatic text plays with genre and form, raising questions about how space is produced and contested. The result is both charming and unsettling. Characters wrestle with how to respond to the violent structures that surround them and never really figure it out. In the end, we’re left to ponder the thorny relationship between trying to make sense of things and actually creating something better. Overall, the effect is galvanizing. Toews invites the reader to join him in the murk by asking timely political questions without prescribing answers.
Wednesday, July 24, 2024
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Chigbo Arthur Anyaduba
If there’s ever such a thing as a national character, Nigeria’s must certainly and unarguably be the bombast. To describe it in Nigerian: the bombast is that figure of ostentatiousness, affected magniloquence, a la-di-da of pomposity, full of jaw-breaking verbism and mouth-tearing prolixism. This figure by its manner and act is the victorious hero in a drama of the excess. Be it in its language use, its gestures, its carriage, its aura, its gastronomic exertions, its gait, and so forth, it’s all about immoderation—that surplus of sound and act. Bombasticism is the protagonist of just about any facet of the Nigerian society—politics, economics, religion, popular culture, education—a reason I believe it’s become the quintessential Nigerian character: at least of the contemporary time.
Tuesday, July 16, 2024
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Su-Ying Lee
Amy Ching-Yan Lam and I look over the menus at a packed cha chaan teng (Hong Kong-style diner) in Markham, a suburb of Toronto. In the background are sounds of clattering dishware and Cantonese conversations. People are crowded into the small entryway as they eagerly await a table, glancing at diners who might be finishing up their meals. The energy in here is frenetic, but not unpleasant. Lam speaks Cantonese. I don’t. In this setting, the language conveys ease and maybe belonging, but is not required for ordering our midday meal. Descriptions of the dishes are written in Traditional Chinese (as it would be in Hong Kong) and in English (as it sometimes would be in the former British colony). Customers are guided by numbered pictures. The plastic-coated menu presents us with glossy photos of classics like pineapple bun sandwiches, baked meat and cheese casseroles served over rice, and instant noodles with a list of add-ins—the original fusion foods.
