The models emerged one by one from a cavern of white walls with  floor lights, illuminating them from underneath. The designs floated down the runway as the models waltzed into a crowd of friends, families, and fellow fashion-loving students. 

Circle of Fashion is a club at McGill that centres around all things fashion, focusing on encouraging students’ fashion interests and creating a community around those interested in self expression through clothing. COF’s guiding mission is to be a space “where students can express their fashion creativity.” The club was founded in 2022 by Manon Ashida and has seen exponential growth in the last two years. COF now has an expansive executive team, a podcast, and events every semester including clothing swaps and pop-up markets. Additionally, COF publishes a print magazine, Pamplemousse, every semester, along with regular additions to their online blog. 

COF also puts on a biannual fashion show. No two are alike, with each show featuring different locations and designers. Last year’s fall fashion show took place at Montreal’s  Olympic swimming pool, while the Winter 2024 show was presented in a gorgeous, gothic church, Chapelle Notre Dame de Bon Secours, located in Old Montreal. The show on November 1 had an air of professionalism and shared vision that permeated the evening. Their dedication to the production value and to creating an all-encompassing, intentional experience made it all the more enjoyable to watch. There is something special about a group of students not only conceptualizing, but actualizing an evening where designers, students, and fashion enthusiasts alike can come together and celebrate storytelling through fashion.  

The materials and silhouettes were the stars of the show. Crocheted knits, buttons, silks, and flowing chiffon jumped off the runway. Viewers couldn’t help but appreciate the intricate skills and craftsmanship these students and artists poured into their creations. Floral motifs and micro-mini styles dominated the evening. Each collection had its own unique flavour, reflecting the personal style of the designers. Whether it was through colour palettes, styling, or the persona they wanted their models to embody, each artist conveyed their distinct and powerful visions. 

The thread connecting all the showcased collections is the showrunners’ obvious passion for creating and designing. The show concluded with a collection that directly reflected the ambiance of the sophisticated setting. Francis Hoang’s collection was filled with three stunning all-white looks that seemed to glide down the runway. In an Instagram post about his vision, Hoang said that he wanted his designs to have a certain “flowiness,” emulating “air, leaves falling, water […] something that moves elegantly.” 

This evening wasn’t just about the clothing, it was also about the storytelling, theatricality, and performance that comes with putting on a runway show. Some models didn’t just walk through the space – they played a character. Their approach called to mind models like Leon Dame who walk with a certain persona in mind. 

On behalf of The McGill Daily, we spoke with model Max Freedman and designer Olivia Dunkley to get a full picture of what the COF show was like from behind the scenes. 

Freedman, first-time model but long-time lover of fashion, was one of the first models to walk. “It was a little nerve-wracking as I have never done anything like that before,” Freedman noted. Despite these nerves, when asked to summarize the experience in three words, Freedman described it as “exciting, collaborative, and new.” Amidst a post-midterm frenzy, the show was a welcome creative outlet for Freedman. 

Dunkley, a returning designer, shared her experience being backstage during the show saying, “The environment is really fun and [it] allows people who are interested in fashion and clothing to come together.” 

Overall, Circle of Fashion’s Fall 2024 show was a celebration of student craftsmanship, uplifting artistic interests that fall outside the scope of school and coursework. The experience was one of collaboration and symbiosis: the designers were able to showcase their creations while attendees had the joy of getting dressed up for an evening out. The COF team created an unforgettable evening that is sure to have a lasting impact.

If you want to keep up with Circle of Fashion, you can follow them on Instagram @circleoffashionmcgill.

The post McGill’s Circle of Fashion Is a Wheel of Artistry appeared first on The McGill Daily.

November 7 marks eight years since the death of this wonderful poet, singer, and ladies’ man. On September 21, I had the lovely opportunity to celebrate Cohen’s ninetieth birthday at a special event held by The Word Bookstore. Guest speaker and biographer Christof Graf gave a talk entitled “Memories of Leonard Cohen,” during which he shared his experiences accompanying Cohen backstage at his concerts. Graf described himself as a fan “addicted to Cohen,” lucky to have the opportunity to interview Cohen throughout his career and eventually write several books about him. During the talk, Graf provided a detailed account of Cohen’s life here, saying that “Cohen is intrinsically connected to Montreal; he is built into the very fabric of the city.” Audience members were also invited to share their memories of the singer. Though my friends and I were too young to contribute, it was extremely eye-opening to hear from people who had seen him in concert as far back as 1966. Some attendees had even been in Montreal long enough to remember when Cohen would walk up St. Laurent for his daily breakfast bagel, waving hello to his neighbours and to those who recognized him on the streets. 

In the weeks since I attended this celebration, I have spent a frankly absurd amount of time listening to Cohen’s music and reflecting on the legacy of love he has left behind in Montreal. It feels like his ghost is following me wherever I go: walking down the Plateau, where he used to live; going to English classes in the Arts building, where he used to study; even writing this article for The McGill Daily, where he used to contribute. It is impossible for me to separate my experiences in this city from his. 

Part of why I am so submerged in Cohen’s legacy at the moment is because I’ve spent half of my semester analyzing his writing for a class on Canadian poetry. I was reintroduced to “Suzanne,” a song I knew and loved long before I knew anything about its singer. As I heard him sing the lyrics softly into my earphones for the hundredth time, I realized that Cohen himself had put into words what I’d been feeling for him: “She shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers / There are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning / They are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever / While Suzanne holds the mirror.” 

Cohen’s poetry is a way for me to reflect on my relationship with Montreal. The more I read and hear from him, the more I feel my bond with this city strengthening. Though his work is rarely explicitly about Montreal, those who have lived here can easily identify what he’s talking about – “our lady of the harbour” in “Suzanne,” images of downtown streets like St. Catherine sprinkled throughout Parasites of Heaven. It’s no wonder that the city is so proud to be known as Leonard Cohen’s hometown. 

“I feel at home in Montreal in a way that I don’t feel anywhere else,” Cohen shared with an interviewer in 2006. Similar to his nomadic lifestyle, I myself have moved around many cities over the course of 20 years, never quite feeling tied down to one particular place. Living in Montreal, however, I have made this place my home on my own terms. I’m sure most people who have moved here from another city would agree with me when I say that there’s something about Montreal that you can’t find elsewhere – whether it’s the people, the distinct subcultures, or the strong sense of local identity, it’s the kind of place that makes you want to stay forever. Cohen put it best when writing the introduction to The Spice-Box of Earth in 1961: “I have to keep coming back to Montreal to renew my neurotic affiliations.” 

Even as I continue romanticizing the city through the lens of Cohen’s work, however, I am careful not to romanticize the man himself. I know there is a lot we differ on in terms of political ideology, with much of it being a product of his time. His background as an upper-middle-class, Westmount-dwelling Montrealer is ultimately quite alien from my experience as an immigrant in Canada. What is important to me beyond these differences is that I am still able to learn more about myself through his work. Both his poetry and songwriting actively engage the audience, inviting them to question their own ideologies as they confront his. He is not interested in making his reader comfortable or catering to their tastes. He only wants us to face our own truths. To borrow Cohen’s words from his poem “What I’m Doing Here,” he is waiting for each one of us “to confess.” 

I’ll confess first: I love Leonard Cohen because I know we share the same love for a city far bigger than either of us. I can feel that love while listening to a song recorded in the 1960s, and I can feel it if I go for a walk down Rue Crescent  today. I can feel that love in the legacy he has left behind in Montreal every single day. 

The post Leonard Cohen Holds the Mirror appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Come for the viral demon carousel horse, and stay for the heart-wrenchingly beautiful love story. We Live in Time (2024) knits together the stories of Almut, a flourishing restaurateur, and Tobias, a drifting divorced Weetabix salesman. Their meet-crash (the first in romantic dramedy history, perhaps?) leads to a decade-long saga of enduring love that persists through both the monotony and the drama that life contains. The story is woven in a nonlinear fashion, apropos of the title itself. The film frames the macrocosms and microcosms of time found in ordinary life with heartbreaking grace and intimacy. Life-defining events – career milestones, birth, and death – are boiled down to the small moments that make them up. We experience the long minutes of waiting and false alarms in childbirth, the long minutes of waiting and difficult conversations in death. The film’s magic lies in the little scenes within Almut and Tobias’ life. While the chaotic birth scene in the petrol station was an equally horrific and a beautiful testimony of the goodwill of humanity, it is eclipsed by the quietly touching scene in the bathtub during Almut’s labour, in which she and Tobias share a comically large pack of Jaffa Cakes that sit atop Almut’s pregnant belly. The instant is delicate, intimate, and ordinary; we view these characters in their real lives, intruding on their shared moment. Interludes such as this place the most importance on the smallest memories in one’s life. Time is shown in all different sizes, from Tobias’ stopwatch counting labour contractions to the looming countdown at the biennial chef championship, the Bocuse d’Or. Time  intrudes into everyday conversations:

“Whether we like it or not, the clock is ticking.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Because I’m worried there’s a very distinct and real possibility that I am about to fall in love with you.”

Love is seen in its most desperate and revelatory moments; in its simplicity, served alongside eggs at breakfast; and in carefully choreographed and well-placed scenes of intimacy. 

In the hands of another production, Almut could have easily fallen into the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trap, dancing into Tobias’ doldrum life with her funky hair, spectacular omelets, casual bisexuality, and resolutely independent charm. Florence Pugh obstinately refuses that categorization, bringing incredible life and depth to the character. Almut is not defined by her relationship with Tobias – she has a deep history, defined goals, and is marked by her ambition and drive. Pugh grounds Almut’s headstrong spirit, however, allowing her equal moments of vulnerability and strength. The film’s central question of quality over quantity of time is most apparent in Almut’s recurrent battle with ovarian cancer, which she must face while attempting to balance her family and her career as a chef. Though she views her invitation to the Bocuse d’Or as the pinnacle of her culinary career, Almut’s competitiveness is backed not by selfish aims of obtaining money and fame, but by the desperate desire to leave behind a legacy that her daughter can be proud to claim. 

It is, I believe, objectively impossible for Andrew Garfield to be anything less than the most charming and lovable character in any film he stars in, with We Live in Time being no exception. Tobias joins a long line of Endearingly Nerdy and Bashful Boys who Wear Glasses (joined by Neil Perry, Milo James Thatch, and, of course, Peter Parker). Divorced, living with his father, and working at Weetabix, Tobias meets Almut when he needs her most (as the story always goes). While Almut is defined by her career, Tobias is defined by his unabashed love. He goes all-in on the relationship, accidentally scaring Almut with questions about raising children far too early. As Tobias and Almut fall in love with each other, the audience cannot help but fall equally in love with the two of them. 

Pugh and Garfield, as usual, wholly embody their characters in their signature modes of perfection. Pugh lends an earnestness and profound passion to Almut. Their shared love of food, particularly in how it creates connection and community, is a running theme throughout the film. Garfield embodies Tobias’ earnest love and devotion in an unobtrusive, yet firmly present manner, allowing Pugh to shine without getting lost in her shadow. However, at times, the characters felt slightly formulaic, with their traits and flaws feeling more like stock checklists for the audience to count on their fingers: 

Tobias: 

1. Is organized, devoted to his lists, and most thoroughly a Virgo (he and I are twin souls in this sense). 
2. Has anger management issues and occasional violent bursts of passion.
3. Prioritizes family over career ambitions.
4. Wears glasses (this is a defining character trait of his). 

Almut: 

1. Cooks (quite well).
2. Fights against feeling tied down or limited.
3. Defines her life success by her career achievements.
4. Has cool hair.

The film’s culminating tension falls into the standard trope of frustrating miscommunication and concealment. Almut attempts to hide her participation in the Bocuse d’Or, the stress of which may interfere with her chemotherapy treatment. Tobias cannot fathom her prioritization of her career over their family. The discord between their ideas of a “successful life” leads to one of Tobias’ characteristic outbursts of anger and a dramatic fight that seems to be a requirement for all romance movies. The film avoids overbearing melodrama, however, offering quick resolution and a patched relationship that makes the ending all the more heartbreakingly tragic.

While the film is not as revolutionary and wheel-reinventing as, say, Aftersun (2022), it derives its charm and power from its ordinariness. The emotions evoked feel familiar, delivered in a frame of warm colour and comfort. The events witnessed (except, perhaps, the international cooking competition and the incredible speed at which Tobias healed after being run over by a car) are both joyfully and painfully common. Though a more dramatic and gut-punching sequence could have aided in the final impact of the film, the ending is quietly devastating: as Almut gracefully skates away from her family, the agony is felt in what is unsaid. The audience is nonetheless banded together in their grief, sharing sobs as the soundtrack plays to the rolling credits.

The Daily gives We Live in Time 4.25 out of 5 stars.

The post A Love Letter to Time appeared first on The McGill Daily.

For the last five years Launière has been creating art in almost every field at a breakneck pace. In 2023 alone she: premiered her first album on Spotify, Taueu (“in the centre”); published her first book, Akutu (“suspended”); acted in a short film, Katshinau (“Dirty Hands”); and created two stunning (click the link, you’ll thank me later) visual art pieces, Takutatinau and Ninanamapalin – My Body is Trembling. 

In 2019, Launière founded her production company Auen Productions to “interweave the presence of the two-spirited body and experimental audiovisual while drawing inspiration from the cosmogony and sacred spirit of the animals of the Innu world and express a thought on silences and languages ​​through the body.” Launière has directed seven completed performance works so far, and she has another titled Takutauat on the way. 

Earlier this October, I attended a production of Launière’s latest work, a performance art piece titled Aianishkat (“One Generation to the Next”) at Agora de la Danse theatre. The show starred Launière, her mentor Rasili Botz, and her three-year-old daughter Maé-Nitei Launière-Lessard, bringing together three generations of Indigenous women to explore the process of intergenerational pedagogy. The first notes I took after leaving the show were: “Never before have I seen such beautiful hair,” “The child did everything right,” and “Merci, bon nuit.” 

I can’t call it “hairography” because that word would cheapen Launière’s use of hair in this performance. Nor can I leave it at “beautiful” because that would leave out the significance behind its use: Launière utilized her own and Botz’s hair to explore how both trauma and knowledge are passed down through generations. 

Aianishkat began with Botz alone on stage, carefully unwrapping a blanket to reveal chunks of cut black and brown hair, which she spread across the floor as if they were ashes. Then, while braiding her own hair, she fashioned the blanket into a makeshift basket and collected what hair had been thrown away. 

Fabric is integral to this piece; most of the props were either clothing or blankets, which the actors manipulated into different forms to serve a unique artistic purpose. Launière entered the stage shortly after Botz had finished cleaning the floor, carrying a basket of her family’s laundry and sitting down to fold the pieces in an orderly fashion. Her daughter soon joined her onstage. 

Prior to the performance, my friends and I debated how a toddler could participate in this piece. We wondered how a show could run orderly when one of the actors may not understand the concept of a script or cues. I was pleasantly surprised by how perfectly Launière’s daughter performed. Although her actions were, like any toddler’s, unpredictable and spontaneous, everything she did fell completely in line with the performance. Botz and Launière easily ran with the child’s improvisations, occasionally using wind-up toys to coax her back on stage if she wandered into one of the wings. Her sheer joy at accompanying her mother on a stage littered with interesting objects, sounds, and shapes delighted the audience. She not only added a lightness to the second half of the 90 minute show, but also an air of hope for the future. 

Prior to the work, the only performance art I’d seen was a “deconstructed” production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet performed at Toronto’s Young People’s Theatre. It was titled What if Romeo and Juliet… and had four actors each playing changing parts of the scenery from integral scenes in the original play. One actor played a fountain, squatting and flailing his arms. Someone else was a sword, standing on their tippy toes and pointing their fingers at the ceiling. Another actor played the floor.

It left a bad taste in my mouth when it came to the phrase “performance art.” The idea of a primarily improvised production, mainly told through movement instead of words, didn’t particularly interest me. After What if Romeo and Juliet…, I didn’t see how performance art could function well as a medium. 

Yet I became intrigued by Aianishkat as soon as the show lights came on, revealing Botz. I came to a realization about performance art 30 minutes later when all three actors were brought on stage together. The way they interacted was fascinating and told a story all on its own. I realized that nobody on stage was trying to act out a storyline – they were instead performing a truth. Through movement, they were acting out the process of intergenerational teaching. They visually embodied the struggle and perseverance that Indigenous communities have and continue to demonstrate in the fight to uplift their culture in the face of colonization. The power behind this performance stood in the unspoken bond between mentor and student, mother and daughter, artist and audience. 

Launière ended Aianishkat with the only spoken phrase of the performance, “Merci, bon nuit.” She said this with her daughter cradled in her arms, both waving goodbye to the audience and smiling. It didn’t feel right; I thought she should have said “you’re welcome,” because a “thanks” on my part was in order. 

We are all lucky to live so close to Launière’s work. Her next performance art piece, Takutauat, is still in production – updates regarding the time, place, and runtime will be available on her website, www.soleil-launiere.com. In the meantime, I’d implore any art lover in Montreal to treat themselves to one of her many art pieces available online including her book, visual artworks, and award-winning music on Spotify. You can also experience Launière in person at Mundial Montréal on November 19, the Marathon Festival aux Foufounes Électriques on November 20, and Cégep Saint-Laurent on November 29.

The post Soleil Launière: Montreal’s Must-See Multi-Disciplinary Artist appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The Substance, the visceral and stomach-churning body horror film written and directed by French filmmaker Coralie Fargeat, has been described by its star Demi Moore as “The Picture of Dorian Gray meets Death Becomes Her.” It tells the story of aging Hollywood actress Elizabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore) who gets fired on her 50h birthday for someone “newer,” and is offered a black market drug that turns her into a younger, more beautiful version of herself. In the preface to the aforementioned Oscar Wilde novel, he writes, “When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.” And Fargeat’s no-holds-barred approach to body horror – loaded with criticism of Hollywood’s ageism and beauty standards – is exactly how she dreamed it, regardless of whether or not audiences are ready for it. 

The main point of criticism viewers have for The Substance – aside from those who don’t really understand what “body horror” actually means and that it is, in fact, gross – is that the messaging is too relentless. But based on Fargeat’s meticulous script that includes  “as much detail as possible,” this is exactly the point. Every single aspect of the film, overt and subtle, had something to say about ageism and beauty standards in Hollywood, from the cinematography, to the casting, to the specific ways body horror was used. In doing so, Fargeat gives Hollywood a taste of its own medicine. 

 Immediately after watching The Substance, my first thought about Coralie Fargeat was, “this woman knows her film theory.” Unsurprisingly, she attended La Fémis, one of the most prestigious cinema schools in France. Fargeat’s facetious filmmaking challenges the way women have historically been represented in narrative cinema. Her use of fragmentation with the character of Sue (Margaret Qualley), the “younger, hotter” version of Elizabeth, is a direct reference to ideas about representing women first theorized in the 70s by Laura Mulvey. Mulvey argues that fragmented shots of the female body (eyes, boobs, butt, feet, lips, etc.) freeze “the flow of action for erotic contemplation” and present the female body as “mere verisimilitude,” embodying the possessive desire caused by castration anxiety from the male viewer. 

With Sue, Fargeat takes this history of Hollywood attempting to possess the female body by lingering on it, fragmenting it, and deconstructing it, rendering it completely absurd. In a scene where Sue is shooting an episode of her workout show, excessive zoom-ins, slow-mo, replays, and a grid of the shot showing her lips saying “Sue” a million times over garnered laughter from the audience – both genuine and uncomfortable. But it’s just a hyperbolic version of what cinema has been for over a century. The use of nudity serves a similar purpose: Qualley poses nude, lingers, and contemplates her own eroticism. Moore’s nudity is far less stylized: she is lying on the floor or leaning over the sink, unfragmented, unglamourous. 

There is only one male character in the entire film: Dennis Quaid’s scummy studio executive. The rigidity he represents is made all the more real by his constant proximity to the camera. He often enters from a distance and approaches the camera as if invading it. The use of a fisheye lens makes him even more confrontational of a presence. Quaid is also shot flatly and symmetrically, emphasizing the shallowness of his character. The “in-your-faceness” of the film is made literal by the cinematography – it is not a dialogue-heavy movie. It is all completely thought-out and audiences fall right into Fargeat’s well-trained hands whether they like it or not. 

Between films like Poor Things, Drive Away Dolls, and Kinds of Kindness, Margaret Qualley has enjoyed a year as the thriller genre’s new muse. Demi Moore, however, while unanimously popular in the 80s and 90s, hasn’t been in the spotlight for some time. In this way, both of these were stunt castings. Demi Moore was once the highest paid actress in the world, but her career waned immensely in the 2000s and 2010s, both because of her stepping aside to raise her three daughters and the scrutiny the media placed her under. “She’s been put through the media wringer throughout her 40-year career,” writes Richard Lyndon for Vanity Fair, “scrutinized and speculated about and cast aside.” 

In the late 90s and early 2000s, the rise of tabloid culture, beauty and plastic surgery fads, and the inception of the internet, caused a phenomenon of popular actresses either being cast away from the spotlight or getting procedures to look younger. Other actresses popular during the 80s and 90s who suffered immensely because of drastically changing and increasingly harsh media reception include Courtney Cox and Meg Ryan, whose plastic surgeries were moreso the result of external pressure than autonomous decisions, and were criticized heavily. 

However, actresses who have aged naturally are treated no better, Demi Moore included. Other actresses like Geena Davis and Glenn Close have struggled immensely with  getting roles since hitting 50. Moore falls more into this category, as does Elizabeth: her boss fires her exactly on her 50th birthday, sending her a syntactically devastating note on a bouquet of flowers: “you WERE great!,” in contrast with Sue’s congratulatory “you ARE great!” No woman is spared from agism in Hollywood. Fargeat, therefore, does not spare patriarchal Hollywood overlords for a second in The Substance. 

Messaging in The Substance is rivalled in explicitness only by the positively unhinged body horror. Many claimed The Substance to be one of the grossest movies they’ve ever seen, but there was no better genre choice in my eyes to convey Fargeat’s message. Aging, in its simplest terms, is getting nearer to death, a physical transformation that transgresses inside and outside, alive and dead. This is called abjection, a tenet of literary criticism theorized by feminist cultural philosopher Julia Kristeva, and is the subconscious recognition of one’s own mortality brought about by the transgression between the inside and outside of the body, the self and the other. 

Women’s bodies are no stranger to inside-outside transgression and are far more subject to abjection. Between menstruation, childbirth, penetrative sex, birth control, menopause, and all the other daily horrors we experience, we come face to face with the limits of our corporeality on the regular – more than men will ever have to. As Sue becomes more and more abusive of the Substance, she becomes more and more abject. A nightmare sequence shows her back opening up to spill out all her organs, she has to pull a whole chicken wing out of her belly button during rehearsal for her show, and at the end, when she attempts to take full control and not switch back with Elizabeth, her teeth and ears begin to fall off. 

When Sue decides to use the single-use Substance to create yet another version of herself, she turns into the horrifying conglomeration of blood and body parts “Mostro Elisasue.” The elements of her body that transgress inside and outside are extremely purposeful. At one point, an orifice from the monster (an ear? A mouth? Something else perhaps?) opens, producing a lone untethered breast. Here, Fargeat takes a part of Sue that was once for erotic contemplation and renders it a tool for disgust. Aging, despite being a privilege, can still be physically arduous. The idea of trying to counter aging is just as gruesome: the injection of the Substance, including all the needles and stitches, are the parts of real anti-aging procedures we don’t see, and that we only judge the results of.   

Every detail of The Substance being considered “too in your face” by audiences isn’t just missing Fargeat not taking herself too seriously, it’s also missing the irony. The “in-your face-ness” of everything on the internet – every post on social media, every pop culture trend, the mere concept of “influencers,” is all about how to be more beautiful, how to look younger, and buy all these products. But when Fargeat uses that exact same method of saturating the screen with all this visual pathos – this time to comment on the horror of ageism and beauty standards – that’s when something being too overt is criticized.  

The Substance itself is a metaphor for these trends that we see everywhere: Ozempic, trending surgeries like BBLs, buccal fat removal, eye lifts – it’s all body horror. It’s all injections, removals of flesh, the splicing off of excess, putting it elsewhere, things entering our bloodstreams. Aging, too, is bodily decay. One, however, is natural, a privilege even, and is only treated as such when it happens to men. Fargeat’s film may be outlandish, but in this case, as in many, the more impossible and hyperbolic the scenario, the clearer the picture it paints of the body horror women undergo every second, whether at the hands of time or of the world around us.

The post Age, Abjection and Angles in The Substance appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I can guarantee that this heartwarming documentary will make you laugh and make you cry – sometimes at the same time. Self-proclaimed “greatest actor in the world” Will Ferrell embarks on a roadtrip across the United States alongside long-time friend Harper Steele in an adventure brimming with smiles, tears, and truly inspiring displays of emotional intimacy. Harper Steele, former head writer of Saturday Night Live, re-explores her favourite seedy diners, bars, and sports venues across the country – but this time post-transition. As she navigates these difficult spaces, Steele unravels her tangled thoughts and feelings every step of the way, leaning on Ferrell in what can only be described as one of the most beautiful displays of trust ever put to film. The documentary explores this duo’s friendship through a captivating mixture of Americana imagery, 70s radio hits, and masterful comedic interludes.

– Eliana Freelund, Culture Editor

VIDEO GAME – Life Is Strange (2015) by Dontnod Entertainment

It’s rare to find fantasy fiction that, while preserving the supernatural or futuristic, captures the dueling grittiness and whimsicality of the everyday world. It’s even rarer to find such “magical realism’” in video games. Set in the quiet coastal town of Arcadia Bay, Life Is Strange weaves a classic and beautifully rare story in a medium often maligned as ill-fitting for such a narrative. Max Caulfield’s journey through time and space is a fantasy epic, a mystery thriller, a coming-of-age tale, and a slice-of-life reflection all rolled around the beating heart of Max’s star-crossed love for her childhood friend, Chloe Price. Prepare for your heart to be ripped into a thousand pieces and reassembled into a chaotic jumble, by the storm at the centre of Max’s choices.

– Andrei Li, Sci+Tech Editor

BOOK – Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Riotous Black Girls, Troublesome Women, and Queer Radicals (2020) by Saidiya Hartman

Through a mix of historical research and close narration, Hartman spotlights intimate stories of “wayward” Black women in American history. She breathes life into torn photographs or scraps of police records that may have otherwise been forgotten, doing so with the grace of a seasoned archivist. “Part Three” of the book focuses extensively on the lives of queer Black women in 20th century America, shedding light on how Black women were experimenting with sexual freedom and queerness decades before white women were celebrated for doing the same. Every single young girl or woman in this book is written about with the utmost love and this love is what allows the modern-day reader to develop a closer relationship with past queer histories.

– Arismita Ghosh, Commentary Editor

FILM – The Birdcage (1996) directed by Mike Nichols

Alongside one of the most heartwarming and charming representations of queer joy, The Birdcage is a masterpiece in all aspects of filmmaking. Partners Albert (Nathan Lane) and Armand (Robin Williams), who own and perform at a Jewish drag club, must hastily play “straight” when their son, his new fiancée, and their staunchly conservative future in-laws decide to visit. The fact that this did not win Best Picture, Best Comedy, Best Leading and Supporting Actors, Best Cinematography, Best Writing, Best Set Design, Best Costuming, and/or Best Makeup at the Academy Awards is, in my opinion, absurd and frankly homophobic. As two of the defining comedic actors of their generation, Williams and Lane both bring their sheer talent and unapologetic devotion to their roles. The writing deftly weaves real issues of queer culture and acceptance into one of the funniest scripts in recent history, making The Birdcage a true star in both the oeuvre of queer film and the expanse of twentieth-century cinema entirely.

– Luxe Palmer, Copy Editor

TV Show – Interview With The Vampire (2022 – present) created by Rolin Jones

Based on the book of the same name by Anne Rice, the TV show Interview With The Vampire adapts Rice’s story to a modern setting. In 2022, journalist Daniel Molloy travels to Dubai to meet with the vampire Louis de Point du Lac. Following up on a project they began 50 years ago, Louis recounts his life’s story to Molloy, which the latter plans to turn into a book. Louis’s story extends across America and Europe, describing his romance with his maker Lestat, his frustration with the overt racism of 1910s New Orleans, and his familial bond with teenage vampire Claudia.

– Emma Bainbridge, Coordinating Editor

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It was clear that the opening of this festival struck a chord with a variety of attendees. The audience hung onto every word as Massimadi staff, event organizers, and sponsors gave heartfelt speeches encapsulating the importance of their work. One organizer ended their speech with inspiring words of gratitude: “Thank you for allowing people to breathe, to be able to shout through the works that their life matters, that their existence matters, that their feelings matter, that their dreams matter and that their culture can be a means of expressing their personality.” The opening words spoken at the festival drove home the message of what it means to have the courage to persist.

Massimadi ultimately strives to celebrate the achievements of the LGBTQ+ African community at large. Described by its founders as “Canada’s premier festival celebrating LGBTQ+ Afro cinema and arts,” the Massimadi Festival positions queer African excellence front and centre. Film, music, and the visual arts all come together during this festival to weave complex, multi-faceted stories of strength and persistence across a diverse emotional spectrum. Their website describes their mission statement as aiming to “encourage and highlight the cultural contribution of Afro LGBTQ+ artists by promoting the arts through multidisciplinary events.”

The festival’s origins lie in the 2002 project Arc-en-ciel d’Afrique, which aimed to provide members of African and Caribbean communities with health and social services. Over the next 17 years, this organization would work alongside the first World Outgames in Montreal, lead awareness campaigns for queer Afro- Caribbean rights in Quebec, and foster relationships with the International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission. Arc-en-ciel d’Afrique persists through the Massamadi Foundation today, using “art and culture to combat discrimination while encouraging and highlighting the cultural contributions of Afro LGBTQ+ artists.” The Massamadi Festival creates a space for visibility, using the elements of creative expression inherent in visual art to shine a light on the stories of queer African artists.

As President Laurent Lafontant explains, “Our suffering transforms into beauty in creation, allowing the community to transcend and overcome its traumas.” The newest iteration of the Massimadi Festival faces these words head on. Celebrating 16 editions since its beginnings in 2009, the fall 2024 festival’s title tells all: Renaissance et Résilience (Rebirth and Resilience). After hearing the heart-warming speeches from

Massimadi’s founders and sponsors, these themes of rebirth and resilience stood out all the more. President Laurent Lafontant, general manager Naomie Caron, and communications manager Chiara Guimond, among many others, all spoke beautifully about what Massamadi means to them, as well as the legacy of the foundation going forward.

2024 marks the first year that a $1,000 prize will be given to the top- scoring film presented during the festival. This reward could not be more well-deserved, as all 15 films selected to screen at Massimadi this year merit both critical and financial recognition. Films such as M.H. Murray’s I Don’t Know Who You Are (2023), Merle Grimm’s Clashing Differences (2023), and Simisolaoluwa Akande’s The Archive: Queer Nigerians (2023) each take a touching, beautifully varied approach to the theme of rebirth and resilience. One of the films that stood out to me the most was the hauntingly beautiful Drift (2023), directed by Anthony Chen.

Screened on the opening night of the festival, Drift follows Jacqueline (Cynthia Erivo), a young Liberian woman living on the beach of a Greek island. The traumas of her violent past cyclically plague her, trapping Jacqueline in an echo chamber of horrors until she begins to bond with tour guide Callie (Alia Shawkat). The film opens with a pair of footprints – implied to be Jacqueline’s – in the sand slowly being lapped away by waves, and ends with Jacqueline swimming in the sea, looking back at the camera with a newfound sense of strength. Massimadi’s themes of rebirth and resilience feature prominently in this work, making it the perfect choice to open the 16th edition of the festival. The tone of this year’s selection of films is best captured by the short poem featured in the “about” section of the foundation’s website:

Massimadi reflects us, 

Massimadi unites us,

Massimadi, it’s you, it’s us, 

Massimadi is family, 

Massimadi changes lives.

…

The following interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.

Naomie Caron, spoke with The McGill Daily on October 24, describing the process of planning the film festival, as well as the struggles and obstacles they have faced throughout the years. As a non-profit, the Massimadi Foundation staffs individuals passionate about accelerating its mission forward. The group arrived at their theme Renaissance et Résilience (Rebirth and Resilience) by first asking the question, “Where are we at as a society?” We learned more about Naomie’s experiences working with Massimadi, as well as the thought process behind the creation and organization of this year’s festival.

Eliana Freelund for The McGill Daily (MD): The theme this year was about visibility and recovering, rebirth and renewal. I noticed that a lot with the film that was presented last night, Drift, and it was really beautiful. Sena and I were both really touched by that film. I was wondering how you planned the theme for this year, and if there was any thought process behind this theme in particular. How did you arrive at the art you chose to represent it?

Naomie Caron (NC): We’re trying to see as a society, where are we at? With the Black Lives Matter Movement a few years ago, we were at a time where people needed to communicate their pain, suffering, and trauma — to fully let it out. We wanted people to tell the world what was happening. So of course, when everyone does that, it becomes a mess. There’s a lot of tension. People are simply letting things out without gauging the impact of their words. And so we thought it was important now to guide our community towards a better future, towards a healing process that allows you to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I think Drift really is one of those films that conveys this sentiment. You see the protagonist Jacqueline – she’s torn, she doesn’t want to communicate, she’s isolated. But as soon as she opens up and lets someone else into her world, we can already see this shift. We only tap into this idea at the last second when she’s swimming. To me, this scene represents the metaphor of rebirth. She jumps into the ocean, and stays underwater for a long time. We see her breaths beneath the surface, and finally, she comes up. I have tears just thinking about it. She comes out, finds her friend, and just smiles. And you just think, everything’s going to get better. We want to help people move on from their pain and pursue a healing journey.

MD: The recurring water imagery in Drift was impactful. Were there any other metaphors or visual cues that you felt really encapsulated the theme this time around, maybe in any of the other works you chose?

NC: I think Drift was a great choice for an opening because there’s not a lot of words – it’s mostly imagery. But the other films are a little bit more tense. We have themes of vengeance that appear in the other movies. We’re also playing with the anti-hero, shifting from portraying the victim to showing those in positions of power. Meanwhile we are also questioning, is it a good thing to revert to vengeance? Through this, we’re tapping into another avenue for healing. Among the films this year, our main focus is on storytelling, and less on imagery.

Sena Ho for The McGill Daily (MD): What do you hope to achieve by giving visibility to these filmmakers through the festival?

NC: Well, the main point of our foundation is to fight against discrimination, racism and homophobia. By showcasing all these stories of different people in our community, it helps others understand our struggles. We fight against discrimination in these communities that we are serving, by displaying empathy to the public. In order to do this, we illuminate these stories and highlight the different artists. So the general public has more of an intimate relationship with individuals from these communities and can see that they’re people just like everyone else.

MD: I would also love to ask how would you and your team perceive the success of your objectives and what have been some major wins, obstacles, or struggles that you’ve experienced over the years?

NC: I think for any nonprofit, it is really hard to secure funding, especially with the politics that are happening, and have been happening, for the past few years. This year, the federal government and provincial government are not giving us much. They are cutting funding a lot in culture and the humanities in general. At the end of the day, we are affected by that.

I think we have to adjust to government guidelines when determining what our aims are for the year. They are focusing more on ways to support the Black community, or support the LGBTQ+ community. It is always about finding the balance and focusing our energies on guiding different projects into what the government is supporting that year. But that always happens: having to find funding with limited resources.

We have also had a big shift in our staff. There has been a lot of burnout in the organization. I’m not only referencing mine, but in non-profit organizations in general, there tends to be a lot of burnout. People are working a lot because they are passionate. But also because the subjects we deal with address the lives of people who undergo extreme hardship. There’s trauma. There are a lot of mental health issues. So these are the many reasons. All of these elements have helped us, but it’s part of the journey.

MD: How can students or people living in Montreal get involved with the Massimadi Foundation? How can we do more? How can we increase visibility?

NC: I think it’s to just keep doing what you’re doing: coming to the events, talking about them, sharing on social media. If you want to do volunteer work, too, that’s always welcome. I think that just sharing and talking about these events goes a long way. In the past we’ve done a lot of collaboration with Concordia. We have also done workshops. There are so many things. Eventually, we could do projects and display them to class panels with the students on certain topics.

The projection for today has already started. The Massimadi Festival is at the Cinema Public, and there’s a panel after on sexual health, because the subject of the movie I Don’t Know Who You Are is a movie about a Black male who gets sexually assaulted. It’s a subject we often don’t talk about. A lot of times, when discussing sexual aggression, we visualize a vulnerable female. This type of sexual aggression is not discussed as widely. And unfortunately, the hero of the story contracts AIDS. So we’re also going to have a panel on AIDS after the one on sexual health. Tomorrow, we’re going to project the movie Clashing Differences, and we’re going to also have a panel on that. Getting involved is really about just coming to those events and collaborating in the panels and conversations.

If you’d like to get involved with the Massimadi Foundation, follow their website at www.massimadi.ca to keep up with upcoming events. Consider making a donation or volunteering if you are able to, and make sure to watch the films showcased in this year’s festival.

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Devil, fiend, being, creature, abomination: out of all the words used in Frankenstein to describe the animated being at the heart of the story, it’s a bit odd that most often he is only called “the monster.” Why do we never use daemon (tastefully spelled as such by Mary Shelley in the original 1818 edition of the novel) or wretch, as the being sometimes calls himself? Even construct, which feels admittedly stiff for a creature of bone and flesh, might suit him better considering that he came to life only after being sewn together at the painstaking hand of his creator.

The being has never been given a name of his own – monster has simply been his moniker ever since he was first introduced to the literary readership of Regency-era England. Confronted with the visage of his rogue creation, Victor Frankenstein reaches for a word to realize what he saw as being formless, abominable, and unnatural. But the monster was not preconceived as an outcast, which he would later become: in fact, he was hardly preconceived of at all. What Frankenstein had animated was the result of an obsessive occupation with the power to endow life. His ambition was not set on shaping an individual awareness, but rather on the lofty ideal of a consciousness from whose existence he could draw the ultimate sense of obligation. This being, whose countenance he fled at the moment of its awakening, developed sensitive agency incidentally; his very existence was a natural consequence of Frankenstein’s unnatural actions. His progeny occurred through accident, and his monstrous condition was therefore manifest.

“The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature.”

To the vague end of his creator’s design, the creature was intended to be comprised of a seemly arrangement of limbs and features, which Frankenstein had curated himself for their characteristic beauty. Perhaps unconsciously he’d expected a natural degree of conformity from something he could consider beautiful. But as soon as the creature stirs, Frankenstein is overcome with repulsion at its animism – its monsterhood, to him, becomes horrifyingly apparent. He watches the monster’s formless ambitions, now inextricable from this sinewed amalgamation, hoist up its outsize mass and take its first ungainly steps.

Something about reading Frankenstein to this point speaks to a familiar narrative of the queer experience. This becomes most obvious in the painful relationship between creature and creator, progeny and progenitor, and is also present in the monster’s baleful abandonment of a human society that will never accept him. At the same time, the thematic exploration of guilt, progeny and responsibility hints at an unmistakably feminine perspective: the one request of the creature to his creator in return for his own removal from the skirts of human society is not for retribution, but a singular understanding. The monster’s only demand is for a reciprocal, female companion.

“If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.”

The archetype of the female abomination began, insofar as concerns the public imagination, with the superfluous influence of Medusa’s image — vicious, terrifying but just as often tempting to her victims — which has only ever grown since her inception in legend. Her narrative, from her assault at the hands of the god Poseidon to her monstrous transformation, has become inextricable from both feminine violence and appeal. In varying ways, the mantle of desire has been donned by every one of her successors.

Even such obliquely irredeemable creatures as the Anglo-Saxon “sea witch” have managed to inspire rather liberal interpretations of their appearances and motivations according to certain artistic visions. A 2007 film adaptation of the epic Beowulf by the same name reimagined her in the form of a nearly nude woman with a golden serpentine tail, entirely subverting her original antagonism with the introduction of a misplaced strain of overtly seductive appeal. In the original epic poem no less, the “sea witch,” mother to the monster Grendel, isn’t even referred to by a single set of consistently gendered pronouns.

The literary intersection between the monstrous and the feminine, already occupied by a fearsome lineage of female characters, would certainly have welcomed another addition. The precipice on which Shelley leaves off the completion of the female creature by Frankenstein – and the brutality with which he dismantles his progress – leaves room to wonder how she would have considered the role of a feminine conscience in keeping with the particular natal violence of Frankenstein’s creature. Perhaps she’d decided that Victor Frankenstein, who spent most of the novel looking forward to a marriage with his first cousin, would simply have drawn a blank.

“I do not destroy the lamb and the kid.”

The creature becomes an outcast twice from the world of his progenitors. He is rejected for his nature, which is of an unknowable misery, but it is for the undoing of his own creation that he finally chooses to distance himself. In an off-beat lockstep echoing their first conversation, he incites Frankenstein to a pursuit toward the edge of the known world – away from the conditions of humanity. The nature that binds them resolves only with the dual demise of anomaly and antagony. There also lies monstrosity: in the preter-natal space between the human, the abominable, and the unconceived. In Frankenstein, it’s between every page.

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On September 29, literature enthusiasts from in and around Montreal gathered at Le Gesù to attend the fourth edition of the Kabir Cultural Centre’s “Garden of Literary Delights.” Established as part of the centre’s NexGen MultiArts Festival, this event aims to highlight South Asian writers in Canada who are emerging onto the literary sphere. Each writer read a selected section from their books, before converging in a panel discussion and taking questions from the audience.

The panel was curated by writer and journalist Veena Gokhale, who has written several books herself and takes part in organizing this event each year. For the 2024 iteration of the Garden of Literary Delights, she proudly introduces two new genres: translation and children’s literature. As she introduced the panel, Gokhale emphasized the “pluralism and diversity” of the authors present in the room: Janika Oza, Mariam Pirbhai, Shahroza Nahrin, and Mitali Banerjee Ruths.

Janika Oza kicked off the panel by reading from her recent debut novel, A History of Burning. Oza comes from a long lineage of migrants who left British-ruled India for British-ruled East Africa, where they lived for multiple generations until the 1972 expulsion of Asians from Uganda. As the first person in her family to be born in Canada, she wanted to tell the untold stories that arose from this history of immigration. A History of Burning is a result of this dream. Shortlisted for the 2023 Governor General’s Award for English Fiction and the 2024 Carol Shields Prize for Fiction, her novel is a striking historical epic that charts the genealogy of one family from 1898 onwards. Oza read from a chapter about Rajni, a character who moves from Karachi to Uganda after getting married, giving us insight into the subaltern voices that often go unheard when discussing history from a broader perspective.

It is these unexplored histories that Oza wants to bring our attention to. When asked about her research process for this novel, she explained that she initially tried to consult historical resources, but found that there was a huge lack of written material about Indians in Kenya and Uganda. She turned to asking around her family for information, and filled in the rest of the gaps with fiction. By having these conversations with real people in her life, she says she realized the importance of collective memory and highlighting these stories from within her community.

As Oza shares her experience of visiting Kenya for the first time to promote her book, an audience member stands up to say: “I was born in Nairobi, and the way you described Kenya is so realistic that I can hardly believe you’d never been there.” It felt like a full-circle acknowledgement of the stories she set out to represent while writing A History of Burning.

The problem of representation is one that all the authors on this panel contend with. Mariam Pirbhai is a professor of English literature at Wilfrid Laurier University, who joined us via Zoom all the way from Waterloo to discuss writing her work through a decolonial lens. She presented two of her most recent books: Isolated Incident, a fictional novel about the lives of Muslim Canadians on the heels of a hate crime against a mosque in Toronto; and Garden Inventories, a work of creative nonfiction that reflects on how gardens contain histories of culture. The scene she read from Isolated Incident showed the difference between how two characters confronted an Islamophobic parade in Montreal, an incident based on a real white supremacist demonstration that took place in Quebec City. Pirbhai explained that she tried to cast the lens inward and show the friction that exists within Muslim communities as well, in order to counter how reductively Muslims are represented in the media.

Garden Inventories, which was a finalist for the 2024 Foreword Indies Book Award for Nonfiction/Nature Writing, takes on a similarly introspective tone. It draws inspiration from Pirbhai’s own garden in Waterloo that she spent years cultivating. It was there that she realized that plants were not so different from people, which in turn led her to question our relationship to nature in our everyday lives. Through rich, visually-immersive writing and evocative imagery, Pirbhai draws connections between her human experiences and gardening. She reflects on her position as someone who has moved through multiple continents before settling in Canada, and how this history of immigration affects the way she interacts with the land around her. As a surprise for the audience, Pirbhai even shared a few photos of this titular garden – and it is every bit as stunning as she described it to be!

The next panelist moved us away from landscapes and back to history, as Shahroza Nahrin introduced her translation of works by Bangladeshi author Shahidul Zahir, entitled Life and Political Reality: Two Novellas. A graduate student from McGill, Nahrin has a background in academia and literary translation. She was recently featured on CBC’s “All in a Weekend with Sonali Karnick,” where she spoke about Zahir’s influence on Bengali literature. Before reading from her book, she posed an important question to the audience: “Who makes the decision of which books get translated and which don’t?”

For Nahrin, a translator becomes an activist when they translate a book from a marginalized community and bring these voices to the forefront. She describes Life and Political Reality as a “frictional work,” a “thorny text” that goes against the mainstream grain. The excerpt she read from the book exemplified this perfectly, as it brought attention to the effect of the Bangladeshi genocide on a small locality in Dhaka, highlighting the silenced voices there.

Nahrin is extremely passionate about Zahir’s work, which was evident from the heartfelt way in which she outlined the importance of his legacy on Bangladeshi literature. Similar to the fictionalized accounts of Dublin and Macondo which characterize the works of James Joyce and Gabriel García Márquez, Zahir mythologizes Old Dhaka and creates a unique world through magical realism. Nahrin spoke about the struggles that come with translating the works of such an iconic literary figure, explaining how she and her co-translator tried to keep Zahir’s musical writing style alive throughout their translation. They also made the decision to retain some Bangla dialogues within the text, in order to challenge English hegemony and stay true to the original tone wherever possible.

The importance of bringing South Asian voices into the spotlight, which has been expressed by all the authors so far, is exemplified through the work of children’s author Mitali Banerjee Ruths. A self-proclaimed “Texan-Quebecois” born to Indian Bengali parents, Ruths’ main intention as a children’s author was to write the kind of books she wanted to read as a child. She uses a creative metaphor to describe the lack of South Asian representation within children’s literature: since monsters are often considered non-human because they cannot see their own reflection, Ruths wanted to provide children with their own reflection so that they would not feel less than human. Her latest series, The Party Diaries follows the main character Priya Chakraborty as she plans different parties for the friends and family in her community.

Ruths explained that she wanted children to be able to see different foods and cultures represented in their picture books, both as a valuable source of learning and a way of identifying themselves in what they are reading. She is grateful for the opportunity to shape children through her writing, as she herself harbours a huge appreciation for the books she read as a child. “My kids are always my first critics,” said Ruths, laughing, when a member of the audience asked her about her own children’s response to her books. “If there’s a joke they don’t laugh at, I know I have to go back and rework it!”

From historical fiction to children’s literature, the wide range of authors present in this year’s Garden of Literary Delights leaves me with hope for the future of South Asian representation in Canada’s literary scenes. If you’d like to get more involved, the Kabir Centre’s NexGen MultiArts Festival will continue to highlight emerging Canadian artists across different fields over the next month, including a visual arts exhibition and celebrations of classical music and dance.

The post A Look Into Four Emerging Canadian Authors of South Asian Descent appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Powerful words from a powerful artist.

Attention all McGillian music lovers – Mohawk singer-songwriter Shawnee Kish has released her latest single “Reclaim.” This empowering anthem details Kish’s journey of resilience and healing in reclaiming her sense of self, and has yet again served as a demonstration of why her work deserves a spot on your current playlist. “Reclaim” is a window into Kish’s personal experience with embracing her heritage. Her journey in transforming suffering into strength is embedded within the song’s powerful lyricism. “Reclaim”  highlights the intricacies of the Indigenous experience in contemporary society and serves as a rallying call for the reclamation of Indigenous stories. Kish’s moving and soulful voice commands for past narratives to be redefined into stories of pride and perseverance that must be listened to. 

As we observe McGill’s 14th annual Indigenous Awareness Weeks, running from September 19 through  October 2, the significance of Kish’s message becomes even more apparent. Celebrated at McGill since 2011, Indigenous Awareness Weeks have fostered spaces to honour, celebrate, and uplift Indigenous cultures both in and outside of our school community. Through hosting events, welcoming guest speakers, and providing opportunities for engagement, these Indigenous Awareness Weeks call to mind the significance and value of recognizing Indigenous perspectives and contributions both to our school, and our community at large. I would highly recommend that you keep up with the events offered by McGill’s Office of Indigenous Initiatives. Some of these events from the past few weeks included McGill’s Annual Pow Wow, the Lacrosse Legacy Game, and a farmer’s market contributed to and presented by Indigenous artisans and artists. You can also participate by incorporating more Indigenous artists into your daily life. By spotlighting artists like Kish, who provide avenues to gain an understanding of Indigenous perspectives, we amplify voices and histories integral to our ongoing work towards understanding and reconciliation.  

Accoladed as a “Musician You Need to Know” by Billboard, it is clear that Shawnee Kish is not an artist to miss. Originally from Welland Ontario, Kish is a two-spirit singer and lyricist  now based in Alberta. Growing up, music had a great impact on Kish in providing space for emotional release and solace in times of darkness. It was through singing and songwriting that during her experience with depression, Kish was able to navigate mental health struggles and find a renewed sense of strength. Kish’s vulnerability in her lyrics, evident in her latest EP Revolution, offers a space for reflection to listeners who have gone through, or are currently going through similar experiences. I’m sure we can all attest to the fact that connecting with art – music in particular  – in times of sadness provides profound comfort. We feel listened to. We feel understood. We feel we are not alone. 

When interviewed on the intention behind sharing such personal  experiences with her listeners, Kish expressed that using her music as a vessel  is her purpose and strength. She added:

“All of the sudden I had this […] purpose […]  ‘I can share what I’ve been through, I can share what I’ve gone through’ and that is a reason to be here. That is my strength.” 

Shawnee Kish has been professionally sharing her music with the world since early 2021. In just four years time, Kish has garnered over 10,000 monthly listeners on Spotify and released a total of 13 projects encompassing everything from singles to EPs. Her debut and self-titled EP Shawnee Kish, released in 2021, contains six tracks that successfully introduce her style and sound. Kish’s music is a powerful, soulful mix of contemporary pop and rock. Her 11 singles stick true to this genre. They focus on a variety of topics from empowerment, individuality, grief, and acceptance, to love. Kish’s 2024 single “Dear Dad” pays homage to her late father, honouring him through a touching and heartfelt piece. The song opens with an overlay of an old recording of her father’s voice, setting the tone for a capsule-like composition that memorializes her father’s impact, while showing  the ongoing place he  holds in her heart. This is all followed by her most recent release “Reclaim:” an essential example of voicing  the stories of Indigenous strength and resiliency. 

Shawnee Kish’s work has caught the ears of critics and listeners worldwide, leaving her with many awards. Kish won CBC’s 2020 Searchlight talent competition and was named by MTV as one of North America’s Top Gender Bending Artists. Her critically acclaimed work led her to being nominated for the 2022 JUNO’s Contemporary Indigenous Artist of the Year, with two more JUNO nominations in the categories of  Contemporary Indigenous Artist Of The Year and Adult Alternative Album Of The Year for her 2023 EP Revolution. 

Kish’s dedication in the studio extends to her advocacy work, particularly in the sectors of mental health, Indigenous, and 2SLGBTQ+ awareness. In 2023, Kish participated in a recording of “What I Wouldn’t Do,” a charity single by Serena Ryder released to support the Kids Help Phone’s Feel Out Loud campaign for youth mental health. In addition to this, she created and performed “Music Is My Medicine,” with the National Arts Centre Orchestra for Undisrupted – a  CBC Gem series that showcases the talents, struggles, and stories of Indigenous youth.

Ultimately, I hope this quick snippet into Shawnee Kish’s brilliance has given you more than enough reason as to why she should be on your listening radar. Her passionate lyricism in partnership with her powerful voice and authentic messages deem her an accomplished artist not-to-be-missed, with a promising future ahead.

The post Shawnee Kish’s New Must-Listen Single “Reclaim” appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I had the privilege of attending the performance celebrating the launch on September 21, in which an actor and team of volunteers led us up Mont-Royal, immersing us in the stories that form the heart of this project. But it wasn’t just about hearing the words; it was about feeling them through every step we took, with the earth beneath us and the sky above, making the experience deeply meaningful.

As we gathered at the Mordecai-Richler Pavilion, we were met by volunteers wearing orange T-shirts – a reminder of the legacy of residential schools and a commitment to the promise that every child matters. The pavilion had been filled with bannock, jams, and homemade berry punch for attendees. There was an openness in the air – people were sharing stories of what brought them to the event, and why these kinds of gatherings are so important. As for me, I took a moment to acknowledge the power of community: of coming together not just to witness, but to meaningfully engage in something larger than ourselves.

During the launch, I had the chance to speak with the artistic director Alexia Vinci, and explore our shared Mi’kmaq identities. There’s something deeply grounding about those kinds of chance encounters – discovering similarities and differences between my being from Millbrook, and Alexia from Gespeg. We reflected on our variety of experiences, and how that diversity of perspective has enriched our collective understanding of what it means to be Indigenous on these lands. We found that these stories are present in all Indigenous peoples who call this place home.

I especially appreciated how the Tiohtià:ke: Mapping Indigenous Stories project honours both our land-based traditions and our oral histories, weaving the two together throughout various texts. These texts, written by six different Indigenous authors, offer perspectives on Tiohtià:ke/Montreal that challenge what we might know about these lands. Following earlier iterations in 2022 and 2023, the project has now expanded into a podcast series, co-produced with Musique Nomade. As of September 21 two podcasts, Sous les branches du pin blanc (Under the Branches of the White Pine) from Moira-Uashteskun Bacon and L’étoile du jour (The Star of the Day) from Jocelyn Sioui, are available online for all to experience. (But even so, there’s something special about hearing them while being on the very land they speak about that can’t quite be matched.)

Our journey up Mont-Royal was more than a walk; it reminded me of land-based ceremonies at home. As we moved between stops, we listened to the actor give voice to the stories from the second podcast – Jocelyn Sioui’s L’étoile du jour (The Star of the Day). Even when I couldn’t grasp every word due to the language barrier, the tone and raw emotion of the actor’s performance transcended language and I felt connected to something much deeper – something that spoke to the land, to our shared histories, and to the invisible threads that braid us all together.

While I had the privilege of being accompanied by a fellow, bilingual McGill student who helped translate parts of the text, it’s clear that these performances weren’t merely to be heard, but to be felt. You don’t need perfect linguistic comprehension to engage with them: sometimes, letting go of the need to understand every word opens you up to a fuller experience, as I felt it did in my case.

Another important aspect of the experience was connecting with other attendees who were not Indigenous. It was powerful to hear their reflections on how this project impacted them and about their respective roles in reconciliation. Relationships and connections are essential to our worldview, and this experience showed me just how much can be gained from these spaces – how storytelling and connection can foster new understandings and growth amidst fractured relations.

Although the live performances introducing this project are over, the podcasts are still available to be listened to at any time. I would encourage listening to them while walking through your own landscapes – whether up Mont-Royal like we did, or through any place that holds meaning for you. There’s power in engaging with these stories while moving physically across the land, allowing them to shape your experience in real time.

As an Indigenous anglophone in Quebec, I often feel like I’m navigating two worlds. There’s a duality to my experience here, and one that can feel isolating at times. But projects like Tiohtià:ke: Mapping Indigenous Stories remind me that there is strength in choosing to participate in these collective events anyway, even when I couldn’t fully understand the language of the performance. There is power in sitting with discomfort, in letting the land and the stories speak to us in ways that go beyond words.

Sovereignty, after all, is not just about asserting our rights over land – it’s about Indigenous people reclaiming our right to experience and engage fully with the world around us. By connecting with these podcasts, you wouldn’t just be listening to stories: you’ll be actively participating in an act of restoring sovereignty, an act of connection – an act of healing. So take a walk, listen to their stories, and see what they awaken in you: moment by moment, story by story.

To listen to both podcasts, visit www.nikamowin.com.

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There is an entire cultural language behind queer pop music that cannot be reduced to queer people simply singing about being queer. It’s for that reason that earlier this year, Jojo Siwa came under fire, and rightfully so, for her comments about “creating” the genre of gay pop, and doing “what had never been done before.” There are queer artists who pioneered the aesthetics of the genre and were queer themselves, like David Bowie, Elton John, and Freddie Mercury, among others. But what makes this genre of pop music queer is also its sonic trademarks, influence, association, and on many occasions, the direct recognition and appreciation of queer audiences.

Since the late 20th century, a litany of gay icons like Madonna, Britney Spears, Lady Gaga, and Beyonce have enjoyed popularity while also being embraced by queer communities. Their discographies have become defined by queer pop staples, such as unapologetic accounts of love, sex, and their own bodies – all while accompanied by sexy, glittery, high-fashion stage outfits and danceable electropop. These gay pop icons, or “mothers,” are perfect examples of what actual allyship and advocacy look like: using one’s platform to promote queer artists and imagery regardless of consequences to publicity, and regardless of whether or not something is palatable for the industry. It’s the difference between artists now merely saying they support queer rights versus what that support would’ve signified based on social context in the past. For instance in the 1980s, Madonna spoke openly in support of queer people at the height of the AIDS crisis, doing so even before America’s conservative president Ronald Reagan.

Now, Charli xcx, with her torn-up T-shirts, visible bras, mini-skirts, and club-style production, has entered this elite universe of pop girls. But what makes charli xcx especially iconic among queer audiences is her lexicon of references and associations. Her association and frequent collaboration with the late, great trans producer SOPHIE is widely known, with Charli xcx paying tribute to her multiple times on BRAT in honour of her influence and passing. She has also collaborated with Troye Sivan, an openly queer artist, many times, including on her most recent remix of BRAT’s “Talk Talk.” They are also currently co-headlining the SWEAT tour in North America. Charli xcx’s influences also reside in underground culture and counterculture, a sort of numinous space pioneered by and for queer people.

Chappell Roan is another current queer pop heavyweight, whose image exists at the intersection of queer aesthetics and text. She sings about being a lesbian from the perspective of authentic experience, which is especially resonant considering her comparatively conservative Midwestern upbringing. All the while, she pays homage to pillars of queer culture like John Waters. She’s even dressed as the legendary 1980s drag queen Divine, who starred in most of his movies. Because of her upbringing secluded from queer spaces in the Midwest, Chappell also makes a conscious effort to bring her music and performances to parts of the US that aren’t as inviting to queer performers. For instance, she performed in her Divine outfit at Kentuckiana pride in Louisville, Kentucky this past June.

What Charli and Chappell offer is ultimately a hedonistic rebuttal of the self- pitying and watered-down pop music that has been dominating the charts, which queer pop music has always been about. Freedom of identity becomes linked to musical freedom, with the sound of queer pop music intending for the listener to move their body and enjoy themselves, unconcerned with being taken seriously or rejected by the public. The terms “gay icon” and “gay pop” have far more to do with hedonistic, countercultural aesthetics, which sometimes intersect with actual queer text, more than many people realize. Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” for example, is a dance club classic rife with excess, leather, and glitter that is actually about her fantasizing about women while having sex with men.

Gaga’s 2009 track, and its accompanying album The Fame Monster, are an example of where queer pop intersects with recession pop. According to Dazed magazine, “Recession pop” first rose to prominence in the years surrounding the 2008 financial crisis, and refers to the fast, frenetic melodies and hooky lyricism that defines the music of recession periods, “colouring economic hardship with relentless optimism.” But the sound reflects more than an affective response to the economy; Diane Negra, professor of culture studies and co-editor of Gendering the Recession, calls it “a fulcrum moment after which many people rewrote the terms of their engagement with capitalism,”making it a cultural reconfiguration of capitalist hegemony as a whole.

The intersection of queer pop and recession pop is defined by excess, indulgence, club culture, and alternative aesthetics. It’s the idea of idolizing cheap luxury and abundance as a way of aesthetically rebuking economic and identity boundaries, and rejecting expectations outlined by hetero-capitalist society.

The period around the 2008 financial crisis saw a kind of unprecedented countercultural movement with albums like The Fame Monster and Blackout, which are now regarded as classics among queer audiences. They are examples of the connection between marginalized communities victim to both classicism and homophobia, and the way that LGBTQ+ people are denied full participation in the economy. The ostracization of queer people and the middle class from popular culture during recessions causes pop music to cater itself to alternative spaces, relocating the nucleus of pop music into underground clubs and raves as opposed to stadium tours and awards shows.

As opposed to the retrospective lens through which recession pop and its connection to queer culture from the late 2000s is viewed, young people today, more aware of their socio- economic milieu than ever, are actually able to detect the “silent recession” we are in through the indications provided by pop music. The world does not need to openly be in crisis for recession to be considered so, as we continue to globally suffer from post-pandemic economic decline in what is being called a “silent depression.”

The newness and self-awareness of this particular iteration of recession pop is what attracts it to queer audiences: its nostalgia factor is authentic, and it doesn’t shy away from the contemporary moment. It isn’t a recycled formula which tries far too hard to connect to marginalized audiences through unconventional aesthetics. BRAT, for instance, didn’t come to be because it was sensing or jumping on a trend, economic or cultural; Charli’s style has been popular among alternative audiences for some time, and only during the current recession period has gained mainstream popularity. Just listen to 2020’s how i’m feeling now, with the hard-hitting hyperpop intro of “pink diamond,” which embodies the same ideals as BRAT but was recorded at the very beginning of the pandemic, before we could even process its affective and economic impact.

What this self-aware, queer-oriented era of recession pop tells us is that culture has finally caught up to visionaries like charli xcx and Chappell Roan. Artists like Tove Lo, Kim Petras, and Ayesha Erotica are all LGBTQ women who have been releasing BRAT-like electropop music since the mid-2010s. All of them take influence from 2000s icons like Britney and Gaga and have long been overlooked commercially, but have always been embraced by queer audiences. However, it just may be that the state the global economy has put us in has finally necessitated this kind of energy that has been embraced by queer people on the margins of society since the beginning of the 21st century.

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Fleeting Form Studio is a workshop series formed by McGill students Ava Williams, Saskia Morgan, and Hannah Marder-MacPherson. The founders first met each other in FSCI 198 – a class on the climate crisis and climate action – where they formulated the idea for this project. The goal of the workshop series is to provoke discussions about changing the way McGill students think of climate activism, and to nurture the community around the visual arts at McGill. I went to the first workshop hoping to learn more about textiles from the featured artist, Tina Marais, and came out with so much more. One week later, I met with the founders of Fleeting Form Studio to talk more about their process and the series as a whole.

This interview has been edited for clarity and concision.

Evelyn Logan for The McGill Daily (MD): When did you begin to draw parallels between climate action and art? Was that always a part of your project or did it come later?

Saskia Morgan (SM): We came up with this project – which was absolutely guided by our professors and TAs – where we would invite artists who were all already working at this interesting nexus between climate action and art. [These artists] could come and speak about what they’re doing and how their art is transformative – and how it should be seen as more than just beautiful. We also made this to address both the lack of fine arts at McGill, and the lack of emotive ways of learning about the climate crisis.

Ava Williams (AW): I’ve always heard of climate change deemed as a wicked problem. The solution is hard to find because it’s a convergence of larger issues that have been created over a long time. Some include colonialism and extractivism and [other] really deep-seated, systemic problems. And if you’re just learning [about this problem] intellectually and technically, it’s solely information and facts. Which is harder to internalize and make sense of the scale of the problem. How can we make sense of it in a way that makes sense to us as people? Art. Art is a very human thing. And so I think for me, it’s a lot about making sense of it.

Hannah Marder-MacPherson (HMM): With all of us being environment students, we’re learning about climate action from a particular lens. Something that dominates our focus is that we learn a lot about our own destruction, and it’s very negative. Then, the corresponding response to that is often limitation, which is not tangible and is also still very negative and directionless. We find there’s never any action [in response to the climate crisis] that’s centered around creation. So that’s where the art comes in, because it’s very much about creation, and it’s very positive, inspiring, and unifying.

MD: Why did you choose Tina Marais as the first artist in your series? What stood out to you about her work?

SM: Just by going down a rabbit hole I stumbled upon Tina, and I found the piece that she explored the most in this workshop: The Entangled Materiality of Water. I was absolutely struck by this work because it was not just about climate change, which so often is too broad [of a topic] to really get a sense of, but instead, specifically about water and how much water is within the fabrics that make our second skin. It also [raises the questions] how many hands touch the clothes that are on us now? How do we take for granted something that we paid $15 for?

AW: [Mirais] said one thing in an interview that I wanted to repeat: everything is made of the same molecules, but in different arrangements. How it just so happens that we as humans have a lot of power over the other arrangements. And she talks a lot about non-human and human interactions, which is going to be a huge thing in the series.

MD: Can you speak a little bit about the lack of fine arts programming at McGill? How has it affected you? How do you feel like your workshop is…

[The group breaks out into laughter]

SM: You’re preaching to the choir.

HHM: I was just going to say, I feel like the arts in general draw upon a different type of knowledge and a different type of thinking. Now, I don’t think this is unique to just McGill, but I feel like a lot of institutions that are more prestigious tend to fall into that pit of promoting science and engineering. There isn’t a recognition that these other types of thinking and creating are just as valuable and are actually very compatible with more scientific pursuits, and they shouldn’t be separated. A large part of our project is working towards interdisciplinary thinking.

SM: Another thing that we’re trying to do with this workshop is not only bring something that a lot of people here may just be missing but also to make art more accessible. We’re so lucky that the Sustainable Projects Fund has helped us basically provide free materials for every participant. We’re limited to the amount of people who can come, but the act of being able to touch materials that you may not be able to otherwise is so important.

The next Fleeting Form Studio workshop will be centered around photography and will take place on October 4. To stay up to date with the workshop series, follow the project on Instagram at @fleeting_form_studio.

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The following interview has been shortened and edited for clarity. 

Eliana Freelund for The McGill Daily (MD): Could you introduce yourself to our readers? What kind of art do you like to create? What inspires you about a multimedia approach?

Soleil Launière (SL): My name is Soleil Launière and I’m a multidisciplinary artist. I’m always traveling (verser) between forms of art. For me, doing that is a form of decolonization – in the sense that prior to colonization the arts were not usually separated into distinct forms. Music was not only music, theatre was not only theatre. We mixed forms of art. It was ritualistic. 

It was all part of the culture to mix those forms of art, and for me, that’s what I like to do the most. When I enter a space of creation I find that it’s like performing rituals – different forms of rituals, whether they be healing rituals or something else – that I usually need to live. I prefer to do art this way, to mix art forms. It’s a part of me, it’s a part of my culture.

MD: Would you say that this ritualistic approach gets rid of the idea of an endpoint? Do you think of your art as something cyclical?

SL: My art is always moving, it’s always cyclical. I don’t ever want to conform to one way or another. I believe there’s no certain way of doing things.

MD: Is there anything in particular that inspires you to create? Do you notice any recurring themes in your art?

SL: Oh, there’s a lot. Recently my work has been surrounding multi-generational subjects. I like to centre my art around the Earth as well. Nature is vast – it’s always a part of what I do.

Because I gave birth not that long ago, I think that that’s also a subject that’s really close to me – that really inspires me. I’ve been digging deep into the subject of childbirth and trying to see what it means to me, how it lives in my body, but also how it reflects on society. I like the idea of a subject that travels from one form into another. 

Right now I’m really stuck on water as a theme. Water is part of the birth journey – it’s also a part of the healing journey. I feel I need something softer, more healing these days. My subjects were a lot harsher previously. I did a lot of performances about multi-generational trauma and things like that, but now I feel like I want to talk more about multi-generational healing. What my grandparents have passed on to me is not only their trauma, but also their healing. I want to focus my work on that idea more.

MD: Could you tell us a bit about your performance today? What is the significance of the water imagery? How are you choosing to represent it?

SL: Water speaks to me a lot because of the healing parts of it, how it connects to everything. It’s tied to life itself, just like all the elements. We wouldn’t live without them. Water, especially clean water, is extremely important in our lives.

I think that’s with everything that’s been happening in the world, I wasn’t sure how I wanted to approach this performance. There’s so much frustration, because of course there’s frustration, but I didn’t feel like being in that, or playing that role. I’m tired of being frustrated. I wanted to heal. I wanted to clean. I wanted to bring something cleansing to this space, and to myself as well. I felt like that was needed. 

I went for something that obviously represents what’s happening, but uses a different approach. I use a soundscape in my performance that includes the sounds of protests. I also have the voice of my child playing in the background, representing a kind of complicated freedom. Although she’s an Indigenous woman, and history has not made it easy for her, she’s here and she lives. 

I’m also going to put a white sheet up and continue to water it throughout the performance, as I water plants, as a way of symbolically keeping the dead alive.

MD: How can we learn more about you? Are there any upcoming performances we can look forward to?
SL: There are a lot of things coming up. I won Francouvertes this past spring, so musically there will be a lot happening in and around Montreal. There are shows coming up, as well as a tour, which will be a mix of performance art and music. You can check out the dates on Nikamowin, which is a really nice platform with Indigenous musicians. I also have a show in October with my baby in it. It’s a performance art piece that will be performed with three generations together.

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Daringly imaginative and penned with devastating authenticity, Babel by R. F. Kuang takes readers through the thinnest of veils between worlds into an alternate history of Great Britain during the height of its colonial empire. It follows Robin, a young Chinese boy taken from his plague-ravaged home town of Canton by a mysterious British professor who promises to train him in the art of languages so that he may one day become a translator at Babel, the prestigious institution at the heart of the Empire which holds the secrets to its unrivaled might. Scholars at Babel practice silverwork, imbuing the precious metal with the power of words that are caught in translation between different languages. Robin begins his training only to find himself quickly caught up in a web of affairs outside his control, implicating himself in a series of crimes against the nation as he inadvertently starts to tangle with an enclave of former translators planning a deadly revolution. He grapples with his inherent otherness to the institutional monolith, trying to come to terms with both his identity and the cycle of exploitation in which he is becoming complicit – the Empire is sustained by conquest and the subsequent supply of newly subjugated languages from which its silver-smiths can derive ever more power. But even Babel’s scholars agree: “Every translation is a betrayal.” The paradox inherent in such a phagocytic system as Kuang’s imaginary Britain, an outsize behemoth of industry and dominion, becomes starkly apparent as she hints at the impossible scope of its colonial treachery. 

— Elaine Yang, Features Editor

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin is one of those books that force you to ponder the nature of the human experience. The novel centers around the relationship between the two main characters: Sam and Sadie. We get to see these characters grow and change from both perspectives as they move in and out of each other’s life, while never truly losing sight of one another. This book has the same focus on complex relationships like Normal People by Sally Rooney, but with the backdrop of video games and the added complexities of our contemporary society. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is for the reader that has a hankering for complexity and stories that unfold within the little details. It’s really good for when you’re feeling uninspired by books altogether. 

— Evelyn Logan, Radio Editor

In the eye of the wild by Nastsassja Martin

“The bear left some hours ago now, and I am waiting, waiting for the mist to lift. The steppe is red, my hands are red, face swollen and gashed, unrecognizable. As in the times of myths, obscurity reigns; I am this blurred figure, features submerged beneath the open gulfs in my face, slicked over with internal tissue, fluid, and blood: it is a birth, for it is manifestly not a death.” 

These are the opening lines of Nastassja Martin’s chilling and yet poetic book In the eye of the wild. She tells the story of her “encounter” with a bear in the mountains of Kamchatka, on the edge of Siberia, to carry out an anthropological study among the Evens. As the book unfolds we get more glimpses of this moment where the human and animal world collided. The local populations call survivors “marked by the bear” medka meaning that you become half human half bear. Martin writes in a fascinating way about her rebirth and her inaptitude to re-enter the world as if nothing happened. Her story intertwines physical scars, a necessity to survive and a call to the grandeur of nature. The book isn’t meant to appeal to your sympathy, on the contrary it is an invitation from the author to follow her in the coldest parts of Russian wildlife – where myth meets reality – and into the some parts of her mind.    

— India Mosca, Managing Editor

Journey to the West by Wu Cheng’en

A Chinese classic I read this summer and the previous two summers, too—though I didn’t finish the first time, to my regret. You may recognize this epic as the source material for the hit game Black Myth: Wukong, but its story and legacy have already been entrenched into centuries of folklore. A satire of celestial politics? A critique of religious power? A hero’s journey in search of freedom and enlightenment? Featuring a weary Buddhist monk, a genderfluid monkey with “trouble” as their middle name, and a crew of misfits who’ve inhabited the collective consciousness of generations of Chinese children, inspiring them to forge their own destinies like the heroes of legend.

— Andrei Li, Sci+Tech Editor

Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness by Susannah Cahalan

I picked up this book when staying at a guesthouse with no wifi and found myself unable to put it down! This autobiography chronicles Cahalan’s experience with a rare autoimmune disease, encompassing her journey to a life-saving diagnosis and recovery once she was able to get treatment. Drawing on her skills as an investigative journalist, Cahalan pieces together her “month of madness” through testimonies from family and friends, medical documents, and videos to recount this life-changing experience.

— Emma Bainbridge, Coordinating Editor

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