Last month the CBC asked me to write about Toronto artist Kelly Mark, and in particular, an ill-fated collaboration we worked on together for two years. That story can be read here:
More recently, Momus ran a piece called “Remembering Kelly Mark”, featuring recollections from publisher Sky Goodden and other close friends, collaborators, and supporters, including Micah Lexier, Christina Ritchie, Anthony Cooper, Dell Pohlman and Lauren Raymore Pohlman, Dean Baldwin Lew, Paulette Phillips, and Paul E. Bain. Roula and I both contributed brief remembrances, also.
It can be read at Momus.ca, here.
"Kelly Mark had big dick energy. She was a total cunt. I loved her. [...]
Kelly was a master of minutiae. She was ever-dissecting work patterns, isolating fragments, and process into component parts for examination, where actions in repetition help dissolve our illusions.
Refusing an artist fee in lieu of minimum wage, she gives us a lens to observe our unpaid labor. The drywaller earns more. I began conversations about potential projects with, “What’s your catering budget?” (it’s always higher than artist fees). These institutional critiques aimed at assumed patterns were a delight to unbalance in cahoots. I take joy in playing bartender to patrons who treat me as one and Kelly’s “STAFF” jacket is emblematic of this cloak-and-dagger where we hide in plain sight to gain entry. As artists our unique power can be a chameleonic approach to social class. [...]
Kelly, I am angry at you for not letting me in on the plan. Angrier at myself, far away, for not knowing. I’ll carry on your light, flickering off this Zippo you left me . . . sleep well, friend.”
- Dean Baldwin Lew
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