2008

An article written for Under Pressure magazine.

On a Wednesday in early August of 2008 I was lucky enough to be one of several people volunteering their time at an event called, “Colour Me Bad”. The night was held at Galerie Yves LaRoche in Montreal’s Old Port. All kinds of people, running the full gambit of ages, sexes, and backgrounds had been invited free of charge to come in off the street (a dreary and ominous mid-summer rain shower) to dry off and soak up some great vibes.

A run-up to the Under Pressure festival that weekend, the event featured large black and white canvases of the festival’s logos from previous years hung throughout the beautifully renovated building, as well as more crayons than I haver ever seen in one place at the same time. The canvases, once completed, were to be auctioned off to the highest bidder; sign-up sheets hung patiently at the back near the bar. All the proceeds from the soiree, including those from merchandise (t-shirts with that year’s fantastic logo [credit?] and a very nicely produced colouring book containing all of the festival’s logos) were to be donated to the Montreal Children’s Hospital Foundation.

It was truly a unique experience to witness and participate in collaborative art works produced by hundreds of individuals over the course of the night. Everyone from well established graffiti artists, to families with young children, to people roaming in off the damp and crowded sidewalk outside filling the room with shape, colour, noise, and music, combined into what I can only describe as an extremely primal and joyous sensation of gratefulness for being alive, and for being there, then.

The common knowledge that despite having a wonderful time, everyone there was delightfully engaged in producing something because of and for a great cause created an interesting atmosphere. While the clatter of conversation, whispers of conversations overheard being relayed while eavesdropping, and the constant communication in varied dialects of body language and snippets of eye contact were present throughout the evening. There was also a quiet diligence in the way so many people were so determined to fill every possible space of canvas with anything and everything they could imagine. It was like a grade-school art class. Super fun.

One of the reasons this happening was so fascinating to me was its existence as a microcosm of urban society minus the all too common taboo of graffiti as vandalism. Indeed, here not only was a diverse group of city dwellers appreciating graffiti-style art as Art, but they were directly engaged in producing it as well. Here, not only was grabbing whatever crayon happened to be lying on the floor or resting on a window ledge and going to town on a canvas not frowned upon, it was encouraged. In fact, anyone not busy scribbling away at a wall (or otherwise contributing to the good vibrations-serving beer, spinning wax, etc.) would themselves have been the outcast. Luckily, almost everyone there was eager, interested, and interesting, and there was no shortage of art supplies.

Although I was thoroughly stoked to be enveloped by this eagerness, this lust for self-expression (especially in combination with the knowledge of doing good) shared by everyone in the room, it’s presence did not surprise me at all. I believe that self-expression is a fundamental part of being human and that while it can be and too often is unfairly limited, squelched, kaiboshed, ultimately, it cannot ever be fully prevented or controlled. This has good and bad consequences.

Since, like Art, exactly what forms of self-expression end up being classified as socially acceptable (let alone what is tolerated or agreed upon legally) is subjective, there is no good or bad Art, just as there is no good or bad self-expression. At the risk of perhaps over reaching the scope of this article, I would argue that, at its core, Art, and indeed any self expression comes down to intent and interpretation, purpose and perception. What qualifies as good or bad to whom is less interesting than what Art, and what self expression means and does.

There was very little criticism of the work that night as it hung on the wall, developing steadily with each new wave of participants that approached. Although much of it was very beautiful (a unique cornucopia of all the creative talent possessed and shared communally by the participants in that room at that moment), the uplifting spirit that spread warmly throughout all in attendance was more, I think, a product of the act of creating than of appreciating something that had already been created (though appreciate our creations we did).

Though anecdotal, to me this is clear evidence of the nutritional and restorative qualities of creating Art. I am confident that every person who picked up a two inch wax stick of colour that evening and etched a little piece of their personality into those canvases left feeling good about themselves and their contribution, and not for any self-righteous or artificially altruistic reason, but simply because it feels good, feels necessary, to express yourself. What that expression is can be anything, and is as unique, identifying, and important to any individual as their fingerprints or handwriting. In one of my favourite pieces of the evening, for example, someone who had drawn a fairly detailed penis and scrotum inside one of the “P”s quickly had their work transformed into a lovely pastoral scene with a sun shining through some clouds.

Despite the many wonderfully beneficial effects of self-expression, the banner of self-expression can too easily be abused in the name of exercising personal freedom. Is not forcing your expression (whether you label it art or not) into someone else’s view as much an impingement of their freedom of privacy as it is of your freedom of speech? I don’t have an answer. I do have an illustrative anecdote. At some point about midway through the night I was standing in front of a cheerful blue zebra, or perhaps the three charmingly disfigured troll like creatures, or any number of other inventive creations, when I noticed a pair of chaps roaming from canvas to canvas, not adding to the work with the provided crayons, but conspicuously shaking their paint sharpies, tagging each canvas without even looking at them, and then moving on to the next.

As I, and all the other volunteers had been instructed to do earlier in the evening, I calmly walked over and asked them to stop, explaining the charity concept of the event, but also told them to grab some crayons and go to town with whatever they wanted. One said nothing, turning and looking at me, and finishing his tag, then turning away. As he approached the next canvas, shaking his marker, I decided to appeal to one of the organizers, a good friend, to ask them to stop. He, and a number of other people did, and they refused, jerkily asking what difference it made if they used markers or crayons. I tried to explain that the issue was not just what tool they were using to make their mark, but how they were going about using it. While everyone else was busy having a happy-ass time colouring in the large, pain-stakingly created words, “Under Pressure” over and over again, and harmoniously enjoying a joint exercise of imagination, they simply wanted to sign their name, and leave.

In any case, leave they did. I was left thinking that it was goons like these who give assholes in government the ammunition they need to cut Arts funding, leaving disadvantaged kids who need and would benefit the most from it without programs that nurture and encourage them to express their ideas, and then imposing harsh penalties for the inevitable and completely non-violent, and often arguably inevitable execution of their expressions of self. Not to mention the imposition of ridiculously restrictive, almost fascist laws that forbid the sale of certain art supplies to persons under fourteen years old, like those we are unlucky enough to be stuck with in Quebec.

For good or ill, and all grand claims about the nature of art and expression aside, “Colour Me Bad” 2008 was a monumental success, and one that I desperately hope can be repeated in years to come. It is a rare and genuinely beautiful thing to witness hundreds of people from a wide variety of backgrounds coming together and working for a few hours on something not only because it’s a good cause, but because it simply feels so good to do it. Even if you have to wait until the next Wednesday in early August to enjoy such a collaborative project, grab your crayons, markers, paint cans, and whatever else you have handy and get out there and make something today. Not because you want someone else to see it, but because you want to see it yourself.

Art aside, it was a vibrant party on a wet hot summer night. Eighty’s and Ninety’s hits thumped the dance floor, shirts soaked transparent brushed against each other in the crowded room; the life-affirming din of chit chat echoed off the hardwood. I only know of one person who purchased a canvas, but I can remember hoping that at least a few of them would end up in the hands of some of the people there, some of those who could truly realize what a special evening it had been.