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Lessons from the grad show

5/20/2025

 
Art school is just the end of the beginning

The concourse was a crush on opening night at Emily Carr University’s Spring grad show. Seventies’ disco music fuelled giddy graduates clutching bouquets, hugging, posing for parents’ photos in front of their exhibits of graphite-drawn urban dystopias, bent wood-lam furniture and natural-dyed crocheted robes.
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Emily Carr University’s graduation show opening, May 2025 (Carlyn Yandle)
It was quite the contrast to five years ago during my grad year when I had to fight the school’s installation technician to hang my final thesis work.

“What’s the point?” he said. “We’re shutting down, like, tomorrow.” The point, as every visual artist knows, is the photo-documentation for that fleeting moment of exhibition, especially fleeting in the hours before the pandemic lockdown. I pushed back on his push-back, he sighed dramatically and dragged the big ladder to the centre of the Sculpture Gallery.

I learned this need to be fierce and focused when it comes to displaying work from a moment of horror during my undergrad grad show a decade earlier.

I must have had a hunch that my installation might not go down as envisioned because I convinced my instructors to allocate me two final exhibit spaces since I had one foot in the painting department and the other in sculpture. The painting installation was easy: bang in two hooks, hang on wall. The sculpture piece was a little trickier. 

My dream was that those gallery-goers here for the sculpture, certainly a few internationally renowned curators and well-heeled collectors among them, would wander into my designated space in the third-floor room at the end of the long hall and stop in their tracks. What is this curious, lacy, bone-y floor installation?

Ah, I would say in a soft voice that I would still need to cultivate. I see you’ve noticed “Ravages.” A conversation would ensue. I would talk about my fascination with middens of bone and shell that hold clues to past and enduring Indigenous civilizations and cultures. I would speak to my own position as a settler descendant on this unceded coastal land, my anthropological curiosity awakened in high school that led to university studies in anthro/sociology. I would direct their eye to the use of found colonialist objects hand-crocheted in the round that evoke the fractal pattern of shoreline sandstone worn by time and event. I would link the distressed, chalky concretization of those abject objects to my immediate ever-changing environment of urban decay and hasty condo-tower construction, and my identity as a Mature Student trying not to feel like a decrepit bag of bones ha ha. You people get me!

Articulating the ideas in the making is an essential part of conceptual art studies and I spent weeks — months — thinking about how to talk about what I was making while scouring thrift stores for hand-made doilies and manipulating them in the sculpture lab to ossify with plasters then concrete thin-set. When that failed, I camped out in the mold-making shop mucking around with fibreglass and turning out copies of doilies in hardening acrylic too shiny so I coated them with gesso. Despite working under respirator my lungs complained and my skin erupted so when deadline hit for grad show submissions I went with what I had plus that large painting, a story for another time.

In the hours before opening night I assembled “Ravages,” propping some of the limp, cracking doilies onto each other house-of-cards style. The assembly was precarious but there was no breeze and I had a “Do not touch” sign beside the work so I went home to get fancified.

The main floor galleries were packed by 6pm, with people backing into dangling ceiling suspensions and failing to not step on floor installations. While my friends and family were preoccupied I slipped up to the empty third-floor room at the end of the hall. “Ravages” had collapsed into a pool of flat doilies like scraps from a factory floor. If it were not for the other students’ art I would have turned off the light and locked the door. Nothing to see here. I re-directed my people to the painting.

There is no photo-documentation of “Ravages;” some pictures are just too sad to take but here I am writing about it because there is a point in all this.
​
Art school, I want to tell all those kids holding bouquets and posing with friends beside their work last week, is not the culmination of your art-making ability but just your art right now. Unless you have a marketable skill like illustration, animation or industrial design, chances are you are going to have to do something else besides making art to earn a living and that’s okay; a fine arts degree is not a meal ticket.
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Source: Federal Bank of New York via Employed Historian
But the art will continue to mature if you stick with it. It will evolve as you grow through all the unexpected events. It will bring you solace when nothing and no-one else can, and unlimited joy when it’s the purest way you know to express yourself. You may decide to drop it when life becomes too much but it’s never over; you’re just fallowing, building up rich experiences for your next chapter.
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Concretized lace forms emerge after grad show failure (Carlyn Yandle)
As for the Covid-era ECU installer, his labour was not for naught; the school did indeed shut down right after he helped secure my three large-scale fibre artworks but I can boast that it’s the longest held-over show in the Sculpture Gallery, intact for the entire summer with no one inside to view it but the mice. I biked by the campus every once in a while where it was easily seen from the street through the two high walls of windows, a gallery-sized still life. I took photos of that.
​
All three artworks have since been seen by more than mice in other exhibitions, with the latest being Classics Reimagined, a US-based online show of 30 mostly American artists. During another unexpected life moment, it’s the only way this outspoken Canadian gets to mingle with our besieged maker friends.

Resistance can be beautiful

4/6/2025

 
Hand-making outside the dominant economic system
The news is inescapable. The Trump tariffs announced last week will “rupture the global economy,” warns the Prime Minister. This is on top of the inflationary wallop on 45 per cent of Canadians who reported that rising prices were “greatly affecting their ability to meet day-to-day expenses in the spring of 2024, up 12 percentage points from two years earlier,” according to Statistics Canada. Further, almost one-third of Canadians are “experiencing financial difficulties,” up from 18.6 per cent in 2021. It’s all led to a “gradual deterioration in life satisfaction” especially among younger adults and those with financial difficulties. On top of all this, Canada is in the throes of a snap federal election.

Yet life goes on. That robin outside my window is still doing its 4 a.m. wake-up call. The cherry tree it perches on is about to burst into pink snowballs. Below the tree canopy the Amazon vans still roar through the neighbourhood and the UberEats drivers still double-park to keep up with their orders.

Maybe, and I’m just spit-balling here, we can be like the blossoms and flourish independent of the consumer economy and the attention economy, that battleground that has us in a near permanent state of distraction. I searched how reverse life dissatisfaction and received this AI Overview:

“To reverse life dissatisfaction, focus on identifying the root causes, setting realistic goals, practicing self-care, engaging in meaningful activities, and seeking support when needed.”
​
Even this banal Google-bot response on the general theme of self-reflection begins with the word ‘focus’, followed by ‘practicing’, ‘engaging’, ‘meaningful’, ‘activities’, ‘seeking’ and ‘support’ — words in direct opposition to ‘distraction’, ‘escaping’, ‘frivolous’, ‘inertia’, ‘ignoring’ and ‘undermine.’ There are no Tips and Tricks in the AI Overview for reversing life dissatisfaction through retail therapy, no easy instructions to move fast and break things, or buy bit-coin, self-medicate, move somewhere else or to hang on tight to your privilege.
​

The beautiful thing about having a number of ongoing art projects is that there’s always one that fits the moment. Right now that’s Hearth.

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Social making sessions resulted in this first installation of 'Hearth.' (Carlyn Yandle)
Started back in the beforetimes of 2019, Hearth is an infinitely-expanding grid of log-cabin quilt blocks that began with an idea: What kind of art-making would be engaging and easy enough to attract a diverse population, a big-picture zero-waste project that would cost nothing? What could create the chance to learn a new skill, meet people beyond one’s usual social circle, that would include the joys of giving and receiving, all toward a gallery exhibition?
​

Over the next six months, dozens of friends and friends-of-friends, neighbours, colleagues and people just happening by gathered at art studios, porches, around kitchen tables and living rooms. In groups from two to a dozen, we hand-stitched log-cabin-style quilt blocks from strips of donated fabric in improvised spirals around a central (“hearth”) square.
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Some early stitching sessions (Carlyn Yandle photos)
The blocks were eventually all installed into a massive wall installation as part of my MFA thesis exactly one day before the university shut its doors for several months. We didn’t give up our will; we organized contact-free fabric swaps and took the project online, sharing ideas and stitching instead of drinking.
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Socializing at a distance: a Zoom stitching session (Carlyn Yandle)
When the lockdown rules relaxed, Hearth was instrumental in rekindling social activity. Any in-person awkwardness dissipated as we focused on hand-stitching or just dug through the heap of fabric strips to create a pleasing palette, for our own blocks or to offer someone else.
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RE-START: An early post-lockdown session with MFA colleagues
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A street-front gallery show in the early post-pandemic; interior detail
It takes about two hours for anyone who can hold a needle to stitch a block, about the same time as any social visit. The makers, many of whom learned that in fact they could sew a straight line, were free to take their finished piece home, maybe to use as a cushion cover, placemat or the beginning of a quilt top. Most contributed their blocks to the Hearth project so their own handwork would be a part of a gallery show, with due credit.
​

As normal daily activity resumed, I moved the one bin of fabric strips and the other of finished blocks into deep storage. But just as sure as that cherry tree outside my window will burst into bloom, that project is coming back out for a show of its own. It’s a new chance to focus on practicing engaging, meaningful activity designed for those seeking connection and support outside this dominant, volatile economic system, away from forces screaming for our attention. In these perilous times we’re creating something bigger than our individual selves, one stitch, one block at a time.​

A material love-hate relationship

10/12/2024

 
Masks keep our germs to ourselves but I don't have to like them

People! Am I going to have to bring out my Social Distancing Hat again? Everyone I know is either in the grips of one plague or another or sharing stories about a friend with Long Covid or flu or RSV. And that friend is possibly me (cough cough).
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Social Distancing Hat, March 2020
I’m just kidding about the hat; we Westcoast Canadians have umbrellas for that, at least for a solid seven months out of the year (and we wonder why we’re considered a reserved lot). I trashed the hat shortly after parading around in it for a little levity during Lockdown 2020. In retrospect, ridding myself of the wide-brimmed artwork was overly aspirational. I was obviously oblivious to the power of airborne illnesses to return like that damn leak in my studio every time it rains.

The joke’s on me these days. Embracing more social-distancing practices could have saved me from the cold/flu thing that hit Labour Day weekend and settled into my bottom right lung as pneumonia by month’s end. I did take general precautions: stayed home or sequestered in my leaky studio when I was feeling poorly; bowed out from gatherings and even coffee-shop meetings; took four of the reliable at-home COVID-19 tests over the course of this cough, even doing the whole thorough gaggy throat-scrape method. When they came out negative, I went back out into the world. I was sick of the social isolation.

I was so ready to re-gather with friends that I willed myself to not notice that all the women pushing the dim-sum carts were in masks, even as I barrelled past them to go outside for a coughing fit. I did take advantage of courtesy hand-sanitizer pump bottles at the entrance of shops and public buildings but I did not, would not see the masked-up cashiers, receptionists, servers, tellers and baristas as a sign that I should be following suit.
​
For the record, I was an early mask-adopter even before the spring of 2020. I saw more foreign-exchange students at art school masking up as early as January, and by the end of February, many weren’t coming into class at all. Seeing people in masks was normal to me since my 20s when I lived in Japan, where several commuters in any given train car were masked up, even little kids. When I moved back to Vancouver I lived near Chinatown where masks on faces are commonplace. So by the time the mask mandatehit I was already on it.
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Pandemic-era Instagram posts (clockwise from top left): Early mask prototype; Photoshop’d Captain Vancouver statue; the best use of the MFA Class of 2020 graduation regalia; tiny crocheted masks for store-bought bunnies, Easter 2020 gifts.
In those first few eerie weeks of lockdown, when many people were wondering if it was safe to venture out of doors at all, I was part of a growing army of makers sewing up three-layer cotton masks, refining my design as I went and sharing the method online and materials in a system of drop-offs and pick-ups. I’ve made dozens on dozens of masks when the scant supply was reserved for frontline workers. I only quit when stockpiles showed up in Dollarama.
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Instagram posts of some of many masks made for the masses in 2020
I don’t like thinking about those dark times, nor the long-term effects of that era of social isolation on ourselves, our kids, our community, our economy, our society. (Even as I write, my father, in long-term care, is being isolated for COVID-19 and he doesn’t understand why.) And I don’t want to consider the import of this:

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Or this:
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My knee-jerk reaction is to just move on from the whole masking-up rigmarole even as we’re all getting ready to hunker down indoors for the winter. Is that my privilege talking? Or is it growing up at a time and place when runny-nosed kids were just a fact of life? What’s it going to take for folks like me to adapt to masks as the norm in elevators, on buses, in Costco, at the dentist waiting room or the coffee shop lineup, even when feeling well?
​

Masking up is practical and courteous but I loathe the loss of any more social connectivity, including our unique ability to absorb facial micro-expressions that convey deeper communication — that one advantage humans have over AI and our future robot overlords (for now).

work-in-progress 'Unbridled' stitches up pain and pleasure

8/31/2022

 
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Exploring tattoo tropes (Carlyn Yandle photo)
Thirty years ago this month I floated down the aisle in a pearly silk dress. Recently I pulled this relic out of deep storage to give it new life.

It is a ballerina-length A-line number, a fitted silhouette of crisp, Japanese Dupioni silk festooned with faux pearls, featuring a winding pattern of woven ivory ribbon stitched around the shoulder and ruche bodice, and bateau neckline edged with mini pearls. A strand of 14 pearl shank buttons nestles into handmade button loops running down the back, disappearing into a bustle of box pleats. A puff of shoulder sleeve slims to a fitted forearm, leading down to three more pearl buttons and ending in a pointed edge at the wrist edged in more pearl trim. The pattern was painstakingly customized by the maid of honour, possibly still this city’s most skilled professional in design development. The sleeve itself is an architectural feat, with three delicate darts at the elbow and invisible underarm gusset for ease of movement when slow-dancing.
​The dress was a big effin' deal, is what I'm saying.
PictureCovid-era expression
Following the one night of festivities, the gown and accoutrements — ivory silk pantyhose, pearlescent strappy heels, pearl-bead tiara-hairband thing and matching teardrop earrings — were cocooned in a cotton sheet, placed inside a garment box and embalmed in clear plastic. The box took up precious space, first in an Eastside housing co-op unit, then a Westside condo and finally back to the Eastside where it has been languishing as a past attachment out of place in my much different life. Clearly I needed to address this fetish I had for this dress.
​

My first job as a full-time newspaper reporter included re-writing submitted wedding announcements — a bit of a comedown after an intensive year of journalism school wrestling with ethical issues and the craft of long-form investigative reporting. Banging out descriptions of sweetheart necklines and fingertip veils was tedious work that made me crabby.

Picture"Nevertheless, she persisted", a Trump-era memento
 I resented the notion that this was a ritual of every young woman’s life worthy of space in the local newspaper and the time of a salaried employee. The only vow I was willing to make was to not end up as that girl in the accompanying photo. But question marks hung in the air all through my 20s, not about If but When. Over time my replies of ‘never’ turned into ‘not now’, then ‘who knows’ then ‘soon’ and before the end of my 20s I was a married person with a useless dress in a box. 

I’m not nostalgic about the whole patriarchal wedding ritual and its objectifying notions of purity but I did love that dress. Whenever I re-organized my deep storage I would unfurl it from its wrappings, a little ashamed at my attachment to the thing. I needed to poke holes into the whole notion; I needed to break through this pure silk skin.

I texted a friend for support, someone whose own actual skin is needled with ink here and there like it’s no big deal. Do it. Why not just do it?, she texted back. I took a deep breath and plunged the needle into the silk, embedding stitches of ink-black embroidery floss into the ivory cloth. I winced at the first piercing but like tattoos, there was also a flood of pleasure. I began embroidering significant moments of this significant era then hung it on a hanger in my studio until another compulsion came on. This is how this dress and I work together now: it is a work in progress, like that bride who is always still becoming.

I feel zingy about this mark-making with no overall plan that will not be erased, this disruption of expectations for young women — of my time and place, at least. Unbridled is a work in progress, an unkempt keeper, that weaves the pain in with the pleasure.

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Reminder of the Women's March on Washington, 2017
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The chemotherapy drugs code of a family member close to my heart
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Sciatica source, as depicted in tattoo-style lightning bolts
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Weather bombs and forests in flames: Tattoo-style flames licking at hem of dress
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A bicep full of vaccination pharmaceutical company logos
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Moths in flight: symbols of transformation and regeneration

Unwieldy and unfinished — fitting for this pandemic project

6/13/2022

 
“The place to improve the world is first in one’s own heart and head and hands, and then work outward from there.”
 -- Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

When my nerves are frayed and it feels like the social fabric is unravelling I feel the urge to amend the situation, often by actual mending.

These hands do much less flailing when they're taking up loose ends, making something out of nothing anybody wants or repairing the damaged, discarded and disregarded. But the pandemic has hit hard and for the first time in ages, I am compelled to fall back on something cozy and familiar, for the body — any body — in need. I need to make a big ol' quilt.

Even as the fleeting thought was bonking around my distracted, pandemic-disturbed brain I worried I was regressing. Are a dozen queen-sized quilts — each a barely-passed test of my patience and endurance — not enough for one lifetime? Have I gone circular? 


This (and much more) mental pummelling has manifested in the not-yet-completed "Current Conditions" quilt, a weighted blanket in a bluesy palette and undulating pattern of strips of discarded, freely available jeans. Too thick and heavy to wrestle through my vintage Pfaff, I've taken a page from the Japanese traditional "boro" method and hand-stitched long waves of white cotton sashiko thread through the layers of denim, cotton batting and denim whole-cloth backing. 
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BORROWING FROM BORO: The "Current Conditions" quilt in progress, after hand-stitching through the layers and before the growing roster of pandemic-era hashtags are embroidered.
Soon another layer emerged: hand-embroidered text in the form of some particularly heavy hashtags over the course of this making. Working each of those hashtags into the strips of found textile has become both a meditative activity as well as a meditation on the meaning of those words of these times. This is my physical engagement with the world, one stitch, one block at a time.
Weighing in at more than 10 hot pounds, "Current Conditions" is an unwieldy beast of a blanket but my stitching encounters with the latest hashtags seem far from over. (Should #monkeypox be included? Do I need to reserve a line for #heatdome2022?). Like the global pandemic at this point, it's not clear whether the beast is finally done or will demand more from me.

Homemade masks are not all about you

4/3/2020

 
We who turn to rote hand-making activity to quell our anxiety have been knitting, sewing, embroidering, crocheting and needleworking up a storm. My go-to, like countless others stuck at home, is making masks. As the death tolls roll in, I am on auto-pilot.​
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The thing about busying the hands with tiny repetitive motions is that it opens up time to think, to reflect on the incoming: the unfathomable graphs, reports, studies and scandals. What I’ve been reflecting on as I rotary-cut those squares of cloth, feed them into the machine and steam-press in the pleats is the great homemade-mask debate: to wear or not to wear. To that question I have no doubt: it’s a hard ‘wear’ if you are in the vicinity of others.

Sure, there is a tsunami of science that proves that the three-layered, tight-weave cotton reusable mask that I’ve been making won’t protect you — the wearer — from catching the virus but this is not about you and you alone. This is about us, about keeping our own damn germs to ourselves, a civic duty seen in east Asian nations that have been-there-done-that with SARS. As pointed out in today’s (at this writing) article in The Atlantic, a store full of shoppers in masks may be seen by those on this side of the Pacific Rim as a sign of the coming apocalypse but one of assurance on the other side: I’ll protect you if you protect me (Check out #masks4all and #youprotectmeIprotectyou).

At Emily Carr University of Art + Design, where I’ve spent the last two years, masks suddenly appeared on some student faces as Covid-19 hit the news, far before any social-distancing policies were set. My personal observation is that those taking these early precautions were likely international students from Asian countries where mask-wearing is a norm for anyone contending with even a cold or seasonal allergies. The sudden sight of all these masks in class and corridors may have unsettled the rest of the student body but it inspired me to design something I’d like to wear: reusable, washable, of natural felted fibre, sculpted so it didn’t touch my mouth, infused with my favourite “Panic Button” essential oil blend. 

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I wasn’t always cool with milling around with the masked ones. When I landed in Japan for what would be an 18-month stay in the late-’80s my first snapshots were of all kinds of people in masks in Kyoto, from little kids in black uniforms on their way to school, to teens picnicking under the blooming cherry trees to old ladies in the narrow streets of Gion. I came to appreciate all the masks worn while cheek to jowl in the infamous Midosuji subway in Osaka, starting with the official charged with gently pushing the commuters into the cars. Reflecting on this (now, while I sew), I wonder what those socially-responsible commuters must have thought about being stuck up against these gaping, mouth-breathing, sniffling foreigners.

I’m reflecting on the real, insatiable need for masks in my own vicinity, right now, for those who are jammed into shelters and squalid hotel rooms with shared bathrooms. While I await reports on how this pandemic is hitting the sick and homeless, I’ll assume masks are a basic need. And until I am tested, I’ll assume that I am an asymptomatic carrier.

I mask up for your protection when I go out for my essential business and when I return I disinfect it, put it back in its baggie, then get back to the task at hand. See my simple three-ply pleated pattern below, or, for you non-sewcialists, check out the T-shirt version at bottom.

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No sewing machine? This can be hand-stitched too (46" total stitching). No elastic? Cut 1-inch-wide strips from an old T-shirt, stretch to curl, then replace the elastic directions with two 7" strips, to be tied by user.
    Cross-posted at
    carlynyandle.substack.com

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