The Rosemont Art Gallery in Regina’s west end is now doing business as the “Art Gallery of Regina”. Growing up there I remember it as the far-away gallery (on the city’s west end, further out than the Mackenzie or the uni) where my dad would occasionally have shows, the studios buzzing with art classes you could take (painting, glasswork, pottery, anything) and for the neat architecture of the building with an atrium in the middle (“you’re outside, but you’re inside” – as a kid I wanted one of those at home too).
I haven’t been in years, but with a renewed focus on contemporary art from the Prairies, it’s exciting to know the independent gallery is going strong, and the new name gives both it and the City of Regina some better recognition. I don’t think they’re going by the name “AGR” in their branding, but I’m going to call it that – the riff on the AGO wouldn’t be inappropriately aspirational, especially since Regina’s been generally on the up-and-up lately. (Of course it is: its got a new brand, after all.)
This month, Winnipeger Diana Thorneycroft’s staged tableaux of dolls and action figures are a jarring review of sordid moments in Canadian history. It’s full of the unexpected – at least, it was, until you read this blog – and twists perceptions. First off, the exhibition’s title, “A People’s History” plays on the recent CBC television series of the same title – but as much as the Ceeb made a fair effort to ensure the low-lights of our past were not lost amidst the high-lights, Thorneycroft totally leaves the warm fuzzy feelings to the Heritage Minutes and delves into our nation’s tragedies and horror.
The compositions are disturbing, and effective. Children’s toys, dioramas and doll’s clothing set out abstracted, yet easily recognisable parts of Canadian history often glossed over. Backgrounds pulled from Group of Seven landscapes add to the juxtaposition of Canada’s natural pride and, as the AGR review writes, “our national shames”. I remember seeing a Lego version of the famous Fathers of Confederation portrait in Charlottetown, and thinking “cute”; but taking negative moments in history and associating them with kids’ toys adds a creepiness that strikes you more than photos of the real thing.
The attention to detail is amazing. Documenting child abuse by religious clergy, there’s period-appropriate clerical garb – as much as it points out the abuses of various churches throughout Canadian history, the use of historic accoutrements rather than modern-day robes and collars also emphasises that current-day churches have addressed and are eliminating abuse:
North-West Rebellion leader and Manitoba MP Louis Riel stands defiant on the gallows, a perfectly looped hangman’s knot in doll-sized thread awaiting above; a flock of crows – a murder, after all (Thorneycroft settles the “criminal or loyal citizen” debate) – above and at his feet complete the image:
The exploitation of the Dionne Quintuplets appears at first as it was in real life: five cute kids, hamming it up in the public spotlight, enjoying the free toys and baby supplies from fawning sponsors. But a closer look at the scene shows the truth: kid-sized barbed wire and handcuffs protect the commercial investment:
The internment of Canadians of Japanese descent in the Second World War is captured with racially-representative figures – funny, I never even though of dolls or action figures being available in non-white – and the hanging body in the background (suicide or lynch?) clearly reminds that internment was no mere camping trip to ride out the war:
On the other hand, the sexual abuse of junior hockey players by their coach is the most subtle of all: a taller figure wearing a jacket stitched “coach” extends a hand to a boy holding a hockey bag. The back alley setting and lighting, boy pinned against the wall, set the sinister mood:
The beating death of a First Nations man by Saskatoon on an infamous “starlight tour” is also referenced, but here Thorneycroft’s detail is off – the car in the background clearly has multicolour RCMP markings, though the Mounties had no part in this tragedy whatsoever:
Finally, fresh from the headlines, the underwear-wearing Russell Williams is immortalised. Thorneycroft’s detail comes through on the correctly-ranked air force Colonel’s uniform, complete with medals and rank bars, and the stark expression on the mannequin’s face. The bizarreness of the real thing is even more disturbing in action-figure child’s playset format:
The use of children and toys to capture very “adult” themes has been used before: Jonathan Hobin‘s photo series “In the Playroom” of kids re-enacting Abu Ghraib torture and the 11th September attacks disturbingly mixed modern-day horror with the innocent space of the kid’s playroom. But I think the technique is apt – when we approach horror and tragedy as abstracted through our limited experience and think we understand, to see how kids might broach the same with their understanding, shows our true disconnect.
Similarly, the AGR’s show notes summarise, “Thorneycroft’s serious play is an absorbing effort to inhabit scenes that most of us know from a distance. Only a few of the images are explicit. Most present a moment just before the crime. Our imaginations and memories create the rest.” As toys do for kids, so they do for us in Thorneycroft’s exhibition: they give us a focus for our imaginations and bridge our limited experience to the “real world out there”. They let us play and pretend what it’s like to know what “grown-ups” do – and it can be tragic.
“A People’s History”, 1 Sep – 8 Oct at the Art Gallery of Regina, 2420 Elphinstone St at College Av.
Intriguing…yet unnerving.