8 minute read. Content warning: Discussions of anxiety and mental health, brief mentions of physical discomfort (bladder urgency), and mention of colonization and stolen land
chatGPT Summary: Kay reflects on the challenges of working in public during their residency, balancing focus, anxiety, and accessibility, while capturing a 360-degree scan of the space and contemplating their role as a guest on stolen land.
This morning, I was stuck at home waiting for a delivery. I won’t dwell on the details—everyone knows the struggles with shipping, from the environmental impact to our impatience and how little we (pay or) care for the workers. Suffice it to say it was a stressful morning. The silver lining was that the gallery needed some last-minute work done, and being home in my studio (with power, heat, and internet) made it easier. Once that was finished, I checked my shipping app and discovered they had decided without informing me that I should pick it up from a local depot instead (sure…). I did one final teaching substitution for the month; then PAH/finally made my way to FLEET for the afternoon.
When I arrived, it was hard to get started. Starting earlier in the morning before many people are milling about lets me get focused and grounded on my goals. I am working in public, and while I have four walls and stairs leading up to the space, I still feel exposed. On day one, I had a task list so I could focus even with people peeking in, tapping on the glass, or engaging with my sandwich board. But today, every passerby disrupted my concentration, and I worried that making eye contact translated my anxiety to others.
It felt like an art or craft fair when a vendor wants to engage with people walking by, and where sometimes making eye contact leads to a conversation and other times it causes someone to rush by who would otherwise browse. Because I need to read lips, it adds another level of complexity because sometimes multiple customers would expect to be engaged at once, or I wouldn’t hear someone talking while I tried to read the face of someone else (who may have then felt intimidated by my scrutiny). Looking back, it’s sometimes easier than other times to see how being raised AFAB in a marketing family manifested into mental illness. As an aside, my friend Johnny has shared with me his experiences at art fairs where he is also judged if he doesn’t talk to people who expect to be acknowledged or welcomed as an essential requirement for a sale – and has to listen to people complaining about his rudeness…as he sits next to a giant sign that says “I’m blind”. shudder I haven’t done an art or craft fair for years. Luckily, I am well past the days when I thought my illustration practice was valid only if I was selling multiple physical copies of my work, so it is unlikely I’ll ever put myself through that again. Still, it caused me to pause and reflect on how my practice has changed over the past decade. I sometimes choose to be in the spotlight, whether through a talk, tour, or workshop, and there is power in the podium. When speaking or presenting, I am usually forgiven if I don’t hear someone trying to talk over me or get my attention. I can ask someone to wait before I pass over the proverbial talking stick (a term respectfully borrowed from Coast Salish tradition that I wished we would practice more often in everyday life). In a workshop, when I am the participant, I hold a different anxiety where I won’t hear someone’s comments or questions from fellow participants, or I’ll miss directions from the facilitator, but it’s easier to choose my focus, and I’ll set myself up in full view of the workshop leaders or at their elbow and then try and manage my energy and anxiety. But on display, it requires me to have confidence in my work, or I give my energy to everyone who passes by, even if they don’t demand it. I think this public-making space will require me to accept that my focus cannot be wholly my own and that I will, eventually, be startled.
Screaming in public.
I scream when I am startled. I don’t know how loud I am, but I have been told throughout my life that it is too loud and that I need to “just calm down.” It’s very common for people with hearing loss to deal with anxiety and to be startled, but I have only met a few people on my level of drama and stress who react as violently as I do. This is likely a side effect of my chosen coping mechanism to be in control. If I know where people are and do a lot of pre-planning, I am less likely to be startled, and even if I am, if I hold all the information, it is a minor upset rather than a major one. But when I am comfortable and at rest (it can happen) or focused on my work, I can’t hold all the pieces I usually do in a hearing space. I ignore bodies, and I focus. This means that when people come up behind me, especially to my right side, start speaking on my left at a proximity, or come into my field of vision abruptly, I scream. I have been known to drop things, throw things in the air, or startle myself to tears. My heartbeat soars, and my body sweats. It sucks. And oh-so-oddly, no matter how often I’m told to chill out…it doesn’t seem to change this behaviour.
Control in practice.
When I arrived at FLEET, I decided immediately that I would need to ignore the side door. It is opaque, and I cannot hear people when they knock, and there are no visual alarms. Since the walkway is very narrow and has a set of steps, I figured it would be a low-traffic entrance, and I elected to keep it locked when I was in residence. I made a small sign that read “Artist is hard of hearing” with an arrow that directed people to the back patio. If anyone has knocked or tried to get in there, I have yet to be made aware. Controlled.
The large picture window facing the plaza with tables and chairs and a clear view from the busy street leading from the Market and Net Loft shops is pretty high up off the ground. If I am standing close, I notice people looking in, but for the most part, it’s an easy-to-ignore spot. I added vinyl to the window that proclaims I am in residence and added the ASL handshapes K-A-Y to imply further that someone working here was unlikely to hear if someone was to talk. Controlled.
That leaves the back patio. The doors here are almost floor-to-ceiling glass, giving me and the people passing by a clear view of each other. However, there are two steps and a metre and a half of patio space before someone reaches the door, and I have installed both my sandwich board and FLEET signage there. As long as I face these doors, I will notice someone’s approach.
“As long as I am facing these doors…”
I haven’t set up the space to constantly face the rear doors. I love working on walls and don’t need to monitor people passing by. I encourage peeking in but don’t always want or need to engage. One of my anxious voices tells me to be more performative, but I must remind myself that I am not a performer here. I am working and need to balance my focus with the realities of being in public.
This is part of the work, too. What does it mean to be hard of hearing and, within the boundaries of my non-verbal/radical silence project, silent while working in public? Wherein lies the boundaries between the expectation of passers-by and myself as a working artist?
I know a certain amount of engagement is expected of me in exchange for this working space, especially in such an active space as Granville Island. There is an expectation that I engage in respectful and polite ways, but those terms are very subjective. They are further clouded by perceptions of gender, biases of culture and age, and capitalist culture. I am not selling anything and not paid to be an ambassador, but there is a responsibility when occupying space that is not my own. I am a settler on stolen land, an artist in a borrowed and temporary space on stolen land, surrounded by visitors themselves sold and encouraged to buy and consume the “culture” of this community on stolen land. I have been a visitor, participant, customer, and student on this island for over 35 years, but I am still a guest.
Figuring out my role in this public space will be part of the next 29 days. Today, I decided to capture a 360-degree scan of the space. I had planned to do this before putting anything on the walls, but my instinct to cover the bare walls won out on day one. Getting the 360 scan doesn’t require intense focus, so I could still pay attention to any potential visitors. By 6 PM, when the FLEET walking tour arrived, I had calmed down enough to complete the capture despite the wifi issues in the trailer. As the light faded, I wrapped up for the day.
The plaza lights came on as I packed up, and I felt the tension in my body release. Humans and lights at dusk—something about it shook me free of anxiety. Realizing I needed a bathroom (how long had my bladder been screaming at me?), I checked my phone and saw that the False Creek Community Centre was open until 9:30. I left the island and travelled along the seawall with my partner who had come to meet me and walk me home.
Tomorrow, I’ll focus on more captures and review the most recent Vancouver Building By-Law and BC Building Codes to see how recent revisions might impact accessibility. I’m ready for a more relaxed day, even if it doesn’t make for exciting viewing for the tourists.
Social Media Post
Technology note:
I continue to test the use of AI within my writing and artistic practice. I used chatGPT to create a summary and reading estimate and to recommend some content warnings for this blog. Grammarly also assisted me with spelling and grammar.
I used the Instagram API to create embed code and share the social media post I uploaded there. I also used my phone to record my video, and ElevenLabs to do create a voice-over of my transcript and visual descriptions.
I used Matterport (iphone app + axis) to map the interior space, running into some issues in capturing the outside space.