To be mad amongst the old growth

6 minute read. Content warning: Mentions of mental health struggles, anxiety, self-doubt, and masking behavior..

chatGPT Summary: Kay reflects on their experience at a two-week artist residency, exploring the challenges of belonging, masking, and the significance of being allowed to struggle and be imperfect in a supportive and accepting environment.

Vancouver, on occupied Coast Salish territory, with reflections from a settler visiting as an uninvited guest to the Squamish Nation territory – I recently returned from the two-week artist residency in Brackendale facilitated by Kickstart Disability Arts & Culture. To Be Amongst the Old Growth: A Deaf, Mad and Disabled Artist Residency was restricted to artists in BC and highly encouraged BIPOC and LGBTQ2S+ artists to apply. Since I could check off at least three things associated with this call to participate, I applied. When the call went live, I contacted SC and KM to see if they wanted to apply. I wrote my application letter referring to collaboration possibilities should my collective apply to participate. SC declined, and while KM and I were selected to participate, KM had to pull out. So it was that I found myself preparing for my first artist residency away from home.

It was an opportunity I had eagerly and anxiously anticipated for weeks. The chance to be in community with other d/Deaf, Mad, and d/Disabled artists was exciting. I have been a part of hosting residencies for other artists, as well as developing my own programs to host disabled and d/Deaf/HOH artists for the past few years, but I had not yet been a residency artist hosted by an external group.

Public silence is something I am particularly interested in right now. It is extremely affirming when I permit myself to practice it and find more and more spaces in public and my art practice to normalize it as a medium.

I seek to add more collaboration to my personal practice, challenging my instinct to work solo.

Application responses, “What are you exploring in your arts practice right now?”, April 2024

In weeks leading up to the residency, I had catastrophized every possible scenario (or at least it felt like it), contacted Squamish Taxi by email, and ultimately resolved and committed to only staying for a week, made easier by the fact that I had a work commitment that would have been a nightmare to do offsite on shared rural wifi from my iPad. I was a wreck 24 hours before I left, but I was a ready wreck.

I clung to the promise of practicing a week of silence as I made the long journey to the Squamish farm. While my bladder was a horrible travel companion, even the taxi ride at the end of my journey was relatively painless. I arrived in one piece and deposited my angry liquid baggage with no issues before checking in.

On the first day, I wore my super-worn magic mask of socializing, positively interacting with each new residency attendant. My curiosity and respect for others’ access needs guided me and, by the end of the first day, included a round table introduction that included live transcription and some pretty excellent interpretation from a fellow artist who had previously taken Queer ASL. No one had any issues with me using my phone to communicate, and I could feel a general sense of ease building by the first evening. I slept well, woke up early for a cautious walk on the dark country road, and returned a few hours before anyone else woke up. I was ready to copy-paste this pattern for the week.

However, as the days passed, I felt that familiar sense of fear and shame. Why was everyone else able to express trust and camaraderie so quickly? Why was the container that brought us together enough for others to use words like “friends” and “trust” within the first 24 hours? I felt silly and isolated for not being able to see these talented, kind, and like-minded people as immediate friends. I was ashamed of bringing so much fragility and baggage along. I was privately glad that I was only engaged in brief moments of communication, my phone slowing down chats between a hearing and verbal group. Being solo and excused was easy, and I took full advantage of it.

I struggled with my own sense of belonging and authenticity. I continued to wake up hours before my peers, using the early morning hours to walk the mountain road, straining my eyes for wildlife or fast-moving vehicles. These walks were a way to manage my anxiety even in the face of unknown danger, but back with others, I continued to mask, feeling like a burden, a nuisance, a snob, or a pretender, in response to nothing external or even hinted at from my fellow residency artist or facilitators. I would escape for walks, feeling safe and comfortable being alone. While I felt refreshed and renewed with each kilometre, I would tell myself that I was failing to practice what I said explicitly I would in my application: more collaboration and challenging my instinct to work solo. Seeing that I spent a minimum of 10 hours daily out of sync with the other residency attendees, I wouldn’t exactly say I nailed this goal.

Following my return, I have been asked a few times how the residency went. The summary is that it was positive. It was important for my career, for my goals as an artist, and for my well-being together with other neurodiverse and disabled artists. I know how important it was to others who went, and even as I report how hard it was for me, I would absolutely apply again. I have been trying to draft a letter to send to Kickstart that they could use for future funding opportunities because the organization is struggling with little support and unresourced staff. I want to be able to write something to share how important it was for me to be safe and crazy without making it all about me. I have written support letters before in a professional voice or on behalf of an institution, where I might name that I am mad but mostly as an acknowledgement of barriers or to satisfy a questionnaire asking about the identity of the respondents, but all of these do not authentically detail my struggles and how important it is to be allowed to struggle without needing to apologize or pay back the provided support. Even if my presence was heavily masked, I WAS loved this past week. Even if I question the label friend, I know that friendship was offered, and it was genuine. So what that I couldn’t bank it or use it while I was experiencing it – it was invested, and it will grow, helping me in future residencies or social situations.

In reviewing my experience, I recognize how special it was to have this opportunity to participate in the residency and engage, even as I put up barrier after barrier for myself. I may ultimately write a support letter that appeals to funders and granting agencies with the kind of high-level language they expect—acknowledging the residency’s importance for professional development and the broader artistic community. But what truly made this residency invaluable was the space it offered to simply exist, with all my flaws, fears, and struggles. It was a place where I didn’t have to be perfect, right, good, or even “better” in the ways capitalism and ableism demand. I didn’t need to take advantage of every opportunity or come away with a sense of triumph. Just being there, struggling, and sometimes not being okay—yet still being welcomed and supported—was enough. This residency allowed me to dream of a world where it’s okay not to be okay, where we can return, try again, and still be worthy and valuable simply because we showed up. And in that, there is profound success.

Technology note:

I continue to test the use of AI within my writing and artistic practice. I used chatGPT to create a summary for this blog, provide content warning recommendations, and reading time estimates, and Grammarly to assist me in spelling and grammar.