#do i have any real knowledge on quebec folklore

[acemapleeh]

how about some more stuff about the fae?

Always happy to appease the Fair Folk

Summary: A newly acquired colony was now under Arthur’s care. In the month he’s been residing with him in the former French colony, little progress had been made in having the child open up to him. Perhaps some midnight stories of fairies and folklore might bring them a little closer together.

Characters: England, Canada

Word Count: 3265

il était une fois

Montreal, Quebec, Late Summer of 1763

Arthur rubbed at his eyes as he sat back in the wingback that was nowhere near as comfortable as his own back home or even the one in Massachusetts. The fire was still warm as it crackled in its hearth and the rum he brought to his lips was just as sweet and bitter. He hoped his business here could be finished soon. He had finished peace negotiations in Europe months ago, his pride swelling as his empire began to rise above those around him. Come victory came the spoils, including a little boy who was once under Francis’s “care.” Arthur had seen him, no, seen wasn’t the correct word. He caught glimpses of him in the trees and grass, occasionally clinging to Francis’s coattails. The first real look Arthur got of the lad was when he had stood in front of his crumpled guardian.

A boy.

One who didn’t even stand to Arthur’s hip with eyes full of tears stood arms raised to protect a man who barely gave him second thoughts.

He didn’t even know how to respond, the gun that was still raised and aimed slowly lowered in confusion.

The boy’s cheeks were puffed out in an attempt to look strong, that not even the Arctic winds could knock him down. He didn’t utter a single word but Arthur knew he had every intention of protecting the man bleeding behind him.

Arthur had yet to hear a single word from the small child. Even upon proper introductions and taking him under his care, the child would only look at Arthur with icy blue eyes. 

It felt as though no real progress had been made in the month Arthur had been residing in the former French colony. At first, he was simply worried the stupid frog hadn’t taught the boy English but it was clear he understood when Arthur or the housekeeper spoke to him. He had even tried speaking to him in French to try to warrant a response but even that approach proved fruitless.

Matthieu, he knew his name was though he quickly corrected it to Matthew, seemed to be perfectly content wandering the house and garden in silence, staring out into the woods through the cracks in the fence. 

Arthur had asked the few fairies who had followed him and his people across the ocean to watch over him. Reports came to his study at the end of the day. Matthew’s behavior was never anything concerning. He played in the garden, napped wherever he felt most comfortable, attended his lessons, and once had organized the bookshelf in the parlor. He joined Mrs. Cooper in the kitchen and followed her around the house as she cleaned, mimicking her actions in trying to dust or sweep. At this point, Arthur couldn’t even tell if the boy saw the flower fairies or simply ignored them as they tried to play with him outside. What sort of stories Francis had put in Matthew’s head of wolves and devils eating children and hobgoblins playing mean tricks in the middle of the night, he didn’t want to know. The man had his own folklore and legends as they all did; fées they were called, Margot la fée was uttered in Central Brittany. They, like his own, were ancient and beautiful beings. Some had teeth as long as their hand, while others donned marine plants, mussels, or periwinkle shells along their back. Some said they were a cursed being, condemned on Earth for staying neutral during the angels’ rebellion: these half-fallen angels became faeries.

Arthur hadn’t heard Francis speak of them in many years.

“The faeries have been gone since we first sounded the Angelus and sung the Credo,” Francis had sighed over a shared bottle of wine one starless night so very long ago that Arthur couldn’t remember the date. “But as time moves on, the Church will diminish, we will no longer sing the symbol of faith, we will no longer ring the bell and interrupt our daily, earthly routines and turn to thoughts of God, of the Blessed Mother, and of eternity. Then, the faeries will return.”

He had read the literature from France from the past century, retelling old folktales was currently quite popular, especially in the court of Louis XIV, though not all the works from Madame d��Aulnoy were what Arthur would call suitable for children. Perhaps in a desperate attempt to try to connect with Matthew, Arthur had bought a copy of Charles Perrault’s ‘Tales of Mother Goose’. 

Night after night, the routine seemed to be the same. Arthur would be in his study until Matthew stood next to his desk and waited patiently for Arthur to notice he was there (which, ranged anywhere from five to thirty minutes). The child would lead the way to the nursery, climb up the little steps leading to the bed and Arthur would tuck him under the blankets. The book would be handed over, Matthew selected the story he wanted to hear and Arthur would read until the lad was fast asleep. 

Even though it was their routine, he still found the whole thing quite odd. He was used to Alfred who would come barging into his study when he spent far too many hours at his desk, demanding to be picked up and put to bed. Arthur would always oblige and there would be times work had to be finished. Alfred would climb into Arthur’s lap and wait, not so patiently, for his father to finish the last bit of paperwork. He would drag Arthur by the shirt to the nursery until he was picked up properly and put to bed by Arthur’s hand. The two would fuss on making sure Alfred’s face was washed and his bedtime prayers were said properly and unrushed before storytime could begin. He laughed at the tales, trying so hard to stay awake to hear the end by making sure he could see the pages of the book and read out loud himself. Without fail, as they approached the final page Alfred’s eyes would grow heavy and he would fall asleep with his head against Arthur’s chest.

On some nights, Arthur would return to work before heading to bed himself. Before he did, he would check on Alfred once more for the night only to find the boy jumping on his bed and climbing over furniture pretending to be the brave Sir Lancelot or the heroic Robin Hood, swinging about the little wood sword Arthur had crafted for him.

Matthew would lay his head against the pillow, staring at Arthur as he read on. French or English, it didn’t seem to make a difference. 

He had read every story the book contained at least three times in each language and he was now worried the boy would get bored. Arthur attempted the other night to bring a new book into the nighttime routine. Matthew sat upright against the cushions, thumbing through the new piece of literature with quiet content. Like always, he selected a story that piqued his interest and slid the book across the duvet to Arthur's hands.

He fell asleep soundlessly and when Arthur checked on him for a second time in the night, Matthew would be facing away from the doorway exactly where he was left. He could recall perhaps a single time he found the boy sitting on the bench by the window, staring out into the night with the glossy beads of a rosary reflecting under the moonlight between the gaps of his fingers.

Francis had given Matthew a fully French and useless name full of Saints to try to bless him with good fortune, not unlike his own. Arthur often scoffed at how good that did him and couldn’t help but think the child would befall the same fate.

Arthur longed for his own days of youth where sleep came so easy. Most nights he sat awake, reading, drinking, writing, whatever was quickest to make his eyes grow tired. Thinking on it, even as a child he was always a light sleeper. Even in the company of his brothers and sister, his ears were alert for any threat that dared creep by. He almost couldn't remember a time bags didn't grace the underside of his eyes. 

Perhaps the boy really was his son.

Another sip of drink that went down quite nicely. The chair was actually starting to feel comfortable now and he let a quiet sigh of content.

In the space between the crackling of firewood, there came the sound of the stair that never settled. Arthur set his glass down and peaked past the back of the armchair. Mrs. Cooper had already gone to bed for the night surely. Even she wouldn't chastise Arthur this late to head to bed.

He watched the open archway, about to call out for whomever to come forward when Matthew's small form stepped into the faintest of the hearth's glow. The poor thing looked like he hadn't any real sleep since Arthur laid him down a few hours ago. There were tear stains on his cheeks and his eyes were puffy, one sleeve covered hand rubbing away proof of despair. 

“Matthew? My dear boy what on earth are you doing awake at this hour?” he slowly rose from his seat, crossed the room, and knelt at eye level to the young child. “How long were you waiting to come get me?” It was a habit he noted a while ago. There were times Arthur would forget to not only feed himself but even Matthew would be out in the garden or playing upstairs a little too long past teatime. It wouldn’t be for another hour or two for the lad to remind his guardian he needed to be fed. Worse were the days he would go from sunrise to sundown without reminding anyone he hadn’t been given any amount of attention. 

Arthur didn’t expect a verbal response but waited patiently as the child grabbed at the fabric of his nightgown, wrinkling the material as he pulled and twisted his hands about. He looked like he was trying hard not to burst into tears again. Silently, Arthur opened his arms and he was surprised at how quickly Matthew threw himself into his chest. He could feel wet patches forming on his shirt as the small fists bunched his waistcoat. The sobs were muffled as Arthur hoisted him in his arms, holding him securely as he stood upright.

Two extremes, he thought to himself. Tears that were quietly staining his shirt that had been delayed for God knows how many hours versus the wails and screams that shook the night the second something was amiss. Arthur had learned how to deal with the latter, the years and resources he put into Alfred’s well-being he thought were enough experience to deal with a second child.

Now he found himself pacing about the parlor, hushing a child who even though was the one who stepped into his hold, still felt stiff and uncomfortable. 

“Are you feeling alright Matthew? Do you feel ill?” he finally asked. He hadn’t felt a fever or noticed any rashes on the child’s cheeks.

Curls bounced softly as Matthew shook his head, face still hidden away.

“A bad dream perchance?”

There was a pause as Matthew’s grip tightened.

Arthur thought back to earlier that day, how tired the lad looked at breakfast and even still after he took an afternoon nap. Just how long has he been having trouble sleeping? He felt guilty for not picking up on it sooner though Matthew was hardly speaking up regarding his own well-being. He only sighed. Feeling bad about previous misjudgment wasn’t going to solve any current problems. 

“Let’s have some fresh air shall we?” In the back of his mind, a memory was faint but held dearly of his mother who would do the same for him upon awakening in the middle of the night from fright. His siblings attempted the same when she was gone and he would always find himself straying into his garden during the witching hour to try to freshen his mind. Even in the middle of winter, he would bundle Alfred and himself and breath in the crisp night air after a troublesome bought of night terrors.

Not sensing any objections, he carried Matthew outside through the backdoor. Past the planted rose bushes and the garden gate was the unknown. Almost instantly upon setting his foot past the threshold of home and onto the foliage and earth of the forest, he felt Matthew relax. The tight bundle of nerves he was holding loosened and his face finally tore away from the fine wool of his waistcoat.

Arthur could hear the chimes of the fae, a familiar and calming sound.

“Feu follet.”

The voice was so quiet Arthur wasn’t sure he heard it at first but he saw the boy pointing forward, past the line of the trees where he knew the St. Lawrence River flowed. There were the floating sprites resembling the like of fireflies, lights that Arthur had always called will-o’-the-wisps. Spirits of the dead that could either lead you home or to your own death.

Caught staring, Arthur had nearly tripped over something that had scurried past his feet.

Then... laughter. A quiet one just below his ear. It was sweet and warm. A sound Arthur didn’t even think Matthew was capable of making. ‘Lord, that’s a depressing thought.’

Just a few yards in front of them was a little white dog, one that resembled a snowbank or white cloud that almost seemed to glow in the night. The way Matthew was looking at it was almost as if the pair were already acquainted. He babbled something in French, something that sounded like he was scolding the creature in the way a child would. Not very earnestly as he continued to laugh.

The dog ran forward into the bushes, reemerging a short distance as an equally white, fluffy cat who stared at the pair. Matthew was squirming in Arthur’s hold now and he let the child down. He had never seen Matthew display such energy before, one that was nearly akin to the kind Alfred displayed on a daily basis. He ran towards the cat and Arthur followed in suit, quietly noting the fairies dancing along the dirt path. They didn’t seem to be bothered by the presence of this being so neither would he.

They continued down the path, the white being darting in and out of the greenery, changing shape each time and amusing Matthew with each transformation. Arthur scratched his brain for any stories Francis shared with him for an answer but none were coming to mind. As they approached the banks of the river, Arthur knelt beside the pair, where the creature had now taken the form of a white bear cub the same size as the child was.

“Is this a friend of yours Matthew?” he asked, kneeling beside them. “Could you introduce me?”

Matthew was quiet for a long moment, the bear gnawing on his golden locks and licking his cheeks affectionately as he thought.

“C'est un lutin.” he answered simply.

“Un lutin?” Arthur repeated, he ignored how his questions weren’t entirely answered. The name he’d heard before. It was akin to the brownies, gnomes, and elves back home but had looked nothing like the creatures he was familiar with that shared the name. “Are you quite certain lad?”

He nodded, running a small hand through the fur in a calming manner. “He doesn’t like the salt you put by the gate.”

Arthur made a quiet noise in his throat. It was a safety precaution he always did. He wasn’t familiar with these woods or the creatures inside it. How was he to know Matthew had befriended anything that resided among the trees? He bit his lip and clicked his tongue in thought. This was the first time he had seen Matthew genuinely happy since he met him and the lad seldom asked for the basics let alone things that brought him joy. He sensed no evil from the creature nor did any of the other fae voice concerns of it. 

Gently, he placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should clean that up, hm? As long as he behaves, he can stay with us. I expect no pebbles in my shoes or the ax dulled, am I understood? You are to be responsible for taking care of his well-being and making sure he doesn’t interfere with my work.”

Matthew was nodding so eagerly to where Arthur feared the boy would give himself a headache. He was on his feet and practically bolting back to the house in a matter of seconds, calling for Arthur to hurry. He couldn’t help but grin, cheeks almost hurting from the joy that had sparked in his chest. He had come into the woods prepared to tell Matthew stories, to sing about the stars and trees the same way his kin had always done. Perhaps the woods comforted the lad just the same as they did for Arthur.

‘Progress at last.’

Upon arriving home, Arthur set work to moving the salt scattered earth about the tip of his shoe, trying to bring in clean earth instead. For good measure, he took a ladle full of water from the well to dissolve whatever concentrated salt piles were left. “There we are, that should do just fine. Come inside both of you. Matthew, I have to clean you up before putting you back to bed.”

Carefully and silently, they crossed into the garden and into the home, the little bear obediently at Matthew’s side even as Arthur brought out a damp cloth to wipe his bare feet clean of dirt, dead leaves, and twigs. As they ascended the stairs, Arthur suggested names for the being, all of which resulted in Matthew making faces of displeasure.

“I think Humbert is a perfectly good name. No? Picky are we?”

“He says that name isn’t very good.”

“Did he now? Suppose we’ll just have to keep trying in the morning.”

Back in bed, Matthew lay, comfortably under homemade quilts and his new companion seemed to have no intentions of leaving anytime soon. It comforted him, knowing the boy would be looked out for even during times Arthur would be unable to. As the child’s breaths slowed to something relaxed, Arthur dared to lean forward to kiss his crown good night.

Not a stir.

Arthur slept well that night, feeling actually rested at breakfast.

Matthew had joined him downstairs and Arthur actually heard the boy running down the steps. His hair was a disaster, all knots, and tangles but the child was babbling in rapid French about his dreams and the fairies that had surprised him when he woke up that morning.

His eyes were as bright as gleaming icebergs during the midnight sun.

“Blessed with fairy-locks have you?” Arthur asked as he helped Matthew sit at the table where warm porridge sat waiting for him. “A lucky lad you are, they’ve taken a liking to you. It’s bad luck to untangle them right away. Best leave it be for a few hours.”

As Arthur worked away in his study that day, he left the door open a crack so he could listen to Matthew play throughout the house. The laughter would put a smile on his face, but a part of his heart ached for his other son.

Hopefully soon, the two could meet and thrive under Arthur's roof together.

[houseofvans]

SKETCHY BEHAVIORS | Q&A w/ Marigold Santos 

Immigrating to Canada in the late 80′s from the Philippines with her family at seven years old, artist Marigold Santos creates beautiful works that reflect on this journey of uprooted selfhood and fragmented identities. Combining the supernatural and otherworldly beings from Filipino folklore, mainly the Asuang, Santos creates her own mythology by powerfully presenting these creatures to celebrate how we are all not just one thing, but many all at once, every changing. And Santos is not only one thing either, like her art, she is a multiple and plural talent – from sculptor, painter, print maker, ceramicist to animator.  We’re super excited to learn more about Marigold in our newest Sketchy Behaviors, where we talk about her early experiences, the folklore of the Asuang, and hear a story about what she saw when playing Bloody Mary with friends. 

Photographs courtesy of the artist | Portrait by Stacy Lee

Introduce yourself? Hello this is Marigold Santos, though my family and pals call me Goldie. I am a visual artist based out of both Montreal, Quebec and Calgary, Alberta, Canada. I am awful at doing summersaults. Or any gymnastics for that matter.

What can you tell us about your art background?   My art practice began with completing my BFA at the University of Calgary, where I did mainly printmaking and drawing, and then I moved to Montreal in 2008 to do my MFA at Concordia University, also in Print Media, but I hardly did any printmaking while I was there! I started on a journey of large-scale drawings, and eventually paintings, sculptural elements, and music/performance, and a bit of animation sometimes. Printmaking was another form of drawing, which is just a wider form of image-making for me. So I would say that though I work in mixed-media, I feel that drawing is the most immediate way for me to make an image, and one that I am the most comfortable with saying that my practice is really based on.

What were the influences that lead you to study and pursue art as a career as opposed to something else?   I was really stubborn when I was growing up about what I wanted to do for a career, I really disliked the feeling of others knowing what might be best for me, before I came to that conclusion myself. And I bring it up because I was always an artistic child, and throughout my early years it was a common understanding among my family and friends that I would go to art school, and I detested that idea! In some ways I was adamant about doing something opposite, so I decided I wanted to be a scientist, in the social field, and I actually started my University years studying Archaeology and Religious Studies. Halfway through the program, it became clear to me that although I loved the Ancient Maya, and learning about belief systems, it just wasn’t a good fit, and I had to make the decision to leave that program and take time off from school to figure out what I wanted to do. In the end it was a no-brainer after all, and I went back for art school, and didn’t turn around. My MFA followed shortly, and it all felt right from there. 

What would that “something else” have been? If you weren’t an artist, what would you be doing? But if I wasn’t an artist, what would I be doing? I sometimes shuffle around the idea of being a butcher, or a dental hygienist. Ha! Though very unlikely I suppose.

Tell us about how your personal experiences  that may have shaped your art? Specifically the importance of your childhood memories and family’s immigration to Canada? How does your art address or reflect these important memories. The departure point for all the art that I make is my family’s immigration to Canada in the late 80’s. I turn to that moment because it was such a pivotal moment for me, even as young person, having to negotiate your sense of identity, in a landscape (social, and geographical) that has dramatically changed. I gave up speaking Tagalog, so I could speak English, and I was desperate to fit in as a Canadian, whatever I thought that was at 7 years old. I started reflecting on identities shaped by diasporic or migratory experiences when I was in my MFA, specifically because I had uprooted myself again, moving across the country to another place where I didn’t know anybody really, and I didn’t know the language.

I came to embrace the idea of a self-hood that was fragmented, and in turn, multiple, or hybrid, or constantly evolving, based on your surroundings and your experience, what you take with you, and what you leave behind. And that this self that was in-flux or constantly in process is something to be celebrated, because the possibilities are empowering. This really creates the foundation for my work, and I began to explore it conceptually with the platform of the supernatural or otherworldly, and specifically with my relationship to the folklore of my upbringing, and where those Filipino mythologies collide with the North American ones I was then exposed to.

In your ink works, there are a lot of appearances of shrouded or draped figures that are very otherworldly and even spectral.  How did these series of works evolve and thematically what do they address and speak about? In Filipino folklore, there is a hybrid, multiple creature called an Asuang, that comes in various shapes and forms, depending on the region and who is telling the story. Predominantly it is a figure that appears to be female human in the day and at night shape-shifting into some sort of viscera sucker that hunts and eats humans. The version I was imparted with as a child was the Mananangal, which translates to “to separate”, because these creatures have the ability to self-sever at the waist, discarding their lower halves in the night, while their upper halves hunt and kill, only to rejoin before sunrise, lest the die fragmented.

Given the Asuang’s multiplicity of self, I was drawn to these creatures to speak about my own sense of self-hood, and reconfigure this character to be less about malevolence, and instead about empowerment and re-inversions of identity. So all the figures I make in my work are always called Asuangs. Including the shrouded figures that are draped in inky messes. These ‘garments’ are not so much fabrics, but are thematically functioning more like a second-skin where the ink reads like blood, or dirt, or rot, or even the cosmos, and represents experience and self. So the porousness of these marks are interchangeable from figure to shroud, and it’s not so much about hiding, but more about revealing. It’s about powerfully presenting your identity in the ways it is multiple, fragmented, plural.

You’ve worked with a lot of different mediums from drawing, printed works, painting, animation, and sculpture.  What is your approach with working in new mediums?  I really appreciate exploring new materials that I am not familiar with, and often I don’t know the first thing about this medium, so I’ll either teach myself (and watch so many Youtube videos. 

Give us an example of one of the mediums you’ve worked with and how that process evolved? For instance I once taught myself how to make a real wig) or I’ll find some others who know, and trade/exchange for their knowledge, and workshop with me. An example would be when I decided I wanted to make images on a surface similar to paper, but was a completely different format, and something I would have to make – and I gravitated towards ceramics. I found a ceramicist in Montreal and asked her to workshop with me and teach me how to wheel throw. I made a series of ceramic plates of which I drew on directly with glaze, and then fired, and then finished with gold rim. It was such a great process, and was completely challenging physically, but also reminded me that you have to adapt your drawing skills depending on the medium you’re working in. Drawing on clay is a totally different surface for instance, and the element of surprise (you never know what it will look like until after it has been fired) reminded me to be open to the element of surprise.

What were some of your early artistic influences and what are some of your contemporary ones? Truly I don’t have too many influences, but I can say I have favourites whose works just move me, from Artemisia Gentileschi, Mary Cassatt, Paul Thek, David Hockney, Cindy Sherman, Yayoi Kusama.

Describe your artist process. How do you organize your thoughts and ideas to the medium or canvas you’re working on? I carry a black book around with me that is full of notes, I start and finish one of these books on average once a year, but I keep them all because they house all of my thoughts, and research, and scribbles. So they become reference points in some ways, an archive of my thoughts. I find that I write more about what I want to do, rather than make preparatory drawings or sketches of them. 

New projects are usually sparked by conversation, research,  a book I’m reading, a film I’ve watched, a memory or dream I am reflecting on, and I build on those in my note taking. Most of the actual image-making happens during the creation process, as I continue to respond to previous marks I’ve made. But not all of my works are intuitive, the larger works definitely need some preparation because of their scale. The wall-sized pieces (9’x13’ for instance) are not projected, but are drawn free hand, but I need to make thumbnails to figure out composition before I begin, otherwise it’s a disaster on a ladder. If I am making a giant work, I can only have that one piece to work on until it is finished to the end, which can sometimes be up to 8 weeks. It takes up all the wall space in my studio, and sometimes I do get bored with it and just want it to end! I can forget that large pieces with tiny details take forever to do. But I just hunker down with true crime podcasts, audio books, and a lot of Dolly Parton.

What has been the best project or experience art wise in 2017? Definitely presenting my work at the Alberta Biennial of Contemporary Art, which opened in both the Art Gallery of Alberta, and the Walter Phillips Gallery in Banff. My piece SUBLIMATION / CONSTELLACHEMY was such a huge work for me, and I was so happy to be able to present it in that context. It was one of the first pieces you see when you come in, and I was happy to start the exhibition with a strong female voice, and representing POC.

You recently did an artist talk and storytelling workshop at Art Gallery of Alberta (AGA). Can you tell us a little about that talk and what were some of the highlights from it? It turned out to be a fantastic talk, and the crowd was full of such diversity. It was so great to have a supportive Filipino community come out to see my talk, and hear my story, but also was amazing to share stories with the audience who wanted to share their diasporic experiences and the folklore of their youth, and how in turn it has shaped their experience and their identities. A large portion of the crowd consisted of the Canadian Council for Refugees Youth Group of Edmonton, and I loved speaking to each one of the youth after the talk – they were so engaged and excited to tell me about themselves. It was really a gift.

What’s been your biggest challenge as an artist and how have you overcome those obstacles?  What have you learned over the years? I think the biggest challenge at first has been to manage and balance your time. Keeping regular studio hours, while maintaining other life commitments, can sometimes be difficult, especially because the onus is on you to be the enforcer of your own dedication. Sometimes you want to just be lazy! And I definitely give in to those days. But I think over time, you figure out a balance, and when to turn it off, and when to get the ball rolling, and to keep the momentum. I suppose it really is dictated by the fact that I can’t really imagine myself dedicating my hours to any other way of life, so that does drive me.

What advice would you give folks out there who want to pursue art as a career? It’s going to be feast or famine sometimes, but that’s the curl of the burl. Just do what feels right for you, and do what you want to do.

Okay, when you’re not doing awesome works and shows or giving talks, how do you unwind or spend your free time? I don’t know if this qualifies as unwinding, but I’ve started tattooing and it’s what I do when I am not painting or drawing! But outside of the studio, I stay active by going for runs and hikes, and I also box. But I also love croissants, so I dedicate my time to eating the best croissants I can find. .

What would be your ideal collaboration? I would love to work with some of my favourite musicians to create a moving image piece, animation or projection!

What’s a question you never get asked–what would that be and how would you answer it. Q: What’s a thing you love that others don’t really love? A: Going to the dentist, flossing my teeth.

What’s a common misconception folks might have about artists that you might have come across? One misconception I find is that artists have the ability to channel their feelings always in to art, and whether they are experiencing good to bad times in their life, they should just take that energy and channel it into their work. I don’t think it always works that way. It would be amazing if it did, but art making is also work, and is work for many artists, and sometimes those don’t intersect the way we imagine it to.

What are your favorite Vans? My old checkered Slip Ons!

How are you not just ONE thing? Maybe it’s because I am a Libra, it prevents me from pigeonholing myself in any of my multiple interests – I just want it all, I just want to do it all!

What are you looking forward to project wise in 2018? I have a solo show in Montreal at Galerie D’Este in the fall of 2018 and I am really excited to be making new works for it. I’ve really been making images of landscapes lately, and plenty referenced from my experiences in Joshua Tree. I’d love to do more ceramics for this show, and possibly some brass works.

What’s your strangest or sketchiest art story that you can share? Because most of my works are a response and reflection of identity informed by lived experience, and presented on a platform of the supernatural or otherworldly, naturally I am drawn to all things scary, grotesque, weird and wild. I’ve only had one supernatural experience – and that when we I was really young a school friend came over and made me do Bloody Mary (scary urban legend) with her in the bathroom. I had no idea what this was, but I knew it was supposed to be scary, sort of. Nothing immediately happened in the dark bathroom we were locked in, but at one point, I saw a blue hand pressed up against the mirror on THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MIRROR. It also had a blue triangle in the palm. I squinted my shut my eyes multiple times to check, but then the light was turned on, and there was nothing there. I can still see that blue hand in my mind’s eye, and if you see a blue hand in my art work on occasion, it’s because it’s referencing that story.

Follow Marigold Santos Website | www.marigoldsantos.com/ Instagram | @marigoldasantos