What Should Public Art Be?

 What Should Public Art Be?

Part 6 — The Final Chapter of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation

Six posts.

A lot of questions.

A lot of documents.

A lot of digging.

And I started this investigation because one electronic sign on a bicycle route genuinely upset me.

I wanted to know:

Who chose this?

Who approved it?

Who paid for it?

And did anybody think about the people who would encounter it?

After following the money, the people, the approval process, the artworks and the public consultation, I've come to a conclusion.

I don't want less public art.

I want better public art.

I want art that remembers where it is.

A gallery is not a seawall.

A museum is not a bike path.

A private exhibition is not a public playground.

When an artwork is placed in a shared public space, the location becomes part of the artwork.

And so does the audience.

You don't get to choose who walks past.

You don't get to choose who is having a wonderful day.

You don't get to choose who is grieving.

You don't get to choose who is recovering from addiction.

You don't get to choose who has just lost someone.

You don't get to choose who is a child or teenager encountering the work.

That's what makes public art different.

I discovered that I actually love some Biennale art.

The clearest example for me is Giants at Granville Island.

Those enormous colourful figures transformed concrete silos into something imaginative and joyful.

You don't have to understand contemporary-art theory to appreciate them.

You can simply see them and smile.

That's what I want more of.

Art that makes us stop.

Art that makes us curious.

Art that makes us laugh.

Art that makes us see our city differently.

Art that makes an ugly place beautiful.

Art that makes a child look up and say:

“Wow.”

But I've also encountered works that I find disturbing.

A-maze-ing Laughter makes me uncomfortable.

The Proud Youth frightened me.

And Vancouver Novel has genuinely upset me.

The electronic sign cycles through statements including:

“He hides pills.”

“She is begging again.”

“They can see you.”

The Biennale describes the work as deliberately moving between ordinary and ominous statements.

Perhaps that is exactly what the artist intended.

But here's what I have learned:

Intent isn't the same thing as impact.

An artist can intend humour and someone can experience fear.

An artist can intend provocation and someone can experience distress.

An artist can intend social commentary and someone can experience a painful reminder of something that happened in their own life.

That doesn't automatically make the artwork wrong.

But it does mean the response is real.

And that brings me back to the word PUBLIC.

We use that word so casually.

Public art.

Public park.

Public space.

Public consultation.

Public money.

But public means people.

Real people.

Messy people.

Happy people.

Angry people.

People who disagree.

People who don't know anything about contemporary art.

People who know far more about it than I ever will.

People with trauma.

People without homes.

People with money.

People without money.

People who love the artwork.

People who hate it.

All of them are the public.

So what should public art be?

I don't think there should be one answer.

And I don't want governments deciding that art must always be cheerful.

That would be dangerous.

Artists need room to challenge us.

Sometimes we need art that makes us uncomfortable.

Sometimes we need art that forces us to confront something we'd rather ignore.

Sometimes we need art that makes us angry.

Sometimes we need art that makes us ask uncomfortable questions.

But we also need beauty.

We need joy.

We need colour.

We need wonder.

We need places where a person can ride a bicycle and simply feel good for a few minutes.

Why can't public art sometimes say:

YOU LOOK AWESOME.

YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.

HAVE A GREAT DAY.

KEEP GOING.

Imagine that.

And I don't think the answer is censorship.

That's not what this investigation found.

What I found was something more complicated.

There is a real organizational structure.

There are curators.

There is a Board.

There are government and municipal relationships.

There are funding sources.

There are agreements.

There are approval processes.

There have been public consultations.

There have been controversies.

There have been artworks that stayed.

There have been artworks that left.

And there are documents showing how some of these decisions happened.

That's actually good news.

Because it means we don't have to rely on rumours.

We can ask questions.

We can look at the records.

We can disagree.

We can participate.

And we can ask the organizations responsible for public art to explain themselves.

My biggest question remains unanswered.

When an organization says it is bringing art into the places where people “live, work, play and transit,” what responsibility does that create?

I think it creates a big one.

Because you have deliberately removed the gallery door.

You have removed the choice to enter.

You've made the artwork part of someone's everyday environment.

So perhaps the responsibility of public art isn't simply:

“Can we put this here?”

Perhaps it should also be:

“What will it feel like to encounter this here?”

And:

“Who might we be forgetting?”

Those are questions worth asking before the sculpture arrives — not only after people complain.

So, Vancouver Biennale, here's my challenge.

Don't be afraid of criticism.

Don't dismiss people who don't understand contemporary art.

Don't assume that someone who dislikes a work simply “doesn't get it.”

Listen.

Explain.

Show us the process.

Tell us who selected it.

Tell us who approved it.

Tell us who funded it.

Tell us what consultation happened.

And when people object, explain why you decided to proceed.

Maybe we'll still disagree.

That's okay.

That's democracy.

And to artists:

Keep making art.

Please.

Make the strange stuff.

Make the beautiful stuff.

Make the uncomfortable stuff.

Make the art that makes us stop in our tracks.

But when your work enters public space, remember something:

Your audience didn't necessarily choose you.

And that doesn't mean you have to make everyone happy.

It means you have to understand that the public experience is now part of the work.

And to the public:

Don't assume that public art is something that simply happens to us.

Look.

Question.

Discuss.

Love it.

Hate it.

Take photographs.

Find out who made it.

Find out who paid for it.

Find out who approved it.

And if you think something belongs somewhere else, say so.

Public space belongs to all of us.

So should the conversation about what happens there.

WHO CHOOSES OUR PUBLIC ART?

After six investigations, I think that's still the best question.

Not:

“Is it good art?”

But:

“Is it good public art — for this place, for this audience, and for this city?”

And maybe that's where the conversation should begin.

#PublicArt #VancouverBiennale #Vancouver #ArtAndSociety #PublicSpace #ArtisticResponsibility #CommunityVoice #VancouverArts #RethinkIt #Giants

The Public Gets a Say — Or Does It?

 The Public Gets a Say — Or Does It?

Part 5 of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation

We've followed the money.

We've looked at the people.

We've examined the approval system.

We've looked at the art itself.

Now comes the question that may matter most to ordinary Vancouverites:

DO WE ACTUALLY GET A SAY?

The Vancouver Biennale puts art into places where people live, walk, cycle, work and play.

So what happens when the people who use those spaces don't like what's being installed?

Is there a meaningful way to object?

Does anyone listen?

And can public opinion actually change the outcome?

I started looking through the records.

And the answer is more complicated than I expected.

Public consultation is not new.

A 2009 Park Board document says public response was one of the considerations used in reviewing Biennale works, along with technical and risk analysis and artistic and aesthetic merit.

There were also specific public consultation processes around proposed long-term installations.

So this isn't some new idea I'm inventing.

The public has been part of this conversation before.

But what does that participation actually accomplish?

Let's look at A-maze-ing Laughter.

This is especially interesting because I personally find those giant laughing figures unsettling.

But Vancouver clearly has many people who absolutely adore them.

When the original temporary exhibition was coming to an end, the Vancouver Biennale wanted to keep A-maze-ing Laughter at Morton Park for another 20 years.

And the Biennale openly asked the public for help.

It said a civic engagement process was required and invited people to submit their opinions and feedback to the Park Board.

That's exactly what public participation should look like:

Here is the proposal.

Here is the location.

Here is what we want to do.

Tell us what you think.

The sculpture ultimately became a permanent part of Vancouver's public-art collection.

The Park Board accepted the long-term loan or donation in 2012.

And the Biennale says the Wilson family subsequently donated $1.5 million specifically so the sculpture could remain in Vancouver.

That's an extraordinary example of public art moving from temporary exhibition to permanent civic asset.

And here's the interesting part:

I don't like it.

Many other people apparently love it.

Both reactions can be true.

That's democracy in public art.

The point isn't that the majority should always win.

Art isn't a referendum.

If we required everyone to agree before installing anything, Vancouver would become incredibly boring.

But there should be a way for people to say:

“I object.”

And there should be a way for decision-makers to demonstrate:

“We heard you.”

The Biennale has actually asked people to campaign for art.

In 2009, the Biennale itself asked supporters to write to the Park Board in support of Michel Goulet's Echoes, a proposed permanent addition to Vancouver's public-art collection.

The Biennale told supporters that letters of public support would assist the Park Board in its decision.

That tells us something important.

Public opinion matters when the organization wants public support.

So I think it is perfectly reasonable to ask whether public opposition receives the same attention.

If people write:

“Please keep this artwork!”

What happens?

If people write:

“Please remove this artwork!”

What happens?

Are both positions counted?

Are both documented?

Are both presented to decision-makers?

Or does public consultation become more of a campaign for the outcome the organization already wants?

I don't know.

That's what we need to investigate.

And then there is The Proud Youth.

The City released an FOI file specifically concerning the Biennale's Proud Youth installation and the public-art process. The City's FOI index identifies the records as covering September 2020 through May 2021.

This is exactly the kind of document I want to examine.

Because instead of talking about public consultation in theory, we can ask:

What actually happened?

Who was contacted?

Who responded?

What concerns were raised?

What did City staff say?

What did the Biennale say?

What information was provided to the public?

And ultimately:

Who made the decision?

There's another clue in the 2017 Park Board agreement.

The Park Board approved a 12-year partnership with the Biennale for three temporary exhibitions of up to 15 artworks each.

The agreement gave the Biennale curatorial leadership and responsibility for installation, insurance, maintenance and de-installation, while Park Board staff handled technical and risk-management reviews. Sites were to be identified and agreed upon in advance.

The Park Board minutes show that commissioners heard from members of the public during consideration of that agreement. Several speakers supported it and praised the opportunity to bring world-class art to Vancouver. The discussion also included questions about how communities could retain artworks and whether Park Board should support some installation costs.

So there was public participation.

But here's the question I haven't answered yet:

How representative was it?

Six speakers?

Twenty?

Two hundred emails?

A petition?

An online survey?

A neighbourhood meeting?

And who was actually being consulted?

The people who already follow the Biennale?

The people who live beside the artwork?

Cyclists?

Families?

Teenagers?

People experiencing homelessness?

People with disabilities?

People who don't normally participate in arts consultations?

Those details matter.

Because “the public” isn't one person.

When an organization says:

“The public loves this artwork,”

I want to know:

Which public?

When someone says:

“There was public consultation,”

I want to know:

How many people participated?

When an artwork is controversial, I want to know:

What did the people who objected actually say?

And when a decision is made, I want to know:

What changed because of public feedback?

That's what meaningful consultation should tell us.

And there is a bigger issue here.

The Park Board adopted formal public-engagement standards intended to make consultation more meaningful, transparent and inclusive.

Those standards specifically discuss reaching beyond traditional methods and engaging underrepresented groups.

That is encouraging.

But it gives us an even better question:

Are those standards actually being applied to Biennale installations?

And if so:

How?

This is where my investigation is going next.

I don't want to assume that the Biennale ignores the public.

The documents show that it doesn't.

I don't want to assume that public consultation is meaningless.

Sometimes it clearly has been part of major decisions.

And I don't want to pretend that every controversial artwork should be removed.

That would defeat the purpose of public art.

But I do want transparency.

If the public is being asked for its opinion, show us what happened to that opinion.

Show us the numbers.

Show us the concerns.

Show us the responses.

Show us the decision.

And show us whether the people making the decision actually changed anything because of what they heard.

Because public consultation should not simply mean:

“We asked.”

It should mean:

“We listened.”

And if the answer is sometimes “No, we listened but decided differently,” that's okay too.

At least then the public knows how the decision was reached.

So here's the question for Part 5:

Does Vancouver have meaningful public participation in public art — or mostly an opportunity to comment after the important decisions have already been made?

I'm still investigating.

And now we're getting somewhere.

Part 6: WHAT SHOULD PUBLIC ART BE?

The final part will bring everything together:

The money.

The people.

The approvals.

The consultation.

The artworks.

And the public reaction.

Because I don't want the conclusion to be “get rid of weird art.”

I want the conclusion to be a much harder question:

What do we owe the public when we put art in public space?

And what does the public owe artists in return?

That conversation is worth having.

The Art That Divided Us

 The Art That Divided Us

Part 4 of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation

So far in this investigation, I've followed the money.

I've looked at the people behind the Vancouver Biennale.

I've started looking at the approval process.

Now I want to look at something much more subjective — the art itself.

Because this is where people can get very defensive.

Someone says, “That's incredible!”

Someone else says, “That's ugly.”

One person sees humour.

Another sees something frightening.

One person sees an important social statement.

Another asks, “Why am I looking at this on my bike ride?”

And that's precisely why I think we need to have this conversation.

I don't hate public art.

Actually, quite the opposite.

There is Biennale art that I absolutely love.

Giants

The enormous Giants by Brazilian artists OSGEMEOS transformed six concrete silos on Granville Island into a gigantic, colourful public artwork.

The Biennale says the six silos cover approximately 23,500 square feet and that the artists deliberately chose the industrial site because they wanted to create a relationship between their work, the architecture, the water and the people who use the area.

And I understand that.

I see it.

It makes me happy.

It takes something industrial and grey and turns it into something imaginative.

It doesn't require me to understand a 40-page curatorial essay before I can appreciate it.

I can simply ride past and smile.

And apparently I'm not alone.

The Biennale has used Giants in educational programming with Vancouver students, describing how the colourful installation transformed the otherwise drab concrete silos and inspired children to think about colour, identity, imagination and place.

That is public art doing something wonderful.

Then there is A-maze-ing Laughter.

Twenty enormous laughing figures.

The Biennale describes the work as a celebration of laughter and says it was intended to touch people's hearts and bring enjoyment.

But I'll be honest:

I find those figures creepy.

Those enormous mouths.

Those exaggerated expressions.

Those bodies frozen in hysterical laughter.

They don't make me feel joy.

They make me uncomfortable.

And that's okay.

The artist doesn't have to design art specifically for me.

But it does raise an important question:

What happens when the emotional experience of the public is completely different from the artist's intention?

Is that success?

Is it failure?

Or is that simply what art does?

I don't think there is a simple answer.

Then came The Proud Youth.

This one affected me much more strongly.

The Biennale describes Chen Wenling's huge red bronze figure as a celebration of the inner child, freedom and fearlessness.

The artist's description is actually quite positive.

The figure's bright red colour is described as auspicious, and the pose as an invitation to embrace our inner child.

But when I saw it?

I found it terrifying.

Not liberating.

Not playful.

Terrifying.

And I remember thinking:

Who decided this was something I should encounter beside the Seawall?

The sculpture was eventually removed after its exhibition period, which ran from March 8, 2021, to May 3, 2023.

That doesn't mean the artwork was “bad.”

It means something very important:

A work can have one intended meaning and produce a completely different emotional response in the person encountering it.

And now we have Vancouver Novel.

This is the work that triggered me into starting this investigation.

A sign beside Point Grey Road cycles through short sentences.

The Biennale describes them as sometimes banal and sometimes ominous.

The current installation contains 29 sentences, including six added in 2021.

And the words I have personally recorded include:

“He hides pills.”

“She is begging again.”

“They can see you.”

I don't find those messages uplifting.

I find them disturbing.

And I have started asking whether a public bike route is the right location for them.

Because I wasn't looking for an art experience.

I was riding my bicycle.

I wanted fresh air.

I wanted to clear my head.

And I encountered a message about pills.

For someone who has lost a loved one to an overdose, those words might land very differently.

For someone in recovery, differently again.

For someone experiencing homelessness, the phrase “She is begging again” can feel particularly loaded.

And that's where the idea of public art becomes complicated.

The artist doesn't control the audience.

That's the part I keep coming back to.

In a gallery, I choose to walk through the door.

On a public bike path, I don't.

The artwork becomes part of the environment.

And the audience becomes everyone.

Children.

Teenagers.

Parents.

People grieving.

People struggling.

People celebrating.

People having the worst day of their lives.

People having the best day of their lives.

Everyone.

But here's the part where I want to be fair.

Provoking an emotional response isn't automatically a bad thing.

In fact, the Biennale itself has historically embraced controversy.

In 2009, it acknowledged a major public debate over Dennis Oppenheim's Device to Root Out Evil, an upside-down church sculpture. The controversy became so intense that the work was eventually moved to Calgary.

So disagreement isn't new.

Public art has always generated arguments.

Maybe that's part of its purpose.

But if controversy is part of the process, then public response should matter.

That's my question.

What I don't want is a city filled with art that makes everyone feel the same thing.

That would be boring.

I want artists to challenge us.

Make us laugh.

Make us cry.

Make us furious.

Make us curious.

Make us think.

But I also want some public art that simply makes us happy.

And I think Giants demonstrates that you can create enormous, serious, internationally recognized public art without making the public feel psychologically assaulted.

The artists themselves said they wanted their work to establish a relationship with the people who frequent the site and integrate the artwork into the city scenery.

That is an idea of public art I can get behind.

So here's the question.

Not:

“Is this good art?”

That's almost impossible to answer.

Instead:

Is this good public art for this particular place?

Those are two completely different questions.

A work might be fascinating inside a gallery and completely wrong beside a children's playground.

A disturbing installation might be powerful in a carefully contextualized exhibition and deeply upsetting when encountered unexpectedly on a bike path.

A giant colourful mural might transform an industrial landscape and bring joy to millions.

Location matters.

Audience matters.

Context matters.

And public reaction matters.

So as this investigation continues, I'm going to ask the Biennale a very simple question:

What does “public” mean to you?

Does it mean the public gets to see the art?

Or does it also mean the public gets to have a meaningful voice about what appears in the spaces we all share?

Because those aren't the same thing.

Part 5: THE PUBLIC GETS A SAY — OR DOES IT?

That's where we'll look at consultations, complaints, public feedback and what actually happens when people say:

“We don't want this here.”

Who Approves the Art?

 Who Approves the Art?

Part 3 of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation

In Parts 1 and 2, we followed the money and started following the people.

Now we get to the question I've really been wanting to answer:

WHO ACTUALLY APPROVES THE ART?

Because here's something I have learned while digging through Vancouver's public records:

A sculpture doesn't simply appear in a Vancouver park because an artist and the Biennale like it.

There is a process.

There are agreements.

There are municipal officials.

There are technical reviews.

There are location decisions.

And, at least historically, there was a formal requirement for Park Board approval.

That matters.

The paper trail

A Vancouver Park Board report from 2009 describes the agreement between the Park Board and the Vancouver International Sculpture Biennale.

It says that all sculpture installations were subject to Park Board approval.

The same document describes several considerations in the approval process:

• technical and risk analysis of the artwork and site;
• public response;
• aesthetic and artistic merit, assessed by the Biennale's professional curatorial staff.

In other words:

Someone was supposed to look at more than whether the artwork was “good art.”

The location and risks mattered too.

That raises an obvious question:

What does that process look like today?

And what does “public response” actually mean?

Because those words sound reassuring.

But I want to know how they work in practice.

Let's look at one sculpture.

The Proud Youth

This is the enormous red sculpture that I found terrifying when it was installed beside the Vancouver Seawall.

And yes — the City eventually took it down after its temporary exhibition period.

But the fascinating part is that we can actually find the City's records about how it got there.

The City of Vancouver released a 30-page FOI file concerning the installation.

The proposal describes The Proud Youth by Chinese artist Chen Wenling as a temporary public-art installation at a small plaza beside the Seawall between 1288 and 1328 Marina Crescent.

The proposed exhibition period was two years.

And the document says the Vancouver Biennale would be responsible for the installation, with the artwork installed at no cost to the City or its residents.

That last sentence is interesting.

Because “no cost to residents” doesn't necessarily mean there is no public value being exchanged.

The public provides the space.

The public provides the audience.

The City provides the regulatory and administrative framework.

And the artwork occupies a piece of public realm.

So I want to understand exactly how these arrangements work.

The public was invited to comment.

The FOI document says:

“You can share your thoughts regarding this temporary public art proposal…”

And gives an email address for feedback to the Biennale.

That's good.

But now comes the question I really want answered:

What happened to that feedback?

How many people responded?

How many supported the sculpture?

How many opposed it?

What were their concerns?

Did the Biennale change anything because of the feedback?

Did City staff consider the responses?

Did the decision-makers see the comments?

Were objections summarized?

And ultimately:

Who had the authority to say YES?

This isn't just about The Proud Youth.

That's why I'm digging deeper.

Because if we find one approval process, we can compare it with another.

And another.

And another.

Then we can ask whether the process is consistent.

For example:

Why was one location chosen over another?

Who decides whether a sculpture is appropriate beside a cycling route?

Is emotional impact considered?

Is the experience of children considered?

Is accessibility considered?

Are nearby residents consulted?

Are cyclists and pedestrians consulted?

What happens when people complain after installation?

And perhaps most importantly:

Can the public say NO?

Here's where things get complicated.

Artistic merit is subjective.

One person sees a masterpiece.

Another sees a monstrosity.

One person sees humour.

Another sees cruelty.

One person sees a joyful expression.

Another sees something deeply disturbing.

That is normal.

We aren't going to settle that argument in this investigation.

Instead, I'm interested in the decision-making system around it.

Because when an artwork is inside a gallery, the gallery controls the audience.

When it's placed beside a public bike path, seawall or park:

the public becomes the audience.

And that audience includes people who never asked to participate.

There is another important piece of evidence.

The Park Board's historical documents show that when Biennale sculptures were proposed to remain or return to Vancouver parks, staff examined them through an established process.

In one 2009 report, staff specifically said they had examined proposed returning sculptures according to technical and artistic review before recommending them to the Board.

And in another case, a proposed donated sculpture at Kitsilano Beach went through public consultation, with staff reporting that feedback was very positive while also recording concerns about public space and whether the area should remain natural.

That tells us something important:

Public consultation isn't a new idea.

It has been part of the process before.

So let's find out how robust that process is now.

And this brings me back to my original question.

I've encountered Biennale art that I love.

I've encountered art that makes me laugh.

I've encountered art that makes me stop and stare.

And I've encountered art that makes me uncomfortable.

That's okay.

Public art doesn't have to please everyone.

But if public institutions are providing access to public spaces for temporary installations, I believe the public deserves transparency about how those decisions are made.

Not censorship.

Not a demand that every artwork be pretty.

Transparency.

Who proposed it?

Who selected it?

Who approved it?

Who paid for it?

Who reviewed the location?

Who considered the public response?

And who can remove it if the public experience becomes unacceptable?

So I'm asking the Vancouver Biennale and the City of Vancouver:

Show us the process.

Show us the agreements.

Show us the criteria.

Show us the consultation.

Show us the decision-making.

And show us what happens when the public says:

“This isn't working here.”

Because if public art is truly for the public, then the public shouldn't merely be the people who walk past it.

We should have a meaningful voice in the spaces we share.

And I'm going to keep digging.

Part 4: THE ART THAT DIVIDED US

That's where we'll stop talking about the system in the abstract and start examining the actual artworks — including The Proud Youth, A-maze-ing Laughter, Vancouver Novel, and the works people have embraced.

Because if we're going to ask whether there is a pattern, we need to look at the evidence.

No assumptions.

No conspiracy theories.

Just the art, the documents, the decisions — and the public reaction.

Who's Behind the Curtain?

 Who's Behind the Curtain?

Part 2 of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation

In Part 1, I started following the money.

Now I want to follow the people.

Because when an organization puts art into the parks, waterfronts and public spaces where Vancouverites live, walk, cycle and play, I think it's reasonable to ask:

Who decides what we see?

Not because I believe there is some secret conspiracy.

Not because I think artists shouldn't make challenging work.

And not because I believe every piece of public art needs to be pretty.

I'm asking because someone makes these decisions.

And the Vancouver Biennale actually tells us who some of those people are.

Meet the founder

The Biennale identifies Barrie Mowatt as its Founder and President.

It also identifies him as the curator of its Open Air and Residencies program.

According to the Biennale, Mowatt founded the organization around the idea of bringing art into public spaces where people “live, work, play, and transit.”

He also founded the Buschlen Mowatt Fine Art Gallery and the Buschlen Mowatt Nichol Foundation, which the Biennale describes as a principal funder of various Biennale projects and programs.

That is important information.

Because we're not just talking about someone who sits on a board.

The organization's own website identifies its founder as both President and curator of the Open Air program.

So I want to understand how that curatorial authority works.

Who proposes an artwork?

Who evaluates it?

Who decides that it belongs in Vancouver?

Who decides where it goes?

And who has the final word?

Then there is the international curatorial team

The Biennale identifies Marcello Dantas as Senior Curator for Latin and South America and the Asia-Pacific region.

His résumé is extensive. He has curated public-art projects internationally and worked with artists including Ai Weiwei, Anish Kapoor, Jenny Holzer, Bill Viola and Laurie Anderson. The Biennale also identifies him as having organized projects in Brazil and internationally.

Again, I'm not presenting that as something sinister.

Quite the opposite.

It tells us that these aren't random choices.

There is considerable curatorial experience behind the exhibitions.

Which makes my question even more interesting:

What philosophy guides the choices?

And then there are the advisors

The Biennale lists numerous curatorial advisors, including people connected with major international galleries, museums, art institutions and festivals.

Among them are Hans Ulrich Obrist of London's Serpentine Galleries, Steve Nash, former Executive Director of Palm Springs Art Museum, Zheng Shengtian of the Vancouver Art Gallery, Sarah Fillmore of the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia and others.

This is an international network of people with serious experience in contemporary art.

So again:

What are the selection criteria?

What makes one artwork suitable for a Vancouver seawall, park or cycling route?

What makes another unsuitable?

Is emotional impact considered?

Is age appropriateness considered?

Are trauma and accessibility considered?

Is the surrounding neighbourhood considered?

Is the experience of cyclists and pedestrians considered?

Or is the primary consideration artistic merit?

And the Board

The current Board of Directors includes Barrie Mowatt, Murray Nichol, Jesse Saniuk, Marty Hasselbach, Skwetsimeltxw Willard “Buddy” Joseph, Shahrzad Khatami, Virginia Bremner and David Stein, according to the Biennale's published information.

Their backgrounds span philanthropy, real estate, business, education, architecture, landscape architecture, Indigenous arts and culture, community development and the arts.

That diversity is interesting.

And it raises another question:

Where does the final decision actually happen?

Is it with the curator?

The curatorial team?

The Board?

The municipality?

The Park Board?

The property owner?

Or some combination?

That's what I want to find out.

Because the public doesn't get to choose the artwork.

We encounter it.

Sometimes we love it.

Sometimes we walk past it without noticing.

Sometimes we laugh.

Sometimes we stop and take photographs.

And sometimes...

we are disturbed by it.

I have personally experienced some Biennale works as beautiful and joyful.

The enormous colourful Giants at Granville Island is one example.

But I've also encountered works that I found deeply unsettling.

The red Proud Youth sculpture was one.

The enormous laughing figures of A-maze-ing Laughter are another. I personally find those faces creepy rather than joyful.

And now I'm questioning Vancouver Novel, the electronic sign along Point Grey Road that displays changing statements including:

“He hides pills.”

“She is begging again.”

“They can see you.”

The Biennale describes Vancouver Novel as an exploration of public and private life and says its statements are deliberately sometimes “banal and ominous.”

That's an artistic concept.

But I'm interested in something else:

What happens when that concept meets an actual human being having an actual day?

A person who is grieving.

A teenager.

A person in recovery.

A parent.

Someone who has lost a loved one.

Someone who is unhoused.

Someone who simply went out for a bicycle ride because they needed an hour of peace.

That is where art becomes public policy.

Once you put art into a gallery, people can choose whether to enter.

Once you put it beside a public bike route, you've changed the audience.

The person experiencing the work may have no idea who the artist is.

They may not know the curatorial concept.

They may not have read the Biennale's explanation.

They may simply see the words.

And react.

That's not necessarily a failure of the artwork.

But it is something the people responsible for placing art in public spaces should consider.

So this investigation is getting more specific.

I want to know:

Who nominates the artists?

Who selects the works?

Who approves the final selection?

Who selects the location?

What criteria are used?

What role does the Board play?

What role do municipal governments play?

What public consultation is required?

How are complaints handled?

Can the public force reconsideration?

Who decides when something comes down?

And perhaps the biggest question:

Does the public have meaningful input — or are we simply the audience?

I'm not going to answer those questions before I have the documents.

That's the point of this series.

I'm going to follow the paper trail.

Part 3: WHO APPROVES THE ART?

That's where we're going into the municipal agreements, Park Board process, location approvals and the actual documents surrounding The Proud Youth.

Because I've already found something fascinating:

The City of Vancouver has released the FOI file.

Thirty pages of records about that artwork and the public-art process.

And that's where we can stop speculating and start reading what actually happened behind the scenes.

To be continued...

Who Pays for Vancouver's Public Art?

 Who Pays for Vancouver's Public Art?

Part 1 of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation

I love public art.

Let me start there.

I love walking or riding through Vancouver and suddenly encountering something unexpected — something colourful, beautiful, funny, enormous or completely imaginative.

OSGEMEOS' Giants at Granville Island is exactly the kind of public art I love.

Those huge colourful figures transformed an industrial landscape into something playful and unforgettable.

So this investigation isn't about hating contemporary art.

It isn't about saying every unusual sculpture should disappear.

And it certainly isn't about telling artists what they are allowed to create.

It is about asking who chooses what gets put into our public spaces — and who pays for it.

Because once art leaves a gallery and enters a public park, waterfront, sidewalk or cycling route, something changes.

The public becomes the audience.

And sometimes the public becomes the unwilling audience.

That is why I have started asking questions about the Vancouver Biennale.

Let's follow the money.

The Vancouver Biennale describes itself as a charitable organization and says its work is supported through grants, corporate sponsorships, in-kind contributions, philanthropy and art sales.

Its public list of supporters includes government and public organizations as well as corporations and foundations.

That doesn't mean anything improper is happening.

But public money and public partnerships deserve public questions.

How much money does the Biennale receive?

From whom?

How much comes from governments?

How much comes from corporations?

How much comes from private donors?

How much comes from foundations?

How much is spent on artists?

How much goes toward transportation, installation and removal?

How much goes toward administration?

How much does it cost to maintain an artwork sitting in a public park?

And when a temporary artwork is removed, who pays for that?

These aren't hostile questions.

They're accountability questions.

And then I found something important.

The Vancouver Park Board's 2017 agreement with the Vancouver Biennale proposed three exhibitions over 12 years, with up to 15 artworks each.

Under that agreement, the Biennale provides the curatorial leadership and funds installation, insurance, maintenance and de-installation.

Park Board staff, meanwhile, conduct technical and risk-management reviews. Sites are identified and agreed upon in advance.

That means public art appearing in our parks isn't simply an artist showing up one morning with a sculpture.

There is a system.

There are agreements.

There are decision-makers.

There are public institutions involved.

And there is money.

That's where I want to go next.

Because who pays can tell us something about who has influence.

I am not suggesting that a corporation donating money gets to choose which sculpture goes into a park.

I am not suggesting government funding means government censorship.

I am not suggesting anything improper has happened.

I'm saying we should know how the system works.

And I want to see the documents.

I want the financial filings.

I want the sponsorship agreements.

I want the municipal agreements.

I want to know who approves what.

I want to know what criteria are used.

And I want to know how much opportunity ordinary Vancouver residents actually have to say:

“No. This doesn't belong here.”

Because I've encountered Biennale artwork that I absolutely love.

And I've encountered artwork that I find disturbing, depressing or even frightening.

That's okay.

We don't all have to like the same art.

But when that art is placed in the spaces where we live, walk, cycle, play and raise our families, I believe we have a right to ask questions.

This isn't an attack on artists.

It's an investigation into the system.

Who chooses our public art?

Who pays for it?

Who approves it?

Who gets to object?

And ultimately:

Who is public art actually for?

I'm going to follow the paper trail.

No rumours. No conspiracy theories. No assumptions.

Just documents, money, names, decisions — and the questions they raise.

Part 2: Who's Behind the Curtain?

WHO IS JOÃO LOUREIRO

 WHO IS JOÃO LOUREIRO — AND WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS SIGN?

I've been researching the Vancouver Biennale's Vancouver Novel after encountering this sign while riding my bike along Point Grey Road.

I have questions.

The Biennale identifies the artist as João Loureiro, a Brazilian artist born in 1972, and says the installation cycles through 29 sentences — including six new sentences added in 2021.

Okay.

But where is the information about him?

Where is his official website?

Where is his direct artist contact?

Who is responsible for the wording currently appearing on this sign?

And most importantly:

Did João Loureiro actually approve the words that are currently being displayed?

Because I am seeing messages such as:

“He hides pills.”
“She is begging again.”
“They can see you.”

I find this deeply disturbing.

I went out for a bike ride because I wanted some peace, fresh air and beauty. Instead, I'm confronted with dark, personal and disturbing statements.

And I'm not just asking this as an art critic.

I'm asking as a member of the public who has to encounter this work in a public space.

The Biennale says the work is about the boundary between public and private life and our appetite for constant information. The original catalogue describes 25 statements; the current website says 29, with six added in 2021.

So what changed?

Who added the six?

Who approved them?

And who decides what this sign says today?

Vancouver is experiencing an overdose crisis. People are grieving children, parents, partners and friends. People in recovery are riding these paths. Unhoused people are riding these paths. Teenagers are riding these paths.

You don't know what someone has lived through before they encounter those words.

That is why I'm asking the Vancouver Biennale:

PLEASE TELL US WHO JOÃO LOUREIRO IS.

Give us the artist's official information.

Tell us where people can learn about him.

Tell us who is responsible for the current text.

Tell us whether the current wording is his original work or whether it has been altered since the original installation.

And tell us why this particular content belongs on a public bike route.

I'm not afraid of art.

I'm not afraid of uncomfortable conversations.

But I believe public art comes with public responsibility.

And if we're going to put words into public space where thousands of people encounter them without choosing to enter a gallery, then we should be able to ask questions about those words.

That's not censorship.

That's the public asking questions about public art.

#RethinkIt #PublicArt #VancouverBiennale #Vancouver #PointGrey #JoaoLoureiro #ArtAndSociety #PublicSpace #CommunityResponsibility #Waterfront

When Public Art Becomes a Public Trigger

 When Public Art Becomes a Public Trigger

There is a difference between challenging people with art and accosting people with disturbing imagery when they are simply trying to enjoy a public space.

I want to talk about the João Loureiro artwork Vancouver Novel, installed along Point Grey Road as part of the Vancouver Biennale.

The Biennale explains that the work is deliberately made up of short, sometimes ominous statements. It is supposed to make us think about the boundary between public and private life, social media, voyeurism and our appetite for information.

Fine.

I understand the artistic concept.

But I don't think artistic intention is the end of the conversation.

Because this isn't a gallery.

You don't have to buy a ticket.

You don't decide, “Today I'm going to expose myself to challenging contemporary art.”

You might simply be riding your bicycle.

You might be walking beside the ocean.

You might be a teenager.

You might be a parent.

You might be someone in recovery.

You might have lost a mother, father, brother, sister, child or friend to an overdose.

And then suddenly, in the middle of your peaceful bike ride, you're confronted by disturbing messages involving pills and other deeply unsettling themes.

You didn't choose that.

That matters.

Art can be a trigger

We talk increasingly about trauma, mental health and triggers. We understand that certain images, words and situations can unexpectedly bring people back into painful experiences.

So why does that consideration suddenly disappear when we call something art?

A trigger doesn't require someone to have the same reaction as the artist intended.

The artist may be asking an intellectual question.

The person passing by may experience something completely different.

And we cannot see those consequences.

We don't know who went home upset.

We don't know who was reminded of a child's death.

We don't know who was reminded of a parent's overdose.

We don't know who is struggling with addiction themselves.

We don't know who is carrying grief that nobody around them can see.

The consequences are invisible.

And that is precisely why public art requires responsibility.

Vancouver is living through an overdose crisis

This is not happening in some abstract universe where pills are merely an artistic symbol.

This is Vancouver.

This is British Columbia.

We have watched families bury people because of the toxic drug supply.

Young people have died.

Teenagers and young adults have died.

Parents have lost children.

Children have lost parents.

Entire families have been permanently changed.

So when someone says, “It's only art,” I don't think that's good enough.

Context matters.

A gallery can present difficult material with warnings, context, programming and the understanding that people have voluntarily entered an exhibition.

A public bike route is different.

People should be able to ride beside the water without having disturbing material thrust into their field of vision.

Would we accept anything simply because it is art?

Here's where I become really uncomfortable.

If an image or message is disturbing enough that we would recognize it as potentially triggering in another context, does putting it behind the label ART magically remove the responsibility?

Would we accept a giant public sign showing a gun?

A suicide scene?

Graphic violence?

Drug paraphernalia?

Something designed to evoke someone's worst trauma?

At some point we have to ask:

Where is the line?

And I am not arguing that artists should be forbidden from making difficult work.

Quite the opposite.

Make it. Exhibit it. Debate it. Challenge us.

But please understand that location is part of the artwork.

If you deliberately put something in a public space where cyclists, joggers, pedestrians, families and young people are going to encounter it, you have made a decision about your audience.

You have made the public part of the work whether they agreed to participate or not.

The Biennale should reconsider

I am not calling for censorship of João Loureiro.

I am calling for responsibility.

If the words are causing distress, change the words.

If the concept depends upon disturbing messages, move the work somewhere appropriate.

If the location is essential to the concept, then perhaps the people responsible for commissioning and maintaining public art need to ask themselves whether the artistic benefit outweighs the unintended human cost.

Take it down or change the wording.

That isn't anti-art.

That is asking the people who put art into public spaces to remember that the public is made of real human beings.

Some are carrying grief.

Some are carrying trauma.

Some are carrying addiction.

Some are carrying the memory of someone they loved who never made it home.

And you cannot see any of that from a bicycle path.

That's the problem.

You don't know who you are triggering.

And if you don't know, you have a responsibility to think harder.

Art should make us think.

Absolutely.

But public art should also make the people who install it think.

Because artistic freedom is important.

So is human responsibility.

And sometimes the most responsible artistic decision is knowing when a work needs to change.

public art, Vancouver Biennale, João Loureiro, Vancouver Novel, public space, artistic responsibility, trauma triggers, overdose crisis, fentanyl crisis, community safety

#PublicArt, #VancouverBiennale, #JoaoLoureiro, #VancouverNovel, #PublicSpace, #ArtisticResponsibility, #ArtAndSociety, #TraumaAwareness, #OverdoseCrisis, #CommunityCare

You Shall Not Pass

 You Shall Not Pass: When Gandalf Came Knocking on Peter Thiel’s Door

Sometimes resistance comes with a megaphone. Sometimes it comes with a paintbrush. And sometimes… it arrives wearing a very impressive wizard hat.

On August 18, 2026, a group of protesters dressed as Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings gathered outside billionaire Peter Thiel’s home in Buenos Aires.

Their message?

“You shall not pass.”

Honestly, I love this.

Not because costumes magically stop billionaires. They don't.

But because art can make resistance impossible to ignore.

The Gandalf protest came after news that Thiel's investment fund had acquired roughly a 1% stake in Vista Energy, worth about US$76 million, giving him a significant financial interest in Argentina's Vaca Muerta shale oil and gas region.

And there is a delicious bit of symbolism here.

Thiel co-founded Palantir, a technology company whose name comes directly from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. A palantír is a magical seeing stone — an object associated with extraordinary power and the ability to see things happening far away.

So what better way to greet the man behind Palantir than with a bunch of Gandalfs standing outside his mansion?

You shall not pass.

Art has always been a weapon against power

This is what I mean when I say:

#FightBackWithArt

and

#WarriorUpWithArt

Art doesn't have to be hanging inside a gallery.

It can be a costume.

A puppet.

A mural.

A song.

A photograph.

A dance.

A ridiculous hat.

A sign painted by hand.

A group of people turning up in character and making a billionaire wonder why Gandalf has suddenly appeared outside his house.

😂

That's art.

And it's political art at its best because it communicates something complicated without needing a 40-page policy paper.

You see Gandalf.

You know the reference.

You hear:

“You shall not pass.”

And suddenly an argument about oil extraction, wealth, technology, surveillance and corporate power becomes a story that millions of people can understand.

The billionaire has the money. The people have the imagination.

That distinction matters.

Power can buy advertising.

It can buy buildings.

It can buy companies.

It can buy enormous amounts of influence.

But it cannot buy your imagination.

And imagination is one of the most powerful democratic tools ordinary people have.

The Gandalf protesters understood something important:

If you want people to pay attention, don't simply repeat the language of the powerful. Create your own language.

They didn't stand outside Thiel's home holding a boring sign saying:

“We oppose investment in unconventional hydrocarbons.”

They became Gandalf.

That is infinitely more memorable.

And judging by the reaction online, it worked. The images spread rapidly, with people laughing, sharing them and asking exactly the question every good piece of political art should provoke:

“What the hell is going on here?”

And then they learn.

The joke has teeth

Of course, underneath the humour is a serious argument.

Vaca Muerta is one of the world's major shale oil and gas formations, and the expansion of fossil-fuel production there has environmental and climate implications.

Thiel's investment puts his money directly into that story.

And his growing relationship with Argentina — including his meeting with President Javier Milei and purchase of a home in Buenos Aires — makes the symbolism even more interesting.

But here's the thing about satire:

You can laugh and still be serious.

In fact, sometimes laughter is what gets people to listen.

The protest reportedly even incorporated songs and Tolkien references into the demonstration.

That's not weakness.

That's creativity.

This is what fighting back with art looks like

I've spent years believing that artists shouldn't simply decorate the world.

We should question it.

We should make people uncomfortable sometimes.

We should make them laugh.

We should make them stop scrolling.

We should make them think.

A painting can ask a question.

A mural can reclaim a wall.

A photograph can document something someone would rather have forgotten.

A song can carry an idea farther than a speech.

And a dozen people dressed as Gandalf can turn a billionaire's front door into an international news story.

That's the magic.

Not literal magic.

Human magic.

The ability to take an idea and turn it into an image that people cannot unsee.

So to the Gandalfs of Buenos Aires, I say:

Bravo.

You reminded us that protest doesn't always have to look like protest.

Sometimes it looks like art.

Sometimes it looks ridiculous.

Sometimes it makes people laugh.

And sometimes, standing outside the gates of enormous power, all you need to say is:

You shall not pass.

My kind of resistance

This is exactly why I keep coming back to:

#FightBackWithArt

#WarriorUpWithArt

Because the world doesn't need more people shouting at each other.

It needs imagination.

It needs courage.

It needs artists willing to pick up the brush, camera, microphone, costume, cardboard sign — whatever they've got — and say:

“No. This matters.”

The billionaires can have their palantíri.

We'll keep the paintbrushes.

And apparently, the wizards.

🧙‍♂️🎨

#FightBackWithArt #WarriorUpWithArt #Gandalf #PeterThiel #Palantir #VacaMuerta #Argentina #ArtAsActivism #PoliticalArt #ClimateJustice #ProtestArt #ArtistsForChange

The Fake Elon, the Billionaires & the Lesson I’m Still Learning: Understanding Isn’t Excusing

 Something weird happened the other day, and it got me thinking about something much bigger.

Mark Carney posted something about doubling Canada's electricity capacity. I got upset and, without much thought, commented:

“GO AWAY.” 😂

Then someone replied:

“Hi, it’s Elon. Send me a DM.”

😳

I deleted the comment.

I found what appeared to be an actual Facebook page with 7.7 million followers and only 6 following. Was it really Elon?

Who knows. 🤣

My first thought was, maybe Elon is skulking around Facebook. And then my imagination went straight into my own book, Exodus of BillionaireZ.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about billionaires and power, but also about the human beings underneath all that money and influence. I've wondered whether grief, family history, fear, identity, addiction, loneliness, or a midlife crisis could help explain some people's behaviour.

But then we had a much more uncomfortable conversation.

We can make excuses for almost anyone.

Someone hurt us → we explain why.

A partner behaves badly → we explain their childhood.

A family member hurts us → we understand their trauma.

A friend treats us badly → we find a reason.

A politician makes a harmful decision → we hear the explanation.

And I've realized I've done this for much of my life.

I sometimes confused understanding someone with having to tolerate their behaviour.

My child saw some of that. I don't know what they carried forward from watching me, and I hope they have found their own way to break whatever patterns weren't healthy.

But I'm trying to learn something different now:

I can understand why you became who you are without accepting what you do.

I can have compassion and still have boundaries.

I can forgive and still walk away.

I can understand your pain and still hold you responsible for the pain you cause.

And maybe this is something we should expect from our politicians too.

Not:

“Why did you do it?”

followed by an explanation and everyone moves on.

But:

“You have explained why. Now what responsibility are you willing to take for the consequences?”

Because explanations matter.

But explanation is not absolution.

And maybe that's one of the lessons I'm still learning at 64.

As for the mysterious Elon…

If it really was him, sorry Elon. 😂

I deleted your comment.

And if it wasn't you…

Well, nice try. 🤣

Maybe Bowie had the better idea anyway:

There may not be any life on Mars.

And perhaps nobody should be trying to escape Earth until we've figured out how to take better care of the people already living here. 🌎❤️

10 Reflective questions

1. When does understanding someone's pain become an excuse for their harmful behaviour?

2. Can we have compassion for someone while still holding them accountable?

3. Have you ever stayed in a harmful relationship because you could explain why the other person behaved that way?

4. Do we sometimes confuse forgiveness with allowing someone continued access to us?

5. When a politician explains why something went wrong, do we also ask who is responsible for the consequences?

6. Are we teaching the next generation that empathy means tolerating mistreatment—or that empathy can coexist with boundaries?

7. When a celebrity or politician appears online, how do we know the account is actually theirs?

8. Could a provocative comment, fake account, emotional outrage, or invitation to move into private messages be part of a manipulation strategy?

9. With elections approaching, how carefully will we question what we see, share and believe—including foreign interference and coordinated disinformation?

10. What would change in our politics if we demanded both compassion AND accountability from the people who hold power?

#Accountability #CompassionAndBoundaries #ThinkBeforeYouShare #DigitalLiteracy #FakeAccounts #Disinformation #ForeignInterference #Democracy #PoliticalManipulation #ExodusOfBillionaireZ

My Ancestor Was Songhees. Why Don't I Have Status? — Part 2

 My Ancestor Was Songhees. Why Don't I Have Status? — Part 2

If you read my last post, you may have wondered what the “second-generation cut-off” has to do with my family.

The answer is: not much.

Canada has changed its citizenship laws through Bill C-3. The old first-generation limit for citizenship by descent has been removed in certain circumstances. People born abroad in the second generation or later can now be Canadian in situations where they previously would not have been. For future generations, there is a substantial-connection requirement: the Canadian parent born abroad generally needs to have spent at least three years in Canada before the child's birth.

That's a significant change.

And if you are one of the people affected by the old citizenship rules, I understand why this matters enormously.

But here's why I am bringing up my own family history.

My great-great-grandmother was Songhees.

My family has documented this history.

Yet today, we have no legal Indian status.

So when Canada talks about correcting generations of people who were excluded from citizenship because of old government rules, I can't help asking:

What about the generations of Indigenous families whose legal recognition was affected by another set of government laws?

These are not the same laws. They are not the same legal issues. And I am not saying they are.

But they raise the same enormous question:

Who gets to decide who belongs?

For someone who isn't personally affected, this can sound like complicated government paperwork.

But it isn't paperwork to the people whose identity, family history and relationship to their ancestors are sitting inside those laws.

My great-great-grandmother didn't get to choose the legislation that would govern her descendants.

And I don't know why she made every decision she made. I wasn't there. I don't want to invent a story for her.

What I do know is that generations later, the consequences are still with my family.

So while Canada is correcting one historical citizenship problem, I think we also need to ask a much harder question:

What happens to the families who were left outside the legal definition of their own Indigenous identity?

Because changing the law for one generation doesn't automatically repair what happened to another.

And unless you are one of the families affected, you may never have a reason to think about it.

That's exactly why I'm writing about it.

Not because I have all the answers.

Because I think we need to start asking the questions.

10 Reflective questions

1. If Canada can change citizenship laws to correct injustices affecting descendants of Canadians, what does justice look like for Indigenous families whose legal status was affected by Canadian law?

2. Who gets to decide whether a person belongs — the government, a birth certificate, a status card, ancestry, or the nation of their ancestors?

3. What happens when a government-created definition of identity is passed down through generations and eventually separates descendants from legal recognition of their own heritage?

4. Can a law erase someone's legal status without erasing their family's actual history?

5. If you are a tourist visiting Canada, do you know whose territories you are actually standing on?

6. How would you feel if your great-grandmother belonged to a nation, your family could document that connection, but the government later told your descendants they no longer legally belonged?

7. Why do we find it important to correct historical injustices when they affect some Canadians, but struggle to understand the consequences when they affect Indigenous families?

8. What does reconciliation mean if generations of families still live with the consequences of laws created long before they were born?

9. When politicians talk about citizenship, immigration and belonging, whose definition of belonging are they using — and whose history is missing from the conversation?

10. If Canada is willing to reconsider laws that separated people from Canadian citizenship, are we willing to ask what other government-created divisions still need to be reconsidered?

#Songhees #IndigenousStatus #IndianAct #LostCanadians #Citizenship #IndigenousRights #Reconciliation #CanadianHistory #WhoGetsToBelong #KnowTheHistory

My Ancestor Was Songhees. Why Don't I Have Status?

 I've been thinking about Canada's new "Lost Canadian" citizenship rules, and something really bothers me.

Canada is changing its citizenship laws so that, in certain circumstances, people born outside Canada can claim Canadian citizenship through a Canadian parent or earlier Canadian connection.

But here's my family's story.

My great-great-grandmother was Songhees. She had a child with a Portuguese man. Under the laws imposed through the Indian Act, First Nations identity and legal status could be affected by rules around marriage and descent. Those rules were not the same for men and women.

Today, my family has no legal Indian status.

So when I hear about a "second-generation cut-off" being changed for Canadian citizenship, I have to ask:

What does that do for families like mine?

My Indigenous ancestry doesn't disappear because a government created a legal definition that my descendants eventually fell outside of.

And this is where I think we need to be very careful about looking backward. We know the laws now. We have documented the history. But we don't automatically know why our ancestors made the choices they made. Maybe my great-great-grandmother married for love. Maybe family circumstances played a role. Maybe the laws affected their decisions. We simply don't know.

What we do know is that those laws affected the generations that came after them.

So I'm left wondering:

Who gets to decide who belongs?

A government? A citizenship certificate? An ancestry test? A birth certificate? Or the people and nations whose relationships to this land existed long before Canada itself?

Because changing one citizenship rule doesn't necessarily repair every family that was separated from its own legal identity by another set of laws.

That's the conversation I think we need to have.

10 Reflective questions

1. Who gets to decide who belongs to a place — the government, birthplace, ancestry, or the people whose relationship with that land predates the state?

2. If a government can define who is legally recognized as Indigenous, what happens to the families who fall outside that definition?

3. What happens when the law changes, but the generations affected by the old law cannot simply be given their lost identity back?

4. Why can ancestry create a pathway to citizenship in some circumstances, while Indigenous ancestry does not necessarily create legal status?

5. What did our ancestors understand about the laws being imposed on them — and what are we assuming today when we interpret their choices?

6. Can a government-created category truly determine whether someone's connection to their ancestors and nation is real?

7. When we celebrate Canada's history as a country of immigrants, how often do we stop to ask what happened to the peoples who were already here?

8. If citizenship can be passed through generations, what should happen to families whose Indigenous legal identity was lost through generations of government policy?

9. What does “belonging” actually mean to a person whose ancestors lived here before Canada existed, but whose descendants no longer have legal status?

10. And perhaps the hardest question: if the laws created the problem, who has the responsibility to repair what those laws did to the generations that followed?

#Songhees #IndigenousRights #IndianAct #Citizenship #Status #Ancestry #WhoGetsToBelong #LostCanadians #CanadianHistory #Reconciliation

WHAT IS WATCHING YOU? — AND IS CANADA NEXT?

 WHAT IS WATCHING YOU? — AND IS CANADA NEXT?

If you have family or friends who drive in the United States, this is something you should know about.

A massive network of automated licence-plate-reader cameras is spreading across America.

One of the biggest companies behind it is Flock Safety. Its cameras don't simply photograph a licence plate. They can record a vehicle's plate, make, model, colour and other visible characteristics—and make those records searchable.

The scale is extraordinary.

The crowdsourced DeFlock project is now tracking more than 120,000 Flock-related cameras across the United States. Flock itself says its network is even larger.

And this isn't just about catching stolen cars.

A network of cameras can potentially create a searchable history of where vehicles have been seen.

Think about what that can reveal:

Where you work.
Where you shop.
Where you go to school.
Where you worship.
Which neighbourhoods you visit.
Which doctor or clinic you visit.
Who you visit.
And how often you travel through particular places.

That is why privacy advocates are asking very serious questions about who controls this information, how long it is kept, who can search it, and whether information collected for one purpose can eventually be used for another.

And there have already been reports of misuse. More than 50 law-enforcement officers have been accused of abusing Flock's system, including using it to stalk people. Flock has now announced stronger auditing requirements and plans to reduce default data retention from 30 days to seven.

But here's why Canadians should be paying attention.

Automated licence-plate recognition is not a purely American technology. It is already being used in Canada.

The RCMP and BC police use ALPR. British Columbia has rules governing how information is retained, and non-hit plate information is generally deleted after an officer's shift. Toronto Police also operates ALPR, with its own retention and access rules.

So this isn't a question of “Could this technology ever come to Canada?”

The technology is already here.

The question is:

How far will it go?

And there's another reason to watch Flock specifically.

Flock Safety's trademark is now registered in Canada for automated licence-plate-reader systems and software capable of identifying vehicles by their make, model, appearance, colour, markings and licence plate information.

That doesn't mean Canada is about to become the United States.

It does mean Canadians should be asking questions before surveillance technology becomes so widespread that nobody remembers to ask them anymore.

If you have friends or family travelling by car in the United States, tell them to pay attention to this.

And here at home, ask your police department, city council and provincial government:

Where are our ALPR cameras?

What exactly are they collecting?

How long is the information retained?

Who can access it?

Can another police agency access it?

Can American agencies access Canadian data?

Is the information ever sold or shared?

What happens to the data when a contract ends?

And most importantly:

Who gets to decide how much surveillance is enough?

Public safety matters. Finding stolen vehicles and dangerous offenders matters.

But privacy matters too.

Because once a surveillance system is built, expanding it is usually much easier than taking it away.

Don't wait until the cameras are everywhere to start asking who is watching.

#Privacy #Surveillance #ALPR #LicensePlateReaders #FlockSafety #Canada #DigitalPrivacy #CivilLiberties #Technology #KnowYourRights

I’ll Have Another

 I’ll Have Another

It seems like ions ago.

Back when Canada, Mexico and the United States could still find something to celebrate together.

In 2012, a little-known Mexican-born jockey named Mario Gutierrez climbed onto a horse named I’ll Have Another and headed into the Kentucky Derby.

And somehow, it felt like the whole neighbourhood was watching.

Canada was cheering. Mexico was cheering. The United States was cheering.

For a moment, there were no arguments about borders, politics or who belonged where. There was just a horse, a jockey, a race — and the possibility of something wonderful happening.

And then they won.

I remember thinking about betting on I’ll Have Another. Somehow, that time, we actually could have placed a bet. But I never got around to it.

I would have won.

😂

But the money wasn't really what I remember.

I remember the feeling.

Everyone was celebrating. Mexico was proud of Mario. Americans were celebrating their Derby. Canadians were celebrating too. Somehow, the win belonged to all of us.

And then there was the name.

I’ll Have Another.

The story goes that owner Paul Reddam loved cookies and, after eating one, would often say, “I’ll have another.”

What a wonderfully ordinary way to name an extraordinary horse.

Today, when I think back to that Kentucky Derby, it feels like a postcard from another world.

A world where we could look south and see neighbours instead of enemies.

Where Mexico, Canada and the United States could stand around the same television and cheer for the same impossible little story.

A Mexican jockey.

An American horse-racing dream.

A Canadian audience cheering along.

And one horse that somehow belonged to all of us for a few minutes.

I’ll Have Another.

It seems like ions ago.

Maybe that's why I remember it so clearly.

Because for one beautiful afternoon, the win was for all of us. 🐎❤️

#IllHaveAnother #KentuckyDerby #MarioGutierrez #Canada #Mexico #USA #Neighbours #Unity #HorseRacing #GoodMemories

Eventually, the Bill Comes Due

Eventually, the Bill Comes Due

From newspapers and telephones to AI and a doubling of Canada's electricity grid

I grew up in a very different Canada.

We had newspapers.

We had television.

We had telephones.

There was no internet in our homes. No smartphones. No social media. No streaming. No artificial intelligence. And certainly no giant data centres consuming enormous amounts of electricity to power the digital world.

When something happened somewhere else in the world, you often didn't know about it until you saw it on the evening news or read about it in the newspaper the next day.

And that brings me to something I've been thinking about lately.

I recently discovered the history of Typhoon Freda, which struck the Pacific Northwest in 1962, and Typhoon Tip, the enormous 1979 storm that became the most intense tropical cyclone ever recorded by central pressure.

I didn't learn about these storms as a child.

And I suspect many younger people haven't either.

We have more information available to us today than any generation in history, yet somehow pieces of our environmental and weather history can still disappear from public memory.

Perhaps that's because we are living through so much change at once.

And now we are being asked to imagine Canada in 2050.

Canada wants to double its electricity system

Prime Minister Mark Carney recently posted:

"Electricity demand in Canada is expected to double by 2050. So we need to double our grid."

That's not a small statement.

The federal government's National Electricity Strategy says Canada needs an electricity system capable of generating and delivering twice as much power by 2050. The government identifies industrial expansion, electrification of buildings and transportation, artificial intelligence and data centres, critical minerals and advanced manufacturing among the forces driving demand.

The government's strategy estimates that expanding and modernizing Canada's electricity infrastructure could require more than $1 trillion in investment between now and 2050.

Think about that for a moment.

We aren't simply talking about building a few more power plants.

We need generation.

Transmission lines.

Distribution systems.

Storage.

Substations.

Workers.

Materials.

Land.

Permits.

Transportation infrastructure.

And eventually, all of the infrastructure required to build and maintain that infrastructure.

And this is where I think the conversation needs to become much bigger.

Because electricity isn't the only system experiencing rapid growth.

Look at British Columbia

Metro Vancouver added approximately 183,000 residents in 2024, more than twice the number added in 2023, according to TransLink's 2024 Transit Service Performance Review. TransLink says ridership growth was outpacing its ability to expand service.

In 2024, TransLink recorded 240.9 million journeys, an increase of about three per cent over 2023.

And 137,000 bus trips were overcrowded — 11.2 per cent of all bus trips exceeded vehicle capacity at least once.

Anyone riding the buses didn't need a spreadsheet to understand what that meant.

You could see it.

You could feel it.

People packed onto buses.

People left waiting because there wasn't enough room.

People standing at bus stops while another full bus went past.

This isn't an argument against public transit.

Quite the opposite.

It's an argument for building enough public transit for the population we are planning to have.

Growth doesn't happen in one department

This is the part that concerns me.

Population growth doesn't just mean building more housing.

More people need water.

They need sewer systems.

They need electricity.

They need schools.

They need hospitals.

They need roads.

They need buses and trains.

They need grocery stores.

They need emergency services.

They need jobs.

And they need energy to power all of it.

Then we add electrification.

We want people to drive electric vehicles.

We want buildings to move away from fossil-fuel heating.

We want industry to electrify.

We want artificial intelligence and data centres.

We want new manufacturing.

We want economic growth.

We want population growth.

And we want all of this to happen while dramatically reducing greenhouse-gas emissions.

Individually, each objective may make sense.

But collectively, they create an enormous infrastructure challenge.

And then there is the climate promise

This is where I keep coming back to COP21.

Remember the Paris Agreement?

Remember the goal of trying to keep global warming to 1.5°C?

We were told that we needed to fundamentally change the way we planned for the future.

But planning for climate change isn't only about building renewable energy.

It is also about asking:

How much are we building?

Where are we building it?

How much energy will it require?

Where will the materials come from?

How will we transport people?

How will we house them?

How will we protect water supplies?

How will we protect forests and ecosystems?

What happens when extreme weather hits the infrastructure we've built?

And perhaps most importantly:

Are all of these plans being made together?

Because a city can approve housing without simultaneously having enough transit.

A province can increase its population without having enough housing.

A country can plan for electrification without having enough generation or transmission.

And governments can make climate commitments without necessarily explaining how every part of the growing economy will fit inside those commitments.

That is how growth outruns the plan.

This isn't about blaming newcomers

I want to be very clear about something.

This isn't about blaming immigrants or newcomers.

People don't create immigration policy.

Governments do.

People don't decide how many homes will be built.

Governments, municipalities, developers and planners make those decisions.

People need somewhere to live.

They need transportation.

They need electricity.

They need jobs.

And if the public transportation system doesn't get them where they need to go, some people will need cars.

That's not a moral failure on the part of the individual.

It's a planning issue.

If governments choose rapid population growth, then governments have a responsibility to build the infrastructure required to support that growth.

You cannot tell people:

"Come here."

And then tell the people already living here:

"Sorry. The buses are full. Housing is unaffordable. Traffic is terrible. The electricity system needs to double. And we're still trying to catch up."

That's not a newcomer problem.

That's a planning problem.

And now we're planning for 2050

This is what makes Mark Carney's announcement so interesting to me.

The government is looking at Canada 24 years into the future and saying:

We need roughly twice the electricity system we have today.

That's enormous.

And yet, in British Columbia, we're already seeing what happens when population growth puts pressure on infrastructure.

TransLink itself says demand continued to outpace its capacity to respond in 2024.

So perhaps the question isn't whether Canada should grow.

Perhaps the question is:

Can Canada build fast enough to support the growth it has chosen?

And can we do it without destroying the very environment we say we're trying to protect?

Because the future isn't just one number.

It isn't population.

It isn't electricity.

It isn't housing.

It isn't immigration.

It isn't climate change.

It isn't AI.

It isn't transportation.

It's all of them at once.

And that's what makes this moment so extraordinary.

We grew up in a world of newspapers, television and telephones.

We're heading toward a world of artificial intelligence, electric transportation, enormous data centres, electrified buildings, expanding cities and an electricity grid that Canada says needs to become twice as large.

That's a tremendous transformation in a single lifetime.

And perhaps before we make another promise about what Canada will look like in 2050...

We should ask a very simple question:

Have we actually built the plan to get there?

Because growth isn't the plan.

Planning for growth is the plan.

Because eventually, the bill comes due — in housing, transportation, energy, infrastructure, the environment, and the quality of life of the people who live here.

#EventuallyTheBillComesDue #Canada #Infrastructure #Electricity #PopulationGrowth #ClimateChange #HousingCrisis #Transportation #Energy #UrbanPlanning #Sustainability #ClimateAction #FutureCanada

When growth outruns the plan

 When growth outruns the plan

Remember when we were told that B.C. was going to become a greener, more sustainable province?

Apparently nobody told the infrastructure.

Metro Vancouver added 183,000 new residents in 2024, more than twice the number added the year before. TransLink itself says population growth was putting increasing pressure on the transit system.

And we saw it.

In 2024, TransLink carried 240.9 million journeys, up about 3% from 2023.

But here's the part that really caught my attention:

137,000 bus trips were overcrowded.

That's 11.2% of bus trips exceeding vehicle capacity at least once.

Anyone who was riding TransLink during that period didn't need a spreadsheet to know what was happening.

You could see it.

You could feel it.

People packed onto buses. People waiting for the next one because there wasn't room. Increasing pressure on a system that was already struggling to keep up.

And then there's the other side of the transportation equation.

ICBC reports that the number of actively insured vehicles in B.C. increased from 3.6 million in 2023 to 3.7 million in 2024.

The number of actively licensed drivers also increased, from 3.89 million to 3.99 million. ICBC itself points out that population growth means more vehicles on the roads, which can contribute to congestion and greenhouse-gas emissions.

So let's ask the uncomfortable question.

If we know we're bringing hundreds of thousands of additional people into the province and region...

Where is the transportation plan?

Where is the housing?

Where is the water infrastructure?

Where is the electricity?

Where are the roads and transit capacity?

Where is the environmental planning?

Because you can't keep saying "grow, grow, grow" and then act shocked when the systems become overwhelmed.

And here's the irony.

We're also telling ordinary people:

Drive less.

Consume less.

Reduce your carbon footprint.

Take transit.

Save the planet.

Meanwhile, B.C. is adding population, adding vehicles and struggling to keep public transportation from being overwhelmed.

And then we hold climate conferences and make promises about reducing emissions.

Remember COP21?

Remember 1.5°C?

We were supposed to be changing the way we planned for the future.

Instead, sometimes it feels like we're planning one crisis at a time.

And I'm not blaming individual newcomers for this.

People come here because governments create immigration policies. People need somewhere to live. They need transportation. They need jobs. They need cars if the transit system doesn't get them where they need to go.

That's the point.

If governments choose rapid population growth, then governments have a responsibility to build the infrastructure required to support it.

You cannot tell people:

"Come here."

And then tell the people already here:

"Sorry, the buses are full, housing is unaffordable, traffic is terrible and the infrastructure can't keep up."

That's not a population problem.

That's a planning problem.

And perhaps it's time we stopped arguing about whether someone belongs here and started asking a much more important question:

Did our governments actually plan for the number of people they invited here?

Because B.C. is under enormous pressure.

And while we're watching our forests burn, our roads clog and our transit systems struggle, I keep thinking about all those climate promises.

Maybe before we make another promise...

We should figure out how we're actually going to keep it.