Myth, memory, and motion: KAC’s first Gaze and Gather

As a contributor to the Kelowna Arts Council’s blog, I have the unique opportunity to engage attentively with the Okanagan’s local arts scene and the artists who bring it to life. Naturally, I was thrilled to be invited to KAC’s Gaze and Gather event on January 30th, held at the Bricks and Mortar creative space. The event featured works by KAC members Barbara Bell and Keri Andreas, both of whom were on hand to meet and mingle with patrons. The first of what promises to be a monthly event, January’s Gaze and Gather had a buzz of curious excitement.

The entrance to the Gaze and Gather room at Bricks and Mortar.

Being sensitive to new places and people, I was alert upon entering but was quickly put at ease. I was greeted at the entrance by Bricks and Mortar’s owner, Carla Bond-Fisher, and KAC president Robyn Santamaria. Both were quick to say hello and converse with me about the space, the plans for future KAC events, and the artists featured. After my introduction, Carla and Robyn ushered me to the display area. The room was small in a comforting way, feeling more cozy than claustrophobic. The lighting allowed viewers to take in the detail of the artwork but felt warm and not offensively bright. The patrons were enthusiastic but respectful, their quiet observations and friendly exchanges with the artists providing a gentle hum that gave the event a lively buzz without being abrasive.

Meeting with Barbara and discussing her art style.

I first met Barbara, who gave me a brief description of her creative process and art style, inviting me to explore her work. Her abstract style featured blends of colors that stirred memories in me. Her greens and yellows reminded me of long walks through lush, wooded areas like Mission Creek and Scenic Canyon, while her shades of blue and grey invoked a Pacific coastal aura of ethereal fog and rainy skies. Her paintings were unexpectedly compelling, each one holding me in its space for a little while. For the first time in my life, I understood the concept of abstract art: Its vagueness allows individuals to interpret the piece through their own experience, creating a wholly unique perspective for each person that interacts with it.

Moving on to Keri’s side of the room, I felt a different energy, one of vibrant colors and familiar scenes. Immediately I was taken in by images that I knew intimately from my upbringing. Keri’s paintings of grain elevators took me back to my childhood home on the prairies, where they stood as monoliths above their communities, monuments to the farming spirit of the region. But her elevators weren’t the same: they were colorful and vibrant, transcending the faded, mundane nature of their real-life counterparts. They still looked like the community stalwarts I was familiar with, but infused with a reverence that made them feel mythical, like a treasured relic of a time and place long forgotten. When I spoke with Keri, she told me that they were “an homage” to her mother, who had grown up on the prairies. Later, I wondered if the nostalgic, almost mythical quality of her elevators came from her mother’s stories, like inherited memories, and I’m eager to discuss this with Keri in the future.

Keri poses with her work.

Next, I took in Keri’s other featured works, her hockey paintings. Despite being still images, many gave the impression of rhythm and movement as though the players were ready to breeze off the canvas and into the room. Others benefited from Keri’s mythical style, blending the game’s modern speed and power with its historical roots. Keri told me that her scenes were based on real life images from hockey games but left vague enough that specific team logos and players weren’t explicitly identified. As Keri’s website states, “I’ve purposely painted these scenes without any recognizable teams or logos, stripping away the politics, rivalries, and baggage that often overshadow the beauty of the sport.”

Keri’s visions of the game have a rawness that allows viewers to appreciate the subtle beauty in the sport: the motion, poise, and grace of each movement on the ice. And though they intentionally leave out certain details, I got a feeling of satisfaction from recognizing the specific players, teams and moments that had inspired some of the pieces. Just standing in front of Keri’s work conjured faint sounds in my head of blades carving the ice, sticks clattering together, referee whistles, and even an old pipe organ.

For someone with sensory issues, Gaze and Gather left me feeling calm, welcomed, and excited for future events. The space was small enough to comfortably take in the event, but large enough to move comfortably, and the lighting was warm and accommodating. The hosts of the event were welcoming, the artists approachable, and the patrons were excited but poised. Thus, I was able to lower my guard and appreciate the artists and their work.

Barbara and Keri’s paintings were unique enough to stand on their own, but also complemented each other well, with Barbara’s calm moods contrasting beautifully with Keri’s colorful vibrance. I’m looking forward to connecting further with both artists, and I’m excited to meet new creative minds and explore their work at the next Gaze and Gather. Events like this showcase the inspiring and welcoming nature of the Okanagan’s arts community, and I can’t wait to experience it all again.

A MESSAGE FROM THE CANVAS

In my last post, I wrote about meeting Barbara Bell at the first Gaze and Gather event. Barbara’s work gave me my first real understanding of abstract art, and what it can evoke in its viewer. When I visited the next Gaze and Gather, featuring Paula Charter, it felt like a natural follow-up. Walking in and seeing the walls lined with abstract pieces, I quickly saw a chance to exercise my newfound appreciation. I was excited to look upon each piece and see what I could derive from it, absorbing the details to find my own meaning. I didn’t expect, however, that something would look back.

I was there quite early, and Bricks and Mortar hadn’t been filled with patrons yet. After meeting with some of the other KAC members in the lobby, I moved on to the main viewing room, at this point still completely empty. I strolled from one end of the room to the other, taking in the colors and emotions of the work. As is customary, each one had a placard next to it featuring the name of the piece.

I moved to one corner, drawn to a piece that caught my eye, though I wasn’t sure why right away. It was a chaotic image of grey, blue, yellow, and a myriad of other colors that I couldn’t properly distinguish. The balance of my emotions shifted back and forth as I examined it. I felt uneasiness at the uncontrolled frenzy it evoked, but with it came an understanding...perhaps even familiarity. I turned my attention to the placard on the wall next to it.

“Pent Up.”

I quietly responded, “Sounds about right.”

I felt satisfaction that I had found a piece I liked, as if it alone made the trip across town worth making. Once I came back to myself, I remembered there was still a whole room full of artwork to admire.

Moving across the room, I liked Paula’s style. It was distinct enough to convey meaning, but vague enough for the viewer to interpret that meaning in their own way. Almost every piece had something that stood out, and I was again able to find quiet excitement in the realization of what each piece meant to me. But after a while, something came over me...I wanted to look at “Pent Up” again.

The process repeated itself. I looked at “Pent Up,” did a lap around the room, periodically glancing back at it, then found myself drawn right back. I just couldn’t help but contemplate its paradoxical nature, turbulent and frenetic but completely accessible, like seeing an exotic wild animal from a safe distance. Despite its untamed fervor, it felt relatable. Being a neurodivergent person with ADD, the chaos was familiar, as if the insides of my own mind had been emptied out onto the canvas. Each of the dabs and strokes felt like a different aspect of my own daily life: a speck of color for each of my school projects, household chores, spring and summer plans, and career aspirations. Disordered, they appeared in front of me, swirling out of control though remaining in place.

Standing before the piece for what must have been the third or fourth time, my solitude was broken.

“Do you like abstract art, or does it drive you crazy?”

I looked to the right to see Paula herself. Her tone suggested that her question was casual, a fun pleasantry designed to break the ice and start a conversation. For me, though, it stirred my thoughts and made me consider once again how art had affected me. For someone who often struggles to make conversation with new acquaintances, I knew how I wanted to respond surprisingly quickly.

“It drives me crazy...but in a good way.”

After another pause, I clarified.

“It makes me feel something.”

Paula nodded. Interaction with new people isn’t always easy for me, and I felt relieved that we seemed to be on the same page. I told her how “Pent Up” made me feel as someone with ADD, and she directed me to some of her other work and spoke about her personal inspirations for each one. We parted ways after a few minutes, and I was left to consider that art can be both an expression of the artist and a message to its viewer. It connects an artist to their audience and allows for personal connection.

This, I think, is a critical reason why art is so significant to neurodivergent people. For those of us who may struggle in social situations, art gives us an outlet to express ourselves, and to find commonality in the expression of others. It speaks a language that doesn’t impose itself upon or demand anything from us but is still deeply human. One that deals in feelings rather than social conventions, so we are not bound by endless unwritten rules that we struggle to decode.

Neurodivergent people, and most everyone, I think, look for connection. We seek it out in others in the hope that something inside them is like that which is in ourselves. Sometimes we find it in conversation, or maybe from a shared experience. But sometimes we connect with someone before we ever really talk to them. When I first saw Paula in the lobby that day, I struggled to start a conversation. When she thanked me for coming, I simply smiled and nodded. It was her work that broke the ice, when Pent Up reached across the room and invited me. The next time Paula and I spoke, I knew exactly what to say. That’s what art can do.

A SOFTER KIND OF LOUD

Live music events are not always designed with neurodivergent awareness in mind. In a way, this makes sense. For music to compel a live audience, it needs to transcend the general ambiance of its venue. It’s hard to do that softly, and many find loudness to be part of the appeal. It’s not just the music either – the louder and more raucous a performance, the more the audience is encouraged to respond in kind. This can be a lot of fun in the right setting. Unfortunately, for many neurodivergent people, it can be difficult to handle.  

Being neurodivergent myself, I’ve had a number of these experiences. I remember an event my parents attended at a golf clubhouse when I was a child. The other children and I were sent outside to play while the parents socialized in a small, narrow hall where one of them was playing guitar. As the guitar grew louder, so did the conversation, and when I went inside to ask my parents a question, I was met with a sensory assault. It sounded like someone was dialling an old radio – spurts of music interspersed with screeching feedback – with the volume turned up to a hundred. Somehow, it felt like the sound was inside my skull. I don’t remember what I asked my parents or what they said back. I just remember the level of anxiety that I’ve rarely experienced since.  

This wasn’t the first or only time I was overwhelmed by music and its audience. There were several musical performances held at my school in rooms built without acoustics in mind. Literally every time, I was the one kid there covering his ears, unable to manage the sensory overload. I could play my stereo at full volume, but something about the combination of live music and small venues simply wasn’t compatible with me. Things did get better as I got older, but not entirely. As an adult, I’ve attended concerts and music festivals, and when the venue is large or outdoors, so that sound can travel, I often enjoy myself. Even now, though, small, unconventional venues can wreak havoc on my sensory system.  

This history provides the context for my trepidation in attending the Marmalade Cat Cafe on Pandosy last Friday. I’m genuinely thankful for the opportunity that the Kelowna Arts Council has given me to write for them, and as I immerse myself in the local arts scene, I’ve made attending their events at the Marmalade Cat (5-7 PM on Friday nights) a priority. But I must admit that as I walked up to the door, I was a bit nervous. As a cafe, it has a comfortable, cozy atmosphere – but the thought of hearing live music in such a space brought up bad memories.  

I felt a bit awkward as I entered, ordering a drink as I surveyed the room for a place to sit. Once I found a spot, I could settle in and focus on the performances – and I had a great time. The space allowed microphones and instruments to be set up in the back third of the room without feeling crowded or difficult to navigate. I’ve got a major aversion to being in rooms with too many people and not enough space, but I never once felt uncomfortable with the cafe’s layout.  

Of course, the biggest concern for me was the music itself and the level of noise contained within the room. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the acoustics didn’t cause me to feel overwhelmed, and I was able to appreciate the performances even when the musicians raised the volume on their instruments or sang loudly. The sound felt contained rather than invasive, and rather than staying on guard, I was able to settle into the experience. My mind and body weren’t holding tension or bracing for the next sensory swell, making for a relaxed but engaging evening.  

Another concern was the patrons in the cafe. Musical performances inspire energy in their audiences and often encourage participation. For someone who has difficulty with noise, this can create an oppressive atmosphere that dominates the room and invades the mind along with the ears, particularly in small spaces.  

It’s for this reason that “Sweet Caroline” has been my personal nightmare, and when I heard the opening notes of it last week, I quickly developed a nervous twitch. Luckily, once again, I was pleasantly surprised. Audience members sang and chanted along with the performers, but remained respectful of the space they were in. There was a shared awareness of the ruckus that could be unleashed if their energy went unchecked. It was the opposite of the overbearing noise I’d experienced in similar settings before (the absence of alcohol at this event versus others I've attended probably helped...).  

This was the first KAC event that I’ve attended, and I’m glad I did. The space was well organized, the music was enjoyable, and the sensory experience was comfortably mild. There were enough people to give the event a lively atmosphere, but not so many that it ever felt claustrophobic. I’m looking forward to attending more events in the future and would recommend the Marmalade Cat’s Friday night performances to anyone seeking live music that leaves room to breathe. 

Written by Brent Stempfle