June 2 - June 29, 2022
Fais moi l'art
Duo-exhibition with Jose Guillermo Garcia Sierra​​​​​​​
A bridge made of grass
Uniting two with distinct approaches of transmitting stories 
A creation of new dimensions and realities
Both literal and illusionistic
The exhibition space reimagines the land that my maternal grandparents kept through the 1980s and into the 1990s. The site recreated is that of Sainte-Marguerite-du-Lac-Masson region, where they resided specifically on Lac Charlebois. One half of the gallery assumes the interior of the premises, where artworks combine with the furnishings and activities of a home; a dining area, a window overlooking a landscape from the area, carpets and the pickings of a harvest. The other half explores the surrounding lakefront landscape of the region centering on Lac Charlebois and Lac Claire and highlights a seasonal yearly tradition followed by the family; strawberry picking in the region.


“Ça c'est le lac Charlebois, je tiens le chien.

There was an island in the center somewhere. 

You can walk on the dock and we can sit there”.

Where the lone swimmer wades in the distance.

Preserving herbs and florals by drying
The Farmer’s Almanac

Rinse the herbs well under cool running water; pat dry. Tie a small bunch of herbs together at the stem and hang them upside down in a warm, dry room out of direct sunlight. The herbs should dry in 1-2 weeks; remove them from their stems and store in an airtight jar.

For quicker dried herbs, spread the herbs out on a tray. Place the tray in an oven set at 100°F. Warm the herbs for 3 hours with the oven door cracked slightly open, turning them periodically for even drying. Once completely dry, store in an airtight jar. 
Dried herbs are much stronger than fresh ones; use half the amount of fresh herbs called for. 
Dried herbs lose their flavor after one year.


A drive down to Trois-Rivières for a wedding in June; a weekend affair,

A dip in the lake to feign off the heat,

An annual visit to le Paradis des fraises of a mid-august morning; a pilgrimage of sorts.


We sat outside past the civil twilight,

In the still warmth of the setting sun on the longest day of the year,

On the verge of shorter days to follow.


Three generations of a family squeeze into a Ford Taurus on a late afternoon,

To make the jam of the fruit harvested from the strawberry fields,

To last them through the fruitless winter months.


“The twins they came up once, il y a 30 ans. We built a fire at Sainte-Marguerite-du-Lac-Masson on Lac Charlebois. They play with the fire and I told them they are not allowed to play with the fire like that. There were lots of woods in the terrain and they didn’t want to sleep there in the woods because they were afraid. They had to call their mother to bring them back home”.


“I know that place. 

Lac Claire. They had some land out in front of it, where we went swimming.

There is a house there on the other side, in between two lakes. There was only one house away from us and they had to go out onto the lake to get to the other side.”

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