dérive [literally: “drifting”], a technique of rapid passage through varied ambiances. Dérives involve playful-constructive behavior and awareness of psychogeographical effects, and are thus quite different from the journey or stroll.
Easter Eggs, as an archive, as a review booklet, sets it’s rubric as the delicate moments which emerge and pass as ephemerally as the spilling of a glass of oat milk.
Truthfully, I’ve never eaten SPAM, but my inbox has welcomed it in abundance over the years. Special Presentation Art Mail is a project run by Number 3 Gallery that features artists working collaboratively to create digital content. SPAM provides access to thoughts, resources, music, and joy through interactive art served over email. For those unfamiliar, Number 3 Gallery is a mobile curatorial project run by Julie D. Mills and Julia Lamare. Exhibitions for the project often challenge the dynamic pertaining to typical exhibition spaces, investigating the nuanced connections between space < access < success < visibility. Diving right into the first edition of SPAM, I joined the artists in a dérive of their inner worlds, that is to say, where activating one’s intuition is deeply rewarded.
For those not yet subscribed to Number 3 Gallery’s SPAM, I implore you to brew your favourite comfort beverage and plant yourself in front of a screen for an hour. Hit up Number3Gallery.com and subscribe to SPAM. Your first email, Easter Eggs, will be a virtual mood board displaying a chaotic and delicately composed assortment of images. You’ll find yourself fluttering around the image in your PDF viewer, enjoying the visual interplay.
dérive [literally: “drifting”], a technique of rapid passage through varied ambiances. Dérives involve playful-constructive behavior and awareness of psychogeographical effects, and are thus quite different from the journey or stroll.
Qian Cheng and Patrick Cruz are both Vancouver based artists whose practices frankly couldn’t be more dissimilar. Yet, Qian and Patrick collaborated on Easter Eggs in such a way that they both found space to hold themselves amidst the other’s juxtapositions. Patrick, whose work could understandably be described as chaotic, playful, maximalist, and altogether intuitive, was met with Qian’s, whose methodologies are conducive to a natural drive for logic and structure. These contrarieties established the framework for a project which created a process-tempo for their dérive. Manifesting in a wonderful web of ethereal tethers from one click to the next.
Your cursor grazes over the perfect curve of the golden ratio and the tantalizing lobster tails which catch only a crisp edge of lettuce. With the path you follow, there are several embedded links. Each link momentarily transmutes your geometric pointer, like the fluttering of a butterfly into the index finger of an unknown digital being, before it finishes tracing a line into the point of a blue pin.
A galaxy print lambo, an office chair wearing socks, a hamster hidden in a 16-bit forest. Yummy eats like a coconut bun, surfing a leg of lettuce. The East Van cross, and even that poodle sculpture some of us love, and some of us hate. The mood board’s reflective surface is a playful and optical treat. Engaging in the artists’ curated wanderings, one finds themselves bound in the minds of the two artists as they share K-pop jams, restaurant reviews, a “Better World” simulator, and a plethora of other content that will propagate more browser tabs than normal.
Easter Eggs was predestined, originally, to be a review booklet of restaurants that were subtle, yummy, and family run. Remnants of this intention still reside in the depths of the mood board with mention of Kilimanjaro and their rotating daily menu, or Angel cafe, known for their lobster combo and sticky rice dessert. Easter Eggs later transformed into a structured call-and-response between Qian and Patrick. Working in threes, they would add material to the mood board and the other would respond with another three additions — constructing a balanced virtual language. One that embellishes and diversifies, instead of derails. In many ways the work still exists as it intended. A review booklet, in essence, would work to derive significance and express quality, right? And Easter Eggs is this reflective surface — the only difference being this review booklet bestows the assessment unto those willing to participate.
Reflections are diametrically opposed entities. There is a core entity whose movements are registered upon a surface, while the opposed entity exhibits the same movements as a direct opposite, despite visually appearing to move in the same direction.
Ambi-syn-anti : Both with and against.
( 。・_・。)人(。・_・。 )
When we look back through the mirror…
Easter Eggs, as an archive, as a review booklet, sets it’s rubric as the delicate moments which emerge and pass as ephemerally as the spilling of a glass of oat milk. Delicate like a 4am rabbit hole dive, where you’re so invested in understanding the etymology of Bikini Bottom that you find yourself learning more about nuclear physics than you expect you would in a 100 level course. And yet, the morning after most of that experience lays in your frontal cortex as spent kindling — the spilled milk, the 12 tabs that brought you there, the dérive. This is the rubric it feels like we’re working with inside Easter Eggs. It’s a field of psychogeographic phenomenon that we flutter around playfully. No doubt we wander in our own way as we invest our own subjectivities.
Life and survival has been pretty complicated to think about in an era where the internet is a fundamental pandemic resource.
✩°｡⋆⸜(▀̿Ĺ̯▀̿ ̿)
The footsteps between the milestones, which we presume mark greater significance.
The internet has been an invaluable pandemic resource for many of us. It has meant survival. This era has also excavated community from it’s material roots and established new grounds for collaboration, mutual aid, organization, and exploration. This new survival also provides more space to explore our interests in the abundance of quiet. As Survival now sets the pace, it feels like there is so much to do, so much to learn, and the mind wanders furiously from one intent to the next. This notion of survival is seen in the structure developed by Qian and Patrick, which ultimately supported the blossoming freedom within the mood board. Engagement in this content allows life to be felt. It’s slow. It’s with — and for — yourself. You learn and grow from each new wandering to see what sticks and what doesn’t.
You know I never thought of the unassuming PDF to be a functional mode of presentation for an artwork.
I don’t know when I first encountered the PDF…
Do you?
It felt like –– untouchable.
But now, NFT’s are foolproof-authentic.
As I collaborated with Qian and Patrick on a mood board interview, holding space for each other was a central dialogue, and I found myself focused on traversing the space between the three of us. What does it look like to acknowledge and hold space for someone else? And how does that manifest in a creative space? Perhaps the best experiences don’t provide answers but help us identify better questions. Easter Eggs functioned as an artefice to provide boundless inquiry — some questions prompted through exploration, whilst others emerge simply through an act of participation or the embrace of multiple browser tabs. Stockpiling experience, rabbit holes, or even Doordashing some sticky rice rolls.
Sometimes there were accidental images speaking to each other.
Jojoba tree and the pipeline.
The internet is a disembodied space like astral projection.
Where you go outwards with your mind. Kind of like uploading your consciousness.
Meditation does the opposite.
It’s where you go inward.
Ambi-syn-anti : Both with and against.
As a reviewer my words won’t provide anyone with an articulate “formal description” of the work, nor it’s “contextual meaning”. Ideally, you will investigate the work. If you’re still with me, you may think this is nothing more than a whimsically obtuse exploration of what Can Be. So what if it is? Opening tabs was like opening states of dreaming. In our own mood board images of lobster-motorcycles and wild horses watching a volcanic eruption, crypto market graphs, and DMT inspired imagery, were pasted out of the æther while we developed our own tempo. When the internet is almost all you have, does the internet’s physical relationship to space change? Lest we forget the internet is housed in servers that still do occupy a material reality. As crypto-miners construct farms in cooler climates, or underwater, when will we truly be swimming through the wifi? Will climate change change the electronic-currents of this tangled world? It all feels so abstract to sit in a voice-chat hosted on a server that resides in what must be a large warehouse somewhere. It’s really like your body stays sitting in your room while your mind is transported to this unknowable space. I wonder if someone could look at the blinking lights on a server rack and see us pasting images and laughing together, or if to them it’s all the same.