Body Journals: Maycie-Ann St. Louis

Illustration by Gabor Beta

This is the first of hopefully many Body Journals - interviews with creatives, performers, artists, and/or anyone with a body on what it’s like to move through the world in their vessel and the many lessons they’ve embodied along the way.

Maycie-Ann St. Louis is a dancer and freelance model, and she expresses herself in both roles with self-awareness and authenticity. We have worked and moved in the same spaces for a couple of years now.

In the pre-COVID world, Maycie and I used to host an “all styles” open space at Disstorsion Studios. Although we were often the only two to show up, we would spend hours flowing around the studio together. I have always admired Maycie’s movement quality and her ability to tell stories through her dancing through her dancing, which only became strengthened after she joined the Contemporary Dance program at Concordia University in 2018.

Who better than Maycie, who is constantly and purposefully expressing and communicating through her body and broadening her movement practice, to interview for this body series?

Maycie by Andy Voss

For this first Body Journal, our conversation began with a check-in about how Maycie’s relationship to her body has changed in our mid-pandemic world. 

Maycie: “[I’ve been] trying to stretch and really push my body to a different level of self-discovery. I ended up taking some [online] classes, which have made me feel really introspective.

One thing I unlocked was being able to pinpoint the origin of my dance practice. I would [tell people] I started when I was sixteen because that’s when I started at the studios. However, I realized that doing dance battles in my basement with my siblings, listening to BET, was also part of my dance journey when it comes to street dance or hip-hop culture. 

Even further than that, when I was growing up and going to church, I used to do praise dance, which is a dance that you do to Gospel music and hymns. It’s very spiritual and very lyrical. It’s a form of worshipping God in a sense. It’s also very telling of the contemporary vocabulary that I have in my body. So understanding the origin of my dance imprint, I asked myself, ‘How can I keep being true to it?’ I feel like it’s the most authentic and most genuine version of my dance identity.”

When asked about how she first became aware of her body, considering her personal experience with dance and movement, Maycie recalled when she first started taking her identity into account.

Maycie: “Honestly, it’s been about a year... It’s funny because I feel like I just had the epiphany of, ‘Wow, I have a body. And it’s Black.’ Which is a new notion for me to accept. I’ve always just tried to be a body… My Blackness, it’s part of my identity. So, to not own it is to not own myself. But being in school and having this reality of being a Black body onstage, the narrative being created for me based on my skin colour was an epiphany that I had never had before.”

Around the time of that epiphany on her Blackness and her body, Maycie decided to take a year off school to reassess her dance practice and her direction. At the time, she was concerned with whether she was making the right decision. “Now that I look back, I did have to stop school because I was having an identity crisis.”

The epiphany and ownership of her Blackness has presented itself in Maycie’s dance career as well.

Maycie: “I don’t see myself [in the commercial dance scene]… I don’t see a tall, lanky body or Black girls up there that don’t have to emulate this ghetto stigma that they always want to impose on me. When I’m in it, I’m doing what I love. I’m moving, I’m performing. But, once I step back and I think about all the political themes that involve me being involved in that project or taking that gig, I’m like, ‘Ok, I gotta dissect this and I need to be instilled in who I am.’ 

I feel like I have a responsibility to stand in my identity as a person and as a dancer, so I don’t become a victim of whatever they want me to be. That’s why doing the work over quarantine [was so important], and being like, ‘Ok, this is your dance identity. This is how you started. You feel best when you dance like this and you feel best when you speak like this.’ I’m just trying to hold onto that as tightly as I can.”

Maycie by Jefferey Rosenberg

Maycie’s advocacy for herself also extends to advocating for other Black creatives.

Maycie: “With the movement going on, obviously there are a lot of people now who want to involve Black bodies in their projects. 

I can discern when things are done with performative intent. When that isn’t the case, I also have the responsibility to hold those people accountable. I have to be like, ‘Ok, so I’m your first Black model… you have to keep this going.’ It’s a sacrifice. But I’ve noticed that this is nothing new to me, quite honestly. I’ve always just been in situations where I was the only Black person there. 

It was so normal to me that I just did my thing. Now, with all the conversations going on, I notice it more. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, this is actually an issue.’ I don’t want to be tokenized. 

I’ve started a platform with my two other partners, Black Montreal Creatives, putting forth other creatives here in the city to show that, for example, there’s not only one Black freelance model, there are a whole lot.”

This understanding of her Blackness and her body prompted Maycie to reflect on the importance of learning more about our bodies, in order to learn more about ourselves: “It’s kind of frustrating that like I went my whole lifetime without knowing what was going on in my body. I had an anatomy class in university… It was definitely a revelation. It made me more comfortable with the idea that I can control my body in a sense.” 

Maycie expanded on the ideal of body awareness and control.

Maycie: “It goes further than the physical, it seeps through to the spiritual and mental as well. If we were taught the basics of the mechanism of the body in high school, it could create more introspective and responsible beings.

My body has taught me that I am entirely in control of my destiny and what is meant to be mine. Even though there might be people and systems in place that make me feel I need to do one thing, the fact that I am my own organism, that I have these properties in my body that can make decisions and that I can decide to walk left instead of going right… My legs will bring me to the side that's most true to me. That is one truth that my body has been able to guide me to.”

I’m very grateful for Maycie’s honesty and willingness to share her journey and wisdom with me. In the future, she aims to found a dance company of her own, and pursue a career as a dance therapist. 

Maycie

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Black Montreal Creatives

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Simone is a Montreal-based dancer, educator, and writer. 

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Weed and Me: Redefining Self-Care in Coronavirus

Illustration by Nina Slykhuis-Landry

The coronavirus has bulldozed us into realities we never wanted to imagine, and the vice industries welcomed us with open arms. This is especially true of cannabis; though its Canadian legalization is going on two years this fall, the market has experienced a resounding boom under Q. Since the beginning of March, online cannabis sales in Ontario have risen as much as 600 percent. In America, the states where cannabis is legal are reporting drastic spikes of their own. If you were previously curious about trying cannabis, the world standing still grants you an arena for exploration; ‘the new normal’ has taken on different meanings for different people, and processing it all under a hazy cloud seems attractive. 

Some experts attribute rapid sales to concerns over the supply chain, but for Jordan Sinclair, vice president of communications for Canopy Growth, cannabis and alcohol help consumers that are looking to “...make being at home for a long period of time as tolerable as possible”. Whether the stressor is your family, your work situation, or the virus itself, our vices become easier to justify. It makes sense.

I’ve been smoking pretty regularly for about two years now; for me, the evening toke is a welcome nightcap before drifting off to sleep on a pile of cookies or last month’s laundry. It’s a sign that the day is done and that whatever else the universe wants can be answered tomorrow. When schoolwork or work-work or something in between rears an ugly head, my tiny bong with iridescent sheen (her name is Astrid) knows exactly what I am feeling and exactly how to make it better. On nights out, as a non-drinker, cannabis has eased the social interactions that never quite got easier with time. Recalling these instances, you can see a pattern - this was supposed to be a nighttime habit, and was treated as such in order to establish boundaries and reduce excuses.

As someone who regularly struggles with executive dysfunction as a complication of mental illness, “self-starting” is not in my vocabulary. It is a skill that has been shaken into me for the sake of life’s progression. Abstention from the wake-and-bake-type grift is a necessity that has kept me in check, as getting high for the day-to-day renders me absolutely useless in the hours that follow. Motivation is hard enough to come by, so with some kind of daily schedule or responsibility there’s a reason to self-regulate. Before quarantine, this felt like enough.

When quarantine was imposed, the schedule faded away. I found myself alone in my apartment, with six weeks to process whatever life would become before an internship started, and regulation once again became necessary. In these six weeks, I could get so much done, I reasoned with myself: there would be books to read, poems to write, floors to clean… or, of course, I could get ridiculously stoned and take naps through the daylight. With a sense of self-discipline left weakened under abnormal conditions (conditions which required limited exposure to the outside world), you can imagine which choice I made.

It is completely valid that, in these times, self-care is essential and productivity will be subjective, but this did not feel like any version of self-care. Productivity was nowhere to be found in any sense or definition. I was justifying a lack of control, scared and seemingly alone, and cannabis never made me feel the way I wanted it to. 

The truth is, I wasn’t listening to my body. I thought I would use all this time to do something on my own terms, and take productivity into my own hands. What happened instead was that the uncertainties of the virus and my existing mental health problems teamed up. Even when I was doing nothing, it felt awful, but there was no reason to stop. Cannabis became more than a way for me to pass time. It allowed for stillness, to shut things out and wait until tomorrow - only tomorrow looked the same.

Though quarantine has soured my relationship with cannabis, it has also granted time for introspection. I am fortunate enough to have recognized this problem before it grew further beyond my control, and to have an amazing network of loved ones and resources that help to forge the pathway towards responsible use. In many ways, I love what cannabis has done for me, the peace it brings and the anxiety it has curbed, but dealing with these circumstances has now shown me that regulation is something I should never turn off. What that means is recognizing how health issues and environmental circumstances will both compound my cannabis dependence, and acting accordingly. If I want to continue enjoying cannabis without sacrificing other goals and priorities, I need to make it work for me. Something has to change.

When the realities of my situation became apparent, coping mechanisms and behavioural changes became necessary undertakings. One change that stuck was creating a physical distance between myself and my devices, so that at moments of temptation, I would have to walk across the apartment. Doing this gives me time to think about the purpose of the activity and whether I need it; this removes the greater ease with which I can reach into my bedside drawer.

A second observation is that, by consuming cannabis in different ways (that is to say, giving Astrid a break), there has been a lesser weight put onto my body. Infused cooking oils and butters were a great place to start. (If taken with caution and a proper understanding of dosage, turning to oils while in Q might be your best bet. Many experts suggest that refraining from bong use is a better idea - smoking cannabis is not directly linked to COVID-19 symptoms, but it may exacerbate respiratory illness.) What has also helped is to keep channels of communication open with people I trust; though physical distancing remains, my loved ones keep me in check and understand my goals.

As the world opens back up and quarantine subsides, I wonder if this destructive behaviour will subside as well. Something of a routine has come back to me, but I am still at home and alone, left mainly to my own devices. Fall classes will most likely be online. There is room for my new commitments to falter. Even so, after deliberate reflection and a commitment to different strategies, I remain optimistic about the potential for my relationship with cannabis to improve - both in quarantine and the long-term. Listening to your body is a difficult skill to master, but it is one that I am starting to take much more seriously. This journey has not been easy. Committing to moderation at this moment in time feels completely backwards when an altered state-of-mind used to make everything feel okay. But ignoring unhealthy patterns at such a time of vulnerability feels backwards, too. By working towards clarity, a new sense of control is within my reach. I hope that I’m getting back to me.

A disclaimer/note from the author: Please note that dependence and addiction are recognized as separate conditions. The strategies employed in the article are rooted in lived experience - what has worked for the author of the article may not work for you.

If you are concerned about your own cannabis use, you can assess your cannabis use using the E-Toke Cannabis Use Self-Assessment. For additional support for addiction, visit Health Canada's website for a comprehensive list of addiction support lines & resources.

Please also consider using the CSSDP's Cannabis Education Toolkit available in both English and French

Rebecca Judd is a writer and student currently based in Ottawa. When not stuck in a daydream, she can be found writing, collaging, and talking about The Sopranos to anyone who will listen.

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Nina Slykhuis-Landry is a Montreal-based illustrator, cartoonist and mural artist. 

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How Flip Media & Free the Flow Are Working to End Period Poverty

Flip Media is a feminist zine based in San Diego,  focused on creating an inclusive and welcoming space for diverse creators all around the world. They recently teamed up with Free the Flow to spread awareness and raise funds to help end period poverty with their merch collection.

We got to chat with one of their co-founders Sonia about how they got started, the San Diego creative scene, and Free the Flow.

Also Cool Mag: How did Flip get started, and how did you initially get involved?

Sonia for Flip Media: I had approached Erica (my co-founder) in February about creating a discussion space for feminism. Initially, Flip Media was called Flip San Diego! We did small events a couple times a month and had a very small reach regarding our work. When quarantine rolled around we were unable to do events, and started wondering where to go with Flip from there. We decided upon transitioning our brand to becoming a zine, and that’s where we are today!

AC: Tell us about Flip’s community. Are your submissions primarily from the San Diego area? Who do you hope to reach with your content?

Flip: It’s really amazing because our community is very locationally diverse. Every time we get a message from someone from the UK, or from Ireland, or Canada we are just so amazed! We get quite a few submissions from San Diego, but our content is directed at anyone who wants to become a part of a cool feminist community.

AC: We’re based in Montreal, which is very far from San Diego. Tell us what the creative scene is like, and how you engage with that community.

Flip: San Diego has an insane indie/underground music scene! We’ve been able to connect with so many cool independent artists, and bring their music to our followers. Film is all the rage here, and so we get to see a ton of photos from really talented individuals. Our school is very artsy, and holds art shows displaying work from student artists. The way we engage with all these amazing creators is just by doing our research. It’s amazing who you can connect with by just showing up to an event, or even doing an Instagram deep dive. 

AC: Let’s talk about your collaboration with Free the Flow! Who are they, what do they do, and how can we get involved?

Free the Flow is a Bay-Area based and teen-led nonprofit. They strive to raise awareness for period poverty, as well as working towards ending it for individuals worldwide. Follow them at freetheflowco on Instagram to learn more about their recent work, and how to get involved! They are always working to organize fun ways to raise awareness and receive donations to help their cause. 

AC: Can you direct us to some resources to better educate ourselves about period poverty?

Flip: You can go to periodmovement.com to sign petitions for menstrual equity across the world! Flow: The Cultural History of Menstruation is a great book to read to educate yourself on the origins of period inequality. Free the Flow has compiled a list of resources regarding period poverty, sustainability, stigma, the pink tax and more! They’ve done so much amazing research and I suggest checking that out as well. 

AC: Where can we buy your collab?

Flip: Our totes and stickers are for sale on flipmediasd.com! 70% of proceeds go to Free the Flow. Both of our teams worked really hard to create the original designs on our totes and stickers. They’re pretty cute, and I would snag one if I were you (I’m a little biased of course). 

AC: How can people get involved with Flip? What kind of contributors are you looking for?

Flip: Follow us at flipmediaa on Instagram to learn about what creative projects we are looking to do next. We are just finishing up our third print issue, but we are always looking for independent works of writing and photography to go on our webzine. Thanks so much to Also Cool Mag for giving us this amazing opportunity! Much love to you all.

Flip Media

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Free the Flow

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Concordia Film Festival Goes Digital for its 47th Anniversary

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This year, Concordia University's film festival (the CFF) goes digital. The 47th edition of the festival will stream on Twitch from June 20th-21st, and is focused on highlighting underrepresented voices. The weekend festival features screenings, Q&As, and a discussion panel with Dr. Tracy Zhang as the moderator, who will discuss female representation and feminism in film education. ​

“Growing up watching films, one thing has always bothered me: the lack of diverse representations. For this reason, I’m proud of the work we’ve done with Visions, where we’ve opened up a space for these underrepresented voices to be heard. In our program, you’ll be able to get acquainted with stories and point of views that aren’t usually talked about or paid attention to, stories from different parts of the world and expressed in different genres: from experimental to documentary and fiction.”

-Millena Moreia (Programmer Spotlight: Visions)

Featuring works of students from both the Mel Hoppenheim School of Cinema (MHSoC) and around the world, the CFF is the oldest student-run film festival in North America, and has evolved into an important platform for new up-and-coming talent.

The CFF is also debuting their "Spotlight" competition, open to all students outside of MHSoC, which consists of four categories: Underrepresented Voices, Documentary, Experimental, and Midnight Movie.

The festival will conclude by co-hosting the MHSoC Award Ceremony with the Concordia Cinema Office and presenting awards to their students.

"It has been an amazing experience being a part of a team filled with hard-working and passionate people! We're really excited to show you all some amazing student short films from around the world!" 
-Steven Lee (Programmer Spotlight: Lights Out)

Check out the complete festival schedule below

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Keep up with the Concordia Film Festival on their socials!

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Re-Visiting The Lower Plateau: A Love Letter to the Community

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Last month, I found myself stuck in a rapid rotation of calls, content-binging, and checking my phone. A Facebook scroll tells me a movie I saw at Lux Magna last winter is now up on YouTube. It was snowing lightly that day: the Plateau street lamps gave off a cozy winter glow that makes you want to stay in, curled-up in a blanket— the perfect setting for a rewatch.

While the snow fell outside my window, I watched the all-too-relatable Jaine (Nikki Shaffeeullah) wander the snowy streets of Montreal in The Lower Plateau, pondering her life, her relationships, and whether or not she should decisively bounce to Toronto. Produced by Montreal’s Dépanneur Films, the movie gives a window into life as a young anglophone navigating a hard Montreal winter in and around Saint-Laurent. Alongside my own memories on St. Lau (which now include the somber image of a long line outside Segal’s), the movie was a fun, nostalgic trip around familiar streets that have felt anxious and empty as of late. 

The film’s writer and director Liz Singh drew on her own life to tell this story in the film, integrating her community to make the film with a small team on a tight budget. I had the opportunity to chat with Liz, and producers Amanda Murphy and Clare Raspopow about Dépanneur Films, their team process, and what the film means to them. 

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Liz currently works at Head and Hands, coordinating youth outreach and support with a harm reduction approach. Liz’s job has involved distributing essential harm reduction supplies to people and organizations, and setting up a chat-line for Montreal youth who have questions about COVID-19. 

A McGill cultural studies grad originally from Windsor, Ontario, Liz returned to Montreal a few years ago after studying film at the University of Southern California. She was ready to jump into filmmaking, but found the scene discouraging. “At the time I was bartending, and struggling to write. I’d meet people from the film industry, some were creeps or just pretending, and I had several offers to work in porn — some well-intentioned, and some less so.” After going through some experiences like her character Jaine’s (no spoilers, go watch the movie), she cut her hair, visited India, and wrote what would become the film’s script.

Realizing the film required a team that Liz could rely on, and who she felt comfortable with. Enter Clare and Amanda, close friends of Liz who both have a wealth of experience and perspective on studying, living, and working in Montreal over the past decade. The Lower Plateau was a debut feature production for both of them.

Clare and Amanda both described Liz as a generous collaborator, happy to share a lot of her own skills and expertise. “Liz and I were bartending at Bifteck at the time,” says Amanda, who has a background in writing and in community work. “I was helping out during production and continued to take on different work for the film. It was a great atmosphere, no one would shame you for not knowing things.” According to Liz, “What keeps women and marginalized people out of the industry is this myth that you need expertise to make film.”

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Still from The Lower Plateau (2018)

One topic that came up often in our conversation was this ability to make independent art with the support of a creative ecosystem like Montreal’s. “This isn’t a movie that could be made in another city,” says Clare. It’s common knowledge that this community support lends itself to the unique art culture in Montreal. “People can make art even when it’s not necessarily their job, give their time to work on other people’s projects,” adds Amanda.

As the cost of living goes up, this lifestyle becomes less and less tenable. Even from 2017, (when the Lower Plateau was filmed), to now, changes in the neighborhood highlight the tensions taking place as the ecosystem evolves. “The Lower Plateau was slated to be completely demolished by the city. It was going to be razed, and they were going to build a new neighborhood there because it was economically depressed, and by virtue of Montreal starting projects and not finishing them, that never happened. It became a cool and affordable area. Artists moved in and dive bars popped up. You could be an independent business, rent wasn’t too expensive, and it generated its own creative scene,” Clare explains. “Now, you can see the stress between the longstanding businesses that contributed to the livelihood of the neighbourhood, and you can feel the neighborhood shutting down. One of the venues we shot in, Le Divan Orange, was shut down because their neighbours didn’t like the noise that a music venue is bound to make. It was an institution that made the neighborhood what it was - a home for artists.” 

Gentrification in the area means that spaces are emptier, and it’s palpable. “I think the Airbnbs are toxic to our neighbourhoods, and I’ve got to say, if some of the more predatory versions of it can get shut down after COVID-19 it’ll be a silver lining,” says Liz. “There’s also a huge unhoused community, despite there being room for them.” 

“It’s not all sad,” points out Clare. The Plateau still retains that quality, and is still diverse and thriving on many fronts. “I like to think of [right now] as a dip, and I hope that feeling comes back — and it remains a place where people can try new things, and discover who they are, and play their Alanis Morissette covers.”

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Still from The Lower Plateau (2018)

As for the future of Dépanneur Films, all three tell me there is plenty of content in the works, and they are currently writing grant applications. The Lower Plateau is now up on YouTube, and free to watch. They have a few web series written, pending funding, and a short film they are ready to shoot as soon as it’s safe and responsible to do so. “We are hoping we can make this short film, boost our views, and sort of boost our credentials through that.” 

Reflecting on life and art, after quarantine, Liz is positive. “I think people will make some amazing art, and we’ll all experiment with ways to share it with one another. We’re working on a series of writing workshops right now, and I’m really hoping to plug into different kinds of support. We’ll see what we can do. We’re excited to see what happens.” 

Stream The Lower Plateau here
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If you are interested in Dépanneur Films’ writing workshops, contact their team here

By Nabeela Jivraj

Nabeela is from Calgary, and came to Montreal to study and work in public health.

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Bringing the Runway to Your Bedroom: Montreal Collective Launches "Dressing up at Home"

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Dress Up team: Tosca Webb (left), Betsy-May Smith (middle) and Annie Brebner (right) photo provided by Dress Up

Lately, quarantine has got us like:

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In all serious though, putting together an outfit in these times of self-isolation is the only thing keeping us sane. Not only does the process instill a sense of normalcy, but it can rekindle memories, spark confidence, and also inspire the wildest fashion experiments. Whether you find yourself reaching for something cinched and sequined, or pairing a funky eyeshadow colour with your favourite pair of sweatpants, the important thing to remember is that there are no rules when it comes to the quarantine runway!

This is the philosophy behind Montreal’s Dress Up collective, both online and IRL. Today, Dress Up launches a new series on their website called “Dressing Up at Home,” a look-book of their followers’ best quarantine ensembles. We chatted with two of the minds behind Dress Up, Tosca Webb and Annie Brebner, to get a sense of how “Dressing Up at Home” is maintaining a sense of community within Montreal and beyond, and what the act itself means to them during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Also Cool: Hi Dress Up! Who are you, and how has your collective evolved since it first started?

Dress Up: Hi! We’re a Montreal-based fashion collective that was founded on the belief that fashion is a tool of expression, and that everyone deserves the opportunity to explore that expression without judgement. Dress Up began as an underground event series where we’d provide a curation of vintage clothing for guests to come dress up in, dance, have fun, and meet each other. 

Dress Up was born as a passion project, but over the last year we’ve become really excited about the idea of it transitioning into our full-time jobs and growing a company. We’ve had to postpone a lot due to COVID-19… We had plans to launch a new merch line, an online magazine and a vintage e-commerce shop, and bring our events to new cities like Toronto and New York. It’ll all happen, it’s just on pause for a bit! 

AC: You’ve moved your IRL events to “Dressing Up at Home.” Tell us about this new series, and what you hope it can do to strengthen the community right now.

DU: This series came about in a really organic way. We were both overwhelmed by the impact of COVID-19, and thinking about taking a break from Dress Up altogether. We felt inspired by the way folks are staying connected through social media, especially in quarantine. Social media, namely selfies and Instagram stories, are a way of saying “I’m still here,” and posting can make you feel relevant and connected to your friends.

More than anything, we just wanted to provide an opportunity for people to feel seen and heard. We all deserve that! This series has been a really amazing way for us to use our platform to amplify people’s voices. Reading through submissions has been so special: we’re always amazed by people’s vulnerability and creativity. It’s such a bizarre and scary time for all of us, so to read a story that may resonate with you, or to feel inspired by someone’s makeup, or give people a reason to get dressed… It all feels very bonding.

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“Dressing Up at Home” contributor Elle

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“Dressing Up at Home” contributor Kayliegh

AC: How does dressing up at home make you feel? What inspires you to do it?

DU: Waking up every day and getting dressed has helped us maintain a sense of normalcy and routine. Seeing people’s submissions has been wild... You guys are pulling some looks, and we are not up to par! What’s amazing about a project like this is that it’s so varied, in that everyone’s inspirations explorations of dressing at home are extremely diverse. Advocating for “no rules” is something we’ve always wanted to embrace as a brand. We feel really lucky and proud to be a part of something like Dress Up, and to be working alongside such creative, eccentric, exciting, and kind people. They’re the ones who inspire us to keep working and moving forward!

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“Dressing Up at Home” contributor Bianca

AC: How can we submit to “Dressing Up at Home,” and where can we keep up to date with Dress Up?

We have all the submission guidelines posted in our ‘SUBMIT’ Instagram story highlight, and we’re accepting submissions through our email. To stay up to date, follow our Instagram where we're sharing excerpts from the series, and check out the full series on the Dress Up website!

Keep up with the Dress Up team!

Annie (left)

Tosca (middle)

Betsy (right)

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Yo Perreo Sola En Mi Cuarto Con Cuarenteca

Art by Malaika Astorga

Yo perreo sola en mi cuarto… for real though. Cuarenteca is the best Latinx online discoteca that you never knew you needed, every week on Zoom. We chatted about Latinx spaces, online and IRL, and how we’re staying connected to our familias.

Also Cool: Hola Cuarenteca! Let's start at the beginning. Tell us a bit about who you are, what the two of you do IRL, and how you started this online discoteca.

Cuarenteca: Hello! Thanks for having us. Our names are Ana Luisa and Camila. We are Venezuelan visual artists living in Toronto. We bonded over our mutual experiences, as well as our love for reggaeton and other Latin genres. Ana Luisa started DJing six months ago after attending an Intersessions workshop. Camila began DJing four years ago, getting her start on friends' computer programs, and has recently begun learning how to use a controller. 

Our weekly online discoteca is called Cuarenteca, and it's hosted on Zoom. We were initially inspired by Club Quarantine and decided to start our own online party focusing on Latinx genres and spotlighting queer femme DJs.

AC: As an avid Xicanista, I've been following online Latinx efforts for the past few years. Recently, it seems like there's a strong wave of young Latinx creatives making space for ourselves in mainstream art and music spaces. What have your experiences been like in creative scenes? Why do you personally feel like it's important to have Latinx representation in these spaces, both online and IRL?

Cuarenteca: As visual artists and musicians, we have always felt the need to make space for ourselves and other people of Latinx descent, especially in a Canadian context. We feel like there's a real lack of safe, queer-friendly Latinx parties in Toronto, excluding Convento Rico. This was one of the main reasons we started DJing. Ana Luisa in Toronto, and Camila in Halifax, where there are literally zero Latinx dance parties except the ones organized by Camila and her friends.  

Ana Luisa: I don't have a ton of experience in the Toronto music scene yet, but I know that there are a lot of amazing people out there creating spaces by and for underrepresented women, queer, trans and BIPOC creatives. Intersessions, which is a workshop series that puts a spotlight on gender disparity in music, was my first encounter with a DJ community in the city. They truly made me feel welcome and safe. I never felt judged for asking technical questions or for not knowing a lot about the craft. Big shoutout to Chippy Nonstop, Karim Olen Ash, Nino Brown and everyone else involved. 

Camila: When I was a teenager, I was avidly involved in Toronto's all ages music scene, but at the time it was super straight-white-male dominated. It wasn't until I moved to Halifax to go to art school that I really felt encouraged to make music. In 2016, I joined an all-femme band and also started DJing in an all-femme DJ collective. I have definitely felt more welcomed in visual arts spaces overall, especially in art school, where there were mostly female, queer, and non-binary students. There’s a super small Latinx community in Nova Scotia, so being back in Toronto definitely feels more validating. 

AC: What were your lives like before quarantine? What are some of the ways that you've been finding comfort since this began?

Cuarenteca: Our lives before quarantine, in terms of online communication, have more or less been the same. As members of the Venezuelan diaspora, this is how we've always communicated with our friends and family, so quarantined or not, we'll always video-chat our loved ones. 

Cuarenteca has definitely been comforting and validating, especially in creating an online space that points to the experience of being an immigrant, but also of living in the current pandemic. We look forward to dressing up, putting on some makeup, playing tunes, and seeing our friends all over the globe move their bodies with us every week. It's been amazing to see how people have been either joining for the first time or coming back every week; it seems like there is a real need for Latin music and community right now. We think that all the tunes we spin are great for the body and the soul, and can truly lift up your spirit! 

AC: How have you personally been connecting with the Latinx community lately? I follow a few Xicana and bruja accounts on Instagram and TikTok, but it's difficult for me to actually talk to my family in Mexico.

Cuarenteca: Cuarenteca has definitely been connecting us to the Latinx community, both our friends and folks we didn't know before. It's cool to meet new people who are into the same music we like! We are also part of an artist collective called Satélite, and they are definitely our chosen family and support system getting us through this time.

CS: I've continued listening to Latinx podcasts and shows, in particular Brown Love, Gentefied, On My Block, Los Espookys, which are all very US-centric. As well as reading works by Isabel Allende, and listening to artists like Ms Nina, and Bad Bunny! 

AL: What's been getting me through the quarantine has been discovering new music, making mixes, doing Cuarenteca every week, keeping in touch with my friends and family, and reconnecting with friends that I haven't talked to in a long time because we all live in different countries. I recently worked on a mix for days, check it out! 

AC: Describe the Latinx dance party of your dreams.

Cuarenteca: Cuarenteca is as close as it gets, for now. Música para perrear and all our friends in one place, please! Y el calorcito of sweaty bodies IRL. 

AC: How can we best support you, and other Latinx artists right now?

Cuarenteca: For Cuarenteca and any other initiatives, sharing the projects, inviting your friends, purchasing from our online shops and Bandcamps, and donating to PayPal accounts if you're in the position to do so! Artists are suffering from a lack of funding, gigs, and opportunities so all of the above would be immensely helpful.

Our Instagram is @cuarenteca and our PayPal is paypal.me/cuarenteca <3 

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I Lost My Dream Job Due To Coronavirus. Here's How I'm Feeling.

Art by Malaika Astorga

At the beginning of 2020, I felt the puzzle pieces of my life coming together for the first time. I had just left my restaurant hostess job for my dream job as a content manager at a women’s CBD period care brand. As the content manager, I would have full control of all social media channels, write blog posts regarding topics such as proper CBD usage, sexual health and wellness, and periods, and would be playing a large role in creatively re-shaping the brand for an upcoming relaunch and product drop. 

The income from this job was beginning to have a life-changing effect on my day-to-day experiences… I’d never seen so much money in my bank account at once! While I may have made a few impulse buys with some of my paychecks (I’m looking at my Fila Disruptor II’s and my collection of Glossier products as I type this), I mostly took advantage of this newfound income to kickstart a serious turning point in my life. For instance, I opened a savings account and began saving to buy a car; could finally afford to start seeing a therapist, and; I raised my credit score by almost 100 points while I started digging myself out of debt. Best of all, I was working for a company whose values truly aligned with my own, and I was turning my passion into my paycheck. Even the worst days at the office were still infinitely better than any day at my hostessing job, and I was finally starting to feel fulfilled and enthusiastic about the direction in which my life was headed. For the first time, I felt so much stress and uncertainty fade away as I moved fearlessly towards my goals, and a seemingly bright future.

When the coronavirus first hit my radar, it was December 2019, and I was still working as a restaurant hostess. Needless to say, the world was a different place back then. I felt invincible and young, and had the ultimate “it could never happen to me” attitude. Never in the depths of my worst nightmares did I think that the United States could be stricken by a deadly pandemic, or that it would affect my hometown in Orange County, California. My friends and I still felt untouchable at that point: we threw caution to the wind; we gathered in large groups; we were reckless in crowds at concerts, and; we’d even go to work sick in the name of capitalism and the almighty dollar. We, along with the entirety of the country and perhaps even the world, had no idea what was in store in the near future.

Flash forward to March of 2020, when normalcy would completely disappear. On a gloomy Thursday morning, we learned of the death of a 60-year-old woman who lived a block from our office. The virus that I’d laughed off and made light of in previous months had now claimed a victim less than a mile away from a place where I spent over 40 hours a week. Life was beginning to feel like a surreal fever dream, and this was pre-quarantine and social distancing. It was then announced that, due to this coronavirus case hitting so close to home, we would be working from home for at least the next week. This happened at a company that would have never allowed working from home in prior months; it turns out that they had lost their sense of invincibility, too.

As a former full-time freelancer, the ability to work from home was something that came naturally to me. For a week, writing blog posts debunking common CBD myths and posting Instagram polls about self-care was a welcome distraction from the outside world. If I blasted my music loud enough and had my workspace organized, I could imagine that I was still at the office, and that the outside world didn’t exist. While I tried not to get any hopes of job security too high, I’d been assigned projects that were a month out, so I assumed in good faith that I’d still have a job for at least a month.

I’ve always been a resourceful person in the face of adversity, and despite being a self-described “reckless daydreamer,” I’ve been through enough in my 22 years to set my expectations realistically. That being said, when I got the call from my department head that the company was shutting down until further notice and laying off all employees, I wasn’t surprised, but I was devastated. I’d worked unfathomably hard to get and to maintain this job, only to have this new life taken away in a second. For a lack of more eloquent words, it felt unfair.

This pandemic has made me even more aware of the privilege that I have: I am able-bodied; I have a backup stream of income with my freelancing and YouTube channel; I am able to stay with my parents during this time and live rent-free, and; I have a roof over my head and a resourceful mom with a knack for disaster preparedness who made sure we were stocked with enough food and essentials to last until the end of this quarantine. I don’t have to work on the frontlines of the virus, unlike my boyfriend and others I know who are considered essential workers. Realistically, the worries and struggles I am facing due to this pandemic are very minimal, and I could not be more grateful to be in the position that I am in.

However, I do think that we are allowed to grieve the losses that this pandemic has caused us. While it's important to be aware of our privilege, we shouldn’t necessarily feel guilty for mourning these things when there is so much else going on in the world. Whether you got laid off from your dream job, won’t be able to attend your college or high school graduation, or were looking forward to a concert, birthday celebration, or a life milestone that was a casualty of COVID-19; you are allowed to experience your grief, you are allowed to feel hurt, angry and sad, or however, it is you are feeling. We are all experiencing a collective traumatic experience, and there is no perfect way to be dealing with any of this right now. Mourning your own personal losses and recognizing the privilege you have during this pandemic are not mutually exclusive.

I’m blessed to say that I did manage to find a new (remote) job in my field, and words cannot express how grateful I am for the opportunity. Every day, I reflect on the gratitude I feel to have had someone take a chance on me in such unprecedented times. However, I still wake up at 7:30 in the morning sometimes, in those fleeting seconds of temporary amnesia before the reality of COVID-19 settles in, ready to make my morning commute. I’m in the acceptance stage of my grieving at this point, but sometimes I still think of the work I put into this role, and I hope and pray it wasn’t all for nothing.

It goes without saying that I would return to my former job in a heartbeat if possible if and when the virus subsides. However, thinking about life after the virus at this point is futile because every day brings some new development in the news and feels more doomsday-like than the last. While I know that this won’t be forever and that this too shall pass, drawing up blueprints for the future is a fool’s game at this point. Normalcy as we knew it isn’t an option. Still, I hope for a chance to reconstruct the life I had before this in some capacity, as I’m sure so many of us do.

Lastly, there is no right or wrong way to spend this self-isolation period. You don’t have to be productive, you don’t have to find a new job like I did, and you don’t need to feel pressured to be starting a “side hustle” or place unrealistic expectations on yourself. Regardless of your situation, show empathy to yourself and others, and be mindful and show gratitude for what’s still left. Take time to mourn the life you left behind before this. That being said, do keep in mind that the world will keep turning and the sun will rise every morning and there will be a chance to start anew after this all passes, whenever that will be. In spite of everything, I am letting hope move through me to feel appreciative of the good that still remains. 

Sami Harris is a 22-year-old writer, Libra, and vegan mac n cheese connoisseur living in Los Angeles. Her main goal as a writer is to create solidarity by sharing her life experiences. When she is not writing or creating content, she can be found at shows, trying out new vegan recipes, thrifting, and spending time with her friends, boyfriend, family, or her four cats. She can be found on Instagram and Twitter @samikatherinee, and on YouTube. 

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A Playdate with Emilie Kneifel: Self-Isolation, Creative Self-Care & Colouring

Photo provided by PLAYD8s

When was the last time you had a playdate? 

A few weeks back, Emilie Kneifel and I had a video call to talk about their project PLAYD8s, a kid-inspired, bilingual video interview series created in collaboration with Nadia Davoli all about how artists and thinkers find ways to play. So far, Emilie has hung out with eight unique guests, ranging from Ashley Obscura of Metatron Press, to her grand-maman. We ended up having a bit of a play date ourselves and talked about how colour defines certain sections of our lives, and the platonic touch of good art. 

Fast forward to now: We’re all experiencing isolation and practicing social and physical distancing due to COVID-19. While I was transcribing my conversation with Emilie, I thought it was a bit surreal that we had spoken so extensively about how to be okay with being alone, and how we can do so restfully. 

I hope our conversation brings you the same comfort it brought me. It made me feel like I was a kid again. 

Photo provided by PLAYD8s

Malaika Astorga for Also Cool: How did the idea for the show first come about? At what point in your isolation did you decide to make a project about it?

Emilie Kneifel for PLAYD8s: I first started getting sick in 2017. When you’re isolated when you choose not to be, everything becomes magnified and you become really aware of other people’s presence. I got really into reading interviews and profiles with artists. It was a way for me to be with people without being drained energetically. I started daydreaming about this universe where I could listen to people talking about themselves. 

I was thinking about how we spent time together as kids, and how precious playtime was. Not only in that it was fun, but also because I think that when you’re a kid, you’re aware of things ending in a certain kind of way. Someone’s always there to tell you that it’s time to go to school, or that it’s bedtime. Whereas when we’re adolescents, there’s this feeling of invincibility that I didn’t have anymore, and that changed my perspective.

Also Cool: It seems like you became aware of how you were coping with isolation, and what that had transformed into. When did that shift happen? Was it conscious, or did you just let yourself exist and this show is what came from it?

Emilie: I think that I’m constantly existing on multiple levels of observation. I’m very aware of myself all the time, always helicopter-mom-ing myself, asking: “How am I reacting to this?” But also, you can’t understand an era, until it has become an era.

I think that even in the era of making PlayD8s, I was figuring out who and what I wanted it to be. Now I’m figuring out that we’ve made it. There’s this layered awareness of constantly observing, but being aware that there are certain things that I’m not able to know right away.

Photo provided by PLAYD8s

Also Cool: It’s hard when you’re in an era, and you know that you are… but you don’t know what it’ll look like yet. 

Emilie: There’s this creature that I learned about in my last semester in university. It spends its whole life swimming up sugar gradients, and when the sugar runs out, it turns and finds more sugar. I thought, oh my gosh, that’s how I want to be! 

Sometimes I ruminate… constantly trying to figure out the puzzle of what’s going on. When something becomes a paralysis, I get out of it by thinking: “Does this taste good?” (thinking about the sugar), and if it does, I keep doing what I’m doing. If it doesn’t, then I don’t do it anymore. It’s really taught me about the slow accumulation of things.

It’s allowed me to be a lot calmer about [being isolated]. If what I’m doing feels good, then I can allow myself to stay in that place. I used to be so afraid of getting stuck, and being pigeonholed, and I would be really afraid of any decision. But it was a self-fulfilling prophecy where I would just end up getting stuck because I wouldn’t end up doing anything at all. It’s been a way for me to hack my own anxiety.

AC: What are your thoughts on community? Where do you find fulfilment from community in general, and what does the word mean to you?

Emilie: In a lot of ways, PLAYD8s was an attempt at figuring out how one can be with other people who are making and doing things. I just needed to make something that felt like how I want to be with people. I think that I’m a one-on-one hanger-outer. The show allowed me to be with someone, and to ask them about their thoughts. That’s the way that I can exist most wholly, and most like myself. 

You know when you go to a party with all your friends, and after you feel like you didn’t actually see anyone? I have to believe that there’s a way to feel like you’re a part of something without having to be a part of a huge group. Community can just be you and one other person, playing in your bedroom. 

There’s an episode of the show where Me-Me, my character, decides to play alone for a day. It felt important to emphasize that play, and community building, doesn’t have to be with other people constantly. There are other aspects of that life that can make it whole, or complete.

AC: It’s important to ask: “Do I actually like this, or am I doing this because this is how it’s always been?”

Emilie: For sure! For example, the way that we play on the show is through colouring. I find maintaining constant eye contact really draining. Even though it's a really important part of communication, it’s just one thing that will make me fatigued really quickly. 

Colouring was a way to be with the person, while also being able to have an activity. The people who were on the show felt like they were able to take their space to sit with the questions [I was asking].

AC: What’s an ideal way to interact with your community? If there was a way that community could get together, though that doesn’t really happen right now, what would that experience be like?

Emilie: That’s definitely what I was trying to do with Playd8s. I’ll explain the different elements of it that I liked about it, that I’d like to have in other parts of my life. 

It’s about tempo and rhythm, and doing things at your own pace without a pressure to perform wellness. Everyone is doing what they need to do in a given moment. Like sitting down at a show, or excusing yourself to rest in the middle of something for 10 minutes; that flexibility, without being considered rude or having to explain yourself. 

I’ve definitely found that, with other disabled and/or chronically ill people, to be near someone in a way that feels safe [is important]. Safety was a big part of making the show as well, as a huge environmental factor. I don’t think we have to act serious in order to be able to be taken seriously. I think if we were able to do that, we would all take a collective exhale.

AC: What’s your relationship to colour, and colouring? How do you communicate through that?

Emilie: The colouring felt like archiving the conversations. The whole point of the project was for it to be fun. One thing that my dad always said to me growing up when I was doing an activity that I was growing out of was that, “it’s supposed to be fun.” Even if we lost all the footage and sound, I wanted the playdates themselves to be a fun experience. 

I feel like colours are people in my life. I just got through a really intense orange phase. That doesn’t mean I’m wearing the colour, but I’m noticing it all the time. It seems to be following me the way that the moon follows you in the car. It feels like a presence, like a friend who’s there for you. I know orange is thinking of me because I’m seeing orange. 

Colour is important to me because of my chronic fatigue, I’m more sensitive to it. Lately I haven’t been able to look at red. It makes me feel like all the energy is being sucked out of my body, like Harry Potter dementors. It wasn’t always like that, red was my favourite colour for two years. I still like red, like as a friend, but right now we're taking a bit of a break.

AC: Is there anything else you’d like to mention that we haven’t covered?

Emilie: If there is an intention I could offer for the show, it would be this: I think that the show can seem just “pink and pretty,” but I want to make it clear that this is something that someone could watch [to feel less alone.] 

Something I think about a lot is platonic touch, and how rarely we are touched by people who aren’t asking anything of us. I think that art can be that because it can be so generous in its ideal form, where someone can consume something and just feel held or loved. It's a very big hope, but that's what I wish for. Either on the level of the people who made the show, or the guests on the show, or even one of the people who will watch it. I hope that they will feel like they had a friend, or that they were a part of something. 

Photo provided by PLAYD8s

PLAYD8s w/ u + me-me is a bilingual video interview series created by Montreal-based creatives Emilie Kneifel and Nadia Davoli. The eight-episode season is hosted by Me-Me (played by Emilie Kneifel) who interviews artists, thinkers, and her grand-maman about how they have played, play, and how they would like to play. Sitting on a bed full of pillows, they colour with crayons and explore play in a particular theme: sound, language, aesthetics, solitude, religion, science, imagination, and family. Each episode lasts about 45 minutes.

Watch PLAYD8s on YouTube

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