Here is the rumour she once heard
Whatever it is, it’s here at the EBA. There’s that unmistakable buzz, that kick of funk inspiration, experiment, struggle, community, that spin of joy that somehow adds up to the real deal – living culture in the making. In a city where the codes of faith run to statistics and policy, it’s worth noticing just how this little system of art-related people actually got rolling. If only you could get this stuff into a data base:
Cell #1: the Spring afternoon.
Cell #2: the old building up the hill on Gladstone Street.
Cell #3: the seed of action nestled in the inner life of a young artist, Laura Margita.
Cell #4: the incredible talents who came here to work.
When she went walking to read the signs
Take Laura Margita, 1991 version. Walking up Preston Street with that “what’s up” stride of hers, her long wild hair and that weird sailor’s cap she likes. Curious young artist. Whimsical. Cogent. Funny. Alive to signs. Even visible signs. Like the “For Rent” sign on that old industrial building over the bridge and up the hill.