"Genesis and Apocalypse"
Since time immemorial, humanity has obsessed over two main narratives: Genesis, where everything begins, and Apocalypse, where it all goes downhill fast. Somewhere between these two plot points, a few other events may take place, but why get lost in the weeds of daily life when you can focus on The Beginning and The End? Sure, the grocery store run isn’t as exciting as a fiery prophecy, but you’d think that by now, we’d be better at embracing the in-between.
Yet here we are. Humans have a knack for seeing every little blip, odd sunset, or out-of-season frost as a sign of impending doom. And it’s not just ancient history, this habit runs through modern culture like caffeine through a Monday morning coffee.

Living for the Ends: Genesis and Apocalypse
Let’s break down why Genesis and Apocalypse have such a hold on our imaginations. Genesis stories give us a comforting sense of purpose—“In the beginning, there was light” has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? But the problem is, if there’s a beginning, there’s probably an ending too. And wouldn’t you know it, the concept of apocalypse shows up in just about every culture around the globe. From Viking Ragnarok to the Mayan Calendar, humanity has always been a little obsessed with the idea that everything could suddenly fall apart.
But the truth is, nature doesn’t really follow this script. We like to imagine it as a neat cycle, with seasons that roll around predictably and tides that go in and out. Yet, when you look a little closer, you realize nature’s more of a continuum—an unpredictable mix of the regular and irregular. Monsoons may show up every year, but earthquakes and tsunamis certainly don’t, and hurricanes seem to be on a schedule only they understand.

Humans vs. Nature: The Need to Find Patterns
Our ancestors had it rough. Between dodging saber-toothed tigers and trying to figure out what plants wouldn’t kill them, it’s no surprise they got really good at paying attention to patterns. If you didn’t notice that the wind always picked up before a storm, you might not survive the winter. Over time, humans got even better at spotting these patterns and, let’s face it, making up a few when they couldn’t find any.
Fast forward a few thousand years, and we’re still at it. Did you know that if you break a mirror, it’s seven years of bad luck? Or that spilling salt is a bad omen unless you throw a pinch over your shoulder? These beliefs might seem silly, but they’re all part of the same pattern-seeking behavior that kept our ancestors alive. Somewhere along the line, though, we decided that some of these patterns meant the end was near. A weird solar eclipse? Definitely the beginning of the apocalypse. A string of bad weather? For sure the work of a vengeful god.

Modern Signs of the Apocalypse: Is it the End or Just Tuesday?
Let’s bring this obsession with signs and omens into the present day. Every so often, a new “sign of the apocalypse” sweeps the internet, and before you know it, people are panic-buying canned beans and toilet paper. Take, for instance, “blood moons” those eerie red lunar events. According to some, they’re harbingers of doom. In reality, it’s just the Earth getting in the way of the Sun’s light, causing a cool visual effect, but try telling that to the internet.
Or how about El Niño and La Niña? Weather patterns that shift every few years, causing unusually warm or cool temperatures and some dramatic weather. Now, to a meteorologist, this is Mother Nature doing her thing. But leave it to some people to declare it as a sure sign of the world ending. Because why wouldn’t it be?
This brings us to hurricanes, earthquakes, and other natural disasters. Despite the advances in science that allow us to predict storms and tremors, there’s still a sense of dread each time one of these events happens. People say, “This hurricane is a sign we’re doomed!”—never mind that hurricanes have been happening for as long as we can remember. And as for earthquakes, well, they’re just a friendly reminder from the Earth that sometimes things shift. It’s nothing personal.

The Continuum vs. The Cycle
So why can’t we just chill out and accept nature as a continuum instead of a predictable cycle? If life’s a continuum, then things can happen at any time, in any order. This means that while some things happen with regularity (the sun rising every day, for instance), other things are totally random. A storm may hit in April this year and August next year. But for whatever reason, our minds struggle with this concept. We like things to be neat, predictable, and most importantly, manageable. Cycles make us feel like we’re in control.
This brings us to the problem: humans are creatures of habit, but nature isn’t. It’s a bit like having a roommate who never cleans up after themselves or sticks to a schedule. You’d think after thousands of years, we’d be used to it by now, but somehow, we’re still surprised every time a thunderstorm shows up unannounced. Maybe it’s because, deep down, we like a good mystery. The unknown keeps us on our toes, and it gives us something to talk about.
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The Art of Not Worrying About the Apocalypse
Here’s the real kicker: after thousands of years of predictions, doomsday cults, and blood moon prophecies, the world just keeps on spinning. The sun rises every day, birds chirp (well, most days), and life goes on. If there’s anything to be learned here, it’s that life’s too short to spend worrying about signs of the apocalypse. Most of the time, what we’re seeing is just a random blip on the radar of existence.
So, the next time you see an odd pattern in the clouds or hear an earthquake rumbling somewhere far away, maybe take it as just that—a reminder that nature is doing its thing. Instead of seeing it as a sign of the end, maybe it’s a sign to appreciate the little, unpredictable things that make life interesting. After all, if everything happened on a schedule, wouldn’t life be a little boring?

The color black has long been a source of intrigue and contemplation in both the realms of science and art. It is a paradox—often described as the sum of all colors and, at the same time, the absence of all light. Its enigmatic nature transcends the limits of our understanding, stretching from the vastness of outer space, with the impenetrable gravity of black holes, to the intimate details on a canvas. Artists, philosophers, and scientists alike have wrestled with the notion of black for centuries, often arriving at the same conclusion: black represents the ultimate mystery.

Science Meets Art
In the natural world, black is unique. Scientifically speaking, black occurs when an object absorbs all visible wavelengths of light without reflecting any back to our eyes. Thus, we perceive it as the absence of color. This characteristic is particularly striking in black holes, where not even light can escape. Black holes serve as powerful metaphors in our search for meaning, representing the unfathomable aspects of the universe. Just as a black hole defies conventional understanding, so does black as a concept on the artist's canvas.

In art, the color black is both complex and deceptively simple. Artists have long used black to evoke emotions, convey depth, and, above all, introduce mystery. It is not just the color of mourning or darkness, it is the color of the unknown, the subconscious, and the limitless potential of the void. Historically, it has had many layers of meaning, shifting from one cultural context to another. Whether through the delicate brushstrokes of a Renaissance painter or the bold, striking abstractions of modern artists, black has proven to be one of the most versatile and important colors in art.

The Paradox of Black
The duality of black is one of its most compelling aspects. On one hand, it is the color of shadows and darkness, associated with fear, death, and the unknown. On the other, it can symbolize elegance, sophistication, and power. This paradox is deeply rooted in both the cultural and psychological interpretations of black, making it one of the most dynamic colors in the artist's palette.
 
In the Renaissance, black was often used to represent the underworld or the dark side of human nature, as seen in paintings of the Last Judgment or depictions of Hell. But black was also revered as a color of intellectual gravity and formality, particularly in the attire of scholars and judges. Artists from Caravaggio to Rembrandt used deep, shadowy blacks to enhance their use of chiaroscuro, a technique that plays with the contrasts between light and dark to create dramatic tension.

Moving into modern art, black became a central focus in the works of artists such as Kazimir Malevich, whose famous painting *Black Square* (1915) is often seen as a radical declaration of the void. The painting consists of nothing more than a black square on a white background, yet its simplicity evokes profound questions about existence, space, and the role of art. For Malevich, black wasn’t just a color but a gateway to new, non-objective realms of thinking.

Black as the Absence and Sum of All Colors
From a purely optical standpoint, black can be seen as the sum of all colors or the absence of them. In additive color theory, black is the absence of light, while in subtractive color theory (like paint mixing), black can be created by mixing several colors. This interplay between the physical and metaphysical properties of black makes it one of the most intriguing elements in art.

The modern perception of black as the sum of all colors dates back to Isaac Newton's experiments with prisms, where he demonstrated that white light contains all the colors of the visible spectrum. However, black exists as an anomaly. It represents the boundaries where light ceases to exist, and in this sense, black is also the sum of all experiences we cannot yet grasp.

Consider the way black functions in the physical space of the universe. In astronomy, black holes are points where matter collapses under its own gravity to a point of infinite density, creating an event horizon beyond which nothing, not even light, can escape. When we think of black in this cosmic sense, it becomes not just an absence, but an overwhelming presence of all forces, energies, and potentialities compressed into a singularity. Similarly, when black is used on a canvas, it can represent a point of focus, depth, or the unknown future, waiting to unfold.
 
The Power of Black in Art History
In Western art history, black has often been treated as an accessory, a foil to the vibrancy of other colors. However, artists throughout history have demonstrated black’s ability to stand alone as a dominant color. One of the earliest examples of black’s powerful use can be seen in the ancient Greek vases of the Black-Figure pottery style. Artists used black to depict human figures and narratives in contrast to the reddish clay, showing that black could convey form, movement, and emotion.

In the 17th century, the Dutch master Rembrandt made black a cornerstone of his works. Rembrandt used black as more than just a backdrop; he used it to sculpt light. His ability to manipulate darkness to create depth and texture brought new life to his portraits, as seen in *The Night Watch*. The heavy use of black allowed for the radiant moments of light to shine with greater intensity, giving his works an ethereal glow that could not exist without the presence of such deep shadows.

Moving into the 20th century, black took on new significance in the context of abstraction and modernism. Abstract expressionists like Franz Kline used bold strokes of black to define space and structure on the canvas. His works demonstrate that black can be dynamic, energetic, and alive in its own right, not simply a background element or symbol of negativity.

Then, in the realm of minimalism, artists like Ad Reinhardt explored black as the ultimate form of expression. His *Black Paintings* consist of subtle variations of black, forcing the viewer to confront the limitations of perception. These works suggest that black is not just a void, but a space filled with nuance, texture, and meaning.

Black in Contemporary Art
In contemporary art, black continues to captivate artists and viewers alike. The color has been reclaimed, reinterpreted, and reimagined by artists across various mediums. In fashion, black is the hallmark of high elegance, minimalism, and rebellion. In digital media, black often serves as a backdrop to modern design, symbolizing sleekness and futuristic aesthetics.

Yves Klein, for instance, is known for his International Klein Blue, but he also experimented with black as a medium. He once described black as "the most aristocratic color," a statement that aligns with its historical use in fashion and art.

In photography, black is used to create mood and contrast. Ansel Adams, the famous landscape photographer, mastered the art of black and white photography, using the deep blacks of his prints to convey the monumental power of nature. His images evoke an almost spiritual sense of awe, where the absence of color enhances the drama and beauty of the natural world.

The Mystery remains
​Black remains one of the most profound and powerful elements in the world of art. It is a color of mystery, depth, and infinite possibility. Whether representing the unknown, as seen in black holes and the edges of our understanding, or acting as a fundamental tool for artists to explore light, form, and emotion, black is central to the human experience.

Its paradoxical nature—being both the absence and presence of all colors—continues to challenge our perception of reality. In art, as in science, black pushes us to confront the limitations of our understanding and to embrace the mysteries that lie beyond. It forces us to see not just what is there, but what is hidden, to feel the depth of the void, and to acknowledge the beauty that can emerge from darkness.

Art, in its essence, is a reflection of life, an exploration of human existence and the myriad interactions that shape it. Artists are co-creators of the world, transforming mundane experiences and objects into new dimensions of meaning. Belgian artist Marcel Broodthaers offers a profound example of how the artist can co-create not only beauty or meaning but also utility through their work. By using everyday objects in unexpected ways, Broodthaers demonstrated that the artist can transcend mere observation, taking an active role in shaping reality itself.
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In the art world, particularly in the mid-20th century, artists like Broodthaers explored new ways of engaging with the world around them. He brought attention to objects that were overlooked or deemed unworthy of artistic consideration. Rather than depicting life as it is, Broodthaers’ approach emphasized the artist's power to shape and reframe life’s most common elements, inviting us to reconsider their function, purpose, and role in our lives.

Art and Usefulness: A Shift in Perspective
To understand how Broodthaers became a co-creationist of usefulness, one must first acknowledge his relationship with the Dadaist tradition. He was not merely interested in aesthetics; he was interested in how art can challenge social structures and reframe our understanding of usefulness. Through his work, Broodthaers asked fundamental questions: What is the purpose of art? Can art be useful? If so, useful to whom?

In his view, the artist’s role extended beyond beauty or commentary. He saw the artist as a re-imaginer of reality, someone who could upend traditional definitions of use. This is most evident in his use of everyday objects. His work took the tools of everyday life—the mundane, the utilitarian—and repositioned them as objects of contemplation. These objects were no longer defined by their use, but instead, by their symbolic power.

Broodthaers’ pieces challenged the boundaries between art and life. By integrating materials such as eggshells, mussel shells, and pots into his works, he reframed the relationship between the object and the observer, and even between the object and itself. In his world, the object did not serve us; it had its own existence, independent of human need or use.

The Object in Control: Subverting Expectations
One of the most famous examples of Broodthaers' conceptual approach is his use of mussel shells in installations. In these works, Broodthaers disrupts our conventional understanding of function. For example, instead of mussels being cooked in a pot, Broodthaers subverts this relationship, making it seem as though the pot is being controlled by the mussels. This reversal of roles plays into the larger theme of objects asserting their own autonomy, as if they no longer exist for human use but for their own purposes. This artistic reversal provokes thought about how we as humans interact with objects and what agency those objects might possess when detached from our preconceived notions of use.

This idea—that objects, when removed from their functional context, can take on lives of their own—is central to Broodthaers' vision. His work suggests a world in which tools and objects do not serve a singular human need, but instead, have their own existence, their own reality. In this sense, the artist becomes a co-creationist, not of new objects, but of new meanings and relationships between those objects and the world around them.

The classic understanding of usefulness is linear: tools serve a purpose, they are designed to fulfill human desires. But Broodthaers disrupts this by asking, what if the tool didn’t serve us? What if, instead, the tool used us? This shift is both surreal and deeply philosophical, suggesting that human control over the world is not as absolute as we might think.

Co-Creation Through the Lens of Language
Marcel Broodthaers was also fascinated by the relationship between language, objects, and meaning. He explored how objects could signify something beyond their functional role, becoming symbols of communication and co-creation. In his series of works using written words, Broodthaers emphasized that language itself is a tool, but one that can be reconfigured. Like objects, language has its own usefulness, but that usefulness can be subverted. Words can mean something other than what they seem to signify, much as everyday objects can take on new meanings in an artistic context.

His 1968 installation Musée d’Art Moderne, Département des Aigles (Museum of Modern Art, Department of Eagles) is a case in point. The installation was a fictional museum that critiqued the art world itself. By creating this imaginary institution, Broodthaers toyed with the idea of usefulness, questioning what museums are for and what role art should play in society. By blending objects, language, and institutional critique, he co-created a new reality where the audience was forced to confront the arbitrary distinctions between high art and everyday life.

The Artist’s Role in Co-Creation
Broodthaers’ work demonstrates that the artist is not merely a passive observer of the world but an active co-creator of its meaning and function. Through his use of everyday objects, he expanded the role of art beyond traditional boundaries, showing how objects can be reimagined and recontextualized to challenge our assumptions about utility, purpose, and control.
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In this way, Broodthaers' work aligns with a broader philosophical idea: that life itself is a collaborative process of creation. The artist is a co-creator, not just of visual forms but of ways of thinking, ways of being, and ways of engaging with the world. By transforming the role of objects and tools, he invites us to reconsider our place in the world—not as masters of our surroundings, but as participants in a dynamic, ever-changing relationship with the objects and forces around us.

In conclusion, Marcel Broodthaers’ work pushes us to see beyond the surface, to understand that usefulness is not a static concept. As co-creators of life, artists like Broodthaers show us that meaning and function are fluid, and that the boundaries between art, object, and life are meant to be continually questioned and reshaped.

In the history of art, painters have often sought to reveal the innermost facets of human existence. From the Renaissance masters who depicted saints and biblical scenes to modern artists who explore the subconscious, the portrayal of humanity’s essence has always been a central theme. Elizabeth Hefty Khoury continues this tradition in a contemporary context, but her approach stands apart in its quiet, contemplative power. Through her paintings of unidentifiable figures, Hefty captures the intangible spirit of the human soul, asking profound questions about identity, existence, and completeness.

Hefty Khoury's work can be viewed as a visual inquiry into what it means to be human. In many ways, her paintings follow the path of sacred art traditions, where saints were depicted as floating, transcendent figures unbound by the material world. However, her figures are not saints. They are not tied to any religious dogma or theological symbolism. Instead, they are reflections of the human soul itself—shapeless, ambiguous, yet filled with a yearning for self-definition and understanding.

Floating Souls: The Search for Identity in a World of Singularities

At first glance, Hefty Khoury’s paintings can appear abstract. The human figures are barely discernible, their features soft, blurred, and floating within the dark canvases. The colors—deep, muted shades of greens, blues, and sometimes reds—serve as atmospheric backdrops, suggesting a liminal space where the figures exist between materiality and spirit.

In many of her works, as seen in her series of diptychs, the bodies are incomplete. We are given glimpses of torsos, shoulders, and chests, but rarely a full, grounded human form. It’s as if these souls are in a state of becoming, floating between realms, striving to emerge but never fully materializing. In this space, Hefty Khoury presents the soul as an unfinished entity, continually seeking to define itself in a world where individuality is both a blessing and a curse.

The tradition of sacred art is evident here, not in religious iconography, but in the feeling of transcendence. Just as medieval and Renaissance artists portrayed holy figures as larger-than-life beings floating above the mundane, Hefty Khoury depicts souls that seem to hover above the material world. But where the saints were divine, her figures are utterly human—vulnerable, incomplete, and searching. Their lack of physical identity asks us to look beyond the surface and to consider the soul as the true seat of our humanity.

The Body and the Soul: A Question of Completeness

One of the central themes in Hefty Khoury’s work is the question of completeness. In her paintings, the figures are rarely whole, and even when a full torso is presented, the lack of defined features makes them seem unfinished. This lack of completion invites us to consider what it means to be fully human. Can a soul be complete without a body? Can a body be complete without a soul? When do we, as individuals, achieve wholeness?

The philosophical underpinnings of Hefty Khoury's art can be traced back to her readings of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet. Gibran writes about the human experience in terms of universality, describing humanity as “shapeless drops of water.” Similarly, her souls are unidentifiable, lacking distinct features that would mark them as individuals. Instead, they represent the universal aspect of existence—the core of being that we all share, regardless of external identity.

Her work suggests that the human soul is in a constant state of flux, caught between the desire for self-expression and the reality of our shared existence. The figures on her canvas may lack clear form, but they are filled with energy and movement, as if they are struggling to emerge from the shadows of anonymity and into the light of self-knowledge. This tension between the desire to stand out and the reality of being part of a greater whole is a powerful reflection of the human condition.

The Ghostly Aesthetic: Transcendence in Form and Color

Hefty Khoury's paintings are marked by their subdued, almost ghostly aesthetic. The muted color palettes and soft, flowing brushstrokes create an atmosphere of ambiguity and transcendence. The figures are often bathed in deep greens and blues, giving them an ethereal quality, as if they are emerging from the depths of the unconscious mind.

The use of light and shadow in Hefty Khoury's work further enhances this feeling of liminality. The figures are never fully illuminated, but neither are they completely obscured. This play of light and dark suggests the duality of the human experience—the constant struggle between the known and the unknown, the material and the spiritual, the self and the other.

In many of her works, Hefty Khoury uses contrasting colors to further this sense of duality. The cool blues and greens that dominate one side of the canvas are often countered by warm reds and pinks on the other. These colors do not clash; rather, they seem to exist in harmony, representing the balance that every human soul seeks between conflicting forces—light and dark, body and soul, individuality and universality.

A Silent Meditation on Existence

What makes Elizabeth Hefty Khoury’s art so compelling is its quietness. These are not paintings that scream for attention; rather, they invite the viewer into a space of silent meditation. Standing in front of one of her works, we are asked to slow down, to reflect on our own place in the world, and to consider the nature of our own souls.

There is something deeply contemplative in the way Hefty Khoury presents her figures. Their lack of distinct features makes them both anonymous and universal, inviting us to see ourselves in their formlessness. At the same time, their incompleteness challenges us to confront our own feelings of incompleteness. In a world that often values material success and external achievement, Hefty Khoury’s paintings remind us that the soul’s journey is one of internal growth and understanding.

Elizabeth Hefty Khoury’s Legacy: Art as a Mirror of the Soul

In a world that often feels fractured and chaotic, Elizabeth Hefty Khoury’s art provides a space for quiet reflection. Her works speak to the timeless quest for identity and meaning, asking us to look beyond the surface and to consider the deeper, more universal aspects of our existence. Her paintings capture the soul not as a static entity, but as a living, breathing force—one that is constantly evolving and seeking completeness. In this way, Hefty Khoury’s art serves as both a mirror and a guide, reflecting our own struggles and aspirations while offering a vision of transcendence. Through her works, we are reminded that while we may be incomplete, the journey toward wholeness is itself a beautiful and meaningful part of the human experience.

In Elizabeth Hefty Khoury’s world of unidentifiable souls, we are all searching. Searching for identity, for meaning, for completeness. And while the answers may remain elusive, her art offers us a space to pause, reflect, and continue the journey toward understanding.
 

A walk through history
 
 
I am currently in Japan. This is a country that I had never really wanted to visit, although I thought it kind of interesting. My grandfather, a naval man who lived all over the world while my mother was growing up, always said that Japan was the place he wanted to settle, but his wife, my grandmother, disagreed so he didn’t get that chance. My daughter is a huge fan of Japanese culture and so, for her graduation from high school, I promised her a trip to the Land of the Rising Sun.
 
Our first day was uneventful and took us to see the NTV Big Clock designed by Hayao Miyazaki (her favorite director; Studio Ghibli fans will now know that there is a theme to my daughter’s trip here).  It was as cute as I expected, but a long walk. Distances that Google Maps say are walkable seem to expand once you are walking them, when the reality of the heat, the humidity and the unrelentless size of the place hit home.
 
Day two however, was a walk into the past. My first stop was the Center for the Tokyo Air Raids and War Damage. As you might know, the people of Japan bore the brunt of retaliations for Japan’s actions during World War 2. The museum is about them, the people who died or were left homeless in the air raids. Honestly, I did not know that much about the topic, and it was eye opening. It is very much from a civilian point of view; kind of neutral and acknowledging that, yes, we got the shit kicked out of us because of what the country did – that’s how war is. Small, it is jammed full of stories, personal items and anecdotes, the things that make narratives real. You are aware that these were real people, while maps and photographs showed the scale of the destruction. A thoroughly interesting place and run by incredibly sweet people.  It is set in a peaceful neighborhood – one that was affected by the bombing -  full of houses, not apartments, workshops, and parks. It was not easy to find, being a 20 minute walk from the metro, but I did find it and it was well worth it.
 
Next on my exploration of war time Tokyo was the Yasukuni-jinja shrine. I’ll leave the controversy about this place aside and focus on what I felt. It was an oasis of calm in the chaos that is this city. All through the grounds are flowers wrought in different artistic styles – I think cherry blossoms or lotus flowers, I really don’t know – which added a whimsical sort of charm.
 
This was not some grand adventure, nor exhaustive exploration into wartime Tokyo. Many reminders have been bulldozed by progress as the city continues to explode upwards and outwards, but these are two places that seek to remember. To me, exploring a city means finding these memories of the past and I’m glad I made the effort. Tokyo is exhausting in its size, literally dwarfing you. Some relish these kinds of experiences, but I’ve always been a quiet sort of traveler, looking for pockets of history or calm within the noise. I certainly haven’t seen much of Japan’s capital, but I have caught a glimpse of something that I thought was gone, and that’s my own curiosity. Lately, I have felt very lost, like life was just a chore that I had to endure on a daily basis. I felt no interest, no spark, my creativity was drained to zero. But this little walk-through time brought me back to who I once was. I started to feel alive again. Ideas started to pop back in my head, possibilities began to feel possible.
 
So, I might have gone to Tokyo and not experienced the nightlife of Shinjuku or any crazy adventures, but I find something of myself, and that, I think is the whole purpose of traveling.
 
 

We’ve all experienced it, arriving in a strange city and setting off to explore it, not knowing where we are going or where we’ll end up. We wander the streets, bewildered by the unfamiliarity of it all, searching for something that connects us to our normal.
 
I walked along the streets of Richmond, BC in search of Walmart. Don’t judge me, I needed a goal, however mundane, and it seemed as good as any. My days of happily getting lost in strange places are behind me, needing now a sense of purpose. Anyway, my projected route was fraught with construction. The city is sprouting blocks upon blocks of tall, soulless buildings, proudly displaying dual language signs offering the joys of living there. While I can imagine the views – mountains and sea stretching in all horizons – could be stunning, there is a conformity about these places; dull, grey, structurally linear. So, I altered my path, my footsteps taking me down a treelined street which heralded a tantalizing sign – ART WALK!
 
Now, call me cynical, but although this will draw my attention, my expectations for such things are not high. The sign was crudely drawn, and I assumed that there would be a rag tag bunch of artists with an eclectic range of works from the bad to the diabolical. However, I was both surprised and delighted to see that I was very wrong.
 
I came across the studio of an artist whose work was a delightful riot of color and form, and the artist herself was warm and friendly, busy explaining to two gentlemen her purpose and style. I browsed while she chatted, then introduced myself. From Catherine – for that was her name – I got the story of the space she occupied and what I feel all cities should do for their creative inhabitants.
 
Catherine’s studio is part of a project where the city included live/work spaces for creatives – not just artists, but musicians, writers, actors, etc. – so that they could do what they love. The rationale was to not just let developers put up buildings for the rich to live in, but also affordable places for people who work in the creative industries. There was an application process, but now there is a lively community of people in the heart of an area that is rapidly transforming. While the studio is not huge, it is definitely livable for one person or even a couple, and the location is fabulous.
 
As an artist, I know how difficult it is to balance survival with my creative work. When we choose to follow this path, we choose a life of hustling and graft. There is precious little support for artists, whether practical – like what Richmond is providing – or monetary – and initiatives like this should be available in all urban areas. Art makes life livable, makes cities vibrant and unique, and therefore the support of artists should be of great importance to local government. Projects like this one show how private companies and public bodies can work together in creating places to live and work, enhancing the wider environment and generally making life better for all.