Mark Lewis

Toronto

at Art Gallery of Ontario

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The Art Gallery of Ontario commissioned filmmaker Mark Lewis to create work exploring what it means to be Canadian today. Lewis was an interesting choice for this task, as he was born and raised in Canada but now resides in London, and thus has both an insider’s viewpoint and a more distanced one. His project takes the form of six films, three of which (between around five and twelve minutes each) are shown here as large-scale projections in connecting galleries. There is no narrative or single character to weave the films together. Instead, Lewis’s portrait is additive: each distinct location, subject, and perspective layer one upon the other.

In the first film, which shares the title of the exhibition, a young woman wanders through a park along a lakefront. She wears a tightly cinched coat, a black wool cap, and gloves to fight off the wintry chill. As she reads from the American author Richard Ford’s novel Canada (2012), she occasionally mouths the words, perhaps even reading aloud, but the soundless film keeps that a secret. Instead, we notice her concentration as she devours the pages, oblivious to both the camera and the occasional passerby. She wanders through an empty pavilion and along the paths, until she finally comes to rest at a picnic table. Only then does her gaze leave the page, as she stares into the distance, as if having reached an important passage that invokes contemplation.

Things Seen (2017) takes place on a deserted beach with high cliffs in the background. A woman dressed in a wet suit slowly emerges from the water, directly confronting the camera. As she approaches, the camera begins to spiral around her, growing ever closer. She turns along with it, her gaze constantly on the camera, much like an animal wary of a potential predator. Just as the camera gets close enough to see the whites of her eyes, it begins to back away, as if sensing the danger in coming any closer. When the offensive intruder is far enough away to no longer pose a threat, the woman turns and slowly disappears back into the water. 

Images of an industrialized city take the forefront in the third film, Valley (2017). The hovering camera swoops us through a landscape with railroad tracks, a highway, power lines, barbed wire fences, and a power substation. Signs of human ingenuity are everywhere, but the monochromatic gray landscape feels distant and cold. Eventually, the camera comes across an Indigenous middle-aged male. As snow begins to fall, he huddles in a tent hidden in the shelter of a pedestrian bridge, a home he has created for himself amid the desolate landscape.

Lewis’s three different approaches behind the camera—in the first as observer, the second as intruder, and the third as documentarian—create a complex portrait. His Canadians are introspective yet interested in what others think of them. At the same time, they are protective and wary of those they feel threatened by. While they are advancing as an industrialized nation, they struggle to accommodate those left in progress’s wake. It’s an elegant portrayal: one that avoids stereotypes and addresses both the strengths and weaknesses of a nation’s identity.

Mark Lewis

Toronto

at Daniel Faria

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Mark Lewis makes short silent films that command a viewer’s attention without relying on narrative devices. The Canadian-born, London-based artist, who represented Canada at the 2009 Venice Biennale, portrays dilapidated modern structures as ruins attesting to still-salvageable ideals. He has largely focused on settings in North America and the United Kingdom, yet seven of the eight remarkable single-take films in his second solo show at Daniel Faria were shot elsewhere—one in Beirut; four in São Paulo; and two in Cheorwon County, South Korea, near the border with North Korea. (The remaining film was shot in London.) The South Korean settings provide a vaguely ominous context for Lewis’s cinematic techniques. In one, the digital camera takes nearly five minutes to pan 360 degrees, surveying the snow-covered landscape and a portion of the border wall demarcating the highly fraught, World War II-era territorial divide. 

The most visually striking of the São Paulo works was Above and Below the Minhocão (2014). For roughly 12 minutes, the film focuses on an overpass completed in 1970 to ease traffic congestion in the overcrowded city. Every Sunday, the structure closes to vehicles, becoming a pedestrian and cyclist thoroughfare and giving temporary respite to the inhabitants of the once-fashionable neighborhoods through which the “big earthworm” slices. Lewis’s camera sweeps over layers of the past, moving from the geometric-
tiled pavement below the Minhocão to the graffiti-covered skyscrapers above, and at one point settling on a turreted villa in a state of disrepair. A man on a cell phone, one of the few street-level pedestrians, keeps entering the frame. The film’s final image is romantic, if ambiguous: the camera zooms in from above on a young couple sitting between the car-free lanes, the artist perhaps imagining a permanently traffic-less Minhocão. 

Staircase at the Edifício Copan (2014) feels both sculptural and filmic. Lewis’s camera descends along a spiraling, 459-foot-high fire escape on São Paulo’s Copan Building, designed by Oscar Niemeyer. For over three minutes, the camera tracks around the staircase’s central column with an alien fluidity of movement. Shadows play across the white concrete cylinder as details of the broader cityscape enter and exit the frame. 

Beirut (2011) is an approximately 8-minute film shot in the Hamra neighborhood of the war-ravaged title city, at an hour when the hotels, businesses and residential terraces there look eerily vacant. As Lewis’s crane-mounted camera soars over the architecture, it reveals a brighter side to the Mediterranean metropolis, alighting on a rooftop, where it discovers a woman swimming laps in a small pool. This final image, like that of Above and Below the Minhocão, seems to offer a sense of optimism about the future, a hopefulness that lingers long after the screen turns black.