Guarded Silence: A Tale of Civic Spaces and Unseen Barriers" In the heart of downtown Edmonton, City Hall stood as a symbol of civic engagement—a place where democracy was meant to be practiced, not policed. Its glass façade reflected the ideals of transparency, but inside, a different reality simmered. Security guards, contracted through private firms, patrolled the building with a quiet authority. Unlike the armed Sheriffs stationed at the Alberta Legislature or the trained officers of the Legislative Assembly Security Service (LASS), these guards were unarmed and often undertrained. Their mandate was simple: observe and report. Yet their presence had grown increasingly assertive, especially toward those who came to exercise their rights—journalists, activists, and everyday citizens.
Reports began to surface of individuals being harassed while attempting to practice free press within the building. Cameras were questioned. Voices were silenced. The guards, lacking the legal authority of Peace Officers or Edmonton Police Service (EPS), nonetheless acted as gatekeepers of public discourse. The contrast was stark. Just 10 blocks away, the Alberta Legislature had fortified its security in response to past tragedies, including a suicide and a national shooting scare. There, Sheriffs carried firearms and were trained to respond to threats with precision and professionalism. City Hall, by comparison, felt exposed—not just physically, but ideologically. Citizens began to ask: Why were the halls of municipal democracy guarded by those with no power to protect, yet every power to intimidate? Why were public spaces—meant for dialogue and dissent—staffed by individuals who could neither intervene in danger nor respect the rights of those they watched? The questions echoed through council chambers and community forums. Some called for reform, demanding that Peace Officers replace private guards. Others urged transparency in security contracts and accountability for misconduct. The building remained quiet, but the city was beginning to stir. In the shadow of the glass tower, the struggle for free expression continued—not with megaphones or marches, but with quiet resistance and the unwavering belief that public space should belong to the public. AI. Birds of a Feather project on X
🍁US: Art Show & Tell, of a Point of Order, add a little ice cream, my just reward. A young woman, lingering with a tattooed crowd in downtown Edmonton near the library, complimented my artwork. After finishing my rapidly melting ice cream in the 24°C heat, I walked over to her gang to show the backside, titled Disorder. Suddenly, a young man lunged at me. "Get the f*** away from here!" he snapped. Before I could react, the group's matriarch—Mama Tattoo—spoke up. "I like your painting," she said, her voice steady. The young man’s demeanor shifted. He looked at the artwork again, his expression softening. "That's an amazing piece of art," he admitted.
The Selfish Pursuit of Artistic Truth
🎨Selfishness often gets a bad rap. It’s branded as greedy, thoughtless, a trait best left on the villain’s shelf. But peel away the stigma, and you’ll find that in art, selfishness can be revolutionary—especially when it’s paired with vision, vulnerability, and integrity. Take the Group of Seven: A.Y. Jackson and Lawren Harris didn’t have their fame handed to them, even though Harris had wealth from the Massey-Harris fortune. They worked hard, committed deeply, and “selfishly” pursued an unshakable idea—that Canadian landscapes deserved their own voice in art.
🎨By rejecting European traditions, they carved out space for a uniquely Canadian aesthetic. Their boundaries weren’t barriers—they were a declaration: We paint what we believe. Contrast that with the Indian Group of Seven (Professional Native Indian Artists Inc.). These artists—Norval Morrisseau, Daphne Odjig, Alex Janvier, and others—had no silver platter, no institutional warmth. What they had was fierce resolve. Their “selfishness” wasn’t about ego—it was survival. They refused to be typecast as cultural artifacts and instead demanded recognition as contemporary creators. They built their own galleries, funded their own shows, and shaped a legacy that fought erasure with artistic defiance.
🎨And then there’s Jack Bush. Trapped in the commercial art world for decades, he suffered anxiety and depression. He longed for a life of emotional honesty—one where color, not corporate briefs, spoke for him. Inspired by the Group of Seven and later mentored by Clement Greenberg, Bush “selfishly” chose abstraction, ditching safety for soul. His art didn’t chase trends—it chased feeling. And in doing so, it soared internationally.
🎨Mindful selfishness, the kind that: Defies conformity to pursue personal truth. Sets boundaries that guard mental, emotional, and cultural health. Turns pain into inspiration. Gives others permission to be unapologetically themselves. Yes, privilege played a role. Yes, systemic barriers shaped outcomes. But at the core, each story is a testament to how “selfish” choices—when made with integrity—can spark transformation in not just the artist, but the world they paint...
Birds of a Feather is my personal tribute—painted in public, shaped by community, and rooted in remembrance. As the 13th chapter in my social art journey, it honors Virgil Abloh and Dennis Edney, two men whose lives challenged systems and inspired movements grounded in faith, democracy, and nature.
Virgil Abloh was born in Rockford, Illinois, to Ghanaian immigrant parents. His mother, a seamstress, taught him how to sew, and his father ran a paint company. Virgil’s early life was steeped in creativity and discipline. He earned degrees in civil engineering and architecture, but it was his vision for blending streetwear with luxury fashion that made him a global icon. As the founder of Off-White and the first African-American artistic director at Louis Vuitton, Virgil redefined what fashion could be—bold, inclusive, and deeply personal. He passed away in 2021 at the age of 41, leaving behind a legacy that continues to inspire artists and dreamers around the world.
Dennis Edney, born in Dundee, Scotland, came to Canada with grit and a deep sense of justice. Before becoming a lawyer, he worked as a truck driver, carpenter, and even a professional soccer player. He earned his law degree later in life and built a career in Edmonton as a defence lawyer known for taking on the toughest cases. Dennis became internationally recognized for his tireless advocacy for Omar Khadr, a Canadian detained at Guantanamo Bay as a teenager. He stood firm in the face of political pressure, championing human rights and the rule of law with unwavering courage. Dennis passed away in 2023, and his legacy lives on in the lives he touched and the justice he pursued.