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Alyssa Alikpala

KEY WORDS

work, feel, artist, practice, creating, grass, materials, residency, project, people, community, process, continue, life, relationship, space, talking, thinking, conversation, art

Alyssa Alikpala is an interdisciplinary artist, designer, and researcher working across sound, sculpture, fibre, installation, and ephemeral forms. Focusing on process and indeterminacy, the work explores the body’s interaction with, and traces left in, the environment. The role of permission is examined in blurring, permeating, and pushing against the boundaries of the body and the spaces it occupies.

Through a practice of gathering, she considers the embedded cycles and histories of the organic, found, and discarded materials used. Her ongoing interventions with wheatpasted grass and other plant matter respond to time, place, and conditions of the built and natural environment and ultimately accept their impermanence.

Alyssa is currently based in Toronto, Canada and has recently exhibited at Joys, Open Studio, Myta Sayo Gallery, Project 107, Gallery TPW (Toronto), and participated internationally in residence at La Napoule Art Foundation (France). Her work has been included in Images Festival, Scotiabank Contact Festival and publications such as Studio Magazine and Newest Magazine.

This conversation took place in January 2023.

It's funny because I'm still trying to think about how to speak through what I'm doing.

It's relieving to hear that from other people and from practicing artists. It seems like it's ongoing, especially with the type of work that you do.

Yeah.

We can start with how we met. You were designing Purple Nights, and I was so honoured to work with you on that project. I think it opened my mind and eyes to so many possibilities in how you saw the space; it totally transformed. I wondered how in the world did she see this in this empty warehouse? Then to get all these people working in concert with each other so graciously and supportively. And then your groundedness after, being so grateful to everyone working on the project, and you're focusing on the process. It spoke, I think, to my heart in this type of project because I don't think you see artists talking about work in that way, being so grateful to the process and all of the people along the way that make it possible for you to make the things you make. Do you want to talk about that process or where you were at, at that point?

So many things to say; first, thank you for sharing such kind words about that whole experience and working together. I can definitely say the same thing. It was such an honour to work with you. And it was great meeting you on that project and working with the team. And yeah, thinking back to that time, I remember how hectic it was, as these things are. At that time, it was one of the first major projects that I had worked on that was more event-based. In that role, I was doing creative direction, slash like, I don't know, this installation, build and all that. And at that time, I was still really new to all of it. At that time, I didn't even have an art practice. I sort of fell into doing installations. Right before that, I had worked on something for Eske Schiralli. He wanted to create an installation for his brand and asked me to work on it. That was the first thing I really ever did. And I don't know if we've ever talked about this, but I came from fashion design. I graduated from TMU (formerly Ryerson), and I worked in fashion for a couple years. I realized I was really unhappy with what I was doing and then shifted to find the right thing for me. I landed in film and was doing that for a bit. I was working in the art department, sometimes doing production design, but that's how it flowed into doing installation-based work. And when I was working in film, I also started working for an artist, Kal Mansur. That was the first time I had experience working in an artist's studio setting. And then Eske hit me up for that project, and Duane (Banded Purple) reached out to me after that and asked me to come on to Purple Nights. At the time, I felt like I wasn't even ready to take on something of that scale, and it really scared me. But it was something that was also super exciting. I think building a team to work with was such an important piece of that whole puzzle; having the right energy, the right people around, having that support and being able to support each other. Obviously, exhibiting work from other artists through that event as well. It was such a chaotic thing, but the way it came together, it definitely wouldn't have been what it was without that support. At that time, I was doing a lot of work on much larger scale builds and working with a lot of heavy materials and all that kind of stuff. With a lot of those projects I would have never been able do it all on my own. I've always had to ask for help. I feel really lucky to have been able to work with so many great people that, to this day, I'm really great friends with.

You know, you mentioned staying grounded through that whole process, and even after the event was over, it's just something that's always been really important to me, recognizing all the energy, whether it's my own or from other people that go into the process of creating something. Part of why I'm so interested in sharing a lot of that process is because I think, as practicing artists especially, or anyone creating work and bringing something into this world, we spend so much time and energy building up these ideas, and I feel like only such a small portion of that is really captured in the final output, in what the viewer or audience might be able to see. So I love being able to share more than that. Because I think the other let's say there's only 10% of, you know, whatever physical form that the thing might take that's seen, the 90% of it that went into making that thing happen is just as important, if not more important. Honouring that process and the energy and time we commit to our practices is just so important.

All of that makes so much sense. As you were sharing, the idea of impermanence came up and how everything is out of our hands. There's something in the work process that is impermanent because it's not captured in the final thing either. I'm picturing through that process how many moving parts there are that leave no trace on purpose, and that's making me think of the work you're making now. Does coming from the fashion industry shaped or highlighted your values and this focus on process, impermanence and collaboration?

“Like, ‘This doesn't feel right, but I have to do it, because it's a job.’ And then where that lives inside of us. I feel like these are conversations that we're having with ourselves all the time.”

– KT

Oh, 100%. A lot of the reason I decided to shift out of fashion was because I wasn't able to live the values that I have in an embodied way within a practice. You know what I mean? I feel like, just being in fashion, and there is obviously a great side of it all, too, but it felt for me like it wasn't an industry that really aligned with how I wanted create and bring work into the world. Yeah.

That's also reminding me again, in my conversation with Eske, about the pieces of yourself that you might have to compromise sometimes in work and what happens to our bodies when we have to say no to them. Like, "This doesn't feel right, but I have to do it, because it's a job." And then where that lives inside of us. I feel like these are conversations that we're having with ourselves all the time.

Yeah, it's interesting because I feel like coming from design and then slowly moving towards an art practice, it went from needing to solve a problem or create something for a purpose for a client or whatever to going towards a practice where I’m probably asking more questions than answering. And when you're making art, it becomes much more focused, at least for me, on the process and what I'm expressing. I'm always asking myself, what am I even doing? What’s the question I’m asking? You know what I mean? And obviously, in this realm of things, when I am creating freely through my practice, even if it's commissioned, it's still coming from that same intention. And in the past, I felt like I had to compromise too much on where the intention was coming from.

Yeah, that's really interesting to hear. Especially what you said about design and solving a problem. Design can exist in a really small box sometimes. A professor told us this week that if you don't know where you're going, that's a good sign. That's how you know you're growing and learning something or taking a risk. Because none of us know. And if you think you know, then it's like a false sense of certainty.

Yeah. Totally.

You said Purple Nights was really scary to take on. Have projects continued to feel scary? I'm trying to think of how long ago that was; I feel like I saw you make many things after that and with many different kinds of materials.

I want to say it was 2019 because it was a year of, like, project after project after project, and then COVID hit. So that's always been my marker. The pandemic is when I actually focused on an art practice. I was fortunate that it allowed me that time and space, you know? That was, in a way, that silver lining. Because all the projects kind of went away. I was like, I'm gonna focus on what I want, what I can do.

But yeah, working on Purple Nights was definitely scary for me. But then I thought, I just have to go for it. That experience definitely was a snowball effect through that year where projects were coming all the time. In a way, it really pushed me. I felt like even if I didn't know how to execute something at the time, or if I didn't have experience working with certain materials or a certain space or whatever other conditions, I felt the momentum of all the projects. I was like, just knock another out, knock another out. And then you realize oh, it's possible. It's always possible. There will be a way. It's just about how. And at the time, whenever a project came about, the question wasn't, can I do it? It was how can I do it? And so, in a way, it definitely helped my confidence a lot, being able to work on projects and feel I can actually do this. I should also, of course, mention that I was working closely with Sandro Petrillo. I brought him on for Purple Nights. We didn't even really know each other well before, but I was looking for someone to do lighting. We had met once or twice before, but I reached out, and he was super down to work on it. And that was also the start of such an amazing friendship. We basically became a team; we were a unit working on all these projects together. That was also a huge part of it. I wouldn't have been able to work on all of those things, accomplish all that I had, or learn as much as I did without someone there. Sandro was always down to make it happen. I definitely learned a lot from him and that helped so much. I’m really grateful for that.

To go back to what you were asking in terms of, does it still continue to feel scary taking on projects? Less so now. Even throughout that whole time, like that year, I just felt like anything was possible. And I continue to feel that way. Currently, the scale of what I'm working on is much smaller, using different materials, tools, and whatnot. But, what scares me more is not knowing where it's all going or not knowing what is ahead, but that makes it also really exciting. And I feel really grateful to be in that position where I'm feeling more and more confident in myself as a human, but also, you know, as an artist, and feeling more and more competent in the work that I'm producing.

I will say, before every show, there's only been a handful, but in this past year, I would always be freaked out. Throughout the whole time of installing, I'll go through a roller coaster of feeling good about what's going on and then go back down to "Oh my god. What am I doing? Is it gonna come together?" You know? There is definitely a lot that goes through my mind at those stages. I’m always going back and forth between the voices of self-confidence and self-doubt. There's a lot of uncertainty with what I'm making and when I'm working intuitively in a space. I basically don't have a concrete plan before going into installing a show. It just, it kind of happens. I might have a rough idea, but usually leave it pretty open. Especially since the materials, the conditions of the space, and the amount of time I have, both guide and constrain the work. That's definitely scary in many ways. But it's really exciting seeing how it somehow comes together and the power of being able to work more intuitively.

That's so cool. I'm having a million thoughts, but the first around that uncertainty. I think that's really important to note because it made me think about how vulnerability, like true vulnerability, is putting something out there and not knowing the outcome. So it's such a brave thing in that way to not only share but then share it publicly. And then, yeah, how rare it is, I think, and this has come up a lot with folks I've talked to in Toronto to find other artists who are down to make something that didn't exist before. Or who are just open to trying or supporting you. Even us having this conversation. I'm so extremely grateful for your openness. And then yeah, how that openness attracts other relationships in your work, like how Sandro was down to support you in your journey and work on whatever you wanted to work on. I find those sorts of relationships so special in the art community, and in the community, in general. There's this other side of art that is so competitive, and it's like, oh, you're reaching out to me, what can you do for me, though? And it's not about the process or the thing you're making together.

When you were talking about feeling like anything's possible, that's so hopeful. I'm wondering, do you continue to wrestle with the expectations you have of yourself? That question of this is possible, but how? Or maybe it's not possible, or here's the version in my head that's the most ideal and what I really want to do, maybe in the future, and then how do you have those conversations in yourself? What does that look like?

Oh my god, all the time. Yeah, I mean, definitely. Okay. First, I'll touch upon all those projects; I definitely compromised my personal well-being in a lot of ways and Sandro as well. When we were working on projects, there were times when we were not sleeping and overworking ourselves through days of just having to finish something in time. It makes me think of that whole saying, just because you can, doesn't mean you should. That's something I always have to wrestle with, saying that to myself and also feeling like anything is possible. It's finding that balance; it's important. There's also something to be said about the fluctuation and going as life is, you know. You're just going with the waves of moments of it being super hectic and then times where it's a bit more slow. I don't know if I'll ever truly find one pace of producing work even though, especially with my work now, there's a slowness to it. I try to embody that slowness through my practice, but there are definitely moments where it's still like, this exhibition is gonna open tomorrow; I need to make sure all the things are happening.

It's funny, I find myself getting sidetracked all the time by ideas and things that come into my mind or feeling inspired all the time about something I see. Even just yesterday, I was playing around with, this is so random, but I was playing around with rice paper used to make Vietnamese spring rolls and got so excited. But that's me all the time. And it's a bit much to always be like that. I'm always asking myself these questions, how do I find a better balance to it all? It's something that I'm continuing to ask myself and will keep asking myself. I go through the waves of it all. And it echoes the work that I'm producing now. Everything goes in cycles, kind of how nature does. And obviously, we are part of nature. So it kind of allows things to go with those cycles and waves, to not be stagnant.

Yeah, it's a blessing and a curse to be so curious all the time and to commit to focusing on certain projects and then being like, well, I'm interested in this too, but it's gonna have to wait. That willpower or knowing that can come later, and that's okay.

Yeah, I definitely struggle with that. But it's important. It's so important. I'm like, okay, I can do it. I don't need to do it now. But I can do it.

“Part of why I'm so interested in sharing a lot of that process is because I think, as practicing artists especially, or anyone creating work and bringing something into this world, we spend so much time and energy building up these ideas, and I feel like only such a small portion of that is really captured in the final output, in what the viewer or audience might be able to see. So I love being able to share more than that.”

– Alyssa Alikpala

Yeah, yeah. I really am hard on myself with that as well. And being like, I've been working so long on this thing, it needs to come out. But then if you take a pause, potentially, and learn about something else, maybe it could influence the work that you're doing in a different way. So sometimes those distractions are super productive because they help you look at your other work differently, but sometimes you have a deadline.

Yeah.

Was there something that forced you to learn that? Surrendering to the paces and production of work? That is something I hear a lot of people struggle with, including myself.

I wouldn't say there's one thing I can isolate that shifted everything. But as I started to focus more on myself and my growth, everything else started to fall into place. Not perfectly, but it just, you know. I hate to admit this, but I used to be somewhat of a people pleaser. I was so bad at saying no, or speaking up for myself. But before I even had an art practice, what came first was caring for myself and growing as a person. Now it's kind of one and the same in a way. It's hard to separate the two . The work I produce is such an extension of me. I think that goes for every artist. The learning that happens in my daily life and coping with anything naturally overflowed into my voice as an artist too. I think it really all started from grounding myself as a person and even digging into my shadows. Looking into the mirror and being confronted with myself like that – that really only happened maybe in the last five years or so. It’s kind of scary seeing past your own bullshit (can I say that?) but it feels like a necessary thing to really learn what’s important. Once I got down to what’s really underneath all the noise and stuff on the surface it started to become easier to sift through what I can or need to surrender to. I still struggle though and I’m still trying to make sense of all the noise, both internally and externally.

Yeah, that, um, that, so it's making me think. I can't say this in every interview; I will have to stop myself. Still, working on yourself is the same as learning a new practice in materials. It's just as important. It's so nice to hear this from you. You can feel that groundedness in the work you're doing. Technique and everything else has things to do with it, but the way it feels to people when they're around it, I think that work on yourself is what they feel. It's really hard, obviously, to be in alignment with yourself in this world. So good for you. And I know it's ongoing, it's not like you like to get to know yourself and then the work is done. It's almost harder, I feel like.

Oh my god. Yeah. First off, thank you. Thank you again; I feel very humbled and honoured by how you speak of my work. And so thank you for that. But yeah, as you said, the work is never done, right? There's so much that I'm learning about myself through what I'm making. And there are more and more questions all the time like, what am I doing, but also what does this mean for me as a person? What does it mean for me to be making this kind of work? I feel really lucky to be able to be grounded in that and to feel aligned with the work. It's never-ending; there are always more questions. But through the process of continuing to produce work and continuing to experiment, it just, it's the same. It's also the process of understanding who I am, what I'm trying to say, and what my voice is through the work I'm creating.

“But before I even had an art practice, what came first was caring for myself and growing as a person. Now it's kind of one and the same in a way. It's hard to separate the two. The work I produce is such an extension of me.”

– Alyssa Alikpala

I'm curious about your most recent residency in France and the evolution of your work in the last year, or where you've switched materials as well.

I guess it's been over a year now that I've really started to experiment with wheat paste. It has been a huge part of all of this. It comes and goes in waves, but definitely, over the past six to eight months, it's been a focus. As I was talking about before, basically when the pandemic hit, and all the projects disappeared, I wanted to continue to create in some way. I have always had a close relationship with nature, but definitely, during the height of the pandemic, when all you could really do was go on walks or spend time outside, I was doing that all the time. The work naturally emerged. I think it was a combination of being outdoors all the time and then having the urge to create. And so there was this question of how can I continue to create something without having to spend a lot of money or without needing to have a commissioned project? I just started to create little interventions while I was out on walks. In the beginning, I didn't even think it would become the focus of my practice. It was just something that I was doing. I really love how it all happened so naturally, though. And then, over the past year especially, I've honed in much more on the materials, like grass.

I keep asking myself why grass? What is it about grass? That's something that I'm continuing to explore and something that really excites me. It's such a broad area that I could cover; there's so much that I can dig into and do a lot of research on and also continue to explore. It's pretty much everywhere. Speaking of the residency, it's nice being able to travel and produce work in different places because, typically, if you think of a place, there is probably grass there.

When I was in France, during the residency, I did not do what I originally intended to do. During the application process, I had to propose a project that I would be working on, and the nice thing is they weren't strict about needing to follow what was proposed. In spending time there, I was taking in my environment and letting that inform the work. Again, it goes back to this whole idea of working really intuitively which comes from being in my body, in an environment, whatever that environment may be, and connecting with that space in a way that drives the work. There are ideas in philosophy and cognitive science, like the extended mind theory which proposes that our thinking extends beyond our physical brain and bodies into our environment and vice versa, or even embodied knowledge which recognizes a kind of knowing that lives in the body and is learned out of sensorial and physical experience. In other words, our bodies and environments are entangled and inform one another. This all plays a big part in what I've been leaning into; being in whatever environment I’m in and responding to what's there: responding to the time, the season, the nuances of a space, the weather, if it's outdoors – anything. I'm trying to dig into what that all means and also what does it mean to be working with grass or other plant material? Especially if I'm working in an indoor space. There are just so many things that I'm still grappling with. And the thing is, I know I don't need to have an answer. No one's really asking for the answer. But as my work evolves, I keep asking those questions.

To go back to how this process evolved, the materials and ideas I've been working with, and the processes I've been following, to be honest, it was something I just tried out, sort of on a whim, one day. I definitely didn’t expect it to grow into a body of work. I liked the idea of wheat paste since it’s made from natural, easily accessible materials, just flour and water. And I was already thinking about impermanence a lot. I thought well, why not wheat paste plant material to surfaces? And, yeah, the idea of wheat pasting in urban spaces, like on a brick wall or on concrete in an underpass, or whatever, it very much references the act of wheat pasting or postering (and yes graffiti, as many people make that association). I’ve always been attracted to the deteriorating layers of posters and even paint peeling off of buildings, embodying a trace and layering of time. But instead I’m using something that will fully decompose and return to the earth, like grass; it's been super exciting exploring this whole idea and seeing where it can and will evolve to. I’ve also been thinking a lot about boundaries – whether of the built environment like walls, or say the skin of my body. I’m interested in its potential blurriness and tension of positive or negative connotations depending on the context. These boundaries or surfaces could be keeping out and prohibiting or maybe they’re carrying and protecting. I think there’s a relationship with permission that comes into play too and who or what is granting that permission. Even thinking about working ephemerally, for example, there’s sort of a permission, or in this case openness and recognition, as to what the material or environment wants to do and allowing it to happen. It removes a layer of control. Also, the idea of that enmeshment between the body and environment I mentioned earlier suggests a blurriness of boundaries too. And thinking about that on a much larger scale, there’s the surface of the earth which holds everything on it. Specifically when considering the end of a life cycle for both organic and synthetic material, everything returns to the earth in one way or another. Everything breaks down, of course some things at a much slower rate than others, and once they deteriorate or decompose that boundary becomes obscured as the matter permeates and becomes part of the soil.

To bring it back to my residency again, I started experimenting with wheat paste and different plant materials, making more of a composite material out of it and moulding it into different shapes and just seeing how it would dry and hold up. I ended up casting pieces of my studio at my residency with a grass and wheatpaste composite. So I had these imprints of the environment by pushing up against the boundaries, the walls, of the space I don't even know where that work is gonna go, but its potential got me really excited. It's also interesting to see how those pieces deteriorate after they dry up; they start to shrivel up and become very imperfect. I'm interested in that side of it, these imperfect impressions of a space. What does that mean? And where will that kind of idea take me? Yeah.

Your work is very living and like a conversation. I think in art, there's so much focus on the perfect outcome or it being archived or controlled and, as we were talking about before, sort of going with the ebbs and flows of life and letting go of control, that's what a lot of your work feels like to me as you're describing it… being curious about what comes next. It's very unique, I think, in this space of people wanting to control how long art lives after these things that we really don't have control over.

Yeah, I think that's such a great point that you bring up because it goes back to what we were talking about earlier; how do you find the balance between the most ideal version of what you have in mind and what will become reality? What I've been creating has taught me a lot about having to let go of that need to control the outcome. I still struggle with it; there will always be this perfect image of what you want to do. But what happens sometimes is not that, and the outcome is sometimes completely different. But that’s become a really important part of the process, truly trusting the process. It sometimes takes me in completely different directions. And because I can't always really control what's going on, I have to allow it, the material, to have its own life and see what happens. It’ll show me what it can do or what I haven’t even thought was possible from it. In a way, it almost becomes a collaborative process of working with the material or the environment. I'm not the only one making this thing happen. Of course I’m the one setting up the conditions and making intentional decisions, but it's also a matter of how that material and environment responds or how it lives. That's been super, super exciting.

I feel like that's the most respect you could give your material or what you're working with, or who you're working with. It's a very human, life-centred relationship. It's even reminding me of being strength-based, allowing everything or everyone you're interacting with to be themselves and react to environments. And yeah, again, just not controlling or forcing anything or anyone to be something that we're not.

Yeah, no, 100%. My practice has definitely taught me a lot about that. And in a way, I think those are things that we always have wanted to live by, but also to be able to learn that from the work that I'm doing is really special, being able to grow and learn through what the work is teaching me.

“It's also the process of understanding who I am, what I'm trying to say, and what my voice is through the work I'm creating.” – Alyssa Alikpala

Yeah, there's an interconnectedness that is throughout. Everything is relevant to one another, which is so expansive. Back to what you said before, it makes sense that everything feels possible from that place. When I was thinking about this interview and your work, I was listening to an interview with this architect, Brad Cloepfil. He was talking a lot about space being a reference point, allowing us to see. You can't really see unless you take a position of some sort. We can come to rooms with our own positions and see from that place, but a really thoughtful piece of work or space offers you that position. When I think about your work, I can't help but compare it to that offering. It's going both ways; you're offering others a new position to see the space and the materials, but also, it's a conversation between you and your materials. And then how that evolves over time. It continues to give you new positions of seeing. Once you see differently in one space, you can't unsee it; you see everything differently.

100%. Yeah, which is a great problem to have.

Yeah. And what you were saying about your research changing in France, I feel like that is true research, not knowing what the outcome is going to be. You're trusting the process and yourself through that process, too.

I was just gonna say it's funny because even though I say I trust the process, I don't always trust the process. Sometimes I'm wondering, is it gonna happen? Like, is the thing that I want to do or what needs to happen gonna happen? And when I was at my residency, it wasn't until halfway through that I started to get into all of it. I think that also has a lot to do with being in a completely new environment and around new people and wanting to enjoy just being there. But it was overwhelming in the most incredible way. I'm in this beautiful place; it's by the water; the mountains are there; it was that feeling of being overwhelmed, maybe also given all that time and space to just focus on making art. It’s usually unheard of. It took a little bit of time to get into it. I almost felt like I wasn't going to be able to produce anything. But I think what did come of it, it goes back to just like that whole being in the environment and working intuitively. It all emerged from actually digging into it all once. I actually settled in and, yeah, trusted the process. That's something I have to remind myself about.

Totally. Yeah, I imagine the pressure might be there in those situations, too, because it's through another organization, and it's a residency to support your work… like that internal conversation of being enough or making the most of it.

That was basically what it was the whole time. It was all self-imposed pressure and expectations, like, I need to perform and produce something. I know all of the artists there in my cohort were grappling with that whole inner dialogue. We had to remind each other that just being there was enough. And whatever we produced would be enough, whether it was research, completed work, or whatever. It all matters. I guess the most important thing is just doing the work. And it'll all follow after that.

“Again, it goes back to this whole idea of working really intuitively which comes from being in my body, in an environment, whatever that environment may be, and connecting with that space in a way that drives the work.”

– Alyssa Alikpala

Yeah, it's amazing our internal dialogue, like the stress we can create for ourselves basically, can be so real.

Oh, my god. It's so funny. I have to remind myself about that, too. There are times where I'm like, oh, none of this even really matters. So just make what you feel like making , you know?

Yeah. So, who do you bring forward with you? In life and work?

I mean, obviously, my family is a huge part. That's such an obvious place to start with, but it's true. Even though we actually don't all live in the same place. I grew up in Vancouver, so my parents are over there. And then I have an older brother, and he and his wife and two children are in London. We're all over the place, but I'm always thinking about them even though we don't see each other often. And then all of my loved ones, friends, peers, my partner. Yeah, there's just, I guess, I could just go on about it. The general way to capture that is, community. Even though it's not something that I would say might come through the work, it's something that I think about a lot, and I am still trying to understand how my practice can embody that more. Because, obviously, art can't exist in a vacuum. We interact with it for it to mean something. As much as we create for ourselves, we also do it because it communicates with people who will engage with it.

With the work I'm making, I think a lot about accessibility in terms of being able to enjoy art without needing to have some whole "art speak" explanation about it. As much as I'm really interested in digging into more conceptual ideas, I think that's only one side of it. Another part of it is how can this work be engaged with and felt by as many people as possible? Sometimes when the work is over-intellectualized, I feel like it can take away from the experience and sometimes even alienate. Creating space to invite the viewer to engage with the work in their own way is definitely important to me. And of course lending from the slowness of the work, the more time you spend with it, the more it might reveal to you. I feel like that’s where the conversations open up. There’s a dialogue that emerges between myself, the work, and the audience. So I think about community a lot in that sense. Especially lately, I've been thinking about how to engage with the community, and communities that I'm a part of, whether it's other artists or creative people, marginalized folks that might look like me, maybe even the person that, like me 5-10 years ago, is still finding their voice. And I think there's a connection there that I would like to really make at some point because the work has to do with something relatable – impermanence, and the cycles of and with nature. Or even with something like the act of wheatpasting, I’m thinking about being in spaces that one might not belong in or feel welcomed in. Maybe there’s something about feeling seen in that work. Yeah, it's something that I'm trying to think a lot about, how to make more of that connection.

Another thing that I've been thinking a lot about lately is wanting to go back to the Philippines. I've been feeling called to go back there. I haven't been there in 20 years, and to be quite honest, growing up, I wasn't very immersed in Filipino culture, my parents didn't even really speak to me or my brother in Tagalog. It was part of our lives, but when I was a kid and a teenager I didn't care for it as much. As the story usually goes, being Asian Canadian, I was mostly just embarrassed or ashamed of that part of my identity and just wanted to fit in. But, as I get older, especially lately, I find myself wanting to learn more about my roots and where my family came from. So I’d love to spend time over there. It seems kind of almost too on the nose maybe as an artist and that tie to identity, but it didn't even really cross my mind until I started to make the connection with grass. You know, rice, being a species of grass, is a huge part of the Filipino diet and there are these incredible rice terraces in the Philippines I wanna visit., And I’m thinking about all these beautiful traditional crafts, working with ephemeral plant materials, weaving, or even making tools and household items that I had around me growing up. There's a Filipino broom; it's called a walis. I made a small one during my residency just because I had all of this grass and I had to sweep the floor in my studio. I made one completely intuitively. It was based on what I felt like I needed to do in order to make it and also drew upon faint memories of having them at home growing up. I've just been feeling this calling to go back to the Philippines and spend time there and make that connection with the work because I think it's coming out of me now in a way that I can't really contain. Even at my last show, there were two people that came by at some pointand had this really nice connection with the work. They were like, oh, you need to go to the Philippines. They both immigrated from there and it reminded them so much of home. It feels like there’s something there that I need to explore.

“I'm trying to dig into what that all means and also what does it mean to be working with grass or other plant material? Especially if I'm working in an indoor space. There are just so many things that I'm still grappling with. And the thing is, I know I don't need to have an answer. No one's really asking for the answer. But as my work evolves, I keep asking those questions.”

– Alyssa Alikpala

That sounds like it would have been such a deep moment through your work.

I had goosebumps when we were talking; when they came by and we were talking, I was like, woah.

That gives me so many mixed emotions. You've done so much work on yourself, and that's such a big part that lives in you, so obviously it would come out, even subconsciously, and that is so powerful. But then obviously, there's some sadness within that of how much everyone loses that, especially in North America through colonization, like, that's its purpose. The work that you're able to do on yourself, to reclaim that is just so powerful and connecting. That, to me, speaks a lot of community work, and this is the start or a signal of that being a way your work invites community.

The other thing that was coming up around the impermanence of your work was notes of loss. And that is a really complicated relationship. Whether it's the relationships with ourselves, others, or our culture, the hopefulness coming from there being a relationship that you can have with something after loss, that it doesn't have to end there, comes through your work as well. It is okay that work changes shape and maybe doesn't last forever, that there's something that comes after. I think that part of the narrative is often missing.

Yeah. This is kind of an aside, but I just remembered when I was at my residency, we had an open studio at the end of it where the local community was invited to attend. And there was someone that approached me after I presented what I had worked on. He asked, oh, have you ever thought about using this as a form of therapy, like art therapy? He was specifically talking about terminal illnesses and things like that. I was really moved by the conversation we had. It made me realize how impactful something like that could be. Again, there's something that we can all relate to, which is that cycle of life, the loss and the end of something, but maybe, trying to come to terms with that and accepting it. It's tough, though my work really revolves around that idea; it's still something that I struggle with. It's definitely something that I want to continue exploring and also to actually make that connection in the real world, not just through the art but by working more within a community, yeah.

Yeah, that reminds me that markers of true community are communities that celebrate together and grieve together. Both of those activities are markers of true relationships. I think there are pockets of mutual aid and activism in grassroots community work that model that really well, but yeah, it's hard. It's the ultimate letting go of control to be able to process those events. In my life, any time I've experienced deep grief, it's like, if anything in this life is going to teach you that you're not in control, it's those moments. And it doesn't matter how many times you go through it, it's just, yeah, just so real, I guess.

Yeah. It's such a reminder.

As you were sharing that story, I felt like learning experiences and conversations like those are where you get out of the residency something you had no expectation of. It's like, wow, I didn't expect anything like this. Surrendering to, whatever happens, happens.

Yeah. With the past few exhibitions it's been such a privilege to meet people coming and engaging with the work and having conversations with them. I could not have expected these conversations to emerge or for the feedback that comes through their experiences, being able to hear what they feel or, you know, just any of that stuff. That's definitely another point in terms of community; it's been so overwhelming in the most amazing way, seeing how people connect with the work. One of the most important things about being human is connection, right? Obviously I connect with the work in one way, but I don't want it to be a closed conversation between me and that work or the materials or the environment. I hope for it to be this open conversation. To feel that other people truly connect with it, too is another layer that really deepens that whole relationship with the practice. I just feel so grateful to be able to have that.

Yeah, that reminded me of the importance of relationships and that conversation. It's like, we can only know ourselves so well. And being in relationship with others shows you areas of growth. Like, if it's only you and your work, or only you and your voice, then you're just in this sort of self-validating bubble. You opening up your work offers that new perspective and growth, and it's almost a feedback sort of relationship, which is really cool.

Yeah, they all kind of inform each other, help each other grow in different ways.

And it's expansive and kind of endless in that way.

Yeah.

“With the work I'm making, I think a lot about accessibility in terms of being able to enjoy art without needing to have some whole "art speak" explanation about it. As much as I'm really interested in digging into more conceptual ideas, I think that's only one side of it. Another part of it is how can this work be engaged with and felt by as many people as possible?”

– Alyssa Alikpala

Yeah, that's really cool. This question is interesting to do with your work as well, because of the impermanence. What will you leave behind for archaeologists of the future?

Yeah, it's funny because right before we hopped on our call, I was thinking about that. I'm like, okay, this is interesting. I feel like something less physical because, obviously, the work I am currently doing is all around impermanence. I'll probably continue exploring that theme. Less on the physical side of things is more of just the ideas, the connections made. In a way, akin to the oral tradition of stories being passed down. There's this hope of the work carrying on with a conversation that grows bigger than what it is so that those conversations, those experiences will continue to ripple out. It might mean leaving no real trace of me or me making those things. To make art, it's bigger than me as an artist making the thing. It's about what the work will inevitably create conversations around and, again, connections within the community. I think that's how something can truly live on because maybe, in a way, everything is impermanent. Yeah. So maybe not for the archaeologists, but just for the community, for generations to come.

Yeah, yeah. No, it's funny because even looking at these questions now, too, for me, immediately after I said it out loud and was waiting for your answer was thinking I should sub out that word.

No, but I love that; I like the way that it's presented because it makes you think in a different way.

Yeah. I've had conversations about this idea of archiving, and being a researcher, or archaeologist, I see those roles as part of the community. I love your answer because it's like our ancestry and the energy that we share with each other, we're all doing the work, and we're all discovering what's been left behind in books as well as around us and through stories. You can see power in your everyday interactions of who's interacting with your work and what they walk away with, and then what you walk away with as well from that interaction. It's so interesting to think about. Yeah. So moving on, is there an area that you're dying to work in?

Honestly, it's such a tough question because I struggle with it every day. Something that makes me really sad about life, this sounds so strange, is knowing that I won't be able to do all the things I want to do. Again part of that whole needing to let go and accept, but in the time that I have here, what can I do? And focusing on that, I want to push what I'm currently doing even more so because there's so much potential for it to grow into so many things. Especially because I haven't really seen other people really doing this stuff with wheat paste. I think there's a lot of potential there, which is very exciting.

I always feel this urge to kind of go back to, not necessarily fashion design per se, but more so with textiles. I've always been really interested in textiles and would be interested in diverting my work a little bit that way. I think it naturally will, and already am in a way since I work with plant fibres And as I mentioned before, going to the Philippines, I would love to learn some techniques while there, whether it's with weaving or other craft work and see what other possibilities might come out of it.

Even in terms of collaboration, it would be amazing to spend time in a community in the Philippines that I can learn from and collaborate with in that way. It makes me really excited to be able to explore that.

Yeah. And I'm just gonna add, there are a lot of other things that I would love to be able to explore in terms of processes and materials. I dream up new ideas everyday, but for the sake of this conversation I’ll leave it at that.

“To make art, it's bigger than me as an artist making the thing. It's about what the work will inevitably create conversations around and, again, connections within the community. I think that's how something can truly live on because maybe, in a way, everything is impermanent.”

– Alyssa Alikpala

Yeah, your answers exemplify the processes that we were talking about earlier, letting what happens, happen. And knowing that maybe it might not happen now, but when it does, it'll be natural and in the right time. I can already tell from the way you're talking about it. I'm like, oh, yeah, Alyssa's gonna be in the Philippines. I just, yeah, I have no doubt.

I hope so. I mean, I'll have to make it happen.

Yeah, you will, like your question. It's like, it's not, can you? It's…

-how will I?

Yeah. You totally will make it happen. Lastly, is there any, like, song, movie, book, or like, anything that's, like, captivating you right now, an escape, quote even?

There are always too many things but I’ll share this one quote that comes to mind. It was this accidental phrase that my partner said quite recently, like, two or three weeks ago. We were climbing at a bouldering gym. He's an avid climber, and I really enjoy it, but I'm still working my way up. But he said something after I climbed a route. I was doing it so slowly, but I ended up getting it. I think he meant to say like, "little by little," but he accidentally said, "slowly by slowly." And since then, it always keeps coming up. And I'm like, I love that so much. Like, "slowly by slowly." It's just such a funny, accidental phrase that is not something someone would normally say. That's also what I'm trying to do with my work and with, you know, just again, with caring for self and all that kind of stuff. Something that I often need to remind myself of is that progress or growth or just moving, in general, can be slow; that's never a bad thing. It's something that I always am humbled by when I'm climbing because sometimes it takes me so long because I'm slowly working my way up. I laugh to myself now every time because I think, "slowly by slowly," like that's such a beautiful reminder. So yeah, that's been sitting with me for the past little bit.

I love that. That sounds so aligned with everything we've talked about.

Yeah, totally.

I've never climbed, but I was with some friends this weekend who were talking about it. It sounds like one of those things that does truly ground you because it's unnatural, like, I'm not climbing ever. It's not like running, where like, okay, yeah, I do something like this every day, it's fine. But climbing is a different story...

Yeah, it's very humbling. There are a lot of humbling moments. I'll just add that I've been thinking a lot about performance lately with my practice and want to explore that. And when you're at a bouldering gym, there's this performance aspect of it. When you're up on the wall, everyone that's around is watching you. For me, that's a big part of what I hate about it. It makes it even more intimidating. Especially if it's a really tough climb, you're struggling, and then you fall, and it's just this whole thing. It really humbles you in that way. And obviously no one cares, everyone’s there to climb and have fun. But there's something so interesting about that performance aspect of it. I have always hated the idea of getting up in front of people or sometimes even just talking to people. I get nervous or anxious whenever I have to be in front of people; it's kind of scary. How that ties to what I'm talking about, I don't know. I guess that thought about performance also made me think about your previous question of an area that I've been wanting to get into, though I'm not sure how that may take shape yet. But I think, in a way, a lot of the work that I'm doing, there's already an aspect of it that is performance related.

I think that ties into that idea that you can take learnings from absolutely everywhere in your life, and it all is related, which is cool. Yeah, again, that curiosity you have.

Yeah, it's like a big web.

Yeah. I think that's a beautiful place to land.

“Something that I often need to remind myself of is that progress or growth or just moving, in general, can be slow; that's never a bad thing.” 

– Alyssa Alikpala

ALYSSA ALIKPALA

Alyssa Alikpala is an interdisciplinary artist, designer, and researcher working across sound, sculpture, fibre, installation, and ephemeral forms. Focusing on process and indeterminacy, the work explores the body’s interaction with, and traces left in, the environment. The role of permission is examined in blurring, permeating, and pushing against the boundaries of the body and the spaces it occupies.

Through a practice of gathering, she considers the embedded cycles and histories of the organic, found, and discarded materials used. Her ongoing interventions with wheatpasted grass and other plant matter respond to time, place, and conditions of the built and natural environment and ultimately accept their impermanence.

Alyssa is currently based in Toronto, Canada and has recently exhibited at Joys, Open Studio, Myta Sayo Gallery, Project 107, Gallery TPW (Toronto), and participated internationally in residence at La Napoule Art Foundation (France). Her work has been included in Images Festival, Scotiabank Contact Festival and publications such as Studio Magazine and Newest Magazine.