Q: What Happened Then (2020-2022)?

This Happened Too.

Five individuals helped prepare this virtual exhibition:

Catherine Parayre and Sonya Marie de Lazzer, curators

Ka Wai Lu, Ruilin Zhang, and Yuchen Han, assistants

Below are their answers to Q: What Happened Then?

Sonya Marie de Lazzer

I sank heavily into my chair, in the board room of Willowbank, Canada’s Premier Heritage Conversation School, located in quiet Queenston, Ontario, on a Thursday night, after rushing home from work, rushing dinner, and driving back out to the parkway. I was hosting my yoga book club there, and we were able to use the space to meet and chat about books my club was reading, each month.

Our evening carried on, the group was made up of mostly friends, and a handful of other women from the community that regularly attend my yoga classes. I recall sitting there, in that room – only a few of us showed up that night – but it was okay. I was so tired. I kept zoning in and out of conversation, feeling a bit guilty because, after all, I was the host, and was supposed to be moderating and guiding conversation – somewhat enthusiastically. I was so tired.

The next day, finally Friday, I had a full agenda. A full day of work, an exhibition to finish installing, exhibition text to write, and complementing programming to finalize, lock into the museum and gallery’s calendar, and prepare e-communications for – on top, my annual performance review was scheduled for that same afternoon. Ploughing through the work, it all wrapped up nicely by 3:30 pm, just in time for my annual review. I walked up the stairs to the director’s office, sunk into a cozy chair, and the hour passed. My reviews were always okay, and they always ended up turning into conversations on exhibitions we have seen, family stuff, and of course, a little bit of work gossip – it’s nice to have positive and friendly rapports with those that you work with. After the meeting, we both walked out of the office, the director to go downstairs to make herself a tea, and myself, down to my office, to wrap up any loose ends of the day. I got to my desk and the administrator poked her head in the door

‘There were three calls for you, while you were upstairs, Sonya – here are their numbers, they’d all like a call back before the end of the day, if you can.’

No problem. Calls with our members and artists who lead programming are always pleasant, and usually consist of confirming that workshop registrants know what they need to bring, or someone needs help renewing a membership.

I got straight to returning calls – but not before noticing some voicemails on my machine.

I dialed to listen…one, two, three…four calls.

They were all about tomorrow’s workshop – a jewelry workshop we had planned for Saturday morning, with Indigenous designer April Mitchell-Boudreau.

All of the messages began similarly, “Hi Sonya, I don’t think I am able to join tomorrow morning… Hi Sonya, I’m unable to attend tomorrow morning…, if you don’t mind taking my name off the list, so sorry.” and on and on.

The phone rang suddenly, startling me – I picked it up:
“RiverBrink Art Museum, Sonya speaking, how can I help you!”

Hi Sonya, it’s Heather.
Heather was sponsoring the workshop.
“Did you hear?”
Hear what?

The first case of COVID 19 at the St Catharines General Hospital was just announced on the news – it’s… here.

I felt a lump in my throat. I feel it even as I revisit this memory.

Oh, I didn’t – just now? They announced that just now? I have been away from my computer, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize… or hear...”

I felt the rasping, tightening hands of panic grip my throat. I felt my collarbone restrict, my breath – held.

The rest of our conversation quickly ironed out details on pausing and rescheduling the workshop.

I returned all the calls – they were all the same message:

We are afraid – we think we will just stay home – we think it’s best to not join – we are a little nervous about being together in a group – we just heard on the news… the first case of COVID 19 was just announced, in the region.

I called everyone. We postponed. I sent out an email to those I couldn’t reach by phone.
“We’ll be in touch shortly with a new date! Please watch your inboxes!”

I went home that night, and the rest of the evening unfolded. Talking with family, about this new news.

My uncle called – he calls us almost everyday – unless he is travelling. He had just gotten home, early, from a business trip, the week before.
He is a landscape architect, who runs a Toronto-based firm that designs theme parks all over the world.
He was just home, from Wuhan, China, where they were designing their latest theme park.

They sent the creative team home because things were bad and because it was suggested to return home from any travel.
He was only home a few days earlier than expected but we all collectively agreed, over the phone call, on speaker, that it was a good idea, and home was a good place to be.

I remember going to bed that night. I was so tired; physically, mentally, emotionally.
I remember feeling weepy because as another week wrapped up, I felt that I barely made it through. And I felt overwhelmed.
My full-time gallery work was busy, teaching was busy, crossing the border a few times a week, after work, to teach art history lectures, was busy, finishing writing my dissertation for my PhD was busy. I teach yoga on the side, as a side gig – but mostly because I love it, and also because it’s as good for my own physical and mental health, as it is to my yoga students, across some of the studios I teach at. But I was busy. Too busy.
I remember thinking to myself, as I floated into sleep - - I’m so tired. How can I keep up with this pace again, next week.

My eyes welled up as I closed them. And I fell asleep that night, only to wake up to a new world.

It was Saturday and the museum decided to close to the public – just for two weeks or so, until things settled. Yoga studios began closing, one at a time.
The university I teach at across the border, sent out an email, to say that they would be extending spring break for one extra week, for “social distancing.”

Social distancing, I said to myself, as I read the email – what is that?

Everything began to change.
I still had to go to the museum, to check on and maintain the environmentals. An art collection is a living and breathing thing – it needs care. It cannot be left alone.
We were also in the middle of installing an entire new show, a traveling show, on loan to us, called Illuminations. The exhibition featured contemporary silver candleholders created by fifteen renowned Canadian metalsmiths. Each unique work reflected an aspect of women’s historic contributions to the arts in Canada. I recall many days, across the spring of 2020, alone in that quiet museum, holding silver art objects, carefully with white gloves, starring at objects that revealed my own reflection back to me.

After some of the dust settling, over these last few years, I recognize that it is across these specific moments and memories that I noticed my breath change. These moments and memories when everything changed.
Change caused by fear, worry, wonder, strangeness, uncertainty.

When I was little, my Dad died young, from cancer. This kind of childhood experience changes the way a young mind and brain thinks and processes trauma, or danger.

A global pandemic is strong enough to break the veil, and armour you learn how to use, to stay grounded. A global pandemic brought back a lot of those really visceral feelings.
Since being nine years old, I have worried, perpetually, about the health of my loved ones. A lingering effect of loss, at such a young age.
A global pandemic made that feel really heavy on some days. Despite being geographically and emotionally close to my immediate family, my wonderful Mom, my caring brother, in the same neighbourhood, and having the privilege of a safe, loving household, with my husband, an architect who makes questionable decisions on when to begin major renovations to our old but well-loved family farmhouse during lockdowns and pandemics,  and a handful of playful cats, whom, like a well-coordinated orchestra, produced symphonies of wretching and hairballing – right on cue, during important meetings and calls – my days were tinged with a healthy dose of fear and anxiety. I missed my friends but we learned how to stay connected, all the while reacquainting ourselves with home.

Human loss, became a story told through numbers, and not names, across the media, and what felt like everywhere, and it was a constant if not daily reminder of the fragility, brittleness, the vulnerability, the breakability, delicateness, and the tenderness of life.
I decided the best way to help myself, and perhaps, offer some kind of service, outward, to others, was to teach yoga online, for free. And so, I did that, 4 times a week, for an entire year.
In doing so, I reclaimed my breath, unclenched and softened the pockets of resistance and tightness of life, and learned how to move and breathe, apart, but together, with others – those I knew, and those I did not know. Each day, each class, reciting the words that somehow became prayerful, observances, devotions of breath;

inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale

These recitations, prayers, reminders, bodily cues, performances; constant reminders for myself, to connect and return me back to my own body, self, and space; to downshift my very own nervous system; the system that helps keep me alive, aware, responsive – grounded, and here.