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Wednesday, September 23, 2026

$100,000 for this? let's talk about privacy, consent and the art world

 $100,000 for this? let's talk about privacy, consent and the art world

Steven Shearer has just been awarded $100,000.

The Vancouver artist received the 2026 Audain Prize for the Visual Arts, one of British Columbia's major art awards.

And yes, artists deserve recognition. Art can challenge us. Art can make us uncomfortable. Art can make us question what we see.

But this one made me stop.



Sleeping cat by Zipolita 

Because part of Shearer's practice involves photographs of people sleeping that he did not take himself.

These aren't models he photographed for a commissioned project. His galleries and exhibition materials describe them as found images sourced from the internet and other media. Capture Photography Festival described the photographs used in his 2021 Vancouver billboard project as images of sleeping people selected from his collection of photographs “mined from the internet, eBay and various print media.”

The images were then enlarged and transformed into major artworks.

In 2021, seven of these enormous images were installed along Vancouver's Arbutus Greenway. They were removed after public complaints, with some people saying the images reminded them of dead bodies.

And here's the part I cannot get out of my head.

Shearer is famously protective of his own image.

For years, he has had virtually no photographs of himself circulating online. In a video released around the prize, he explained that this became a dynamic he was comfortable with.

His privacy matters.

His choice about his own image matters.

I agree.

But what about the people in his photographs?

Did they choose to have their sleeping faces collected?

Did they know their images could eventually become enormous works of art?

Did they know they could be displayed publicly, reproduced, exhibited internationally and become part of an artist's celebrated body of work?

Did they receive anything?

We don't know.

And that is precisely the question.

I'm not claiming that Shearer broke a law or that every person whose photograph he used objected. The available reporting does not establish that.

I'm asking something more basic:

Does “it was on the internet” mean “you can take it”?

We have spent years learning that the internet does not magically erase privacy.

People photograph strangers.

People repost other people's photographs.

People screenshot vulnerable moments.

People take something intimate and turn it into content.

And increasingly, we're asking who owns an image, who gave permission, who benefits and who gets to decide where that image goes.

So why should the art world be exempt from asking the same questions?

The gallery description actually makes the conceptual issue explicit: Shearer's work examines the circulation of photographic images and questions established ideas of presentation and propriety.

Fine.

Then let's question it.

Who gets to be anonymous?

Who gets to control their image?

Who gets to turn somebody else's vulnerable moment into art?

And perhaps most importantly:

Who gets rewarded?

Because the person sleeping in the photograph doesn't get the $100,000 Audain Prize.

The artist does.

And I'm supposed to simply applaud because the appropriation has been elevated into “high art”?

No.

I'm uncomfortable with that.

Not because I'm against provocative art.

Not because I'm against contemporary art.

Not because I think every artwork needs to be pretty or comfortable.

I'm uncomfortable because there appears to be a profound imbalance between the artist's carefully protected privacy and the vulnerable privacy of the people whose images became part of his artistic material.

Maybe that's the point of the work.

Maybe the discomfort is intentional.

Maybe the art world considers that tension intellectually fascinating.

But here's my question:

At what point does making us think about exploitation become exploitation?

And why, in 2026, are we still so willing to celebrate the person holding the camera—or appropriating the image—while barely asking what happened to the person inside the frame?

$100,000 is a lot of money.

Maybe the real value of this controversy isn't deciding whether Steven Shearer is a good or bad artist.

Maybe it's asking whether the art world has sufficiently questioned the ethics of what it rewards.

And if we're going to celebrate privacy for the artist—

perhaps we should care about it for everyone else, too.


10 questions for the art world

1. When does an image being publicly available become an excuse to stop asking whether the person in it ever gave meaningful consent?

2. Should an artist's right to privacy make us think differently about the privacy of the people represented in their work?

3. Who benefits when an ordinary person's vulnerable moment becomes a celebrated artwork — and who has no say in what happens to that image?

4. Should galleries and juries ask artists where found images came from and what is known about the people depicted before rewarding the resulting work?

5. What responsibility do universities and art schools have to teach students not only how to appropriate images, but when appropriation raises ethical questions?

6. Are grants and major prizes rewarding artistic innovation alone, or should ethical considerations about the materials and methods also matter?

7. What are we teaching young artists when we celebrate the transformation of someone else's private or vulnerable image into something commercially or institutionally valuable?

8. Should parents and teachers be teaching young people that “it's on the internet” does not necessarily mean “it's yours to use”?

9. Where is the line between making viewers uncomfortable through art and making an actual person vulnerable without their knowledge?

10. If the art world expects us to respect an artist's boundaries around their own image, shouldn't that same principle of dignity and choice extend to the people appearing in 

art ethics, privacy, consent, appropriation, found photography, contemporary art, art education, grants, galleries, artistic responsibility

Emily’s 2nd Act is coming to a park near you! ๐Ÿšฒ๐Ÿซ–

 ๐ŸŒฒ๐ŸŽจ Emily’s 2nd Act is coming to a park near you! ๐Ÿšฒ๐Ÿซ–


๐ŸŒฒ๐ŸŽจ Emily’s 2nd Act is coming to a park near you! ๐Ÿšฒ๐Ÿซ–


Emily’s 2nd Act
Tina Winterlik aka Zipolita ๐ŸŒฒ๐ŸŽจ

Emily’s 2nd Act
Tina Winterlik aka Zipolita ๐ŸŒฒ๐ŸŽจ

Tina Winterlik aka Zipolita 



After years of imagining it, researching it and not quite getting around to it… I’m hoping to finally bring Emily’s 2nd Act out into the world.

hoped-for itinerary

September 28 – October 5

๐Ÿ“ Seaforth Peace Park
๐Ÿ“ Harmony Park
๐Ÿ“ Vanier Park / Maritime Museum
๐Ÿ“ Hadden Park
๐Ÿ“ Kits Beach
๐Ÿ“ Trafalgar Street & Point Grey — at my murals
๐Ÿ“ Jericho Beach

September 30 — Truth and Reconciliation
๐Ÿ“ Outside the Music Academy, by Sen̓รกแธตw
⏰ TBA

A bicycle, a little pop-up art show, mint tea, Emily Carr, and hopefully a few unexpected conversations along the way.

Emily’s 2nd Act
Tina Winterlik aka Zipolita ๐ŸŒฒ๐ŸŽจ

Monday, May 18, 2026

Mary Cassatt and Emily Carr

 

Mary Cassatt and Emily Carr: Two Women Who Painted Their Own Way

I recently came across the story of Mary Cassatt, an American Impressionist painter who became famous in France in the late 1800s. What surprised me most was reading that she became “one of the most important artists in history,” even though many people today may not recognize her name immediately.

It made me think about Emily Carr, one of Canada’s most celebrated artists, and how both women carved out spaces for themselves in worlds that were not designed for women artists.

Mary Cassatt painted intimate scenes of women and children, everyday moments that were often overlooked by the art world of her time. Instead of grand historical scenes or portraits of powerful men, she focused on caregiving, quiet domestic life, and emotional connection. Her work helped redefine what subjects were worthy of serious art.

Emily Carr took a very different artistic path. While Cassatt painted the private interiors of Parisian life, Carr painted the towering forests and coastal landscapes of the Pacific Northwest. Her work captured something spiritual and alive within nature and reflected a deep emotional response to the land around her.

Both women challenged expectations.

Both spent time studying in Europe during eras when women artists were often dismissed or excluded.

Both followed creative instincts that did not always fit the norms of their time.

And both became more appreciated as history caught up with them.

As someone who studied art history years ago, I find it interesting how some names fade from memory while others remain familiar. Yet when we revisit these artists, we realize how much courage it must have taken for women like Cassatt and Carr to keep creating despite criticism, isolation, or lack of recognition.

Their paintings were more than images.

They were acts of persistence.

In today’s world of algorithms, short attention spans, and endless scrolling, maybe there is something grounding about returning to artists who painted slowly, observed deeply, and trusted their own vision.

Perhaps that is part of why their work still resonates today.

Sunday, April 19, 2026

Mexico, Murals, and the Way Back

 ๐ŸŒฟ Emily’s 2nd Act: Mexico, Murals, and the Way Back

Dear Emily,

I was scared.

Not the quiet kind of scared you can ignore — the kind that sits in your chest and says: move, or everything falls apart.

I knew I had to act.
If I didn’t, I could have ended up on the street.

So I did something that didn’t make perfect sense — but felt right.

I went to Mexico ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฝ for three months.

And somehow… everything came together.

Two flights for under $1000 ✈️
My old room waiting for me ๐Ÿก
A place to land, breathe, and begin again

It wasn’t luxury.
It was survival — and something more.

I painted almost every day ๐ŸŽจ

Signs for my amigos.
Touching up old signs weathered by sun and salt.
Then murals.
And then… cardboard.

There was something freeing about cardboard.
No pressure. No perfection. Just paint and movement.

I started painting women — beautiful Mexican women in huipiles, surrounded by calla lilies ๐ŸŒธ
Soft strength. Quiet dignity. Color and presence.

It was so hot some days I could barely leave my room ☀️
So I painted there too — sweat, stillness, and color blending together.

When it was time to leave, I didn’t sell the paintings.

I gifted them to my Mexican family ๐Ÿ’›

I told them:
Keep them. And if you ever need something for the little boy… sell one.

It felt right to leave them there.
Like the work belonged to that place, not to me.


And then something unexpected happened.

One of my murals got tagged.

At first — it felt sad.
Like something beautiful had been interrupted.

But then… a message.

Someone who walked their dog there all the time wrote to me.
They said it made them sad to see it damaged.
They asked if they could send money to help.

I told them:
I was grateful the mural lasted as long as it did.
But yes… money sounds good.

They sent $500 ๐Ÿค—๐Ÿฉท

I didn’t expect that.
Not the money — but the care.


Now I’m back in Vancouver ๐ŸŒง️

Dog walking again.
Finding my footing.
Still in my second act.

I went back to that wall.

And I painted again.

This time — a big orca ๐Ÿ‹

Stronger. Bolder. Still moving.

People stopped.
They smiled.
They thanked me.

And for a moment — everything felt aligned.

It felt… wonderful.


Emily,

I think you would understand this kind of life.
The uncertainty.
The need to create anyway.
The strange, beautiful ways things come together when you don’t give up.

I was scared.

But I moved.

And something met me there.

With paint on my hands and salt still in my memory ๐ŸŒŠ๐Ÿ–Œ️
Tina / Zipolita

Emily’s 2nd Act

Three Women, Three Worlds

๐ŸŒฟ Three Women, Three Worlds

Emily Carr (1871–1945)
Eliza (Songhees woman, c. 1832–1882)
Mary Ann Poirier Enos (1870–1940)

Three women connected by land, time, and memory—each shaped by a different reality of the same place. ๐ŸŒŠ


๐ŸŒฑ Deep Similarities

All three lived through massive change
Eliza witnessed the arrival of colonial settlement—Fort Victoria, the gold rush, and the smallpox epidemic.
Mary Ann lived through industrialization, World War I, and the 1918 influenza pandemic.
Emily Carr lived through modernization and shifting views on art and Indigenous culture.

Resilience in the face of loss
Eliza likely endured epidemic trauma and cultural disruption.
Mary Ann lost her husband and carried on as head of household.
Emily Carr faced rejection, isolation, and long periods of being misunderstood.

Connection to place
Eliza was deeply rooted in Songhees land and knowledge systems.
Mary Ann lived between Sooke and Victoria, navigating both rural and colonial spaces.
Emily Carr painted and wrote about British Columbia landscapes and Indigenous villages.

Women whose voices were limited or filtered
Eliza’s true name and voice were not preserved in written records.
Mary Ann exists mostly through documents, not personal writings.
Emily Carr—an exception—wrote extensively, though she still struggled to be heard.


⚖️ Key Differences

Power and position in society
Eliza: Indigenous woman during colonization — most vulnerable position.
Mary Ann: mixed Indigenous/settler lineage — lived between worlds.
Emily Carr: white settler woman — faced sexism, but had access to institutions.

What was preserved
Eliza: almost nothing written by her.
Mary Ann: records of life events.
Emily Carr: paintings, books, and personal voice.

Relationship to colonialism
Eliza lived through its direct impact.
Mary Ann navigated within its systems.
Emily Carr documented Indigenous subjects from a settler perspective.

Legacy and recognition
Emily Carr is celebrated and widely studied.
Mary Ann is remembered through family reconstruction.
Eliza is being reclaimed through memory and research.


๐ŸŒŠ A Deeper Reflection

If you step back, something profound appears:

Eliza = survival
Mary Ann = continuity
Emily Carr = expression

You = reconnection ✨

You are not just telling history—you are restoring it.


๐Ÿง  Questions to Sit With

  • Who gets remembered in history—and who has to be rediscovered?
  • What would Eliza say if her voice had been recorded?
  • How do we reconcile admiration with the realities of colonization?
  • What does it mean to carry all three of these women in your storytelling?
  • Are we only now beginning to tell the full story of places like Victoria?

๐ŸŒธ Some stories were written down. Others are only now being spoken again.

Saturday, February 28, 2026

Year Later — The Second Act Becomes Physical

 ๐ŸŒฟ A Year Later — The Second Act Becomes Physical

When I wrote this last March, I was thinking about resilience in theory.
Now I am living it in heat, humidity, and uncertainty. ๐ŸŒก️๐Ÿ’ง

I am writing from Mexico. ๐Ÿ‡ฒ๐Ÿ‡ฝ

Not as a tourist chasing sunshine ☀️, but as someone who needed space — financial, emotional, creative — to breathe again. ๐ŸŒฌ️

Emily Carr traveled by coach because it was practical and because she wanted to experience the world directly. I have traveled Mexico by bus for similar reasons. ๐ŸšŒ It’s slower. It’s humbler. It forces attention.

And attention changes you. ๐Ÿ‘️

Some days here are beautiful — ocean air ๐ŸŒŠ, color ๐ŸŽจ, paint drying in the sun. ☀️

Some days are harder — dizziness from heat ๐ŸŒก️, money stretching thin ๐Ÿ’ธ, world headlines rattling the nervous system. ๐ŸŒ

But I am painting again. ๐ŸŽจ

Not because it makes sense economically.
Not because the system suddenly values artists.
But because something inside refused to stay dormant. ๐Ÿ”ฅ

Emily didn’t stop seeing, even when no one was buying.

Maybe that’s the real second act. ✨

Not reinvention.
Not recognition.
But returning to what was always true — and continuing anyway. ๐ŸŒฑ