To Launch Forth into the Deep: A Legacy of Supporting the Arts at Memorial University 

The Rooms | February 15 – October 19, 2025

Lisa Moore interviews curator Mireille Eagan

 

77 Bond Street was a many storied building — probably four stories? I remember standing on the sidewalk and looking way up at the towering building and grey sky and tumultuous clouds flicking past. What happened in there? 

Making art and teaching art. The teachers were adults who made art. They were artists. I had been given to understand that art was something children did and required dry macaroni and glue. On Bond street I learned an artist was a thing you could choose to be for the rest of your life, a personhood. 

My father had signed me up. I must have asked to do the class. But where would I have happened upon such a notion?  

The notion was in the ether at the time. People, it turns out, were actively and purposefully fermenting that notion, shoring it up, making it happen. Making the possibility. 

During that art class, when I was twelve, I remember hefting a video camera, big as a car, onto my shoulder at the Santa Claus parade. The parade was a field trip. We trouped down to Water Street from Bond Street with our instructor, artist, Ray Mackie. It was snowing and cold. My eye jammed to the eye piece. I don’t think they had one of those screens you can flick out on the side to view what you were shooting; most likely that hadn’t been invented yet. Nothing had been invented yet, everything was coming into being. This was my first encounter with a video camera. I couldn’t believe I was allowed to put my grubby little hands all over it (not on the lens!!!). 

I think the tenderness of the little eyecup sucking my eyeball cushioned the sudden, explosive, very stark revelation of what it means to frame something. 

        Ka-pow! 

Briefly, I took my eye away from the camera because of vertigo, because of the shock of it and I blinked. The world without the frame was a stream of meaningless chaos. 

The frame created a narrative. It supersaturated everything inside the frame with meaning — the circus of sequins and batons tumbling skyward, the kicking legs of rows of girls all moving in unison, the bashing of a drum, light flaring on trumpets, a crying child, and the undisciplined, half-sinister clown with the onesie of multicoloured polka dots — the frame injected it all with story.  

What it meant to fragment/frame the stream of what must have been reality, to put disparate pieces of the parade cheek-by-jowl, to consider the detail, zoom in, or zoom out, was staggering. What the camera did to time: dislocating it, shuffling it, making time come forward to take a bow?  

This was my gateway drug to becoming a writer. Maybe it was the same for each of the students in the class. 

What it meant to carry all that on your shoulder, the camera so heavy it instantly caused my muscles to yelp — the thing cost a fortune, what if I broke it? Did I really think all that at 12 years old? About time and everything? The revelation probably circumvented thought and was instead, a feeling. A wordless revelation made of pictures. Or, more likely, I only understand what I’d seen/felt now, in retrospect. 

Of course, I am framing it now, decades later, because I’ve just been to a retrospective of visual art by the artists who were working in the province from 1961-2003, and teaching, in some cases, at 77 Bond Street. A retrospective that reminds the viewer that we frame stories from the past (lift them out of the slip stream of time) to understand the present, how we got here. 

What did it feel like to view the exhibition of the Memorial University Art collection, curated by Mireille Eagan, keeping in mind that curation is another kind of framing? This exhibition is called “To Launch Forth into the Deep: A Legacy of Supporting the Arts at Memorial University” and exists simultaneously with another exhibit, “Grounding: In Celebration of the Rooms 20th Anniversary,” and so highlights the work of both institutions to create and sustain visual art production in the province. Memorial is celebrating its 100th anniversary. 

Eagan has included a video that features Chris Brookes, Mary Pratt, Gerald Squires, Frank LaPointe, and others, who were making experimental art; who were working as artists and teachers and curators; who were creating the culture as they went along, creating audience. They were making art for the people who would experience it, and making it about the audiences’ experiences, all the while saying it in new ways that were in sync with something universal. 

Encountering these interviews, these young faces, the passion with which these artists spoke about building the practice of art in the province, alongside some of their work, reminded me of the excitement of the 70s when I first started those classes. 

In my late teens I went to art school in Stephenville, where I had the privilege of being taught by Don Wright, among many other visiting artists, who came for month-long stays. Don Wright’s work, included in this exhibition, has always been a touchstone for me because it is so very physically, intellectually, and emotionally from this place, but poses questions on a wider scale: what it means to be human, what a landscape is and where we stand in it (inside the frame?), to be ephemeral, to live by an ocean, and to work, to bleed, to love and the sensuality of a witch’s purse, or a lobster pot worn by weather, busted by tides. 

Wright was also a great teacher. I remember him as a quiet man who coaxed insight and allowed you to think, for a time, that you’d come to it on your own. I remember a snowstorm in Stephenville, visible through the windows in the art studio, that had gathered intensity as the afternoon flew by and darkness fell, and everything outside was buried. At the end of class Don Wright put on a pair of skis, or maybe they were snowshoes, and went out into the storm. Why do I remember this? Because I could see the prints in the snow long after he was cocooned in the storm and disappeared from view. 

In retrospect, I am more profoundly aware of how many of the artists in this exhibit nurtured the next generation, and how indebted the province is to them, not just for their cutting-edge artwork, but for their generosity in helping to build an arts community and simply for fashioning a rough sketch of what it might look like: being an artist. 

To best understand the work of curating this show I had the great privilege of interviewing curator, Mireille Eagan, over email. She is another fashioner of possibility. I think Eagan says a great deal about the exhibition and how it articulates the blasting artistic energy of the time and how these artists created a foundation for those who come to view it today, and those who were inspired by this work and felt the permission to become artists themselves.

I asked Mireille what work she loved the most (which is a ridiculous question) and she mentioned Frank LaPointe. She mentioned Anne Meredith Barry. These works also, by coincidence, were among my favourites too. 

But what if we were to view this work from the frame of a hundred years in the future? How would the meaning of this collection shift and change? 

How did you choose which pieces of each artist you wanted, and how did you choose which artists? I know that’s a big one. The Pratts, for example, are well represented. What led you to that decision? 

The choices for this exhibition were guided by a desire to recognize the pioneers in Newfoundland and Labrador’s art history — those who not only produced significant work but also shaped the province’s artistic landscape through education, advocacy, and institutional development. It focuses on the first generation of artists who managed to sustain careers here, largely due to the foundational support provided by Memorial University. MUNL’s programs, including the Extension Service, Memorial University Art Gallery, and St. Michael’s Printshop, played a crucial role in developing the infrastructure necessary for a thriving arts community. Previously, Newfoundland and Labrador lacked a dedicated art school, an art gallery, and many of the resources needed to support professional artistic practice. Artists would have to go elsewhere to study or make a living. The work of MUNL’s initiatives, artists, and educators laid the groundwork for the robust visual arts community that exists today.

Each artist in the exhibition played a key role in this. Among them, Don Wright, Heidi Oberheide, and Frank Lapointe established St. Michael’s Printshop through the Extension Service, which supported groundbreaking artists like Jerry Evans and attracted celebrated artists from around the world. The Shepherds taught art through their school and the Extension Service, with Reginald Shepherd later teaching art in high school. Christopher Pratt was Newfoundland and Labrador’s first curator, laying the groundwork for the development of institutional collections and exhibitions. Mary Pratt, who taught with the Extension Service, was deeply engaged in arts advocacy and played a key role in championing institutions such as The Rooms. Let’s not forget the influence of the work of Anne Meredith Barry, Gerald Squires, Peter Bell, and Gilbert Hay on their respective communities — among many others. Their influence extends far beyond their own work. It is woven into the fabric of the province’s artistic infrastructure. Including their work in the exhibition was not just about recognizing their artistic contributions but also acknowledging their roles in fostering a sustainable arts ecosystem. And there are many others in addition to the individuals shown here.

Additionally, this exhibition provided an opportunity to showcase a few treasured pieces from the Memorial University of Newfoundland and Labrador Collection, which comprises 4,000 works. Many of these have been stored in offices or in storage for years. Displaying them allows visitors to engage with significant works that have shaped the province’s cultural identity. 

Were you choosing from different decades? Different curators? 

This exhibition explores the first wave of artists and curators who could sustain a career here in the 1960s and ’70s, but it does speak about different generations to some extent. There are three artworks by the past Art Gallery curators — Christopher Pratt, Peter Bell, and Frank Lapointe — who were also practicing artists. Later, the gallery was led by arts administrators Edythe Goodridge and then Patricia Grattan, who were key advocates for the community. Interviews from MUN’s “Not Just a Picture Place” series offer insight into how these figures shaped the Gallery’s identity, navigated bureaucratic challenges, and defined their vision of what an art institution should be. Christopher Pratt laid the groundwork for professionalization, Peter Bell fostered critical engagement and collection growth, Edythe Goodridge championed local, multidisciplinary practices, and Patricia Grattan reinforced professionalism through programming and advocacy. Together, their perspectives provide a historical foundation for understanding what remains relevant in gallery leadership today and what must continue to evolve.

A key question arises when the exhibition is seen in conversation with Grounding: In Celebration of The Rooms 20th Anniversary is: How has the role of the cultural institution changed? We are witnessing a growing demand for accessibility, inclusivity, and responsiveness to urgent social, political, and environmental issues. Digital platforms have broadened audience engagement, while decolonial and equity-driven approaches challenge traditional institutional structures. Within these shifts, the fundamental importance of cultural spaces as sites for critical engagement, artistic experimentation, and public dialogue remains unchanged. The legacy of past curators reminds us that cultural institutions are not static—they are shaped by those who lead them, the artists they support, and the communities they serve. The challenge today is to continue evolving while maintaining the essential role of art in societal discourse.

Research-Creation is a new(ish) term in university parlance in North America. Why do you think the university ran an art gallery to begin with? 

It was originally the Memorial University Art Gallery before changing its name to the Art Gallery of Newfoundland and Labrador (AGNL) under the leadership of Patricia Grattan. The Gallery’s origins are closely tied to the university’s role as a cultural and intellectual hub, which aligns with broader trends in post-secondary institutions running art spaces across Canada. Universities established galleries to foster research, education, and public engagement with the arts — providing a platform for both academic and artistic inquiry.

I appreciate your mention of Research-Creation, because it highlights the intersection of artistic practice and scholarly inquiry. Art galleries, but particularly university galleries, are a natural space for Research-Creation, where exhibitions and curatorial projects function as both research outputs and public-facing engagements. This mode of inquiry, which integrates creative production with theoretical reflection, underscores the evolving role of academic institutions in supporting experimental and interdisciplinary artistic practices. Grenfell Art Gallery is a shining example of this — now the university art gallery for MUNL. But each cultural organization and art gallery in this province does this in different ways, for their respective communities.

Many of the artists in this exhibit I know personally and was taught by them while in Stephenville. For me this work of the community, for the community, by the community. I wonder if I feel that way because I was an art student in the province at that time? Or do you think most viewers of this exhibit will relate to this work that way? 

I completely agree. The ethos of Extension Services, Bond Street, St. Michael’s Printshop, and the Art Gallery is deeply rooted in community engagement, accessibility, and the belief that art should be integrated into everyday life. That spirit is still evident in the work — not just in the subject matter, but also in the connections between artists.  

Given that you were working with a collection of 4000 pieces or more, the exhibit is sort of like a sonnet; it has restrictions built in. Did you enjoy working within those restrictions? Did the fact that this is a university collection mean that it was less commercial and more experimental artwork?  

It’s challenging enough to make a living as an artist, but it is especially so when there is a lack of strong infrastructure to support you. This lack of support ripples outward. With minimal backing, artists often have smaller portfolios and CVs. A smaller CV results in a reduced chance of being perceived as a professional, being selected for awards, or gaining recognition. The infrastructure in this province is now growing and vibrant, yet many artists have had to, and still do, rely on commercial sales to make a living. This reliance shapes the type of work they can produce.

The fact that Memorial University of Newfoundland and Labrador is a university collection, rather than a commercial one, allowed for more experimental works to be acquired — and certainly was reflected in the groundbreaking experimental nature of its programming. There was less pressure to cater to market demands, which allowed for opportunities to take risks and engage critically. 

In terms of this project and the question about constraints — each project has its own constraints, yet these provide a framework for creative exploration. Instead of limiting expression, these boundaries shape the process, allowing each choice and artwork to serve as individual elements that reflect a larger whole. Although this approach may not always allow for in-depth exploration of specific themes, its intention is not to be prescriptive. Instead, it aims to create a supportive space for viewers to bring their own histories and interpretations to the work, making the experience more participatory and layered.

Making this larger: In the case of Newfoundland and Labrador, I believe that restrictions — whether geographical, financial, or institutional — have played a fundamental role in shaping the local arts community. Historically, artists in this region have had to rely on collaboration, interdisciplinary support, and creative problem-solving, often working outside traditional systems. This has contributed to a distinct and resilient artistic voice, deeply embedded in the cultural fabric of this place.

Memorial University has played an important role in fostering these connections and allowing the unique voice of this region to flourish. The artists who came here (many originally from the province, some from elsewhere yet choosing to stay) recognized and nurtured the existing cultural currents — oral traditions, music, craft, and Indigenous knowledge — strengthening the local arts ecosystem. That, ultimately, is the role of a cultural institution: to cultivate dialogue, support artistic practice, and empower both the viewer and the broader community.

What time frame does the exhibit explore? 

The exhibit spans from 1961, when the Art Gallery was established, to 2003, when The Rooms was created (marking the end of the MUN Collection’s acquisition of works). However, rather than presenting a fixed historical endpoint, the exhibit emphasizes the continuity of this artistic and cultural dialogue. Marking Memorial University’s 100th anniversary, the exhibition highlights the university’s role in shaping and contributing to an evolving conversation, demonstrating how these efforts continue to resonate today.

Presumably, you looked at a lot of work by each artist represented, work created over their lifetime. If so, did you fall in love with (or develop a new crush on) work that has gained meaning through the passage of time? Has the work changed, do you think, because of the passage of time? This is I guess a question about the nature of retrospectives. 

As Curator of Contemporary Art, engaging deeply with artwork and artists over time is one of the most rewarding aspects of the job. Yes, I spend time looking at a wide range of works by each artist, spanning different periods in their practice. In doing so, often over several projects, I have absolutely developed a deeper appreciation for pieces that, over time, have taken on new layers of meaning — sometimes in ways that even the artist may not have anticipated.

Art is never static. Its significance shifts depending on the cultural, social, and political moment in which it is viewed. Each “retrospective” is, therefore, from the viewpoint of the current period — it is contemporary even if it is historical in nature. Some works reveal new dimensions when viewed in retrospect, gaining resonance as conversations surrounding them have evolved since their creation. A piece that may have once seemed quiet or understated can emerge as prescient or urgent in a contemporary context — as with Mary Pratt’s works, for example. This is part of what makes retrospectives so powerful — they allow us to see not only how an artist’s practice has evolved but also how their work continues to speak to us in new and unexpected ways.

But, you asked about crushes. If I had to choose one, my crush is on Frank Lapointe’s beautiful watercolours — rooted in memory, half-formed, and evocative. But I’ve always loved Anne Meredith Barry’s ability to capture the movement and feel of a landscape. Or Helen Parsons Shepherd’s portraits — deeply compassionate and highly skillful. Honestly though, it isn’t about whether I love an artwork when building an exhibition. I look at each artwork with various lenses, beyond what gets me in the gut: Is this a strong image by this artist within art historical conversation? How does it relate to the other works in the exhibition to tell an evocative story for the viewer? And, of course, logistics come into play — if there is enough space, whether the work is available to be recalled from offices, or whether it’s sturdy enough to be shown, among many other considerations.

Given that we are living in a moment with a surge of nationalism, what do you think the role of the retrospective of a province’s artists is? 

Responsible citizenship. Art challenges assumptions, sparks dialogue, and encourages critical engagement with our relationships to land, power, politics, and community. I firmly believe this, and it is what these artists and arts administrators also believe. A retrospective fulfills this function by bringing artistic voices to the forefront while offering historical context. It demonstrates that art remains a space for reflection, critique, and connection—one that counters the narrowness of nationalism with a more nuanced and broader understanding of identity.

For example, Peter Bell recognized the power of art to illuminate social trends and provoke thought, stating in Not Just a Picture Place that artists possess a force that totalitarian regimes have historically feared and suppressed. He argued that policymakers should engage regularly with art to understand the deeper currents shaping their communities.  

As he said: “I don’t think many artists realise it — how powerful, how strong a weapon they have. And it’s not for nothing that totalitarian countries have not taken the artist under their wing. They’ve smothered them all. They’re afraid of them. We don’t realise the power we have.”

He continues:

“Really, it should be required of all politicians, all MHAs, that they visit the gallery at least once a week. It would take weeks of going to the art gallery to have the foggiest idea of what was going on. But, after a time, they’d know. You’ve really got to go into the art gallery and see the range of exhibitions from Canada, and you know, different kinds of artists and so forth. You can see social trends, you can estimate the health of your community, you can see so very, very clearly. And so, I think it’s very important that the artist has to be brought to the community, and this is the art gallery’s job.” 

Lisa Moore is the author of the bestselling novels Alligator, February, and Caught; the story collections Open and Something for Everyone; and a young adult novel, Flannery. Her books have been finalists for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, CBC Canada Reads, the Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize, the Scotiabank Giller Prize, and the Man Booker Prize. Lisa lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland.

 

April, 2025