• [C]hronicled. | MARK SINGSON

     … from darkness to light, and the virtues of acceptance. 

    Curator & Writer | Hakan Burcuoğlu · Venue | Gastown, Vancouver · Gear | Leica

    Filipinos pioneered pathological altruism. I’m saying it, because I know they won’t—vanity never seemed to be their brand of fashion. I have a lot of Filipino friends, and their perennial positivity has kept assuaging my existential allegiances, so much so, that I’m like, happier again. Must they all be champion Good Samaritans? And must their joie de vivre be so contagious? Regardless, they’re giving us cynics a pretty shit name.

    Mark’s provenance; his remarkable journey that traverses Las Piñas, Philippines and Vancouver, Canada is a masterclass in familial resilience, an eloquent dissertation on patience and dedication, and silent revelry in nostalgic longing. It’s poignancy, distilled. Thankfully, having enough aunts around him to rebuild modern civilization, in the absence of his mother and father, his childhood never culminated into a vestige pilfered of its innocence. And the proof’s in the pudding, just look at the photos. [Spoiler: Fanny Pack fashions]

    It’s an exciting time for Mark, and things are happening to him at a rate he can neither process, nor fathom. And, as is the case with most Dionysian minds, he too sublimates. It’s all healthy of course—he’s got good bones, following in the footsteps of a brave, industrious and self-made mother. His prized trait is his virtue of acceptance, which is why, at ostensibly the most important time in his life—and career—he holds the power to weave his own dreams. And he’s earned it, time and time over. So here’s to you, Mr. Dreamweaver. Welcome to The Curatorialist family.

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  • Sketchy | GARVIN CHINNIA

     … some kind of special.

    Curator & Writer | Hakan Burcuoğlu · Venue | Emily Carr University · Gear | Leica

    He muses, holding in his palm a pillbox of larvae, frozen in time, suspended in amber. On his work desk, an ornamental mason jar; inside it, the tiniest mouse, decomposing and unrecognizable—gone to glory. Behind old Mickey sits a monolithic aquarium—a theatre of life, a harbinger of terminus. I’m out of place—awestruck—searching for familiarity. But for Garvin, none of this is farrago—it’s distilled melancholia, metamorphosis in miasma.

    Artists are tempestuous, and Garvin’s chaos incarnate. But there’s a brand of fragility that accompanies the carnage—exemplified by the surrounding geography of his hometown Sherwood Park—an idyllic, Albertan hamlet nestled in between farm fields and oil country. The duality is real—his very parlance—and it’s moulded him into an artist with an astonishing ability for sway-and-flux, inherent in every brush stroke as he belabours the canvas—rigid yet fluid, forceful yet submissive, confident yet forever in doubt.

    So here’s to SKETCHY—a revelatory new segment where we inveigh upon the realities of singular artists and their most peculiar feeding habits—be it spiritual, or nutritional. Artists need to eat, after all.

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  • Chef’Stock | DAVID WU

     … breaking the fourth wall.

    Curator & Writer | Hakan Burcuoğlu · Venue | Rhinofish Noodle Bar · Gear | Leica

    A history suspended in neon-illusion, and an unfounded sense of crimson macabre. I’m partial to these parts—I’ve worked, eaten and [momentarily] relapsed here. And as a [recovering] cynic who harbours a heart of darkness, as well as a soft-side for anything kooky, I’ll be brazen—Chinatown will always be a haven, my safe space.

    Fuck the boilerplate, Chinatown doesn’t need your sympathy. She won’t stand for it—still the most flavour-packed, booze-laden, and beguiling neighbourhood Vancouver has to offer. The nouvelle vague is here, and this time around, they’re doing the razing. Down comes the fourth wall, and up go your illusions. And as far as metaphors go, David’s center stage, staring us straight in the eyes.

    If you decide to glance back, you may have to confront a reality disallowing of daydreaming. The father of a newborn daughter—not to mention a restaurant in its infancy, a love letter to his Taiwanese heritage—David’s journey, in every sense of the word, has been arduous, and full of sustained attrition. Though he’s nursed the convalescence, and reached a point where he’s reaping the fruits of his toil, it hasn’t left him unscathed. But that kind of scar tissue makes bones, after all.

    We founded Chef’Stock with that in mind—an echo chamber for culinary wax poetic, and a sanctuary where chefs get to be human, as opposed to demigods. So here’s to breaking more walls, and to the man of the hour whose eyes do the talking.

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  • [C]hronicled. | MATT MURTAGH-WU

     … Of reverie and reality, and everything in between.

    Curator & Writer | Hakan Burcuoğlu · Venue | Matt’s Living Room · Gear | Leica

    I first became aware of Matt—and his self-professed moniker, “The Dumpling King”—in the final days of last summer. Notable outlets had given him prominent coverage, plugging the shit out of his all-you-can-eat dumpling pop-ups. I’d corroborated from the grapevine that his events were a success—lines around the block, no dumpling left behind. It was official—the devotees of dim sum had finally bestowed upon him their blessed anointment. But I’ve never been one for sacrosanct.

    “Fuck him, and his plastic throne” I remember thinking to myself. Especially after watching him continuously thumb-pick his nose, flaunt his possessions, and piss off his girlfriend by secretly filming her around the house, much to her tired, deadpan response—“Matt. Stop”. Stop—I probably should have [but glad I didn’t]. But in the words of Simon Sinek—the charismatic speaker who ostensibly cracked the code on millennials—I was simply, “addicted”. How could my bête noire beguile me this quickly?

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  • [C]hronicled. | DENIZ TARAKCIOGLU

     … Some sort of addiction.

    Curator & Writer | Hakan Burcuoğlu · Venue | Chambar · Gear | Leica

    He sits across from me, clad in vintage plaid—disheveled hair, a little twitchy, pushing up the frame of his signature leopard-print Ray-Bans. A hint of nervous nostalgia, and rightly so. This place, Vancouver’s coveted Belgian restaurant Chambar, was where he cut his teeth, and made his bones, after all.

    The pathos is palpable. A life spent cooking on the line—a curious compulsion, a cloistered, cathartic existence. People seldom realize the culprit—the source of addiction—is in fact the life itself. Reality becomes fiction, and nothing but the kitchen starts to suffice—that’s the sacrifice. And who better to indulge us than the best fucking breakfast cook west of Ontario.

    I typecast [and perhaps exaggerate] for effect, but Deniz is so much more—a polyglot of culinary lingua franca. A firebrand—a mad scientist—who holds an astonishing pedigree of pastiche, a perennial passion for food and feeding people, and a profound reverence for the industry and everyone in it. I’m partial, of course—in fact, full on nepotist. He’s a friend, a partner, and a prolific contributor to this platform. But one thing he’s never been, is safe.

    And here, we’re sort of allergic to safe. Start getting used to delving deep into the lives of fiercely talented, non-conformist brains with a “fuck you very much” kind of an attitude. It’s revelatory, bonafide Curatorialist, and it’s fucking [C]hronicled.

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