Gwen MacGregor

A timely exhibition explores the legacies of lost forests.

by

As I look out at Calgary’s smoky sky, an apocalyptic vision delivered by wildfires in northern Alberta, the relevance of Toronto-based artist Gwen MacGregor’s work about forested ­– and formerly forested – land couldn’t be more apparent. Her exhibition, Treelines – Here and There, on view at the Nickle Galleries at the University of Calgary until July 21, is a multifaceted project that leads viewers through a variety of physical, emotional and historical spaces in Alberta, British Columbia and Scotland.

Originally from Calgary, MacGregor describes herself as a settler with Scottish heritage. Equipped with hope and humour, she has used crocheted objects, photographs and videos to weave together reflections about her family’s history as it entwines with issues related to colonialism, labour, economics and the climate crisis.

The show’s most idiosyncratic elements are 48 crocheted trees suspended from the gallery’s ceiling. Some are specific species that grow in Canada and Scotland, while others, made from recycled plastic, are meant to be dystopic. MacGregor devoted countless hours to making this forest in ironic synchronicity with her grandfather, James White, who spent years after the Second World War logging around Fernie, a small city nestled in the Rocky Mountains in southeastern British Columbia.

White, the mayor of Fernie from 1956 to 1964, had conflicting feelings about the logging industry and donated some of his logging rights to Fernie to save one of the few remaining areas of old-growth forest in the East Kootenays, says MacGregor, who explores the region whenever she returns to Western Canada. 

At the other end of the gallery are eight large photographs.  One shows a view of the region’s Cedar Valley, or Caqahak, within the traditional territory of the Ktunaxa Nation. But look more closely and you’ll see the lone tree in the foreground – a staple of the Canadian landscape tradition, notably the Group of Seven – is no natural sentinel. Rather, one of MacGregor’s crocheted trees gleams in the sunshine. Other photographs show crocheted trees outdoors at different locations, including the Outer Hebrides, off the west coast of Scotland, where deforestation occurred over centuries. 

“When placed on the land and documented, the wee trees come across a bit whimsical and sad,” says MacGregor. “But then that seems appropriate for the time of environmental crisis we are living in.” 

In some images, MacGregor’s crocheted trees are camouflaged to blend into their adopted terrain, while in others they stand out, stark and insufficient surrogates for what has been lost, or is at risk of being lost. Her work has a painful beauty that lingers long after I leave the show. 

The exhibition brings to mind earlier pieces about climate change, like Toronto-based artist Katie Bethune-Leamen’s Iceberg For Fogo Island When There Are None, a jagged, human-sized iceberg built from foam insulation boards and polyurethane foam, or Ice Watch, a 2014 project by Icelandic-Danish artist Olafur Eliasson and Danish geologist Minik Rosing that saw chunks of ice cast off from Greenland’s ice sheet presented in urban settings.

MacGregor prefers the word “land” rather than “landscape” as her work reflects not scenery but the place where we live. A doctoral student in cultural geography, she struggles with the colonial legacy of “lies and violence” toward Indigenous people and hopes her art invites conversations around difficult topics. 

Together with curator Michele Hardy, she created a printout for gallery visitors that includes Indigenous names for the territories she depicts, along with common settler names. It also has a guide that lists the types of trees she has crocheted, including the yew, rowan, larch and ponderosa pine. 

Sitting side by side at one end of the room are two looping videos. One presents footage of crocheted trees in situ in Alberta and B.C., while the other invites comparisons to the Outer Hebrides.

A series of projected portrait stills gives a nod to people who helped MacGregor with the project. Nearby, a dimly lit crocheted tree dangles from an almost invisible line. A small caption invites visitors to hug it, take a selfie – and most importantly – to plant a tree. ■

Gwen MacGregor: Treelines – Here and There at the Nickle Galleries in Calgary from May 11 to July 21, 2023.

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Nickle Galleries

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