As a teenager I worked several summers for a commercial rose grow-op. The pay was low: surprising (to me) was the fact that growing flowers provided eligibility for agricultural exceptions to labour legislation, including pay at lower than minimum wage. The heat was gruelling, and pesticide spray hung heavy in the air and stuck to every surface. For the months I worked there I had chronic bronchial congestion, recurrent pinkeye, and chronic skin infections from the inevitable scratches.
The commercial rose-growing industry has now shifted almost entirely to developing countries, which have even less worker protection than Canada, with predictable results for health and safety, and paltry compensation, for workers.
This series began as a critique of the industry, juxtaposing the fetishized symbol of luxury and beauty with the conditions of the people who grow them. For the moment I have edited out the more critical paintings of ugly skin conditions, because who needs a Debbie Downer right now, when a little joy and beauty might be the antidote to a world on fire?
The commercial rose-growing industry has now shifted almost entirely to developing countries, which have even less worker protection than Canada, with predictable results for health and safety, and paltry compensation, for workers.
This series began as a critique of the industry, juxtaposing the fetishized symbol of luxury and beauty with the conditions of the people who grow them. For the moment I have edited out the more critical paintings of ugly skin conditions, because who needs a Debbie Downer right now, when a little joy and beauty might be the antidote to a world on fire?