But What Did You Come Here For // Justin Apperley

 

A response to Gabrielle Desrosiers’ But What Did You Come Here For

Breaking from our standard essay format, Justin Apperley presents a series of poems in response to Gabrielle Desrosiers' “But What Did You Come Here For.” This work draws inspiration from Desrosiers' road trip westward from Quebec to British Columbia to install the exhibition and her process of collecting the objects, sculptures, and assemblages along the way. Each poem features a different province, aligned with components of the show that resounded with Apperley.

But what did you come here for?

I’m often asked.

Les Îles-de-la-Madeleine…

You mean?

Well, it must be for the nature; the remoteness, the space, the experience, the beauty.

Let me tell ya: ‘cause yesterday,

I was sloughing over melting pack ice

Belly side down

My stained Budweiser t-shirt caught

Like a snag in a trap

Ripped along driftwood

Frozen sand filling up fingernails

Scratching along the red gulf shore

Rien ne sert de courir il faut partir à point

Or,

Why not rather run with

One Black Label too many

And start that roadtrip whenever you god-damned feel like it

Because there’s always another ferry

To crawl to

When my grumpy Véronique in her quaint lil’ windswept blue home

On good ol’ Prince Edward Island

Has another cold one cracked n’ waiting


It’s time for Vacation baby!

But don’t mind us; in the mean-time we are just doing a bit of beachcombin’ n’ up to no good

An orange vinyl work-glove found half buried in red sand

But Véronique and I really don’t feel like working today, sorry.

“We don’t want this shit!”

Our response is to catapult

Watch the flimsy ginger wafting, smacking salty wet

Let it sink in

Saffron-tinted sandstone watches wearily, sulking in the distance

Wishing we really were on the 9-5

Instead of us scaling its flakey surfaces

Giggling to each other and enjoying our free will

As the sandstone unwillingly loses themselves step by step

Spreading their ashes to unsuspecting explorers

A slow death, shed by every frolicking, unemployed footstep

The deep dark Atlantic lapping them up

Happily swallowing many a tangerine mitten or sandstone rock

Who next is victim?

Could be you: enjoying your late-morning double-double on the water

Quiet, unsuspecting, and still. Possibly sunbathing alone, reading the headlines.

Just you wait until the next time Véronique and I decide to take the day off

To wreak havoc

You think it’s a day for your boys and toys?

Your fancy catamaran and a lazy day casting lines??

Well, we’re fishing for compliments
And we want the whole god-damned island to know

That we’re the craziest broads this side of Souris

And no way your lollygagging pensioner privilege

Is gonna yacht its way into a comfortable retirement

Cause Véronique and I, we’re the breaking news!
We’re gonna spill that Tim Hortons of yours right over the edge.

Use a lil’ WD-40 with our lime green lighter

And use that shitty backwash National Post of yours for fire-starter

Cause we’ve had enough! Right here on the starboard side

You’re all tied up, bowline baby

A hobby with ropes goes a long way if yer trying to get somewhere

You’re held hostage where you belong, and we gotta go.

Off to New Brunswick

Allons-y, Maudit!

Feels like unemployment insurance, don’t it?

It’s a pirate’s life for me.


There’s nothing wrong with our new ’03 Chevy Astro

Of course, for when time tends to prove a cold case of limp tires,

Like recently in Nouveau-Brunswick,

Coming up to Shediac

Buddy scrambled into the road

Concerned and was he ever beyond bothered

Started pointing and blowing steam

Bent out of shape he was…

Boy, was he ever.

I says,

So what if I still use inner tubes?

Ones as red as that big ol’ lobster, this.

So we took it out n’ tied it up

And skimmed that flaccid rubber all along the dusty parking lot

What a drag

With my trusty green tether

For another patch at Canadian Tire

Like we always do when we’re in a pinch

Between a couple big red salty lobster claws

In Shediac, NB

And boy, was he ever

(Buddy, I mean)

Was he ever impressed.


All aired up n’ rolled o’er to the motherland.

And if you knew us, we always stop at our regular Québécois haunt

In Rivière-du-Loup

Slurping oysters n’ saving the shells for later

And there before we really knew it

We were graced by Hitchhiking Royalty!

Barnacle Bob!

A magnificent mooch upon its royal shell!

An imperial freeloader,

A valiant vagrant.

Stuck out its thumb and we were absolutely obliged to pick him up

With the full red-carpet treatment

On our regal ride

Elevated up immediately to our dashboard shrine

To be toured and adored across the country

Oh, how the plebeians will praise our new King

Who knew his mighty reign would begin here:

A stone’s throw away from South Shore’s finest Rôtisserie St-Hubert

Parked au Parc de la Pointe

History is made,

Alongside the sodden St. Lawrence

Vive le Roi!

Le Roi des Mollusques!!


There’s something about a roadtrip...

What does it take to hit the road?

Hitting the road?

Like? Slapping the road?

Smacking about that unassuming ol’ road?…..

C’mon now… is that really the case?

I’ve bruised a highway or two, lemme tell you.

But jeez, let’s be honest, some of us like to spend our time caressing the road.

A casual John Prine and the great calming lull of the odometer clicking kilometres

EXCEPT for when one slips into Ontario…

Can one truly caress that sheer amount of endless northern pavement

Pinned between insurmountable swaths of black spruce and jack pine?

It’s a bit much no?

Maybe that’s where we come to hit the road.

Seventeen hours in one day of driving?!

Only so many country legends one can take… In spite of ourselves

We’ll end up a’sittin’ on a rainbow

Or spitting on that awfully big log pile in Hearst, Ontario..

Ready to curse the province as a complete and entire whole.

Away from alllllll those highway men who look too long

And are a bit too glad to hold open the greasy handle

On the full-glass door of the truck stop diner for you

As they ask you to ‘show us a smile’

_ _

______

We are sick.

Véronique and I.

We are sick of being civil, damnit.

Cause really? How polite can you really be if you are well-known to hit a road?


Those 7 cups of gas station coffee, 2 monster drinks

And that exhausted look on my face won’t do it for our long-lost dear friend Myriam

Who moved years ago from Magdalen to Manitoba

Because one can only have so many noise complaints on a small island

(That was truly one helluva broken muffler…)

So now we’re forced to park our overheated Van n’ hop in the fucking quad for once

Straddle up as you saddle up, and hang on to her for dear life
Myriam always taking it to the next level, cackling away and letting ‘er rip

A true baba yaga; a bit beyond possessed

As a gale of raven hair stuffs itself down my throat; blindfolds all but every passing tree

As we fly by the final few bumpy kilometres of Canadian Shield

Before that protective coat plunges into prairies

Stray headlights barely beaming

Limbering beside a bare cliff face
Scowling to see

Fast as fast can be

The skid trail pummels into a frozen lake

But we skim the surface

I swear it’s only Manitobans who choose to go ice fishing at 2AM

Go on and let’s cast our net.

But WHY??

There’s spray foam tangled within the weave – it just floats?

Myriam, she does all the work these days…

But why would take us out here just to float her net?!?!?!

Cursing beside the quad,

Kicking the mostly empty pearl n’ collar-blue cooler

That caffeine kick ain’t gonna help now

So I curl up perched on the cracked pleather seat

Below, a slow coolant leak dripping neon

The smell of burnt oil on a cold engine

I squeeze my eyes closed shut

And wish the day to just fucking end

For me and my good ol’ annoying best friend, Miri the adrenaline junkie

Muttering and shivering

Wrapped forlornly under her draped pink and black Real Tree Fox Racing jacket…


I’m happier than a pig in shit.
Véronique’s eyes roll

But with my enthusiastic nudge she sighs

To turn and tie another rope onto the rock:

To make sure it’s coming with us.

Another big boulder to help with the gas bill.

Painted rocks seem to be a real pleasure to gather

The bigger the better

A boulder or two to spoon when the weathers cold

Another to keep the gas pedal down

Since cruise control

Tends to hiccup lately

For those long prairie days

Of clocking kilometres between Westeels and Twisters

Fluttery fields of golden strings

Making onlooking cheeks rosy from wind
Saskatchewan headed west from Eastend
Counting the haybales at Jack’s,

As the server scoffs

While my toes twiddle two colourful rocks

That I purposely placed

On the diner’s diamond patterned carpet

Véronique must be dizzy

Her eyes keep rolling

But I adamantly explain

You can’t disagree, mon amour: the purples pretty,

Oh lord, what about that indigo,

Even the rose, a lil’ lavender,

Mint on the side, and cream to tie it together.

So off I go…

Salivating for that next badland boulder

Finding its perfect spot

Underneath our truck-bed pillow


YOU pranced right into the glass bead section

At the Crossroads Market

Beside the vendor selling heavy metal motorcycle rings with skulls

And just threw your typical big ol’ 5 cent bill at the sweet unsuspecting bead lady

And she wilted, so distracted with prying the money off

You cleaned the front shelf dry

Lil’ orange spheres that look like sorbet,

These v. bespoke rectangular green prism numbers,

A couple cloudy white small little beans,

Wow! The amber ones really seem to pop, hey?

And OFFFFFF you run

Quite the good deal, to the same unsuspecting miscreant living out of their van

With Québécois license plates

Which often tends to overnight in the SW corner

Of the Saddledome parking lot

Once in a while though

The outlaw is lucky enough

To retreat temporarily to a buddy’s for a productive afternoon

To blast some classic rock

And unveil the illicit stash of beads

In a musty suburban Albertan bungalow

With brown vinyl kitchen flooring and fake wood cabinetry

The comfort of some slight yellowing

From years upon years of cigarette enjoyment

AC/DC at 3pm

KISS hits hard around 4:45

LED ZEPELLIN comes in steady 5:35

And after putting in what’s going good

Those beads just always tend to fall perfectly in place

When Stairway to Heaven hits

And your last drag concludes

With a translucent lil’ ball with a tangerine core

And a buzzed n’ satisfied grip crumples the beer can

As golden drops dance in the sunlight streaming

Through the mosquito screen.


But what did you come here for?

The nature, the remoteness, the space, the experience, the beauty?

Crickets in high grass jumping over piles

Of fishing rope flopping out the Astro

Dry mountains raising an eyebrow

To knotty buoys tethered where they belong

Sunk on dry ground

So?

We’re all here… Why are you?

Myriam flew in from Falcon Lake

Rocker Buddy from Calgary hittin’ the Pinot Grigio hard

Other-buddy’s also here? Somehow from Shediac, being a bit creepy, in my opinion.

My Véronique is outside smoking, avoiding the schmoozing,

Grumbling beneath her breath, groveling about something and the dreadful drive back east

At least she’s thanking her lucky stars I finally lightened the load

The rocks, the lines, the beads rolling from bumper to bumper between gas and brake,

Spray foam spilling through nets like my unwaxed bikini line

No time on the road for arm pit stops

Sweaty sunshine cascading through my driver’s side window

And swaths of fruity Okanagan air floating over the lake

Personally, I’m raring to go

It’s time to shine!

More than ready for this exact moment.
My grand debut: My pièce de résistance: a vernissage of the century

This evening British Columbia will never know what hit them.

The wining, The dining, The consummation of culture

Hovering over the cheese table like swine at the trough

What looks like an oversized maritime necklace on the floor

A few maquettes that seem a bit too challenging to explain.

Colours strewn over the walls and floor

We now have this room full of people

Chatting awkwardly.

Scratching the wine glass stem nervously in a corner

Squirming for inspiration on their next conversation starter

Seemingly weak west coasters constantly grasping for straws.

While I, I know what to say:
I ALWAYS know what to say.

So I just prance up,

Collect my congratulations and hit homerun hard:

Every time: it’s a win-win solution.

Oh yes, of course it’s a bit rigged for my own success in the matter

But I still love to watch the competition cower

They scramble, squirm and suffer

And it’s always a defiant defeat

With my simple, innocent, unassuming direct question:

“But what?” I begin.

My confidence oozing.

Hiding back my evil grimace, the curl of my upper lip, the lewd piercing of my glassy-eyed stare.

Awaiting my prey.
Feeling my target tremble.

Awkwardness spilling out their pant leg on to the Alternator floor.
My success is so close to completion.

I drove across the country hungry for this very moment.
Here it comes. I’m up for bat. ready to deliver:

My mischievous glare drives deep and my toothy smile finally cannot contain itself:

I go on, I ask:

..

“But what did you come here for??”


Justin Apperley is an artist based on the traditional territory of the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in (Dawson City, Yukon Territory). Justin holds an MFA at The Glasgow School of Art and a BDes from OCAD and the Gerrit Rietveld Academie in Amsterdam, Netherlands. Working with photography, sculpture and print media, Apperley’s practice deals with emerging themes of climate change, nomadic futures and alternative survival strategies.

Selected exhibitions include Bonsoir Moreau, Espace Maurice, Montréal, CA (2023), Cowboys Can’t Sleep, Klondike Institute of Arts and Culture, Dawson City, CA (2022), Silver Linings, Yukon Arts Centre, Whitehorse, CA (2020), Bloomberg New Contemporaries, Leeds Art Gallery & South London Gallery, Leeds & London, UK (2019), Last Futures, Tramway, Glasgow, UK (2018), and Pin-Up, Mercer Union, Toronto, CA (2011). Selected publications include Dust to Oaxaca, by Colour Code Printing, Toronto, CA (2016), and Freeze up / Break up, by Rockbottom Press, Los Angeles, USA (2015).