2024 AGM is June 25th at 6:30pm


Objects of Desire – Trevor Waurechen

January 29 to May 17, 2021

We are all products. Every element of our selves is a product as well; tested, marketed, packaged, promoted and sold for our consumption. Advertising and the motivation to consume are the most ever-present forces in our lives. We are constantly greeted by product logos, advertisements, signs, messages telling us what to want.

Objects of Desire is a reflection on this culture of want. It is the result of our collective short attention span for the things we have, and our perpetual quest to consume. We have been conditioned to endlessly want. And we want until we have. Having serves only to diminish desire. Objects become as ephemeral as the feelings which drove us to seek them out, just as those very feelings wane through possession. We seek without knowing what it is we want. We seek the ephemeral through the tangible, and act surprised when acquisition does not quench this desire. Objects, things, even people become meaningless emblems of a feeling not found. Symbols surprisingly void of the connections we sought through them and their acquisition.

Here are objects without feeling. Things which we seek, liberated from our impulse to possess. Symbols of symbols. The greatest unspoken contract of our society. I bring the objects, you bring the desire.

OBJECTS OF DESIRE - Trevor Waurechen

To learn more about Trevor Waurechen, his work or to purchase his art, please visit:

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The Loch Doon area was memorialized in celebrated Scottish poet, Robert Burns piece “Ye banks and braes O’ bonnie Doon”

Ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care?
Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o’ departed joys,
Departed, never to return.

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o’ its love,
And fondly sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause lover stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

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