Lang Lang in France The superstar Chinese pianist uncovers a garden of Gallic delights Words by Gianmarco Segato | Illustration by Dane Thibeault | Photography by Olaf Heine ISSUE 13 | ENSEMBLE Chinese pianist Lang Lang is an anomaly in the Classical music world. His ability to connect with a wide audience has garnered him the sort of fame that far outstrips even the biggest stars within a very niche industry. Having burst on the international scene by winning the 1995 International Tchaikovsky Competition for Young Musicians in Japan, the 42-year-old pianist has since gone on to collaborate with the world’s greatest orchestras and conductors. He has played at legendary venues like Carnegie Hall, Royal Albert Hall, and Wigmore Hall and with conducting legends such as Daniel Barenboim, Gustavo Dudamel, and Sir Simon Rattle. Lang Lang All of this would be expected of one of the world’s great piano virtuosos, but from early in his career, Lang Lang has worked with a range of artists and repertoire well outside of elite Classical outfits. His collaborators have included fellow pianist Herbie Hancock, Pharrell Williams, Metallica, dubstep dancer Marquese “Nonstop” Scott, and dancer, actor and activist Lil Buck. In April 2020, he teamed up with Andrea Bocelli, Celine Dion, Lady Gaga, and John Legend for the grand finale performance of The Prayer at the One World: Together at Home concert. Likewise, Lang Lang has produced an eclectic discography. Alongside staples of the piano repertoire like Bach’s Goldberg Variations and the great Rachmaninov, Liszt, and Chopin concertos lie the soundtrack for the video game Gran Turismo 5 , Disney tunes, and traditional Chinese music. Up until now, however, a corner of the repertoire little explored by Lang Lang has been the diverse array of solo and orchestra-accompanied compositions of the late 19th and early 20th-century French school. His latest album from Deutsche Grammophon entitled Saint-Saëns aims to remedy that gap. It not only includes works by the great, long-living (1835-1921) French composer, organist, conductor, and pianist of the Romantic era, but also, contemporaries like Debussy, Fauré, and Délibes. In addition, Lang Lang includes the lesser-known Louise Farrenc, Charlotte Sohy and Germaine Tailleferre, three women composers who have been undergoing a period of rediscovery for the past decade. The double disc’s two cornerstones are Saint-Saëns’s Carnival of the Animals (1886) and his Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 2 in G minor op. 22 (1868). The former is a unique, humorous 14-movement musical suite written for two pianos, the second pianist on this recording being Lang Lang’s wife, Gina Alice. Most of the 25-minute work’s sections are very short—less than one minute each—and are musically descriptive of the animals they portray: the lion, tortoises, elephants, kangaroos as well as that strangest of creatures…the pianist! Saint-Saëns was famously embarrassed about Carnival , viewing it as a sort of populist bonbon that didn’t represent his ambitions as a serious composer. In fact, he refused its publication until after his death. Despite these efforts, Carnival is undoubtedly his most popular work. Its best-known movement is the “Swan”, a slowly moving cello melody evoking the regal bird as it glides over the water. Lang Lang and Gina Alice are accompanied in Saint-Saëns’s bestiary by the world’s oldest civic symphony, Leipzig’s legendary Gewandhaus Orchestra under their Music Director, Andris Nelsons. Saint-Saëns wrote five piano concertos, but only the second has managed to gain a toehold in the central concert repertoire. The composer was a noted pianist himself and early recordings show him to be a master of le jeu perlé , a delicate style of playing using only a sparing amount of light pedalling. This manner was ultimately rejected by players of the German and Russian schools who favoured weight and brilliance, with a heavy foot on the pedal. It is this shift in style and taste that perhaps explains why Saint-Saëns’s No. 2 has prevailed over his other concertos given its more overt drama and showiness. Lang Lang himself likens the work’s opening bars to the sound of a big organ and signals the “big church bells” effects in the third movement. But he also notes how the concerto’s more delicate moments are “like counting the stars” and foreshadow Debussy’s Impressionism. It is that composer’s “Petite Suite” for Piano 4 Hands that brings together the husband and wife team in a more intimate “piano-only” setting to contrast their work in Carnival . Gina Alice describes the work as “a French watercolour” that demands an extremely light touch. Continuing on in that vein are piano versions of Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte and the “In paradisum” section of Fauré’s Requiem mass (usually sung by a choir) played by Lang Lang. Without doubt, the rarities on this recording are by women composers like Charlotte Sohy who for so long have been overlooked, or outright dismissed, by the classical music industry. Lang Lang compares Sohy’s “Romance sans paroles” to works by her contemporary male counterparts, Ravel and Debussy, adding that listening to it “you don’t need to come to Paris…you are walking on the street in Paris!” And for Lang Lang’s legion of fans, this new Saint-Saëns disc will no doubt spark interest in an often neglected region of great piano music that offers so much to discover.

Alexi Murdoch on Moral Urgency Alexi Murdoch by Dane Thibeault INTERVIEW — Why artists must confront power, take risks, and answer the call of Gaza Words by Barry Oliver ISSUE 16 | ARTS & LETTERS On 16 September 2025, the United Nations Independent International Commission of Inquiry on the Occupied Palestinian Territory issued a report concluding that Israel has committed genocide in Gaza, finding reasonable grounds to conclude that several acts under the Genocide Convention have been, and continue to be, carried out with genocidal intent. In the 1980s, musicians and recording artists rallied to the call of Live Aid , transforming their voices and celebrity into vehicles for famine relief in Ethiopia. Today, as Gaza faces similar devastation, can artists rally together to support the Palestinian cause? The age-old question arises of whether artists have a duty of moral urgency to respond to political conflicts. A balanced view holds that every individual is entitled to personal privacy, and no artist should be compelled to turn their life’s work into a manifesto. After all, is it not an artist’s primary responsibility to create art? Yet, art does not exist in a vacuum. Art is shaped by the cultural and political landscape of the times in which it is forged. When artists achieve a significant public following, their voices become more than personal: they become cultural currency and can directly influence public opinion. Artists, with their visibility, reach, and cultural influence, continue to occupy a unique position in calling out the ongoing genocide of the Palestinian people in Gaza. The challenge posed to artists is how they can transform their social responsibility into tangible, real-world impact. Symbolic gestures, such as social media posts, carry weight, often dissipate quickly amid the relentless, live-streamed news cycle of atrocities in Gaza. More enduring forms of solidarity involve partnering with and financially supporting established humanitarian organizations, and direct action through participation in public protests. English folk musician Alexi Murdoch has used his social media platform to publicly criticise actions taken by both Israel and the US in relation to Gaza. In particular, he used his platform on X (formerly Twitter) to share literature concerning the ongoing “ethnic cleansing” of the Gaza Strip. Murdoch most recently performed at Voices of Solidarity , one of the largest cultural fundraisers in the UK in support of Gaza’s healthcare system. Held in July 2025, the music and comedy event aimed to raise £1 million for health workers and vital infrastructure under siege in Gaza. Murdoch believes the role of the artist in times of political conflict is “to wake people up to their own sense of agency and consciousness, to see what is rotten around them”. The artist’s responsibility in solidarity with the people of Gaza is not only to speak about injustice but to pierce the fog of distraction that permits such injustices to persist. Artists who practice this form of consciousness-raising do not, however, escape the personal costs. Murdoch recalls being dropped by his management, an experience that made clear the risks artists face when engaging their art and public voices with political conviction. The passivity of many peers who avoid political commitments under the guise of brand management, becomes symptomatic of careerism in late capitalism. Even figures as globally recognized as Madonna, famously at the vanguard of cultural and political trends, illustrate the problem of delayed urgency. In an Instagram post this August, nearly two years into the conflict, she urged Pope Leo XIV to bring “light to the children of Gaza.” Though sincere, her reaction highlights just how slowly many high-profile individuals have responded, long after artists more inclined to moral urgency, like Murdoch, have raised their voices. In this climate of constant risk assessment, artists fear being branded antisemitic, facing industry blacklisting, or losing out on professional opportunities. In Germany, for example, artists and cultural institutions critical of Israeli military policy are now threatened with the withdrawal of government funding. In London, the mass arrests of Palestine Action supporters have criminalized the act of solidarity itself. Sally Rooney, author of the bestselling novel Normal People , has pledged to donate the proceeds from BBC royalties and book sales in response. As Palestine Action remains a proscribed terrorist organization under UK law, does Rooney’s pledge mean the simple act of buying one of her books in Britain could be construed as supporting a terrorist organization? Is it possible that it is not just artists but also ordinary consumers of culture who are being coerced into silence on Palestine? Artists who stand in solidarity with Palestine do so in recognition of a long struggle, not a fleeting cause. As Murdoch rightly insists, the October 7 attacks were neither an isolated event nor the genesis of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, but part of a settler-colonial project that has spanned more than a century. In 2021, more than 600 artists signed the #MusiciansForPalestine open letter. Based on the earlier model of Artists United Against Apartheid during white-minority rule in South Africa, its signatories included globally recognized figures across genres and affirmed that Palestine is not a passing trend but a defining moral question for contemporary artists. History offers abundant evidence that art has never been separate from politics. Pablo Picasso’s Guernica , in which the artist laid bare the horrors of the Spanish Civil War; and Bob Dylan’s protest songs in the 1960s, which became anthems for the civil rights and antiwar movements are iconic instances of art in service of activism seared into collective memory. History also warns of the dangers of the depoliticisation of art. The Guerrillero Heroico photograph, the iconic image of Che Guevara, taken by Alberto Korda, has undergone a transition into a lifeless emblem on posters and coffee mugs. Its once revolutionary zeal has been reduced to mere surface. The same unfortunate fate has befallen Keith Haring’s graphics, once vital in a campaign against the silence surrounding the HIV/AIDS crisis under the Reagan administration. His colourful barking dogs and dancing figures, for instance, are now packaged into mass-produced T-shirts at Uniqlo. Such examples reveal how art’s radical edge is stripped of its original context, with politics reduced to mere aesthetics. For artists who express solidarity with the people of Gaza, the challenge is to resist that same hollowing out─to resist letting solidarity be flattened into hashtags or fleeting trends, and instead preserve art’s political weight as direct action, witness, and resistance. Interview Clip:

Coming Up for Air Roufaida INTERVIEW — With her debut album, Roufaida transforms cultural inheritance into a living, flexible practice of self-expression Words by Keena Alwahaidi | Illustration by Dane Thibeault ISSUE 16 | ROTTERDAM | ALT.ITUDE To describe Roufaida simply as a singer-songwriter would overlook the depth of her music, a storied and complex legacy of diasporic identity. The Dutch-Moroccan singer’s debut album Coming Up for Air encompasses that and more—a poetic exploration of her North African roots, while also challenging what social consciousness means at the intersection of heritage and self-expression. Few musical works capture such a rich sense of identity, tied to the textured, often rocky awareness of the past and belonging. Roufaida's work never seeks to separate her own identity from politics, making art as activism a vital mode of expression. Her writing is riddled with love. And to write on love, how could one avoid the burden of occupation, which haunts every aspect of life and ruptures how we view and engage with art forever? As vital frameworks, art and life are inextricably intertwined, mimicking each other, and in the face of colonial violence, neither should find comfort in a neutral state. The seeming simplicity of her music reveals a stark truth: colonialism pervades almost every international industry, including her own. Roufaida by Mous Lamrabat While advocating for Palestine might inspire in her — and others in the same position ─ an empowering stance, it doesn’t come from power itself but from the act of resisting. The freedom that comes from living and breathing at the margins. However, what is the essence of making art produced as activism first, and art second? To disturb the order of things is to pose activism as the vessel, carrying art within it. It risks myriad misdirected outcomes—outcomes Roufaida deliberately resists. Her music is about love and longing, but that in itself is political. Activism doesn’t consume or overtake Roufaida’s artistic expression; instead, it drives the music. That yearning to belong, to return to something, to find freedom─ that is what generates urgency and brings difficult revelations. It’s inseparable from the art. In that same sense, her newly rediscovered link to the past and present in Moroccan music manifests as deliberations on what to leave and what to take. Her song “Don’t Bend”, off the self-titled EP preceding Coming Up for Air , centres on that latter idea, exploring the balance between honouring what was and envisioning what might come. She interrogates what it means to connect with one’s heritage: who decides what to keep and what to leave behind? How do we find an authentic balance between the two? Album cover for Coming Up For Air, by Mous Lamrabat For Roufaida, finding an authentic way to honour where she comes from is a process, weaving it throughout the fabric of Coming Up For Air . Keeping and leaving parts of her heritage isn’t about preserving them in their original form, but about making them usable and satisfying. We see this in the use of the North African instrument the gimbri —a central part of Gnawa traditional music. The gimbri naturally drives its player towards the solace of ritual, often through repetition. It carries memory with ease for Roufaida, and she found herself thinking about what words she wanted to write as she began playing it a few years ago. It was also an interrogation of whether or not she was appropriating her own culture, wondering how to engage with it as someone within a diaspora. In Coming Up For Air , the listener is invited to realize: belonging is not a fixed idea. Rather, it is a flexible one, allowing one to reshape who they are in the diaspora by taking what they need and leaving behind what no longer serves them. That is a resistance in itself, and reclaiming what it means to belong to a culture is a creative act of defiance.

Cécile McClorin Salvant Cécile McLorin Salvant by Karolis Kaminskas Salvant soars for RCM’s “Quiet Please, There’s a Lady on Stage” WORDS BY MILES FORRESTER | Koerner Hall MAR 30, 2023 | COMMUNITY For the Royal Conservatory of Music’s Quiet Please, There’s a Lady on Stage concert series, Cécile McLorin Salvant took advantage of Koerner Hall’s dynamic capacity. Her third time at the hall (having debuted in 2013 and returned in 2019) this performance follows two back-to-back albums released by Nonesuch Records: last year’s Ghost Song and last week’s Mélusine , as well as an eclectic mix of covers. Starting with Ghost Song ’s title track, a blues ballad ruminating on an undead relationship. Keeping the acapella intro, Salvant reinterpreted the intimate haunt on the album’s Rhodes-accompanied version as the third act of an exorcism, with rattling percussion by Keita Ogawa and Sullivan Fortner striking dissonant chords up and down the octaves of a grand piano. This intensity set the tone for the rest of the evening.

Manami Kakudo’s Contact Manami Kakudo in studio “How would my younger self feel listening to this?” Words by Michael Zarathus-Cook ISSUE 13 | TOKYO | ALT.ITUDE Manami Kakudo’s musicality is an intractable melange of tenderness and mischievous experimentation, wrapped in a cinematic appeal. The contours of her style are elusive, not because of a carefully calibrated aesthetic that aims to escape every attempt at categorization, but as a coincidental byproduct of an expressive sense of creative freedom unperturbed by the listener’s expectations. Born in Nagasaki, Kakudo graduated from the Tokyo University of the Arts in the Department of Instrumental Music, with percussions as her instrumental family of choice. A prolific artist with various outlets of creation that are interlaced by her penchant for multimedia collaborations, Kakudo has released three studio albums over the last six years, the latest being 2024’s Contact . There are only a few English-language titles on this album and, despite its title, it is a proudly Japanese album. Yet, Contact feels universal in its scope, and communicates something to the attentive listener, regardless of language. Its atmosphere is coloured by a surreal climate: bright blue skies that describe a Japanese alt-pop ethos are fragmented by the interjections of dissonant electronic effects and the occasional overcast of gloomy folk melodies. On the whole, Contact manages to not lose itself in its own expanse, even tracing something of a narrative arc through its 62 minutes of music. The album ends with “Hitosara”, an uncharacteristically jovial number that plays out on harmonica, a tropically flavoured acoustic guitar, and a smattering of percussive instruments fit for the closing act of a carnival procession. All this is in contrast to the audible sound of a character being submerged underwater in the opening frames of the album, only to emerge but this tub at the end “theatre”, the ninth song on the album. Everything after “theatre” blooms like a drenched field meeting the sun for the first time after a storm. In conversation with Cannopy , Kakudo tries to trace the roots of this album’s many branches and recommend some further like-minded listening. CANNOPY x MANAMI KAKUDO Subscribe to The Cannopy Newsletter for the full interview with Manami Kakudo

The Hours at The Met Kevin Puts by David White Composer Kevin Puts Weaves a Tapestry of Possibilities for Mrs. Dalloway WORDS BY MILES FORRESTER | NEW YORK | MUSIC MAR 13, 2023 | ISSUE 10 The way Kevin Puts describes the possibilities unlocked in opera, it seems only inevitable that Virginia Woolf's landmark novel Mrs. Dalloway would be a perfect fit for this powerful genre. Woolf's novel of a day in the emotionally resonant interior lives of strangers—aging socialite, Clarissa Dalloway, and "shell shocked" veteran, Septimus Smith—challenged London’s notions of time and the individual. Michael Cunningham's 1998 novel, The Hours , interpolated Woolf herself into a story of three women living in three separate cities and generations. The 2002 film adaptation, directed by Stephen Daldry and scored by Philip Glass, won an Oscar for Nicole Kidman as Woolf. Twenty years later, another adaptation commissioned by The Metropolitan Opera, composed by Puts and his librettist, Greg Pierce, will be staged at The Met this November. This premiere will be a few months shy of a century-long journey from Mrs. Dalloway’s dramatized composition in 1923. Conducted by Yannick Nézet-Séguin, mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato will play Woolf and sopranos Kelli O'Hara and Renée Fleming—who collaborated with Puts in Letters From Georgia— play Laura Brown and Clarissa Vaughan. Earlier this year, the opera was performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra, also under Nézet-Séguin's baton. We speak to Puts about how his fifth opera introduces a new perspective to this story of a very long day.

Off the Record: Angel Olsen Angel Olsen INTERVIEW ─ “Why am I so unafraid right now?” Words by Michael Zarathus-Cook & Rebecca Lashmar | Illustration by Ella Mazur ISSUE 10 | ASHEVILLE | ALT.ITUDE LATEST RELEASE Big Time — Released Summer 2022 Big Time , the sixth studio album by singer-songwriter Angel Olsen, was released in June 2022 to much anticipation and even more acclaim. Released by Jagjaguwar (Bon Iver, Sharon Van Etten), the fiercely independent album is underscored by a creative concept that marks a new phase in the artist’s self-ballasted evolution. Big Time is at once ethereal and terrestrial. The ethereality that popularized Olsen’s unique sound is here ensconced in a lyrical realism set in the soil of the artist’s recent upheavals. At the age of 34, Olsen came out to her parents, the joy and courage of which was pruned by the devastating loss of her father three days later. Two weeks later, she got the call that her mother was in ER, followed by hospice care and a second funeral in an excruciatingly short period. This is the difficult terrain from which Big Time grew, an album whose title song explores the double entendre of “I love you big time” and how grief can expand into the size of a small planet that our lives must orbit over and over. Recorded in Topanga Canyon, California, the album’s soundscape is similarly spacious, spreading upwards and outwards in symphonic swells and digging down towards the rocky gizzard of memories. So compelling was the aura and atmosphere of this sonic reality that Olsen, an equally gifted actor and storyteller, created a companion film ( Big Time Film ) for the June release. In it, she relives the events and realizations that animated a few chosen songs, with scenes that seem to be connected by a time machine and cast in the dim memorial glow of a fading photograph. From her dazzling dreamscape that is Big Time to her appearance in the Karen Dalton documentary, In My Own Time, Olsen joins Cannopy Magazine to talk about future aspirations in film and current creations in music. She also dives down into the aesthetics and influences that tie the visual universe of Big Time together. With a lot of growth and change in recent years, Angel uplifts the importance of embracing the difficult lessons that only grief can teach and the connections that she is forever grateful for. Interview Clip

Desert Blues Tinariwen by Marie Planeille INTERVIEWS — What makes the music of the Tuareg so blue? Words and Interview by Michael Zarathus-Cook ISSUE 12 | WEST AFRICA | ALT.ITUDE “The Tuareg wear flowing robes so bright and rich with blue that over time the dye has seeped into their skin, literally blueing it. They are desert nomads who were famously unwilling to be converted to Islam: thus their name. [...] It should be noted that the Tuareg do not call themselves Tuareg. Nor do they call themselves the blue people, they call themselves Imohag, which means ‘free men’.” From Bluets, Maggie Nelson When Maggie Nelson’s Bluets was published in 2009, and a swath of readers were introduced to the Tuareg for the first time, there was a rush towards the novelty shrouding these mysteriously “blue people of the desert.” But in the 14 years since Nelson’s seminal meditation on the colour blue, much has unfolded in our public consciousness of these nomadic peoples of the Western Sahara, particularly as relates to their music. To be sure, Nelson’s passing reference isn’t responsible for this consciousness — Tuareg bands like Tinariwen have been garnering international attention since the 80s — but her reference to them serves as a snapshot of the wider Western attitude regarding the cultural commodification of the “world music” genre. The appetite of this attitude is ravenous. As soon as news arrives of a nascent and uncontaminated rhythm emanating from somewhere within the African continent, well-meaning producers and managers from LA’s forgotten boulevards descend on these musicians by the boatload. They come with promises of international touring circuits, equitable royalties, and direct-to-consumer access to Western ears that don’t mind — or perhaps even enjoy — the language barrier. But the fascination soon tires as so many of these artists return back to their local scene with little financial benefit to show for their global renown. The producers eventually lose interest and return back to their studios to await news of another batch of fresh green world musicians. The history of cultural and economic exploitation of African musicians by the global music industry has been well documented, and the industry has developed an appropriate sensitivity to the otherisation that is fostered by this lazily-defined genre. It is against this historical backdrop that the present crop of Tuareg artists, spread across three generations, are looking to build a sustainable audience within Africa. Over the last two decades, bands like Tinariwen, Tartit , Toumast , Tamikrest , Tidawt , and Mdou Moctar have been able to make the transition to a new generation of listeners with broad musical appetites fed by algorithmically-driven streaming platforms. Relatively newer projects like Bombino , Kel Assouf , Imarhan , and Atri N’Assouf are pushing the extent to which their Tamasheq language and traditional rhythms can amalgamate with rock and electric blues music from the West. The primary instrument of Tuareg music is the guitar, on which a style known as assouf is played with rhapsodic flourish, and typically over an athletic self-perpetuating drum beat. This rapidly evolving style, pioneered in large part by Tinariwen, constantly churns out some of the most inventive guitarists on the planet. Assouf — also known as tichoumaren (“the unemployed”) — is often referred to on the global scene as the “desert blues.” This moniker is a nod to its similarity to the longingness that characterises the American blues tradition. However, the artists we interviewed here — Kel Assouf, Tartit, Bombino, and Tinariwen — believe it’s the other way around, that the blues were first exported to America, returning now to Africa with a vengeance. Why are the Tuareg so blue? It’s not so much the dye in their robes as their distance and displacement from home. After French colonial powers carved traditional Tuareg territory into regions that encompass present-day Mali, Burkina Faso, Northern Mali, and Niger, the post-colonial political aftermath was one of persecution and conflict with neighbouring countries. Various Tuareg uprisings since the 1960s, against the Malian and Nigerien governments, have cultivated a fervent cultural resistance, and a peculiarly nostalgic homesickness, that continues to trickle down into their music. Kel Assouf Kel Assouf — which means “from nostalgia” in Tamasheq — is a project founded by Anana Harouna, a Nigerian Tuareg living out his exile in Brussels. Kel Assouf - Photo © Maël G. Lagadec How does the older generation of Tamasheq musicians influence your own style and sound? AH ─ Older generations of musicians like Tinariwen who are pioneers of Tamasheq blues very much inspired me in my youth, because it is a style of music that carries a strong message. Today, it contributes to raising awareness of socio-political issues of the Tamasheq people, and it brought the culture of our people to the world. I’d say that I am between the two generations, the first, and the one today that is younger than me. It’s just that I bring back a touch of current modern music (rock, electro, pop), while keeping my roots of desert blues. What distinguishes the Tuareg guitarist from the American blues guitarist? AH ─ The word blues translates to “assouf” in Tamasheq: a mix of melancholy, sadness, suffering, and a thirst for freedom. There is no difference between the blues in the United States and the blues in Africa, simply because those who played this style of music imported it from Africa during the time of slavery, to relieve their suffering and nostalgia for their home countries. The assouf style that Tinariwen created in the 80s also comes from a similar history of great suffering and marginalisation of the Tuareg during that time. What are some of the changes you’d like to see in terms of how the global music industry, especially record labels in the West, can create a more equitable ecosystem for these artists? AH ─ The change I would like to see in the industry would be to see more honest people ─ people who think about artists and who love music first before their love of business. I find that some people exploit artists who come from Africa by saying that we don’t know our rights. Even I was a victim of this. I never signed off on my last album, Black Tenere . My former manager, Michael Wolteche, signed it on my behalf with the record company, without my consent. All the royalties go to the manager, not the artist. To date, I haven’t touched a penny from that album. I know for sure that I am not the only one being exploited. That’s not to say that everyone in the music industry is rotten. There are honest and dignified people who deserve respect. Injustice shouldn’t be a taboo subject if we want to live in a just and fair world. Tartit Formed during the Tuareg uprising against the Malian government in the 1990s and originating from Timbuktu, Tartit is one of the only female-fronted Tamasheq bands. Led by Fadimata “Disco” Walet Oumar, the band features four female singers and five male instrumentalists; it’s the men who are veiled, while the women play tende drums. Tichoumaren dominates Tamasheq music, so much so that this guitar style — which is played by male musicians — has become synonymous with Tamasheq music. Tende , as the counterpart to tichoumaren , is characterised by protest songs by women against internal patriarchal structures and external political stresses. How have you seen the popularity of tende music grow over the last two decades, and how has it helped to increase the profile of Tamasheq musicians? FWO ─ Tuareg music was originally carried by the women. The tende songs were really the main element of Tuareg music. During camel races, which are moments of celebration and joy among the Tuareg people, the tende is played and women sing songs as accompaniment. To announce a marriage, it’s the tende that’s played. The world should know that Tuareg music is mainly carried by the tende ; it was only in the 80s that the guitar was introduced. In recent years, the use of the tende has really decreased because of the guitar. Firstly because it is the men who carry the guitar, and also because they have more possibilities of touring with only four people. Managers, who are more like entrepreneurs, take the smallest group because they can tour more easily. With groups like Tartit, it takes at least eight people to form a band, and that’s not easy to tour. And with the banning of tende music by radicals, the women are also veiled. Tartit is not only Tuareg in our music, but also in our clothing, dances, and clapping. This is all very rare at present. Beautiful music like this has a tendency to disappear. Bombino Omara “Bombino” Moctar’s contribution to Tuareg music has been rewarded with a meteoric rise to concert venues across the world. Raised in an encampment in Northern Niger, Moctar grew up playing guitar in the style well established by the previous generation’s music. A confluence of his dedication to expanding the traditional music of his people, and fortunate happenstances in the mid-to-late 2000s, culminated in his pursuit of a career in music. In 2006, he accompanied the band Tidawt to California and wound up recording a cover of “Hey Negrita” by The Rolling Stones─alongside Keith Richards and Charlie Watts. During Angelia Jolie’s weeklong trip to the Niger in 2008, Moctar served as her cultural guide, introducing the actor to the music of the Tuareg. But his entrance into the recording booth for his first album, Agadez , came in 2009 when filmmaker and producer, Ron Wyman, tracked Moctor down in Burkina Faso after a yearlong search since first hearing news of Bombino’s irresistible sound. Despite the international appeal that both responds to and inspires his guitar style, his evolution continues to binge towards music for an African audience: music that tells African stories and searches for new realisations of pan-African continental identities. His latest release, Sahel — released September 2023 — borrows its title from a pan-African region of the same name, stretching from the western-most coasts of Mauritania to the eastern face of the Sudan, overlooking the Red Sea. Bombino by Richard Dumas (top left) and Alice Durigatto (Bottom) A new generation of audiences are discovering giants of Tamasheq music like Tinariwen and Tartit for the first time through the newer generation of musicians like yourself. What inspires you the most about this generation of Tamasheq musicians that precede, and how does their legacy continue to influence your own style and sound? OM ─ First, it must be said that I would not be here as an artist if it were not for the legendary Tuareg artists like Tinariwen that came before me. I grew up idolising Tinariwen. I would teach myself all of their songs on the guitar. My own style was very influenced by them as well as artists from the West like Jimi Hendrix, Carlos Santana, and Dire Straits. Tinariwen were the ones who blazed the path that artists like me can now walk in our own careers. They proved that Tuareg music can be appreciated all around the world, and that it is a great way to bring attention and appreciation to the Tuareg and our culture. I will always consider them my musical parents. What distinguishes the Tuareg guitarist from the blues guitarist? OM ─ I am not an expert on the American blues, but I can say from my own impressions that there are many differences between our music and American blues. I think the connection starts with the notes we play. We use the same notes, the same musical language. But our traditional rhythms are very different. That is what makes it ‘desert blues’ in my opinion, using the Tuareg rhythms and combining them with American blues scales. The spirit and the style of the genres are also closely connected, like cousins. And of course the American blues and our traditional music both spring from the same source, here in Africa. A huge component of your live concert performance is the dissolution of the separation between performer and audience. A Bombino concert feels like a collaborative experience with the audience. How does it feel for you when the audience collectively responds to that energy on stage? OM ─ Yes, you are exactly right. A concert is a collaboration between me, the band, and the audience. The energy that the audience gives to us is the fuel that we use to give a dynamic performance. As a performer, you are always hoping to feel a strong energy from the crowd to inspire you. Often we are very tired from lots of travelling and little sleep while we are on tour, so we depend on the energy from the audience to give us the energy we need. How can the record labels in the West create a more equitable ecosystem for Tuareg artists? OM ─ For me, the issue is not about what happens in the West ─ it’s about what does not happen back home in Africa. I do not want to criticise those in the West who decide to work with African artists; usually these are people who are honest and reliable and want the best for the artists with whom they work. For me the big problem facing African artists is that we do not have the resources back home to have a good career without going to Europe or the United States. We do not have a good studio in Niger, for example. We do not have many options for local labels or agents to help us. I think this is what creates the biggest disadvantage for artists from Africa. Tinariwen The perpetually confounding feature of Tinariwen’s output over the last 40 years is how they manage to keep up with the experimental edge of the new generations of Tuareg musicians that they themselves inspired decades ago. For Tinariwen’s founder, Ibrahim Ag Alhabib, the guitar is as intimate as the Tamasheq language, and a natural expression of the rebellious streak in his lyrics. He made his first guitar — out of oil cans, sticks, and bicycle brake wires — after seeing a cowboy play the instrument in a makeshift cinema. Thus began the evolution of the mastery of the instrument that would earn him recognition as the father of tichoumaren. The band’s latest release, Amatssou (“beyond the fear”), was recorded mostly in Algeria and Mauritania, after an initial invitation by Jack White (The White Stripes) to record at his Nashville studio was thwarted by pandemic travel restrictions. Heading towards a different kind of blue, Ag Alhabib and the rest of his crew wanted to try something new by borrowing idioms from American bluegrass and folk traditions. Despite these new musical flavours, Amatssou never loses sight of the homesickness of the Tuareg people. Tinariwen The release of Amatssou meets a new generation of audiences who are discovering Tinariwen for the first time, through younger Tuareg musicians who were themselves inspired by Tinariwen. What excites you in this new generation of artists? IAA ─ It’s great to see this younger generation of talented Tuareg musicians make records and tour all over the world. They are really important for our community because we need to keep promoting Tuareg music and poetry and stay connected with the world. How do you conceive of the assouf style? IAA ─ Assouf is not specific to our guitar style of playing, which has several influences, including American blues, Timbuktu’s guitar style — not only Ali Farka Touré, but also the Imzad (the traditional Tuareg violin played by women) — and the Arabian lute. It’s more about the nostalgia that comes with exile, because that’s how this music was born. Tinariwen by Marie Planeille. You bought your first guitar in 1979. Do you still have it? IAA ─ No I don’t. They tend to get worn out faster in the Sahara because of the sand, the sun, and the extreme changes of temperatures. There are far more Tuareg musicians, and musicians from the broader Sub-Sahara, now than when you created Tinariwen. What are some of the changes you’d like to see in terms of how the global music industry, especially record labels in the West, can create a more equitable ecosystem for these artists? IAA ─ We have been lucky to get some support from the West in order to make records and tour internationally, and not many African bands have had that opportunity. With current technology, African artists are, in a way, less dependent on the West, because recording and sharing music is much more accessible, and the African music industry is developing. However, most of the money is still in the West, so it is hard to make it without going there. The recording industry is becoming more and more competitive worldwide, and it is more and more difficult for a young band to survive in this context. I think this is more a problem of global capitalism than the music industry. The big needs to share more with the small. What advice do you have for young African artists coming up now on how to maintain the integrity of their musical tradition as they combine it with other musical traditions? IAA ─ Combining your music with others means moving away from tradition, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing, and it won’t make you lose your integrity as an artist. On the other hand, it’s our responsibility to keep singing the old songs, recording them, and teaching them to the kids in order to preserve our musical tradition.

What Can Stravinsky Do For You? Morgan's Tattoo of Stravinski Juilliard bassoonist, Morgan Davison, on how she found the magic of Stravinsky. WORDS BY MORGAN DAVISON | NEW YORK | MUSIC NOV 15, 2022 | ISSUE 8 sM | What does Stravinsky’s have in store for a new generation of performers and concertgoers? MD — I was six years old when I first stumbled upon Mr. Stravinsky. I was staying with my aunt, who always put something on the T.V. to help lull me and my twin brother to sleep. I’m not sure if it was by fate or by accident that my only memory of this stay is when my aunt tucked us into bed and then put the movie Fantasia 2000 on the screen. Fantasia sets animated stories to life, accompanied by classical greats such as Beethoven’s 5th and Respighi’s Pines of Rome . Stravinsky’s Suite from his ballet The Firebird is the last short story in the movie. I was so enraptured by how this music felt different, almost three-dimensional; as if the fluttering of the flute and strings in the “Firebird Variation” of the Suite brought the cartoonized leaves, being stirred on the screen, directly into my lap. Yes, I connected with the visual story being told, but it was the music that made me feel something. After this encounter, I decided I wanted to be a classical musician. It wasn’t until I started auditioning for schools, however, that I realized just how far back my love for Stravinsky’s music went. As a bassoonist, it’s utterly impossible to get through a single audition without encountering something by Stravinsky. Along with the technical difficulty of these excerpts, to achieve the correct emotion behind the music is the greatest struggle.

Toe Fish Art by Toe Fish INTERVIEW ─ On the struggle to create in a city that can’t afford its artists Words by Anusha Bansal ISSUE 16 | TORONTO | STUDIO SESSION Artists congregating in big cities to pursue their craft is a tale as old as time. There is an undeniable magnetic draw to cities like Toronto. So many of us dream of moving to a big city, whether it’s for personal artistic endeavours or simply for the proximity to culture. During the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, there was an exodus of artists, and while some have returned, the cultural landscape has shifted. Métis artist, muralist, and woodworker Toe Fish (Joshua LeClerc) is one such artist: he left Toronto for the great outdoors of British Columbia, but has now returned. Leaving, for him and many like him, was driven largely by financial considerations as well as by the desire to be closer to family and nature. Life away from cities is more affordable, though the trade-offs are considerable. Living costs are lower, but opportunities can be fewer. People flock to big cities because of the wealth of art, interesting experiences, and exposure to culture. Paradoxically, the cost of living ends up pushing out the people who endow the city with its cultural and artistic capital. Costs aside, living in an urban hub is just plain difficult. The endless hustle — even when the bustle feels absent ─ brings constant overstimulation. So why do we willingly put ourselves in the line of fire? Why do we romanticize living on top of each other? Toe Fish (Joshua LeClerc) I can’t help comparing the way LeClerc speaks about his work to the fabric of Toronto. He’s known for painting on unorthodox materials like plywood and concrete. He remarks that “deviations in the surface” spur spontaneous creativity beyond what he could’ve planned on a blank, pristine canvas. His work brings out a serendipitous dialogue between painter and material. You can see it in the contrast between bold, bright painted forms and the raw, weathered surfaces beneath. The character-laden slab of wood peeking through white paint brings the piece to life. At once, that discarded board-turned-canvas gains a second life. The layering, the deviations, the added marks that alter and reshape an existing surface—this, too, reflects what makes a metropolis compelling. Mural by Toe Fish By its nature, living in a city means we’re never isolated within a silo. We are always reacting to our surroundings, driven in different directions by external forces. Those who are drawn to urban life are, by nature, in constant conversation with the city itself. From a love-hate relationship with public transportation to discussing the latest stage production, or being inspired to order fish because of a mural that caught your eye, a place affects you and you affect it. It’s even more pronounced in a city where layers of people and histories overlap endlessly. In that context, artistry becomes uniquely powerful. Once embedded within the thrum, the question becomes how to slow down in a place that thrives on speed. While being surrounded by people, community, and culture can be inspiring, sometimes it’s the quiet that sparks new ideas. Perhaps this was also the allure behind the exodus of artists? It’s far easier to catch your breath in a smaller town with sprawling greenery, literally and figuratively. In cities, you have to carve out that space for yourself. LeClerc’s efforts to find this space are reflected in his work, whether it’s vivid flowers bursting up or happy clouds floating across a scene. The warmth and whimsy of his work invite you to stop and explore the different colours and characters. Creation or admiration, art requires us to slow down. The public murals by Toe Fish only enrich the patina of Toronto, giving people a reason to pause and smile. Art by Toe Fish Five years after the start of the pandemic, Toronto is not the same city. We are also not the same people. It’s a narrative mirrored across major cities. Economically and culturally, Toronto isn’t quite where it stood pre-pandemic when it comes to creative industries. Nevertheless, you can still find and build community. We are entering a new era of creative communities. As artists navigate the way forward, it’s people like LeClerc and his commitment to place and, more importantly, to people, that will revive the metropolitan spirit. CREATIVE EXODUS What motivated this initial decision to leave Toronto during the pandemic, and the desire to return? TF ─ My initial decision to leave Toronto was largely due to my partner and I discussing the financial liabilities of staying, as we both worked in the service industry to subsidize our art practices. Going back to British Columbia to reconnect with family also influenced our decision but we maintained the intention of coming back to Toronto in a few years. The pull to return indefinitely was largely due to the mural opportunities that Toronto provides, especially through laneways, where you can work with independent homeowners on creative projects without always having to go through an organized program. The financial viability of this plan is possible because we have a two-income home. I’ve been able to balance this by taking time to appreciate, study and sketch the flora and fauna of the city as well as finding time to enjoy the pockets of the city where nature can really thrive, like the Don valley and Humber River. How would you compare the artistic communities in Toronto pre-and-post pandemic? TF ─ The artist communities that I’ve been around seem to be still flourishing post pandemic and I feel I’ve come back to a scene that is still welcoming and full of opportunities. What I’ve noticed in Toronto recently is that artist studio spaces have declined. The loss of beautiful arts buildings like 888 Dupont have definitely weighed on me. The continued presence of the Dundas arts building, still standing and hosting live/work spaces for artists, gives me hope. Yet I long to see new spaces of that calibre emerge as others are demolished for redevelopment. Read the full interview with Toe Fish – and discover over 30 other artists and organizations – in Issue 16 .

Reflections with Timo Andres Timo Andres - Photo by Michael Wilson The pianist and composer on bringing the latest release by Sufjan Stevens to life WORDS BY ZOE CLELAND ISSUE 12 | NEW YORK | ENSEMBLE With a multiplicity of possibilities expanded by the technological advancements now at our disposal, more and more artists are collaborating across traditional industry boundaries. One such exciting crossover is celebrated indie singer-songwriter Sufjan Stevens ’s foray into the world of ballet. Stevens, who has been nominated for both Academy and Grammy awards for his work, began collaborating with choreographer Justin Peck in 2012 to adapt his music for the dance. Their creative partnership has produced numerous scores, including Year of the Rabbit (2012), Everywhere We Go (2014), In the Countenance of Kings (2016), The Decalogue (2017), and Principia (2019). Timo Andres - Photo by Michael Wilson Stevens says that their latest collaboration, Reflections , written for two pianos and eleven dancers, is about “energy, light, and duality.” Released through Asthmatic Kitty Records and produced by Ryan Streber, it sees the return of pianist and composer Timo Andres performing alongside fellow pianist Conor Hanick . Although Stevens is that magical breed of self-taught musician who learned his considerable skill by ear, Andres’s proficiency in orchestral music composition and performance has bridged the necessary gap between artificial in-studio orchestras and real ones. Reflections is a distillation of Stevens’s expansive electronica and orchestral pop, and is electrifying in its condensed, two-instrument expression of the artist’s original sound. Timo Andres - Photo by Michael Wilson Their connection dates back to 2017 when Andres recorded music for The Decalogue, fresh off its premiere at the New York City Ballet. Reflections was the third collaboration between Andres, Stevens, and Peck, recently followed by Illinois (2023) — a theatrical performance based on Stevens’s much-loved concept album of the same name — performed at New York’s Bard College. Andres’s interpretation of Stevens’s essence embraces the inherent, defining aspects of his work while gently transitioning it to the new context of dance , one that has the potential to uplift both forms of art.

The Italian Team Massimiliano Siccardi Leaders of the Immersive Revolution WORDS BY CAMILLA MIKOLAJEWSKA | CHICAGO | VISUAL ARTS MAR 21, 2023 | ISSUE 9 Meet the creative team behind the revolution in immersive art: Art Director Massimiliano Siccardi, Creative Director Vittorio Guidotti, and Composer Luca Longobardi. MASSIMILIANO SICCARDI - ART DIRECTOR Massimiliano Siccardi, the Art Director behind many of Lighthouse Immersive’s exhibits, takes it upon himself to revive the works of artists like Vincent van Gogh, Gustav Klimt, and Frida Kahlo in new multi-sensory experiences. Massimiliano spent time studying contemporary dance in London before transitioning to video arts where he created mise-en-scènes for choreographers and theatre

The Check In: Quinn Rockliff Quinn Rockliff INTERVIEW — Balancing art, livelihood, and integrity in an age of endless content Photography by Quinn Rockliff ISSUE 16 | HAMILTON | STUDIO SESSIONS Quinn Rockliff When the feminist artist Quinn Rockliff first spoke to Cannopy in Issue 6 four years ago , the conversation centered on her approach to displaying her line-drawn nude portraiture on social media. Since then, her practice has evolved in both subtle and significant ways: incorporating quilt-making on one hand, and taking a full-time job outside the arts on the other. This evolution brings into question the ways in which we tie artistry and profitability in our conception of art as industry. In an algorithmically derived “content” ecosystem, do artists sometimes have to choose between being an artist and making a living from their art? Rockliff persists as an artist through and through, and continues to consider what a sense of presence within her creative energy looks like. Returning to Cannopy ten issues later, she remains decisively curious about engaging with the world as she searches for timeless answers on how to create art with integrity in an age defined by capitalism. Grand Closing "Worth Saving" Back in 2021, you were practising your artistry in a recognizably conventional way: making art that was highly personal but also available for purchase through an independent online shop. Over the last year and a half, you’ve opted to ditch the commercial aspect of this artistry and instead make art mostly to share it online in a way that feels very early-internet and organic. What were some of the catalyzing realizations that resulted in this pivot? QR ─ I was very lucky to have so much support for my online shop and commissions over the years, but after the pandemic it was obvious something in the algorithm had shifted away from me. It became clear that simply sharing my art online didn’t ensure people saw it. For about six months I continued pushing to create and share online to promote my online business but I caught myself conflating self worth with engagement, and that’s a dangerous game when it comes to creating art. Deciding to close my shop was difficult; but I couldn’t be happier. I got a job in a field completely outside of the focus of my MFA. This allowed me to preserve my creative energy and put it toward exploring new mediums. Without the pressure of creating, sharing, and ultimately selling, I’m able to have more freedom to make things just for the sake of making them and it feels great. Grand Opening Do you feel “more like an artist” now than before closing up your shop? QR ─ I would love to confidently say that being an artist is an innate, self-imposed label, but I admit that having a job outside of one’s practice and sharing less of one’s works online can challenge that identity. I am not myself if I am not making something, and I think that will always be the case. This interview request came at something of a precipice for me, as I just left the aforementioned job to pursue the arts again. I don’t know what form that will take but my time away from the creative industries has pushed me gently back into them. In many conversations I have with other artists and creatives, it feels harder than ever to get by solely on making art, so I’m curious what comes next. "That's Better" Could there be a sustainable way for artists to maintain the best of both worlds: maintaining artistic integrity while also running a small business on the basis of this artistry? QR ─ I’ve dedicated the next three months to figuring this out. I don’t have the answers yet, but my goal is to speak to as many people as I can who seem to have balanced artistic creation with viable business. I’m very interested in exploring more traditional skills and artforms such as upholstery and quilting. As someone who used to exclusively draw and paint, I’ve been loving the time-intensive and tactile nature of creating quilts. It is one of the hardest things I’ve ever taught myself how to do. My hope is — as we become increasingly aware of automation and mass production and its immense impact on the world around us — there will be a shift toward a greater appreciation of handmade and deliberate works of art. Reenvisioning my work through the lens of quilting has taught me to slow down and really sit with what I’m making and perpetually ask myself why it is I’m making it. For Your Eyes Only In Issue 6, you said, “When I first started talking online, no one was talking about how healing isn’t linear, no one was even talking about experiencing trauma. Now I hope we have become more sensitive about the ways we talk about these things online.” A lot has changed in the last few years in regards to internet culture, do you think that sensitivity towards trauma has evolved or devolved? QR ─ I’m not sure if it’s a result of gradual healing, or my relationship to the social media landscape, which has changed so much since my practice began, but I don’t work through things as publicly online as I once did. Similar to the ways in which quilting has slowed me down and allowed more time for me to process; I am more interested in creating works that articulate how I am feeling versus publicly and impulsively sharing those thoughts online. Ultimately, most of my work comes from an idea or phrase that I’m working through that seems too scary to say out loud. I’ve found those are the words that others need to hear the most. There’s still so much to be mad about as a feminist artist, but I now play it closer to my chest, until I’m ready. Again In Issue 26 Looking forward to the next 3 years, what are you most hopeful for regarding your evolution as an artist? What are you doing now that you hope will build a stronger sense of community in the near future? QR ─ If I conclude that the best way to continue to create work is not through my career (aka how I make money) but rather through finding a path that supports creation outside of my job, I think I’ll feel ok about that. I will always be making something, working through something, finding a way to share how I feel, I hope that never goes away and I don’t think it will. I find community in conversations with friends, in working through hard things, in trying to understand how we stay afloat in this world, in small admissions of struggle and validation in our collective exhaustion. Today, these conversations sometimes meander into the social media space and sometimes they stay between friends and drift into my studio practice. As I enter a new phase of my life of trying to become a mother, I am confident that will expose a whole new catalogue of fears, uncertainty, joys and growth that will undoubtedly find their way into whatever it is I make next.

Profile: Anora Mark Eydelshteyn and Mikey Madison in 'Anora.' Contextualizing Sean Baker’s latest film within cinema’s history of sex-positive self-actualizing female leads Words by Gabriel Frieberg ISSUE 15 | IN FOCUS In Sean Baker’s new film Anora , it’s Mikey Madison's brassy, audacious, star-making performance that hits you first. But equally impressive is its tonal complexity—a mix of beats both familiar and new, combined with subversive twists both classical and modern. Pitched as Pretty Woman by way of the Safdie Brothers, there’s something to that comparison, as Anora sprints down a more volatile path than the 1990 Richard Gere, Julia Roberts film. Whereas Pretty Woman told a neat Cinderella story, Anora flirts with and then mocks that idea. In fact, the film’s been marketed with Variety ’s pull quote: "makes Pretty Woman look like a Disney movie." There’s an undeniable fairytale quality to Anora , but it’s spiked with a volatile sense of danger and unpredictability. The film thrums with electricity, keeping you on your toes while also pulling you deeper into the lead character’s tumultuous journey. Madison’s portrayal of Anora, a sex worker trying to navigate the chaos that engulfs her life, makes you root for her as she loses terra firma and spirals out of control. This intoxicating, uneasy balance between dreamlike fantasy and gritty realism helps Anora find its edge. How Anora deftly navigates its tonal shifts—feeling like five movies in one—without losing its core identity is remarkable. The first act plays like a sex-positive rom-com, as Anora is swept off her feet for a Vegas-set whirlwind romance. It’s too ideal, too dazzling, and this false sense of security leads to manic whiplash as the bill comes due, and we downshift from carefree romance to farcical crime thriller. Here, Sean Baker channels the absurdity and dark humor of the Coen brothers, laced with outer-borough NYC rawness. That energy carries over to Anora ’s next evolution, into a one-crazy-night-in-New York caper in the vein of classics like Martin Scorsese’s After Hours or Spike Lee’s 25th Hour . Gradually, Anora is changing before our eyes. No longer the wide-eyed dreamer, but a woman slowly hardening to her circumstances and the inevitable crush of power. This is a smart, deliberate evolution, as Anora begins to align more with her gangsters than with the naive lover she initially fell for. Baker pushes the film past the standard tropes of these kinds of narratives, refusing to flatten Anora into a stereotype or an object of pity. Just as we finally think we know who Anora is—a bawdy firecracker, a hopeful dreamer, a rebel, a victim of circumstance—the film shifts again, and we get perhaps our truest understanding of the character. The final act embraces a melancholic wistfulness and sense of longing reminiscent of Wong Kar-wai. The manic energy of earlier scenes gives way to a slower, more meditative pace, allowing the emotional weight of the experience to hit us like a ton of bricks. Sean Baker’s oeuvre is known for emotional devastation, and Anora is no exception. Yet, the feeling here is tinged with hope. The ambiguous ending leaves us wondering what the future holds for Anora, but her resilience is undeniable. Despite (or even because of) everything that’s transpired, you know Anora will live to fight another day. Her moxie, her steel, and her sense of self are all strengthened. In this sense, Anora most closely evokes Federico Fellini’s 1957 film Nights of Cabiria , starring his eternal love, the unforgettable Giulietta Masina. Like Anora, Masina’s Cabiria contends with the best and worst of humanity, but her perseverance carries her ever onward. Both characters endure betrayals and hardships, yet their resilience and determination make them indelible figures.