Frequently Asked Questions
Canadian Artist, Amanta Scott, discussing her work. Photo by Randolph Croft
1 . What does the word “encaustic” mean?
The term “encaustic” derives from the Greek word: "enkaustikos" which means "to heat" or "to burn in".
2. What is encaustic painting?
Encaustic painting is an ancient technique which involves applying layers of molten beeswax (mixed with pigment and molten resin to increase hardness) and fusing each new layer to the one beneath to paint or sculpt a surface.
Encaustic is the term for both the medium of pigmented wax, and the process involving heat, by which the medium (the mixture of beeswax and resin) is applied and secured.
3. Is encaustic painting an old or new technique?
Encaustic painting is a very old technique dating back to Ancient Greece and Egypt. In Ancient Greece, encaustic was used for painting ships because, according to Pliny, encaustic held up well to sunlight, salt and water. In Greco-Roman Egypt, 100 B.C. to A.D. 200, encaustic portrait paintings - the Fayum Portraits - were set into mummy casings.
4. What kind of wax do you use for painting?
I paint with beeswax, although I have explored microcrystalline wax as well in my earlier works.
One can extend the beeswax with the addition of some microcrystalline wax, if so desired. This raises the melting temperature which can be useful.
Encaustic paintings exhibit a unique luminosity. Light passes through transparent or translucent layers of wax and is reflected up to the surface, illuminating the painting from within. I find beeswax gives a more luminescent quality and sheen than microcrystalline wax.
5. Do encaustic paintings require special care?
Encaustic is actually quite durable, it even seems to repel dust.
Encaustic paintings are best kept in locations with controlled temperatures. Within your home encaustic paintings can withstand sunlight, heating and air-conditioning.
Sometimes you might see the painting develop a cloudy film over the surface. This is known as “bloom”. You can rub this off gently with a soft cloth and the painting will regain its lustre and sheen.
Encaustic is susceptible to cracking if subjected to freezing temperatures and you wouldn’t want to leave it unattended in a vehicle on a hot day because your painting would melt into a puddle of molten wax. Just as you shouldn’t leave an animal or a child in a car, you shouldn’t leave an encaustic painting in a vehicle either.
6. Are they likely to melt in my house?
No. Not unless your house is on fire. Then you'll have more to worry about than the paintings.
7. What was your inspiration for Eyeing Medusa?
In 2019, I was in the Borghese Gallery— in Rome, Italy— transfixed by Bernini’s magnificent sculpture The Rape of Proserpina, when I overheard people commenting on his incredible technique: how the marble mimics flesh, how you can see Hades’ fingers digging into her skin, her body twisting to escape, tears running down her face. . . And it dawned on me that nobody had mentioned that this was depicting a rape. They were all focusing on the technique.
That really shook me. Here we were in a gallery with a woman being raped and people reacting like this is perfectly normal. Seeing another sculpture, where Bernini depicts Daphne turning into a tree in an effort to avoid Apollo’s advances, it hit me: These are not old stories. They’re happening every day.
I had just put my hand up for #MeToo, so perhaps I was still jittery from that, and I’ve always looked to mythology and psychology to make sense of life, but these works triggered me to start paying attention to how women are depicted in the world of art.
8. Why did you call the project Eyeing Medusa?
I named the installation after Medusa because she was raped, torn from her spiritual path, vilified, blamed and destroyed — much as many women have been throughout history. And, because the only way to conquer our demons is to reflect upon them, just as the only way to kill Medusa was via a mirror, a tool for personal reflection. For these reasons I felt that Medusa and many of her contemporaries merited a deeper look.
9. Why do you engage with social issues as an artist?
It’s part of my DNA. I’ve always been an outsider. A social activist since the age of seven, I’ve had a lifetime of people telling me I’m “different”. For that reason I guess I identify with those known as “others”.
As an artist with a multi-faith background and a family lineage of human rights activists, philosophers, rabbis, artists, and refugees: my personal experiences and heritage fuel my artistic practice. Uniting us all is the Jewish concept of Tikkun Olam: each individual’s responsibility to repair the world. Having been raped, I react viscerally to depictions of women: objectified, sexualized, weeping, dying. I recognize the body language of desperation and identify with expressionless faces disassociating. And I know I'm not alone.
I look at history with contemporary eyes because I want to understand the roots of deep-seated problems that urgently require solutions. How can I address the normalization of rape and violence in a way that changes the way we look at and treat women, et al? I don’t aim to censor or advocate “cancel culture” or “presentism”. I explore the past so as to learn from it and envision new paths to the future.
In 2020 Curator Dr. Karine DuHamel asked me why I engaged with social issues as an artist. Since this is core to my work I decided to investigate.
I discovered that many of my ancestors were Sephardic Jews, from the Iberian Peninsula, who were expelled from Spain by the Alhambra decree in 1492 and scattered across Europe. I was surprised to learn that they were not considered white.
I grew up without grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins in my life. Until this year I had no idea that so many of them had perished in the concentration camps.
I was raised in the belief that all religions hold partial truths; that there is no one right way. Like my ancestors I’ve always sought unity in diversity. For that reason I cultivate intercultural dialogue and conversation in my work.
I’ve travelled a lot, circumnavigating the globe several times. I love languages. I particularly love how languages reflect the different ways we think, especially how we relate to the world around us. I love how we approach ideas and things from such diverse perspectives. We can learn so much from each other when we are open to it.
10. What urgent social issues do you address as an artist?
Violence against women, and racism.
Since the outbreak of the global health pandemic we’ve seen increased racial tensions, xenophobia, hate speech and attacks against Asians, Muslims, Black and Indigenous people worldwide; and all types of violence against women and girls has intensified.
The idea that women are merely vessels for sexual desire has enabled enslavement, rape, forced reproduction, and other forms of sexual coercion.
11. How do you tackle violence against women, and racism — as an artist?
To address this challenge, I decided to start a new painting series that looked at women in an entirely different way.
I realized I needed to do something to stop this pernicious cycle. I needed to take action.
And I had to go about things differently.
If energy goes where attention is directed, why feed into more of the same?
I think it is very important that we find a new way of looking at women in the arts because it will also impact how we see women in our world today.
12. What is one of the core questions in your work?
“What can I do so people get it, feel it, know it— and care?"
13. Why are you particularly interested in Indigenous issues?
I think I connect with what seem to be parallels between my reality and that of Indigenous people. Perhaps I identify with the sense of displacement.
My early education was a mess, with both the school system and Canadian identity in flux. It was clear that no one in authority had a clue what they were doing. I also encountered a lot of racism and intolerance as a child.
I grew up without a sense of connection to people or place. I don’t belong anywhere and I’m okay with that. I know what it is to lose track of your roots. Jews and gypsies have been persecuted for centuries. I used to joke that every time one of my ancestors got pregnant they jumped a border. Now I know why.
Apparently I have a direct a family line to what is considered one of the most important non-hassidic rabbinic families in history — yet I’m not officially part of the tribe.
My mother Corinne Langston is half-Jewish. Her father, Jewish-Roma, never admitted his ancestry. Her mother, Cecelia Fisher, was adopted from a foster home at age 7, after her mother, Maude Gleeson, an Irish refugee, died of exposure and alcoholism in a doorway with thirty misdemeanours to her name. Upon Maude’s death, her ten children were taken by the church and scattered.
My father, Desmond Scott, was Jewish, but raised with Theosophy. His mother, Rose Allatini, a renowned author, wrote many books exploring Theosophy, Jewish identity and shame. My father’s father, composer and author Cyril Scott, advocated Unity in Diversity, a philosophy I fully embrace.
Gladys Kidd, an Ojibway Elder, taught me to trust my own ways and unique spiritual path. Within the Indigenous community I found a kinship I never knew before — for that reason I care very deeply about truth and reconciliation.
14. How does community engagement feature in your work?
Community engagement is a huge part of my work.
Core to my practice is connecting art with communities— inspiring people of diverse cultures, ages and walks of life to engage with art, share stories, and consider how it relates to their lives.
Visitors bring their own meaning to the work.
The job of art is to trigger ‘a-hah’ moments, those sudden realizations.
I direct workshops with youth from juvenile detention centres, women from shelters, students and people of all walks of life. I always make a point of out reaching the community.
I’ve worked with a range of community organizations, including United Way, Correctional Service of Canada, Algoma Police, Canadian Mental Health Association, Greenhaven Shelter for Women, and Beaverhouse First Nation. I also make a point of ensuring mental health and emotional/spiritual support workers are available for visitors potentially triggered by any artworks or workshops. In several cases the installations created by visitors were strongly indicative of cries for help. In two instances the visitors seemed potentially suicidal. Having support workers on site to chat with the visitors, as I myself did too, greatly deepened the experience and enabled visitors to feel seen, heard and respected. I remained in contact with these visitors for years after the exhibition.
15. What is the key issue you have with western art?
Looking at Western art over the centuries, I’ve noticed that it’s normal to depict women being raped or abused or belittled as frivolous playthings.
Women of colour are either hyper-sexualized, depicted as servants or notably absent.
Essentially, women are either idealized and objectified or vilified, victimized and blamed. We’re seen: not as persons, but as subjects, objects, possessions; or a threat.
I believe this very negative portrayal of women in the arts has serious implications for our society. This influences the way we see, and indeed the way we treat, women in society at large.
16. How can Artists & Museums facilitate change?
As we consider issues such as the portrayal of women in art, our roles in society and how we ensure resilience in the midst of a pandemic, I think we also have an opportunity to re-imagine the role of galleries and museums.
As we emerge from the pandemic, I think museums and galleries have an opportunity to become gathering places for people to see art, to consider how it relates to their lives, and to engage in discussions on how we address social issues as a community.
17. What are you doing differently to cultivate change?
Rather than re-telling or reinterpreting the myths, scriptures, stories and artworks of the old masters I aim to change the game entirely.
I paint just their faces; recognizable yet abstracted, painted closeup so we can look into their eyes without distractions. We’re not thinking about their body shape or size, or their hairstyle or clothes. We’re looking into the eyes and seeing their soul, their minds.
In avoiding the things and situations typically used to objectify women and focusing entirely on their faces, I aim to show what remarkable people they are.
Instead of presenting women as victims, I celebrate women as survivors, wise and willful, brave, insightful, patient, determined, strong, fierce, impulsive, compassionate and kind. I choose to focus on contemporary women so that we could learn more about amazing women shaping our world today.
18. How is mythology connected to your work?
I have been passionate about mythology throughout my life and much of my art has been inspired by Greek, Celtic, Japanese and other mythology. Myths are often considered to be sacred tales that explain our place in the world, so my use of mythology is to help position these remarkable women in our contemporary world.
Conceiving the paintings for Eyeing Medusa, I reimagined ancient goddesses as contemporary women because I see women today as drawing down strength and resilience of these ancient archetypes. Each painting in the installation has a title and story connected to mythology. My earlier works, Arising Phoenix, Dragon Tango, and Virago Project also explored mythology and its relevance to the roles, expectations of and challenges faced by women in contemporary society.
19. How significant is research in your work?
Research is a huge part of my work. I love challenging myself to back up my own assertions and I love learning and broadening my understandings and perspectives.
I grew up in a family where dialogue and debate was expected. Questions were always encouraged. So, for Eyeing Medusa, in order to be sure I wasn’t just jumping to conclusions about the representations of women in art, I began a major research project exploring and categorizing how women are portrayed in art. Some of this research is available on the Food for Thought section of my website: amantascott.com.
20. What is the story of Tarquin and Lucretia?
The story goes that Lucretia is a Roman noblewoman who is attacked at night in her bedroom by a guest to her home — Sextus Tarquinius, the King’s son— who blackmails her into having sex with him.
In the morning she tells her father, chief magistrate of Rome, and husband what happened and demands vengeance.
While they’re deliberating, at great length, what to do, Lucretia stabs herself in the heart and dies.
Her rape and subsequent suicide so enraged the public that it triggered a rebellion which overthrew the Roman monarchy and led to the foundation of the Republic of Rome.
21. How did you get prison beds?
I was commissioned to create art utilizing waste from government buildings. Correctional Service of Canada gave me approximately thirty prison beds — from the now-closed, former Kingston Prison for Women (an institution itself loaded with history) with which I created the sculpture series LockDown — exhibited at Art Gallery of Algoma in 2004. CSC also gave me the orange, standard-issue, get-out-of-jail suitcase which I use in the interactive installation 15 Minutes of Fame.
22. What is the background of Parallel Lines?
Parallel Lines is rooted in my life experiences; and my friendships with Indigenous people.
I met Arthur Shilling and his brother Paul in the early 80s. My friendship with Paul was immediate: strong, intense— and enduring to this day. Arthur’s expressive use of colour and design in what is now known as his Final Works deeply impacted me. Equally profound for me was his vision to celebrate the beauty of his people— strong though steeped in grief and loss, struggling to maintain their cultural and spiritual ways amid colonial oppression and ongoing racism, intolerance and apathy.
Meeting Arthur and seeing his work changed the course of my life as an artist. His energy, style, vision and philosophy influenced both my artistic palette and my artistic approach. In particular it inspired the approach to the paintings in Eyeing Medusa.
Paul’s struggles with alcohol and stories of his childhood and prison experiences also deeply impacted me.
Seeking to understand the depths of his spiritual and emotional anguish, I joined the Canadian Alliance in Solidarity with Native People, a community of activists, artists, musicians and writers. For many years, I joined them in protests, powwows, conferences and women’s circles; and learned from friends and Elders about the devastating effects of colonialism, the 60s scoop, the Indian Residential School system, poisoned waterways and ongoing environmental issues.
My interactive sculpture installation 15 Minutes of Fame was created in honour of a young Indigenous man, Jimmy, who told me that by age sixteen he had lived in fourteen foster homes; and one day, deeply depressed, figuring no one wanted him — he threw a shovel through a jeweller’s window convinced — at least he’d be wanted in jail. I met him at an Elder’s Conference, rebuilding his life, recovering from physical and emotional abuse, battling alcohol, drugs and systemic racism. Jimmy recognized that his perspective on life and consequent beliefs had led him to take a decision that was not in his own best interests.
Jimmy’s story haunted me for twenty years as I pondered about the choices we make based on our beliefs and perceptions.
I identified with him. Like most women I know, I have been stalked, flashed, grabbed, groped, verbally and physically assaulted, and raped. The first time, I was five years old. After a nightmarish sexual experience with an older man I had once admired, I sought refuge in an unhealthy, troubled and unhappy marriage.
Ultimately — after years of wrestling with alienation, depression, racism, sexism; and the shame and guilt resulting from emotional abuse, sexual assault and rape — I found myself contemplating suicide and recognized that I needed help.
One day a visitor’s reaction to one of my artworks showed me that art could speak without words. I felt heard and seen. At the same time I suddenly realized that I, like Jimmy, in search of love and understanding, had sent myself to a prison of my own making. That moment probably saved my life. Realizing that both of us had effectively incarcerated ourselves through our beliefs and choices, inspired me to create the first work in Parallel Lines: 15 Minutes of Fame.
Public response to this work inspired me to take the project further with a series of photo-based encaustic paintings featuring myself and a prison bed in a variety of locations around Toronto.
23. What inspired you to create the project Parallel Lines?
It was a twenty-year process actually. The seeds were planted in my meeting with Jimmy in the 80s.
Then, in 2004 the Government of Ontario commissioned me to create a series of sculpture utilizing waste from government buildings. Correctional Service of Canada asked if I might be able to do anything with prison beds.
I said “Yes!” immediately thinking of Jimmy and Paul and so many of my Indigenous friends.
I knew instinctively that I held the keys to a project that would engage people of all cultures in discussion and trigger people to feel it, know it and care.
24. Why is the installation entitled 15 Minutes of Fame?
It was my way of saying to people “You matter.” Jimmy didn’t feel he mattered to anyone. Sadly, to this day he probably has no idea how important he is.
Andy Warhol once remarked that "in the future everybody will be world famous for fifteen minutes”.
Before the selfie craze, before social media became so popular, I was seeking a mode to encourage people to connect and share their insights and stories with others. I seized upon Warhol’s comment to invite viewers to claim their 15 minutes of fame and share their stories through my installation.
25. What was the inspiration for the suitcase in the work?
When I was in Germany in 1990 I encountered Rauschenberg's work, Black Market, which intrigued me for its inherent potential to engage the public. Curators have claimed that the installation "didn't work." For me, it certainly did work, but I felt I could take it further.
When my contact at CSC offered me the suitcase, she described it as the standard issue orange get-out-of-jail suitcase and said that if ever I saw someone on the subway carrying such a suitcase I would know where they had been.
For me the suitcase represents all the baggage we carry around throughout our lives.
How we sort through our baggage, create meaning and process our experiences, is our life mission. What do we discard along the way? What continues to haunt us? How attached are we to our physical possessions or our own stories and belief systems?
26. What is the significance of the installation “In Memoriam”?
For me, the beds speak of the holocaust. For a lot of people they resonate with residential schools, boarding schools, immigration centres and shelters. For my part, I’ve had nightmares about the holocaust ever since I was a child. Until recently, I had no idea that so many of my family were murdered in the holocaust.
27. Is that you in the Parallel Lines paintings? If so, why?
Yes it’s me.
When you imagine a woman on a bed you’re most likely to think about something sexy. I went in the opposite direction.
In Western art we often see a woman draped upon a bed in various stages of undress. The bed itself is often luxuriously depicted with silken bedclothes and colourful cushions in various stages of disarray. Instead I chose to be fully clothed in black, atop a bare prison bed; sometimes with a thin pillow atop a neat pile of folded sheets and a blanket at the end of the bed (as I’m told is the custom in prison); with an orange standard-issue get-out-of-prison suitcase at the foot of the bed, fully packed and closed.
For me, I represent a woman who is not static, she is ready to go, ready for change.
28. What were you thinking about in the photos?
I was thinking about the stories visitors had told me while engaging with my installation 15 Minutes of Fame; about my life; and about the many issues and circumstances that lead us to prison.
How are we imprisoned by our own beliefs and choices? How are we imprisoned by society?
29. Is Parallel Lines autobiographical?
Yes, although it didn't start out that way in my mind.
For years people asked me if the work was autobiographical. For years I insisted it wasn’t.
Initially I was responding to stories visitors had told me during their enactments with the installation 15 Minutes of Fame. But in the end, art cannot exist without the artist, so my stories got intertwined as well.
Finally, as I shared stories with participants during my exhibition at Museum of Northern History in Kirkland Lake, I realized that the work was indeed autobiographical in many ways, and I could see my life history unconsciously reflected in the paintings as the years progressed.
30. What do the keys signify in the installation Parallel Lines?
The keys represent the keys to our own imprisonment and our release.
The choices we make are governed by a subjective perception of reality. When we are prisoners of our own beliefs, we create prisons for ourselves and for others. When we question our own beliefs, we release ourselves from that which imprisons us.
It was a huge moment in my life when I finally realized that I held the keys to my own release — through the arts.
I encourage people to meditate upon the keys to their own release, which undoubtedly each of us holds in our own hands.
Beautiful things have happened for Visitors when they have walked down the eggshells, holding a key. It’s lovely to witness.
31. What is the significance of the eggshells in the installation Fragile?
Walking down the eggshells, in the Fragile installation, reminds me of the uncertain psychological experience we describe as “walking on eggshells” when we are trying to approach a subject or issue without upsetting anyone or ourselves for that matter.
Reconciliation and truth involves a metaphoric walking on eggshells— as does talking about women’s issues, sexism and misogyny.
The fragility of the male ego and white people’s guilt is real.
It’s exhausting trying to navigate these sensitivities while trying to open people’s eyes to urgent, equally real and serious social issues.
People don’t understand what it means to accept that they are privileged. Their emotional fragility leaves them thinking that being privileged is necessarily something to feel guilty about.
Recognizing that you are privileged can actually be empowering because then you will see that you have the power to create change, to speak up and be heard, to shift power structures and challenge prejudice, racism and oppression.
Guilt is pointless if it prevents positive action or change.
32. How do Visitors react to Parallel Lines?
This work has been very successful in a range of situations. The work succeeds in engaging people’s hearts and minds through interaction, play and conversation — motivating them to want listen, hear and consequently empathize.
It is a surprising catalyst for intensely personal, intimate, thoughtful, revealing and insightful installations created by Visitors of all ages. In creating a forum for creative expression and release, I think I have found a way to make people feel it, know it, and care.
At its first exhibition (Art Gallery of Algoma, 2004) I set about to bring new audiences into the gallery: people who wouldn’t normally be there— women from shelters; youth from halfway houses; former inmates; police; prison guards; social workers— together with school groups and the general public to interact with the installation and participate in arts workshops.
Among this group were four youths from a half-way house program: troubled, functionally illiterate, and pushing boundaries from start to finish. None of them had set foot in a gallery before.
A week later, one of them returned: demanding to “do the installation again”— significantly: to include a personal photo in the empty picture frame found in the suitcase.
The fact that he was sufficiently moved to return and invest himself in a work of art, indicates the power of this installation. I knew I was onto something.
Following one installation, attended by a mixed group of Indigenous and non-indigenous students, a visitor exclaimed: "After hearing her story I felt I could be her friend."
Could there be any better response to a work of art?
At another exhibition, a Sri Lankan woman enacted a harrowing scene. Later, through a translator she spoke of being imprisoned, forced to surrender her children and ordered to choose which one would live and which one would die. “I was imprisoned. I was there a long time. All I know is I feel numb.” As other Visitors reacted to her story, a young man spoke up —“It’s true. She’s my mother.”
One man lay himself under the bed saying: “This was the only safe place in prison.”
Whereupon another man burst out: “You’d never find me under any bed! I spent half my adult life in prison. I ruled that place!”
Parallel Lines has shown in art galleries, museums, festivals, street fairs and public events since 2004. It has proven to be very popular with people of all ages, cultures and socio-economic backgrounds. Wherever the work is shown, it draws visitors from all sectors of society, including: school groups, people from shelters, youth from juvenile detention centres and halfway houses, refugees, former inmates, military personnel, residential school survivors, police, prostitutes, victims of incest, insomniacs, workaholics, adults, children, seniors, travellers — literally anyone who has slept or attempted to sleep in a bed. And everyone has their own unique story and perspective to share.
Since its inception, no two participants have conveyed the same idea.