The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

I read Lament for a Literature the day Lloyd Robertson died. It was a sad, timely reminder of the importance of Canadians telling Canadian stories to their fellow Canadians.

Like the vast majority of people from any Western Country, I no longer watch the evening news. I don’t remember exactly when I stopped—it was a habit I picked up from my parents, as most do, so the less I spent time there, the less I watched. But I know when I said I wouldn’t watch it again, and that was when Robertson left.

Robertson was a Canadian giant (his autobiography is a wonderful read, by the way). But the death of Canadian broadcast news is just another example of the modern, digital world and the internationalization of our media consumption causing the slow, creeping death of domestic media and mediums. Literature, writing, and publishing are others. It’s a frustrating story, well-documented in Lament for a Literature by Richard Stursberg.

It’s timely because, as Stursberg points out, Canada is at a new inflection point in our search for identity, spurred on by threats to our sovereignty by the colossus next door. A clear identity was something we had in spades, and it was best reflected in our literature. There were Canadian publishers dedicated to supporting Canadian writers who themselves wrote novels, histories, and philosophical and political works that were distinctly Canadian. Margaret Atwood, Alice Munro, Pierre Burton, George Grant, and Peter Newman were published by Canadian publishers. Now, the book documents that foreign publishers sell Canadians books about elsewhere, and the few Canadians who are successful no longer set their novels here. Part of it is commercial and the reality of modern readerships, but Stursberg also documents that Canada is unique among English-speaking nations in that it has no significant domestic publishers and reads little by domestic authors. Twenty years ago, that was not the case, and the reason is primarily governments of all stripes refusing to uphold thier own laws and regulations designed to protect the Canadian publishing industry.

Stursberg proposes policy changes to rectify this, including tax policy that mirrors the highly successful television and movie industries, as well as pricing and publishing rules that give Canadian companies the ability to compete. Policymakers should take heed because they’re all based on successful policies from other rich-world countries.

The book, though, is at its best when it reminds the reader about the importance of a domestic, patriotic literature, both fiction and non-fiction. Now more than ever, Canadians must successfully answer the four key questions for understanding identity: who are we, who are we not, where are we, and what are we doing here. These four questions are best answered, for any nation, by its artists. And, Stursberg argues, “The ur medium is books. They provide the most thorough and immersive explorations of identity and often underpin all other media.” Cultural sovereignty is the most important type, and the best way to reinforce and strengthen it is through literature.

But that is being lost, he argues, partly because those at the top in government and cultural institutions began to hate Canada, defining it solely by its sins. Prime Minister Trudeau said Canada was the first “post-national” nation, and as a result:

Canada seemed to give up. American product flooded the market and crippled what was left of Canadian publishers, TV companies, and newspapers. English Canadians’ imaginations, dreams, and ideas became almost wholly dominated by US TV shows, social media, and books. Canada began to become invisible to itself.

This didn’t kill Canadian publishing and Canadian literature, but it might’ve been the death knell. And their death, not external ones, is the biggest threat to Canada:

The more that bestselling Canadian books, TV shows, and movies are set outside Canada, the more they validate the notion that real life and real culture take place elsewhere. They suggest that there is no “here” here. It takes Canadians back to the 1950s and early 1960s when it was generally assumed that the important stuff happened in New York and London, that they were, as Peter Newman put it in The Canadian Establishment, the “places where real power and real excellence” lay, “over the water and across the border” If there is no “here” here, there is nothing to defend, build, or protect. Why bother resisting the blandishments of the great power to the south if there is no here to begin with? What would be being saved? If there is no here, there is nothing to celebrate, nothing to mourn in its passing, nothing to get excited about, nothing really at all.

In the face of external and internal threats to our identity, Stursberg argues, “Saving Canadian media and, most centrally, Canadian books is essential to saving ourselves.”

Of course, when reading about the importance of Canadian stories told by Canadians, an Albertan—and presumably a Newfoundlander, or a New Brunswicker, or a BCer—would point out that during the “Golden Age” of Canadian literature and publishing the stories were largely told by those from Ontario (since Lament for a Literature concerns itself with English Canada, the Quebec industry being much different and much more successful). And so while the story is important and there is clearly a need to defend Canadian publishing and grow Canadian literature, it’s missing the regional lens. Like the nation itself, Canada needs a publishing industry in which regional players are equal, so that provincial and regional stories are patches in a national quilt. As we work to rebuild a national identity in the face of internal conceptual (those posed by the anti-Canadian crowd) and political (separatism) threats and external ones (the United States, and other, more overtly hostile powers), a Canadian literature is essential, yes, but one that has a strong regional lens.

Stories matter, not just because a publishing industry is important economically, or because people need to be entertained, and not just because, as Canadian media theorist Marshall McLuhan said, “the liberal world by definition is literate.” They’re important because without them, we don’t know who we are. That’s as important for individuals as it is for a nation, and right now, in an era of rapid change, it couldn’t be more imperative to grow Canadian literature.

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The Calgary Stampede is a world-class rodeo and holds a sacred place in Western culture. The prize money, the human and animal athletes, and the length of the tradition itself create this sense of greatness.

Away from the rodeo, there’s the midway, music festivals, and, of course, the corporate party.

As a public affairs consultant, I tell our clients that Stampede is the most important political networking event in Western Canada - with the attention Alberta is getting lately due to separatist rumblings and a recommitment by the Prime Minister to oil and gas, it might be the biggest in Canada now. So, for my colleagues and me, it is two weeks of work that never really feels like work, but burns you out more than any other day at the office.

It has always amazed me how stodgy CEOs, ministers, and everyone in between all universally don Cinch shirts, Wranglers, boots and hats. It’s an unspoken rule; you just dress up.

As a natural contrarian, this has always irked me a bit. Not because I hate the communitarian nature and collective, distinctly Albertaness of it all. But because in my heart, it isn’t authentic the way it may be to a Southern Alberta rancher. And I know it’s not authentic for the bankers wearing a Stetson, either, but, again, that contrarian instinct kicks in sometimes, and I dig in my heels.

To be clear, I grew up immersed in country. I was a farm kid, played lead guitar in a country band where rodeos and small town dances paid the bills, and the family business for many years was with UFA (United Farmers of Alberta); I should be decked out in Cinch shirts and Wranglers, too, and not just during Stampede. It was how I was raised.

But I don’t know if it was just a particular moment in time, but when I still lived on the farm and was doing all of those things, not a lot of people dressed that way. Some did, for sure, but generally speaking, it was Fox Racing ball caps and Vans shoes. I wore Green Day and Led Zeppelin t-shirts, not button-ups. A lot of kids around me did, too. I didn’t start wearing cowboy boots every day until I moved to Toronto and Ottawa, taking on corporate jobs out east. I didn’t want to forget who I was or where I was from. Now, back in Calgary, I’m back to wearing Converse and the occasional wingtip work boots. My aesthetic is more English country professorial than northern Alberta farmer.

Of course, during Stampede, I can’t just wear a white Oxford, sneakers, and a cowboy hat. So I plunge a little deeper into my wardrobe for my favourite piece of clothing: the Aloha shirt. They’re cool, they’re flashy, and the existence of a pretty interesting Hawaiian cowboy culture means I can justify them to myself, and, sometimes, others.

Clothing is a social language. What we wear should align with what we’re trying to tell the world about ourselves. It is steeped in class-based history and has traditionally been a signal to the world of what we do for a living, where we were born, or to whom we were born. During Stampede, the collective cowboy cosplay is an extremely democratic event (making it distinctly Albertan in a prairie populist sense) because for a few weeks, our clothing doesn’t say those things. It says we’re all the same.

So, as a social language, I guess at Stampede I wear my Hawaiian shirts to remind myself to have a little fun, stand out in a crowd, and, more than anything, keep myself cool while doing so. And, also, because as any true Albertan, I’m QUITE the contrarian.

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Canada is a nation of regions, and in our ongoing debate about what it means to be Canadian (or whether we, here in Alberta, should be), the regional identities they spawn quickly overtake discussions about the national. The thing is, regions are determined, often, by geography, not provincial boundaries, even though it is the concept of a provincial identity that often dominates the discourse. For the few who have driven across the country, this observation seems obvious to the point of redundancy; East-Central Alberta and the Prairie regions of Saskatchewan and Manitoba are of one kind, so too is the Peace Country on both sides of the border. And in what world does Sudbury have anything in common with Toronto?

National borders, though, are often much more rigid, even if there is a shared geography. This is partially due to stark political choices—and realities—overtaking geography’s influence. I’m sure the Italians and French living in the Alps had a lot more in common before Napoleon and Garibaldi had their say (never mind the fact that they didn’t think of themselves as “French” or “Italian” before that).

Wallace Stegner’s Wolf Willow is a lot of things that make one think about identity and memory. Part memoir, part historical fiction, it is a bizarrely structured book, something that really doesn’t work all that well. Stegner’s prose is so engaging and driving, though, that it doesn’t matter. It explores, inconclusively, a region that has both geographical unity and stark nationalist differences, while also grappling with the forces that forge an identity and with how even the things you hate from your youth are a part of you. As he concludes: “I may not know who I am, but I know where I am from.”

Stegner was a 20^th-century American novelist who was a Pulitzer-winning writer (called “The Dean of Western Writers”) who, coincidentally, spent a short but highly influential period of his youth growing up in Eastend, Saskatchewan. His time there was short, but impactful. He changed the town’s name in the book to hide some of the criticism he levels at it throughout, especially when writing about it following a return decades later.

Stegner details the history of the Cypress Hills, a geographic landmark that straddles the Alberta-Saskatchewan border. The law came before the people, in stark contrast to his American birthplace, although the people, plains folk outrunning the law and forged by weather and reality into being hard, pragmatic, and callous, had a lot in common. At least until the law arrived:

The effect of a dry, windy, cold land is obvious to Stegner:

It is Stegner’s idea of the frontier that is most relevant to discussing regional identity in a Canadian context. The frontier is something people chase; it is a dream. Freedom, prosperity, romance (in all senses of the word). Two characters stand out in Wolf Willow: Rusty, an Englishman who finds himself near death working cattle, and Pop Martin, who is a typical small-town prairie booster who thinks they can find immeasurable wealth in the delivery of civilization. Both are looking for something in the frontier, and both are slapped hard by reality: the first by the reality of prairie weather, the second by failure for prosperity to arrive.

But it is starkly different from the American frontier, due to the aforementioned timeline of law before settlement. The idea of the frontier, and the kind of men the frontier creates, is also starkly different in Canada than it is in the United States. This is from the forward by his daughter, Page:

The mythology of a frontier that is rugged, and more importantly, will always be, is refuted in the reality faced by townsfolk, farmers, and cowboys alike. Frontiers change: “Progress destroys what makes a frontier satisfying,” but “Progress? It is impossible not to believe in progress in a frontier town. Every possibility is open, every opportunity still untested.” It’s the catch-22 of the prairies.

Alberta is a frontier. Well, Alberta was a frontier. Part of that identity remains, and it is ingrained in so many of us, but so too is the progress of our economy, and in turn, our identity. Just like the characters in Wolf Willow, in a town not dissimilar to many in Alberta, we’ve gone from the fur trade to open-range ranching to farming, oil and gas, and now tech, finance, and advanced manufacturing. In many ways, our economy now resembles Ontario’s more than it does the Alberta economy of the ‘90s.

Knowing the history Stegner relates about the Cypress Hills country is knowing a lot about the history of Alberta, too. And in doing so, it is understanding that our identity is different, but not wholly, from the nation; that our identity is starkly different from the Americans’, and that this has always been so. Stegner returned to Eastend to research the book and, in doing so, discovered a history he didn’t know while living there. He writes, simply, “I wish I had known some of this.” It’s a lament we should all have, because no one knows enough about their own history. Alberta, just like the rest of Canada, is the product of British law and order, not American anarchy. If anything unites us, from coast to coast, it is that.

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

There’s a small category of song that makes me text my musically-inclined friend to ask: “They knew in the studio as they wrote how good this was, right?” The most obvious example is Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion. Some pieces of art are so undeniably good that even if it’s not your thing, you can recognize their brilliance. It’s what separates the wheat from the chaff; even someone untrained in the technique of an art form or skill can just tell it is of the superlative variety. It’s why Blink-182 is the best pop-punk band ever. You just don’t understand just how damn good a drummer Travis Barker is, but it elevates the overall quality so much, it speaks for itself.

I thought about this while reading Cameron Crowe’s autobiography, The Uncool. Crowe is most famous (probably) for writing and producing Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Almost Famous. But before that, he was writing cover stories for Rolling Stone in his teens, embedding himself with bands like Led Zeppelin and The Allman Brothers at the absolute height of their powers. The passage that sparked my opening thought was about seeing Bruce Springsteen when he was just getting going. It’s easy to forget that the guy who wrote Born to Run was seen more as a new Bob Dylan, a folk singer who wrote deep, meaningful songs to make social commentary. And, his music has never appealed to me. But you have to respect the magic nonetheless. Springsteen was shy, but there was no denying that he had that something and could inspire:

Suddenly everybody was celebrating this small but seismic moment. Springsteen’s shyness receded…The small alley grew even more celebratory. Springsteen had made a mark in a tough town for newcomers. It’s on a night like this that music might spin your life around, give you new passion, point you in an unexpected direction. It was becoming more than a hobby for me, day by day.

On display throughout The Uncool is a passion for music that knows no bounds, and this passion fuels a prose style that is truthful and driving, keeping the narrative going while forcing you to pause exactly when you need to, to fully consider an emotion.

At the same time, he makes it seem like the biggest of feats—a Rolling Stone cover story on the Allman Brothers at 16 after the band had blackballed the magazine was an accident, just a coincidence, and he happened to be the right person at the right time, and nothing else. The persistence and dedication he had to have had are just words, half a sentence; nothing special happened here. Sure, it was the seventies when credentials didn’t matter. But c’mon, the guy clearly has talent, charisma, and ability.

While billed as a memoir, the book is mostly about Crowe’s youth. Lost youth (to him), although if you’re reading it, you’d say he made the absolute most of his youth. At 15, he became a journalist and partied with rock royalty, but felt he had never experienced what it was like to just be a kid in high school. He wrote Fast Times at Ridgemont High to partially reclaim those experiences. At 20, he was embedding himself as a high school student, reliving a life he had never had.

It’s a great book, and a wonderful story about a unique man in a unique period of our cultural history. Sometimes, you pick a book intentionally to match a moment in your life (Hawaii by James A. Michener when you’re going on a trip to, say, Hawaii). Other times, a book accidentally finds the moment right when you need it.

My wife bought me The Uncool for Christmas, so I started reading it shortly after I’d finished my holiday stack. At the same time, I was just back on the farm visiting my family, and my dad had found my old CDs, including the ones that used to live with me in my truck throughout high school and my early 20s. Driving the last new car to have a CD player, I started reliving that period of my life. Music has a way of putting you squarely in a time and place, and I was being shot back to high school in my mind every time I put in a newly discovered old CD.

I wasn’t the most conventional small town Alberta music aficionado. There’s a lot of punk and emo in there. I listened to older country, was even in a band playing older country at that time, but my emotional connection to music was far more raw, far more emotional, than ‘90s honky tonk. It was Green Day and My Chemical Romance. I’d picked up a guitar not because my dad played for years, but because of the lead break in Whole Lotta Love.

Stereotypes exist for a reason. Small town Alberta has many, especially when we’re talking high school kids. Bush/field parties, chopping laps, bonfires. I don’t think much has changed on that front. But thinking back, music was likely the most diverse element. Kids I partied with listened to Eminem, Tool, Metallica, and, of course, Nickelback. Not a lot of country, to be honest, despite the lifted trucks and cowboy boots.

That, I think, was a product of its time, though, just like Crowe’s ability to do what he did was doable only in a particular time and a particular place. In the late aughts, the monoculture was just starting to break down, and microculture dominance hadn’t taken hold. In politics and culture, the urban/rural divide has clearly increased. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same happened to music.

I hope I’m wrong, though. There’s a lot of discussion about Alberta being a distinct place within confederation. And it’s unquestionably different. But within that Alberta stereotype, there’s a lot of diversity. Urban/rural, blue collar/white collar, north/south. Within each of these, too, there are big discrepancies; some will have more in common with their Ontario counterparts than their peers in Edmonton. It’s important to remember that, at the end of the day, behind every stereotype and perception that “they’re all the same,” there’s a farm kid listening to thrash.

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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Alberta Review is in no way associated with previous iterations of the publication Alberta Review.

The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

Everyone’s algorithm is different, or at least I assume it is. Either way, mine shows me a lot of hard takes on AI. I see lots of academic studies showing that it doesn’t actually make workers more productive, burns people out, makes it harder to learn new skills, or makes people dumber. Although it does seem weird that we needed a study to show that outsourcing thinking to a machine would cause skills to atrophy. Something something, common sense not being that common, or something.

My algorithm, though, also shows me a lot of the other side—these things are good! They’re inevitable! If you don’t embrace the suck, you’ll be left behind. It costs a lot of water and money to raise an intelligent human, too!

That all being said, AI in the workplace is one thing. That is, likely, inevitable, although there’s a lot left to be decided, from what jobs it will actually make easier, which ones it will eliminate, and which ones it will just make worse. But as video and image generators become “better,” the more pronouncements there are that artists have no place in society. Or, at least, not without AI help.

This, though, is proving to be an unpopular concept, as more and more people turn against mass AI implementation. A recent NBC poll found that 57 per cent of Americans believe the risks of AI outweigh the benefits. When it comes to art, a poll published in an article in Scientific American was even more stark:

Closer to home and much more recent, Calgary Public Library took significant criticism for announcing an AI artist-in-residence program. Things like this are especially gaulling to artists because there is no actual creativity in what AI produces. It merely steals from artists and reproduces their work. It’s like being hired at a job to train the guy who will replace you.

I don’t think it is a profound or revelatory thing to say, but maybe it will be. AI art aside, we’re suffering a crisis of the soul in the Western world right now. From polarized politics to economic malaise and social isolation, we’re in a bit of a slump. I read two books over the last month that articulated clearly that the solution is more humanity and, specifically, more artistry.

The Compassionate Imagination argues for a renewed Canadian cultural contract, where the arts are recentered in policy making, because, without the arts, we lose our connections to each other and to our humanity. The book presents few new ideas—artistic creations force us to think about other people and perspectives, creating empathy—but does present some bold ideas when it comes to arts advocacy. Wyman says that it is wrong to try and argue for more support for culture from government and the public because of economic benefits (although they are quite large) because this minimizes the importance arts and culture have for the souls not just of individuals but our nation. Human fulfilment, he argues, should trump market economics. In the age of AI, this seems more true than ever before.

Wyman’s focus on art’s role in creating empathy and creative thought is the core of his argument that centreing art in our policy-making and society would lead to a better democracy (although he does not make this argument explicitly, and so the subtitle of the book, “how the arts are central to a functioning democracy,” is a bit odd and a glaring omission). Since it was written in 2023, it’s become even more clear. Our souls are hurting, and our political discourse would be so much better if people read a book or watched a movie without interruption or went to a play instead of being on social media. We need something to fulfill us, and art plays that role.

The second book, The Work of Art, is a series of profiles of artists’ great works and how they came to develop them; it is a clear argument that process matters as much as product when it comes to art. In the author’s words, it is “the celebration of the art that happens when instinct meets rigor.” Toiling, thinking, developing, researching. The profiles makes it clear that these things cannot be disconnected from the final end product. It is, without ever saying, a clear refutation of AI produced art. The act of creation is embodied in the final product. The arduous nature developing the kernel of an idea into a great work is what makes the work great. To think that nothing is lost when you prompt an AI is to laugh in the face of artistic creation, and common sense. While that’s the message I got, the book itself is just a massively inspiring, but also frustrating (why can’t I do that!) piece of biography.

If these books made me realize one thing, its this: we talk a lot about AI doing art these days, and, anyone who thinks that is good or even acceptable, simply doesn’t care about art. Because art is process, connection, craft. Humans created pretty things before we built houses, before we farmed, before we built civilization. Making art, creating culture, is at the very core of being human. If you take the human out of it, you take the humanity out of everything.

Alberta once obsessed over supporting the arts. Part of this was because we had a chip on our shoulder, always assuming (probably correctly) that we were looked down upon by the more “cultured” east. One of the best books to read on this is Alberta’s Camelot about the Lougheed government’s obsession with building Alberta’s creative capacity and cultural institutions. Budget 2026 increased funding for the Alberta Foundation for the Arts, which, when everywhere else other than education and health care was cut, was a pretty nice surprise.

More, of course, could be done. Wyman argues for much more financial support for artists, including a type of universal basic income to empower creation. That’s honestly not a bad idea (although the mechanics of it, like who is an artist and who can qualify, would likely be discountingly hard), but at the very least, there should be more emphasis on appreciating art in schools so that greater demand is created, making the economics more lucrative. At least, that’s one possible step.

More than anything, though, there needs to be a societal decision to emphasize that human-created art is good. Full stop. Whether it’s a piece of literary fiction or a popular movie, art enhances our lives because of the human element, not despite it. Teach that in schools, please.

Alberta Review relies on subscriptions to operate (we hate ads, and they’re kind of pointless). Please consider subscribing to support the publication.

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for this to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more I’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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The best and fastest way for us to grow is for you to share the posts within your networks. A forward goes a long way, and the more subscribers we get, the more we’ll be able to write. The writing may change in the next few months to be a bit more entertaining (we hope) so tell your friends!

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