There is a large stone house on a hill in Dorchester New Brunswick that looks out over marsh lands, forests, and fields that have been shaped by centuries of people. This landscape has been tended by Mi’kmaq, dyked by Acadians, and tilled and logged by English settlers. There are breaks in the spruce that line the roadside where goldenrod and alder grow among old apple trees. Too hard and tart, they’re left for deer who flatten the tall grasses as they browse the ground around forgotten foundation stones and farming equipment left to rust. Keillor House isn’t the only large or impressive home in the area, but it is set apart as a seasonal local history museum.

Built in 1813, and maintained by the Westmorland Historical society since 1967, Keillor House Museum preserves the history of the area and daily life of the time. Summer students in period clothing describe the items on display with anecdotes of the lives of John Keillor (1761-1839), his wife Elizabeth (1766-1851), and their son Thomas (1798-1887) who inherited the home with his wife Mary (1820-1899).

For eight weeks, in the summer of 2024, the work of five contemporary artists sat nestled among the Museum’s artifacts. Soif D’illusion / Illusion of The Self, curated by Guillaume Adjutor Provost and featuring the work of Massimo Guerrera, Kyle Alden Martens, Natasha Sacobie, Karen Tam and Guillaume Adjutor Provost ran from July 13^th to September 2^nd, 2024. With collaboration from the Museum’s curator, Keegan Hiltz, the exhibition brought new life and voice to their permanent collection. Bringing the work of these artists into the same space as historical artifacts linked memories and accounts of the past with current ideas of the self, identity, community and heritage. Come, I’ll give you the tour.

Through the front door, the heady aroma of fresh bread dough is unmistakable. The smell, which is so different from what is expected in a museum, originates in the dining room where a long oval table is set for a meal. Each of the polished dark wood and leather chairs is aligned with a paper plate of dough. Where the dough has dried and the salt has begun to form a crust, tall cylindrical porcelain sculptures emerge and rise. Some glisten from a milky white glaze, while the surfaces of the unglazed are so smooth they shine. Each place setting holds a different portion of the same ceramic meal, in whites of ivory, alabaster, and bone. Their weight pushes the dough to the very edges of the plates. This is Massimo Guerrera’s La réception.

When looking for the familiar within the curiousness of this feast, one might find the indent of the roof of a mouth—soft clefts left from the pressure of a palate, just as teeth began to sink and bite. Vague forms become scapulae, lacunae, vertebrae. A vulva, an anus. Indents and imprints where something has been cupped and held. There are palmed leftovers among the coffee cups and salt and pepper shakers. There is no cutlery and there are no napkins.

From his place on the wall at the head of the table, Sir Albert James Smith looks on. Painted in oils he sits squarely in his gilt frame, his starched collar buttoned to the top.

Across the hall Natasha Sacobie’s four works are in the parlour. The likenesses of two life-sized mannequins are reflected severalfold in the glass of cabinets, clocks, and mirrors as they prepare tea and sit by the fire. The perfect bodies of two white ermine dangle from the earlobes of the seated figure. The creature’s forepaws rest delicately against the red velvet of her bodice. A fan made from ostrich feathers and birch bark, exquisitely embroidered and beaded, sits on a low table to her left. The fan’s handle is edged in sweetgrass, while the needle and thread are poised mid whipstitch, awaiting a hand to continue.

On the far side of the house, away from the finery of the parlour and dining room, the summer kitchen kept the heat and cooking smells separate from the rest of the house during the warmer months. From there, a narrow spiral staircase with worn wooden steps leads to the servant quarters above. In the stifling air I’m made aware of my proximity to others as I start to sweat in a small room with Guillaume Adjutor Provost’s Petite monnaie.

In the corner under a low sloped ceiling, a wooden bed is surrounded by a dozen ceramic vessels evenly spaced on a raised platform of wide, continuous mirrors. From a distance some seem carved from porous stone and slabs of wood, while others appear charred and waxed, yet they’re all ceramic. Hand built and sculptural, no two are the same. Their deeply textured exteriors recall seed pods and burls, tree rings and bark. From buttery and bright to umber and near black, the glazes evoke the natural world.

Leaning forward to look closer, the mirrors suddenly reflect my gaze back, accentuating my extreme humanness with the unflattering angle, chin doubled, and nostrils flared. What a surprise then to see seeds and pits—the unmistakable shape of a peach pit—in the bottom of these bowls. The realization that these are mirror world spittoons and chamber pots sets in. In this room without running water, I can imagine the smell of woodsmoke and meat roasting downstairs, while the juice from a fresh peach runs between my fingers. The roughness of the pit, the sweetness on the tongue. The luxury of carving out a moment in quiet solitude.

In a house as large as this, there are corners where people can tuck themselves away, unseen and hidden from demand. In the narrow butler’s pantry the stone hearth in the center is the star of the space, despite the size and vibrancy of the red floor to ceiling china cabinet. Common in country kitchens, the real charm of the cabinet lies in its usefulness. No carving or decorations detract from the glass decanters and silverware kept on the plain shelves behind the flat glass doors.

In this space Karen Tam’s Lakeside Leisure hides in plain sight among its porcelain counterparts. It comprises a delicate square sided teapot with six hexagonal cups depicting pastoral Chinese scenes: a boat on a calm shore, rice farmers with distant pagodas, swirling mists and shapely trees. It reflects a stereotypical style of the time desired by westerners performing affluence, yet Tam’s are made of cardboard and paper. During the 1800s, tea would have been a luxury. It is said that Mary Jane Keillor kept her tea and spices under lock and key in a closet in a bedroom on the second floor of the house.

Upstairs with the tightly kept teas, Kyle Alden Martens’ Shelled Blades are displayed. Long neckties are draped across the width of a double bed. So long that they exceed the width of the mattress even when doubled, the tips and tails graze the polished and waxed floor. Loose threads stand out against the sheen of the purple silks as the sun shifts their colour to pink. In the next room, two equally elongated ties are laid doubled lengthwise on a sleigh bed. The sheets are tucked in tightly at the corners, pillows smoothed. Pale pink threads from hand stitched seams lay on the white coverlet. The ties are separate, yet the tail of one almost touches the other. This gesture of intimacy, softness, and vulnerability is the gentleness of the body.

In the museum, these artworks become traces of what is left behind: the bite mark, the peach pit, clothing discarded on the bed. The shine of the silver on the handle of the spoon shows the touch of body. The wear on the wooden stairs shows the life the house has held. While there are some things houses hold that a museum cannot share, Soif D’illusion/ Illusion of The Self expressed the unspoken intimacies of being human. Whether in our private moments, in our desire and care for a lover, or in shared community with others; we leave something of ourselves behind. Part of us remains in these domestic spaces we use for privacy or posturing, and resonates when we leave a room, or leave this life. What a joy it is to be known and understood by another, and Soif D’illusion/ Illusion of The Self invited us to hear the soft echoes of the past in concert with the many voices of the present.