Goblin Spatial Practice?
What began as artists talking about money and unconventional resource-gathering has now evolved into a slightly unhinged market—an experiment in generosity, relationships, and finding a place in the world for our weird art. Goblin Market thrives on borrowed things and odd favours—ones I’d be too scared to ask for alone, but gathered the courage to do so for something bigger than my fears. Courage is the best way forward when the path is unclear.
I’ve been calling them Goblin Market activations—or happenings—in my head. While they take the shape of a market, they subvert it completely, transforming into artistic interventions that invite participants to step into the unfamiliar. Those who shy away from its odd forms may never witness its many layers—and I’m okay with that.
Goblin Market dissolves the boundary between artist and audience. Instead of passive spectatorship, visitors are invited to co-create and inhabit the imaginative worlds artists have constructed at their booths. In this new iteration, those worlds are beginning to bleed into each other. A sonic offering from one booth might unlock a hidden radio station in the basement. A movement gifted by the Goblin Queen could send you on a journey with the Krump Knight. This kind of intimacy—inviting audiences to co-author your story—is rare in conventional immersive art spaces. Here, artists (and their alter-egos) become characters in a living fiction, driven by their own attributes, not chess pieces to be moved around by a divine hand.
As a spatial practice, the market format offers new ways to group and present work. Traditional exhibition logic often categorizes by medium, era, or movement. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, but it creates a monoculture and a flattened, linear experience over time. Audiences lose the ability to appreciate novelty and be unsettled.
During the prototyping phase, I spoke with Abbey Richens about exploring how dance might appear in this art marketplace. She shared how difficult it’s been to present her immersive, participatory dance practice in spaces conventionally designated for dance. The separation between stage and audience made her work feel isolated—like a specimen, rather than something to be experienced. Her dance films often fall outside of categorization, which leaves presenters unsure of how to program them through existing structures even when they loved the work. Figuring out wiggly ways to advocate for her practice became a central thread of her Goblin Market prototype.
At Goblin Market, Abbey met Adrian Layner and WeLikeKrump. Krump spreads through peer-filmed dance videos and proliferates in offline communities, pedagogically distant from contemporary dance. Yet Abbey and Adrian found resonance in their respective movement languages—radically different in form, but similarly raw, cathartic, and spatially expressive. It’s hard to explain—you have to see it. We joked about a future duet: Krump Knight vs. Goblin Queen. It’s peak silliness, but we’re here for the ever-intensifying plot.
How does movement change when the space you occupy was once a mechanic's garage, a dairy barn, or a train station warehouse, stripped of their designated functions? Some of these spaces range from not entirely accessible to being downright hazardous. We often offload safety to rules and guidelines, demanding that an imagined person in charge take responsibility for making these spaces safe before we want to do much about such "ruins." When safety isn't guaranteed and authority figures don't always act in our favour, we must propose new ways to care for those around us rather than frantically searching for someone in charge to act on our behalf. This takes practice. Art can be the playground.
Goblin Market, in all its orchestrated chaos, creates surprise encounters and delight. It reshapes how people enter art spaces—giving them permission to dwell inside artist-built worlds. On the other side, it grants artists the freedom to inhabit spaces not traditionally meant for them. We often speak of “occupying the ruins”—of reclaiming spaces left behind. Artists construct from curiosity and place-based inquiry, not prescription. When so much of our social life is bound by invisible rules, these small acts of mischief unsettle the ground just enough to make room for new possibilities.
For the Montréal edition, I’m especially focused on artists who can’t travel—due to border restrictions, health conditions, or visa issues. This time, with my persona as a coin dealer/gift shop keeper, I’m collaborating with Borscht Radio to explore how to present sound-based work at a market—without letting it become ambient noise. I hold the responsibility of presenting these works respectfully, with the artists’ consent to recontextualize them. Music boxes once enchanted us. How do we re-enchant sound today?
Audiences need new ways to participate in the arts—ways that aren’t designed by businesses chasing aesthetic trends, but proposed by artists themselves. As artistic infrastructure, a market builds a network beyond commerce. There’s camaraderie among the merchants—who are, in this case, artists. The only real requirement in our open call was: be in each other’s business.
It’s not easy. Watching artists stake their ground, assert their desires, and advocate for their needs has been deeply rewarding. I no longer romanticize words like cooperation or post-scarcity—the growing pains to get there are enormous. People carry their baggage into every space. The conditions are never ideal. It’s always easier to write about generosity, abundance, and regenerative systems than it is to build them in practice.
But building desirable futures requires that leap. Goblin Market emerged from writing and research, then became a real-life encounter—not once, but now twice. That matters. Artists build worlds and bring them into being before the world is ready.
If you haven’t already, mark your calendars:April 24–26 at GU, 7154 Rue St-Urbain.The market opens at 5 p.m. daily. Auxiliary daytime activities will be announced on our new Instagram: @goblins_everywhere.
This Montréal edition will likely be more unhinged than the Toronto edition, with new and peculiar merchants joining this ephemeral happening.