Gallery Archives - The Arts Incubator

Nature as an Architect Echo lines hum between silences; dew holds the static of a thousand unspoken mornings.

Nature as an Architect

Jamie Bell April 23, 2025

In the fragile lattice of morning light, the spider’s work stands as a monument to patience and...

Dew Code

Suspension theory: dreams cling to the tension between the known and the not-yet-touched.

Dew Code

Jamie Bell April 23, 2025

This spiderweb, soaked in dew and backlit by daybreak, could be mistaken for code—strings of logic floating...

Early Morning Fog Fog doesn’t erase, it distills. What remains in the hush is not absence, but a pause between stories. Trees lean like breathless witnesses, caught in the act of remembering. This isn’t mystery—it’s a threshold. You aren’t lost here; you’re being rewritten.

Fog doesn’t erase, it distills. What remains in the hush is not absence, but a pause between stories. Trees lean like breathless witnesses, caught in the act of remembering. This isn’t mystery—it’s a threshold. You aren’t lost here; you’re being rewritten.

Early Morning Fog

Tony Eetak April 22, 2025

The forest holds its breath. Morning fog clings to the undergrowth like a held memory, softening the...

Canada Goose It stands where steel forgets it’s steel—among colour bleeding from walls, among echoes not meant for birds. A pause with feathers. A poem without lines. Graffitied stillness, urban myth. Something sacred hums low under the bridge, and the goose listens.

It stands where steel forgets it’s steel—among colour bleeding from walls, among echoes not meant for birds. A pause with feathers. A poem without lines. Graffitied stillness, urban myth. Something sacred hums low under the bridge, and the goose listens.

Canada Goose

Tony Eetak April 18, 2025

The goose under the coloured bridge Beneath the bridge, in a pocket of stillness layered with shadows...

Provencher $Provencher Bridge floats between breath and concrete, a tethered gesture over water’s slow murmur. Light fractures across its spine like memory refracted—half civic promise, half spectral hush. It does not span space, but thought—an architecture of pause, where crossings blur into echoes and the river forgets which way is forward.$

Provencher

Tony Eetak April 18, 2025

We never grew up with bridges like this—suspended, sweeping, confident in the air.

Where Trains Rumble, Walls Talk

“If you fall, get up.” We found it ghosted beneath the railway bridge, where rust runs like tears down concrete cheeks, where the wind holds its breath beneath traffic’s hum. A phrase not shouted, but etched—faint, hand-drawn— a weathered whisper surviving winter’s bite and autumn’s sigh. It is not just a sentence; it is a gesture, a lifted chin in the chill, a soft defiance sprayed in silver, where no one is watching, but someone once needed it most.

Where Trains Rumble, Walls Talk

Tony Eetak April 18, 2025

It’s easy to miss if you’re just driving by, but under the railway bridge near Higgins and...

Walls We Walk By: Higgins and Main In Winnipeg, graffiti always pops up like little surprises scattered across the city. We found this one under the bridge near Main and Higgins.

In Winnipeg, graffiti always pops up like little surprises scattered across the city. We found this one under the bridge near Main and Higgins.

Walls We Walk By: Higgins and Main

Tony Eetak April 15, 2025

We found these inspiring words under a bridge near Main and Higgins.

The Quiet Colony Whispers of green tongues curl from the tree’s breath. Not growth, but memory—etched into rough skin. Time blooms sideways here, slow and certain. A quiet conspiracy between light and lichen. Nothing moves, yet everything is listening.

Whispers of green tongues curl from the tree’s breath. Not growth, but memory—etched into rough skin. Time blooms sideways here, slow and certain. A quiet conspiracy between light and lichen. Nothing moves, yet everything is listening.

The Quiet Colony

Jamie Bell April 14, 2025

The warming days of spring reveal more than thawing ground—they unveil life too quiet to announce itself....

Snow Cones for Caribou The caribou’s dark eyes scanned the white expanse, finally settling on the familiar green fringe clinging to the shadowed branch. Each snow-laden strand of lichen was a tiny beacon, a frozen delicacy in the vast stillness. It nudged its muzzle through the icy crystals, a fleeting taste of earth and survival in the heart of winter’s hold.