Chat with Rod Bellamy

Permission to do wrong things

RB : Your work carries the signature of a pseudonym – LooseCanine. What does stepping behind this name allow you to explore that perhaps Alan MacIntyre cannot?

LC : I had struggled to find a direction that I wanted to stick with for any meaningful period of time.

The LooseCanine pseudonym came as the result of an experiment. For a while, my work was split between two distinct approaches so I developed personas for each. Ultimately, they came together as LooseCanine.

Painting as LooseCanine allowed me go in directions that I wouldn’t otherwise have gone and gave me permission to do wrong things. I was able to set aside self-criticism or the pursuit of perfection. The need to achieve perfection can really derail everything. I certainly wouldn’t do the kind of work I’m doing without having worked through it that way.

RB : You describe your practice as constructed painting – a hybrid between painting, sculpture, and assemblage. How did this language of screws, glue, fragments, and reliefs evolve for you?

LC : I had been separating things visually – mostly with strong outlines. One day, I decided to make those separations literal. I started cutting apart finished paintings and then rebuilding them. I would engineer the construction so that they had layers– a kind of relief. 

I later started to make elements separately and put them together. Also, I was fascinated with many of the off-cut shapes so I started to incorporate those. The depth and complexity of layers has grown as my technique has evolved. Along with that, the palette has gone from dominant black and white to something much more colourful.

RB : The small dog figure appears in your constructions as both witness and participant. Is this your alter ego, a stand-in for the viewer, or something else entirely?

LC : The dog is the signature as well as a witness to the story-world of the paintings. He can also sometimes be seen to participate. It’s a little cut-out based on ‘Ollie’ how our current dog looked as a puppy. A lot of artist signatures make me cringe. They feel pretentious – especially if they’re large and elaborate. I wanted to make it something for the viewer to have fun with. People, especially children, like to find the dog in each painting.

RB : You relocated from Calgary to Knowlton, Québec in 2020. How has the physical and cultural landscape of the Eastern Townships shaped your studio practice?

LC : I would say that the density of the vegetation here has been an unexpected influence. The ecosystem is more dynamic here than in Calgary. That’s mostly, I think, because of the abundance of water. There are a lot more trees and vegetation here and a greater variety as well. As I say, it’s just really dense and that has shown up in my work.

Culturally, the Eastern Townships and Knowlton in particular, have a unique character and tradition. There are artists of every kind here – writers, painters, sculptors, ceramicists, furniture makers etc. The area is a hub for people following creative pursuits.

RB : There’s a playful energy in your work – bright colors, cartoonish interventions – yet also a structural seriousness. How do you balance humor with weight in your art?

LC : While I’m not sure I can easily separate the two, I do embrace absurdity. The fact that my artistic identity is LooseCanine is proof of that. There is a level of absurdity to the artworld and even to the act of making art that is undeniable.

I often find ‘serious’ things to be very funny. Humour is a kind of defense mechanism against the craziness of everything. Making fun helps us process serious things. My work makes fun of itself. So, yes, it is a balance of sorts, but in a push and pull kind of way.

RB : You use saws and other tools as well as paint brushes. The pieces are held together by glue and screws. What role does materiality play in storytelling within your constructions?

LC : I know that each I cut a shape and paint it and put it next to another, there is a new relationship. There is a conflict that happens when you put things together. There is tension and also a flowing together of elements.

RB : Your works often seem precarious, held together by screws and glue as much as by composition. Do you see this as a metaphor for something larger – perhaps identity, community, or memory?

LC : It’s interesting that you would mention composition. Nothing is really ever perfectly placed and I intentionally put things in places that are at odds with traditional ideas about what makes good composition. I like to see the elements coming together in a way to create tension and conflict. That way I find that as the process continues, the elements work things out amongst themselves until they all become one thing. That’s when the work is finished – when it’s one thing.

RB : Many artists of your generation are testing the limits of painting’s flatness. Do you consider yourself still within painting’s lineage, or has LooseCanine stepped into a different category altogether?

LC : What I do is more about making objects. I use painting as part of the process to create these objects but they’re not paintings in what we think of as the traditional sense. They’re not sculptures in the traditional sense either. It wasn’t a conscious choice to do it this way and I wasn’t trying to test any limits. Painting is still a big part of what I do but the point of LooseCanine has always been to be free of preconceived notions and just let things go where they will.

RB: How do you imagine the viewer engaging with your works? Do you want them to puzzle, laugh, feel uneasy – or all at once?

LC : The work is polarizing and I enjoy that. There is no doubt that for some people my work is a bridge too far. Reactions tend to involve either love or hate, rather than anything in between. In art, I think that doing something wrong can be a great thing.

RB : What’s next for LooseCanine? Are there new forms, collaborations, or exhibitions you’re dreaming toward?

I’m working toward a few things happening in 2026. I’m working with a couple of different curators. I’m also planning on coming out from behind the curtain and spending more time in front of the work. No doubt, some new characters and themes will make their way from being notebook doodles to something more tangible.

Plans are something that I rarely have – when I do have them I rarely stick to them. The goal for me is to keep moving in interesting directions and see where it takes me.

Questions people ask

How long does it take to do a painting?

Many artists are offended by the question. They explain that it took years to get their work to this point — meaning that while a specific piece may have taken only a short time to complete, it’s the culmination of many years of exploration and effort.

I respect that viewpoint up to the point where it becomes righteous indignation. I mean, it’s just a question, and it’s likely coming from someone who’s trying to grasp the value of what you do — so relax, people.

The time it took, and the time it took to get there.

I figure that any question is a good start, and at least they’re interested in knowing more. I’ve made a deliberate decision not to be annoyed. They’re just trying to understand what you do in a way that makes sense to them.

After all, we live in a society where value is often determined by an equation in which time taken is important. Lawyers, accountants, and plumbers may each have different rates, but they all bill based on time spent. And all of these practitioners have some combination of education and experience that makes them good at what they do. So, for me, the “it took me years and years to get here” argument can feel overly precious.

My thought is that one question can lead to another — and I’m all for that. It’s easy enough to answer with something like: “The large one here took me about 100 hours over the course of a month.” Assuming they’re interested, you can go on to explain how many years you’ve been working on your craft or this particular direction. If they leave the conversation with a better understanding and a sense that they were listened to, everyone wins.

There’s a broad spectrum of approaches to making art. Some artists work quickly and can produce a high volume of work in a short time — and good for them. The kind of work I do now is very time-consuming, which suits me and what I’m going for. In fact, the 100-hour example is something I could use when speaking about larger pieces. However, I wouldn’t say size is the only variable in determining the time and effort required. The time taken can vary greatly from one piece to another — even when made by the same artist. I also think it’s important to note that the amount of time spent is not an indication of whether something is good or not.

The amount of time invested does have an impact on how artworks are priced — although this is likely less of a factor at the super-crazy high end of the market. Other factors like an artist’s history, stage of career, and perceived importance come into play. In the auction market, provenance (who has owned the work) can be a big factor in the overall story of an artwork. Frankly, prices at the high end can be hard for even art-world insiders to explain. Suffice it to say that for most artists, time invested is taken into consideration.

I describe my work as constructed painting, and the process can be complicated. I’m going for a lot of density. There’s a lot of cutting, painting, and assembly involved. There are many layers, and I don’t typically work to a plan. When I do, I hardly ever stick to it. Each piece has its own unique struggle to completion. I estimate that the time for each can range between 40 and 100 hours and my typical output is about two per month — if anyone’s asking. – LC