Marz Gebhardt

Year of birth: 2000
Where do you live: Saskatchewan, Canada
Your education: University of Regina Honours English Bachelor’s Degree with a History
Minor; Toronto Film School Writing for Film & TV Associate
Describe your art in three words: Emotional, transformative, connected
Your discipline: My discipline is a blend of visual storytelling and written
expression, weaving together poetry, painting, and filmmaking. I seek to create immersive
experiences where words and images converse, allowing audiences to engage emotionally and
intellectually. Each piece is an invitation to reflect on universal themes of love, loss, and identity,
while maintaining a deep respect for the quiet moments between expression. Whether through a
painted canvas, a short film, or a carefully crafted poem, my work and greeting cards aim to
invite viewers into a space where they can see themselves reflected and find resonance in shared
experiences.
Instagram | Instagram

Marz Gebhardt, Dreaming of Lost Love, 2024

Your work spans multiple creative forms: writing, painting, and filmmaking. How do these different mediums complement each other in expressing your ideas?

Most of my childhood was spent at a piano bench, where my teacher of nine years often told me to “paint a story” through the pieces I memorized. I think that practice taught me to find comfort in how written words and visuals are always connected—one often bringing the other to life, or at least to deeper understanding. Martian Mail, for instance, blends free-verse poetry, vivid paintings, and varying forms of cinema to create a more dynamic and layered narrative. Ultimately, the project’s goal is to merge these elements in a way that fosters deeper engagement with the audience. It invites individuals not only to reflect but also to engage—through their own written responses or by sending a physical card to a loved one—reawakening the tradition of personalized tangible communication.

When I write, I often envision a painting or a scene accompanying the text. And when I’m working on a painting or filming, I can’t help but think of an unrelated but visually connected story. That’s why I love working with multiple mediums at once—the exciting unpredictability of my results. Sometimes, those unexpected ideas—whether visual or written—turn out to be even more meaningful than what I originally envisioned.

I find that letting an idea stretch across different mediums creates a larger space for people to connect with what you’re communicating. It becomes a multi-layered collaboration between the different aspects of my creative practice and the different reactions of varying audiences. When I was little, I used to ask my dad what he imagined when I played at piano recitals and competitions. His answers always surprised me—they were so different from the stories and “paintings” I clung to in my mind.

I’ve come to believe that the audience’s unique and personal methods of interpretation are complementary extensions of the artist’s own ways of creating—whether through writing, painting, or filmmaking. One of the most fascinating things for me is seeing how others interpret or engage with these mediums. Sometimes a poem will prompt someone to talk about a painting or a film scene (or vice versa), and it’s like the art begins to have a conversation with itself. I love how these perspectives answer each other’s questions while prompting new ones, blending words and visuals into something greater than either could articulate in solitude.

How has growing up in Saskatchewan influenced your artistic vision and the themes you explore in your work?

One of the best things about growing up in Saskatchewan is the quiet encouragement it offers—to simply stand still. The vast, often solitary and uncanny landscapes of the Prairies, with their open skies and bleak winters, foster a quiet kind of fantastical reflection within my own brain. As I’ve grown older, seen glimpses of other places, and met many people with stories vastly different from my own, I’ve come to treasure the sense of grounding that comes from standing firm in the roots of vibrant kindred relationships formed within a smaller community. My art often draws from this sense of belonging, but also from the complex feelings of distance and longing for return that emerge when leaving in hopes of discovering a varied terrain.

In Martian Mail, Saskatchewan is central to the project’s narrative structure. Each chapter of the project reflects a different relationship to the land and to home: the excitement of rediscovery in released Chapter One, the homesickness of leaving the Prairies in unreleased Chapter Two, and the personal exploration of childhood spaces in unreleased Chapter Three. Ultimately, the project uses the Prairies as a backdrop to explore more universal experiences of love, loss, and connection.

The image that comes to mind when discussing the project’s relationship to this province is sustained eye contact—a simple act I used to shy away from for many years. Now, it’s something I’ve grown to cherish, a daily reminder of the importance of standing still in the moment alongside loved ones. In many ways, the various themes of every poem, script, painting, or short film I’ve created over the past year with Martian Mail feel like my own way of sustaining that eye contact: a glimpse of gratitude toward the people and places that shaped me on the Prairies, and an invitation to meet the gaze of those I have yet to meet.

Marz Gebhardt, Star Girl, 2023

Could you share the inspiration behind your project Martian Mail? How did you come up with the idea of combining greeting cards with poems and paintings?

Martian Mail was born out of a desire to reconnect with others in a meaningful way, especially during the isolation and aftermath of the pandemic. I’ve always used writing to process emotions, and during the pandemic, that need for connection became even more apparent as my relationship with my parents underwent a profound shift. My dad is immunosuppressed, and as a full-time student working at a candy shop, I couldn’t risk being near either of my parents for their safety. But the distance was difficult, and I wanted to find a meaningful way to stay connected. At the same time, I recognized the fading tradition of sending physical mail. Growing up, I often sent letters to my friends—even though I saw them regularly. There was something so special about having that extra layer of communication, a tangible piece of someone’s thoughts you could keep and cherish in a memory box for years to come.

That’s when I turned to something simple yet heartfelt—letters. My parents often communicated through handwritten notes, so it seemed natural to use that format. But I wanted to take it a step further; I wanted to combine my love for poetry and painting in a way that could rekindle that personal touch. So, I began creating greeting cards that paired my poems with my paintings. The cards weren’t just about art—they were about connecting, about offering a small piece of my universe to someone else’s.

The Martian Mail project evolved from there in February 2023, incorporating themes of love, loss, youth, and the passage of time. Each card becomes a unique piece of art that invites the recipient not just to read, but to engage in a dialogue. It’s a way of sparking conversation and a desire to create through viewing another’s creative expression.

Marz Gebhardt, The Jam Jar, 2024

The concept of sending “signals” through your art is fascinating. What kinds of responses or connections have you received from audiences?

Ultimately, I believe the true beauty of sending “signals” through art lies in the power of each audience to spark life into every poem, painting, and film that resonates with them. Once you put something out into the world, it’s no longer just for you—it becomes part of someone else’s experience, shaped by their memories, emotions, and imagination. That ongoing interaction between creator and audience is one of the most rewarding aspects of sharing your creations with your community.

One of the most personally unexpected things about Martian Mail has been the catalytic connections I’ve formed in new places. The idea behind sending out “signals” is about offering something personal—whether it’s a card, a poem, or a painting—and seeing how loved ones, strangers, or even future you respond. And well, the responses have been overwhelmingly positive. Some recipients have reached out to say that receiving a card reminded them of the importance of staying connected, especially in times when it can be easy to let those bonds slip.

I’ve also been moved by a couple of stories from people who have sent one of my greeting cards to a loved one after years of little or no communication. Another dear friend framed the first set of cards they received, not for their artistic value but because they represented an important moment in our relationship.

That, to me, is the entire purpose of Martian Mail—it’s not just about art; it’s about creating a platform for emotional connection. Through this project, I’ve been able to connect with diverse audiences, both locally in Saskatchewan and globally, including two group exhibitions in Brooklyn, New York, and an upcoming solo exhibition in Toronto, Ontario. The responses I receive—whether in the form of thank-you notes, shared memories, or people sending me their own creative responses—are a constant reminder of the power of human connection and the unique experiences found within the universality of many experiences.

Many of your works explore themes of family, femininity, and loss. Why are these themes important to you, and how do you approach them in your art?

Family, femininity, and loss are deeply personal themes for me, and I think they find their way into my work because they’re so intertwined with my understanding of identity and connection. As all young people do, I’ve witnessed the many intricacies of family dynamics time and time again—the constant bonds that form the fabric of our development, but also the tensions that arise when those bonds are stretched. In Martian Mail, the exploration of family is about the love and complexity of those connections. My cards and poems specific to this theme serve as an invitation to reflect on our own relationships, offering a space where we can acknowledge both the joys and the struggles we experience in these bonds—on the Prairies and beyond.

Femininity, on the other hand, feels like an ever-evolving dialogue in my art. I use written and visual mediums to explore how the personified Femininity’s qualities of strength and vulnerability coexist, not just as societal constructs but as deeply personal experiences. In Martian Mail, the idea of femininity is about embracing the quiet power that comes with care, resilience, and self-discovery—even during chapters of life when a mere glimmer of femininity is personally sufficient. My work reflects the complexity of the ultimate “feminine identity” and offers space for others to see even a fragment of themselves in that narrative.

Loss is a recurring theme for me, not because it’s inherently negative, but because I believe it’s important to recognize that it’s not always a dreadful experience. On the contrary, loss is a vital part of our evolving relationships with family, femininity, and the human experience itself. Loss isn’t only about what we physically lose; it’s also about what we gain through remembering, grieving, and growing. This understanding shapes everything I create, as I strive to both literally and linguistically portray loss, highlighting the unexpected joys and excitement it can bring. I often represent loss with the color yellow—whether through yellow backgrounds or accents in my paintings and short films, or through references to yellow or golden objects in my poems. It’s a reminder that we are all bound by our experiences of love and loss, and through creative expression, we can find healing.

What ties these themes together is their general universality but specific instances of variety—they’re all experiences that most people encounter in many different situations and forms. By weaving them into my work, I hope to create spaces where viewers or readers can reflect on their own unique relationships, identities, and memories. For me, art is about connection, and exploring these themes allows me to invite others into that shared human experience. I think there’s something powerful in reframing those moments as worthy of artistic exploration.

Marz Gebhardt, June 24, 2023

Your thesis focused on the Holocaust’s Sonderkommando, which is a deeply challenging subject. How did this academic work shape your creative practice?

My thesis on the Holocaust’s Sonderkommando was one of the most challenging projects I’ve undertaken, not just academically but emotionally. Engaging with such a profoundly painful and morally complex subject required a level of focus, empathy, and self-reflection that fundamentally shifted how I approach storytelling and art in the following years.

One of the key lessons I took from my research was the importance of honoring silence as much as expression. The stories of the Sonderkommando are often marked by gaps of unrepeatable experiences—things that are unspeakable, moments that will resist full comprehension by modern academics and audiences. I think that experience taught me to appreciate the spaces between words, the power of what’s left unsaid, and how modern art can help fill those voids in ways that history or academia alone cannot.

This perspective has directly shaped my creative practice. When I write, paint, or work on a film, I try to hold space for complexity, ambiguity, and the emotional weight of what isn’t immediately visible or obvious. The Holocaust, and particularly the experiences of the Sonderkommando, revealed the depths of human resilience and suffering, and those themes of survival, memory, and ethical responsibility often find their way into my creative work—even in subtle ways. For example, I have pieces coming out in Chapter Three that are wholly inspired by the moment I first encountered the writings of Filip Müller. I will never forget how I felt when I discovered that this young Sonderkommando was exactly my age upon entering Auschwitz, and he too played the violin for many years. I cannot put this feeling into words—and so I will paint and discuss my own experiences as a child with my own violin, in a world where I will never experience such depth of human suffering.

My thesis also reinforced my belief that art and storytelling have a unique ability to connect people to history, to each other, and to emotions that might otherwise feel inaccessible. Whether I’m writing a poem or crafting a short film for Martian Mail, I often think about how those pieces can carry meaning beyond what can be thematically expressed—all thanks to audience members who come from different backgrounds with different experiences that I will never share.

Ultimately, my thesis wasn’t just an academic exercise—it was a deeply human experience. It reminded me of the profound responsibility we have as artists, writers, and creators to bear witness to stories, even the most difficult ones, and to create work that invites others into that process of understanding and remembrance.

What advice would you give to someone looking to explore both visual and literary arts as a way to tell personal stories?

My advice for someone looking to explore both visual and literary arts in tandem is to embrace the chaos of formulating dialogue between the two mediums, trust the unique power of your own voice, and never underestimate the power of patience when your ideas aren’t quite developing according to plan. In the end, the greatest lesson I’ve embraced this year is to surrender my grasp on control and reach for my camera when the paintbrush no longer feels like the right tool for the story.

Marz Gebhardt, In These Spaces We Find People, 2024