I began doing writing projects and art and design projects to

Host: The sky over Vancouver was a pale wash of grey and silver, the kind of light that makes every color seem more honest, every shadow more gentle. The city was humming quietly — a thousand stories tucked beneath the buzz of rain, the soft drone of traffic, and the distant call of seagulls drifting in from the harbor.

Inside a glass café on Granville Island, steam rose from two mugs, curling like ghosts above the table. The windows were fogged, covered with the reflections of passing bicycles, umbrellas, and neon signs glowing through the mist.

Jack sat across from Jeeny, his coat still damp, his hair tousled by the wind. He had that look — half philosopher, half man who doesn’t believe in nations anymore. Jeeny, on the other hand, was sketching something on a napkin, her eyes bright, her fingers stained with ink.

Host: There was a quiet tension between them — not of anger, but of two minds moving in opposite directions through the same storm of thought.

Jeeny: “Douglas Coupland once said, ‘I began doing writing projects and art and design projects to explore a new way of seeing Canada. Roots is one more way of continuing this exploration. I want to present a wide-open Canadian sense of color, adventure, communication and openness that defines our country.’”
She smiled, tracing a line on her napkin. “Don’t you think that’s beautiful, Jack? A country defined by color, openness, and adventure — not borders.”

Jack: “It’s poetic,” he said, his voice low and measured. “But maybe too optimistic. I think Canada’s defined more by silence than color. By distance, by the space between people, not their connection.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why Coupland’s words matter. He’s not denying the space — he’s filling it with meaning. He’s saying that art and design can make a country feel like a conversation, not just a map.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, drumming softly against the glass. The café lights flickered, casting them in an amber glow that made the moment feel timeless, like a painting still being finished.

Jack: “You talk about conversation — but who’s actually talking? Most people don’t even know what it means to be Canadian. They just exist between fragments — a bit of Europe, a bit of America, a bit of nostalgia for something that never really existed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Maybe being Canadian means embracing the in-between — the fluidity, the hybridity. We’re not supposed to be one story. We’re a collage.”

Jack: “A collage is still made of broken pieces.”

Jeeny: “Broken can be beautiful.”

Host: She said it softly, but her voice carried a kind of defiance, like a songbird refusing to be drowned out by rain. Jack watched her, his grey eyes narrowing — not out of disagreement, but out of something heavier. Recognition, maybe.

Jack: “You think art can fix a nation?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Reveal. Reflect. Maybe even heal.”

Jack: “That’s a lot of weight to put on a painting or a brand.”

Jeeny: “It’s not just a brand, Jack. It’s a language. Coupland understood that — that a t-shirt, a poster, a sculpture could say as much about a country’s soul as a speech or a law. He saw Canada not as a flag, but as a feeling.”

Host: The fog outside had thickened, blurring the outlines of the city. Inside, the colors — the red mug, the green plants, the blue art print on the wall — all seemed to glow with quiet intensity, as if responding to Jeeny’s words.

Jack: “You always talk about feeling, Jeeny. But what about structure? Economics, politics, real life? You can’t just paint over inequality and call it identity.”

Jeeny: “I’m not painting over it. I’m inviting it into the conversation. Art doesn’t ignore reality — it expands it. Think about Indigenous artists, how they’ve used color and form to reclaim stories stolen by colonialism. That’s not escapism, Jack — that’s resistance.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, the steam from her coffee mingling with the weight of what she had just said. Jack leaned back, his shoulders tense, his expression hardening like stone, before finally softening again.

Jack: “You think we can design our way out of history?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can design our way into understanding it.”

Host: The sound of a violin drifted in from the street, a busker playing beneath a canopy, his notes echoing through the mist like memory.

Jack: “You really think that’s enough? That color and art can define a nation better than its laws, its borders, its conflicts?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because laws divide, and art connects. Borders restrict, and imagination crosses them. That’s the openness Coupland was talking about — the spirit that doesn’t fear being seen or changed.”

Host: Jack sighed, his breath fogging the window. Outside, two children in bright raincoats were splashing through puddles, laughing. Their voices cut through the noise of the city, pure, unfiltered, alive.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought Canada was just quiet — a place people escaped to. Safe, polite, a bit empty. But you talk about it like it’s alive.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. You just have to look differently. That’s what Coupland meant by ‘a new way of seeing Canada.’ It’s not about what’s here — it’s about how we see it.”

Jack: “And what do you see?”

Jeeny: “A canvas, not a mirror.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a light drizzle. The fog began to lift, and the skyline came back into view — its buildings glittering like wet glass sculptures.

Jack stared at the city, his reflection merging with the light of the harbor. His expression had changed — still skeptical, but no longer closed.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. I keep looking for a definition, when maybe the beauty’s in the search.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Identity isn’t something you arrive at — it’s something you create every day.”

Host: The barista turned off the espresso machine, and the café fell into a gentle quiet. Rainwater slid down the windows like melting silver, and a bird landed on the railing outside, its wings shaking off the water before it took flight again.

Jeeny: “That’s what I love about this place — it’s always in motion. Always becoming.”

Jack: “And that’s what makes it so damn hard to capture.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we keep trying.”

Host: They sat there in silence, the city breathing around them. The rain had stopped, and the world outside was washed clean, shining, open.

A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, hitting the window just right — and for a moment, their faces were lit with the same warm gold that Coupland once wrote about — that wide-open, curious, impossible light that seemed to belong only to this place.

And in that light, the question of what Canada was — or could be — didn’t feel like a debate anymore. It felt like a beginning.