Daniel Hunt is a commercial art dealer in Toronto. Previously trained as an artist, Daniel has organized and built art spaces in around Toronto since 2015. He founded Hunt Gallery in the fall of 2022.
What were some of the decisions that went into converting the space, and how did you find this particular space?
⎯⎯⎯ Maybe I should go way farther back to UofT Scarborough, where I studied for my undergraduate degree. Early on, I met an artist who gave me a piece of advice that stuck with me: “Never have a studio more than 30 minutes away from your home, or you’ll lose your art practice.” At the time, I was highly impressionable, and this idea of keeping my studio close to where I lived resonated deeply. It led to an understanding of the importance of building community around those spaces.
The community at U of T Scarborough was somewhat fragmented. As a commuter campus, there wasn’t much happening outside of the classroom, which left a void in terms of meaningful interaction. During my second or third year, I decided to do something about it. I organized what I now call a “program,” but in reality, it was just a regular bar night at a place called The Fossil. We gathered there to genuinely try to build a sense of community. Some nights were fantastic, others were a bit chaotic, but it was a start.
After graduating in 2015, I was searching for a studio space. The area around U of T Scarborough is filled with light industrial buildings, so I spent the summer with a few others from our art collective, Y+, looking for the right place. Eventually, we found a space that we divided into four studios in the back, with a gallery in the front. We named it Y+ Contemporary and ran it from 2015 to 2018.
In Scarborough, community infrastructure is quite limited. People often head downtown, to the movies, or the mall. It made me question how we could create genuine community hubs in such an environment. The word “community” can be a bit problematic—it’s often used as a stand-in for passive participation, but true communities are spaces where people come together to build something meaningful.
At Y+ Contemporary, we worked hard to establish a vibrant space near Malvern. We launched a youth program, hosted events, and held solo exhibitions. This was the first iteration of such a project for me, and it solidified my commitment to the idea of building community through accessible, locally-rooted art spaces.
At this point were you still practicing art?
At this point, I was still actively making art. I had a studio in the back, focusing on sculpture, and somewhere during my time with Y+, I decided to pursue grad school. While I was still deeply involved with the program, I was also working hard to establish my own art career. When Y+'s lease ended after three years, I moved back to the city in 2018, post-MFA, and began exploring opportunities in the local art scene.
I was taking on a few projects here and there when COVID hit, forcing us to put a lot on hold—which, in some ways, turned out to be beneficial for artists. I was fortunate to have a studio at home, so my partner and I could continue creating consistently. This period allowed me to solidify my art practice, but it also highlighted the absence of community. COVID disrupted so many art spaces, leaving a palpable void in the creative landscape.
Definitely.
⎯⎯⎯ And so for me, I was thinking this ecosystem is fucked up here. We're missing stratas of this thing, right? There's not a lot of emerging spaces and there never really were any blue chip spaces – maybe GalleryOne, Moos, or SL Simpson back in the day. Everything was in the same strata gallery-wise. There was no diversification as there is in New York or London.
Maybe it’s also not internationally connected in a way that it can feel a global influence both going out and coming in.
⎯⎯⎯ Totally, as artists mature they get picked up by bigger galleries with larger distribution and more elite clientele; they go somewhere where the infrastructure can support that level of celebrity.
It’s always been the syndrome of Toronto's art world.
⎯⎯⎯ Yeah, I mean, it's something that I feel like I'm trying to tip the pH of, but it's tough, right? Because there are systemic problems. So, the first step was to isolate these spots. In 2019, Katherine Mulherin passed away and that was a really significant blow to the community. She was really instrumental in building many kinds of careers.
Yeah, she was like a root.
⎯⎯⎯ She went from Toronto all the way to these other places and had so much influence and elevated so many careers and supported so much art, like real genuine cutting-edge art.
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With poise, grace, and confidence. In 2015, Jessica Bradley closed her gallery, and shortly after, Ben Diaz followed suit. The Toronto art world felt those losses deeply. During COVID, we saw even more closures—Georgia Sherman, and then Canadian Art…
Around June 2020, as the real estate market took a dive, I found myself scrolling through MLS listings as if it were the end of the world. Properties were incredibly cheap, and with nothing else to do, I was on the site constantly. That’s when I found a listing at Dufferin and St. Clair. The image was a tiny, grainy 72dpi thumbnail—the kind that usually makes you think, *there’s something special here*...
You struck gold.
⎯⎯⎯ It was definitely undervalued. I contacted the agent, and we went to see the space. I had this old, busted Android phone with a broken camera, and we were all wearing masks. The agent and landlord seemed puzzled as to why I wanted this basement with no windows. I just said, “It’s for art.”
It was a personal way to reclaim spaces of isolation, to counter the effects of a fractured world in a tangible way. That’s how we launched The Plumb—a large, underground gallery space at Dufferin and St. Clair. Fifteen of us opened it in 2020, and the response has been incredible. I’m not saying it’s a direct replacement for something like Mulherin, but it fills a similar niche within its own strata. The model was inspired by spaces like 8eleven and Cold City, with a focus on showing emerging and overlooked artists in large group exhibitions. We aimed to connect artists with the community, with patrons, and ultimately with sustainability in the arts in Toronto.
Meanwhile, I was still working in art handling, and because of the gallery, my role began to shift towards advisory work. My philosophy has always been the “teach a man to fish” approach. We wanted to build something that not only showcased artists but also connected them to long-term support networks, creating sustainable careers rather than short-term opportunities.
This was the beginning of Plumb.
⎯⎯⎯ Right. As things progressed, I started searching for places to host dinners and events along St. Clair after Plumb openings, but it wasn’t easy. The area is quite old, and finding suitable spots was a challenge. Then, in April 2021, I happened to be walking down St. Clair and saw a "For Lease" sign. I knew I had to call. I booked an appointment, saw the space, and the price seemed right for making the next move.
At the same time, I was applying for a PhD but didn’t get accepted. I found myself at a crossroads, struggling to reconcile my desire for higher education with my passion for community development. Building sustainable art communities is something I deeply care about, yet I also felt a professional need to pursue the PhD, despite my reservations. I saw a PhD in studio art as being somewhat insular and self-focused, especially when the world felt so outward-facing. But it seemed like the logical next step.
Not getting in felt like fate was steering me in a different direction. It was as if I was being told to focus on building something tangible and meaningful now, with the option to revisit the PhD later. So, I decided to take the lease on the new space and channel the advisory component of my work back into the gallery. The goal was to keep both the Plumb and Hunt Gallery close, adopting a holistic development strategy centered around user experience.
Today, the Plumb is more than just a gallery; it has a coffee shop and a bar, creating a vibrant, walkable community hub. The same vision extends to Hunt Gallery, with a focus on building infrastructure that enhances the neighborhood. The proximity of these spaces wasn’t just a coincidence; it was a deliberate choice to foster a sense of connection and accessibility.
What was the space before you got the keys?
⎯⎯⎯ It was raw and empty since maybe 2014 and it was fucked up. It used to be part of the Edward Jones next door, and then in 2014 they cut their space in half, so they had kind of just sort of forgotten about it. It was just storage. So when I got a hold of it, I tore down the ceiling, we ran the electrical, sanded the floors, built all the walls out, drywalled, the whole thing.
Were there choices at that point about how you were going to go about converting it into a gallery space, or did you follow templates that had already pre-existed from other gallery spaces?
⎯⎯⎯ I’m constantly considering both the art itself and the architecture and infrastructure that shape how galleries are experienced. Decisions, like using lifted drywall or selecting specific lighting, became integral to the space. While some elements were carefully planned, others developed more organically. For me, the gallery should serve as a clear, unobstructed crystal clear box that allows the art to be seen in its purest form.
It's a canvas for whatever art is going to inhabit it. Was it a big leap to go from being involved in a collective, and having private advisory clients, to running your own independent gallery?
⎯⎯⎯ A little crazy.
[Laughs]
There’s a lot of great programming here, but none of it really resonated with me.
What was it that you were identifying?
Many artists my age who were actively working were starting to burn out. COVID played a significant role, both in my own story and in the broader economy during the creation of both The Plumb and Hunt Gallery. I was already programming and collaborating with artists at The Plumb, but I was becoming increasingly frustrated with the reliance on grants. It’s a system that seems supportive but ultimately perpetuates a cycle of poverty for artists. It’s a model from the ’70s and ’80s that no longer functions effectively. I realized that if things didn’t change, art in this city would die. I had to do something.
It felt that way. During Covid, it felt like the bottom was falling out of the art world.
⎯⎯⎯ I mean, I feel like it still is.
Were you focusing the programming at Hunt on your immediate circle of people and artists that you were working with, or were you grabbing from other circles and from other worlds?
⎯⎯⎯ It was artists that I was looking at or liked for a long time; following people's careers, be it long or short. As someone who wasn't an artist at the time, and starting to program and doing advisory work, I was looking at a lot of art. Somewhere I have a document of my wish list of artists to work through, and I was fortunate enough that some of them were friends, colleagues, or friends of friends.
I want to talk about some of the aesthetic considerations when it comes to determining what art you want to exhibit, and what artists you want to support. Maybe the best way to go about this is if you can describe a little bit about your personal philosophy of what displaying art means.
⎯⎯⎯ I’ve often described the program here as exploring both the beauty and challenge of looking—what happens when an object confronts you. I see it as having two distinct yet interconnected aspects: the philosophical object and the phenomenological object.
The *philosophical object* refers to things like paintings or works on paper. These pieces function like texts—you engage with them, extract meaning, and metaphorically “put them back in the library.” While they have a tangible presence, the true interaction happens through the image, through the process of interpretation and reflection.
The *phenomenological object*, on the other hand, is rooted in the physicality of sculpture or floor-based works. It’s more immediate and relational, engaging you in a dialogue in the way Michael Fried describes. It has a presence that speaks back to you, similar to the way we respond to one another in social settings—at a party or a bar, for example.
Bringing these two ideas together—the philosophical and the phenomenological—creates a unique cultural significance. It helps us understand objects in their specific time and place, which is crucial in a world overwhelmed with images. I often tell artists that their work, in its specific context, is unique and can never be truly recreated. Even if you made the same piece again, it wouldn’t be identical; there’s no “Theseus’ Ship” paradox at play here. These works exist on the z-axis of time, reflecting a moment that is unrepeatable. Not to go too far down the rabbit hole, but that’s what makes them so powerful.
[Laughs] Yes.
⎯⎯⎯ These works are drawn from the very soul of the artist, and it’s easy to overlook that and focus solely on the images themselves. For me, the program is about articulating this philosophical duality in the works, while also considering how people engage with them. I refer to it as a “politics of the elevator.” Think about it: you can fit more people into a thirty-five-story condo than in a single-floor bungalow. In this analogy, the floors represent different levels of access.
So, we ask: Is it beautiful? Is it aesthetically compelling? Does it have historical context? Is there a narrative we can uncover together as we engage with it? The more layers you stack onto a work, the more complex it becomes, creating a kind of rhizomatic structure that reveals itself gradually. That richness emerges through the act of “difficult looking,” by taking the time to let the object challenge you.
This brings us back to the interplay between the philosophical and phenomenological objects. Art history often emphasizes the need for rigour in a practice or program, but I don’t see it that way. Framing it like that puts pressure on people to decode how a work is made. I prefer to think of it as more like a carnival or a bar: you come in, choose your own experience, have a great conversation with the bartender, or even catch the World Cup on TV. It’s about creating a space where people can engage with art on their own terms, finding their own points of entry into the work.
Or you can just drink in the corner.
⎯⎯⎯ Those points of access are really important. You can bring to it what you want to bring to it, knowing full well I can give you more if you are looking for more.
You mentioned earlier when you're describing the space that the word ‘hunt’ was not only part of your name, but also an action that one undergoes as they approach art, or look for art, or don't look for art. Is that tied into the philosophy in some way?
⎯⎯⎯ The interplay on my name is not necessarily that interesting, more coincidental I suppose, but there is something nice about hunting and finding. It’s how I found this space. There's something to be said for combing through artistic practices and asking “how does this speak to me or how does this not speak to me?” Often the latter is actually more interesting.
Is there a difference between art you appreciate individually, art that you want to show in the gallery, and art that you think other people will appreciate?
⎯⎯⎯ I have two perspectives on this. First, I see the role of the gallerist as helping to shape and discern taste. Ideally, you come to the gallery because you trust my taste, and from there, we can work together to understand and articulate your own preferences through the artwork. My taste is, of course, shaped by my life experiences and history, but I like to think it’s also well-honed.
During grad school, I was captivated by the concept of negative affect—the powerful emotional responses of disgust, envy, jealousy, or repulsion. These intense feelings are often overlooked but can be deeply revealing. Cultural theorist Sianne Ngai explores these ideas in her books *Zany, Cute, Interesting* and *Ugly Feelings*, which delve into aesthetic categories and the impact of negative emotions. I’m not suggesting that the gallery is about provoking disgust, but I find the combative nature of such responses intriguing. Confronting and unpacking these emotions can lead to a deeper psychological and neurological understanding, and ultimately, new ways of thinking.
I remember seeing a David Altmejd piece at the MOCCA early in my career, and I absolutely hated it. It felt terrible to me. I even wrote a review about how much I disliked it, but in the process of writing, I realized that the aspects I found off-putting were just inversions of things I actually appreciated. The artwork, which I initially dismissed, became more compelling as I grappled with it. The question of whether I liked or disliked it became less important than how it challenged my sensibilities and helped clarify my own tastes.
This experience of wrestling with my reactions was almost therapeutic, and it solidified my commitment to engaging deeply with art. I realized that my aesthetic sensibility is very fluid. I want to be confronted with new ideas and experiences, to be pushed out of my comfort zone. This process shapes the lens through which I view and share art, allowing me to connect with others and present works that resonate with me, even if they’re filtered through a constantly evolving personal taste.
Walking a little bit further into that one-to-one experience of connecting people to artworks, let’s talk about how you connected East Room to the art of Walter Scott. Was there a sort of light bulb moment where maybe the phenomenological and the philosophical came to a head and created this third space where you're like yup, this is the perfect thing? Can you talk a bit about how it dawned on you that East Room would be an ideal opportunity for Walter’s artwork?
The gallery operates through the sale of artwork, which means that when a client or someone with an interest in art visits, I need to get a sense of who they are. I was fortunate to meet Derreck (president and owner of East Room) at Alan Belcher’s opening. We had a drink, chatted, and hit it off. He later invited me to visit the East Room, where we took a tour of the new Claremont space. I noticed some of the artwork he had collected, and we had some insightful conversations about his tastes. This helped me better understand his sensibilities.
Not long after, I realized I had a piece that might resonate with him—a Walter Scott neon artwork from 2021 that I had previously shown at the Drake Devonshire in Prince Edward County. I reached out to Derreck and sent him a video of the piece, suggesting that it could be a great fit for him. He came by, we viewed it together, and it clicked—both for his personal collection and for the aesthetic of East Room.
This encounter exemplifies the connection between the art I appreciate, the art I choose to showcase, and how it aligns with the tastes of others. It’s all about finding those intersections where personal sensibilities and the broader artistic vision come together.
You mentioned that the piece is these blinking neon eyes, that it's sort of a cheeky object. It sounds like it’s drawing some of the qualities that you found in East Room as you walked through, and then you’re connecting those to the aesthetic experience that you believed would benefit the space best.
⎯⎯⎯ I think for me it was the line work that was interesting. It was a continuum in a lot of the works I've seen that were in the building already, these kind of squiggly, Shrigley-like lines. The eyes of the sculpture have bags under them, they're kind of droopy, pre-coffee eyes, a little hungover, but there's an authentic or organic gesture to it, they're not manicured. They're pretty real, and emotive, but then they're also made of neon. So there's like this kind of push between the emotion and the neon as material.
Can you give me a look into what happens internally for you as you walk into a space with this kind of aesthetic judgment and discernment turned on? Are you operating just as another person in the world, absorbing information and synthesizing it later, or are you actively listening to space?
⎯⎯⎯ The architecture of a space profoundly shapes how we experience it. I often consider sightlines and how our bodies interact with a space as we move through it. Take this gallery, for example: initially, it was an open layout. I added a wall at the front, which now compels you to make a decision as soon as you enter. You can either move forward or turn, but whichever choice you make, you’re asserting your agency in the space. This act of choosing creates a deeper engagement with your surroundings. I believe good architecture should offer these moments of choice and interaction.
At East Room, the Claremont building’s older brick elements and structural alcoves naturally frame artworks, enhancing the visual experience. For me, it’s all about how you navigate a space: Do you see the edge of an artwork first, or do you get a full view? If there are multiple pieces, how close should they be to one another? These decisions blend design with the physicality of objects in space.
As you walk up the stairs, for example, you’re faced with another decision—go left, right, or continue forward. The placement of art in these transitional spaces becomes crucial. While art placement can serve as a form of wayfinding, it’s also about how you, as someone actively moving and engaging with the space, interact with the artworks. Every decision in positioning contributes to the overall experience, making the journey through the space as meaningful as the destination.
Speaking of design, one thing you do that is quite nice is creating an identity for Hunt Gallery. I'm wondering how important marketing and, for lack of a better word, brand awareness is for you? What is your strategy when it comes to promoting yourself and your artists? Eventually, people need to come in and see the work, but until then there's another life that it lives.
⎯⎯⎯ Let’s start with the brand. My colleague Brennan Kelly, who I went to grad school with, is a graphic designer and has generously helped me develop the visual identity for this space. We’ve collaborated for a long time, so he has a deep understanding of the aesthetic we’re aiming for. When I think about contemporary art, I see it as being closer to luxury retail—more aligned with brands like Balenciaga or Off-White than with traditional arts and crafts. So, the question is: what should that brand look like?
For me, the brand needs to be a crystal-clear box—an unobstructed lens through which the art can be viewed. It’s like a casing that allows the work to shine, but there’s a tension in that. How do you create a strong brand identity without overshadowing the diverse aesthetic sensibilities within the gallery? Our roster is eclectic, so the brand has to be flexible enough to accommodate a wide range of artistic voices without imposing its own style too heavily.
As for promotion, social media is obviously a powerful tool, and I try to approach it with a certain irreverence that reflects my personality. I want to push boundaries without overstepping them. It’s a balance—letting the artwork speak for itself while ensuring that the brand remains compelling and authentic.
Is it another aesthetic project for you, or is it like a necessary evil?
⎯⎯⎯ I see it as a cheeky way of playing with social media engagement. I wouldn’t call it a formal project, but I enjoy doing things that push against the limitations of the platform and its context. For example, I interviewed the artist Marni Marriott for our show *Fugue State* entirely over iMessage, so the interview ended up as a series of iMessage screenshots. The format of a screenshot is usually associated with cancel culture, gossip, or things that demand immediate attention—you’re almost tricked into reading it. So here’s this thing that looks like a juicy screenshot, but it’s actually an interview about the show. I think it’s fun to use social media in ways that subvert expectations and mess with the format a bit. I’m not a graphic designer or a social media expert, but I like fucking with it and seeing how far I can push the boundaries.
When it comes to broadening the audience of the gallery, and of further disseminating the work of the artists, what do you foresee your role being in the future? Is it enough to occupy the gallery space and keep doing what you're doing, or is there more that you're thinking about?
⎯⎯⎯ The gallery has some clear paths for growth, like participating in art fairs and publishing books—typical routes within the industry. But I’m also interested in exploring other possibilities. For me, that means considering the structure of the city and finding new ways to engage with art, because while art is for everyone, it’s not free.
In the art world, participation typically happens in four ways: creating art, writing about art, buying art, and attending art events. To truly engage, you have to commit to at least two of these roles—ideally more. It’s about being actively involved in multiple dimensions of the art ecosystem, rather than just observing from the sidelines.
I love this. It’s like the Iron Triangle: you can have it cheap, fast, or good, but you can only pick two.
⎯⎯⎯ Yeah. You know, spaces like this are free to enter. It's easy to access them, and look at them, and think that you're part of the community, and that's totally okay and fine, but if you want to actively participate, you need to engage deeper and that means showing up. Making it, writing about it, it doesn't have to be anything serious, but if you want to see the longevity of these things, you need to water your flowers sometimes. So, for me part of the expansion when you ask the question is thinking more about structural improvements to the city. That's a long game though, so we'll see. We’re trying to think about what it means to create a sustainable contemporary art infrastructure in the city.
In essence, art has to be experienced and, like you're saying, participated with. It isn't a passive experience that we can just benefit from by living in a visual culture. If we want it to continue, to get richer and broader, we have to be involved with it.
⎯⎯⎯ Totally. There’s a tendency in this city to lump all the arts together—whether it’s theater, music, visual, community, or contemporary arts. But each has a distinct model. In most of these fields, you just need to fill seats to succeed, but that approach doesn’t work for contemporary art. Here, support needs to come from a more holistic community level, which ties back to those four key roles I mentioned: making art, writing about art, buying art, and showing up to art events.
It’s crucial for people to recognize that there’s a real infrastructure at play, and it’s essential to support one another within it. Yes, this is a business, but it’s also part of a larger mission I have—to create sustainable art practices in this city, for the long haul, or at least as long as I’m here. It’s about building something lasting and meaningful, not just for today, but for the future.
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