First American Art Magazine No. 21, Winter 2018/19

ANCESTRAL, HISTORICAL & LIVING ARTS of INDIGENOUS PEOPLES of the AMERICAS

FırstAmericanArt MAGAZINE

100 YEARS OF CROW FAIR INDIGENOUS FUTURISMS NATIVE ART AT WALT DISNEY WORLD’S EPCOT CENTER BÁÁHÁÁLÍ CHAPTER YOUNG WEAVERS LINDA AGUILAR NORMA HOWARD CHRIS PAPPAN QUINN SMALLBOY

NO. 21, WINTER 2018/19

DISPLAY UNTIL FEB. 28, 2019

GENE SMITH CHOCTAW/SIOUX

SUE FISH CHICKASAW CHASE EARLES CADDO

TRACI RABBIT CHEROKEE

6TH ANNUAL

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CALL FOR ARTISTS

LUANNE ARAGON LAGUNA PUEBLO

• Native American juried art show and market featuring artists in 2-D, 3-D, Cultural, Textile and Miniature categories.

• Cash prizes • For application, entry rules and information please contact The Chickasaw Nation Arts & Humanities Division at 580-272-5520 or by emailing ArtistInfo@chickasaw.net.

BENJAMIN HARJO JR. ABSENTEE SHAWNEE/SEMINOLE

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BUYING OR SELLING INDIAN ART? KNOW THE LAW Under the Indian Arts and Crafts Act, all American Indian and Alaska Native art and craft products must be marketed truthfully regarding the tribal enrollment and Indian heritage of the artist or craftsperson.

Allan Houser, Chiricahua Apache, “Apache Fire Dancer” © 1961, Collection of the Southern Plains Indian Museum, USDOI, IACB

TAKE HOME A TREASURE FROM INDIAN COUNTRY-BUY WORKS PRODUCED BY MEMBERS OF FEDERALLY RECOGNIZED TRIBES. For a free brochure on the Indian Arts and Crafts Act, including how to file a complaint, contact:

U.S. Department of the Interior

Indian Arts and Crafts Board Toll Free: 1-888-ART-FAKE or 1-888-278-3253 Email: iacb@ios.doi.gov | Web: www.doi.gov/iacb

Bring Her Home

With art by Juane Quick to See Smith, Avis With art by Juane Quick to See Smith, Avis With art by Juane Quick to See Smith, Avis Charley, Molly-Murphy Adams, Karen Goulet, Charley, Molly-Murphy Adams, Karen Goulet, Charley, Molly-Murphy Adams, Karen Goulet, Angela Babby, Wade Patton, Leah Yellowbird, Angela Babby, Wade Patton, Leah Yellowbird, Angela Babby, Wade Patton, Leah With art by Juane Quick toYellowbird, See Smith, Avis Marita Growing Thunder, and more..Karen Goule Marita Growing Thunder, and more..

Marita Growing Thunder, and more..

Charley, Molly-Murphy Adams, Angela Babby, Wade Patton, Leah Yellowb With art

by Juane Qu Marita Growing Thunder, and more..

Charley, Molly-Murph Angela Babby, Wade P Marita Growing Thun

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© 2018 Cherokee Heritage Center. All Rights Reserved. © 2018 Cherokee Heritage Center. All Rights Reserved.

issue no. 21, winter 2018/19

FEATURES

DEPARTMENTS

A Home Beyond: 20 Indigenous Futurisms in the Visual Arts

By Suzanne Newman Fricke, PhD

Recent Developments

12

Seven Directions

By Miranda Belarde-Lewis, PhD (Tlingit-Zuni)

16

A Century of Crow Fair 24 Photo essay by Lester Harragarra (Otoe-Missouria-Kiowa) Bááháálí Chapter Young Weavers

By Aaron Yazzie (Navajo)

32

Disney Introduces New Audiences to Native Art

By Michole Eldred (CatawbaEastern Band Cherokee)

38

46

ARTIST PROFILES Linda Aguilar: Chumash Basket Maker

By Gloria Bell (Métis)

46

Art+Literature: Carleigh Baker: Métis Author & Poet

By Matthew Ryan Smith, PhD

84

Collections: Glenbow Museum

By Andrea L. Ferber, PhD

88

Calendar

94

52

REVIEWS

Norma Howard: 52 Choctaw-Chickasaw Painter

By Vicki Monks (Chickasaw) Chris Pappan: Kaw- Osage-Lakota Ledger Art and Painter

By Jami Powell, PhD (Osage Nation)

Spotlight: Every One 92

By Cannupa Hanska Luger (Mandan-Hidatsa-Arikara-Lakota)

By Neebinnaukzhik Southall (Rama Chippewa)

Exhibition Reviews

Book Reviews 81

58

Quinn Smallboy: 64 Moose Cree Installation Artist, Painter, and Sculptor

By Matthew Ryan Smith, PhD

cover Lester Harragarra (Otoe-MissouriaKiowa), Austyn Fitzpatrick, Crow Fair, 2018, digital photograph, dimensions variable. Image courtesy of the artist.

70

IN MEMORIAM

58

Dugan Aguilar (MaiduNorthern Paiute-Achomawi)

By America Meredith (Cherokee Nation)

91

64

WINTER 2018/19 | 7

Artist Residency Program | Fine Print Studio & Gallery | Non-Profit

Issue No. 21, Winter 2018/19 ISSN 2333-5548 (Print) • ISSN 2333-5556 (Online) Publishing Editor: America Meredith (Cherokee Nation) Managing Editor: Mariah Ashbacher Literary Editor: Matthew Ryan Smith, PhD (Euro-Canadian) Online Editor: Stacy Pratt, PhD (Mvskoke) Marketing Director: Barbara Harjo (Cherokee descent) Copy Editor: Rosa Cays (Chicana) Proofreaders: Mariah Ashbacher, Staci Golar (Cornish-Welsh-American), Jean Merz-Edwards, and Kerrie Monahan Layout & Design: America Meredith (Cherokee Nation) Social Media: Staci Golar (Cornish-Welsh-American), Michelle J. Lanteri, America Meredith (Cherokee Nation), Nina Sanders (Apsáalooke), Jackie Sevier (Northern Arapaho), and Neebinnaukzhik Southall (Rama Chippewa)

Regional Representatives

Great Basin: Melissa Melero-Moose (Northern Paiute-Modoc) Great Plains: Jackie Sevier (Northern Arapaho) Northeast: Kelly Church (Odawa-Ojibwe-Potawatomi) Northwest: Marianne Nicolson, PhD (Dzawada’enuxw Kwakwaka’wakw) Southeast: Michole Eldred (Catawba-Eastern Band Cherokee) Southwest: Holly Coonsis (Zuni)

Editorial Advisory Board

heather ahtone, PhD (Choctaw-Chickasaw) Jonathan Batkin, Wheelwright Museum James T. Bialac, JD Teri Greeves (Kiowa) Emily Haozous, PhD, RN (Chiricahua Fort Sill Apache) Linda Lomahaftewa, Hon. DFA (Hopi-Choctaw) Jami Powell, PhD (Osage Nation) Mary Jo Watson, PhD (Seminole) Ken Williams Jr. (Northern Arapaho-Seneca) India Rael Young, PhD

Advertising Representative

Barbara Harjo (Cherokee descent), barbara@firstamericanartmagazine.com International distribution by Disticor Magazine Distribution Services.

First American Art Magazine, LLC, is not responsible for the content of any article or for the statements of any advertiser. First American Art Magazine welcomes queries about editorial submissions. The magazine is not responsible for unsolicited manuscripts, photographs, or artwork.

Copyright ©2018 by First American Art Magazine, LLC. Cover and contents are fully protected by copyright and may not be reproduced in whole or part by any method without written permission, except those specific images listed with Creative Commons licenses. Any errors or omissions will be corrected in subsequent editions. First American Art Magazine® is registered with the US Patent and Trademark Office.

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JAMES LAVADOUR This Good Land four-color lithograph diptych total image size 60 x 39.5 inches, edition of 20 hand printed & published at Crow’s Shadow Press, 2017 all proceeds benefit Crow’s Shadow

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Photo of Weave performer Rosy Simas by Douglas Beasley Design by Marne Zafar, mz.design

Saturday, January 12, 2019 Pre-show event 6:30PM | Performance 7:30PM Ordway Center for Performing Arts • 345 Washington Street, Saint Paul, MN 55102 • 651.224.4222 • Tickets at ORDWAY.ORG/Weave • rosysimasweave.com

ADDITIONAL SUPPORT FOR ROSY SIMAS DANSE AND THE ORDWAY PROVIDED BY

Ordway.org/access

Weave is made possible by the New England Foundation for the Arts' National Dance Project, with lead funding from the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation and The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

MAJOR SUPPORT FOR WEAVE PROVIDED BY

This activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund.

I D Y L L W I L D

A R T S

MUSIC & MOVEMENT SERIES SPONSORED BY

This activity is funded, in part, by an appropriation from the Minnesota State Legislature with money from the State’s general fund.

S U M M E R

P R O G R A M

Native American Workshops and Festival Idyllwild Arts Summer Program - The summer tradition that began in 1950 to bring the best artists in their fields to teach under the pines continues today. The Native American Arts Program and Festival includes exhibits, lectures and performances, as well as intensive hands-on workshops in Cahuilla & Hopi Pottery, Tohono O’odham & Cahuilla Basketry, Hopi Jewelry, Navajo Weaving, Beadwork, California Native Plants; as well as music, dance, theater, visual arts, writing and filmmaking, for ALL AGES - from age 5 to 105!

Summer 2019 Scholarships for Native American adults and kids available for all workshops!

For more details:

idyllwildarts.org/nativearts

summer@idyllwildarts.org 951-468-7265

EDITOR’S GREETING

M

ANY TERMS or categories serve to stymie Native art conversation, such as art vs. craft. Decade after decade these terms keep the conversation moving in small, repeating circles.

So what are useful lenses through which to view Indigenous art of the Americas?

What frames are relevant, not only to installation art in museums but also to non-Western art forms made and displayed in the context their tribal communities intended? Porcupine quillwork, an art form unique to North America, is my personal litmus test. If a proposed methodology can’t discuss quillwork, then it cannot adequately discuss Indigenous art of the Americas.

Formalism has long been a go-to approach for analyzing Native art. This prevailing approach to studying visual art of the mid-20th century is analyzing an art form based on its observable qualities, privileging sight but potentially including any sensory information, such as an aroma or a sound. Yet, formalism decontextualizes an artwork from its origins, the process of its creation, its maker, its maker’s intentions, the meaning behind its symbolism, and many other intangible concepts surrounding the work.

Back in 2009, heather ahtone (Choctaw-Chickasaw) published an essay, “Designed to Last: Striving toward an Indigenous American Aesthetic,” in which she clearly outlines a practical methodology for critiquing Native art based on Indigenous values. Her later essay, “Reading Beneath the Surface: Joe Feddersen's Parking Lot” (Wíčazo Ša Review, 2012), provides an example of implementing her methodology on a specific artwork (a glass vase sculpted by Okanagan-Sinixt artist Joe Feddersen). ahtone has continued to flesh out and refine her Indigenous methodology to four lenses: materiality, metaphor/symbolism, kincentricity, and temporality.1

Materiality is an examination of the physical media, which includes looking at historical use of those media by the artist’s community, or ways the artist uses novel or new media. How do artists gather the materials and how do they process them?

For example, in her profile in this issue, Linda Aguilar (Chumash) describes horsehair and linen that she uses to make baskets, both of which are used historically in utilitarian baskets, but both were introduced by Europeans to her community. She makes potent statements about complex interpretations of economic value when she adds abalone shell or poker chips to her baskets.

These choices bleed into the lens of metaphor/symbolism. ahtone writes that “for an oral-based community … knowledge was often coded into visual references.…”2 These layers of symbolism can be semirepresentational and inferred without specialized knowledge—or highly abstracted and require instruction to decode. An example of symbolism is Choctaw-Chickasaw painter Norma Howard building up her soft, atmospheric watercolors with minute strokes of paint mimicking the weave of Choctaw rivercane basketry. These baskets are integral to Choctaw self-representation, and their geometric shapes hold symbolic meaning in tandem with practical forms used, for instance, in drying herbal medicines.

Kincentricity was coined by Dennis Martinez (O’odham-Chicano) and, as he says, describes “where we have a relationship not only with our immediate biological family, our extended family, our tribe, our clan, our community, but also with plants and animals out in the natural world.”3 Kincentricity is based on reciprocity. How does an artwork reference relationships, perhaps from the artist to other members of her or his tribe or to other artists? As described in the feature article “Bááháálí Chapter Young Weavers,” Elouise Washburn and Gloria Skeet (both

1. heather ahtone, “Cultural Paradigms of Contemporary Indigenous Art: As Found in the Work of Shan Goshorn, Norman Akers, Marie Watt, and Joe Feddersen” (PhD diss., University of Oklahoma, 2018), 66–67.

2. Ibid., 66.

3. Dennis Martinez, interview by David E. Hall, Native Perspectives on Sustainability (January 3, 2008), 3, PDF. 4. ahtone, “Cultural Paradigms of Contemporary Indigenous Art,” 68–69.

10 | WWW.FIRSTAMERICANARTMAGAZINE.COM

Navajo) used weaving wool as a means to bring together elders and young people from their community, the Bááháálí Chapter, within the larger Navajo Nation.

The finished rugs and purses also speak to the symbiotic relationship the humans have with the sheep.

Temporality is when “the artist is positioned within a time-space continuum that is informed by personal experience, family and tribal history, and works within a network of influences and possible materials.”4 In his photo essay, Lester Harragarra (Otoe-MissouriaKiowa) photographs Apsáalooke people celebrating the 100th annual Crow Fair.

This milestone allows them to reflect upon where they stand as a people in 2018 compared to a century ago. Harragarra emphasizes the passage of time by juxtaposing people of all ages. He further hones in on the joyous reflection of time passing with his photograph of Charlie and Ramona Real Bird celebrating their 57 years of marriage in the Adali and Norma Falls Down 50th Wedding Anniversary category in the Crow Fair parade.

This is a precursory introduction to these concepts, but even so, I am confident that considering materiality, metaphor/symbolism, kincentricity, and temporality when studying Native art will help to more deeply read and reflect on the works. Indeed, these are doors to greater understanding and insight into Indigenous perspectives that can be applied to all art forms, not just Native art.

—America Meredith above America Meredith (Cherokee Nation), Sun Circle 2012, Oklahoma red clay, gypsum, mica, acrylic medium, 12 × 12 in., private collection.

LETTERS TO FAAM KUDOS

I

HAVE REALLY ENJOYED going through the back issues of the magazine and am looking forward to the next issue! Speaking as a new fan, we need more of what you’re putting out there in the world. Cheers to you and thank you for the work you’re doing!

Gloria Shade Tulsa, Oklahoma We feel it is important to expand the Native art conversation outward and reach audiences from diverse disciplines. Best of luck with your endeavors with FireThief Productions!

C "TIME FOR A NEW DISCOURSE" & EDWARD CURTIS

T

HANK YOU FOR BRINGING TOGETHER another edition of First American Art Magazine as you did with No. 20, Fall 2018. I found America Meredith’s “Time For a New Discourse” thoughtful and useful.

Hopefully Native artists will lead us to a realization that art, as they describe it, surrounds and includes the world … both physically and spiritually.

As an elderly non-Native artist and writer, I am refreshed and enlightened by the work of the courageous Native artists you describe. Their willingness to do everything in their path, beginning with self-knowledge and including teaching, carving, weaving, painting, and filmmaking, is an example for anyone who longs “to contribute to the world dialogue,” as Ms. Meredith wrote.

The discussion about Edward Curtis’s photos and their place, or not, among Native people is really important. I look forward to reading more about that debate in future issues of First American Art Magazine.

I read everything in the magazine: features, profiles, reviews, memorials. May your publication continue to shine bright lights on such remarkable people and their work.

David Giffey Arena, Wisconsin Thank you for your kind feedback. We definitely are part of a global conversation and we hope, when confronted with what Native artists are doing today, audiences won’t be satisfied with clichés but will expect (and receive) more compelling and challenging approaches to Indigenous art from curators and art institutions showcasing Native art.

ONGRATULATIONS on your magazine’s five-year anniversary. It is a milestone worthy of celebration.

I also want to thank you and your staff for your efforts to include Indigenous art and artists from places other than the United States. As an artist, I learn a lot from those folks and am inspired by them.

Finally, thank you for including stories about Indigenous artists that don’t always get lots of attention.

There is an ocean of great work out there, created by all sorts of Native people, and a great deal of it is worth a look. Thank you for giving us a peek into that diverse world.

Martha Berry Rowlett, TX Five years have flown by. An estimated 80 percent of magazines don’t make it to their fifth year, so we’re happy to show that First American Art Magazine is here to stay. We love to serve the people who already love Native art but also introduce new audiences to Native art. We try to cover the widest range possible of art venues and Indigenous communities, but we know we need to improve our coverage of art from Central America, the Caribbean, and South America. Scholars who cover Indigenous art from these areas are encouraged to submit their writing! Our submission guidelines are online at: firstamericanartmagazine.com/submissions.

We welcome your letters to the editor! If we print your letter, we will send you a free copy of that issue of the magazine. Please email your letters to: INFO@FIRSTAMERICANARTMAGAZINE.COM or­mail letters to: FIRST AMERICAN ART MAGAZINE Attention: Editor 133 24th Avenue NW #126 Norman, OK 73069 WINTER 2018/19 | 11

RECENT DEVELOPMENTS at the University of New Mexico and her bachelor's degree from the University of Washington.

The Dallas Museum of Art in Texas has hired Michelle Rich to serve as the Ellen and Harry S. Parker III Assistant Curator of the Arts of the Americas. Rich completed Mellon Postdoctoral Curatorial Fellowships at the San Antonio Museum of Art and Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Rich earned her master’s and doctoral degrees in anthropology from the Southern Methodist University in Dallas, with a focus on Maya art.

MUSEUMS The Museum at Warm Springs in Oregon named Elizabeth Woody (Warm Springs-Navajo-Wasco-Yakama) as its new executive director. She replaces Carol Leone, who served as director since 2002.

Woody has served as a project manager and consultant to the museum. She earned her master’s degree at Portland State University and her bachelor's degree from Evergreen State College and taught at Portland State University and the Institute of American Indian Arts. A poet, author, and visual artist, Woody was named Poet Laureate of Oregon in 2016.

The estate of David and Peggy Rockefeller has donated 52 Native artworks to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and more than 100 Native artworks to Mesa Verde National Park.

The American Museum of Natural History in New York selected Ron Hamilton (Nuu-chah-nulth) and Peter Whitely to co-curator a massive, multiyear renovation of the museum’s Northwest Coast hall.

Jay W. and Maryann Keller Chai have promised a gift of Native American

artworks to the Bruce Museum in Greenwich, Connecticut. Baskets by Tootsie Dick Sam (Washoe, 1885–1929), Maria Chapula (Chemehuevi, 1856–1960), and Elizabeth Hickox (Wiyot, ca. 1872– 1947) are part of the gift, along with textiles and ceramics. Thirteen of the promised baskets have been displayed at the Bruce Museum, and an exhibition of the Chai collection is planned.

SCHOOLS The Escola de Cinema Indígena JenipapoKanindé (Jenipapo-Kanindé Indigenous Film School, ECINDIJ) opened on August 2, 2018, after a decade of planning, to become the first professional film school for Native peoples in northeastern Brazil.

Organized by the Kanindé Indigenous Women’s Association, the school is part of the campus of the Lagoa Encantada Indigenous School in the coastal city of Aquiraz, Ceará. The Jenipapo-Kanindé’s name for themselves is Payaku; in 2014 they numbered only 328 in the most recent census by the Special Indigenous Health Department (SESAI). The film program is free and open to tribal members aged 12 and older. Opening celebrations began with a ceremony led by Cacique Pequena

The Eiteljorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art named Elisa G. Phelps as its vice president and chief curator. Previously, Phelps was director of History Colorado’s library and collections departments, curator of the Houston Museum of Natural Science, and director of collections and curator of anthropology at the Witte Museum. She earned her bachelor’s degree from Fort Lewis College and her master’s degree in museum studies from the University of Leicester in the United Kingdom.

The Portland Art Museum has named Kathleen Ash-Milby (Navajo) as the new curator of Native American Art. Ash-Milby worked for almost 20 years as an associate curator in New York at the Smithsonian's National Museum of the American Indian. She earned her master's degree 12 | WWW.FIRSTAMERICANARTMAGAZINE.COM

above Best of Show winner at the 2018 Woodland Indian Art Show and Market: Sarah Sockbeson (Penobscot), Large Round Purple Points/Curls, brown ash, sweetgrass, antler. Image courtesy of the Woodland Indian Art Show and Market, Oneida, WI. above, left Elizabeth Woody (Warm Springs- Navajo-Wasco-Yakama), executive director of the Museum at Warm Springs, Warm Springs, OR.

Jenipapo-Kanindé; a lecture by filmmaker Vincent Carelli; and the display of In the Villages: Daily Life Under the Gaze of Indigenous Youth in Ceará, an exhibition of photography from six tribes in the region. The school can be reached via their Facebook page @ escoladecinemaindigena.

ARTS ORGANIZATIONS The Dahl Arts Center in Rapid City, South Dakota, has selected Susan Hughes as its new executive director. Hughes, who previously worked as an arts teacher in Honolulu and engaged with the Native Hawaiian community, understands the importance of expressing Native cultures and plans to bring that spirit to the Dahl Arts Center.

Coe Center Experience our unique collections

ART SHOWS Martha Berry won the Grand Prize at the 23rd annual Cherokee Homecoming Art Show, a juried exhibition of work by Cherokee artists at the Cherokee Heritage Center in Park Hill, Oklahoma.

Tonia Hogner-Weavel received the Betty Scraper Garner Cherokee Elder Artist Award, and Brandy Brown won the Emerging Artist Award. Best-in-category winners are Phyllis Jimmeye, traditional arts; Mike Dart, traditional basketry; Troy Jackson, contemporary pottery; Renee Hoover, contemporary basketry; Ron Mitchell, visual arts; Dan Corley, sculpture; Carolyn Pallett, beadwork; Karen Berry, textiles; and Toneh Chuleewah, jewelry.

ART FAIRS & MARKETS Sarah Sockbeson (Penobscot) won best of show at the 12th annual Woodland Indian Art Show and Market in Oneida, Wisconsin.

Classification winners were Mercedes Danforth (Oneida Nation), youth; Dawn Dark Mountain (Oneida Nation), two-dimensional; Sarah Sockbeson, three-dimensional; Sayokla Williams (OneidaPequot), diversified; Rosa Francour (Oneida Nation), raised beadwork; Renee Dillard (Odawa), apparel and textiles; and Sarah Sockbeson, sustenance theme.

Best-of-show winner at the 97th annual SWAIA Santa Fe Indian Market was Kevin Pourier (Oglala Lakota). Classification winners were Farrell Pacheco (Kewa), jewelry; Nancy Youngblood (Santa Clara Pueblo), pottery; Cara Romero (Chemehuevi), painting, drawing, graphics, and photography; Mavasta Honyouti (Hopi), wooden Pueblo figurative carving and sculpture; Terresa White (Yup'ik), sculpture; Nellie Begay (Navajo), textiles; Kevin Pourier, diverse arts; Dallin Maybee (Northern Arapaho-Seneca), beadwork and quillwork; Isaak Kohlmeyer (Jemez Pueblo), youth; and Jeremy Frey (Passamaquoddy), basketry. Moving images was eliminated as a classification this year. Special award winners included Adrian Pinnecoose (Navajo-Southern Ute), Bernard Ewell Innovation Award; Shane Hendren (Navajo), IAIA Distinguished Alumni Award; Karen Abeita (Hopi), Helen Naha Memorial Award for Hopi Pottery; Timothy Smith (Hopi-Laguna), Peter Dechert Award for Excellence in Native Art; and Darby Raymond-Overstreet (Navajo), Art of Technology Award.

Eugene Tapahe (Navajo) won best of show at the 13th annual Cherokee Art Market, hosted by the Cherokee Nation in Catoosa, Oklahoma. Martha Berry (Cherokee Nation) won the Culture Keeper Award, Billy Hensley (Chickasaw) won the Innovator

Calvin Hunt, (Kwakwaka’wakw), 2007

Open every First Friday of the month, 1-4 pm or give us a call to plan a visit 1590B Pacheco Street, Santa Fe, NM 87505 SUMMER 2018 | 13 coeartscenter.org / (505) 983-6372

RECENT DEVELOPMENTS

(Winnebago), mixed media, fine arts 3D; Elizabeth Skye (Oglala-Hunkpapa Lakota), pottery; Galen LaRoche, digital and computer-generated; Kelly Looking Horse (Oglala Lakota), traditional beadwork; Emil Her Many Horses (Oglala Lakota), contemporar y beadwork; LaVerne Whitebear (Assiniboine-Dakota), porcupine quillwork; Tillie Hawk Eagle (Cheyenne River Sioux), quilts; Linda Szabo (Sicangu Lakota), textile and fabric items; no award given, handmade dolls; Donald F. Montileaux (Oglala Lakota), traditional paintings; Dwayne Wilcox (Oglala Lakota), mixed media, tribal arts; and Jeremy Red Eagle, mixed media, 3D.

AWARDS & HONORS

Award, and Lisa Rutherford (Cherokee Nation) won the Anna Mitchell Award.

Classification winners were Eugene Tapahe, painting, drawing, graphics, and photography; Troy Jackson (Cherokee Nation), sculpture; Ken Williams Jr. (Northern Arapaho-Seneca), beadwork/ quillwork; Leona Romero (Tohono O’odham), basketry; Autumn BortsMedlock (Santa Clara Pueblo), pottery; Phil Singer (Navajo), textiles; Ric Charlie (Navajo), jewelry; and Glenda McKay (Ingalik Athabascan), diverse art.

Sinte Gleska University hosted the 31st annual Northern Plains Indian Market in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Galen LaRoche (Sicangu Lakota) won best of show, and Jeremy Red Eagle (Sisseton) won the Best of Traditional Arts award, while Brian Szabo (Sicangu Lakota) won the Best of Fine Arts award. Division winners were Nelson Chasing Hawk (Sicangu Lakota), oil and acrylic paintings; Alaina Buffalo Spirit (Northern Cheyenne), watercolor, tempera, gouache, and casein; Charles Her Many Horses (Sicangu Lakota), pencil, ink, crayon, pastel, charcoal, and chalk; no award given, printmaking; Nelda Schrupp (Nakota), three-dimensional, additive process; Edward Thomas (Turtle Mountain Chippewa), three-dimensional, subtractive process; Brian Szabo; jewelry and decorative metalwork; Henry Payer

The Museum of Arts and Design (MAD) in New York selected Cannupa Hanska Luger (Mandan-Hidatsa-Arikara-Lakota) as the first recipient of the Burke Prize for contemporary craft. The award carries a cash prize of $50,000 and will be awarded annually to artists under 46 years of age who primarily work in glass, fiber, clay, metal, or wood. Each year the previous winner will be invited to act as juror. A selection of Luger’s work, along with work by the other award finalists, is on display at MAD as part of the exhibition, The Burke Prize 2018: The Future of Craft Part 2.

The Hnatyshyn Foundation, based in Ottawa, awarded Maria Hupfield (Wasauksing Ojibwe) with a prize for outstanding achievement by a Canadian mid-career artists and a stipend of $25,000.

The foundation gave Daina Warren (Cree) its award for curatorial excellent in contemporary art with a stipend of $15,000. Audie Murray (Métis) and Hjalmer Wenstob (Nuu-chah-nulth) won the organization’s William and Meredith Saunder Prize for young artists, each with a stipend of $5,000.

In October, the Alliance for California Traditional Arts honored Brian D. Tripp (Karuk) with their third California Living Heritage Award. Tripp has dedicated his life to the revitalization of ceremonial and cultural practices in the Klamath River region. Aside from being active as a visual artist for over 60 years, Tripp is also a poet, ceremonial singer, dancer, and a regalia maker. Tripp, born in 1945, attended Humboldt State University, where he went on to teach Native American art.

14 | WWW.FIRSTAMERICANARTMAGAZINE.COM

Inuk-Métis sculptor Michael Massie joined the Order of Canada. He is known for pushing the perceived limits of Inuit sculpture, especially for incorporating metals.

Massie studied jewelry at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design before launching a teaching career that led him to Kippens on the west coast of Newfoundland.

The BC Achievement Foundation presented its 12th annual Fulmer Awards in BC First Nations Art to six artists, including the Lifetime Achievement Award to Henry Speck Jr. (Kwakwaka’wakw) and the Crabtree McLennan Emerging Artist Award to Kelsey Hall (Heiltsuk).

The remaining 2018 winners are Richard Adkins (Haida), Bradley Hunt (Heiltsuk), Nakkita Trimble (Nisga’a), and Carrielynn Victor (Stó:lō). The award includes a CAD $5,000 stipend and a solo exhibition in Vancouver.

The 57th annual Carnegie International, held at the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh, awarded its 2018 Fine Prize to Postcommodity, an interdisciplinary arts collective. The award recognizes their installation titled From Smoke and Tangled Waters We Carried Fire Home. Though there have been many roster changes since its inception in 2007, the two current members of Postcommodity hail from Indigenous nations: Cristóbal Martínez (Chicano) and Kade L. Twist (Cherokee Nation). Raven Chacon (Navajo) has left Postcommodity to pursue other avenues with his art and music.

The National Native American Hall of Fame announced its first-ever twelve inductees, which include sculptor Allan Houser (Chiricahua Apache, 1914–1994), writer and painter N. Scott Momaday (Kiowa), and ballerina Maria Tallchief (Osage, 1925–2013). Based in Great Falls, Montana, the National Native American Hall of Fame is a nonprofit organization that honors Native American achievement from the 1860s to the present.

REPATRIATION Albion College, a private college in Michigan, has returned a Zuni War God back to the Zuni people. The Ahayuda figure, a 19th-century cottonwood carving, was donated to the college in 1973. Bille Wickre, an Albion professor of art history, discovered the figure in the collection and in 2015, after researching it further,

contacted the Zuni Pueblo to initiate repatriation. While information about the donor is unknown, these figures were often stolen from open altars on Zuni lands in the 20th century. On August 30, 2018, the figure was returned in a private ceremony, then Zuni elders and college officials exchanged gifts in a public ceremony. The college screened a documentary about Zuni lifeways, and Zuni representatives answered questions from the audience.

CRIME & LEGAL ISSUES Three Mississippian vessels stolen from Moundville near Tuscaloosa, Alabama, have been recovered in August and returned to the site. They are in good condition with original tags intact. In 1980, 264 ceramic works were stolen from the Erskine Ramsey Archaeological Repository on the Moundville site and today are valued around $3 million. A database was published with information about the stolen works at museums.ua.edu/oar/ stolenartifacts and the reward for information about the theft was increased to $25,000.

IN MEMORIAM Nancy Blomberg, chief curator and Andrew W. Mellon Curator of Native Arts at the Denver Art Museum, died on September 2, 2018. She was born Nancy Jean Bastian on August 25, 1946, in Aurora, Illinois. She earned a bachelor’s degree in anthropology at University of Illinois. There she met Art Blomberg, whom she married in 1968. She then pursued her master’s degree at California State University, Northridge, and wrote her thesis on ethnological storage. Her museum career began at the Anchorage Museum of History and Art (now Anchorage Museum at Rasmuson Center) followed by the Southwest Museum in Los Angeles and Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County. She edited and wrote numerous books. “Nancy helped to shape the field of American Indian art and expand its recognition in the broader art world,” John Lukavic, the Denver Art Museum’s curator of Native arts, told the New York Times. In her memory, her husband and the Denver Art Museum created the Nancy Blomberg Acquisitions Fund for Native American Art.

above Nancy Blomberg (1946–2018). Image courtesy of the Denver Art Museum. opposite Grand prize winner of the 23rd annual Cherokee Homecoming Art Show: Martha Berry (Cherokee Nation), Orange Monster’s Masquerade Ball, 2017, glass seed beads, wool, cotton, silk, wool yarn, 36 × 18 × 2 in. Image courtesy of the artist.

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MIRANDA BELARDE-LEWIS

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MOTHER, INDEPENDENT CURATOR, AND ASSISTANT PROFESSOR at the University of Washington’s In f o r m at i o n S c h o o l , M i r a n d a Belarde-Lewis, PhD (Zuni-Tlingit), works with tribal, state, and national museums strengthening Indigenous voices through educational programming, scholarship, and exhibitions.

Her research focuses on how Native communities use art cross-culturally and intergenerationally to communicate information and knowledge. Miranda has curated exhibitions for the Frye Art Museum in Seattle, Washington, and for the Museum of Glass in Tacoma, Washington. She loves beads.

EAST: The Metropolitan Museum of Art is hosting a yearlong run of 116 Native masterworks in the exhibition Art of Native America: The Charles and Valerie Diker Collection. Having Native art on display at the Met is a win for Native artists everywhere, and the inclusion of Native scholars is evident in many of the extended labels. The exhibition no doubt benefited from having such a prestigious group on its advisory committee, and the pop-up museum store outside the exhibition features Native artists from the B.Yellowtail Collective. The Native jewelry for sale continues a trend that began with The Plains Indians: Artists of Earth and Sky in 2015 and one that the Met reportedly intends to continue for many years. However, for all the good happening here, the Met is reifying several inaccurate assumptions about what Native art is supposed to look like and the privilege of curatorial voice.

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First, by placing this exhibition in the Met’s American Wing (colonial to early 20th-century modern), the show is limited to ancient and historic works, teaching a largely uninformed audience that Native art is and looks like it was made over 100 years ago. This messaging plays into the vanishing Native trope that has been used to frame exhibitions of Native artifacts without acknowledging contemporary Native peoples or the ongoing production of material culture and art happening in Native communities right now. While there are some textbased considerations that there be a fundamental reframing of the relationship between “American” history and “Native” history, that message is perhaps too subtle.

Second, the pieces shown at the Met are from a private collection from people who have already shown their collection, including many of the same pieces, in widely traveled and cataloged exhibitions. Each iteration of the Charles and Valerie Diker collection shown—Native Paths (1999), First American Art (2004), Indigenous Beauty (2014), and now Art of Native America (2018)—contributes not only to the monetary value of their collection but to their reputation and legacy as patrons of Native art. They are ensuring this legacy as many of the pieces on display are prominently labeled as promised gifts to the Met. Third, this most recent installment of the Diker collection was consulted on and supplemented by Native scholars and curators in their own right but was curated by non-Natives who did not include Native names for objects and included objects that are possibly designated as culturally sensitive according to NAGPRA. Included in the selection are shamanic or medicine objects that require the utmost cultural sensitivity. It is hard to make the case that cultural sensitivity was present when the labels themselves gloss over questionable provenance of “extremely

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rare” sacred/sensitive objects, particularly if the objects were customarily burned or buried with the original owner.

The Met is the largest art museum in the United States and will be hosting this exhibition for a year. That’s exposure of exquisite Native artifacts to a possible audience of over seven million people. I believe the material culture of any community is the gentlest possible introduction to those ignorant of that culture; however, I wonder if this effort is too gentle. The public will learn about Native culture by viewing this exhibition, but they need to simultaneously learn that our contemporary artists are carrying on the practices on display in this exhibition. The Met’s audience needs to learn that our artists are creating some of the most poignant and deeply layered art anywhere in the world.

SOUTH: Please join me in sharing a moment of silence to mourn the loss of the Museu Nacional (National Museum) in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.…

On the evening of September 2, 2018, a fire began on the roof of the National Museum of Brazil. As the flames quickly spread throughout the museum, curators and staff ran into the burning building to rescue specimens of plants, fossils, artifacts, anything they could grab. When the firefighters arrived, there was no water in the nearest fire hydrants, the by-product of an infrastructure in crisis for several decades.

The entire museum was gutted. Twenty million items burned.

Losing a whole museum to a fire is already heartbreaking.

What makes it absolutely devastating is the loss of extremely rare recordings of Indigenous languages—languages that have no known speakers and recordings of which were the only known copies. Also lost to the fire were ancient artifacts created long before any Europeans set foot on the shores of what is now known as Brazil. The tragedy of the Museu Nacional serves as a cautionary tale, especially for tribal museums and cultural centers focused on language work and the awakening of dormant artistic techniques. Back-up servers and off-site storage is not sexy on any grant application or budget justification; however, they are needed more than ever. Tribes using

the tools of cloud storage and file sharing should be the ones to teach sister institutions to ensure that back-ups and duplicate copies are available somewhere, anywhere, to help prevent future losses of this magnitude.

WEST: On October 13, 2018, the Evergreen State College (ESC) hosted the International Opening and Naming Ceremony for its recently completed Fiber Arts Studio. The Fiber Arts Studio is named Paimārire, a Māori term akin to the notion of serenity, and was designed by Māori master carver Lyonel Grant.

The ESC is fast securing its role as a major hub for Indigenous expression, as the college has established an Indigenous Arts Campus that includes a longhouse, a carving shed, and now a fiber arts studio. The longhouse staff has created an artistic network along the Pacific Rim and has hosted Indigenous Artist Gatherings pairing master artists with up-and-coming artists in the areas of carving, jewelry, printmaking, fiber arts, painting, ceramics, and glass blowing/sculpture. Paimārire is now the home to the Weavers Across the Waters collaborative robe, the brainchild of late Chilkat master weaver Clarissa Rizal (Tlingit, 1957–2016) comprised of 40 five-by-five-inch squares of Chilkat or Ravenstail weavings. When the Weavers Across the Waters robe was envisioned, the goal was that the “granny square” robe would live at the Fiber Arts Studio as a magnificent example of collaboration, Indigenous imagination, and stunning study in Chilkat and Ravenstail design and construction, and would be left Fire at the Museu Nacional in Rio de Janeiro, on September 2, 2018. Photo: Felipe Milanez (CC BY-SA 4.0). above Naming ceremony at Paimārire, the Evergreen Longhouse Fiber Arts Studio. Image courtesy of the author. opposite, top Miranda Belarde-Lewis, PhD (Zuni-Tlingit).

Image courtesy of the author. opposite, bottom Installation view of The Art of Native America: The Charles and Valeria Diker Collection. left: Unknown Tlingit artist, Chilkat Tunic and Leggings, ca. 1890, mountain sheep wool, cedar bark, dye. right: Unknown Wasco artist, Dress, Belt, and Awl Case, ca. 1870 both artworks collection of Charles and Valerie Diker. Image courtesy of the author.

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cornerstones of Indian Market for decades. As the institution prepares for its 100th anniversary in a couple of years, now might be the time to drastically rethink the models for admission, for judging, for everything. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it’s too big to stop the status quo. However … as we get ready for the next 100 years of Indian Market, SWAIA would benefit from a major overhaul of its policies and procedures. It will be messy, and I understand it’s easier said than done, but 100 years is a long time.

We (they) can do this.

available to be worn during the dedication and launch of new dugout canoes. During these dark times with Native rights and protections under fire, the recognition and honor bestowed upon customary and contemporary Native artists at Evergreen State College feels like hope.

NORTH: When I was in high school, my dad showed me how to do linocuts. I cut out the lines I should have kept, so the bear on the road and the fireweed plants were like skeletons of themselves. My eeshaan little print was nothing like the prints I grew up with made by Kathy Isturis depicting full-bodied Alaskan plants and animals. Not until college did I sit down and think about how to cut out the negative so the positive would remain. It was incredibly satisfying. The same kind of satisfying as the prints in Convergence North/South, a printmaking exhibition by Nunavik/ Montreal artists and on display at Feheley Fine Art, a Toronto gallery. Three Inuk artists from Nunavik— Qumaq Iyaituk, Mary Paningajak, and Passa Mangiuk—worked with Montreal-based artist and printmaker Lyne Bastien to create individual chine-collé prints as well as large mosaic-type assemblages of the smaller prints that worked as one large-scale work, with each woman creating the large-scale piece in distinct colors. The prints use a graphic style of image similar to stone-cut printing techniques used in the 1950s and 1960s. The images chosen by the artists represent what is most salient to them as Inuit women. The most important “things” range from flora and fauna, clothing, dance fans, hunting tools, and whales, to watercraft and fishing gear, all of which are reduced to incredibly elegant forms and compositions. If you could strip away all the extras, what would be the essential aspects of your community?

UP: Up in the air: Santa Fe Indian Market. Yes, I realize it is the most lucrative market for many of our friends and family. And yes, I adore the reunions at every turn, the fashion, discovering new works that consistently smash the ceiling of what Native artists are capable of creating. However, the entrance quotas and judging criteria need more transparency. I can see both sides of the argument: the need to make room for the up-and-coming artists pushing boundaries, and, the need to hold space for the legacy artists who have established careers and who have been 18 | WWW.FIRSTAMERICANARTMAGAZINE.COM

DOWN: As in falling. We’re witnessing challenges to toxic masculinity, patriarchy, and sexual violence. The investigations and indictments of the Church. The questioning of capitalism.

The foundations of longstanding Western institutions are crumbling as we speak, but even as this historic time unfolds, the racist, homophobic, privileged class in charge cling to power and assert their positions in alarming and damaging ways. The screams of unfair treatment by those in power are being faced with stone-cold eye rolling by those of us who live with systematic oppression, who are survivors, and who are carving out space even as we sustain the regular blows that let us know that we are not yet in the promised land. Be safe, friends. For even though we can see substantial change on its way, the passing of privilege is never done peacefully.

CENTER: In early October I had the humbling honor to present to the world Preston Singletary: Raven and the Box of Daylight.

The Box of Daylight is an exhibition I’ve been guest curating for four years for the Museum of Glass in Tacoma. Using a narrative, immersive exhibition style is a radical departure for Singletary, a Tlingit glassblower and sculptor, but is staying true to his growth as an artist. The exhibition tells the story of Raven and the Box of Daylight to the visitor and is fully “illustrated” in Singletary’s glass art. The story of Raven “stealing” the light is a well-known trickster story along the Northwest Coast and contains similarities to other Indigenous origin stories and shared religious symbolism with cultures all over the world. Our goal was to create an environment in the gallery so that the visitor would be inside the story, following Raven’s footsteps and witnessing his efforts to

release the daylight being hoarded by a wealthy nobleman. This was achieved by Preston’s collaboration with light artist Juniper Shuey and a soundscape designed with Matt Starritt. Dozens of Łingít Raven stories exist, and there are several known versions of the Box of Daylight story. By known, what I really mean is there are several recorded, transcribed, and translated Box of Daylight stories. The Łingít language is highly endangered and, not being fluent or even conversational speakers, Preston and I relied heavily on the language warriors in Alaska, both past and present, to help provide enough context for non-Tlingits and non-Native visitors. The exhibition will be on view until October 2019, and the exhibition catalogue will be released in February 2019. The Box of Daylight will begin traveling in early 2020 with scheduled stops at the Wichita Art Museum and the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian.

Aathlein gunalchéesh! opposite, top Mary Paningajak (Inuk) pulls a linocut off the press. Video still from Convergence North / South by Feheley Fine Arts, Toronto (September 14, 2018). opposite, bottom Preston Singletary (Tlingit), White Raven, 2017, blown, hot-sculpted, andcarved glass, steel stand; 181/2 × 7 × 9 in. Photo: Russell Johnson. opposite, left An environmentalist group marching down Palace Avenue during Santa Fe Indian Market, 2015. Photo: A. Meredith.

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A HOME BEYOND Indigenous Futurisms in the Visual Arts

By Suzanne Newman Fricke, PhD

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O H AW K A R T I S T SKAWENNATI (born S k a w e n n a t i Tr i c i a Frag nito) remarke d, “Science fiction is an interesting place to play,”1 as evidenced in her work. Her digital constructions have included a place to converse and share images through CyberPowWow; a virtual paper doll in Imagining Indians in the 25th Century; and an adventure story with TimeTraveller™. TimeTraveller™ features nine machinima 2 episodes about a Mohawk time traveler from the future who visits major historic events in Indigenous history, including the Aztec Empire at its height in 1490 before the arrival of Hernán Cortés; the death of Mohawk-Algonquin Saint Kateri Tekakwitha in 1680; the Dakota Uprising of 1862; the Oka Crisis in 1990; and 2121, when Indigenous nations have again become sovereign.

For the artist, claiming space in the digital world is key. Skawennati had feared that there would be no place for Indigenous people online, so she argued, “We need to make space to encourage people to occupy the future. I want to envision futures in which we are thriving, so I create images of Indians in the future.”

Imagining the future from a Native perspective is the essence of Indigenous Futurisms, a term first explored in depth by scholar Grace L. Dillon (Bay Mills-Garden River Ojibwe) in Walking the Clouds: An Anthology of Indigenous

Science Fiction (2012). Indigenous Futurisms are based on Afrofuturism, a term Mark Dery coined in 1993 to describe futuristic art based on African and African diaspora cultures3 by people such as Octavia Butler, Sun Ra, Grace

1. All Skawennati quotes from discussion with the author, September 4, 2018.

2. Machinima refers to the use of computer graphics to create a video.

3. Mark Dery, “Black to the Future: Interviews with Samuel R. Delany, Greg Tate, and Tricia Rose,” in Flame Wars: The Discourse of Cyberculture, edited by Mark Dery (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1993): 179–222.

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Jones, George Clinton, Janelle Monáe, and the film Black Panther. Indigenous Futurisms offer artists and writers a way to heal from the traumas of the past and present. For Dillon, science fiction offers “an equally valid way to renew, recover, and extend First Nations peoples’ voices and traditions.”4 Many narratives in science fiction postulate a post-apocalyptic world offered as fiction, but this is truth for Native communities. Lindsay Nixon, Cree-Métis-Saulteaux curator and editor-at-large for Canadian Art, writes that Indigenous Futurisms can make “a creative space to respond to the dystopian now … we are living in a dystopian settler-occupied oligarchy fueled by resource extraction and environmental contamination, completely alternative to our traditional ways of being and knowing.”5 Indigenous Futurisms include the Native slipstream, “non-linear thinking about space-time”6 where the past, present, and future coexist. Dillon writes, “Native slipstream thinking, which has been around for millennia,

anticipated recent cutting-edge physics, ironically suggesting that Natives have had things right all along.”7 In visual arts, examples of Indigenous Futurisms date back several decades as Native artists reference characters, locales, and technology from popular science fiction. Mohawk photographer and filmmaker Shelley

4. Grace L. Dillon, Walking with the Clouds: An Anthology of Indigenous Science Fiction, (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012): 1–2.

5. Quoted in Alexandra Wikler, “Indigenous Futurism: Reimagining ‘Reality’ To Inspire An Indigenous Future,” Exploring Indigenous Knowledge Systems, November 28, 2016, web.

6. Dillon, Walking with the Clouds, 3.

7. Ibid., 4.

above, top Skawennati (Mohawk), Jingle Dancers Assembled, 2011, production still from TimeTraveller™, 2008–13, machinima. Image courtesy of the artist. above, bottom Skawennati (Mohawk), Stepping Out, 2008–13, production still from TimeTraveller™, machinima.

Image courtesy of the artist. opposite Virgil Ortiz (Cochiti), Tahu | Star Moto, 2013, ceramic, wild spinach, part of the ReVOlution series.

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above Sonny Assu (Ligwilda’xw), We Come To Witness, 2014, digital intervention on an Emily Carr painting (Silhouette No. 2, 1930) 22.5 × 34 in. Image courtesy of the artist. opp osite, top J o s e p h E r b (Cherokee Nation), Warrior, etched copper cuff. Image courtesy of the artist. opposite, bottom Joseph Erb (Cherokee Nation), Ssiquoya ale Talugisgi Yvwi, etched copper cuff. Image courtesy of the artist.

Niro, for example, wore a Star Trek: The Original Series costume in a self-portrait in her series, This Land Is Mime Land (1992). By depicting herself in the gold uniform worn by command personnel and holding a communicator, she placed herself inside a different world where she held agency and leadership.

Like Skawennati, some Native artists create their own versions of the future, seen in works by Wendy Red Star (Apsáalooke) and Virgil Ortiz (Cochiti).

In the series Thunder Up Above, Red Star photographed herself as a dancer in a “futuristic powwow”8 in bright, elaborate

dresses she constructed, then digitally posed herself against cosmic landscapes.

Ortiz’s Revolt 1680/2180, an immersive work that combines video, ceramics, and murals, follows a group of time travelers who begin at the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 and journey forward five centuries.

Several shows on the topic have been held recently. Jeffrey Veregge (Port Gamble S’Klallam) created an installation for the Smithsonian's National Museum of the American Indian in New York City. The National Gallery of Canada’s Indigenous Futurism: Transcending the Past, Present and Future opened this year with pieces by a number of artists, including several Inuit artists.

The Museum of Northern Arizona will have a show of Star Wars-inspired images from artists in the Southwest in October 2019 in Flagstaff, Arizona. With Chelsea Herr, I curated a show of science fiction imagery in Indigenous arts at the New Mexico State University Art Museum this past fall. Many of these artists also show at Indigenous Comic Con, held at the Isleta Resort and Casino near Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Much of the study and practice of Indigenous Futurisms is centered in Montreal with Skawennati and Jason Edward Lewis, professor of design and computation arts at Concordia University in Montreal. Skawennati and Lewis originally met at the Banff Centre in the mid-1990s. Banff offers symposia and fellowships, making a space for Indigenous artists and scholars to meet and share ideas. Drawing inspiration from the CyberPowWow online artist gallery and the Banff model for transdisciplinary approaches to new media creation, Skawennati and Lewis considered how to build a creative community to explore the potential of the digital world, which resulted in Aboriginal Territories in Cyberspace (AbTeC), founded in 2005. AbTeC is a research network of artists, academics, and engineers involved in creating and studying Indigenous virtual environments.

AbTeC led to the Initiative for Indigenous Futures (IIF). The IIF

8. Zach Dundas, “Wendy Red Star Totally Conquers the Wild Frontier: Exploring the Native America of a Portland artist on the Rise,” Portland Monthly, April 2, 2015, web.

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research team includes noted scholars and artists, including Inuk scholar and independent curator Heather Igloliorte and Anishinaabe, Métis, and Irish scholar, artist, and game designer Elizabeth LaPensée. Through his projects, Lewis considers how to be Indigenous and current and how to make the future “imaginary.” Lewis wanted to build the system rather than let others build it, so that “Indigenous knowledge, languages, and protocol will be served.”9 He sees using a computer to build a model for the future that fits into Indigenous perspectives.

Lewis observes that Native cosmologies often describe relationships between humans and non-humans—for example, the Blackfoot learning from stones. Using computers and computer programs, AbTeC has created a number of projected designed to encourage more Native presence online, including teaching Indigenous youth to use digital media for storytelling.

Both Skawennati and Lewis note the benefits of working in Canada since, in their perspectives, “the political discussions are farther along. For many years, the contemporary art world in Canada has been led by Indigenous artists.” Major museums have collections that are more diverse. There is more funding for Indigenous studies in Canada as well as funding for experimental art than in the United States, where the market funds more historic forms of art. “A significant factor in us being able to do all that we do is substantial funding opportunities in Canada.” Four years ago, the IIF received a seven-year grant to bring artists and scholars to visit, which has led to a number of workshops, symposia, and art projects, including paying for Scott Benesiinaabandan (Wasauksing Ojibwe) and Postcommodity to create art in virtual environments.

For artists like Skawennati, Indigenous Futurisms offers a means to explore the Native identity in the present.

“I ask myself, Why be Indigenous? How do I know that I’m Mohawk? It’s about stories and values, the original thinking, and teachings. It is necessary to make an Indigenous space in

the cyberworld, to make it part of our natural habitat. It’s a place where many people are going, and I don’t want to be left out.”

For Dillon, Indigenous Futurisms is as much about the past as it is about the future. She writes, “All forms of Indigenous futurisms are narratives of biskaabiiyang, an Anishinaabemowin word connoting the process of ‘returning to ourselves,’ which involves discovering how personally one is affected by colonization, discarding the emotional and psychological baggage carried from its impact, and recovering ancestral traditions in order to adapt in our post-Native Apocalypse world.”10

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY Dillon, Grace, ed. Walking the Clouds: An Anthology of Indigenous Science Fiction. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2012.

Farrell Racette, Sherry, ed. Close Encounters: The Next 500 Years.

Winnipeg, MB: Plug In Editions, 2011.

Fricke, Suzanne Newman, “The Force Will Be With You … Always: Science Fiction Imagery in Native American Art,” First American Art Magazine, no.

12, Fall 2016): 34–39.

Gaertner, David. “Traditional Innovation: The Turn to a Decolonial New Media Studies.” Novel Alliances (November 25, 2014), web.

Hopkins, Candice. “Skawennati: A Wrinkle in Time: On Indians and the Future.” In We Are Here: The Eiteljorg Contemporary Art Fellowship, 2011, 47–58. Edited by Jennifer Complo McNutt and Ashley Holland. Indianapolis: Eiteljorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art, 2011.

LaPensée, Elizabeth, and Jason Edward Lewis. “TimeTraveller™: First Nations Nonverbal Communication in Second Life.” In Nonverbal Communication in Virtual Worlds, 105–19. Pittsburgh, PA: ETC Press, 2014.

Lempert, William. “Decolonizing Encounters of the Third Kind: Alternative Futuring in Native Science Fiction Film.” Visual Anthropology Review 30, no. 2, (2014): 164–76.

Lempert, William. “Navajos on Mars: Native Sci-fi Film Futures.” Medium.

September 21, 2015. Web. Lewis, Jason Edward, and Skawennati Tricia Fragnito. “Aboriginal Territories in Cyberspace.” Cultural Survival Quarterly 29, no. 2 (June 2005): 29.

Lewis, Jason Edward. “A Brief (Media) History of the Indigenous Future.”

PUBLIC 27, no. 54 (December 2016): 36–50.

9. All quotes by Dr. Jason Lewis are from communication with the author, September 10, 2018.

10. Dillon, Walking with the Clouds, 10.

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A CENTURY OF CROW FAIR Photography by Lester Harragarra

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ROW FAIR TAKES PLACE in the heart of Crow Country, in Crow Agency, Montana, every year on the third weekend in August. Known as the Tipi Capital of the World, the event includes three days of powwow, rodeo, Indian Relay, and parades. Crow families from all over the world return to each other to celebrate their culture by camping out, feasting with friends and family, and participating in the many colorful events.

For the Crow people, Crow Fair marks the end of their yearly cycle, with the New Year beginning on the following Monday. Since 1904, with a short break during World War I, this intense and vivid cultural celebration continues to grow and attract people from all over the world, an experience that must be seen to be believed. —Nina Sanders

2018 Crow Fair Royalty. from left Tiny Tot Princess Catherine Smells, Little Miss Centennial Princess Aiyanna Skunk Cap, Junior Miss Crow Nation Evelyn Old Coyote, and Miss Crow Nation Kayjah Twinn.

Lester Harragarra (Otoe-MissouriaKiowa) shot these images during the 100th annual Crow Fair in August 2018.

Thanks to Rhonda Jefferson (Apsáalooke) for assisting with identifying the people in photos. Thanks to Birdie Real Bird (Apsáalooke), Deana Harragarra Waters (Otoe-Missouria-Kiowa), credited as DHW, Nina Sanders (Apsáalooke), credited as NS, for providing commentary.

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Powwow Grand Entry led by four of the many Princesses.

Each princess represents her district by participating in the many events throughout the fair.

A princess’s family is responsible for giving back to her clan and sponsors as part of her commitment to the tribe. —NS left Apsáalooke youth in parade. opposite From all across Indian Country, people come to Crow Fair. Pete Moore Jr., a Pawnee and Otoe traditional dancer f ro m Paw n e e, O k l a h o m a , brought his family to renew acquaintances and to meet their Crow relatives. —DHW

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left Famed horseman Charles and lifelong educator Ramona

Real Bird grace the audience with their presence. —NS Lydia Falls Down, the 2018 Crow Fair Parade manager, created a special category: the Adali and Norma Falls Down 50th Wedding Anniversary. Its purpose was to honor couples married for at least 50 years, and Charlie and Ramona Real Bird certainly qualified—they have been married for 57 years. —DHW opposite Aubrey Meiwald attends Sheridan College and has

garnered honors playing basketball. below Lacey Not Afraid walks with her daughter Austyn

Fitzpatrick, who rides Apple Jax. I think parading is about family and showing the love you have for them. So much time and energy goes into making the beadwork, regalia, and horse gear. The beadwork in this picture was made by my grandma, aunt, and myself. My grandma made the dress. The day of the parade is a family effort—getting the horses saddled, kids dressed, and horses decorated. Austyn loves to parade and that makes all the hard work worth it.

—Lacey Not Afraid (Apsáalooke)

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Crow Fair started when the reservation life begin. Chief Plenty Coups stated that this is the end of our life as we knew it and we must move forward.

At that time the white men wanted to turn us into farmers, and everybody had a garden.

My grandfather Medicine Tail organized a gathering to show off their vegetables. He even gave his daughter the Crow name, Kuukuuwe, which means “Squash. That’s how Crow Fair started. It was a competitive event for everybody.

Women competed against each other on who had the fanciest tipi interior. The women were interior decorators since way back.

Now today it is still competitive in various areas such as parade, rodeo, dance.… Crow Fair was a time to bring out your best: b e a d wo r k , d a n ce m ove s , horses, grandson cowboy, granddaughter cowgirl.… It was a time to show off and it’s still like that today.

—Margo Real Bird Margo's Apsáalooke name is Baa kuu kaa bia (Early Morning Woman). At 82 years old, she has never missed Crow Fair.

Interviewed by Birdie Real Bird.

LEFT Ashton Old Elk is a faithful participant in the morning parade through the Crow Fair Campground, also known as the Tipi Capitol of the World. In this photo he wears an eagle feather war bonnet; he is also known to parade wearing a “reservation hat.” Crow Fair is a busy time for Ashton, as he is also a champion Indian Relay rider. —DHW OPPOSITE, TOP Big Horn District Princess and Valley of the Chiefs District Princess Madison Chavez wearing a Nez Perce dress and leading a procession of District and Rodeo princess through the camp. —NS OPPOSITE, BOTTOM Junior boy dancers at the powwow, from left: Garey White Hip Jr., Hadley Bear Claw, Jacoby Little Light, Kayden Pease, and Colvin Wells.

These Crow boys are wearing typical outfits of Apsáalooke males. Crow boys must be ceremonially prepared to be outfitted and danced. The ce re m o ny i n c l u d e s l a rg e giveaways that involve gift horses, clan feeds, and prayers.

—NS

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right Grass dancer Adam Nordwall (ShoshoneOjibwe-Navajo) in Grand Entry for the Crow Fair Celebration Powwow. below Young girl wearing an elk-tooth dress.

The lines at the bottom of the dress are the selvage, or ends of the bolt of wool fabric that are incorporated into clothing and blanket designs. In elk tooth dresses, only the elk's eye teeth are used, so only two teeth can be harvested from each animal.

Most historic Crow elk tooth dresses are mostly carved teeth; the teeth are handed down from generation to generation. Most contemporary elk tooth dresses are made with replicas that are made from resin. —NS

OPPOSITE, TOP The Indian Relay is a centuries-old sport of speed and unparalleled horsemanship. Indian athletes riding bareback around a track at full speed never fail to inspire an appreciation for both horse and rider. [Alongside the race] is the assortment of young Indian kids riding bareback outside the track’s fence, testing their own ponies’ speed. —DHW

Known for their horsemanship, young Crow men, and sometimes women, compete in the race known as Indian Relay. Throughout Crow Fair children of all ages can be seen racing through camp and the rodeo grounds, emulating the famous Indian Relay riders. —NS OPPOSITE, BOTTOM “As I sang him a song years ago at Rocky Boy … our people are very fortunate that we’re part of the spiritual side of our world, and the horse is a very powerful force in our surroundings. I’m going to sing a song. It’s related to the white horse, but there’s a verse for every horse color that we have.”

These were the words and the gift of song shared by a Cree rodeo friend of Richard Real Bird on Saturday night of Crow Fair as rodeo friends and family gathered to celebrate Richard’s birthday. At Crow Fair and Rodeo, you are reminded of the importance of song, that Indians are a spiritual people, and of the significance of the horse in the celebration of Indian life. The Crow Fair Rodeo takes place in the Edison Real Bird Memorial Complex. —DHW

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BÁÁHÁÁLÍ CHAPTER YOUNG WEAVERS Two women's vision unites generations as they revive their local weaving practice

By Aaron Yazzie

T

HE NEW MEXICO MONSO ON R AIN h a s passed, leaving behind a rejuvenating scent. The storm’s journey westward reveals not only the sun but also a spectacle. Near the drainage pipe outside the Bááháálí Chapter House is a glistening chandelier. Iridescent silk with little droplets, like rhinestones, are delicately captured on its strands. As the earth warms, the weaver comes out to repair any strands that were broken from the heavy breeze of rainfall. This is the first weaver.

Bááháálí, formerly known as Bread Springs, is a small community located on the checkerboard region of the Navajo Nation and in the state of New Mexico. The landscape is characteristically Southwestern: many piñon, juniper, and pine trees, large black hills, stark yellow cliffs, dry river beds patterned with coyote footprints, sallow rabbitbrush, offensive potholes, and littered sites. Occasionally one can come across a jogger on the side of the road, a farmer selling steamed corn, stray dogs, or a handmade poster dangling on a road sign advertising a “Piccadilly” sale.

However, the one location of interest in

this community is the Bááháálí Chapter House, 1 uniquely known for their Summer Youth Weaving Employment Program (SYWP).

The Bááháálí Summer Youth Weaving Employment Program began as an idea entertained by Elouise Washburn, a skilled weaver, and Gloria Skeet, chapter manager. It was an idea inspired by nostalgia. Their recollection brought up memories of the chapter house being packed to capacity by many elderly ladies weaving and socializing.

However, as time progressed, what became a commonplace feature in the Bááháálí community seems to have gradually faded. Elouise and Gloria noticed the population of practicing weavers had diminished, due primarily to the passing

of elders and lack of interest among the youth.

Elouise and Gloria recognized this as an opportunity to revitalize the art of Navajo weaving. The Summer Youth Weaving Employment Program functions as a twofold model that offers employment and hands-on experience learning Navajo weaving taught by Elouise. With the help of the chapter officials, SYWP began in 2007. Although it is contingent upon the availability of funding from the Navajo Nation Council, over the years the chapter has employed many college and high school students from the Bááháálí community as well as from surrounding areas.

Navajo weaving is a tedious process, from preparing the loom to weaving the last part of the rug. It demands patience and fundamental mathematical skills, requiring one always to be attentive.

Many mistakes are prone to happen.

Hours of weaving can cause dizziness due to the side-to-side movement of the warp. Sitting in front of a loom for hours can lead to an aching back and neck.

The skin surrounding the fingernails will eventually chafe due to excessive friction between the fingers and the

1. Chapter houses were established throughout the Navajo Nation during the 1920s to encourage political sovereignty among the Diné. As a political subdivision of the Navajo Nation government, chapter houses assist communities across the Navajo Nation with entrepreneurship, infrastructure, education, and other needs.

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warp, causing discomfort. Considering the obstacles encountered in weaving, it is not difficult to understand why there are sacred prayers, songs, and protocols reserved for this activity.

Coming from generations of talented weavers, Elouise proves to be the right instructor to teach the youth from the Bááháálí community. Her teaching methods are primarily kinesthetic. After students are supplied with a loom, baton, comb, heddle, rods, and wool, they begin by carefully warping the loom. Elouise demonstrates this process, with each string being equidistant and the tension not too tight or loose. Students at first are frustrated as they try to disentangle their mistakes and end up worsening them. Despite their disappointment, Elouise encourages them to learn from their mistakes. She reminds students that weaving is about being patient and persistent when pursuing beauty and harmony.

Elouise is skeptical about learning how to weave via a video tutorial or a manual. Only by experiencing firsthand the struggles, mistakes, and corrections

one must consistently go through can one learn. Above all, Elouise encourages students to learn to weave through hands-on experience, helping them develop positive qualities like hand-eye coordination, correct sitting posture, and mental focus. Gloria is hopeful that when students learn and practice weaving, they are at the same time developing valuable life skills applicable in the professional workspace.

In 2017 the weaving program began a partnership with the Gallup Indian Medical Center’s Methamphetamine and Suicide Prevention Initiative (MSPI).

Savannah Six and Adeline June, both representing MSPI at the time, took interest in the weaving program to help Navajo communities build resiliency through cultural practices. This partnership has enhanced the quality and experience for the students by way of invited cultural educators, presenters, and engaging activities.

This past summer MSPI sponsored Lois Becenti, a cultural educator and textile artist, to give a presentation on the origins of Navajo weaving according

above, top Youth weavers set up their looms. All images courtesy of the author. above, bottom Lois A. Becenti, lifelong weaver and cultural educator. opposite Sign for the Bááháálí Chapter House, formerly Bread Springs, Vanderwagen, New Mexico.

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above Kaylene Kinsel, a youth weaving student, measuring string. opposite, top Youth weavers' purses, fronts (left and right) and back (middle). opposite Experienced weaver Elouise Washburn instructs her student Amber Kee.

to Diné oral history. Commuting from Coyote Canyon, New Mexico, Lois arrived in full Navajo apparel at Bááháálí Chapter along with her unfinished rug.

Students surrounded her as she demonstrated her tips on how to effectively weave. A common tendency with first weavers is rushing the process, which could consequently lead to a concave shape of a rug. Like Elouise, Lois emphasizes the importance of being patient and having a positive mindset while weaving.

Her advice is to rediscover and acknowledge the provenance of Navajo weaving.

As a fluent Navajo speaker, Becenti retraced the narratives of Na'ashjéii Asdzáá and Na'ashjéii Hastii. This creation story focuses on the vital role of Spider Woman and Spider Man, who taught the Diné how to weave and build a loom, respectively. She described how the first loom had ethereal support poles made of sky and earth cords. Its warps were formed of sun rays, its heddles of rock crystal and sheet lightning, its batten of sun halo, and its comb of white

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shell. The students were impressed by her storytelling abilities, more so by how these ancient stories are mysteriously hidden in the fluctuating syllables, rising tonal sounds, glottal stops, and nasal vowels uniquely heard in Athabascan languages. Afterward, students received a rare gift offered by Lois in the form of a sacred song seldom sung by weavers.

Throughout many generations, these sacred stories and songs have been preserved and transmitted by elders, healers, and storytellers, subsequently inspiring many weavers who would reflect the beauty, symmetry, and austerity of their creations concerning this creation myth. From the intricate and vibrant Teec Nos Pos regional design to the simple but noble Chief ’s Blanket, these weavings have their origins in these stories.

However, the familiarity with these stories among the young Diné today is diminishing due to many societal, domestic, technological, and educational factors. Bááháálí is no exception

to this. Many young people are absorbed in contemporary culture characterized by materialism, globalization, and American mass media diversions.

Weaving challenges this current wave by encouraging one to be mindful, patient, and disciplined. The Summer Youth Weaving Program demonstrates how art, culture, and identity interweave.

Students from every background arrive at the confluence of themselves and Navajo weaving.

For instance, Ethan, a sophomore in high school with athletic interests, realized how weaving can be related to his practice of wrestling; how patience and mental focus are fundamental to both these practices. Alternatively, Felicia, a high school senior, relates weaving to her training as a musician.

The connection she makes is of the significant use of fingers, both in playing an instrument and repetitively putting a string between the warp. What seemed unfamiliar and remote became something intimate and personal.

Fortunately, these stories can be heard and viewed by way of a “digital story.” With the help of Savannah Six from MSPI, students from the weaving program created digital stories where they shared their experiences with Navajo weaving. Using the Windows Movie Maker program installed on PCs, they compiled pictures, music, and voice recording. Each student told a unique story of how learning about Navajo

… The first loom had ethereal support poles made of sky and earth cords. Its warps were formed of sun rays, its heddles of rock crystal and sheet lightning, its batten of sun halo, and its comb of white shell.

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above Elouise Washburn speaking about weaving. right Youth weaver Vidalis Roberts with her purse on the loom. opposite, top Visiting elders demonstrating wool-dyeing techniques. opposite, bottom Elouise Washburn, weaver (left) and Gloria Skeet, chapter manager (right), present Kaylene Kinsel, youth weaver (center), with a certificate of achievement.

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weaving has enabled them to learn more about their cultural lineage and the importance of sharing this knowledge with others. Near the end of the program, the community was invited for a public screening. The students received energetic applause from the crowd, especially from the elders and chapter officials.

As students complete their weaving, they disassemble the loom and fold the woven product to make a purse.

After carefully ironing it, they must sew the sides, insert lining material, braid a wool strap, and add a silver button on the flap of the purse. Since 2007, Bááháálí Chapter has accumulated an inventory of many handwoven purses produced by students. Shape, colors, and styles vary.

Elouise herself has her own collection of Two Grey Hills–style works influenced by her late husband’s familial connection with the regional textile design.

One of the many goals Gloria has in mind is to make use of the inventory by establishing a “micro-youth enterprise,” meaning that money acquired from sales will directly be transferred to the weaving program’s budget to replenish supplies. As Bááháálí Chapter manager, Gloria’s role is crucial for the weaving program. The Navajo Nation Council allocates limited funding for summer employment distributed to all chapters across the Navajo Nation; therefore, additional funding is necessary from grants and donations. Throughout the years, Gloria has sustained the program by applying for grants and seeking partnerships. Apart from the weaving program, the chapter is responsible for providing other projects for the broader interests of the Bááháálí community.

The program still faces many challenges such as limited funding for hiring more students, an archival system for documentation, and a one-month time restraint. However, these obstacles are offset by the weaving program. Gloria and Elouise are proud of the work they have accomplished throughout the years, particularly when students continue to weave even after they have completed the program.

As the weaving program comes to an end, Gloria and Elouise reserve the last day for a potluck. Students are then publicly acknowledged by way of a certificate of completion. Gloria also invites community members who have completed their bachelor’s or master’s degree to give a presentation on their positive and negative experiences in college. After a Q&A session, the Summer Youth Weaving Program officially ends.

Navajo weaving is an important trait to Diné culture, not only as a form

of economic self-sufficiency but also as the source of cultural richness implicit in the stories, songs, and prayers associated with Navajo weaving. Trading posts, museums, antique road shows, and other areas are spaces where these textiles exist.

But the status of practicing weavers across the Navajo Nation is undetermined—of course, with the exception of an obscure community 20 miles south of Gallup, New Mexico.

The first weaver near the drainage pipe retreats until the following summer.

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DISNEY INTRODUCES NEW AUDIENCES TO NATIVE ART Walt Disney World launches Creating Tradition: Innovation and Change in American Indian Art in the American Adventure pavilion at Epcot.

By Michole Eldred

V

I S I T O R S T O WA LT DISNEY WORLD can now take an eye-opening journey through the evolving status of American Indian visual arts and cultures.

They can experience the creativity of some of the United States’ 573 federally recognized tribes. Walt Disney World has recently unveiled a new exhibition, Creating Tradition: Innovation and Change in American Indian Art, at Epcot in Orlando, Florida. The exhibition opened on July 27, 2018, and is expected to remain on view with interchanging art and interactive exhibitions for the next five years. The combined efforts of Native artists and curators alongside Disney teams have created a worthwhile presentation that should not be missed.

Creating Tradition is located at the American Heritage Gallery inside the American Adventure pavilion. The location of the exhibition was purposefully chosen. Kevin Gover (Pawnee), director of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian, explains, “The American experience begins with the American Indians who have always been here. This gallery helps to convey not only that there were a great many Indians and they were very different from one another, but also that they are still here.

Our creative traditions are taking their

top Quenten Cypress, the community engagement coordinator of the Ah-TahThi-Ki Seminole Museum, and Willow Cypress (both Seminole) exploring Creating Tradition: Innovation and Change in American Indian Art. All images courtesy of the author. o pp o s i t e Bobby Henry (Seminole) leading a dance at the opening reception of Creating Tradition.

place—literally, here at Epcot—alongside the rest of the world.”1 The exhibition is part of Epcot’s World Showcase, a walking destination of themed pavilions that represent the history, cuisine, and cultures found within eleven countries. Creating Tradition is open to any visiting guest of Epcot. In 2017 alone, 12.2 million people visited Epcot.2 Currently, 40 different American Indian tribes are represented through the display of 89 pieces of art. The artists and tribes in Creating Tradition are grouped into seven regions: Eastern Woodlands; Southeast; Plains, Great Basin and Plateau; Southwest; California and Hawaii; and the Northwest Coast and Alaska. The regions are presented on a dazzling, carved wooden map. Each region lights up periodically with what appears to be a sprinkling of Tinker Bell’s magic fairy dust. This is, after all, Disney’s show, hence full of entertaining visuals and storylines designed to engage visitors of all ages.

Some of the selected pieces are historical, with other objects created as recently as this year. According to Walt Disney World public relations, the goal of the exhibition is to show “the work of contemporary Native artists alongside artifacts from centuries past, demonstrating how ancestral craftmanship influences modern generations.”3 Acoma fashion designer Loren Aragon

1. “Epcot Just Got a New Smithsonian Museum Exhibition,” Smithsonian Magazine, August 22, 2018, web.

2. “Annual Disney Park Attendance Statistics and Charts | Disney Resources,” Disneynews.us, last updated August 17, 2018, web.

3. “Walt Disney World Resort Celebrates American Indian Culture in New Gallery Exhibition,” Walt Disney World News, July 27, 2018, web.

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incorporated patterns from Acoma Pueblo pottery into his textile designs.

His dress, Ancient Resonance, was specifically designed for this exhibition and is displayed with an early 20th-century Acoma Pueblo olla, or water jar. The formal gown is constructed of white silk organza with an overlay of cutout black fabric that forms the striking geometric design. The viewer can see the direct link between the two artworks.

Other examples of this creative connection can be seen in historic and current baskets. Cherish Nebeshanze Parrish (Potawatomi-Odawa) used techniques to create her 2011 basketry sculpture, Mother’s Womb, also used in Pokagon Potawatomi black ash hamper baskets from the early 20th century.

Historical Seminole and Miccosukee patchwork clothing sits side by side with more recently made patchwork pieces.

Black-and-red Ipath X Apache shoes designed by Douglas Miles (San Carlos Apache-Akimel O’odham) are next to his painted skateboard. The label reads,

“Miles was one of the first Native artists to paint on skateboards. Now he also designs shoes. He sees a connection between skateboarding and the Apache warrior tradition, since both involve concentration and stamina.” The narrative connects cultural activity, historical people, visual art, and commercial design. An Alaskan Chilkat blanket from the 1890s hangs directly behind Tlingit artist Preston Singletary’s 2018 glass sculpture, Raven and the Box of Daylight. Although relationships between the formline designs in his sculpture and the historic weaving are obvious, Singletary uses a much different medium for creating his art.

Through his work, Singletary also pays homage to his teachers and mentors, his Tlingit great-grandparents as well as fellow master glass artisans. Working with artists from across the world—the Tlingit on the Pacific Northwest Coast, the Maori of the South Pacific, and glass artists from Sweden—Singletary manages to intertwine time as well as place.

While many Native artists find

influences in their own cultural histories, many Native artists also seek inspiration elsewhere. Opinions differ when it comes to coupling historic Indigenous art with art that is being created presently. Some would argue that living Native artists cannot help but insert the past into their art. “The past is never irrelevant,” says Della Warrior (Otoe-Missouria), director of the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture in Santa Fe. “It forms the basis of who we are as Indigenous people. One needs to consider the audience visiting the exhibition. A large percentage of them would be international visitors who still think Native people live in tipis or are extinct.”

Warrior continues, “This was a difficult exhibit to conceptualize” with such a diversity of artists and tribal cultures.

“Having the old items in there should give people pause to wonder how people [who] were labeled ‘ignorant savages’ could make such beautiful, intricate work.… Let’s hope the art of today’s world is relevant in the future, and that artists can draw upon it for cultural expression WINTER 2018/19 | 39

top Southwest vitrine at Creating Tradition. opposite Northwest Coast and Alaska vitrine at Creating Tradition, including a Tlingit Chilkat blanket, circa 1890, and Raven and the Box of Daylight (2017) by Preston Singletary (Tlingit).

for future generations.”4 Other perspectives consider the pairing of contemporary and historical Native artworks almost offensive, since the widespread practice does not allow contemporary Native art to stand on its own or for the perception of the general public’s view of Native art to evolve. This debate will continue.

The artists in the exhibit do not necessarily want to participate in this debate. They just want to create their art and find inspiration in whatever manner it appears to them. Many artists are glad for their art to be out there and seen.

The artwork in Creating Tradition will be seen not only in the exhibition but also in books, other publications, and discussion panels. One such artist is Brian Zepeda (Florida Seminole), whose beaded bandolier bags are featured in the show.

“My Ancestors’ artwork was the original inspiration of my artwork, but today I also find inspiration from my kids, who are always challenging me to

create new art,” Zepeda says. “Two of my kids attended the opening and told me how they hoped [the] general public would take the time to look at the art and appreciate the beauty, time, and effort that each artist put into their pieces. I also had a few of the Seminole children tell me how proud they are to see the work of a fellow tribal member being recognized on a global platform. The intent of my art is to simply share it with the world, and I am happy to see people just take notice of it, much less appreciate it.”5 The exhibition is visually beautiful. Credit goes to Disney for utilizing their Imagineering resources to produce Creating Tradition in a manner that is both interactive as well as informative.

Art can be seen as well as heard. Musical creations, ranging from flute playing to rap performed by Native musicians, is heard in surround sound.

Three interactive stations in the guise of campfires are placed throughout the exhibition space. When guests wave

4. Della Warrior in discussion with author, September 2, 2018.

5. Brian Zepeda in discussion with author, August 13, 2018.

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their hands in front of one of the campfires— poof!—the “flame” magically transforms into one from the variety of video presentations that showcase the artists describing their art and culture.

The work created by living artists is of the highest technical quality. The historical pieces on display are some of the finest I have been fortunate enough to see. While this is an amazing opportunity for working artists to bring their art to a broader audience, the real opportunity exists for the viewer. This is a chance for people from many countries and cultures to get a glimpse of American Indian art and history. It is within reason to assume that many visitors to Disney World may never have been given the opportunity to experience Native American history and culture from a Native point of view. Certainly, many Epcot guests have never seen such beautiful and thought-provoking American Indian art.

Native input was provided through collaboration with several museums. The Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, DC, and the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture in Santa Fe, New Mexico, provided most of the objects and descriptions. The tribes whose homelands Disney World occupies were represented by Seminole and Miccosukee items selected by employees at the Seminole Tribe of Florida’s Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum on the Big Cypress Seminole Reservation. These museum professionals as well as the artists were all tasked with the role of interpreting Native art and culture for the exhibition.

Many of the individuals who work within these museums are Indigenous.

Della Warrior played a vital role in the planning and implementation of Creating Tradition. When Warrior served as president of the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA), she worked on several projects with then vice president of Global Strategies for Diversity and Inclusion for Walt Disney Parks and Resorts, Carmen Smith. This early collaboration between Warrior and Smith included an opportunity for IAIA to begin a summer film program that Disney funded for several years. Disney’s goal was to diversify creative talent within the Disney companies, and IAIA’s goal was to offer a four-year degree in film. What began as a small summer program resulted in a baccalaureate degree under the leadership of Robert Martin (Cherokee Nation), the current IAIA president. Disney WINTER 2018/19 | 41

funded the film program for several years and now continues to support student internships, fellowships, and scholarships for Native Americans interested in having a career at Disney and in the film industry.

Warrior’s career took her to the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture (MIAC) where she continued occasional collaborative efforts with Smith. When MIAC began planning for a new permanent exhibition, Warrior invited Smith to help the museum ensure that visitors would have an engaging experience. Smith agreed to bring a few members of the Disney Imagineering Team to the museum to meet with the planners. A two-day session of dialogue and discussion included a tour of MIAC’s individually catalogued collection, 75,000 objects of art and material culture. The discussion led to a trip to Orlando for the MIAC group. There they spent two days with almost 20 members of the Disney Imagineering Team.

“Those two days were wonderfully enlightening,” says Warrior. “While there, we toured the Epcot Center and the American Experience Gallery. The exhibition at that time was focused on Black Americans and their contributions to America and the icons contributing to that. It was a very moving exhibition that made a powerful statement on factual but little-known history on the outstanding and quality leadership of Black Americans and their numerous contributions to American history. At that time, Carmen Smith turned to me and said, ‘How would you like to have an exhibit here on Native Americans?’ Of course I was thrilled and said, ‘Yes!’ She said, ‘Let’s do it!’ I went away wondering how it was going to happen and when. I received my answer about a year later.”6 The National Museum of the American Indian joined the partnership. After several months, MIAC hosted a planning session that included curators and others from NMAI, Epcot, and MIAC. Warrior recalled, “We had an intensive planning session that was very difficult. We had to determine the story. What was the exhibit going to be about? With over 500 tribes and Alaskan Villages, it was extremely difficult.”7 Disney considered all suggestions for the theme. Epcot curators began working 6. Della Warrior in discussion with author, August 30, 2018.

7. Ibid.

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on Creating Tradition with MIAC curator Tony Chavarria (Santa Clara Tewa) and NMAI curator Emil Her Many Horses (Oglala Lakota). After several months, they finalized the concept and theme.

After that decision was made, they began selecting objects and interpreting exhibition text. Carmen Smith, currently vice president of Creative Development at Walt Disney Imagineering, and the rest of the Imagineering group began implementing additional elements. The result is what was finally presented on July 27, 2018.8 The exhibition came to life during the opening event. In the dedication ceremony, Seminole Tribe of Florida medicine man Bobby Henry gave a blessing and led a Catfish dance and a stomp dance with Miccosukee and Seminole dancers.

Officials from the collaborating museums and Disney were in attendance, many giving opening remarks of inspiration.

Several artists were invited to take part in the opening ceremony. Some of them attended with their family and friends.

Loren Aragon, one of the attending artists, shared this: “I am greatly honored to have been one of three artists to have this

unique opportunity to design something specifically for Walt Disney World.” His unique gown was inspired by an historical Acoma olla from the collections of the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture. “A first of its kind for me and a very welcoming challenge. This design incorporates everything that I’ve always wanted to explore in my fashion talents and truly represents my Acoma Pueblo culture, both respectfully and responsibly.9 Creating Tradition: Innovation and Change in American Indian Art merits a trip to the Epcot in Orlando. Disney’s Imagineering resources stir the senses.

More importantly, the exhibition promotes understanding of cultures too often overlooked on a global stage. It is past time that the American Indian cultures are viewed side by side with other global cultures. Much hard work by many Native professionals and Disney representatives went in to this museum-quality exhibition. Together they created an exceptional experience for the myriad of peoples from all countries and cultures passing through Disney World’s gates.

top Seminole Tribe of Florida Royalty: Cheyenne Kippenberger, Miss Florida Seminole, and Allegra Billie, Junior Miss Florida Seminole, examine a beaded doll by Juanita Growing Thunder Fogarty (Assiniboine-Sioux). opposite ACONAV/Loren Aragon (Acoma), Ancient Resonance Dress, 2018, duchess silk, silk organza, habotai silk lining, leather, copper, cotton buckram; Unknown Acoma artist, Olla, date unknown, collection of the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, Santa Fe, New Mexico.

8. Ibid.

9. Loren Aragon, “ACONAV + Disney,” ACONAV, web.

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Nelda Schrupp Pheasant Rump Nakota Jeweler and Sculptor Lakota, ND

neldaschrupp@gmail.com Heard Museum Guild Fair & Market Phoenix, AZ, March 2 & 3, 2019

neldaschrupp.com Ring in sterling, amethyst, sodalite, and horsehair, 2018

benjamin harjo jr. american indian artist creator and coyote compete to make man, 2016, gouache on Arches watercolor paper, 20 × 28 inches

benjaminharjojr.com

MELISSA MELERO-MOOSE GREAT BASIN NATIVE ARTIST www.melissamelero.com

Burden Basket with Pinenuts, 2018, mixed media with pinenuts on canvas, 30" x 40"

PROFILE

CHUMASH BASKET MAKER

LINDA AGUILAR

By Gloria Bell

L

INDA AGUILAR is a basket weaver and textile artist. She has received numerous awards and recognitions and has completed fellowships at the Denver Art Museum (DAM) and the School for Advanced Research (SAR). Her baskets are found in art institutions across the Unites States including the Smithsonian’s Renwick Gallery, the Indian Arts Research Center at SAR, the Autry Museum of the American West, and the Stagecoach Inn Museum.

I first met Linda Aguilar at SAR in Santa Fe, when I visited her at her studio.

We shared laughs and ideas, and it was my privilege to speak with her again about her current projects and future directions. Linda Aguilar is a visionary with a penchant for color and detail, much like her works.

GB: How did you come to basket making?

LA: I have a degree in studio arts from the University of California at Santa Barbara. [During my time in college], I took a soft-sculpture class and got the idea to make a potted palm tree out of soft, clear plastic. I made the pot at the base out of clear plastic tubes stuffed with pine needles and coiled together like a basket. Amazingly, I did not realize I was instinctively making a coiled basket at the bottom of the palm tree! I made a couple other soft sculptures with clear plastic tubing stuffed with horsehair or pine needles.… I stopped painting and started making baskets. I think it was a destiny thing.

It was something that was there.

I remember one day—Mother’s Day—I went on a picnic with my family at a community park. I needed to get pine needles to stuff in the tubes for the sculpture I was making. I had taken the large clear tubes with me and was there picking up the pine needles and stuffing them into the tubes.

Pretty soon there were a number of people standing around me, watching.

I instinctively started clowning, really clowning and throwing handfuls of pine needles in the air and goofing off and continued stuffing the tube. No one asked what I was doing. I kept on doing it. My mother was laughing in the distance. A little kid finally asked me what I was doing and came up close and asked me again. I told them. No one dared to ask until the little child.

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The power of the arts?

It was funny, little vignettes like that.

Funny thing, too, people didn’t ask about the horsehair flying in the wind at my studio at Santa Fe. I hung a clothesline at the front of the studio to dry horsehair after washing it. People would walk past the horsehair waving in the wind, looking, with odd expressions on their faces. [We laughed together at that memory.]

What inspires you as an artist?

I think color does, and the way I feel.

I go for a lot of walks; I look at plants.

I have a big garden and spend most of my summers out there. Things that I see in nature [inspire me]. That’s why I’m starting to go in a different direction and going into crazy quilts and art quilts. I started making a large quilt; I

LINDA AGUILAR

above, left The Artist’s Tools, horsehair, waxed linen thread, stone, beads, shell, 4 in. diameter, private collection. All images courtesy of the artist unless otherwise noted. above, right Shells, Bells, and Pollywogs, 2000, part of Clown series, black horsehair, abalone and other shells, bells, and waxed linen thread, approximately 10 in. diameter, private collection. opposite Linda Aguilar posing with The Thinking Hat in her studio.

need something that goes by faster [than weaving does].

When I do something in one quilt or basket, it inspires something in another [form]. California Native weavers made basket hats, so when some ask where I get an idea, I say it came out of my thinking hat. My quilts went in a different direction. I was doing a more defined quilt and started … using sequins for the Going Vegas artwork at SAR. A gallery representative asked me to do a Bigfootthemed piece. I did a quilt with a big footprint on it and leaves made out of sequins and flannel. That piece was inspired by my walks and picking up leaves from the ground.

I remember reading an article that stated you were changing the shape of basketry.

I define the basket differently. For example, one of my baskets represented a casino. A bingo basket for a bingo parlor.

It’s not a basket, but it has the shape or look of a basket.

I’m changing the meaning of baskets.

I’ve thought about doing a flying saucer.

My theme is going to continue on with some hats. When I first started doing the hats, I thought about doing a flying saucer because I talked to you. You and I

had a conversation. I liked it; it changed the flying saucer into a hat. My creative process … one thing I do like is giving names to the baskets, sometimes … several names.

Why do you give the baskets names?

When I was in school I was painting and noticed that they thought of [the paintings] a bit more seriously. Then, I started giving [the baskets] themes and ideas. I like to give several names to a basket—the larger baskets, not the small ones. I had a green-and-yellow basket, a-tisket, a-tasket. It’s little sayings. Sticks and Stones—something to do with children’s rhymes.

Sometimes I dream about materials. In one dream I had gone to the beach and was looking for shells with holes in them.

The next day I went to the beach, and the whole beach had shells with holes in them.

What landscape do you live in now?

There are rivers, ponds, and lakes. There is driftwood at the rivers. I never thought I would find driftwood there, but now I find pieces of wood at the edge. I collect materials. I collect vines—little curlicues.

I collect them and put them with other materials, beads, and credit card pieces.

Native beadwork is mostly all the same size, perfectly matched. I have a hard time with that approach. I focus on the color. I love color. I think for 30 years I made baskets in brown, white, or black.

That’s why I went to crazy quilts. I’ve been putting beads on the baskets; it was difficult because I didn’t have that color.

I’m changing the meaning of baskets.

Do you have a philosophy on basket weaving?

Baskets flow in their own pattern. A respected Native California basket maker, Mabel McKay, used to say, “Each basket has a dream. The dream is you.”

Whenever I was invited to do a show at Pacific Western Traders, the owner would have me sit in Aunt Mabel’s chair, one they kept there. I feel very connected with her at times. Each basket has its own way of being. Sometimes I can focus, and it flows; it goes the way it wants to go.

I like to play movies or films that are comedies or love stories, something light and fun, when I am weaving. It makes it easier to work. Sometimes while weaving WINTER 2018/19 | 47

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I can’t focus on the real world, and when I get through I can barely walk or talk.

It can take me a while to get settled back into this world. But, if I am playing a light, happy movie, I can take a break and have fun with it. That happy energy affects the basket. above Stories from Spirit, white horsehair, waxed linen thread, rawhide, buttons, wood, shell, beads, 4 in. wide, private collection. opposite Installation view of the baskets in the Going Vegas series, 2011, School for Advanced Research, Santa Fe.

I try to pick films that are light and fun.

I lent you While You Were Sleeping with Sandra Bullock and you said it was a bit light. [We both laugh.]

Conversations, things I see, color, things around me really influence me—a joke, or I notice something new. The shape of the casinos around Santa Fe had a step pattern to the facades of the buildings; that’s why I put the sequins in that pattern on the Casino Basket for the Going Vegas installation at SAR. Do you still collect materials for your work?

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I still collect materials like beads. People expect more natural things. I have also used bottle caps. For the baskets, I work primarily with horsehair. I’m thinking of changing the baskets. In the past few months I’ve been working on crazy quilts and thinking of combining them with the baskets. I might use metal … papermaking. I also have rawhide. Certain things need to [be] let go, and then you can come in from a different direction.

What are your current projects?

I’m currently completing some small baskets and a large one that was commissioned. I completed several this year. It bothers me if they are hanging out there unfinished. You need to start and finish a basket. Sometimes I get requests from persons with some idea of what they want, but it has to flow in the basket;

LINDA AGUILAR

the basket comes out the way it wants to come out.

One of the biggest hurdles is finding the right materials for my baskets. Wax thread comes in too few colors or shades.

I usually work in natural horsehair but sometimes use dyed horsehair. Then the waxed linen thread needs to match or contrast properly. I get amazed that some city people think there are brightly colored horses running around, like pink, yellow, blue, and purple horses running around! [Laughs.]

There are not that many basket weavers out there. It takes a lot of time. Some weavers just make baskets for themselves or for their families. Native people have a lot of respect for the practice.

I’d like to tell you a hat story. Do you remember the “basket hat” that was hanging above my work desk at SAR? I remember.

We had a happy conversation outside the studio there about making a hat, and we were playing off creative thoughts from each other, and one or both of us said something about making a “top hat,” so I decided to make a top hat, but there was not enough time to make a big hat, so it ended up being three inches tall! I kept thinking, I will have to put my thinking cap on.

After I gave a talk at SAR about my work, some people came to the studio and looked at the scene—carved sheep on the table and suspended quilt pieces and tiny baskets floating around that “thinking hat.” That The Thinking Hat was floating above my chair and desk there at SAR. All my supplies were on the table, along with shells and sequins and cut-up credit cards and about a half-dozen small, carved, Navajo folk art sheep. Some of the carved sheep were positioned looking at the hat floating above my head. I have used those same shells, sequins, carved sheep, cut-up credit cards and shiny things in several shows since then.

Years later a couple came to my house from Germany. The couple collects things from all different states and countries. I brought out the hat. They wanted to figure out the hat. “How do we display it?” they asked. “All you have to do is put a nail on the wall and hang it there,” I told them. I asked them if they wanted it wrapped and they said no. They didn’t want it wrapped and the collector’s wife put the hat in her purse and off they went.

I am still thinking about making a top hat.

Do you think the field of Native art and/or basket weaving has changed over the past 25 years? Where do you think it is heading?

There is a tension in the art market.

People want to see the [established, customary] work. They don’t want variations. If you are getting into [an art] show, the judges have their influence.

They want strictly traditional.

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above Untitled, part of The Gaming series, black walnuts, waxed linen thread, horsehair, shells, beads, 4 in. diameter, private collection.

opposite The Bingo One, 2011, dye, paint, paper, glass beads, shell, wood, plastic, horsehair, waxed linen thread, large basket: 6 in. diameter, small basket: 1½ in. diameter, collection of the School for Advanced Research, Santa Fe, SAR.2011-10-1A-Q. Photo: Addison Doty.

Maybe the way I see my baskets is different than others. I think because I have a degree in art, it has me going in other directions …

If you could only take one thing with you on a trip, what would you take?

If I’m going to see some friends, I’d take more recent[ly made artworks]. If I’m going to travel and work on a piece while traveling, I’ve done quilting and taken basket materials, whichever is easiest for me.

When I first started making baskets, I was traveling a lot in the car. I finally said I no longer will do it. I was in Oregon and Washington, with all the tall trees—it was just blinking lights, it was so hard to weave. I no longer weave in the car.

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On the train I’ve done weaving and quilt making. I explain things if people ask me. I was doing a small lap quilt [on one trip]; it turns out I was with a bunch of Amish people. Someone asked me what I was doing; I showed it to her, and before I knew it I had all these women admiring it. They also asked me about the materials of the baskets, they saw the horsehair flapping around, and asked why were the baskets so little.

The size of my baskets always surprises people—a lot of them are on the small side. “What can you put inside it?” they want to know. They always want to know about the function. But my baskets aren’t about function. I had one lady ask me to make a basket for her bread. I told her you don’t want to do it; this is tail hair from a horse. You don’t want to put

LINDA AGUILAR

your food in it. All of a sudden, she realized what I was talking about it. Most people want to know what you can do with them. Little baskets are often gifts.

I have people that collect my baskets, a lot of little ones, that they give to friends, lecturers at the university, family. I tell people that the baskets have their own direction, they go from person to person; it’s very natural for them to be given on to someone else.

really influenced me. Since then I’ve put sequins and old bingo chips and things like that inside the glass display cases with my baskets, inspired from my time at SAR and Denver Art Museum.

Are you working on a thinking hat now?

What color is it?

I’m keeping mine for now.

The one right now is not a thinking hat, but part of the hat series. Somewhere in all this is the idea of a magician’s hat.

But, I’m also thinking of a dream hat.

A dream hat might have five little hats hanging around it in a group. My hats might not be all basket woven. I may use other techniques and materials. These are still in the dreaming.

It’s a black hat with the lining. I was thinking of displaying it on its side with things falling out of it. Every time I start doing a hat, I’m thinking of little hats in space. At SAR, I had baskets and little pieces of the quilts I had been thinking about all week. [Now I’m] thinking about making little hats and floating little dream hats.

At DAM I had started a green hat. Hats change while I am working on them. I had gotten a big box full of brand-new

Full of elegance, wit, and color is how I would describe Linda and her works. For more information, please visit:

My friend bought a bunch of baskets.

She said to me, “I have a confession to make: I never gave the baskets away.”

[Both laugh.]

Is there anything else you would like to tell readers of First American Art Magazine?

The magazines are important to showcase Native arts. Whereas the institutions and exhibitions are limited, in the magazines I get to see people that I know and what they are doing. It’s exciting for me.

When I go to a show, I am happy to see some friends and visit. Sometimes they give me ideas, too. Sometimes a jewelry maker using color will influence me. SAR

I am still thinking about the creative hat floating above my head. [See profile picture on page 48.]

materials … 10 to 15 yards of blue fabric with stars on it. I’m going to line the hat like a magician’s hat. I’m finishing the hat, thinking of putting bells on the inside. I made a few baskets with bells on the inside. It’s a surprise because you don’t expect to see or hear any bells. I like doing something that’s different. I’m on the edge working in.

METISRAMBLINGS.BLOGSPOT.COM/2011/07/GOINGVEGAS-WITH-LINDA-AGUILARS.HTML SARWEB.ORG/IARC/NATIVE-AMERICANARTIST-FELLOWSHIPS/2011-ARTISTS/ LINDA-AGUILAR WINTER 2018/19 | 51

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CHOCTAW-CHICKASAW PAINTER

NORMA HOWARD

By Vicki Monks

I

F IT WEREN’T FOR HER FATHER’S VOICE in a dream, Norma Howard might never have taken up painting as a career. She had worked hard all her life, giving her best effort to everything she did. She’d always loved creating beautiful things but had no confidence that anyone else would appreciate her vision of Choctaw culture as she wanted to express it. She was in her mid-30s when her job as a seamstress for a clothing company in her small Oklahoma town disappeared; the company moved all the jobs to Mexico. She was in a panic—until one night of long dreaming, when she awoke hearing her father say, “You should paint.” So she took up the brushes that she’d used for years as her creative outlet and began to paint in earnest.

Today Norma Howard is recognized as one of the premier Native artists of the Southeastern tribes. Her watercolors regularly win top prizes. But she says it was only because of that dream that she took a chance on painting the stories of her childhood, of her parent’s early days, and of her ancestors in Mississippi. She developed a style, similar to pointillism, but completely unique in watercolor—a technique she calls double basket-weave stroke that gives her paintings depth.

In all of Norma Howard’s paintings, a strong sense of place and of time permeates scenes of work and family— harvesting rivercane, gathering around a campfire or on a stomp dance ground, visiting with friends next to an old pickup truck, guiding children to the next task—a peaceful time without conflict. It’s a vision of the world that she treasures. That’s what she prefers to paint, but for her competition entry this year in the 2018 Santa Fe Indian Market, she went back to the hardest time for Choctaws: the removal from their homelands in Mississippi, sometimes called the Trail of Tears.

That was the first removal ever in United States history: 1831. Everybody thinks that Cherokees were the first, but Choctaws were the first in the Southeast to be forced from our homelands. Along the way, a miko—one of our leaders—told a newspaper, “This was a trail of tears and death.” It was the same with all the removals.

At your Indian Market booth, I overheard your conversation with a Jewish woman who said she didn’t really know about the Choctaw Removal, but she said this painting gave her chills.

The painting portrays a line of Choctaw people passing by a lake or pond, their reflections in the water. Only one man looks toward the viewer. He has the face of Norma’s father, the man with the staff, a leader on a hard journey.

VM: This is only the second Choctaw Removal painting you’ve ever done.

Why did you decide to do this one now?

NH: It’s very emotional. I only did this one because when I saw that Andrew Jackson’s portrait was hanging in the White House, it made me think of that time when Andrew Jackson forced us to leave our homelands.

That’s why I did that painting. Over 4,000 of our Choctaw people died on the way from Mississippi to Oklahoma. There was sorrow. But as an artist, I choose not to portray that. I choose to portray my people as, “We’re going to get through this; we’re going to survive.” With their perseverance, they were going to survive. That’s why I chose to paint my father looking outward.

He’s watching, taking care of the children, the vulnerable.

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It does me, too. The story behind the painting makes it more meaningful. The painting goes to the inner soul of the artist: ancestors, culture, traditions. It’s a deeper meaning. And she related this to her own ancestors’ experience.

Choctaw Removal happened more than 100 years before the Holocaust.

While your painting is specific to Choctaws, it could also be seen as a universal statement about oppression, injustice, and prejudice. Do you see your painting—this experience—as relevant to the discussion today?

As Native people we’ve seen it before, with those who are sick and hungry.

We’ve all seen it through history. Now they’re trying to take children away from Indigenous people coming here. History is being repeated, same as old days. You get heartbroken; it’s always embedded in your heart.

Your technique has been compared to pointillism, but that is rarely done with watercolors. It’s extraordinary.

Watercolor is the hardest thing to work with because everything gets muddy. If you notice around my house, you’ll see a

NORMA HOWARD

above Choctaw Removal, 2017, watercolor on Arches paper, 18 × 24 in., collection of the artist.

All images courtesy of the artist, unless otherwise noted. opposite Norma Howard in her home studio. Image courtesy of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma.

lot of old baskets. I collect baskets. One time I was painting baskets using basketweave strokes, and then I thought, This looks good, and I went further. I’m selftaught. We never had art in our school. I live in a small town. So I never knew that terminology, pointillism. I know now. But that’s not what I do. I call it basket-weave stroke, double-weave strokes with layers.

I use up to five layers.

I discovered this on my own—using tiny, diamondback strokes that come out of ancient art. All of our clothing, our baskets, everything relates to diamondback rattlesnakes. We admire their personality, so to speak. They mind their business same as we do, Choctaw, but if you mess with us, we’re going to strike you and that’s what we admire. We’re like that.

A lot of us are. We mind our business, but

don’t mess with us because you know what you’ll get. So we use a lot of that diamondback on our dresses, basket weaves.

You started with watercolors because that’s what they had at the five-and-dime store in Stigler?

Basket-weave stroke goes in layers to give it that rich ground. On every ground I usually use five layers. Had I just used a large brush and put the five layers, it would look muddy. Why it doesn’t look muddy, it’s those strokes I use. The first layer, like when you’re building your home, it’s the bones of the home. The first layer is like a good ball weave. My son, he’s a stickball player and weaves the balls for stickball games. And on those balls you can’t tell where the weave ends or begins. You can’t tell where I end or begin my strokes; it’s a double weave. It’s a technique I learned on my own. It’s the only thing I know.

If someone wants to mimic my art, well good luck, because it’s not easy.

Yeah, you know those little palettes? I’d start with that and paint on mat boards.

Your father’s image shows up in a lot of your paintings. There’s one with people sitting around a fire with a kettle.

It’s family, togetherness, quietness. Having a fire and a pot going. A time when my mother was speaking Choctaw. It’s that comforting place.

This other one, The Ice Cream Parlor, the man there was my dad. This is my memory. And at the end of the day, that might be why I’m an artist. Growing up I was quiet and observant of actions and nature. I remember my dad would always WINTER 2018/19 | 53

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Choctaw, Chickasaw, Pawnee, Comanche.

We print all their papers.

How did your childhood influence your art?

Growing up, my mother spoke Choctaw.

She was fluent. She couldn’t speak too good English, so she would tell us stories in Choctaw. A lot of times we didn’t have electricity so she would be a good storyteller; storytelling about animals, signs, and how to do things … that me and my family benefit from today.

We didn’t stay in the house and watch TV. We’d go into the woods and play.

Our imagination was in the woods. I really cherish those times when I was little growing up. We didn’t go to powwows or any Indian places like that. We were—I don’t want to say isolated, but I don’t know. We were just happy, content where we were.

I liked to see pretty things: flowers, creeks, animals. Me and my brother would make little arbors out of twigs and grass. We’d get potted meat cans to put in the ground with a little water so it looked like a pond for our little villages. Our imagination was innocent, natural, in an Indian way. That was one of the best times in my life. That’s why I like to do miniature paintings.

above The Ice Cream Parlor, 2018, watercolor on Arches paper, 13 × 9 in., private collection. opposite Sunday Dinner, 2018, watercolor on Arches paper, 12¼ × 16¼ in., private collection.

get a Sunday paper. And he would buy me and my brother ice cream. We would sit on those little barstools, and you could see the little boy eating his ice cream—me, she’s got strawberry ice cream. I always liked strawberry ice cream. And the man has got that paper with his eyeglasses on.

I put a little twist on it. My dad was always a man who liked to read; he knew all the current events, everything. So today, we have a printing company, the Stigler News-Sentinel, and I put that masthead on it right at the top. That paper does printing for a lot of Indian tribes now: Cherokee,

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My dad was raised in a boarding school and couldn’t speak Choctaw so that’s why I learned English. He was a carpenter, a housepainter, and he would bring home boxes of scrap, blocks of wood, and his leftover paint. I used to paint with my daddy’s paints. I started drawing when I was five. I started my watercolor around 13 … when I took it to that next level. In fact I’ve still got some of my older ones.

My transition was like—I always kind of painted what I do now but not as good.

But it was good [for] what I could do at that time.

Your paintings sell for thousands of dollars today. Tell us about the first time you ever sold a painting.

It was for 12 dollars and 50 cents! We had a reunion day in my hometown, Stigler, and my brother was proud of me, carrying [the painting] around, so a man says, “What’s that you’ve got, what’s she want

NORMA HOWARD

for it?” I’d never sold a painting before, and we just threw out a number, and then I said, “Twelve dollars, you think that’s high?” So my brother said, “Why don’t you go up a little more? Twelve-fifty?”

And the man bought it.

And I guarantee you, it lived with me forever—that feeling with your work you do, and someone appreciates it. That’s what we’re here for. I’ll never forget that time.

You exhibited your work for the first time at Red Earth in 1995. How did that come about?

I was out of work when the sewing factory I worked for moved to Mexico with NAFTA. And I felt like I was a loser because my sisters and brothers had jobs and I didn’t. And I thought, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I won’t say a dark place, but I was in a place where my future was uncertain. We went to Red Earth that year and my husband, David, behind my back, got a form for artists. He said, “You’re just as good as they are.”

Fast-forward to that time when I was late sending in my 35-millimeter slides for the application. All I had was Walmart, and my slides didn’t get back in time. So I called this one lady at Red Earth and said, “I don’t have my slides in. Can you wait a little bit?” And she said, “Yeah, we’ll wait.” Then I got a letter that said “Congratulations, you’ve been selected.”

And that’s when I went to Red Earth and won first place.

After that you went on to Santa Fe Indian Market in 1997 and you won a SWAIA Fellowship the next year that you used to explore Choctaw history.

You’ve won Best of Classification three times at Indian Market, as well as Best of Division and First Place ribbons in multiple art shows over the past two decades. Has your success influenced what you paint?

I take art seriously. I don’t paint just to make money. If you want that kind of manufactured artist, that’s not me. You want an artist that paints what’s fashionable now, that’s not me. I’m not that kind

of artist. Mine is feelings. If there’s a death in the family, it’s a setback for me. I can’t paint. I don’t want that kind of negative energy in my painting. My paintings will outlive me. Sometime someone’s going to say this artist painted the way it was.

If they can open their minds and heart to how we lived and how good we lived among each other and how we survived, I think I did my job.

Lots of successful artists leave their home places, moving to big cities or big art markets like Santa Fe. But you’ve always stayed close to home in this small town, Stigler, Oklahoma.

I love visiting Santa Fe. That’s one of my favorite places to go. But my heart is right here. My grandma, grandpa, brothers, mother, dad—they’re buried just a mile and a half behind my home. I’ve never lived more than three miles from where I was born. When I was little, I had that close commitment to my family. What I mean is my thoughts are always with art and with my family, and that’s where I put my art. I’m not going to paint other WINTER 2018/19 | 55

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above End of the Day, 2015, watercolor on Arches paper, 12 × 16 in., private collection. opposite General Store, 2017, watercolor on Arches paper, 18 × 24 in., collection of the artist, currently touring with Visual Voices: Contemporary Chickasaw Art.

people’s tribes, because that’s not who I am. I’m not going to paint what’s popular, because that’s not what I do. I’m not going to get political, because that’s not who I am. What I do is through my dreams or my ancestors, our homeland. That’s where all my paintings come from.

The true artists are the ones that are going to paint things they’re familiar with: the landscape, personal life. Artists are sensitive of surroundings. We’re sensitive—we have a strong knowledge of right and wrong, of good and bad—we’re surrounded by good and surrounded by bad. It’s what we paint.… It’s what we were brought up with and that’s what I paint.

Not necessarily my childhood but my mother’s. I do a lot of Choctaws in the field picking cotton or picking blackberries and stuff that kept them from being hungry, to let them survive.

You said you had a tough time growing up in Stigler. You dropped out of school in the ninth grade because you were bullied.

It was rough only when I went to town.

I do some paintings when kids are window-shopping. That’s something we always liked to do as kids, because we didn’t have much money in those days.

Growing up, there weren’t very many Indians around here, and what little there were, they didn’t want to be Indian. I don’t fault them, but I’m glad that I never was like that. I never was ashamed of being an Indian. I never was ashamed of being dark-skinned—never was. I never did want to be them, because I knew I wasn’t them.

One time I did a painting of a little girl looking in the mirror with the mother combing her hair—and she was proud

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of her—and that little girl was looking at herself and she was proud. It was interpretive of my first day of school. I was looking at myself in the painting and had a little smile, and remembered as my mom was braiding my hair. She said, “Always remember who you are.” I didn’t understand what she meant then, but my mother was always conscious of racists around here. She was telling me, look in the mirror. Don’t try to be white, because you’re not. You’re Indian. You be proud.

Why did you leave school?

Why did I leave? Because I was about the only Indian there—me and my brothers and sisters.

There’s this one time I felt like Dolly Parton with her “Coat of Many Colors,” because of all the shenanigans, stupid stuff going around. I said, Okay, I’ll show

NORMA HOWARD

’em. That’s when I started doing beadwork. I put a little Thunderbird in some hair ornaments, and I put my heart and soul into that beading. We were going to a Fourth of July evening over in Kinta.

My sister said, “Don’t wear those, they’re going to call you Nnnnnnndian!” And sure enough, I walked in there with my parted hair and beadwork—and I was cute, I was 14 years old—and I could hear, “Woowoowoowoowoo,” like that.

This was 1972, before I started painting.

And that’s what motivated me to be an artist because I’m kind of a stubborn person. That’s why I became a good artist.

That motivates me. Things’ll come to you—it hurts your feelings and it puts you down and maybe at night you might have your little ol’ crying—but it motivates you.

That made me who I am now. I’m a better artist because of that.

So they’re saying, “Squaw, look at that squaw! She looks like a real squaw!” And I stood there and walked on, and said, I’m not going to let it get to me. The way I was, I didn’t think it would get to me—but it did. So I went in that restroom, and I took off those hair ornaments. Sometimes things can defeat you, but that don’t mean you’re defeated.

I’m not going to lie to you. It hurt my feelings, but you move on from that as you get older. I understand that I’m growing old, but in my heart I still feel like I’m 13 or 14.

That’s the thing about being who you are.

There’s no big difference between then and now, because I am who I am. You never forget about those times. It’s still here. But you use it to motivate you.

You’ve talked about the difference in how people react to you when you’re in Santa Fe or other big art markets and how you’re treated locally in Oklahoma.

You’re a world-famous artist, but I imagine lots of folks around here don’t know that.

It’s like night and day. When I go to Santa Fe, I’m respected. That touches me. In the old days I was looked down on as just another little old Indian girl, poor Indian. When I go to Indian Market or somewhere like that, I’m thankful that I’m valued for what I do. But you know, I’m here, and I make the most of it.

Norma Howard is represented by Blue Rain Gallery in Santa Fe and Exhibit C Gallery in Oklahoma City.

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KAW-OSAGE-LAKOTA LEDGER ARTIST AND PAINTER

CHRIS PAPPAN

By Jami Powell, PhD

B

UILDING UPON THE LEGACY of Plains narrative art, artist Chris Pappan skillfully draws images of American Indian peoples on ledger paper and historic maps. He also creates paintings that mimic the layering of media and meaning achieved through ledger art.

Pappan’s work can be described in broad terms as “contemporary ledger art” and it speaks to the multiplicity and complexity of 21st-century American Indian experiences. His work, on ledgers and maps—and even shoes and skateboards—speaks to the everyday acts of resistance that characterize historical and contemporary Indian life.

Living in Chicago with his wife Debra Yepa-Pappan (Jemez Pueblo), and their daughter Ji Hae, Pappan confronts the ubiquity and erasure of American Indian histories and presence in his daily life as well as in his art. Debra, who is also an artist, was recently appointed as the community engagement coordinator at the Field Museum and was a long-time employee of the Chicago Public Schools American Indian Education Program. Ji Hae is an aspiring visual artist and ballet dancer and was awarded a SWAIA Youth Fellowship in 2014.

Pappan often distorts portraits of American Indians on historic ledgers and maps of appropriated and occupied Indigenous lands within his work.

These images raise questions about the distorted representations of American Indians that circulate in pop culture, history books, and museums. Pappan’s work also raises important questions about the ways we as American Indian peoples contort ourselves to conform to mainstream expectations and misrepresentations. This technique, and Pappan’s

work more broadly, challenges his audience and pushes boundaries within the field of contemporary ledger art in subtle and subversive ways.

In Drawing on Tradition (reviewed in FAAM No. 17, Winter 2017/18, pages 74–75), an exhibition featuring Pappan’s work at the Field Museum in Chicago, his ability to subvert expectation is evident, and the show makes an important intervention within the permanent exhibition at the museum. I was fortunate enough to be a part of Pappan’s earliest visits to the Field Museum’s collections as he was doing research for this project. During our time together, we were able to speak about his life, his role as a contemporary ledger artist, and how he conceptualizes his role as an artist and co-curator.

JP: Can you tell me about your upbringing and how it has influenced your work?

CP: I grew up in Flagstaff, Arizona.

My mom and dad met in Albuquerque where my mom was living at the time.

My mom is white, and I get my Native heritage from my dad’s side.... She was

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working at the BIA office, and that’s where my grandmother on my dad’s side was working, and so my grandma kind of set up those two together. When I was young, my mom remarried, and we ended up moving to Flagstaff, where I lived until I was 18.

I was getting kind of restless when I was getting to be a senior in high school, so I wanted to get out of Flagstaff and … see what was out there. A recruiter from the Institute of American Indian Arts came to my high school and said, “Here is this school in Santa Fe focused on American Indian arts, and if you’re enrolled Native, you can go tuition free.” I was really focusing on my artwork at that time in high school, too, so it was perfect, and that’s how I ended up in Santa Fe. That’s where I met Debbie. Debbie actually grew up here in Chicago, but her dad was from Jemez Pueblo, and they would go back every year to visit, so she had close ties there. Her dad actually went to IAIA as well, and that’s how she knew about the school, how she ended up going there at the same time as me, so ... that’s how I came to be in Chicago [laughing].

CHRIS PAPPAN

As far as how [my upbringing] has influenced my work … you know, it wasn’t on the reservation. It wasn’t with a lot of my Native side of my family a lot of the time.

So I guess for me, my art practice has really been a journey of self-discovery; finding out what this culture means to me, what it means to be Native, and I think I’ll always be learning that—and because I didn’t grow up that way, it’s still a learning process. I think it’s influential in that way, and I guess sometimes I’m putting myself in places where maybe I shouldn’t, just out of ignorance, or you know, doing things that I shouldn’t.

I would say that my influence is just learning about myself, basically.

Do you find that people have been receptive to that or have you come across people who are critical of you and your artwork because of your upbringing?

I think both. The percentage of people who are receptive to it is probably like 99.9 percent, and then the people who are critical are at 0.1 percent. It is hard sometimes having so much love and praise coming at you from the 99 percent and then [negativity from] that small percentage of people who are really critical. I guess if more people were against what I’m doing I would have a thicker skin about it. This is not to say that I don’t have a thick skin about it, but it definitely stays with you more when somebody is just like, “I don’t like what you’re doing,” or, “I don’t think what you’re doing is what you say it is,” or that kind of thing.

You talked about meeting your wife at IAIA, and I know your daughter is also an artist and a ballet dancer. What role does family play in your creative process?

In terms of creative process, I would say my family is crucial in that they really support me in what I do. Debra especially has made a lot of sacrifices for her own artwork to give me space so I can do what I’m doing. Also, I hope that what I’m doing is rubbing off on Ji Hae in a positive way. She’s a teenager now, so it can be kind of hard to gauge what’s really

above Transcendent Delegation, 2017, graphite on ledger paper, 52 × 52 in. opposite Chris Pappan, June 2018. Photo: Debra Yepa-Pappan (Jemez Pueblo). All images courtesy of the artist.

rubbing off on her. She does like to draw and that sort of thing, and we’ve shown her artwork with our own. We’ve done family shows, so that’s always cool, and I think it’s a good influence for people to see a strong family unit and that it’s possible to do these things as a family.

What would you say inspires or drives your art?

I would say something that drives my work is opening people to new experiences, because when people come to art fairs, galleries, and museums and see my work, if they are open to it, they can learn a lot about ledger art. Getting my audience to understand that I’m taking this art form and doing something totally different with it, it makes it a brand-new experience for them.

Do you think that your work and the way it demonstrates the

contemporaneity and continuity of artistic practices is a metaphor for the way you want people see American Indians more broadly?

Oh yeah, definitely, because we’re always being kept in the past. I think that’s why people resonate with my work so much, because it brings us into the contemporary context by basing it on a “traditional” art form. I was having this conversation earlier about what is really considered traditional, and how old does it have to be before you can call it that [laughing]. I can also understand that Native people need to hold on to those traditions, because so much has been stripped away from us for so long, and we’ve lost a lot of knowledge. We certainly need to hold on to things, but I think it’s our culture; we’re the ones who are dictating what our culture is now, and we’re in control. People are hearing our WINTER 2018/19 | 59

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We’re the ones who are dictating what our culture is now, and we’re in control.

voices now, and a lot of credit goes to the younger generation who are standing up and saying, “Hey, we’re not going to take this anymore, this is who we are.” I think in my stance, I’ve mellowed out quite a bit. In my younger days I’d get all riled up and angry and, you know, “Screw the system,” and “I want to knock it down,” and all that kind of stuff without really understanding what it means. But then as you grow and learn the ways of things, you understand how you can change ideas and perceptions in a subtler yet effective and positive way.

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Do you think that art is in some ways, then, more effective as a form of activism than other modes?

Well, it depends on what kind of art you’re talking about. I think art is a very integral part of activism. There’s a visual art aspect to it, and there’s music.

I think music is a huge part of it. I know for myself personally, music was a huge driving force in forming some of my activist or progressive attitude or tendencies. And writing. So, yeah, I think all of those things together are integral to creating change.

CHRIS PAPPAN

So, when you are creating art, are you thinking about your audience in that moment?

Maybe I don’t think about my audience as much as I should. I think that it’s still kind of a learning process as well as thinking about who is going to be seeing this and what reaction they’re going to have. For the most part, when I think of the audience, it’s mostly in terms of people who aren’t educated about Native peoples, and that’s been the bulk of my experience when showing my work.

Whether it’s at art fairs, markets, or gallery shows, I start off asking them if they know about ledger art, and 85 percent of the time people are like, “No, what is that?” And then I go into my spiel about the beginning of ledger art and all that. So I’m mostly thinking about that and not really thinking about the Native audience, because I kind of take for granted that we all know the history behind that and then just kind of hope that the Native people that do view my work see it as something different and, I guess, revolutionary ... if I may be so bold to say [laughing]. But not everybody does, and that’s fine, too.

I know you spent some time in Australia. Can you tell me why you were there and what that experience was like?

That was for a fellowship through the Tamarind Institute in Albuquerque. The Tamarind Institute is a world-renowned lithography studio at the University of New Mexico. They bring in students to train them to be master lithographers, and then they go out to the world to start their own studios.…

There was an open call for artists to submit work for this project called the LandMarks Project, which was a cultural exchange with Indigenous people in Australia and Indigenous people in North America. I was chosen as one of four artists to go to Arnhem Land. It’s in the very northern part of Australia.

It was an eye-opening experience because I went with a preconceived notion of the Indigenous people there and what I was expecting their artwork to be, and that was all just blown out of the water when I got there! Then that made me realize, “Well, that’s why people have that same idea about us here,” so now I understand why people all lump us into one category, because I did the same thing with them.

I only had a limited scope of who they were and what they did.

above Fireball Visions II, 2018, graphite, colored pencil, map collage on found ledger paper, 22 × 18 in. framed. opposite Axiom, 2018, graphite, color pencil on 1907 ledger paper.

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above Welcoming the New Dawn, 2018, graphite, ink, colored pencil, gold leaf on 1928 Evanston municipal ledger paper, 18 × 36 in. framed. opposite The Ancestors Are Watching, graphite, colored pencil, gold leaf on 1924 Evanston municipal ledger paper, 24 × 18 in. framed.

What’s interesting about Australia is that in the Northern Territory in the Arnhem Land, in the homelands there, people can’t just wander into these communities and start asking people questions or taking pictures or whatever. You have to have a permit from the people who live there to go and visit if that’s what you want to do. And because we were Indigenous artists and we were taking part in this, we had an inside connection. Our hosts still had to ask for permission for us to go in, but they were very welcoming. It was a really great experience.

In a lot of your work, there’s a distortion of the individuals you depict. Can you talk about why do you that and why it’s important?

My idea has kind of changed a little bit. At first, I did it because that was a thing I noticed a lot of artists did in the Lowbrow movement. They distorted the figures with giant heads and small bodies, that kind of thing, so I started doing that with photographs of Native

people. But I quickly realized that this could be a metaphor for the distortions that are put upon us, the expectations that are put upon us as Native people.

Now, I see it more like history being viewed through a lens or a filter, because the truth of history is not really known to us. We have some hints of what the truth might be—whatever it is, an idea, or somebody’s actions, or what they did—but we’ll never really know. It seems like when our oral traditions were more prevalent, there was more of a need to keep it truthful. But now, you know, with photographs and all these other things, the truth can be skewed and people’s motives don’t always have good intentions. People will distort the truth to their own advantage, so a lot of times in American history and society, they don’t tell the truth about us because they need to keep us oppressed. If we have all the rights to all of this land, if we all realize that and we all stand up, then there’s going to be a problem for the colonizer.

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Just the simple act of distorting the figure kind of takes all of that into consideration. A lot of times when I’m drawing, I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing certain things; they just kind of happen. Other times, too, people will see things that I don’t always intend. And then they’ll ask, “Did you mean to do this because blah, blah, blah,” and I’m like, “Yeah, maybe I did!” [laughing]. I think that’s another thing, too: I truly believe that spirits do guide us in ways that we’re not aware of as it’s happening, but when you look back on it, you realize that there’s some cosmic force that’s letting these things happen.

That all kind of came from just distorting the image. There’s also an element of my work where I will “mirror” an image and blend it together, and that’s a metaphor for being a person of mixed background, but it’s also the old and the new … and importance is placed on what’s happening when those two things come together. You know, it’s creating a new image, it’s creating a new idea.

CHRISPAPPAN.COM

CHRIS PAPPAN

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MOOSE CREE INSTALLATION ARTIST, PAINTER, AND SCULPTOR

QUINN SMALLBOY

By Matthew Ryan Smith, PhD

Q

UINN SMALLBOY is a visual artist born in Moose Factory, Ontario, and a member of Moose Cree First Nation. Now based in London, Ontario, Smallboy completed his MFA at Western University and in 2004 received a diploma in multimedia and production design from Fanshawe College. Currently his artistic practice investigates what it means to be a “contemporary Indigenous artist”— specifically, he questions how customary symbols and icons of Indigenous culture translate into painting, sculpture, and installation.

Colored string has long been Smallboy’s primary material. Fascinated by its metaphorical and physical potential, he uses string to piece together old memories of home, his family, and the land. In this sense, string separates time and space while simultaneously bringing it together.

Smallboy’s work resides in several public and private collections and he has exhibited in art galleries and museums including McIntosh Gallery, Woodland Cultural Centre, and DNA Art Gallery.

Smallboy’s work is part of the exhibition The Living River Project: Art, Water, and Possible Worlds at the Art Gallery of Windsor, showing through January 20, 2019. This exhibition explores the impact of water issues in the WindsorDetroit corridor. I spoke with Quinn Smallboy during the installation of his latest project.

MRS: Thank you very much for speaking with me, Quinn. We’ve known each other for several years, but I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with you in depth about your art. Let’s start with a discussion about Moose

Factory since memory seems to be a central facet of your work. How did the community and your family living there shape your choice of becoming an artist?

QS: I definitely have to thank two of my uncles, Stanley and Jack Smallboy, for inspiring me to create art when I was around twelve years old. My Uncle Stanley made woodcarvings and my Uncle Jack used soapstone to carve sculptures. That being said, the biggest push into my artistic development would have to be with Uncle Jack and his series of drawings. I remember after seeing his drawings I wanted to be like him and do the same. So, you can say it all started for me with drawing. Drawing is the foundation of my practice.

You moved from Moose Factory to London, Ontario, over 15 years ago to pursue a career in multimedia and production design. Can you talk a little about this experience? Does your design work cross over into your visual arts practice? If so, how does that translate?

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Design and computers always interested me. The experience of leaving Moose Factory to pursue design was exciting and a little overwhelming—my hometown is quite small in population as compared to a large city like London. I knew it would be challenging in terms of “Can I do this and not fail?” Add to this the fact that my family is quite far away, and travel can be costly. The importance of family support is huge. I believe if it wasn’t for two of my aunts, Grace and Lillian Smallboy, who moved to London years ago, I think things would have been a little different for me, and I could have moved back home. But with them living in London and with their support, I often visit their homes and receive words of encouragement, which makes my decision better to handle. Anyway, my design work doesn’t really cross over that much. For example, when doing website designs including mock-ups or logo creation work, I concentrate more on what looks good, the fluidity of the work. One aspect of my design work is that I tend to lean more toward the “less is more” ideal route. I’m concerned with the minimalism of typography, a play with white space.

Much of your early work includes paintings of sites and events from Northern Ontario, like fishing boats, windy, winter landscapes, and quiet lakes. They’re not large in scale, which makes them appear almost as fragments of memory. What was it that first drew you to painting?

Although I have always been interested in drawing as an emerging artist, painting was something I wanted to try out and see where it went. I still feel like I need to paint sometimes. What I get

QUINN SMALLBOY

from painting is almost meditative—a sense of relaxation and a time to reflect.

For example, one of my paintings, Gutway, represents land erosion in Northern Ontario. In the painting you can see a waterway passage that connects Moosonee and Moose Factory by boat.

From stories told to me by my parents, this passage was much narrower back in time, when they were young. It makes you think that the surrounding area and landscape of Moose Factory is dotted by smaller islands. But with the water levels changing dramatically every year, most often rising high, the smaller islands are disappearing. It’s a scary thought.

Even the weather changes dramatically each year. I remember growing up and having amazing winters with great snowfall. My favorite activity would be Ski-Doo rides up the river when the rivers froze over enough for vehicle travel between Moosonee and Moose Factory.

Even our elders sense the dramatic change in the climate.

I understand that your practice is grounded in drawing and painting but, all of a sudden, string appeared almost everywhere in your work. It’s become almost your signature. Why the turn to string?

During a slide presentation in one of my early classes at the beginning of my BFA at Western University, I was amazed by the ways that the artist [in the presentation] used yarn. I couldn’t believe what a little piece of yarn could do aesthetically, politically, emotionally.

The work was all white string or yarn.

If I remember correctly, the work was simplistic and composed of a multitude of lines looping from one end of a wall and across to another wall. Anyway, the simplistic nature of the work certainly caught my attention. It was simplistic but not “simple.”

above Drum Circle, 2017, metal plate, public art installation, Kagawong, Ontario. opposite Quinn Smallboy (Cree). All images courtesy of the artist.

Soon after that, I started doing some research on string and yarn artists and I came across the work of the late American artist Fred Sandback, who WINTER 2018/19 | 65

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was known for making Minimalist and conceptual yarn sculptures.1 He has greatly influenced my current work.

Through this roundabout way, I started drawing lines using string. You could say that string brought out or recovered my interest in drawing.

So string is basically drawing by other means—drawing with lines in air.

String can also be colored, long, short, flexible, cut, tied together, knotted, and a bunch of other things, yes? I’m interested to know how your use of string functions as a metaphor. What does string say about the world we live in?

My approach to using string is for its ability to fill an empty space with the least amount of physical material possible. One challenging thing that I enjoy when working with string is the moment when I try to do something

Working with string is a process and a performance. with its form, shape, or function, and it’s not working the way I want it to; string can be both frustrating and rewarding at the same time. For example, when I attempt to make a connection between two points on a wall. Let’s say that from one wall to another wall I will have a sag, a dip, in the string in the middle, which is caused by gravity. If I don’t want that sag or dip in the middle, what I do next is make the string tighter between the walls. In doing this, I am forced to lose the elemental characteristics of the string itself and therefore the work becomes something totally different from what I first imagined. Working with string is a process and a performance.

Have you studied string theory and its possible application to your artistic practice? String theory claims that all objects in the universe are composed of strings and membranes of energy, which means that multiple dimensions of the universe probably exist, most of which we cannot see. It would seem that, in many ways, your use of string goes far beyond the world of art and aesthetics and into the orbit of physics, since all objects in the universe, according to string theory, are made of string.

Hmm, I haven’t considered any connection to string theory at this point, but certainly researching and experimenting with space had me in knots.

My studio space is a good example of randomness, of the chaos that governs the laws of the universe. For instance, at one point during my MFA studies

1. “Fred Sandback,” Lisson Gallery, accessed October 12, 2018, web. “The American artist Fred Sandback (1943–2003) worked with elastic cord and acrylic yarn to delineate or bifurcate three-dimensional space, creating room-filling volumetric forms using the most minimal of means. By stretching single strands of yarn point-to-point to create geometric figures, Sandback’s near intangible objects nevertheless amounted to precise and subtle delineations of pictorial planes and architectural volumes.”

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QUINN SMALLBOY

at Western University, my studio space became completely entwined with string from wall to wall to wall to floor to wall and all that is in between. Having to duck and weave to get into my studio space or even crawling sometimes to get to a chair was not only interesting but revealing, too. The intersection of lines crisscrossing, looping, and wrapping around each other prove to be an area of visual pleasure and bodily interaction.

While we’re talking about art and quantum mechanics … Indigenous cultural representation and identity have been central to your work. I’m curious to know your thoughts on Indigenous futurisms, or what scholars like Jason Lewis (Cherokee descent) refer to as the “future imaginary,” which describes how societies envision themselves in the years to come.

I believe it is important that we, as Indigenous artists, see more Indigenous artists get recognized for their accomplishments and control how their artwork is received. When I work with significant cultural materials and objects, like the drum, I realize that for many gallery and museum visitors, seeing an object of Indigenous culture enter such spaces is an uncommon sight. I think we should see more of them. My contemporary interpretation of the drum brings a new idea of Indigenous storytelling into the exhibition context, which differs or is even opposed to how handcrafted drums are used for ceremonial purposes or gallery displays.

Memory is a strong theme in your work.

For example, your artist statement reads, “Through the use of painting as a language, I explore scenes of memory that reflect who I am as Native artist. I paint landscapes scenes with an intensity that reflects the moment in which the subject matter is being depicted.”

How does memory function in your work?

Yes, definitely memory is a part of my work. One work in particular is called Net. It’s the one drum structure that depicts a common string game usually

played by children who form looped string with their hands. The game in question is called cat’s cradle, which everyone may have heard of or played at one point or another. When I was researching cat’s cradle while I was creating Net, I stumbled across other string games like four diamonds and fishing net. To be honest, I remember playing these games when I was 12 or 13 years old. Back then I knew how to make patterns and shapes with string and my hands. The fact that I can still make four

above Red Black, 2017, nylon string installation, Artlab Gallery, Western University, London, Ontario. opposite Water, 2017, wood and nylon string.

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floor and its wall. The floor of gallery space often seems to be off limits when installing work—any sort of drilling or dismantling the concrete floor wasn’t allowed. Those restrictions didn’t stop me from achieving my goal; they pushed me to come up with a solution. Luckily the cracks or seams in the floor [worked] in my favor. It is an important work for me. The large, physical scale of Red Black was the start of making larger works along with the idea of reaching into the viewer’s space. From this I mean that as a viewer, you were able to walk into the work and take it in from a different viewpoint. It’s very connected to Minimalism in that way.

Second, I’d like to talk a bit about an older work that makes use of the wooden frame of a drum and heavy black string, Mask (2016). I know we talked about your use of the drum a few minutes ago, but perhaps you can elaborate more on the drum and how this piece came about.

Mask was the very first drum I made that combined [with] string. There are endless patterns and weaving designs that can be made within the drum frame.

While I was researching and exploring the many facets of Indigenous cultural objects, there was a quick connection to Indigenous masks. That’s where this drum ends, because masks hold an energy that is meant for spiritual purposes.

above Mask, 2017, wood and nylon string. opposite Wave, 2017, nylon st r i n g , M c I n to s h G a l l e r y, Western University.

diamonds or the fishing net is surprising.

When I first rediscovered them a couple of years ago during my BFA studies, it’s like my hands knew what to do; it’s like they haven’t forgotten.

Like it was muscle memory. I’d like to break down one or two of your works for the reader. First, a work constructed only of string, Red Black (2017), which was installed at Artlab Gallery. What’s the impetus behind this work?

The goal with this work was to incorporate a combination of the gallery

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Adding to this idea of what my drums mean and what they represent, I recall a comment made during a studio visit.

I had a visitor come up to me and ask, “How do you feel that you remove the voice of drum?” meaning that I removed the skin of drum, which makes the iconic sound of the hand drum. I was very intrigued by this and also a little startled in that moment because of what I did to a sacred object of Indigenous culture. I pressed on with the work and, as mentioned above, I soon gave the drum a new voice … of a storyteller.

QUINN SMALLBOY

What do you struggle with in your artistic practice? What is the most difficult aspect of art making for you?

At the moment, it is exploring new ideas and spaces—with regular work hours and commitments, my responsibilities and time to work out new ideas don’t seem to come full circle. My sketchbook of ideas is just waiting in the wind. Adding to this, I am always on the lookout for interior spaces in galleries, museums, or beyond for larger string installations. My goal here is: what can I do in this space and how much larger can I go?

What influences you these days?

One thing I always look at is architecture, even down to the simplest things like handrails.

Handrails? That’s really cool considering that your installation work is

large scale as it is, and you’re looking to go much larger.

Sometimes the littlest things inspire me, from a makeshift rope buried to a rope suspension bridge. Even tall, oddly shaped buildings and architecture provide me with a map of sorts—I find myself visualizing what the building would look like if it was made only with a wire frame. I’m interested in the controlled lines that shaped the building and think about what those wires would look like if they were made of string.

Finally, can you talk about your inclusion in the Living Water Project exhibition at the Art Gallery of Windsor?

To be part of this exhibition is a great honor. The artists in the exhibition are

well established. For the exhibition I chose to include a new work called Wave (2018). Wave is a large string installation that addresses the many water issues that Indigenous cultures are faced with, especially those First Nations located in the Northern communities of Ontario.

My community of Moose Factory is surrounded by water and it is the passageway to and from the connection to land. Over the years, the waters have been a source connecting people to their hunting grounds and trap lines. Some years the water can be controversial since what has plagued many of these Northern communities is a boiled-water advisory.2 This is unsettling when the waterway is the most important part of the community and it is unsafe to consume.

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2. CTV News.ca Staff, “First Nations face dozens of boil water advisories on World Water Day,” CTV News, accessed October 12, 2018, web. The federal government of Canada has pledged to end all boiled-water advisories by March 2021. As of March 22, 2018, the Assembly of First Nations reported that there were 81 long-term drinking water advisories impacting 50 Indigenous communities in Canada.

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REVIEWS BENTONVILLE, ARKANSAS

Art for a New Understanding: Native Voices, 1950s to Now Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art

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IKE MOST SWEEPING SURVEYS, Ar t for a New Understanding: Native Voices, 1950s to Now attempts to reach the broadest possible audience. This means compensating for the general public’s astonishing lack of knowledge of Indigenous history and presence, which has never been integrated into mainstream narratives. Even if FAAM readers are not familiar with all artists in the exhibition, most are certainly fluent in issues surrounding Indigenous life: the history of forced removal and boarding schools, sovereignty, etc. For this audience, some museum didactics repeat questions so stereotypical and trite, it is remarkable to see them presented in the year 2018 (“Do any of these artists live on reservations?”, “What is sovereignty?”). As tiring as it is to dispel myths and define basic terminology, Crystal Bridges knows its audience and is meeting the American public at current majority understandings of Indigeneity. There is a lot of work to do.

Overviewing six decades of North American art by Indigenous artists, the individual artists selected to represent various eras, genres, and nations become more important than the specific works standing in for their entire oeuvres (which are diverse in themselves). Manuela Well-Off-Man proposed Art for a New Understanding in 2014, and in 2016 Mindy Besaw and Candice Hopkins joined the project.

The first three galleries trace the 1950s to 1970, primarily via painting.

Two small ink paintings on paper created

by George Morrison (Grand Portage Ojibwe, 1919–2000) in France in 1952 are the earliest works in the show. Luiseño artist Fritz Scholder’s Monster Indian (1968) pulls one in with a direct gaze and beautiful yet putrid skin tones. Five dyed and printed fabrics by Lloyd Kiva New (Cherokee Nation, 1916–2002), Bill Blackmore (Athabascan), and Harrison Burnside (Navajo) hang in the center of this gallery, signaling both the founding of the IAIA in 1962 and the ways in which these artists synthesized local and global sources. The National Gallery of Canada loaned three paintings by Daphne Odjig (Odawa-Potawatomi, 1919–2016), intimate portraits of human-animal hybrids relaying Anishinaabe legends.

In the fourth gallery, Leadership, a black-and-white photograph by Jolene Rickard (Tuscarora), and the Chief Joseph series by Kay WalkingStick (Cherokee Nation) complement each other aesthetically and represent a sliver of the Indigenous contributions to feminist conversations unfolding in the seventies and eighties.

Nor val Morrisseau’s (Bingwi Neyaashi Ojibwe, 1932–2007) The Story Teller: The Artist and His Grandfather hangs next to T.C. Cannon’s (KiowaCaddo, 1946–1978) Collector #5 (Man in a Wicker Chair). Both artists used a vibrant, full-color palette, but beyond this the similarities are few. The distinct applications of paint suggest different personal temperaments. Cannon’s canvas is smooth and deliberate. Every stroke is confident. Morrisseau’s, belying his flat, graphic style, reveals major changes in composition. His layers build up like sheets of collaged paint.

Comparing nuances like these is one of the pleasures of seeing works in the flesh, as subtle details of materiality are lost in reproduction.

The late Payómkawichum-Ipi multidisciplinary artist James Luna’s table from his 1987 Artifact Piece performance is a highlight in the second part of the exhibition, which surveys the 1980s and

’90s. The documentary photos showing Luna in a loincloth have become part of the art historical canon, but his sardonic captions are rarely reprinted.1 Luna’s recent passing made his absence in the display more conspicuous. The work may have felt reverent were it not for its position next to a presentation of Spiderwoman Theatre ephemera, including a blaring video. The clips interrupted concentration on any other work in the gallery and should have been confined to headphones.

Trade (Gifts for Trading Land with White People), a mixed-media painting from 1992 by Jaune Quick-to-See Smith (Sqelix’u-Métis-Shoshone), prompts one to consider what progress has been made over 26 years in efforts to eliminate racist stereotypes as sports mascots and in pop culture. The answer? None.

One of the stated goals of the exhibition is to prompt reconsideration of exclusionary histories of American art.

A web of connections exists among the artists in this show and those producing contemporaneously. Métis painter Edward Poitras’s Offensive/Defensive (1988) Indigenizes and politicizes Michael Heizer’s Nine Nevada Depressions (1968–72). In Columbus Chronicles (1992), the late M’Chigeeng Ojibwe artist Carl Beam recalls mixed-media works by Robert Rauschenberg, though the latter was intentionally scattered in his references, while Beam’s images equate the invasion of Turtle Island to the devastation of an atomic bomb.

Indigenous cinema has mushroomed in recent decades. In the exhibition narrative, two films by Zacharias Kunuk (Inuk), ᐊᑕᓈᕐᔪᐊᑦ Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner (2001) and ᒪᓕᒡᓗᑎᑦ Maliglutit [Searchers] (2016), stand in for this renaissance. This is a curious choice since the films are featurelength and artfully slow, but also because no additional information is provided about the larger world of Indigenous cinema or the museum’s own related programming, which includes filmmakers Kyle Bell (Thlopthlocco Muscogee), Steven Paul Judd (Kiowa-Choctaw),

1. One of Luna’s captions reads, “Drunk beyond the point of being able to defend himself, he was jumped by people from another reservation. After being knocked down, he was kicked in the face and upper body. Saved by an old man, he awoke with a swollen face covered with dried blood. Thereafter, he made it a point not to be as trusting among relatives and other Indians.”

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Matika Wilbur (Swinomish-Tulalip), and Missy Whiteman (Nor thern Arapaho-Kickapoo).

The last and largest gallery presents part three of the exhibition, the 2000s to today. Relationship to the land and processing continuous collective trauma—which are, of course, fused together—remain strong themes.

History is Painted by the Victors by Kent Monkman (Cree) depicts a kind of fête galante with 19th-century soldiers lounging around a crystal-clear lake in the mountains. An artist, wearing hot pink, thigh-high boots, stands in the center painting winter count-style cavalry. Monkman engages the viewer á la Thomas Cole, Charles Willson Peale, Diego Velázquez, and many other artists before. Monkman appropriates not only Albert Bierstadt’s landscape but also Thomas Eakins’s Swimming Hole (1883), with important changes. Eakins painted his nude subjects turned away from the viewer or modestly hiding their genitalia behind bent knees. Monkman’s blonds and gingers are on full display, heightening the scene’s eroticism. Parallels can be made to the approaches of Kehinde Wiley and Titus Kaphar, two painters whose work brilliantly confronts historical redactions.

Shanawdithit, the Last of the Beothuk (2001) by Rebecca Belmore (Lac Seul Ojibwe) allies with woven baskets by Shan Goshorn (Eastern Band Cherokee) to mourn and honor losses of land and women’s lives. Belmore suggests a woman’s desperate last moments struggling to escape out a window. Hands rest on a shelf and tired feet drag behind; the mind easily fills in the gap with a body, yet it is also palpably absent. Strands of hair hanging from the wrists symbolize a very personal gift she gave European ethnographers as one means to document her people. The historical Shanawdithit (Beothuk) died in 1829 from tuberculosis. Belmore’s work connects this individual woman’s death to the genocide of the Beothuk and many more Indigenous peoples, including the ongoing atrocity of missing and murdered Indigenous women.

Weaving strands of printed paper, Goshorn’s sculptures reveal only snippets of text and broken images. As described by the curators, “Paper has been used

above James Lavadour (Walla Walla), Shake, 2014, oil on panel, 63 × 110 in.

as a weapon against Indigenous people for centuries, in the form of maps and treaties. Through the process of splicing and weaving the paper as part of a cultural practice, Goshorn destroys the history associated with the maps and re-presents them from an Indigenous point of view.”

Work by Sonya Kelliher-Combs (Iñupiaq-Athabascan) relates in many ways to organic, fragile forms of Eva Hesse.

Kelliher-Combs’s Orange Curl (2012) consists of 14 arm-like appendages pinned to a wall. Semi-glossy, the sculptures are made of acrylic polymer with human hair, archival ink, and cotton fabric. The forms derive from Kelliher-Combs’ ties to salmon fishing. Their apparent plasticity leads one to consider food toxicity and the effects of oil extraction, which links it directly with ongoing land and water use disputes. Two works made for the 2016 Standing Rock protests placed just beside Orange Curl bolster this theme: remnants from Mirror Shield Project by Cannupa Hanska Luger (Mandan-Hidatsa-ArikaraLakota) and The Water Serpent, a video

by Rory Wakemup (Bois Forte Ojibwe).

Drawing and Driving is installed outside the exhibition galleries. In 2006 Steven Yazzie (Navajo) constructed a gravity-powered vehicle equipped with a drawing board and digital cameras, in which he documented himself creating drawings of the landscape while coasting down bumpy hills. The results are similar to William Anastasi’s improvisational drawings made as he rode the subway in the eighties—dynamic explosions of fine,

somewhat controlled lines. Unfortunately Yazzie’s drawings were not available for exhibition.

Concise chronologies of any lineage in art history present the easiest targets for criticism. Every historian, author, professor, curator, or scholar has different justifiable reasons for which artists must be included, what works best exemplify central concepts, or which changed ways of understanding and making should be presented. Anyone who teaches art history survey courses is familiar with ongoing conversations over which text is better or worse and how individual instructors edit and supplement the standard material to craft the best experience for students. It is important to be mindful of this when approaching this retrospective exhibition, which claims to be the first survey of contemporary Indigenous art. Yes, there are omissions; however, the museum and the exhibition’s curators should be commended for choosing this topic over another well-worn but profit-sure subject.

Overviews of contemporary Indigenous art must be repeated again and again until visitors no longer wonder aloud, “What do they mean by Indigenous?”

The exhibition runs to January 7, 2019, and will travel to the IAIA Museum of Contemporary Native Arts in New Mexico, the Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University in North Carolina, and the Memphis Brooks Museum of Art in Tennessee. A catalogue is available from University of Arkansas Press.

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CALGARY, ALBERTA

Alex Janvier: Modern Indigenous Master Glenbow Museum

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LEX JANVIER (DenesulineSaulteaux) may be best known for whiplash swirls of vivid colors on circular forms; however, this retrospective shows he has never settled into any particular style or approach to painting. Curated

by Greg A. Hill (Mohawk) for the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa, this exhibition covers 65 years of work.

Many of his paintings are created from very thin washes of pigment—acrylic the consistency of watercolor—and in very deliberate, fine lines. In other works he employs wet-on-wet paint strokes, allowing more opaque pigments to bleed together; some are marbled gouache, and a few heavy with impasto oil paint. First Call (2005) depicts a carefully rendered, close-up landscape in watercolor, a dramatic contrast to a completely non-representational work such as Space Zip Code (2001), with explosive acrylic splatters on a brown surface.

Whether realistic or abstract, every work has a fascinating backstory. Only select parts of a narrative may be visible, yet Janvier is not deliberately withholding information. He paints to think through and respond to events in his life. One example is a series about his residential school experience. Though he was taken from his family at age eight and sent to Blue Quills Indian Residential School, he also names the principal there as one of the most influential people in his life.

Father Etienne Bernet-Rollande brought Janvier to Edmonton to study art with Karl Altenberg, who had trained at the Bauhaus. Apple Factory (1989) is a eulogy to forced assimilation. The composition represents a clash of worlds: Indigenous on the right, with bison and a tipi; Christian colonial on the left, with nuns and uniformed children with short hair.

“Apple” became a derogatory term for residential school graduates: red on the outside, white on the inside. Janvier was

particularly traumatized by the story of a girl who died at Blue Quills and was shipped home via train in a cardboard box. A faceless girl inside a box appears in several paintings in this series.

Na r r at i v e s a n d l a n d s c ap e s intertwine in Wounded Knee Boy (1972), an extraordinarily complex design created from evenly distributed irregular shapes of tan, sea foam green, red, lavender, white, cerulean, and bits of bright yellow.

Four feet in diameter, its loaded title references all tragedies at that location, though Janvier dedicated the work to Leonard Peltier (Turtle Mountain Chippewa-Lakota-Dakota).

The artist’s home in Northern Alberta, specifically the environment around Cold Lake, inspires all his work.

Many paintings suggest maps and aerial views or the quick movement of wind. The True West (1975) incorporates a stylized eagle, bison, coyote, and feather in icy blue

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“It’s time the Indians became the landlords again.” and green hues. Several times Janvier has represented a visual chronology detailing how the land has changed from ancient times to the present. Most prominent of these is a commissioned mural inside the dome of the Canadian Museum of History in Quebec. Morning Star–Gambeh Then’ (1993) was influenced by oral histories of ancestral hunters and trappers, loss of land, and finally, reconciliation. Quotes by the artist were put above paintings in many galleries. One read, “It’s time the Indians became the landlords again.” This was significant at Glenbow because the board at the National Gallery would not allow it at that museum.

above Alex Janvier (DenesulineSaulteaux), Wounded Knee Boy, 1972, acrylic on wood, 48 in. diameter.

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Janvier has critiqued natural resource exploitation and environmental degradation. In response to the Lubicon Lake land rights controversy, he painted the background of Lubicon (1988) blood red. The otherwise colorful Oil Patch Heart Beat (2013) appears dirtied by black paint seeping from its edges.

However, in a reflection of the very complicated relationships that develop among different markets, Janvier (like many artists) has also benefited from oil- and gas-related arts patronage: he has completed commissions for Esso and his works are in the Shell corporate collection. While this does provide tangible support for artists, cultural support may be read by some as hollow gestures to distract from greater transgressions.

Gallery didactics must be kept short, but some labels for individual paintings neared romanticization of history in a quest for brevity. Our Lady of the Teepee (1950) and Sacred Heart (1952) appear like Indigenized Roman Catholic icons, clearly the result of parochial residential school—and assimilation. The wall label for the latter stated only, “A commission for the Blue Quills Indian Residential School chapel, Sacred Heart was created when the artist was a teenager. Although Janvier is mostly known for his abstract works, he has often incorporated figurative elements in his paintings throughout his career.”

This was a missed opportunity to address cultural genocide, forced conversion, and perhaps what the artist was and was not allowed to paint during his time at Blue Quills. Indeed, on the back of Blood Tears (2001), Janvier wrote out some of the losses and traumas faced by survivors of residential schools. He was told Indian ways were the “work of the devil” and that his grandparents were “evil,” and he noted punishments were severe.

As a young artist, Janvier was accepted to study art in London, England.

But the Canadian Department of Indian Affairs refused him permission.1 Despite numerous obstacles, he has prevailed to become one of Canada’s best-known artists. His advocacy set many precedents for Indigenous artists.

In 1962 Janvier was prompted to sign his works with his nation’s treaty number, 287, in response to a government contract that denigrated Indigenous art as mass-produced kitsch.

He ceased this small protest in 1977 when he went to Sweden for a residency.

Janvier advised the board in the creation of the Indian Pavilion at Expo 67, which was at the forefront of bringing light to systemic oppression against Indigenous peoples.2 He was part of the Professional Native Indian Artists, Inc. with Jackson Beardy (Anishinini, 1944–1984), Eddy Cobiness (Buffalo Point Ojibwe, 1933–1996), Norval Morrisseau (Bingwi Neyaashi Ojibwe, 1932–2007), Daphne Odjig (Odawa-Potawatomi, 1919–2016), Carl Ray (Sandy Lake Cree, 1943–1978), and Joseph Sanchez (Tewa descent).3 While not overtly political, he asserts a voice of resistance through mixing Dene cosmology with formal cues from artists such as Wassily Kandinsky and Joan Miró.

After Norval Morrisseau in 2006 and Daphne Odjig in 2009, Janvier is only the third Indigenous artist to be honored with a solo retrospective exhibition by the National Gallery of Canada. Each major show brings more awareness and nuance to larger conversations. For what he endured and what he continues to create, Mr. Janvier has more than earned his place in the international art scene.

Alex Janvier: Modern Indigenous Master was at Glenbow June 16 to September 9, 2018. A full-color catalogue is available, with essays by Greg A. Hill, Lee-Ann Martin (Mohawk), and Chris Dueker.

—Andrea L. Ferber, PhD

1. “Alex Janvier: In Conversation,” interview by Greg Hill, National Gallery of Canada, November 26, 2016, video, 39:19, posted March 2, 2017, web.

2. International and Universal Exposition in Montreal, Quebec, 1967.

3. A Winnipeg newspaper gave this group the moniker Indian Group of Seven as an Indigenous counterpart to the Canadian Group of Seven landscape painters active decades earlier. Bill Reid (Haida, 1920–1998) was later, informally, added to the group.

CARLISLE, PENNSYLVANIA

Resisting the Mission Trout Gallery, Dickinson College

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IMLY LIT AND SOMBER, Trout Gallery’s exhibition of Resisting the Mission is a powerful display of determination and survival standing in the form of Cherokee baskets crafted by the deft hands of Shan Goshorn (Eastern Band Cherokee). An intimate setting, the gallery presented a selection of baskets that address the history of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School. The gallery’s dark turquoise walls provided a dramatic backdrop to the delicate basketry forms, each set apart on a pedestal protected by a clear vitrine. The exhibition is the premiere installation of Resisting the Mission: Filling the Silence, a series of seven pairs of tall baskets, each set featuring the before-and-after photos taken as evidence of the “civilization” of tribal students who attended Carlisle and interwoven with historical texts related to Carlisle. Most of the other baskets are borrowed from public and private collections, including Goshorn’s first basket on the topic, Educational Genocide (2011), on loan from the Montclair Art Museum in New Jersey. Goshorn was moved by the emotional response to the first basket, which spurred her to address the topic more fully and create the work on exhibition.

The solemnity of each basket necessitated a slow passage through the gallery, allowing for a close reading of the text, a careful look at the photographs, and absorption of the complex and emotional potency of the project. Two baskets were of particular interest for their innovative approach to the topic of forced assimilation. The Fire Within is a basket in the form of a seven-pointed star, symbolic of the seven clans of the Cherokee people.

The structure is a unique development by Goshorn as a form of Cherokee basketry.

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all the Cherokee children that attended the Carlisle school. These seminal events in Cherokee history have been credited with many ill effects for contemporary Cherokee people. The interior of the basket contains text written in the Cherokee syllabary and images of fire that represent the vitality of Cherokee culture, Goshorn’s testament to its continuance despite the attempts to eradicate it.

Farther back in the galler y, Remaining a Child is a rectangular form that integrates X-ray film and frosted

vellum. When the interior light glows, the film exposes the glow of child-sized bones alluding to the remains of the children buried in the Carlisle cemetery. Once the contents are “exposed,” the form is recognizably a small coffin. An homage to the children who never returned to their families, this basket was woven using a pattern that recalls mountains, placing the children within the metaphorical arms of the earth mother.

The powerful presence of the baskets is largely due to the archival

above Shan Goshorn (Eastern Band Cherokee), Resisting the Mission: Filling the Silence detail: Four Pueblo Children, 2017, two of fourteen baskets, Arches watercolor paper printed with archival inks, acrylic paint, artificial sinew, 21 × 63/4 × 63/4 in. each. Image courtesy of the artist.

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photographs Goshorn uses as weaving material combined with customary Cherokee basket-weaving techniques.

The delicate nature of the baskets is a gentle counterbalance to the heartrending imagery often woven in combination with historical text documents, reproduced in archivally safe materials so that Goshorn can use them as weaving materials for fine art. The photos and historical documents were uncovered during a long-term research project that Goshorn undertook to address the historical trauma resulting from the boarding school experience.

The documents were culled from the Dickinson College library where the Carlisle archives are deposited.

Carlisle Indian Industrial School was founded under the guidance of General Richard H. Pratt. The school operated from 1879 to 1918 and became the model for boarding schools used across the continent to intentionally separate tribal children from their home communities to teach them how to function as “Americans.” Due to the history of the school, it broadly remains an emotional trigger for the American Indian community and for many families, especially because of the atrocities committed against the children.

Descendants of the 10,000 to 12,000 children who attended Carlisle can be traced to every state in the nation. While reading the names of the student rosters, Goshorn found her own great-grandparents’ names.

The opening of the exhibition coincided with the Carlisle Indian School Centennial Commemoration held October 4 to 7, also at Dickinson College.

As a result, many at the conference, including descendants of the Carlisle student body, attended the opening, as did Pulitzer Prize-winning author N. Scott Momaday (Kiowa) who was a speaker at the conference. This made for an emotional reception, as people whose lives were indirectly affected by the school experienced Goshorn’s baskets in person, often for the first time. Among the attendees were the great-granddaughters of Carlisle student Tom Torlino (Navajo), the subject of perhaps the most recognizable photo because of its high-profile use in publications, which depicted the stark contrast in the young man’s persona and, notably, skin tone (obviously photographic

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manipulation). The granddaughters were moved by the basket and took a few moments with the artist to share their appreciation for her work, as did many of the reception attendees.

The artist’s text descriptions of the baskets were provided on labels, with more extensive analysis included in the exhibition catalogue. The catalogue, available at the gallery, also features five essays about the project, including one on the artist by esteemed author and curator Suzan Shown Harjo (Cheyenne-Hodulgee Muscogee).

Resisting the Mission was featured upstairs in the Trout Gallery, and the opening reception was held simultaneous to the closing reception of Re-Riding History: From the Southern Plains to the Matanzas Bay, a group exhibition that explores the legacy of the prisoners of the Red River War confined at Fort Marion, several of whom attended Carlisle at its inception. Resisting the Mission will be on view through February 2, 2019.

—heather ahtone, PhD

OKLAHOMA CITY

American Indian Artists: 20th Century Masters National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum

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N VIEW in the Silberman Galler y is a unique examination of works by American Indian master artists. Eric Singleton, curator of ethnology, selected these artworks from the collections of the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, primarily from the illustrious Arthur and Shifra Silberman Collection and the Charles W. Hogan Collection.

The deep turquoise-colored walls draw the visitor into the spacious gallery where one is immediately confronted

by Tipi (1990) by Vanessa Paukeigope Jennings (Pima-Kiowa-Kiowa Apache).

On this model of an actual Kiowa tipi collected by anthropologist James Mooney at the turn of the 20th century, two images of Zemoguani, the Kiowa horned fish,

wrap around the tipi and converge at the tipi entrance, their open mouths baring razor-sharp teeth.

In an interview with the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, Jennings discusses the first such tipi she was asked to recreate on a smaller scale as a model by Shifra Silberman. She based her model on Tipi with Battle Pictures (1920), which her grandfather, Stephen Mopope, a member of the Kiowa Six, helped refabricate for a silent film, Daughter of the Dawn. He had once told her that painting this was his greatest artistic honor, though he was only 16 at the time. The tipi was a renewal of the Kiowa Battle Tipi from 1833. Within Kiowa culture, only men could paint those designs on the tipi, and therefore Jennings taught her sons, Gabriel Morgan and Seth Mopope Morgan, to paint the scenes for her model of the Kiowa Battle Tipi.

The artwork featured in the exhibition is driven by the institutions that influenced them: the University of Oklahoma, which gave us the Kiowa Six; Bacone College for which the style of the Bacone School is named; and the Studio at the Santa Fe Indian School, which was founded in 1932 by Dorothy Dunn and was the precursor to the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA). An additional category for Native American art post-1960 features artists mostly either self-taught, such as Frank Big Bear Jr. (White Earth Ojibwe), or trained at IAIA, such as T.C. Cannon (Kiowa-Caddo, 1946–1978). The artworks, however, are interspersed throughout the gallery, and the nonchronological setup allows the visitor to begin anywhere and receive an equitable experience, useful because of the three entries into the exhibition space.

The stand-alone, double-sided text panels are more viewer-friendly than traditional wall text and have the added bonus of featuring reproductions of archival photographs from the Silberman Collection, a creative addition to the exhibition. For instance, the viewer can see the famous picture of a baby Lois Smoky Kaulaity (Kiowa, 1907–1981) snuggled happily in her cradleboard, along with many other images of the Kiowa Six with Oscar Jacobson.

The section after 1960 represents artists who were influenced, directly

or indirectly, by the strides made in Native American art at the University of Oklahoma and the Santa Fe Studio. Here the viewer can see the Flatstyle works from Santa Fe and Oklahoma change to include a more individualistic embrace of modern and contemporary art movements such as influences by the Mexican muralists.

Of this group, a particularly striking piece and one of the outliers of the show is Great White Heron Spirit Helper (1976) by Unangax̂ artist John Hoover (1919–2011).

Drawing inspiration from historical spirit boards and the outlined and ovoid forms of Northwest Coast art, Hoover created a triptych that when closed, depicts only the center panel of the long, graceful necks and heads of two herons, beak to beak, surrounding a human form, each outline creating the next form. When opened, the two herons become cut-out mirror images of themselves creating two additional birds. Herons by nature are solitary birds except during mating. The iconography here is clear—two solitary herons come together in a “kissing” pose. At the bottom of each of the birds’ necks and within the forms is a smaller representation of the same human head shown in the center panel. Likewise, at the bottom of the large human figure in the center is the form of a full-bodied heron with wings spread.

This iconography suggests elements of shamanism and transformation. The smaller figures within the larger ones represent the spirit helpers.

Hanging alone on a short side wall that transitions into an adjacent gallery is one of the hidden gems of the show.

Poetry That Falls from the Sky (2001) is

by Southern Cheyenne artist Merlin Little Thunder, known for his detailed landscape miniatures. The work could be easily missed by virtue of its positioning.

However, one can examine in admiration the exquisite detail and acuteness of scale the depiction of a Southwestern landscape where three Native figures have stopped at a creek to water their horses. The painting recedes within its frame, adding even more depth, an effect of the seven mats’ complementing colors within the artwork.

The top mat is embossed with designs and features an illustrated signature by the artist.

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familiar with Native American art, is the generational ties among many of the artists to other known artistic masters.

For instance, as previously mentioned, Vanessa Jennings is the granddaughter of Kiowa Six artist Stephen Mopope.

Additionally, Gilbert Benjamin Atencio (San Ildefonso) and Tony Da (San Ildefonso) are the nephew and grandson respectively of San Ildefonso Pueblo artists Maria and Julian Martinez.

Painters Tonita Peña (San Ildefonso) and Joe Herrera (Cochiti-San Ildefonso) are mother and son, and Raymond Naha (Hopi-Tewa) is a member of the extended Nampeyo family.

The premise of the show—arranging works by institutional influences—is

interesting and allows the viewer to experience the works in a new way, drawing new comparisons between styles when seen together. However, since all of these are works solely from the collections of the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, it makes the blanket title of “20th Century Masters” problematic since one could argue that many “masters” are not represented in their collections or were chosen not to be incorporated into this show. Additionally, the word “masters” draws on European (and therefore, colonial) terminology. What are the criteria for one to be considered a master of Native American art?

The exhibition will remain on view until May 12, 2019. —Mariah Ashbacher

SANTA FE

SITElines.2018: Casa tomada SITE Santa Fe

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N VIEW through January 6, 2019, Casa tomada (House Taken Over) marks the conclusion of a trio of SITE Santa Fe biennials, “New Perspectives on Art of the Americas.” Focused on the Western Hemisphere, this series of exhibitions (2014, 2016, and 2018) confronts conceptions of multinational and Indigenous identities, social and political borders as boundaries for inclusion and exclusion, and intersections between cultural epistemologies and visual representations. This year, curators José Luis Blondet, Candice Hopkins (Carcross/Tagish), and Ruba Katrib, with Naomi Beckwith as curatorial advisor, opted to feature 23 artists with ten commissions. This differs from larger groups of artists shown in the previous biennials, but as Katrib said, “It’s a small show with big ideas.”1 The commissions include new work by Melissa Cody (Diné), Eric-Paul Riege (Diné), Hock E Aye Vi Edgar Heap of Birds (Southern Cheyenne), and Lawrence Paul Yuxweluptun (Coast Salish-Okanagan). The exhibition also generously features 13 two-dimensional works by Victoria Mamnguqsualuk (Inuk, 1930–2016,) and five stone sculptures

by Jamasee Pitseolak (Inuk). In Casa tomada, the artists received ample space to support large-scale installations. The exhibition’s layout comes across as a layered display of vignettes that provide multifaceted interpretations of rhetoric.

During a walk-through, Hopkins explained that Beckwith steered the curatorial team’s methodology to develop through a focus on language.2 This strategy reveals itself in the words, imagery, and gestures in the two- and three-dimensional and performative 1. The preview events took place on August 1 and 2, 2018. The biennial opened to the public on August 3, 2018.

2. Press preview walk-through, SITE Santa Fe, August 1, 2018.

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artworks by the invited Native American and First Nations practitioners. These artists’ individualized styles create a dialogue with the exhibition’s title and overarching theme, Casa tomada, the name of a 1946 fictional short story

by Argentinian author Julio Cortázar that metaphorically critiqued national politics of the time. Adding curatorial context, Blondet offered three more interpretations of Casa tomada and translated it as “house under the influence,” “drunk house,” or even “house under siege,” with a military connotation.

Notions of siege clearly take form in Heap of Birds’s Surviving Active Shooter Custer (2018), two sets of works on paper, with 24 monoprints on one wall and their 24 ghost prints, or visual echoes, on the adjacent wall. Made with blood-red, viscous backgrounds inscribed in thick, white lettering, the prints sample from several sources including rez radio song lyrics like “Navajo Don’t You Know Love You So”; United States military code words, where Bedonkohe Apache leader Geronimo’s name was recast as an American code for Bin Laden; and a reference to the 1868 Washita Massacre in the sentence, “STOP ACTIVE SHOOTER CADET AUTIE CUSTER.”3 Overall, the installation conveys a feeling of constantly being wrapped in reconfigured meanings of rhetoric. Here, the phrases reveal language’s vulnerability to appropriative betrayal, while the ghost prints function as reruns or fading memories. As such, these panels create new cognitive word associations while triggering experiential recollections across time.

Histories of remembrance and transformation comprise two of the main themes of the exhibition. Victoria Mamnguqsualuk’s colored-pencil drawings on paper and embroidered and felted wool panels visualize productive and communicative relationships between animals and humans. A main focus of her work revolves around the Inuit culture hero, Kiviuq, who time traveled between

different cultures and eras and even subverted a Soviet satellite during the Cold War years.4 In Mamnguqsualuk’s deftly choreographed illustrations, Indigenous concepts of time as spiral, circular, and overlapping emerge in the human, animal, and spirit beings that move around and through each other’s forms. An ethos of energy exchange and collaboration runs deeply in these works, and viewers have the opportunity to grasp the significance of her visual expression in her honoring of home through meaningful imagery.

Aspects of home also take center stage in Melissa Cody’s dynamically colored, woven wool panels. Cody has recently been using her weaving practice as a coping method and abstract release to mourn loss.5 Her aesthetic is based on the Navajo Germantown weaving style and also the weaving from the 1864 Long Walk, when Diné people dismantled and rewove blankets given as rations.6 Cody threads words and letter arrangements— poetry—between brightly patterned, geometric areas. She also creates solely graphic panels that represent her interpretations of Diné iconography. Overall, Cody’s panels reflect an intertwining of personal, collective, and pop culture histories in vivid, woven compositions.

Eric-Paul Riege created diyin+, hooghan and weaving dance (fig. 3) for Na’ashjé’íí Asdzáá, Retha, Effie, and Angela (2018), a symbolic architecture that includes a group of photographic prints on panels, two regalia sets, and a male hogan made of wool looms. His onsite performance created an intimate, new relationship between him and this artwork by honoring Spiderwoman’s gift of weaving to the Diné people in a personal dedication and enactment of the weaving process.7 In this performance, he deeply engaged with Spiderwoman’s communal legacy by using his body as a primary media and temporal bridge.

The works of Yuxweluptun and Pitseolak also make strong use of figurative gesture. Yuxweluptun’s five sculptures,

above Melissa Cody (Navajo), US, 2015, wool, aniline dyes, 351/2 × 13 in., private collection. o pp o s i t e John Hoover (Unangax̂, 1919–2011), Great White Heron Spirit Helper, 1976, wood, collection of the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, Oklahoma City, OK. Photo: Mariah Ashbacher.

3. Candice Hopkins, “You Might Say That The Masters Never Saw It Coming,” in Casa tomada, ed. Lucy Flint (Santa Fe: SITE Santa Fe, 2018).

4. Ibid.

5. Ibid.

6. Melissa Cody in discussion with the author, August 1, 2018.

7. Hopkins, “You Might Say That The Masters Never Saw It Coming.”

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Neo Totems (2018), are arranged in active poses on a large platform. These painted cedar beings call out to viewers in their vibrant movements and visually compelling forms. As such, these abstracted, animal-like figures appear as though they present themselves for the world to see. However, Yuxweluptun’s Surrealist-influenced style betrays this notion of extroversion and openness. As much as one can see is also withheld— an act of resistance in the expectation that knowledge will always be shared indiscriminately. The artist’s painting, Floor Opener (2013), shows similar Surrealist beings performing a potlatch.8 This scene has a cine-animation quality to it, evoking Tim Burton-like aesthetics.

Pitseolak’s five serpentine sculptures in dark green also exude a Surrealist visual language. He infuses his own memories into objects that connect to people. Each work can be considered as grammar arranged in various ways to form new meanings. Laden Sole (2004) shows a shoe dragging a weight on a chain, while Lady (2011) is a cartoonish high heel shoe. As evidenced in the embedded drama recorded in and between the dialogue of these two objects, unexpected intersections continue to upend the status quo in Casa tomada.

Thus, the exhibition exists as a conversation between individual and collective memories visualized in a prominently Surrealist aesthetic. Different worlds collide and visually speak to each other, and visitors act as moderators. As an example of this exhibition methodology, the curators strategically added a local layer to the biennial. They included a micaceous clay cast of the right foot of the bronze Juan de Oñate statue (1993)—an extremity severed by the Friends of Acoma in 1997 from the “trophy” of the Oñate 8.

Press preview walk-through, SITE Santa Fe, August 1, 2018.

9. Naomi Beckwith, “If Thy Right Eye Offended Thee,” in Casa tomada, ed. Lucy Flint (Santa Fe: SITE Santa Fe, 2018). Reynaldo “Sonny” Rivera created the statue in 1993. After its alteration by Friends of Acoma, Rivera made a bronze copy of the left foot to replace the missing right foot.

10. Matthew J. Martínez, “Remembering 400 Years of Exile,” Green Fire Times, August 2, 2014, web; Celina Salazar, “Don Juan de Oñate,” University of California, Berkeley, 1998, web.

Monument and Resource Visitors Center (now the Northern Rio Grande National Heritage Area).9 The group removed the foot to protest the commemoration of the conquistador Oñate (1550–1626). In 1599, a year after Oñate claimed present-day New Mexico lands for Spain, he imposed death and enslavement upon numerous Pueblo people and the dismemberment of the right feet of 24 Acoma warriors.10 A gesture of historical redress, the display of this Indigenized object with an archive of articles surrounding its existence underscores the curators’ commitments to revealing unsettling truths and reminds audience members they are guests on Pueblo peoples’ lands. —Michelle J. Lanteri

SANTA FE

Cara Romero | EVERYWHEN: Indigenous Photoscapes Peters Projects

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N VIEW from June 8 through August 25, 2018, this Santa Fe e x h i b it i o n m a r k e d Chemehuevi artist Cara Romero’s first solo show in the United States. Within a group of eleven digital, photographic prints, six distinct styles interacted with each other in this space.

This variety attests to Romero’s conceptual and technical exploration in recent years. EVERYWHEN included one of the artist’s now-signature subjects: portraits of strong, Native women gazing away from the camera. Also in the exhibition are her narratives of Native histories in sepia-toned prints, diorama portraits of Native women in regalia, Water Memory portraits, and images that pay tribute to Chemehuevi culture heroes and the power of the Native community in Santa Fe. All of these works commemorate the multifaceted identities of Native people as visualized by Romero, a social topography that spirals through time, honoring an

overlapping, Indigenous continuum of “everywhen.”1 The gallery felt much like a life-size photo album that showcased several iterations of Romero’s visual interpretations of Indigeneity in a single room.

Upon entry, viewers confronted TV Indians (2017) head on while seeing Kaa (2017) and Julia (2018) in periphery.

Encountering a plurality of Romero’s works in one sight line produces a powerful effect. It is as if viewers step into the space and are told immediately that many stories await them. Peters Projects director Mark Del Vecchio shared that Romero designed her exhibition layout.2 This detail shed light on the personal ethos and precision in the artworks’ juxtapositions and placements.

TV Indians establishes the tone of EVERYWHEN. This large-scale print embodies the exhibition subtitle, “Indigenous Photoscapes.” In this work two Native women, another Native woman holding a child, and one Native man pose in their Pueblo regalia (signaling an Indigenous legacy) in a New Mexico landscape in front of 40 cathode ray tube televisions. The women lean on the TV sets, calling out a tension regarding the time immemorial, intergenerational relationships between Native American peoples in contrast to the mere century-long representations of Native peoples by Hollywood. The man stands in the center, his regalia creating a fast-paced visual rhythm with the superimposed images from Smoke Signals (1998), Little Big Man (1970), and The Lone Ranger (1949–57). Romero explains the pop culture portrayals as “beloved moments” for many Native people.3 Kaa also inscribes a moment of the exhibition’s theme of nonlinear time.

Shot at 1/8000 second shutter speed, Romero referenced the Chemehuevi being, Clay Lady, to honor her gifts of clay and creativity and to visually interpret femininity as very much paralleling the temperamental and surprising process of firing clay. In this work, Indigenous histories converge in Romero’s collaborative portrayal of emerging ceramic artist

1. Cara Romero, Artist Statement, EVERYWHEN: Indigenous Photoscapes, June 8, 2018.

2. Mark Del Vecchio in discussion with author, August 17, 2018.

3. All quotes from Cara Romero come from an in-person conversation with the author, August 19, 2018.

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above Cara Romero (Chemehuevi), detail of Nipton Highway, 2013, archival digital print. Image courtesy of the artist.

Kaa Folwell (Santa Clara Pueblo) with her nude body overlaid with an ancestral Mesa Verde pottery design. Romero confidently recognized that Folwell’s heroic pose grounding this work “pushes the envelope” in their efforts to “find a truth.”

Julia features Romero’s niece Julia Romero (Cochiti-San Ildefonso) dressed in her regalia and directly facing the camera. The backdrop of the “doll-box” diorama that houses her is painted bright orange, and it, with Julia in the foreground, exudes a dynamic energy. The narrative of this portrait grew out of the artist and her niece’s familial bonds with Cochiti Pueblo and their allusions to childhood role models and objects that represent the specificity of Indigenous worldviews.

As such, the model’s great-great-uncle’s drum and her grandmother’s blue corn and baskets line the backdrop of the box, while a wild spinach pattern borders the perimeter. Romero collaborated with Virgil Ortiz (Cochiti) on the border design taken from pottery.4 Upon turning the corner in the gallery, one sees all three of Romero’s diorama portraits, three Water Memory works (2015), Last Indian Market (2015), and a portrait of a Native man holding a baby in the air while standing on an open road. Named Nipton Highway (2015), this image is sepia-toned and has four sections with vertical borders that connect as a montaged portrait of two brothers from Cochiti Pueblo, Santiago and Paris, on a Joshua Tree highway. The pose signifies the transferal of knowledge between the two, while the paved road in the desert symbolizes ongoing change

and reorientation. With the older man wearing a white tank top and jeans, the image takes on a feeling of a family photo. The gritty texture in the image’s background evokes nostalgia of an earlier decade. In this work, Romero uses formal aesthetics to shape the presence of time in a specific way. She conveys “everywhen” through the work’s visual texture and sepia color. She honors this moment by printing this photograph at a heroic scale.

The horizontal orientation—a materialization of a “photoscape”—speaks to the land as all-important and sustaining.

Around the corner, the last work in Romero’s exhibition makes a strong impression and connects back to Nipton Highway. It is a portrait named Nikki (2014) that features a Diné woman posed low to the ground, abstractly reenacting a birthing position. Wearing only moccasins, the woman’s body performatively archives the creation of life in a moment of remembrance. An historic Diné blanket with an eye-dazzler pattern creates a backdrop behind and underneath Nikki’s mostly nude body, with her head bowed forward, her braids dangling against her arms. In this work, Romero offers tribute to Indigenous origins and feminine strength in a contemporary vision, through both the birthing pose and the blanket that recalls the Diné people’s legacy of weaving received from the holy being Spiderwoman. This composition represents a collaborative portrait in the exhibition that provides audiences with new possibilities for the visuality of a mother-and-child theme.

Overall, this exhibition, Cara Romero | EVERYWHEN: Indigenous Photoscapes, features a portfolio of works that show the artist’s need to portray Native diversity in visual metaphor and her fearlessness in recording new expressions of Indigeneity. With Native portraiture at the core of Romero’s art practice, she creates community through her collaborative image-making process. This exhibition represents just the beginning of Romero’s photographic journey. In these images made over the past four years, the artist has heavily contributed to upending “expected” appearances of Native peoples by inventing scenes informed by her Chemehuevi worldview, ongoing efforts to visualize the strength and long-established presence of Indigenous peoples in the Western hemisphere, and collaborations with Native models.

Thus, Romero’s images, exhibited in a commercial art gallery, gain traction to carry on the work to change and expand public perceptions of Native peoples. Her images bridge visual relationships between global art history, Native histories, recent land crises, international pop culture, and Native peoples’ lived experiences. With Romero’s photographs on view at Peters Projects, her artwork moves within the larger scope of contemporary art. In this field, her collaborative “identity stories,” visualized as digital imagery, simultaneously fold within and beyond the original repertoire of the sites and people that hold these Indigenous narratives. In sum, Romero’s art practice gives way to a multinational exchange of histories.

—Michelle J. Lanteri

4. Cara Romero, Instagram, May 30, 2018, https://www.instagram.com/cararomerophotography.

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TORONTO

Rebecca Belmore: Facing the Monumental Art Gallery of Ontario

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S THEY STEP OFF the elevator onto the fifth floor of the Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO), visitors are greeted with the sound of rushing water. The smell is distinct and invites the visitor around the corner into the first of many closed gallery spaces. Inside, a sheet of falling water creates a mist in the air and serves as a projection screen for Rebecca Belmore’s Fountain (2005). A visceral piece in every sense of the word, the video shows Belmore struggle to move freely in the waters of Iona Beach, pulled and jerked by its power. When the artist finally achieves balance, she lifts a bucket out from the water, walks toward the camera, and hurls red liquid at the lens, thus transforming the room into a bloody scene and joining Belmore and the viewer in a brief moment of shared space before the loop continues.

Rebecca Belmore (Lac Seul Ojibwe) is a multimedia artist based in Vancouver.

Regardless of medium, it is apparent that her 31-year-long career as a practicing artist is deeply rooted in the art of performance. Facing the Monumental dedicates an entire gallery to a comprehensive overview of Belmore’s recorded performances. The exhibition also features a number of installations, sculptural and photographic works that often return to questions of bodily autonomy as it relates to the natural world. Belmore worked closely with Wanda Nanibush (Beausoleil Ojibwe), AGO’s assistant curator of Canadian and Indigenous Art, to develop the intensely profound show that is Monumental. It is the largest survey of Rebecca Belmore’s work to date.

This show comes at a time when the AGO is seeking to reassert its commitment to the land’s First Nations and its people. In an effort spearheaded

by Nanibush, the gallery recently renamed Canadian artist Emily Carr’s 1929 painting from its original title, Indian Church, to Church in Yuquot Village. In conjunction with Belmore’s solo show, AGO also held a two-and-a-half-day symposium, aabaakwad (it clears after a storm), to discuss the future of global Indigenous arts. In addition to Rebecca Belmore, the symposium featured panelists Jolene Rickard (Tuscarora), Megan Tamati-Quennell (Māori), Alan

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Michelson (Mohawk), Heather Igloliorte (Inuk), Kent Monkman (Cree), Adrian Stimson (Siksika), Lori Blondeau (Cree-Saulteaux-Métis), and Tania Willard (Secwepemc), among others.

For Belmore, the future convenes in the same realm as past and present. In the elevator up to the exhibition, a quote from the artist on the wall reads, “The world will be a different place in 20 years, and we have no idea what that looks like. I think that’s why we have conversations, that’s why we have to listen, that’s why we make art.” This sentiment can be thought together with the piece At Pelican Falls (2017), which includes a sculptural work inspired by a photograph of a group of boys taken at the Pelican Falls Indian Residential School in 1955. All dressed in denim coveralls, the boys are gathered together on a rock watching a man fish.

The accompanying sculpture is made up of denim and mimics the pattern of the water. In the center, a headless torso dressed in the coverall uniform emerges from the sea of denim. With this piece, Belmore touches on the material and immaterial legacies of residential schools as well as the violence of namelessness.

The viewer is left to meditate on what there is to return to after trauma.

Monumental devotes a great deal of its attention to the naming and recognition of Canada’s missing and murdered Indigenous women. A severed log of wood sits on a table in one gallery. This piece, One thousand One hundred & eighty One (2014) is the result of a performance in which Belmore hammered 1,181 nails into its surface to serve as markers for the 1,181 missing and murdered Indigenous women reported by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) in 2014. Above this table the words ONE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED & EIGHTY ONE are spot lit and painted orange, signaling caution to the viewer. A nearby wall lists the names of missing women as reported by the RCMP in 1998.

Belmore’s work has a minimalistic quality but resists this categorization outright. She works with natural and recognizable, everyday objects to respond to the happenings of the world around her, around Indigenous people.

The politics of her work only come as an

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unavoidable consequence rather than a deliberate choice on her behalf. Belmore demonstrates how the lines between indigeneity, artistry, the political, and poetics can often be blurred. Much of the success of Belmore’s show is aided by the sheer amount of gallery space that allows the viewer room to do exactly what the artist puts forth: face the monumental.

Monumental is not confined to a single area of the museum—instead, a selection of works from the exhibition can be found throughout the AGO. One of these pieces is Belmore’s Biinjiya’iing Onji (From Inside), a tent hand-carved from marble in 2017 for documenta 14.

Designed to reflect the ongoing refugee crisis in Athens, Greece, Biinjiya’iing Onji transcends location. Sitting here at the end of a corridor in Toronto, the tent continues to speak to the pluralities that come with naming a place home.

While much of Belmore’s work deals with subjects of violence—state,

interpersonal, colonial, or otherwise— Belmore’s art reaches out with a gesture of succor. On the fifth floor of the Art Gallery of Ontario, in the face of hurt, we are also offered healing. In the many photographs of Rebecca Belmore that hang throughout the galleries, she stands tall with her back turned away from the camera, perhaps as a means to protect her sense of self. State of Grace (2002) is the one image that shows her face. In it, the artist looks to have achieved serenity as she sleeps in a bed of white linens. The paper on which the photograph is printed has been slit into a series of even strips, allowing air to flow freely through it. In the presence of the weight that exists here, it becomes necessary to consider what is required for one to attain stillness. It is true that we do not know what the world will look like in 20 years, but an exhibition like Facing the Monumental prompts an opportunity to imagine it.

—Morgan E. Freeman

above Rebecca Belmore (Lac Seul Ojibwe), One thousand One hundred & eighty One, 2014, nails, severed tree trunk, 36 × 36 × 24 in. Both images courtesy of the Art Gallery of Ontario. opposite Rebecca Belmore (Lac Seul Ojibwe), Biinjiya’iing Onji (From Inside), 2017, hand-carved marble, 55 × 78¾ × 78¾ in., fabricated by the studio of Vangelis Ilias.

Brian Honyouti: Hopi Carver Zena Pearlstone, PhD iUniverse, 2018

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OPI A RT I ST BR IA N HONYOUTI is well known for the technical innovations he brought to commercial katsina carvings. Books and articles, as well as Native art gallery websites, note that he was the first carver to substitute wood preserver for paint and that he departed from convention by preferring to leave parts of the bodies of his carvings unpainted. When he did apply paint, he chose oil over acrylics, which gave his carvings a subtle warmth that brighter acrylics could not match. While other carvers opted to use electric tools, Honyouti preferred a simple knife to do his work. He also departed from carvings of single figures and often depicted multiple figures supported by elaborately carved and painted bases.

These are some of the reasons why Brian Honyouti is regarded as a pioneer in contemporary katsina carving. What is less known is the unique storytelling he developed in his carvings. Art historian Zena Pearlstone, who has written extensively on Honyouti, turns her attention to his narrative style in this book. She emphasizes that the stories embedded in his carvings are not simply commentary on the effects of mainstream American culture on the Hopi; rather, WINTER 2018/19 | 81

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what sets Honyouti apart from other contemporary Native artists is his willingness to criticize the shortcomings of Hopi communities themselves.

“Honyouti’s carvings,” she writes, “are significant because they allow viewers to examine how a long-standing art form (carved representations of katsinas) can be turned to a modernistic critique of local Hopi and global concerns.” As this book elucidates, Honyouti had a lot to say about the local and the global through his carvings, and the many ideas they expressed are examined with skill and sensitivity by Pearlstone. This emerging portrait of Honyouti recognizes his deep attachment to Hopi culture and acknowledges how critically engaged he was with the issues of the world around him, an engagement expressed most fully through his commercial work. Pearlstone describes it as an often idiosyncratic “visual record” through which one may examine the impact of cultural changes on the Hopi as well as their connection to broader social, political, economic, and environmental issues. In that sense, she argues, Honyouti’s carvings have universal resonance.

Honyouti grew up in Paaqavi, Third Mesa, the son of Clyde and Rachel Honyouti. Of the five children in the family, Brian was the only one born with albinism, the congenital absence of pigmentation or coloration of the skin. He was often taunted in his youth because of the condition, including being called names like Pahaana or “white boy.” This appears to have reinforced a sense of loneliness and difference, but the family chose to emphasize his albinism as a sign of strength and specialness. There is no question that it helped foster in Honyouti an independent, unconventional viewpoint.

That viewpoint became apparent when he began producing katsina carvings for the marketplace in the 1970s.

Katsinam are spirit beings responsible for the perpetuation of life among the Hopi. They appear in kiva and village ceremonies, personated by men, and carry out a number of different functions, from bringing clouds and rain to planting corn and reinforcing discipline among villagers. Some also bring tithu, the cottonwood-root carvings that depict katsinam, which are given to infants,

young girls, and new brides. Honyouti made a point of distinguishing between these tithu, which are for ceremonial purposes, and the carvings he produced commercially. Although tithu constituted a large part of his output as a carver and were intended to faithfully represent Hopi katsinam for female relatives, his commercial carvings, because they were secular, became for him an opportunity to offer social and political commentary on the larger world. Pearlstone suggests on page nine that these carvings are best understood through the lens of Mary Louise Pratt’s “contact zone.” Pratt defines the term as “the space of colonial encounters” where geographically and historically separated groups come in contact with one another and interact, often through conflict or coercion. One outgrowth of the contact zone is transculturation, which, unlike acculturation, provides Indigenous peoples with the opportunity to create their own version of mainstream society. Pearlstone believes this is the basis for understanding Honyouti’s commercial carvings, which examine, through seriousness as well as humor, the complex interactions of Hopi and mainstream American culture.

Pearlstone has wisely chosen a thematic approach to Honyouti’s work.

Individual chapters consider portraits and personalizations, clowns, Hopi identity, the katsina world, humor, and commodification. Each chapter is amply illustrated with photos of carvings from museums and private collections. Together they reveal Honyouti’s intellectual and creative brilliance. In the chapter on portraits and personalizations, for example, the reader learns that Honyouti frequently included a personal dimension in his carvings by depicting dealers and collectors with whom he worked; self-portraits, sometimes as a trickster; or offered subtle commentary on his own family and their struggles. Pearlstone believes no other Hopi carver has included so many personal representations in their carvings.

In Honyouti’s hands, the sculptures became a form of autobiography that enabled his audience to learn about his business associates and others with whom he worked as well as his family and himself.

One particularly compelling chapter that encapsulates much of Honyouti’s

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thinking about Hopi and mainstream American culture is “Clowns as Couriers.”

Hopi clowns use humor as social commentary to teach their audiences how to properly behave. This is done through mock improper behavior, which is directed at the people of the villages as well as outsiders. For Honyouti, clowning became the perfect means by which to critique both Hopi communities and mainstream American culture. He used the Koyaala, or Kosare, for example, to comment on covetousness, selfishness, greed, and misguided religion and politics that put money and power ahead of community needs or the protection of the environment. Koyaalam with watermelons, as examples of gluttony, became especially effective ways to critique excess. He explained, “These clowns have eaten up all the flesh—that is, the good or useful parts—and are left with the refuse such as home foreclosures, unemployment, bank failures, and political factionalism, distrust, and frustration.” They care only for “visceral satisfaction,” Pearlstone quotes Honyouti on page 82; “At both Hopi and on national stage, I see the obvious greed for political and financial control.”

Honyouti’s carvings, whether serious or lighthearted, contain multiple meanings that are not necessarily obvious to his audience. He intentionally veiled his critical observations so as to not offend Hopis or potential buyers. Fortunately, t hroug h inter vie ws and candid correspondence with the artist before his death in 2016, in addition to interviews with associates and family members, Pearlstone has been able to reveal the messages embedded in his narratives.

This is the first book to do so, and for that reason alone, it is an invaluable addition to the literature on Hopi katsina carvings.

It also provides important insights into cultural change, both at Hopi and in mainstream America, and one artist’s deeply personal reactions to it. His voice was unique and powerful, as expressed in his work. That Pearlstone has been able to recover it so ably is worth noting, not only for its contributions to the field of Native art but also for its contributions to the legacy of this brilliant and creative artist of the contact zone.

—Carter Jones Meyer, PhD

BOOK REVIEWS

There There Tommy Orange Alfred A. Knopf/Penguin Random House, 2018

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ONGLISTED for this year’s National Book Award for Fiction, Cheyenne and Arapaho author Tommy Orange’s There There is nominated alongside other fine contenders, including Where the Dead Sit Talking (Soho Press, 2018) by Cherokee Nation author Brandon Hobson. It’s exciting that two Native novelists have been selected for the National Book Award longlist in the same year, and this development casts a hopeful light that suggests increased inclusion and visibility in the future for Indigenous writers and literature.

There There represents the marginalized and unsung voices of urban Indians—70 percent of whom live in urban environments and 30 percent on reservations. Yet Native people remain invisible within society at large. There There provides an antidote to that. The novel’s setting is Oakland, California, where Orange grew up. The title sounds like words of comfort but is actually borrowed from Gertrude Stein’s reference to Oakland, California, her childhood city: “There is no there there.”

The novel is populated by an interconnected and diverse selection of urban Native characters whose lives are

assuredly contemporary and intricately drawn. Orange captures the complexity and verity necessary for fully dimensional and realized characters. As a Native reader, which Orange asserts is the audience he writes for, I found it gratifying and validating to recognize so many different Native characters pertinent to my own life and experiences. For non-Native readers, There There certainly has much to offer, beginning with a devastating prologue that details the brutal and violent origin story of our country, the story that all too often is erased and glossed over in lieu of fantasies and romantic tropes: When they first came for us with their bullets, we didn’t stop moving even though the bullets moved twice as fast as the sound of our screams, and even when their heat and speed broke our skin, shattered our bones, skulls, pierced our hearts, we kept on, even when we saw the bullets send our bodies flailing through the air like flags, like the many flags and buildings that went up in place of everything we knew this land to be before.

For any Native person born and raised in cities or environments such as suburbia, like I was, There There provides the definitive counterbalance to any persistent or lingering sense of internalized oppression. We know we exist, we realize our humanity, but to the rest of the world the narrative is quite different, one comprised of images and constructions created without our consent and held hostage in the colonial imagination. Any new book published by an Indigenous writer is an act of resistance, a battle cry, and the further its reach the louder the cry. Novels like There There create another bridge, another threshold—a scaffold that serves to support and lift up Indigenous people.

In the prologue, Orange describes Urbanity: “Urban Indians were the generation born in the city. We’ve been moving for a long time, but the land moves with you like memory. An Urban Indian belongs to the city, and cities belong to the earth.”

While There There brilliantly represents an exciting progression of new and incoming Indigenous novels and literature, a new generation of writers, and what is being referred to as the new

Native literary “renaissance,” I’m not quite ready to embrace it as the one and only quintessential urban Indian novel, not with so many other predecessors bearing similar claims.

In 1995, Grand Avenue (Hyperion, 1994) by Graton Pomo and Miwok writer Greg Sarris was heralded as being “an exciting new part of the latest Native American Literary Renaissance.” Grand Avenue, a novel told in ten interconnected stories, explores the lives of a Native American family living in Santa Rosa, California. Grand Avenue was adapted into an HBO miniseries in 1996. Like Orange’s There There, Sarris’ novel offers a portrait of contemporary Indigenous people who make their homes in an urban setting.

Ojibwe author David Treuer’s novels, The Hiawatha (Picador, 1999) and The Translation of Dr. Apelles: A Love Story (Vintage Books, 2006), feature Native characters living in cities—Minneapolis and what Treuer imagined as a “fantastic city,” New York City.

Sacred Wilderness (Michigan State University Press, 2014) by Susan Power situates characters in St. Paul, Minnesota, and several novels by Louise Erdrich, including Shadow Tag (Harper, 2010), are set in Minneapolis.

Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in 1985, Janet Campbell Hale’s novel, The Jailing of Cecelia Capture (University of New Mexico Press, 1985), is largely set in San Francisco. The location for Erika Wurth’s novel Crazy Horse’s Girlfriend (Curbside Splendor, 2014) is Denver, and just-released novel Sacred Smokes by Theodore C. Van Alst (University of New Mexico Press, 2018) takes place in Chicago.

Urban settings have been a mainstay of Indigenous literature, prominent as the skyscrapers themselves. The urban Indian novel has been hiding in plain view for quite some time and is deserving of study.

Thanks to stunning novels like There There, we know where to look.

We know the sound of the freeway better than we do rivers, the howl of distant trains better than wolf howls; we know the smell of gas and freshly wet concrete and burned rubber better than we do the smell of cedar or sage or even fry bread. Being Indian has never been about returning to the land. The land is everywhere or nowhere. —Tiffany Midge WINTER 2018/19 | 83

ART+LIT

Métis Author & Poet

CARLEIGH BAKER

By Matthew Ryan Smith, PhD

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ARLEIGH BAKER is a Métis and Icelandic writer based in Vancouver. In 2016 Baker published her first poetry chapbook, The Closest We’ll Get to Neon.

A year later, Anvil Press published her short-story collection, Bad Endings, which garnered national and international acclaim—the book was a finalist for the Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize and won the 2017 City of Vancouver Book Award. As a result of these accomplishments, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) named Baker one of their “Writers to Watch” in 2017. The same year, Baker was awarded a Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) research scholarship, a federally funded, post-secondary research program.

Although Baker’s central focus is writing, she is also an Indigenous Collective member with Unceded Airwaves, a weekly radio show on CiTR (101.9 FM) produced by the University of British Columbia and aired on Wednesday afternoons. In 2012 Baker won subTerrain Magazine’s Lush Triumphant Award for short fiction. Her poetry, short fiction, and nonfiction work has appeared in the Journey Prize Anthology, PRISM International, Joyland, and This Magazine.

Furthermore, her book reviews and critical writing have appeared in publications including the Globe and Mail, the Malahat Review, the Goose, and EVENT. Baker also contributed to the anthology In This Together: Fifteen True Stories of Real Reconciliation.

MRS: How did you become interested in writing and poetry? Perhaps you can plot this journey for our readers.

CB: I’ve been interested in writing for a long time—since I was a kid—but I didn’t

take it seriously until about ten years ago.

My friends and family knew I was a writer at heart; I filled journals with stories and monologues (and a lot of bad poetry) instead of whatever teenage girls should write in their journals. They were always encouraging me to go for it. But I assumed it would be impossible to make a living as a writer. So instead I worked a bunch of terrible jobs I hated, which turned out to be useful material for my stories. So it wasn’t all bad.

When I finally started writing in earnest, I was not in great shape—I was recovering from drug addiction and in an unhappy marriage. I was pretty desperate to make some changes, and when the haze of recovery started to dissipate into health, I was finally in the right state of mind to think about what I should do with my life.

So I asked myself what I would do for a living if I could do anything, and it was clear that writing had always been the answer. I guess having been down in a hole was mentally freeing in a way, although

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I don’t recommend it. This sounds like some kind of cheesy feel-good movie of the week, but it’s actually what happened!

I started taking some writing courses at the community college because it was within walking distance, and I didn’t want any excuses for not going. The profs were very generous and encouraging. Of course I wasn’t good at it right away, but I was so excited about learning how to get better. Also, I hadn’t had much of a sense of self, or of my own voice before then, and storytelling gave me both of those things. A lot of the stories I started then are in Bad Endings, and a lot of them are inspired by real life.

After leaving my marriage, I just kept plugging away. Working minimumwage jobs didn’t seem so bad when I was funding my writing time. I took a one-year course at the Writer’s Studio at Simon Fraser University and finished Bad Endings. In the meantime I worked as a bookseller and picked up freelance jobs

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as a book critic, and that helped me learn a lot about writing. Mostly I just wrote whenever I could. Slowly. Bad Endings took seven years to finish.

Do you have a writing philosophy that drives your work? Is there something behind each word written on the page that is always with you?

I’m not sure I have a philosophy exactly, but I do have a lot of opinions! I believe in using plain, unadorned language, saying what I need to say as economically as possible, and honoring the reader.

Although I’m not big on unnecessary exposition, I think a lot about what the reader needs in order to understand what’s going on inside the characters. My writing is definitely character driven. I also pay a lot of attention to moments when a little bit of comedy might be necessary. A good laugh in the middle of a tense or highly emotional moment can really take the pressure off!

I do try to use my writing for personal growth. Mostly to help find empathy for myself and for humanity in general. A lot of the stories in Bad Endings are about people behaving badly, myself included.

Since characters need clear motivations in order to be well-rounded and believable, I spend a lot of time thinking about why someone is behaving badly and I try to see both sides of the story. I have to love my characters in order to portray them honestly, so finding empathy for them is a must. If a character happens to be based on someone who treated me carelessly in real life, then trying to figure out why they acted that way allows me to forgive them.

Is there someone or something that you write for? Do you have an audience in mind when you’re writing?

Many Indigenous authors write with only an Indigenous audience in mind, and I really respect this, considering that the publishing world is dominated by white people, and many of them believe that only white audiences should be catered to. I’m a writer of mixed heritage, and I tend to write with Indigenous and non-Indigenous readers in mind, with the goal of building bridges between us. I am white coded, and there is a lot of privilege that comes from that, so I consider it my responsibility to use fiction as a way of building empathy and understanding in white readers who, frankly, still have a lot of trouble seeing Indigenous peoples as people. Stories create space for people to learn and grow, especially if you’re not wagging your finger at them. So I try to keep it subtle.

Do you reflect on how a publication—be it a book, short story, or poem—affects you personally? By this I mean, how does your writing practice help you grow as an individual?

energies, people, and things of the world around them?

This is the most important part of my work. I’m that weirdo in the corner at social events, watching everyone, soaking it all in. I think a lot about people. I build narratives around people I see every day on campus but don’t know personally.

That sounds creepy, I guess. I like to think of it as quirky and creative!

What you consider the most difficult aspect of your writing practice?

Well, to be honest, focus is the hardest part of my practice. I’m that writer with a zillion tabs open on my laptop, checking Twitter every five minutes. If I write something I’m really proud of, I post an excerpt on Facebook. I’ve been told that it might be a better idea to keep that energy inside myself instead of leaking it out via social media, but I’m not totally sure I buy into this. We all create differently. But man, I really wish I could spend hours focused inside my stories, instead of minutes.

There are magical times when it happens, like when the wi-fi goes down or a deadline is looming. I’m hoping my focus will improve as I get more experienced.

What is the best writing advice you ever received?

above Cover of Bad Endings (Anvil Press, 2017). opposite Carleigh Baker. Image courtesy of the author.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, so the same goes for me. I have to forgive myself for my mistakes in order to present the characters based on me in a wellrounded way. I’ve also had a lot of therapy to help with this, thank goodness. Writing can be therapeutic, but sometimes you need to bring in the big guns.

How important is it that a writer be a sponge of experience, soaking in the

There is so much crappy writing advice out there! And everyone contradicts each other, because writing is so personal! For me, “Write what you know” was the best writing advice, but that’s only because I’ve had a very generative life, conflict wise, and conflict fuels fiction. I’ve made a lot of big mistakes and lived to tell the tales.

People who lead boring, white-bread lives should probably not follow this advice.

I’m being a bit sassy there … I really respect writers who can fabricate entire worlds! How do they do that?

Let’s turn focus toward your recent short-story collection, Bad Endings.

The book reflects your relationship to the West Coast of Canada and especially to the natural world. Some of the characters you’ve created here fuse together with animals, including WINTER 2018/19 | 85

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salmon and bees, forging a kind of magical realism through dynamic symbolism. Moreover, it demonstrates how the tempo and obstacles of urban life can lead to exhaustion; that nature can function as a form of recovery; and the connection to nature is never lost but merely requires rediscovery. How did this collection come about, and why does its timing resonate among readers and critics?

I remember reading years ago that art is a unique expression of a common experience. I liked this so much I printed it out and taped it on my monitor. The stories in Bad Endings are filled with many specific details of my life, but I tried to present the scenarios as somewhat universal.

Not everyone deals with urban exhaustion specifically, but everyone gets burnt out sometimes and looks for healing by “getting away from it all.” Not everyone suffers from addiction, but I think it’s a pretty common human experience to feel out of control, knowing that clawing your way back to “normal” is going to take a lot of work. Anxiety and depression aren’t universal, but they are really common, and I suspect readers are drawn to stories where characters are wrestling with these issues.

Of course, there are bigger themes in the book, mostly around environmentalism. I write a lot about bees and salmon, rivers, and just water in general. My approach to writing about these issues in fiction is the soft sell: give readers enough information about something like colony collapse disorder to pique their interest, and hope they’ll Google it. I don’t like being lectured to, so I don’t lecture to my readers.

What strikes me about Bad Endings is how you employ humor to shape threads of hope. Can you talk about the importance of humor in your work?

Humor gets me through life, so it’s natural that it would be in my writing. I’m Métis and Icelandic—dark humor is in my blood. I’m the type to laugh when I’m out of my comfort zone, which is not to say I’m always upbeat. It’s just a coping mechanism.

My stories are a little dark, but I’m mindful of this as I write and make an effort to provide moments of laughter and hope for the reader. Also for myself, I guess. That’s me on the page a lot of the time!

Humor seems to be overlooked in terms of its deep importance to the human condition, no? Humor (and laughter) can teach us so much about ourselves and others, but yet it appears under valued in literar y culture and academia as an instrument or

We have to have a sense of humor or we’d never make it. methodology of critical thought and understanding.

Humor is definitely undervalued in academia, although I think there is a lot of (peer-reviewed) shade thrown in many of the Indigenous studies papers I’ve read.

No big surprise there; we have to have a sense of humor or we’d never make it.

Pushing back against dominant colonial ideologies is a 24/7 job and it’s exhausting.

I have so much respect for academics like Chelsea Vowel, Leanne Simpson, and Daniel Heath Justice. Come to think of it, they all also write fiction! Another couple of master fiction writers who use humor: Tracey Lindberg and Eden Robinson!

I also agree that humor is undervalued in literature, or in Canadian literature at least. Indigenous literature is full of humor, but it’s often dark—the best kind in my humble opinion. I do find that dark humor in Indigenous literatures is often misread as self-pity. I read a review of my book that called it depressing, and questioned why I would even write it. But even though the stories in Bad Endings are about bad situations, the only thing that got me through those situations was laughter. I think they’re hilarious! Feel free to laugh at me, or with me, but keep laughing. I’m paraphrasing here, but the brilliant Michif poet Samantha Marie Nock said “We’re Cree. We’ll laugh with

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you and then share our saddest stories.”

I’m on board with this.

What can be learned, or what do you take with you, from the accolades that you’ve received recently? Do they shape your current writing practice and your future trajectories?

The success of Bad Endings will undeniably shape my future, because big publishers are interested in my work now, and I have an agent. That’s exciting and nerve-wracking at the same time, not that I’m looking for sympathy. As cliché as it sounds, I’m trying to just keep my feet on the ground and keep writing. That’s all you can do, really. I don’t think any writers I know sit around patting themselves on the back after a big year. Your next book might suck. Also, when people are paying attention to what you have to say, there’s work to be done sharing and uplifting other Indigenous voices. Reviews and blurbs to write. It’s not all about me.

I’m very grateful that my first book received the recognition it did—there’s no guarantee when you send your little baby out there that anyone will notice or care. Plenty of good books don’t get the recognition they should, especially smallpress books. So I’m also grateful to Anvil Press for supporting me through it all.

Finally, do you have any upcoming projects planned?

My master’s thesis will be my next book.

It’s a memoir-fiction hybrid about a canoe trip I took through the Peel River Watershed a few years ago. It’s about identity, storytelling, and complicated relationships with family members, but it’s also about my belief that any environmental or conservation efforts must center the voices of Indigenous peoples.

Many conservation efforts in Canada have been used to displace Indigenous peoples and deny us fishing and hunting rights on our traditional territories. I believe that Indigenous land stewardship is vital, and ultimately, returning stolen land is the best hope for the environment.

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From the story collection

BAD ENDINGS excerpt from

“War of Attrition”

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by Carleigh Baker (Anvil Press, 2017)

Y MARRIAGE IS ENDING and it’s my fault. In the other room, Andrew is snoring. I’m on the couch. Here is the buttery weight of polar fleece on bare skin, the entire length of my body unblemished by a goose bump.

Try not to anticipate the cold. Squint at the dark window, listen for the rain, but only to harden against the inevitable. At five I get up: sweater, housecoat, slippers on the floor within reach. Pull them under the covers first. To turn on the gas fireplace is to risk making inside too comfortable. Kettle on while I dress for work: long underwear, fleece vest, wool sweater. Two layers of socks, even though that’s not a good idea. Cuts off circulation, Andrew says.

Shell pants. Rubber boots. An old snowboarding jacket that was never used for snowboarding, Scotchgarded. A toque, and over that, a Sou’wester, from when Andrew and I used to go sailing. Gloves with the fingers cut out. My last layer, the standard issue Metropolitan News vest with a pocket in the front for extra gloves and tissues, and a plastic panel in the back for today’s paper.

Stand at the window with a cup of tea I’ll only get a few sips into, and listen to Andrew. In the summer months, this time of day is clandestine and peaceful, but in the winter, it’s just lonely. It is raining—misting really—a wet that will sneak up on me as the morning progresses. Moisture will collect on the SkyTrain supports over my head and drop down when the trains pass. Hit me in the face when I look up.

Down four flights of stairs in my rubber boots. Our suite is top floor, looks over the neighbourhood with a peekaboo view of the river during the day. I’ll never afford something like this after I leave him.

There are seldom any SkyTrain cops on the first train of the day. They’ve never hassled me on the way home either; the Metropolitan vest seems to have some kind of cloaking effect. With it on, I’m at the bottom of the food chain where I belong. Lana taught me to always keep an expired ticket, just in case. She says they’re paying more attention to how guilty you look than the actual date on the ticket.

Lana is technically my rival; she hands out the 48 Hours paper. She’s good at working the system, which is very Russian of her, or at least that’s what she says. I haven’t met many Russians.

“Life is shit,” she says in a Doctor Zhivago brogue.

We’re pulling papers out of the morning stacks and folding them in half. “You marry doctor, move to Canada, then husband leave to have sex with nurses and you must marry butcher so you can stay. And for what? Canada. Is not so great here.”

—Carleigh Baker

excerpt from

“The Honey House”

M

ONDAY MORNING. Al is lugging beehive boxes into the truck three at a time.

“Ever done any sailing, Ember?” This question isn’t conversational; Al doesn’t do conversation. I’ve been at the honey farm one week and I know this. I study him and try to formulate the least stupid response. All I can come up with is the truth. “Once. But I got so seasick they had to take me home pretty quick.”

“Figures.” He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out some packing twine. “I’ll teach you a half hitch. You’ll be making a lot of ’em today.”

I nod. Al and I are going out to work with the bees.

Claire, his wife and usual assistant, needs to make some deliveries in Vancouver.

“Over, over, under, through. Easy.” Al ties the knot with practiced precision, while I race to keep up. He rolls his eyes when the knot comes apart in my hands. “Again,” he says. He spends a good five minutes with me and my jute, repeating an endless cycle of over, over, under, and through. There are beads of sweat forming on his brow when he finally throws up his hands.

“You’ll get the hang of it. Get in the truck.”

We’re going to build bear fences. They’ve been wreaking havoc on the hives in a few locations, looking for a free lunch. Just Al and I, alone for eight and a half hours. And the bees. Several thousand bees. Last week all I did was sweep the shop and scrape wax out of old hives.

No bees in sight.

Al and I drive a few kilometres out of town, towards Lower Madrona. Donna, my honey house co-worker, lives out here somewhere, in one of the trailer parks. Last week she mentioned a place where you could buy the best salmon jerky in town. Al and I turn off the main road by a corner store. BEST Salmon is scrawled in green paint across a piece of plywood, propped up against a burned-out barrel.

I assume that’s it.

Al’s truck kicks up a James Bond-like smokescreen of dust behind us as we drive past an old farmhouse. One side of the front porch seems to be sinking into the ground. A battered wicker rocking chair sits on the low side. I imagine it sliding there from the ground-level side, slowly but surely, unnoticed, like those mysterious moving rocks in Death Valley. An angry Rottweiler peels out from his doghouse and chases the truck for a few minutes, then disappears into the dust trail. Seriously pastoral stuff.

—Carleigh Baker WINTER 2018/19 | 87

COLLECTIONS

COLLECTIONS: GLENBOW MUSEUM

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LENBOW MUSEUM occupies an eight-stor y building in downtown Calgary (population 1.27 million).

Three floors are exhibition spaces.

Several years ago its board agreed upon a mandate defining the Glenbow as an art museum, although its collections include minerals, weapons, and objects/ephemera representing local history. A small staff with two curators, curatorial assistants, and collections technicians care for more than 200,000 items and create, on average, ten special exhibitions per year. Acting curator Joanne Schmidt oversees the Native North America collection, about 19,880 objects that are divided into Plains (especially Blackfoot and Cree), Inuit, Northwest (Kwakwaka’wakw, Nuu-chahnulth, and Haida), Métis, and “Other Indigenous Peoples” (Dene, Iroquois, Mi’kmaq, etc.). Currently, 248 items in the Native North American collection can be viewed online. Melanie Kjorlien manages

By Andrea L. Ferber, PhD the art collections, one of which is First Peoples with objects dated as recently as 1975. This includes Inuit sculptures and prints, as well as works by Alex Janvier (Denesuline-Saulteaux), Norval Morrisseau (Bingwi Neyaashi Ojibwe, 1932–2007), and Gerald Tailfeathers (Kainai, 1925–1975).

Glenbow opened when its blocky, concrete building was completed in 1976, ten years after oil magnate and philanthropist Eric Harvie donated his collection to the people of Alberta. As explained by the late curator Gerald Conaty, “The Glenbow Museum … is a not-for-profit organization that manages the collection for the Province, in exchange for an annual fee-for-service. It is a unique museum model in Canada.”1 Although Harvie’s interests were eclectic and included art from Africa, Asia, and South America, Western Canadian cultures and histories remain the museum’s focus today.

The collection was built partially from

donations but primarily from purchases.

During his tenure at Glenbow, Conaty oversaw the repatriation of many of these sacred items: During the 1960s and 1970s museum staff made collecting trips to First Nations communities in southern Saskatchewan and Alberta where they bought a variety of items, including sacred material, directly from the residents. Sometimes the reasons for selling were recorded and these range from a need for money to a concern that the sacred bundles were no longer safe, and that few people were learning the ancient traditions.2 The museum inadvertently found itself the center of great controversy over an exhibition it organized during the 1988 Winter Olympics. The Spirit Sings: Artistic Traditions of Canada’s First Peoples brought together about 650 First Nations and Inuit objects, many from foreign collections, in an effort to educate and

1. Gerald T. Conaty, “The Development of Museums and Their Effects on First Nations” in We Are Coming Home: Repatriation and Restoration of Blackfoot Cultural Confidence, ed. Gerald T. Conaty (Edmonton, AB: Athabasca University Press, 2015), 46.

2. Gerald T. Conaty, “The effects of repatriation on the relationship between the Glenbow Museum and the Blackfoot people,” Museum Management and Curatorship 23, no.

3 (September 2008): 247.

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COLLECTIONS

highlight Indigenous cultures of Canada to international audiences. Royal Dutch Shell’s sponsorship of the exhibition triggered protests because the company had been extracting oil in the territory of the Lubicon Lake Cree—a nation that has yet to be recognized by Canada with a treaty and land rights.3 Though no single issue in the complex situation was fully resolved, the debacle eventually resulted in significant, positive changes in museum policies and approaches involving various Indigenous communities. One of these was the creation of a Task Force on Museums and First Peoples by the Canadian Museums Association and the Assembly of First Nations, which produced a report in 1992 laying out specific steps on how museums could move forward inclusively and mindfully.

Gerald Conaty was hired as curator of ethnology in 1990 to improve Glenbow’s relationship with Indigenous nations. He summarized his significant contributions in the introduction to We Are Coming Home: Repatriation and Restoration of Blackfoot Cultural Confidence (2015), published two years after his passing. Explaining his approach, Conaty wrote, “Postcolonial theory recognizes the biases inherent in the accounts provided in many written records and leads us toward a history in which the disenfranchised and the illiterate are recognized as important components of society.”4 (One could easily replace “postcolonial theory” with “reconciliation” for a slightly more jargon-free summation).

Joanne Schmidt trained with Conaty as a volunteer in 2006 and became a collections technician in 2010. In her role today, she estimates half of her time is spent with local (primarily Niitsitapiisini) communities—she collects oral histories, assists individuals and groups viewing collections, accommodates and participates in ceremonies, does research in the Glenbow archives, and attends funerals for elders. “I work for the museum, but

my loyalty is with the people,” Schmidt explains.5 Glenbow’s relationship with its local Indigenous community has become a model for all museums. It requires daily, often difficult work for which there is sometimes no precedent. All requests for loans (usually for ceremonial purposes)

3. Julia D. Harrison, “ ‘The Spirit Sings’ and the Future of Anthropology,” Anthropology Today 4, no. 6 (December 1988): 6. Julia D. Harrison, former Glenbow curator of ethnology and curator of The Spirit Sings: Artistic Traditions of Canada’s First Peoples, reported that the museum was never contacted directly “to verify statements made by the Lubicon concerning the nature and purpose of the exhibition. Nor did the museum ever receive any written communication from the Lubicon. … The entire campaign was conducted through the media.”

4. Conaty, “The Development of Museums and Their Effects on First Nations,” 33.

5. Joanne Schmidt in discussion with the author, August 1, 2018.

above Sky Stories exhibit with a tipi based on an historic Siksika design, part of Niitsitapiisini: Our Way of Life, Glenbow Museum.

Photo: John Elk III, Alamy. opposite Installation view of Niitsitapiisini: Our Way of Life, in the Blackfoot Gallery, Glenbow Museum, Calgary, Alberta.

Photo: Daderot (CC0 1.0).

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above Unknown Kainai artist, Shirt with Tadpole Design, early 20th century, elk hide, porcupine quills, natural dyes, weasel pelts, glass beads, collection of Glenbow Museum, Calgary, Alberta. Photo: Daderot (CC0 1.0).

are handled on a case-by-case basis in consultation with a network of trusted personal contacts, primarily elders who served on the Glenbow’s Blackfoot Advisory Committee or Indigenous individuals on similar boards such as the Royal Alberta Museum’s Repatriation Committee.

Though over 251 sacred bundles or objects have been repatriated to Blackfoot caretakers and many more have been released to Cree and Blackfoot on longterm ceremonial loan, many remain at Glenbow for safekeeping. Some are visited, smudged, and fed daily. Blackfoot sacred bundles are kept separate from Cree sacred bundles, inaccessible to all

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except initiated individuals. Schmidt shared that she and the museum director recently had their faces painted in ceremony to protect them from the bundles, believed to be living ancestors. The bundles remain at Glenbow for a variety of reasons. Often elders determine the younger people requesting the bundles are not yet prepared to properly care for them. Some heirs trust their ancestors’ decision to part with a bundle and believe it is safer inside the museum. Decisions surrounding return or placement of Indigenous items in museums must be considered individually and contextually.

There will never be a blanket resolution for these highly complex and subjective situations.

Beyond repatriation, several Glenbow initiatives demonstrate the exciting potential for different collaborations. Sheldon First Rider is one of six Blackfoot museum educators who have developed custom programs on Blackfoot language, culture, and residential schools for various audiences. Calgary Police Services (CPS) invited Joanne Schmidt to create a display in their headquarters as part of a cultural awareness initiative for their members, and Glenbow also hosts cultural sensitivity workshops for the CPS, among other groups. In 2010 the museum established an artist-in-residence program that hosts one artist per year.

This year Albertine Crow Shoe (Piikani) was selected for the position, the first woman and the first Indigenous woman to do so. She studies parfleche bags, fleshers, awls, and other items in collections, which inspire her jewelry designs.

One of the largest projects was the creation of a permanent exhibition on and by the local Blackfoot. Nearly half of the third floor (12,000 square feet) is dedicated to Niitsitapiisini: Our Way of Life.

Completed in 2001, the exhibition is the result of a four-year collaboration among gallery staff led by curators Gerald Conaty, Beth Carter, and 18 Blackfoot scholars including Allan Pard (Aapátohsipikáni, ca. 1951–2016) and Frank Weasel Head (Kainai, 1938–2015). The galleries are constructed to look like the outdoors: winding, hilly paths lead one through a faux landscape with trees and a starry sky.

MEMORIAL

Excellent didactics explain all aspects of life before settler-colonists forced the people onto reservations. Visitors can listen to audio in English or Blackfoot. The trauma and long-term effects of residential schooling are reiterated, yet so is cultural resilience. Easily overlooked but most remarkable for this author was the display of Iinisskimm—buffalo calling stones, often part of sacred bundles. These were acceptable to show because they had never been used in ceremony. Numerous informational handouts throughout the galleries offer deeper explanations of particular items as well as nearby sites such as Old Woman’s Buffalo Jump and Utsitakakspi (Old Man’s Gambling Place). One can learn more about daily life and worldviews on an accompanying interactive website, available in Blackfoot, English, and French.6 Shell Canada is a major sponsor of this long-term exhibition. Schmidt says that although the issue of natural resource extraction and ownership remains controversial, many things have changed in both corporate and Indigenous communities’ understandings and approaches to the debate in recent decades.

There will never be consensus, but in Canada (perhaps more so than the United States), corporations acknowledge they should work with local communities for permission and subsequent economic development. Some Indigenous leaders advise corporate boards and recognize the possibility for growth. The company’s sponsorship of the Niitsitapiisini exhibition will not cleanse their image for many; however, Albertans know their arts have been funded almost exclusively from oil and gas revenues. Schmidt notes that in light of the recent economic downturn, funding sources are becoming more diverse.

In 2008, Enbridge and Suncor Energy supported an exhibition and accompanying publication titled Honouring Tradition: Reframing Native Art. Glenbow invited artist Frederick R. McDonald (Woodland Cree) to select items from the collection, then asked Mekwun Awisi (Joe Deschamps) (Nêhiyawak [Plains Cree]), Allan Pard, Rosie Firth (Gwich’in), and many of the artists for their insights on the objects. Honouring Tradition included over 40 artists from several regional collections.

Most works were made after the 19th century, but one of the oldest sculptures was a bison figure from the Northern Plains carved from green quartzite around 1200. Cradle (1992) by Faye HeavyShield (Kainai) is powerful in its subtleties. Of the work, the artist wrote, “For a world that continues to believe that the noble savage is still up for adoption: the cradle is empty. The aged child stands beside you, with teeth, with voice, with song.”

In a gallery featuring new acquisitions, Whalebone Carving (late 1970s) by Abraham Anghik Ruben (Inuvialuk) stands out for its size and ambiguity. Added stones and bones create numerous eyes and teeth, with the effect that multiple faces pop out from all angles. Comparable in some ways to work by Isamu Noguchi, Ruben’s dynamic sculpture demonstrates the impossibility of defining “Indigenous art,” and its placement in one of the nation’s largest collections reflects Glenbow’s ongoing support for Indigenous artists.

6. “Niitsitapiisini: Our Way of Life,” Glenbow Museum, 2018, http://glenbow.org/ blackfoot.

DUGAN AGUILAR August 8, 1947–October 6, 2018

H

IS CRISP, BLACK-AND-WHITE PHOTOS gave the world a vibrant, compassionate, and au courant vision of Indigenous peoples of California. For 40 years Robert Dugan Aguilar (Maidu-Northern PaiuteAchomawi) reflected back the people and natural scenes of his California homelands. His photographs have been exhibited throughout the United States and internationally, published in books and periodicals, and are held in public collections, such as Princeton University, Autry Museum of the American West, and British Museum. For 30 years Aguilar served as staff photographer for the California Indian Basketweavers’ Association and California Indian Storytelling Association. From the heart of Indian Country, Aguilar created a visual testimony “to show that we as California Native people are alive and well.”1 Aguilar was born in Susanville, California, to Virginia and Bob Aguilar. There he grew up in an intertribal community and regularly participated in the Bear Dance. He earned an industrial technology and design degree from California State University, Fresno, in 1973. A pivotal moment occurred that same year when Aguilar visited an Ansel Adams exhibition at the Legion of Honor in San Francisco. The immense, black-and-white photographs of nature transfixed the young man, and he became determined to become a photographer. Aguilar enrolled in the University of Nevada, Reno, to study photography.

While he worked as a graphic artist for 30 years at the Sacramento Bee, Aguilar was able to refine his skills and hone his artistic voice. Ultimately he became respected as one of the leading Native American photographers. As Tlingit-Nisga’a photographer Larry McNeil told the Santa Monica Times, “Dugan’s photography embodies the ancient spirits of giving and sharing: it’s visual poetry that resonates through time with the land and the people gently, yet assertively.… Beautiful and insightful photographic storytelling for all people of the world.”2 Twenty-eight of Aguilar’s photographs are featured in a multiyear, statewide retrospective, She Sang Me a Good Luck Song: The California Indian Photographs of Dugan Aguilar.

While showcasing his eye for natural settings and architectural elements, the exhibition focuses on Aguilar’s portraits—young, old, urban, rural, in ceremonies, working, relaxing. His photographs reflect the diversity and beauty of Native California.

On October 6, 2018, Aguilar walked on from Elk Grove, California. He leaves a legacy of publications, including the catalogue, She Sang Me A Good Luck Song, and his photographs in The Dirt Is Red Here, Deeper Than Gold, Weaving a California Tradition, and News from Native California magazine, which will allow future generations to discover his unique, artistic vision.

—America Meredith 1. Victoria Dalkey, “Reflections of a People: Keeper of a Flame,” Sacramento Bee (August 18, 2001), web.

2. “ ‘She Sang Me a Good Luck Song’: Photographs of Dugan Aguilar Exhibition at the DANA Adobe Cultural Center,” Santa Maria Times (June 14, 2018), web.

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SPOTLIGHT

SPOTLIGHT: EVERY ONE Cannupa Hanska Luger (Mandan-Hidatsa-Arikara-Lakota), Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, Queer, and Trans People Bead Project: Every One, 2018, social engagement and sculptural installation comprising 4,000 ceramic beads (each two inches diameter); ceramic, ink, nylon, rope. Photos: Neebinnaukzhik Southall (Rama Chippewa).

A

SPIRIT OF EXPERIMENTATION across media marks the work of Cannupa Hanska Luger (MandanHidatsa-Arikara-Lakota). His installation, Every One, formed by the labor of many hands, delves into the realm of relational art and aims to expose gendered violence committed against Native peoples. Every One debuted in the exhibition Lazy Stitch at the University of Colorado, Colorado Springs, Galleries of Contemporary Art from May 3 to July 21, 2018, and was more recently installed at the Museum of International Folk Art from August 11 to September 16, 2018, where I saw the piece on display.

At twelve feet wide, the work was a centerpiece of the museum’s expansive atrium. Based on a photographic portrait Sister (2016) by Kali Spitzer (Kaska Dena), Every One is composed of white and grey clay beads, each roughly two inches in diameter, strung in 64 vertical rows. Together the beads form a pixel-like image of a woman’s face on a white background. The placement of the piece suggests that the woman is gazing toward the light streaming in through the atrium’s ceiling windows—conveying a sense of hope.

A print of Spitzer’s Sister joined Every One on a nearby wall, along with an artist statement and credit panel for Every One, and labels for the two pieces. Through a set of headphones, attendees could listen to a hip-hop track and a spoken word piece, which deals with the issues of missing and murdered Indigenous women. Unfortunately, the musician was not credited and transcriptions were unavailable. A 2017 quilted piece

by Susan Hudson (Navajo), MMIW Since 1492 (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women Since 1492) resided on the other side of the doorway. The quilt features stitched writing and four panels with representations of Native women’s outfits left behind by missing women. These additions lend multiple voices to the conversation initiated by the main installation.

Every One built upon Luger’s community collaborative project, Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, Queer and Trans People Bead Project (MMIWQT Bead Project). More than four thousand ceramic beads in Every One were sculpted by individuals belonging to diverse organizations, institutions, and communities across the United States and Canada. The irregular shapes of the clay balls show the personal touch of each participant. I was surprised to see that Oregon State University, my alma mater, was named on the credit panel, through the participation of people at the Native American Longhouse Eena Haws, the Women’s Center, and the Pride Center.

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By Neebinnaukzhik Southall

SPOTLIGHT

On February 24, 2018, I had a chance to make several beads at a session at the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture. Cannupa’s mother, Kathy Whitman-Elk Woman, smudged participants as we entered the room. The event provided a relaxed, communal atmosphere, where participants of diverse backgrounds and ages interacted.

With the MMIWQT Bead Project, Luger follows a similar approach established by other art projects in raising awareness of the pressing issue of violence against Native people. In many ways, these large-scale artistic actions tie Indigenous people together across borders as we confront shared issues affecting our communities and also build connections with non-Native peoples. Michif organizer Christi Belcourt’s Walking with Our Sisters, first exhibited in 2013, includes over 1,763 decorated moccasin vamps made by participants in Canada and the United States, as well as several other countries. Sing Our Rivers Red, first exhibited in 2015, displays more than 3,406 unpaired earrings donated by participants in Canada and the United States. The

vamps and earrings, like the beads in Luger’s piece, represent missing and murdered Native women. While the number of beads in the installation are specifically drawn from statistics of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls in Canada, Luger further recognizes that colonial gender violence has also targeted queer and transgender Indigenous people.

On September 14, 2018, Every One served as a gathering point for individuals to observe a moment of silence for Black transgender women murdered in 2018, in solidarity with #Time4BlackTransWomen. Violence toward women, girls, queer people, transgender people, Indigenous people, and other people of color is endemic to the societies in which we live. Projects such as Every One prompt reflection and conversation about these issues. How can we better keep everyone safe and hold our communities accountable?

Every One is on view at the Museum of Arts and Design, New York, New York, through March 17, 2019.

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CALENDAR November 4, 2018–October 6, 2019: Santa Fe, NM LIT: The Work of Rose B. Simpson and Old Man Looking Backward: Bob Haozous at the Wheelwright Museum of the American Indian, 704 Camino Lejo | (505) 982-4636 | wheelwright.org November 9–December 22: Bemidji, MN Mazinigwaaso: She Stitches Fancy at Watermark Art Center, 505 Bemidji Avenue North | (218) 444-7570 | watermarkartcenter.org November 13, 2018–February 11, 2019: Água Verde, Curitiba, Brazil Bancos Indígenas do Brasil at the Museu de Arte Indígena, Av. Água Verde, 1413 | +55 41 3121-2395 | maimuseu.com.br November 15–December 15: Norman, OK Attack Along the Washita at the Sam Noble Oklahoma Museum of Natural History, 2401 Chautauqua Avenue (405) 325-4712 | samnoblemuseum.ou.edu November 16, 2018–February 8, 2019: Minneapolis, MN Tamara Aupaumut + Jeremy Pomani at Two Rivers Gallery, 1530 E. Franklin Avenue | (612) 879-1780 | tworiversarts.com

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November 17, 2018–February 10, 2019: Flagstaff, AZ Transcending Duality: The Santa Fe Studio Style at the Museum of Northern Arizona, 3101 N. Fort Valley Road (928) 774-5213 | musnaz.org

Sculpture | Prints | Jewelry |Beadwork |Baskets

November 23–25: Collinsville, IL 14th annual Native American Holiday Market at Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site, 30 Ramey Street (618) 346-5160 | cahokiamounds.org

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December 3, 2018–May 13, 2019: New York, NY Artistic Encounters with Indigenous America at the Met Fifth Avenue, 1000 5th Avenue | (212) 535-7710 | metmuseum.org

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December 3 & 4: New York, NY, and Washington, DC NMAI Art Market at the National Museum of the American Indian, 4th Street and Independence Avenue SW, Washington, DC, and National Museum of the American Indian George Gustav Heye Center, 1 Bowling Green, New York, NY | americanindian.si.edu/artmarket December 8: Orono, ME Maine Indian Basketmakers Holiday Market at the Hudson Museum, Collins Center for the Arts, University of Maine, featuring 50 Wabanaki basket makers | (207) 581-1904 | umaine.edu/hudsonmuseum December 8: Victor, NY Native American Winter Arts Festival at the Seneca Art & Cultural Center, 7000 County Road 41 | (585) 398-6151 | ganondagan.org December 8–10: Quitilipi, Argentina 41st annual Feria de Artesanía Aborigen Chaqueña René James Sotelo and 7th annual Fiesta Nacional de Arte Indígena at the Museo Artesanal René James Sotelo, Av. 25 de Mayo 479, more than 500 artists +54 9 0362 480-3563 | +54 9 0364-455-7123 museoartesanalrjs@gmail.com | facebook.com/events/534580326911031

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December 14–16: Santa Fe, NM SWAIA Winter Indian Market at La Fonda on the Plaza, 100 E. San Francisco Street | (505) 983-5220 | swaia.org December 15: Oklahoma City, OK FAAM No. 21 Launch Party at OKCanna, 12415 N. Rockwell Avenue, 2:00–4:00 pm. Free and open to the public!

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FEB 7-10, 2019

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FEB 16-17, 2019 Marin Center | San Rafael, CA

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December 15: Santa Fe, NM IAIA Annual Holiday Market at the Balzer Gallery and painting studio, IAIA Campus, 83 Avan Nu Po Road | (505) 424-5704 | iaia.edu

January 25–27: Fountain Hills, AZ Fountain Hills Indian Market at Fountain Park, 12925 N. Saguaro Boulevard | (480) 488-2014 | carefreeazfestivals.com

December 15 & 16: Cambridge, MA Cultural Survival Bazaar at the Prudential Center, 800 Boylston Street (617) 441-5400 x15 | bazaar.culturalsurvival.org

January 25–July 19: Santa Fe, NM Art for a New Understanding: Native Voices, 1950s to Now at the IAIA Museum of Contemporary Native Arts, 108 Cathedral Place (505) 983-1666 | iaia.edu/iaia-museum-of-contemporary-native-arts

December 21–23: Boston, MA Cultural Survival Bazaar at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School, 459 Broadway | (617) 441-5400 x15 | bazaar.culturalsurvival.org January 12: St. Paul, MN Rosy Simas Danse presents Weave at the Ordway Theater, 345 Washington Street | (651) 224-4222 | ordway.org January 12–February 23: Montreal, QC Nadia Myre: Code Switching and Other Work at Art Mûr, 5826 Rue StHubert | +1 (514) 933-0711 | artmur.com January 18–20: Cave Creek, AZ Cave Creek Indian Market at Stagecoach Village | vermillionpromotions.com January 19: Anchorage, AK World Music Celebration Day at Alaska Native Heritage Center, 8800 Heritage Center Drive | (907) 330-8000 | alaskanative.net January 19–May 12: Seattle, WA yəhaw̓ Show, celebrating the depth and diversity of Indigenous Art made in the Pacific Northwest at King Street Station, 303 S. Jackson Street (253) 336-6477 | yehawshow.com January 24–March 24: Nacogdoches, TX Caddo Contemporary: Present and Relevant at the Cole Art Center, The Old Opera House, Stephen F. Austin University, 329 E. Main Street 936) 468-1131 | art.sfasu.edu/galleries

January 26: Norman, OK Fingerweaving Workshop, taught by Kelley Lunsford (Chickasaw), at the First American Art Magazine office, 1005 N. Flood Avenue #100, $25 fee, supplies provided | firstamericanartmagazine.com January 26: Phoenix, AZ Away from Home: American Indian Boarding School Stories at Heard Museum, 2301 N. Central Avenue, (602) 252-8840 | heard.org/exhibits January 26–April 14: Bend, OR Rick Bartow: Things You Know but Cannot Explain at High Desert Museum, 59800 US-97 | (541) 382-4754 | highdesertmuseum.org/bartow January 26, 2019–April 2021: Marco Island, FL Paradise Found: 6,000 Years of People on Marco Island at the Marco Island Historical Society, 180 S. Heathwood Drive | (239) 389-6447 | themihs.info February 1 & 2: Elko, NV 15th annual Great Basin Native Market at the Historic Girl Scout’s House, 561 14th Street, contact Lois Whitney (775) 340-9897 or Dona Ortiz at (775) 340-8379 | whiteknifeshoshone.com February 1–April 6: Juneau, AK Donald Varnell: The Crybabies at the Alaska State Museum, 395 Whittier Street | (907) 465-2901 | museums.alaska.gov/asm WINTER 2018/19 | 95

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February 3, 2019–January 5, 2020: Calgary, AB Artist In Residence: Albertine Crow Shoe at Glenbow Museum, 130 9th Avenue SE | +1 (403) 268-4100 | glenbow.org February 7, 2019–January 2020: Washington, DC Section 14: The Other Palm Springs at National Museum of the American Indian, 4th Street & Independence Avenue SW (202) 633-1000 | nmai.si.edu February 8–May 12: Oklahoma City, OK The Bison Exhibit at National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum, 1700 NE 63rd Street | (405) 478-2250 | nationalcowboymuseum.org February 9–May 5: Portland, OR the map is not the territory at Portland Art Museum, 1219 SW Park Avenue | (503) 266-2811 | portlandartmuseum.org February 13–July 26: Santa Fe, NM Live Long and Prosper: Images of Science Fiction in Native American Art at the IAIA Museum of Contemporary Native Arts, 108 Cathedral Place | (505) 983-8900 | iaia.edu/museum

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February 14-June 21: Minneapolis, MN Bring Her Home: Stolen Daughters of Turtle Island at All My Relations Gallery, 1414 E. Franklin Avenue | (612) 235-4970 | allmyrelationsarts.com February 16: Anchorage, AK Intertribal Gathering at the Alaska Native Heritage Center, 8800 Heritage Center Drive | (907) 330-8000 | alaskanative.net February 16 & 17: San Rafael, CA 35th annual American Indian Art Show | Marin at Marin Center, 10 Avenue of the Flags | (949) 280-6551 | marinshow.com February 16–TBA: Spokane, WA Povungnituk: Inuit Art at Northwest Museum of Arts and Culture, 2316 W. First Avenue | (509) 456-3931 | northwestmuseum.org February 28–March 2: Fairbanks, AK 46th annual Festival of Native Arts at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks (907) 474-6528 | fna.community.uaf.edu February 28–May 12: Seattle, WA Jeffrey Gibson: Like a Hammer at the Seattle Art Museum, 1300 First Avenue | (206) 645-3100 | seattleartmuseum.org March 2 & 3: Phoenix, AZ 61st annual Heard Museum Guild Indian Fair & Market at the Heard Museum, 2301 N. Central Avenue | (602) 252-8840 | heardguild.org March 2–June 2: Jackson, MS Visual Voices: Contemporary Chickasaw Art at the Mississippi Museum of Art, 380 S. Lamar Street | (601) 960-1515 | chickasawartists.com March 7–9: Lindsborg, KS Stories from the Land: Indigenous Voices Connecting within the Great Plains, symposium and exhibition sponsored by First American Art Magazine and Bethany College, 335 E. Swensson Street info@firstamericanartmagazine.com | firstamericanartmagazine.com March 9–11: El Prado, NM 7th annual Taos Pueblo Art Winter Show at the Millicent Rogers Museum, 1504 Millicent Rogers Road | (575) 758-2462 | millicentrogers.org March 16–September 16: New York, NY T.C. Cannon: At the Edge of America at National Museum of the American Indian George Gustav Heye Center, One Bowling Green (212) 514–3700 | nmai.si.edu/visit/newyork For more events, visit our online calendar at FIRSTAMERICANARTMAGAZINE.COM/CALENDAR

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Self-Portrait, Rose B. Simpson, 2016. Photo: Addison Doty

Old Man Looking Backward, Bob Haozous, 2017. Photo: Addison Doty

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