Threading Memories
Tracing the community and generational ties of a unique media.
In 1970s Qamani’tuaq (Baker Lake), NU, a group of talented seamstresses invented a vital new art form called nivingajuliat, or wall hangings. Five decades on, Krista Ulujuk Zawadski considers how these remarkable and beloved works on cloth continue to record personal stories that have often been marginalized in the canonical art history of the region.
1970- ᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᕐᑎᒥᑦ, ᐊᕐᓇᐃᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᑎᒻᒪᕆᐅᔪᑦ ᐱᒋᐊᖅᑎᑦᑎᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᑦ ᓂᕕᖓᑕᓕᐊᕐᒥᑦ. ᐅᑭᐅᑦ 50 ᐊᓂᒍᖅᓯᒪᓕᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᑭᕆᔅᑕ ᐅᓗᔪᒃ ᔭᕙᑦᔅᑭ ᖃᐅᔨᓇᓱᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖅ ᖃᓄᖅ ᐱᐅᔪᒻᒪᕆᐊᓗᐃᑦ ᐊᒻᒪ ᑭᒃᑯᓕᒫᓂᒃ ᐱᐅᒋᔭᐅᔪᑦ ᑐᑭᓕᐅᖅᑎᐊᖃᑦᑕᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᑕᒪᐅᖓ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᖅᑕᓄᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᑕᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᑕᐅᓪᓗᑎᒡᓗ ᓄᓇᓕᖓᓐᓄᑦ ᐱᔭᐅᓯᒪᓪᓗᑎᒃ.
Sewing for Inuit has always been the basis of our culture, our roots and our worldview. Sewing nourishes our lives with warm clothing, it strengthens our traditions by providing opportunities to share knowledge and opens an avenue for meaningful memory-making with our families. Sewing provides a way for transmitting our culture, stories and values to younger generations—threading our lives together in the intergenerational tapestry of Inuit life. Sewing is a cornerstone of our language, culture and values; it has been, and still is, a strong component of our lives.
Our sewing tradition sits outside of our experience with settlercolonialism. It is maintained by the value placed on it by Inuit who teach the skills to younger generations. Sewing is often one of the first things you learn as a young person in Nunavut. I learned to sew as a young girl in Igluligaarjuk (Chesterfield Inlet), NU, where we were taught basic stitches at home and in school, and the stitches have stuck with me since. Even today I continue to use the same stitches I learned back then, and I revel in seeing my children, nieces and nephews learn the same skills at home. Among my first grade-school projects were mitts and a nivingajuliat (wall hanging), and when I completed the nivingajuliat—with my signature “K. Oolooyuk” stitched at the bottom corner like all nivingajuliat artists do—I gleefully sent it to my grandparents in Winnipeg. I wanted to share with them my enthusiasm for learning new skills and to showcase aspects of my culture that bridge the gaps between generations and between cultures. This is the social life of nivingajuliat; sewing is the basis of Inuit upbringing and life— and by extension so are nivingajuliat and other forms of sewn art.
Qamani’tuaq (Baker Lake), NU, has a long art history, one rooted in the legacies of ancestors’ traditional work on clothing, tools and oral histories, and these skills have formed the pillar of the more recently developed commercial art production in the community. Benefitting from government crafts programs and early exhibitions, the community opened a print shop in 1963 that began producing an annual print collection and today it continues to support a fruitful carving scene known for the beautiful black sheen of its polished hard rock.¹ As southern arts and crafts officers arrived in the community in the 1960s, facilitating workshops in collaboration with Inuit artists, the nivingajuliat movement began taking shape. Women
ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᑕᐃᒪᖓᓕᒫᖅ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᕗᖅ, ᑐᖓᕕᒋᓪᓗᑎᒍᓪᓗ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓯᓚᕐᔪᐊᓕᒫᒧᑦ ᑕᐅᑐᒍᑎᒋᓪᓗᑎᒍᑦ. ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᐅᖅᑰᔪᓂᒃ ᐊᓐᓄᕋᓕᐅᕈᑎᒋᕙᒃᑕᕗᑦ, ᓴᖏᔾᔪᑎᒋᓪᓗᑎᒍᓪᓗ ᐱᐅᓯᑐᖃᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ, ᓲᕐᓗ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᑕ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᑦᑎᐊᕐᓂᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᒪᑐᐃᕈᑕᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᑐᑭᖃᑦᑎᐊᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᔾᔪᑕᐅᔪᓐᓇᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐃᓚᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ. ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᓲᕐᓗ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ, ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᐸᒃᑕᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᓐᓂᕆᔭᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᑐᓂᔾᔪᑎᒋᔪᓐᓇᕋᑦᑎᒍᑦ ᓲᕐᓗ ᓄᕕᓯᔾᔪᑎᒋᓪᓗᑎᒍᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖓᖏᓐᓄᑦ. ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᑐᖓᕕᒋᔭᐅᕗᖅ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ, ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᑦᑎᓐᓄᓪᓗ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᓐᓂᕆᔭᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ; ᑕᐃᒪᖓᓂᑐᖄᓗᒃ ᐃᓅᓯᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᒫᓐᓇᒧᑦ ᑎᑭᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐃᓚᒋᔭᐅᕗᖅ. ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕗᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᖏᑦᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᒃᑐᖅᑕᐅᔪᓐᓇᖏᑦᑐᖅ. ᑕᐃᒪᖓᓂᑐᖄᓗᒃ ᐱᖁᑎᒋᔭᐅᖏᓐᓇᖅᐳᖅ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᖅᑎᑦᑎᕙᖕᓂᖏᑦᑎᒍᑦ ᒪᒃᑯᖕᓂᖅᓴᐅᔪᓄᑦ ᐃᓅᖃᑎᒥᓄᑦ. ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᓯᕗᓪᓕᐅᑎᑕᐅᖏᓐᓇᐅᔭᖅᑐᖅ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᒻᒥᑦ. ᒥᖅᓱᕆᐅᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖓ ᒪᒃᑯᒃᑐᑯᓘᓪᓗᖓ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᒑᕐᔪᖕᒥᑦ, ᐃᒡᓗᑦᑎᓐᓂ ᐱᒋᐊᖅᖢᑕ ᐊᔪᕐᓇᖏᑦᑐᓂᒃ ᐃᓕᑦᑎᕙᓚᐅᖅᐳᒍᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᑦ ᐊᖏᕐᕋᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᕕᖕᒥᓗ, ᑕᐃᒪᖓᓂᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᑦᑎᐊᓕᓚᐅᖅᐳᖓ. ᐅᓪᓗᒥᓕ ᓱᓕ ᐃᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔭᓐᓂᒃ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᒃᑐᖓ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᖁᕕᐊᒋᔭᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᑕᑯᕙᒃᑐᖓ ᕿᑐᕐᖓᓐᓄᑦ, ᓄᐊᓐᓄᓪᓗ, ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᐃᓕᓴᐃᔾᔪᑕᐅᕙᒃᑐᖅ ᐊᖏᕐᕋᑦᒥ. ᓯᕗᓪᓕᕐᒥᒃ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᓕᓵᖅᖢᖓ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᕆᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔭᕋ ᐳᐊᓗᓕᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᓂᒃ, ᐱᐊᓂᒃᑲᒃᑯ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᖅ—ᐊᑎᓕᐅᖅᖢᖓᓗ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᖢᖑ ᐃᒪᓐᓇ “ᑭ. ᐅᓗᖅ” ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑐᑎᑐᑦ ᐱᓪᓗᖓ—ᐊᒃᓱᐊᓗᒃ ᖁᕕᐊᓱᒃᓗᖓ ᓇᒃᓯᐅᑎᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔭᕋ ᐃᑦᑐᓐᓄ ᐊᓇᓇᑦᑎᐊᓐᓄᓪᓗ ᐅᐃᓂᐸᐃᒥᐅᑕᓄᑦ, ᑕᑯᖁᓪᓗᒋ ᖁᕕᐊᒋᔭᓐᓂᒃ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᓚᐅᕐᓂᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᑯᖁᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᖃᓄᖅ ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᖏᓐᓇᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ. ᑖᓐᓇ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᖅ; ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᐱᒋᐊᕈᑕᐅᕙᒃᑐᖅ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᐱᕈᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᔪᓄᑦ— ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᑦᑎᐊᖅᐳᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᕙᖕᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᓯᕈᓘᔭᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᕙᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒧᑦ. ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᖅ ᐊᑯᓂᐊᓗᒃ ᑕᑯᔭᒐᒃᓴᓂᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᔾᔪᑎᖃᖅᐳᑦ, ᑐᖓᕕᖃᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᓯᕗᓪᓕᕕᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐱᐅᓯᑐᖃᕐᒥᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᕙᓚᐅᖅᑐᓂᒃ, ᓴᓇᕐᕈᑎᖏᑦᑎᒍᓪᓗ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓂᒃᑲᐅᓯᖏᑦᑎᒍᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᓴᓇᔪᓐᓇᑦᑎᐊᕐᓂᖏᑦᑎᒍᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᕆᔭᐅᓕᖅᐳᑦ ᐅᓪᓗᒥᐅᓕᖅᑐᖅ ᓴᓇᖑᐊᖅᐸᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᓄᓇᓕᖏᓐᓂᑦ. ᐃᑲᔪᖅᑕᐅᓪᓗᑎᒡᓗ ᒐᕙᒪᒃᑯᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᑯᔭᒐᒃᓴᐅᔪᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᕙᒃᖢᑎᒃ, ᑕᐃᒪᐃᓐᓂᖓᓄᑦ ᓄᓇᓕᒃ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᖅ ᒪᑐᐃᖅᓯᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᕐᕕᖕᒥᑦ ᑎᑎᕋᐅᔭᖅᓯᒪᔪᓂᒡᓗ ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂ 1963- ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᒪᑐᐃᖅᓯᒪᓕᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᓴᓇᕙᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᑦ ᐊᕐᕌᒍᑕᒪᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᒃᓴᓂᒃ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᑎᑎᕋᐅᔭᖅᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓪᓗᒥᒧᑦ ᑎᑭᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᕙᒃᑭᕗᑦ ᓴᓇᖑᐊᓂᒃ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᓴᓇᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ ᕿᕐᓂᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐅᒃᑯᓯᒃᓴᓂᒃ ᐅᔭᖅᑲᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᕿᓪᓕᖅᓱᖅᓯᒪᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐱᐅᓯᑦᑎᐊᖅᐸᒃᑐᑦ. ¹ ᑕᐃᒪᓕ
were taking the sewing skills learned at home, honed while making beautiful clothing for their families, and applying them to the production of art. Although artists experimented with different art forms, the focus has always been on sharing stories.
In spite of the histories often accompanied by settler perspectives, nivingajuliat are a vibrant way to narrate Inuit stories and traditions, encoded with culture and language in the art form. The stitches in these textiles represent the multi-layered art history of Qamani’tuaq but also transfer the value and legacy of the practice of sewing within Inuit culture and history. Untitled (1979) by Jessie Kenalogak takes on this charge didactically, creating a sort of artful instruction manual for living on the land, which highlights the importance of passing on Inuit knowledge to younger generations. In Untitled, the words “In 1940/ Inuk Tent/ Made From/ Tukto Skin/ and Sinew” are stitched around two bright pink tents in the centre, both tents held up with the shapes of caribou bones. The inventory of materials and the call to the past emphasizes the need to perpetuate this knowledge through the art itself.
Nivingajuliat are equally important for the unique and often gendered narratives they capture. Nivingajuliat are primarily created by women, offering glimpses into their lives and telling stories from their perspectives—stories that might otherwise be excluded from tangible records.² The unique opportunity afforded by these works, to engage with a female-dominated art form, is one that I gravitate toward because I can often personally relate to the art, the stories and the emotions that are being shared.
ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᓂᒃ ᑎᑭᑦᑐᖃᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖅ ᓄᓇᓕᖕᒧᑦ 1960- ᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ, ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᖅᑎᑦᑎᓪᓗᑎᒡᓗ ᐱᖃᑎᖃᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᐃᓄᖕᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᓂᒃ, ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᐱᒋᐊᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᑦ. ᑕᐃᒪᓕ ᐊᕐᓇᐃᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᓕᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᑦ ᐃᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔭᖏᓐᓂ ᐊᖏᕐᕋᒥᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᖃᐅᔨᔾᔪᑎᒋᓚᐅᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᐊᓐᓄᕌᓕᐅᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᐃᓚᒥᓂᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᑐᕈᑎᒋᓕᖅᖢᓂᔾᔪᒃ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᑦ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᑦ ᐊᔾᔨᒌᖏᑦᑐᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᐅᓂᒃᑲᐅᓯᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᕈᑎᖃᐃᓐᓇᐅᔭᖅᑐᑦ. ᑎᑭᑕᐅᕙᒃᑲᓗᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓂᒃ, ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔾᔪᑕᐅᕗᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐅᓂᒃᑲᐅᓯᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐱᐅᓯᑐᖃᖏᓐᓂᒡᓗ, ᐃᓚᖃᕆᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᑐᖃᖏᓐᓂᒡᓗ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᓂᕕᖓᑕᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑕᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᕆᕗᑦ ᐊᒥᓱᓂᒃ ᐱᐅᓯᕆᔭᐅᔪᓂᒃ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᕐᒥᑦ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᑎᒎᓇᖅ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᑕᖏᑦᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐱᐅᓯᕆᔭᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑕᐃᒡᒍᓯᖃᖖᒋᑦᑐᖅ (1979) ᓴᓇᔭᐅᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᖅ ᔭᓯ ᑭᓇᓗᒐᕐᒧᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᖅᐳᑦ ᓄᓇᒥᐅᑕᐅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ, ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇ ᓴᓇᓯᒪᔪᑦ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓘᖕᒪᑕ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᓄᑲᖅᖠᐅᔪᓄᑦ ᑐᓂᔭᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ. ᑕᕝᕙᓂ ᑕᐃᒡᒍᓯᖃᖖᒋᑦᑐᖅ, ᐅᖃᐅᓯᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᔪᑦ “1940- ᒥᑦ/ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑐᐱᖓ/ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᓯᒪᔪᖅ/ ᑐᒃᑐᑉ ᐊᒥᐊᓂᒃ/ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᕙᓗᒥᒃ” ᒥᖅᓱᑕᐅᓯᒪᔪᑦ ᒪᕐᕉᖖᓂᒃ ᐊᐅᐸᔮᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᑐᐱᕐᓂᒃ ᕿᑎᐊᓃᖢᑎᒃ ᑖᒃᑯᐊᓗ ᑐᐲᑦ ᓇᑉᐸᖅᑎᑕᐅᓯᒪᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᑐᒃᑑᑉ ᓴᐅᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᕙᒃᑐᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᐃᓱᒪᓂᑐᖃᖅ ᐊᑐᕈᑕᐅᕙᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᔾᔪᑎᒻᒪᕆᐅᕗᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᑎᒍᑦ. ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓘᒋᕗᑦ ᐊᔾᔨᐅᖏᖢᑎᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᕐᓇᓄᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᕙᖕᓂᖏᓐᓄᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ. ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᕙᒃᑐᑦ ᐊᕐᓇᓄᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᒥᔪᑦ ᐃᓅᓯᕐᒥᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᑕᑯᓯᒪᔭᒥᓂᒃ, ᐅᓂᒃᑳᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᐅᔾᔮᖏᒃᑲᓗᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᐅᓂᒃᑲᖅᑎᐅᔪᓄᑦ. ² ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᐊᔾᔨᐅᖏᑦᑐᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑕᐅᔪᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᒃᑯᑦ, ᓴᓇᔭᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐊᕐᓇᓄᑦ, ᐅᕙᓐᓄᓪᓕ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔾᔪᑎᒋᕙᒃᑕᒃᑲ ᐃᓚᒋᔭᐅᖕᒪᑕ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᑎᒍᑦ, ᐅᓂᒃᑳᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᒃᐱᒍᓱᖕᓂᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᑕ.
The seminal 1974 exhibition organized by the Canadian Eskimo Arts Council, entitled Crafts from Arctic Canada, is particularly notable when considering the trajectory of nivingajuliat art history. Featuring clothing, ceramics, dolls, jewellery and nivingajuliat, the exhibition was one of few early exhibitions of Inuit art that celebrated artmaking techniques beyond carving and printmaking, making it a watershed moment for Inuit textile artists. In the exhibition catalogue Virginia J. Watt and Susan Cowman write about the translation of Inuit sewing skills to this new art form, and the curiosity of the artists in learning and experimenting with new forms. The artists, according to the catalogue, were very receptive, even to those practices they were not familiar with, because they simply “wanted to know.”
Elizabeth Angrnagangrniq, Martha Apsaq (1930–1995), Naomi Ityi (1928–2003), Jessie Oonark, OC, RCA (1906–1985), Mary Yuusipiq Singaati (1936–2017) and Marion Tuu’luq, RCA (1910–2002)—all from Qamani’tuaq—are among the artists included in Crafts from Arctic Canada. These trailblazing seamstresses distinguished Qamani’tuaq from other communities that were creating sewn art during this period by establishing the standard of what nivingajuliat represent, raising Inuit master stitching to new levels and experimenting in ever larger scales that departed drastically from other textile forms— beaded or embroidered clothing—that were meant to be worn.
Untitled (With tattooed faces) (c. 1990s) by Naomi Ityi showcases the large format possible with nivingajuliat, as well as its ability to
ᑕᐃᓐᓇ 1974- ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᑕᑯᔭᒐᖃᕐᕕᐅᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ ᐋᖅᑭᒃᑕᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᑲᓇᑕᒥ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᑦ ᑲᑎᒪᔨᖏᓐᓄᑦ, ᓴᓇᐅᒐᑦ ᑖᒃᑯᓇᖖᒑᖅᑐᑦ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑐᒥᑦ ᑲᓇᑕᒥᑦ, ᖃᐅᔨᔾᔪᑕᐅᒻᒪᕆᓚᐅᖅᐳᖅ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐊᖑᓂᖏᓐᓄᑦ. ᒪᑯᐊ ᑕᕝᕙ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑕᐅᓚᐅᕐᒥᔪᑦ ᐊᓐᓄᕌᑦ, ᓴᓇᖖᒍᐊᑦ, ᕿᑐᕐᖓᐅᔭᑦ, ᐅᔭᒥᑦ ᓇᒡᒍᐊᕐᒦᓪᓗ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ, ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᐃᓚᒋᔭᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᑕᖁᒃᓴᐅᑎᑕᐅᓚᐅᖅᑐᑦ ᓴᓇᖖᒍᐊᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑎᑎᖅᑐᒐᐃᑦ ᐊᓯᖏᓐᓄᑦ, ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐊᖑᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑎᑭᓵᒃᓴᐅᔪᓂᑦ ᑖᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᕐᓂᒃ ᕕᕐᔨᓂᐊ ᔨ. ᐅᐊᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓲᓴᓐ ᑲᐅᒪᓐ ᑎᑎᕋᓚᐅᖅᑐᑦ ᐱᔾᔪᑎᖃᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᖃᓄᖅ ᑐᑭᓕᐅᖅᑕᐅᕙᖕᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᐸᖕᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐊᖑᓕᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐱᔪᒪᒻᒪᕆᒃᐸᒃᖢᑎᒃ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᓂᖏᓐᓄᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑐᑦ, ᑖᓐᓇ ᑎᑭᓵᒃᓴᖅ ᒪᓕᒃᖢᒍ, ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᒻᒪᕆᓚᐅᖅᐳᑦ ᓄᑖᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᕈᓐᓇᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᔪᒪᓪᓗᑎᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᐃᒪᐃᑦᑐᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᖏᒃᑲᓗᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᐱᔾᔪᑎᒋᓪᓗᒍ ᖃᐅᔨᔪᒪᒻᒪᕆᖕᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᐃᓕᓴᐱ ᐊᕐᓇᒐᖕᓂᖅ ᒫᑕ ᐊᑉᓴᖅ (1930–1995), ᓇᐅᒥ ᐃᑦᔨ (1928–2003), ᔭᓯ ᐅᓈᖅ (1906–1985), ᒥᐊᓕ ᔪᓯᐱᖅ ᓯᖓᑎ (1936–2017) ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᒥᐊᕆᔭᓐ ᑑ’ᓗᖅ (1910–2002)— ᑕᒃᑯᐊ ᑕᒪᕐᒥᒃ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᕐᒥᐅᑕᐅᔪᑦ—ᓴᓇᐅᒐᖏᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑕᐅᓚᐅᖅᑐᑦ ᑕᕝᕙᓂ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᑦ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑐᒥ ᑲᓇᑕᒥᑦ. ᑖᒃᑯᐊ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᑏᑦ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᕐᒥᐅᓂᒃ ᐊᔾᔨᐅᖏᓐᓂᖃᖅᐳᒃ ᐊᓯᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐱᒋᐊᖅᑎᑦᑎᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᑦ ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂ, ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᖃᓄᖅ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᖑᒋᐊᖃᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ, ᐱᒋᐊᖅᑎᑦᑎᓪᓗᑎᒡᓗ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᕈᓐᓇᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᕐᓗᑎᒃ ᐊᓯᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᓄᑖᓂᒃ—ᓲᕐᓗ ᓱᖓᐅᔭᓕᖅᓱᖅᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ ᐅᕝᕙᓘᓐᓂᑦ ᑕᖅᓯᖅᓱᖅᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ ᐊᓐᓄᕌᓂᒃ— ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᔪᓐᓇᖅᑐᓂᒃ. ᑕᐃᒡᒍᓯᖃᖖᒋᑦᑐᖅ ( ᑮᓇᐃᑦ ᑐᓐᓂᓕᖅᓯᒪᔪᑦ) (c. 1990ᑎᐅᑎᓪᒍ) ᐆᒧᖓ ᓇᐃᐅᒥ ᐃᑦᔨᒧᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᖅ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᖅ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᖅᖢᓂ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᑐᖃᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑕᕝᕙᓂ ᓴᓇᔭᖏᓐᓂ ᐃᑦᔨ, ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᕙᖏᖢᓂ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᖏᓐᓂᒃ, ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᑕᖏᑦ
transmit Inuit knowledge and stories. Here Ityi resists colonialism head on, telling a story to be shared with future generations of
Inuit about the traditional life and religion we once practiced with angakuuniq (shamanism). Two drumming figures are interlaced with other aspects of Inuit life, such as travelling by dog team and fishing with kakivak, highlighting their importance to Inuit identity and values. What strikes me when looking at this piece is the way Ityi has helped preserve the imagery of kakiniit (tattoos) in the midst of colonial anarchy, which sought to end the practice. Thankfully, stitched iconography like Ityi’s has recorded the practice and created a safe space for Inuit women to embrace this important tradition of self-representation today.
Outside of their representational work, the very act of stitching nivingajuliat sustains Inuit culture, fostering opportunities for meaningful mentorship. In 2018 I attended a printmaking and wall hanging workshop held at the Jessie Oonark Centre in Qamani’tuaq. Renowned and prolific artist Fanny Alagalak Avatituq lead the wall hanging classes, and it was endearing to watch her teach stitching techniques to a young Inuk. The care and patience she demonstrated in her teaching was as palpable as it is in her work. The impeccable artistry and skill of Avatituq’s work personifies the cultural mentorship of Inuit seamstresses, as seen in Untitled (c. 1980). The colours of this piece are striking and the details are intricate. This is, perhaps, the apex of this technique of nivingajuliat as an art form, refined through intergenerational mentorship, making Avatituq’s mentorship
ᐅᓂᒃᑳᓂᒃ ᐱᔾᔪᑎᖃᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᓂᐊᕐᒪᑕ ᑭᖑᕚᓂᒃ ᖃᓄᖅ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᖃᓚᐅᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓲᕐᓗ ᐅᒃᐱᕐᓂᕐᒥ ᐊᖓᒃᑯᐃ ᐱᐅᓯᖏᓐᓂ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᓚᐅᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᒪᕐᕉᒃ ᕿᓚᐅᔾᔭᖑᐊᖅᑑᒃ ᐱᖃᑎᖃᖅᐳᑦ ᐊᓯᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᓚᐅᖅᑕᖏᓐᓂᒃ, ᓲᕐᓗ ᕿᒧᒃᓯᒃᑯᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᖑᐊᖅᑐᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᖃᓗᒃᓯᐅᖖᒍᐊᖅᑐᑦ ᑲᑭᕙᖕᒥᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᖅᑐᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᕆᕙᓚᐅᖅᑕᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪ ᐊᓐᓂᕆᔭᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑕᐃᒪᓕ ᑕᑯᓗᐊᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔭᕋ ᐃᑦᔨᐅᑉ ᓴᓇᔭᖏᓐᓂᒃ, ᑖᓐᓇ ᐃᑦᔨ ᐃᑲᔪᕐᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᓚᐅᕐᒪᑦ ᒪᑯᓂᖓ ᑐᓐᓂᓕᖅᓱᖅᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ, ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂ ᐊᑐᖁᔭᐅᔪᓐᓃᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ. ᖁᔭᓐᓇᒦᒃ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᕙᓕᕐᒪᑕ ᓲᕐᓗ ᐃᑦᔨ ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑕᖏᑦ ᑕᐅᑐᒃᖢᒋᑦ ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᕙᓚᐅᖅᑐᑦ ᐱᔾᔪᑎᒋᓪᓗᓂᒋᑦ, ᐅᓪᓗᒥᐅᔪᕐᓗ ᐅᑎᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᓕᖅᖢᓂ ᑐᓐᓂᓕᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᑲᑉᐱᐊᓇᕈᓐᓂᖅᖢᓂᓗ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᒋᐊᒃᓴᖅ ᐊᕐᓇᓄᑦ ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᐃᓛᒃ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓘᖕᒪᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᑐᖃᐅᓚᐅᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐃᒻᒥᓂᒡᓗ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᒃᑯᑕᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ, ᐅᓪᓗᒥᐅᔪᖅ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᑦ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᓂᑦ, ᐳᐃᒍᔾᔭᐃᒃᑯᑕᕗᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᖏᓐᓂᒃ, ᓲᕐᓗ ᑐᑭᖃᒻᒪᕆᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔾᔪᑕᐅᖕᒪᑕ. 2018- ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐃᓚᐅᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖓ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᑎᑎᕋᐅᔭᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᐊᒻᒪ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᓂᒃ ᑕᕝᕙᓂ ᐃᒡᓗᒥᑦ ᐊᑎᖃᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᔭᓯ ᐅᓈᕐᒥᑦ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᕐᒥᑦ. ᑖᓐᓇ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᑦᑎᐊᖅᑐᖅ ᕙᓂ ᐊᓚᒐᓚᒃ ᐊᕙᑎᑐᖅ ᐃᓕᓴᐃᔨᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᖁᕕᐊᓇᒻᒪᕆᓚᐅᖅᐳᖅ ᑕᐅᑐᒃᖢᒍ ᐃᓕᓴᐃᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ. ᑖᓐᓇ ᐊᕙᑎᑐᖅ ᐃᕿᐊᓱᖏᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᓂ ᐃᒃᐱᒍᓱᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᓂᓗ ᐃᓕᓴᐃᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᖅ ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇᑐᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑕᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑖᔅᓱᒪ ᐊᕙᑎᑑᑉ ᓴᓇᔪᓐᓇᑦᑎᐊᕐᓂᖓ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᖅᐳᖅ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᕐᓂᖃᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᒥᖅᓱᕈᓐᓇᑦᑎᐊᕐᓂᖏᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑕᕝᕙᓂ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᖅᑐᑦ ᑕᐃᒡᒍᓯᖃᖖᒋᑦᑐᖅ (c 1980- ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ). ᓴᓇᔭᖏᑦᑕ ᑕᖅᓴᖏᑦ ᐱᐅᒻᒪᕆᒃᑐᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓴᓇᑦᑎᐊᖅᓯᒪᒻᒪᕆᒃᖢᑎᒃ. ᑖᓐᓇ, ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᓚᐅᖅᑕᕗᑦ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓘᔪᒃᓴᐅᔪᖅ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᓲᕐᓗ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᖅᖢᓂ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᑎᑐᑦ, ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᑕ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᑭᖑᕚᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᕙᑎᑐᖅ ᐃᓕᓴᐃᓂᖓ
that much more special. Scenes like these at the Jessie Oonark Centre make me optimistic that the future of nivingajuliat will be as vibrant as Avatituq’s style. This impulse, to record and to pass forward, is evident across the work of many nivingajuliat artists. Irene Avaalaaqiaq Tiktaalaaq describes her work as trying “to keep our culture alive through my art. Each nivingajuliat I do tells a story or legend. Art is a way to preserve our culture.”³ Janet Nungnik is among the next generation of artists, including Avatituq, after master artists like Jessie Oonark and Marion Tuu’luuq. Nungnik’s bold colours, expansive use of stitches and novel perspectives mark her as a master artist in her own right. Nungnik has a decidedly individualistic style that she has worked hard to cultivate that parallels Avaalaaqiaq’s storytelling technique. Learning to sew from her late mother, renowned artist Martha Tiktak Anautalik (1928–2015), Nungnik has been steadily sewing nivingajuliat since the 1970s, continuing to learn new techniques while pushing the boundaries of stitching and representation. Works like Eagle’s Shadow (2018) and Kiviuq and His Journeys (2007) put Nungnik’s skills on full display through intricate shadow work and three-dimensional beading. It’s skill that hasn’t gone unnoticed by the broader art world—2019 found Nungnik with two solo exhibitions, a showing at Canada’s largest art fair and several major acquisitions. Nungnik uses her art to dig into the deep recesses of her childhood memories and bring forward images and feelings that she thought were lost. In a conversation with Nungnik, she explained that she was
ᐱᐅᒻᒪᕆᒃᖢᓂ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᖅᑐᑦ ᑕᕝᕙᓂ ᐃᒡᓗᒥᑦ ᔭᓯ ᐅᓈᖅ ᐱᔪᒪᓂᖃᒻᒪᕆᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖓ ᑖᔅᓱᑐᓇᖅ ᐊᕙᑎᑐᑦ ᓴᓇᔪᓐᓇᑦᑎᐊᕐᓗᖓ. ᐱᔪᒪᓯᑲᐅᑎᒋᓂᖅ, ᐅᓂᒃᑳᕐᓗᓂ ᐊᒻᒪ ᑐᓂᓯᓪᓗᓂ ᐊᓯᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᓂᕕᖓᑕᓕᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᖑᒻᒪᕆᒃᐳᖅ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓄᖓ ᓂᕕᖓᑕᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑐᓄᑦ. ᐊᐃᕇᓐ ᐊᕙᓚᕿᐊᖅ ᐅᖃᓚᐅᖅᐳᖅ ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇ ᓴᓇᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖃᖅᖢᓂ, “ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᖅᐳᑦ ᐆᒪᖁᓪᓗᒍ ᓴᓇᔭᒃᑯᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᑦ.” ³ ᔮᓂᑦ ᓄᖕᓂᖅ ᑭᖑᓪᓕᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᑕᐃᒪᐃᑦᑐᓂᒃ ᓂᕕᑕᕐᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑐᖅ, ᐃᓚᒋᔭᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᐊᕙᑎᑐᖅ, ᓲᕐᓗ ᑭᖑᕚᕆᔭᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐅᑯᓄᖓ ᔭᓯ ᐅᓈᕐᒧᑦ ᐊᒻᒪ ᒥᐊᕆᔭᓐ ᑐ’ᓗᕐᒧᑦ. ᓄᖕᓂᖅ, ᓴᓇᔭᖏᑦᑕ ᑕᖅᓴᖏᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖏᓪᓗ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᒃᑯᑕᐅᕗᖅ ᑖᔅᓱᒧᖓ ᓄᖕᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᓄᖕᓂᖅ ᐃᒻᒥᓂ ᓴᓇᓲᖑᕗᖅ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᔾᔪᑎᒋᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᐊᒃᓱᕈᖅᖢᓂ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᕆᕙᒃᖢᓂᖏᑦ, ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇᑦᑕᐅᖅ ᐊᕙᓚᕿᐊᑉ ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑕᖏᑦᑎᑐᑦ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᕙᒃᖢᓂ. ᐃᓕᑦᑎᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᓪᓗᓂ ᐊᓈᓇᒥᓂᒃ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᐃᓄᔪᓐᓃᖅᓯᒪᓕᖅᑐᖅ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑐᕕᓂᕐᒥᑦ ᒫᑕ ᑎᒃᑕᖅ ᐊᓇᐅᑕᓕᖕᒥᑦ (1928–2015), ᓄᖕᓂᖅ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᐸᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖅ ᓂᕕᖓᑕᓕᐊᓂᒃ ᑕᐃᒪᖖᒐᓂᑦ 1970 ᑎᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ, ᐃᓕᑦᑎᕙᓪᓕᐊᓪᓗᓂᓗ ᓄᑖᓂᒃ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᒥᒃ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊᑦᑕᐅᖅ ᓴᓇᕙᓚᐅᖅᑕᖏᑦ ᓲᕐᓗ ᓇᑦᑐᕋᓕᐅᑉ ᑕᕐᕋᖓ (2018) ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑭᕕᐅᖅ ᐊᒻᒪ ᐃᖏᕐᕋᓂᕆᕙᓚᐅᖅᑕᖏᑦ (2007) ᓄᖏᕐᒧᑦ ᐊᔪᖏᓐᓂᖓ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᖅᐳᖅ ᖃᓄᖅ ᑕᕐᕋᖑᐊᓕᐅᕈᓐᓇᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐱᖓᓱᓕᖓᔪᓂᒃ ᓱᖓᐅᔭᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑕᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᐊᔪᖏᓐᓂᖓ ᖃᐅᔨᔭᐅᓯᑕᓕᖅᑐᖅ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᓂᒃ ᐊᓯᖏᓐᓂᒃ— 2019— ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᓄᖕᓂᖅ ᖃᐅᔨᔾᔪᑕᐅᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖅ ᒪᕐᕉᖕᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓪᓗᓂ, ᑕᕝᕙᓂ ᑲᓇᑕᒥᑦ ᐊᖏᓂᖅᐹᒥᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᑎᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ. ᓄᖕᓂᖅ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᒃᑐᖅ ᓴᓇᓪᓗᓂ ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂ ᓄᑕᕋᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᐊᔾᔨᖑᐊᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᒃᐱᒋᔭᒥᓂᒡᓗ ᓴᓇᓪᓗᓂ ᐊᓯᐅᓇᓱᒋᓚᐅᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ. ᐅᖃᓪᓚᖃᑎᒋᓪᓗᒍ ᓄᖕᓂᖅ, ᐅᖃᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᕐᒨᕆᐅᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᖅ ᐅᑭᐅᖃᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ 6- ᓂᒃ ᐅᕙᓘᓐᓂᑦ 7- ᓂᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᖃᐅᒪᓗᐊᖏᒃᑲᖢᐊᖅᖢᓂ ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂᐅᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ.
settled in the community of Qamani’tuaq around six or seven years old, and was not able to recall many memories from then. Yet through her art she has been able to open a seam revealing many of her childhood memories that had been hidden for years. “I can’t remember how our camp looked when I was growing up,” she told me, “but when I started making art I started to remember things, including where my mother would be when she cooks.” 4 That little intimate detail is an important thread to Nungnik’s past that connects her to her family and her homeland. This is a strong demonstration of the power of art. Not only does art give you the opportunity to document and convey oral histories, traditional stories, Inuit material culture and Inuit values, it allows you to reconnect with your own histories, and helps one find their place in the broader story. Inuit art histories written by non-Inuit are often prefaced by narratives of survival, where Inuit are depicted as working hard to endure life in a harsh and extreme environment. These narratives are damaging as they perpetuate the colonial gaze and prevent Inuit from representing ourselves the way we want in media. These depictions are well trodden and persist today, continuing to speak over Inuit voices. The recent backlash to the New York Times article “Drawn From Poverty: Art Was Supposed to Save Canada’s Inuit. It Hasn’t,” shows that Inuit still combat these tropes, disputing the paternalistic gaze of non-Inuit art historians and writers. Nivingajuliat makers can interrupt this gaze, weaving their own direct counter-narratives. The cloth works of Ityi, Nungnik and other Inuit seamstresses refuse the tropes of decline and nostalgia assigned by outsiders, and depict scenes of renewal and transformation: sons-in-law joyfully received after a successful hunt, intergenerational games played in the freshness of spring and patterns that shift one’s sense of place and ground. Creating space to tell our own stories, from our own perspective, is an important part of decolonizing our art, 5 and this practice of self-representation is an essential facet of the story of nivingajuliat. Not only are the styles and perspectives deeply individual, each artist stitches their names into the art, as though offering their names as a personal, authorial corrective to the colonial histories that shape the descriptions of Inuit artmaking. Sewing, in this way, has created its own divergent art history in the Arctic, and I don’t think it is a coincidence that these unique, stitched stories emerged during the height of colonialism in Qamani’tuaq. At a time when artists and art historians were framing Inuit art and language as cultural products in need of saviours, women were threading our collective memories, language and traditions onto wool duffel and disseminating our stories for everyone to see.■
ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ, ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑕᖏᑦᑎᒍᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᖢᓂ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᑎᐊᖅᐳᖅ ᐊᒥᓱᓂᒃ ᓄᑕᕋᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᒃᑕᕕᓂᕐᒥᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪ ᑕᑯᕙᒃᑕᕕᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᔨᖅᓯᒪᓚᐅᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐅᑭᐅᓂᒃ ᐊᒥᓱᐊᓗᖕᓂᒃ. “ᐃᖃᐅᒪᖏᑦᑐᖓ ᖃᓄᖅ ᓄᓇᓕᖁᑎᕗᑦ ᖃᓄᐃᓕᖓᓚᐅᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ ᐱᕈᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᑎᓪᓗᖓ” ᐅᕙᓐᓄ ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇ ᐅᖃᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ, “ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ, ᒥᖅᓱᖃᑦᑕᓕᖅᑎᓪᓗᖓ ᓂᕕᖓᑕᓂᒃ ᐃᖅᑲᐃᕙᓪᓕᐊᓕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖓ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᓈᓇᒐ ᓇᓃᑉᐸᓚᐅᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ ᐃᒐᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᓂᕆᓂᐊᖅᑕᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ.” 4 ᑖᓐᓇ ᑕᐃᔭᐅᔾᔪᑎᒋᔭᖓ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᕐᒥᑦ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᓂᖅ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓘᕗᖅ ᓄᖕᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᓚᐅᖅᑕᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᓲᕐᓗ ᐃᓚᒥᓄᑦ ᐅᑎᕈᑎᒋᓪᓗᓂᒋᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓄᓇᒋᕙᓚᐅᖅᑕᖓᓄᑦ. ᑖᓐᓇ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᖅᐳᖅ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᑎᒍᑦ. ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᕐᓂᖅ ᐅᕙᑦᑎᓐᓄ ᑐᓂᓯᕙᒃᑐᖅ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᓂᐊᖅᑕᑦᑎᓐᓂ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᓂᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪ ᐱᐅᓯᑐᖃᖏᑦᑎᑐᑦ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᕐᒥᒃ, ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᖖᒋᑦᑎᑐᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐊᓐᓂᕆᔭᖏᓐᓂᒃ, ᑲᑎᑎᑦᑎᓚᕗᖅ ᐅᕙᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᐱᐅᓯᑐᖃᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖃᑦᑕᕐᓂᐊᖅᑕᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪ ᐃᑲᔪᕈᑎᒋᔪᓐᓇᖅᖢᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᓂᒋᕙᓚᐅᖅᑕᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᐅᓂᒃᑲᐅᓯᑦ ᑕᑯᓪᓗᒋ ᐊᒻᒪ ᑐᓵᓪᓗᒋᑦ. ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑕᖏᑦ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᑕᐅᓯᒪᔪᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᑦ ᑐᓴᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᖃᓄᖅ ᐃᓅᕙᓚᐅᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᐸᒃᑐᑦ, ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓲᖑᕗᑦ ᐊᒃᓱᕈᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᓴᓇᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᐃᓅᓯᕆᕙᓚᐅᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᓂᒃᓚᓱᒃᑐᒥᐅᑕᐅᑎᓗᒋᑦ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᐅᕙᒃᑐᑦ ᓱᕋᖕᓂᐅᖕᒪᑕ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᖏᓐᓇᕋᔭᕐᒪᑕ ᓲᕐᓗ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᑦ ᑕᐅᑐᒃᑕᐅᓪᓗᑎᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᓄᖅᑲᕈᑕᐅᔪᓐᓇᖅᖢᓂ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓇᓱᐊᕐᓗᑕ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓂᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᖏᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᖏᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᑕ ᓇᓗᓇᖏᑦᑐᖅ ᐅᓪᓗᒥᐅᔪᖅ, ᐅᖃᓪᓚᒍᑕᐅᖏᓐᓇᕐᓗᑎᒡᓗ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖏᑦ ᑐᓴᖅᑕᐅᖏᓪᓗᑎᒃ. ᑎᑎᕋᐅᓯᐅᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ ᑕᕝᕙᓂ New York Times “ᐊᔪᖅᓴᕈᓐᓃᖅᑎᑕᐅᔪᑦ: ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᓴᓇᐅᒐᓕᐅᕈᓐᓇᕐᓂᖏᑦ ᑲᓇᑕᐅᑉ ᐃᓄᖁᑎᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᔪᖅᓴᕈᓐᓃᖅᑎᑦᑎᒋᐊᖃᓚᐅᕋᓗᐊᕐᒪᑕ, ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇᐅᖏᑦᑐᖅ ᐱᖕᒪᑕ,” ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᐊᐃᕙᔾᔪᑎᖃᐃᓐᓇᖅᐳᑦ ᓱᓕ ᐅᓪᓗᒥᐅᔪᖅ ᓲᕐᓗ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᕙᒃᑐᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑎᑎᕋᖅᑎᐅᔪᓄᑦ. ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑐᑦ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᐅᕙᒃᑐᓂᑦ ᓄᖅᑲᖅᑎᑦᑎᔪᓐᓇᖅᐳᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᒥᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᓅᓯᕆᓚᐅᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓗᑎᒃ. ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᖑᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ ᑖᔅᓱᒧᖓ ᐃᑦᔨᒧᑦ, ᓄᖕᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓄᖓ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᖅᑎᖏᓐᓄᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓲᖑᕗᑦ ᐱᓪᓚᑦᑕᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᓚᐅᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓂᖓᓕ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᐅᖏᑦᑐᓂᒃ, ᓴᓇᕙᒃᖢᑎᒃ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᐅᔭᕐᓂᐊᖅᑐᓂᒃ, ᓲᕐᓗ ᓂᖓᐅᖓ ᐊᖏᕐᕋᒪᑦ ᖁᕕᐊᓱᒍᑎᒋᓪᓗᒍ ᐊᖑᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᓂᕐᔪᑎᓂᒃ, ᐱᖑᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᓪᓗ ᖁᕕᐊᓱᒍᑎᒋᓪᓗᒍ ᓂᒡᓚᓱᒍᓐᓃᕐᒪᑦ ᐅᐱᕐᖓᒃᓵᒥᒃ. ᑕᐃᒪᓐᓇ ᓴᓇᔭᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖃᓲᖑᕗᒍᑦ, ᐅᕙᑦᑎᓐᓂᑦ ᑕᐅᑐᓚᐅᖅᑕᑦᑎᓐᓂ ᐱᔾᔪᑎᖃᖅᖢᑕ, 5 ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᐃᓛᒃ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓘᖕᒪᑦ ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑕᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᕐᒪᑕ ᐊᑐᖅᓯᒪᔭᑦᑎᒃ ᓂᕕᖓᔪᓕᐊᓂᒃ ᓴᓇᓪᓗᑕ. ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊᓗ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᓯᒪᔪᑦ ᐊᔾᔨᒌᖏᒃᑲᓗᐊᖅᓗᑎᒃ, ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᕐᒪᑕ ᑭᓇᒧᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᐅᓚᐅᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᑎᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᖢᑎᒡᓗ ᑕᕝᕗᖕᒐ ᓴᓇᔭᒥᓂᒃ, ᑕᐃᒪᐃᒻᒪᓐ ᐊᑎᓕᐅᖅᐸᒃᑐ ᑐᓂᓯᓯᒪᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐃᒻᒥᓂᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔨᒋᔭᐅᓂᕐᒥᓂᒃ ᐱᓪᓗᑎᒃ, ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊᓕ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓂᖕᒑᖅᑐᑦ ᓱᓕᖏᒻᒪᑕ. ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᖅ ᑕᐃᒪᐃᑦᑐᓂᒃ ᓂᕕᖓᔭᓕᐅᕐᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐋᖅᑭᒃᓯᓯᒪᒻᒪᕆᖕᒪᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᑎᒡᓗ ᖃᓄᖅ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑐᒥ ᐃᓅᓯᖃᓚᐅᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᒃᑕᖏᓪᓗ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑕᐃᒪ ᑕᒪᓐᓇ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᓂᑦ ᓱᖁᓯᖏᑦᑎᐊᕐᒪᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑦ ᑎᑭᓚᐅᖏᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᓱᓕ ᖃᒪᓂᑦᑐᐊᕐᒧᑦ. ᑕᐃᒪᓕ ᑎᑎᕋᖅᐸᒃᑐᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖃᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖏᓐᓂᒡᓗ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᖅᓯᓯᒪᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐅᒪᔾᔪᑎᒋᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᒋᑦ, ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᐊ ᐊᕐᓇᐃᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᒥᖅᓱᖃᑦᑕᓕᓚᐅᖅᐳᑦ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᔭᒥᓂᒃ, ᐅᖃᐅᓯᕐᒥᓂᒡᓗ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐱᐅᓯᑐᖃᕐᒥᓂᒃ ᑕᒪᒃᑯᓄᖓ ᒥᖅᓱᕐᕕᐅᕙᒃᑐᓄᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᐊᕐᒪᑕ ᑭᒃᑯᑐᐃᓐᓇᕐᓄᑦ.■