Provocation

My experience as an Indigenous artist touring Europe

Performing Art vs. Performing Identity:

Touring Europe as an Indigenous artist

FROM VAUDEVILLE AND BUFFALO BILL’S WILD WEST

to the beginnings of the New York City Ballet to present day, Indigenous dancers from Turtle Island have made their presence known on European stages. These encounters, like much of what we consider “history,” have often been recorded by and for non-Indigenous peoples. Through their eyes, we have detailed accounts of the initial impressions of these Indigenous artists – who they were, what they wore, their demeanour and their performances.

But what about the experiences of these Indigenous dancers? Where are the detailed accounts of our impressions of European society – our thoughts, our experiences and our stories? It’s time to shift the narrative.

I recently travelled to London, UK, to stage-manage a dance production. I had previously been a production assistant on this production in Dresden, Germany, and while there I encountered the odd prolonged stare or inappropriate question but for the most part kept to myself and was left alone. Once in England, I expected this to be the case again. It wasn’t. Long before I even left on my journey to England, I came to realize just how little it mattered to the festival and production teams that I was an artist. I was cc’d on emails referring to me not as a member of the production but as a “young Inuit.”

In Canada, I am used to never being described as a “dance artist” but always as an “Indigenous dance artist.” In Europe, I was described and introduced to several important people in the dance world not as an artist at all but simply as “Indigenous.” This experience was about not being acknowledged as a professional. I was not hired for my skills. My costs were not covered by the dance company that brought me, unlike my nonIndigenous colleagues.

Despite these warning signs, I dove headfirst into the company’s rehearsals immediately upon arrival in London.

There were many changes to the work that I needed to learn and take note of. I did so diligently. After a few days of being brought up to speed, I noticed the changes in the way I was being engaged with too. My education and skills were undermined at times. In one instance I was reminded to bring a notebook for my shift, as if I wouldn’t have known I needed one. During the tour, I was asked to speak on a panel about my creative work as an Indigenous artist and came to find out I had been listed on a panel about life in the Arctic. I live in Toronto.

On the opening night of the production, it was time for me to welcome all the people I had met in the past week and a half to the show. After scrambling to prepare the stage with all the props, I entered the lobby to greet these esteemed guests. But when I welcomed these people to the production I’ve worked on for two years, they did not understand my professional role and asked if I’d seen a “sneak peek” of the work I stage-managed.

I don’t blame them for their confusion. Being an Indigenous dance artist in Europe is being listed in the program for the production you stage-managed as a “production assistant” because you supposedly don’t have the training of a stage manager. You do.

After the closing night of the show, it came time to speak on the panel at the festival. I had appealed directly to the festival director and had myself placed on the proper panel – the one about dance and Indigenous peoples, not about life in the Arctic. It was only after the panel started that I discovered I was the only Indigenous person on that panel. I was stunned. I tried to make panicked eye contact with an anthropologist I’d befriended earlier. He later told me he didn’t return the eye contact to maintain his professionalism, though he was just as shocked as I was. The panel proceeded casually, though I didn’t get to talk about the things I had planned to. I was asked questions about powwow (I’m not a powwow dancer) and if I typically lead a smudging ceremony for the audience before my performances (I do not).

During this panel, I listened to a Peruvian settler panelist say, “We live there, so it’s our culture too.” I was asked only about my culture’s traditional dances, about which I know next to nothing, and nothing about my professional work.

As an Indigenous dance artist in Europe (even more so than in Canada), I was expected to perform, discuss, promote and embody my heritage only. My creative work and research were secondary. I no longer not existed in the twenty-first century.

To be frank, I think the most important thing to learn from my story is that Indigenous artists are artists, and Indigenous people are people. It’s simple. If you don’t know how to refer to me, ask. If you don’t know what my qualifications are or what my role within a production is, ask.

If you are looking to collaborate with Indigenous artists, ask yourself why. Is it because you think Indigenous cultures are “cool”? Is it because you want to “showcase” Indigenous peoples and give a voice to the “voiceless”? Is it because you’re hopping on the reconciliation bandwagon? Or is it because you have a genuine interest in starting the decolonization conversation and Indigenizing artistic practice? Are you interested in building reciprocal and empowering relationships with Indigenous communities? Good intentions are meaningless if not followed through with good actions.