Ancestral Portraits: The Colour of My People (Art in Profile)

Ancestral Portraits: The Colour of My People

Frederick R. McDonald

UNIVERSITY OF CALGARY PRESS

Ancestral Portraits

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Ancestral Portraits The Colour of My People

Frederick R. McDonald

Frederick R. McDonald

© 2002 Frederick R. McDonald. All rights reserved. University of Calgary Press 2500 University Drive NW Calgary, Alberta Canada T2N 1N4 www.uofcpress.com National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data McDonald, Frederick R., 1957Ancestral portraits (Art in profile series, ISSN 1700-9995; 1) ISBN 1-55238-064-5 1. McDonald, Frederick R., 19572. Painters—Alberta—Biography. 3. Cree Indians—Portraits. 4. Cree Indians—Biography. 5. Athabasca River Region (Alta.)—Biography. I. Title. II. Series. ND249.M248A2 2002

759.11

C2002-910215-4

We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means — graphic, electronic or mechanical — without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping or reproducing in information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed in writing to CANCOPY, Suite 1900, One Yonge Street, Toronto, Ontario, M5E 1E5.

Syncrude Canada Ltd. is proud to be associated with the University of Calgary Press in the publication of Ancestral Portraits. This retrospective of the art and life of Frederick R. McDonald is a celebration of his Cree heritage. Syncrude welcomes this opportunity to further strengthen our relationship with Mr. McDonald and the First Nations people of Northern Alberta. Syncrude has an ongoing policy of support and encouragement for First Nations art and culture. It is a privilege to continue this support through the sponsorship of this book.

Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens. This book is printed on acid-free paper. Page, cover design, and typesetting by Kristina Schuring.

Unquestionably, the most miraculous creations are given to us by the Creator, with the gifts of life and love. This book is dedicated to the most beautiful people in my life, my daughters Grace and Genevieve. My love for life is incomparable to the unconditional love that I have for them, and through them I truly begin to understand the love that parents have for their children. I also dedicate this book to my mother and father.

Art in Profile “Art should exhilarate, and throw down the walls of circumstance on every side, awakening in the beholder the same sense of universal relation and power which the work evinced in the artist, and its highest effect is to make new artists.” Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)

Art in Profile Series Art can inspire, intrigue, challenge, and speak to us in special ways. Artists ask questions and find answers that can benefit us all. We are fortunate in Canada to have many strong and original artists producing memorable works. The University of Calgary Press is proud to showcase the work of living Canadian artists, making their work accessible to a broad national and international audience. Michael J. McMordie and Geoffrey Simmins, Series Editors

Table of Contents

Preface viii Acknowledgments x In the Beginning 1 In the beginning, there are only thoughts 4 Thoughts on First Nations Art, Some on Politics 9 Influences 1: My Grandfather, My Brother, and a River 12 Influences 2: High School and Beyond 18 On the Art of Travelling 24 Worldly Encounters 1: Canada 26 Worldly Encounters 2: Australia 30 Segregations/Reservations 34 On Personal Promises 38 Indians First … 40 … Then Commerce 42 Of Colour and Light 46 At the End, a Beginning 50 In the Other World 55 Ancestors Still Talk 65 Other Thoughts on Other Things 75 Way Up North 85

Ancestral Portraits

Preface Ancestral Portraits by Fred McDonald is a celebration of a rich Cree heritage, and, at the same time, it is an invitation to participate in an engaging narrative. It is a highly personal story told with the paintbrush and the pen. It weaves poetry, prose, and picture effectively to give voice to a way of life. The visual contextualizes the words, and the words contextualize the visual. The highly personal narrative arises from an oral tradition of storytelling. It is a recollection of life growing up along the Athabasca River near Fort McMurray, northern Alberta. Yet it is more than that; it is a memory of those who lived long ago, their stories, their actions expressed in words and painting. In this sense, the “pastness” of the past is present; they coexist and give direction to the future. As he traces his artistic heredity to those that preceded him, Fred McDonald’s ancestors live through his paintings. His grandfather’s story has become his story and history. The paintings, however, are more than a history; they are about relations—the relations of his kin with the land, water, sky, animals, plants—the environment imbued with the force of life. Fred McDonald has a clear purpose in choosing to express himself through the paintbrush and the pen. It is to engage and communicate, to challenge existing perceptions of First Nations and contribute to a rich understanding of continued presence of Aboriginal culture in Canada. Those of us who look upon recent human history and consider the impact of colonization and imperialism visited upon indigenous peoples around the world ask: How could otherwise

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decent peoples of Europe accept the oppression and in some cases cultural annihilation of other peoples? Certainly the royal families of Europe, the parliaments, and the average citizen would have reflected upon the actions taken on their behalf in lands far away where another people lived. The answer to this is that the cultural fabric of European societies made annihilation and exploitation of other peoples acceptable. The “Indian” in North America was a savage to be civilized, assimilated, or exterminated. After all, the “Indian” in North America was mistaken for another Indian in the search for riches in the East. The North American Indian stood in the way of a quick passage to the East. European culture portrayed itself as the best and all other cultures as sub-standard legitimate for colonization. With Ancestral Portraits, Fred McDonald also engages in the cultural realm. He uses cultural tools such as the narrative and art to represent his story. The canvas and the text are used to illustrate, explain, and demonstrate the rich diversity of culture found amongst the so-called “Indians”—the First Nations. Resisting the temptation of portraying his culture as the best, he shares with the reader Aboriginal experiences within the tapestry of the best of human thought and understanding. Thus, the cultural construct of the “Indian” falls away, and an appreciation of the depth and breadth of Aboriginal culture emerges with every stroke of the paintbrush. Fred McDonald’s paintings express many facets of the artist. The paintings are intellectual, intuitive, and spiritual. The paintings

Preface

also make a social statement. For instance, “Big Bear’s Dilemma, Paper Promises” speaks of a culture that seeks to write down its most sacred agreements—a culture that elevates the written to celestial heights—and yet it breaks its word. The words fly up to heaven but are empty of deeds. The painting is critical of a bureaucracy that has become an “iron cage” with an independent life of its own. The creators of the bureaucracy are now mere appendages or instruments as they visit tragic consequences upon First Nations. Fred McDonald’s paintings are lyrical. They convey grief and simultaneously share hope. “On the Athabasca, Anticipation” expresses these emotions together. The painting starts with being about two young brothers sitting on the shore of the Athabasca River talking while waiting to catch fish. However, the painting is more than that; it is longing in the artist’s life of lost brotherly love. It is a longing for love between peoples of different cultures and yet part of the same humanity. It is a metaphor of affection and mutual respect that can and should exist. The painting anticipates not the fish but human understanding between two brothers made by the same creator. While Fred McDonald’s narrative, poetry, and paintings are intensely personal, his reflections speak not only to a non-Aboriginal audience, but to other Aboriginal people too. “From the River to Here” is a plea to see tradition as an ever-flowing river that is consistent in its essence. The painting features a mother preparing moose hide while her daughter reads a book. It represents women

not as domestic caregivers but as primary educators of the next generation. Living the Cree tradition does not mean exclusion from a mosaic of wide-reaching global communities and new sources of knowledge. It is to embrace (as a river encircles an object) what is worthy and valuable and leave aside (as a river deposits objects on its bank) what is not. Fred McDonald’s determination not to be a victim of history is best reflected in the powerful strokes of the paintbrush in the face of Big Bear (see “The Future, Present & Past of Big Bear, 1885”). It is no coincidence that I, an “Indian,” whose ancestral narrative is shaped by the diaspora that began at the Arabian Sea, with an interlude of many generations on the Island of Zanzibar in East Africa, and appearance in recent decades in Canada, should introduce the work of another “Indian,” more accurately a Cree. Our histories are intertwined by a globalization whose aim was imperialism and acquisition of riches. We are the products of the “commonwealth.” Ancestral Portraits is not a book to be simply read; rather, it should be felt and experienced. The poetry, prose, and paintings are pregnant with metaphors. The colours are bold and intense, reverberating and resonating with the voice of memory. It is not a lament but a liberation in which the reader is invited to participate. Karim-Aly S. Kassam, Director Northern Planning and Development Studies Faculty of Communication and Culture University of Calgary March, 2002

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Acknowledgments One morning, about ten years ago, I woke up in a drunken stupor with an unexplainable feeling that I would never drink again. What made the difference is that my faith in the Creator had begun to grow, and for this I am eternally thankful. Yet, there are many people who’ve helped me along the way. Some have made the steps easier, some have made the path clearer, and others have made my way more bearable. Without them, this book would still only be a dream. I would like to start with my graduate committee at the University of Calgary: Eric Cameron, Geoffrey Simmins, Peter Deacon, and Karim-Aly Kassam, along with Ian Winchester and Michael Robinson. Thank you all for guiding me with intelligence and intuition and, mostly, for caring. A special thanks goes to Lisa and Ingrid for giving me many reasons for introspection. To my spiritual mentor, George Calliou, thanks for

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always saying the right thing. To Chief Jim Boucher, Fort McKay First Nations, I’m grateful for your continued support and, to Aaron Whitfield, your photography skills are appreciated. Walter Hildebrandt, a big thank you for believing in my work and my vision. In a lyrical sort of way, I want to thank Corey Hart for these words: “I don’t want to be an old man cursing what I might have been,” from his song, In Your Soul. Finally, for helping me complete this project, I want to give a most gracious thank you to the people at Syncrude Canada Limited. I started on this path from their doorstep after working there for ten and a half years. It is while I was employed with them that I learned many of my working habits that I now practice in my artistic endeavours. I’ve come full circle. The stars in the night sky shine brightly, the sun is rising to a new day, and, somehow, things are as they should be!

In the Beginning

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I Dream of My People, For My People I’ve dreamed a thousand thousand lives, And lived a thousand thousand dreams, And there you all were and here you all are, We have always, always been together. The minutes are hours, then days and years, The rains are yours and mine, our tears, Your breaths I breathe, your hearts I beat, Your eyes, I see your path, your step, my feet. I sleep, I wake, I dream, I live, You and I are me and I am you, Wherever you go, have gone, then there I will be, However far, I am near, feel me, see me. I shall be the wind in your hair and in the trees, my voice, your song, I shall be the water on your lips and in the river, my caress, your kiss, I shall be the earth on which you lie and I shall hold you, protect you, And I shall be the sun and the moon.... My smile to greet you, my eyes to see you and a light to guide you. You’ve dreamt a thousand thousand lives, And lived a thousand thousand dreams, You sleep, you wake, you dream, you live, These are our spirits, our loves, my life....

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Cat-tails and Catching Rain 1993 Acrylic on canvas 42" ∞ 42"

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Ancestral Portraits

In the beginning, there are only thoughts. The first time I remember my father showing me something that resembled art I think I was five or six years old. He showed my brother Roland and me a model bush plane that he had carved out of a piece of driftwood that he had found on the shore of the Athabasca River. If I remember correctly, the material he used was the bark of an old poplar tree. These trees have a very thick bark and are easy to work and manipulate, even with the use of a little pocket knife. To this day, I am still impressed by the memory of that beautiful, well-made bush plane. I can still see the wings, the body with the doors and windows etched in and, most especially, the floats. It amazed me that something could be made from wood found on the banks of the Athabasca River. I remember wanting to fly that plane so that it would land on the surface of the water. Of course, the silly thing is if the plane landed on the river it would be the last time we would see it because the Athabasca River flowed quickly and dangerously. My father held it up for both my brother Roland and me to see. We couldn’t believe that something so delightful came from his hands. As I write this now, I realize that he was quite a talented man. In the north country and along the Athabasca River, a man had to have many different kinds of skills to provide for his family. When I think about all the things that we had to do in the north, it is understandable that a man could acquire many skills that he might use in a lifetime. Most of these skills would be passed on to his children. If it weren’t for my father having these

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innate skills, I would not be the kind of person I am today, I would not be that artist that I’ve become and, for that matter, I would not be the man that I will become. For most of my life, I’ve lived in a one-horse (single industry) oil-town and possessed a blue-collar perspective; in this regard, I still think I am a kind of construction worker. Art is something created with hands, using the implements and tools perfected over time by people who have worked with their hands. The art I create comes from an innate skill that has been handed down to me through past generations, from my ancestors to my father, since time immemorial. My father showed me some artistic skills, and I’ve taken them to a different level, probably to the same level that my father went with his construction skills. He was a jack-of-all-trades and not really a master of any, although he was quite adept at what he did. I want to take my skills to the highest level that I can, so this means I’ve had to reinvent those skills that I learnt in the bush. I’ve had to reapply the way things were learnt in that northern environment to the way I am now living my life in the big city. The art world is now my way of life, and I need to be able to survive in it and in the mainstream of Canadian society. As a little boy, I ran along the brown muddy banks of the Athabasca River and through the deep green bush of northeastern Alberta. I learnt the skills of a trapper and a hunter, and with these I killed my fair quota of animals. These skills taught me how to be independent and how to use the grey matter between my ears. On these youthful journeys and hunting trips, I saw strange and wonderful things and

In the Beginning

imagined some were mystical beings from other worlds. Some were mischievous little elves and magical angels looking out for me; others were monsters coming to take me away to strange lands. The mysteries of these stories made me afraid, and I was scared to venture out into the bush by myself, especially at night, but at the same time it made me aware that, if I wanted to make it on my own, I had to conquer these monsters. It is good to learn the lesson that a little boy could grow up to accept the unknown and to venture forth with his own demons. These imagined creatures were curiously good and bad. As I have come to see this now, there is understanding. I was told many stories. Some were used to scare me and my siblings so that these things that were mysterious to us became stories used to keep us on our toes. It was a traditional way to remind us of things in life, but mostly it was a way for our parents and the elders of our communities to make us knowledgeable about our environment. Stories were traditionally used as deterrents, for such purposes of keeping us aware of danger. At the same time, stories were used as a tool to teach us how to do things in a safe, conscientious, and exacting manner. We had no choice but to learn about our way of life because, when it came right down to it, a life or death situation continually existed as a part of our everyday environment. We had to learn many things, inside and out, frontwards and backwards, so that our responses to any given situation became intuitive; we were prepared for the worst and then, when we reacted, it was in a safe and decisive manner. These are skills

that I still use to this day, especially in the creative process. I wonder if these things are consciously learned or are an innate part of me, learned through the processes of life, from birth to death. I guess time will tell. My art is about everyday life and about the stories that come from my family and our ancestors. My art is also about those legendary people of the past who are still important today to a way of life that exists in our society. If it weren’t for our ancestors, we would not have what we now have; they carved out a way of life that they thought would be most relevant for their children and their descendants. They wanted a good life for their people; they wanted to be safe, they wanted to be warm, they wanted their bellies to be full of food, and they wanted to sit and relax when the time allowed them life’s little pleasures. I guess they really wanted the same things that we want today. I thank my ancestors for their hard work and dedication to their beliefs and for the rhythms of life that I follow now. The ancestors lived in a world that was so different from ours today. But their living helped to create our world, which without them would not be the same and would not be as good and as beautiful as it is now. Without them and their guidance, I would not be an artist; my art is about them and for them, and in certain inexplicable spiritual instances it is created by them. I can remember many trips up and down the river, when I was young and living along the amazing Athabasca. I can remember travelling to many seasonal camping sites, meeting and staying with many members of our family, including those who were part of our

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On the Athabasca, Anticipation 1997 Acrylic on canvas

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extended families. There were always people around whom I called and referred to as auntie, uncle, grandpa, and grandma, and yet they were not biological family. From these people came stories—stories told around the communal campfires late into the night and then again, in the winter time, around the pot-bellied wood stoves. Many a time I lay on my belly, my head propped up by my hands, listening to stories until either I fell asleep or my extremities fell asleep. When I reminisce, I am sad because I don’t remember all

the many wonderful stories that I so enjoyed listening to. Nevertheless, I do believe that these stories are a part of the artist that I’ve become today. They are still a part of me because the light that they shine comes from the darkened reaches of my memory, and, as they emerge, from time to time, they still twinkle with a mysterious brightness. My grandfather always had the best stories! My favourite is this one, about an incident in the middle of a very miserable winter storm: A knock is unexpectedly heard at the cabin

In the Beginning

door. It was curious that someone would be out in that kind of weather, and my grandfather couldn’t remember if they were expecting any family or friends at their place. In the north, there is an unspoken rule that any and all travellers are welcome to stay and to make themselves at home, literally. This applies even if there is nobody home to welcome them. My grandfather’s father answered the door, and there in the half light of the open doorway stood a tall stranger, a white man (Caucasian—not white because it was bloody cold outside), looking as though he was in dire need of help. My grandfather was only fifteen years old at the time, and at this age he had already come into his own as a young man. He had proven himself a capable hunter and trapper, yet this unexpected adventure was to be the greatest test of his young life. The weather outside was a blistering minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, with wind gusts able to cut through to the body core. Vision was kept to a grim minimum. I can’t remember who this man was, but it is etched in my mind that he had come to the cabin in an airplane and that the airplane could no longer soar over the bleak, frozen, invisible landscape. What was this man doing so far north in this foreign machine, one that was out of its element and not designed for cold temperatures? As it turns out, he was on a mission to take some kind of medicine or vaccine to what was then the little town of Fort McMurray, about eighty miles south of their cabin. If the medicine didn’t get through in time, many people would die. Without hesitation or concern for his own safety, my grandfather got dressed; he decided that he would complete the mission with this

stranger. Out into the storm they ventured. My grandfather hitched his own team of four sled dogs and set off with the medicine and the stranger in tow, towards Fort McMurray. My grandfather had an advantage over this stranger in that this was his domain and he knew how to survive in this kind of extreme environmental condition. In the end, my grandfather made it through with the vaccine. So it is that this was the way people lived and died in the north; if it wasn’t for their own ingenuity and courage, a great many people would not be here to tell their stories today. To this day, the only recognition he ever got for his bravery is that he himself knows what he did; it has not been recorded anywhere, until now. My grandfather’s name is Harry MacDonald and his stories eventually became my stories. I am now the storyteller. Many of the stories I tell come directly from my family and my ancestors. When I listen closely to my heart, I can still hear my grandfather talking into the wee hours of a cold, dark night. If you will take time to listen, I will tell them to you. The only difference between grandfather and myself is that I tell these stories in a way different from him—I use a paintbrush! My father still lives along the Athabasca River, and, through him, and indirectly through me, so too does my grandfather. My father lives in the Fort McKay First Nations community, and I now live in the big city of Calgary. The education I received from my father and grandfather on the banks of that great river all those many years ago is now coupled with the education I am receiving from the institutions of higher learning within the mainstream of Canadian society. I feel it is necessary for me to relate the stories

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At Grandpa’s Cabin 1995 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

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in a manner that all peoples will be able to understand. I feel that, if I were to converse in a language that is part and parcel of the north, then the stories would be muddied by perspectives alien to the people in the big city. At the same time, I feel that, if I would use the unnecessarily academic languages of these Canadian institutions of learning, then I would be doing a great disservice to my people and my ancestors back home. Because I now live within and between two worlds and two cultures, I know that I have to tread carefully in both my moccasins and

cowboy boots. I have to be able to speak to all kinds of peoples, always remembering the lessons I’ve learned from the many sides of the paths I’ve travelled. I am following a path that the Creator has placed before me. My path is what makes me the person that I am. Inevitably, this is the path that leads me to the surface of the canvas. This path, which my father, my grandfather, and my ancestors have already travelled, has guided me to the place I am in today and is still showing me how to be the artist that I am becoming.

In the Beginning

Thoughts on First Nations Art, Some on Politics A curiosity to many people, even to many First Nations people, is the concept of an artist of First Nations ancestry. What is First Nations art? I am going to attempt to shine a little light on this question. If I am a person of the First Nations, then doesn’t it follow that everything I do will be considered First Nations art? There are artists of First Nations ancestry who consider themselves artists first and who want to be recognized as an artist sans racial identification. This is okay for them, but for me I want to be recognized as an artist of First Nations ancestry, one who is Cree and who uses the colours of my people to produce art! First Nations art in Canada is about and by the first peoples of this country. It encompasses all the aspects that make timely connections, for the First Nations people, to the natural environment since time immemorial. It is the different spiritual and societal convictions of the Creator in whom the First Nations peoples strongly believe. It is also their culture and tradition that make the First Nations people distinct. These are all now being defined by how the First Nations artist individually observes and portrays these things. It is about the diversity of First Nations all across this great land of ours and about the richness of differences that makes us all unique. As a First Nations artist, I am on the periphery of the mainstream in the Canadian social and political infrastructures, and I often contemplate the experiences and effectiveness of communication that we have, or don’t have, within this enigmatic society. In television, radio, and newspaper and maga-

zine articles, I frequently see and hear many misunderstandings reported between individual First Nations people and their respective regional Canadian counterparts. There are undoubtedly countless reasons for the unfair attention and treatment that First Nations people endure, but the most notable is a language barrier. I am not just referring to the obvious, for there are many ways that language could present a barrier, but my concern is the effect this could have on engaging discussion about uncomfortable issues. Some of these issues lie just beneath the facade of society—issues such as traditional and contemporary cultural differences, inherent rights to the land and self-government, spiritual and religious beliefs, and many unaccountable, historical inaccuracies. These difficulties come from a fundamental reality that the First Nations people in this country are not understood. They are not taken seriously enough to have their stories or their voices heard, especially within the average Canadian home. According to oral tradition, it has been reported that, in 1885, Louis Riel, a Metis leader said, “in seven generations it will be the artist who will be the spokesman for the Indian people.” Today, there are many great movements in First Nations art. Shirley Bear, a Mi’kmaq, in 1985, influenced the establishment of Bill C-31 in the House of Commons; this helped return women to the status of equal members in First Nations society, an idea misconstrued by Canadian political perceptions. We as First Nations people have always understood the position women have within our individual First Nations societies and, in this, it

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is understood that there is a lot of diversity in First Nations peoples. Norval Morriseau, an Ojibway, believed that it was, and is, his destiny to share the story of his ancestors through his stature as a Shaman of the Society of the Midiwiwin—keepers of the sacred birch bark scrolls. He went against his elders and his society to disclose to the world, in an artistic and public manner, his people’s secrets. Other artists I should mention, working in a similar environment, are Jim Logan, Gerald McMaster, Joan Cardinal-Schubert, Lawrence Paul Yuxweluptun, and Jane Ash Poitras. These are just a few artists who use their art to begin, and, in many cases, to continue their difficult discussions inside and outside First Nations communities. First Nations stories have been handed down from generation to generation, by oral traditions and by languages of art that are our own. We cannot allow our stories to be continually viewed through the stained glass of the old museums; we have to re-evaluate all our own individual stories, and it is time the re-evaluations come directly from the First Nations people. These re-evaluations have already been in the forefront of many First Nations agendas for what seems like eternity; yet, in reality, it has only been a short time, mostly in the last few decades. Our art has been here since time immemorial, depicted in petroglyphs and pictographs on rock faces and in caves. Our arts have also been depicted on animal hides and skins, drums, shields, clothing, and tipis and have been employed in other kinds of everyday uses and functions. But these works deteriorate, and many have been lost to the natural elements (just as they have been designed to do); very few remain. It is only now that

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some people are taking the time to listen to the stories. As I see it, the artist must be a persistent and conspicuous speaker for our peoples today. I mustn’t forget the political leaders because, in their own ways, they have taken their political agendas to a height where politics becomes an art form. Just some of these leaders are the Grand Chief of the Assembly of First Nations, Matthew CoonCome, and my favourite past Grand Chief, Ovide Mercredi. Even those leaders who are from my community, like the Chief of the Fort McKay First Nations, Jim Boucher, and my own auntie, Dorothy McDonald (past Chief ), should be recognized for their efforts to bridge the communication barriers on behalf of their people. These individuals are working at the national and grassroots levels, equally, with ease and with definite concern for their communities. The politicians paint a similar kind of image of their peoples, but they use a different kind of brush. I think First Nations art has a language that does not translate readily into the mainstream of Canadian culture and, for that matter, into the Euro-Canadian consciousness. As a First Nations artist, I have to be cognizant of the foreign conceptions of Western ideas, especially if it is within this foreign language and culture that I wish to have a dialogue. I feel it is very necessary to discuss, in a manner that is relevant and respectful of both cultures, a way to transcend the collective social barriers and languages of art with art. It is now necessary to put myself, as an established First Nations artist, further into the contemporary mainstream of Canadian art and, in so doing, initiate a clear visual

In the Beginning

discourse on behalf of my First Nations community. In this way, I can hopefully effect a change in the manner in which most Canadians commonly misinterpret First Nations people. I am talking about taking aspects of First Nations people and translating them into something that can be understood by the Euro-Canadian psyche. Basically, I hope to be able to encourage discussions, on a one-to-one basis, with the intent of conveying the stories of the First Nations people, between myself and individual Canadians. As a result of this approach, I think I can demonstrate the importance of telling and sharing our own stories, of past and present. In this manner, maybe I can help to bring understanding and then help to establish paths for our peoples to go positively into the future. I feel the necessity to enter into a direct conversation with the Canadian mainstream because I’ve experienced what I believe is a continued segregation of ideas, especially in some of the exhibitions I’ve been a part of. It seems that First Nations art, whether in an exhibit for such a purpose or one that is part of a multicultural show, is always painted with the same brush of pretty, romantic, Hollywood stereotypes. I am trying to transcend my present reality in order to facilitate a new historical perspective of relating and retelling a First Nations story. I understand that, from the artistic point of view, we have not gone far beyond the Western romanticisms and the Hollywood stereotypes depicted of our people, but, if I am going to get beyond the barriers of our respective cultures, I am an artist who really needs to have an understanding of both cultures, without discrimination or partiality.

First Nations artists have to continue to take the time to influence and guide people who are in the mainstream, socially and politically; only in this way will others be able to learn to understand and to accept the First Nations people and a language that is undeniably foreign to them. With this direction, I hope to be able to examine issues like orientalism and primitivism. These terms are anthropological interpretations that have been used as excuses to continue to challenge the First Nations values and visions. This challenge goes beyond just the immediate superficial media-treated situations that we always see lambasted on the news. These issues go so deep that the history of First Nations people, since their first contact with Europeans, needs to be reviewed and rewritten. The treaties that were agreed upon need to be honoured remembering the intent of the White documents and the intent of the First Nations oral accords at the time these agreements were marked and signed between the differing governments and nations. We have to be positive about the future and work with one another to achieve a better understanding of each other’s social ideals, especially with the intent of accepting our respective differences within our distinct cultures all across Canada. I think the language of contemporary art can encourage a comprehensive discourse between First Nations peoples and Canadians. Within this new perception, and an acceptance of such, I can then truly say that, as a member of the seventh generation, I will continue speaking out on behalf of First Nations people, but with one exception—I will be doing so in the same mainstream as all Canadians, First Nations people included!

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Influences 1: My Grandfather, My Brother, and a River When I think back on my life, especially from the time I began to create art, I have to consider all those people who have influenced me, who have encouraged me, and who have helped me to see clearly my path in life. For myself, as I’m sure there are many others who have also been affected in similar manners, there are numerous people who have given me the inspiration and the courage to follow my dream. These influences come from many places in my life. I have been inspired from what would seem the most inconspicuous places and people on Earth, from time present and times past. Inspiration has come from the world of art, from politics, from my family and schools. It has come from books I’ve read, from songs I’ve heard, and from the institutions of higher learning that I’ve been fortunate to be a part of. Where do I begin? My father brought art into my life; he gave me a taste for the wonder of it all and this has never left me. I can proudly admit that, no matter how desperate or confused I may have been when making some difficult personal decisions, my father has always supported me, even if it was something that he couldn’t understand. I think the hardest time in my life was when I decided to make a final and complete break from my home, to leave behind the work I had in the oil industry there, and to leave my family. I have to remember that I’d already spent thirty years in my home town, and to suddenly decide that I did not want to spend the rest of my life in a dead-end situation was not a mistake but a choice for survival;

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this is the kind of decision that I had been raised to make. It is not to say that the work and the home community were not good enough; it is only to say that my world view had changed and I needed to explore this other big realm that I’d read about. If it wasn’t for this decision, I might never have become an artist; but, as one thing leads to another, then it is as it should be! My father was there; today, he is still behind me, and, in many ways, he will always be a part of the decisions I will make in the future. The hunting and trapping that my father and grandfather taught me involve a certain amount of excitement, especially when it comes to the pursuit of prey. When I think about it now, this is a primal instinct that lies innate in me as a person belonging to that environment. I practise the skills necessary to make a kill, and, at the same time, I pit my skills against other living creatures on this Earth, and the one of us who has a greater mastery of their inherent skills will win. It is, in the most natural sense of survival, a matter of life or death. In retrospect, animals really do not have a chance because we have more tools (guns) to render an animal incapable of living. In a curious way, the hunting of an animal has the same effect on me as does applying the finishing touches to a painting; it invites in all kinds of mixed emotions and excitement and they all touch my soul. With this comes a dual sense of survival, one that deals with death and the other with creation. So what kind of art is there in this? It is all about the way you are raised and

The Young Trapper 1994 Acrylic on canvas 29" ∞ 42" (Private collection of Brent MacDonald)

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where your skills are practised. Today, in our world, there is really no art left in the killing of an animal, especially when it is done for what some people refer to as ‘sport’ hunting. Many people consider that life is art and that those things people do in their life should also be considered art. Well, I guess there is something to that, especially if you master the skills necessary to make life art. To some degree, I started to master that world in which I did live to the extent that it would allow me to make a living at it. But I did not want to continue to pursue a career in this virtually forgotten world’s way of life. That was the way of my father, my grandfather, and our ancestors; these are things of my past. My world now employs the tools of colour theory and manufactured pigments. My grandfather, what a marvelously interesting man he was! What I remember most about him are his steel grey eyes and his great stature. Even though he was just a little guy, physically, his world and his story were grand. I guess that’s why we called him grandfather. A story I often remember is one that transcends generations, belongs to many people and to many places, and will continually be rewritten by every one of us who has had the privilege of being able to experience the river and the bush. This is a story about bears—bears in the river, bears on the banks of the river, and bears in the bush along the river. It is a story that takes place on a few beautiful late-summer, earlyautumn days, and it is a story about two brothers who are travelling down a mystical river in a little canoe with their grandfather. This story talks about the kind of education that does not come from a book but comes from being a part of this wild world in which

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my grandfather is the teacher. This story involves a river, drawn by the hands of the greatest of all Creators. It is a story that relays a message about family and how wonderful our relationships can be. But mostly this is a story about two young boys and about the first time they experienced a wholehearted relationship with nature. My grandfather taught us so much about his world and how we’re just another creature who needs to know how to live and survive in it. Unfortunately, today, I am no longer one with this world, but I tell myself that I recreate it in my art—that I am telling their stories. This makes what I learned then something to be cherished forever, just for what it was. I remember that day so clearly that I feel I am still experiencing it; there is art in this story! I can still feel the heat of the late summer sun warming my skinny brown body. The sun was breaking through the early morning mist, which was softly suspended just over the surface of the water. Suspended similarly to a time when the tradition of passage, for many little boys, starts them walking along their own paths to manhood. We had begun this journey many nights before by preparing our equipment and supplies, but the moment had finally come for us to manoeuvre the canoe from the muddy bank, just below the dusty road from our home, onto the stillness of the liquid highway. I am ten years old and my brother Roland is eight. At this moment, I am big and strong. Being the older of the two boys, my grandfather let me take the front of the

In the Beginning

canoe. In my mind, this was the place of most importance for little boys, and at least I thought that I deserved the right to be the front paddler of our fourteen-foot craft. My grandpa, being at the back, had the definite responsibilities of guide and director. My father, with my mother watching and her arms crossed, pushed us out into the snye. I remember looking back, as we began to go out of sight around the first island, at a beautiful scene of my parents framed by trees full of many colours of delicate greens. Some green leaves were flickering, reflecting light which is still travelling to some other unknown place in our universe and some leaves were dancing and turning into yellow gold, the kind of gold, like this story, that only a special colour combination can depict. The excitement of this moment had built for days and, in a weird sense of elation, I realized that this was the first time that I would be going somewhere without them. I didn’t know it at that moment, but they wouldn’t be around to guide me and protect me very much after that. And, in another way, as I think about it now, they weren’t going to be around to tell me what to do. That first day was mostly uneventful, and we drifted with the current in a lazy dream, being smoothly and curiously carried down the Athabasca River in a cradle of carved wood and painted canvas. My grandpa knew exactly where we were going and, after a day of just drifting, we camped at one of his old buddy’s

place, high up on a hill and deep in the forest. The day ended with my grandfather and his friend talking late into the night, recounting old stories from time to time. I remember lying in my comfortable sleeping bag and slowing drifting into a quiet dream, their soft voices sinking farther back into recesses of my consciousness. Memories of sleep now bring me dreams of home and take me back to my youth. On the second day, I got up really early because I had to go outside for a pee. As it turns out, this was the beginning to a day of one of the most memorable experiences of my life. The cabin of my grandfather’s friend was beside a small lake and, as I remember it now, I can still feel the glory of my youth. I begin exploring a new world and discovering all the amazing things it had to offer. The world outside the cabin was very still. Once again, there was a mist suspended magically throughout the bush and over the lake. After doing my bodily duty, I decided to take a walk down a path to where a dock was built out onto the water. There was a peaceful silence, and every now and then I could hear the sound of the first morning robins conversing, breaking through this ethereal space and echoing through time. I can’t remember how long I was out there, but my grandfather was calling me in for breakfast and his voice awakened me to his presence and to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking. How wonderful my grandfather was!

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Ancestral Portraits

Well, on we go with our journey, out into the big world we enter and onto the big river we venture—that same journey I am still travelling. The Athabasca River is a big river; I know this now because I’ve been across a few rivers since then and have travelled down many others. At some places, with no islands blocking the view, you can see for many miles up and down stream and across for almost a mile. As we are moving along the same flow of the river, my grandfather is telling us things, telling us stories, and I imagine it now as being in the same manner that his grandfather told him things; perhaps, some were even the same stories. The strange thing about it is that, as we got closer to a certain island, his voice became quieter. He told us that this island we were about to go by was once called Bear Island, but because of the White people it is now called Stoney Island. He cautioned us to be very quiet and to keep our eyes and ears open—words I still adhere to to this day. The reason for our silence was soon to be made very clear to us. His whispers told us to watch for bears and that there would be many. Just as we came around the first bend, where the river splits and we begin our trek by the island, we are startled to see the first bear. It was swimming to

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the island. I thought that it was small, but my grandfather told us we should not get too close to this one because it was a large bear and we should always remember what a bear is capable of doing and that we can never know what it would do. As a little boy and looking only at the head of a bear, it seems funny that this was a big one, but we followed it at a safe distance and watched it swim easily out of the water and run frantically up the steep bank of the island and into the thick underbrush. My grandfather told us that, even though we are afraid of the bears, we have to remember that they are just as afraid of us. We sure had a lot of remembering to do that day. In the distance, through the thick bush, we could see the bear stop, turn its head, and look back us; I guess it was just making sure we were not chasing it. Without much warning and still in the presence of this beautiful beast, we are aroused by grandfather’s whisper to turn and look across the river. On the far bank and grounded into the smaller shore willows, there was another bear! This one was feeding on the newly ripened highbush cranberries and minding its own business, oblivious—or at least I thought—to our presence. Just as we were becoming comfortable with

In the Beginning

this sight, my brother shouted out that there were three more just down stream: a mother and two cubs. In a way, I was jealous that I hadn’t seen them first because I was the oldest and I should have been keeping my eyes open. They too were feeding on berries, and they were so intent on what they were doing that they didn’t see or hear us slithering by. Within what seemed liked seconds, but was realistically minutes of our grandfather telling us to keep our eyes and ears open, we had already encountered five bears. Eight bears still live in my mind because there was another one swimming a hundred or so yards away from us across the river to the island, and two others were already there feeding along its banks. For what seemed like eternity, we floated, paddled, backpaddled, and circled between the island and the shores watching and carefully learning about what the bears were doing. For the amount of work and paddling we had done, it seemed like the island was pretty big, but the actual size is only about a half mile long. In my memory, though, it lives long, and I can still see it in its wonderful aura, especially in the light of the latesummer, early-autumn afternoon.

As a young boy, that was one of the most exciting experiences of my life—one that still lives, which has become a part of me and one that I have become a part of. It is a story of bears, a story of my brother and of my grandfather, and, today, it is only my story! The funny thing—and I use the term loosely—is that, many years later when we are adults, my brother was killed in an accident when the vehicle in which he was travelling rolled off the highway. At the time, he was working for the Department of Fish and Wildlife and was on his way to rescue a bear. Bears are caught in barrel traps, which are set to capture the mischievous ones, and then are taken to a location far away from the city and set free. My grandfather too has passed on, just a few years before my brother; he had cancer. Today, they are on their own journeys, maybe in the same canoe on some mystical river in the next world. Nevertheless, my brother’s and my grandfather’s story still lives on, and I am grateful to have shared in their earthly experiences. As I now sit in that little canoe and I exit from the shadows of Bear Island, still riding through its eddies, I can feel the presence of all those bears. In my mind, I can still hear the whispers of my grandfather, and I can still feel the excited shouts of my brother. And as a little boy then, and as an adult now, I ask myself, what do some people know about naming an island? It is Stoney Island on the map, but in my heart it is still Bear Island!

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Ancestral Portraits

Influences 2: High School and Beyond Another person, in another world (high school), who was important to my education and helped me form my dreams is an English teacher who, at that time, went by the name of Miss Nolan. She guided me in my search for good books, and, even though these books took me to another world, they did help to bring balance to my own reality. These books held many keys to other worlds, and they helped me to see that my dreams were just like many other people’s dreams. I think that understanding about what is out there beyond the borders of your community and the borders of your mind gives a person a kind of circumnavigational comprehension with an ability to see many sides of any given setting. Just think, books can be—and for the most part are—the culmination of a writer’s dreams and imagination, and I am lucky and very privileged to have experienced a little piece of their world. As a child growing up in a small isolated community in the far north, my world view was at first small and narrow. Books helped me to expand my mind and my personal borders, and they allowed me freedom to travel, even if it was only my imagination taking the trip. If you experience only one side of things in life, then how can you know what is good and, for that matter, how will you know what is bad? I like to think that, even if you can only vicariously experience the bad things in life, even if the experiences are only words in perfectly sized books and are also only images painted on white acid-free pages. If you can understand them for what they are,

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then you will have in inkling of things good and/or bad. It is necessary to have the comparisons and to know the differences. Books can give us mental tools necessary to make decisions for what constitutes a bad thing, and in knowing this you can appreciate the good things and the good times all that much more! Miss Nolan was a fine teacher with an open attitude to ideas and people, and she has graced the pages of my life. Oliver Breeze, my grades 11 and 12 art teacher, influenced me by allowing me to have freedom to paint whenever and whatever I wanted. I remember him fondly because we made a deal at the beginning of my final high school year. Oliver knew that I had discovered painting and that this is all I wanted to do. He knew that I had no interest in the other forms of art, those necessary to complete his assignments for the school curriculum. At some point early in that twelfth year, we both agreed that, even if I did not do any other assignments but completed the same amount of paintings as the assignments, he would give me a passing grade of fifty-eight per cent. Imagine knowing what your mark is going to be before you start your program! That year, I was free to explore different styles of painting, and it was a wonderful way for allowing my dreams to travel. Oliver was a painter, and in some way this may have been his way of being able to have a painting (two-dimensional surface) aspect in his class all the time. That year, he gave me the key to the art room so that I could use it at my discretion as long as I

In the Beginning

didn’t interfere in any of his classes. This was probably the best way any instructor could say that I had potential and that he believed in what I was doing; in this manner he gave me the key to my imagination. Doug Williscroft, Robert McLennan, Kevin Mahoney, and my brother Roland are a few of my best friends who have encouraged me to follow my dreams. They were also a part of many discussions and adventures concerning the aspects of our dreams, dreams that would take us all to many parts of the world and to the other sides of the universe. With friends like these, how could I not have been influenced in a positive manner; how could I not do anything but follow my heart? Dreams are truly the only things that we have. Dreams belong only to the individual. They are what we are, and, if we are lucky enough, we become our dreams. I remember someone telling me that, when we are little kids, our dreams could fill a coliseum, and, as we get older, our dreams get smaller, so small that eventually they all fit neatly into our pockets. I have to admit that the kid in me is spiritedly alive today and that my dreams still fill a coliseum. Here are a few short reflections on my friends. My intellectually enthusiastic friend Doug and I used to stay up into the early hours of the morning talking about the worlds that existed in the night skies far above the small town we lived in. Our discussions, we figured then, if heard by other people, would make them think that we were weird, so we kept them just between

the two of us. We gave a lot of thought to the idea that we lived in many worlds, on parallel planes but in different eras all at the same time, and we wondered if there was any way that we could connect with these other places. Places that we imagined and envisioned far above us existed beyond the stars, beyond the scope of our eyes. We also thought about those people who came before us, like Yeats, Frost, Whitman, Dali, our parents, and their parents; and we wondered if they talked about the same crazy things. It is only now that I think that the place I connect best with these other worlds and these other people is where and when I am painting. Rob was a friend I had met as a result of our mutual love for the game of basketball. Doug and I had started a team after high school, and, when we saw Rob play, we asked him to join our team. There was an air of confidence in his demeanour, and his playing skills were finely honed. Rob was a young man who seemed to have his feet firmly grounded in this world. He came to Fort McMurray from Victoria, B.C., to make his start, and, because the oil industry was flourishing then, he thought it would help him to get a good start in his life. He thought he could make a lot of fast, easy money and then get the heck out of Fort McMurray. Rob brought a good sense of the here and now and a good perspective of what our present reality was. All in all, he seemed to know what he wanted his future to be; he came to a place where I had lived all my life, and,

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Ancestral Portraits

with his searching for the future, he brought my future into perspective. Kevin was a friend who was able to make me realize that there were many explanations to the queries that we had about the world that existed around us. We met just after we began work in the oil industry and would both complete our steamfitter/ gasfitter ticket certifications together. We would question many things about the present, and we were able to discuss what other people thought—people in the world beyond our working environment. Kevin was able to help me see the possibilities that existed in my dreams. Between the two of us, we conversed on a man’s role in our society and tried to see how we fit into this bigger picture. We enjoyed the same kind of books and movies and discussed in great depth the intricacies of the stories and the intent of their meanings. We did not always agree on these things, but, in the end, we did agree that there were very many differences and similarities—that many variances could be plausible. His views helped me to see that my views were just as important as the next person’s, including his. My brother Roland was always there. We played together as kids and partied together as young adults. We never really had any heavy discussions on what the world was about, but we had a bond that started in the first days of our lives. That bond still exists, even though he is no longer one with

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this world. I can remember times when we would go fishing along the Athabasca River all day long, when we would go bird hunting with our newly made sling shots, when we would go into the back woods and build tree forts, when we would build rafts for the huge ponds that formed in the springtime and when we would search through the piles of junk that my father collected. We would make things from junk, things our young minds would conjure up, things to make our adventures come true. Many times, we were warned by our parents not to do what we did, but we did them anyway, and we knew that, if we got into trouble, we did it as brothers. The stories are too numerous to mention here, but I’m sure that you’ve all experienced these things with your siblings or your best friends, during those youthful early years of your lives. Roland never really had what most people would term ambition; he liked to party a lot and just hang out with his friends. There was one time when it was looking as though things would be good for him. There never was an occupation that suited his character, until the time that he was employed by the Fish and Wildlife division of the government. In his position, he ended up helping a lot of bears, especially those considered troublesome. My brother really loved this job; he loved helping the bears. But, on one late summer day in 1990, en route to retrieve a bear, he was killed. In retrospect, he got to

In the Beginning

experience something that he really wanted to do. He must have felt that he finally was able to make a difference. When I look back now, all my friends came into my life at what I would say were prescribed times, determined by the Creator, necessary to facilitate my journey from adolescence to manhood. I think this is a reciprocal sharing of time and ideas; it works both ways, and I can only hope that I also made a difference in their lives. These were my formative years, and, thinking about it now, I realize I only had my dreams. Of course, I had some idea that I had to do something with my life, and, while I was going to high school, I didn’t really know what was out there for me. While growing up in a small, northern, isolated community, a person is likely to acquire an impression that there is not a lot of hope for their future. Consider what kind of work, what kind of living, is involved in a world of no more than about a thousand people, and add that to the fact that the next closest town from Fort McMurray is about 125 miles south. To say the least, I really had a narrow field of vision as to where my path and my future would take me. When I was growing up, I really wanted to be a good trapper. I thought that if things worked out, maybe I could operate a guiding lodge in the summer months. For a trapper, there is only work in a seasonal capacity, and, at the same time, the work is subject to the whims of nature, literally. So, to this point

in my life, I was learning how to be able to live with and off of the land. Art was not a big thing, and it wasn’t considered a way to make a living, especially within this limited environment. My time in that hunting world was very important to the way I am, for it gave me a spiritual insight and an understanding of a spirit that can only come from the place you live. I can honestly say that the spirit of that world is very much a part of me now. The world I see now and live in is always in parallel with the past. I learnt this as a young boy, but it is only now that I realize how those years in that environment are important for me; they help me to understand and comprehend the spiritual aspects of my people. As time went by and my dreams eventually took me away from my home, more people came to influence what I’m doing now. For me, it is important to recognize those people who are so key in helping me to be who I am. I feel that I’ve learnt a great deal from so many people and that, if it weren’t for these people, I would not be who I am. At the same time as being an individual, I am also a person who uses those things that I find intriguing in other people. I recognize those things that make an individual unique, and, if this helps me to be a better person, then I try to make these characteristics my own; I am a person who is always looking for a way to improve myself, my life, and, at the same time, my art.

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The Bravest of Us All.... 1993 Acrylic on canvas 36" ∞ 48" (poem and painting are dedicated to my brother) (personal collection)

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The Bravest of Us All.... And never again shall his laughter be heard, Or his humour which caused such levity, Or the warmth and concern from every word Of his gregarious and uninhibited integrity. Oh, I shall always remember his perpetual smile, And the engaging charm in his mischievous eyes, And his wit, clever words to disarm and to beguile; No malicious intent, just a simple, loving disguise. The trees, all proud, stand tall and guard the place Where my brother, in his eternal sleep, transcends, Where Mother Earth now holds him in Her loving embrace, And carries him to that other world; life never ends. And so my friend it shall be but a moment, We will meet again and though you are the first to fall, Do you remember when we played; you are like a scout sent To find and blaze a trail, the bravest of us all....

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Ancestral Portraits

On the Art of Travelling The journey is the most important thing in our lives; it is our path and in this regard it is what we do with our time on this Earth. Time becomes the essence of our travels; using it wisely makes our journeys memorable. When I consider this, the journey represents our memories, and our dreams present our future travels. Just think, everything we do, everywhere we travel, is already history; our thoughts, our ideas, our perspectives are all just finite moments of time. In time, they are gone and have become “in the past.” We don’t know what the future is because this has not yet happened, but we dream about it. All that we know and all that we are makes us only a part of what has already happened in our journey and a part of what we remember. T.S. Eliot said it best when he wrote in The Four Quartets: Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.

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I am not a philosopher, but I’ve explored some of the world on which we live and have travelled in my mind to places I can only imagine. Everywhere that I’ve been only exists now in my mind. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was physically there, that I’ve actually walked on the ground where my mind has taken me and that I can now remember having travelled to those places, then in this way they are only in my memory and they are a part of my past. These past experiences and thoughts have now become a part of my history, and they have already begun to define the “I” in what makes me who I am, what has made me an individual. My thoughts, things imagined or real, are fragments of who I am right now. Every experience that I will have as I continue my travels will make me the person that I will become, and, for now, knowing this and thinking this, I can accept the future. It is okay; let me dream!

In the Beginning

Memories are things of the past, but what about the future, what are they things of ? I consider them dreams, things that I want to do, which have not happened. Yet we might think they have no past, that they do not exist beyond just being a thought, but they are already a part of us, because the past leads us to the future and in this way the past is the future. Dreams are places I’ve travelled to in my mind, places that I’ve seen and constructed, built on memories and experiences. If it were not for our memories and our subsequent histories, we would be unable to imagine things, unable to have dreams, and unable to create things. Our thoughts take us along our paths. They tell us that we are here, that we are doing things while we are here and, when we’ve moved on, they remind us that we were once there. We travel in our minds. In our minds, we remember

having thoughts, and they become memories; they’ve become the paths we have already travelled. So, wherever our imagination takes us, wherever we physically travel, whether it is in our mind or in our past, these things have existed, and they too become a memory that we’ve experienced. One last thought before I wake up. As an artist, I consider memories the reflections of light etched on my mind, and, in this same sense, dreams are light. Reflections are what I use as an artist; they have become my tool. The light refracts into many bits of memory, memory guides me to place the light into forms and compositions, allowing me opportunities to express my concepts of the colours of life. These are my ideas and thoughts; they are my experiences, my memories, and, in the end, they are definitively my dreams.

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Ancestral Portraits

Worldly Encounters 1: Canada Some of my dreams have taken me to the other side of the Earth. At twenty, I decided that I wanted to hitch-hike across Canada and begin a trek around the world. Doug Williscroft and I set off to Vancouver Island on what was to be the start of our journey to discover Canada and to give us the experience and skills necessary to take on the rest of the world. This journey was to make reality of those things that I’d only seen and read about in books. It was to be a journey, a rite of passage that would lead me into the mainstream of manhood. This journey would figuratively give me a centre on which I would be able to base my astronomical dreams. This was a journey to discover ourselves. We thought that the first part of this journey should begin on Vancouver Island; we wanted to backpack the “West Coast Trail” on the outer edge of the island. In many respects, this is where I really begin my journey towards manhood. The trail was then still in its backpacking infancy, and we had quite the adventure trekking over hills, under logs, through thick bush, into chest-high swamps and out of high stands of cedars. We existed in this surreal world soaking wet like newborn babies. In many ways, the trail was our first step away from the comfort of our home town, and, thinking about it now, we needed to do this in order to wean ourselves from the shadows of our parents and from our own adolescence. It was a time of change and a time of exploration. Later on that same trip, I remember going to the provincial museum in Victoria and having a nice long look at the totem poles

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and some of the many other artifacts within the walls of this compartmentalized institution. My only real memory is of the totem poles and how they stood so tall and strong in the entranceway. I was fascinated by their existence. I’ve never been back to this museum, and, to this day, the poles still stand like shadows in my mind as a memento of the spirits of those peoples who used to live on the island and in the places we backpacked through. I can still see and feel those memories. They are relentless memories, which are sometimes comfortably warm and sometimes unbearably cold. They are memories demarcating the forest and the ocean, where two worlds existed side by side. The forest had cedars that were tall and dark, pines that were short and lightly twisted. The ocean had skies both dark and light. It was all a dream, and I felt like I was walking through the same wonderful world as Bilbo Baggins in Tolkien’s The Hobbit. We had many adventures on the beginning of that journey, but Doug wanted to go back home, and so, about a month after the start, I was travelling alone. So what was new? I’d travelled alone before, and I accepted the challenge; as a matter of fact, I welcomed it. Canada was a big place, and the roads were long and lonely, but I had to prove to myself that I could make this journey. In retrospect, I still needed to put some more distance between me and my home town. I remember racing across the Prairies and only experiencing them through vehicle windows; they were a blur. The forest of northern Ontario was bush and winding roads and

In the Beginning

rocks and hills. Thank God I got the heck out of there! I had an anxiety attack in Toronto and was rushed to a hospital for a ECG. I kept telling myself that I was from the northern bush and this big city was foreign to me; so I got the heck out of there too. The place I really like to remember from the trip was Fredericton, not because of the name, but because it had an exhibit of Salvador Dali’s work at the Beaverbrook Gallery. I stood in awe of the grandiose scale of his paintings and their magnificent presence. He captured my imagination. I remember sitting for a very long time in front of one of his towering horses rearing back, its white hide contrasting with the darkness of the sky behind it. The power and the beauty of this image still comforts me and, at the same time, haunts me to this day. This gallery is on the south bank of the St. John River, and I think I liked it there so much because of its resemblance to the Athabasca River. My journey continued. Another poignant place along this journey was the great barren expanse of land in the southwestern portion of Newfoundland. This place for me is a bad memory, especially considering the First Nations people who used to live there, the Beothuks. Their story told: they were annihilated, wiped out by a foreign civilization that pierced their peaceful world. They were used for sport hunting, just like all those lost animal species that were decimated in the White conquest of this continent. When I read about their existence, I wanted to get to know them, and I was disheartened, cognizant of the fact

that I would never meet any of them. I still see myself standing at the crossroads of the Trans-Canada highway and Stephenville and wondering if I should detour into this town. Sadly, I was really questioning the winds of that barren land; I wanted to hear if they still howled the names of those silent people who loved their home and who now live in their own ghostly world. I did not know these people, but, oddly enough, I remember them now, I remember that they existed as a nation of people and that they belonged to a time and a place. In a kind of magical way, they are still a part of that land. I had many more adventures on this part of my earthly journey, but none extend to the ends of my fingertips at this time. I ended this part of my journey by going back home, dejected that this world didn’t have very much to offer me. I then worked for a big oil company, Syncrude Canada Limited, for ten and a half years—a place I never ever thought I would wind up in. I sweated in the heat and smell of the chemicals, little bits of tar sand became embedded in my skin, undermining my resolve. In this environment, I made what many of my cohorts called ‘easy money,’ but I spent it hard and fast. I lived life on its outer edge, in the same manner that my father and his father did. To this day, I am thankful to have escaped this place and its many subliminal traps of luxury and comfort. The one great thing that came out of it was the birth of my daughter Grace. Unfortunately, I was to leave her, just as I was to leave my home town. This is another story, for another time.

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Ceremony.... 1994 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 32" (Collection of Fort McKay First Nations, Alberta)

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Australian Dreams When I reached the Australian shore, Like all the travellers before, Crescendos of waves upon waves, Welcomed them and welcoming me, Washing away reality, I stepped into a sunny dream. All the people I encountered, All the places I discovered, The days, the nights experienced, In the jungle and on the sea, Stopping for a nice cup of tea, Are all parts of an ageless dream. Now here, oceans then years away, Are thoughts alive, but fading, fade To smiles and laughter, lyrical Words spoken and songs, memories, That were shared, mixed with poetry, Segregated by truth: the dream.

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Worldly Encounters 2: Australia This is a poem written to mark the time I spent in Australia. I explored many things, and I had many good experiences. To this day, I maintain that this was one of the best times of my life. At the age of thirty-one, I left Fort McMurray and all those people I loved behind. I also left all the pain of youth and the histories of my father and his ancestors. I no longer wanted to be a part of that past, and, for that matter, I did not want to be a part of their future; I needed to begin my own story. This time, my journey would not end up on the doorstep of my home town. Australia is another world, and there are many stories of other people who’ve existed there since time began. For now, it is another story that I experienced, and it has become a part of me too. This story is the beginning of my life today. There on the down-under side, I saw a colonial world comparable to the one that exists in Canada. There were many comparisons and many similarities between the Aboriginal peoples of both Australia and Canada. It’s crazy to think that I had to travel to the other side of the Earth to have my eyes opened to this paradox. To have my heart torn just a little more by their stories of annihilation; interestingly enough, they are similar to those ghosts on the island of Newfoundland. Going to this country on the other side of the Earth was really about getting away from a life I was not too happy with. Alcohol had become a big part of my weekly activities, and I had seen, through my father and familial relations, that it would lead nowhere. At the time I left, the people I worked with thought that I was nuts to be leaving behind a job that paid really well, and many said 30

that I would return within a couple of years. Some things they said really made me mad. I needed to prove to myself and to those that I used to work with that I could make it out beyond the gates of the oil industry and away from the golden handcuffs. Anyway, my life was heading straight into the shitter, and, if I was to pull out of the syndrome that had been the demise of my family, I really needed to do something drastic with my life. So, with all my savings, I headed to the other side of the world in search of something. What it was I did not know. On my ‘Auzzie’ travels, I met a lot of good people and had a lot of fun. I ended up teaming with a Norwegian fellow, and for two and a half months we merrily ate and drank our way around this dry, yet spirited continent. At the start, this journey was a big mystery to me, and in the end it seemed like a dream sequence. So, in retrospect, I feel as though I was there, but only in some fantastic kind of vacation mode. When I look at the tons of photographs I took, I really know that I was there. They show me moments of my journey that are happy and carefree. This was definitely the best six months of my life; I guess not having any responsibility, and not having any ties to any place, allowed me to wander freely about in body and in mind. I think I was on a kind of ‘walk-about,’ though there were times when it lacked direction. On my way there, I thought I would at least have a great amount of time to explore the poetic side of my thoughts and that I would write. I did do this, but not to the degree that I would have liked. The most important thing is that I got to see how other

In the Beginning

people, especially travellers, view the world. How they looked at the natural environment, how they interacted with peoples of other cultures and, for the most part, how I fit into this bigger picture. The one thing that still stands out today is the fact that, when I was on the road, I was meeting people of the same mind, who had the same curiosity about this world. There is poetry in this! I landed on the shores of this island continent, and the first thing I wanted to do was have a drink of Foster’s lager; I wanted to see if this beer tasted as bad in its own country as it did back home. Yes, it was still the same foul-tasting piss as in Canada. The next thing that I did was to go for a walk around the Sydney Opera House, and, just as many before me, I concluded that it was magnificent. Afterwards, I went to the notorious King’s Cross area and explored its wonders of street cafes and dingy bars. I became very aware of my personal space, and I made sure that I kept a very close eye on anyone invading it. In many ways, all the talk about this place was wasted; it was not really as bad as its reputation. For the rest of my journey, this was pretty much the system I used. Look at all the tourist sites, find a good place to sleep, a good place to eat, and then a good place to drink. EEHAH! The next part of my journey took me to Melbourne, a real short stay because of the pollution (the radio stations reported daily warnings of the air quality, if you can call it that), and then I was quickly off to Tasmania. Tasmania, the land of ABC (apples, booze, and women)! Well, I can attest to the apples being the best, the most succulent I’ve ever tasted. And yes, there is a lot of good booze, satisfyingly made, and I consumed my fair share of tall cool drinks (especially on those very hot dry

days). The means of getting to this island is either to go by plane or by ferry; I opted for the watery route. On the ferry, I saw this big goofy blond fellow traipsing around, acting really nutty, and getting tipsy. Turns out Nils Jorgensen would be my bunk mate at the backpacker’s hostel I was booked into. We became very good friends, and this just tells me that you can’t really judge a book (or a Norwegian) by its cover, so to speak. Our journey together was very interesting because I don’t normally like to travel with anyone, and I ended up doing things in groups because of him. Our first excursion would take us trekking five days through the mountains with three other people. We were treated to marvelously scenic panoramic views of the mountain tops and the mountain plateaus, but the leaches were what amazed me; they were everywhere. While hiking, we had to watch for these little devils in the overhanging branches; when sitting, you had to pick a dry spot out of their reach, but, no matter how hard you tried to avoid being the victim of their bloody ways, in the end you succumbed to their propensity for feeding. At this time, we picked up this rabble-rouser yell, which kind of went like this—EEHAH! As it turns out, it was not to the delight of the three first-time hikers who travelled with us, though I must add that we two thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. From what they told us later, they wanted to see pristine forests and to enjoy these pretty spaces in peace and quiet. Being two people who experienced the northern forests of Canada and Norway respectively, we had a different view of the out-of-doors. Where we were comfortable in this environment, these other people only adventured into it as a place of play and recreation. It’s no wonder 31

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the world is so screwed up with environmental destruction and habitat loss, not to mention all the animal species perishing at a consistently growing, alarming rate. By the way, who can hear this alarm? I think the alarm should have gone out when the Aboriginal people of Tasmania were all being forced off their island. They were either shot or corralled like animals and then extirpated, taken away to some remote islands in the Bass Strait. It was weird going to a place and not seeing any of the indigenous inhabitants. My next journeys took me by train from Melbourne, to Adelaide, to Perth, back to Adelaide, Melbourne, and Sydney, and on up to Cairns. I just have to add that they should incorporate a new saying: ‘take a slow train to Cairns,’ instead of ‘take a slow boat to China.’ I remember looking out the train window and watching a band of kangaroos literally hopping past faster than we were going. I got off that slow train at Townsville and flew the rest of the way. Cairns, situated south of the Cape York Peninsula, was interesting, mostly for where it was, rather than for the city itself. A short bus ride takes you to the jungle, and also not too far-off shore, a tour boat excursion takes you to the worldrenowned Great Barrier Reef. The first thing that we did, besides eating and drinking, was to arrange a ride to the reef. Nils had his scuba-diving certificate, so, when we got there, he did his scuba thing while I snorkelled with the other tourists. This was enough to get my attention; within a month, I had my own scuba-diving, advanced and underwater photography certificates. I loved the reef and all the animals and fishes that live there. I was really overwhelmed that I was able to swim with the fishes, that I could touch a moray eel, which is actually quite timid, and that I was able to dive with two very large whales. 32

What an amazing place! Everyone should try to experience this kind of thing at least once in their lives. But there is a distressing element: this place is losing its environmental beauty because of man’s hunger for money. If the oceans continue to rise with the Earth’s warming trend, the reef will suffer massive habitat loss and may not survive. The trend that I was experiencing is that everywhere I went there was always some story about some animal or about some piece of land that was losing its battle for survival. Even the indigenous peoples were on that list. In retrospect, I have to admit the thing that held the biggest curiosity for me was the lack of Aboriginal people in the daily mainstream of the towns and cities. I did see them sometimes, but mostly they were in a drunken stupor. It was at this time that I realized that it is easy to get some kind of bad impression of a people if the only time you see them is when they are hanging out in the town square getting drunk. As it turns out, the Australian government gives them housing and support, but, because they are nomadic peoples, they don’t take well to living in one area. From what I understand, by taking away the way of life that they have lived for 65,000 years, you take away their pride, but mostly you take away their desire for existence and their love of life. Seeing these people in their unsavoury situation gave me a better understanding of how the First Nations people are perceived in Canada. And to think of the indigenous peoples all across the world who live in a similar circumstance, it is a crying shame! My journey down under ends in Sydney at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. After spending almost six months roaming around, without a care in the world and not having to work, I went to see their national treasures. I pondered splendid pieces of art depicting the

In the Beginning

greatness of the land and of the British conquerors. I recall seeing paintings done by a few Aboriginal artists, but I did not really like these; they didn’t have much colour. I know that I was amazed by the grandiose impressions of the European and the Australian artists, but for me the paintings by the Aboriginal people did not hit home. I couldn’t understand what their art meant, and I couldn’t feel the spiritual connections that the Aboriginal people had with their dream world. What did the symbols mean? Of course, today, many years later, I do have a better understanding of what their art means, and I do

have a better understanding of what their lives are like; I live it and I see it everywhere across this country of ours. My walk-about down under produced a lot of interesting thoughts and memories. I still carry them with me, but there is one thing that I do not carry today. Though drinking was a part of my travelling life back then, I did give up alcohol consumption almost a decade ago. Now, only the journey continues to be a major aspect of my life. The path before me is now a lot clearer, and, as I look along its edges, I can see there in the undergrowth more of the secrets that life has to offer me.

Sharing the Knowledge 1996 Acrylic on board 36" ∞ 48" (Collection of the Faculty of Medicine, University of Calgary, Alberta)

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Segregations/Reservations At this time in my life, I am working towards the future, and, in many ways, so are a lot of other First Nations artists and First Nations peoples, to one degree or other. I often sit and ponder the First Nations artistic vision in Canada, and it makes me wonder if it is really all worth while. Are we just banging our heads against the wall when we try to talk to the general Canadian public? Are the Canadian people, who show concern for our First Nations situations, doing so because it is something fashionable to do or are they really concerned about what goes on in our lives? Do they just have enough curiosity to last them until dinnertime? Yes, I feel they want to know, but, as a whole, it is only just a small fragment of the Canadian mainstream who are really curious—curious enough to care. I try to share my vision and my ancestors’ message with these smaller fractions; yet, I am also curious about situations that other First Nations artists have. I know many are already having a dialogue with the Canadian public, and, for that matter, within the world community, but what about their own communities? This leaves me with really only one query: what about the First Nations people: do they have concerns for their own situations within their own communities? I often hear from outspoken First Nations artists, politicians, and community leaders. They say we need to have a separate system that allows us to be our own people and to have control over our own futures. This, of course, is inherent in our distinct cultures, and it is something that needs to be practised throughout our lands, but to what degree? To what degree of separation do we travel

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to take our messages to our people? What degree of responsibility do we employ to see that we are doing a good job of maintaining our cultural identities? Are our intentions integral to our cultural needs and is our integrity as individual spokespersons being jeopardized by seeing only the narrowest views of our own individual goals? These are just some of the questions I ask myself. Right now, I have only limited answers for some queries, and for others I am searching for appropriate questions so that I can find the answers or at least find a path to begin to look for the answers. Do our communities need to be deconstructed in order to be rebuilt? So many questions! To start, I have a problem with First Nations communities that want to completely segregate themselves from their surroundings so that they can begin to rebuild their own communities and so that their people, especially the younger ones, will have a better image of who they are. They want to educate themselves and have control over who teaches them. They’ve decided that they should be the sole expediters of taking education to their communities. These people want to control what is being taught in the First Nations communities and schools. In this regard, they only want to allow an educational curriculum that brings a world view that is completely First Nations. I feel this is fundamentally wrong because this is not a world belonging to one group or to one country or to one view; it is a world rich with variety, varieties of culture and varieties of expression. This world we live in incorporates many different other worlds, and we

In the Beginning

all have to live side by side and within each other’s environments. So I ask myself: what about the other people—what do they think? I know that our people have struggled in this so-called new world, and I know that it is a long hard road leading to an uncertain future, but at least we’ve all begun to deal with our own situations. We all have a path to travel. Some people need to find their own ways, and some people will need the help of other people, and sometimes that help comes from other cultures and other societies. I understand that the First Nations people in Canada have a long journey ahead of them; yet, I strongly believe that we cannot travel this road all by ourselves. I believe that we can help ourselves and find help in our own communities. I believe that our help can come from the elders and from strong leaders, whether they are business, political, spiritual, and/or any other kind of advocate or champion. At the same time, I believe that help also comes from the periphery, and this may mean we get it from our white or black or yellow brothers and sisters. We cannot overlook those others who make up the major population of this country. We cannot allow ourselves to think that we can be the only ones who can make a difference in our daily lives. It’s not enough to say to the world that we have an inherent right to be First Nations peoples and to determine a course of action for our future; we also have to agree to allow ourselves to accept these other worlds that live alongside

ours. In the Treaty of Fort Albany, 1664, the Six Nations and the Dutch, as recorded by the ‘Gus-Wen-Tah, Two-Row-Wampum’ belt, determined: These two rows will symbolize two paths or two vessels, travelling down the same rivers together. One, a birch bark canoe, will be for the Indian people, their laws, their customs and their ways. The other, a ship, will be for the white people and their laws, their customs and ways. We shall each travel the river together, side by side, but in our own boat. Neither of us will try to steer the other’s boat.1 This was agreed upon more than three hundred years ago. It is a part of our Canadian history, and, whether we are First Nations people who have always been here or whether Euro-Canadians (and those from elsewhere) have only come here in the last few hundred years, it is our joined histories that have written this treaty. Those of us who are spokesmen, spokeswomen, or leaders of our communities have a responsibility to represent our people with the greatest possible care and concern. This means that we need to explore the world in which we live and the worlds to which we travel. We need to say to the children in our schools who still remain in our communities that it is okay to be taught by people of different cultures. We need to understand

1 Charlotte Townsend-Gault, Kinds of Knowing (Ottawa, The National Gallery of Canada, 1992); as cited in Land, Spirit, Power: First Nations at the National Gallery of Canada, p. 77.

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mathematics, we need to understand different religions, and we need to understand history in order to make good, sound decisions for our futures. We already know that the history books about our peoples, which are used in the school systems and written by nonFirst Nations people, do not tell the whole truth of our peoples and do not accurately represent our histories. Let us all respect those who look up to us for education and teach them all the world has to offer. We already know that we have to rediscover our own histories and that we have to re-educate ourselves, sometimes even about our cultures, but let us not forget that we now live in a world that coexists alongside many others. Let us also respect the decisions of our forefathers and our foremothers when they said that it was okay for these people who travelled many watery miles to find a better home and to start a new life on this continent. Many of our ancestors have perished because of this decision, and, even though it doesn’t seem right, it is something we have to live with and something we have to accept. Let us not forget that we are another generation in a long, long line of people who have lived on this continent and that we will only be a short bleep in the historical view of the world. If the Creator was here, wouldn’t the Creator say that “it is as it should be!” The world is a finite place, and we all have our place on it, and we all have our part to play

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in it. So let us accept that our ancestors have told their stories, that we have our story to tell, and that our children will have their story to tell, in the same manner as all the other peoples who inhabit this country and this continent do. Segregation of a society and its histories through education perpetuates the mentality of reservational institutional attitudes imposed on our peoples by the narrowminded governments of a hundred or so years ago. We have to be aware that we don’t fall into the same policy structuring system that segregated and then subjugated our peoples in the past. We have to remember that it was the White bureaucracy who put our peoples onto reservations in the first place. But, at the same time, we have to remember that we are meant to walk side by side with other peoples, in the same manner as those who determined to ride in their own boats, neither steering the other person’s boat. If we only look at ourselves, and if we only teach our own cultural aspects and histories, we will be denying our people the best education possible, and, in doing so, we will be denying them the best opportunities at making the optimum choices for their futures. Only by understanding and accepting differences will we be able to make healthy choices about our future. Let us go to the future with open minds, and let us welcome differences, just as our ancestors did.

Time-Honoured Traditions 1999 Acrylic on masonite 36" ∞ 48" (Private collection of John Olberg)

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On Personal Promises Where did my painting and the idea that I could be an artist begin? Is there a beginning or an end? Am I now in midstream or in the mainstream? Let history decide for itself as to the sequences of life; we do not really have any kind of notion as to what is ahead for us or where the river bends, or what’s around its corner. I do know with great clarity that everything that I’ve discussed so far, all the work that I’ve done, is the person that I am. I am my experiences and my thoughts, I am memory and dreams, and, for the most part, I am my work. My work began (the physical part anyway) when I was about eight years old. I remember sitting on my parent’s bed drawing my brother Roland— most often his facial features. Unfortunately, I do not have any of those early drawings. I would like to see the work I did as a very young artist, but I do remember that I thought the drawings were good. I was very proud of myself. The loose-leaf papers I drew on are now only pieces of memories afloat in the wind. In regards to the work—or should I refer to the work as play—I do remember that every time I sat down to do the drawings I had to coax my brother into sitting for me. I guess that being the oldest and the biggest, at that time, does mean that I had a certain kind of persuasive quality. No matter what the reason, my brother sat for me, and my memory of those auspicious occasions still stand as the best times we shared together. I remember that the drawings did not really look like him, even though I would get a few features right every now and then. I may not have really captured Roland’s facial features,

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but, in retrospect, I did capture his character and his spirit. Today, when I am working, I am able to reproduce an image well, but, for the most part, I try to bring out the character, the soul, and the spirit of any individual. It is more important to see them for who they are on the inside than for who we see on the outside. In those early days, when I was a child, I always really enjoyed art and drawing. Back then, I was always scared at handling paint, even crayons, for that matter. I always remember doing those silly paint-bynumber pieces and, yes, I did enjoy them. But there is something about just following the lines and colour coordination of someone else’s work that liberates the mind. A little while ago, someone came up to me during an exhibit and asked me, subtly and quite derisively, if my work was ‘paint by numbers.’ My reply to this individual was that if I actually did paint by numbers, I would only ever get them half done. This was a curious response to this man, because he asked me to clarify my comment. I said sarcastically that I had only ever learned to count to ten. If there is one thing that I don’t like, it’s the subtlest racial comment or slur, spoken in a manner that they think I can’t pick up its meaning and intent. I’ve lived with and experienced it so many times that I can detect its underhanded commentary most of the time. Over the years, for whatever reason, I have always felt that I wanted to be an artist; just back then, I didn’t know that it was possible to make a career out of it. There were many reasons for this, and the principal reason is that I had no artistic role models to follow in

In the Beginning

our community. When I think about it now, maybe it was just that I did not realize how to use them, because my father was there, and so too were the teachers in high school. I tell myself now that, being isolated and in a one industry, oil-company town, my path led into this environment. I really did not want to be a pipefitter, but, because I thought that I needed to get a job and have some sort of career, I should follow the path that was set before me in my home town. While travelling across Canada as a young man, I saw a lot of down-and-out people who were living on the back streets of our country, places that I too had become familiar with. After experiencing this darkened world, I went home and got a job right away because I did not want to end up in this predicament. Another memory I have from this time of my life is with regard to the American poet Robert Frost. I was reading his memoirs, and he talks about always wanting to be a writer, but because of his grandfather’s concern, he was coerced into getting a formal education so that he could be a teacher. One thing that saved him was that he made an agreement with himself that, if it didn’t work out for him, he would go back to writing. The best thing for me about this is that he was nineteen years old at the time, almost the same age I was when reading this. It was like having to make a decision I did not really know that I needed to make, a decision that was the same as his. What struck me about Robert Frost was his personal agreement to write and giving his grandfather the benefit of the doubt:

When he was nineteen his first “professional” poem was accepted by The Independent, a magazine of national circulation; he received a check for fifteen dollars. His mother was proud, but the rest of the family were alarmed. His grandfather said, “No one can make a living at poetry. But I tell you what,” ... “we’ll give you a year to make a go of it. And you’ll have to promise to quit writing if you can’t make a success of it in a year. What do you say?” “Give me twenty—give me twenty,” replied the nineteen-year-old youth, like an auctioneer. Someone must have overheard the mocking flippancy and punished him by making him wait the full twenty years. Twenty years later, almost to the month, Robert Frost’s first book, A Boy’s Will, was published and proved that the boy was not only a true poet but an accurate prophet.2 As I was reading this, I thought that it would be terrific if I could achieve this with art, and, if after twenty years I became an artist, my dreams would have come true too. Well, I graduated from the University of Calgary with my BFA at the age of 37, and, when I realized that twenty years had passed, just like Robert Frost, I thanked the Creator for shining a light on my path and for making my dreams come true. It was at this time I became a professional artist, saying to myself, I am an artist and I am Cree.

2 Louis Untermeyer, Robert Frost’s Poems (New York: Washington Square Press, 1971), p. 5.

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Indians First … So what about my contemporaries? What do they think? Does what they do and say affect the way that I am and the artist I’ve become? As First Nations people, we always seem to be talking to ourselves and, in some cases, to at least some people who have an understanding and appreciation for our culture. It seems that it is always these converted few who have some sort of understanding of the other cultures within or alongside their communities. The other cultures are not easily reachable and accessible to their way of life, especially the cultures of the other peoples who are not directly adjacent to the First Nations people. This can be said of First Nations people too. One First Nations person, one First Nations society is not always the same as the next. The Cree people of the northern Alberta boreal forest are different from the Blackfoot people of the southern Alberta plains; their societies are as different as those of Jews and those of Christians. As far as I can see, we live in a world where there is a continued misunderstanding about our individualistic identities—our similarities and our differences. There is still an assumption that a pan-Indian identity exists in this country. I question that assumption,whether the term used is First Nations person, Indian, or any other synonymously known pronouns. I question the possibility of making such sweeping generalizations. As First Nations critic, artist, and curator Gerald McMaster and First Nations writer Lee-Ann Martin have written:

The term ‘Indian’ represents the ‘dread and desire of a colonizing population who were unable to recognize cultural difference except through their own preexisting conceptions.’3 What does this say to you, especially to those of you who are not of First Nations ancestry, or to those of you who have no comprehension of what a word like “Indian” means and how it came to describe the First Nations peoples of this land? I am asking this for two reasons. The first is directed at those of you who already have some degree of understanding (the converted) or at least some degree of curiosity as to what your preconceptions are, if you have any, of what an “Indian” is. The second is to ask the First Nations people if they too have any comprehension or idea of the origin or meaning behind the word “Indian.” I guess this all depends on the language they readily use and the language in which they received their education. In fact, all my teachers were of Euro-Canadian ancestry. I, for one, am ready to say let us get on with our lives and look at the future. Let us not dwell on the past and all the ugliness that history has already overlooked. The use of one language in our lives to communicate with each another—to share ideas, experiences, cultures, and stories—is saying it is okay to have a dialogue using this language. In doing this, we have adapted to a foreign tongue, but we are speaking about our culture, sharing it, and hopefully the end

3 Gerald McMaster and Lee-Ann Martin, Introduction; Indigena, Contemporary Native Perspectives, (Vancouver/Toronto: The Canadian Museum of Civilization, 1992), p. 16.

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In the Beginning

result will be that we begin to understand and respect one another. In one way, we’ve made this language our own, by bringing our own meanings to it and by adding to it our manners of expression, conversation, and spirit. But our language can never be taken away. It is still strong within our communities and within the spirit of the individual, no matter where he or she may travel. If we still want the word “Indian” to carry all the pain and suffering of the First Nations people, because of where and when the word first came into use, that is a choice we make. My suggestion is that we remember what happened, hopefully understanding that the pain of our history is in this word—that it is the pain and history of subjugated peoples—but not letting this pain hinder us from making a good future for ourselves. Why should we let this word mean so much when it was used in the wrong context in the first place? Let us take back the power of our First Nations identities; as First Nations people, we do not have to continue to empower those who wish to think that the “Indians” of this country are not worthy of being understood. As with any offensive word, it is easy enough to use other, more “politically correct” words in place of “Indians” such as: First

Nations people; First people; Native people; Aboriginal people; Indigenous people, and doubtless others I’ve not yet heard. When it comes right down to it, it is not actually the name but how it is said or written. I sometimes hear our old people call themselves “Indian,” and I have to wonder if they’ve watched the news or if they’ve read a newspaper or if they were recently talking to a politician. Well, you get the idea. What’s that about? It’s about how individuals perceive themselves, and, if all they know is what has been always a part of their lives, you can’t deny them the fact that they are using this word with respect. In my opinion, this transcends any “politically correct” statement that may be in fashion. A word is a word; so let’s use it respectfully, with understanding, and let’s get on with our lives. All there needs to be is an understanding of one person and then respecting that person for who they are—whether they are from the engines of the politically correct mainstream or from an isolated cylinder of society that time forgets. We will all change in some manner and to varying degrees; it all depends on which community we belong to. So how does this affect the manner to which people view First Nations art? I can show you how; it has been a part of my life.

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Ancestral Portraits

… Then Commerce Recently, I went to a very reputable commercial gallery in Calgary to inquire if they would take me on and represent me. I waited a long time—months I think—and was given the run-around before any answer came forth. When they finally made a decision, they informed me that they “already had enough of that kind of art.” My first thought was, what about all those many non-First Nations artists whom they represent, whose works are all very similar? It just didn’t seem fair to me that they categorized the works of First Nations artists; yet they never blink when their storage rooms are filled with all the pretty homogeneous works of their other stable of artists. At first, I was mad that they said this to me, but I came to realize that this was a good thing; at least they showed their true colours. In this way, I could understand what they represented, and I didn’t want to be a part of their stable. The commercial world is one that deals with money, and its bottom line always seems to be the most important aspect of its dayto-day operation. The gallery owner takes the view that the art he or she is selling is what makes them a living. In this environment, this is a necessary evil; the seller and the buyer have a place to exchange art for money, and the artist has the choice to enter or not. But if the artist does accept the gallery’s terms, it is the artist who takes the brunt of the deal. I think this is because their work then becomes a commodity. When the art is sold, the thing really sold is the artist.

At this stage, we enter, with our work, into a world of people’s homes and businesses and our works of art, our spirits, enhance someone else’s environment. Of course, this doesn’t mean that the art belongs to the person who purchases it, it means that the art has its own life. The art becomes a shared experience, and those experiences belong to the viewer and to the artist. In the end, we do it for the possibility of sharing our ideas and our culture. Not only is there an exchange of money, there is also an exchange of ideas. This is good because it makes the trade-off that much more fair, and, in some sort of ethereal mysticism, the art is where it should be. Another basic reality that we must not overlook is that the exchange is for money; we too have to make a living! On a final note about this topic, just think about the cars parked outside the gallery; the dealer always seems to be driving a shiny new car and the artist a rust bucket. ...what of our own theories of art, our own philosophies of life, our own purposes for representation? By reducing our cultural expression to simply the question of modernism or postmodernism, art or anthropology, or whether we are contemporary or traditional, we are placed on the edges of the dominant culture, while the dominant culture determines whether we are allowed to enter into its realm of art.4

4 Loretta Todd, What More Do They Want? (Vancouver/Toronto: The Canadian Museum of Civilization, 1992); Indigena, Contemporary Native Perspectives, p. 75.

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In the Beginning

First Nations cultures in North America have been exploited since the first contact period with White people over five hundred years ago. As a First Nations artist, I want to share our culture with all who are genuinely interested, but, at this juncture in history, First Nations people have to be allowed to relate their own stories in their own manner. This brings me to a very sensitive issue. There are some artists (not of First Nations ancestry) exploiting our images. This is wrong, especially if their motivation is strictly for financial reward. This phenomenon is curious to me! I could name names, but they know who they are, and they know why they do it. Will

a time come when we need to draw a line and not allow this exploitation to continue? This is an open-ended rhetorical statement that will probably never see a resolution. As First Nations people, we need time to evaluate our own perceptions and stories; we shouldn’t have to worry about how we are being presented by these other artists. I think that potential collectors and buyers of First Nations art should be aware of what they are purchasing and from whom. If you want to buy First Nations art, isn’t it logical to go right to the First Nations artist and get the work first-hand? It becomes a matter of understanding and accepting differences.

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Big Bear’s Dilemma, Paper Promises ... I saw in your eyes a moment of light, I saw a flash of eternity wrapped in Imagined body ornament, Marking time. I saw steel light strands Holding history silent For only those who wish to ask, Who wish to see reality. I saw smooth expressions Of time-honoured questions answered, And I am amazed. What magnificence that movement, Playing the songs of your night air, Dancing in dreamscapes of east and west, Showing you a future, you could not believe. Your expressions are revealed in this darkened light. I trace time on the hard edges of your face And in one second I am captured forever. My fingers grasp for knowledge, For reasons to understand why this injustice; Why then, why now? I’ve lived many lives and walked with time In tracks from the past until only now, Do I know where to find my future. I look at everything, but nothing Can tell me about the light Which steals your darkened moon. My world is spinning and no shadows exist Except this one great mystery. I picture colours and dimensions and levels of light Reflected from the surface of your heart, Yet I am taken by your smile. Eternity, behold this smile, Let time take notice, 44

Let history remember, Let the past present the future light Of every colour reflected from you. I paint your emotions on my heart; my canvas Can only now begin to comprehend the meaning of colour. All colours come to life. Let it always be said, Let my brush forever sing About that moment I saw your light, Shining. The colours pulse and push through my veins And my heart is no longer numb. My eyes remember your eyes, Your smile, becomes my smile, And your blood, spilt, runs through my veins.... This poem is in response to the painting Big Bear’s Dilemma, Paper Promises. It is a transition piece in which I am starting to incorporate different parts of the creative process—painting and poetry. It is not the way I am accustomed to introducing the didactic aspect of my work, but it is a good way that takes the dry historical perspective and makes it poetic. Not that there isn’t a poetic aspect to history; it is just that I am seeking to have more of it in my work.

Big Bear’s Dilemma, Paper Promises... 1998 Acrylic on masonite 4' ∞ 7' (Collection of the Glenbow Museum, Calgary, Alberta)

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Ancestral Portraits

Of Colour and Light When I started to do historical paintings, these were done strictly with a narrative in mind. They all had to have some kind of meaning that would transcend time and space. I wanted to converse with the people viewing the art so that there would be a sharing of culture and ideas. I really wanted people to get to know the First Nations people and their way of life. It is just like my friend George Calliou would figuratively say about his two favourite girls: Karen and Sharon (Caring and Sharing); it is something I care a great deal about. I would go into details and talk about what each symbol’s particular meaning is; every painting had to mean something. What did it signify if I put a sun or a moon or a star in a painting, especially if it had a specific reference to a historical figure? What did each of the colours mean in reference to the symbols and why did I put them all together? Before the viewers asked me questions, I asked myself first; I always made sure that any symbol or colour put into the work had a definite purpose for being employed. I remember a few years ago asking an artist about a symbol he had placed in a painting, and he replied that he did not know the meaning of it; all he knew is that he liked the way it looked. For me, this is not good enough; if an image or a symbol is not understood, it is not worth using. It’s nice to be able to make an aesthetically good piece of art, but if it has no meaning, it is a waste of my time, and it is unfair to the viewer. When a viewer walks away from a painting happy or sad or just curious, it’s rewarding to

46

know that I was able to have a sincere visual discussion with the viewer. One of my professors told me that artists should learn ideas and techniques and then forget them. The reason is that, if you forget you know something and then somewhere down the road you use it, it is at this point that it becomes an element of who you are. Basically, you’ve learnt something, forgotten about it, and it lives instinctively within you. Works of art could be constructed instinctively and intuitively and/or they could be planned well and thoroughly though out. Art is like mathematics, where you can add and build on ideas, subtract and deconstruct thoughts and perceptions, and, after all is said and done, reconstruct (multiply and divide) everything into one piece of art. Art can be like cooking: well, you get the idea—you’ve got to have the ingredients! Colours are very important. Knowing their individual characteristics and knowing their relationships to one another is a definite benefit to the artist. Colours reflect the light of the world. The spirit of light is everything on and above the Earth—from the people to the plants and animals, to the rocks, the rivers, lakes and oceans, to the clouds, the rain, the lightening and thunder. The light and the colours of everything that we see and feel are the spirits and spectrums of life. It is in everything and reflected from everything. There is a beginning and an end. When we’ve felt the spirits and we’ve seen the colours of life, then we’ve come full circle and there is understanding.

In the Beginning

Colours are very useful when it comes to composing a painting. Every culture on Earth has placed meaning and significance on colours, including the First Nations people of North America. It is within this parameter, as a Cree artist, when using colours to convey my visions, that I am conscious of our traditional colours: white, yellow, red, and blue (or black). White is the cleansing spirit that comes from the north in the winter; yellow is the spirit of birth in the spring and in the rising of the sun in the east; red is for growth, and its spirit comes from the south in the summer; and blue or black is the autumn spirit of death, which follows the sun as is goes down in the west. There are many more meanings supplementary to these colours, and, as you’ve already noticed, to the four directions. Both the colours and the directions are signifiers of life; things like emotions, physical energy, thunder, lightening, farsightedness, education, material possession, and some specifically dealing with animal spirits, like the raven’s spirit or the bear’s spirit. Light is reflected from all these things; all have their own energies, and a distinct colour is emitted. Understanding these energies and their distinctiveness will help to better understand the cultures of the First Nations peoples. I sometimes paint images that have come from artists in and of the past—images that we find on the walls and surfaces of caves and cliff faces, which have been embedded in them since time immemorial. Archeologists, anthropologists, and other social scientists refer to these images as petroglyphs and pic-

tographs. At this point in my history, I use these images and personally stylize them to my own visions. I take these images, already having their own stories—those which have been placed there by unknown artists, all those many years and eras ago—and I try to retell a story. Perhaps to some degree, I will be retelling their story. This we will never truly know; we can only assume some sense of reality by what has been told to us through the essentially lost use of an oral tradition. In these images, we find spiritual connections between humans and the Creator. Those artists of long ago connected with the spirits through the use of symbols found in the natural environment, and in this same tradition I am also exploring ways to make connections. Symbols are sometimes used to enhance the narrative at a spiritual level and are sometimes used to tell the story. I feel that the symbols of the past help to speak of a time when these images were very much a part of the societies that used them. To some extent, it is as if the artists of the past are still talking today. Within the symbols are the spirits of the things they portray. There are the spirits of the shaman and the medicine people; there are the spirits of the raven and the bear; there are the spirits of fish and turtles, spirits of the bee, ant, and butterfly; there are the spirits of the stars, moon, and sun; and there are many more spirits from all parts of and in life. So, as you can see, there are many things in life that can be used for the spirit they carry. In reality, if I were to explain all the

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Ancestral Portraits

meanings of all the different earthly spirits, this would take another book. I think the easiest way to see the meaning behind a symbol is to consider the obvious strengths it has. A bear is strong and courageous; a butterfly flutters wildly about and is difficult to catch; and an eagle is hard to see when it is flying above the mountain peaks—leading the First Nations peoples to feel that its spirit goes to the other world to have contact with the Creator. One of the main animal spirits that I use often in my work is the turtle. It conveys dual meanings for many societies; this allows it to speak to me of the spirituality of life on this North American continent and, at the same time, to indicate that it has a good protective spirit. In keeping with traditional use of such symbols—colours, directions, and spiritual entities—there is a strong connection of things past to things present and then to

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things future. It is at the moment of conception that I have become one with the colour and the light, one with the spirits, and one with the character and/or concept that I am having discourse with and for. The energy of the idea itself comes from the energy of the character or concept and from the energy of those things used in the narrative. The reflection of the colours is the power of the light and the spirituality of the idea. In some of the work, there is a strong connection between myself and the other world—the world where my ancestors have gone, where they are waiting for me to cross over to. It is the same place where my brother Roland and my grandfathers, grandmothers, and ancestors are. My work and my world are clearly defined within the parameters of the spiritual realm and the connections I have with my ancestors. The light and the spirits are all reflected in the colours of life.

Spirits of the Ancestors 1996 Acrylic on board 20" ∞ 30"

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Ancestral Portraits

At the End, a Beginning Now, as I look back on my life, I have to think that I’ve actually lived and experienced quite a lot. I’ve seen a great many things, but, at the same time, what I’ve seen only constitutes an imponderable part of the whole. It is here that I must say that everything that I’ve discussed in this introduction to my work has been said as an individual; I do not speak for other First Nations artists. My family, my ancestors, and my community are a part of who I am, and I represent them, but I do not speak for all of them, for there are those who will not agree with what I’ve said. These are just some thoughts and anecdotes about how my path has led me to where I now stand as an artist. As I look out from on top this precipice, I can see back where I’ve come from and ahead to where I am going, but it is the road ahead that really holds the most turns, switch-backs, and crevasses. It is going to be a greater challenge. Throughout my life, I’ve responded to a great many influences, from people and visions, times, and places. It is because of these people and things that I know I will

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be persistent in my pursuits, especially when the road ahead becomes almost unbearable to travel on. This journey is one that takes me to places I’ve never been, where the next turn in the path will be both curious and wonderful. If this journey in some way encourages others to walk their own jagged edge, this is a good thing, and I can say that I have done my part. If the paintings and images of my work help to connect with some individuals, that is good. It means that I will have made a bit of a difference. We all want to make a difference, or we wouldn’t have become artists. This work may seem like it is only me talking. Well, to some degree, that is the case, but when I really think about it, it is my ancestors who are also talking. It is my ancestors whom I use for the narrative, and it is their spirit that I am trying to capture. They are still the ones telling the story, and they live on in my work. I ask Louis Riel, Big Bear, and Poundmaker to talk for me and to tell their own stories. I ask my father and my grandfather, my mother and

In the Beginning

grandmothers, to talk for me, and they tell their own stories. I also ask the leaders of our communities, whom I rely on to be honest with our peoples, to influence their counterparts and to effect change. It is people like Matthew Coon-Come and Ovide Mercredi who make a difference politically on the national scale and artists like myself who can make a difference locally, but when it comes right down to the bone, bleached or otherwise, it is the audience that really counts. It is for them that we are telling the stories, and, if they don’t get it, we are not doing our jobs properly. When my brother Roland and my friends Doug, Kevin, and Rob were a part of my daily life, it was a time when things were pure and wonder-filled. Now that they have gone to their own worlds, I travel the path before me on my own; yet, deep within the many spectrums of my mind, they are all with me. I am never alone! When I need to, I invoke the power of memories and dreams; then time and place become one with time past and time present. I may be an individ-

ual, but, in real life terms, I am but a shadow of the places I’ve been, the books I’ve read, the people I’ve met, and, mostly, the ancestors who have gone before. I am my people, and they are me. My world is art, and I am art. I use my talents to begin a visual dialogue with people who stop to see what I have to say and to hear what their heart is telling them. It is not just me who is speaking; it is time future. My culture recognizes, honours, and respects creation and its wonders of colour. My work is a mixture of styles and expressions, which allow me greater opportunity to have a discourse within many segments of our Canadian social mosaic. I use colours and symbols to capture the experiences, the characteristics, and the spirituality of my people, and I paint in a style I refer to as“the colour of my people.” At the end of a dream, When I awaken to a new day, I hope and I pray That there are memories!

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On the Precipice.... I stand here on the precipice of time And I look out into the light and darkness Of the world and the universe That is my life. I stand before all time and all that is alive And I am honoured to have been given This opportunity to experience That which is me. I know that I can’t possibly see everything Or maybe it is that I can’t see anything, All I can do is just accept What is. I look out at all of you whom I call friend And I say to you, “This is what I have to offer, This is me and it is all that I am; I am the colours of life, I am light!” The past, present and the future Bounce off the walls and the trees And enter into the core of my soul, Through the retinas of light everlasting. I consider the halls of haloed entities, Of spirits of all times and places, Of our ancestors. I question the many social standards Within our infrastructures of country, Of home and I say: “Here we are!” I tell myself, “Believe in reality; It is all that exists.” I believe that from this moment There is a reality; This I create with my experience. I stand on the precipice clothed

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In the warmth of knowledge, Knowing that light and its brother, The darkness, Protect my naked body. The colours of reality exist Within and around me, And time begins....

Another Starting Point, A New Beginning.... In Other Words 1999 Acrylic on board 48" ∞ 48" (Private collection of Michael Robinson)

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In the Other World

St. Louis Riel 1995 acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 36" (private collection of Bob Phillips)

I placed a halo around Louis Riel’s head canonizing him because of his dedication to his religious beliefs. He fought and led the Aboriginal and Metis people in their defence of their land. He became a martyr for what he believed in—that the land belonged to his people and not to a government that resided in a place far, far away. The Metis people made a gallant but futile stand at Batoche, Saskatchewan, and lost. This was the beginning of fences and the end to a way of life for the people on the plains. Riel was hanged in 1885 for treason. 56

It’s a Blue Moon 1999 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

Gabriel … 1998 Acrylic on canvas 30" ∞ 30"

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Poundmaker was a very powerful leader of the Plains Cree at the time of contact with the Europeans and at the birth of their Dominion of Canada. He understood that he needed to be very diplomatic in his judgment and dealings with these people. His greatest dilemma was how to protect the interests of his community while maintaining a peaceful union with these foreigners. The growth of this new nation was a concern to him because it affected the survival of his people and their way of life. It is thought that, if he had supported Louis Riel in 1885, the outcome would have been different. But I think that Poundmaker knew that any attempts to stop the coming of the white man was futile; nevertheless, he was dragged into a battle. The North West Mounted Police, just before the Riel Rebellion, sent an armed contingency of about 319 to confront Poundmaker. What they thought would be a surprise attack turned out to be a surprise for them because Poundmaker knew they were coming and tricked them into taking the higher, unprotected ground. The Crees killed eight and wounded fourteen, but Poundmaker stopped the battle and let the police go, knowing that an annihilation of this army would be a battle lost in the long run. Poundmaker was eventually incarcerated for this but was set free within months because of his connection with his adopted father, Chief Crowfoot of the Blackfoot people. Poundmaker was a fierce warrior and a fair leader, and his greatness is still felt and recognized to this day.

Poundmaker 1996 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

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The central figure in this painting is Crowfoot he is surrounded by nine of his children. The really sad thing about the photographic image, which I used as a resource for this painting, is that, nine years after it was taken, all of his children were dead. I like to think that, in spite of this, and after Crowfoot died, he went to the ‘Other World’ to rejoin his family a belief that some Aboriginal people have. I need to believe that he is now where life is better, where the crows are there to protect them all and the buffalo are there to provide food and shelter.

After, Before the Pain 1995/96 Acrylic on board 36" ∞ 48" (private collection of Michael Robinson)

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Almighty Voice, the Last Stand 1999 Acrylic on canvas 4' ∞ 6.5' (collection of Glenbow Museum, Calgary, Canada)

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Almighty Voice was the last Aboriginal warrior to stand against the Northwest Mounted Police in a battle that he knew would be his last. In 1897, he had been on the run for two years for killing a cow—a cow that was desperately needed to feed his family. Tired of running and hiding like a dog, he went to his mother and father and asked them for their permission to fight and die like a warrior. They realized that there was no other plan of action, so they gave him their consent. The final battle took place in a poplar bluff, not far from Duck Lake, and when all the rifles and canons were quiet, three Cree warriors, Almighty Voice and two of his younger cousins, lie silent within the scarred bushes of the bluff. In the end, three Northwest Mounted Police and one civilian volunteer also perished. The whole incident would not have happened if the interpreter had initially told Almighty Voice that he was to be incarcerated for about a month and would not be hanged. The Cree people believe that, if you are hanged, your spirit will not be able to leave the body and go to the place of our ancestors, in the “other world.” One misunderstanding led to many deaths—unfair, perhaps, but this is our history, and it is the truth.

Geronimo 1994 Oil on canvas 23.5" ∞ 30.125"

Bigfoot … 1993 Acrylic on canvas 29.5" ∞ 29.5"

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Wovoka’s Vision 1998 Acrylic on board 16" ∞ 24" (private collection of Janet Alook)

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In 1890, a Paiute prophet named Wovoka started the “Ghost Dance,” which combined components of Aboriginal spirituality and Christian religion. In a vision, he saw that, if this dance was performed, the Messiah, Jesus Christ, would be returning around the millennium, to Earth as an “Indian.” This messiah would be bringing buffalo and horses, and the land would be returned to the Aboriginal people. The Sioux adapted this dance with approval by Sitting Bull, but the whites saw it as a war dance, which, when performed, was used to get the Aboriginal people into a fighting frenzy. This all led to the massacre at Wounded Knee, where approximately 290 Minneconjou Sioux, led by Big Foot, were killed. Because of misinterpretation and the lack of understanding, what started as a hopeful dance to bring back the old ways, ended in tragedy.

He Talks to the Spirits of the Ancestors 1996 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

I Will Fight No More 1997 Acrylic on canvas 15" ∞ 36" (collection of the Fort McKay First Nations, Alberta)

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Sitting Bull # 3 1994 Acrylic on canvas 16" ∞ 20" (private collection of David and Penny Ross)

Sitting Bull became the main chief of the Sioux Nation because he was considered a great warrior and a great spiritual leader. He is renowned for his war exploits, especially the decisive victory at Little Big Horn in 1876. This painting is a depiction of the strength and character of one of the great North American leaders, whose history teaches us that we must stand up for our people in spite of the great odds against us. 64

Ancestors Still Talk

A Good Ceremony 1996 Acrylic on board 16" ∞ 20"

Giving Thanks 1996 Acrylic on board 16" ∞ 20"

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Buffalo Hunter 1995 Acrylic and multimedia on board 3' ∞ 4' (collection of Red Deer District Museum, Alberta)

This is a narrative of the cycles of life that, existed to this day. It is about the good times and about the hardships, the trials and tribulations, and about the cycles of life and of death. There was once a village (top right) with many families, and they had to go on a long journey. At the end of the journey, a few people survived, but one person with the ability to talk to the spirit of the buffalo emerged (top left). This person asked the buffalo to give up its flesh so that the community could survive. Because this medicine man was able to make a spiritual connection with this animal, there was a successful hunt and the people survived and were happy for a while. It was as it should be! 67

Talking to the Manitous 1998 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

Thunderbird’s World

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1998 Acrylic on board 6" ∞ 24" (collection of the Fort McKay First Nations, Alberta)

The Ancestors and Old Woman’s Spirit 1995 Acrylic and multimedia on board 5' ∞ 5' (collection of Syncrude Canada Ltd., Fort McMurray, Alberta)

This piece is about the reconnection that the Aboriginal people are making with the spiritual world and how the elders play an important role with this relationship. It is also about the end of a way of life and how, in the end, there is a resurgence, a rebirth of that life and a renewal of ideas, of spirit, of culture, and of people. The old woman, an elder, passes her knowledge of the traditions and culture, on to the younger generations and helps to make the connection of our world to the other world. With their help and direction, their experiences will give us guidance to a better life. This is a comment about how we are interconnected with the other world through our actions in this world.

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Turtles Doing the Spiritual Square Dance 1999 Acrylic on board 12" ∞ 16"

For me, turtles represent the Aboriginal people’s spiritual environment in North America and the squares are representative of a city’s landscape. This is a depiction of how the different aspects of these environments can work together. It is a positive outlook about the Aboriginal people who live and work within the core of the business community, locally and nationally. 70

Thunderbird and Sweatlodge 1999 Acrylic on board, 12" ∞ 16"

The Thunderbird is a spiritual creature of imagination and folklore. In some Aboriginal nations, it is considered the Creator of life. In this painting, we see this mythical entity giving energy to the world of the sweatlodge. The sweatlodge is a place where people go to pray and speak to the Creator; it is like going to church. Some Aboriginal people were and are able to make a transition from Aboriginal spirituality to Christianity because they are able to make a connection with the idea of one God as the Creator of all things. In many ways, the best things of the past still exist; there are still connections made with the Creator; there is energy in the beliefs of the Thunderbird and in the ritual ceremonies performed in the sweatlodge; there is life. 71

Summer Dreams

Birth

2001 Acrylic on masonite 4' ∞ 6' (photo credit Cindy M. Jones)

2001 Acrylic on masonite 4' ∞ 6' (photo credit Cindy M. Jones)

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Chief Mountain 2001 Acrylic on masonite 4' ∞ 6' (photo credit Cindy M. Jones)

Red Sky at Night... 2001 Acrylic on masonite 4' ∞ 6' (photo credit Cindy M. Jones)

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Other Thoughts on Other Things

Athabasca Dreams 2 & 3, the Present and the Future 2001 Acrylic on canvas 4' ∞ 8' (collection of Albian Sands Ltd., Fort McMurray, Alberta)

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This painting was created with input from the corporate world. I was able to work with them to visually depict their vision on how they see themselves operating with the Aboriginal community. It portrays the way things are now and the how the future is envisioned, especially in regards to returning the environment to its natural setting. This piece also emphasizes how working with the Aboriginal people is not only one of a professional relationship, but it also shows how concern for the Aboriginal community is of vital importance. It is an effort of sharing and caring.

Grandfather Thunderbird 1996/7

Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

All My Relations … 1995 Acrylic on canvas 29" ∞ 29" (collection of the Native Centre, University of Calgary)

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Treaty Days 1996

Acrylic on canvas 16" ∞ 16" (private collection of Pierre O’berg)

Redman Waiting to Dance Again 1993 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 36"

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Chief Dan George 1996 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

The Hollywood stereotype of the “drunken, savage Indian” pretty much began with the release of the movie, Stagecoach, in 1939. Afterwards, many movies were made which promoted this message, and the whole world began to see Aboriginal people in a sort of diffracted superficial light. It was not until almost forty years later, with movies like, Little Big Man and The Outlaw Josey Wales, that audiences began to see “Indians” on the silver screen in a more human light. The main reason for this was one actor; his name was Chief Dan George. Today, there are other actors and other movies that have come along which have brought a more realistic light to the perspective of Aboriginal people. One such movie was Dances With Wolves, and Graham Green played a pivotal role in it. Chief Dan George’s example of doing movies that promote a true image of Aboriginal people will one day come to life when a movie, created wholly by Aboriginal people, is shown in major theatres. One of his expressions in the movies has become a kind of mantra for me: “I shall endeavour to persevere!” 79

Elvis 1996/97 Acrylic on board 6" ∞ 24" (Private collection of Stanley Laurent)

Kicking Bird 1996 Acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30"

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Cramped Quarters 1996 Acrylic on board 24" ∞ 30" (private collection of Aaron Whitfield)

This painting is a social comment on two things: the cruel use of animals and the staged tourist attraction of “Indians” at some summer rodeo-like events. I feel that the animals are in total fear for their lives when they are being ridden; just look at their eyes. I am also astounded that Aboriginal people are put on display in a veiled attempt of sharing their culture with tourists. To me, this is continuing to keep the romantic image of the “noble savage” alive. This is just another barrier that keeps our people segregated from the mainstream of Canadian and international social consciousness. 81

I remember when I was a little boy, travelling up and down the Athabasca River with my family, we would often stay with friends and other family members at specific campsites. These sites were gathering places at certain seasonal times of the year where we would meet, collect berries, hunt and share stories. I realized one day that this lifestyle had disappeared when, in a golf tournament, I looked around and there were Aboriginal people from all parts of the country gathered for some friendly competition. It dawned on me that our seasonal gathering places had changed, but the intent of seeing old friends and making new ones was the same. Perhaps this is one reason why I love the game of golf.

Gathering 1997 Acrylic on canvas 16" ∞ 20"

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Dave.... 2001 acrylic on canvas 24" ∞ 30" (private collection of David Tuccaro)

Dave is a very influential business man on a national level. He is involved in making things happen, from earth-moving to television stations, and he is an inspiration to many Aboriginal people, including myself. As a businessman, he lives and works in two different worlds; his own Aboriginal community and the Canadian mainstream. He looks at the future with a positive attitude and sees great potential for building a strong Aboriginal business community within the Canadian mosaic. 83

Dancing on a Table 1994 Acrylic on board 5' ∞ 8 1/2' (personal collection)

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When I first left home, after high school, my father jokingly said that, when I purchase a kitchen table, it should be strong enough to dance on. This became a metaphor for my future. It meant that I should be able to have fun, yet I should maintain a close tie with family. In the background of the painting is a silhouette of the city of Calgary, Alberta. The darkness that lies within the downtown core is as mythical as the perceptions of Gotham in many comic books, like the battles that Batman has of good against evil. The nude women are a comment of a marginalized group within this business world and the perceptions they have within this so-called dominant paradigm. There are similarities with other marginalized groups, like Aboriginal people, but because these groups exist within this world, perceptions are changing. Like the sun rising to bring light into the world, these changes are positive hopes for the future. As I dance precariously on the edge of my table, I know that all the things I’ve learned and experienced will help me to succeed within this world.

Way Up North

From the River to Here 36" ∞ 48" Acrylic on board, 1994 (collection of the Faculty of Education, University of Calgary, Alberta)

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Once upon a time, many Aboriginal children got their education from the environment that they lived in. They were taught how to make a living off the land and how to live with it, but times changed and so did their education. The image of the girl reading a book speaks of a new system of education, and it represents a way of life that most of our people have come to accept. I too was raised in the bush, I too was taught how to be a hunter, and I too wanted to be as good as my father and my grandfather. Our people were taught by their own family, and the whole community depended on how involved we became in each other’s education. Our futures rested on the family’s core of knowledge. Today, this still exists to varying degrees, but the stories and ideas within the white pages of these written treasures have captured the imagination of many of our people, including myself; they’ve led me to where I am now.

She’s a Good Cook 1997 Acrylic on board 18" ∞ 20"

Autumn Harvest 1995 Acyrlic on board 16" ∞ 20"

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On the Athabasca 1995 Oil on b0ard 16" ∞ 20"

Picking Berries 1996 Acrylic on board 24" ∞ 30" (private collection Janine Fernandes)

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A Bonny Trinity 36" ∞ 48" Acrylic on board, 1999 (personal collection)

I use a lot of old photographs for reference. I came across this 1929 image of one of my great aunts, and it totally captured my imagination. This image is so poignant in the fact that here is a young girl who is tightly grasping a white doll and a teddy bear. It spoke to me of the change that would come to my people in this isolated region of northern Alberta. The doll represents a society that is new and foreign to the Aboriginal people, and the teddy bear is representative of the changing views towards the environment they live in. In many ways, the changes that were to come were not always a good thing, but I see this as an acceptance towards a new way of life. 89

Cree-tianity 1 1995/96 Acrylic on board 16" ∞ 20"

When I did this painting, I felt it was necessary to speak for all those Aboriginal people who believe that Christianity is good for them and their people. When I was an alter boy, I remember this as being a good thing to be a part of, and I really enjoyed it. I feel that Christianity has many similarities to Aboriginal beliefs, one God—one Creator, and that on its own or in conjunction with Aboriginal spirituality, our people can heal some or all the pains of the past atrocities conducted against them and/or their ancestors. There is a need for healing in many Aboriginal communities and with their strong belief in a higher power, it can start or has already started. 90

Friends … 1997 Acrylic on canvas 8" ∞ 10" (personal collection)

Spring Grace 1996 Acrylic on board 16" ∞ 20" (private collection of Marcella Dankow)

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When the River Tasted Good 1995 Acrylic on canvas, 18" ∞ 24"

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This image came from a book by Terry Garvin titled Bush Land People. When I first saw it, I was reminded of the days of living along the Athabasca River. I am that boy drinking and playing with the water at the river’s edge. It is a distant time that does not exist anymore, except in our memories; we can no longer drink water straight out of the river. Our natural environments have changed, the rivers have become polluted, and we are now trying to protect what is left. Many of our people work with the big companies, who have an effect on the natural environment, and they’ve helped to make guidelines and to take preventive measures in this area. The corporate world is more aware of their impact on the environment, the mindsets are changing, and all are beginning to protect what is left; the first steps have been taken.

Making Tea and Bannock 1994 Acrylic on board 29" ∞ 29"

First Snow 1994 Acrylic on board 28" ∞ 36" (private collection of Michael Robinson)

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Medicine Woman 16" ∞ 16" Acrylic on board, 1996

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Elders are the keepers of knowledge and stories, past and present. They hold keys to secrets of the natural environment, and, if we take time to sit and listen, we will learn what they have to tell us. An unfortunate thing about time is that a lot of these old people have gone to the “other world” before they’ve had a chance to share their knowledge; yet, it is not too late for there are still stories to be shared. In this image, we see that she is able to communicate with the spirits of the natural world. The medicine woman is happy in her knowledge that some of the young are taking time to listen, and, through her, the past is still alive.

Protecting the Herd 1998 Acrylic on canvas 40" ∞ 60" (private collection of Robert Loader)

This is my father within a herd of buffalo. A program was initiated by Syncrude Canada Limited which saw a few buffalo brought up from the south with the idea of reintroducing them to the woodland area of northeastern Alberta. Many years ago, these majestic animals roamed freely through the bush, but they almost disappeared, except for those in the Wood Buffalo Region of northeastern Alberta. Now, with the help of Syncrude and with the guidance of the Aboriginal people from my community of Fort McKay, the buffalo have returned. 95