I like to write because it helps me to connect with focal spaces where I feel most alive and closest to God, in whatever form God takes. Writing about Aboriginal art deepens this experience, because I am writing about art, which is usually the product of connections with God and living things.
Writing about Aboriginal people and their art is a small way to heal the world; picking up the shards of broken things and putting them back together; fixing the splintered, warped perspective of mainstream interpretations of Native art. And how could it be otherwise, if a person writes about NDN art, but sees it from across the chasm of ignorance that separates that writer from their subject?
Focal spaces may envelope us in many times and places. Over food you made and shared, when riding your bike early in the morning before the city sounds have taken over; walking, dancing or standing in place, on a path where people have gone before over hundreds of years, and knowing it deep in your bones. Writing opens these spaces within me, and perhaps in you.
I got lost in Indian country. Don’t know when, exactly. Maybe a few weeks after traditional people walked out of the treatment centre in Kanehsatake, holding up sacred masks. Could have been on a trip up north in the middle of winter, riding in a cold van, sipping my NDN friend’s twist shandy, listening to him strum guitar. We got out along the way. Looked up at the stars. They were so bright. Like somebody plugged them into a socket on overload. I could feel the shock. Somebody picked me up out of the snow where I was lying, gazing skyward. Brushed off the ice. We got back in the van and drove north. Once I went out to Kanehsatake and sat in the Pines by myself. Walked a road for a long time, looking for my friend’s place. Somebody stopped, gave me a lift to his tiny house among hay fields. I was definitely in Indian country then. Full of memories and desire. I buried a silver bracelet under a pine tree and said a prayer for the stand of trees. That was years ago. Surely an animal has made off with it by now. And the friend is dead, shot in the back. He helped carry masks from the treatment centre; walked into the army’s perimeter. Climbed into a waiting bus and was driven to prison. We used to talk on the phone sometimes, about the Lord of the Rings, and how anxious he was—didn’t want to come out of the house some days. I sat with him on his front steps, drinking grape juice. Watched the sun shimmer over the fields as he raked grass. Had dinner with him and his girlfriend in the yard, back of his place. I don’t know where this is going, or where it’s from, and I didn’t know then, sitting in his yard, under the maple tree. I can’t get in and out of Indian country at will. Maybe it’s an illusion as deep as corn fields in summer. There might be only one country. I don’t know how it came to be, or how it’s growing through me, filled with electric shock and pine roots; the dust of old friends.
Photo of Joe David, taken in Kanehsatake, courtesy of Elizabeth Sacca
I thought I would start this blog as a way to talk about the process of researching and writing my articles on Aboriginal art and artists. Right now I’m working on a really ambitious piece – I’m researching a piece on the late Mohawk artist Joe David, from Kanehsatake.