#writing dialogue is officially my black beast I can not write a decent conversation for my life

[justgayrevolutionnaries]

The sun, the stars and everything in between

My gift for @fructidors for the @drinkwithme-exchange ! I chose to write for Enjolras and Jehan, with maybe a bit of Triumvirate and Jehan/Grantaire friendship because I couldn't resist. I hope you enjoy !

Find it on ao3 or read below for those who prefer tumblr

1826

It was not that Enjolras distrusted rich people. He just couldn't stand them, and would rather forget that he was one himself.

So naturally when Combeferre pointed out to him a student he had met at la Sorbonne, who seemingly had no trouble with paying the monthly fee asked of him by the school, he couldn't help but at first consider him with the usual level of scorn he felt when looking at anyone coming from the higher classes.

He was soon to be proven wrong, however, for the young man turned out to be everything but what Enjolras expected.

His hair was longer than what was socially considered conventional, he spent hours looking at anything and everything with a thoughtful look on his face and seemed to be taking more interest in the sky than in the world of men. Enjolras immediately had him pinned down as a Romantic- which wasn't necessarily a good thing, since he couldn't help but feel irritated toward people who, in his eyes, spend their lives contemplating the world in melancholy but doing nothing to change it.

What really caught Enjolras's attention, however, was when he overheard the Romantic talk to a group of other students in a café often used as a gathering point by- well, young students. It sounded more like he was delivering a poem than properly talking, actually, seeing how smoothly the words were coming out of his mouth. And those words were explaining the misery of the world- and of orphans. From what Enjolras could hear, the young man was deeply affected by the fate of orphans in Paris, and seemed more than willing to act about it.

After that, Enjolras felt more than willing to talk to the redhead, even though Combeferre had been begging to introduce them for weeks. It actually seemed surprisingly easy to approach him- maybe it was the way he always looked at everything with a dreamy look on his face, or maybe it was the way Enjolras sometimes found his eyes fixed on him at gatherings, as if he was studying Enjolras or looking for something specific in him. The point was, he seemed nice. And maybe easy to talk to. Maybe that was why Enjolras found himself walking toward the young man's table at the café, forgetting he usually had no idea how to start conversations.

"I liked what you said earlier," he said bluntly. As the other looked up at him in surprise, he felt the need to elaborate : "your poem, about the night and, um, orphans. I really enjoyed listening to it."

"Well, thank you. If is not my best, but I was kind of proud of it, so I figured… why not share it with the class ?"

He had an awkward smile, much to Enjolras's surprise- for some reason he had expected him to be very laid back, like Courfeyrac, another one of his friends, but it turned out the redhead was about as talented as Enjolras to start a conversation in a decent way.

After a rather awkward moment Enjoras was wondering what he was supposed to say next and silently cursing himself for trying to start a conversation without Courfeyrac there, the poet held out his left hand for the blonde to shake, while his right one was busy trying to extract what looked like an old smoking-pipe from his pocket. He had to take out various items, including three rocks of various shapes and what seemed to be peacock feathers (Enjolras decided not to ask) before he found what he was looking for and could focus back on Enjolras.

"Jehan Prouvaire, at your service. Does it bother you if I smoke ?"

"Not at all" answered Enjolras, somewhat amused by the manners of the young man. "Jehan, huh ?"

The other waved aside with a nonchalant look. "Mere fantasy of a poet. You can call me Jean, or even Prouvaire if you like. Do you happen to have a name, or am I expected to find one for you ? Because I have multiple ideas that would quite suit you. Did you ever consider-"

Enjolras thought it wiser to interrupt him there. Not that he disliked listening to the other man, who actually had a very soft and pleasant voice, but he was afraid of the kind of nickname the eccentric redhead thought would fit him.

"That will be quite unnecessary. I am Enjolras." He said, finally reaching out for Prouvaire's hand. "I am glad to make your acquaintance… citizen."

The last word had escaped his mouth after a second of hesitation, carefully watching Prouvaire's face for his reaction. He was not, however, expecting the small laugh that came out of his lips.

"I am only amused by your carefulness. Do I look much like a royalist to you ?"

Enjolras felt the pressure on his stomach untighten. He had witnessed the unconventional behavior of the young man and heard the way he talked of the world around him, and he actually would have been very surprised if such a man turned out to be anything but a supporter of freedom- but again, one never knew. For the first time he found himself smiling genuinely at him.

"Not really. And I shall admit, I am rather happy you aren't. I would have been very disappointed to find out I was wrong about you."

"I shall be happy to have proven you right, then," the poet, who at this point was surrounded by a cloud of smoke, answered with a mocking reverence.

***

1828

He didn't know exactly what Prouvaire was doing here. Despite openly having political opinions that answered more or less those of Enjolras, the poet had never struck him as what he would call a fierce revolutionary. Not that Enjolras was unhappy to discover he had misjudged him, he was always more than content when a new friend joined their group. It was just that he suspected the poet of dropping by the café only to try and meet people who were as interested as him in studying in detail a play of Corneille, the appearance of a new constellation or the shape of the clouds.

While Enjolras was wrong in that the poet was indeed one of the most helpful members, and certainly the one that cared most about doing everything he could to help others, it was true that Jehan wasn't helping by always choosing to sit near one of the newest members of the group, whose only purpose in life seemed to be to empty as many bottles of wine as it was humanly possible.

As a matter of fact, when Enjolras happened to overhear one of the conversations taking place at the table in the corner, the two men always seemed to be talking of any imaginable subject except for the revolution.

"... must have been nice to be one of those gods living on Mount Olympus", Grantaire was currently saying. "To spend your days to eat, drink and contemplate the world- what more could one possibly ask of life ?"

Prouvaire reflected thoughtfully : "The greek gods, huh ? I have always found it quite nice that Apollo was for them not only the god of the sun, but also the god of music. After all, isn't music a way to bring light and warmth in our lives ?"

"What I like about those gods is that they seem to live on, even today, in some of us. For me, I guess I shall be Dionysus, for obvious reasons." Grantaire gestured vaguely at his body, as the poet threw him an amused look. "You can be Apollo if that pleases you- would it only be because you are such a strong defender of poetry in our world, and you can play the lyre."

"The harp, actually," Jehan interrupted him with an offended tone, "and I am surprised the comparison did not arise from my ability to brighten your life a considerable amount."

Grantaire made a disdainful gesture while rolling his eyes to the sky.

"The harp, the lyre… same difference to me. If I touched either one, all I would get out of them would be an atrocity that would so gravely offend one of your music gods that they would probably-"

He stopped abruptly when he noticed that Enjolras had left Combeferre and Courfeyrac to argue on their own on the other side of the room and was making his way toward them.

"I should probably leave now" Grantaire muttered, and before his friend could stop him he had grabbed his coat and made his way through the (extremely) crowded room to the door.

He had probably sensed that Enjolras was not in a mood to be nice with him- and he had been right, since as soon as the blonde reached the table where Jehan was left alone, seemingly wondering whether or not he should run after Grantaire, his first words were : "Do you ever wonder why the man even bothers coming here- does he at least have fun annoying all of us with his meaningless talk ?"

The words probably came out way more rude than he intended to and he immediately felt guilty of it- Jehan hadn't really done anything to deserve this.

"You should give him more credit, you know" Prouvaire said absently, his eyes still fixated on the bottle his friend had left on the table without even bothering to finish it.

Enjolras turned to him, not even trying to mask his irritation. "What should I give him credit for ? Being here ? Those meetings are for serious matters. Everyone here genuinely cares about our revolution, about helping people, fighting for them. Everyone here believes in something better that keeps them going. Grantaire doesn't believe in anything, save maybe wine."

"Doesn't he ?" There was a thoughtful look on his face, as if he hadn't been expecting Enjolras to say that. "You know… sometimes I wonder."

Prouvaire got up, most likely to try and catch up with Grantaire, leaving Enjolras to wonder what he had been trying to say.

***

1830

Prouvaire was vaguely aware that he and Enjolras were the only people left in the café, and that all the others had left when it had started to get dark. He was also vaguely aware that his friend had been talking for a while, most likely about what the better place to build a barricade would be or Courfeyrac's latest idea to find ammunition- sometimes a few words reached his ears, such as "strategic area" and "take back their freedom".

But he was only vaguely paying attention to all of this, because he had spent his afternoon in the café doing what he did best- living in his own world and writing endlessly. For some reasons the ideas were flowing to his mind today, and he had covered countless sheets in scribbled words, unfinished verses and distracted doodles. But now he had been stuck on this verse for a while and did not like it.

At this moment he heard Enjolras clap his fingers and ask, in a voice that seemed worlds away from him : "Prouvaire, do you really find me this boring ?"

The sarcasm passed unnoticed as the poet, not looking up from the sheet in front of him and seeming incredibly focused on the quill in his hand, managed to let out enough words to communicate like a normal human being. .

"I think I need your help, actually." Paying absolutely no attention to his friend's sigh, he added : "Can you find a good synonym for "loyalty" ?"

Surprised at first, Enjolras's look was quick to soften and since he knew that it would be useless to try and blame Jehan, and was not even willing to, as he felt a kind of tenderness where the soft nature of the poet was concerned, he chose to be helpful and answer the question.

"Faithfulness ?" He suggested. "Devotion ?" As if his own words had brought a new idea to his mind, he frowned and added "things I wish more men would have."

Jehan was about to answer that "faithfulness" had too many syllables for what he was trying to do, but surprised by the bitter tone, unusual in the usually passionate voice of his friend, he managed to get out of his bubble and looked up to find the blonde staring into space, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Well, that sounds like an optimistic thought coming from you. What do you mean by that, if I may ask ?"

His friend sighed and opened his arms. "I don't really know myself. I guess sometimes I feel like I have lost faith- we are doing something so important here, but we have no guarantee of anything. No guarantee that what we do will change something, no guarantee that the men will have the heart to come and help us in this fight. I know I shouldn't think that, because I believe in our fight, but I can't help it."

Prouvaire interrupted him with his soft voice, putting a hand on the other man's arm : "why shouldn't you ? It is normal to have doubts, you know. But as long as you remember what you are fighting for, those doubts can not stop you."

Enjolras let his head fall back with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

"I envy you, you know."

The poet glanced an intrigued look at him.

"Before I consider myself flattered, I am going to need you to elaborate. You are really looking quite weird today, Enjolras."

"You always seem to be so optimistic, you know. About pretty much everything- the flowers in your garden, the friends you meet, the fact that any of this-" he gestured with a bitter look at the empty tables surrounding them, "has a chance to ever succeed. This is why I admire you, and with you all the poets. You know how to find hope in the smallest things, be it a ladybug in a garden or a burnt-out candle."

"But you seem to be quite the poet yourself, my friend."

Enjolras merely shook his head, although his friend's suggestion had managed to bring a smile to his lips.

"I leave such activities to those worthy of them. I fear one couldn't call anything I do poetic- all I ever do is talk of revolution and mythic battles, and you can not call me a poet for merely writing speeches."

"You are wrong here. I have seen how you always have your way with words. It is why they admire you, you know. People such as our friends, Grantaire, myself… everyone. Unlike so many people, you know the power of words and how to use it. Maybe it seems to you there is no poetry in your thoughts, but I can assure you your speeches and your ideals inspire me as much as any poem of Dante or anyone else could. And this is a compliment, really."

Enjolras, whose only reaction to this had been to smirk at the mention of Grantaire, had to admit softly :

"If you say so my friend. I suppose I can trust your opinion on those matters. As long as you do not ask me to start smoking the pipe or write what you would consider a poetic verse, I am fine with being considered a poet in the way you mean it."

Jehan burst out laughing at this.

"Don't come and give me ideas. And I am sure you would love it, by the way."

***

1831

"I can not believe I got out of bed for this. Did we really have to be there this early ? The night hasn't even fallen yet" Courfeyrac complained.

"You didn't have to come, then" Combeferre replied mockingly, which earned him a scandalized look from the former.

It had been Prouvaire's idea, unsurprisingly- to spend the evening in the Luxembourg garden so they could look at the stars. There were only four of them, Prouvaire, Combeferre, Enjolras, who was there half willingly and half because the first two had threatened him or dragging him to a ball later if he did not come, and Courfeyrac who could not possibly imagine not being involved in an evening between friends. Grantaire had been invited as well, but for some reason he did not elaborate on, he had refused to come.

"You know," Courfeyrac reflected, pensively looking at a flower he had picked up a few minutes ago, "I have always wondered why you poets always enjoyed looking at the stars so much. I am not saying they are boring, but to look at them your entire lives… what do you find in them that we," he elbowed Enjolras in the ribs,"mere mortals, don't ?"

Jehan let out a small laugh at this. "There is not one answer to this, you know. This is why I like the stars, actually. They mean something different for everyone. I guess I like how they mostly remind me of how small we all are- or, if you want a more optimistic thought, they are at the same time a symbol of hope. Simply consider the way they are so far away from us, yet they are so big that their light still reaches us from over there. And they have been shining like this for longer than we could even imagine."

"Stars can die too, like everything." Enjolras couldn't help but point out, which caused Prouvaire to frown slightly.

"Who is talking about dying ? Dying can wait for now. I would much rather spend my time listening to the sound of a river, watching flowers grow or studying the stars, like now. And like you are doing right now for what I believe is the first time in your life. Enjoy life for a moment, my friend."

He put an arm around Enjolras's shoulders, smiling encouragingly at him, but the blonde shoved him back playfully.

"Contrary to popular belief, my friend, I actually do enjoy looking at the stars."

Combeferre looked at him, raising his eyebrows slightly in a disbelieving manner. "Do you now ? Not so long ago I would have sworn you would rather take a bullet to the chest than even take a second to contemplate the world around you, let alone the world above you."

Enjolras purposely decided to ignore the mocking undertone in Combeferre's voice and answered with a simple shrug. "I don't know any more than you do. It simply happens that they have a calming effect on me, so I like to look at them every so often. And even objectively speaking, stars are beautiful. You shouldn't expect a man to just pass them by without ever looking at them once in his life."

"Actually, you can," Courfeyrac chimed in for some reason. "Look at Pontmercy. He is always so absorbed by his thoughts, I doubt he even noticed there is a sky above us."

As Combeferre rolled his eyes to the sky, as often when Pontmercy was mentioned, Jehan pointed out softly : "you can not blame him for that, Courfeyrac, if he is in love with one of them."

The three of them got into an argument to decide whether or not Pontmercy was actually in love, and Enjolras smiled softly at the stars, thinking that Prouvaire might actually be right about them- like he was about everything.

Life was good.

***

1832

Jehan had been blindfolded. That was the only thing clear to him right now. His memory felt foggy. All he could remember was looking at Bahorel in horror as he got stabbed in the chest. Then lots of noise, screams and shorts, and then a new voice (was it Pontmercy ? It sounded like Pontmercy) dominating all the others. After that he remembered being dragged away in an alley, and trying to scream for help- Enjolras's name, Grantaire's name, anyone that could come and help him.

And red. Lots of red. So much red… everywhere.

He felt someone seize him by the shoulder and push him forward- against a wall. He didn't even need to listen to the declaration of the captain -he guessed it was a captain, a general wouldn't bother with this- to know what was going to happen next.

"Any last words ?"

So many.

He wanted to see his friends one final time, tell them how much he loved them. He wanted to write so many poems, many small verses that would just make one long poem, and claim it to the world.

He wanted to look at everything around him- Paris, his friends, the sky- one final time. He wanted to tell Grantaire all about the sun rising. He wanted to promise them, all of them, that they needed to hope, that the future would surely be brighter, it was only a matter of time. He wanted to tell Enjolras that he needed to look at the stars again, because it might be his final chance to do so.

But he knew he couldn't do any of this- he was out of time.

So all he did was raise his chin proudly and smile. And now he could smile genuinely, because he knew what he believed in- because it was what Enjolras had taught him. Because he had hope for the future, if not for now.

"Vive la France ! Vive l'avenir !"

***

"Vive la France ! Vive l'avenir !"

Enjolras clenched his jaw. His hand was still on Combeferre's arm when the shot rang out, and he used it to steady himself as he realized -as they both realized- what the succession of noises meant.

"They killed him !" Combeferre gasped in horror.

Enjolras nodded slowly. He had expected it, they had talked about it- he just didn't expect for this to become real. He didn't imagine a poet could actually die like anyone else, let alone Jean Prouvaire.

But apparently it was real. Not that it could change much, at this point. He knew that he couldn't afford to lose hope- not right now, not until this was over.

But for now…

He turned to the spy attached to the pillar, who still hadn't moved. "Your friends have just shot you," he said.

[christenclifford]

CROSSROADS: NATIVE FEMINISMS: long draft of the piece I published on Hyperallergic today

(Mound: To The Heroes by Charlene Teters)

I published a piece on Hyperallergic today about The Feminist Art Project’s Day of Panels at CAA.  The panels took place back in February, and for various reasons this piece slipped through the cracks, and only made it to editing and publishing this week.  I love Hyperallergic and I am thankful to publish this work and bring some much needed attention to the work of Native Artists in a  contemporary art setting.  The Met only recently decided to display some Native art in the American collection. The piece I wrote was almost 3,000 words! Much too long. So I wanted to put the first version here, for anyone who wanted a little more information. It is less elegantly written, but has many more quotes, especially from the elders, whom I want to honor.

Christen Clifford,Thursday April 27, 2017

BREAKING THE BUCKSKIN CEILING:

CROSSROADS

 This spring, the Met announced that it would begin including Native American art in the American Art collection. Back in February, for their 10th Anniversary, the Feminist Art Project undertook a reimaging of the art world that included handing over their first official full on the books partnership with the College Art Association to Indigenous contemporary artists and used their Annual Day of Panels to explore  CROSSROADS: Art + Native Feminisms, a day of panels, performances, and dialogue. The event took place at the Museum for Arts and Design, a venue that embraces both craft and art — a categorical division that has historically been used to exclude artists of native ancestry from the mainstream art market. It was a day filled with ceremonies, deeply considered conversations, and moving performances, centering female, queer, and Indigenous experiences of the art world. Videos of the event have just been released and can be found here.

What do you think of when you think of Native art? Have you seen any art by Native American Women in a  contemporary art gallery?  Why are Indigenous communities so rarely represented in the art world?   

February 17th, the night before the symposium, there was a maximum capacity crowd at Grace Exhibition Space for From The Belly Of The Beast a “shout out to the performance artist as antihero.” The evening was co-curated by Maria Hupfield and Katya Grokhovsky, and featured work by Charlene Vickers, Damali Abrams, Emilie Monnet and Dayna Danger, Emily Oliverira and Natalie Ball.

 Cultural Appropriation is a problem for many Native Artists.  Art historian Crystal Migwans writes here in Canadian Art Magazine about the connection between  the “theft of ‘symbols’ such as the headdress with theft of land and lives.”

 This symposium was an opportunity for New Yorkers to experience Native contemporary artists and elders in a mainstream contemporary art context, and for Indigenous Peoples from across Turtle Island to gather in New York, which is itself unusual.

 The TFAP annual day of panels started with onscreen projections by The ReMatriate Project and an electric violin musical performance by Brooklyn based Laura Ortman.  There was a blessing of the space and Connie Tell, the director of The Feminist Art Project at Rutgers introduced the three curators of the day of panels: Jaune-Quick-To-See Smith, Maria Hupfield (full disclosure: we are friends and artistic collaborators) and Kat Griefen

 Griefen educated the audience on how to support the water protectors at Standing Rock and how to Divest from the Dakota Access Pipeline by passing out information to #defunddapl

 Jaune-Quick-To-See Smith started off with a keynote:

  “We are a part of everything…our future our past…we are seven generations…Um yeah, we still live under colonialism!....(being in nature) moves my inward parts with joy….the sacred is the land the sky the water…there’s no old man up in the sky….we are all made of the same earth….we are thankful for the ripples on the water….how can EuroAmericans understand?  We don’t see China as the Far East. We see Europe as our Far East, China is our West…The great invasion came to our neighborhood…we see no horizon line, no delineation between human and earth…this is not hippy dippy stuff” The packed room erupts in laughter. ““The women support the men and the men support the women….For Native People the Process is meditative and playful and keeps one balanced….When I was born, only 1 in 10 Native babies survived.  I consider myself a miracle….Race is only your DNA, culture is socially how you are raised and not the color of your skin.” 

 She read from Culture Poem, which had lines about birth and babies.  “Is it washed in its mother’s urine and dried in the sun or is it slapped upside down?  What happens to the umbilical cord?  It’s a really important thing that umbilical cord.  Some wear it in a pouch their whole lives.”

 Tobacco was poured in the 4 corners of the room. Each introduced themselves in their Native language and then in English: their name, where they are from, where their parents are from, and where they were born.

 The first panel, The Struggle for Cultural Capital in Contemporary Native American Art, was chaired by Diane Fraher a filmmaker and the Director of Amerinda Inc. and consisted of the elders Gloria Miguel, Muriel Miguel and Jaune-Quick-To-See Smith. They acknowledged that they as Indigenous people fight against forced assimilation. “This is rare occasion where we are in a mainstream venue.” 

 Gloria and Muriel Miguel are sisters, and part of the Spiderwoman Theatre Company. (full disclosure: I assisted Gloria teaching a theatre class to kids at a community center in Bushwick in the early 90’s, right after I graduated from NYU.)

 Muriel talked about being a “city Indian” from Brooklyn.  She was a shawl dancer and studied modern dance.  She worked with Joe Chaikin and the Open Theatre and the group was interested in “new” storytelling techniques.  “They said, wow Muriel, you are such a good storyteller! with such surprise and I said Well, Yeah!” 

 “But I really wanted to talk about women.  Not feminism, but WOMEN.”

 Gloria performed an excerpt of a powerful monologue that ended with the repeated, “I’m still here! I’m still here! I’m still here!” 

 Gloria and Muriel performed with their father in Wild West shows and next to the freaks in Coney Island. “He was a pretty good song and dance man,” said Gloria.

 Gloria was living in Westbeth.  She said, “I was talking about missing and murdered women 41 years ago.  Our first piece for Spiderwoman was about sexual violence.  We were, uh, nasty! We collected dirty jokes, racist jokes, we did a piece about men rubbing up against women on the subways!  Spiderwoman saved our lives in so many ways.”

 When Gloria went to Hollywood, an agent told her he couldn’t find any roles for her. “You look like you would knife someone in a dark alley!” 

 Jaune-Quick-To-See Smith spoke of making archives and writing. “The writing about Native art began in the 90’s; we are still missing the history of women in the 70’s. Our generation is the first to break the buckskin ceiling. We are pioneers (pioneers before there were pioneers - Indians!).  We are renegades.”

 One of the struggles for Native artists is to even be seen as contemporary.  As Smith said, “They see us as Egyptians and Aztecs!”

 At one point Robin Veder, the new editor at American Art Journal, stood and said that she specifically would like to include contemporary native art in it’s pages. The morning panels ended with questions about the future. Muriel Miguel said, “I want two-spirit theatre. I want queer theatre.” Smith Said, “Coyote is in cyberspace now.” Diane Fraher said, “It’s good to be an Indian. We can’t change the past but we can be who we are.”

 Maria Hupfield introduced the afternoon with a Territorial Acknowledgement of the historically displaced Lenni Lenape here in New York City, home of the highest urban indigenous population today. In a moment of performed cultural recovery recent Lenape speaker, and decent Vanessa Dion Fletcher was invited to the stage to introduce her self in Lenape teach the audience to say "I am happy to meet you".

 The afternoon panels started with The Problematics of Making Art While Native and Female. Chaired by Andrea Carlson, the panel included the next generation of artists Carly Feddersen and Ryan Elizabeth Feddersen, Dr. Julie Nagam from the University of Winnipeg and the Winnipeg Art Gallery, Grace Rosario Perkins of the Black Salt Collective and the artist Charlene Teters.

 Carly Feddersen showed slides of her jewelry. Brainiac Broaches, 2016. Sterling silver, pink quartz, and white topaz. She defined “Human” as “One who has land and dream together.” She told us that we are “starstuff and earthstuff” and that she uses animals in her work because “before humans were the people animals were the people.” She showed a cameo called “Mother” that was a “fierce cameo” and a tribute to heavy metal band Danzig. She was wearing it, it was sublime.

 Her sister, Ryan Elizabeth Feddersen, showed work from a series called Coyote Now! Which consisted of coyote bones cast and molds made which in turn created crayons shaped like coyote bones, which were then used in hands on art activity at The Tacoma Art Museum as a collaborative coloring installation about the trickster who may have had a hand in global warming. Participation, engagement with craft and retaking the DIY space from the masculine flavor of Maker Faire are all aspects of her work.

 Dr. Julie Nagam spoke about her cross appointment as Canadian Research Co-Chair in the History of Indigenous Art in North America 

  in Winnipeg at both the University and the Art Museum.  “I am there to indigenize the University and the Gallery.” Her installation “singing our bones home” utilizes video, sculpture and audio inside a wigwam, representing living history and the relocation of Indigenous bodies. When the visitor was inside, “your body triggered sounds.” She is organizing an Indigenous Curators Symposium for fall 2017 and is the lead for the Social Studies and Humanities Research Council project The Transitive Memory Keepers: Indigenous Public Engagement in Digital and New Media Labs and Exhibitions. 

 Grace Rosario Perkins of the Art Matters 2017 Black Salt Collective was especially interesting to me.  Her work explores personal narrative, assimilation, and code switching. She said that her “GED class was right next to a comic book store and I learned to draw from comics.” Black Salt Collective is “all queer women of color… I believe in collaboration…we keep changing it up and creating our own language.”  For their show Visions into Infinite Archives, “It was an archive that was defined by us.”  

 Charlene Teters is an artist and activist best known for her activism against the use of American Indian mascots. She spoke about objectification, “Everything that is ours is turned into an object. It is rare to be seen as a full fledged human being.” Her work about mascots began at the University of Illinois, where she was one of three Native Americans on campus. When one left in the middle of the night, a professor chanted, “One little, two little, three little Indians…” at her and ended with, “two left!  Keep your mouths shut.”  She described being persona non grata for all of the year except “around Thanksgiving, when I would get invited to 1,000 Thanksgiving dinners, none of which I went to.” Her piece Mound: To The Heroes (ABOVE) is a photo mural of the flag raising at Iwo Jima with only the Pima man, Ira Hayes, left. The juxtaposition of the Native American and the flag just out of his reach is an amazing metaphor for indigenous struggles for basic human rights on their own land.

 At the end Carlson shared her experience of being a  guest artist, “They think that Pocahontas is going to come and teach us about art.” Ryan said, “There is no word for art in indigenous language. In the Western world art is an object to be exhibited and sold but for us it’s about use, process, continuations of a practice and a dialogue.” 

 The next panel was called Kinship, Decolonial Love, and Community Art Practice and was chaired by Lindsay Nixon the recently appointed Indigenous Editor at-large for Canadian Art leading the Indigenous art and culture content initiatives, she said the artists come first. Panelists were independent artists Lyncia Begay, Dayna Danger, Marcella Ernest, and Tarah Hogue, of grunt gallery.

 Nixon spoke of Decolonizing Love and a project called Decolonize Me, which she described as a critique of commercialization and an action of reconciliation related to the potlatch practice on the West Coast of maintaining social order, where we “give it all away.”

 Dayna Danger said she wants to show off her community which includes two spirit, queer and BDSM people.  As a “white presenting” artist she wants to make space and give power to those who need it. She was beading a leather mask while she was on the panel. She talked about an amazing project performance with naked people doused in baby oil who wear antlers as strap-ons. 

 She spoke about who it is that you center in your work. Who is the work really for? "For the people who are in it." And she said, in response to white cis male critic, "I don't care about that critique. You're right, it's NOT for you. If these bodies aren't there for you to consume, then it's garbage." When people ask her how much they can buy her masks for, she just says, "No." She beaded a close friends tattoo on a mask, "It’s part of our healing journey together…I mean a museum can borrow it and show it, but it's home is with her...she is the keeper of the mask." She also spoke about materiality in her life. "It brings people to me, like Where'd you get those wicked earrings?!?" And she spoke about decolonizing orgasm: "We can decolonize the things that we make, we have power and agency."

 Marcella Ernest , whose work has shown twice as an off-site project during the Venice Biannale, is a filmmaker and artist whose interests lie in pop culture, building community support and visibility for indigenous women in same sex relationships and cultural preservation. Her film Odayin was a mirage of images and ambient sounds, layered and dreamlike.

 Lycia spoke about cultural appropriation, land, gender and heteronormativitry. “I don’t want to be viewed as an exhibit. I share my work with community because we have the ability to change paradigms.  I want to bring awareness to resource extraction, but I am very protective of my work. I create art for my sake, to show that its okay to love yourself.”

 Tarah Hogue’s grunt gallery in Vancouver has been showing work since 1984.  The #callresponse project supports the work of Indigenous North American women artists working locally across the continent, based in performance art it values lived experience and grounds art in responsible action.

 The panelists were asked what they wanted and Lycia said, “I want our land back. I want education to be really for our kids, I feel like there’s always a gatekeeper, it feels one-centric.”

 Marcella said, “I want to do the work that I do and feel safe.”

 The last hour of the day was a presentation called The Teaching Is In The Making: Locating Anishaabe Feminism as Art Praxis and featured the work of independent artist Leanna Marshall and Celeste Pedri-Smith from Laurentian University, Nadia Kurd the curator of the Thunder Bay Art gallery and a response from Crystal Migwans from Columbia University, who introduced the work as a “transmission of knowledge.”  In 1976, The Thunder Bay Art Gallery began collecting contemporary indigenous art.  Thunder Bay, on Lake Superior, is a hub for 42 communities.  

 Marshall and Pedri-Smith’s collaboration reflects and multiplicity of perspectives informed by heritage that range for contemporary jingle dresses, archival photography, contemporary photographs and other bead and textile items.

 Pedri-Smith sent a video as she could not attend: “I speak from heart as daughter, as a granddaughter, as a great granddaughter, as a great great granddaughter….I speak from decades and decades of colonial violence and successful resistance…making the dress brings you healing, your thoughts and feelings go into the dress…decolonization is about transformation…the artistic practice of resistance is simultaneously outward and inward…”

 Leanna Marshall ended the day with a performance of NIMAMAATA MIYAW, about creating 8 story dresses from love for her family.  Marshall sang/spoke and I took these notes from her voice.

 “Even now when I talk I can feel her heart break…your kindness so deep I don’t possess this kindness….spiritual perfection your gift was love and it penetrates the most broken of hearts.”

 I hope my notes encourage others to investigate and interact with these artists and their work. I hope this summary can somehow be a part of art reconciliation.  I hope we all have more dialogue and action together.

Crossroads allowed attendees to share in a sacred space, one where process and materials are about a struggle to exist. The room was filled with elders and academics, knowledge carriers and artists. The ideas that were shared and discussed — dignity for humans and non-humans, land recovery, self-determination, and social relations — demonstrated solidarity and encouraged me to honor and question my ancestors. It was an important day of power and community-building, articulating connections between violence against women and violence against the land. The event was an ambitious, disturbing, and brilliant contribution to North American art and art history.