Tan-si, nee-too-tee-mak, KC Adams capipaminat mikisew iskwew nitisinikason. Hello, my relations; my name is KC Adams, my Ininnew name is Flying Overhead Eagle Woman, and I am of the bear clan. My mother's family is from Fisher River Cree Nation, and my father is from Peguis Ojibway First Nation. I grew up in Selkirk, Manitoba, and now live near the Red River in Winnipeg, Manitoba.

Such a pleasure to meet you.

Come sit on the grass next to me while I make a clay vessel.

I have a story to share about my journey from clay to relational making.

It was a warm day in May, just like it is right now. A few years ago, I was at an earlier Nibi (Water) Gathering,[1] and I stood just over there, on that flat granite rock next to the shoreline of the Whiteshell River. I was waiting for the set-up of a video shoot, where I would talk about the role of nibi in creating clay vessels. I looked down at the sparkling water's edge, and there were three small brown objects. To the untrained eye, they looked like flat pebbles; however, I knew what they were before I even reached for them. They were broken pottery pieces called sherds. I knelt to retrieve them, and my thumb trailed over the textured exterior. I flipped it over, and the interior had a smooth side, as I expected. I felt a jolt of electricity flow through me, and I knew I had just found my first pottery sherds. My heart started to race as it dawned on me; I was holding a part of a pot that a female Indigenous woman had made long ago. A kaleidoscope of images flashed before me; I imagined her building the vessel by the river's edge, firing the pot, cooking for her community, and burying the vessel along the embankment. While I had seen broken pottery pieces in museums, I had never found one on the land. I turned to my companions, explained what they were, and immediately started crying.

Before I explain my response, let's share some cold peppermint tea. My friend April grew the plant in her garden and gifted me the dried leaves.

Do you like it? I find it so refreshing.

Where was I?

Right. I was emotional over finding a broken pottery piece. I need to explain the beginning of my journey to understand my response and where it took me.

I have been a successful artist exhibiting my work nationally and internationally these past twenty-five years. I utilize numerous mediums, including photography, sculpture, adornment, public art, installation, ceramics, printmaking, video, AR and VR. My art advocates for the visibility and understanding of historically ignored social and political Indigenous issues. It wasn't until recently that I realized the assortment of my artistic skills is linked to the survival methods of my ancestors. In the past, an Indigenous woman was required to make hides, build shelters, sew clothing, forage for food, cook, raise the children, and support her community, among other things. I followed in my female ancestors' footsteps, utilizing various skills to ensure my survival within the contemporary realm. I wish I could say that these skills were passed down from my relatives, but sadly, there were several nefarious factors to prevent that from happening.

As a youth, I had no interest in learning about my Indigenous culture. My parents and I were raised without it; we didn't know any dances, songs, or how to make any material culture, be in ceremony, or speak the language. This was credited to the racism and discrimination my family experienced once the fur trade declined, the onset of the Indian Act, and the implementation of residential schools. These events brought social and political changes that severed my relatives’ ability to support their traditional culture physically and spiritually. For example, my mother asked her granny to teach her Cree, and she said, "Oh no, my girl, I couldn't do that to you." Her granny was trying to protect her because speaking the language and learning the culture would only bring her sorrow. Sadly, my mother grew up with a deep shame for being Indigenous and passed it on to me. I eventually smartened up, especially when I learned from Ininnew elder William Dumas that you can't know where you are going until you know where you come from[2]. A powerful teaching that took me down the red road of learning[3].

Because I was an 'artist,' it made sense to introduce myself to my culture through material objects such as beading, moccasins, chokers and Indigenous pottery. I poured over books and read from scholars—mostly settler scholars—that my ancestors’ traditional artwork was considered 'anthropological,' 'craft,' or worse, 'souvenir art.' This rubbed me the wrong way because I could discern that those labels were a colonial strategy to suppress the brilliance of this historical work. I once read a catalogue called Clearing a Path: New Ways of Seeing Traditional Indigenous Art, in which Scots-Lakota scholar Carmen Robertson said that the category of 'craft' is considered low within the rungs of the Western art ladder and since the dominant art realm saw traditional Indigenous art as a craft or token souvenirs, they believed it lacked prestige and was considered low in monetary worth[4]. The categorical frameworks applied to Indigenous artworks often overlook the layers of intrinsic knowledge embedded within their creation, placing the work in a hierarchical position intended for subjugation rather than appreciation. Because of that, Indigenous art ended up being seen as less important, as if they are to be looked down upon instead of really appreciated for all the richness it holds. The existing frameworks of academia and museums were not much better; they saw ancestral Indigenous art as a specimen to study and analyze. These traditional artworks, born from the rich tapestry of Indigenous communities, were removed from the community and lands that birthed them. They became lost in the labyrinth of scholarly analysis, where the voices of their makers were often silenced or disregarded. The cultural knowledge embedded in the making of these works was dissected and examined through lenses that failed to grasp the depth of Indigenous understanding, concepts, and context that breathes life into their very essence. I sometimes feel sorrow at how these works are trapped within institutions alienated from their communities where future Indigenous generations are hindered from learning their knowledge.

Isn't that outrageous? But wait, there is more.

Many Indigenous artists, curators, and scholars tackled these exclusionary tactics by labelling works made by Indigenous people into multiple categories such as 'traditional art, 'Indigenous modernism,' or 'contemporary Indigenous art.' They wanted to distinguish between artworks and give them their own evaluative language. In a way, they are trying to fit Indigenous art into this Western art canon, whether it is past or contemporary work. Regrettably, the act of labelling has resulted in a hierarchical structure within the realm of Indigenous art, where contemporary Indigenous art has garnered more respect within art institutions and traditional art in anthropological institutions. Meanwhile, two decades earlier, insightful Mohawk critic and curator Deborah Doxtator was concerned about how Indigenous art was being brought into the mainstream[5]. She thought that including it without understanding its unique value might blur the lines between what Indigenous communities valued and what the mainstream art world value[6]. Doxtator was apprehensive that this approach might overlook the distinct aesthetics and conceptual systems that Indigenous art brings to the table[7]. Essentially, Doxtator felt that the public was at risk of missing out on recognizing Indigenous art for what it truly is: a rich tapestry of culture and expression that deserves its own space and appreciation within the art world[8]. The push by Indigenous artists, curators, and scholars for integrating Indigenous art within Western institutional frameworks poses the risk of its perceived complacency to Western paradigms.

Complicated, eh?

Can you go fetch me some nibi from the river? My pot needs some moisture.

Meegwitch, now back to Indigenous pottery.

I started attending ceremonies, learning about Anishinaabe and Ininnew protocols and spiritual understanding. I was shown by Inninew elder Wilfred Buck that material cultures like drums, rattles, pipes, and satchels are considered animated and sacred[9]. At the same time, I was researching how to reconstruct Indigenous pottery made by my ancestors. Because I had yet to encounter any Indigenous knowledge keepers on the subject, I had to resort to learning from an experimental archeologist named Grant Goltz. He took me out on the land to search for clay to successfully construct a vessel and fire it in a pit. We followed Indigenous pedagogies, utilizing land-based and show-by-doing tactics. I found Goltz's enthusiasm and respect for Indigenous ingenuity to be infectious. Working with materials harvested from the land gave me a stronger relationship and insight with aki (land) and nibi. My mission was to revive Indigenous pottery from my territory to my Indigenous community so they could experience the pride and joy I felt in making these vessels. I consulted with the former Chief Curator at the Manitoba Museum, Kevin Brownlee, a Métis linked to Norway House. He shared that pottery sherds from Manitoba were found with crushed granite, which was used as a temper. Rather than manually crushing the granite, the ancestors used grandfather rocks that experienced extreme heating and cooling from ceremonial sweats. The stones were placed in piles and would eventually weaken from exposure to the elements over time. Then, they would be ready for use in the clay since they would crumble under the slightest pressure. However, the most essential lesson from my discussion with Brownlee was that using the grandfathers meant putting ceremony and sacred knowledge into the pots. In other words, Indigenous potters had a process that encapsulated Indigenous knowledge that went beyond creative or practical; it can be relational, spiritual and complex.

Oh! Speaking of relational, look over there, a nigig, an otter. Anishinaabe knowledge keeper Ron Indian Madamin told me that nigig was there when the first humans were being created[10].

That story is for another time.

The concept of relationality is based on the understanding that everything is interconnected. The land, waters, plants, animals, and the sky realm are all in relation to each other, including ourselves. I started to see the link of relationality in my vessel-making. For example, nibi, considered alive and essential to life, has its place in pottery. Nibi breaks down the rocks and carries the clay particles, which are eventually deposited. The clay dries and is animated when you add nibi to the vessel's construction. As I mentioned, the heated grandfather rocks weaken when nibi is poured over to create steam in a ceremonial sweat. The crushed-up grandfather stones become part of the vessel to keep it strong and prevent thermal shock. Once the pot is fired, it becomes a water carrier. This brings to mind a text by Métis scholar Sherry Farrell Racette, where she explained that Indigenous art mirrors the deep understanding of the environment held by Indigenous communities and serves as an ongoing reaction to the natural world, including the land, flora, and fauna, as well as to family histories and contemporary realities[11]. The act of creating is deeply intertwined with Indigenous cultural knowledge and perspectives. I found the making process as a way to connect with my ancestors and the wisdom they passed down, whether working with materials from the land or using modern technologies. Sherry Farrell Racette and Carmen Robertson note that Indigenous artistic styles mirror cultural and personal insights and spiritual connections, especially evident in practical utilitarian objects[12]. For this reason, I would surmise that my Indigenous ancestors infused personal and spiritual knowledge into their clay vessels. Knowing that objects created by Indigenous people were more than just art led me to think of a different way of naming Indigenous Art.

You see, two years ago, the phrase 'Relational Making' revealed itself to me during a waking vision[13]. A 'Relational Maker' is an Indigenous person who creates skillfully made objects or articles that imply kinship, a relationship to land, nature and the cosmos. Relational making is the infusion of relational understanding within Indigenous creations, regardless if they are considered historical or contemporary. Prior to European contact, members of the community engaged in the creation of objects vital for both individual and communal survival. This encompassed adorning garments, crafting hunting implements, and fashioning spiritual artifacts, all intending to convey their aspirations for perpetuating their physical, cultural, and spiritual survival. These items were imbued with animacy, signifying their embodiment of a spiritual life essence[14]. According to Métis scholar Greg Scofield, the traditional beaded works like bags, vests, and moccasins created by Métis women are pretty special. They're not just objects; they're like vessels of energy[15]. They hold within them the essence of the land they come from and the spirit of the women who made them. They're infused with geographical and spiritual vibes, making them really powerful pieces of art. By using the term Relational Making, our creations no longer have to sit within the category of ‘art’ or ‘craft,’ both colonial terms that don’t honour our Indigenous Worldviews. The term Relational Making also prevents the harmful hierarchy that happens in visual art. Relational Makers can encompass dancers, singers, songwriters, visual object-making, video and new media such as VR and AR. In my heart, I see the term Relational Maker as a way of honouring that tradition of creating things that reflect Indigenous cultural values regardless of if it is considered 'traditional' or contemporary. I'm encouraging other Indigenous creators to really think about the words we use to talk about art because the majority has their origins from a colonial perspective. Instead, I think we should embrace Relational Making—it's a way for us to stay true to our Indigenous worldview while we create.

Look over to the west, the sun is setting with a colourful sky of pinks and purples.

Meegwitch for listening to my story while I finish making my vessel. Now let’s go join the others for some moose and wildrice stew.

Bibliography

Doxtator, Deborah. 1996. Basket Bead and Quill, and the making of 'Traditional Art'. Thunder Bay: Thunder Bay Art Gallery .

Dumas, William, and Leonard Paul. 2020. Pīsim Finds Her Miskanaw. Winnipeg: HighWater Press.

Farrell-Racette, Sherry. 2008. "My Grandmothers Loved to Trade: The Indigenization of European Trade Goods in Historic and Contemporary Canada." Journal of Museum Ethnography 20: 69-81.

Farrell-Racette, Sherry, and Carmen Robertson. 2009. Clearing a Path: New Ways of Seeing Traditional Indigenous Art. Regina: University of Regina.

Ryan, Denise. 2023. The grandmothers: Métis cultural treasures find their way home. February 17. https://vancouversun.com/featu....

[1] Starting in the spring of 2015, the annual Nibi Gathering is an opportunity to be on the land and learn about the importance of nibi from elders. Located near Bannock Point, in the Whiteshell Provincial Park in Manitoba, it is known in Anishinaabemowin as Manitou Api (the place where the creator sits).

[2] Dumas, William, and Leonard Paul. Pīsim Finds Her Miskanaw. HighWater Press, 2020, 1.

[3] The ‘Red Road’ refers to a commitment to learning Indigenous ways and living a good life.

[4] Carmen Robertson, “Clearing Paths,” essay, in Clearing a Path: New Ways of Seeing Traditional Indigenous Art (Regina: University of Regina, Canadian Plains Research Center, 2009), 11.

[5] Doxtator, Deborah, "Basket Bead and Quill, and the making of 'Traditional Art,'" Basket Bead and Quill, exh. cat., ed. Janet E. Clark, Thunder Bay Art Gallery (Thunder Bay: TBAG, 1996), 18.

[6] Doxtator, 18.

[7] Doxtator, 18.

[8] Doxtator, 18.

[9] In the fall of 2020, during a fasting ceremony, Wilfred Buck shared this knowledge with me: one could animate or add spirit to an object such as drums, pipes, rattles, and a clay vessel by placing it on the top of a sweat lodge during a sweat ceremony.

[10] Facebook Messenger correspondence between Ron Indian Mandamin and myself, April 16, 2024.

[11] Farrell Racette, Sherry. "My Grandmothers Loved to Trade: The Indigenization of European Trade Goods in Historic and Contemporary Canada". Journal of Museum Ethnography, vol 20, March 2008, pp. 69-81. JSTOR, https://doi.org/132.174.251.47. Accessed 11 Sept 2021.

[12] Robertson, Farrell-Racette, 19-20.

[13] In Inninew (Woodland Cree) and Anishinaabe (Ojibway) cultures, guidance can come to an individual in their sleep or while they are awake. They are considered teachings that can come from their guiding spirit or ancestors.

[14] Farrell Racette, 71.

[15] Denise Ryan, The grandmothers: Métis cultural treasures find their way home, February 17, 2023, https://vancouversun.com/fe&nb...;(Ryan 2023)ature/the-grandmothers-metis-cultural-treasures-find-their-way-home.