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paperandsong · 3 years

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Illustration by André Castaigne, 1911

Phantom of the Opera and Carnival - some thoughts

While ALW’s Masquerade lyrics imply that the masked ball happens at New Year’s – toasting to a prosperous year and a new chandelier – in Leroux’s novel the masked ball happens sometime before Shrovetide/avant les jours gras. Shrovetide is an archaic English way of saying Carnival. While Masquerade is a great song, ALW’s decision to move the date of the masked ball means that it loses some of the symbolism and disconnects the story from the greater tradition of Carnival. I have some thoughts about this. It’s a little long, apologies.

What is Carnival? Primarily, it’s a season: the period of time between January 6 (Twelfth Night) and Mardi Gras (the day before Ash Wednesday). The date of Mardi Gras changes every year because it is linked to the dates of Easter and Passover and calculated using the lunar calendar. Carnival is celebrated in some way in most of Europe and in most of the Western Hemisphere, especially in areas colonized by France, Portugal, and Spain. It is not widely celebrated in the U.S. except along the Gulf Coast, primarily in Louisiana, because this region was colonized by France and Spain and the tradition became entrenched before the area became English-speaking. Carnival is celebrated to a lesser extent in Africa, again as a result of colonization. I’m not sure about Carnival celebrations in Asia (leave a comment if you do know!) While Carnival traditions vary widely depending on geography and culture, there are some elements that define the celebrations: masks and hidden identities, processions that later became parades, an excess of food, music, and dance. Carnival is older than Christianity. Most of the pre-Christian elements seem to come from the Romans. But the Carnival that was exported across the world along with colonization was very much a medieval Catholic tradition.

Modern Carnival is usually celebrated as a secular holiday. But in order to explain Carnival, I have to address the religious roots. [I’m not trying to preach, I promise.] The word Carnival comes from the Latin carnes, flesh. It is a celebration of the flesh in every respect. The excessive hard partying could be viewed an attempt to eat up all the butter and get out all the sinful behavior before Lent, the 40 day liturgical season proceeding Easter, when there is an expectation of fasting and hard praying and grim contemplations of death (Stations of the Cross, Passion Plays). But you can also view Carnival as a very intentional celebration of the ephemeral nature of life. The dates of Carnival correspond with the liturgical season of Epiphany, which is the only period of the year when Jesus is alive and concerned with human things – he is a mischievous child, he goes to weddings with his mom, his miracles are often quotidian and material – wine and bread and fish. Only three to four months pass from the time Jesus is born at Christmas to the time he dies at Easter. His human life was short and fleeting. Carnival/Epiphany are about the fleeting nature of all life. A celebration of the flesh. Ash Wednesday serves as the reminder that eventually it will all turn to dust. You must burn through the ephemeral to reach the eternal. Carnival isn’t only about excess before deprivation. It is a celebration of life in the face of death.

New Orleans Carnival/Mardi Gras provides the perfect metaphor for this. Parades involve “throws” to the crowds – trinkets, usually beads, plastic coins, toys, cakes. People can get a little crazy in their thirst for beads – especially the rare glass ones. But come Wednesday, the beads grow dim before your very eyes. Thousands of them get crushed beneath the wheels of garbage trucks cleaning up the streets. No matter what wealth you have accumulated in this world, no one, absolutely no one, can take it with them when they die.

Carnival is a time when the old order is inverted. Jesus was meant to turn the world upside down – a king born in a barn! Costuming and masking blur gender and class lines. In the Americas, while racial lines were historically very much imposed even during Carnival, it was also a rare time when slaves and later free people of African descent were allowed to express their cultures in public. This is clearly still true in Carnival as it is celebrated in Brazil, the Caribbean, New Orleans. Carnival can work to temporarily equalize the masses as masked people blend into each other and lose their own identities.

So, what does any of this have to do with Phantom of the Opera? Erik appears at the masked ball dressed as the Red Death. Yes, clearly, he is a fan of Poe. He’s a well-read man! But death very much has a role to play in Carnival and it isn’t at all uncommon to see people dressed as death or other morbid figures. Because Carnival celebrates life, it is inherently celebrating the ephemeral. All life ends. And that is what makes it beautiful and worthy of celebration.

Erik enjoys his connection to death. Depending on your reading of Leroux, Erik is probably not even wearing a mask, stalking the party in his full hideous glory, as Daroga might say. This is especially meaningful when you consider Leroux’s famous quote about Parisians and masking. While Erik is a trickster and a liar, on this night, a night of inversions, he is the most honest man at the Garnier. He is there to remind others of their own mortality. And this is a perfectly normal and sane way to celebrate Carnival. The party goers aren’t afraid of Erik (except that one guy who touched him) – they greatly admire his costume; they even ask where he had it made. As if he were just a normal reveler. Even today it would be completely normal for there to be a guy dressed as death walking around a Carnival party. In this way Erik is almost the opposite of Poe’s Red Death, whose mere presence offends Prince Prospero so much he orders him killed on sight. Perhaps it is because Prospero himself does not understand the nature of his own Carnival or life itself. You cannot lock Death outside.

While the party goers seem amused by Erik’s costume, and we enjoy Erik’s moment of pure arrogance and swag, I don’t think Erik’s performance is entirely symbolic. It’s also a threat. If he really had as much gunpowder under his house as Daroga informs us, then it would have taken a while to get it all down there. On the night of the masked ball, isn’t it possible that the gunpowder was already there beneath the Opera? Only Erik would have known this. I think this made him feel powerful, to walk around knowing that at any moment he could end it all. He was there to embody Death, to incarnate it. To make it flesh.

#carnival #carnaval #phantom of the opera #le fantôme de l'opéra #gaston leroux #red death #edgar allen poe #you can't take it with you #mardi gras

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insanityclause · 3 years

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The last Broadway season ended, unexpectedly, nearly a year ago. The next one will begin who-knows-when.

But deep in this winter of our theaterlessness, a dormant tradition is starting to stir: the Tony Awards.

Hundreds of voters, this week and next, are casting ballots for the best shows, and the best performances, of a theater season abruptly cut short by the coronavirus pandemic.

The jukebox shows “Jagged Little Pill,” “Moulin Rouge! The Musical” and “Tina — The Tina Turner Musical’ are competing for best musical, and hope to resume performances whenever Broadway reopens. All five of the best play contenders have closed. They are “Grand Horizons,” by Bess Wohl; “The Inheritance,” by Matthew López; “Sea Wall/A Life,” by Simon Stephens and Nick Payne; “Slave Play,” by Jeremy O. Harris; and “The Sound Inside,” by Adam Rapp.

In this strangest-of-all Tony competitions, the voting is disconnected from both the period being assessed, which ran from April 26, 2019, to Feb. 19, 2020, and the ceremony for handing out awards, which has not yet been scheduled.

In other words, we won’t know the results until — well, for a long time.

But here’s what we do know:

Who’s going to vote?

Not a lot of people.

There are 778 Tony voters, but they can only cast ballots in categories in which they’ve seen all the nominees. Because the pandemic prevented any spring theatergoing, there are fewer qualified voters than usual.

There are 25 prize categories; the Tonys won’t say how many people will actually be able to vote in each category, but producers believe slightly fewer than 400 people will qualify to cast ballots for best musical, and fewer than that for best play.

What’s missing?

Parties.

The usual Tonys season is all-encompassing. Shows that opened in the fall (and that would have included all three of last season’s nominated musicals) invite voters back to see them again. Monday nights are jammed with nonprofit galas at which nominees mingle with voters, and those who can sing, do. There are press junkets and mixers; display ads in The New York Times and caricatures at Sardi’s; plus, of course, a raft of spring openings to catch up with.

So much hugging. So much schmoozing. So many four-hour dinners. Everyone complains. And now they long for it.

“I can’t believe I miss buffets,” said Eva Price, a lead producer of “Jagged Little Pill.” “So much that we took for granted, and sometimes grimaced at, we would give our left arms for right now.”

Is it appropriate to campaign?

Yes, but very gingerly.

We’re still in the middle of a devastating pandemic and a huge number of people who work in theater are currently unemployed. Also: money is tight because there are no ticket sales.

“The 2020 shows can’t run a campaign in the usual way, and even if we could it would feel icky to try,” said Carmen Pavlovic, the lead producer of “Moulin Rouge!”

“This is not a moment for cocktail parties and gossip,” she added. “It’s just a moment for lifting up artists from darkness, and hoping that lifts everybody else along the way.”

So swag is minimal. “Moulin Rouge!” and “Jagged Little Pill” sent voters coffee table books about their shows, but that’s about it. The main form of campaigning this year is in the form of “For Your Consideration” emails.

The nominated show that is furthest in the rearview mirror — a revival of “Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune,” which closed in July 2019 — sent voters a video montage of interviews including its playwright, Terrence McNally, who died eight months later from complications of the coronavirus.

Nominees are sitting for profiles with theater trade publications. And last week, “Tina,” “Jagged Little Pill,” “The Inheritance,” “Slave Play” and “Betrayal” bought daily sponsorships of Broadway Briefing, an emailed industry newsletter whose subscribers include many Tony voters.

And there are other, newfangled ways to refresh voters’ memories. “Betrayal” on Sunday held a cast reunion on Instagram Live; “The Sound Inside” sent voters videotaped selections from the production; “Jagged Little Pill” released a video reflecting on the year and is re-airing a concert version of its show. “Moulin Rouge!” and “The Inheritance” built voter web pages with performance clips, interviews, scripts and more.

The message needs to be focused, producers say. “We have to be very mindful and respectful of what people’s experiences are right now,” said Tali Pelman, the lead producer of “Tina.” At the same time, she said, “Honoring our talent and their contribution is important. More than ever, we have to shout out about their exceptional value in society.”

What happens when the votes are tallied?

An accounting firm sits on the results.

The voting period runs through March 15, with votes cast electronically via a password-protected website, and tabulated by Deloitte & Touche LLP. Even in pre-pandemic years, results are not shared with the leaders of the organizations that present the awards — the Broadway League and the American Theater Wing — or anyone else before they are announced.

This year they will just be kept secret for longer than usual.

Can you lose if you’re the only nominee?

Theoretically, yes.

Aaron Tveit of “Moulin Rouge!” is the only person nominated as best actor in a musical. This is an unusual circumstance, for which the Tonys have imposed an unusual rule: to win, Tveit must get a positive vote from 60 percent of those who cast ballots. But, to be clear, he’s likely to pick up his first statuette this year.

There are a couple of other nomination quirks, too. There will be no prize for best musical revival, because the only one that managed to open, “West Side Story,” did so after the retroactively imposed eligibility date. And the contenders for best score were all from plays.

So when will we know the winners?

Stay tuned.

It seems clear that the ceremony will only take place after live performance is allowed to resume in New York and tickets to Broadway shows have gone on sale.

That’s because the industry’s priority will be to use the ceremony to remind potential audiences that Broadway is back. The goal, said Heather A. Hitchens, the Wing’s president and chief executive, “is to be most helpful to the industry.”

Several producers and publicists say they are now thinking the most likely time frame is after Labor Day, a full year and a half after Broadway shut down.

The organizers have shared a few other details. This year’s ceremony, like those before the pandemic, will be overseen by Glenn Weiss and Ricky Kirshner. There will be some noncompetitive awards (those are honors like lifetime achievement). But there has been no announcement about whether the ceremony will be in-person or virtual, televised or streamed, live or taped; only that it will take place “in coordination with the reopening of Broadway.”

“We hope to have news very soon,” said the League’s president, Charlotte St. Martin.

#Tony awards #2021 #voting

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twistedcharismaaa · 4 years

Text

Lost & Found Pt. 2

Summary: You’re living a suffocating life and you finally find breath in Masego.

Author’s Note: Hi guys! I’m back with chapter two as promised! For whatever strange reason, I’m pretty nervous about this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy! I love you guys and thank you so much for all of the feedback from chapter one! As always, leave a comment for ya girl! I live for the commentary!

“I see Lupita

You know I got the Jones

For my own Rashida

Can you put me on

With Danai Gurira

She stay on my dome”

Ladies violently swarmed towards the stage causing you to stumble forward instantly losing the grip on your phone which resulted in you watching it hit the floor harshly. Discombobulated. Disconnected. And maybe a little drunk since you weren’t much of a drinker. You squatted down and patted the floor in hopes your fingertips would seamlessly come across it. To your surprise, they did. But to your misfortune, some thirsty ass heffa kicked it further away from you.

“Fuck!” you yelled.

And where the fuck is Desmonde you thought.

“Ok ok, I see y’all are live in this mothertrucker. That’s what’s up.” Masego said while adjusting his shades.

He casually placed his saxophone on its stand and put his left hand in his pocket.

“So y’all wanna hear something new?” he continued completely enticing the crowd.

You stood upright and watched him in awe. You couldn’t believe this was the same man from earlier. What the actual fuck. You watched him standing confidently in his expensive velvet threads. A glorious, multi-talented giant he was. He worked flawlessly around his equipment. Conjuring soothing melodies with heavy bass drums that made you want to shake your ass a little.

“So today I met this shorty. She was mmm. I don’t even know how to explain it. But anyway, I wrote this song about her. I’ll tell you the rest of the story on IG. Alright, let’s go!”

“Ooh, I saw her and she hit me like (Tadow)

Saw that thing so beautiful (Tadow)

She just hit my heart, ooh (Tadow)

Full force and she got me like (Tadow)”

You smiled and partially covered your lips watching him sing passionately to the crowd. He pulled down his shades and walked towards the edge of the stage. Suddenly, his eyes locked with yours causing a subtle smirk to form on his lips.

“I be like (Tadow)

Baby (Tadow)

Why you so fine? (Tadow, tadow)

Gotta make you mine (Tadow, tadow)

So hard to find (Tadow, tadow)”

He winked at you and walked back to his music station smoothly. You tore your eyes away from his gaze and smiled to yourself. You looked up once more witnessing him becoming consumed by his music - entirely lost in it. Subconsciously, you bit your lip and tilted your head out of curiosity. It was something about him that turned you on. You couldn’t decide if it was his swag, his vocals, his talent, or his wit but either way, he had your panties dampening from his sweet melodies. Pulling yourself back to reality you wondered if he really saw you or did you just want to be noticed? Could it be possible that this song was about you? No, it can’t be. You’re buzzed, just really really buzzed you reasoned with yourself. Breaking you from your spiraling thoughts, you felt someone grab your arm from behind.

“C, I’ve been calling your phone all damn night! Why the fuck weren’t you answering?” Desmonde screamed with a concerned look on his face.

“I lost it! And Desmone you need to calm that tone down! I’m fine! Get off of me!” you yelled while snatching your arm away from him.

“How fucking long was that line to the bathroom?” you asked while looking him up and down.

“We should go,” he demanded

“We should.” you spat.

From the stage, Masego inquisitively raised an eyebrow watching the drama unfold between you and your boyfriend. You deserved better but if only you could see that. From his eyes, you were nothing shy of beautiful. Full lips, piercing dark brown eyes, mouth-watering curves, thick curly hair, and he loved the sound of your sweet, light airy voice. From the moment he heard it, he wanted to exercise your vocal cords in the best ways. He wanted nothing more than to cherish you and to pour back into what you lost. And maybe, if you would have him, you could show him what he lacks in this world of fame. After watching your quarrel with Desmonde, he decided that you needed a change of pace, a change of man, and a change of scenery and most importantly he wanted you. Correction, needed you. He had exactly two weeks to convince you, prove to you, and show you that he is worthy of your attention before heading to South Africa to finish the second leg of his tour.

“Alright, alright shut up. Too much new song,” Masego said jokingly as he continued his show.

------

*A few minutes prior*

“Well, this was fun,” Brittany said breathlessly.

“I gotta stop fucking you,” Desmonde said as he zipped up his pants.

“Tell that to your dick and not me,” she said as she fixed her makeup in the rearview mirror.

“This is the last time and I mean that shit,” he said sternly

“Uh-huh.” she answered nonchalantly.

“You don’t think I’m serious? Cause I am,” he responded.

“D, I know you love her. But you don’t love yourself, this is why you’re with me. This is why you’re doing what you do. Sure, you can stop fucking me. But there’s always going to be someone else.” she said as she added the finishing touches to her makeup.

Desmonde swallowed dryly taking in her brutal honesty.

“Why am I doing this? To myself? To her?” he thought.

“Don’t worry, I don’t judge. I’m not perfect either and in time I’ll face my demons but not tonight,” she said slyly.

“I’m going to catch the rest of the show. You might want to go head back to your girl,” she said before getting out of the car.

---------

An uncomfortable silence fell between you and Desmonde. The car ride home felt longer than usual. You cracked your window to let some fresh air inside. You felt like you were suffocating from the inside out. Everything around you seemed to intensify your irritation. Your tight dress, your high heels, the silence, and not to mention Des’ presence.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you earlier,” he said while keeping his eyes on the road.

“Why were you gone for so long?” you questioned.

“Honestly, I don’t know... and that’s the truth. I don’t know what I’ve been doing lately or who I am. And I’m sorry I’m so shitty to you.” he said lowly while his hands gripped the steering wheel.

He pulled into the apartment complex and sighed deeply. After he parked the car, he opened the passenger’s side door and opened it for you. With hesitation, you swung your right leg out of the vehicle and then the left.

“Charisma, I am so sorry,” he repeated.

You swallowed and nodded as a response.

-------

A black satin bonnet covered your delicate curls and a white cotton oversized t-shirt covered your curvy frame. You rested your fatigued body on the cold queen-sized bed and waited for Desmonde to join you in the bedroom. Desmonde staggered to the bed after turning off the bathroom light. He plopped on the bed and grunted into his pillow. You inhaled his fresh scent and smiled at him.

“You drunk drunk?” you whispered.

A lazy smile crept upon his face and as he turned toward you.

“Drunk drunk.” he repeated.

“Des?” you replied while stroking his face.

“Yeah, baby?” he answered while kissing your fingertips lovingly.

“Are you really sorry? You mean that?” you quizzed.

“I am,” he admitted.

“I was thinking maybe we could - that maybe we should have...” you hinted.

“Sex?” he said in disbelief.

“It is my birthday….” you joked trying to ease the tension.

“Charisma.” he said while closing his eyes and bringing his hands over his face in frustration.

“Desmonde, please.” you croaked.

“We’re not as close as we used to be. I think we should try at least.” you continued.

“It’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you-”

“Then what is it?” you interrupted.

“I don’t deserve to touch you like that right now,” he admitted.

“Isn’t that left up to me?” you quizzed.

“I don’t wanna argue. Can you respect that?” he snapped.

You sat up quickly and pulled the covers off of you in utter disgust. You grabbed your pillow and your favorite multi-colored blanket.

“Desmonde can you just admit that you don’t love me anymore? I just need to hear you say it. I know the losing the baby changed everything.” you said lowly.

“Just tell me so I can move on. So you can move on.” you continued.

“I do love you! I love you Charisma … I just don’t know how to love you the right way.” he replied while hanging his head in defeat.

Before you knew it your cheeks were covered in tears. You aggressively wiped your face and nodded in acceptance.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight. And Desmonde?” you paused. “I want you out of this apartment first thing in the morning and I mean that shit,” you said while closing the bedroom door.

-----

*Masego’s Video Post*

“Ok quick storytime. So I was checking into my hotel today. I seen this shorty and she was mmm mmm good. You feel me? Anyways, she’s looking at me and I’m looking at her right? Alright fast forward. So she’s bringing me towels that I didn’t ask for. Hold up rewind, I forgot to mention she works at the hotel. So anyway, she brings me these towels looking all gorgeous. And y’all know me, imma shoot that shot. So I did and I found out shorty had a boyfriend. And that sums up how “Tadow” came about. I made it right after I seen her.”

------

Part 1 Part 3

@l-auteuse @nizzle-mo @jamielennkeeler @thickemadame @ljstraightnochaser @pineappear @thadelightfulone @qweentbh @justanothernerdgirl @big-brows-bigger-dreams @ghostfacekill-monger @chaneajoyyy @soulfood-fics @miss-nneka @rosemilage @sarcastic-sunshines @mygirlrenee @keiva1000

#masego #masego music #masego fanfiction #masego x black reader #masego fic #masego x black!reader #masego x !blackreader #masego imagine

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bryanharryrombough · 5 years

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by Lindsay Nixon

In September 2016, I was asked to present on a student panel at the second annual “Building Reconciliation” conference at the University of Alberta in Edmonton. It was your usual suit-and-tie, fancy NDNs-only affair. Branding with feathers and images of happy, traditionally dressed First Nations people draped every corner of the university gym where the conference was held. Of course, these images consisted solely of First Nations peoples in regalia. Notably absent was any semblance of Inuit representation. The catering, over two days, no doubt cost thousands of dollars. There was the usual mess of useless conference swag, such as pens and notepads bearing the conference’s logo, strewn across the tables and stuffed into cheap tote bags handed out at registration—tote bags that likely ended up in trash cans, destined for landfills. And trash waste from the conference was just one small addition to its overall carbon footprint, which also included the moral, environmental and financial cost of supporting the crude-oil industry to fly in conference participants.

There was the usual fancy NDN drama too: a kind of drama that reminded me the Indigenous community present was one ultimately disconnected from the most marginalized among us. OG capitalist NDN daddy Phil Fontaine showed up hours late, the day’s agenda was delayed and the student panel was cut short. There was a rumour that Wab Kinew got paid thousands of dollars to speak. The students were paid $150 and, even then, I wasn’t paid for more than a year. When I was eventually paid, it was taxed, taking a rather large chunk of an already small honorarium. I was too exhausted from the process to follow up. Before being paid, I was accused of lying—all the students got paid the day of, the administrator argued, without even bothering to look into my request. Cool…cool…cool, cool, cool. I’m used to people in the prairies presuming I’m a lying, begging NDN, and other forms of colonial affect naturalized in the structures of those hallowed marble halls we call the academy and art gallery. But being presumed a lying, begging NDN by reconciliation conference administrators, well, that’s a whole new level of comic absurdity that so frequently mars Kafkaesque Canadian institutional attempts at this thing so lovingly called reconciliation.

But art institutional reconciliation is exactly what I want to discuss here. Because, for however many tens of thousands of dollars were dumped into that conference, a conference supposedly meant to strategize pathways to institutional reconciliation between universities and Indigenous communities, there were so many Indigenous peoples not present that day as speakers—noticeably, Inuit. The erasure of Inuit is widely overlooked in Indigenous thought (industries that sustain the dissemination of Indigenous knowledge and truth such as publishing, academia and not-for-profits). Inuit are often missing from Indigenous art, academic departments and other Indigenous institutions, as academic and curator Heather Igloliorte has prolifically argued. A predominate focus on relationship-building between universities and reserve communities—relationship-building that excludes Inuit—that best mirrors respectable institutional politics, and a politics of resurgence and nationalism within the Indigenous art canon in Canada and Indigenous studies departments, make Inuit seldom present at the table of reconciliation discussions. Ironic considering that they were one of the communities most pressed for testimony when the Truth and Reconciliation Commission began interviewing residential school survivors.

Overwhelmed, and forever an ever-sick, ever-bad NDN, I ducked out of the event a few times to smoke weed with my dirtbag Métis friends. A bad city-NDN coping mechanism, sure, but that was, that is, my medicine—how I survive spaces of institutional reconciliation. Universities have always been a weird space for me. I come from a prairie city-town: small, quaint, classless, unassuming and, yes, a little basic and naive, perhaps. Even Edmonton was the big city for me. And these slick-talking institutional NDNs—holay. I didn’t know I was a classless NDN until the fancy institutional NDNs told me so. But, you know what, we prairie city-town Natives know how to kin up, how to really show up for family in the city in the same ways others performatively show up for community only through land-based forms of activism—the loudest, sexiest form of Indigenous resistance those institutions and institutional NDNs so love. I’ve always felt a little too city-poor, too loud, too brown, too fucked up, for these spaces of reconciliation. I ducked out right before my panel, and I’m not ashamed to say so. To say that Indigenous people who choose supposedly dark medicines to alleviate that pain of colonialism are somehow lesser than, to sweep their stories under the bearskin rug, is the same manifestation of shame and upward racial and class mobility they infected our parents and grandparents with in residential schools.

When I returned to the conference, and it was finally my turn to speak, I looked out into the crowd and saw some of the most respected tribal leaders in Alberta alongside high-earning Indigenous celebrities and academics. But I saw the students too. This was during the first year of my master’s, where my funding was barely enough to cover my tuition and it came from a personal grant, generously awarded to me by the only Indigenous professor in the department (and one of the only Indigenous professors at the university, at that). I would later find out that virtually everyone else in my completely non-Indigenous cohort had received departmental entrance scholarships. I rolled up to the conference with around $300 in my bank account. I mean, I had just used the food bank at my school only a few weeks before, during a delay in getting my first payout from that grant and after quitting my job to start grad school. Having heard my other Indigenous peers’ stories about living in poverty while attending university, I knew many of the other students in the audience were likely in the same position as I was. And here we were, discussing reconciliation among those perhaps most disconnected from what a healing community would entail. I remember feeling angry.

“Annie Pootoogook is arguably one of the most famous Inuk artists in Canada,” I said to the crowd. “She won many prizes and was shown in national galleries, yet still lived in the street economies of Ottawa.” I paused. “Recently, her body was found in the Rideau River.” Following Pootoogook’s death, a forensic officer from the Ottawa Police made derogatory comments about her on a public Facebook post, igniting national outrage about racist Canadian institutions that have a negative impact on the dignity and lives of Inuit. News articles circulated with images of Pootoogook in the streets of Ottawa creating her drawings. These images perpetuated the white saviour mythos that follows Pootoogook’s work—a narrative that settlers project on many urban Inuit, as if to say, Look at all Pootoogook has overcome! She has been street-involved and, despite it all, possesses this beautiful, creative universe within her mind. Of course, the white saviour gaze is dehumanizing and exploitative. It’s not concerned with oh, say, organizing for the livelihood, secure housing or continued well-being of street-involved Inuit in Ottawa, including Pootoogook. The white saviour gaze is only concerned with creating a romanticized vision of Inuit artists, one they may discursively exploit and circulate forevermore, to serve their agenda of psychic conquest. Thus spoke the pseudo-logic that is white liberalism.

My friend, with whom I had taken my medicine break, projected an image of Annie Pootoogook’s Sobey Awards (2006) on a screen behind me as I spoke. I remember tearing up knowing there were so many Inuit and street-involved people like Pootoogook missing from the table that day. I had questions: What is reconciliation? Reconciliation to whom? Who is benefiting from all the money spent on the conference? Who does institutional reconciliation support, if not Indigenous students and other peoples most vulnerable within our communities?

These are the stories we don’t tell about Inuit art, about reconciliation, even among First Nations and Métis peoples, whom I’ve found can be ignorant about the divides between Inuit and other Indigenous communities. Because they are too dangerous to tell: the stories of exploited communities voyeuristically propped up to serve industries dominated by white people and a few good (nationalist) NDNs. Inuit have experienced exploitation by art industries since James Houston implemented the first Inuit art co-op with the intention of exploiting Inuit makers and artists for a burgeoning art industry dominated by the desires of settler collectors. Houston even handed out instructional pamphlets describing what artists should make to serve the curiosity of a voyeuristic and othering white Canadian viewer. Pootoogook loved her co-op. She talked about the co-op with warmth and generosity in an interview before her death. Many Inuit still view their co-op as supportive to Inuit makers and artists in the north of Canada. It’s important to talk about co-ops without erasing the agency and truths of Inuit who still value the system. But there is a difference between recognizing settler industry–led exploitation and erasing agency. I would argue that it’s not Inuit who are profiting most from the co-op system. This is best represented by an industry standard of not giving artists resale fees on works of sold art, a practice that overwhelmingly disadvantages Inuit working in the co-op system: only the collector and perhaps the private galleries holding the work profit, as artist and curator Kablusiak has stated.

I see the same industry cultures that formed within the co-op model in the National Gallery’s destructive history of curating a specific “look” to the Inuit art collected, and discarding anything that didn’t fit this image. And it’s not just galleries that sustain an exploitive environment toward Inuit in Canadian art industries: publications, dealers, collectors, not-for-profits and more all aid in promoting an industry standard that denies resale rights to Inuit artists. When an Inuit art figure or institution is silent about the exploitative nature of the Inuit art industry, trust that their silence is driven by self-protection. Trust that it is silent complicity. This is the legacy of Inuit art in Canada, as told through the work of Annie Pootoogook. This is the legacy we, as Canadians, as non-Inuit Indigenous peoples, must contend with. And, with Isuma representing Canada at the Venice Biennale this year, it feels important to ask if Inuit art is being jettisoned onto the international stage as a continued form of white liberal voyeurism: positioned as Canada’s pretty distractions to Trudeau’s anti-Indigenous liberal policies, meant to represent the supposedly kind and diverse histories of Canada. Is this what Inuit art is, Canada? Your pretty distraction that hides, and continues, centuries of violent colonial policies and trauma?

Back at the conference, I was still trying to get my words out. My voice was shaking. But I wanted to push forward and honour Pootoogook’s legacy and, perhaps, to implicate the Inuit art industry in Canada in Pootoogook’s death. Even if what I was about to say was dangerous. I was emotional, feeling unsafe in an environment I was told I should feel safe in, and, well, a little bit high. I never met Pootoogook but I missed her, like I miss all kin who left us too soon because of the impact of colonialism on their bodies and lives. I continued to speak about my own perceptions of Pootoogook’s life and legacy, posing a rhetorical experiment about this thing we were all there to talk about: institutional reconciliation.

“The art world was a community that well-exploited Annie…then, in turn, probably walked past her in the streets in Ottawa,” I told the crowd. I wondered how it was possible that one of the highest-grossing Inuit artists in Canada, in one of Canada’s most profitable arts industries, which contributed 87.2 million dollars to Canada’s GDP in 2015 alone, died street-involved and in poverty. Who is profiting off the Inuit art industry, if not Inuit artists themselves? Pointing to the projection of Sobey Awards, I continued, “What does institutional reconciliation in the arts mean if people like Annie can’t even access so-called reconciliatory efforts because of bureaucratic and institutional barriers? To me, reconciliatory efforts in the arts seem to be little more than lip service right now.” This was an industry utterly fascinated with the propagation of her image, of what she represented to the Inuit art industry and Canada. In Sobey Awards, she depicted Canadian publics as crowding her, viewing her through literal lenses of othering and voyeuristic pleasure. Where was the Inuit art industry when she was living street-involved in Ottawa? I believe this is an industry that cherry-picked the parts of Pootoogook’s life and work that they could exploit, without offering enough support to survive the realities they saw her living every day, in Ottawa, where they centralized the operations of the same industry that functioned to exploit her. What grounds the Inuit art industry, if not ethical and responsible relationship building with Inuit artists themselves?

Some might say that we shouldn’t talk about Pootoogook as street-involved, or about the violent way she died. Some would say that talking about Pootoogook’s life and death on the streets of Ottawa is a dishonour to her legacy and memory. But this kind of judgment, which degrades people who use substances and drink, is merely a holdover of colonial Catholicism masked as “tradition.” City-kid coping mechanisms, just like Kablusiak depicts with their soapstone sculptures. Working as a community street-outreach worker in Montreal, I met many street-involved Inuit deserving of dignity and respect. There is no dishonour in being Inuit and street-involved in a world that functions to eliminate Inuit life to make way for a colonial order. Thinking about the mind-boggling figures that went into putting on the reconciliation conference, and thinking about when I was an outreach worker and the small funds we had to stretch to support as many people as we could—to prevent the deaths of street-involved Indigenous peoples who are never present or represented in (performative) spaces of reconciliation—I would argue that the dishonour lies in industry alone. And, in the case of Pootoogook’s profound work, legacy and life, the dishonour certainly lies in the Inuit art industry.

“I implore all administrators in this room to stop caring only when we die, or when there is a flashy conference about the Indigenous topic du jour. You need to start caring now,” I finished.

This is the skewed legacy we, the next generation, inherit. How do we reconcile performative attempts to make the Inuit art industry more ethical with the fact that Inuit continue to experience economic and social disparity because of that very industry? Confronting dangerous truths means confronting an art industry, and all the actors within it, that has long been exploitative of Inuit. For “SPACETIME” editors asinnajaq and Kablusiak, Inuit futures are ensuring that all their kin’s truths are heard, and that any industry profiting from Inuit art is responsible to Inuit communities.

#annie pootoogook #inuit #inuit art #indigenous #reconciliation #institutional reconciliation

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