On the sunny spring morning of May 5th, 2026, I walked into the chapel at Appleby College in Oakville, ON, and to my immediate left saw a resplendent stained-glass window that was created by Kenojuak Ashevak, CC, ONu, RCA (1927–2013). I was at the chapel to perform my song “Legacy”—which I wrote to uplift the voices of MMIWG2S+—with the school choir.
I had just started my research process for what would become this story, a contemplation of Christian themes in Inuit art, so I knew Ashevak had designed a stained-glass window for a chapel and it was something I wanted to feature. But when I accepted the invitation to visit Appleby College, I did not realize that was where this window actually was!
The richness of the colours, the simplicity, sweetness, and strength of Ashevak’s imagery, and how its vibrancy glowed in the sunlight took my breath away. It felt magical. It fuelled my performance of “Legacy” with the school’s vocal students, and I felt absolutely honoured, inspired, moved, and blessed to be able to raise my voice in that special space. I absolutely felt I was in the right place at the right time and doing exactly as I was meant to be doing: singing my original music in Inuttitut and English, honouring our Lost and Stolen Relatives, blending with the voices of student musicians, all in a chapel rooted in the Anglican faith, built almost one hundred years ago, that showcases the work of one of history’s most remarkable Inuk artists. It felt like one of those defining moments in life. Unforgettable.
Kenojuak Ashevak Iggalaaq (2004) Glass Obata Studios and Sattler Stained Glass Studios REPRODUCED WITH PERMISSION DORSET FINE ARTS PHOTO DEANTHA EDMUNDS © THE ARTIST
Not all Inuit would feel that way. The church has done irreparable harm to Inuit, and I often contemplate how polarizing it is to mingle faith and Christian iconography and themes in artwork.
But I believe that everything in this life is complex. Nothing is black and white, all good or all bad. So much of what shapes our identity is pluralism. In coming to terms with my work, I like to consider Inuit creative agency and how it lives and breathes in the in-between of pre-contact and post-contact reality.
To be transparent, I am an Inuk-Irish Newfoundlander who was raised on the west coast of the island of Newfoundland. My late father was Inuk, born in Hopedale, Nunatsiavut, NL, and raised in the Moravian faith. He attended the residential school in North West River—the Yale School. My mother is a Catholic Newfoundlander with Irish roots. Like her, I grew up in the Catholic Church and attended Catholic school. My maternal grandmother sang hymns and folk songs all day long and prayed the rosary at least once a day.
My father always spoke with pride and reverence about the church choirs and brass bands on the north coast of Labrador. I became a classical singer because I fell in love with that style of singing and storytelling in different languages. But it wasn’t until my late 30s that I learned that some of the music my ancestors made in the Moravian Church and in their community life was actually by some of the classical composers I studied in music school at university.
Nunatsiavummiut not only learned to read and write the music that the Moravian missionaries forced upon them; they transformed it into something new and unique. They mastered it, embodied it, and took it into their own hands and voices. Across the centuries, Inuit on the north coast of Labrador made slight changes to some of the musical pitches, rhythms, tempi (speeds), phrasing, and instrumentation to reflect an Inuit aesthetic.
The song “Kausiut nuijotit” (“Morning Star, Thy Cheering Light” in English, or “Morgenstern auf finstre Nacht” in the original German) by Ernst Julius Otto (1804–1877) is a great example of a composition that was reimagined by an anonymous Labrador Inuk musician. Otto originally wrote it for a unison children’s chorus and French horn accompanied by organ, using poem stanzas written by Johann Scheffler (1624–1677) over a hundred years before. It was translated into Inuttitut, and at some point over the years it was rewritten for two voices in harmony, and the French horn was replaced with trombone by an unknown Inuk musician. Maybe they thought the piece would sound more beautiful that way. Maybe it was because the trombone was the instrument at hand which a member of the local brass band could play. It could have been rewritten for soprano and tenor because the Inuk musician rearranging the piece had two specific singers in mind whose voices blended particularly well.
I am fortunate to have recorded this stunning piece with the late Karrie Obed (1959–2017), known as Mister, a teacher, the lead tenor in the Nain Church Choir, leader of the brass band, an honoured tradition-bearer, and a major figure in keeping the Inuit tradition of Moravian music in Labrador alive. He grew up with this music, and it was an honour to learn from him and sing with him. He was supportive and encouraging and told me that I was honouring my family and heritage in my work. I realized that this music belonged to me in a way, too—Nunatsiavut is a sort of musical home to me. As my Inuit ancestors did, I am adding my voice to the chorus and blending my classical vocal style in Inuttitut to share and celebrate this music in my own way.
Edmunds stands with Iggalaaq ahead of her performance at Appleby College, May 2026 COURTESY DEANTHA EDMUNDS PHOTO DR. LORI-ANNE DOLLOFF
There are many ways to be Inuk today, no matter where we live, what language we speak, or what line of work we dedicate our lives to. It doesn’t take away from our Inukness if we live outside the North or work in non-traditional fields or ways.
I know that there are Inuit who don’t support my work as a classical singer because I share music from the Moravian Church. I understand Christianity’s tie to colonialism and residential schools, and I fully agree that the church’s (mainly Moravian, Catholic, and Anglican) banning of sacred Inuit traditions of spirituality, music, and expression is tragic and deplorable. That is our truth. It is who we are.
When Kenojuak Ashevak was commissioned to create the stained glass for Appleby College’s Chapel in 2004, she titled her work Iggalaaq, meaning “where the light comes through.” This title brings to mind how people often find strength in desperate, difficult times. A Nunatsiavut Elder once explained the Inuttitut word ajunamat to me. She told me it means “it cannot be helped, it’s going to happen.” The Right Honourable Mary Simon, our first Indigenous Governor General, used a similar word as her official motto: ajuinnata, meaning to persevere in the face of hardship. In Christianity and other religions, light is often used to symbolize God or faith—think Christ as the “light of the world.” With her window, Ashevak commingled both Christian and Inuit traditions to convey a message of resiliency.
Ningiukulu Teevee Untitled (the Owl and the Raven) (2025) Glass Sue Obata and Norbert Sattler REPRODUCED WITH PERMISSION DORSET FINE ARTS PHOTO BISHOP STRACHAN SCHOOL © THE ARTIST
Last year, another Inuit stained-glass window was revealed at Toronto’s Bishop Strachan School chapel. It was designed by renowned graphic artist Ningiukulu Teevee around the Inuit traditional story of how the owl and the raven got their colouring. The story teaches about patience, friendship, transformation, and reciprocity. Students must read the panels starting from the bottom left, move to the bottom centre and bottom right before going to the top-left panel, then move to centre, and end at the top-right panel. To me, this window design also offers viewers a lesson in perspective, asking viewers to consider their perspective on life in general, to realize that teachings from other cultures can be delivered and interpreted in different ways than what we are used to. We need to respect the artist’s intention and manner of imparting wisdom, even when it’s different from our expectations.
Resiliency and seeing others’ perspectives are both part of truth and reconciliation, but aren’t they also a major part of what we do as artists? Contemplate, confront, converse, connect, and hopefully learn and grow from one another’s work?
Napachie Pootoogook Untitled (1989–90) Graphite, coloured pencil, and felt-tip pen 50.7 × 66 cm REPRODUCED WITH PERMISSION DORSET FINE ARTS © THE ARTIST
For me, commingling Inuit and Christian motifs in art can be comforting.
Consider Napachie Pootoogook’s Untitled (1989–90) drawing: looking at this work, I sense that the family is encircled in care, seated and kneeling in a sort of semicircle, close-knit, warm, tender, reading from what is likely a prayer book or singing from a hymnal. The man in the centre points to himself, to his heart. To me, this gesture seems to express being moved emotionally or acknowledging gratitude for being alive and together.
I considered it an honour to participate in the event in Iqaluit in 2022 when the late Pope Francis apologized to Inuit residential school survivors, although I know there were many Inuit who disagreed with me and other Inuit performing there. As I took to the stage, I thought about the many Inuit who had fought for decades for that apology, who deserved that recognition. I thought about my parents and grandparents who would be proud of me for raising my voice to celebrate my Inukness that day, as complicated and complex as it is. The solo I shared onstage with Pope Francis is called “Saimartigut, Jêsuse,” and I chose it because it is a gentle, flowing song that makes me feel grounded. I hoped it would bring a sense of peace to the listeners to create a healing moment for all of us there.
Pudlo Pudlat Shaman’s Dwelling (1975) Printmaker Timothy Ottochie Stonecut 61 x 82.6 cm REPRODUCED WITH PERMISSION DORSET FINE ARTS © THE ARTIST
Another example of the commingling of these two traditions is Pudlo Pudlat’s Shaman’s Dwelling (1975). In this print, we see a shaman inside an iglu that is topped with a cross, with two Arctic giant birds watching over on either side. I interpret this as a statement that Inuit carry traditional values and spirituality at our core, no matter how things have changed since colonization. When I look at this piece, I feel a similarity in our work: staying true to who we are, celebrating our Inukness, while accepting new ways of being. It makes me think again about how Inuit across Inuit Nunangat have held on to traditions but also managed, adopted, and adapted our ways of living so that they are merged into something both old and new.
There are certainly Inuit artists who have incorporated Christian iconography in their works not to comfort but to contemplate and confront the harms Christianity has done to Inuit, like Alootook Ipellie, Bill Nasogaluak, Jutai Toonoo, or even Pudlat himself in some other works. There isn’t just one way to be Inuit, just as there is no right or wrong way to create art. On the north coast of Labrador, classical church music is as traditional as throat singing and drum dancing.
This plurality is something I aim to emphasize in my creative work with pieces such as “Braiding Voices,” where my goal was to bring together traditional Inuit throat singers with a choir and my solo voice speaking and singing in a contemporary Indigenous classical style with the goal of honouring women.
For this piece, the choir sang a Latin chant called “O ignis spiritus paracliti” from Hildegard von Bingen’s twelfth-century work The Origin of Fire, which associates the Holy Spirit with fire as the origin of all life. I explained to the choir that it has always been Inuit women’s responsibility to tend the fire in the Kullik, our crescent-shaped steatite oil lamp, so when they sang the Latin verses, I wanted them to interpret it from a different perspective—one reflecting on not the Holy Spirit but Inuit women.
During one of the choral verses, I recited a poem I wrote in English: “She lights the Kullik with care, with love. As it always was and will be forever. She brings the light, the warmth, the life, the love.” In the next verse, the choir sang harmonies that I composed, while I sang a different vocal melody above them using the Inuttitut lyrics of my poem, interpreted and translated by Nunatsiavut Elder and language expert Sophie Tuglavina.
For the final verse, the choir sang the vocal melody of the Bingen chant using the Inuttitut lyrics of my poem, while I sang the same ancient melody on “ajaja ijaja.” Each chorister sang the chant in their own time, in their own tempo, and so did I. Throat-singing duo Lydia Etok and Nina Segalowitz sang together across all the verses, weaving in and out of the choral harmonies, braiding our voices together with warmth and strength.
Edmunds (left) performs “Braided Voices” with Nina Segalowitz (centre), Lydia Etok (right), and members of the Amadeus Choir (back) in Toronto, ON, June 2024 COURTESY DEANTHA EDMUNDS
Truth and reconciliation are at the heart of this work. Braiding ancient Latin chants with traditional Inuit throat singing and my original classical-contemporary vocals will create a soundscape that simultaneously reaches back thousands of years and propels both the performers and listeners forward into the future—a future embracing truth and reconciliation that we can create together by blending and sharing our voices.
Imagine what life would be like if the Christian missionaries and government had shown us respect, openness, and willingness to learn—if they had been willing to adapt to us Inuit as much as we had to for them. If they could have allowed us to continue our own ways of being and celebrating, it would be a different world. I am grateful that we can use our artwork, no matter the medium, to explore this.
Deantha Edmunds, CM, is Canada’s first Inuk professional classical singer, an award-winning writer and performer who aims to use her work to empower Indigenous people and share their stories. In 2025 she won the JUNO award for Classical Composition of the Year for her original song-cycle “Angmalukisaa.”