Content note: This article contains an image caption that includes a word used historically to refer to Inuit that may be considered derogatory today.
Storytelling and oral history are traditions that run deep within our culture. Art was not something you hung up on a wall or put on a shelf to admire occasionally. It was embedded in the tools or clothing you used or wore. These were symbolic of the spiritual beliefs that guided our actions out of respect for the animals, land, sea, others, and spirits.
When I was growing up, wearing something my mother [Baqtita] made was no question. It was part of life for us as it had been for her. As a young mother I would leave my one-year-old panik (daughter) with my mother when I went to my classes each day. Something I didn’t learn until after she was long gone was that my mother had given my panik sealskin leather to chew on while I was busy reading about [Jean] Piaget or the latest theorist. She had done the same with me and my sisters when we were young: she made us chew the skin when she was making new kamiik or mitts. The smell and taste of the sealskin leather was ingrained into our olfactory senses early on.
Baqtita (far right), holding a doll she made in Hamilton, ON, 1957
Girls learned early how to make garments by helping and watching their mothers, aunts, grandmothers, and other relatives; while boys became skillful by watching and helping their fathers and others make dog harnesses, qamutiit, and hunting equipment. Often children learned the basic skills needed by mending tools or clothing, including replicas and toys for children. Girls would learn confidence in sewing by making doll clothing from scraps of fur or other material. I remember my sister and I sewing as young girls while our mother was sewing.
During the warm spring and summer days, my sister, cousins, and I would sometimes play beside our grandfather as he sat outside his house making a model qajaq, carving animals, or etching drawings of hunting scenes on walrus tusks. If I wasn’t observing my grandfather [Anugaakuluk Kelly], I was watching our mother make clothing or my father make a carving from an antler or steatite. My father hunted and made bearded seal harpoon rope, qamutiit, igluit, harpoons, sealskin frames, and carved antler or stone figures. There was usually someone in every family who was an artist. The work helped to pay for food, canoes, rifles, or snowmobiles. I remember the patience and concentration on their faces but also the look of satisfaction as they completed their hard work. The clothing and tools they made served as models and patterns for us to learn from.
Left: Anugaakuluk Kelly holding his Tuktu carving, 1960s COURTESY NUNAVUT TUNNGAVIK INCORPORATED
Right: Carving by Naullaq Arnaquq, 1984
In the years since, I have made or altered parkas, duffle socks, wind pants, jackets, and amautiit. My mother’s patterns and styles seem to be embedded deep in my memory as I snip and cut. If something feels a bit off, I alter a curve or length until it seems right. That is how I made my first woman’s amauti after my son was born. I no longer fit the first one I wore with my panik, so I used it as a pattern along with a neighbour’s amauti. It took a lot of effort and reflection in between my baby’s feedings and naps. In moments of frustration I muttered to myself, “Why, anaana, aren’t you here?” But thinking back now, I realize she was with me as I sewed. The small children’s amautiit for the school that I had helped her make years before also guided me from my memories. A sleeve attached to the back of the carrying pouch is one complicated jigsaw puzzle. How in the world did this come into shape over hundreds or thousands of years? Through feelings of frustration and some tears, I persevered.
The effort involved in making my first amauti by myself reminds me of the first time I cleaned and scraped a sealskin without my mother’s guidance. I realized that if I closed my eyes and tried to remember how it sounded, my technique improved. Looking at a doll in an amauti she had made or pictures of women wearing them were helpful. I completed the amauti and now have it as a pattern. Later my aunt’s question of where I got the amauti, and then her compliment that it did not look like it was my first one, took away all the anguish and deepened the connection I felt with my mother. Watching her make clothes and helping her as I learned to sew were all part of the creative process. She, like many women of her generation, made custom clothes for her family members. A critical eye, fostered by having a young girl redo a piece after taking it apart, was essential to learn how to sew for survival but also to become adept at it. Each time I have had to undo a section of a piece of sewing it has taught me how much to adjust and to be patient. I internalized the patterns, but they were so matter of fact for me that I did not know I could replicate them. They were passed down from woman to woman, mother to daughter, grandmother to granddaughter or grandfather to grandson and rarely deviated from the original pattern.
Left: Baqtita sewing, 1976; right: Naullaq Arnaquq’s uncle and aunt with slippers and tattoo-like patterned socks she made, 1954
When looking at a photograph of some of the decorations of duffle socks that my father and uncle wore in the mid-1950s, I thought that they may have been designed after tattoo lines. I realized the edgings of duffle socks are still sewn the same way today. I remember a parka that I received as a child from my ukuakuluk (namesake’s daughter-in-law) which had detachable beaded cuffs and a strip for the hem that also resembled tattoo patterns. Some of our historical traditions were disposed of while others somehow remained during the cultural changes that occurred in the twentieth century. By the time my parents were born in the 1920s and 1930s, a lot of the visible traditions and customs were shamed away by the Anglican missionaries. But remnants born of an ancient way were still visible to us as children in the tattoo marks on our mother’s arms and lines on semi-traditional clothing.
The symbolism in pieces that were made evoke traditional beliefs and spirituality which are reflected in the Oral Traditions, stories, chants, and songs. Inuit also provided direct advice when making or doing something, or when a story was told, about why a particular technique was important. Elders and teachers often gave direct advice at a critical time, when the learner momentarily struggled with something or made a mistake. Perhaps the advice was somewhat like an echoed memory as it came back to you. “Imaak sangutippallugu—you need to turn it this way . . . paniluajattuq taimaak—it tends to dry up if you do it that way, ilippallianiaqtutit sanagasuaqattaruvit—you will keep learning as you make things,” these were encouraging words of advice to help hone a skill and acquire knowledge.
The front of Naullaq Arnaquq’s amauti that was made by Baqtita with old coins from whalers and beadwork, 1999
One of the last gifts I received from my mother was beading for the amauti she made for me to wear on special occasions. She made the decorations with old coins, from the late 1800s, she acquired from her grandmother for the tail and large fringed piece for the front—and she had asked my aunt to complete the front panel of beading for her. In the late 1800s Inuit started to use beads that they obtained from whalers and traders. The South Baffin–style beading often had fringes with red, white, and black colours made with large coins, and the front of the bodice was often beaded with intricate flowers and butterflies. Today these semi-traditional customs are being revived all over the North.
Inuit clothing is much more than just skins sewn together. It had to be not only functional and well-made but also attractive and pleasing to the eye. It was often designed specific to age and gender, and form and design were initially tied closely to spiritual beliefs and taboos. Even dog harnesses were decorated with colourful tassels. Early trading with whalers and fur traders brought in colourful beads, cloth, wool, and useful tools. Things from daily life often had a design stemming from ancient customs and beliefs. Unfortunately many of these will only be seen in museums and galleries around the world, displayed as artifacts or in books. Early Inuit art and replicas shown in books and magazines appear to be more abstract and refined compared to realist artwork created today. You can see this in photos in old issues of Inuktitut Magazine and the Inuit Art Quarterly, and in museums in Winnipeg, MB, Ottawa, ON, and Washington, DC. Hints of these traditions and patterns are also shown in the early art of Kenojuak Ashevak, CC, ONu, RCA (1927–2013) and Kananginak Pootoogook, RCA (1935–2010) and in the work of tapestry artists like Jessie Oonark, OC, RCA (1906–1985).
Jessie Oonark Inland Eskimo Woman (1960) Printmaker Eegyvudluk Pootoogook Stonecut 60.9 x 30.5 cm REPRODUCED WITH PERMISSION DORSET FINE ARTS © THE ARTIST
An Arctic society that was rooted to the land, sea, sky, and environment has endured but with significant transformation because of the influence of newcomers and their ways. In recent decades we have started to assert ourselves more and have begun celebrating our heritage and valuable traditions by reviving songs, games, hunting methods, knowledge of the land and animals, chants, tattoos, stories, clothing designs, and our rich language. Developing skills and creating by learning from the work of our ancestors are strong and meaningful ways to revive a culture. I would call this a cultural revolution, and it is a part of decolonization. Elders want to focus on a positive perspective that does not negate the need to articulate a negative behaviour. It is meant to balance the mindset, to stay strong. As my children and their age groups are maturing, they have actively started to revive some of what we almost lost. There is such a force and thirst for the learning of traditions and customs that has not been seen since before our parents lived on the land. Cultural loss can be reversed by family and community Elders celebrating traditions or customs and intentionally passing them on. The traditional designs and patterns and the meaning behind them is part of our history and ensuring this is not lost or just shelved away in a book is a valuable legacy for us and our grandchildren.
As an artist, my first art materials were pieces of cardboard from biscuit or cracker boxes. I’d ask my father: “Ataataak, nauk titirautiit? Where is your pencil?” He would get his carpenter’s pencil and use his jackknife to sharpen it. Away I would go shaping figures and scenes, happily lying on my tummy on the floor. Occasionally we could get writing pads from the store. Old crayon ends from the school were precious and so were old notepads or notebooks thrown out at the end of the school year. I would have dreams of art and stationary stores even though I did not know they existed. I have always enjoyed drawing and only recently, since I retired a few years ago, have I been painting in watercolour and acrylic. I did some carving but because of my work and career I never made the time to do more.
Arctic Cotton, a watercolour painting by Naullaq Arnaquq, 2017
Sanatuniq—being creative is a work in progress but it is also very much a process of learning from others and learning from your earlier work. It is being imaginative. It can help one be more resourceful and find solutions. You think things out and you take risks. Art has changed as our society has changed but Inuit art is not just something hanging on the wall depicting traditional Inuit life, it is also literature, music, dance, and decorative shapes or lines on clothing which has started to emerge once again, evolving amidst a contemporary way of life and hopefully whilst respecting history. Someone who is artistic and creates things easily is sanatujuq while someone who is a thinker, innovative, or thinks quickly is isumatujuq. A silatujuq is someone who is wise, thoughtful, and cerebral. These attributes have contributed to a society that has thrived for millennia in our part of the world.
Naullaq Arnaquq is from Iqaluit, NU. She and her husband Peter have two children and two grandchildren. Arnaquq, like others of her generation, has seen many changes in her culture. Her work was mainly in education in various positions starting as a classroom assistant in 1975 and later as a senior manager in the Government of Nunavut until her retirement in 2016. Arnaquq has always been interested in teaching and learning, art, reading, and writing.
This Feature was originally published as “Creating From Traditions—Sanatuliqpallianiq Sivulittinniinngaaqtunik” in the Fall 2021 issue of the Inuit Art Quarterly.