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First Peoples Fund welcomes two exceptional fellows from the 2025 First Peoples’ Artist in Business Leadership (ABL) fellowship! Graphic design illustrators Maya Pena (Santa Clara Pueblo) and Jacklyn “Jackie” Fawn (Yurok Washoe and Surigaonon). Their radical illustrations merge traditional design and values with technology as their medium.

We look forward to seeing their artistic and business developments expand with First Peoples Fund support.

‍Maya Pena

Graphic design and Artist in Business Leadership fellow Maya Pena (Santa Clara Pueblo) creates contemporary prints and illustrations that explore themes of identity, femininity, and environment, combined with vivid Pueblo patterns to represent modern and traditional influences. 

Maya is inspired by the upbringing of her parents, both musicians and artists, as well as the creativity that flourished in her community, from graffiti to pottery. Maya graduated from New Mexico School for the Arts with high honors and a certification in visual arts, where she was introduced to digital graphic design software and began hand-drawing. A pivotal moment for Maya was her senior project. She created a set of digital portraits and developed a style that merges her identity, traditional Pueblo motifs, and landscape.

“In my work, you'll see a lot of overlap between physical human form and the environment, and that's to signal our connection to the land, kind of, but also sort of convey the sense of comfort that I get, knowing that even in depth we go back to what we know.”

“In my work, you'll see a lot of overlap between physical human form and the environment, and that's to signal our connection to the land, kind of, but also sort of convey the sense of comfort that I get, knowing that even in depth we go back to what we know.”

She went on to attend Fort Lewis College in Durango, transferring to Southern New Hampshire University for a Business Administration degree, which expanded her insight into building a business foundation.  During this time, she started a career as a UI/UX product designer, completing commissions for renowned organizations such as the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) and the City of Española. Maya has been featured in over 15 exhibitions nationwide and is currently working on an exhibition for the Millicent Rogers Museum.

“I am grateful that I had those influences, or was in an environment where creativity was always heavily encouraged. I aim to create a body of work that expands the public’s perception of Indigenous art beyond traditional crafts.”

“I am grateful that I had those influences, or was in an environment where creativity was always heavily encouraged. I aim to create a body of work that expands the public’s perception of Indigenous art beyond traditional crafts.”

With her Artists in Leadership fellowship, Maya’s project is to get some more equipment to establish a means of self-production. As an artist, she struggled to use third-party printers to get prints of her work. First Peoples Fund support will help Maya spearhead her own business, allowing for cost-effective printing and independent means of production, which expands her studio and business potential, which Maya hopes will support other artists.

“I want to focus on building up a community for my close friends and my family, creating safe spaces and creative spaces for them too. I want to offer that safety and security that I wish I had had when I was their age.”

“I want to focus on building up a community for my close friends and my family, creating safe spaces and creative spaces for them too. I want to offer that safety and security that I wish I had had when I was their age.”

Jacklyn “Jackie” Fawn

Jacklyn “Jackie”  Fawn (Yurok Washoe and Surigaonon) is a mixed media and graphic design illustrator currently based in Mohawk Territory, New York. As a kid, Jackie was drawn to art, but was increasingly drawn to digital art, watching TV shows and anime. Her curiosity and skills were encouraged by her father, who worked early mornings to get her first laptop and Wacom tablet. She explored software like Photoshop to create her first illustrations and self-educated herself through tutorials and homemade videos before classes or mainstream services were available. 

“It was so cool to see that pride on his face, ‘ I did that for my baby’. So I was like, okay, if he did that for me, I can't let go, and I have to keep going.”

Jacklyn still struggled to find a start in digital arts and become self-sufficient, but with discipline from her neighbors, aunties, and uncles, who pushed her to become self-educated in her education after attending Brooks Institute. However, it wasn’t until Jacklyn was invited to an art training with Greenpeace ten years ago that she got the push she needed. Jacklyn recalled mentors and trainers like Willie Martin, who enriched the experience and shifted her perception of Native arts.

“The arts training radicalized my work, not just my morals, but how I can use my craft to create change and educate about these issues that a lot of people don't know about. Suppose anyone can plug into any creative resistance, radical arts training. Do it because generally most of those trainers care about change and art and teach how to pursue that very specific and niche art path and nurture your relationship with art.”

“The arts training radicalized my work, not just my morals, but how I can use my craft to create change and educate about these issues that a lot of people don't know about. Suppose anyone can plug into any creative resistance, radical arts training. Do it because generally most of those trainers care about change and art and teach how to pursue that very specific and niche art path and nurture your relationship with art.”

When you head out on the trail, who do you walk with? Best-case scenario, someone with an eye for detail that animates plants, stones and angles of light, someone who knows the shapes of the larger landscape, and can read the weather. Someone who knows the stories, who remembers who came here before you, and who considers the next person coming. You want to go with someone who feels the beauty and grandeur of the place and wants to share it.

Apache violin-maker and draftsman Terrill Goseyun (San Carlos Apache), for example. Integral to Terrill’s two arts is an observation gift, fed by a deep appreciation of beauty, notably the beauty of his people and homelands.  That quality of attention awake in the natural world is the essence of Terrill’s work in the studio, classroom, and community.

Terrill’s photo-realistic pencil drawings have their source “here,” (Terrill taps his head, where memories reside).  Drawn from an abundant archive of recollection, his images portray the everyday activities of a hunting and gathering society, as he remembers his early days: everyone busy gathering, processing, and storing food, making baskets, “always making something.”

The “photo-“ part of Terrill’s process is an intermediate step. To capture images from his mind’s eye, Terrill photographs models, usually family members and friends, to create references. In the resulting drawings, exquisite detail is softened with diffuse morning or evening light, evoking an atmosphere of remembrance.

When Terrill describes a childhood memory, it comes alive visually, almost audibly: his great-uncle always sitting under a mesquite tree making a violin, Terrill and the other kids—maybe a bit unruly for Uncle—coming home from school, Uncle showing them a few steps each day.

Violin-making is another intricate, labor-intensive process. Older family members have told Terrill that the violins have always been in Apache culture, predating the introduction of horses.

Present tense, Terrill follows ancestral seasonal migration routes to where the agave plants grow in steep rocky topography.  Selecting a plant to harvest requires finding one that is culturally appropriate and meets Terrill’s criteria. He notes his particular kinship with the agave plant, a delicacy in traditional Apache foodways.

Fast-forward in a modern way: After scraping, shaping, sanding, tapping, and listening to the instrument emerge, Terrill is onto finishing work. He marvels that the body of the violin carries the rich spectrum of colors—amber, orange, red-brown—of sunrise or sunset illuminating the agave’s mountainous home.  “The same beauty of the mountains,” says Terrill, “is in the plant itself.”

Other patterns show up. Years into making violins, Terrill met some of his family’s instruments at the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture (MIAC) and elsewhere. Only then did he discover that his chosen designs were designs that his grandfather used in his violins. Terrill recalls, thoughtfully, sleeping beside his grandfather on the floor whenever his grandfather came to visit.

Terrill’s arts require dedication and time. Has he ever wavered from his work?  Distractions are plentiful, Terrill admits, and circumstances change. “And time flies,” he adds, with both assurance and disbelief.

Yes, he can relate to doubt. Although drawing is fundamental to many media, the assumption persists that artists will move past drawing to another art form. Early in his art-making (“at the time you kind of bruise easily”), he was told that pencil is “not too popular.’’

This comment lodged in Terrill’s mind, but he persevered, making pencil drawings as large as 40”x 60.”  Terrill hesitates, not wanting to boast, but rather to offer encouragement. The first time he entered a professional art show, one of his huge drawings took Best in Show. This endorsement reinforced his belief in himself early on and fueled his motivation. Terrill swears by a bottom line:  “Believe in yourself.”

Making violins, Terrill says, came naturally.  Naturally, how?  He cites learned behavior and exposure to the process throughout his childhood. He stops there, but his approach to mentoring youth hints at his path.

The founder of the Pomo Weavers Society, Silver Galleto (Cloverdale Ranchería of Pomo Indians) began weaving when two famous weavers from his area passed, Elsie Allen and Laura Somersal.

At that time, only a handful of weavers were working, and Pomo weaving was on the verge of disappearing.

Then, as a teenager, Silver learned from Jeanne Billy, who knew enough to start him on the right path and introduce him to others, each of whom knew a little bit and another little bit. 

“It was just bare basics, and now we’re doing way more.  Much of what is being done now hadn’t been done in, I don’t know how many decades.”  He recently finished a winnowing tray, without ever having seen one being made.

 Without teachers by his side, Silver learned through years of trial and error—boiling, soaking, bending, breaking. Now, he says, new learners have resources he never did: “They’ll catapult forward and take it to the next level. I’ve seen it.”

Basketweaving, central to Pomo identity, once felt intimidating under the reputation of being “the best.” Silver has since let that go: “It won’t look like it used to, but I’m just gonna do it.” He believes the next generation will bridge the gap even further.

Early on, he knew the plants by name but not how to gather or process them. “I’m still learning, every day.”

Where there are similarities with neighboring tribes, styles and materials differ.  “Ours, you have to dig a foot down and you have to find the root, you have to chase it.  It’s the hardest material to harvest.”

“Part of me thinks… that’s why it’s stronger, that’s why it lasts longer, that’s why it doesn’t decompose, that’s why it keeps shape.  That’s why it’s the best in the world, because it’s the hardiest material.”

“We’ve always lived here in our ancestral homelands, we’ve never moved.”  To be in the same area where his parents and grandparents were, where his people were digging the same roots 10,000 years ago, is a huge connection, “the same waters coming down from that mountain, same waters going to that ocean…”

Regarding environment and quality of materials today, Silver says the sticks are short, requiring a lot of switching out sticks.  At the museum, he sees in a burden basket what he never sees in the ground, “just one continuous stick from the very bottom all the way to the top, practically the same diameter the whole way.”

“I’m sure those old weavers would have taken whatever they got, and turned it into gold.”

It is a lot of work.  Without gathering, there’s no weaving.  Without digging, pruning, coppicing, without weeding, sorting, hiking, no weaving.

The heavy lifting for Silver, though, may be less about the demanding nature of the digging than what it turns up.

“We weren’t allowed to practice our culture…to use our language.  We weren’t allowed to sing, dance, weave…It took a long time to see {our culture} in a positive light, and really yearn for…or want to reclaim it.”

“There’s been a little disruption,” he understates, ironically.  “The introduction of non-natives has affected us.  We’re part of that environment, and just like those roots are not as nice as they once were, we’re not as efficient as we once were either, but through proper learning and harvesting and teaching and sharing, we’re gonna get better, just like our sticks are gonna get better, and our roots…”

Silver lights up when speaking of his “weaving family” from the three Pomo counties. Together they experiment, study museum archives, share photos, encourage each other, and show their work.

Exhibiting in a museum brings pride. Silver recalls his mother’s joy at the group’s first show—seeing his baskets beside the old ones, recognizing his role as a teacher. “I was so happy she saw that before she died. I just wish my grandma could have seen it too—me carrying on what past generations could not.”

The group gives back, protecting gathering sites and mentoring others—beginners now teach their children. Members span ages ten to eighty, and Silver reminds elders they’re never too old; famed weaver Elsie Allen only began in her sixties. Many follow that path, weaving to keep tradition alive.

Silver hopes the Community Spirit Award marks a turning point, allowing him to devote more fully to his practice. The call to tradition, once quiet, is now yelling at me.” From piecing together early knowledge to building a community of weavers, his perseverance signals a pivotal moment for his people.

For those at a crossroads, Silver has counsel:  “Don’t be intimidated by not knowing.  Don’t be intimidated by what your work may look like, and don’t let the norms of society…be a barrier to your traditional path.”  It’s easy, he cautions, to “get caught up with getting rich in terms of the dollar, instead of rich in traditional knowledge, which is priceless.”

Lisa Morehead-Hillman (Karuk, Yurok) had a big turnout for a recent basketweaving presentation.  She acknowledged every person who showed up.  “You are a weaver.  When you can say that about yourself, something shifts in you.  You become more confident.  And you say ‘Okay, let me just try that.’”

Not so many years back, Lisa was sitting at her desk at the tribe’s Department of Natural Resources when one of her co-workers came in, holding up a tiny curly root, as if he’d found something that belonged to her.

He said, “You’re a weaver, right?”

She began with a few baskets—always a beginner—until a leap came: “I felt myself to be a weaver. I called myself a weaver.”

“I felt myself to be a weaver. I called myself a weaver.”

Surprises followed. Wanting a cap, she asked her teacher who could make one. The reply: “You need to weave your own.” Encouraged, she tried. An elder told her, “You’re going to be a cap weaver.” Others’ faith carried her forward: “Because they believed in me, I became this cap weaver.”

She sees weaving as a gift from her people, with the responsibility to teach and support others. “I’d never be this advanced without the support of those who have passed,” she says.

So when reluctant to leave her weaving to teach, she reminds herself: “It has to be with people.” She shares every trick she knows, teaching weekly, sometimes traveling 75 miles.

Weaving stretches across rivers and seasons. Soon, she’ll gather with others to collect blackfern, maidenhair fern, and beargrass—best found in areas burned two years prior. Cultural burns now provide greater access to these materials, strengthening weaving and community.

Lisa is restoring one of her gathering places, making it a refuge for people and a thriving home for plants. With shade and a creek for children, it ties basket-weaving to river health—especially the Klamath, now undammed after generations of Hillman advocacy.

“How do we improve this area for our plant relations?” she asks. Each visit, she leaves the place improved; each year, the plants return stronger, “because they know they’re going to be used.”

“How do we improve this area for our plant relations?....because they know they’re going to be used.”

Her work never ends—next comes alder bark for dyeing last year’s woodwardia. Each basket holds stories: the year’s growth, animals that passed, who gathered and wove it, and for whom. “We talk about baskets having their own spirits.”

That is why, she says “when we do NAGPRA consultations or visits, it’s always really difficult for tribal people, to go and visit your relations that are all packed away, usually in the archives somewhere in boxes or in drawers, up on shelves.”  After a day of that, she says, no matter how exciting the city you’re in, everybody usually just goes back to their hotel room and—she laughs—“cries.”

“when we do NAGPRA consultations or visits, it’s always really difficult for tribal people, to go and visit your relations that are all packed away, usually in the archives somewhere in boxes or in drawers, up on shelves.”

“I understand even more now.”  When Lisa weaves a cap—especially a ceremonial cap—she is weaving it for somebody or some project.  In the museum, it’s taken away from that somebody, and the story is lost.  “It’s just embedded in the spirit of the basket itself… Wow, museum folks!  You don’t need to keep that much stuff.  Just give it back to us.”

Lisa has six apprentices, all established weavers, from the three major tribes in northern California that share the same patterns and materials, two Karuk, two Yurok, two Hupa.  With a two-year commitment to working with Lisa, and to teach and/or take on their own apprentices, they work intensively on one basket type at a time. 

Teachers often ask Lisa to share her skills, and though it can be overwhelming, she insists learning must be face-to-face, “in our Native hands.” With children, she highlights the skills woven into the practice—math, design, ecology, and culture.

For today’s generations, caps themselves are the best teachers. “I had to learn from the caps, from other baskets—‘How did they solve that?’” she says. She and her student are fortunate to study from a strong collection, “because they’re not teaching anyone in the museums.”

‘How did they solve that?...because they’re not teaching anyone in the museums.”

Calling herself a weaver extends beyond personal identity. “The fact that I’m doing this—not, ‘too bad, we used to weave caps and now buy them on eBay’—helps others self-identify.”

This resurgence, she says, heals the community: “We are still here. We still carry this beautiful art forward.” She has nearly thirty caps “dancing on the river,” beacons of hope that embody pride, language, ceremony, and environmental renewal.

For Lisa, weaving itself feels like an award: “I can breathe, and I can do what I need to do.”

She adds, “There is magic in our ways of knowing.”

“There is magic in our ways of knowing.”

2025 Community Spirit Awardee Julia Marden (Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head) reflects on the pull between reality and fantasy, history’s beauty and brutality, and her unstoppable will to create.

From an early age, she knew she wanted to be an artist, experimenting with anything she could find. That search for the right fit ended with traditional arts. “Once I started, there was no question left,” she says. Now, she creates seven days a week: “There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

“Once I started, there was no question left,” she says. Now, she creates seven days a week: “There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

In her twenties, Julia worked at a Wampanoag homesite, where a training project introduced her to twining. She picked it up instantly—what she calls “genetic imprinting.” Within two weeks she had finished her first bag, started another, and was soon teaching the craft.

As a child, she was told art might not work out. She understands the push for security, but chose her own path: “Thankfully, I was strong enough to follow it.”

“Always listen to your gut,” she says. “Our ancestors are always with us, communicating. If you’re open, they’ll never steer you wrong.” For Julia, acceptance guides everything: she wouldn’t change a thing.

“Our ancestors are always with us, communicating. If you’re open, they’ll never steer you wrong.” For Julia, acceptance guides everything: she wouldn’t change a thing.

And yet, both humbled and honored to receive the Jennifer Easton Award, Julia admits she’s having a hard time accepting this as reality.

It began with a photo shoot with Matika Wilbur. Next, she received the Princess Red Wing Award and now the Community Spirit Award. Julia hedges. There’s more. “Did you know?  I’m also a statue. I was also made into a statue.”

Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts commissioned Mohawk sculptor Alan Michelson to create two statues for its front steps. Across from Micmac artist André Strongheart stands Julia Marden, Wampanoag knowledge-keeper. Spotting it on her way to park, she laughed: “It’s platinum! I could not dream this up in my real life.”

She credits the recognition to her turkey feather cape—the first made in 400 years. Known for her masterful twined basketry, storage bags, and Eastern Woodland traditions from painting with a toothpick to regalia and dolls, Julia calls the mantle “pretty much the height of twining.”

In fact, the loom built for the project was 7’ tall (6’+ across). She spent two months sorting thousands of feathers, just to get started.

Julia’s new relationship with the MFA Boston promises an upcoming exhibit including a full woman’s outfit she is making, and the turkey feather mantle.

Julia has restored three traditions to her nation: the mantle, overlay embroidery, and horseshoe crab bags. “Bringing back things that were lost is extremely important. The ancestors want to see them return.”

“Bringing back things that were lost is extremely important. The ancestors want to see them return.”

Her achievements belong to her people—her grandmothers, who said to watch over her as she works; her three granddaughters, who are now third-generation weavers; and the little girl who fought to become an artist.

Most recently, she joined fellow tribal member Paula Peters in reviving wampum belt-making, inspired by viewing the British Museum’s collection during a London layover.

Over 100 tribal members participated in making the belt, including making the beads.  Julia had never made a 5-foot, 21-row belt. To familiarize herself, she knocked one out.  Hired to create designs, Julia’s initiative resulted in her becoming the project’s weaving manager. 

The project’s purpose was education, in part because Wampanoag people hope against hope that Metacom’s lost belt remains intact, perhaps unrecognized, to be returned one day.  Today, Wampanoags don’t have a single ancient belt.

Meanwhile, Julia has gone a bit, belts.

“One of the purposes of the wampum belt is to document our history. It’s basically our written language.”  The English adopted the practice of trading wampum with inland peoples. “That’s why, “ Julia says, “there’s a myth that wampum equates to money.” Traditionally, wampum is used in ceremonials, burials, gifts, and treaties and mainly to document.

“One of the purposes of the wampum belt is to document our history. It’s basically our written language....That’s why, “ Julia says, “there’s a myth that wampum equates to money.”

“Our storytellers were the keepers of our wampum belts, and they would travel from community to community during the winter months, telling our stories over and over. I’m doing that now.”

Since her work travels from exhibits rather than villages, Julia creates images for broad audiences, knowing she may only reach a few amid generations of indoctrination. “Don’t take my word for anything,” she urges. “Check into it—keep your eyes open.”

Her series A Telling of the Wampanoag Story spans creation, harmonious seasonal life, first contact, plague graves, the bloodiest war per capita on American soil, slavery, and finally today’s powwows: “we’re dancing, celebrating, doing our thing.”

Another series, Architects of Genocide, moves from the Doctrine of Discovery to the Indian Removal Act, to Kill the Indian, Save the Man.

First Encounter Beach is a belt. Another belt follows the dream of a dear friend, a repatriation officer.  He wears the belt now during the ceremony, repatriating his ancestors.

When Julia was invited to speak about her belts at Aquinnah, she wasn’t prepared for the experience of sharing the belts’ intense themes with an audience. She creates her work in privacy.  She handles whatever comes up in seclusion. Presenting the work in public, “it went from bad to worse, to worse.” By the time she reached the Repatriation Belt, Julia was sobbing.  “I just hadn’t really thought it through.” 

“I might not be able to accomplish everything on my list, but it’s my goal.”  Even while talking, she conceives of a new idea for a belt.  “I’m driven. That’s why I devote so much time.”

“I might not be able to accomplish everything on my list, but it’s my goal.”  Even while talking, she conceives of a new idea for a belt.  “I’m driven. That’s why I devote so much time.”

Julia says, “The funny thing is…” If not for a debilitating injury, she likely would have stayed in the workforce.  She says when she was working—and it checks—“I worked overtime all the time…50-60 hours a week.  And then I got struck down.  I was nearly bedridden.  I wouldn’t have had time to do all this… Everything I’ve done, I’ve done since I was injured.”

“You’ve got to keep going forward and make it a positive.”

This past year, our founder and senior fellow, Lori Pourier, traveled nearly 20,000 miles across Turtle Island from Tlingit homelands in Alaska to Hawai‘i, to the eastern shores of Wampanoag territory, and to the Qualla boundary of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Nation to reconnect with six remarkable Culture Bearers.

After 26 years of honoring more than 126 tradition keepers from over 100 tribal nations, we felt it was time to sit down with them, share stories, and reflect on what this collective journey has meant and where it might lead us next. With the support of talented filmmakers, we visited our honorees, to learn how far they have come since receiving First Peoples Fund’s highest honor, the Jennifer Easton Community Spirit Award.

“If you talk about baskets and other traditional things, and somehow, they were lost — what would you do to get them back? “

Our first visit was with Alfred “Bud” Lane on the Siletz Reservation in Oregon. While filming, Bud wasted no time in getting to the heart of his message: “If you talk about baskets and other traditional things, and somehow, they were lost — what would you do to get them back? “ His messages resonates deeply. In 1955, the Confederated Tribes of the Siletz were terminated by an act of Congress, and it took 22 years to restore their federal recognition and recently gain their fishing and hunting rights. Since then, Bud and a handful of others have dedicated their lives to revitalizing their language, rebuilding the traditional plank (dance) house, and making regalia for their dances. Bud stands with conviction, noting that the younger generation now grows up with these traditions intact — never having to imagine life without them.

“If you believe in it, you can make a living from it”.

TahNibaa Naataanii and her mother, Sarah (featured in Fry Bread Face and Me), share a quiet moment at their kitchen table speaks volumes of the intergenerational love and the value of weaving and speaking the language as sovereign act. Sarah, shares her wisdom she learned from her mother:  “If you believe in it, you can make a living from it”. It was so important to TahNibaa maternal grandmother she gave her name, translating to The Weaver.  In the film, TahNibaa describes it as the seed being planted by her mother who gave it water through the sheep and their wool.  Years later, TahNibaa would move home to living the cycle of the land and sheep.  “Weaving Embraces You” became the title of  TahNibaa film, expressing the spiritual power of weaving and embraces every part of their very being.  Through hardship, both Sarah and TahNibaa learned that everything they needed to make a living was already in their hands. Something Sarah’s mother told her early in her marriage. 

“Weaving taught me patience. Weaving taught me perseverance,”

In Lani Hotch’s story, we learn the critical importance of language and how it connects them to all living beings, grounds them in their clan roles within family and community while serving as a tool for healing and reclaiming cultural heritage. For Lani, this has taken many forms: a healing robe, a youth fish camp, a longhouse, and ultimately, a heritage center centering Chilkat weavers from Klukwan. “Weaving taught me patience. Weaving taught me perseverance,” Lani reflects. Today, the tribe council and its members are fighting to protect the Chilkat River and the five species of salmon it sustains. Together with four other weavers, Lani is creating woven representations of the five salmon species, using their artform as a platform to teach the world about environmental stewardship.

We were honored to learn our four of our films were selected to premiere at SWAIA’s Get Indigenous Film Festival during the 103rd Indian Market, in partnership with the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture. 

‍“First Peoples Fund’s support of these artists demonstrates how narrative change happens when we center Indigenous voices and celebrate those who dedicate their lives to keeping our cultures alive and flourishing. Through film, we witness their journeys and understand how artistic excellence and community leadership are inseparable in Indigenous communities. These short films represent more than documentation; they are living classrooms that will educate countless viewers about the sacred responsibility of cultural transmission and the vital role artists play in keeping our traditions vibrant and evolving,” — Joely Proudfit, a SWAIA GIFF team member. 

During the “Narrative and Nibbles” panel at the IAIA Museum of Contemporary Native Arts (MoCNA), Bud, Lani and TahNibaa shared their collective experiences as basket makers. Though they come from entirely different environments, without hesitation they agreed that our Indigenous language is central to our identities, cultural practices, and understanding our relationship to the land — including the animals, traditional foods and medicines. Most importantly, their work is never done alone, it is rooted in family and sustained by a community. 

As she begins the next series of interviews and phase of her legacy work in her Senior Fellow role, Lori reflected on her journey across Turtle Island:

‍“This journey and deep relationships with our honorees remind me that our spiritual connection to all of creation lies at the center of our work at First Peoples Fund. It is what grounds us and guides us in our responsibilities. I believe wholeheartedly that our ancestors are present in everything we do.”

Upcoming Celebrations of the Community Spirit Award

First Peoples Fund is thrilled to honor our Jennifer Easton Community Spirit Awardees–past, present, and, of course, future- with exciting upcoming events!  Join us for the first Collective Spirit Legacy Short Films screening, followed by a next-day panel on contemporary Indigenous film.  We also invite you to gather with us to celebrate our 2025 Community Spirit Award honorees for an evening of arts, community, and inspiration.

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Telling Stories Through Film: The Collective Spirit Legacy Series

Trying to do justice to Jennifer Easton in words, it’s easy to come up short. Try, instead, watching TahNibaa Naataanii seated in front of her loom, as the rhythm of her movements, deliberate but quick, staccato yet flowing, yields a vibrant pattern of color and shape. More is revealed as the camera pulls back. TahNibaa is telling her story even as she weaves, in Weaving Embraces You, a short film in Collective Spirit Legacy, a film series presented by First Peoples Fund, and directed by Lori Pourier.

The series documents the work of the Jennifer Easton Community Spirit Award recipients, some years after receiving the award. An ongoing project, the films are kitchen table conversations that follow how these tradition-keepers became part of the family at First Peoples Fund, “how they came,” as Lori says,” to be one of our relatives.” Artists are invited to speak in their Indigenous languages to tell the stories they want future generations to hear. Sharing the stories of the Community Spirit award honorees through film, “we continue to weave the stories across tribal regions and their relationships to each other.”

Each film tricks time with a wealth of artistry, insights, stories, landscapes, and histories set straight, inviting the viewer into a timeless and moving experience in what the clock calls ten minutes. The film series offers an impactful and eloquent tribute to community spirit that would make Jennifer proud.

Jennifer Easton’s Enduring Commitment to Indigenous Artists

The founder of First Peoples Fund, Jennifer Easton, was also a longtime supporter of the Sundance Film Festival’s Indigenous program and the founder of the Sumasil Fund. “I will always uplift Jennifer Easton,” says Lori Pourier (Oglala Lakota), a founding CEO of 26 years and current senior fellow of First Peoples Fund. “She did her homework before I joined FPF to get to know Indian Country by traveling and spending time in remote tribal communities.”

Jennifer Easton’s love for the First Peoples of this land led her to an investment in and commitment to Native communities and Native peoples so visionary and so deeply grounded in action that we can look in any direction from wherever we are standing on the continent, and see evidence of its flowering. 

Whether she encountered a basket or a beaded vest, quillwork or a canoe, in a gallery in Santa Fe, or a trading post in Vancouver, Jennifer wanted to know, Who made this? Where’s the artist? Jennifer often journeyed to meet these artists at work in their tribal communities.  

How do we support these artists to make a living from their beautiful work? To build leadership? To give back and share their knowledge in their communities? What is the best approach?

Personal relationships with the artists brought greater engagement to Jennifer’s questions. How do we support these artists to make a living from their beautiful work? To build leadership? To give back and share their knowledge in their communities? What is the best approach?

‍A Meeting of Minds: Jennifer Easton and Lori Pourier

Jennifer Easton sought out active leaders involved in the work who could respond to her questions. Case in point: when Jennifer heard of Lori Pourier’s work with microenterprise development at the First Nations Development Institute (FNDI) and her work with the Indigenous Women’s Network, she went looking for Lori. She invited her to work with the First Peoples Fund.

Jennifer’s “homework” brought her into relationships with Native leaders across Indian country, and a profound recognition of the interconnectedness of Native communities. Supporting Native arts, culture, and film meant focusing on significant underlying themes, beginning with economic sovereignty for women, and including the buffalo restoration, language revitalization, and legal support in the fight to protect old-growth forests in the Northwest.

“In Navajo weaving terms, her philanthropy represents the wefting threads and our work at FPF represents the warp threads or strands woven together to make this beautiful tapestry."

Is a weaving metaphor apt for Jennifer’s contributions? Lori agrees, “In Navajo weaving terms, her philanthropy represents the wefting threads and our work at FPF represents the warp threads or strands woven together to make this beautiful tapestry."

Recognizing Cultural Generosity: The Community Spirit Award

The Jennifer Easton Community Spirit Awards were created to honor “culture bearers of tribal communities, nominated by someone from their community who knew and understood how selflessly they give of themselves, their generosity, and love for their communities.”  

The stories the films tell are wholly distinct from one another, each as vibrant, articulate and specific as each artist, each culture, and each way of working. Yet, all the stories are centered on the love for one's people and community, expressed through enormous generosity and the desire to learn.  “Yes, they are artists, but first and foremost, the story is about their love for their community as expressed through their art.”

The artwork is at the heart of community healing and repair, given countless ways that tradition and community have been ruptured and interrupted in living memory for many of the awardees. Lori cites termination, boarding schools, and the extraction and sale of cultural spiritual items.

In the films, we see subsequent generations growing up with dance houses, cultural centers, and language classes.  Intergenerational knowledge is being transmitted. “So much,” Lori says, “is coming home.”

Continuity and longevity are inherent in Jennifer Easton’s vision. From the beginning, First Peoples Fund’s strategic plan has factored in growth, a far-seeing long-term plan for artists to be able to support their families long-term, from their tribal communities, initiating ever more diversified programs to uplift the work of our artists.

“Jennifer used to say, ‘I threw this pebble in the pond…’ and when something major would come to fruition, like the Rolling Rez Arts Bus, ‘Lori threw these other pebbles in the pond’ and now we see the ripple effect, these tiny currents happening all over.”

“Jennifer used to say, ‘I threw this pebble in the pond…’ and when something major would come to fruition, like the Rolling Rez Arts Bus, ‘Lori threw these other pebbles in the pond’ and now we see the ripple effect, these tiny currents happening all over.”

‍Well over 100 artists have received the Community Spirit award since the award was first offered in 2000.

First Peoples Fund is thrilled to welcome two outstanding fellows from the 2025 First Peoples’ Artist in Business Leadership (ABL) fellowship! These self-taught artists and entrepreneurs developed their skills by reflecting on their family traditions. These visual artists are focused on sharing the traditional practices of cradleboard making and patchwork sewing to share their cultural and familial narratives.

We look forward to seeing their professional journeys grow with First Peoples Fund support.

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Artist in Business Leadership Fellows

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Alayna Eagle Shield

Cradleboard maker, educator, and Artist in Business Leadership Fellow Alayna Eagle Shield (Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, Three Affiliated Tribes) creates art rooted in kinship, traditional knowledge, and community care. A mother of five, Alayna’s creative practice began with love from a cradleboard prepared by her father and necessity—learning to make cradleboards for her children. “Cradle boards are my passion,” she shares, describing how her family storytelling and creative improvisation guided her early creations. Her work grew into a cultural methodology. 

 A recent doctoral graduate from the University of Washington’s College of Education, her research centered on cradleboard-making as Indigenous technology to be reworked, revitalized, and reclaimed through traditional teachings and oral history.

 Alayna Eagle Shield is the Executive Director of the Mni Wichoni Health Circle and co-founder of the Mní Wičhóni Nakíčižiŋ Wóuŋspe (Defenders of the Water School), leading with a vision of wellness grounded in language and land. “I wanted this to be shareable,” she explains. “We know that there’s no way we could make cradle boards for every single baby in the world who deserves them… but we wanted to figure out how to create a process.” Alayna’s work blends beadwork, sewing, quilting, and quillwork with deep cultural teaching from women, relatives, and midwives in her communities.

Her family joins her in this work—her husband, a woodworker, builds cradleboard frames and bonnet templates, while her children bead alongside her. She has helped make and distribute over 100 cradleboards and now teaches workshops across Native communities, focusing on the intention in the process of beadwork.  “We just share everything,” she says. “This way, you're continuously making community and building kinship while you're preparing for your baby.” 

This work is intergenerational and expansive for Alayna: “I’m ready to start building and putting into my own dreams… I want to be the grandma and the mom that everybody felt like I just generously shared… everyone was radically wrapped with love by me.”

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Jaylee Lowe 

Award-winning Seminole patchwork artist and Artist in Business Leadership Fellow Jaylee Lowe (Seminole, Muscogee (Creek)) is reviving and reimagining visual traditions through fashion, quilting, and sewing. Based in Glenpool, Oklahoma, Jaylee taught herself how to sew by studying the skirts her late maternal grandmother made, whose artistry and care continue to guide her work. “I always credit my grandma for teaching me, even though she’s not here anymore,” she reflects. 

Beginning by sewing for her family, Jaylee honed her skills before gradually sharing her work with others, eventually joining competitions across the country. Today, her bold and intricate garments carry forward a family legacy of traditional Seminole patchwork, a style deeply tied to memory. “Using remnants… clothing from family members who have passed on or thrifted fabrics… it creates a really vibrant piece,” she says. This focus on remnants reflects sustainable practices and connects directly to historical survival. “Indigenous people were the first designers and artists,” Jaylee explains. “We’ve always been sustainable.”

Jaylee’s patchwork art, grounded in geometric forms and ancestral patterns, tells stories with every patch. “Our patchwork tells stories,” she says. “A lot of people know about patchwork, but they don’t know that those designs have significance.” For Jaylee, her work is also a bridge between past and present, tradition and innovation, utility and fine art. She is determined to redefine sewing and patchwork as respected visual art forms, participating in art markets such as the Muscogee Art Market, the Heard Museum Guild Indian Fair & Market, and the Santa Fe Indian Market. “It’s such an honor to be a part of these prestigious markets… getting to represent myself, my family, and my culture,” she says. Yet, she often finds herself one of the only patchwork artists present—this experience deepens her desire to see more young people engage with these traditions.

Through the First Peoples Fund fellowship, Jaylee is expanding her practice with new tools, materials, and professional development opportunities. Her proposal includes attending additional art markets, building a website, and creating broader visibility for Seminole patchwork. She dreams of building a network of artists who carry the knowledge forward: “To have a patchwork maker in every family or band of my tribe.” Whether through community classes, publications, or online tutorials, she hopes to ensure that the ancestral designs she learned and carries are not forgotten. 

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We have good news!  In alignment with our first Native Performing Arts Production Grants (NPAP), grantee Mni Giizhik Theatre Ensemble opens its debut show!

Mni Giizhik co-founders Sequoia Hauck (White Earth Anishinaabe, Hupa), Sara Pillatzi-Warzeha (Sisseton-Wahpeton Dakota), and Adrienne Zimiga-January (Oglala Lakota) are thrilled to present their first production, Niizh.  The preview from the producers?  “It. Is. Fire.”

This much is clear: equipped with a formidable toolkit of theatrical skills, firm community commitment, and compelling synergy, Mni Giizhik can only use their powers for good.  In conversation with this dynamic trio, the company’s deeply held values are ever-present.

Grounded in a collective leadership model, the ensemble recognizes the sacredness inherent in a name.  Mni, Lakota/Dakota, is translated as “water” in English, and giizhik, Ojibwe, means “cedar.”  Merging languages symbolizes the specificity and variety of languages, lands, and cultures the collective embodies.

For all three artists, working together represents a profound privilege.  These theater professionals are comfortable with a fluid shifting of roles and responsibilities.  A tight crew with many hats on each head, everyone does everything.  “The model,” Sequoia says, “is only that we are a team.”

Was this collaboration inevitable?  After years of seeing and hearing about one another onstage, offstage, and backstage, the three joined the Native Advisory Council at the Guthrie Theater.  Sara recalls leaving the meetings at the Guthrie with a shared frustration:   “We need more Native stories.  We’ve got to tell them.” A shared love of storytelling ways led to Mni Giizhik.

The company members also share a trajectory.  Engaged with theater early on, all three experienced a time when theater felt out of reach.  Each identifies a defining moment when the community threw open the theater doors:

Adrienne, a creative director and the graphic designer behind Mni Giizhik’s imagery, offered to make a poster for a local show, only to be written into the script.  Adrienne’s appearance in that show led to even more performing, making her a familiar face onstage in the Twin Cities.

When Sequoia began college, they convinced themself that theater was “not for me anymore.”  They concede now that an element of trauma response was at play, having internalized messages of not belonging.  To their surprise, one day during office hours, they asked their Native Studies professor about native theater happenings in the Cities.  If Sequoia’s unspoken question was “Should I do this?” the resounding answer was Yes. Here are some people.  Find them.  Go.  

Attending college in Aberdeen, SD, the theater was missing for Sara, until a professor encouraged her to come to an audition.  “‘I don’t have anything!’” she recalls telling him.  He responded, “You can sing Happy Birthday.  Just come.”  She did.  She has been “in theater forever from that point.”

Now a theater professor, Sara remembers taking her mom to The Master Butchers Singing Club, an adaptation of a Louise Erdrich novel starring a Menominee actor. Pursuing her MFA at the time, Sara wrote for class about the brilliant performance, only to be disparaged by her professor. “He told me I couldn’t have been more wrong. I returned to him, saying, ‘This is how we tell stories in my family. This is accurate to our ways of storytelling’—but he wouldn’t bend.”

Sara’s interaction illustrates a reality the ensemble recognizes:  too often, Native theater is held to a standard “that isn't ours.”  Adrienne adds that non-Native treatment of Native stories in theater often falls into “trauma-porn.” Mni Giizhik wants to tell stories that uplift and strengthen, keep people going, and make them laugh.

“We want to show that we have joy within our communities, no matter where we are.”

A founder of the Native Advisory Council, Adrienne has no doubt that artists and audiences are ready for Native storytelling on the big stages.  Some of the systems in place, however, are not ready.  “It seems like whenever we have Native programming,” Adrienne notes, “it sells out.  I don’t know why they haven’t figured that out yet.”

Encountering resistance only fuels Mni Giizhik's dedication to creating safe intercultural spaces, caring and supportive environments where Native artists can feel seen for who they are.  The company knows firsthand the power of a nudge forward at the right moment.  Providing inspiration and opportunities for Native youth is a priority.  Sara reflects, “Growing up, I was so hungry for any representation—even bad representation felt like something.”

‍Niizh opens in May at 825 Arts in St. Paul.  Written by Joelle Peters (Walpole Island First Nation) and adapted and directed by Sequoia, Niizh is a coming-of-age rom-com featuring an all-Anishinaabe cast.  Full representation of a tribe is rare in performance and is a long-held dream for the playwright.  The deep connectedness of the cast tells a love story about love of self, tribe, language, and community.  Even before opening night, the cast lets Mni Giizhik know they’re getting it right. One actor shares that coming to rehearsal helps their mental health, physical health, and identity.  “This,” Adrienne remarks, “ is cedar water, healing water.”

Mni Giizhik’s commitment to stewarding community stories yields plentiful partnerships and production plans.  From Bowwow Powwow with youth theater Stages, to a new production of Marcie Rendon’s Say Their Names, Mni Giizhik Theatre Ensemble is nurturing stories from dream to stage set.  Congratulations, Mni Giizhik, the time is now!

We’re delighted to go behind the scenes with two of our 2025 Native Performing Arts grantees, Anthony Hudson and Brandi Berry Benson. We explore the moments that shaped them, how community fuels their work, and the perspectives they’re challenging today. Spoiler: next-door neighbors matter.

Anthony Hudson: Responding Through Laughter, Legacy, and Drag

Anthony Hudson (Confederated Tribes of Grande Ronde, enrolled; Confederated Tribes of Siletz, descendant) is a Portland-based writer, artist, satirist, performer, playwright, and self-proclaimed drag clown. When asked to put an easy label on his work, Anthony just runs away.  We say, “Please don’t go!”

Whether through essay, video, theatre, or drag, Anthony’s compass holds true:  “What makes me laugh more than anything? What am I selfishly drawn to?”

A “responder,” Anthony draws material from everywhere.  Early influences range from trickster tales, stand-up comedy, and film to dad jokes, the clown who lived next door, and every “Native guy with a microphone.”  Anthony thanks parents who identified him as a young storyteller, his father’s educational PowerPoints on ICWA (infused, amazingly, with humor), and a surprise sanctuary–high school drama.  When Anthony came out, his father offered him the term “Two-Spirit,” even scouting out scholarly research on two-spirit identity across Turtle Island, to place in his son’s hands.

At Pacific Northwest College of Art, Anthony’s professors noticed makeup on his face (and on an exam).  When they invited him to perform drag in class, he did, leading to long-standing collaborations, response, and eventually international acclaim.

Is it all laughs?  Nope.  Navigating the art world as a Native artist means contending with gatekeeping and narrow expectations. “There’s pressure to be ‘the good Indian,’” he says. Today, Anthony self-produces most of his work.

Burnout is another reality. Touring is exhausting. “You have to start fresh every time.”  Anthony is scaling back,  committing to his home communities. “I’m a clown for my people.”

This is where First Peoples Fund comes in. “They’re not transactional,” Anthony says. The support from FPF has allowed him to pause, recover, and dream. “It’s been nothing but acceptance, support, and flexibility.”

Looking ahead, Anthony is celebrating the 10th anniversary of Queer Horror, developing his new show Ask Dr. Carla, and documenting performances for wider sharing. He’s also working on not one, but two new plays.

About Carla Rossi, Anthony’s drag persona:  “She lies a lot,” he says. A white-faced Karen, Carla is a trickster.  She always gets it backwards, and by mistake, it helps everyone. “I’m interested in taking things apart and putting them back together the wrong way.”  

Drag clown?  Anthony coined the term himself: “Culture doesn’t have the right words for me.”

His legacy? “Pretty simple,” says Anthony Hudson.  “I want the weirdos like me to feel less alone.”

Brandi Berry Benson: Strings, Storytelling, and Chickasaw Futures

Brandi Berry Benson (Chickasaw) is a Chicago-based violinist, fiddler, composer, educator, and researcher.  Like a musical composition, her story is full of recurring themes and refrains.

Brandi fell in love with the sound of the violin the first time she heard it.  Who was playing?  The girl next door.  Brandi began to play at nine, when she officially became a citizen of the Chickasaw Nation— always under the eye of the photograph of her ancestor Pa I Sha, displayed in her family’s living room.

As an undergrad at the University of North Texas, Brandi played everything from classical to country.  Bluegrass won her over with its lively and inclusive energy.  Another highlight was the performance of her first composition, Where the Creek Meets the River.

Performing is Brandi’s passion, and she was fully immersed in it—until the pandemic hit. With gigs suddenly canceled, her other passion–composition– came to life.   Brandi’s first album of original compositions, Silver Linings, features Chickasaw Suite, a piece that seeded her deeper engagement with cultural and familial research.

One thing led to another: a Google search, a Zoom call, mentorship, all towards collaboration with the Chickasaw Nation. Nudged on by her great-grandfather’s “old way” dedication to genealogy, she’s walking in his footsteps.  Brandi recognized more footsteps when she encountered a 19th-century photograph of young Chickasaw women holding violins—taken at the Chickasaw-run Bloomfield Academy, where her ancestors married.  In 2023, she premiered The Story of Pa I Sha, a musical narrative inspired by oral history and songs.

While most arts grants limit support to projects, Brandi appreciates that FPF supports the full arc of an artist’s journey.  FPF’s support is helping her visit the Chickasaw Nation more often and invest in visibility and marketing. “We have to get our voices out there,” she says. “More people need to benefit.”

We are thrilled to welcome two outstanding fellows from the 2025 First People’s Funds Cultural Capital (CC) program!  These visionary artists and entrepreneurial leaders exemplify resilience, having honed their skills through dedication and self-determination. While they come from diverse backgrounds, both use digital media as a powerful platform to create visual art, share their cultural narratives, and grow their career and business. We look forward to witnessing their creativity flourish, and their professional journeys evolve through the support of the First Peoples Fund fellowships.

Cultural Capital Fellows

Ahnawake Dahn Toyekoyah (Cauigu Kiowa), a 2025 Cultural Capital fellow, specializes in ledger art through acrylic painting and digital media. Her latest project with First Peoples Fund brings together her artistic talents and cultural heritage to create a children's book in her Indigenous language—passing down traditional stories to her Oklahoma community. 

For Ahnawake, art has always been more than expression; it’s a connection to her roots. "From a young age, art has been my sanctuary—a place where words may fail, but creativity thrives," she says. Her family deeply shaped her artistic journey, from the encouragement of her grandmother to the legacy of her great-grandfather, who designed their tribe’s Oklahoma seal. "It’s a big part of us," she reflects.

With degrees in environmental science from Haskell Indian Nations University, Ahnawake found ways to intertwine her education with her art, often incorporating cultural and environmental symbols like sweetgrass and sage. Her work addressing climate change and Native rights has been featured at universities, including the University of New Mexico and Kansas State University.

Drawing from the stories passed down in her family, Ahnawake embraces ledger art to blend tradition with contemporary themes, celebrating Indigenous resilience. "My goal is to create pieces that resonate with my community and beyond, honoring the past while inspiring future generations."

Her upcoming children's book—deeply inspired by her son—will compile traditional stories in English and her Indigenous language, illustrated in her signature style. "I want him to grow up and say, 'That's my mom’s work. She made this.'" She’s already planning a second book focused on teaching children their ABCs and numbers in their language. Once published, Ahnawake intends to give back by distributing 100 copies to her community, ensuring these stories live on for generations to come.

Brittany Keakaokalani Hashisaka-Peters (Native Hawaiian), known as "Kea Peters," is a 2025 Cultural Capital Fellow from O‘ahu, Hawai‘i. She is the founder and illustrator of Kākou Collective, an organization dedicated to strengthening connections to Hawai‘i through original artwork.

Kea’s journey began with pen and ink drawing before she transitioned to graphic design, earning a degree in Communication Arts from Honolulu Community College. Mastering tools like Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator, she worked as an in-house designer for Native Hawaiian businesses, creating everything from packaging and websites to vehicle wraps and digital ads. But juggling design, marketing, and sales alone left her overwhelmed. Seeking balance, she turned to modern calligraphy, teaching herself to write ‘Ōlelo No‘eau—Hawaiian proverbs—in her journal. Sharing these designs on social media, she found unexpected support and growing interest.

A turning point came when 2013 Community Spirit Award Honoree Vicky Holt Takamine invited Kea to lead a hand-lettering workshop—something she had never done before. Embracing the challenge, she taught herself how to plan and teach, leading to more workshops rooted in Native Hawaiian culture. Inspired by her childhood in her grandmother’s backyard and time spent outdoors with her husband and son, Kea used the environment as her classroom, teaching others to illustrate native Hawaiian plants and flowers.

As demand for her work grew, what started as personal projects evolved into a full-fledged business. Kākou Collective now offers Hawaiian-inspired notebooks, planners, and stickers, providing creative outlets for others to engage with their language and culture.

“For Indigenous people, it’s essential to feel a sense of belonging in their own space, wherever they are,” Kea says. “I want to inspire future generations to see the world through their own eyes, learn from their elders, and continue passing on our cultural knowledge.”

For her fellowship project, Kea is creating a mindfulness-focused coloring book series that educates and uplifts her community. Committed to authenticity, she insists on producing the books locally. “I don’t think you can educate about Hawai‘i and give back to Hawai‘i without making it here—if it can be made here.”

Balancing her roles as an artist, entrepreneur, and mother, Kea remains dedicated to empowering others through creativity, ensuring Native Hawaiian culture thrives in the modern world.

With support from First Peoples Fund, Ahnawake Toyekoyah and Kea Peters shine as self-taught artists and business leaders, weaving culture, community, and pride into their work. Blending traditional storytelling, language, and the environment with modern graphic design and digital media, they create art that teaches, connects, and empowers. As mothers and community leaders, they use their craft to uplift and inspire, ensuring Indigenous voices and stories thrive.

We are excited to spotlight two more fellows from the 2025 First People’s Funds Artist in Business Leadership (ABL) and the Native Performing Arts fellowship programs.

The following performers and artists illustrate how Indigenous creativity and professional development thrive through participation in the First Peoples Fund fellowships. The artists come from varying backgrounds and artistic fields, and all showcase a deep passion for their arts and community through film, dance, and storytelling.

Artists in Business Leadership

Multidisciplinary artist Kenneth Shirley (Navajo), a 2025 Artist in Business Leadership fellow, is working on a new show to debut in New York City at the Joyce Theatre. To add to this momentous occasion, Kenneth plans to create a film to document him and the entire cast of dancers as they develop and participate in performances as part of their residency at the Joyce Theatre. 

Kenneth’s love for dance started at home at an early age. His mother, Mary Shirley, introduced him to dancing when he was just 2 years old. An accomplished fancy shawl dancer in her own right, Mary would take Kenneth to powwow dance circles when he was young, eventually evolving into his desire to become a  Men’s Fancy War Dancer. In 2015, he performed at his community college in Phoenix, Arizona, and the experience completely transformed how he saw himself as a dancer, educator, and leader in his field. This urged him to develop dynamic methods of sharing and educating his peers about his Indigenous heritage. Since then, his dance career has led him to perform internationally across the United States, at notable events and places like the 2023 Super Bowl, the Sydney Opera House, and Lincoln Center.

“I've been fancy-dancing since I was two years old. It's like a dancer-style that comes from Oklahoma. It's more fast-paced and upbeat and faster type movements; it's also supposed to be a healing dance and bring blessings to anybody who goes through a hard time emotionally and spiritually gives 'em the uplift.”

Alongside his love of dance, Kenneth has been in filmmaking since he was 8 years old, which led him to pursue a degree in filmmaking at  Arizona State University. He built his own company called Indigenous Enterprise, in 2015 after he completed documentaries and a TV show that is now in process. 

In 2023, his work “Borders” was showcased at film festivals internationally, and that same year he was nominated with an Emmy for a short film called “If Cities Could Dance” with PBS. In building his business, Kenneth has always kept the idea of community and Indigenous visibility through his work. His fellowship with First Peoples Fund will help bring together dancers, animators and filmmakers for their upcoming theatre show at the Joyce Theatre in New York.

“I just want to [be] somebody that kind of went all out with everything that they do, whether it's filmmaking or dancing. I just wanted to be able to push the culture forward to be able to uplift our people to new heights and new grounds.”

Alongside his love of dance, Kenneth has been in filmmaking since he was 8 years old, which led him to pursue a degree in filmmaking at  Arizona State University. He built his own company called Indigenous Enterprise, in 2015 after he completed documentaries and a TV show that is now in process. 

In 2023, his work “Borders” was showcased at film festivals internationally, and that same year he was nominated with an Emmy for a short film called “If Cities Could Dance” with PBS. In building his business, Kenneth has always kept the idea of community and Indigenous visibility through his work. His fellowship with First Peoples Fund will help bring together dancers, animators and filmmakers for their upcoming theatre show at the Joyce Theatre in New York.

“I just want to [be] somebody that kind of went all out with everything that they do, whether it's filmmaking or dancing. I just wanted to be able to push the culture forward to be able to uplift our people to new heights and new grounds.”

Native Performing Arts Fellowship

2025 Native Performing Arts Fellow Isabella Madrigal (Cahuilla Band of Indians of Turtle Mountain Chippewa descent). Isabella started her career in acting and screenwriting when she was young and she attended a performing arts high school to deepen her artistic commitment. She acted, wrote, and co-directed her first play, “Menil and Her Heart,” when she was 16. The play focuses on Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two Spirit People (MMIWG2S). She found inspiration at home with family through songs and language revitalization, such as her father, Luke Madrigal's, work with Cahuilla bird songs. She was also influenced by working with other Indigenous organizations, artists, and activists, such as her mentor, Abigail Hawk, who co-authored a 2018 report addressing the data crisis of MMIWG2S. Isabella continued to focus on film through her studies at Harvard College, where she won the prestigious Harvard Hoopes Thesis Prize for her screenplay, “Menil and Her Heart.”

“Aside from the native representation, I wanted to go back to our ways of knowing and our stories and see what kind of wisdom could be applied to contemporary situations…And in going back to the stories, I saw a wisdom and a connection to the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous peoples.”

Bridging the aspects of Indigenous storytelling and film-making, Isabella and her sister Sophia are the Co-Directors of the Luke Madrigal Indigenous Storytelling Nonprofit, named after their father, who passed in 2020, which produces and creates films, theater performances, and art workshops dedicated to uplifting Indigenous voices. Recently, Isabella was a 2023-2024 filmmaking recipient of the Center for Cultural Power’s Culture Bearer Award. 

Going forward, Isabella will be training and continuing her coaching in acting while also working with her sister to lead workshops and support Indigenous film creators. 

“At the heart of a lot of what I do is rooting the understanding that Indigenous cultural knowledge systems and oral traditions and artistic expressions are essential to the wellbeing of Indigenous communities. So I believe that stories are medicine, and our culture is medicine.”

With First Peoples Fund's support, Kenneth Shirley and Isabella Madrigal are advancing their artistic careers and fostering a greater sense of community and cultural pride for the younger generation of Indigenous dancers and filmmakers. Their dedication to blending traditional dances and stories in theatre and film demonstrates the power of Indigenous artistry in shaping the future of arts and culture. As they continue to develop their careers, Kenneth Shirley and Isabella Madrigal stand as pillars in their communities to share the stage and cultural knowledge as medicine for people across the nations.