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Drum in hand, Sondra Simone Segundo (Haida) begins movement at the front of the classroom. The eager students are ready to learn a strict art form to create illustrations, as her people have done for thousands of years. Sondra sings in her Native language — songs passed down to her, and songs she has written for this and the next generation. She tells the students where she comes from: the Double Fin Killer Whale Crest, Raven Clan, and Brown Bear House.

Drum. Movement. Illustrations. Songs. Words. They all tell Sondra’s story.

These elements blend in her books. Killer Whale Eyes is a story from an inherited gift of imagination, but also from a tale passed down through 500 years of family history. As a contemporary Native, Sondra creates her own stories from ones passed down to her. In this way, she keeps the ancient way of storytelling alive. New songs, new stories. An old tradition.

With the support of First Peoples Fund, Sondra published another book, Northwest Coast Native: Formline Art Made Easy, to teach the art form of her Haida people. Formline is a highly intelligent system of interlocking shapes that create lines to define a subject, such as raven, bear, wolf. Northwest Coast Native people have practiced formline art for over 3,000 years to design, carve, paint.

This form is seen in works closest to Sondra’s heart, and in her illustrated books. Lovebirds: The Story of Raven and Eagle is based on her Haida grandparents’ lives. After 53 years of marriage, they passed on the same day in July 2000 of natural causes.

In the classroom, Sondra puts aside the drum to work with the students as they draw their first Haida designs. Her step-by-step teaching process makes every child feel successful and proud of his or her work.

Jeanne Jimenez, Haida elder and language specialist, calls Sondra “galaga,” a Haida word meaning “does a lot of good things.” And that is Sondra’s story.

“Haw’aa kuníisiis.

Thank you ancestors.

Díi kíl daguyáagang.

My voice is strong.

Hl t’asdla dagwçíihlda íitl’aa ñugíins.

I will work hard and finish our songs.”

~ Sondra Simone Segundo

At the National Museum of the American Indian, Karis Jackson (Crow/Hidatsa/Arikara) browses the collections as part of a Crow delegation for the Recovering Voices program. The pieces created by her ancestors come alive with color and designs. She studies the traditional ways of their work. Then it happens — her heart and soul are touched when she has a vision for her next piece.

Some call it art. Karis calls it a labor of love.

At 10 years old, Karis sat at the kitchen table with her grandmother, who cut baby moccasins from buckskin. Her grandmother let Karis pick out the beads she wanted, and then they worked side-by-side. Her grandmother would lean over and answer questions, give Karis instruction or a quiet, “Yes, you do it like that.” Her grandmother taught for hours. Not only beading, but life lessons through stories.

Her grandmother is the one Karis talks to each day for the guidance she needs in beading. Her grandmother cautions Karis not to overdo her designs, but she also gives Karis permission to follow her own inspiration.

Though Karis’ style is more contemporary, she puts things together in traditional ways. She brings her own artistry to it. Each piece is one of a kind.

Some call it art. Karis’ grandmother doesn’t call herself an artist.

Karis never considered herself an artist either, yet she’s learned through First Peoples Fund of the opportunity to provide financially for her family as her beadwork is recognized as art. At the Heard Museum Guild Indian Fair and Market, two of her pieces took home first-place division awards.

Karis still beads for family, too. Her two young daughters dance, and she makes their regalia. Her oldest has expressed interest in beading. They might sit down this summer and work on something side-by-side.

Some call it art. Perhaps it can be called an art of love.

By Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer, Artist in Business Leadership Fellow 2015

David A. Boxley (Alaskan Tsimshian) studies the old pieces. He listens to the passionate voices of the old masters. Create us again. Use us again. Celebrate us again.

He emulates these old masters as he carves, designs, sings and dances for the preservation of their ancestral teachings and cultural practices. He learned the language of his people from his grandfather who raised him. As a father to his own children, David tries hard to follow his grandfather’s example.

He works with his sons in the art of the masters, in celebrating their life-ways through the performance group he founded, Git Hoan Dancers (People of the Salmon). David writes songs in his Native language, and the group creates their own performance props — carved masks, rattles and paddles. Young people bring these pieces to life through dance. They have performed throughout the United States, Canada and Europe, sharing the rich culture of the Tsimshian.

David carves in the old Tsimshian style. The totem poles he’s created are found at the National Museum of the American Indian, Walt Disney World, and Knott's Berry Farm, among other places. There are more than a dozen of his poles in his home village, the place where revitalization of culture begins. David’s pieces — bentwood boxes, rattles, masks, prints and panels — are in collections of the king and queen of Sweden, the emperor of Japan, the president of West Germany, the mayor of Chongging (China), and Microsoft. The House Front (The Man Who Held Up the Earth) at the Sealaska Heritage Institute in Juneau, Alaska, is a major permanent exhibit that works to educate and share the Tsimshian culture.

Most of all, David lives the culture. Young people follow along. They celebrate together. He teaches youth to emulate the masters as he has done. To not fear putting their work in galleries, shows, exhibitions, and on the Internet. They should not be afraid to create, use, and celebrate.

David A. Boxley is a 2013 & 2016 Cultural Capital Fellow and a 2012 Community Spirit AwardHonoree. Read more about his FPF journey here.

A drum song leads the way, the drum carried and played by youths. Wayne Valliere (Lac du Flambeau Chippewa) follows, one hand gripping the birchbark canoe. But he doesn’t carry it alone. Nine adults and youths help carry the canoe, their hands touching it like a thousand other hands had when Wayne led the construction of the traditional Anishinaabe birchbark canoe.  

The group carries the canoe from the Lake Lac du Flambeau Public School through the sunshine to the shores of Lake Pokegama. Wayne had brought the canoe home from the University of Wisconsin-Madison campus to northern Wisconsin, where its materials had been harvested. The Wiigwaasi-Jiimaan: These Canoes Carry Culture project was designed to teach Wayne’s culture to students.

An elder told Wayne that their people are not losing the birch trees. The birch trees are losing them. So Wayne works to build canoes the way his ancestors did.

But he and his brother have developed techniques to make a stronger canoe, just as Wayne works to build a stronger generation. The Anishinaabe are an innovative people. If his ancestors had a chainsaw to cut down a tree, they would have used that. If they had a chance for a college education, they would have done that. They may no longer work with stone tools, but they are still Anishinaabe. The canoes Wayne builds are built with the hands of a Native.

They arrive on the shores of Lake Pokegama, where all of Wayne’s canoes find their way to, a lake his people have launched into for generations before him, and will for generations after him. He launches the canoe for this generation. These students carry culture.

This is why Wayne teaches birchbark canoe building to young tribal members and why he apprentices young adults who are strong enough to carry on the tradition. He doesn’t know how many canoes he has left in him, but his knowledge is secure in the next generation.

David Bernie (Yankton Sioux — Ihanktonwan Dakota) sits quietly in the noisy coffee shop while motion flows around him — the rhythm of the patrons, the sounds of good hip hop, the sights of life being lived by everyday people. This is part of his inspiration, the chance to watch and feel how he can impact the world with his art. Art comes from personal experiences and the collective lives of those in his community.

David ventures from the independent coffee shop, out to find the creative space he needs. Out in the wilds of the streets, he searches for stories behind the imagery. Story is what connects people to David as the artist.

On the streets, in his backyard or in the studio, David finds inspiration that breeds his thoughts. From thoughts spring the visuals he brings to life.

A while back, David met a man out of gas in the parking lot of a stale-blue store. David himself was broke down. The man entertained him with a guitar and stories and five little dogs. The man was stuck fifty miles from where he needed to be. No phone. No one to call if he did have one, but he managed to raise David’s spirits. David bought him a full tank of gas. When he offered to pay it back someday, David told him to pay it forward. David’s reward was more inspiration for his art.

David’s art addresses the relationship between historical and contemporary issues of his people. He lives and breathes Native identity. It is time to dispel ignorance and stereotypes. It is his time.

In the end, David hopes each piece he’s created will have its own identity, that it will not be solely about the one who created it. That others will be inspired.

On a dark stage, flood waters are projected over Rosy Simas Guthrie (Seneca) and over her simple white prairie dress, a dress like her grandmother wore in boarding school. The floods meet a crinkled screen behind Rosy. Her shadow moves with it. She dances in her grandmother’s time and now. She moves with the images, the sensations, the memories. Voices echo Seneca words. Quadraphonic sounds of the land and water recorded in the area around the New York reservation fill the air.

Her grandmother’s letters are read. They are filled with humor, wisdom, and how the grandmother committed to hold on to her identity as a Seneca woman.

Every sound, every sight, every movement in We Wait in Darkness is healing.

Emotion is heavy beneath Rosy’s skin, but it never overtakes her. She is passionate in her approach to bring her people and her history together through dance. She transforms small movements or complete stillness into a captivating story.

This dance is a personal artwork of loss, family, perseverance and home. Rosy spent time researching more about Seneca culture and its matrilineal society, and unraveled her grandmother’s heartbreaking story. Rosy traveled to the New York reservation to speak with elders, to trace generational scars, to find what she needed to bring back for healing.

Rosy’s work is not to educate non-Natives about Native culture. It is to encourage the audience — no matter their race — to see Native people in a contemporary light and as a vital part of 21st century American art. Her choreographies express cultural and historical truths.

Dance is a way to translate Rosy’s stories into a form that draws out the memories deep inside everyone. It goes beyond watching a performance. The audience experiences a story, both Rosy’s and their own.

Rosy brings out a map of Seneca lands. She tears it up and passes the pieces around. It’s time to heal.

By Lori Pourier, President of First Peoples Fund

When Pat Courtney Gold (Wasco/Wishram) nominated Bud Lane III (Siletz) for the Community Spirit Award in 2009, she described him as a person who “honors the Creator in many ways; the medicine plants, basketry plants, the Siletz people and for all life.” Pat, herself an internationally known fiber artist, basket weaver and 2004 CSA honoree, understands the true meaning of community spirit. She understood that Bud — who was selected for the CSA and later became a member of the FPF board of directors — embodies that true meaning.

During a recent board meeting, we visited the Siletz Tribe on the Oregon coast, and First Peoples Fund staff and board members learned first-hand what drives Bud, in his role as a father, culture bearer, language teacher and tribal leader. Bud began our day by grounding us in prayer in the Siletz language. He surrounded us with a table full of beautiful baskets he had woven. In addition to spending the past 30 years restoring Siletz basketry, regalia and dances, Bud is committed to teaching Siletz language. The depth of his commitment to teaching other tribal members quickly became apparent when we learned he would be driving four hours round-trip to teach language lessons after our first full day of meeting.

Bud also shared a slideshow demonstrating the history of the Siletz tribe and 50 other tribes who by 1854 were forced to relocate along the Oregon coast and near present day Lincoln City. In that slideshow, we saw the roots of Bud’s own tenacity. We learned of the old people who fought to hold on to their ways after the signing of The Rogue River Treaty of 1862. The treaty guaranteed the tribes nearly 1 million acres of uninhabited timberland and coastal shoreline. Just 20 years later, most of the land would be taken illegally, first by executive order then by an act of Congress. The Dawes Act of 1887 would further divide remaining tribal land into individual allotments. By 1954 the Siletz tribe was terminated, meaning they lost their federal recognition, eliminating any trust responsibility held by the United States government. The Siletz tribe would not regain federal recognition until 1977 following a long struggle.  The Confederated Tribes of Siletz Indians was only restored 3,600 acres of their original treaty lands. Hopeful Bud said, “It’s not 1 million, but it’s a start.”  

Following our board meeting, we accompanied Bud to the community center where their tribal archives hold more than 300 baskets and other ancestral items that found their way home. “To see our people making and proudly wearing ceremonial caps and work caps, carrying our children and grandchildren in our baby baskets, wearing bark capes and dresses, using traditional mats, and cooking and eating from baskets to me is preserving the very core of our collective tribal existence,” Bud said.  

As Bud held each basket with pride, I reflected on Pat Courtney Gold’s words, “He honors the Creator in so many ways.”  

Our day ended in the traditionally built dance house around a fire listening to Bud drum and sing the songs of the Siletz tribal ancestors. All of us left that day renewed in the collective spirit. As we parted ways Bud may not have known it but he left an unforgettable impression on each of us. And, as our family of Community Spirit honorees grows (nearly 100 this year) we are reminded of our responsibility to uphold our values and stay on our path. We at First Peoples Fund are fully committed to our three-year strategic directions: Investing in our own Collective Spirit® to adapt and grow for our future generations.

It’s time to go home. But where is that? Chris Pappan (Kaw) is from Flagstaff, Ariz. Now he lives in Chicago. But home for him is also Kansas, the ancestral homelands of his people, the people of the south wind.

Chris sees his culture in the ledger art of the past, a distinct form of historical prison art those before him created to tell the world about their home, their people, their ways. His ways. But the art is evolving, growing, connecting the world.

In the 1870s the Fort Marion prisoners — made up of Cheyenne, Kiowa, Comanche, Arapaho and Caddo warriors — became prolific ledger artists. Like them, Chris can take anything he has and turn it into art. He sees his style in theirs, connecting him to the past as he lives in the present and moves forward into the future. The future for him is a learning process of finding his way back home.

Kansas derives its name from the Kanza, or Kaw, people. In popular culture, Kansas is known as “no place like home.” Chris sees this from a different perspective, a much older one than the Wizard of Oz.

But Chris’ ledger art — the distorted images and displaced people spread across old maps — takes his home around the world. His art has brought invitations from places like the Kansas Historical Society, and Rainmaker Gallery in Bristol, UK.

Hillary Kempenich (Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa) stares at her current work. The set of eyes tells a story she’s told before. A story 20 years old, when she was a student at the Turtle Mountain Community High School. The story of a Native youth stepping from pain into the light of hope. Here’s the story again, on the canvas of her newest work as she prepares for the Indigenous Fine Arts Market in Santa Fe, N.M. This opportunity fulfills a dream. But first, Hillary travels back to the past.

She rushes down the stairs to her basement and rummages around until she finds it. With gentle hands, tender heart, and moist eyes, Hillary unrolls the dusty painting. She takes it to her studio to examine and is amazed by the similar composition of her very first painting to her present one. History overcomes her, a past that is her own.

Hillary’s school had been preparing for a collective art show, when her aunt Janelle tragically lost her life. As a teen, Hillary walked into the school’s art studio and began to truly paint. She didn’t emerge to herself until she’d completed From Their Eyes. Though haphazard like her grief, it expressed a story.

From Their Eyes, 2015

That’s when she became a storyteller without words.

Like then, Hillary gives voice to Native youth and to herself. Her artwork has been selected to represent the 2016 National Indian Child Welfare Association’s annual conference. Her prayer is for strength and healing. She breathes life into those prayers through her art. With each stroke, she is an advocate, a protector, a storyteller.

Hillary’s aunt left her with a smile and a story. She tells her story with a paintbrush.

Soon, Hillary heads to Santa Fe with her new work, the set of eyes telling a story she’s told before.

Her aunt would be proud.

There is a story that needs to be told about the history of the writing of the United States Constitution, and Native artist Mark Fischer (Oneida) says he is willing to tell it. Fischer, a blacksmith from Wisconsin who learned the trade as a child from his grandfather, has toured the country with a life-size copper bison sculpture he created to draw attention to the importance of the bison in American history, and the role of Native people in the writing of The Great Law, or Everlasting Tree of Peace.

The name of the bison, "Ancient Dignity," is a symbol of pride for the animal itself and The Great Law, which Fischer says was written by Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) women, as a set of laws for how to govern Native society and was the basis of the U.S. Constitution. The bison is also the national mammal of the United States.

The federal government admitted in 1991 that The Great Law was the basis of the U.S. Constitution, he said. The document is the backbone of American democracy and it is significant that Native people helped create it. "It should be important to everybody," he said.

"It's the laws of our freedoms. Native Americans did great things to make this country great because of the laws we lived by."

The 1200-pound bison, which took 1800 hours of hammering, cutting, welding and forming copper, stands at 5 feet, 6 inches tall. The bison is made of copper, a nod to the copper culture of Northern Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

An I-beam inside the piece honors the Iroquois ironworkers who built the New York City skyscrapers. "We built that great city," Fischer said. "We were the steel workers. It's important to remember, and honor, history and the people. When I told the elders I did that, they cried."

The piece also features a medicine wheel, which means good will to all. A lightning symbol on the rear leg means grandfather, which Native tradition says brings the rain. The bison also includes a description of the Oneida Tree of Peace on the wampum belt around the sculpture.

The project took Fischer a year to complete, with him oftentimes times working seven days a week. "I was on a mission," he said.

Now, that mission is focused on educating. Before becoming a full-time artist, Fischer helped build the Indian Community School in Milwaukee, a state-accredited school where Native families could send their kids for culture, language and academics. Continuing to make sure Natives have access to education is still important, he said, and including non-Natives in the conversation about history is too.

"I've been touring around," he said, and the response to the piece has been overwhelming. Many children have been attracted to the piece at markets and fine art shows.

"Kids have hugged it, pet it and talked to it," he said. "And a lot of politicians come and want to stand by it. I took it to the reservation and it was just incredible. It was so beautiful."

Fischer said the project wouldn't have been possible without funding and support from First Peoples Fund through an Artist in Business Leadership Fellowship this year. "It's a great honor to be recognized by First Peoples Fund," he said.

He hopes the far-reaching message of "Ancient Dignity" will continue to move through the country. He plans to continue to feature the sculpture at art markets throughout the United States, and has been accepted into the art market next year at the Heard Museum in Phoenix, Arizona.

As a former educator, he hopes that Natives and non-Natives alike will appreciate the history and culture the surrounds the bison and The Great Law. It's not the Native way to draw attention, he said, so art is a great way to start important conversations.

"You don't see us marching in the streets," he said. "Sometimes we're silent, but I want to showcase this."

By Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer, Artist in Business Leadership Fellow 2015  

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This is it! Delores Churchill (Haida) claps her hands in joy at her latest discovery. Maidenhair fern grows along a small waterfall, where they sprut between the damp rocks. One side of the fern stem is black, the other brown.

But that isn’t all Delores came for. Leaving the crisp waves capping along the shores she has walked since childhood, collecting seagull eggs and fishing, Delores takes a group into the woods to dig for spruce roots. At 86-years-old, she teaches her students to carefully cover the remaining roots after gathering material to weave baskets, as her mother taught her.

Long ago, her mother looked at Delores’ daughter and said, “She won’t know who she is. Take her back to the village.”

Many young Natives have not hunted for maidenhair fern and, most important, roots. They do not know who they are. They are discouraged, defeated.

So Delores collects roots and weaves baskets while teaching young people how to do Haida weaving and about their own roots. She is publishing a book to document her knowledge of basketry.

Delores discovered another way to share this traditional art with the help of filmmaker Ellen Frankenstein. Ellen followed Delores on her journey of preserving a culture and heritage blown away by a cold wind each time a Haida elder passes on.

Through the film Tracing Roots, Delores’ story has traveled across the country with assistance from her First Peoples Fund award. The film sparks strong emotion and debates. The defeated attitudes of young people come from a lack of roots, of not going back to where they started. But clearly youth are inspired when Delores shows the film and Native students are reminded of what their culture and elders mean to their lives.

Delores travels beyond the place and time where she is and shares her adventurous heart with others. She keeps moving, back into the past or forward to future generations.

But Delores always digs up roots.

Delores Churchill is a 2002 Community Spirit Awards Honoree and a 2006 and 2015 Cultural Capital Fellow. Read more about her FPF journey here.

Mark Fischer (Oneida) watched dozens of people swarm around the copper bison. It took him 1,800 laborious hours to cut, hand-pound, form, weld, and grind the American buffalo sculpture Ancient Dignity II. After being honored in second place as Artist of the Year at the IACA Indian Market and Wholesale Show in Santa Fe, this moment seemed like the ultimate reward. With the faithful support of his family, friends, and First Peoples Fund, a dream had come true.

People show genuine interest in the hidden history this bison held for those willing to hear his story. Embellished around his waist is a Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) wampum belt that represents the Great Law of Peace. Mark tells visitors how the Iroquois wrote the law, and that it’s recognized as the basis for the U.S. Constitution.

Bolts of lightning with rain patterns flow down the bison’s hind legs to represent and honor the Grandfathers. A medicine wheel on the buffalo’s hips is a universal symbol of peaceful interaction among nations. Mark chose a steel I-beam for the armature in the chest, to honor the Iroquois iron-workers who built New York City. When Mark explains this to the elders, they cry.

Ancient Dignity II made introductions and sparked conversations. Not only did this 1,200-pound sculpture educate people about true history of Native Americans, it brought out an affection in visitors, who took their photos with him. Ancient Dignity brought people to tears.

Appreciation expressed to Mark by members of his tribe, community and strangers has been rewarding. Mark thought his heart could not be warmed more than this.

But at that art market in Santa Fe, a little Navajo boy — maybe 3-years old — walked up to Ancient Dignity II. He hugged the copper bison before kissing it on the nose and gently stroking his cheek. The little boy spoke to the bison in his native language.

Mark’s heart melted. This was a dream come true.