Post by blackcrowheart on Aug 1, 2006 10:57:49 GMT -5
Abenaki artisans stepping into the sun
Written by Jedd Kettler
Thursday, 27 July 2006
Jessie larocque pounds black ash strips for an Abenaki basket.
Weaving a basket is not something you typically think of as a criminal or political act. And that’s not quite how artisans like Jesse Larocque meant it to be taken either.
Until recently, however, that is exactly what Larocque and a handful of other traditional Abenaki artisans were doing, at least according to the letter the federal Indian Arts and Crafts Act of 1990.
Larocque, of West Danville, has been selling his black ash baskets for years and labeling them as Abenaki-made — including working the claim into his two-year-old website’s address, www.abenakibaskets.com — all in open defiance of federal law, in a state that until recently did not acknowledge his cultural existence.
While Larocque is known in the Abenaki community for taking strong stands on the treatment and rights of Abenaki over the years, he said the decision to label his work was was not meant as an overtly political statement.
“I (was) just being honest. It was more truthful than hiding,” Larocque said. “I’m not a political animal. I believe in standing up for what’s right.”
From criminal to legal
Still, without federal or state recognition, labeling arts and crafts as Native-made is a crime punishable by fines of up $250,000 or five years in prison, or both, for a first time violation. The law is meant as a truth-in-advertising law to protect American Indian artisans from those making false claims. For Vermont’s Abenaki, it had a different effect.
Two examples of Abenaki baskets made by Jessie Laroque.
That changed in May 2006 when state recognition was signed into law. Despite the significance of that act, though, little has changed for Larocque and fellow Abenaki artisans like Jeanne Brink and Aaron York. They continue to weave their baskets and build birch-bark canoes and chip-carved boxes and label them with their names and their heritage, just as they have for years.
While these three are but a trio of Abenaki artisans keeping these traditions alive and teaching others, there are many more than when any of them started learning their crafts. They all said they hope to educate other Abenaki and continue making these traditions, a basic part of their shared heritage, even more accessible.
Larocque estimates there are only about 10 Abenaki basketmakers in Vermont right now, and about 30 basketweavers. Larocque’s distinction speaks to not only the beauty of the final product, but to the connection the artisan has with the source of raw material.
Strong connections
A basketmaker, according to Larocque, begins in the woods, finding and cutting down the right tree, pounding out the slats and strips that are later woven into a basket.
York and Brink also work this way, gathering their own raw materials, and York said it is essential to what makes Abenaki and Native art unique within the art world. It’s also important for Abenaki to understand their cultural tradition, York said.
For York, learning the high art of birch bark canoe building and chip-carving, and starting each piece by going into the woods at the right time of year, and selecting the right tree to work from, has been a window into the ancestral heritage many Abenaki are working to revive.
“I learned more about what it mean to be Wabanaki (by building canoes) ... Nothing (else) has ever taught me about what our ancestors had to go through to make a living,” York said. If he missed the July bark peeling season, York would not have the materials he needs to make a living the coming year. “I suddenly have this connection to the seasons. That’s a step back into an ancient law ... That’s a very visceral tie to our native (culture).”
Abenaki artisan Aaron York with one of the canoes he creates.
Even as Europeans came, for generations Abenakis continued to live according to the seasonal round, turning tracking and guiding into marketable trades. Eventually the changes brought by the new inhabitants left a dark mark on that connection to the past, though.
“It changed a lot after Europeans came,” York said.
Still, many traditions do survive, however challenging it may be to keep them alive or to revive them initially.
For Brink, whose grandmother and great-grandmother sold handmade black ash and sweetgrass baskets along the shore of Lake Champlain until 1959, the family connection did not make it any easier to learn the trade.
“It skipped my mother’s generation,” she said, explaining that her grandparents wanted their children “to blend into main society.” In her 40s, though, Brink began to pursue her family tradition.
“I decided I didn’t want it to die out in our family,” she said.
Still there was no one to learn from. She turned to her relatives in Odanak, Quebec, beginning a two-year apprenticeship with master basketmarker Sophie Nolett, who was 82 at the time.
Brink was lucky to have such a connection. Both York and Larocque found themselves gleaning what they could from others to learn the basics of their arts, but much of their learning was trial and error.
“About 16 years ago, I wanted to get an ash pack basket,” Larocque remembered. “But I decided they were too expensive.”
He approached late Missisquoi Abenaki Chief Homer St. Francis and Tribal Judge Michael Delaney for advice. “They gave me some vague instructions.”
Larocque’s first attempt began by cutting down an ash tree and trying to pound out the slats to weave into a basket. It didn’t get quite that far, though.
“It shattered when I pounded it,” he recalled. Larocque had cut down the wrong kind of ash and learned the first of many lessons. He returned to his elders for more advice. “They smiled and they said, ‘Just don’t give up and you’ll be fine.’”
He has come a long way in those 16 years.
York said it took him about 15 canoes before he felt confident in his work, and like Larocque, said he is continuing to learn and perfect his art.
York too, learned largely by trial and error, since his first attempt in 2000. “Which was really kind of a disaster. But it did float,” York said. Today his canoes and other items are intricately carved and recognized as premier items, showing in museums and in respected Native arts publications.
Bridging past, present & future
Ensuring that other Abenaki have the opportunity, and are able to pursue the important goal of seeking out their heritage and culture, is as important to York, Larocque and Brink as the work itself.
For Larocque, there are both economic and cultural reasons for this. He said teaching others the arts only strengthens the Abenaki community as a whole.
“One: It’s a skill. Two: It’s a form of employment,” Larocque said.
The future strength and prosperity of Vermont’s Abenaki communities depends on the examples set by artisans showing pride and skill in the traditions but also by family and friends in everyday life, Larocque said.
“People learn by watching others. That’s the way it’s always been,” Larocque said. “If you’re watching a relative making baskets ... they learn that they too can have the respect of their community by working hard.”
For Abenaki artisan Aaron York, the Abenaki arts are a bridge back to a culture and a pride that many Abenaki have become separated from over time. The Abenaki are a distinct culture, but the lines between various native cultures too often gets blurred, he said.
“The dangerous thing is that people have no concept of who we are,” York said. When he sees someone making Abenaki baskets or traditional chip-carving, “I say, okay, this person has some sense of where they come from ... That is one of the things that we really are lacking now.”
“I’m Abenaki. What does that mean? That’s a wonderful possibility, to be able to ask that question,” York said.
www.thecountycourier.com/index.php?option=content&task=view&id=3179&Itemid
Written by Jedd Kettler
Thursday, 27 July 2006
Jessie larocque pounds black ash strips for an Abenaki basket.
Weaving a basket is not something you typically think of as a criminal or political act. And that’s not quite how artisans like Jesse Larocque meant it to be taken either.
Until recently, however, that is exactly what Larocque and a handful of other traditional Abenaki artisans were doing, at least according to the letter the federal Indian Arts and Crafts Act of 1990.
Larocque, of West Danville, has been selling his black ash baskets for years and labeling them as Abenaki-made — including working the claim into his two-year-old website’s address, www.abenakibaskets.com — all in open defiance of federal law, in a state that until recently did not acknowledge his cultural existence.
While Larocque is known in the Abenaki community for taking strong stands on the treatment and rights of Abenaki over the years, he said the decision to label his work was was not meant as an overtly political statement.
“I (was) just being honest. It was more truthful than hiding,” Larocque said. “I’m not a political animal. I believe in standing up for what’s right.”
From criminal to legal
Still, without federal or state recognition, labeling arts and crafts as Native-made is a crime punishable by fines of up $250,000 or five years in prison, or both, for a first time violation. The law is meant as a truth-in-advertising law to protect American Indian artisans from those making false claims. For Vermont’s Abenaki, it had a different effect.
Two examples of Abenaki baskets made by Jessie Laroque.
That changed in May 2006 when state recognition was signed into law. Despite the significance of that act, though, little has changed for Larocque and fellow Abenaki artisans like Jeanne Brink and Aaron York. They continue to weave their baskets and build birch-bark canoes and chip-carved boxes and label them with their names and their heritage, just as they have for years.
While these three are but a trio of Abenaki artisans keeping these traditions alive and teaching others, there are many more than when any of them started learning their crafts. They all said they hope to educate other Abenaki and continue making these traditions, a basic part of their shared heritage, even more accessible.
Larocque estimates there are only about 10 Abenaki basketmakers in Vermont right now, and about 30 basketweavers. Larocque’s distinction speaks to not only the beauty of the final product, but to the connection the artisan has with the source of raw material.
Strong connections
A basketmaker, according to Larocque, begins in the woods, finding and cutting down the right tree, pounding out the slats and strips that are later woven into a basket.
York and Brink also work this way, gathering their own raw materials, and York said it is essential to what makes Abenaki and Native art unique within the art world. It’s also important for Abenaki to understand their cultural tradition, York said.
For York, learning the high art of birch bark canoe building and chip-carving, and starting each piece by going into the woods at the right time of year, and selecting the right tree to work from, has been a window into the ancestral heritage many Abenaki are working to revive.
“I learned more about what it mean to be Wabanaki (by building canoes) ... Nothing (else) has ever taught me about what our ancestors had to go through to make a living,” York said. If he missed the July bark peeling season, York would not have the materials he needs to make a living the coming year. “I suddenly have this connection to the seasons. That’s a step back into an ancient law ... That’s a very visceral tie to our native (culture).”
Abenaki artisan Aaron York with one of the canoes he creates.
Even as Europeans came, for generations Abenakis continued to live according to the seasonal round, turning tracking and guiding into marketable trades. Eventually the changes brought by the new inhabitants left a dark mark on that connection to the past, though.
“It changed a lot after Europeans came,” York said.
Still, many traditions do survive, however challenging it may be to keep them alive or to revive them initially.
For Brink, whose grandmother and great-grandmother sold handmade black ash and sweetgrass baskets along the shore of Lake Champlain until 1959, the family connection did not make it any easier to learn the trade.
“It skipped my mother’s generation,” she said, explaining that her grandparents wanted their children “to blend into main society.” In her 40s, though, Brink began to pursue her family tradition.
“I decided I didn’t want it to die out in our family,” she said.
Still there was no one to learn from. She turned to her relatives in Odanak, Quebec, beginning a two-year apprenticeship with master basketmarker Sophie Nolett, who was 82 at the time.
Brink was lucky to have such a connection. Both York and Larocque found themselves gleaning what they could from others to learn the basics of their arts, but much of their learning was trial and error.
“About 16 years ago, I wanted to get an ash pack basket,” Larocque remembered. “But I decided they were too expensive.”
He approached late Missisquoi Abenaki Chief Homer St. Francis and Tribal Judge Michael Delaney for advice. “They gave me some vague instructions.”
Larocque’s first attempt began by cutting down an ash tree and trying to pound out the slats to weave into a basket. It didn’t get quite that far, though.
“It shattered when I pounded it,” he recalled. Larocque had cut down the wrong kind of ash and learned the first of many lessons. He returned to his elders for more advice. “They smiled and they said, ‘Just don’t give up and you’ll be fine.’”
He has come a long way in those 16 years.
York said it took him about 15 canoes before he felt confident in his work, and like Larocque, said he is continuing to learn and perfect his art.
York too, learned largely by trial and error, since his first attempt in 2000. “Which was really kind of a disaster. But it did float,” York said. Today his canoes and other items are intricately carved and recognized as premier items, showing in museums and in respected Native arts publications.
Bridging past, present & future
Ensuring that other Abenaki have the opportunity, and are able to pursue the important goal of seeking out their heritage and culture, is as important to York, Larocque and Brink as the work itself.
For Larocque, there are both economic and cultural reasons for this. He said teaching others the arts only strengthens the Abenaki community as a whole.
“One: It’s a skill. Two: It’s a form of employment,” Larocque said.
The future strength and prosperity of Vermont’s Abenaki communities depends on the examples set by artisans showing pride and skill in the traditions but also by family and friends in everyday life, Larocque said.
“People learn by watching others. That’s the way it’s always been,” Larocque said. “If you’re watching a relative making baskets ... they learn that they too can have the respect of their community by working hard.”
For Abenaki artisan Aaron York, the Abenaki arts are a bridge back to a culture and a pride that many Abenaki have become separated from over time. The Abenaki are a distinct culture, but the lines between various native cultures too often gets blurred, he said.
“The dangerous thing is that people have no concept of who we are,” York said. When he sees someone making Abenaki baskets or traditional chip-carving, “I say, okay, this person has some sense of where they come from ... That is one of the things that we really are lacking now.”
“I’m Abenaki. What does that mean? That’s a wonderful possibility, to be able to ask that question,” York said.
www.thecountycourier.com/index.php?option=content&task=view&id=3179&Itemid