CHAPTER EIGH­TEEN

Lindsay Nixon

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Visual Cultures
of Indigenous Futurism

Indigenous Artists and the Dystopian Now

Armed with spirit and the teachings of our ancestors, all our relations b ­ ehind
us, we are living the Indigenous f­uture. We are the descendants of a f­uture
imaginary that has already passed; the outcome of the intentions, re­sis­tance,
and survivance of our ancestors. Si­mul­ta­neously in the f­ uture and the past,
we are living in the “dystopian now,” as Molly Swain of the podcast Métis in
Space has named it.1 Indigenous p ­ eoples are using our own technological
traditions—­our worldviews, our languages, our stories, and our kinship—as
guiding princi­ples in imagining pos­si­ble ­futures for ourselves and our com-
munities. As Erica Lee has described, “In knowing the histories of our rela-
tions and of this land, we find the knowledge to re­create all that our worlds
­would’ve been if not for the interruption of colonization.”2
Indigenous artists on Turtle Island have engaged with tropes of science
fiction in their artwork: alien figures straight out of Space Invaders, post­
apocalyptic landscapes that bear an eerie resemblance to con­temporary land-
scapes devastated by resource extraction, and unidentified flying objects that
mark first contact with otherworldly beings. Speculative visualities are used
to proj­ect Indigenous life into the ­future imaginary, subverting the death
imaginary ascribed to Indigenous bodies within settler colonial discourse.
As Andrea Smith has written, the death imaginary purports that Indigenous
­peoples must always be disappearing in order to legitimize settler occupa-
tion and the Canadian state.3 Settler art, in its imagining of Indigenous dis-
appearance, its repre­sen­ta­tion of the romanticized but d­ ying homogenized
Indigenous ­peoples of Turtle Island,4 offers a location for Indigenous artists
to contest colonial repre­sen­ta­tions in art with their own futuristic imagin-
ings and art practices—­art practices that weave together tradition and tech-
nology, fusing them together into a ­future pre­sent.
The ­future imaginary and its cata­logue of science fictive imageries affords
Indigenous artists a creative space to respond to the dystopian now, ground-
ing their survivance in contextual and relational practices. Indigenous artists
have no prob­lem portraying pos­si­ble undesirable ­futures wherein colonial

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cap­i­tal­ist greed has resulted in the subjugation of life within all creation,
­because ­these narratives are evocative of our known realities. We have real-
ized the apocalypse now, and we are living in a dystopian settler-­occupied
oligarchy fueled by resource extraction and environmental contamination,
completely alternative to our traditional ways of being and knowing.
Despite dystopic realities, the possibilities of love and kinship as surviv-
ance in the face of ecological disaster are a visceral narrative for Indigenous
­peoples. Indigenous ­women, and gender variant and sexually diverse In-
digenous ­peoples, have consistently employed kinship and love within their
communities in order to positively transform con­temporary colonial reali-
ties for their kin. Lou Cornum has considered the advanced technologies of
kinship that Indigenous ­peoples possess for intergalactic engagement, offer-
ing us the concept of kinship as technology: “The Indian in space seeks to
feel at home, to understand her perceived strangeness by asking: why ­can’t
indigenous ­peoples also proj­ect ourselves among the stars? Might our collec-
tive visions of the cosmos forge better relationships ­here on earth and in the
pre­sent than colonial visions of the final frontier?”5 My own cultural knowl-
edge of Cree-­Saulteaux-­Métis kinship6 grounds my analy­sis of Indigenous
artists who, in the face of misrepre­sen­ta­tion and erasure within settler art,
imagine and create themselves into being using speculative visualities—­a
body of work I have found particularly evocative and transformative to my
own imaginings of the Indigenous ­future.

Indigenous Technologies

In their depictions of the f­ uture imaginary, con­temporary Indigenous artists

on Turtle Island have tended ­toward a contextual ideology of survivance—as
Gerald Vizenor termed it—by using their philosophies of love and kinship
to give voice to re­sis­tance.7 In her work Islands of Decolonial Love Leanne
Simpson traces this decolonial ethic of love, each “island” a song or story ad-
dressing the complexity of interactions between animate beings in the con-
tact zone. Simpson is describing sâkihitowask (love medicine)8—or ­future
love—­a better, prosperous, and kinder f­ uture for all life within the galaxies.9

Visual Cultures of Indigenous Futurism 333

 Masculinist po­liti­cal and philosophical thinkers may deem love as too
emotional and embodied, feminine if you w ­ ill, and thereby outside the realm
of formal thought and action. In d ­ oing so, masculinist Indigenous thinkers
unwittingly uphold Western thought’s dichotomization of mind and body,
and its hierarchicalization of mind over body as reification of patriarchal
inequities associating the logical mind with masculinity, and the inferior

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and passive body with femininity.10 Marxists would perhaps argue against
corrupt forms of love they perceive as sentimental bourgeoisie platitudes,
like ­those described by Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, which situate love
as a biopo­liti­cal moment born from our capitalistic tendencies, and one that
is constrained by acts of obligation, to boot.11 Decolonial scholars too might
denounce love, mistakenly associating its ethic with neoliberal state-­led
and settler-­led attempts to reconcile relations with Indigenous p ­ eoples.12
I’m interested in what is lost in such analyses, namely a central focus on
Indigenous ways of being and knowing, like kinship, as well as the essential
roles of Indigenous ­women, and Indigenous gender variant and sexually
diverse ­peoples, in guiding our communities ­toward a truly emancipatory
­future.
I want to be careful ­here when teetering on the language of reconciliation,
as I know it’s a contentious one. I am not describing a politics of recogni-
tion led by settlers or by the state, but rather an ethical concept I experience
within all facets of Indigenous life: being through kinship. I am perplexed
by decolonial thought that hierarchically dichotomizes land work and re-
lational work, favoring decolonization scholarship over reconciliatory ac-
tion. Such rhe­toric tends t­ oward infantilizing t­ hose Indigenous p­ eoples who
exercise agency in their interactions with the state, including elders. While
decolonial scholars consistently give lip ser­vice to centering Indigenous
thought, they ultimately still envision Indigenous futurities as linked to
scholarly permissible conceptions of decolonization. What does this mean
when Indigenous p ­ eoples from within my own community d ­ on’t identify
with the exclusionary academic discourse of decolonization, and center the
language of reconciliation in their own attempts to heal community?
Like my kin before me, I would argue that the proj­ect of Indigenous sur-
vivance is nothing, is inanimate, without an ethics of love and kinship as a
­guiding princi­ple. True deliverance from settler colonial occupation finds its
foundation in Indigenous knowledges that understand land, love, and life as
one and the same. It was Patricia Monture-­Angus who described the concept
of “justice as healing,” which among many other princi­ples, values, and aspects

334 Lindsay Nixon

of care entails a recentering of w
­ omen within all po­liti­cal realms of Indigenous
community, and establishing meaningful external relations with settler com-
munities in harm reductive ways.13 I’m also reminded of Leanne S­ impson’s
evocation of Monture-­Angus in Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back, reinforcing
that “self-­determination and sovereignty begin at home,” and that h ­ ealing
our communities through cultural reawakening begins with how we treat

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ourselves, then spirals outward to our own communities, and extends even
further still—­outward into our relationships with external communities.14
It d
­ oesn’t surprise me that Indigenous w ­ omen like Erica Lee, Christi Bel-
court, Chelsea Vowel, and Maria Campbell are leading conversations around
reconciliation, ­because the language of reconciliation bears resemblance to
the language of kinship and, therefore, the relational work they already do
within community—an often invisibilized ­labor—is work based in restoring
relationships between one another that have been eroded by colonialism.
It is work that understands theory as conceptual and grounds itself in re-
ducing the harmful effects of colonial vio­lence on our bodies, minds, and
spirits. While Eve Tuck necessarily reminded us that decolonization is not
a meta­phor,15 the Indigenous ­peoples in my community also recognize the
dire need to support one another’s survivance, right ­here, right now. I’m
not interested in debating the correct usage of colonial terminologies that
we then describe through Eu­ro­pean and Euro-­American linguistics, which
limit our ability to describe Indigenous concepts and their complex mean-
ings. What does drive my work is our mutual survivance as a p ­ eople, and
the sâkihitowask necessary to heal our communities into the Indigenous
­future.
As someone who has consistently received teachings from nôhkomak
(grand­mothers) and nisikosak (aunties) around relationality and kinship, I
can see how the language of reconciliation parallels an ethic of love and kin-
ship. While I may prefer to call a po­liti­cal act of love decolonial love or even
a return to kinship, I also want to honor the truth of my kin who choose to
describe such work as reconciliation. In the midst of the dystopian now—an
apocalypse come to life for Indigenous ­peoples—we cannot wait for some
faraway time when the land has been returned to heal the embodied effects
of colonialism that are literally killing us e­ very day. We must liberate both
land and life by actively honoring our responsibilities to kinship in this mo-
ment, fostering good relations within all creation in our intentions and ac-
tions. Con­temporary Indigenous artists on Turtle Island speak t­ hese ideolo-
gies of kinship in their work, using its advanced technologies in conjunction

Visual Cultures of Indigenous Futurism 335

with speculative visual cultures to proj­ect their communities into the ­future
imaginary.

Visual Cultures of Indigenous Futurism

Access to art historical methodologies and museum studies within aca-

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demic art history departments has exposed me to the cultural life of my
relations both north and south of the medicine line, including some work
as old as 100 AD. However, as a Cree-­Saulteaux-­Métis person, I also recog-
nize the complexity of my relationship to archival and museum practices on
Turtle Island. I’m hesitant to call nonconsensually and invasively unearthed
cultural objects “artifacts” or “art,” descriptors allocated to them by settler
appropriators and grave robbers. To see the cultural objects of my ances-
tors displayed ­behind glass cases in sterile museums, void of the life and
meaning they held within community, feels like another facet of the death
imaginary ascribed to Indigenous communities within the arts. Neverthe-
less, access to the cultural objects of my ancestors has been visceral and has
afforded me repre­sen­ta­tions of Indigenous knowledges, experiences, stories,
and life unadulterated by the gaze of the settler acad­emy. As Sara Ahmed
would say, ­these are repre­sen­ta­tions ­free of translation by the “stranger.”16
Inuit art offers a particularly in­ter­est­ing location for the f­uture imagi-
nary ­because of the proximity to first contact moments with settler society.
For some Inuit, close encounters with an alien culture, outside of anything
within the worlds they have ever known, have happened within their life-
time. Inuit artists have depicted their early interactions with settlers in spec-
ulative ways using futuristic imaginative concepts: a ­future imagery in the
pre­sent. One jarring example is Ovilu Tunnillie’s green stone carving This
Has Touched My Life, a repre­sen­ta­tion of the artist’s experience of being re-
moved from her home and taken to an infirmary in the South, her first time
away from her home in the North. The nurses who are escorting Tunnillie
in the carving are wearing veiled hats but, in Tunnillie’s depiction, the hats
look like space helmets.
Pudlo Pudlat is often revered for being the first Inuk to feature Western
technology in his work; his lithograph Aeroplane even appeared on a Cana-
dian postage stamp. The irony, of course, is that the Baffin Island Inuk artist’s
usage of speculative visualities actually critically engages with destructive
colonial technologies rather than condoning them. In Pudlat’s lithograph
Imposed Migration, he depicts an otherworldly flying object: a UFO, if you
w
­ ill. The UFO is cabled to a variety of northern animals: a walrus, a bear,

336 Lindsay Nixon

and a buffalo, and is lifting them off the ground, transplanting them to new
territories. The absurdity is transparent. To remove kin from their home terri-
tories is to separate them from their context, to remove their very essence and
connection to the land. ­Here Pudlat openly denounces the colonial proj­ect of
forced removal and migration inflicted on Inuit communities in the North.
Ligwilda’xw Kwakwaka’wakw artist Sonny Assu has also engaged with

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diasporic Indigenous identities using tropes of futurity. In his series Inter-
ventions on the Imaginary, Assu adds digitally created alien-­like figures to
settler depictions of Indigenous p ­ eoples at early contact. In d­ oing so, Assu
reappropriates the visuals of the settler art he has selected, contesting the
romanticized and orientalized repre­sen­ta­tion of Indigenous p ­ eoples as what
some have called “the imaginary Indian” of the colonial art period.17 They’re
Coming! Quick! I have a better hiding place for you. Dorvan V, you’ll love it
depicts an alien force entering a precolonial Indigenous community, as if to
remove or exile the Indigenous population, beaming them up into an other-
worldly “space invader” object. Assu depicts Indigenous p ­ eoples in migra-
tion, within a so-­called Fourth World, living in diasporas within their own
territories. Th
­ ese figures have been forced off of their home territories, their
bodies propelled through occupied space by an alien force, whose gaze they
attempt to hide from.
Within the artworks discussed, Assu, Pudlat, and Tunnillie all deal with
themes of displacement, relating t­hese experiences to dislocation from kin
and kinship. At the center of ­these removals from community and disrup-
tions of Indigenous ways of life is a distrust of the ominous alien force that
seeks to e­ ither abduct or annihilate them. Rather than the otherworldly
aliens from space depicted in the artwork, the artists are exposing their ex-
periences of the settler-­colonial proj­ect that seeks to displace and remove
them from the land. This dislocation from their communities, from kinship
ways, is a fracture to their very identities as Indigenous p ­ eoples. Dystopian
science fictive ­futures are reconciled by love and kinship, and Indigenous
­futures become a location for survivance through self-­representation. Art is
both the means to proj­ect Indigenous life into the stars and the space canoe
we use to paddle through t­ hese i­ magined galaxies, and a medicinal practice,
healing our spirits, minds, and bodies as we move into pos­si­ble f­ utures.
Erin Marie Konsmo explores expressions of kinship and the dystopian
now in several of her works. While I’m crediting Konsmo for her work,
Konsmo herself has been hesitant to describe her work using individualistic
pronouns, viewing her art as coming from community rather than solely
from herself. Art is a part of all Indigenous life and art practice should, too,

Visual Cultures of Indigenous Futurism 337

be based in princi­ples of kinship. In 2016 I had the opportunity to attend the
vernissage for Dayna Danger’s and Cecilia Kavara Verran’s exhibit Disrupt Ar-
chive, curated by Heather Igloliorte at La Centrale Galerie Power­house in Mon-
treal. During the artist talk, Igloliorte noted that it is often claimed Indigenous
languages ­don’t have a word for art. The nehiyaw language, for instance, does
not have a word that translates exactly into En­glish as “art” or “artist.” Instead,

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as Igloliorte explained to the audience, “art” is a part of every­thing we do in
community, a part of all language, and cannot be reduced to a singular concept.
Konsmo’s artwork Discovery Is Toxic: Indigenous W ­ omen on the Front-
line of Environmental and Reproductive Justice depicts an Indigenous figure
scaled to fit into the landscape, as if the figure ­were itself a part of the land.
Indigenous bodies are interrupted by settler colonial occupation, ships that
bring with them a toxic commerce and colonizing religion—­what the Na-
tive Youth Sexual Health Network has called environmental vio­lence.18 A gas
mask hangs from around the figure’s neck, because settler occupation is un-
natural and has resulted in the subjugation of all Indigenous life, including
land. The result is a postapocalyptic environmental wasteland made of our
territories and the embodied complexities of ecological warfare, including
within the reproductive life of our communities. As the title suggests, it is
kinship that f­rees the land and our bodies from the dystopian now. Indig-
enous ­women, and sexually diverse and gender variant Indigenous p ­ eoples,
are resituating themselves as leaders of community, resisting settler colonial
occupation and environmental vio­lence, and resisting occupation on the
land through kinship and love.
Con­temporary Indigenous artists on Turtle Island convey kinship in
their artworks to envisage survivance outside of cissexist and heteronorma-
tive relations. Accounting for the intricate and multiple ways we interact as
interconnected communities puts us in a position to consider the location,
or lack thereof, of gender variant and sexually diverse Indigenous ­peoples
within conceptions of Indigenous survivance and peoplehood. It was Billy-­
Ray Belcourt who questioned which of our p ­ eoples are actually represented
in the Indigenous f­uture, borrowing from Gayatri Spivak to ask: “Can the
other of Native Studies speak?”19
Dayna Danger’s Masks series, which I first saw at Disrupt Archive, asks
that Indigenous communities consider how our own sexualities and genders
­factor into our f­ uture imaginaries—­what Qwo-­Li Driskill, Daniel Heath Jus-
tice, Deborah Miranda, and Lisa Tatonetti have called a sovereign erotic.20
Danger asks: What space exists for our gender variant and sexually diverse
Indigenous communities, for our own ways of loving, in the f­uture imagi-

338 Lindsay Nixon

nary? Masks is composed of a series of photo­graphs featuring Indigenous
­peoples wearing black leather BDSM fetish masks adorned with rows upon
rows of black matte and glossy beads. One mask prominently featured a
labrys, a symbol associated with lesbian feminism or radical feminism. Dan-
ger produced the masks with the help of Indigenous relations from among her
community. Hours of painstaking care and love ­were put into the masks, just

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as would be put into any beading proj­ect. The image of beading entire masks
of leather evokes the blood drawn from needle injuries, the sweat of such la-
borious and love-­filled work, and the tears integrated into the work itself, the
emotions and relationships associated with the making of ­these objects.
During her artist’s talk, Danger said she was hesitant to describe the gen-
der or sexuality of the ­people in her Masks series, arguing that they had their
own culturally specific ways of describing t­ hose ele­ments of themselves. The
Indigenous ­peoples in Danger’s series are presented as fluid, androgynous,
and limitless not only in gender but in spirit and body as well. Danger re-
minds us that Indigenous ­futures must include a return to our traditional
ways of understanding gender: outside of the colonial gender binary, return-
ing balance between the genders through kinship and love. Danger proposes
a restoration of gender variant life within Indigenous community, actively
remembering our traditions of gender fluidity and sexual diversity, in order
to create a ­future imaginary that is responsive and respectful to the multi-
plicity of ways Indigenous ­peoples express their genders and sexualities.
Indigenous p ­ eoples’ sexualities are frequently equated to histories of sex-
ual vio­lence, commodified and institutionalized by settlers seeking to domi-
nate, discipline, and control Indigenous bodies. Danger’s use of the leather
BDSM mask references the kink community as a space to explore compli-
cated dynamics of sexuality, gender, and power in a consensual and feminist
manner. Danger engages with her own medicine, beading, in order to mark
kink as a space for healing colonial trauma. ­There is no shame in this action.
­Here the models’ gender expressions and sensual lives are integral to their
resurgent identities as Indigenous ­peoples.
­Every day, Indigenous p ­ eoples are restoring their beings, bodies, gen-
ders, sexualities, and reproductive lives from colonial institutions through
play, self-­representation, and sexual self-­determination. Enacting kinship in
their art, the Indigenous artists discussed ­here embody the past and ­future
in their pre­sent repre­sen­ta­tions, projecting decolonial love and kinship ways
into the cosmos. The ­future imaginary becomes a realm within which In-
digenous artists express disconnection from kinship and land, a medicinal
space to imagine new ­futures for Indigenous life.

Visual Cultures of Indigenous Futurism 339

Notes

Note: This article was originally featured in GUTS as a part of the spring 2016
­Futures issue, http://­gutsmagazine​.­ca​/­visual​-­cultures​/­, (c) 2016, GUTS maga-
zine. Reprinted by permission.
1 Molly Swain and Chelsea Vowel, “World-­Building in the Dystopian Now:

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Imagining and Podcasting Indigenous ­Futures,” pre­sen­ta­tion at the ­Future of
First Nations, Inuit, and Métis Broadcasting: Conversation and Convergence,
Edmonton, AB, April 21, 2017.
2 Erica Violet Lee, “Reconciling in the Apocalypse,” Canadian Centre for Policy
Alternatives, March 1, 2016, https://­www​.­policyalternatives​.­ca​/­publications​
/­monitor​/­reconciling​-­apocalypse.
3 Andrea Smith, “Heteropatriarchy and the Three Pillars of White Supremacy:
Rethinking ­Women of Color Organ­izing,” in Color of Vio­lence: The Incite!
Anthology, ed. Incite! ­Women of Color Against Vio­lence (Cambridge: South
End Press, 2006), 68.
4 Daniel Francis, The Imaginary Indian: The Image of the Indian in Canadian
Culture (Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press, 2012).
5 Lou Cornum, “The Space NDN’s Star Map,” The New Inquiry, January 26, 2015,
https://­thenewinquiry​.­com​/­the​-­space​-­ndns​-­star​-­map​/­.
6 Robert Alexander Innes, Elder ­Brother and the Law of the ­People: Con­
temporary Kinship and Cowessess First Nation (Winnipeg: University of
Manitoba Press, 2013).
7 Gerald Vizenor, Manifest Manners: Postindian Warriors of Survivance (Leba-
non, NH: University Press of New ­England, 2000).
8 Arok Wolvengrey, “love medicine,” Online Cree Dictionary, http://­www​
.­creedictionary​.­com​/­.
9 Leanne Simpson, Islands of Decolonial Love (Winnipeg: Arp Books, 2013).
10 Elizabeth Grosz, Volatile Bodies: ­Toward a Corporeal Feminism (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 1994), xii.
11 Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, “De Singularitate 1: Of Love Possessed,”
in Commonwealth (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press,
2009).
12 Glen Coulthard, “Subjects of Empire: Indigenous ­Peoples and the ‘Politics of
Recognition’ in Canada,” Con­temporary Po­liti­cal Theory 6, no. 6 (2007): 438.
13 Patricia Monture-­Angus, Thunder in My Soul: A Mohawk ­Woman Speaks
(Black Point, NS: Fernwood Publishing, 1995), 219.
14 Patricia Monture-­Angus, Journeying Forward: Dreaming First Nations In­de­
pen­dence (Halifax, NS: Fernwood Books, 1999), 8; as cited by Leanne Simp-
son, Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back (Winnipeg: Arp Books, 2011), 144.
15 Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang, “Decolonization Is Not a Meta­phor,” Decoloni-
zation: Indigeneity, Education & Society 1, no. 1 (2012).
16 Sara Ahmed, Strange Encounters: Embodied ­Others in Postcoloniality (Abingdon,
UK: Routledge, 2000).

340 Lindsay Nixon

17 Francis, Imaginary Indian.
18 ­Women’s Earth Alliance and Native Youth Sexual Health Network, vio­lence
on the land, vio­lence on our bodies: Building an Indigenous Response
to Environmental Vio­lence, 2016, http://­landbodydefense​.­org​/­uploads​/­files​
/­VLVBReportToolkit2016​.­pdf.
19 Billy-­Ray Belcourt, “Can the Other of Native Studies Speak?,” Decolonization:
Indigeneity, Education and Society, February 1, 2016, https://­decolonization​

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.­wordpress​.­com​/­2016​/­02​/­01​/­can​-­the​-­other​-­of​-­native​-­studies​-­speak​/­.
20 Qwo-­Li Driskill, Daniel Heath Justice, Deborah A. Miranda, and Lisa
Tatonetti, Sovereign Erotics: A Collection of Two-­Spirit Lit­er­a­ture (Tucson:
University of Arizona Press, 2011).

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