Grief, Protest and Witnessing – Reflections on the Deaths of Colten Boushie and Tina Fontaine

A storm.  That has been what it has felt like the past few weeks.  A storm.   So… three fragmentary tellings of grief, protest and witnessing, each coming from the spot of asking “In the context of the contemporary moment, thinking about Truth and Reconciliation, what’s a law professor to DO?!”

Vignette #1

February 9, 2018, a Friday night, I was at the local public library, giving a talk on the TRC Calls to Action.  From 7pm til 8:30pm, I hung out with people from the community, talking about colonial history, and the impacts of residential schools, discussing specific Calls and asking about concrete steps people might take to change the world.  I was torn between asking what kind of a weirdo i was (seriously?! happily spending my Friday night in a library?!), and being filled with joy at the experience of spending time with other such ‘weirdos’.  I had the chance to listen to and learn from people in the community taking active steps towards reconciliation.  I left feeling empowered and hopeful.

Grieving in Victoria [Photo by Kym Hines]
And then I got home, and read that the jury in Saskatchewan acquitted Gerald Stanley in the killing of Coulten Boushie.

And I broke.

Over 20 years of teaching criminal law.  I should have been prepared.  I have been teaching for years using the Abell, Sheehy and Bakht text on criminal law.  It is without a doubt the most ‘accurate’ text book out there in terms of situating Canadian Criminal Law in a history of colonization, racism and class, with attention to gender.  I have been teaching about the place of criminal law in the displacement and dispossession of indigenous peoples through its outlawing of indigenous systems of governance and legal order (ie through bans on the potlatch or sundance), and through early ‘murder’ trials (and the wrongful execution of the Tsilhqo’tin Chiefs).  Students have learned about the Donald Marshall Inquiry, the Aboriginal Justice Inquiry, the Royal Commission on Indigenous Peoples, about study after study after study confirming systems of racism and colonialism operating in policing, in bail, in trial procedure, in sentencing, in prisons.

photo by Kym Hines

And here it was again.  Still.  The same as ever.  A jury concluded that Gerald Stanley, who shot Colten Boushie in the back of the head as he sat in a car, was not guilty.  My heart cracked open.

Saturday morning, I headed to downtown Victoria, to stand on the streets with others.  I couldn’t think of what else to do.  I just needed to be in a place where I could be around others who might have felt the way I did.  The grief just felt too big to carry alone.  I drove down alone, but stood there with others.  I brought my drum.  I listened to some words.  I listened to some songs.  I looked up to the sky with the rest of the crowd, as we paused to watched the hummingbird that joined us… hovering high over the group for a full minute, as if wondering what had brought us there.

photo by Kym Hines

Others had come prepared with signs.   And as the crowd dispersed, many of them affixed their messages to the courthouse doors.  But I had come empty handed.  Not quite.  I knew my Annotated Criminal Code was still in my car (I had taken it to the TRC talk at the library the night before).

photo by Kym Hines

And so, with my heart exploding in my chest, I ran back to my car to get the Code, and opened it to section 634 (the section enabling “peremptory challenges” – which enables either Crown or Defence, without explanation or justification, to reject from the jury anyone who might look Indigenous).

In a moment of ‘losing my noggin’ (as my dad would have said)  I ripped the page out of my Criminal Code.  I circled section 634,  scrawled “Injustice” across the top of the page, included my name (it felt wrong to have my critique be anonymous) , and added it to the messages taped to the Courthouse Door.


I now had a Criminal Code that was one page lighter.

But my heart didn’t feel similar.

Vignette #2


Life’s a rollercoaster.

On February 21, there is the announcement:  the BC Government is going to provide funding for UVic to offer what will be the first program of its kind in the world, the JD/JID – a joint degree program in Canadian Common Law and Indigenous Legal Orders.  More than a decade of laying the groundwork (indeed, 150 years of laying the groundwork?), and it finally will go ahead.  Euphoria!  Nothing less.

But the next morning, the news reports that the jury in Manitoba acquitted Raymond Cormier in the killing of Tina Fontaine.



Like last time, I hear that people will gather on the weekend in downtown Victoria, and will march.  This time I don’t join.  Instead, I head across town to pre-tape a short interview for CHEK news about both cases.   I speak as a Law Professor/’expert’ about the most recent opinion polls on Justice, speak about the data in what I hope is a rational and descriptive fashion.  The interview ends early enough that the anchor tells me I can probably still make it in time to join the end of the march.  I head out to my car, but don’t drive to rally.  This time, I feel hollow.  I don’t feel like I could bear being at the march.  Instead,  I sit alone in my car for 15 minutes after the interview, gathering the pieces of myself back together, and then drive home.

IMG_20180226_082559.jpgMonday morning, I walk in to school.  Early.  Way too early.  But as I approach, I can see a few people standing around the entry, talking.  I notice that there is ‘grafitti’ on the ground.  Someone says “Do you know anything about this?”  Not recognizing the speaker, and not sure what the “this” means, I look more carefully at the ground, and see, written in chalk,  “25.2% of men in prison are Indigenous, 36.1% are women”.  I say (in the voice of someone delighted to say that they already knew the answer), “Yes!   That is true!  Someone knows their data!”

At this point, looking more closely around me, I realize the person is not asking me about the CONTENT of the particular message, but about the words that are scrawled in different colours of chalk all around the entrance.

IMG_20180226_082627.jpgI realize they are asking me if I know WHO is responsible for the cascade of words marking the entrance to the law school.  Indeed, all three paths have been marked up, so one cannot enter the law school without walking across the words of truth and protest.  I see phrases like “No Justice – No Reconciliation”, “MMIWG”  and the names of Colten Boushie, Tina Fontaine, Cindy Gladue, Neil Stonechild, Helen Betty Osborne, Paul Alphonse, and more.

IMG_20180226_082652.jpgNow I finally get what I am being asked.  WHOSE protest is inscribed on the ground around us?  I tell the person on the sidewalk beside me that I do not know, but that I suspect it might be our students.  Indeed, I have been wondering if any of our faculty had joined in the march on the weekend.  Certainly, I have been carrying a bit of guilt about my own decision to stay home, and have been wondering if the students were there, and if so, if they felt unsupported by us.  I look at the words written around me, and say, “Well, if I were to make a guess, I imagine it might be our students, and that they might be bringing the protest back from the streets to the law school, where it belongs!  Good for them!  I am taking some photos of THIS!”

IMG_20180226_175747.jpgAnd so, I whip out my camera, and filled with a strange sense of joy at the activism (of what I am only guessing might be our [Indigenous?] law students), I start taking photos, focused mostly on trying to get the right angle to capture the feeling of the words around me.  Taking the photos is tricky, because I don’t want to step on the names that are written there.  And so I step carefully, trying to find a path through un-inscribed concrete.

As I open the door to enter the law school, camera in hand, I notice that there also appear to be posters up on the walls just waiting for their photo-moment.  I walk in, excited to talk to someone about this amazing piece of activism, and I am stopped in my tracks.

Stopped cold.

Because now I KNOW who is responsible. Yes.  It is our Indigenous law students.  There they are, putting the finishing touches on their protest, attaching the last few signs to the wall.  But there will be no conversation.

They have covered their mouths with duct tape.  They sit on the stairs in silence.  They offer no words.  They offer their silence.  I am silenced in return.    IMG_20180226_082802

That momentary feeling of joy is punched right out of my lungs to be replaced by a deep ache.  I consider for a moment whether I should sit on the stairs beside them.  I want to sit in solidarity.  But their silent/silenced bodies seem to be too powerful a message.   I ask if I may have permission to take their photo.  I am offered a silent nod in return. I aim and click.   I raise my hands to them, wanting to honour their bravery and their grief.  I walk past them up the stairs to my office, close the door behind me, and weep.

Vignette #3

March 14, 2018.  A strange and powerful mixture.  There is the euphoria about the path opening ahead to do trans-sytemmic education focused on pulling Canadian and Indigenous Legal Orders into engagement in a reciprocal way.  At the same time, there is the ongoing brutality of confronting the institutionalized racism, sexism, and colonialism running through the justice system.  Two weeks later, and students still seem raw.   No surprise.  I am still raw.  I hear story after story of the challenge of finding spaces in which one can catch their breath from what feels like an onslaught of conversation, some of it helpful, much of it not.  Stories of words not spoken, of friendships challenged, of relations ruptured, of new possibilities imagined. How to grapple with grief, protest, and witnessing?

Photograph By CHAD HIPOLITO, The Canadian Press.

The Indigenous Law Students organize a ‘Walkout” to make visible the injustices in the Canadian legal system for Indigenous people. Three hundred students, staff, faculty and community members join in.

Again, the question of whether to march or not, to join or stand apart, to speak or remain silent.   This time I  join. The decision is made easier since the march takes place during an open spot in my schedule.  I know that I would not have cancelled a class if there had been a conflict (though I would have been perfectly happy to have students exercise their choice in either direction).  I don’t think there is a ‘right answer’, or any particular way one can/should/might choose to respond to this particular moment.

On this occasion, I make the choice that I do.  And so again, I find myself in a group, standing with others, another moment to both share and witness the grief of these times and this place. The smell of sage (which they are burning) adds the scent of ceremony, of ritual, of cleansing.  And this time, there is movement.  We walk around the ring road.  And the students seem to take walking quite seriously.  Their energy is real (and a bit ‘healthier’ than mine!).  They walk at a much faster pace than I expect. Indeed, I have to really step up my game to keep up.  But the movement feels good.  And the skies are clear and blue.  The flowers have already begun to appear, and the air feels good in my lungs.   I return to the law school feeling somehow lighter than i felt at the beginning of the march.

And that, of course, is just one day.  When I get home that night, reporting on my day, there are conversations with family.  What does it mean to ‘walk out’?  Or to ‘walk in’?  What does it mean to ‘protest’?  What does it mean to march?   What does it mean to choose NOT to walkout?  NOT to march?  NOT to protest?  Who (if anyone) do I think will be changed by such actions?  Indeed, WHO is the audience for such an action?

Good questions.  I have no answers.  I know I have felt both the desire to stand with others, and the desire to be alone with my grief.  I have sometimes felt it important that my voice be heard, and have at other times felt it was my obligation to be silent.  To stand as a witness.  Or to acknowledge that, as a professor of law, I am complicit.  This, I grieve.  I do know that my grief has been real, and that it has been hard to find a place for it to live, to be expressed, to be seen, to be witnessed.  What is there to do, but take the moments as they come?  To remain in relationship with those around me?  To take those moments to acknowledge that we are entangled in relations that draw on the best and the worst of who we are, of who we wish to be.  We are entangled in relations of power, and thus will feel differently the calls to do what we can to see differently, to hear differently, to walk differently and to build differently.

Keep moving.


Thinking about “The Law of Evidence” through the Structure of Indigenous Language

My new favourite book

With classes nearly over this term, I happily turned to my “Books to Read!” pile.   At the top of the pile was a new book by Marianne Ignace and Ron Ignace, Secwépemc People, Land and Laws (McGill-Queen’s Press, 2017).

So many of the summers of my life have been spent on the shores of the Shuswap Lake. The smell of the forests, the feel of the winds, sound of the water, the taste of thimbleberries… all that has been imprinted deep in my heart.  I had been looking forward to spending some time with this book, to continue to learn about the history of the land, the people, and the laws of this place that I so love.  I am only into the 4th chapter, but I am not disappointed.  I can already see that this is going to be a book I will be carrying around with me.


In line, then, with my new goal for myself (to do at least one blogpost a week on what I am learning), let me share one of the amazing things I learned today from the this book.  I learned that the Secwepemc Language is an amazing resource for learning about law!  I finished reading Chapter 4 (“Secwepemctsin: The Shuswap Language”) this afternoon, and then spent the next hour walking up and down the halls of the law school, hunting down colleague after colleague to make them listen to what I had learned (Val, Pooja, Jess, Simon, Tim, and Bob have got to hear my enthusiasm first hand!).


The big discovery for me (on p. 138 of the book) was something called “Evidentials”.  This is a form of suffix that does not exist in English grammar.   In Secwepemctsin, as I understand it from the chapter, a suffix can attach to a verb, in a way that lets the speaker tell the listener about the evidentiary support for the statement.  That is, it indicates how the speaker comes to know the truth of the statement:

  1.  from first hand knowledge,
  2. from hearsay (what others have said), or
  3. because there is physical evidence of the action.

In short, as the Ignaces point out here, when people are telling each other about things that happen in the world, they are also sharing information about the evidence that exists for the statements made.

Page 138

Of course, we can share information about evidentiary support in the English language: it is just a matter of adding more detail.  And when it comes to legal action, those evidential details matter a lot: if you appear as a witness in  a common-law court, you will be asked how it is you come to know what you know; the presence of physical evidence to support the claim is alway relevant; there are all sorts of rules to govern hearsay evidence.  That is, there is much to explore around evidentiary rules related to the relevance, credibility, reliability and sources of statements.

But there is something so interesting in how such questions are organized in Secwepemctsin in part through grammar.  Questions of evidence seem to be woven into the structure of speech and thought (rather than being separate questions emerging primarily in the context of formal legal settings.)  An orientation towards evidence is embedded in grammar itself.

What is so beautiful to me (or do I just mean mean ‘surprising’?)  is that the structure of Secwepemctsin itself, as a language, orients itself towards transparency in the  practices of validating knowledge.  Grammatically, people tell each other not only what they know, but HOW they know it.  This means speakers are grammatically required to make (suffix based) choices about the actions they describe, and listeners have the capacity to make choices about further inquiries needed on the basis of what they hear. Given suffixes, they can determine whether to seek further information from others, or to validate information by looking to physical traces to support what they have heard.  Certainly, this requires speakers and listeners to engage their own faculties of reasoning in conversation, by reminding them that all statements have an evidentiary status of some sort.  This is such a sophisticated and nuanced structure of thought.   I have been reading a number of Secwepemc stories in English, and I have a new appreciation for the ways that that the stories, in their original language, would be carrying additional information and nuance.

I also think that the book, with its discussion of Evidential Suffixes, is a wonderful way to draw insights from Indigenous Language and Indigenous Law into the Evidence Law classroom!  Can’t wait to learn more from what Marianne Ignace and Ron Ignace have brought together in this book!



Children’s Art and Indian Residential Schools

In between some errands that took me to downtown Victoria this week, I grabbed a few minutes to stop in at the Legacy Art Gallery.  The current exhibit is titled “There is Truth Here: Creativity and Resilience in Children’s Art From Indian Residential and Indian Day Schools”

I had some expectations of what I might see there:  for the past two years, the UVic Law School has invited Professor Andrea Walsh (the Guest curator of the exhibit) to come and speak to the first year class about a collection of paintings done by children at the Alberni Indian Residential School.  This collection of children’s art, preserved by their extra-curricular art teacher Robert Aller, was gifted to the University after Mr. Aller’s death.  At that point, recognizing that it might be possible to identify the creators of some of that art, steps were taken to locate the now-grown children, and return their art to them.   The story of the Mr. Aller, the students, their art, and its re-patriation is a powerful moment in understanding the Canadian history of Indian Residential Schools and resistance by both children and some settlers to formal and informal policies of assimilation and cultural genocide. [Click here for a link to a short video on the project]

IMG_20171125_115846.jpgWhat was new to me were the pieces of art from the former Inkameep Indian Day School (the Osoyoos Indian Band, in the Okanagan).  I took advantage of a few stolen moments to take a quick stroll through the Gallery to get my eyes familiar with the pieces, knowing that I would be coming back for an extended visit later this month.  I also picked up a copy of a 2005 Gallery Catalogue Guide edited by Andrea Walsh, titled, “Nk’Mip Chronicles: Art from the Inkameep Day School.”

Having finished reading the Guide, I have been reflecting on some of the things that really struck me.  One of these was the reminder that if a person is serious about learning the history of Residential Schools in Canada (and many of us are indeed serious), then there is much to learn: there were many schools, which operated over many years, and there are many stories to be told.

Nk’Mip Chronicles, p.17


One of these is the story of the Inkmeep Day School.  It is a story that speaks of the important work done by Chief Baptiste George to have a day school built in the community, “to keep his people together and to retain the Okanagan teachings.”  The school opened in 1915, with the Band using their own funds to build the school, and hire and pay the first teacher (an African American man who had married an Okanagan woman and thus knew the language).  The Guide makes visible the real challenges involved for the Band in attracting and keeping long-term experienced teachers (a challenge shared by many Indigenous communities).

The centre of this particular story is the relationship between one settler teacher (Anthony Walsh), and the children and families of the Inkameep community.  During the ten years he taught at the Inkameep Day School (1932-1942), Anthony Walsh worked actively to learn about the people and culture of the place he was living.  He learned to listen, and he valued and honoured the philosophies, stories, and experiences of the children.

Nk’Mip Chronicles, p.18


During that time he worked with them, the children produced art that Walsh submitted to the Royal Drawing Society of London.  The children produced plays based on Okanagan stories, were invited to perform them for audiences in both Canada and the US, and raised money for charities like the Red Cross.  The children’s art was exhibited across Europe and Canada. Walsh worked with the children and their communities, “using the children’s art to oppose dominant views about aboriginal children and their place in Canada.”

When Walsh finally moved from the community, the teachers that followed did not follow his path: rather than incorporating Okanagan culture into the curriculum, they followed the assimilationist path more common in the rest of Canada (which included the decision by one teacher to burn papier-mache masks that the children had used in their dramas, as well as children’s art which remained at the school).

Nk’Mip Chronicles, p.23

The story of Anthony Walsh and the children at the Inkameep Day School time thus invites us to both remember and reflect on the efforts of this one community (a First nation and its non-native neighbours) to be involved in the ongoing practices of building relations through cross-cultural exchanges through both visual and performing arts.

This story, and the art and performances it generated, left me thinking about the stories of the past that we choose to draw forward.

It reminded me of the importance of seeing forms of resistance, possibility and respect that were enacted in the past. It left me thinking also about the importance of similar action in the present.  It reminded me of the importance of art in opening up spaces of connection, and spaces of relation.

It also made me think about ways people today might respond to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission‘s Call to Action #83:

83. We call upon the Canada Council for the Arts to establish, as a funding priority, a strategy for Indigenous and non-Indigenous artists to undertake collaborative projects and produce works that contribute to the reconciliation process.

Perhaps what should interest us is less the call for government to provide funding for such collaborations (though such funding would facilitate this work!) than the call for Indigenous and non-Indigenous artists to undertake such collaborations.  I think the story of Anthony Walsh invites even those of us who are not artists to imagine ourselves as participants in this call to action.  In his work as a teacher, Walsh collaborated with others through his engagement with the space of art, through learning to how listen to what the children’s art (and the children themselves) could teach.  The engagement came even in the context of restricted funds.  As Anthony Walsh himself argued in the 1976 interview above, “we miss opportunities because too often we wait for ‘funding'”.  And so one question is, “what are we waiting for?”

There is much inspiration to be found in this story of the Inkameep Day School.  It sets out for us an example of engagement through the arts.  What we have here is the collaboration of children, their families, a  teacher and the neighbouring community in drawing on the arts to open up space for sharing truths, for listening, for healing, and for learning different (and better) ways of living with each other.   Surely this is a story worth telling, and also one worth trying on for size in our own lives.

If you are in Victoria, head over to the Legacy Art Gallery to check out the show.   If  time or geography makes that impossible, you should still check out the website for the exhibit.  Content and design by Dr. Jennifer Claire Robinson, it is rich with resources that can be worked into your own teaching.  Indeed, you can see picture of all the works included in the exhibit from the four different schools (along with some discussions of the work from either the curators or the artists themselves):  Alberni Indian Residential School, Inkameep Indian Day School, St. Michael’s Indian Residential and Day School, and Mackay Indian Residential School.  The website (which is being updated during the run of the exhibit) will also include intergenerational essays by relatives of the child artist included.  Plus there is more!:

  •  Click here for the background story to the return of the Alberni Indian Residential School art
  • Click here for RIDSAR (Residential and Indian Day School Art Research) videos, and news media
  • Click here for a list of additional Resources (to both the Exhibition and TRC related links)
  • Witnessing is an important aspect of protocol for many First Nations.  Below are links to four important discussions of what it means to be a witness in the context of Indian Residential Schools:

Reconciliation Necklaces

During the summer of 2015, I spent my time thinking about the Report of the TRC (The Canadian Truth and Reconciliation Commission on Residential Schools).  I was particularly obsessed with its 94 Calls to Action.  I found myself thinking a lot about Recommendation #50, which argued for the creation and funding of Indigenous Law Institutes:

  1. 50. In keeping with the United Nations Declaration on
    the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, we call upon the federal government, in collaboration with Aboriginal organizations, to fund the establishment of Indigenous law institutes for the development, use, and understanding of Indigenous laws and access to justice in accordance with the unique cultures of Aboriginal peoples in Canada.

Some may not think this call speaks directly to ordinary citizens, but it really did speak to me.  I work at a law school (University of Victoria) that has already established just such an institute (the Indigenous Law Research Unit).  The ILRU has been doing exceptional work over the past years, working with and alongside Indigenous communities, focused on the issues, processes and traditions important to those communities.  The work of the ILRU, including the work on the graphic novel Mikomosis and the Wetiko, (click here to link to the teaching guide) has been a central part of my own intellectual and political life over the past years.

And of course, there is always more work to do than time or money to do it with.  And so I had been thinking of a way to make the TRC call #50 ‘my own’.  Were there ways that, though perhaps not called to direct action, individuals could support Indigenous Law Institutes?  Could contribute to fund-raising?  Or to symbolic support?  Or could find ways to make visible all 94 calls, and particularly the need to fund structures for the development, use and understanding of Indigenous Laws?  To think with and using Indigenous Laws?

Shuswap Lake – view from the wheel

So… this summer, I decided to take my usual summer vacation (making stoneware necklaces to give away for my September birthday), and spend my time making pendants invested with my own hopes for energy and resources for the work of the ILRU.  Thus, during the summer, I spent my vacation in OCD mode, making necklaces.

PLACE:  I  made the necklaces in Secwepemc Territory (Shuswap).  My family lives there, and I have spent nearly every summer of my life there, surrounded by aunts, uncles, and cousins.  My heart lives there.    My aunt bought a kiln and wheel several years back, and they invite us to play with clay under the deck (sheltered from the sun).  So I made these necklaces while sitting under the deck, watching beauty of the land around.

MATERIALITY: Depending on the batch, the clay was one of these:  CKK6, Klamath Red, Midnight Black, Dove, Polar Ice.  It is stoneware, or porcelain and was fired to Cone 6.

clay drying in sun

I played with a number of oxides and stains this summer, and mixed them into the clay.  I then wedged the plain and coloured clays together.  I then shaped the individual pieces (rib tools, modelling tools, carving tools, etc), played around with them at the leather hard stage, then got them dried to greenware.Depending on the batch, the clay was one of these:  CKK6, Klamath Red, Midnight Black, Dove, Polar Ice.  It is stoneware, or porcelain and was fired to Cone 6.  I played with a number of oxides and stains this summer, and mixed them into the clay.  I then wedged the plain and coloured clays together.  I then shaped the individual pieces (rib tools, modelling tools, carving tools, etc), played around with them at the leather hard stage, then got them dried to greenware.


unloading the kiln

At that point, I loaded them into the kiln for a first bisque firing (cone 04, aka 1060 celsius) [basically, a day to get the kiln loaded, fired, cooled and unloaded again).] 

At the next stage, I played around.  Here is where i glazed, used wax resist, glass and rocks!  Then, it was back into the kiln for a second firing (up to cone 6, aka 1222 celsius).

tying slip knots on cords

And last but not least, I took the kids to the Salmon Arm Roots & Blues Festival, where we sat listening to music and tying chords for the necklaces.


And… just for more background, here are some comments/thoughts on the different kinds of necklaces that were produced, and how (in my own mind) they linked to the work of the TRC.
“HISTORY RETHOUGHT – Contact of Laws”

I began with two balls of clay.  To one of them i added an oxide or a s
tain (a dry powder), and then wedged it in until the second ball was a different colour.  I then sliced each clay, and layered them together.  I then wedged the clay and cut and relayered it, so that they were mixed, but not blended (ie. the goal was not to fully ‘assimilate’ so that the entire ball was a new mixed shade, but to let the two colours move with and against each other.)

After letting the clay firm up a bit, I tried cutting pieces apart.  It was a challenge to do so in a way that didn’t blur the distinctions between the two colours.  I was struck during the process by the ways the patterns changed even from one side of the slice to the other (let alone the differences between slices separated by several pieces).  I know it is perhaps mundane, but I spent a lot of time while doing this thinking also about how the experiences of people [in the context of our shared history of colonialism] can be so vastly different, and yet still  ‘true’.

From a ‘technical’ point of view, it was also the first time i have really used stains or oxides in this way.  I could see how much learning there is in simply figuring  out how much of which colour to use in each ball, and then what happens if have more of one colour or the other as I am mixing them together? (ie. how much ‘white’ is just ‘too much white’) [my first attempt with white and pink really did overwhelm the pink…you can see it, but you have to look really hard to do so]


After I had tried working with two colours of clay, I decided I might as well up the ante.

Since my own politics suggests that things are rarely lived in a binary fashion (black and white; yes and no; left or right), it might be interesting to explore a more ‘multi’ approach to the clay.


In this series, i decided to work not just with two colours of clay, but with two different formulations: clay and glass.

They are, I suppose, similar in some ways:  both contain silica, and the higher the temperature travelled by the clay, the more ‘glass-like’ it becomes.  Of course, i am aware of the limits of my science knowledge.  That has been one of the pleasures of playing with sand and heat.

In any event, for these pieces, i began with a clay base, and carved out some holes/trenches in the clay at the leather hard phase (if you wait too long, you break the piece as it is drying).

My wonderful aunt Janet had taken a stained glass class as some point, and had bought a big box of coloured glass.  And so I broke off pieces (started by trying to use a glass cutter, ended by using a hammer [and safety glasses]) and then arranged them inside the grooves, hoping to figure out how much was not enough or too much.  In a previous year, I went overboard, and ended up fusing the pieces to the kiln shelf.  At the end of the day, I ended up with a number of piece that worked.

  • Made 49 in polar ice white, using largely blue and green glass
  • made 14 in Buff stone clay, assorted glass
  • Made 20 “NDP” necklaces (‘orange’ glass)
  • Made 40 in Klamath Red clay with assorted colours
  • Made 2 with Midnight Black clay

Well… i did try to make a batch of 40 with Midnight Black Clay.  But only 2 survived.  Here is where i learned that the black clay and glass do not interact well with each other.  Too much of something similar in each of them, and the glass, instead of melting beautifully, turned into dangerous shards.

Well… those 50 necklaces returned to the earth, but I learned some stuff along the way about the ways that two beautiful things may not be beautiful if they are made to work together without some real skill!  (I am sure there is a Dene story that carries knowledge about the challenges of two powerful brothers [Yamoria and Yamozah] who at one point were in too close of proximity to each other, and the care that needed to be taken to minimize risks of damage to everyone around them).


For these, I carved out the pieces (like a mini sarcophagus) of clay (the same way i did for the ‘glass’ series.

After the pieces were bisque fired, I put a small amount of glaze in the carved out space, and then set in small stones collected while sitting on the edge of the water at the end of the day (watching the sunset, while letting the water wash of the day’s pottery dust).

I fired these flat, so that the glaze would simply hold the rocks in place (and so i would not have to put wax resist on the bottoms)


After rolling some clay flat, I took part of a cedar branch from one of the trees to the side of the house.  I then pressed them into the clay, and left it to dry.  During the bisque firing, the branch burned away, leaving the imprint of its having been there.  For the second firing, I painted wax resist into the shape of the cedar, and then covered the rest of the piece in glaze.  These pieces had to be hung on a bead wire for the second firing.

BRUSH WORK – set of 7

After wax resist in the hole, I used an oxide and water, and then a paint brush to put the image down on the bisqued pieces.  Then simply a white glaze over top.  They were hung on a bead wire for the second firing (cone 6).  I wished I had done more.

The Non-Series Series
This would be ending with where I usually begin: the project of playing with clay, making necklaces to give away for my birthday.  Here are the things that I do when i am in my ‘summer mode’:  that is, thinking about life, teaching, theory/practice, play, and transformation.  So these necklaces are all ones that emerge as I enjoy spending time with my hands, thinking about heat and time (that is, about the capacity of ‘heat’ and ‘time’ to change things)
Some are smooth, some are rough, some symmetrical, some not, some are opportunities to see what happens with different glazes on similar shapes, or different clays interesting with different glazes.  They are occasions for interpretation.  I am often struck (in the process of giving them away) by the things that different people ‘see’ in them.
Meaning exists so much more in the moment of investing the pieces with meaning than it does in the piece itself (which is in many ways little more than the combination of mud, heat, and time… but maybe that is also true for all of us?)