Kent Monkman’s voice is crisp and clockwork-measured over the phone from his country studio in Prince Edward County, two hours east of Toronto along Lake Ontario’s verdant shore. He’s told his story so many times.

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 6/10/2017 (1482 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Kent Monkman’s voice is crisp and clockwork-measured over the phone from his country studio in Prince Edward County, two hours east of Toronto along Lake Ontario’s verdant shore. He’s told his story so many times.

So now, the celebrated artist calmly repeats it, almost by rote: growing up in 1970s Winnipeg. Parents who always encouraged him to draw. His first steps as a professional artist, doing storyboard illustrations for commercial projects.

Then there is the time of emergence. When he studied the works of George Catlin and Paul Kane, white 19th century painters who filtered Indigenous life through a colonial gaze, and saw truths gone missing, voices erased.

In time, Monkman learned how to wrest control of those old visual tropes, and return them to Indigenous people. Through his figures, survivors of colonization stare back at settlers: a mythology disrupted, a gaze sharply returned.

So this story, then, is the tale of how a Cree kid painted a path, from Winnipeg to the world.

Nativity Scene.


Nativity Scene.

At 52, Monkman has ascended Canada’s contemporary art mountain. His work hangs in the National Gallery. His paintings, vast canvases that send colonial fairy tales tumbling, are raised to challenge the self-image of a country.

On that end, his razor-sharp response to Canada 150 — a wrenching exhibition called Shame & Prejudice: A Story of Resilience — is in the midst of a three-year national tour. (It will show at the Winnipeg Art Gallery in 2019.)

Now, Monkman stands on the cusp of global acclamation. He’s made more trips to Europe, lately. This summer, one of his pieces was chosen for a Parisian diorama exhibition, and he’s planning another show in France next year.

Here arises a new challenge, a new set of gatekeepers, a new set of barriers to assail.

On the other side of the Atlantic, the visual references that unlock Monkman’s work are more distant. The reception his work gets is different, and as he considers the question of why, his voice quickens and grows more urgent.

"Europeans have no concept of Indigenous people," he says with palpable frustration. "When it comes to the contemporary art world, and some of the issues I raise in my work, they don’t even have a point of entry with that.

"They don’t know what colonization really means," he adds. "They understand in a broad abstract sense, but some of these people have never been to North America, much less the North End of Winnipeg, so they just have no idea."

For Monkman, who has always had to be as much an educator as a painter — not by choice, he notes, but as consequence of confronting colonial narratives — it’s demoralizing. It means there is still so much left to do.

"It’s exhausting," he says. "Because not only do we have to do the work, we have to bring people to just the entry level of understanding some of the basic stuff of what they need to know to start understanding the work."

Cash for Souls, Acrylic on canvas.</p></p>


Cash for Souls, Acrylic on canvas.

But time rolls on, the story changes, and Monkman sees new hope in contemporary art spaces. He’s seen it in Canada, where more galleries — the WAG included — have attracted a spirited vanguard of Indigenous curators.

Consider his appearance at the WAG Sunday afternoon, where he’ll show a collection of his short films. The visit fits in with the gallery’s landmark exhibition of contemporary Indigenous art, Insurgence / Resurgence, which runs until spring.

It’s a stunning show comprised of 29 artists and 12 new commissions, working in all mediums. It is the largest exhibition of contemporary Indigenous artists in the WAG’s history, and Monkman is pleased to hear it.

"All I can say is, it’s about time," he says. "I’ve been waiting for something like this, growing up in Winnipeg and seeing how Indigenous people in the art scene were ostracized.

"Even 20 years ago, you’d go to a Plug In (Institute of Contemporary Art Gallery) opening, and no one would be caught dead at an Urban Shaman (Contemporary Aboriginal Art Gallery)opening."

He knows how this visibility matters. Monkman all but grew up at the WAG; as a kid, he went there for Saturday art classes. But it wasn’t until his 20s that he had one of his most formative encounters with modern Indigenous art.

It was at a WAG exhibition of works by Robert Houle, an Anishinaabe artist and member of Sandy Bay First Nation. (Houle’s work remains on display at the gallery.) Monkman was fascinated by the pieces and their presentation.

"I was just in awe of it," he says. "(Houle) wasn’t in the ethnology wing. He was a contemporary artist making modern paintings, and that was really inspirational to me."

By then, he was already deep into his own artistic journey.



He was born in Ontario to Everet Monkman, a member of Fisher River First Nation, and Rilla Unger, who is Anglo-Irish. The family lived briefly up north, in Shamattawa, before moving to Winnipeg when he was young.

As a kid, Monkman says, the family "didn’t have a lot of money," or many toys, either. He amused himself with pencil crayons, drawing entire stories in a single frame. It was youthful fancy: raging pirate battles at sea, that sort of thing.

He became transfixed by books in the family’s collection. One, he remembers, was a 1950s photo book featuring photos of horses, images of horses through art history. It was called, he recalls, simply Horses.

"That became almost an obsession, these paintings and photos of horses," he says. "I still have that book."

It’s not so hard to trace the roots of Monkman’s current work back to those early drawings.

The Subjugation of Truth, Acrylic on canvas.</p></p>


The Subjugation of Truth, Acrylic on canvas.

Scrawled pirate battles would give way to monumental clashes between First Nations and settlers, set on boundless landscapes taken from old masters. Horses now are ridden by his gender-bending avatar, Miss Chief Eagle Testickle.

And growing up in Winnipeg, too, gave Monkman a view onto the wreckage of time.

He was connected to his heritage, especially through his great-grandmother, who lived for a century and spoke Cree. But he lived much of his youth in River Heights, and was one of the few Indigenous teens at Kelvin High School.

The gaps between those worlds left an impression. One of the most vivid arrived on a school field trip to the then-new Manitoba Museum, where he saw the visceral contradictions between the dioramas within, and real lives without.

Inside, painted mannequins of First Nation people frozen in buckskin and time. Outside, the fallout of colonization. A Main Street strip collaged by Indigenous suffering, wrought by residential schools, enforced poverty and dislocation.

He has told that story many times before. It was, he says, the most "visceral and palpable" memory of his youth in Winnipeg. But there was also the look of the place, the "rugged and raw" North End streets and old, peeling paint.

So when he turned his vision to urban settings in 2014, he turned not to Toronto, where he’s spent most of his adult life, but to Winnipeg. The textures of the city, the distinctive visual language of its core, informed an entire series.

One of the paintings in that series hangs in the WAG’s entry gallery. It is a tense scene, dramatic, presented unframed on the beige Tyndall stone wall. When visitors pass through, they tilt their heads towards it and pause.

This is what they see: a street, slightly battered. An old house with peeling white siding. Indigenous men attend to a fallen female figure, purse strewn beside her, body flattened into Picassoid cubes. A black car belches exhaust.

Kent Monkman,  Death of a Female.


Kent Monkman, Death of a Female.

In the three years since Monkman debuted the painting, Death of the Female, the work — along with others in the series, called The Urban Res — has travelled around the world. Arts media described it in studied, cultivated terms.

"Displacement." "Compression." "Pictorial Space."

When Monkman opened his first New York solo show, art critic Hrag Vartanian wrote that The Urban Res exhibition "aggressively questions the language of modernism and its flaws."

"The paintings also reveal characters who feel trapped in cycles of violence and alienation," Vartanian continued. "The artist doesn’t liberate these characters, but tells their story through allegory and disruption."

There was, Vartanian noted, one thing pointedly missing from the paintings — at least, in the critic’s own estimation. "What is absent from these works," he wrote, "is a sense of home, or a place that feels safe from the outside world."

On this, a Winnipegger might pause. To someone from the city, even one who has never been to the painting’s pictured corner of Chambers Street and Alexander Avenue, the image is familiar, felt in the blood and the bones.

Right away, a Winnipegger knows: for all its pain, all its harm, the scene that Monkman has captured is home.

It’s home in a literal sense. We can go there, to the spot; the dented chain-link fence that surrounds the house is true to life. But it’s also recognizable in a more instinctual way. The way that some don’t want to see, and others can’t escape.

"Places like Winnipeg were Indigenous gathering places, or trading places, and those are as much Indian land as much as any other part of the continent was," he says of that series. "It was a way to kind of stimulate memory, because there’s been so much erasure through this period of modernity, in terms of how we think about history, or about Indigenous ownership and entitlement to land.

"That period of modernity was very effective at creating a deliberate amnesia about the past."

The Daddies, Acrylic on canvas</p>


The Daddies, Acrylic on canvas

As rooted as that series is, Monkman’s life now is movement. He returns to Winnipeg a few times a year — his mother and siblings live here — but much of the time he is a man in transit, balancing an increasingly ravenous schedule.

For starters, there’s the travel. About three times a month, he’s on the road, jetting to speaking gigs in Colorado or Michigan or New York. He has an art dealer in Santa Fe, N.M., so he’s been down there more often lately.

Four days a week, when he’s home, he is at his country studio in Prince Edward County. The other three he spends at his Toronto studio, which buzzes with creation. He has a whole team behind him, including up to eight assistants.

That crew includes painters, sculptors, a social media expert. They toil away on iPads and canvases, starting paintings and taking digital photos of models. It’s a place of nearly constant production, a wellspring of creation.

"Someone asked me the other day, ‘Isn’t it strange to have other people working on your paintings?’" he says. "It’s forced me to learn what exactly I am doing. If I can understand what I am doing, I can dissect it to someone else."

So, over the years, he’s learned to teach them. "This is the brush to use for this figure." "This is how you load the brush with paint." "This is how to stroke the paint on the canvas in a way that’s just-so, or at least just so Kent Monkman."

Today, it’s that process that most excites him. There was a time, he says, where he had a lot of ideas, but his ability to keep up with the ideas constantly lagged. He developed stress injuries from painting up to 18 hours a day.

The Scream, Acrylic on canvas</p>


The Scream, Acrylic on canvas

Now his strained shoulder has healed, even as his studio develops work at a ferocious pace.

"My studio just has this momentum," he says. "We’re able to be very prolific, and to really refine a vision that we’ve been working towards for many years... that’s really exciting, and rewarding."

This is the life of Monkman, now: Winnipeg-raised, Toronto-glazed, dashing around the world and pushing open doors. But artists need time to themselves, too, and as his star has risen, the demands on his time have as well.

So, how does he manage? "I hope this doesn’t sound obnoxious," he says. "But the only way I could really start to get a balance was just to raise my speaking fee. If I did every speaking request, I would never get any work done."

It doesn’t sound obnoxious, or at least it shouldn’t, because the ecology of professional creation depends on this process: when artists who can command higher fees move up, it opens space for the new generation.

Monkman has moved up, and is still moving, and this is important. Young Indigenous artists write to tell him what it meant to see his work on a gallery’s walls.

What Robert Houle meant to him, now he means to others.

Celebrated, honoured, paid for, wanted.

"I think about myself as a kid, and if I had seen that (WAG) exhibition when I was a kid, what a difference that would have made in my life," he says.

"You see yourself in the work of other Indigenous artists, and that’s the power."

Melissa Martin

Melissa Martin

Melissa Martin reports and opines for the Winnipeg Free Press.

   Read full biography