Transcript: SKY HOPINKA on What We Pass On /364
Ayana Young Hello and welcome to For The Wild Podcast. I'm Ayana Young. Today we are speaking with Sky Hopinka.
Sky Hopinka I think there's something that comes with intergenerational trauma or even intergenerational violence where there's just like, there's this sort of idea that you have to suffer as much as your parents did or your grandparents did. And that also gets tied up into this idea of authenticity. You know, like, if we're not suffering in the same way, then are we real? And I think that's part of that sort of transgenerational reckoning---is unlearning these sorts of ways of disseminating knowledge and feeling and emotion that haven't worked for us or are passing other things that we really don't want to be passing along. And how can we become more intentional about being specific with that? What do we want to pass on? What do we want to survive? And what can we let go?
Ayana Young Sky Hopinka was born and raised in Northern Washington State and Southern California. He's a member of the Ho-Chunk Nation and descendent of the Pechanga Band of Luiseño Indians. His video, photo, and text work centers around personal positions of Indigenous homeland and landscape, designs of language as containers of culture expressed through personal, documentary, and non fiction forms of media.
Sky Hopinka My work touches on a lot of different things that have to do with Indigenous identity and Indigenous presence in this country. And in my own experience, a lot of the work that I make centers around landscapes and language, if not my own heritage language than those of other Indigenous nations around the country. Primarily, I began working in the Pacific Northwest and have lived there or had lived there for a big part of my life. And so some of the work that I do draws from Chinuk Wawa, that landscape in that region, as well as from my own traditional homelands in Wisconsin and Southern California. The work that I'm doing this year is an exploration of that. I'm still trying to figure it out, actually. I'm still working through how NAGPRA, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990 affects us today. What has been done and what hasn't been done in terms of compliance with that law? And also what are the more personal histories and relationships that I have to these particular stories, and both California and the Midwest.
Ayana Young Yeah, I'd love to get into all of those different categories as we get into this conversation more. And one thing I'm thinking about is a prominent theme across your work is the idea of dislocation, an experience of feeling decentered. And I'd love to dive into what that means a bit for you.
Sky Hopinka Yeah, this location, a film from 2017 called Dislocation Blues that was more or less about Standing Rock and the movement there and toured throughout 2016 and early 2017. And when I was going there, I went there three separate times for a week at a time, and so I'd drive from Milwaukee where I was living to North Dakota to Standing Rock, and it's about a 10-12 hour drive each way. And I just remember this feeling of driving there and not knowing what to expect, but then also returning and not knowing what to expect—you know, like being in this one place that was full of Native Peoples from all over and really practicing this, you know, the putting into practice decolonization, and the sort of things that seemingly were theoretical for - in so many different areas - and then returning to a place where I'm primarily surrounded by people who aren't members of my community. I was just us in grad school at the time, or assistant as an adjunct at the time in Milwaukee. And, you know, just like feeling dislocated both ways, and just how that is such a hallmark of an Indigenous experience in this country, of having to navigate these different worlds: one where there might be a lot of white people and others where there might be a lot of people in community, and the sort of tensions we carry into these different spaces, and also the ways that those tensions can be released by being in the right place, or a place that you need to be. And so, yeah, it was just the common thread that I really felt. I know that that word exemplified so many of the things I was trying to process something, and that really came out in that film as well.
Ayana Young Yeah. In "Film is the Body" for the MOMA Magazine you write, quote, "Being decentered from a land and a home burdens many of us. And I'm not entirely sure where the self can be found that soothes those aches and that hurt that punctures deep into the body of what we remember and what our ancestors experienced," end quote. And I often think we consider decentering to be a temporary or even an individual feeling, but I'm wondering how does your work engage with an understanding of generational and collective decentering?
Sky Hopinka I guess for me, when I hear the word center or to try to center there's something static about that, or this is like the sort of, I don't know, like difficulty in trying to hold still long enough to be centered in one place. But rather, I don't think it was just sort of like an elliptical orbit around this sort of idea that it's the center, and sometimes you close and sometimes you're far, but there's always this momentum that moves you back and forward. And that part of that journey, I think, is really exciting as well. You know, it's also scary. It's also lonely. It's also full of love and also full of a lot of fear. You know, it depends on where and how, but it's just, you know, like, I don't know, the idea of that isn't to maintain this sort of, like, you know, perfect idea of a center, but rather, ways that you can control that orbit around an idea of a center or an idea that you're searching for, or trying to attain or try to understand or relate to in ways that either you've been denied or haven't really had a chance to relate to on your own terms. And so I don't know, I mean, I don't know if that really answers your question, but I just think about it in sort of this push and pull sort of gravitational way where, you know, it's about the process of trying to understand that from all these different angles or from all these different perspectives that might be unusual, might be unaccustomed to what you're normally looking at, or the way you're normally looking at the world. But I think that my work tries to do that in some sort of way, especially around these big ideas, you know, these big questions of Who am I? What is meant to be a Ho-chunk person or Pechanga person on this land right now? And also, what does it mean to ask the questions that no one is asking you to try to answer? You know. It's just a sort of effort of triangulation.
Ayana Young Within that, I'm wondering, how do you or do people you are in community with hold on to your values and the meaning within life while also, reckoning with these feelings of dislocation or feeling decentered.
Sky Hopinka What it feels like being an active part of the conversation of establishing those values and continuing to establish those values. You know, the sign of a healthy culture and community is one that is constantly changing and growing over time. You know, one that's stagnant and doesn't change does not... it's not a sign of vibrancy, you know. Lke, I mean, this is a bad example, but I mean, like, the Latin language hasn't changed for 2000 years, you know, and the number of speak… people that speak that language is in the 1000s, you know. But it's just like, what can one do to try to invest in a culture to feel part of the culture and determine what these values are, especially with the way that technology is changing the way that the world is changing? And even the ways that sovereignty is a constantly evolving conversation for Native peoples in this country? You know, like, what does it mean to mash up these two different value systems like one that is imposed by you know, American hegemony, and one that also comes from your family, comes from your community, and comes from people that you care about and you consider kin. You know, how do these things mix and mash together, and I'm not quite sure what the right verb is for that. But I think it's part of the process that I think is really exciting, you know, as we're determining these things.
Ayana Young I really, I really liked that response. That made a lot of sense. But, also, was hard to put into a box at the same time because it feels like this kind of ephemeral understanding, always moving and changing. And I'm also thinking about the ways that you've spoken about film with, you know, film changing with everyone as a producer or as a quote "spectator." And across your work, you also engage with the idea of what it means to be a spectator. So I'd love if we could, together, contemplate how as a filmmaker and as someone behind the camera, you don't necessarily have to play into the role of spectator and can instead engage in a different way.
Sky Hopinka When I was in grad school, like one of the professors during a critique, he was like watching one of my films and he brought up this idea of like, you know, who are you? Are you the observing participants? Or the participating observer? And what is the traditional dynamic around that? And what does it mean to be a spectator within these situations? And also, what does it mean to be a viewer or to be the person with the camera and making these choices? I mean, I think a lot about that, when it comes to what sort of ways can I be held accountable in the creation of the work? Or how can my hand be felt as the person that is making these choices, with a sense that, you know, these things are choices being made, the idea of an objective viewpoint is totally false when it comes to like how I'm editing something or how the music comes in, and the way that an image is affected in color correction or the angle is lit, or whatever it is, you know, like, these are all choices. And the ones that are sometimes deliberate, and there's sometimes they're passive, and sometimes the things you don't even think about until you're watching the final cut. You're like, Oh, I didn't know what this wasn't until I had seen it.
Sky Hopinka And I mean, all of these things kind of come into play with I think, that idea of the spectator or where can one position themselves within that, you know. And what does it mean to also work in a field that traditionally has been very extractive to or from communities of color, communities of the oppressed, you know, communities that don't have a lot of agency in this country? You know, like, I mean, how do all these things like jive? Or do they not? And also, like, how much of that tension is also generative to this conversation, or these conversations that we're having around where we situate ourselves in these conversations?
Ayana Young Yeah. And I also imagine, as a filmmaker, you want to be in right relationship with who you're filming. You know, there's bonds and intimacy and trust that are created and whether it's in the interview itself, or in the moment of filming, or in the editing and the music, it's very sensitive. You know, a certain cut can change an entire intention of what somebody is saying, even music. And so how to honor the people that are willing to be vulnerable in front of the camera. Yeah, I think about that a lot. And it seems like you are really deeply looking at how to be in that type of right relationship in filmmaking.
Sky Hopinka Yeah, I mean, I feel like since the first time I started making work, I have always been aware of my... how uncomfortable I am around people, in some ways with the camera. Like, I'm not a very aggressive filmmaker. I'm not someone that will stick the camera right in someone's face trying to like get the shot or whatever. Or just, I don't know, it, just like, there's always something that felt like that isn't me or like how I go about making things. And I did a lot of work in terms of, I don't know, doing sort of, I don't know, like short documentaries and interviews and things like that for different organizations when I first was starting out. But as I started to make my own projects a little bit more experimental and a little bit more focused in the sort of art realm. I just started working more with people that I knew, people that are friends, people that I have a conversation with already. And even throughout the editing process, you know, like, once I get a solid rough cut done, or an assemblage done that I am like, this is like the pieces that I want to use. This is how I think it's going to look and feel. I'll show the people and say like, you know, what do you think? You know, are you happy with how you're being portrayed or how I'm representing you in this edit? And I just, I guess, like I mentioned before, in terms of like, you know, objectivity, you know, like, I mean, I'm very subjective filmmaker when it comes to... you know, I want people to look good, I want people to look how they want to represent themselves in the best way, you know. I mean, these are all choices, like I said, and how I can pull people into that conversation of making these choices as well. I think that really is a benefit to I don't know, me as a filmmaker and the product itself and whatever we're trying to do.
Ayana Young Yeah. And how do you think film, both the act of making it and the act of watching it can encourage us to consider the roles we inhabit and the dynamics of perception and perspective at play, both in film in the world at large?
Sky Hopinka I mean, I think, like, even as I make work to like, I mean, I often think of myself as just like the first viewer of this, you know, like, how is this focused on a conversation that I want to be having or a conversation that I don't know how to have? I mean... just... this film that I made a few years ago called Kicking the Clouds and it was.. it was... it involved my mom and there's little tips of my grandma on my mom's side. And like in that film is the really... I don't know, it allowed us to have some difficult conversations through the process of making the film. And sometimes that process is an excuse in order to have these conversations or as a proxy or is just, you know, a bit of a shielding is really helpful.
And not all the films do that sort of work, or just like the films that we watch and the films that we can see ourselves in when it comes to representation. But then also, just like, what does it mean to make the films that you want to make that you don't see being made? You know? And what can that start to look like? I mean, yeah, like, you know, the relationship between the viewer and the filmmaker and the way that, you know, a person can occupy both or just like only ever be a viewer or only ever be a filmmaker. You know, not think about how these things are intertwined. I don't know, I think that is room that is ripe for the exploration of a new cinema or the possibilities of new cinema that is focused on communities that haven't necessarily seen themselves on the screen, whether the big screen or the little screen, or whatever screen that's in-between. And I think like as those sorts of conversations develop or as those sorts of media forms develop, I think that also will breed a new sort of way of looking at how we see ourselves, especially if we're not usually present. I mean, even like, the last few years have been really big for Indigenous filmmakers and actors and artists to get attention and to get recognition that, you know, hasn't necessarily been available to them.
And those kinds of conversations have always been happening, you know, for the last, like, 100 years, 200 years, however long, you know, when it comes to the effects of these sorts of, I don't know, extermination policies by the government. But it's just like, you know, when this sort of like, broader, bigger, sort of media landscape or, you know, American populace, like starts to look in and they act, like, you know, it's something new that hasn't been happening, but it's been happening for a long time. Just now it's being looked at, only now, like, it's been seen, it'll continue to happen, like, once, once the gaze turns away, you know?
Ayana Young Well, thanks for sharing all that. And I think it is really complicated and hard to land on something that feels steady. You know, it's like even talking about this or these topics almost complicates the topics, but that's kind of what they need to like, there is no easy way out. And I think we're seeing that on so many levels. And maybe to get even more complex in the conversation, I wanted to take a moment to talk about your book Perfidia. It's described as, quote, "Moving within the textured landscape of memory, both personal and collective, to address the founding colonial violence of the United States and its lasting impact. In a series of cantos the book length poem surfaces a first person narrative amidst the stream of history and its accounting through the voices of ancestors and kin," end quote. Gosh, there's so much there. How do you engage with the idea of situating ourselves within the stream of history? And how do you reckon with the ways history is still very much alive especially within entrenched colonial perspectives?
Sky Hopinka I have no idea. I mean, it's like, is this the same book? Oh, man. Wow. Well, I mean, it's just like, even with that, it's like, the idea of the book or just like these poems began through just writing. I mean, it sounds obvious, but it's just, I started writing in my notes app on my phone, and I would just write these, you know, three or four paragraphs, sort of, like I said, cantos, whatever, there they were. And without any idea, like the form or what shape they would take. And it was after accumulating a number of these that I really found that it was about this bigger idea that was related to something that I was thinking about which was essentially Do Europeans still think about us? You know, was such a long history, the last like, 400 years with Europe, you know, with French, the Spanish, the British, Dutch, you know, all those people, and just like, you know, do Europeans today still think about this? You know, and just like they joke about it, they’re just like, think like, like, in terms like an ex, you know, like...Sometimes you wonder, wow did they still think about me, you know?
And regardless of whatever the relationship was, it's just that sort of like looking back and wondering about someone that was in your life, but is no longer you know, someone that's a significant part of your life. And that kind of, I don't know, was how I could think about the work together and the things that I was writing about and touching on which was, you know, very deeply personal but also very specific to something that is reflective of an experience that I think a lot of Indigenous people feel, not everyone. I mean, you know, I'm just, that's part of the specificity too is just how can I focus on my own unique experience and speak from my own sort of movement through these different landscapes of colonial history and reckoning and the presence without necessarily trying to speak for everyone or being an authority on this. You know, it's like, through the ways that these experiences can accumulate with all these different voices and all these different people that are wondering these things. You know, that's like when you start to get a better picture of like, how these things exist, and also what needs to be done to address these things that, you know, you might not even notice at first.
And I don't know, yeah, I think like the book, for me, Perfidia is just very much about that. You know, the title comes from this, like, Javier (surname) song or performance of this, I guess, the standard (unknown) video. And it's just like, you know, it's a good love song, you know, it's beautiful. It's just like it's set in the '40s or '50s. And, you know, it's about a sort of betrayal. And that too, is this word that I just became really, I don't know, not obsessed with, but I just thought about it a lot. And I was also reading through Ralph Waldo Emerson's letter to Martin Van Buren, you know, asking him, you know, do we think Cherokee removal, which led to the Trail of Tears. And he uses that word, this, this, using the seat and seal as an instrument of perfidy, you know, this idea of betrayal. And that just really stuck with me. And just, you know, it's like trying to pull in these different references, these things I've been thinking about, you know, separately, but how could they all combine together into something that tries to not paint a bigger picture, but I think just tries to focus on something that is a bit ineffable.
Ayana Young Yeah, I could see that. I think this connects to the idea of intergenerational suffering. And in Film is the Body for the MOMA Magazine you write, quote, "It's hard to parse out the pain of the elders and the pain that's your own. It's all our own, though. There's no theirs and ours or then and now, I think of my mother and father and their pain and their joy. I think of my grandmother's maternal and paternal grandma and grandmother, and the love they gave and the love they held onto for themselves. I don't know my maternal grandfather or my paternal grandfather and neither did my mother nor my father. Intergenerational suffering becomes a transgenerational reckoning." Oooh, yeah, I just really want to hear more about this idea of transgenerational reckoning.
Sky Hopinka I mean, I hadn't like, I haven't read that in awhile or thought about that in a while. But I mean, it's very much as that... specifically, you know, this, this relationship to my paternal and maternal grandfather's, you know, or lack of that relationship. You know, I think about that a lot. And so with this, like, new sort of body of work is also touching on and this new writing that I'm doing right now is touching on more specifically when it comes to that. You know, like, what does it mean for my mother and father, both to have not known their fathers? You know, like, what is implied or inferred in that relationship? Or lack of the relationship? And how does that affect me today? And also, how am I responsible for... not in a bad way, but like, just responsible for carrying that, you know, and carrying that through the relationship that I had with my father and the relationship that I have with my mother? And what sort of relationships do I want to foster that is reflective of the things that I've learned through those experiences? And also, how can I grow and change and reflect on who I am and who I want to be tomorrow in a very immediate way?
I mean, I don't often think about the future because it gets so big and so daunting and so unknown. But I think about tomorrow, because, you know, that's the thing that's, you know, gives me anxiety and hope, you know. And what, how can the things that I'm trying to figure out, like, you know, how can I make it easier for, you know, future generations for, I don't know, children in the future for my nieces, for my nephews, for my students?
Another thing that comes to mind is when I was first learning Chinook, my teacher, he told me, there's no thinking and no suffering. In this, if you see your student thinking and suffering, you gotta, you gotta help them out. You know, you don't want them to flounder. You don't want them to, you know, be sitting there searching for a word, and you're just standing with your arms crossed saying that, Nope, nope, better get it, you better get it. You know, cuz that's not helping them. You know, like, it's just like making this learning process that much more difficult. And you also, you know, as you're learning the language and figuring out what the lessons are, it's going to be hard for you, but it's gonna be easier for your students. And that's the thing you know, it's just like, even with like, teaching film, like, I don't want my students to go through the same things that I went through to become a filmmaker. You know, because it's a whole lifetime of experiences. You know, they're gonna have their own journey, and it's just like, whatever I can do to make it easier for them to then scaffold, to then think about what their—how their own lives reflect their own artistic practices, like, they can be all that much better for it, you know.
And I think there's something to… that comes with intergenerational trauma or even intergenerational violence, where it's just like, there's this sort of idea that, you know, you have to suffer as much as I did. You have to suffer as much as your parents did or your grandparents did. And that also gets tied up into this idea of authenticity. You know, like, if we're not suffering in the same way, then are we real? And I don't know, I was just like, are we related to each other in that same sort of way? And I don't think so. And I think that's part of that sort of transgenerational reckoning—is unlearning these sorts of ways of disseminating knowledge and feeling and an emotion that haven't worked for us, or, you know, our passing a lot of things that we really don't want to be passing along. And how can we become more intentional about being specific with that? Like, what do we want to pass on? What do we want to survive? And what can we let go?
Ayana Young Wow, that really hit hard for me. And I'm just thinking about authenticity and suffering, that that feels extremely relevant. And something that I do not in any way have answers for, or even, even feel like, I can grasp it fully. But I can sense it in the longing and the searching of today's youth, even in myself, for sure. When there's been so much suffering and pain from... whether it's our human ancestors or more-than-human ancestors or our kin or familial relations, human and otherwise, it's like, how can we be real and authentic and compassionate without almost... I don't know, if it's about living that suffering? I mean, we can't live what other people have lived.
Sky Hopinka I think, yeah, it's just, there's so many issues surrounding authenticity as well that it's just, it's just, it's always top of mind. You know, like, whether it's, you know… Do people want to be Native? Do they not want to be Native? Are they pretending to be Native? Like all these different sort of things like swirl around as well, you know, and, but then, like, what are the things that are deeper or that, again more ineffable, or intractable or whatever sort of word you want to use to describe it, that I don't know, is again, about triangulation, I suppose. You know, as we're all searching for, like who we are and how we relate to the world that we live in, but also the world that we come from or the worlds that we come from.
Ayana Young Right. And then that's another layer… is like the world’s plural and there's all these different stories that have lived through us, through our ancestors colliding, sometimes in very odd and uncomfortable ways. And so yeah, the reckoning of that is something I really see in people. I'm really... in myself, but also witnessing so many of us try to make sense of our histories. I'm also thinking about navigating the pressure to quote “know” identity versus colonial erasure. And in "Sky Hopinka on Uncertainty, Authority, and Indigenous Representation" for Walker Art you write, quote, "The politics surrounding identity are such that one must be an expert on almost everything concerning your own culture, race, identities, identifiers, etc. And to not know those questions inevitably brings about some form of ineptitude or annoyance or weariness at having to teach. It's a blurry oscillation between these modes of being, presenting, and performing. Whenever these couplings come up in broader culture, it always reads as new and old, same answer, different question," end quote. Yeah, how do you balance the pressure that you should know or like, quote, "know" or be able to easily describe or even market your identity? Or how do you see that for others?
Sky Hopinka I mean, I think the easiest way is just get used to saying, I don't know. There's this so much like, yeah, pressure to like, you know, know, the answers to things that you have no expertise in or that might be from a totally different tribe or community, you know. And, I don't know, I think it's like, something I try to do mre in my life in general is just to say, I don't know. Or to ask questions, you know, and stop having to perform authority or a sense of knowledge, you know, especially ones that I don't have.
And I don't, it's like even when it comes to people asking those questions like what are they trying... What are they really asking? You know, like, whether it's something that is about something sacred or something historical or something personal, you know, like, I mean, all of these questions like lead towards, you know, a sense of either trying to study us or try to become us or try to, I don't know, maybe just trying to be our friend or something, I don't know. I mean, it's tricky, though. And then I mean, I'm having a hard time like navigating even how to answer this question because like, it's, like, part of me, like, wants to, you know, just share everything that I can, you know, that I have permission to, you know, about, like, what I'm doing and what I'm up to. And the other part, it just wants to be protective, and, you know, participate in, you know, a certain sort of refusal when it comes to these things. And it comes to what sort of trust and what sort of relationships are being established between, you know, the person asking the question, and the person being asked the question. And even like, with the films that I make that touch on this, you know, in a lot of ways where... I don't know, I don't want the films to be burdened by my extraneous information or my educating audience towards things that, you know, there shouldn't have to. You know, but like, outside of the film, like in a q&a, or in a conversation, you know, I'm happy to talk about certain things, you know. So I don't think that these films live in a vacuum, I think that they live, you know, in part of a broader constellation of relations that can be established, that are opportunities to establish these different relations with people that might not necessarily know who we are or where we come from, you know. And like, some people get it, and some people don't, you know.
And it's just, I think it goes back as well to just like, you know, a different generation, you know, like, being a kid growing up, and just, you know, being both taught to be ashamed and to be proud of, like, who I am and where I come from. But it's just like, navigating, like, who's doing the teaching? And who should I be listening to? And, you know, just like taking a lifetime of work to kind of like, you know, arrive at where I am in that relationship to the people that look at me as a novelty or just like, as another Native, you know, or just as a person, or just like, you know, a Sky, I don't know. But yeah, so it's just like, you know, sometimes a simple question can just lead down a rabbit hole of just like, wondering, you know, who you are, where you come from and how do you exist in the world? And I think I mentioned that earlier, too. It's just that the question of, like, how do I exist in the world is one that, you know, a lot of us are tasked with trying to answer, you know.
Ayana Young HmmmMmmm. In a sense, I wonder if this is where art can come in and help us communicate in ways that are vulnerable, but could also be protective because it's not, doesn't have to be so direct? Or, you know, it's more subtle? And I guess, how do you think art can allow us to tap into the forms of meaning that are more subtle, that really get into the unspeakable feelings? Or the feelings that don't want to be spoken?
Sky Hopinka Yeah, no, I mean, I feel like that's, like, why I found film as a medium that like, 1) will combine all of my interests in like music and photography and writing and storytelling, you know. It's just, it's all there in cinema. And, you know, it's just, it's, it's because, like, why I'm really bad at writing proposals, you know, like, writing proposals for projects that I know I'm not going to make. You know, or just like, This is gonna look like this. Because it's just like, the process of filming something or trying to express something like through an editing program or through cinematography or through music, or through a spoken word, whatever that might be, or sound design, you know, it's just like, all of these are describing something that I can't describe myself. I can't just like, you know, sit someone in a chair and explain this film to them, or this idea that I'm thinking in words. You know, it's just like, it's, it's through this medium, it's through the moving images, through time based art that I found a way to communicate these things that, you know, are very specific to me and my family and my tribe or my friends, or whoever making the project with. But my hope, too, is that an audience even if they come from a totally different culture or community, they find something in that that they can relate to. And that reflects, like, their own experiences, you know, and I think like, broadly, that's what art can do is is allow us to see parts of ourselves and inside of ourselves that we normally don't really have an opportunity or a chance to observe or to let out a bit. And yeah, you know, it's just like, if you ever stood in front of a painting and cried, you know, just like for no reason. I've done that maybe once or twice, you know, and it's just like, I don't know what it is. I don't know why, you know, but and I don't even know why I dwell on it too much and try to explain why, you know, but I just remember that feeling. And those sorts of feelings are the types of things that, you know, I'm really interested in trying to create or trying to bring out in these images that I make, or the sounds that I produce.
Ayana Young And what do you see the job of art being in transforming our consciousness and shaping what we value in the world?
Sky Hopinka Oh, I have. I don't know. I mean, it's like, I mean, even like, the last, like, you know, four or five months have been rough when it comes to thinking about, like, what art can do, you know? And it's just like, you know, what is the... I guess it's like, what is the time and place for each of these things? You know, and, you know, in some ways, it can be a distraction from the realities of the world or in other ways it can, you know, pointing towards things that you're hopefully trying to like, bury your head in the sand about, you know, whatever that is. I think it's just that idea of confrontation—confrontation and escape or confrontation and reverie when it comes to, I don't know, for each viewer or person looking at these things to, you know, figure out what is the art that they need? You know, what's the medicine? What's the antidote? What's the thing that will, you know, yet provide that [unknown] that, you know, offers, offers an experience or offers, like, a way of reframing the conditions that you're in? If that's what you need.
Ayana Young Yeah, I'm, I get it. I'm definitely in that question whether it's art or media or education. It's like, what do we need at this point to shift or grow or heal? And of course, it's different, you know, there isn't one silver bullet solution, or there is no real answer to it. But I've definitely been questioning a lot for myself in, I guess, just creation in general. How is creation serving? So maybe talking a bit about art and the body and just embodiment in film as the body for the MOMA Magazine you write quote, "Soma is the body and what we have apart from our soul and our vagaries, I hold a camera, and I hold a pen and I type on this keyboard thinking of mind, pictures, and stories I don't have the words for. Film is the body and photographs are the body and words are the body. In English, in Ho-chunk, in Chinook on celluloid or in pixels or on paper and I hope they mean everything, I can make them mean," and I love that and you continue… "The body is still the body and it needs these other elements and factors to give its shape and its form and its memory meaning. I feel myself in my body every day and I look to my chosen elders to guide me and understanding as a child does for we're all children learning and trying to become more than what our appearances are prescribed to us by the histories in place," end quote. As I was reading that I tried to understand how you center embodiment in your own creation process. But then for those who are experiencing your films, your art, how do you imagine them embodying what they are experiencing through your work?
Sky Hopinka I think I mean, even just like yeah, film being like a time based medium. You know, it's just I mean... I talk about this film a lot, but one of my favorite all-time was watching this James Benning film called Farocki in an empty cinema, except for my advisor, just sitting in opposite ends of the cinema, like watching this film on a Sunday afternoon. And it's like a 90 minute film of just like a sky with clouds, just like one take, you know. And it's just barely any sound and it's just you're watching that for like an hour and a half, you know. And it's just, it's one of my favorite cinematic experiences because I don't know it just like there's something about being aware of my body in the cinema, you know, with my feet up on the chair, leaning back, you know, just kind of like dozing off and daydreaming every now and then... kind of just like watching the clouds. And it's just that sort of space to think about your presence in the cinema as you're watching something that, I don't know like, it changed me and in how I think about film and like what it does. Where it isn't just the time that you spend watching something, but it's time that your body is in the process of watching it, you know. Are you sitting cross legged, you know, watching something on your phone, you know, or laying in bed or on the couch with friends, with a loved one, whoever it is, you know. There's something to that experience that is very much a part of like, the thing that you're watching and what that thing makes you feel you know.
Like you know, my favorite director, [unknown] says that like, you know, he wants audiences to fall asleep during his movies. You know, that's a sign of trust in the filmmaker. You know, and I think I've fallen asleep and a few movies here and there and it's just like, you know, that sort of trust and that sort of invitation to then internalize the film in a different way that I think is really fascinating, you know. I'm finding people fall asleep during my movies, too, you know. That's great. But it just also… it ‘s like the films themselves become, you know, through the creation of them and through the making of them, you know. I'll spend, like, you know, months working on something and just, you know, watch edit, after edit after edit, and just like, go through so many different iterations, just like fine tuning it and tweaking this and that, and things that maybe no one will notice, but I'll notice, you know. And it's when I know when I'm done, when I can't think of anything else to do and then it's just on to the next project, you know, and... But that film is still a container of all those experiences and all those ways that I was involved with, you know, that film. And I remember, like, where I was, when I was editing this section here or that section in there, what I was thinking, you know, are all these different things. And the same thing too with an audience that is experiencing these things or watching them, you know, like, what did they bring into it? You know, how are they feeling that day? You know, are they sad, mad, glad, whatever, you know? And how does that affect how they think about it? You know? I don't know, I think like all of those things kind of go into that sort of idea of embodiment when it comes into like the making of these films and the viewing of them and the filming. Yeah, all of it.
Ayana Young I really liked you describing the body in the cinema, just in the chair, feet up, the sound, the darkness—that really explained so much to me. Another thing I wanted to ask about, kind of on the theme of art, is the role of abstraction. And I'm wondering, you know, how does abstraction play into your art? And how might it work to actually get us closer to feeling connected?
Sky Hopinka I think one of the first things that I did in a film to start to play with abstraction was to turn an image upside down—one upside down one below, in this film. And like, for me, that was doing something very specific when it came to expressing this relationship to my dad, who was the subject to the film, and myself and these two different homelands. It was a very… you know, it's like very intentional, but you know, an audience doesn't know that, you know, an audience doesn't know why I did that. My mom does, you know, like, someone that knows this location knows what I'm up to. But I'm not painting the picture of like, you know, we're not writing the paragraph explaining, like, you know, what it is… Actually I did write an essay about that film, actually. So I did explain that a little bit. But the point being that, you know, I do these gestures, and I do these moves with intention, with purpose, but a larger audience doesn't know what I'm referencing or what it's about, but I want them to know that there's something there that's intentional. Anad so there's an obstruction, there's something that was manipulated in terms of the image or the soundscape, or whatever it is. And the thing that I want with that is that the intention to be felt even if the purpose isn't known, that makes sense. You know, because like, then it... like, ideally, it allows someone into the effort or into the intention behind it without knowing what it is, and allows them to bring their own experience or their own relationship or the things that they want to see within that, you know? Like, in some ways, it's a container, it's a vessel in order for these things and experiences to be laid out and to be shared or to, you know, be viewed, you know—if not, you know, for myself or for or for some other.
I think of even like, these abstraction, sort of, like, moves or gestures is just like one and, like, in a toolbox of like, tactics to employ, and like, you know, this formal strategies in a film, you know, and like, what is the emotional resonance? And if the resonance is there, then that is it's doing its job, you know, or does it fall flat? You know, does it just feel like it's done in vain, you know, or for, because it looks cool, or something, you know. And I don't know, I think there's a certain sort of release that I think I tried to come to terms with which each of these things, or each of these films or different ways that I employ abstraction in the works, is Does this make sense? You know, and like, I'll obsess over, you know, an edit and just like, watch it and think about it and step away from it and wonder, Is this done with enough purpose or with intention, or will an audience know what I'm up to" You know? Does it look dumb? You know, like, all of those things. So I don't know, I guess it's something that I think about a lot when it comes to how it's landing or if it doesn't.
Ayana Young Yeah, I get that. And I'm wondering… What do you have lined up for the future? What are you… What themes are you focusing on? Or what can you share for us about your art at this moment and what you're dreaming into?
Sky Hopinka I'm in the middle of post production right now in my next feature length film called Powwow People. Me and my crew, we organized the powwow in Seattle at the Daybreak Star Cultural Center this past August and hosted a powwow for three days and filmed it. And the idea being to make a film out of that, you know, maybe a little bit more of a straightforward type film with not as many abstraction or abstractions in it.. I'm in the middle of that right now, and I have an exhibition coming up at Broadway Gallery in Tribeca in June. So that'll include a new video installation, as well as 11 new photograph painting flatwork pieces. And I'm also working on writing a script with a good friend of mine set in coastal Oregon. We're hoping to start shooting that in the next few years. And I'm currently working on a more experimental documentary type film about country music with another good friend of mine.
Ayana Young I'd love to… I don't know if you could share anything more about the country music?
Sky Hopinka I mean, it begins with a love of something, you know, and like, I mean, yeah, I love country music. And actually, at first, I started with rodeos like, my dad rode rodeo before I was born, but he was like, he was gored by a bull. And there's something like that always affecting how he walks for the rest of his life. And my friend and I were talking about that, and we're gonna go to try to go see one in New Jersey, and like, I'll bring a camera, I'll bring a Bolex, you know, and shoot something to film. That never happened, but the idea has started to percolate a little bit more about this film and like about you know, ideas of the country and then focus on country music and yeah, like there's this musician that I really love and we just went and talked to him this past weekend in Arkansas and it was just really great. You know, getting his perspective as a musician you know, when it comes to Indigenous issues, when it comes to the land, when it comes to class, and it comes to race. And it's just like how much of a container country music is when it comes to these things and how reflective of it is and like how it's not you know, this sort of like one single you know, sort of like thing like Garth Brooks or something, you know. There's a lot more nuance and a lot more history when it comes to culture, language, landscape.
Ayana Young Oh, very cool. Well, Sky, I really enjoyed this time with you.
Sky Hopinka Thank you so much. I really enjoyed it.
Evan Tenenbaum Thank you for listening to For The Wild. The music in today's episode is by Arushi Jain courtesy of Leaving Records. For The Wild is created by Ayana Young, Erica Ekrem, Julia Jackson, Jackson Kroopf, José Alejandro Rivera, and Evan Tenenbaum.