Nunangat, meaning homeland: Barry Pottle on finding truth and beauty through photography

Los Angeles Times

22-04-2025

In urban Inuit photographer Barry Pottle's visit to the Rideau Canal, it's the time of the year when the body of water freezes, creating intricate patterns and colors. As the first layer of ice forms, tiny crystals begin to thicken. Under the blue surface, ice expands and susurrates, sounding like a spaceship.
Courtesy Barry Pottle: 'Rideau Canal'
Historically, the British military built this 202 -kilometer waterway during the War of 1812 to defend against the U.S. Located in Ottawa, Canada, the Rideau Canal becomes the world's largest skating rink during the Winterlude festival. As a UNESCO World Heritage Site , thousands of tourists and locals gather behind kiosks selling Beaver Tails or maple taffy, skate by carriages and seahorses carved in ice, and play in Snowflake Kingdom . During dusk, the sculpture lights reflect onto city buildings and glass windows: a dragon illuminates green and a bison shines red. Ottawa glissades into a rainbow.
Recently, rising global temperatures have shortened the skating season in the Rideau Canal. In 2024, the canal was open for skating for only ten days. In 2023, it remained closed all year due to warm weather.
Barry Pottle seeks to raise environmental and cultural awareness through his photographs. Originally from the Labrador province of Canada, Pottle now lives in Ottawa. Pottle comes from the Rigolet Inuit community and moved to Happy Valley-Goose Bay in his youth—he is one of the 30% of the Inuit population that have migrated South to major Canadian cities, such as Ottawa.
Growing up, Pottle dabbled in all sorts of art: drawing, sketching, writing, and carving. 'I view the world through an interdisciplinary approach, and I don't like to be pigeonholed into things,' he said. 'I like to explore different avenues of art.'
As a self-taught artist, Pottle discovered photography by accident. In early 2007 or 2008, Zellers —a department store in Canada—was closing in the area. With two million reward points remaining, Pottle bought a 35mm film camera.
Pottle's passion for photography grew as he worked as a curator for the federal government, researching Inuit art. While exploring the intersection of arts and culture, Pottle realized that photography was not a prominent medium in Inuit art.
'Peter Pitseolak was one of the firsts to start looking at the medium of photography and taking pictures of his community. Then there's Jimmy Manning. He was very instrumental in inspiring me to do photography,' Pottle said. 'So when I started out, I wanted to help build the foundation for photography within Inuit art.'
Pottle's first artistic photography project explores how governmental policies and programs shape the Inuit community: 'The Eskimo Identification Program was developed by the federal government in the 1940s, and it ran up until the 70s, in Nunavut, in the eastern Arctic, and then it finished in the 80s in Nunavik,' Pottle said.
The Eskimo Identification Program involved the federal government issuing a unique identification tag to Inuit composed of a letter indicating if they lived in the Eastern or Western region, a number indicating the administration area they lived in, and three or four digits that resembled a personal ID.
Historian Season Osborne wrote that the government implemented this identification system to track the hunting, medical services, education, housing, finances, and food of Inuit families.
Made into a coin-shaped disc using red leather and fiber, the front of the identification tag features the coat of arms of Canada, a symbol of royal authority. On the back, the disc features the identification tag of an individual, including their name spelled in English and Inuit syllabics.
Courtesy Barry Pottle: 'Awareness Series'
Reporter MacDonald Dupuis explained how the Canadian government dehumanized Inuit individuals into a string of numbers and letters as they wore the tags on their necks at all times. In schools, some children used their disk number to address themself rather than their names. Inuit today still find their Eskimo numbers in their mail, jewelry boxes, and even hidden in their favorite numbers they picked out as kids.
Representing the historical erasure of Inuit identity, Pottle's photography uplifts Inuit to reclaim and realize their individuality. By photographing around ten images of Eskimo identification tags, Pottle recognized the power of juxtaposing the tags with individual self-portraits. He named this photography collection the ' Awareness Series ,' and approached the project through societal and linguistic lenses.
Captivating artists, scholars, and the general public, the 'Awareness Series' went on display as a permanent art collection in the Art Gallery of Hamilton. Dr. Heather Igloliorte, a professor of art history, also invited Pottle to contribute to the 'Decolonize Me / Decolonisez-moi' project, a book featuring Aboriginal artists and essays that explore the brutal legacy of colonialism in Canada.
Another one of Pottle's photography collections highlights the practice of preparing Inuit food and meals. Foraging for cloudberries, harvesting Arctic char, skinning muktuk — these steps are all sacred in preparing country food. Pottle developed 15 images of how Inuit families would prepare a meal in the photography collection 'Foodland Security.'
'My diet consists of caribou, seal, partridge, fish, small game, berries, and birds,' Pottle said. 'Foodland Security' demonstrates the value of preserving Inuit country food in an era where authentic recipes are becoming less accessible for urban Inuits. Ice loss disrupts practices such as ice fishing, hunting, and sledding, which are vital for transportation and gathering food.
'Inuit culture is very close to the land, water, and sea animals,' Pottle said. 'From the materials we use to make clothing, tools, and homes, I think there's a special and spiritual connection to nature.
In the photograph ' Cutting Tuktu (Caribou),' Pottle captures an individual using an ulu, a versatile tool that was used as a knife. Representing Inuit women's identity, the ulu has been used for generations to cut hair, trim snow blocks, and make clothes.
Courtesy Barry Pottle: 'Starting the Feast'
The impact of Pottle's photography lies in its ability to evoke a deep appreciation and personal connection to his homeland. Through observation, curiosity, and gratitude, Pottle interacts heavily with Inuit voices in his photography, inviting an atmosphere of openness and energy. 'Whether it's food, a cultural activity, such as throat singing or games, or hunting,' he said, 'I create art through the practices and iconography within Inuit culture.'
Carrying his camera everywhere he goes, Pottle finds artistic meaning in the natural phenomena and environmental wonders closest to the Earth. During Sunday afternoon drives or trips to the Saint Lawrence River, he captures ice crystallizing and air bubbles compressing through the layers, whorls, loops, and traces of ice lines —all upon a palette of rich, dark blues. He titles the photograph 'Rockport Ice.'
Courtesy Barry Pottle: 'Rockport Ice'
'My motto is, practice, practice, practice. I'm not a professional artist; I'm all self taught,' Pottle said. 'I learned on my own through practice, through getting an eye and exploring various subjects and topics here in town.'
Cultivating a future of sustainability and cultural preservation, Pottle's work builds a foundation for Inuit perspectives to grow and cherish their own experiences and memories. 'I see a huge positive for Inuit art in Canada — videographers, filmmakers, storytellers, visual artists, dancers, the whole genre. The community here is very active, very vibrant: Montréal, Toronto, Ottawa, Winnipeg, Edmonton, Calgary, Yellowknife, and St. John's,' he said. 'To me, my images are, I call them reality. They're real, real-life images, happening now in the moment.'
As Inuit artist Kenojuak Ashevak said, 'There is no one Inuit word for art. We say it is to transfer something from the real to the unreal.' Related