Santee Frazier

Meet the Residents / Siena is a seasonal series of interviews with Amant’s Siena Studio & Research residents. The conversations take place in the Amant residency studios in Chiusure, in the heart of the province of Siena.

In the summer of 2024, Amant’s Chief Curator, Tobi Maier recorded this conversation during a studio visit with resident artist Santee Frazier. With this transcript of their conversation, we introduce Santee’s practice to our wider audience and discuss questions such as: What is the impact of the Chiusure and Siena context on our residents’ practices? In what ways has the proposed project changed since arriving and why? And finally, what is artistic research and how is it done?

Tobi Maier: Santee, thanks for agreeing to do this studio visit here at Amant in Chiusure. Could you tell us a little bit about where you came from? Where were you before coming to Chiusure?

Santee Frazier: I was born in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, the capital of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma, but spent most of my childhood in Oklahoma City. I studied creative writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA) in Santa Fe, New Mexico. It was an excellent education, a unique school. It’s the only tribal arts college in the United States. Many Native American authors of influence have come out of IAIA—former US Poet Laureate Joy Harjo and fiction writer Tommy Orange are two prominent names that come to mind. IAIA also provides an excellent education in visual arts and museum studies. I did my MFA at Syracuse University and had a good education, but my identity as an artist was shaped at IAIA.

I’m currently based in the Onondaga Nation Territory, but most people associate the area with Syracuse, NY. I’ve lived there for roughly 25 years and raised my kids there. I teach at St. Lawrence University, about two and a half hours north of Onondaga Nation, near the Canadian border on the St. Lawrence River, or Mohawk Nation Territories.

TM: Santee, what is a research project for you? How do you do your research?

SF: I thread my poetry and teaching practices together through Indigenous Thinking/Intellectualism. Poets have a responsibility to serve their community beyond individual artistic expression. At this moment, there is an exigence in establishing emancipatory pedagogical models, especially in arts education. Students need to learn to develop creative practices that deepen how they process the world. Practices that seek more than external validation.

Over the last few years, I have developed creative writing courses implementing Indigenous thinking and pedagogical practices. These courses emphasize what scholar Vanessa Andreotti calls “relational rigor, “ where students are accountable to one another rather than the professor. Additionally, students are asked to develop a poetry/writing practice that is good for their well-being. This sharply contrasts how creative writing courses are typically taught in higher education. As a professor, I am responsible for playing a positive role in my students’ artistic development. To avoid imposing my aesthetic bias. While it is challenging to prevent colonial practices like cognitive imperialism in a university classroom, educators must find ways of teaching built on empathy so that students can have the space to discover where art/poetry might take them. During this residency, I plan to focus on writing essays/articles arguing for reimaging arts education.

Of course, part of my job is making poems, but this requires lots of isolation. In poetry, I contend with the complexities of living inside language constructs. In my practice, the poem decides what it needs and how it wants to function. To put it another way—perhaps this might be a little woo-woo—the poet (me) is a conduit for some spiritual energy, at which point I do my best to transpose it into a poem. I suppose those into breathwork might call this channeling the subconscious. Letting the poem decide makes me less rigid and open to working with language through sound, image, and abstraction. Letting the poem decide also extends to research. When writing my second book, I found myself researching the accordion, both the instrument and the music. Writing a poem is a discovery process, which then requires research. My method for taking in knowledge is chaotic, but the poem often finds a way of synthesizing diverse bits of knowledge together. I often find myself studying etymologies, which are more related to sound orchestration than what a word means. Beneath every ordinary word is an older word with a more interesting sound profile.

TM: Now, we’re sitting in front of some of your research. Maybe you want to talk a little bit about Mangled?

SF: Mangled is fiction. Lyrical fiction might be a better term. Mangled is fiction that functions like a poem. Mangled is a character or an emblem of cultural genocide. Mangled is a serial poem I have been writing since 2008. It started as a sound experiment or sound poem. Eventually, it became a series of prose poems. More than anything, the Mangled poems allow me to remove myself from the text. The first set of Mangled poems critiqued the Buffalo Bill Wild West Shows. The second set of poems focused on Mangled as a migrant worker. The set of poems I am working on here in Chiusure is abstract and anti-narrative. Each set of poems is about a different type of Mangled death. Cultural genocide, exploitation, and cultural abuse. Mangled experiences the karmic threads of oppression at all levels of life.

TM: So Mangled is taking shape of a graphic novel.

SF: Sometimes, the poems work like a graphic novel. The omniscient speaker that describes Mangled’s world is similar to how the action is described in a graphic novel. Sometimes, the poems are more episodic, like a comic book. Eventually, I want to collaborate with a visual artist to produce a series of broadsides or small pocket-sized comic books. However, projects like this take considerable time. It would be a bizarre graphic novel.

Sound also played quite an important role in the American Pavilion in Venice now, which we visited together. Together we went to see Jeffrey Gibson’s presentation. What kind of role or significance would you attribute to sound and language in general within artistic practice of First Nation or indigenous artists?

Part of the poet’s job is to expand the limits of language. Right now, at least in the Native American poetry community, there is an emphasis on writing poems in Indigenous languages. Osage writer Chelsea Hicks started Words of the People, which is an organization that features poets from Native Nations writing in the language of their people. This tributary within Indigenous literature creates interesting discourse in poetics and aesthetics. Poems written in Indigenous languages, in my mind, ought not to be considered “Native American Literature.” Most Native Nations are funding language revitalization programs, which means more Indigenous people are seeking to speak and utilize their language in interesting ways, but mainly for an entirely different audience. For example, poems written in Cherokee serve those who can speak and think in Cherokee. I believe Native American Literature serves Non-Native audiences, which is not a judgment on the genre. I am just trying to differentiate how language works in both contexts. This is similar to some examples within Native American visual arts, where the primary audience is Non-Native. In these examples, the art attempts to bring Non-Native audiences closer to Indigenous cultures and concepts and center issues related to colonial experiences. This contrast extends to the inclusion of music within Indigenous/Native American Art.

Music, sound, or song practiced in a community serves the members of that community. Songs used in ceremonies or gatherings, for me, should not be used in an artist’s individual expression. In this context, music and language belong to the people. Returning to Jeffrey Gibson and his inclusion of music by A Tribe Called Red—a collage of pow-wow music and EDM—avoids cultural abuse. However, most Non-Native audiences wouldn’t be able to discern the differences between songs/sounds that belong to the people and songs/sounds that belong to an individual. Gibson’s exhibition, for me, is about cultural continuity. Despite genocide and land theft, our cultural practices still exist in the liminal space between contemporary and traditional arts. It makes me think about the term “survivance,” coined by Ojibwe scholar and writer Gerald Vizenor. The general idea is that through colonial experiences and assimilation into the Western culture, Indigenous people can produce fine art that engages the Western imagination. Again, I am making distinctions.

Many Indigenous artists, including Gibson, contend with 500 years of colonial oppression and the problematic ways in which Western education affected our consciousness and the language we use to populate our identity. In this context, many Indigenous artists are attempting to subvert the English language literally and figuratively to interrogate or critique Western culture. This is similar to Jorge Luis Borges’s assertion that Irish writers, like James Joyce, use the English language to dismantle Western literary traditions. This power dynamic is fascinating and complicated.

The subversion of the English language requires experimentation, which is ultimately good for both the literary and visual arts. However, art that engages disparity relegates the creator, writer, or artist to what Franz Fannon calls “subaltern status.” The Western imagination has a fetish for the genocide and erasure of Indigenous Peoples and Cultures. It’s paradoxical. As a poet, I want to make sense of my colonial experiences via the literary arts, but this process also contributes to the colonial project.

The language that populates our consciousness and the conversation with the self when processing the world plays a huge role in how we make art. Someone who speaks Cherokee fluently has a very different way of processing the world than a Cherokee person who can’t speak their language. Sure, there are ways of relearning that language, but the mind would still be translating from English. This all influences how we translate identity into artistic expression. This is what I was thinking when navigating Jeffrey Gibson’s exhibition.

As a Cherokee Citizen, I questioned where my place was in that exhibition. Gibson’s work resonates with Non-Native audiences who are uninformed when it comes to colonial histories and Indigenous cultures. He is an innovative artist, and I have respect for all he has accomplished. Yet, I still await art and literature that centers on the Indigenous audience. Indigenous people also deserve intellectual spaces and art that can deepen our worldview. I struggle with the fact that for Indigenous artists to be visible and make a living, pandering to the Western gaze is required.

I think it would be empowering to see generations behind me learn how to write poems in their native language without having to rely on external validation from Non-Native audiences. As Native and First Nations continue to make efforts toward revitalizing their original languages, younger generations will think of sounds that belong to their people. Hopefully, there will be poets expanding the limits of language in service to their community.

One of the things that I found fascinating about Jeffrey Gibson’s work was the usage of plastic and cut-glass beads, which are manufactured via modern machinery. Before beads, dyed quills were used to fabricate distinctive designs and patterns to adorn clothing and objects. You see similar nods in the paintings featuring geometric patterns. For me, it’s interesting how the beadwork and ribbon work contrasted with the references to Mississippian mound builder culture, which were rendered in clay. So you have this ancient-looking head rendered in clay. As you cascade down the body of the piece, the sculpture is encoded in a visual language that we associate with Native American peoples in a contemporary context. And I like that idea, but the art doesn’t speak to me in the way it speaks to Non-Native audiences. And that’s okay.

TM: Italy has also a colonial past. Is this something that you’re interested in researching further?

SF: There are subtle remnants of colonial histories here in Italy, mainly in the cuisine. Many fruits and vegetables we would associate with Italian cuisine originate in the Americas. For instance, squash. I think it’s interesting how zucchini, a specialized variant of summer squash, was cultivated in Italy in the 1800s and features on almost every menu here in Tuscany. Corn/polenta is another example. It’s the same for tomatoes. I am sure this had something to do with Christopher Columbus, who was Italian. Perhaps the prevalence of tomatoes in southern Italian cuisine is correlated with seaports and ships bringing foods from “the new world.” Colonialism erases these histories from the cultural consciousness.

Being anti-colonial is a restorative practice that requires mindfulness. If colonialism is about control, oppression, violence, and erasure, then being anti-colonial requires compassion, empathy, and kindness, which is different than decolonizing. I think about what that term means and how it’s used in academic contexts. I don’t think it is the job of Indigenous people to decolonize, as we would be attempting to fix something we didn’t create. Instead, it’s more important to liberate ourselves from its influence over our art and how we process the world.

TM: Can you talk about how this preparatory work that you’re conducting here aside from your writing would perhaps then manifest this future research project?

SF: One thing I enjoy about this residency is that it’s so organic. You can have hour-long, two-hour-long conversations with the other artists and learn an incredible amount about how they think about materials. As a poet, I relate to how visual artists contemplate transforming abstractions into images or objects. All art requires some form of poetics. By poetics, I mean some form of meditation on craft. Listening to other artists describe the poetics of clay or sound-making influences the way I think about my poems and teaching. Ideally, what I learn from the other artists will affect my thinking toward upcoming projects.

Aside from writing poems, I am developing a series of rituals and practices for an upcoming collaborative project. The project, in broad strokes, will require me (and other team members) to travel to various sites on Ancestral Cherokee Lands. I will compose and assemble a series of poems from each site. A description of each ritual will appear with the corresponding poem. I plan to work with an Elder Cherokee speaker to translate the rituals/poems into Cherokee Syllabary. So, the translation process will also be written while I am here in Chiusure.

TM: It’s very different to our residency in New York where everybody is sort of going out into the city. Here, it seems much more turning inwards and looking at what your fellow residents are doing and how there are ways to learn from each other.

SF: Generally, writing a poem or making a piece of art requires isolation. Yet, in my daily life, I rarely find the time to compose a poem. To make the poem my central focus. On most days, I am writing lines in fifteen-minute increments. In Chiusure, I have time to contemplate a line of poetry. I have time to consider every word I place in the poem. Getting to know the other artists is a bonus. Rarely are you surrounded by such brilliant people. This residency is a rare gift.

TM: And last question Santee, now after visiting the Biennial in Venice and being here in Italy and having seen also Florence, how is your initial feedback for visiting the European continent for the first time in your life and what is your feedback on the Venice Biennial, Foreigners Everywhere?

SF: I try to be mindfully anti-colonial. This term is something I made up in reaction to cognitive dissonance. All countries have a history of violence, but I don’t believe those histories represent the people. Generally, I find most people to be friendly and welcoming. I find Italian people, and at least those I have met in Chiusure, to be genuine people. Being anti-colonial is being a good guest, and part of being a good guest is acquiring cultural competency. I do my best to observe behaviors to conduct myself in a way that shows respect to the people here. This is their home, their land. I think this is what Native and First Nations people advocate for when working toward reconciliation with Colonial Governments.

Of course, I support the aims of the goals of decolonization. However, speaking as a poet, my way of dealing with colonial histories is by being a pacifist. Keeping an open mind and resisting conflict is good for my well-being. It takes a lot of mindfulness and meditation. And isn’t that the same for Indigenous people? We’re not representative of our histories or the perspectives the histories inform. Taking the time to listen to acknowledge people and, most importantly, to accept their kindness is vital to maintaining my core values as a human and poet.

Regarding the Biennale, I wish that the curators had taken more time to learn about the cultures and the people that were represented. Then there could have been a better movement through all of the exhibitions, but I felt like it was a hodgepodge. There was no significant through-line that yoked everything together. It’s also amazing to see so many Indigenous artists in one place, but deeper intellectual and cultural connections must be made for non-indigenous to synthesize the experience fully.

It does repeat some of the sort of colonial practice of making homogenous, distinctive artistic approaches from different parts of the globe via the word “Indigenous.” This practice often erases the complex political situations of Indigenous peoples existing in various geographies and oppressive systems. There is always room for more profound discourse on these matters. I’ve been to other large exhibitions featuring art in the Western canon, where curators played a massive role in contextualizing how I should experience the art. Venice Biennial, Foreigners Everywhere, is a significant event but fails to adequately address the issues artists are contending with in their work.

TM: Thank you, Santee