Why Indigenous Beadwork Is My Idea of Luxury

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Photographed by Shayla Blatchford

While growing up, my perception of luxury was always different. I was never exposed to designer labels, nor was it something my family had easy access to. I am Ojibwe and grew up on Nipissing First Nation, a remote indigenous reserve in northern Ontario, Canada. There, I often attended cultural events or powwows, where dancers would be dressed in full regalia—it’s own fashion show, in a way. I would take in the most beautiful outfits, adorned with colorful beading and quillwork. These were pieces that took weeks or months to produce. This, to me, was aspirational fashion.

I quickly learned that my culture’s definition of luxury is not based on brand names, but rather owning something that has a lot of heart put into it. Pieces are valued for their spirit, and not their monetary value. Heirlooms are passed down through the generations, and pieces are considered special because of the hands or stories behind them. In my own family, I think of a beaded medallion necklace my sister made me in the shape of a turtle, to represent Turtle Island (among other tribes, the Ojibwe teachings refer to the Earth as this). I also think of a star-shaped quilt blanket my mother made me. These items are meant to be decorative, but they hold greater meaning—they represent an upholding of cultural practices and traditions.

From left: my sister in a jingle dress, my two cousins, and me before a powwowPhoto: Courtesy of Christian Allaire

I grew up valuing these kinds of keepsakes. But like any kid, I slowly began wanting what I couldn’t have. Sure, I loved the native regalia lingering around our household, but they didn’t look like anything I saw in the magazines. I was mesmerized by the pages of Vogue. All these pretty accessories and clothes felt so foreign to what I knew. The ads were my favorite. These are actual real things being sold, I would think to myself. The jewelry campaigns were especially mind-boggling. In my community, women sported beaded earrings—you were a boujee native if you had the giant hoops—yet here were glamazons wearing giant Tiffany & Co. diamond earrings. The biggest rock I had ever tried on was a ruby Ring Pop!

It wasn’t until my college years, when I moved to Toronto, that I finally got to see luxury fashion up close. During my four years in the city, I made obsessive visits to Holt Renfrew, the Canadian equivalent to Bergdorf or Saks. I would roam those halls like a maniac, window-shopping on a broke student’s budget. I remember splurging on my first pair of studded Prada sneakers there (heavily discounted, of course) and feeling that initial contact high. Yet a day or two later, I was hit with buyer’s remorse, as though someone had hit me in the back of the head with a Manolo. It felt like an empty purchase—not at all like the special feeling I got when someone made me something back at home. I realized then and there that I don’t value luxury fashion in the same way I do cultural pieces. And I probably never will: Even today, I still feel uncomfortable with buying anything unnecessarily extravagant.

Now, I would much rather spend my money on beadwork. It is a particularly time-consuming art form. Indigenous artists bead each earring, bag, or necklace by hand, a laborious process that demands loads of patience and skill. Where I once spent hours taking in designer collections on Style.com (now Vogue Runway), I now find myself up staying up way too late scrolling through beadwork accounts on Instagram, taking in every detail of a piece. (Isn’t that what the zoom-in feature is for, after all?) In doing so, I’ve discovered a wide range of talented beaders—badass ladies such as Jamie Okuma, Tania Larsson, and Molina Parker come to mind—who are creating pieces that combine traditional techniques and motifs with innovation.

My beaded rose pin by Skye PaulPhoto: Courtesy of Christian Allaire

The most treasured piece in my current collection is a beaded cuff by Elias Jade Not Afraid, an Apsaalooké artist known for his radical design aesthetic (think skull medallions and spiked cuffs). I value it more than I would a $4 million Bulgari necklace. The few times I have sported it to indigenous cultural events, people have flocked to it like a moth to a flame. “Is that an Elias?” someone asked me at the Santa Fe Indian Market this summer, unable to resist the urge to stroke its multicolored beads. Owning beaded jewelry is not unlike owning fine jewelry: There are tiers to the market, and if you secure a work by a top-tier artist like Elias, the envy pours in.

My beaded jewelry collection now only continues to grow. It includes pieces such as a beaded rose pin from Skye Paul (which I wore to the Met gala last year!), a bead and dentalium necklace from Larsson, and several new medallions from my sister. Next up, I even have my eye on a completely beaded bag. And while those can cost thousands of dollars at the Heard or Santa Fe markets—more than any designer It bag out there—it’s an investment I finally feel comfortable committing to.