Survivance: How can mob protect cultural narratives in our arts and practices?

There’s a photograph I often return to. Taken in 1847, it shows a tree carved by my ancestors—one of four marara created to honour Yuranigh. Yuranigh, a highly respected Wiradjuri Gibir with deep knowledge of Country, led a surveying party through the land, and the carved trees surrounding his grave reflect the honour and respect Wiradjuri hold for him. I first encountered this image in a book a dilaang recommended during Wiradjuri language learning, bringing the story closer to me. As a descendant of the Boree people who carved the tree, I feel a strong connection to these carvings, which hold stories etched deep into the wood, marking a moment that persists. This image emerged for me while reflecting on what happened at Latrobe Regional Gallery.

In the photograph, a white man stands beside the tree, pressing the top of an axe head into the edge of the carving. He doesn’t cut, but the axe’s weight against the marks feels deliberate. His gesture speaks to the fine line between preservation, intrusion, and control—much like the gallery’s actions, which reflected a similar attempt to dictate the terms of my work. In both cases, external forces press against the narrative without destroying it, trying to control it but never fully succeeding. The carving persists, as does the work, despite the weight of the intrusion.

Cultural Trust and Challenges

When I was initially commissioned to exhibit with LaTrobe Regional Gallery, a trust had been established with the senior curator, who understood the work and had seen it at the NotFair Art Fair in 2023. Together, we installed the exhibition, carefully positioning the work and the wall text to ensure everything aligned with the vision. But five days after the installation, the curator unexpectedly went on leave, and communication dwindled.

I had asked to connect with the Gurnaikurnai Land Council to follow language protocols. Using Wiradjuri language in the work on their Country, I wanted to ensure I respected local cultural practices. However, my request faced delays. A work was supposed to be photographed, but several follow-ups yielded no response. There was no social media promotion during NAIDOC Week, a crucial time for uplifting First Nations voices when the gallery should have actively engaged with the work. Instead, the exhibition celebration was quietly cancelled without explanation. Despite repeated requests, the gallery failed to provide images of the exhibition needed for independent promotion, further restricting its visibility and limiting how the work could be shared and understood.

The silence felt increasingly deliberate, and the space for this work was systematically shrinking. Then came a fundamental shift: I discovered the gallery had edited the wall text on Instagram, removing the reference to Tom of Finland, a pivotal figure who shaped early queer representation, without consultation. This wasn’t just a minor edit—it was an act of erasure that seemed homophobic in nature. By censoring the reference, the gallery reshaped the narrative, stripping away a vital part of the story. This was no longer  miscommunication; it was control.

What had once seemed like oversights began to feel like deliberate acts designed to limit how the work could be experienced. The gallery decided what could be seen and erased, attempting to dictate the terms of the voice within that space. I raised a formal complaint, and a meeting with gallery representatives followed. The meeting began without an Acknowledgment of Country. When I asked them about the exhibition’s connection to the Gurnaikurnai, they assumed I had requested a Welcome to Country for the opening. That confusion revealed little regard for their reconciliation action plan commitments, much like many other moments. 

These weren’t just oversights but decisions that seemed to be  attempts to control the narrative. In that photograph from 1847, the axe presses into the edge of the carving, but the carving remains. Despite the presence of the axe, the marks left by ancestors endure. Even with the gallery’s attempt to shape the work, it still exists as intended. It holds, just like those carvings.

Survivance and Cultural Assertion

While these actions reflect attempts at control, they also highlight a broader concept: survivance. This term, coined by Anishinaabe scholar Gerald Vizenor, articulates Indigenous peoples’ active presence and resistance against ongoing attempts at erasure. Gerald Vizenor is also a prominent writer and critic known for his contributions to Indigenous studies and literature. He is a professor emeritus at the University of New Mexico and has published numerous works exploring themes of Indigenous identity, culture, and resistance. Vizenor coined the term “survivance” to describe the active presence and ongoing resistance of Indigenous peoples against colonial narratives and erasure, emphasising the importance of storytelling and cultural survival. 

Survivance is not merely about survival but an ongoing, creative act of cultural and personal assertion in the face of colonial control. What is created by Indigenous peoples continues because it is grounded in identity, heritage, and the culture it reflects. The carvings on the tree have lasted, and so has the work. No matter how they seemed to try to control the narrative, the gallery’s actions couldn’t diminish that. This work exists on its terms, reflecting the resilience and agency of First Nations artists.

First Nations voices are frequently silenced or marginalised when organisations claim cultural safety without genuinely engaging with artists and communities. These claims often prioritise compliance over meaningful relationships and respect for cultural protocols. This distorts our stories and appropriates First Nations cultural capital, silencing authentic voices while creating the illusion of inclusion. Superficial efforts replace genuine collaboration, leaving First Nations artists and communities excluded from decisions shaping their cultural narratives and practices.

Leaders like Meriam and Wathani lawyer and academic Terri Janke have been instrumental in addressing these harmful practices. Her pioneering work in Indigenous Cultural Intellectual Property (ICIP), including collaborations with The National Association for the Visual Arts (NAVA), ensures First Nations artists, communities, and knowledge holders retain control over their creative works. Janke’s advocacy underscores the importance of legal and cultural frameworks that protect First Nations knowledge systems, languages, and artistic practices, ensuring they are used, shared, and represented with the respect they deserve.

Respecting art, language, and culture requires more than hanging it on institutional walls; it involves following cultural protocols and ensuring First Nations communities have proper agency over how their culture is portrayed and shared. As Indigenous Professor Marcia Langton AO has articulated, genuine respect for First Nations cultures necessitates that First Nations peoples are the primary storytellers of their own narratives. These safeguards are essential to prevent misrepresentation, exploitation for institutional gain, and creating a false sense of cultural safety. Performative engagement, another pervasive form of black cladding, occurs when institutions superficially adopt elements of First Nations culture, lacking genuine collaboration and respect, ultimately undermining the very essence of cultures. Art and culture are dynamic expressions of identity; they demand true partnership and honouring of cultural practices and their rightful custodians.

Ignoring these processes perpetuates modern-day colonisation, further marginalising First Nations peoples from cultural conversations and practices that belong to them. As survivance resists attempts at erasure, so will our cultural expressions endure despite interference from institutions. These institutions often impose their narratives and frameworks, sidelining Indigenous perspectives. We will continue to advocate for spaces that uplift our voices and cultures, ensuring that our agency and resilience are at the forefront of shaping our own narratives.

This process is rooted in something far deeper than the institutions that try to contain it. Like the carvings on the trees, what’s created will remain, lasting well beyond the moments of interference. The stories, like those of the ancestors, will not be erased.

The effects of racial and homophobic discrimination run deep, affecting the mental health and cultural output of those who face exclusion and erasure. It’s not just about individual experiences—it’s about the larger systems that allow these injustices to persist. Healing and resilience require more than just personal strength; they demand support and fundamental changes in the structures that perpetuate discrimination, impacting the well-being of First Nations peoples and many others.

Working Towards Genuine Engagement

To support self-determination, arts organisations have to go beyond surface-level actions and commit to genuine collaboration with the First Nations artists and communities they engage with. This means following cultural protocols related to artistic practices and recognising the value of First Nations cultural knowledge, kinship, and connection to Country. First Nations voices must guide conversations about their artistic narratives to prevent misrepresentation and exploitation.

For example, the NAVA Code of Practice: First Nations Summary of Good Practice Recommendations, which Terri Janke played a crucial role in developing, encourages arts organisations to engage ethically with First Nations artists and communities. This code outlines key principles for respecting Indigenous cultural knowledge, ensuring that artists maintain agency over their work, and recognising the value of cultural protocols. By adhering to guidelines like these, institutions can help create a more equitable and respectful environment that honours the voices and stories of First Nations peoples.

The persistence of racial discrimination in the arts is rooted in colonial systems that marginalise First Nations voices. These structures are evident in galleries, funding bodies, and cultural institutions that often fail to recognise First Nations sovereignty over artistic expression. Art education, curation, and policy-making frequently exclude or misrepresent First Nations perspectives, reinforcing systemic inequality.

Art organisations can break this cycle by adopting engagement practices that respect cultural protocols and ensure First Nations artists are partners in curating and presenting their work. This shift requires more than checking boxes for diversity; it requires respecting cultural autonomy and fostering spaces where First Nations artists can express their stories with the integrity and dignity they deserve.