The carvers of BCC

KIRSTEN MURPHY

Sii Ashoona balances a soapstone block on his knees while sitting on a make-shift wooden bench. With unwavering precision, the 20-year-old’s dusty hands reveal the eyelid of a mermaid swimming from a speckled rock.

Ashoona, like his late grandfather Kingwatsiak Ashoona of Cape Dorset, finds peace in working with the malleable stone.

“It’s a way of keeping our culture alive,” says Ashoona, who is serving time at Baffin Correctional Centre (BCC).

Of BCC’s approximately 80 inmates, many, like Ashoona, are accomplished artists. A carving program for prisoners allows them to practice their skill and keep their culture alive.

The program began in October, with $10,000 in funding. The inmates generate about $1,000 a week or $4,000 a month in sales. They sell their carvings to the public from a renovated RCMP trailer behind the jail every Friday, from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m.

Unlike some prison work crew programs criticized for exploiting cheap labour, sales from the carving program are returned directly to the carvers. Twenty per cent of the sale price goes to the Inmates’ Fund to purchase more stone. The remaining 80 per cent goes to the inmate’s personal account, which can be withdrawn in $80 weekly debits.

A piece selling for $300 generates $60 for the Inmates’ Fund and $240 for the carver’s BCC account.

Ed Pardy, BCC’s recreation and carving officer, reinstated the program with master carver Pootoogoo Jaw. A similar prison program existed several years ago but fell apart due to a lack of interest.

“We are struggling to stay alive,” Pardy says.

The $10,000 start-up fund from the department of sustainable development and the Kakivak Association has run out. Pardy is looking for new funding sources and is banking on an increase in retail sales.

Irene Jones, BCC finance manager, says eight regular shoppers venture to the trailer every Friday. With no budget to advertise, she relies on word of mouth to move the items.

The inmates set their prices, arguably the lowest in town.

Rules do apply. A carver remains in the program as long as he does not reach his five-carving maximum without selling one piece. Once a carver has five carvings on the shelf and no buyers, he must leave the program to make way for a new carver. With little more than time on their hands, the five-piece minimum encourages carvers to create more intricate and complicated pieces.

Carvers and craftsmen constantly cycle through the five-person program, bringing new skills. In the past, the shop has sold jewelry and drums. Organizers hope to add prints soon.

“The detail you see you’re not going to see anywhere else,” Jones says.

The rules of the rock

Good behavior and privacy are two of the principles Pardy insists on. He never asks why a person is in jail. He keeps a watchful but respective distance.

“You’re [in jail], so let’s make the best of it. My job as a correction officer is to help take them to the next step once they leave.”

Most work is done in the yard behind the jail. On any given weekday, rooster tails of soapstone dust fly from whirling saws and drills. Even on the coldest winter days, the men prefer the chill of the gateless outdoors than the monotony of Nunavut’s only and chronically overpopulated jail.

On this snowy May afternoon, only three of the five carvers are working, the other two are in “lock up” for behavioral problems.

What is most striking about the scene is the freedom. Each carver can work independently either outside or in one of two tiny semi-enclosed closets. Under the distant but watchful eye of Pardy, the men may wander around the open yard, unshackled and uncuffed.

Despite how easy it would be to escape, none of the men, who are deemed low security risks, would consider fleeing.

“You automatically get another three months, and I’m almost done,” says Joseph Koonoo.

The Pond Inlet resident is working on an 18-foot kayak instead of a carving. He is in a hurry to finish the vessel because he just found out he was granted early release.

“I just want to go home and hunt narwhal,” says the soft-spoken man.

Jorgensen Klengenberg of Kugluktuk agrees bolting would be pointless, despite the boredom of incarceration. Whether in or out of jail, carving is his livelihood.

“I do it to support my family,” says Klengenberg.

While pausing to blow the dust off the rock swirl of seals and musk ox, he considers the differences between carving in and out of jail.

“Here the process is a lot slower and it’s easier to think. I still worry about my family and providing money. I’ve always carved for a living to support my family,” Klengenberg says.

Carvers spend weekdays transforming rock blocks into floating seals and skyward looking drum dancers. The drills sit silently on weekends, when Pardy is off shift.

Pardy is encouraged by watching the carvers swap tips and techniques.

“Nunavut is huge. My hope is people take these shared skills back to the community and pass on the knowledge they’ve learned.”