q̓ʷəy̓mncut ʔax̩í (To Dance at Last); Freedom Isn't Free
- Kylee McKinney
- Jul 3
- 2 min read
My first post-graduation art show! I'm showing two new multimedia paintings at Memento Mori Tattoo & Gallery in Lakewood, CO. These paintings, titled q̓ʷəy̓mncut ʔax̩í (To Dance at Last) work with the theme, "What does it truly mean to be free?" q̓ʷəy̓mncut ʔax̩í (To Dance at Last) is a pair of 18x24” mixed media portraits—fabric, ribbon, thread, and paint—depicting a Fancy Shawl dancer and a Grass dancer mid-motion. These figures move in celebration and in defiance, reclaiming dances once banned by colonial law. In both Canada and the U.S., Indigenous ceremonies were criminalized for decades—through the 1883 Religious Crimes Code in the U.S. and Section 141 of Canada’s Indian Act. Even after legal amendments (1933 in the U.S., 1951 in Canada), many communities continued dancing in secret. Powwows only saw broad resurgence in the 1980s.
The Fancy Shawl dancer, light and fluid, symbolizes transformation and survival. The Grass dancer, steady and ceremonial, represents healing and history. Together, they reflect cultural endurance and gendered balance.
Freedom, for Indigenous people, means more than rights—it means the ability to gather, to dance, to exist. This work honors those who danced in secret, and those who dance still. Púti kwu aláʔ—we are still here.
The Fancy Shawl dancer, light and fluid, symbolizes transformation and survival. The Grass dancer, steady and ceremonial, represents healing and history. Together, they reflect cultural endurance and gendered balance.
Freedom, for Indigenous people, means more than rights—it means the ability to gather, to dance, to exist. This work honors those who danced in secret, and those who dance still. Púti kwu aláʔ—we are still here.
The Fancy Shawl dancer, light and fluid, symbolizes transformation and survival. The Grass dancer, steady and ceremonial, represents healing and history. Together, they reflect cultural endurance and gendered balance.
Freedom, for Indigenous people, means more than rights—it means the ability to gather, to dance, to exist. This work honors those who danced in secret, and those who dance still. Púti kwu aláʔ—we are still here.
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