Rosalie Favell and the Search for Herself

This article is part of Hyperallergic’s 2026 Pride Month series, featuring interviews with queer and trans elder artists throughout June.

Rosalie Favell embraces her identity today, a journey that was not always straightforward. Based in Ottawa, she is a lesbian Métis artist who discovered her identity through family and personal archives. Using autobiographical photography, personal texts, and digital collage, Favell uncovers the hidden truths of her ancestry and sexuality, placing herself where she truly belongs.

A retrospective exhibition titled Rosalie Favell: Belonging (1982–2024) marks 40 years of her artistic journey. It is open for viewing until June 20 at the Art Gallery of Algoma and will premiere at the Kitchener-Waterloo Art Gallery on August 8.

---

Hyperallergic: Did you start taking photos at a young age?

Rosalie Favell: Yes, I did. In my teenage years, I turned to photography because I couldn’t draw, finding it a way to express myself. I loved our family photo albums and would always run toward the camera—something I still do. I started taking photography classes in high school, and it felt magical, especially witnessing images appear in the darkroom.

H: Was your Native heritage accessible to you growing up?

RF: No, it wasn’t. I started exploring it in my early 20s. Being Métis often involves the merging of two cultures, originating from the colonial traders marrying First Nations women in the 1700s. My great-great-great-great-grandmother was Cree. Although Métis is a recognized Indigenous culture in Canada, we didn’t grow up identifying with it. Historically, it was safer to pass as White to avoid discrimination, especially after First Nations people were displaced. Louis Riel led a fight for Métis rights in the late 1800s, a source of pride, but to survive economically and politically, we had to blend in. Later, as a family, we began discussing and acknowledging our Métis heritage.

H: How did you uncover these connections?

RF: Genealogy records are crucial. Fortunately, the Hudson’s Bay Company documented its employees and their families, allowing us to trace our lineage back to the initial contact. These records aid in reconstructing personal and familial histories. With photography, I started capturing portraits of First Nations women in Winnipeg. I joined a Native women’s community for my Portraits In Blood series. Initially, I was unsure of my own identity, asking, “Am I Indigenous? Can I claim this identity?” Ultimately, it wasn’t others’ permission to grant, and I later understood the difference between being Aboriginal and Métis. Nonetheless, I was warmly welcomed.

H: How does your LGBTQ+ identity intersect with your Métis heritage?

RF: I recognized my lesbian identity before embracing being Indigenous, which is somewhat ironic. I came out during the second wave of feminism in the ’70s or ’80s, realizing I had a different path from my family. I wasn’t going to marry or have children as expected. I sought out women’s and gay communities, even joining a handball team to connect with others. This search was underground and convoluted. I relocated from Winnipeg to Toronto to study photography, engaging more with the community, especially in music and self-help groups. Understanding my family’s cultural history and integrating it into my practice was distinct from my LGBTQ+ journey.

H: How did you come out to your family?

RF: It was terrifying for me. I told my mom I love women, and she surprisingly accepted it, saying it made sense. I feared being disowned. Gradually, I informed my family by the mid-’80s and contemplated my life choices, knowing I wouldn’t marry a man or have children. In Toronto, I met two women raising daughters in the countryside. I documented this in Family Circle (1982) while processing my thoughts on having children. This was also around the time of Toronto’s first Pride march after the bathhouse raids, marking a politically and socially active period.

H: How was the experience of dating as a Métis lesbian?

RF: There were other out Indigenous women, but it was often hidden. I fell deeply in love with a First Nations woman, but the relationship ended. Reflecting on the photos I had of us, I created the series Living Evidence (1994), exploring hidden aspects of identity. In the early ’90s, outing people was risky, so I covered her eyes in the photos for anonymity, which strengthened the work. Writing over the images with journal entries, I emerged as an individual who survived and moved forward.

H: How was the transition from Toronto to New Mexico?

RF: It was an adventure. I connected with the Native Indian/Inuit Photographers Association and met an instructor from the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe. I wanted to refocus on my practice, so I contacted him about taking a class, but he offered me a teaching position for a semester. I asked about Santa Fe, and he described it as the high desert. Teaching there was eye-opening due to the prominent Indigenous culture. Later, I pursued a Master’s degree at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque, which had a thriving photo program. My time in New Mexico was truly rewarding.

H: Did you study with other Indigenous photography students there?

RF: Yes, there were a few, including a close friend who later hired me to teach. I also learned about the Mexican connection to Indigenous and local culture. Someone introduced me to Selena, and I delved deeper into Frida Kahlo’s work, especially her “Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair” (1940), which resonated with me due to its gender ambiguities. I created “If only you could love me the way I am” (2003) as a message to the world and myself, reflecting on my journey and identity.

H: Was this around the time you started expanding your photography with text and collage?

RF: Yes, it was my first time incorporating text. I later used SX-70 film and enlarged the photos to write on them. During grad school, I struggled to size triptychs consistently, and a friend suggested using a computer. This was in the mid-’90s, and I wasn’t familiar with computers. Back home, a friend showed me how to use a computer for collage work, allowing me to place my head on Xena: Warrior Princess, symbolizing my quest to become my own hero.

H: How did you transition from taking images to creating them in your expanded practice?

RF: I would start with a story or idea, photograph myself, or use my existing photos. For the Xena piece, I placed my head on her body and added a dreamcatcher. I would order press photos of my TV heroes, like Xena, Captain Janeway, and Diana Rigg from The Avengers, scan or photograph them, and combine the elements on the computer. The computer and scanner became essential tools for me.

H: Do you often work with personal archives?

RF: Yes, most of my work now involves family archives. In the past, my parents used a single roll of film yearly for special occasions. We would gather for slide nights to view them. My mom kept albums from the ’40s and ’50s, and I have those, along with negatives and albums from both sets of my grandparents.

H: How do your childhood photos influence your work now that you identify as Métis and lesbian?

RF: I search for clues in those photos, looking for evidence of my ancestry. For example, I have a photo of myself at three years old in a crinoline dress, and I wrote: “From an early age, I loved women.” This work is about rewriting my history, like an archaeologist, searching for my roots and identity. It’s about making my identity visible to myself and others.

I also created work around Métis scrip, a history not widely known, even among Métis people. Family Circle was about making this identity and lifestyle visible to the world.

H: In “Facing the Camera” (2008-18; 2023), you capture hundreds of Indigenous artists across Canada, the US, and Australia. How does it feel to have that responsibility and privilege?

RF: It’s incredibly meaningful. I aim to show what a Métis person looks like. Early in Facing the Camera, I overheard someone say, “They don’t look Indigenous.” It made me question, “What do you think we look like?” The series began during an Indigenous artists’ residency, where I was late to join, so I decided to take portraits. I captured photos of the 15 artists, realizing the importance of documenting these individuals for the community. I aim to capture their physical presence and spirit. Some of these artists are no longer with us, making the series a time capsule.

H: What advice would you give to young people with intersecting marginalized identities seeking visibility?

RF: I asked if I could belong, and I would tell them they do belong. It’s okay to be who you are and love yourself. Ideally, this acceptance comes from within, but finding community support is crucial. If you can find one person or place, reach out. There are people who will relate to you, love you until you love yourself, and beyond. They can show you the love and pride they carry.