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This carving in a shop in Ketchikan, Alaska, was made in the Philippines and engraved with the name of a non-existent Tlingit artist, part of a campaign that ran afoul of the US Indian Arts and Crafts Act. The artist’s two-year prison sentence is the longest of its kind in US history.Photography by Nathan VanderKlippe/The Globe and Mail

The stone carving depicted a bear holding a fish in its mouth, and its presumed authenticity was sealed with the engraved name of its Tlingit artist, Kilit. It was sold at a store in Ketchikan that catered to the millions of cruise ship tourists who pass through this coastal town eager to bring home a piece of coastal Alaska. The price: US$3,200.

But Kilit did not exist, and the carving did not originate from Alaska. It was made in the Philippines, as part of a sophisticated operation that, for many years, stocked two shops in Ketchikan with humpbacks, bears, dolphins and eagles sculpted 10,000 kilometers away.

The arrest of the family accused of misrepresenting the sale of native goods, in violation of the US Indian Arts and Crafts Act, is a milestone in the prosecution of a crime that, for many decades, has had little enforcement. It comes at a moment when indigenous groups in the United States are taking a new interest in enforcing artistic traditions that they consider to be intellectual property, with profitable potential.

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Artworks like those sold in Ketchikan have become test cases for how to enforce US laws regarding native craftsmanship.

The case has underscored the potential effectiveness of a unique US law designed to protect indigenous art, a nearly century-old law.

It has also highlighted the complexity of enforcing rules based on artistic identity, and the limitations of legislation without enforcement.

According to the US Attorney, Cristobal Rodrigo, the true identity behind Kilit, began teaching Alaskan art styles to Filipino artists beginning a quarter of a century ago, in 1998. He and his wife, Glenda, then formed a company in The carvings and totem poles were manufactured in the Philippines and shipped to the United States, where his store staff told customers, including undercover federal agents, that they were made by local artists.

The stone was marble instead of soapstone, the wood mahogany instead of cedar. But the designs were often well crafted, and the price negotiable. Tourists bought pieces by the hundreds.

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US authorities discovered that ‘Kilit’ was a pseudonym for Cristobal Rodrigo, who is now serving time in prison.

Mr. Rodrigo is now serving a two-year sentence in an Oregon prison, in what the US Department of Justice called a “memorial sentence” which is the longest of its kind in US history. His wife and son, Christian, await sentencing later this year. A worker, Jessie Reginio, was ordered to pay a fine for calling himself an Indigenous carver​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ At least three others have been charged.

“It’s good to see the state’s powers being put in place, as they should have been for almost 100 years now, to use this law,” said Jacob Adams, an attorney who has worked with the Sealaska Heritage Foundation. dedicated non-profit organization. to promote Alaska’s Tlingit, Haida and Tsimshia cultures.

“It’s nice. Does it have an impact on the market? No.”

The drafters of the US Indian Arts and Crafts Act, first enacted in 1935, were concerned that the rampant theft of native designs and motifs “could lead to the loss of entire peoples and cultures. And that is not an exaggeration,” said Mr Adams. The law, updated in 1990, mandates truth in advertising: Art must be made by native hands if it is marketed as such.

For most of its existence, however, it has been little enforced. A 2011 report by the US Government Accountability Office found that 649 complaints were made between 2006 and 2010 to the Arts and Crafts Board of India, which concluded that 150 appeared to be in violation of the law. 117 of those cited law enforcement, “but no cases were filed in federal court as a result.” No one knows the size of the market for such art, or the extent of the misrepresented works, the report found.

The years since have brought some new enforcement. In 2019, two men in Albuquerque, NM, pleaded guilty to selling jewelry made in the Philippines and agreed to US$300,000 in fines, as well as hours of community service. In 2021, a Juneau man forfeited carvings worth more than US$1.5 million and was fined for selling art made in the Philippines. Last year, a man selling art near Seattle’s Pike Place Market was sentenced to 18 months of federal probation after misrepresenting himself for a decade as a member of the Nez Perce people.

Indigenous organizations have considered taking more decisive action. Sealaska is moving toward an “offensive approach,” said Lee Kadinger, the organization’s chief operating officer. Lawyers have begun to explore the potential for trademark and copyright claims to certain designs. However, civil suits can be expensive.

Building recognition of intangible property constitutes a new frontier in asserting Indigenous rights. First came steps to secure land and resources. “But there is only so much land. There are only so many natural resources,” said Mr Adams. Indigenous intellectual property – culture and artistic traditions – provides the potential for “unlimited economic growth and an economic base for Indigenous groups.”

But counterfeit goods, like those being sold in Ketchikan, have proliferated. According to a charging document, Mr. Rodrigo a company in the Philippines in 2003 to produce carvings. Work on the totems began in 2015. The family did a solid business. The imported carvings were cheap, but sold for thousands. In just one year, they made at least US$1 million in sales, according to Assistant US Attorney Jack Schmidt.

Other local vendors were furious, but powerless. “Look at the money he’s making. Unbelievable profit margins there, it’s hard to fathom,” said Michael Peters, who owns the Scanlon Gallery in Ketchikan. It features works by 120 indigenous artists.

Sales of native art in southeast Alaska total tens of millions of dollars a year, Mr. Schmidt said at last year’s sentencing hearing for Mr. Rodrigo. But knock-on effects are “much broader than your typical white-collar crime,” he said. “Probably half the businesses misrepresent at one point or another to sell.”

At the hearing, Richard Peterson, president of the Central Council of the Tlingit and Haida, removed his shirt to show his traditional tattoos. “This tells you who I am,” he told the court. “Our art is everything to us. It’s not just symbols. They are not just items.”

Tlingit totem carver Wayne Price, who teaches at the University of Alaska Southeast, was among those who spoke to the court. The visual traditions of the people of the northwest are “sacred ground,” he said in an interview. “Our art is our culture and it belongs to us.” Yet determining who can make that art legally, he says, is not simple. Its students include non-indigenous people. “I know a lot of non-native people who make art, and they are my friends. We’ve made a lot of art together. Is that right or is that wrong?”

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Nathan Jackson designed this cedar panel in Ketchikan, where he lives. The Tlingit artist is wary of using an Indigenous identity standard to police other artists: ‘I can’t be discriminatory and I’d like to stay that way.’

In Ketchikan, the Totem Heritage Center displays work by Nathan Jackson, a Tlingit man who lives in Ketchikan and is celebrated as one of Alaska’s most influential Native artists. It also includes an elaborate Chilkat dress woven by Mr Jackson’s wife Dorica. She is not indigenous, but is credited with being one of the first contemporary weavers to complete such a garment, at a time when that art form was considered almost extinct.

Mr Jackson, 85, has personal experience with counterfeit goods. A fake jewelry bearing his name has appeared in Ketchikan. Early in his career, he remembers trying to sell small totem poles to shops, only to be turned down. His elaborate creations were too expensive and so well-crafted that other work looked poor.

“It was a lot of trials trying to do my own work,” he said. Years later his art, now coveted, is displayed at the local airport, on city property, in totem parks and in local hotels.

Yet he preaches carefully about aggressively targeting work produced by people based on meeting the standard of Indigenous identity. One of his own ancestors is Du. “I cannot be discriminatory and I would like to remain so. Because to me, it makes sense not to stir the water,” said Mr Jackson. “For me, it’s one of those things where you’re water wrestling, it gets pretty rough.”

Even the sales staff selling Mr. Rodrigo’s art from the Philippines were native Alaskans.

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Filipino-made art is still available in Ketchikan shops, although explaining their true origins is likely to reduce the chances of sales.

The family’s two Ketchikan stores are now closed. Some of their art, however, is still on display. At Tom’s Treasures, bears and whale tail carvings sit on glass shelves, some signed with the fake Kilit name used by Mr. Rodrigo.

The owner of the shop, Tam Rayner, is quick to tell a visitor that they are made in the Philippines, saying that Mr Rodrigo also deceived her about their origins. If she lies about where they’re from, “I’m done,” he says. But customers lose interest when they discover that the pieces are made from abroad.

“I can’t sell them,” Ms Rayner said.

Ken Decker, a Tsimshian carver who owns the Crazy Wolf Studio down the street, welcomes the scare caused by recent enforcement, though he doubts it will last. “As soon as things cool down, people will go back to their old ways again,” he said.

He regularly encounters inauthentic art, often in the hands of customers who demand to know why his wares, such as the drum he was painting on a recent afternoon, are so much more expensive.

“It’s killing me, all that fake stuff,” he said. “There is so much rubbish out there.”

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Ken Decker paints a drum at the Crazy Wolf Studio in Ketchikan shop, where he has to ask questions about why his wares are more expensive than inauthentic art. ‘It’s killing me, all that fake stuff,’ he said.

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