"It is a Therapy" - Rose Wilson
Two days have passed since my interview with Rose Wilson and her son. Yet yesterday, a verse from Li Qingzhao's poetry lingered in my mind: Melancholy upon melancholy, warmth returns yet chills remain, hardest to find solace.
A complex mix of sorrow, joy, and gratitude has been swirling within me, difficult to put into words. On one hand, I am grateful to have recorded the story of Rose Wilson, the last artisan in Ucluelet skilled in this traditional weaving craft. On the other hand, my heart aches for her. Despite her remarkable skills, she lives in a cramped and disorderly environment, along with her son and grandson. I keep wondering—how can I truly help them? Among all the artisans I have interviewed, their living conditions are the harshest. The experience has left me shaken and determined to take action.Rose is a survivor of the residential school system. Until now, my understanding of generational trauma came from museums and television. Meeting and interacting with her firsthand made the pain tangible. Seeing their living environment, their health struggles, and feeling the silent oppression in their hearts was deeply distressing. Yet, I also witnessed the solace that craftsmanship brings to them.
Meeting Rose Wilson was purely serendipitous. Before coming to Vancouver Island, I had never heard of her. My curiosity about Nuu-chah-nulth basket weaving led me on a journey through museums, private galleries, and gift shops. Eventually, I found her work, along with that of Brian Wilson, at Cedar House Gallery. With the help of the village council and cultural center staff, I was able to contact Rose's daughter. I learned that they were away in Vancouver for an event and would return in three days. I decided to stay in the area, using the time to explore other leads, including another artisan, Charlotte McKay, in Port Alberni, and visiting the petroglyphs at Sproat Lake.
Three days later, I returned to the village. It was 11 AM when I arrived at Rose's home. The moment I stepped out of the car, I saw three wild deer grazing on the lawn across from her house. A sense of joy washed over me. For a city-raised child like me, encountering wild animals is rare, and seeing deer felt almost magical—as if the universe was trying to tell me something.
During our conversation, I asked Rose about her happiest memory. She answered: My most unforgettable moments were canoeing with my mother and grandmother, surrounded by nature’s beauty. It was they who taught me how to weave these intricate baskets.
She has spent 60 years creating a woven artwork that preserves her family's totem. Now, she spends her days weaving baskets, both to pass the time and to earn a little extra income. Her health has been deteriorating; she suffered a stroke earlier this year but fortunately received timely medical attention. She spends her daytime hours in a small wooden cabin, roughly ten square meters in size, which serves as both her workspace and a mini-gallery for her creations. The cabin has two sections, separated by a wooden partition and a curtain. The inner space contains a sofa, a small table, and a television—this is where she rests and works. The outer section displays her handcrafted pieces and welcomes visitors.
At night, Rose stays at her eldest son's house next door. It is a spacious, pale-yellow home, with various discarded items piled outside. Rose warmly invited me in and introduced me to her son, Brian, a skilled artisan specializing in woven hats. Before entering, she apologized for the mess. I had prepared myself mentally, but the moment I stepped in, a stifling air hit me. I quickly walked past the cluttered dining area into the living room, where Brian had set up his works. This space also serves as his studio. The moment I laid eyes on his intricate creations, I was captivated. The surroundings faded from my mind. Without hesitation, I invited him for an interview.
