Photo Credit: Art Institute of Canada
As the founder of the Woodland art style, Norval Morrisseau did not just paint; he redefined visual storytelling. His work spoke of legends, political messages, Anishinaabe ancestral knowledge, and the interwoven relationships between people, animals, nature, and spirituality. He has often been called “the Picasso of the North”—a comparison inadequate to capture the depth of his themes and technique. And yet, despite his immense influence, his name was dragged into one of the largest art fraud scandals in modern history.
Since the 1990s, thousands of forgeries of Morrisseau’s work have flooded the Canadian art market. An estimated 4,500 to 6,000 fake paintings were fabricated, many selling for tens of thousands of dollars—some even infiltrating reputable galleries and museums as authentic pieces. In 2019, in response to years of mounting evidence and the release of the documentary There Are No Fakes, the Ontario Provincial Police and Thunder Bay Police finally launched an investigation. In 2023, eight individuals were charged. Investigators estimate the forgeries cost the Morrisseau estate over $100 million, calling it one of history’s largest organized art frauds.
This fraud was never a secret. For decades, Morrisseau’s family, associates, and Indigenous art experts sounded the alarm. Even Morrisseau himself took legal action and repeatedly brought his concerns to the police and the media. Yet the warnings were dismissed, and the fakes continued to circulate.
This scandal is more than just an art crime; it represents a systemic failure in which Indigenous knowledge and expertise were disregarded, even in the authentication of art deeply rooted in Indigenous traditions. Those who best understood his technique and symbolism were systematically dismissed. As a result, this decades-long scam not only deceived buyers and diluted Morrisseau’s artistic legacy but also distorted Indigenous narratives.
Morrisseau’s art was never just about aesthetics; it was also about preserving stories, histories, and spiritual teachings that predate Canada itself. His works stored cultural and spiritual treasures within them. Yet, Western authentication standards, non-Indigenous art institutions, and relevant intellectual property frameworks reduced Morrisseau’s legacy to a narrow set of legal criteria. This disconnect serves as a powerful reminder that intellectual property is far more than a legal tool; it is a vital means of safeguarding cultural identity.
Intellectual property can stand as a resistance against cultural erasure. It is one of the vessels through which ancestral wisdom and historical narratives are preserved and celebrated. Art is not merely a commodity but a repository of memory. A record of history. So, why do we continue to reduce it to something that is simply bought, sold, and consumed?
Until Indigenous communities gain the authority to safeguard their artistic legacies, their work will remain susceptible to exploitation, their voices silenced, and their histories rewritten by those who profit from their erasure. Canada must confront this reality and take decisive action before more than just art is lost; it must recognize that intellectual property is not merely a legal term but one of the essential tools for cultural survival.