![\"Tracy](\"https:\/\/hakaimagazine.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/williams-chang-fish-skin-tanners.jpg\")
<\/a>Friends Tracy Williams (left) and Janey Chang process salmon skins along the Seymour River in North Vancouver, British Columbia, behind the Squamish Nation\u2019s offices where Williams works. Photo by Kathleen Hinkel<\/p><\/div>\n
Fish skin leather used to be commonplace in many cultures. It was like an early form of Gore-Tex. Now, it\u2019s making a comeback. Fish skin leather is also emerging as a commodity in the world of fashion; in recent years, the material has caught the eye of designers who want to incorporate it into luxury items. Other eco-minded entrepreneurs are drawing inspiration from traditional tanning techniques to find alternate, sustainable ways of making leather. With its revival, the craft offers opportunities to reflect on old ideas that are still relevant to modern life.<\/p>\n
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Before the rise of manufactured fabrics, Indigenous peoples from coastal and riverine regions around the world tanned or dried fish skins and sewed them into clothing. The material is strong and water-resistant, and it was essential to survival. In Japan, the Ainu<\/a> crafted salmon skin into boots, which they strapped to their feet with rope. Along the Amur River in northeastern China and Siberia, Hezhen and Nivkh peoples turned the material into coats<\/a> and thread. In northern Canada, the Inuit made clothing, and in Alaska, several peoples including the Alutiiq, Athabascan, and Yup\u2019ik used fish skins to fashion boots, mittens, containers, and parkas. In the winter, Yup\u2019ik men never left home without qasperrluk<\/em>\u2014loose-fitting, hooded fish skin parkas\u2014which could double as shelter in an emergency. The men would prop up the hood with an ice pick and pin down the edges to make a tent-like structure.<\/p>\n As practical and pervasive as the material was, the practice of making fish skin leather faded in the 20th century. Its loss is intertwined with colonialism and assimilation. In 1899, Japan enacted the Hokkaido Former Aborigines Protection Act, which clinched the assimilation of Ainu people into Japanese society\u2014the Ainu lost their lifestyle of fishing, hunting, and gathering. In Alaska, Indigenous peoples were first forced into slave labor by Russian fur hunters and later subjected to US policies aimed at eradicating their traditional lifestyles. Handmade fish skin clothing gave way to rubber boots and factory-made rain gear. As fish skin leather slipped into obscurity, so did the knowledge of how to produce it.<\/p>\n Along the Seymour River, Williams and Chang first soak their salmon skins and then use seashells to scrape away the scales as part of their tanning process. The women say that working outside with materials found in nature enhances the feeling of connectedness that they get from making fish leather. Photo by Kathleen Hinkel<\/span><\/p>\n In British Columbia, the material\u2019s history is less clear. In the late 1800s, ethnographer James Teit recorded Indigenous peoples\u2019 use of the material in the southern interior of the province: some members of the Nlaka\u2019pamux made shoes out of dog salmon (chum) skins and part of the St\u2019\u00e1t\u2019imc Nation fashioned fish skin sandals, repeatedly smearing the soles with pine or fir gum mixed with sand or earth to make them thicker and harder. Farther north, the Tsilhqot\u2019in made fish skin bags. Evidence from other cultures has largely disappeared, if it existed. Fish skin doesn\u2019t preserve well archaeologically so its history in the province is poorly understood, says Brian Hayden, professor emeritus of archaeology at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia.<\/p>\n Fish skin leather was not part of Williams\u2019s upbringing, and she has yet to find evidence that her Squamish ancestors worked with fish skins, though she suspects it may just not have been documented. It\u2019s also possible that the material\u2019s history was overlooked or forgotten because of its reputation. Williams\u2019s in-laws from the inland L\u00edl\u0313wat Nation recall fish skin shoes, but were reluctant to talk to her about it at first. Fish skin shoes were considered the poor man\u2019s shoes. Similarly, in Alaska, fish skin parkas have sometimes been referred to as \u201cpoor people\u2019s raincoats,\u201d since even unskilled hunters could usually catch fish.<\/p>\n Williams and Chang embraced fish skin without reservation. They first heard about the material at a gathering in Washington State focused on ancestral skills. The two have known each other for almost 20 years, connected by a shared interest in living off the land. At the Washington gathering, they took a workshop together where they learned to tan salmon skin. \u201cI was enamored with it,\u201d Williams says.<\/p>\n Williams and Chang have crafted several functional items out of their tanned fish skin leather, including this wallet and bag that Chang made from salmon. Photo by Kathleen Hinkel<\/p><\/div>\n Since then, she has been learning more about the craft by piecing together scraps of information from books, scouring the internet, talking to other tanners, and experimenting with recipes at home. She and Chang have tried tanning with coffee, black tea, and even an egg and oil mixture. Chang has also experimented with alder bark and wine. While they don\u2019t always tan together, Williams and Chang often consult each other to troubleshoot. The learning curve has involved many failures, they say. Their first attempt with coffee left the skins crispy; red wine made them swell. Williams tried tanning with urine, a technique historically used by Indigenous communities in Alaska. She paid Chang\u2019s son one dollar for each jar he filled\u2014but the skins disintegrated when bathed in the liquid.<\/p>\n Despite the flops, there have been successes. Williams appliqu\u00e9d fish leather on a pair of deerskin shoes she made. Chang has made pouches with alternating panels of fish and buckskin and crafted a wallet out of bark- and oil-tanned fish leather. These are hard-earned achievements, the result of years of trial and error and hours upon hours of labor for each skin.<\/p>\n On a Saturday morning, I visit Aurora Skala in Saanich on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, to learn about the step after scraping and tanning: softening. Skala, an anthropologist working in language revitalization, has taken an interest in making fish skin leather in her spare time. When I arrive at her house, a salmon skin that she has tanned in an acorn infusion\u2014a cloudy, brown liquid now resting in a jar\u2014is stretched out on the kitchen counter, ready to be worked.<\/p>\n Skala dips her fingers in a jar of sunflower oil and rubs it on her hands before massaging it into the skin. The skin smells only faintly of fish; the scent reminds me of salt and smoke, though the skin has been neither salted nor smoked. \u201cOnce you start this process, you can\u2019t stop,\u201d she says. If the skin isn\u2019t worked consistently, it will stiffen as it dries.<\/p>\n A close-up view of a scraping tool and a few tanned fish skins owned by artisan Aurora Skala. Photo by Shanna Baker<\/p><\/div>\n Softening the leather with oil takes about four hours, Skala says. She stretches the skin between clenched hands, pulling it in every direction to loosen the fibers while working in small amounts of oil at a time. She\u2019ll also work her skins across other surfaces for extra softening; later, she\u2019ll take this piece outside and rub it back and forth along a metal cable attached to a telephone pole. Her pace is steady, unhurried, soothing. Back in the day, people likely made fish skin leather alongside other chores related to gathering and processing food or fibers, she says. The skin will be done when it\u2019s soft and no longer absorbs oil.<\/p>\n Skala\u2019s interest in fish skin leather is as much academic as it is artistic, she says; learning about the craft has given her a deeper appreciation for the ingenuity and adaptability of past communities. She considers her work to be an informal version of experimental archaeology, a field of study that involves replicating ancestral tools and skills to better understand how they were made and used. One can learn a lot about ancestral skills by using them firsthand.<\/p>\n In Alaska, a similar mindset has shed light on fish skin items in museum collections. During the 19th century, museum collectors were more interested in accumulating artifacts than investigating how they were made, says Aron Crowell, Alaska director of the Smithsonian Institution\u2019s Arctic Studies Center in Anchorage. At the time, broader society believed Indigenous cultures were dying, and museum collectors rushed to preserve what they could. As a result, fish skin objects in museums are often lacking documentation.<\/p>\n Skala works a piece of fish skin across a cable outside her home in Saanich, British Columbia, to soften it. Photo by Shanna Baker<\/p><\/div>\n To fill in knowledge gaps and to give young artists a learning opportunity, the Arctic Studies Center hosted a five-day workshop in 2012 at which Yup\u2019ik, Sugpiaq, and Koyukon Athabascan artists demonstrated the full process of making fish skin leather items. Museum workers gained insight on how to restore and care for fish leather. They even learned that a certain stitch is water-resistant when combined with a specific way of folding seams, but is not impermeable, as they had thought. This distinction, Crowell says, adds to a more nuanced understanding of the craft.<\/p>\n The exchange of information has gone both ways. Fish skin artists have also studied the museum\u2019s collections to reverse-engineer traditional crafting techniques. The process of reconnecting museum collections to artists and communities is exciting, Crowell says. But it also highlights the loss of knowledge. \u201cIt kind of feels like we\u2019re reinventing the wheel,\u201d Skala says. Nonetheless, the craft\u2019s rediscovery matters\u2014it provides a glimpse into the past and a medium for cultural revival. It also brings opportunities for business.<\/p>\n At a public library in Vancouver, Tasha Nathanson points to a pair of auburn, lace-up fish skin boots in a glass case. \u201cI wore them every single solitary day from January 1 to June 30,\u201d she says. The boots and a handful of other fish skin items, including a beaded pouch and a coin purse, are part of an exhibit organized by the city to showcase the work of local artists.<\/p>\n Nathanson\u2019s boots have a scaly texture, reminiscent of snakeskin, and a piece of leather at the heel is cut in the shape of a fish tail. A guidance counselor turned entrepreneur, she stitched them in 2018 as a proof of concept for her start-up fish skin leather and fish skin footwear company called 7 Leagues Leather. Her plan is to create a shoe that appeals to everyone, like a Converse or Blundstone. If she\u2019s successful, she\u2019ll be participating in a growing trend within the fashion industry.<\/p>\n Tasha Nathanson wears the fish skin leather shoes she made as a proof of concept for the business she\u2019s developing called 7 Leagues Leather. Part of her vision is to create a social-enterprise tannery that provides training and work for people who face barriers to employment. Photo by Kathleen Hinkel<\/p><\/div>\n So far, luxury brands have used fish skin leather sparingly in high-end designs\u2014Nike reportedly experimented with making running shoes out of perch leather, and a company in Germany that modifies cars released a BMW with a salmon skin\u2013trimmed interior. Elisa Palomino, a fashion designer and educator based in London, England, notes that Prada, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, John Galliano, and Puma have also used fish skin leather to make clothes, shoes, and bags.<\/p>\n Commercial interest in fish skin leather is partly a result of consumers\u2019 environmental and ethical concerns about the global leather supply chain. In recent years, snakeskin and alligator skin have come under scrutiny. In 2018, Chanel discontinued its use of reptile leathers after animal rights activists raised concerns about the inhumane treatment of reptiles raised or hunted for their skins. The modern tanning industry is also known to be notoriously hard on the environment and local communities. Most conventional leather is produced using harsh chemicals, such as chromium salts, which cause respiratory ailments and persistent skin ulcers in tannery workers. Tanneries also often dump their waste into local water systems, where it contaminates drinking water and kills aquatic life.<\/p>\n Making fish skin leather is a gentler process than making conventional leather, Nathanson says. It requires fewer harsh chemicals; if made with plant-based tannins, it uses no harsh chemicals at all. This, she says, holding up a sample of bark-tanned skin, \u201cis fish skin, water, salt, and trees,\u201d plus a little beeswax and oil.<\/p>\n Nathanson works with a team at Grey to Green Sustainable Solutions in Vancouver, British Columbia, a scientific consulting firm that supports businesses as they develop products that utilize waste. The group is helping Nathanson research the use of local tree bark to tan her fish skins. Photo by Kathleen Hinkel<\/p><\/div>\n Several sustainability-minded initiatives and companies are now pushing to develop the emerging fish skin industry. Under FishSkin, a research project funded by the European Union, fashion designers, scientists, museum curators, and craftspeople are meeting for training and networking events to discover ways of producing fish skin leather sustainably and increasing the material\u2019s use in the fashion industry. Similarly, the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO) is promoting fish skin leather in its Blue Growth initiative, a program aimed at supporting sustainable and efficient uses of ocean resources. FAO cohosted a fashion show in Nairobi in 2018 that featured pieces adorned with locally crafted Nile perch leather.<\/p>\n Fish skin is a byproduct of the food industry that often goes to waste, says Palomino, who spent 25 years working for luxury brands, such as John Galliano and Christian Dior and is involved in the FishSkin project. Every tonne of filleted fish amounts to about 40 kilograms of skins, which are often ground into animal feed or fertilizer, tossed into landfills, or thrown back into the sea. Globally, humans consumed the fillets of just under 150 million tonnes of fish in 2015. That\u2019s equivalent to about six million tonnes of skins.<\/p>\n Nathanson was first introduced to fish skin leather by an environmental art group in Vancouver and was immediately struck by the business potential the material offered. Her goals are to create a market for fish skin leather and to craft shoes out of local, sustainably sourced materials. Her company will start on a smaller scale\u2014more boutique than mass production. She hopes to have leather ready for sale by the end of 2020 and her shoes ready in 2021.<\/p>\n<\/a>\n\t\t\t<\/div><\/figure><\/a>\n\t\t\t<\/div><\/figure>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\n<\/a>
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