Moving through Qaumajuq, where art guides gathering and stone becomes story.
The corridor outside the gift shop hums with quiet reverence. Inuit carvings line the path, each one a sentinel of story and survival. As visitors move toward the visible vault—its glass walls shimmering with hundreds of stone sculptures—there’s a sense of collective breath held and released. This is more than an art space. It’s a gathering place shaped by memory and motion.
At Qaumajuq, rows of glass-covered stands stretch ahead like a quiet procession, each one cradling a single carving—bone, antler, stone—held in delicate reverence. These are not columns of stone, but of story. Each piece suspended within its case seems to breathe under the soft gallery light, inviting reflection without interruption. The stillness isn’t empty; it’s deeply attentive.
