Our People, Our Climate: Stories from the Frozen Horizon

In the quiet Arctic night of Arviat, streetlights cast a soft glow against snowbanks, their light fading into the vast, dark sky. The stillness of the landscape is broken only by the crisp, cold air, as the night embraces the town in its quiet solitude.
In the quiet Arctic night of Arviat, streetlights cast a soft glow against snowbanks, their light fading into the vast, dark sky. The stillness of the landscape is broken only by the crisp, cold air, as the night embraces the town in its quiet solitude.

Capturing the Quiet: Stories from the Arctic Night

In the quiet of the Arctic night, where the darkness stretches endlessly and the world feels suspended, the journey of Our People, Our Climate continues to unfold. What began in 2019-2020 with a spark of support from Environment and Climate Change Canada  has transformed into a movement led by youth and artists who are reshaping the narratives of climate change. Through the lens of their cameras, our young voices tell stories of resilience, self-determination, and a deep connection to the land.

Sometimes it’s just fun to snap a few photos while out walking.

As I walk through my hometown in the stillness of night, I see how the teachings of this project live on, not just in film, but in every photograph taken, every moment captured. The lessons learned from Our People, Our Climate are carried forward through the lens of those who now lead the way, using their art to share powerful stories and illuminate the quiet beauty of our world.

A low angle shot of freshly-plowed roads, where the glistening ice crystals catch the faint glow of streetlights on a dark winter night. The snow is pristine, untouched except for the tire tracks, and with each step, the snow crunches sharply under my boots, the cold air crisp and still. The quiet of the night envelops me, the only sound the soft crackle of ice beneath my feet.
A low angle shot of freshly-plowed roads, where the glistening ice crystals catch the faint glow of streetlights on a dark winter night. The snow is pristine, untouched except for the tire tracks, and with each step, the snow crunches sharply under my boots, the cold air crisp and still. The quiet of the night envelops me, the only sound the soft crackle of ice beneath my feet.

Under the faint glow of a streetlight, ice crystals scatter across the middle of the road like a handful of shattered stars. They catch the light in fleeting bursts, shimmering with colors that shift as you move closer—first gold, then blue, then white. The frost seems alive, whispering its presence through the brittle crunch of footsteps that dare to cross its delicate surface. For a moment, the frozen road feels like a canvas, painted not by human hands but by the quiet artistry of the Arctic cold.

Walking near the shores of Hudson Bay, just past the Nunavut Research Institute bunkhouse, streetlights cast a soft glow on the snow-covered streets of Arviat. Above, the dark Arctic sky stretches endlessly, a quiet reminder of the vastness that surrounds this resilient community.
Walking near the shores of Hudson Bay, just past the Nunavut Research Institute bunkhouse, streetlights cast a soft glow on the snow-covered streets of Arviat. Above, the dark Arctic sky stretches endlessly, a quiet reminder of the vastness that surrounds this resilient community. Research and art projects we took part in as kids are now integrated with programs delivered all over the world like Our People Our Climate.

Walking through the quiet Arctic town at night feels like stepping into a world paused in time. The streets are empty, save for the faint outline of snowbanks and the distant, muted glow of streetlights that cast long shadows on the cold ground. The sky above is a heavy, dark blanket, pinning the town beneath its vastness. The air is still, the silence only broken by the soft crunch of boots on snow, and every breath feels sharp, as if the night itself is inhaling with you. The world here, in the depth of winter, seems to hold its breath, waiting for something—anything—to stir the stillness.

Looking out over Hudson Bay, the sea ice stretches endlessly into the darkness, a frozen expanse where land, ice, and sky merge into one vast, mysterious horizon. There is no sound—only the stillness of ice and the depth of darkness, an overwhelming silence that holds the world in its quiet grip. In this moment, everything feels suspended, caught between the cold, unyielding sea and the infinite black above.
Looking out over Hudson Bay, the sea ice stretches endlessly into the darkness, a frozen expanse where land, ice, and sky merge into one vast, mysterious horizon. There is no sound—only the stillness of ice and the depth of darkness, an overwhelming silence that holds the world in its quiet grip. In this moment, everything feels suspended, caught between the cold, unyielding sea and the infinite black above.

The Arctic night has a way of holding secrets, keeping them close to the frozen ground and locked beneath layers of ice. In this stillness, I think about the generations who moved across this land before me, leaving no footprints for the frost to remember. There’s a quiet defiance in how the past lingers here, not in what’s visible, but in the spaces where stories settle—in the way the snow seems to listen, and the horizon waits without end.

My first project as an emerging artist began with Our People, Our Climate, a transformative experience that we did in Winnipeg. Thanks to the generous support of the Manitoba Arts Council and the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, I had the opportunity to explore storytelling in a way I had never imagined. This project was more than just an introduction to the arts—it was a chance to connect with others who shared a passion for documenting the intersection of community, culture, and climate. It marked the beginning of a journey that shaped not only my artistic voice but also my understanding of how art can reflect the resilience and stories of the people and land that inspire it.

As I snap a few photos in the crisp cold of night, each click of the camera feels like capturing a fleeting moment that might otherwise vanish into the darkness. The quiet expanse of the town, the icy streets, the flicker of streetlights—all of it pulls me into a deeper reflection. My mind begins to wander, slowly realizing that maybe it’s time we did this project again, that it’s time to start planning another exhibition. There’s something about the stillness, the untold stories in the shadows, that makes me believe the time for sharing these moments is now, before they fade like the night itself.


Originally funded in 2019-2020 with support from Environment and Climate Change Canada and the University of Minnesota Duluth, Our People Our Climate was originally conceived as a documentary film initiative aimed at developing the storytelling skills of Nunavut youth and young adults. Inuit communities across Canada’s Arctic are central to the climate change conversation, and this project sought to highlight their unique perspectives through a cultural lens distinct to their heritage.

This year’s program continues with support from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design and the OpenAI Researcher Access Program.

One way you can support our youth and arts program is simple. Please share this page! It only takes a few seconds and you can make a big difference and it helps our program a lot. 

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