In Greenland, the protector has become the protected. Meet Dines Mikaelsen, a patron of the art of traditional Inuit bone carving.
“Do you know what this is?” Dines Mikaelsen asks me, waving what looks like a solid tube of white PVC pipe in my face. I stare blankly, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I am mute. Fumbling for an answer, I focus my gaze on the mystery object in his hands. In the dim light of his unassuming workshop, I can just make out its jagged texture, weather-beaten from years in the harsh Greenlandic sun and snow.
“This,” he explains before I have a chance to recompose, “is narwhal tusk. Very strong, but very heavy.”
Brutal perhaps, but this hulking slab of keratin and sinew will form the canvas for Dines’ latest work. Painstakingly, the artisan will chisel away at the tusk, piece by piece, until he is left with a traditional totem figure; a new relic that speaks to a bygone era. It is a project that will only take him a few weeks, but as he explains, the origins of the remarkable practice of bone carving date back centuries.
Outside, Nuuk is slick with rain. The Greenlandic capital is cloaked in a thick blanket of grey and the threat of an almighty storm looms ever-present. The mountains to our north are almost indistinguishable from the fog, their jagged edges softened by a fine mist and contrasted only by the vibrancy of the technicolour houses that sprinkle their upper ridge.
Inside, Dines’ studio is much the same. The windows of his cramped and cluttered space are covered with a thin parchment paper that billows gently in the breeze.
Power tools rest lazily on cabinet tops, drop sheets swept precariously into corners and every surface is coated in a fine, white dust; the remnants of his remarkable work. It doesn’t matter if it’s whale bone, reindeer antler or narwhal tusk, bone carving can make quite a mess.
This is the world Dines inhabits: one foot in the past, one in the present, and both firmly planted on Greenlandic soil. A former politician in the country’s brutal north, Dines has dedicated his life to advocating for stronger cultural ties and the protection of local community practices. It was precisely this work that led him to bone carving, one of the last true remnants of Inuit culture.
“Bone carving is quite important to Greenlandic people because it’s something that our ancestors have done for us, to show the culture and also how they survived,” he tells me, brushing ivory dust from his hands. “In the olden days, they didn’t have paper. They had to show the kids how things looked, so they chose bones or antlers to carve.”
For Dines, there is no greater honour than being asked to create a Tupilak. A carved figure that sits at the core of Greenlandic mythology, Tupilak were originally conceived as protection, believed to be powerful spiritual creatures that had the ability to ward off enemies. Inuit shaman, or Angakkuit, would craft these from a combination of bones and animal parts, before imbuing them with life through rituals and spells.
The composite bone and animal parts meant that the figure could take many forms. Some Tupilaks stood on two feet, others crept on all fours. They might have the head of a man and the body of a polar bear, but all were designed to look as grotesque and terrifying as possible.
The Tupilak would then be set out to sea to find and harm the intended target, but if an enemy proved too strong, the Tupilak could be sent back to destroy its creator, making them both protector and predator.
Nowadays, Tupilaks are seen largely as souvenirs and keepsakes. Their mystical power still holds weight in the Inuit culture, but their purpose has shifted. Each carving now serves as a cultural gateway, a physical reminder of the country’s remarkable story of spirituality and survivalism. Increasingly, Tupilaks are being seen as the bridge between Greenland and the world.
“With the Tupilak, it’s like protection for the family,” Dines tells me. “I can take a Tupilak away, and people can be happy to protect their families. For me, it’s important to show my culture, and they can use it at home to show that they have been visiting Greenland. They can also use the spirit.”
There is joy in Dines’ voice when he speaks. It’s obvious that sharing these traditions is a point of pride for him, but underneath it all lies a sense of urgency. For as much as tourism sustains his artistry, it also risks diluting it.
The Tupilak, once a spiritual figure with seemingly untold powers, can easily be mistaken for a kitschy holiday souvenir. It’s Dines’ role to make sure that doesn’t happen. The Tupilak, once sent to protect its maker, now depends on the maker to survive.
“When I show my country to people from overseas, I give them something very big,” he says. “They can feel my culture and why I do what I do. On a map, Greenland is unknown, but today, after Trump announced he wants to buy, we have lots of people coming here, and they want to see what the culture is about. With the carving, I can tell it to you very easily.”
As we chat, I can hear the storm outside pull at the studio’s parchment-draped windows. I’ll have to leave soon or risk being caught in the rain, another reminder that in Greenland, you are on Mother Nature’s schedule. Dines smiles and nods, understanding that it’s time to wrap things up, but before he says his goodbyes, he picks up another tusk, running his thumb across its curve.
“Still today, I do carvings for my ancestors; for my culture, for my spirit. It’s quite important to know how they feel. I still like to show the world why I am doing this, because I love my country and my country’s story.”
Dines Mikaelsen
I pack up my things and scurry outside just as the rain starts to hammer down. The walk back to the hotel is only about 10 minutes, but I already know I’m going to be drenched. I tuck my bag under my arm and start to run, slipping in the mud as I race towards the Spar grocer on the corner. When I duck under the annex, it all becomes too much. The rain is too heavy to continue. I’ll have to stay here until it passes.
From this vantage point, I can just barely make out the parchment paper of Dines’ studio, now flapping wildly in the wind and rain. With a moment to stop and catch my breath, I take the time to reflect, and I can’t help but fixate on this idea of protection.
Where once, the Tupilak guarded Greenlanders from harm, today, it is people like Dines Mikaelsen that keep this cultural practice alive. Brutal, archaic and painstakingly manual, his art encapsulates the spirit of survival. To Dines Mikaelsen, legacy isn’t built, it’s carved in blood and bone.
