Resistance Art -- The Art of Resistance (or "Why don't you put a feather on it?")

Yesterday, I spent a good deal of time at the Museum of Contemporary Native Art in Santa Fe, a project/program of the Institute of Native American Arts -- where Ms Ché is now a student.

The whole place has a fresh-new feel and the art on exhibit is much edgier than that of the recent past or even longer ago (I can't recall offhand when I first visited the museum, but it's been years and years). Candice Hopkins is the new curator, and I'm sure it is her vision more than any other that has guided the re-vision of the exhibits at MoCNA, and that vision is one of continual resistance by Native people and particularly Native artists against the impositions of stereotypes and expectations.

Consequently, there is much resistance art on view. I wish I could illustrate this post with images from the exhibitions, but as a rule, MoCNA does not post many pictures of what's on exhibit, indeed, sometimes there are none at all.

What is "resistance art?" I supposed it depends to a certain extent on one's own perceptions of resistance. In order to arrive at a realistic definition, we may ask: "What or whom is being resisted, by what or by whom, and to what object -- if there is one?"

Many artistic forms and expressions can fall into the resistance category, even when the artist is not consciously trying to create resistance art. Among the most commonly recognized forms of resistance art is the poster highlighting a particular issue, rebellion or campaign. One of my all time favorites is "Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge" (El Lissitsky, 1919), propaganda art produced to help inspire the struggle against the White Russians in the aftermath of the Bolshevik Revolution.

Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge (El Lissisky, USSR, 1919)

The poster, while intended as a populist statement regarding the civil war then under way in the nascent Soviet Union, is in fact constructivist fine art, one of the strongest examples of the genre. Very often, posters and other forms of resistance art are both populist statements and fine art simultaneously. There's no real dividing line between them. There is no way I know of to separate the fine artist from the populist rabble rouser and propagandist. When the cause is strong or just, the works emerge almost spontaneously from many sources, including the studios of fine artists.

In the case of the exhibits at the Museum of Contemporary Native Art, many of the pieces of resistance art are the works of honors students at IAIA or of alumnae of the Institute. Some of it is straightforward and in-your-face, some is subtly subversive. The point of much of it is the rejection of stereotypes of what "Indian art" is supposed to be as well as challenging expectations of who qualifies as an "Indian artist."  These seem to be constant themes within the fairly small Indian arts community, especially in Santa Fe and New Mexico in general where Indian art and artists have a very prominent position and role in the highly competitive art market.

On the other hand, much of the resistance art on exhibit at MoCNA deals with specific issues in the ongoing Native struggles for dignity and justice in the context of constant predation and expropriation by the dominant culture, whether it's war, poverty, abuse, abandonment, dispossession or what have you.

Indian artists fight stereotypes, and they also fight for what's right.

David Bradley, for example, has produced an enormous body of resistance (fine) art that mocks and disparages, indeed insults, the "Disneyfication" of Santa Fe in particular, the Southwest in general, as it molds and shapes everything to attract and please the tourists who flock to the region every spring and summer -- and the poseurs who settle in for the long term. Bradley currently has a major exhibit at the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture in Santa Fe. Resistance art that he did early on, collages of various "Indian" ideas and struggles, are on display at the MoCNA.

And example of one of his statements of resistance is his Land o' Fakes Museum Currency:

Virgil Ortiz has been creating subversive images of his re-visioning of the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 -- translated into contemporary iconography -- for years. His vision is encompassing. He uses every bit of his talent, skill, connections and imagination to create what is becoming an enormous body of resistance art that focuses almost entirely on the most successful Indian resistance action in North American history.

Why would he do this? Isn't it just "style," "fashion," or "entertainment?"

I say no, not at all. Virgil uses the elements of the high-style and fashion world he once served in the Donna Karan studio in order to highlight something that's often forgotten about Indian history -- the Pueblo Revolt -- and to send a clear message to his high and mighty clients that it can come again.

In effect, he becomes a translator, an interpreter of the Revolt, both for the benefit of young Indians who might not otherwise find the events of so long ago interesting or relevant, and for the education of a clientele that instinctively believes they are the Masters of the Universe.

Virgil left New York and the high-fashion industry he'd been eagerly accepted into in order to return to Cochiti Pueblo where he was from -- something that was in and of itself an act of resistance and rebellion -- where he develops his re-vision and the themes of revolt and rebellion based on what happened to chastise and drive the Spanish out of New Mexico in 1680. An aspect of that re-vision was the Venutian Soldiers concept of 2012, which was -- I think -- the first gallery exhibit we attended after moving to New Mexico in 2012.

Venutian Soldiers c. 2012, Virgil Ortiz

Now wait. Surely this is not resistance art, it's some kind of wild-ass fashion statement, right? Actually, it's both. The "soldiers" depicted are the soldiers of a Pueblo Revolt of 2180, futuristic images of what may be to come based on what went before.

Virgil now has a major exhibit at the Denver Art Museum. 

Through similar images -- in ceramics, leather and fabric, paint, video and film, and whatever other materials and means Virgil decides to use -- a picture emerges of his vision that ought to give some of his expensive clients pause. I'm not sure it does because I still see some of them parading around Santa Fe in the Virgil Ortiz creations, many of which are the figurative equivalent of daggers and arrows to the hearts of those who wear them. It's all highly subversive but in a way that -- perhaps -- his targets can't understand at all, any more than the Spanish were able to comprehend what Po'pay and the other Pueblo rebels were up to in advance of the Revolt itself. They thought they knew... but they were wrong...

At the IAIA Scholarship Dinner Virgil and Rose B(ean) Simpson, presented a collaborative performance piece that took these resistance concepts several steps further, but I'm convinced most of those who saw it had no idea what they were seeing. To them, perhaps, it was something charming, even cute. But to others, it was as strong a statement of resistance to the status quo as had ever been presented in that context.

At the Museum of Contemporary Native Art, Rose and Virgil have extended their collaborative efforts with an installation of even more elements of the re-visioning and translation of the Pueblo Revolt theme. There are manikins wearing costumes Virgil created for his characters and also, importantly, ceramic "masks" for each of eight named characters in the  story of the Revolt (c. 2180). I put masks in quotes because they are more like three-dimensional head-shots rather than face coverings, though they are called masks in the exhibit. To me they are quite disturbing -- which is, I think, what they are supposed to be -- because they do not depict humans. They are from another realm altogether, and I'm not at all sure they are benign.... they wouldn't be, would they, if they were representations of the forces of a future Revolt.

But then, most of what's in the Redness exhibit is disturbing. Deliberately so. Resistance art? Absolutely.

Carmen Selam is a young artist whose work I was able to purchase at last year's IAIA open house. The piece I bought was a print called "Indian Red":

"Indian Red", Carmen Selam, 2014

I was immediately attracted to it because it is a piece of resistance art that comments on the mis-appropriation of "Indian-ness" for commerce and (Anglo) 'beauty.' Carmen has written very well about it on her website:

Throughout my indigenous life, I have lived with elements of racism over the duration of my existence. The misappropriated usage of Native American imagery can be seen as a metaphorical modern day scalping. There was once a time when gathering pigment for the earth was a long and arduous task. This pigment, carefully selected was used to make paint that we used in ceremony and on the war field. We gathered the elements from the earth that my ancestors were buried. It was honorable to wear paint, eagle feathers, amongst other things. However, these days, it is not the same. The scapegoat for blunt racism is often disguised by the cloak of one word: honor. Often times we are dishonored in the name of honor by non-natives appropriating our sacred motifs and regalia as Halloween costumes, sports logos, and corporate emblems. My piece Indian Red is a reflection of the idea that the pigment and color of our skin is seen as a commodity by the red-lipped, twenty-something, non-native hipsters, who don the plastic war bonnet and faux war-paint.

Resistance art? Of course. What else could it be?

There are many other Native artists whose work is on exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Native Arts and elsewhere in galleries and museums around the country and particularly the Southwest, much of it resistance art -- but some of it not.

There's a joke that goes around in the Indian arts community: "Oh, yer stuff ain't sellin'? Why don't you put a feather on it? That's what they like to see, you know?"

Yep.

That's what they like to see. They don't -- usually -- want their Indian stuff to bite, if you know what I mean. But what I've been seeing more and more of, encouragingly, is Indian resistance art flourishing in galleries and museums, where some of the wealthy and powerful might see it. Whether they understand it or not is another question. But it really doesn't matter.

What matters is that artists are once again rebelling and resisting the pressure to conform to stereotypes and expectations. Artist rebellions typically presage popular rebellion, and I think we're getting closer every day.

"Yeah, but will I ever ride a horse again?"

Full day, full week, more than full. August is a whirlwind of things to do or get done. And then there's September.

We've been on the road a lot lately, always within New Mexico, Northern New Mexico at that, but still, much driving, yesterday especially.

There was a stop in ABQ to start the day, then it was out to Cochiti Pueblo for some chili and potato salad and oven bread at the Virgil Ortiz open house, the first time he'd opened his studio to the public. Interesting. Well, his studio had been turned into a showroom for his own works and those of family members.

I mentioned in a post last year that we attended the gallery opening for Virgil's Venutian Soldiers works -- photos, costumes, pottery -- in Santa Fe; yesterday was the debut of his "Evolution" series, which includes some of the Venutian Soldiers material and carries the story further.

The Pueblo Revolt of 1680 is the source point for the whole series and has served as the focus of Virgil's considerable output since he returned to the Pueblo from his whirlwinds among the rich and famous as a Big Time New York Designer, etc. Now the Pueblos have another one, Patricia Michaels, who was also having an event yesterday at Pojoaque, but she doesn't get so much into the Revolt as Virgil has.

There are many things I like about Virgil's stuff, and among them is that Anglos (who are the bulk of his customers and supporters) may have little or no conception of what he is doing or how ultimately subversive it is. Dude is on a mission.

Pondering the Pueblo Revolt of 1680

Illustration from Susan Wallace's "The Pueblos of New Mexico," c. 1883

In April I wrote a piece that dealt with the question of violence and resistance as it applied to the Pueblo Revolt and the -- at the time -- continuing controversy of Black Bloc participation in Occupy. In it, I acknowledge my ignorance about the Pueblo Revolt, and at the same time, I take a few swipes at the likes of Chris Hedges and Kevin Zeese, whose own ignorance of the black bloc tactic, in the midst of their constant demonization of those who wear black in solidarity with their comrades and not simply in connection with Occupy, is striking.

Humility is not one of their endearing qualities. Some have suggested it's not one of mine, either.

I note with some amusement that the "issue" of Black Bloc participation in Occupy has pretty much evaporated. Oh. My. And we were just beginning to have some fun with it. Of course Occupy itself is not quite what it once was, and suggesting that Black Blocs are in any way a significant component of Occupy or have ever been a significant component is silly in the extreme. Hedges embarrassed himself, Zeese embarrassed himself. The topic has been dropped. And we go on.

But the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 is looming larger in my consciousness than Hedges, Zeese or Occupy for that matter.

It's only partially due to my brief encounters with Virgil Ortiz and his Venutian Soldiers last week in Santa Fe.

We haven't completed our move to New Mexico yet, and I'm still learning about the society and culture we are joining. There are many safe-havens for Anglos in New Mexico, and if they don't want to actually be part of the culture and society there, Anglos can -- and many do -- stay apart from it. New Mexico has been called one of the most racist and segregated states in the Union, and I suppose in a way it's true, as there are any number of quite distinct communities that don't have that much to do with one another if they can avoid it. New Mexico has long celebrated its "Tripartite" culture -- Indian, Spanish and Anglo -- and it is sometimes the case that there seems to be neither communication nor understanding between them. At other times, there is no obvious barrier at all.

Where we're moving to, in the East Mountains, is in some respects one of those Anglo safe-havens, but its history is filled with conflict. This has not been a quiet land over the many centuries of human occupation, in fact it has only been partially and temporarily quiet in recent times. While I call it an Anglo safe-haven, its population is surprisingly mixed, though quite small by modern American standards. So far as I can tell, no more than 10,000 or perhaps 12,000 people total live in the East Mountains (which includes the eastern slopes of the Sandia and Manzano Mountains and the western margins of the Estancia Valley and the Galisteo Basin), and with the exception of a few very small towns, they live scattered on mostly small acreage -- though there are some enormous ranches (estancias) in the area as well. The total population I estimate for the East Mountains today interestingly mirrors the estimates of anthropologists for the number of Pueblo People living in the area prior to the arrival of the Spanish.

There are pueblos -- or rather the ruins of pueblos -- all over the place. There are no active pueblos in the East Mountains, but there are some magnificent ruins. There are also many sites that are little more than traces on or under the ground that indicate former habitation by Pueblo peoples.

The pueblos of this region were abandoned in stages over time during the 1200's and 1300's, depending on conditions, some were reoccupied during the 1400's and 1500's, some abandoned again, but all were abandoned in the 1670's; most of their inhabitants merged with the pueblos of the Rio Grande Valley or farther west. It is said that the largest contingent from the Salinas Pueblos which were scattered toward the southern end of the Manzano Mountains merged with Isleta Pueblo just on the west of the mountain slopes. But refugees from the Salinas Pueblos seem to have wound up joining most of the active Rio Grande Pueblos as well as pueblos further west in the tumultuous period just prior to the Pueblo Revolt of 1680.

I have a feeling there weren't a lot of Salinas Pueblo refugees for the other pueblos to absorb. Too much had happened prior to the abandonment of the Salinas Pueblos -- too much disease, abuse and starvation --  for  there to have been many survivors. The records are unclear about how many Indians left the Salinas Pueblos. At the same time, the Galisteo Basin Pueblos were also abandoned though they were reoccupied briefly after the Pueblo Revolt. As with the Salinas Pueblos further south, the number of Galisteo refugees is unclear, but it probably wasn't many.

They left under the watchful eyes of their Franciscan priests and Spanish military officials. They were starving, bereft of possessions, beaten down, and I'm sure many never made it the twenty or thirty miles over the mountains to their refuges along the Rio Grande.

The story of what happened to the Salinas and Galisteo Pueblos is somewhat murky in that the records are incomplete, but the outline of the situation is plain enough. The Spanish sent priests to convert the inhabitants of the pueblos, the people submitted more or less cheerfully (though under what kind of duress we can only imagine), and for a brief time there was something close to harmony among the priests and the peoples of the East Mountain Pueblos. (This of course excludes the episodes of punishment for defiance that the Spanish periodically inflicted on the Pueblos in order to assert their dominant position in the Order of Things.)

Then a severe drought came on, starting in the 1650's, the way they have done in these arid regions for thousands of years. Springs dried up, crops failed, starvation stalked the land. The Pueblo peoples had been dealing with these conditions for many generations; they knew what to do, spiritually and physically. They were prevented from doing it by the priests and the Spanish soldiers backing them up. Not only were the people forced to stay at the pueblos even though they were starving and too weak to defend themselves from Plains raiders, they were punished severely for calling on their own Native gods and spirits in their hour of need.

There's a striking story of a kiva (a generally circular underground gathering place for community and religious purposes among the Pueblo peoples and their ancestors) at one of the Salinas Pueblos -- I forget which one now -- that was built next to the church. When it was excavated in the 19th century, it was found full of trash, something that seemed distinctly odd to the excavators, but then its location next to the church was also odd. It was surmised that this kiva had been built simultaneously will the church as a temporary expedient to ensure the Indians came in for baptism. Once that job was done, the priests, it was suggested, forbade further use of the kiva, ordered its roof demolished, and had the pit filled with debris so that it could no longer be used for religious observances. There are many other stories around New Mexico of kivas being disrespected in just that manner during the first phase of Spanish colonization in the area.

Indians were punished harshly and frequently for even being suspected of practicing their own religion. Sometimes the penalty was death -- on occasion by burning -- sometimes whipping, sometimes incarceration and physical humiliation. All the regalia and votive offerings for the Pueblo religious observances were repeatedly confiscated and burned. Shrines were desecrated.

As these policies were implemented ever more severely, the physical conditions of the pueblos and their inhabitants deteriorated. Going along with the Spaniards, even if they did provide solace for the soul through Mass and Holy Communion, was turning out to be a losing proposition. Rebellion was not infrequent and was met with ever harsher repression.

Even though they were starving, Indians were forced to work on the ranches that Spaniards had begun to establish in the area. They were forced to build massive churches in which the survivors of the Spanish exploitation and abuses were forced to listen to pious fictions of eternal salvation and damnation.

Finally, even the priests realized that the Indians had suffered enough and they prevailed upon the civil authorities to allow the transfer of the remnant population to the Rio Grande Valley Pueblos. By that time, hundreds had died of starvation, perhaps more from disease.

The Salinas Pueblos were never reoccupied, at least not by Pueblo peoples. It is said that Kiowa and Comanche made temporary abode in the ruins from time to time, but there wouldn't be permanent settlements in the Salinas area again until the late 1800's and early 1900's. In the Galisteo Basin, the Village of Galisteo was established as a Spanish settlement along Galisteo Creek in 1816 or 1819. The Indians who had returned to the Galisteo area after the Reconquest were decimated by disease and the survivors eventually were transferred to other pueblos by the 1740's.

The major Pueblo Revolt took place in August of 1680, either during the continuing drought or shortly after it ended (accounts differ). Several hundred -- up to 400 -- Spanish settlers were killed, the rest were driven out to the sounds of mockery and derision from the Indians who successfully reclaimed their lands and independent existence, the only time that happened in North America prior to the modern era.

The leader of the revolt was one Po'Pay, from the San Juan Pueblo (Ohkay Owingeh), a seer and a holy man who had been seized by the Spanish and whipped in the Plaza at Santa Fe for "sorcery" -- along with close to 50 others in 1675 when the Spanish crown once again ordered the suppression of Native beliefs and religious practices. Po'Pay, along with others, vowed and plotted and eventually took revenge and drove the invaders out.

Ultimately, of course, the Spanish came back, but on very different terms than previously. There would be skirmishes and battles between the Pueblo Peoples and the Spanish for years after the reentrada of 1692, but eventually an uneasy peace would be established among the Spanish and the Pueblo Peoples such that the Pueblos maintained their cultural integrity, their land, and relative autonomy during the remainder of Spanish rule of the Southwest. Even when Mexico declared its independence from Spain, and even when the United States seized the Southwest from Mexico leading to strenuous efforts to "de-Indianize" the Pueblo People, they maintained their cultural integrity and their land. To this day, the Pueblos assert their autonomy (often financially supported by casino revenues) and maintain their cultural integrity.

It's a remarkable survival that is rarely understood by tourists who flock to the 19 remaining pueblos in New Mexico to obtain souvenirs and take pictures of the charming dancing Natives.

Dancers at Okay Owingeh Pueblo, New Mexico

Po'Pay came from Okay Owingeh Pueblo (San Juan) and the Pueblo Revolt of 1680 involved the pueblos in the Rio Grande Valley and further west. By the time of the Revolt, the pueblos east of the Rio Grande had been abandoned due to the drought and attacks by Plains tribes. The survivors from the eastern pueblos were dispersed among the Rio Grande Valley pueblos during the 1670's.  Though many were concentrated at Isleta, there were few barriers between pueblos except those put in place by the Spanish and the Spanish, despite their arrogance and exploitation of the Indians,  were suffering from the drought too. The Indians saw and took an opportunity to reclaim their independence from the invaders, and they were successful. At least for a time. Refugee survivors from the eastern pueblos were likely instrumental in the formulation and implementation of the Revolt and its aftermath.

I've constantly heard from the Indians that they never had any problem sharing land and produce and shelter with the Spanish or anyone else for that matter. There was -- or could be -- enough for all, even under difficult conditions. The Indians had long since learned how to live in nearly complete harmony with the rhythms of the Earth and one another -- even if from time to time that harmony was broken by conflict. The Navajo and Apache and the Plains tribes are supposedly the blood enemies of the Pueblo Peoples, and yet they have long lived together, sheltered and protected one another, and traded with one another. Conflict between them was been frequent but temporary, and neither tried to rule over the other as the Spanish -- and later Americans -- insisted on ruling over the Indians.

From all accounts, the Pueblo Peoples were prepared to treat the Spanish invaders the same way, and the Americans as well. Live and let live, share and share alike, fight when necessary, but not forever. These are concepts that were alien to the Spanish and are alien to many Americans; they must rule, and if they cannot rule they must destroy. When the Indians fought back, the Spanish pitifully wailed that they were the "victims" of "savages." To the Indians, the "savages" were the Spanish (and later, the Americans) because of their utter lack of dignity, decency, propriety, humility and sense of community. In a manner of speaking,  though they sought to sell soul salvation, they had no souls themselves. Indians saw them as  bereft and to be pitied.

The Pueblo Revolt of 1680 was briefly successful in driving out the Spanish, but from the long distance of history, it's not entirely clear that driving them out was more than a temporary goal ("to teach them a lesson," perhaps, in humility.) Since the reentrada of 1692, many of the Pueblo Peoples have made common cause with the Spanish, adopted Spanish names if not customs, intermarried with Spanish settlers, and otherwise found ways to accommodate Spanish society and culture while maintaining the integrity of their own Pueblo society and culture. Indians and Spanish settlers united to drive out the American invaders (unsuccessfully) in 1847, and ever since they have tended to support one another's claims against the Americans, often successfully.

For someone like Virgil Ortiz and other Pueblo people, Pueblo society and culture are the primary ones in the Rio Grande Valley and much of the rest of present day New Mexico (Apaches and Navajos have their own areas and are welcome to them). They set the standard for culture and society in their realm. Others are welcome as long as they respect the dignity and customs of the Original People. It's easy -- or it should be.

But it is a lesson that seems to take forever to learn.

"This is the world you're joining..."

Venutian Soldiers, creation and photo by Virgil Oritz

"Better make sure it's what you want."

That message and image came across very strongly during our whirlwind week in New Mexico.

It was an experience I don't think we'll soon forget. It was altogether an astonishing time in the Land of Enchantment. Our encounters with the arts -- literary, visual and performing arts -- seemed to go much deeper this time than in the past when we've tended just to skim along the surface of things. This time, we felt like we were very much a part of the arts/cultural scene, and the question was, "Is this really what we want?"

There was some disappointment this trip to be sure, as certain practical intentions went unfulfilled and some things seemed to go haywire, but there was so much unexpected richness of experience in contrast to what didn't go right. That's pretty much the way things go in New Mexico. As I said at some point in the adventure, "Pressure doesn't work in New Mexico."

We've been involved in one way or another in New Mexico's writers and literary community for quite some time, but we've stayed on the periphery of the rest of the arts scene, particularly in Santa Fe, since an early encounter with some of the patrons of the Santa Fe Opera decades ago.

We came to understand at that time that we were dealing with a very rarefied realm of almost inconceivable wealth and patronage. It's a realm that we mock for its pretensions, and yet without it there would be a much more -- subdued, shall we say -- arts and cultural community in Santa Fe and New Mexico, and I'm not sure that we would want that or that the world would somehow be a better place with less arts and culture in the City Different and much of the rest of the state.

The Virgil Ortiz reception we attended on Thursday (August 16) was a distinct contrast to the book signing we went to the day before, and to me the contrast was a demonstration of one of the many dichotomies in New Mexico that are reflected in arts and the arts and cultural community.

Things are changing, and Virgil is on the edge of that change, as he's been taking New Mexico Pueblo traditions and turning them inside out and upside down for quite a while now. His Venutian Soldiers are... well, let's just say, "eye openers." They are not a complete break from the past, far from it. It's not his intention to break from the past, it's his intention to illuminate the past through contemporary imagery and iconography, and I think he succeeds in ways no one can yet fully appreciate.

Virgil is not all that young -- he's in his 40's -- and he's been around for long enough, typically in the heady realm of high fashion, that he runs the risk of becoming jaded about everything. But he doesn't seem to be falling into the trap of ennui.

The reception included a smattering of Old Farts like me, lots of fashion fan-boys and -girls, many of them Natives, a handful of academics, and quite a few people who had known Virgil for many years. It was a vibrant mix that even attracted the police for a time. The police presence was a distraction from the festivities to say the least, and yet it seemed strangely in keeping with the whole feel of the evening. That story will have to be told, but not just now...

What seemed missing from Virgil's reception was the Wealthy Patron factor. That seems odd when I think about it... I can't recall seeing even one of the usual Santa Fe Major Arts Patrons in attendance, though there may have been one or more there and I didn't notice. It was that kind of event. So much going on, you're bound to miss something.

Yet the day before, at the book signing, it seemed that in addition to plenty of artists, there were more than a few of the Patrons who keep the whole scene going. Perhaps they felt safer...

Virgil is dealing with some of the fundamentals of the Pueblo People and Pueblo history in New Mexico and he isn't holding back, at least not that I can see. As he says, the whole idea of the Venutian Soldiers series -- which includes pottery pieces, statuary, and photographs at this point, but which is intended to include a film or video production and an illustrated story/graphic novel -- is to highlight the 1680 Pueblo Revolt, "the First American Revolution."

The Pueblo Revolt has never been an easy topic in New Mexico as for many residents it is still living history, especially among the Spanish and Indians. Our place isn't far from the Salinas Pueblos on the east side of the Manzanos, and those ruins when first encountered don't really clue you in to what happened, you have to do some digging and studying to understand it. The Salinas Pueblos were abandoned sometime in the 1670's, probably around 1676 or 1678, not long before the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. They were abandoned due to a number of factors: drought, disease, attacks by Plains tribes, abuse by Spanish clergy, starvation. I'm sure there was more to the story of their abandonment than that. But I have long felt that it was the stories from those pueblos that set the stage for the revolt so soon to come along the Rio Grande and beyond.

The Pueblo Revolt was a success; the Spanish were thrown out of New Mexico and the Franciscan clergy paid a heavy price in blood for their decades of exploitation and abuse of the Pueblo people and the suffering they caused among those who only wanted to be left alone.

Virgil has made telling that story his life's work. Many other Native artists, maybe most, never mention it and never refer to it in their work. It's as if it never happened, though everyone knows it did.

When I first saw Virgil's pieces for the Venutian Soldiers exhibit, my interpretation was that he was making mock of the high fashion world he's been involved with for quite a while. The models are stunning in costume as Venutian Soldiers and in person signing posters at the reception. Dolled up as "Venutians" they certainly have the appearance of being some sort of fever dream of an overheated fashion imagination. I knew nothing, initially, about the 1680 connection at all; I saw them for what I saw, unfiltered as it were. And I saw them as a not-very-nice comment on the nature of the fashion industry.

Well, they may be that on one level, but there is so much more I would come to find out.

In Virgil's retelling of the Pueblo Revolt, his Venutian Soldiers are contemporary Super-hero versions of the Pueblo warriors who evicted the Spanish from New Mexico all those many years ago. He's re-conceiving the historical struggle of his people in contemporary -- and visually compelling -- terms that can appeal simultaneously to a wide range of modern spectators.

The arts patrons of Santa Fe may have stayed away from Virgil's reception because they might not have felt safe there.

I could spend quite a lot of time on the question of the very wealthy patrons who are the underlying reason why there is so much art in New Mexico. Without the patrons, the arts would have a very different character and might be much less prominent in New Mexico culture.

Virgil comes from a long line of Cochiti Pueblo potters and artists and has been active in the field of the arts and fashion for decades. He's using what he knows deep in his soul, dressing it up in contemporary clothing (or rather lack...) and telling us a story that most of us have no idea of.

In that, he's taken a step way beyond where most of the Santa Fe Indian artists have chosen to stay.

And he seems to know it's not going to be easy... The struggle has just begun.

For us? Is this the world we want to be part of?

Do we really have a choice?

People and Place

Lots of people have tried to describe what constitutes the enchantment of New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment."  It's a subject I've wrestled with a few times myself -- not very successfully.

I've driven out here dozens of times over the years. The first time we came to New Mexico in 1982 was by driving hell-bent for leather from California on the way to St. Louis (I had work there.)  There was a moment and a vision on that drive -- and on every subsequent one -- that triggered the sense of enchantment: the cleft between those painted cliffs which I've long called a Baroque Mesa at the border between Arizona and New Mexico.

This is kennedymarijuanaseed's video that gives you some idea of the gasp-worthy visuals at the crossing. (I have some photos, but they aren't loaded to this computer, so...)


It's breathtaking. And for me at any rate, the instant we cross over from Arizona into New Mexico, we are in a different environment. The sky is different. It's clearer and bluer, a nearly sapphire deep blue. The clouds are whiter and fluffier. The land is different, still high desert, but not like Arizona. It's less, how shall I say, manipulated for gain, and people's presence seems much lighter on the earth. It's Navajo country on both sides of the border, one is in Dinetah no matter which side of the line you're on, but the New Mexico side seems spiritually much freer. My heart soars on crossing the border.

That's the first enchantment for a visitor driving through. You see something you aren't really expecting given the flat arid high desert of Arizona's eastern sector, and you're transported into another world.

You see Indians everywhere; you hear their languages on the radio; you can get some frybread or oven bread at the stands along the road or in surprise locations where you don't expect to find such things. There are horses and sheep wandering free.

The place seems laden with silver and turquoise.

As you travel east, you see a series of red mesas marching along in formation, but soon enough you're in the presence of Mt. Taylor, known to the Diné as Tsoodził, "the Sleeping Woman." If the light is just right -- which it often is -- the reason for the Navajo name of the mountain is obvious. There is a long haired woman sleeping on her side taking up the whole top of the mountain.

We like to stop for a bite at a place called the Kiva Cafe in Milan, just under the mountain -- which you can't see from the ground because the peak is hiding behind a mesa. The place is often packed with people from the area out for lunch or dinner, many of them Indians. The food is abundant and good and the staff is friendly -- if sometimes harried! Next door is the Chaco Canyon Trading Company, which is a remarkably fine and complete place to find Indian jewelry (some made on the spot), pottery, and other items. Most of what they sell is made by nearby artisans, much of it of very high quality and at prices that are certainly fair. The total experience at this location (it's also a truck stop and convenience store) is very down to earth, not at all what you may encounter in the more fashionable places frequented by denizens and visitors to Santa Fe, say. 

At one time I didn't care for Santa Fe at all. I didn't even want to go anywhere near it, I had such a bad reaction to the place. After a while, I found out why. I was a smoker, you see, and Santa Fe is at an altitude of 7,000 ft. It's very, very difficult for someone who smokes heavily like I did and has not adapted to the altitude to breathe in such a rarefied atmosphere. The body reacts as if you are suffocating -- which in a way you are -- and most people suffering under those conditions get very crabby, essentially panicking. 

I could recognize what was happening after I stopped smoking, but not until then. 

I still mock Santa Fe as "Fanta Se" and otherwise poke fun at the pretensions of so many Santa Feans, both newly minted and some of the crusty old timers. But it's no longer a problem being there, nor do I tend to become panicked because "I can't breathe!" 

Yesterday we had a surprisingly delightful time in the City Different, going up to attend some events as part of Indian Market week. There were some Navajo made short films playing at the History Museum, and in the afternoon, there was a book-signing at the Collected Works bookstore featuring about a dozen Native American artists whose work was featured in Contemporary Native American Artists by Suzanne Deats and Kitty Leaken. 

We also attended a workshop on support for Native American documentary film making presented by Native American Public Telecommunications. Ah, the grant process! I've been out of that realm for quite a while, but it's like riding a bicycle. You never actually forget how, though your skills may become rusty with disuse. It was really a useful presentation, though it's not clear that either the "White Guys" or the Indians in attendance (and one Filipino) could realistically participate in the program. Personally, I've never been fond of the film making process though I've been in some movies and have dabbled in making a few films and videos -- but generally only in support of theatrical projects. For their part, many film makers have trouble appreciating the theatrical process, and it is not as if one is superior to the other. They are different, and to my mind their purposes are quite different as well. I have been more attuned to and more comfortable in the theater-making process than in the movie making process.

Be that as it may, I learned a great deal about how Native Americans can gain valuable assistance in documentary film making through the NAPT. Some of the productions they've supported include "Good Meat," "Reel Injuns," and "Thick Dark Fog" among many others. 

After the workshop, we attended a showing of Navajo made short films, collectively called "Navajo Paradiso." It was quite a variety of styles and topics, all with a Navajo perspective, some spoken in the Navajo language. The film-makers were all in attendance and spoke afterwards about their work and process and intent. 

I found myself quite drawn to two of the works. One, called "Floating," was surprisingly compelling. I say surprisingly because it was so... edgy... a non-Indian is smoking dope and trying to fix hot dogs while arguing on the phone with his (Navajo) girlfriend in what the film maker referred to as an "epic" redundant conversation. Yes. It was. OMG. Stylistically, the film was innovative -- clever cuts and dissolves, unusual screen proportion manipulations, unexpected visual and auditory moments. It would not change your life by any means but it was certainly a definitive slice of what you might call an ordinary life. 

The other was titled "The 6th World," an innovative Navajo science fiction picture centering on a future mission to Mars which relies on corn (as it happens, Indian corn) to provide oxygen for the trip and to form the basis of terraforming the red planet. It wasn't a fully-developed idea, but it was a start on a topic that could prove fascinating to explore in film and other formats. Just how would Navajos and other Native peoples approach a Mission to Mars or the other planets? (According to Buffy Sainte-Marie, an old Indian told her after the moon landing in 1969, "You know, they really ought to leave that Moon alone.")

The film makers were mostly women (there were two men), they were young, enthusiastic, creative in different ways, and each film was unique. The film makers were exploring the medium and the possibilities of story telling through film. None of the films was particularly polished (which is not meant as a criticism), but neither were they obviously amateur products by people who were just fooling around. They were all serious attempts at formulating and presenting unique visions of "what is" through Native eyes. And they all met that specific objective.

We had lunch at the Plaza Cafe, a Santa Fe institution that was closed several years ago due to an unfortunate kitchen fire. The restoration seemed to take forever, in part due to the requirements for upgrading so much infrastructure before the reconstruction could proceed. There were many, many delays. This was the first time we'd been back since they reopened earlier in August, and it was a treat. 

Like the Kiva Cafe in Milan, the Plaza Cafe on the Plaza in Santa Fe is not a fashionable eatery, so you'll rarely see those who suffer from "Santa Fe Style" inside its doors. On the other hand, plenty of locals seem to like it a lot, and tourists and travelers who just wander in are surprised and delighted with the food and service. It's a New Mexican/Greek diner sort of restaurant, and you can get your New Mexican dishes with a Greek accent if you like. 

It was nice being back.

Then it was off to the book-signing at Collected Works. This is where things got really intriguing. I was almost certain we'd been to other events at Collected Works, but walking in the door, I didn't recognize anything, so... maybe not. We found seats and were almost immediately approached by an elderly lady who said that Kitty was her daughter. We were not familiar with the book under discussion, so "Kitty" didn't mean anything at first. But then I looked closely at the older woman and a younger one who seemed to be in charge of the event and the resemblance was obvious, so that must be "Kitty," and then I realized that "Kitty" was Kitty Leaken, the photographer for the book "Contemporary Native American Artists" which was the topic of the event and the reason why everybody was there. Oh. Well. 

Later, we would meet Kitty through Peter. Who was Peter? I had no idea, but we struck up a conversation while waiting in line to get our books signed by the dozen or so artists featured who were in attendance. Peter had just come back from leading a tour at Chaco Canyon, and he thought he had missed this event. He was very glad he didn't. Turns out he was close friends with Kitty and knew some of the artists featured in the book. We were joined shortly by Mark, from Tesuque Pueblo, who was the manager of the tour outfit and had been a Chaco too. Turns out Mark -- in addition to running tours -- is an artist, a sculptor of some repute (well, his works are at the Wheelright and the Smithsonian among other places) but he was too modest to say that. No, I found out later when I Googled him up -- actually, I was Googling something else and his name appeared, oh. Instead, he and I chatted about Berkeley in the '60's and how things got a little tense there in 1969 when his family decided it was time to get the hell out and return to the comparative sanity of New Mexico. What a story. 

We continued to chat as if we were old friends while waiting to get our books signed, and then we chatted as if were were old friends with the artists themselves. Of course Mark was an old friend of many of them, as were many of the others in the room. 

I noted with interest that I was one of a dozen or so people in attendance happily sporting a Hawaiian shirt. Yes. Well, it's summertime in Santa Fe, and if you don't want to be taken as a tourist, what are you going to do? Wear a Hawaiian shirt, of course!

So we yakked and continued through the line -- I learned a good deal about relations between artists in Santa Fe and New Mexico which I sort of knew of in the past... and then it occurred to me how I was drawn here to begin with. 

I've written about it before, but it was this event that brought it home to me. 

Harry Fonseca.

He was a Native American artist in Northern California who created the "Coyote and Rose" series and made the Coyote character an American icon, especially in Santa Fe. I was lucky enough to have known him in California, and was intrigued when he said he was going to move to New Mexico, initially to Albuquerque. He was already famous, you see, for his Coyote character series, but it would be just a little while longer before Coyote became a... well, for want of a better word, "meme."

This is the Coyote Harry Fonseca did for Coyote Cafe in Santa Fe in 1994:

Coyote for Coyote Cafe by Harry Fonseca, 1994

Harry told New Mexico stories before he moved here, and they were filled with both mystery and joy for me. The night sky was a special pleasure to hear about -- because in most of California you never see a brilliant starfilled night sky, you never see the Milky Way, and you can't know what is out there for your amazement. You can and often do in New Mexico.

Seeing for yourself is what it takes, along with the motivation to make it possible. 

New Mexico itself provides the motivation, I think. If it draws you back again and again, eventually you have no choice. You have to live here. You must.

I was talking to one of the artists featured at the book signing yesterday, Upton Ethelbah (Greyshoes) who is at least as well known as Harry was, and he asked me about moving to New Mexico, as he's been all over and now works in Albuquerque. I told him it was "time." He laughed and said something like, "Yah, sure. You leave California for a better quality of life out here!" I said, "Yes, that's it exactly. It IS a better quality of life, though you'd never convince most New Mexicans or Californians of that." He said, "Everybody should find the place they're best suited to. California, New Mexico, they're all good places. So don't be ashamed of being from California. Enjoy living here. It's called you home." Or did he say, "It's called your home?"

That's the key to the Enchantment; it's not just a marketing slogan. When the land calls you, you know it, and you're drawn, there's no escaping it. I've talked to so many people who live here now who came from some part of California (usually the south, because the landscape is somewhat similar)  who say exactly that. From the first time they saw it, they knew that New Mexico would one day be Home, there was no way around it. For some, like me, it took years, decades in fact, to make it real, but New Mexico would be Home no matter what.

Harry Fonseca clued me to the spirit of the place, and once he moved here himself, it was as if he, too, were part of the lure. Even after he passed away.

Yesterday, as we were going about to the various events we attended, we kept running into so many people who had made that trek east from California to New Mexico, quite a few having just arrived and who said they were just getting familiar with the place and the people. I don't know whether they felt the same pull we did, but if they did, they knew what that Enchantment was all about too. 

Practically every time I've attended events in Santa Fe or elsewhere in New Mexico -- or just been hanging around someplace-- I've been amazed at how quickly, almost instantly, I've become integrated with the locals, as if I had lived here for years and years and everybody knew me and I knew everybody. There are any number of tight-knit communities in Santa Fe and New Mexico in general, this is after all  a very tribal society, and it's not easy for outsiders to penetrate these communities, though outsiders are usually treated pleasantly and politely. 

What's so striking in our experience is that at least momentarily we are welcomed into the tribe, which ever it happens to be, spontaneously, sincerely, as if we have always been here.

It happened again tonight. We were went to the opening reception of Virgil Ortiz's "Venutian Soldiers" series of pots, sculptures, and photographs at the Zane Bennett Gallery in the Railyard District of Santa Fe. It was an adventure.  No one we knew was there. Virgil Ortiz himself we only knew by reputation. 

Spontaneously, literally out of nowhere, people started talking to us, chatting away as if we were old friends, telling tales and sharing life stories, making connections that might last. The problem for so many years has been that these spontaneous contacts can be made only one time because we almost immediately have to go back to California, and we may not be back in New Mexico for months. By then, the moment will have passed.

But now we live here, this is our home, and when we go back to California tomorrow, it will be to finish packing up for the final move east.

This has been quite a week. One we will not soon forget.