THE ART OF THE LOOM

Coming into Southwest Indian country for the first time some fifty-five years ago was a revelation in many ways. We drove through the hot desert land of Chumash, Hopi and Navajo before arriving in New Mexico, home of the Pueblo people. My own art had taken a turn toward the Southwest, and we had begun collecting a few pots and pieces of jewelry from indigenous artists.

I was fortunate to have my good friend Georgia Abeita Oliver as my companion while I accompanied her “home” for the summer. Wherever we are born, home-going is a special occasion which never gets old. There were friends and relatives to meet and greet, and a cultural education for me as a guest.

To be steeped and accepted into the culture of another is a privilege for which I have been grateful these past many years.

The domestic skills such as weaving, pottery, jewelry and basketry seem to be practiced primarily by individual villages. Pueblo and Hopi pots, but Navajo weaving and jewelry.

Two Grey Hills rug, Navajo

My husband was staying in the La Fonda hotel in Albuquerque several years before my trip, where he saw a very large Two Grey Hills rug on the wall. The story goes that a customer wished to buy the rug, and he was sent to the Two Grey Hills village to bargain for it. He came back dismayed because though he offered them twice its price, they refused to sell to him. I had a similar situation a few years later when I commission a rug after I was back home. When it arrived, the rug’s colors were not what I had wanted, so I returned it with the hope of another more suitable rug to come; but did not hear from them again. We are, after all, two separate cultures with different views on what is important. I did not make the same mistake again in all my years of travel in Indian country.

Why is it that the Navajo are the master weavers? Why not the Pueblo? The Hopi do weave lovely small runners, though and the men weave their prospective bride a burial shawl. I always thought that was either a threat or a warning.

“How the Navajo Got The Rug” watercolor by kayti sweetland rasmussen

My own interpretation of how the Navajo got the skills to weave is that maybe it just came down from the sky. That is as good an explanation as any. We met an old weaver just outside Taos, patriarch of the Trujillo family, who had been weaving since he was a boy. He made us a nice large room size rug which is in my studio.

It is easy to imagine how so much of the architecture got its beginnings; the whole desert terrain with its mesas and sculptural forms is ever present. Making use of natural materials like clay, wool, and natural dyes keeps people connected to the land. I have always preferred to work with clay for that same reason. It connects me also with my own forebears who were potters for over 200 years in England. It just feels natural to me when I think of the generations before me who made their living through love of clay.

The Saturday markets are crowded with people bringing everything from pickups full of wool to homemade tamales. In fact the best tamale I ever ate was at a flea market in Gallup, New Mexico. In the days I first visited New Mexico and Arizona, one frequently saw the wife’s mother sitting in the bed of the truck with the bundles of sheep skin for sale. She usually was in a large chair like a queen surveying her subjects.

I bought a cradle board made by an old woman who had brought only one to sell. A young pregnant girl was trying to decide if she had money enough to buy it for $40. Seeing me waiting in the wings, she graciously offered it to me. I said I noticed that she might need it more than I did, and she said “But YOU want it.” I have yet to see someone in our society be that generous of spirit.

Native people, whether Southwest or Northcoast, as somewhat suspicious of strangers, but through the years I have known and cared for people from both cultures, I have always found acceptance and love.

LIVIN’ THE GOOD LIFE Kate’s Journal

Episode 29 Fremont 1966-1969

The years after my Southwest odyssey were ripe with possibility. I had come away with a deep feeling of humility and admiration for these people who had so little and yet were so generous and had the gift of laughter and ingenuousness.

The window dressing business, was still going well, spreading our good will and fancy frippery from San Jose to Oakland, our daughters became young ladies and began their University lives, we continued our outdoor life camping, hiking, fishing in the Northwest and Canada, went often to the family cabin at the Russian River,and generally enjoyed life.

As fascinated as I had become with seemingly endless native subject matter for my painting, the opportunity to paint closer to home arose.

Other People’s Children

The City Recreation Department, using a charming old building across the street from Mission San Jose, had a sculpture class, and I decided to take a class. The instructor left and I was asked to teach the class as well as begin a pottery class, and they would even pay me! I couldn’t believe it. I was so rusty at throwing pots, I went to a neighboring town’s recreation department to brush up. We had no pottery wheel, so we bought a hand-made wooden kick-wheel through the newspaper, which turned out to be so uncomfortable, prospective students were dropping out. After a few money-raising events, we bought the real McCoy and things picked up. City coffers are notoriously empty when you need them.

We had a few memorable parties in our Japanese garden, even digging a pit to roast a pig for one party. The pig was still squealing at midnight, so we ate chicken and shrimp. The infamous zucchini parties came in the summer.

Just before high school graduation, our youngest daughter and a large number of her girlfriends had a photo-op on our red arched Japanese bridge, which suffered loudly from the added weight. Unfortunately, no photo remains.

We all seem to have a favorite car in our past, and mine was a yellow Karmann Ghia dubbed “Herman”. It was truly mine, but with two daughters, one at San Jose State U., one still in high school, I waited for my turn. Herman lived with us for 15 years or so, and when he had reached his doddering years, a young grandson sobbed that he had hoped to drive it when he went to college.

We found ourselves traveling to the Northwest, often as guests of Georgia and Emmett Oliver at their lovely home on the Hood Canal. Dr. Advice was an ardent fisherman, and Georgia and I had formed a strong bond during our summer in the Southwest. Emmett was introducing me more and more to Northcoast art and the country itself was beautiful. Our youngest daughter had been accepted at the University of Washington, and we began thinking seriously of moving to the Seattle area. Karma was right and it seemed to be the right thing to do.

INTO THE LAND OF THE SUN Kate’s Journal

Episode 24 New Mexico, 1966

“People of the Sun” watercolor by kayti sweetland rasmussen

The road leading east from Barstow is straight as a string, and the brilliant red sun resting on the highway as we drove straight into it on the second morning of our trip was eerily suggestive of an omen; but for good or bad?

I became aware of the effects of extreme heat when we passed the remains of several steers in quiet repose alongside the highway.

The Grand Canyon became our first campsite. Glorious in its immensity, I was overwhelmed to look down into the view which has inspired countless generations of man to wax poetic. Below us, the canyon surged with life; eagles fly and small drifts of morning fog moved. The air is fresh and clear and sharp as if we are looking down from a plane; a disembodied feeling. We gaze down with wonder on eagles flying through what seemed to be the depths of the canyon.

We stretched out in sleeping bags on the ground on a bed of pine needles, after a steak dinner cooked over a small campfire. For dessert we gathered a few pine nuts off the small trees surrounding our campsite.

My delightful traveling companion was Georgia Abeita Oliver, an Isleta Pueblo from New Mexico, and teacher of my children. Her husband, Emmett Oliver was a Quinault from the coast of Washington, also an educator. They had met at Baconne, an all-Indian college in New Mexico. While she had gone on to the University of New Mexico, he went to the University of Redlands in California.

I was put in charge of finances as Georgia was the driver, and we would share the cost of the gas. We had decided to keep our expenses to a minimum, and use all the money we could afford on books, pots, and artwork. Food would be a secondary expenditure. We would be staying with Georgia’s relatives all along the way, so our lodging expense would be minimal.

The next day we arrived in Laguna, where we would stay with Georgia’s two elderly aunts and their brother. He and one aunt had been teachers and the other aunt was a nurse. They lived not in the old village, but in an enormous house below the old village of Laguna. Their father, an engineer from England, and two other engineers who each married Indian women, had come to survey the land for the United States. The building, which was now in fine repair, had been a deserted mission, and was large enough for each man to live in his own space and raise families of 10-11 children, most of whom still lived in the area.

Before dinner we walked up the hill to the old village. The ancient stones which formed a stairway were worn with indentations from centuries of footprints. My imagination traveled back in time to the countless women who wearily climbed to the top to haul water, or to find potholes which held water where they washed their hair before rubbing with yucca to give a beautiful shine to their black locks.

Before we left, Georgia suggested that I bring only skirts rather than pants, as it made a better impression on people who might take a little while to know me. It would make climbing through ruins a bit more difficult, but more politically correct for people who maintained a suspicious attitude toward strangers.

Stone stairway to old village of Laguna

The old church was deserted as was the village. Everyone was inside their homes until after dinner. When we had finished our own dinner, we too went outside, and as I was accustomed to a great deal of conversation, feeling that if there was a lull in communication it meant that someone was either bored or upset, I was at first uncomfortable with the silence. We simply sat and enjoyed the evening silence. Astonishing! Now and then a small ripple of laughter came as someone shared the happenings of the day. An old bedraggled grey cat rubbed against my legs and seemed content to sit quietly at my feet. Above us the village was also quiet, without even the barking of the ubiquitous dogs.

Life takes on a slower pace here in the desert. The realization that we are only here for a short time and why rush it is prevalent.

The stars shine so brightly in the Southwestern sky, and it is understandable that ancient man was able to divine the paths of the constellations while studying the skies so intently,. We slowly drifted off to bed so that we might get an early start for exploring the old village.

MY SHEEP AFFAIR

Having been born and raised in a large southern California city, I had no opportunity to meet any sheep face to face.  I saw  them while on road trips, when they were lazily grazing in a field, but we were never formally introduced

In the Southwest, where the raising of sheep is a big part of the Navajo economy, sheep are guarded like children.  They give so much and receive so little from the arid land.  I came upon this peaceful scene with grazing sheep and their young shepherd early one summer evening.   Their wool coats are so lush it makes you want to hug them.  It may have been time for a haircut!

The sheep at the left are residents of Grasmere in the Lake Country of England.  Their restaurant opportunities are somewhat different, but the outerwear is no better than their uncomplaining relatives in Navajoland.   Of course, the meat may be a bit more tender.

For awhile I seemed to collect sheep things wherever I went, and then I found two friends who loved them too, so gradually I have parted with a few for the sake of friendship.  In Cornish country I saw a great painting of sleepy grazing sheep in a local gallery which now hangs in my dining room .  My friend Kay likes it, but I’m not selling it to her!  She’s from Idaho, and they have a lot of sheep of  their own there.  We went to a cousin’s funeral and she collected small sheep figures which her daughter offered to anyone who wanted a memento.  I took one and think of her when I see it sitting in my studio.  Maybe Kay will take my sheep painting one day at my funeral!

We stayed in an old castle in Wales one year.  Exploring around the gardens, I came to a stile at the side of a pasture which I climbed over and it took me into a wonderful area which seemed to hold the ruins of a mini-Stonehenge.  Large tumbled rocks formed convenient jumping-off places for a small flock of snowy sheep to play on.  It formed one of those “memorable moments” I’m always talking about!  I spent the rest of the afternoon getting acquainted with these little guys and photographing them.  Have you ever just sat and watched them play?  They paid no attention  to me as I snapped photo after photo and laughed at their antics.

                                                                                                                                                   Sheep in Navajoland Arizona

Castle in Cardiff, Wales                                                                                                                                                                                        Stonehenge, England

Seeing the setting sun peeking through the ancient stones of Stonehenge is reminiscent of the equally old stone formations in Canyon de Chelly, Arizona.  Rather mindboggling when you think tht ancient man was in the same time warp at the same time.  What is it they were trying to do?  Determine the time of day, month, year?  Something far different?  One of life’s mysteries.  And I also wonder if there were sheep grazing somewhere in that dry, hot country.

THE BOY WHO LOVED CLOUDS

Stargazer  KSR

The boy’s grandmother had painted murals on the bedroom walls of all the grandchildren, including those of this boy.  When he was eight  years old, he graduated into a larger bedroom and decided he really liked clouds and would like her to paint some on his ceiling, so together they talked it over  and she also thought it would be a good idea.

They lived in the Northwest where the skies are often overcast and rainy, so they knew a dark and dreary sky would not be a cheerful thing to see even before you got out of bed.  Seattle does not get the huge white  clouds that the Southwest is accustomed to seeing, but when the days are clear and sunny there is no place on the planet more agreeable with the sun glistening off the water of Lake Washington, Puget Sound and the mountains in the distance reflecting their snowy tops.

So it was agreed that the sky must be warm and that the clouds should have some touches of peachy tones on their edges showing that the sun was indeed shining on the world outside his window.

A tall ladder was found and the grandmother put on her paint-covered jeans and went to work creating a fantasy ceiling for this little boy.  The ceiling was much larger than the boy’s previous room, and the work much slower because of the position of the painter.  Michaelangelo had it easier because of scaffolding he was able to use, but the clouds magically appeared on the ceiling, and the grandmother stood and surveyed her work.  It needed just one more thing.

With phosphorescent paint and a map of the night skies, stars and the constellations were put in their approximate positions.  When it was dark, the ceiling became alive with the twinkle and sparkle of all the stars.  It was just like being in a world of your own and you could imagine that an actual Stargazer came each night to place them in their proper places.

At the end of the day the family went into the newly painted room, lay on his bed and looked up at the stars on the ceiling, and declared the endeavor a success.

One evening when the boy was about thirteen years old he announced to his mother that he was about to take his friend Mary up to his bedroom to look at  the stars in his ceiling.  Shortly after that, the ceiling was again painted white.