Last night, Wings and I were talking about the topic of yesterday’s post: the disconnect between the dominant culture’s marking of the day and our own conception of what constitutes a “founding father.” In our case, “spirit” is perhaps a better term than “father,” because not all of those we look to as creating and sustaining spirits are male, and they are certainly not all parental. We have what might be termed founding fathers and founding mothers, but also other relatives, beings who are less like us and yet no less inspirited.
I focused on one such set of beings yesterday: the trees. Last year, I wrote of the mountains. We look, similarly, to the sun and the moon and the stars; to the winds and the Sacred Directions; to the waters; to the storm and the fire. We look also to our relatives with whom we share this land: the animal spirits sustain us in ways physical and spiritual, but who are also equals — given this land not to be subject to human “dominion,” but to share it with us.
This difference in how we understand the world requires us also to look differently at how we interact with it. It does not permit us to take the ordinary stuff of daily life for granted — not the food we eat nor the water drink nor the soil upon which we walk.
The outside world has turned this worldview into a caricature, one that it regards with amusement as simple sentimentality, by turns treating it as something child-like or as an aspect of the identity of the so-called “noble savage.” All of these are reductive, to understate the matter rather grossly; they are insulting, yes, but more fundamentally, they completely misunderstand the dynamics at play.
We are, in general terms, not a sentimental people.
We are, instead, intensely practical: The rigors of existence, of what it has taken to survive on this land in the face of a half-millennium of coordinated campaigns of genocide, have required it of us. But survival, for us, has come about through partnership with the other beings of the earth, not dominion over them. We use them, yes, and we recognize that they use us, as well, but it is a delicate balance and a delicate dance. It is, for us, a communal and even familial dynamic of stewardship, of care, of mutual entrusting of responsibilities and reliance on its benefits.
And it is a dynamic of giving thanks.
We are taught to take nothing for granted (although enough of the modern culture of the outside world, along with its amenities, has filtered through and taken hold sufficiently to make this lesson one of which we must be reminded over and over again now). For whatever we are given, through dint of hard work or purely by chance or the blessings of the spirits, we are taught to give thanks . . . because our peoples know, and better than most, that nothing in this life is promised, nothing guaranteed.
Against this cultural backdrop, it should come as no surprise that what we are given in the natural world should find its way into the art of the people. This is true of the animal spirits with whom we share the land: not merely flesh and hides and sinew, but all the way down to antler and bone.
This time of year, we are visited by the spirits of the Hoof Clan: by the great herd of elk that lives most of the year within the safe curtilage of the mountains. In the cold months, they descend to search for more readily available food, and routinely venture onto our small bit of this land. They seem to know, on some atavistic level, that they are safe here in this place.
Every year, some small amount of hay becomes damaged over the passage of the months, accidentally exposed to the elements: no longer edible by the horses, with their sensitive digestive systems, but perfectly suitable for ruminants of all sorts. For a few weeks now, Wings has been extracting the damaged hay from the stacked bales and spreading it on the surface of the snow out in the fields. The elk will come, whether the hay is there or not, but if they are forced to leave hungry, they are more likely to venture onto the highway and across it, where they are at great risk of being hit by a vehicle or shot by would-be hunters. Here, at least, they will remain within the safety of our land before vanishing back up into the mountains in advance of the dawn.
And so they come, every night. They have become used enough to us, to the horses and the dogs, that they come very near the structures, not far outside this window next to me. They have peeked into the truck, looking for food or perhaps only curious as to what lie behind the eyes of this great metal beast that not only shows no inclination to trouble them, but occasionally bears food on its back. [A few weeks ago, when the snow was three feet deep and rapidly hardening into ice, Wings bought a few very heavy alfalfa bales to weight the truck bed down; hay bales, like sand, is an old trick for driving safely in winter weather, especially with old vehicles like ours. The elk visited that night, found it, and had a predictable feast.]
And once in a great while, as on a cloudy winter afternoon a decade or so ago, the herd will come down in the light of day — and Wings will be able to capture their visit, as her did in the old film shot at the top of this post. Less frequently, we will be given the gift of an individual visit:
A yearling, up close and personal — within two feet of us. She paid us a visit at the beginning of December in 2014, her guardians apparently having decided that we were a safe place for her to rest while they went about their more adult business for the day.
Most often, though, Elk (and his cousin, Deer) visit in the form of what remains after they enter the other world: meat, hides, antlers. The same as true of Buffalo, that great-hearted intertribal symbol of our peoples.
We use their gifts for every conceivable purpose, and not only in historical terms, either: All three provide meat that feed the people; we eat all three regularly. Hides serve as shelter, as clothing, as moccasins, as the skins on our drums and the medicine bags around our necks. Sinew is repurposed for innumerable uses, from the making of drums to the making of weapons, as sutures and thread, to stitch and bind nearly anything. The hides serve as covers for tipis and lodges, toboggans and travois, to lie on and sleep under and wear on our bodies and feet. Antler, horn, hoof, and bone all play roles in art and as medicine.
Sometimes, the bones and the antlers are used as other forms of adornment: protection and decoration for homes, arbors, other structures. They serve as reminders of the animal itself, a spirit who once walked this same land, and as reminders of the need to be thankful to them and their clans for all that they have given and continue to give to the people.
Sometimes, they are present only in spirit: serving as models for art summoned from bodies other than their own. Elk, Deer, and Buffalo are all popular subjects in Native art, from fetishes to sculpture to painting to Wings’s own work in silver and stone.
On the sculptural front, one of the Native artists whose work we carry, Randy Roughface (Ponca), has in recent years expanded his classic “vintage-style” repertoire beyond the more usual eagles and horses and buffalo to include other members of the hoof clan. One of my favorites was the deer above at left, an eight-point buck sunning himself. He was summoned from a stone that we never wholly identified with any certainty, beyond the fact that it was a local slate with, apparently, some other elements blended into it: It was a warm golden bronze color, with a rough sandstone-like texture, yet solid and stills smooth. It glowed like brown ore touched with flecks of gold.
To the right is another of Randy’s works from recent years, a sandstone elk that, again, is more solid and substantial than the usual sandstone. Its warm tan hue, with undercurrents of an almost pinkish color, resembled the flanks of a young elk. This piece, too, had ore-like properties in both texture and appearance.
Then, of course, there are the buffalo.
They are legion in Native art, a wild herd so huge as to form their own army. We featured one here only last week: Ned Archuleta’s pink alabaster buffalo, with horns of silken blood-red pipestone. We have had many others over the years, of many different materials, including other alabasters and the beautiful Pilar slate native to this area. We’ve also carried various small fetishes of a variety of materials, including marble and jet. Only one buffalo fetish now remains, a tiny being wrought from the Pueblo’s own warm red micaceous clay; he hews to a more abstract form, much like Randy’s work.
And then there was the steatite buffalo by Paul Dancebow.
Paul called it “Laying Down Buffalo,” and it was a massive piece, emerging out of a huge chink of charcoal gray steatite imported from Canada. it’s a form of soapstone, an exceptionally beautiful one, with a texture that feels simultaneously warm and cool to the touch, and so slick on its polished surfaces as to hint, just barely, at a sensation of wetness even though it’s entirely dry. Paul gave emphasis to the creature’s great horns and strong bold musculature, which contrasted with its slightly whimsical expression, a look that was both contented and relaxed. It found its way home to a dear friend who feels a special affinity for Buffalo.
And then, of course, there is Wings’s own chosen medium: Silver.
Over the years, he has created numerous pieces that invoke the spirits of these great beings, these members of the Hoof Clan. One, from a decade or so ago, was a pin in the shape of a deer, or an elk, depending upo
n how one wishes to interpret its antlers. These days, I’m inclined to regard it as an elk, but perhaps that’s because we’ve been visited by Elk’s real-life relations on a nightly basis for a few weeks now.
Buffalo has found representation in Wings’s work consistently for many years now. One his more recent tributes to these great creatures was in the form of a series of pendants and pins. One hung from a multi-strand necklace fashioned of ropes of tiny multicolored beads; the others were free-standing, with either bail at the top or pin assembly on the back. The last one to sell was the one shown at right, more than a year ago.
Once
in a while, of course, he departs from indigenous wildlife themes entirely. There was a time, not so very many years ago, when he would always create a few holiday-themed pins for the Christmas season. The fact that he hasn’t done so in at least a half-dozen years or more is a function of his holiday workload in recent years; commissioned works must take priority, and creative whims come later, if time remains. Lately, no time has remained. However, in the past, he would always fashion one or two pins in the form of a member of a Hoof Clan from far away: Reindeer. It was never just any reindeer, of course; Christmas dictated that it take the form of pop culture’s Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And the smiling little creature would indeed sport a bright-red shiny nose, whether garnet or coral or some other red stone. While he may not have been a member of the Hoof Clans found in this place, he was, at a minimum, a kissing cousin of sorts.
More often, though, these powerful beings appear in art jewelry in a very specific form: as antler and bone. In pieces large and small, cut, cabbed, polished, inlaid, or otherwise worked and wrought, they are used to create larger works, often complex and complicated works in which they are but one element. But it is an important element, one that carries with it its own spirit, its own medicine.
Elk antler is a popular choice among Native artisans here in the Southwest, in part because of its r
eady availability (and therefore, it’s comparatively low cost and relative accessibility), and in part because it is hard enough and stable enough to cut and polish. It’s frequently used to make beads, especially fetish beads in the shape of small animals or birds. Some fetish carvers also choose it for their own work, entirely apart from beadmaking. It’s not uncommon to see Native fetishes made of elk antler in the form of animals, such as wolves, but it’s also a very popular choice among those carvers who specialize in more elaborate spirits, such as the Corn Maidens. Elk antler can be found in sufficiently large and stable lengths to permit the carving of such spirit beings without breakage, and antlers’ natural arc a good fit for the classic evocations of Corn Maidens and other spirits, beings often found carved from gourd or from wood in a classic curving, bending shape.Many artisans in this part of Indian Country, however, choose specifically to make fetish beads
Many artisans in this part of Indian Country, however, choose specifically to make fetish beads, rather than free-standing fetishes themselves. Some jewelers still cut their own, fashioning them from the antler and sometimes inlaying the resulting beads with eyes of jet or other gemstones. Other artisans buy them already cut, and simply string them according to their own preference, whether stacked directly on top of each other, alternating with lengths of heishi, or as one type of bead among many. At right, abo
ve, is an example of a horse fetish necklace made of elk antler that is all horse fetishes — no heishi, no separator beads, no other gems or materials to distract from the spirit of the horse that imbues the necklace. It’s the only such work made from this material that remains in our current inventory.
Then, of course, there is the sort of work depicted at left, one of Wings’s own coil bracelets (and one that remains available for sale). In this instance, the elk antler bead, in the form of a bird fetish, is only one element among many, but it is the focal element, placed directly at the center of the coil strand. It’s a good means of drawing the eye to one part of the artist’s vision, while simultaneously highlighting the more restrained elements that exist along the work’s continuum. The fact that it is ivory in color doesn’t hurt in that regard, either; there’s very little among Southwestern-style Native jewelry that manifests in this off-white shade, making it all the remarkable when it does appear.
It’s not onl
y jewelry — perhaps even not primarily. One of the most popular uses for antler in Native art is in weaponry. The animal’s sinew comes into play here, too, binding points and shafts to arrows, tips to spears, blades to handles. But the handles themselves, for traditional knives, are very frequently made out of antler.
Wings has long created traditional weapons in this manner, and has amassed a fairly good representation of them over the years,. Unfortunately, we h
ave photos of only a few of them: one made with elk antler, and three with deer antler. Each has a blade hand-knapped from stone — two of chert, one of amber (orange) obsidian, and one of pipestone.
Above at left is one of the chert knives, made a decade or so ago. The blade is fastened to the handle with sinew in the traditional manner. but the handle is what makes the knife: It’s an old piece of elk antler, sanded and polished lightly and then worn smooth by years of touching. Unlike the racks of antlers shown in the photo some distance above, this one has not been bleached white by the sun, and has been further darkened by handling; the oils in human skin (like other substances on the hands) will discolor antler a
nd bone just as they will (untreated) gemstones. It’s slightly porous, but not so much as bone; you can see (and to some extent, feel) the pits and striations that run down the length of antler, but it’s dense and solid and very sturdy, if used correctly.
Above on the right is a slightly more recent knife, created five or six years ago. It, too, features a chert blade, but of darker hues, browns and grays shading
the stone. Its handle, however, is very different: deer antler, neither stripped nor sanded, only lightly polished so that its corrugated surface is smooth and touchable along the ridges, without destroying the texture and depth. Similar handles are attached to the amber obsidian blade, above left, and pipestone blade, to the right. Although it’s visible only on the chert knife, above right, each handle is inlaid with an old cabochon of natural turquoise at the end, each bright blue with a bold spiderweb matrix.
Finally, there is one work in Wings’s current inventory, something more properly regarded as silverwork, in which antler plays a more defining, elemental role:
The name of the work is simply Kachina, and i this instance, the elk antler prongs have been inverted to form the spirit being’s body. Sterling silver stamped in traditional patterns ring the prongs’ conjoined base to form shining sturdy shoulders, and are capped with a neck and head of silver joined together much like a flask, domed circles soldered together to create a three-dimensional image. The silverwork itself is simultaneously delicate and stunning, evoking the traditional case masks of the katsinam and the dancers who personify them; the feathered and beaded headdress provide detail that summons the feel of something ancient and powerful. But it is the antler body that gives it life: a fully rounded, three-dimensional feel of depth, and a visible sense of motion. It is the antler that move the spirit to dance. [This work remains available for purchase in our Collectibles Gallery, here.]
Finally, we come to bone.
There are many uses of bone in indigenous art, from the scrimshaw of Natives in Alaska and Canada’s far northern coastal regions to bone beads and fetishes to the practice of painting on large segments of bone, particularly skulls, similar to the buffalo skull shown near the beginning of this post.
Perhaps the most recognizeable, however, is the form of bone bead known as the hair-pipe.
The long, slender beads in the choker shown directly above are an example of hair-pipe bone beads. The name derives from their shape, elongated hollow cylinders that taper slightly at either end, with the strand fed through their open center lengthwise. They do look rather like pipes. These are a fairly standard size, often used in chokers and wristband bracelets; you can also see such beadwork used as ornamental “fringe” on war shirts and traditional regalia from some of the northern and central tribal nations. The “hair” reference comes from the thinner versions of such beads, which can reach extraordinarily slender widths. Today, the bone comes from a variety of animal sources, but in the old days, buffalo were common, as were elk and deer in regions where those creatures were readily available.
Because of the prevalence of hair-pipe bone beads in Native [and also a lot of knock-off, entirely non
-Native] jewelry, it’s easy to forget that there are other types of bone used in gemwork. It tends to be substantially more costly, overall, but it’s also exceptionally beautiful.
I refer, of course, to dinosaur bone.
I’ve written about dinosaur bone as a “gemstone” here before. The word here requires quotation marks, because of course, bone is not stone, although there comes a po
int when the elemental processes that result in fossilization turn it into something very stone-like indeed. Some of it is rather opaque, only hinting at a gradient of color; such is the one at the upper right (which was paired with another fossil, coral, in the round cabochon above it). Some, on the other hand, has been subject to such weathering o
ver eons that it appears as though transformed, from a porous grayish substance into something solid, shiny and bright with mottled color.
Such is the case with the two pendants at left and right. Both are a brilliant rusty red, but the matrix patterning varies a bit: At left is a free-form cabochon with a spiderwebbed matrix in inky black, appearing in a regular pattern reminiscent of that found in some finely webbed turquoise. Its texture was a bit coarser than its counterpart, the feel of the inclusions readily perceptible to the touch. The “stone” at right, by contrast, was much smoother, polished to a high gloss, with a matrix that was wispier, less regular, frankly more mysterious-looking. Both cabochons, however, appeared in what is fossilized dinosaur bone’s most common color, bright reddish-brown. The one on the right gives hints of the rarer shades, however, with a slight opalescent appearance in its matrix that ranges from a pearly gray-white to a dark blue-black.
About those rarer shades . . . .
One of the most beautiful forms of fossilized dinosaur bone sits along a wholly different color spectrum. Instead of reds and browns with hints here and there of bits of amber hue, this variant manifests in shades along the blue spectrum. In actuality, they tend to run a gamut from pewter gray to a dark gray-blue with hints of indigo to a near-jet black. You can see examples of both shades in the coil bracelet above, dark blue-black beads and ruddy red-gold ones, paired with earthy bits of petrified wood and olivella- and melon-shell heishi. These are small free-form bits of bone, barely tumbled and given just enough polish to make them smooth to the touch. It is possible, however, to find sizeable cabochons of blue fossilized dinosaur bone; Wings has at least one small oval cab in his inventory of stones, as a matter of fact. Its mottled matrix tends toward grays across the spectrum, with the occasional hint of brick-red still visible.
Works using antler and bone represent foundational forms of Native art, media and genres and traditions that go back millennia. After all, both are gifts of the spirits that we might perhaps regard not as founding fathers and mothers, but rather as sisters and brothers: beings of equal status and stature, with equal claim to the land and resources we share. It’s fitting that, for our peoples, they should continue to find life, and honor, in our art.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2016; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owners.
