We began March with a look at the role of water in the Native art of this area, a choice that spawned an elemental theme for the series for this month. In our way, generally speaking, there are four: Earth, Air, Fire, Water. We explored the last first, then moved to air in the form of light, then earth, and finally, last week, fire. But March is arranged this year in such a way that we have a fifth Tuesday, and so seemed worthwhile to revisit our elemental theme in two related ways.
First, as I noted, we devoted our second post this month to light, which, at the time, I described as one way to look at the element of air. After all, air per se is not, in literal terms, actually visible to our eyes; the closest we can come to “seeing” it results from the effects of the light upon whatever substances may be present in it: sunlight filtering through clouds; a rainbow forming from suspended droplets of water; the change in color that attends the presence of haze, whether from dust or smoke. What we are really seeing is not the air itself, but the foreign and distinct substances in it that make their presence known by way of the light.
But there is another way to perceive the air, one at least as obvious: by feel, rather than by sight. And while it is true that we regularly speak in terms of “feeling” the air in terms of humidity or lack thereof, in terms of water’s relative presence or absence, the mechanism by which we are most likely to notice the air is wind.
Wind is, of course, another of those elemental spirits that remains stubbornly invisible to human eyes. We do not see it, but only its effects: blowing dust, driving rain, trees and flowers and blades of grass bent beneath its force and weight. And perhaps the most obvious way in which we perceive wind’s presence is by its influence on the trees, bowing slender trunks, curving branches, sending their foliage horizontal. In other words, one of the substances that makes wind most perceptible to us is wood (in its natural form), and in some traditions elsewhere in the world, wood also possesses its own identity and full status as an element.
To that end, I thought that on this last Tuesday in March, it would be worthwhile to explore the role of these two things, each distinct but also inextricably intertwined by Nature’s own forces, and the role they play in the indigenous arts of this region.
One might even say, and entirely accurately, that we will be looking at woodwinds.
We will, however, visit their songs later. We begin with the broader notion of wood as art, medium and model alike, and move from there into its relationship with the winds that drive the days in our small spring world here.
As medium, wood finds expression in multiple forms of Native art. Sometimes it’s the essential work; other times, it’s only one element, but one indispensable to a given piece’s identity.
Perhaps the most obvious way in which wood is used in Pueblo art is in the katsinam: Colloquially known as kachinas, or spirits, they are small figures that many in the outside world still call “kachina dolls.” There have always been actual dolls that were made for Native children in the form and shape of various spirit beings, but katsinam are not such things. They are figurative works that are designed to represent actual spirits, to honor and thank them, to hold and invoke their power, to provide tangible conduits to the spirit world.
We have explored the katsinam as art here before on several occasions. As I’ve noted previously, it is a distinctly Pueblo art form, and the Hopi are mostly universally acknowledged as the masters of it. Hopi katsinam were the first the outside world encountered, at least on any sort of scale, and for more than a century, they have occupied a place at the pinnacle of collectible art from the Native Southwest. there are carvers from other Pueblos, of course, as there no doubt have always been. Today, there are also Navajo “kachina” carvers, although their spirit beings take a form that is decidedly different from the ancient Pueblo spirits, with distinctly articulated limbs and the addition of other materials. Traditional Pueblo carving, on the other hand, especially that practiced among the Hopi, is subtle and spare, with the spirits summoned from a single piece of cottonwood root, their form arising organically from the wood itself, following its natural lines. Identity and expression come from the subtle nuances of the carving itself, and from the application of paint to add detail to face and dress. In the old way, natural paints, such as those made of plant and earth, were used, and the artwork managed to be both understated and elaborate simultaneously.
We carry the katsina carvings of a young contemporary master, Josh Aragon. He comes by his skill ancestrally: One parent hails from Hopi Pueblo, the other from Laguna Pueblo, and he learned to carve in the traditional way from his relatives at Hopi. He lives here now, married t a woman of Taos Pueblo.
In Josh’s hands, the cottonwood so ubiquitous to this region becomes something truly other-worldly. He carves in the old way, following the woods natural curves and angles, and allowing it to speak for itself. Where possible, he also used plant-based paints, which gives his carvings a natural, and naturally “aged,” appearance. The one shown at the beginning of this discussion is a classic katsina, the Longhair, one of the spirits responsible for bringing the rains, and Josh has skillfully coaxed its luxuriant hair and beard from the wood to symbolize the rainfall. The one immediately above is known as Morning Singer, one of a pair of beings whose task it is to rise to the roofs of the Pueblo each dawn and sing the day into being.
Pueblo artists, however, have never confined themselves to katsinam; they are known for all sorts of carving, and for the skillful use of all sorts of materials, from stone to shell to other types of wood.
An example is the sculpture shown immediately above, by Paul Dancebow. It’s carved in the classic Pueblo style, of a single piece of wood, and following the wood’s natural lines. In this instance, the wood is cedar, solid and smooth, a length of an old branch that curves into a gentle natural arc. The grain f the wood is visible in its golden surface, polished by the artist into a silken finish worn smoother yet by years of being touched by human hands. Natural seams appear in the wood, following the grain, and Paul has incorporated them into the design, allowing them to remain as lines or folds in the blanket that wraps the elder, rather than trying to excise them or sand them away.
It is an extraordinarily simple piece, one with understated detail that allows the wood, and the spirit within it, to express themselves as one. And yet, where detail is required, it is exceptionally fine, with features fully articulated, mouth upturned in song. The head is a masterpiece of such detail work, individual strands of hair coaxed from the wood to drape in natural curves, the bun a natural evocation of the way a traditional Pueblo man keeps his hair. The entire work is one that is wholly Pueblo in design, form, shape, and substance.
There are other ways, too, that wood transforms itself into the art of this place. I mentioned earlier that wood is sometimes essential to an art form’s identity, even if it is not the sole element (nor even what is first noticed about a given work). Such is the case with Pueblo drums.
We’ve looked at traditional Pueblo drums here before. On a day-to-day basis, it’s perhaps most common to see hand drums in use here: They allow for each man to participate individually (and they are always men; women here do not play the drum). Hand drums may be round (or at least round-ish), or more geometric; we have sold them in round, octagonal, and heart shapes.
They are made by fitting a shallow wooden frame together, then stretching the hide over one side of it. The hide is held in place with laced sinew, which extends into several long cords that are bound together and knotted in the center on the underside to provide the drum’s handle. The drummer holds the hand drum by this knotted handle, usually directly in front of him, and strikes the top side with a beater (what would be known to the outside world as a “drumstick”), creating a gently resonant rhythm. Some people add artwork to the top of their hand drums, in the form of painted traditional designs; others leave the hide entirely bare, in its coarser natural state.
Pueblo peoples also use upright drums for traditional purposes. Outsiders who have attended powwows are familiar with the large drums used at such events: dual-sided drums that are nonetheless played only on the top side, set upright on a stand on ground or floor, surrounded by multiple individual who strike the drum in unison in set rhythms.
But Pueblo peoples also engage in another form of group drumming using upright drums.
The drum at the very top of this section is one sizeable example; the smaller one shown immediately above is another. These are drums intended to be used by a single individual, generally as part of a group: The men line up with their drums before them, a stake driven through the lower handle into the earth to permit them to hold their drums off the ground at a height comfortable for use. They hold the other handle in one hand, and strike the upper surface with the beater held in the other. Keeping the drum elevated not only protects the lower surface of the drum; it adds to the resonance, providing a full, deep sound.
Key to traditional Taos Pueblo upright drums is the way in which they are made. Ours are all created by the same master drummaker, Lee Lujan, who crafts his in the old way. Each is made from a section of a hollowed-out trunk of a tree; there are no fitted pieces. This uniformity of design affects the drums’ sound, creating a fuller, round heartbeat-like quality. He leaves the outer surface largely unfinished, the texture smoothed only slightly, the grain fully visible and knots and other variations in the wood allowed to remain, adding to the unique character and identity of each drum. In some instances, he leaves the remnants of branches off the trunk to serve as natural handles.
Once he has readied the frame, he stretches thoroughly tanned hide over either end, then laces it into place with sinew. This is a complex and difficult job, one that is extraordinarily hard on hands and fingers. It becomes doubly hard when it’s time to create the handles: The lengths of sinew at either end are pulled taut, coiled tightly around and around, and knotted off into sturdy handles, with a single loop added at one side to hold the drum beater. Once dried, the sinew is strong enough to permit the user to carry the drum by the handle, and to hold its weight while staked in place during use. You can read more about Pueblo drums here.
Of course, there are other Native art forms utilizing wood that serve other practical functions, as well. [I chose my words deliberately here; for our peoples, such uses as katsinam and drums are as practical as they are artistic and cultural.] But today, traditional tools and weapons have proven to be eminently collectible art forms, as well, and traditionally, our peoples have always incorporated art into the making of such items anyway — for personal identification and expression, and as way to give thanks to and invoke the powers of the spirits.
The first such example in our current inventory is the stone hammer shown above. We have, in the past, had tomahawks and axes with wooden handles, but they tend to sell out rapidly. In this instance, it’s a very simple construction, one that serves simultaneously as tool and weapon. The head is a simple oval stone, no cutting or polishing detail on its surface. It is bound in place by means of the same sort of sinew used on traditional drums. But the handle is made of wood.
Specifically, the handle is made of a single sturdy branch, two-thirds of its length stripped of bark, giving it a bare and slightly smoothed effect. The remaining third serves as the actual handle, the bark left on it to enhance the user’s grip and prevent splinters from entering the skin. At its opposite end, the tip is split carefully in the middle, then stretched gently apart to a width sufficient to accommodate the stone “head.” The stone is inserted in the resulting “Y,” then bound at the top with sinew to hold it together. The sinew then extends over stone and handle together in a criss-crossing wrap, then spirals down the handle a few inches to anchor the whole firmly in place.
Another very basic traditional weapon is one that likewise has served as a popular toy for children (and adults, especially male ones) the world over: the slingshot.
Ours are made by Wings’s brother-in-law and nephew, a father-son team who share in their creation. They are carved of small Y-shaped branches of local wood, stripped of bark and bladed smooth. Elastic rubber slings are bound to either prong of the Y, with a soft sling made of hide tied at the center. Each is hand-painted in traditional coors and patterns.
Speaking of Wings’s brother-in-law, we have a true collector’s item made by him in inventory: a traditional bow and arrow set in a hand-made quiver.
The quiver, of course, is made of hide — in this instance, white hide with a handmade self fringe accented with old copper beads. But the fully-functional bow, and the shafts of the arrows that accompany it, are made of local wood, carved and whittled into shape. The bow is stripped of bark, saved at the center where it remains in place to provide a proper grip; the ends are curved into place by hand, pressure applied slowly over a period of time to temper and shape the wood without breaking it. The arrow shafts are likewise stripped of bark, whittled straight and true, then tipped with sharp points (in this case, metal) and ruddered by fletched feathers at the opposite end of the shaft. This is the sort of work that, in the right hands, is meant to be used, but is equally at home hanging on the wall of a collector’s study.
In our inventory, we also have another form of “tool” from another form of local wood — this time, an eminently modern tool from an ancient indigenous material.
These are keychains made by Wings’s sister, Anespah Marcus. They are a modern aspect in everyday village life, with the use of front-door entries relatively recent development, and the use of door locks even moreso. The need for a fob for car keys is still more recent yet. But our peoples are nothing if not adaptable, and the same is true of our art.
Nes has been making these keychains (and other forms of leather- and beadwork) for many years now. She uses modern metal keyrings at the end, wraps them in leather, and accents them with beads and tiny turquoise nuggets, but the keychains themselves are made of an unusual kind of wood: cholla cactus. Cholla is indigenous to his part of the country, growing in low spreading bush-like patterns comprising long, snaking branches studded with spines. Those branches are what you see here, spines removed and wood dried. They a=manifest naturally in the beautifully regular pattern you see here, hollow with open slashes throughout the twisting, textured lengths of wood. They are exceptionally lightweight, but sturdy, and make for a wonderfully indigenous (in both senses of the word) accent to modern life.
Of course, wood appears in the daily life of the people here in a variety of other ways: in the vigas of the old homes, and the pine ladders that the people still use to climb from earth to roof, and from one level to the next in the multi-story homes. The photo above shows the vigas, great round wooden beams vut locally and used in the roofs of traditional Pueblo homes.
In his signature series of Pueblo pins, Wings has immortalized in sterling silver both vigas and the pine ladders. For his one-man show two years ago, he also created a one-of-a-kind necklace in the form of a Pueblo ladder, rungs lashed to the sides with delicate silver wire in the same manner as is done with their wooden real-life counterparts. A pair of the Pueblo pins remain available in inventory, but the necklace now resides with a friend on the West Coast.
Of course, the ladders form their own source of inspiration in other ways, principally by way of his photography:
Through the lens of Wings’s camera, the ladders become a metaphor for his people’s origin story, one of emergence into the light.
And speaking of light, wood is used in Pueblo architecture in other ways, ones that, however accidentally, work with the light to create its own art. I speak, of course, of the arbors and latillas, which catch both sun and shadow and turn them into works of ethereal beauty that hint at the existence of spirit beings and of the secret places and sacred spaces they occupy between the worlds.
The arbor is an eminently practical structure, one that provides shade and shelter from the heat of the summer sun, and serves as a drying rack for hides in all seasons. But wholly apart from its functional purposes, the traditional arbor partners with the sun to draw upon the earth, sand paintings made of shadow, and summons dancing masks and fletched feathers to the wood itself.
So, too, do the latillas, posts somewhat like vigas, but taller and more slender, that are used to create the ancient style of fencing found in this place. The best such fences are of the traditional sort, in which the rough posts are used; those with fully stripped, sanded, and finished posts all cut to even height are artificial, and they look it. Much of the beauty of latilla (pronounced lah-TEE-ya) fencing derives directly from its rustic, natural style: posts erected with bark still on them, allowed to weather naturally over time; placed randomly, heights uneven; and with natural gaps between them allowing light to filter through. As with the arbors, latillas draw their own apart upon the earth with the aid of sun and shadow, and it is never more starkly beautiful than in winter, when the interstices become visible upon the snow.
Of course, we haven’t yet talked of trees, the source of the wood from which such works are made. In this place, the trees are their own art, whether in the form of spring catkins, summer greenery, autumn fire, or the bare skeletal bones of winter.
Such trees need not even be alive, at least not in the usual sense, to serve as muse and model for Wings’s art. The great trunk above, like the tall solid gray body of an elephant, is of one of the many long-dead trees that line the Quartzite south of here. It’s a tributary of the Rio Grande, with small rapids that attract rafters and bald eagles alike, and the landscape is never the same twice. Along its miles of riverbank, dead trees are scattered among the living like ghostly ancient sentinels, most of them old cottonwoods. They decay at their own pace, and while the trees may technically be “dead,” they are nevertheless havens for life, teeming with small insects and rodents, serving as nesting places for small birds and as perches for giant predatory raptors. As they slowly break down, they serve as transformational muses, models of change and even transcendence.
Then, of course, there are the living trees:
Among them are the aspens that dot our own land and blanket the mountainsides. In this season, their branches are covered with catkins, some of them already budding out, shedding pollen everywhere. Soon, they will be green havens for small birds and butterflies; when autumn comes, they will turn the fiery gold of Father Sun, drawing his light to the mountainside to show off blazing yellow robes.
Then there are the aspens in winter, as in Wings’s photo above. They are slender, graceful creatures, like alabaster statues dotted with natural eyes up and down their slim straight bodies; their branches reach heavenward, as though trying to catch a bit of the sun’s reflected light, and with it, a bit of its warmth, blushing rose beneath its gaze.
And then, of course, there are the willows.
No tree makes the wind’s presence more beautifully evident than the weeping willow. This is the image that was the subject of yesterday’s photo meditation; it is a close-up of the same tree that leads this post. Their long supple boughs are especially well-suited to demonstrating the wind’s arrival (and to surviving its force, as well). On blustery days such as this one, when sky and air alike are gray less form clouds than from blowing dust and dirt, the willows serve as a reminder of the beauty the wind creates even amid the discomfort and inconvenience it brings.
But any exploration of the use of wood in Native art, and especially in terms of its link to that other element, air (or wind, as the label may be), must circle naturally around to perhaps its most essential form: the original, indigenous woodwind, the Native flute. One way in which it appears as an artistic motif is through the graphic arts, as in the acrylic painting below by Frank Rain Leaf. Indeed, this image incorporates three of the images under exploration today: the trees; the wooden arbor; and, as this section will discuss, the Native flute.
A woodwind instrument is one that, in its early incarnations, was quite literally made of wood and utilized “wind” (i.e., air, in the form of human breath) to create sound. Now, most woodwind instruments are not made of wood at all, but metal, such as common flutes and clarinets. But the flute was in a category all its own: It is a discrete type of woodwind, one that does not rely on the presence of a reed in the body of the instrument to produce the sound.
For most people today, the word “flute” probably brings to mind a thin metal pipe-like instrument with an opening off-set at near the top, one that is held to the side to play. But there are much older flute forms still in use today, despite Wikipedia’s predictable habit of giving short shrift to one specific type . . . the Native flute. I’m not going to bother with it, except to note that in its entry for the word “Flute,” it makes one glancing allusion to the “Anasazi flute,” as well as to flutes of other indigenous cultures, including those of the South American Andes region. But nowhere does it note the specific style that falls under the rubric of “Native flute,” the style that has been used by our peoples since before the dawn of time, and remains in use today.
I’ve written here before about Native flutes, and about some of their history and their presence in the iconography of the indigenous nations of this area. Flute players were among human (and spirit) images common to the ancients here. With regard to the petroglyph in Wings’s photo immediately above, I’ve always wondered whether the being depicted is merely a mosquito with a long proboscis, or an unusually-shaped version of a flute-playing spirit like Ko’ko’pe’li . . . or perhaps this artist saw both, the mosquito as a spirit being with a built-in flute playing a tune only his own could hear?
Speaking of Ko’ko’pe’li, he was once a muse of sorts for Wings’s silverwork. Those days are now mostly gone, since the outside world has so thoroughly appropriated and commodified the image of this powerful spirit. However, I still have one image of this being, thought to symbolizes fertility in all its forms, wrought in sterling silver: the image above, from about ten years ago. You can read much more here about Ko’ko’pe’li, about what he represents, and about some possible connections to other indigenous cultures of faraway lands that are still a part of our own.
When it comes to actual Native flutes, however, one would think I might have an enormous collection of images from which to draw. After all, Wings plays the instrument expertly, and over the decades his personal collection has grown significantly. It includes one that I bought for him as a gift many years ago, a Sandhill Crane courting flute. I wrote here about his private collection, and about the Native flute generally, more than a year ago. As I said then:
Today, Wings made the decision to part with one of the flutes from his private collection. And believe me, he has a collection. Most are red cedar, which has become the standard material for the archetypal Native flute. Some are other materials, though, including one from long ago that purports to be of African rosewood, although he didn’t know that when he bought it. [True rosewood is endangered, and it’s now illegal to buy or sell in this country.]
Most of the flutes in his collection are standard single-chamber flutes, but some are drones. A drone has a couple of different definitions, related but not identical. The most basic definition of a drone is a flute that plays a fixed note. In other words, when playing it, you will evoke only a single steady sound in the same pitch. It sounds boring when described, but a well-made drone produces a single-note sound that makes your hair stand on end, sends shivers down your spine, makes your very soul vibrate and your heart crack open and weep. Of course, except for certain special-effects uses, a drone of this sort is generally not intended to produce music by itself. Which leads us to the second, more practical form and definition of a drone: a dual-chambered flute, one chamber of which produces only the usual single sound, while the other contains multiple holes to permit it to produce multiple notes in harmony. The ends are fused together at the end, so that the flute player blows into both chambers simultaneously, producing both a low single note and the harmonious multi-note counterpoint.
. . .
Some of his flutes hold no sentimental value; the plan was always, eventually, to offer them for sale. But that was not originally the case with today’s flute, which he’s had for probably close to a quarter-century. It’s unusual for a variety of reasons.
At first glance, it looks very much like a standard Native flute, but there are some differences. It’s a full-sized one, long, and its shape differs from the average contemporary Native flute in a couple of other significant ways. Today, it’s common for such flutes to be round on the sides, but slightly flattened on the top and bottom; from the end, it gives the body a bit of an oval shape. This one is round, with a mouth end that is not merely pointed, but beveled. Moreover, you can see the meticulous work that went into its shaping: Shortly beyond the mouth end, the wood slopes gracefully upward, plateaus evenly beneath the bird effigy, and then slopes back down before the first air hole appears. It’s intended to provide a full, rich sound, and it’s the kind of deliberately-tailored workmanship not often seen today.
Speaking of effigies, this one is unusual, too. Effigies have both practical and decorative purposes: In some flutes, they are used as a “block” to cover what is called the “flue” of the flute. No, that’s not a typo; f-l-u-e, like the flue of a fireplace, because in musical terms, it performs a similar function with regard to airflow, connecting the flute’s two “chambers” (the compression chamber, at the mouth end, and the sound chamber, which emits the music). [And, yes, I know I called a regular flute a single-chamber flute, because that’s the standard terminology. As a practical matter, however, most flutes have two internal chambers, one to capture the air, which is processed through the flue and sent to the second chamber, which turns it into sound. In the “flute v. drone” dichotomy, “single-body” might actually be a better descriptive label.]
At any rate, effigies take a variety of forms, but in the average contemporary flute, birds are probably most common. In the basic, modestly-priced red-cedar standard found today, the birds (or other animals or shapes) tend to be carved in what is known in sculpture as “vintage style” — i.e., rudimentary shapes that very clearly delineate the animal, but are intended to evoke its spirit, not display great detail. They’re also usually quite small, an inch or two on average. This one, as you can see, is substantially larger, and has a more detailed outline, the eagle’s crest and powerful beak clearly and separately defined.
The other quality that makes this flute unusual is the material from which it’s made. As I noted above, the vast majority of Native flutes are made of red cedar. Part of it is ready availability of the wood; part of it is the beauty of its grain and color; part of it is ease of carving; part of it is now that the market has decided that that’s what a Native flute must be.
Not this one.
This one is ash.
Ash trees are indigenous to New Mexico (as well as much of the rest of the country). They’re hardwood trees, perfect for uses that require stability and durability. They’re also light in color, but with a very delicate, fine, beautiful grain. That fineness of grain is much in evidence in this flute: graceful burling, fragile speckling, and a smooth, cool, silken hardness to it. It makes for quite a departure from what most people regard as a typical Native flute, and yet it’s wholly indigenous in style and effect.
Additional photos are available at the link.
As I noted in that post, it turned out to be a difficult one to write, because I discovered on the day I wrote it that the flute-maker, Hopi artisan Bobby Seumptewa, had walked on some four years prior to that. He was far too young, and his loss is likewise a great loss to the world of indigenous arts, music, and culture. It remains the only flute in Wings’s current collection that is available for purchase, at a price of $575 plus shipping, handling, and insurance; simply inquire via the Contact form at left.
Now, talk of woodwinds leads us another few paces around the circle, back to the wind itself. As I noted yesterday:
In our way, the winds are conceived in a variety of ways: as forces of the sacred directions, as guardians and gatekeepers, as blessings, as trickster spirits. In this season in this place, it is easy to imagine the wind as Trickster; It expends inordinate time and energy in destructive pursuits, seemingly for their own sake. It rips the nascent buds from the trees, breaking branches and hurling them to earth; it kicks up the sandy soil, grabbing it in a feverish embrace and whirling, dervish-like, to fling it outward at all within reach, blinding eyes and cutting skin. It fills the air with dust thick as the smoke of summer wildfires, so much so that by day, it veils the peaks as efficiently as any snowstorm, while by dusk it turns the sun into a flaming orb with outlines fully visible. It possesses a powerfully sharp wit and a vicious sense of humor, one given to practical jokes whose “humor” seems apparent only to the spirits themselves.
What this means is that, while styles of Native architecture and other aspects of daily life may perforce take into account the wind’s force and power in very practical ways, our arts often take a more symbolic view. The winds, like the directions, may be incorporated into art metaphorically, and sometimes with a decidedly literal bent, as well. Such is the case with one of the sculptural works by Taos Oueblo master carver Ned Archuleta:
He titled this work Spirit Wind, and the relevance is clear in the piece’s form and shape: an elder, perhaps one now himself having crossed that threshold to become a spirit being, rendered in pink alabaster, his long flowing locks blown behind him to his left, as though caught by a powerful wind.
It’s imagery that finds its way regularly into Wings’s silverwork, particularly through the lens of the vortex.
Indeed, From the Vortex was the name of this work, a piece commissioned for a dear friend some years ago. it features earthy old Carico Lake turquoise cabochons, dark forest green upon a paler seafoam shade, shot through with bits of bronze matrix, which made the stones look like bodies of deep green water from which small islands of land arise. On the reverse, Wings overlaid a pair of Water Birds, who possess a special relationship to the vortex in the old ways of what is now known as the Native American Church. Wings’s father and uncle were both Road Men in the Church, powerful elders with a deep knowledge of its ways that transcended more contemporary rites.
Speaking of Water Birds, also known colloquially as Peyote Birds (because of their connection to ceremony in the Peyote Way, or Tipi Way), they are a frequent muse and motif in Wings’s work:
The pair shown above are an older iteration, from about a decade ago. The Water Bird takes many forms, although the differences lie principally in the detail. Their essential shape and spirit remains roughly the same: a head pointed skyward, two wings slightly outstretched and draping downward in flight, body and tailfeathers extended elegantly below. Wings creates them for silverwork of all sorts, some finely detailed and studded with gemstones, as above, others abstract and highly stylized.
Sometimes, the “wind” symbolism is more overt. After all, “whirlwind” is another word for “vortex,” and whirlwinds are common to the the rugged scapes of this land.
Wings uses the whirlwind motif semi-regularly in his silverwork, and it has shown up in his recent inventory on several occasions:
This ring, entitled Whirlwind Moon, was a stamped ingot work, one that incorporated the motifs of moon, wind, and tides, all in one simple spinning image. It now belongs to a dear friend for whom such symbolism bears particular meaning.
It appears, entirely naturally, in his recent collection of coil bracelets, too:
This one, given the name Winter Whirlwind, was made from a spiraling series of winter earth tones, black and gray and opalescent white shell, all bound together in one whirling mass of jewels.
Then there is one of my favorite cuffs:
Entitled Blue Whirlwind, this one expressly called on the spirits of the winds to converge at a stunning Skystone center. The do so by way of Wings’s stampwork, in a way that evokes the imagery of the lands and waters of Turtle Island.
Last, but by no means, least, there is one of Wings’s current showpieces, a recent masterwork that embodies the winds and the spirits who guard and keep them, all in one powerful necklace:
Its name is Dance of the Whirlwind Spirits, and it’s a piece with all the power and force of a tornado, but wrought through the healing motifs of Medicine symbols and spirits. It’s a truly mystical work.
On days like today, when the wind howls past the windows and the cracks in the doors, when it shakes and rattles structures and bodies alike to their foundations and beyond, when it renders the skies so dense and gray one would swear they are filled with fog, snow, and smoke . . . on days like today, ti’s easy to forget that sometimes, the winds are simply fun.
Fortunately, we have the dogs to remind us.
~ 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.
