When the European invaders arrived here at Red Willow some half-millennium ago, they were, as always, in search of riches: conquest of land, of people, of resources, from timber and water to jewels and, of course, gold. After the first wave of colonizers trudged through canyon and gorge, their eyes eventually settling on Taos Pueblo’s multistory architecture at the base of the mountains, a rumor rippled through not only their numbers but those of all who followed in their footsteps: This land was dotted with Cities of Gold.
It was not, of course, not in the sense of homes built out of the precious metal. And yet, in its own wholly-indigenous way, this place was built of metaphorical gold, of something even more precious than the metal Europeans prized so mightily (and greedily).
Red Willow was — is — built of earth and water in an alchemy of clay and light.
Clay is, of course, the material for which the Pueblo is best known to the outside world, despite the fact that its very identity is built around the stands of red willow that line its watersheds and low-lying areas. Its architecture, particularly that of North house, has gained iconic status over the last hundred years, inspiring whole fields of contemporary dominant-culture architecture and construction and “styles” of living. “Adobe” is now in a class by itself, its form and shape and substance scattered, like the Pueblos themselves, all over What is now known as the Southwest, its name and basic features instantly recognizeable to virtually anyone across the region. And in the outer world of Native art markets, Taos Pueblo is best known for its pottery, made of the same micaceous clay that once faced the walls and homes of the village: rich red-gold earth ashimmer in the sunlight courtesy of the tiny flecks of mica that time and geology have infused throughout it.
There is a discussion to be had about this dissonance, too — the fact that how the people identify themselves is not how the outer world thinks of them, of people or place. It’s reflected in the formal name that has come to identify people and place, as well, one that is not how the people refer to themselves save now with what interaction with the outside world requires, and certainly not among themselves. It’s one of the hallmarks of colonialism, this arrogant assumption of entitlement to name that which is already named, including people. I cannot let it slide without noting this reality, but that is a discussion for another day.
For today, it is that famous clay and the not-quite-as-famous light, and the melding of the two, that is our topic.
Yesterday’s post showed what such alchemy produces in the hands of a master, a work so magical that it seems to defy the very laws of Nature. Made of local earth, it was coiled into an impossibly thin and fragile bowl, rising gracefully into a fluted rim with all the physical substance of a chiffon ruffle. Wings’s photography made this extraordinary, and extraordinarily large, pottery jar seem as though it hovered, suspended in mid-air above the windowsill, floating as though by the sorcery of air and light.
Because the style is indigenous to the potters of Taos and Picuris Pueblos, a particular pit where such micaceous clay is found has been set aside exclusively to their use. It is a deposit of traditional red earth, rife with natural mica, and when fired it produces the coppery glow seen in yesterday’s post. Depending on the temperature and duration of the firing, and the cover used and how closely it adheres to the vessel, as well as any number of random and wholly unidentifiable factors, such pottery is often veiled lightly here and there with what look like clouds of smoke: sooty black whorls that seem to float across the pot, but are in fact part of the clay itself, its color having changed in the firing process.
It is possible to produce vessels, too, that are all black, like the one in the image above. It, too, was by Angie Yazzie, the potter who produced the work shown in yesterday’s post (and the pot in the image immediately below, as well). She does not often do blackware, but once in a while she will elect to produce something as striking as the massive bowl shown above, held up to the Pueblo sky like an offering by its purchaser. Blackware always begins with the same red earth as other pottery (and this is true of the shiny blackware pottery of the late famed Maria Martinez of San Ildefonso Pueblo). The clay is mixed and the pots coiled in the usual way; the material the potter chooses to cover it during the firing process, how closely and completely the piece is covered, how hot the fire is, and the duration of the firing process all dictate the color that will emerge when the piece is removed. Generally speaking, the hotter and longer the firing process, the darker the piece will get; if the cover is meticulously uniform, instead of the black “clouds” over the coppery-red surface, what results will be micaceous blackware — that is, a solid black vessel that nonetheless shimmers with the metallic mica just as the more ordinary red-gold micaware pots do.
The firing process also dictates how concentrated the appearance of the mica will be, and how polished the surface will appear.
This piece, shown immediately above, is also by Angie, and it was one of a pair of complementary works, both in an ancient Four Sacred Directions pattern: this open bowl; and a bowl with a partially-closed top, the lip curved far inward over the center, with the “Kiva Steps” pattern wrought at each of the four directions on the edge of the lip. Wings photographed the open one shown here in the exact same spot as the larger fluted bowl featured yesterday. Because of its design and relative size, this one seems to sit more solidly on the sill . . . and yet, it, too, appears to hover a bit, ethereal, as though it is not quite of this world.
Part of that is due to the finish.
Firing is a much more complex process than it seems. A tight cover can produce a beautifully even finish, one in which the mica is tightly concentrated so that the entire piece seems to glow from within with the light of the sun itself. Temperature and duration can dictate whether the finish is coarse or smooth, dull or glossy. This pair of works had a medium polish to the surface: not silky smooth, but not as rough as the duller, more utilitarian pots used for day-to-day cooking and serving and storage.
Another of the Pueblo’s masters is Wings’s own aunt, now retired from her art: Juanita Suazo DuBray. Entirely self-taught, she early on found her specialty in her famous “corn pots,” a motif that she ultimately extended into all sorts of clay works.
Juanita’s pottery very often (although not always) featured a fairly shiny finish, one in which the mica was heavily concentrated and seemed to light the work from within. This particular corn pot, one that sold many years ago, was one of the most iconic examples of her work, featuring as it did her chosen motif in a repeating pattern, along with a warm fiery finish that glowed in the light.
Neither Angie nor Juanita, however, have made it a practice to produce high-polish micaware. Their specialties ran more toward preserving the natural textures of the clay even as they worked meticulously to coax its shimmer to the surface in fantastic form. One of Wings’s cousins, however, chose a different approach.
Henrietta Gomez has a wide repertoire of styles and works, but what she is perhaps best known for is the glossy silken finish she gives her mica clay pottery.
Some eight or nine years ago, we purchased a few works from her for resale in the gallery. Among them were a pair of wedding vases in similar size but differing shapes, and both bore a finish that gleamed like polished copper in the sunlight.
The one above, I think, was always my favorite of the two, probably mostly because its shape was different from the more usual style shown below.
This one was the classic Pueblo wedding vase, less like a bowl on the bottom than like an olla, or water jar, and with twinned spouts that flared more typically outward. Each was uniquely beautiful, and each felt nearly as silky as it looked, a product of Henrietta’s attention to the details of the firing process.
Not all mica claywork manifests as pottery, however. Some artists have taken it to figurative heights; others have used it to create facsimiles of the village itself.
The traditional wedding vases shown above are a classic component of a traditional Pueblo wedding (and those of certain other Native peoples, as well). Wings’s Aunt Juanita has been known for her wedding vases, but also for her figurative works, including the one-of-a-kind piece shown immediately above of a wedding pair. In this instance, she incorporated her signature corn motif into the wedding blanket worn by bride and groom, and added another of her hallmarks, the inclusion of genuine turquoise — here, in the form of the bride’s necklace and earrings.
She often did likewise with her storytellers, traditional Pueblo figurative works featuring a grand mother (or grandfather) holding a number of grandchildren and passing down the old lessons and ways by way of children’s stories.
Juanita often painted her storytellers, so that grandmother and children alike were shown wearing traditional dress in equally traditional colors. This one, however, was always my favorite, precisely because it showcased the natural beauty of the mica clay and depended solely on her talent and the vagaries of the firing process for additional ornamentation.
Another of Wings’s aunts, Jeri Track (now 100), is known for her miniature Pueblo houses:
This photo is from a full decade ago, and the lighting makes it impossible to show the finish on her tiny homes with any accuracy. What is clear, though, is her faithful attention to the tiniest of details, and her own accuracy with regard to form and shape. Aunt Jeri did not fire her works; rather, she dried them in the sun. This meant that the finish was a deeper red with a coarser texture, the mica less visible except from certain vantage points.
Wings’s cousin Martin Romero, on the other hand, is also known for miniature village homes. His are a bit more conceptual, perhaps less strictly faithful to form and shape, but his are fired, meaning that the walls of his village simulacra glow like the legendary-but-fictitious Cities of Gold.
His also feature the cloud-like whorls that are a result of the firing process, which differs substantially from Aunt Jeri’s: Hers are the natural color of the actual village walls and homes.
Speaking of the ancient walls and the old homes, there is nothing quite like the alchemy of clay and light they offer in the winter, in front of a roaring fire. The old fireplaces, now called “kiva-style” in architectural jargon, are truly a feat of material and design.
Their shape, combined with the traditional adobe clay of which they are made, and of which the surrounding walls of the home itself is made, can heat a home well even on a sub-zero winter’s day. There is, of course, no electricity within the old village walls, and so, like other gallery owners and those who still live the old way, we supplemented the fire with a portable propane heater on the coldest of days. But even in the depths of winter, even without a fire overnight to warm the interior, we could come indoors and find the ambient temperature a good twenty degrees warmer than outside. The reverse holds true, as well, as we can attest from the cool ness of our own adobe home in this drought-ridden, unrelenting summer heat,
The fire has another, more aesthetic property, too: It warms the appearance of the fireplace, the flue, the walls in such a way that what would otherwise be cold clay plaster looks — and feels — warm and inviting. It is like the sun in the that regard, turning golden-red earth mixed with straw and water into the stuff of pure legend.
Of all the exterior shots Wings has ever taken of the Pueblo, this remains my favorite. It is, to my mind, perfect in its way: composition, color, light, subject. It evokes the spirit of tradition and origin, of the stories of emergence, even as it depicts a very contemporary, utterly lived-in home that was built a millennium ago.
And the afternoon light against the walls, the contrast with the shadow, show well how easy it must have been for invaders to convince themselves that they had, indeed, found the lost City of Gold.
Speaking of gold, other angles make the adobe look even more aptly-hued . . . and what they hold is more valuable yet.
For we have come full circle.
The blackware pot in the image that leads this entry? This is it from a more ordinary vantage point. It sits on the same wooden sill as the one featured in yesterday’s post — an ancient sill of yellow pine, surrounded on all sides by golden adobe clay. The pot itself, were it designed for function rather than decoration, would have bee . pressed into use in cooking, most likely, for holding and heating water.
The same water that is required to turn the micaceous earth into clay.
The same water that, here (and now more than ever), is more valuable than gold.
It may be an alchemy of clay and light that creates such magic, but the catalyst is the water, the breath of life itself.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2018; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
