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CLEARLY TRADITIONAL @ THE GLASS GALLERY

The Art of Native Peoples: Loss and Consolation

It is not without some degree of trepidation that I follow and write about the events in and around the opening of the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI).

For some, the opening celebrations in Washington apparently suggest an assertion of discrete and wholly native, ethnic consciousness within the public arena, while for others they suggest an effort to commemorate and acknowledge the inclusion of America’s native peoples in the nation’s capital and culture.

I’m more comfortable with the latter of those two propositions. The opening of the NMAI and the celebrations concurrent with it most certainly are an appropriate and long overdue acknowledgement of America’s native and indigenous peoples. It reminds us that America was once vastly different than it is now, that long before European adventurers “discovered” the new world, that new world was already inhabited by tribes of vital people, each with its own unique history and culture, who were shunted aside by the invasion of new people who came from overseas to hunt, trap, fell trees, plant crops, open roads, mine, build towns and cities, and, eventually, run lines of rail from the host Atlantic to the shores of the Pacific. It reminds us that the “Anglo” was not first and that in the embodiment of the wonderful art assembled in the new museum, there is an implicit admonishment and reproof for undue pride and American arrogance.

But let us not forget that when we look with eager eyes upon that which remains of or lives on from the past, we are seeing only fragments—suggestive, yes, and sometimes even extraordinarily beautiful fragments—but fragments, nonetheless. Yes, it is true that the impetus behind the creation and opening of this new museum took great pains to research and remember authentic native roots. But let us not forget that after the passage of so much time, that after the fall of the native people and the rise of a global America, what we see gathered before us now is not so much an assertion of native life and culture as it is an attempt to archive and preserve that which remains of it.

That’s why I find Sally Hansen’s extensive collection of contemporary American Indian art on display at The Glass Gallery so absolutely fascinating. It demonstrates what can be done with fading traditions, what can be restored and made wholly new out what is left of the past. It reminds us of the value of art, and how artists can do what curators cannot—take up that which remains and breathe new life into it to create new forms, new ideas, new vocabularies, new perspectives, new ways of understanding where we have come from and where we are going.

The Glass Gallery’s show, “Clearly Tradition: Glass in American Indian Art,” intended to celebrate the opening of the National Museum of the American Indian, extends Hansen’s previous decades-long efforts to show and appreciate glass as art (she showed glass as sculpture even when it was considered craft). It coincides with the reevaluation of folk art in general and with the democratization of the term art in particular.

Looking at the studio glass works of Tony Jojola, Marvin Oliver, Susan Point, Robert Tannahill, Christopher Tarpley, and Preston Singletary, and the bead works of Marcus Amerman, Tammy Beauvais, Martha Berry, Betty David, Donna Shakespeare- Cummings, Terri Greeves, Vanessa Jennings, George Lonfish, Sam Thomas, and Margaret Roach Wheeler, one sees an enthusiastic celebration of what has become of lost native traditions and art forms. It is a stunning display of multi-cultural, multi-technical art.

Dramatic, vigorous, beautiful, Tony Jojola’s contemporary vessels interpret traditional baskets and olla forma into glass, Marvin Oliver assembles sculptural glass totems, and Christopher Tarpley blows sand worked, arabesque glass forms.

And then there is Preston Singletary, the self- proclaimed Pilchuck product, who, as Regina Hackett, has reported, was encouraged by Jajola to “research his family background and find a way to express his tribal heritage in contemporary glass.” Eschewing loss and regret as themes, Singletary, probably more than any other artist in the exhibit, has adopted an exuberant multi-cultural, multi- technical approach to creating his art that fuses and employs European, Asian, Swedish, and contemporary glass techniques, to produce archetypal, usually conical forms, which, in light, cast shadows of Tingit mythology. They are simply gorgeous pieces.

Among the bead artists, Teri Greeves has produced what she calls “beaded tennis shoes.” These shoes represent her memories of childhood growing up on the Shoshone and Arapaho’s Wind River Reservation in Wyoming. The images depicted on the shoes are those of Shoshone elders she grew up with, some of whom were veterans of World War II or members of the American Legion!

Martha Berry uses European seed beads and silk ribbon to produce her exquisite traditionally styled moccasins: “Fire Carrier’s Footsteps,” 2004, em- blazed on the toe with a special spider. Glass Gallery owner Sally Hansen suggests the moccasins are entirely symbolic, commemorating the story of how a small water spider brought fire into the world. The story, sent by the artist to Hansen and then on to me, reads as follows:

“Long, long ago, there was no fire and the world was very cold. Then the Thunders sent their lightning and put fire in the bottom of a hollow sycamore tree that grew on the island. The animals knew if was there because they could see the smoke, but they could not get to it over the water. They held a council to decide what to do. Every animal that could swim or fly was anxious to be the one to bring back the fire.

Raven offered to go first. Because he was so large and strong, they thought that he could surely do it, so he was sent. He flew high and far across the water and alighted on the sycamore tree. While he was wondering what to do next, the heat scorched all his feathers black. He was frightened and returned without the fire.

Then the little Screech Owl volunteered and reached the place safely. But, while he was looking down into the hollow of the tree, a blast of hot air came up at him and nearly burned out his eyes. He managed to fly back home, but his eyes are red to this day. Next went Hoot Owl and Horned Owl. By the time they reached the tree, the fire was so fierce the smoke almost blinded them. The ashes carried by the wind made rings around their eyes that are still here today, but they had to return without the fire.

Well, no more of the birds dared attempt this great feat, so the snakes decided to give it a try. The Black Racer Snake swam out to the island and crawled through the grass to the tree. He squeezed through a tiny hole in the bottom, but the heat and smoke were too much for him. After dodging blindly over the hot ashes, he managed, by luck, to find the hole and crawl out again. But his body had been scorched black and, to this day, he darts about as if still trying to escape that first fire. The great black snake, the Climber, offered next. He swam over and climbed up the outside of the sycamore, as was his habit. Predictably, the smoke choked him and he fell into the trunk, burning himself black in the process. He survived but brought back no warmth.

Cold and dismayed, the animals held another council. All the birds, snakes, and four-footed creatures came up with good excuses for not venturing back to the tree. Finally, the Little Water Spider said that she would like a try. (Now this was the little spider with black downy hair, who can run over the water or dive under it.) The other animals were relieved for a volunteer, but wondered how she would carry the fire back.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I will use thread from my body to spin a tusti (little bowl) and fasten it to my back.”

The animals watched in wonder as the Little Water Spider crossed the water, found the tiny hole in the bottom of the truck, put one tiny coal into her bowl, and brought it back. Ever since, we have been warmed by fire and, more importantly, the smoke has carried our prayers to Creator. And the Little Water Spiders still carry the red marks on their backs, lest we forget their grandmother’s great accomplishment.”

Familiar with this tale? I certainly was not. This anthropomorphic story is unavailable in the moccasins to all but the initiated—a phenomenon that is likely true of much of the forms, markings, and colors of which these native works consist. The uninitiated viewer can only guess and wonder at what is missing. Passed from one generation to the next, the tale lingers in the present tense. But for how long? It remains in brilliance to remind us of that which is lost, the countless stories and skills, and the cultures that produced and employed them. The initiated grow old. Life unravels and the young arise. Thus is the world reinvented.

The multi-cultural and multi-technical pieces of art exhibited at the Glass Gallery are testament to time’s ravages and, ultimately, to its many consolations.

John A. Haslem, Jr. PhD
artlinePlus art critic