A Betrayed Affair.......My Sangre de Cristo Love Story

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I remember a time when the adobe galleries of downtown Santa Fe and Albuquerque, New Mexico were devoted solely to preserving the local culture by exhibiting and promoting local artisans exclusively. The mud and adobe structures have been a fixture in this part of the world for centuries and they were filled to the brim with local treasures created by predominantly Native American Indian artisans from the area but also the local artist population: Hispanics and Anglos as well.


The historic areas of these two cities date back approximately 300 years – to an era when Spanish explorers were bringing Catholicism through mainland North America. The history and culture has always been reflected in the local art – St. Christophers, monks, priests, nuns, Kachinas

.........like Kokopelli, the dancing flute player who brings the spirit of music and is known for being mischievous. He is a fertility deity.

..........and Koshari, the black and white horizontal stripe wearing, watermelon eating party god known for his many indulgences and fun. I first became acquainted with him at an annual Santa Fe festival called 'The Burning of Zozobras' - a.k.a. The Burning of Gloom. I've had a growing infatuation with him ever since.

each with their own story to tell, Storyteller dolls,

missions,

ristras,

serape’s,

New Mexico indian pottery

sombrero’s,

broom skirts,

embroidered cottons,

and hand woven wollen rugs.

It is a unique culture and in my late teens and early twenties, exploring the bounty of art this part of the world had to offer was a passionate pursuit.

Bonnie and I lived five hours from here in a desolate part of New Mexico known more for dinosaur remains, arrow heads, and peanut and cotton farming.

My paternal grandparents lived in a home just across the highway from The Blackwater Draw Museum, home of two of North America's most important achaeological sites.

We worked all week, Bonnie working two or three jobs at a time and me working nearly full time hours after school each day. We would save up every dime past our monthly bills and drive like bandits on Friday evening to spend our weekends exploring the Sangre de Cristo Mountain towns for local art. Consumate gypsies, we indulged ourselves in every bit of the culture: from drinking in the mountain air like cold water on sultry day to seducing our taste buds with the succulent local flavors of blue corn tortillas,

creamy guacamole, and spicy sauces and timing our every heartbeat to Indian chant’s

or mariachi music playing from a restaurant near the square.



One of the greatest luxuries of this gypsy life of mine has been to absorb the life and culture of whatever moment I am in.

This part of the world has long been a Mecca for spiritual seekers of all kinds. Sangre de Cristo translates literally as “Blood of Christ”. The mountains are rich red with clay and were no doubt named by the Spanish Priests that came to spread the word of Catholicism. Native American tribes had sacred ground here long before then. And in recent decades seekers of all kinds have come because this place has a living, breathing spirit about it no matter what your faith.

These cities were not my first taste of art but they were my first real romance with it. It was here that I learned to discern between art and craft, craft and crap. There is a vast difference but to an untrained eye there is only blindness.

We would spend hours strolling the sidewalks of the town squares where only Native American Indians were licensed to sell their wares, mostly handmade silver and turquoise jewelry, from blankets laid out on the sidewalk. Often sitting barefoot with braids and wearing contemporary clothing, they laid out their offerings to throngs of passersby. Generally non-chalant but always willing to tell you about their work, they would readily explain why a particular piece of turquoise was of more or less value because of the color of the stone or the veins running through it. They would explain their tribal design techniques whether they by the intricate needlepoint work or inlay work of the Zuni,

Hopi silverwork,

Navajo squash blossoms,

.....or any of the other numerous variations of native design.

Along our route, we would slip in and out of art galleries rich with sculpture, oils, acrylics, water colors, and multi-media paintings and sculptures. Expert dealers and artists readily passed on their knowledge and had no hesitancy in telling why one piece held a better price than another, how light was created in a work, or to point out why a still, two dimensional artwork had such “motion”. Gradually I would learn to discern when the spirit of the artist was genuinely inhabited into a motionless artwork emitting life. I would come to be able to discern the richness of an egg paint created with plant dyes over a latex acrylic, the virtues of linen over cotton, the beauty of a handmade paper – to tell from the feel of a pottery whether it were a common, ordinary white clay or a local clay dug from the Sangre de Cristo earth and fired outdoors in an ancient kiva.

I learned of textiles from the women who raised sheep, llamas, and chow chows – sheared, cleaned and dyed the fur from vegetable dyes grown from their garden crop; combed the fleece, spun the wool roving into fine yarns, and wove or knitted cloth, rugs, sweaters, or whatever their imagination dared to dream. My mother had taught me as a little girl to discern fabrics by touch in lessons roaming the fabric stores. We would walk the aisles of yardage fingering the edge and she would say, “feel it. Cotton……wool…..nylon – yuck!........silk……..wool and silk blend……..linen…….” Eventually I learned the art. These lessons in the New Mexico mountains were an advanced appreciation of those earlier childhood days.

We drank it all in – breathing in the local culture like oxygen. We learned the names of the various kachinas and befriended certain favorites: Kokopelli, famous for his flute – and Koshari – in his horizontal black and white stripes always dancing with a water melon. He is the life of every party. Dined on local flavors – blue corn tortilla enchiladas, and guacamole and salsa, caramel apples from Senor Murphy Candy Maker, and spinach crepes and ratatouille from the French Pastry Shoppe. Every corner of the world has beckoned to this region and it is not more evident than in the availability of international cuisine.

Now, twenty-one years later I stroll these same sidewalks. Dive in and out of the same adobe buildings. Dine in some of the same restaurants but what has changed is all that gave this place such beautiful life. The art is still here but it is overwhelmed by shop after shop now littered with cheap, copies probably made overseas. Many of the jewelry stores are now full of imitation turquoise set in chrome with an occasional genuine piece mixed in among dozens of frauds. A discerning eye will know but a tourist will be made a fool. The Native American Indians are dwindling among the vendors and in their place, dark haired, dark skinned imitators with accents obvious to someone who has lived many years among the Iranians and Iraqi’s of metropolitan Los Angeles. I walked in one “jewelry gallery” boasting “Native American Jewelry” on their front sign. A middle aged woman in braids at a table with a strand of imitation turquoise (resin) beads straight from the importer – still on the fishing line. She picked up the strand as we walked in and pretended to be crafting the piece herself, simultaneously greeting us, “Allooo. Welkom. I make all jewelry myself. Many good prices.” Zuni designs mocked up in chrome and plastic with turquoise and silver price tags. Shop after shop after shop a similar story. A few genuine old stores remained and I dare say that each and every one of them had a sign hanging in the window “Store for Sale – Building, Fixtures, Stock”.

The fraud of what it seems to be becoming is an atrocity, and the loss of what it once was is a priceless abomination. Not just a loss of art, culture, livelihood, tourism – but the genuine loss of history. Of knowledge and craftsmanship passed down from generation to generation. As this very thought is forming itself into a comprehendable sentence from my lips, we slip into what was once one of the most well known art galleries in the region. It is now a cheap, mall-type clothing store with over priced prices and imported from China quality. My heart drops and I suddenly realize I no longer want to live here. It is akin to visiting your family crypt only to find it’s been turned into a Dollar Store. We walked a mile to our car in stunned silence and all I could think of on the drive home is where do I want to go from here? And as crazy as that may sound to everyone with a permanent address – I’ll let you know where the next stop is when I get there but right now my heart is truly broken and my restless spirit feels the need to roam.

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