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 brining Catholicism through mainland North America. The history and culture has always been reflected in the local art – St. Christphers, monks, priests, nuns, Kachinas

each with their own story to tell, Story Teller dolls,

missions,

ristras,

serape’s,

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. 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
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