Community Curators

Water Sustains All Life

Pottery and water jars are lodged in my memory and my home. The bird and plant designs on this jar impress me; they are unique, and there is just something about them that draws me in. Even by just looking at this pot, I want to welcome it, and it welcomes me in return. The jar wants to come home and be used properly.

I remember seeing water pots like this one on visits to my Santo Domingo grandma when I was a little girl. She had pottery of all kinds and shapes that she used for cooking and storage, and a few that she kept just because they were pretty. My family looked forward to visiting her and my grandfather, aunts, uncles, and cousins at her house. In her front room, my grandma had a water jar nestled in a tree-trunk tripod. My brothers and I would rush to the jar as soon as we arrived. The jar had a gourd dipper, and we would all share a drink of water. It tasted like the best water in the world! It was clear and clean, drawn from the Rio Grande.

I did not contemplate it much then, but now that I am older, I think about the practice of offering water. It is something we are all taught: any time a visitor comes to your home, make sure to give them water. Even today, when people visit, we offer them a dipper, a glass, or a bottle of water. By keeping this custom and the knowledge behind it alive, we honor the water and all our ancestors and grandmothers.

The pots are more than just beautiful, and they carry more than water; they are endowed with knowledge, love, and respect.

Zia Relations

It is so good to see old pots. I have been making pottery since I was a young girl, but when I first visited the SAR collection, I was so overwhelmed, I nearly cried. I had never seen older Jemez and Zia pots! So many decades ago, I learned pottery from my mother, who was Jemez and Zia. My mother had learned from my grandmother, who was from Zia Pueblo. Back then, I started out as a helper for my family as they made pots to sell to the trading posts. I chose this piece because it reminds me of those old times. The designs are simple but beautiful. There is a smoke cloud on the outside of the jar, which indicates that it went through an outdoor firing.

Sharing Infinite Experiences

How do people learn about their histories? Many rely on the written word. Others turn to oral traditions and stories. Both have a certain value, but there are times when one needs to connect with one’s past in a very personal way. Some may call it a “primal” or “subconscious” connection, but there is another way that I find that connection; it is a connection, a relationship, that comes from experiential intimacy.

I was immediately drawn to the bird images on this bowl. I was born into the Eagle Clan, and that, in and of itself, compelled me to connect with this piece. So, for me, it was not necessarily about the bird imagery; someone else might see macaws or another bird species. Rather, it was about the intimate relationship taking root between me and the person who gathered the clay, prepared it, and shaped it. I felt a connection between us: two artists relating to our respective media, creating with purpose. They had intentions for what they were doing in their own time and space, just as I have intentions for what I do here and now when I create a glass piece.

I contemplated the wavering bands inside the bowl. I imagined watching the hands guiding the brushes that brought life to the painted birds. I was connecting with someone I did not know. That is the beauty of experiential intimacy; it transcends the personal. It is not limited to our understanding of time and space.

I am also drawn to the simple shape and designs. As a Native American glass artist, I try to tell a story through the simplicity of my creations. I believe this artist was doing the same. But what is the story? That, we can only imagine. What I can do is to respect and admire the life this person must have lived.

The conveniences that we take for granted today were absent back then. This creation, modest as it is, speaks of a life that was raw and dangerous. And at the same time, it projects the beauty and honesty of a world and a life that we can only imagine through our own personal histories.

Reliving Ancestral Connections

This ceramic jar has been dated to around 1920. Unfortunately, nothing is known about the maker. When I compared the jar to the simpler bowl on pages 124–25, a thought occurred to me: more than 700 years separated the making of the two vessels. I selected this jar because I was captivated by the complexities of its unique shape and intricate designs. Conversely, I was attracted by the simplicity of the bowl. As I contemplated the differences between the two, I started asking myself, what changes occurred during those centuries? That, in turn, led me to a more fundamental question: what compels change itself? If we were to ponder this query, I have no doubt that we would have a clearer understanding of the “hows” and “whys” of change.

I believe that we are changed by movement into new physical environments; by a growing awareness of our worldviews; by new technology (whether it comes to us intentionally or by accident); and, no less importantly, by the art that we bring into the world. These two works of art speak of that change. This is where the stories of the artists are told; this is where change resides—in their creations, their struggles and pain in gathering and preparing the clay and paints that became the joy and smiles of those who received the vessels; in the recurring seasons that set the example to live an orderly life, and helped the artists accept birth and death as being a part of the natural order of living. The stories and myths that blossomed from this change gave them a reason to live and to find their place in the universe. And art was, and still is, an expression of that change.

I choose not to take an overly analytical approach to art. To do so would be, in the words of Joseph Campbell, to turn a “Thou” into an “It.” I much prefer imagining the story. I would rather respect, appreciate, and honor not only the artist, but the community and culture as well. I say this because I, too, am an artist. We all are, to one degree or another. If we were not, experiential intimacy would be nonexistent. For it is through this intimacy that we find our own reason to live and our own place in the universe.

Created from the Earth

I was drawn to this pot the moment I set my eyes on it. I saw my grandmother Lorencita Pino make similar pieces, so I knew this was her work. It took me back to my childhood. My grandmother worked with this orange clay and often incorporated faces and animals into her designs. The handles on this vessel are foxes, but they have stripes on their tails like chipmunks; animals that live in our communities are a part of everyday life and prayer.

I have been around pottery for as long as I can remember. My grandmother did not have a vehicle to get to the place where we gathered clay, so we would hike there with a Radio Flyer wagon and pieces of cloth to carry our tools. We talked and walked, and returned with a wagon and fabric full of raw material. Gathering clay was a learning process for us kids.

My grandmother was a great multitasker. As we gathered clay, she would also gather plants and other materials used to polish or to make slips and paints. She would gather as much clay as she could carry, but she was very picky. If there were too many rocks or too much silt, she would not use it. It was a process that involved the whole family. After my grandmother built the pottery and let it dry for a few days, she would sit at the table with my mother and aunts, and they would talk as they sanded and burnished their pots together.

Nothing went to waste. As the women sanded their clay, the dust collected in their long aprons and would then be put into a bucket to be reused. If a vessel had cracks, my grandmother would give it to my uncles so they could save it. Those pieces were ground up to use as temper for another day. From the raw material to the end product, I saw it and I lived it.

Sometimes my grandmother would give us kids leftover material and tell us to make something. We would try to make little dogs, wolves, or other critters. She would show us how to sand our pieces, slip them, and help us come up with a design. When she was ready to fire her big pots, she would leave enough wood to fire our little pieces, and when they were finished firing she would say, “Those pieces are now done. Come see how they look.” She was teaching us to be potters.

Abstract Bird Motif

My earliest memory of my great-grandmother Annie was probably from when I was around four or five years old. I was raised by my grandparents Emerson and Rachel Namingha, in the Hopi village of Polacca, Arizona. Rachel was the daughter of Annie and Willie Healing. My grandparents’ home was within walking distance of Annie’s house, so I would occasionally visit her.

I have fond memories of my great-grandmother. She always greeted me with a smile and was unfailingly kind. She had a great woodstove where she cooked her meals, such as hominy stew with lamb—and those tortillas, they were the best! 

Annie lived alone. Her husband, Willie, passed away before I was born, but she continued creating pottery. She would sometimes sit near the window in the sunlight as she applied her intricate designs on her ceramic pots. She kept a few small pots in the woodstove, allowing them to dry before taking them outdoors for firing. She sold her pottery to visiting collectors and at the local trading post.

My mother, Dextra, who also was a potter, told me this story years ago. She said Annie was on occasion known to make very large pots. One day, Annie was working on one of her large pots when she decided to step inside to apply more clay for better composition and shape, not realizing she eventually had to climb back out. Fortunately, a family member was present and carefully helped her climb out. Annie had a great sense of humor; she laughed at herself for doing such a thing as enclosing herself in her own ceramic pot. Family members would occasionally tell this story, reflecting on fond memories of her.

Unfortunately, Annie’s eyesight began to fail as she grew older, and she eventually stopped making pottery. Grandmother Rachel began preparing meals for her. On occasion I would deliver the meals to Annie and light the kerosene lamp for her.

During her lifetime, Annie created potteries ranging in size from small to very large. Her work is included in several prestigious national museum collections. Annie was the eldest daughter of the renowned ceramicist Nampeyo, and this particular pot reminds me of her. I was intrigued by the abstract nature of the bird-and-feather design and by the composition of the two birds opposite each other. The Tewa and the Hopi people have a parallel belief that there is a duality that exists in our daily lives: the physical world versus the spiritual one. The tribal ceremonies that are performed connect us to the ancestors and allow us to continue forward. The past is our future, the future is our past. The two abstract birds opposite each other remind me of that.

Creating Families

It has been said that Pueblo potters think of their vessels as children—children who have been created by loving hands and nurtured to completion. As a mother of fraternal twins, I am drawn to objects created in pairs. I like things that look similar but upon closer inspection are different.

When I first saw Martina Vigil and Florentino Montoya’s clay vessels, I thought of my children, Eliza and Zak. At first glance, when Martina and Florentino’s vessels are sitting side by side, their shape and design elements look alike. Look closer, and you will see that the widest part of the pot on this page is formed differently. This vessel pauses at the midriff with a few more coils before climbing toward the neck. The opening is wider and, because of that, so is the lid. It seems sturdy, masculine. The other vessel is elegantly feminine, with fluid curves that dip dramatically at the pot’s neck, forming a smaller mouth. Even the handles on the lids are formed differently. These are subtle differences that beg the question, which vessel was made first? Another question: who made the vessels?

Clay collaboration is familiar to Pueblo families. My parents occasionally collaborated on pottery. My mother was the one who coiled vessels, while my father gathered materials. In the evenings we sat at our kitchen table, my dad painting designs on pottery while my mother burnished vessels with a river stone. Many nights passed with clay-making, gossip, and storytelling; it was a time for family. As a kid, I felt secure and warm witnessing the flow of creativity between others. Maybe Martina and Florentino had similar nights of clay work with their family. Whatever the setting, the creative exchange between the couple resulted in vessels that are visually powerful because of each other. And yet, they are different.

Recently I saw a black-and-white image of Florentino Montoya. In the picture he looks fifty. He was painting designs on a vessel. I thought of my dad.

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When the Clay Calls

When the clay calls, there is no denying it—ask Lonnie Vigil. It is the kind of call you feel rather than hear. And it can happen anytime, anywhere, even if you live in a city, which Lonnie did when he heard the clay calling. Maybe it was just time for Lonnie to come home¹.

Like other Pueblo potters, Lonnie grew up knowing the kind of hard work, skill, and absolute commitment it takes to make pottery. Women in Lonnie’s family taught him these facts. The clay process—harvesting clay veins, processing materials, sifting and mixing, coiling and shaping—is months of work from start to finish. But it is more than a method or process; clay work speaks to the profound relationship between a potter and clay, and the women in Lonnie’s life knew that as well. Lonnie Vigil is guided by that relationship to clay. You hear it in his voice and see it in the vessels he makes. His unyielding devotion to every single facet of the clay process is rooted in a cultural worldview that evokes reverence for the sky and earth. Inspired by cultural knowledge passed down from his Pueblo ancestors, Lonnie’s undeniable gift can be seen in every single vessel he has ever made. This one in particular—this is the grandfather vessel. 

When a clay form is centered, the potter knows it early on; it is a feeling, a knowing of balance that begins at the very first coil. 

The base of Lonnie’s grandfather vessel is surprisingly small, but it supports the clay wall, which fans out dramatically toward the hips of the form. And this is where the magic is created: the wall at the hips takes a sharp turn toward the opening of the vessel. The clay coils are layered, suspended in graceful movement toward the neck. This architectural feat is made more poignant by the fact that it is balanced by hand and feel—not by a machine, but by hands that moved in absolute concert with material.

Lonnie’s vessel has been pit-fired black with a micaceous slip finish that glitters like a thousand stars suspended in a clay sky. Lonnie’s approach to creating comes from the women who taught him the facts about clay work, but the clay opened the door to his gift.

Do not forget: Lonnie built his monumental vessel on his kitchen table. Who does that? A master artist with passion, that’s who.

When Lonnie heard the clay calling him, he came home. How lucky for all of us that he did.

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¹ Lonnie Vigil was working in finance in Washington, DC before he moved back home to Nambé Pueblo to focus on pottery-making.

The Rhythms of Clay Echo Stories of Centuries Past

Clay Woman calls from the bosom of the earth. She calls to the North, to the West, to the South, and to the East. Some hear her call in the stillness of a bright, sunny day; some hear her call near rushing rivers and still waters of lakes; and some hear her call on high, cool mountaintops. Clay Woman calls from the bosom of the earth: “Come, come use my clay to form vessels for storing, for drinking, for eating, and for ceremony.”

As Dawn reached the horizon of Red Clay Hill, those who heard Clay Woman entered. Those Who Entered marked the beginnings of forming, shaping, and painting vessels of all kinds. Those Who Entered painted symbols of mountains, clouds, rain, fields, seeds, blossoms, birds, and animals on the vessels. With these symbols, stories were formed and depicted by Those Who Entered. Before the vessels were formed, shaped, and painted, Those Who Entered prayed for help and guidance, so that worries evaporated and the ingredients of Mother Earth nurtured the body, mind, and spirit.

I am one of many who entered the realm of Clay Woman. I will interpret for you—using my personal thoughts and feelings, combined with stories of old—the story that these vessels before you portray. 

Since the time of emergence, my ancestors worked diligently to survive in the land of mountains, hills, meadows, plains, lakes, and rivers. As hunters, they followed the tracks of deer and other animals to hunt for food and clothing. The deer, our distant kin, were hunted by hunters who had a good heart. They sang and prayed to attract the deer to them. As the deer is brought down, the hunter gives thanks for its dying, so that in its death the deer gives the People food, clothing, health, and life. In this way, the deer’s cycle of life is completed, but the deer itself is transformed and renewed, to live again.

Deer tracks are depicted on the pottery vessels as a way to honor, to give thanks, and to serve as a remembrance that the deer and other animals are bonded to the People for the perpetuation of life. 

As gatherers, my ancestors gathered seeds, roots, leaves, blossoms, and the fruits and berries of shrubs and cacti, to sustain themselves. The plants were grown and nurtured in the deep, dark, rich soil. Over time, the People settled and transitioned into planting fields of corn, squash, and beans. Moisture, vital for the survival of plants, motivated the People to commune with the forces of Father Sky to bring rain for the growth of their crops. The powers of the sky and earth met, and dark clouds, filled with weather, burst open onto the fields, so that the crops grew and were harvested, giving life to the People. 

Seeds, blossoms, dark, rich soil, fields, and clouds are painted on the clay jars to remind the People that rain renews life-giving plants, so that they, in turn, will give life to all living things.

All these elements of Father Sky and Mother Earth are an integral part of the daily lives of the People. Clay and the minerals used in building and painting vessels are given to us by Mother Earth. They are gifts from the Creator, to be passed on to future generations, creating a consciousness and humbly acknowledging the importance of carrying on the People’s values and traditions.

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Tamaya: Yu’weh’sra hao’tsi ¹

Every day, I think about our ancestors and our way of life. My favorite memories are those involving my grandma Elvira, my mother, Felicita, and their teachings.

I can still see Grandma Elvira’s hands as she mixed clay while wearing her turquoise bracelets. She would massage my hands and then, calling on our ancestors and her own spirit in prayer, she would say, “Welcome into my granddaughter the knowledge to mix the clay.” It was then that I learned the art of mixing clay.

Tah’s. I can feel traces of the maker from the traces of coils and the texture inside the cup. They show the way a tool, probably a piece of gourd, was used to scrape the inside smooth.

In the springtime, especially when my father was the ditch boss,² my mother would mix clay and create miniature pots, bowls, and spoons. I remember the smell of the clay as it mingled with the lilac fragrance of her perfume.

Srpu’na. The energetic designs and brushstrokes on this canteen pull me in. I feel the prayers and the hands that created this piece, a vessel that was required for everyday use.

Uncles and aunts, and now my brothers and sisters, enter the society/ceremonial houses as we assist with serving food. The most important task, before we did anything else, was to locate the traditional pottery bowls. These bowls always come out first on such occasions, and I look at them with wonder as I study their designs, shapes, and colors.

Boiled meat from elk, deer, rabbit, and other small game is served as stews in bowls. I savor the smells and feel grateful that I am providing food to sustain our people. These bowls and jars from the past and present adorn our shelves, and it is the bowls that will be used to take food to important events and to the Turquoise and Pumpkin dwellings.³

Any pottery piece that was made long ago speaks to me, and I feel a strong connection to these vessels. The creation of clay, the mixtures, the coiling and shaping, the tools used, and finally the process of firing the completed piece—all are awe-inspiring. I feel empowered by our ancestors, because they knew how these pieces should be made and completed. Our ancestors were ingenious, and our people remain so today.

Ah’sa. There is a noticeable ring inside this storage jar. I sigh because I would like to hear the true story of what this jar held for our people and how it was used.

Older pieces speak to me more than recently made ones. They were created, designed, and made by the actual hands of our ancestors. These pieces were used daily and were touched by our ancestors long ago. The ability to envision and understand our ancestors’ way of life is so very important to me. Touching any pottery piece, I imagine the tasks required to create it, and I welcome the spirit of the maker into me.

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¹ The title is Keres for “Tamaya: Our Past, Our Ancestors.”

² This traditional role entailed maintenance of all the waterways in the village.

³ Tamaya (Santa Ana Pueblo) is divided into two moieties, Turquoise and Pumpki.

Conundrum

I chose these vessels because they are part of my community and, by extension, my family. One was made by my great-grandmother Reyes Galvan. Strikingly similar design sketches were left behind by my grandfather, and I am reminded of how these water jars came to be.

Dwight Lanmon believed the other jar was made by Isabel Medina Toribio, while Rick Dillingham was of the opinion that it is by Vincentita Salas.¹ Although I greatly admire the pottery of both women (their vessels were always incredibly smooth, both inside and out), based on conversations with elders and my own research, I believe this jar to be the work of Trinidad Medina. According to Sofia and Lois Medina, Trinidad was known for the rows of dots on her pottery, which would later remind her of the skyscrapers she saw during her travels to Chicago for the 1933 World’s Fair.

The process of firing pottery is very challenging. The circumstances of a pot’s creation and of its surface-firing must be nearly perfect to ensure the vessel can withstand the stress. So much time and care are invested in creating pottery, and an imperfect firing can literally make or break a piece. Trinidad’s pot was beautifully fired, as indicated by the perfect fusion of clay and paint. My great-grandmother’s piece  was unintentionally low-fired.² As a result, over time, much of the paint has worn off. The high-quality build of her pot remains, however, and the jar can still be used as intended.

When I create pottery, it is common for me to invest two weeks or more in a piece. Pottery is an important way of life for Pueblo people, and I am proud to be a part of a resilient and strong community. Pottery’s strength is evidenced by its permanent presence through time. This permanence means that our stories will live on in these and other vessels.

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¹ Francis H. Harlow and Dwight P. Lanmon, The Pottery of Zia Pueblo, Santa Fe, N. Mex. (School for Advanced Research Press) 2003, p. 321

² The low temperature of firing meant that the paint did not completely fuse to the pot.

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Grandmother Clay, Our Teacher

Memories are as long as generations. And those memories are lessons to be passed on to our children.  

Through Grandmother Clay we can teach our children, since she is the ultimate teacher of many lessons!

I have this memory of when I was quite small, probably five or six years old.  I was sitting in a small travel trailer, at a little table with my mother, while my father worked diligently on our garden. My mother taught me about clay with no words, really; she just led. I remember I felt accepted and that I pleased her, and that she and I were connected. I, her daughter, she, my mother. ‍

Important lesson: Grandmother Clay bonds us all!  

When I saw this jar—specifically, the beauty and intricacies of the base—it was apparent to me, as a potter, that many lessons came into play as the potter was building the piece. Of those, two lessons played key roles: positive thoughts and calmness. Frustrations, I quickly learned, do not help the clay- builder. Breathing is an important place to start. There are no guarantees that any piece I build will make it through the drying and firing processes. The clay could crack or pop. One of the biggest lessons I have learned is acceptance. I know that I can always try again and, in doing so, I move forward.

In this piece, size does matter! The wall of the small pot comprises around sixty coil rings. The intricacies of the coils required precision, as well as a tender touch. The building required each coil to be rolled and flattened evenly to about ¾ in. (2 cm) wide, and then each coil was connected to the next. In order to maintain the exposed coils while building the pot and smoothing the inside, the potter had to hold this piece very gently and calmly.

Grandmother Clay teaches us life lessons of patience, acceptance, love, connection, sharing, using, belonging, breathing, creating, and feeling! The list goes on and on.

My journey in clay has led me to many places, including to a place that connects to who I am spiritually as a Native person and to my mother and my community. Ultimately, my journey has led me to become the teacher I need to be in order to lead our children in our traditional pottery-making ways. With my teaching, I encourage the recognition of these lessons because they play a key part in our everyday lives. Being in touch with our positive feelings and emotions can only help us in our life’s journey!

Giver of Life and Unity

All things have a purpose on this earth.  For this water vessel, it is to give us life and connect our spirits to one another.

Sitting in the lap of Mother Earth, the potter prays to Grandmother Clay to guide her. Grandmother Clay leads the hands of the potter with favor of a compassionate heart.

Flattened bottoms lift to piles of earthen clay. Mounds of bellies swell and rise to meet Father Sun. It becomes a vessel for generations; a water canteen to travel from village to village.

And then, a firing, to set in rich, deep-rust fire clouds. Signs from our ancestors.
"Cloud shapes,” Grandmother says, "are dreams."

The dreams that emerge forth from the fire clouds are like the clouds in the sky.

"And as I sat with the vessel, its clouds filled me with stories."

Ancients ...
Can you see the woman sitting in prayer for an abundance of corn? Or the rabbit that just got away from Mr. Fox and sits proudly on its curve? Is that the handprint of the Creator letting us know he touched this life-giver?

Can you see the man reaching to the Creator in thanks for the day's beauty as a river flows below? Is it the sun or moon that calls us out? There goes Avanyu, swimming gently across the water vessel, as he has done time and time again.

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"This canteen has much energy that calls me away from all else." From above the canteen are signs of the earth as a whole.

Ancients ...
Can you see the man with a staff on a boat, heading to his hunting ground? Or the small, happy dog floating in a sky filled with stars?

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This pot has survived generations of families. It has sat amongst feasts of squash and dried buffalo.

It is these generations who have stored the water of all of life and then carry it to share... near the rim, rising with it, come shining water streams to nourish us all.

Reaching, drinking, breathing, and sharing their own fire-cloud stories. From one to another: brother, sister, mother, father, relative and friend. Here our spirits meet in joy and meaning!

Large San Ildefonso Storage Jar by Ignacia

Seeing, holding, and examining my great-grandmother’s jar is like staring at a family photo album. Just as she saw and painted them on this jar, I see the same mountains to the west of the village in the fall light, the hills rising and falling, the dried leaves swirling in the wind. I can still smell the water that this pot once held.

Saya Nacia’s line work is unique; she was the only San Ildefonso potter to use horizontal, vertical, and parallel lines as design iconography. She was creative, but we could say that about any of the San Ildefonso potters because to be recognized as a good potter requires absorbing elders’ ideas and designs, ingesting them, and with our breath creating renewed life.

There was a time in our history, not so very long ago, when we were literally and metaphorically a community of potters. We did everything together; women sat together, worked together, and shared ideas. Children were present and learned not by instruction, but by observation. We often talk about our first clay as being something we ate.

When I look at this jar, I see our community of potters. Women and men, families, young and old, all working together for the common good and well-being of the Pueblo. The designs relate to the universe as we experience and imagine it. We sing and pray for its continuance and its beauty, and for the nourishment of rain. In times past, potters did not have the conveniences of today. I learned how to make pottery by walking with my aunt Rose to get clay, and, once her shawls were filled, we walked back to the village. I have a bucketful of scrapers, some I made, others I purchased or were given to me. Ignacia used only the gourd scrapers that she made. If one person fired, others would fire too, to help with the arduous labor and to preserve the precious resources, such as juniper wood, cottonwood bark, and animal dung, used to fire pottery.

Growing up, I listened to the old people and learned from them how our people have successfully lived for generations. I like old pots because they remind me of our community’s old-timers. Molded in the shapes and painted on pottery are stories of how we came to be and how we continue to find strength in our culture and traditions. By looking at old pots, we see and learn about our community, its values, its trials and tribulations, and we discover how to move forward—not by walking in the footprints of the past, but by applying ourselves to the world in which we live today.

In our way, working harmoniously as a community is beautiful. The beauty of community is the same beauty we create, practice, dance, and sing. It is beauty that brings fertility and rain to our village. It is what sustains us as a distinct people. It is a good feeling because it is communal.

San ildefonso Water Jar

This pot probably sat in a corner of a room, in a space convenient enough for it to be used for dipping a drink of water or for preparing meals. Smaller jars were used to bring in water from the wells or river, and the water was then poured into a larger jar. There is a stain around the rim of the pot from the oils of people’s hands, also slight discoloration, scratches on the surface, and the earthen smell of water. The pot is carefully engineered and significantly worn in ways typical of a water jar. Its narrow opening prevents spillage when a dipper is used to retrieve water, and the concave base allows the summer heat to dissipate, cooling the jar and its contents.

This is an exquisite jar, carefully and lovingly formed and painted. Clays, slips, and paints are all harvested locally. Here, the slip is stone-polished, and the jar has been used for storing and serving water. The evenness of the designs indicates that a skilled potter painted the jar. Some might mistake the double wavy lines as depicting the water serpent Avanyu or another ceremonial symbol, but they simply depict water and hills. Above and below the wavy lines are rain clouds. Inside the jar’s rim is another set of rain clouds, this set with green plant life emerging. The terraced symmetrical design filled with hatched lines (not visible in the image opposite) indicates rainfall. This is a design of our village and not something borrowed from another Pueblo.

Although we cannot assume one person used one design exclusively, the “steps” are a unique identifier, and because rapacious ownership runs counter to the communal nature of pottery-making, jars like this are often labeled erroneously as kiva pots.¹ I find the idea offensive. It undercuts community and suggests that potters do not have the ingenuity to be continually trying new designs. These types of label do not take into account the deep meanings and knowledge that reside within our community.

Outsiders who create these labels do not fully understand the Tewa world. Even the most knowledgeable curator cannot spend a lifetime immersed in and participating at P’o Woe-geh Owingeh. If they did, they would comprehend that the use of a stepped rim is not an automatic indicator of a ceremonial jar. It is the actual use of the jar and the proper prayers in appropriate contexts that create a jar that might be labeled “ceremonial.” Such jars are not seen in public and do not leave our village; they are in constant use. When no longer able to serve their purpose, they are put to rest, just like any other community member.

Non-Native labels give pots like these a higher monetary value because the collector has seemingly collected the forbidden. Labels given by non–San Ildefonso people to our pottery often make no sense. While there is a stepped cut along the rim and this same stepped motif is publicly visible on buildings called kivas, these designs are not exclusive to one type of building or to one type of jar. Plain and simple, the stepped design represents the mountains.

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¹ This pot was identified erroneously as a “ceremonial kiva pot” by an unknown person before this project began.

Prayers and Blessings

Of the number of pieces in the SAR collection that are from our village, Nanbé Owingeh, I chose this one because it is a functional piece. It is a jar used to carry water. The base is concave so that the jar could be carried from the water source on a person’s head. This piece served a purpose in the community.

I was also attracted to this jar because it is a black burnished piece. Today many people are aware of black pieces from the Pueblos of San Ildefonso and Santa Clara, but there are also examples of black pottery from a number of other Tewa villages, including ours. Considering the technology and tools available around the turn of the twentieth century, the potter did a fine job of burnishing and shaping this piece.

I love the shape; it is beautiful. These types of jar were made for function, of course, but also—because of the way in which they were going to be used, and the love of the person making the pottery—they were created in very graceful forms and shapes. I have always liked a narrow base and then a bulbous body and a nice flared rim. The rim reminds me of some of the work that I myself have done, and it is interesting: unconsciously, I chose to make this kind of shoulder without having seen this particular piece.

I believe that this pot may have been made by my great-grandmother. Her Christian name was Perfilia Anaya Pena, and she potted probably from 1865/70 until maybe the 1930s. She had other pieces in her home, which I did not get to see because I was born in May 1949 and she passed away by August of that year. My mother and her older sisters, who grew up when my great-grandmother was still making pottery, said she had large storage jars in which she kept food.

From what my mother and my aunts said, in my great-grandmother’s house there were four large storage jars that sat on the floor next to an area where there were some grinding stones. In some of the storage jars was dried wild spinach. The way my mom described it, they would go and harvest the wild spinach when it was ready. They would blanch the spinach and shape it into little cakes, which were then air-dried. When they were completely dry, the spinach cakes were stacked inside the large storage jars. And that is why this jar reminds me of my great-grandmother. I cannot be absolutely certain, but I think she could easily have made this piece.

Generosity

I have loved pottery since I was a child, and this piece takes me back to that time. We lived across the road from my aunt Quah Povi, who was the eldest daughter of my great-grandmother Perfilia. I remember going to her house to help her because she lived by herself. I noticed that there were always pots on the stove—cooking pots and serving bowls. I remember that she gave me a very small plate, which I kept for the longest time. At my mom’s house we had a buffet that belonged to my paternal grandmother, and I had my little plate on display there.

I remember that interest in pottery—loving it and considering it to be so beautiful, never imagining that I myself would one day be making pots. It never occurred to me that this is something I would be doing. I was born in 1949, and by the time I was ten years old there was essentially no pottery-making going on in Nanbé Owingeh, as far as I was aware. The decline of pottery-making and of other aspects of our culture has been heavily influenced by US government policies and by Western culture in general.

When we create work, it gives us joy while we are making it. But, in reality, we are creating it for someone else, although we do not yet know who. It feels good when a pot meets the person it is meant to be with. Sometimes a pot does not find that person right away—it may take a while for that person to come along—but I always tell each pot as I am making it, “I’m making you into beauty, and wherever you go, I want you to bless that home and take care of the people there. Bring good things to them. I’m making you not to give you away, but someday someone’s going to come, and they’re going to want you.” In truth, I made the pot for that person. I did not know it, and neither did they.

Pottery-making is so important and valuable. The knowledge of sacred materials that is passed down between generations in the village is essential, as is the sacredness of the materials. At the beginning of the process, we say a prayer and ask for permission to take the materials. In fact, the entire process of pottery-making is a prayer in action.

Rainbow Bands

This interesting and unusual water jar with three defined rainbow bands was created by my great-grandmother Serafina Gutierrez Tafoya, probably in the period 1890–1900. Water jars were used daily to transport water from the stream in Santa Clara Pueblo and to store it in the home. My grandmother Margaret Tafoya told me that they had several water jars in their home when she was growing up: two to hold water during the day, and two for evening storage

Rainbow bands were often built into water jars as a prayer to protect the water and to arrest evaporation.

Serafina had to be very careful in shaping this piece because the wall of the jar is relatively thin. Thin-walled vessels allow very little leeway to correct the shaping of a piece by scraping or sanding. Creating such a jar must have taken great faith and courage. The fact that I have seen only three pieces with multiple rainbow bands attests to the great difficulty in successfully making, burnishing, and firing these vessels.

Holding this piece, I realized that I would be able to pour water from it without the jar slipping from my hands. My fingers fitted easily around the rainbow bands.

I have examined this jar carefully and have determined that it was actually used, unlike more modern pottery made to sell to traders and tourists in the early 1900s. Looking inside, I saw small-scale residue that water had left from usage. There is an area at the inside bottom of the jar where either a seepage crack or thin section had developed. Hot pine pitch had been applied to repair this problem. Examining the outside bottom of the jar, I located minor spalling, a condition known to occur when water has saturated the walls of pottery fired at a low temperature. Because of this spalling and the uniqueness of the multiple rainbow bands, I believe that this jar was made to be used either on special occasions or for ceremonial events, or both.

As to dating this jar, we know that this piece was acquired in 1927, purchased from the Spanish and Indian Trading Company through the Indian Arts Fund. I believe that this jar was made before 1925. Its wall is thin compared to later work, and the composition of the clay mirrors that of clay used before 1925. We know that a landslide in the late 1920s covered the source of this clay in Santa Clara Pueblo. Potters had to move to a different area to find a clay vein that was suitable for making pottery. The new source was not as strong as the previous clay vein. This contributed to thicker- walled work and allowed the deeply incised carving of designs, beginning in the late 1920s.

As I held the jar and explored it, I wondered what my great-grandmother was thinking and experiencing in her life as she created this incredible piece. Today when we visit the pottery from her life’s work, we marvel at her skill, conceptual designs, engineering, and execution. I am humbled by her creations and her life. I am so very proud to be her great-grandson and part of a remarkably talented lineage.

Santana’s Style

This classic water jar was most probably created by Santana Tafoya Gutierrez in the early 1900s. Santana was born around 1860, and her sister-in-law Serafina Gutierrez Tafoya was born in 1863. These two women started the revolution of finely crafted and exquisitely burnished black pottery. Each potter can be identified by the shape of their water jars and by their own style of debossed bear paw and rainbow bands.

As I examined this jar closely, the first things I noticed were the weight and size. This is a very large jar, but not too large for daily use. The wall is thin, indicative of Santa Clara vessels made before 1925. The jar’s weight is about one-third of that of a comparable-sized piece made in modern times. The base is concave, possibly to allow the jar to be carried on one’s head, and this certainly adds to the strength of the vessel. From the bottom of the jar, the outer wall curves in and then out to the shoulder. This allows the user to hold the jar easily.

The shoulder comes into the neck at a substantial distance from the outer diameter of the vessel. This is very difficult to achieve. A potter must wait and time the addition of coils of clay, and stretch and shape them as the clay firms up. Too much clay or too much stretching, and the shoulder collapses. There is also a light depression of the end of the shoulder before transferring to the neck. These are hallmarks of Santana’s style.

Traveling up the neck, we see a gentle curvature, flaring out wide to the rim. Santana added three bear paws, a tribute to the bear that led the tribes to water in a time of drought. On the inside of the neck, you can see and feel the protrusion of the clay where the bear paws were debossed from the outside. Most modern potters carve out their bear paws rather than push them into the clay. Santana set hers with a slight roundness at the bottom and made the fingers very long. Along the edge of the rim, we see very small indentations. These are raindrops, a prayer to keep the water sweet and drinkable. The inside of the jar has been burnished from the rim down to the beginning of the neck.

Each potter has a distinct way of stone-burnishing their pottery. The stone marks on this piece duplicate the marks found on other known Santana pottery. While no one can determine if a potter made a particular piece without having a signature as evidence or without having actually been in attendance while the pot was made, I feel confident that this jar was made by Santana.

On occasion, my grandmother Margaret Tafoya shared stories with me about her mother, Serafina, and Aunt Santana. From these stories I learned that they were both loved, revered, and appreciated by Margaret. They each made an impact on Margaret’s life and career as a potter. This can be seen in the subtle influences of shape and finish in Margaret’s pottery.

Where the Water Cuts Through

Pajarito Plateau, the ancestral homeland of many Pueblo communities, is situated along the western slopes of the Jemez Mountains in north-central New Mexico. The mesas and canyons of soft tuff (rock composed of volcanic ash) that comprise the plateau are younger, in stratigraphic terms, than the much harder igneous basalt formations over which they lie.

A cap of river gravels atop the basalt mesa known as Tunyo, north of San Ildefonso Pueblo, has been interpreted to be the remnant of an ancient lake bed that encompassed much of the Española and Pojoaque Basins, where the Pueblos of Santa Clara and San Ildefonso are now located. South of San Ildefonso, at the historic Otowi Bridge across the Rio Grande, and at the mouth of what is now known as White Rock Canyon, this lake is presumed to have been naturally dammed by hard basalt formations geologically similar to those at Tunyo. Over time, the dam was weakened by the mounting pressure of the lake, and eventually water cut through, creating the steep walls of the canyons south of San Ildefonso Pueblo.

Since that geological event millennia ago, the water of the ancient lake has settled, found its path, and helped shape the nature of the Rio Grande in this region. In more recent times, the people of San Ildefonso came to inhabit the Pajarito Plateau and eventually the valley that was created. Before San Ildefonso Pueblo was inhabited, our ancestors resided in a village named Perage, directly west of the Pueblo. The Rio Grande waters cut through the contemporary villages of San Ildefonso and Perage.

Many Pueblos today are known by the names imposed on them by early Spanish settlers in the Pueblo world. For example, the colonial name San Ildefonso Pueblo derives from the name of the seventh-century archbishop of Toledo, Ildephonsus. The term Pueblo (Spanish for “village” or “small town”) has itself become a universally accepted way to identify the Indigenous inhabitants of the North American Southwest. However, all Pueblos have a unique name for their respective communities in their own Indigenous languages—names that differ from those assigned to them by settlers. For Tewa of San Ildefonso, our community is, and always will be, P’o Woe-geh Owingeh: “Village Where the Water Cuts Through.”

Just as Pueblos are given names by outsiders, so too are Pueblo pottery pieces. Designations given to Pueblo pottery by outsiders, primarily by American anthropologists, are vague referents to regional or stylistic patterns observed in the material record, and do not usually reflect the nature of the pottery they claim to represent. Nonetheless, in the case of this beautiful ceramic, the designated name is an appropriate descriptor because the vessel is representative of the place and people of P’o Woe-geh Owingeh.

Pottery’s Burden

The material culture of Pueblo people resides in the basements and exhibit cases of museums and institutions aroud the world. Pottery made by Ancestral Pueblo people makes up a significant portion of many collections. There are many reasons for this, but, inarguably, Pueblo pottery is one of the more physically durable forms of Pueblo material culture. It is more durable, for example, than a yucca basket, a woven cotton sash, or an ear of corn. Even if it has been broken, a piece of pottery retains its meaning or significance long after it has outlived its original intended purpose. 

While pottery holds an important place in the lives of Pueblo people, its ubiquity has led some to wholly equate pottery with people. For better or worse, Pueblo pottery has become synonymous with Pueblo people. Anthropology, perhaps more than any other discipline, has perpetuated the idea that equates pottery types with cultures. Collectors, curators, students, and archaeologists also turn frequently to Pueblo pottery to learn something about Pueblo culture and people, but more often they do so to admire the craft and form of the pottery itself. Collections of Pueblo people’s material culture in institutions worldwide have much to tell; Ancestral Pueblo pottery, as one of the most abundant forms of Pueblo material culture, is expected to do much of that telling. This is the burden that Pueblo pottery carries.

This polished red, cream-slipped, finely painted, shallow bowl was broadly described by anthropologists nearly a century ago as a type of “Ancestral Pueblo pottery” — “Tewa polychrome,” a convenient term created by, and for, American anthropologists. While we are certain that Tewa people created and used this bowl, the descriptor, “Tewa polychrome” has made American anthropologists comfortable making a number of assumptions about Tewa life that may not be in line with Tewa people’s ancestral knowledge.

It is important to remember that objects like this bowl are given voice through interpretive and experiential bias. If anthropology were to extend that view to the whole of Pueblo material culture, we might begin to see Pueblo pottery as being much more than the sum of its physical patterns. When understood through the agency of Pueblo people, pottery reveals the spirit of Pueblo people themselves.

Isleta Bowl

I waited patiently, hidden in the folds of our mother, listening to the winds as they swept through the arroyo, carrying prayers, voices, and grains of earth to many places. With every sunrise, the voices got louder and I could feel the change in climate. The day finally arrived when the sacred water unearthed my being. Like a sleeping frog tucked carefully in the earth until the scent and touch of moisture soften the soil, I continued to wait. The cooling breeze caused a tide of goosebumps as it gently caressed my body. At that very moment, I knew my ancestors were by my side. The years spent in Mother Earth gave me a chance to collect my thoughts, write my song, and embrace the opportunity to carry out my path.

Along an arroyo near Ohkay Owingeh, I was able to attract the attention of a passerby, who greeted me with much excitement and amazement. These human hands took me to their home. That evening I was given a new resting place. My finder spoke eagerly to others I could not see but could hear in the distance. In the days that followed, he examined my body, gently tapping my rim, holding me up to the light; inch by inch, he documented my character. I did not know what he was in search of, because the voice and words were foreign. Encouraged by his curiosity, I gleamed and showcased all my natural features to ensure that he would notice the beauty within me and the people of which I was a part. With every angle and observation, I could feel his excitement growing.

My finder, knowledgeable about New Mexico landscapes, flipped through sheets of paper and looked at photographs of relatives near and far until, finally, and with much exhilaration, he understood my origins. I was glad that my color, shape, design, and composition reunited me with my Isleta family. Contemplation began: how did I travel, who took me, what was my purpose? We are made from the earth and shaped by the skills and teachings of our ancestors. We have prayers embedded in our being that give us strength to go forward. I am a reminder, a reflection, a representation of a beautiful people whose landscape has been changed by many encounters over the years; whose will, skill, and determination have been tested by many outside influences and obstacles forced upon our path. Many wished we would cease to exist, but these outside influences were not aware that our bodies have the breath of our ancestors, and that their prayers and everlasting seeds give us strength to continue.

Our journey teaches us to be patient, that we must rest and let time travel, but when we emerge, we go forward with enthusiasm, grace, and focus. Today, I join my clay brothers and sisters gathered to reflect on our journey, share our song, and sow seeds of hope and encouragement for all those who encounter us. Our pottery voices remain resilient and continue to be heard.

Tenacity

Pottery is an unspoken voice that tells of the maker, of tenacity, of ceremony, and of the prayers of the family to which it belongs. Molded and shaped by a pair of graceful hands, you were given life. We do not know your journey, so we can only speculate about the stops and visits made along the way. Perhaps you were given life for ceremonial use or to sit on the feast table among family, guests, or royalty. Perhaps you were traded for necessities and traveled many miles to an unknown land, where you sat quietly on a shelf and listened to voices discussing the world. Whatever journey or path lay before you, the Creator protected you and allowed you to represent the people who gave you life, those who mixed your clay and water and shaped you with a purpose.

The people who gave you life took grains of Mother Earth and embedded prayers, thoughts, and traditions as the clay was prepared. You were skillfully shaped and planned for the road that followed. The prayers of Juana Ortega Munoz were strong and resilient; a piece of her became a part of you. You were given breath, set to fire, and became a beautiful symbol, a representation, a being ready to fulfill your destiny. 

Your story is not visible to the naked eye but speaks from the inner soul and connects to the traditional way of life. It stems from a common heartbeat, drumbeat, chant, voice, dance, ceremony, and custom that make us a Pueblo family. We were victims of war¹, separated by necessity, not desire. Our families talk about and remember this separation. This was a difficult time in our collective past. You were given life in our traditional place—a place we call home, filled with teachings and customs that only we know and enjoy. In the distance we can hear our fellow Pueblo family members, connected by common beliefs, landscape, and the majestic Rio Grande.

Today you join your Pueblo siblings and chatter about one another’s journey, comparing the places and voices you encountered along the way, and reminding those who see and enjoy your beauty of the roads you traveled. You continue to serve as a voice for the people who made you. As you enjoy this breath of fresh air and listen to those who speak of you, you remain a physical reminder of the importance of balance, origin, and place.

Your legacy continues, and the journey of your people is told using different hands in a different setting but with a continued belief in practice and prayer. Of the earth we are all made and will continue living. Your natural beauty perseveres and speaks to those who pay attention and study your surface, research your origins, and speculate about the journeys you alone have experienced. Your presence is deeply respected, and your story is heard. You are one, but speak for thousands of ancestors who lent strength during the journey.

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¹ The Pueblo Revolt of 1680 was a difficult period in Pueblo history. It was a revolt of resistance and cultural preservation, one that left a transformative mark in our history. The revolt was necessary because our way of life had become disrupted and threatened.

The Acceptance of Paradise

I am from the Acoma Pueblo of New Mexico, where the art of making pottery has developed across the centuries to become, for some people, a viable livelihood, and it continues to be a source of inspiration for a diverse range of art forms, including my own work in fashion design. I tried my hand at throwing clay at an early age. I was often told that the connection we all have to the clay is what binds us to the earth.

Pottery has been a part of my family for years, my earliest recollection being that of my grandmother and her friends forming small pots and animal figurines. I also saw my mother transform clay into little pots and animals, but most often I saw her painting more conventional/modern or poured ceramic pots and figurines. I have always considered our pottery to be like fine china, with thin wall construction and intricate, fine-line geometric design details. These characteristics distinguish Acoma pottery from that of neighboring Pueblos. What really stands out for me in all our pottery, both ancestral and modern, is the bond to the maker. As I look at a piece, I often wonder, what was the story here? What were the thoughts or prayers that went into this vessel? Did the maker realize that their legacy would live on with our people today?

The iconic parrot design has always been of interest to me, and it is the reason I am drawn to this pot. I am fascinated by the symbols of life associated with the parrot and by the many stories featuring the bird told by Acoma people. In my lifetime, I have learned several such stories from our elders. My grandfather told me that parrots migrated this far north from their southern homelands. Others say that parrots were brought through Spanish trade routes and were traded with the Pueblos so that their colorful feathers could be used for dance regalia and other adornments. My favorite story about the parrot and its association with Acoma is that of a group of women who returned to the Pueblo. They were descendants of families who had been taken from Acoma by Spanish conquistadors. The women returned knowing very little Keres, but knew enough to communicate with the elders of the village. They came back with parrots in their possession and took care of them. The women could not be identified and had no relatives to return to, so the elders assigned them a new clan: the Parrot Clan. The parrot shown here could have originated from any of these stories, its depiction with flowers and vegetation being either the recollection of the women who returned to the Pueblo or an observation of the bird among plants growing abundantly after monsoon rains.

Remembering Forward

Some of my earliest memories of Pueblo pottery date from when I was a child. My babysitter’s mother was an elder in our community who made Pueblo rain god figurines. Her name was Ignacia Duran, and she was quite famous for her pottery and leadership in our small Pueblo community. I remember times when the other kids and I would sit and watch her form the clay while she told us stories about our people and our village. I recall warm summer days when we would find clay or mica in the hills and mountains near our Pueblo, and if I really tune into these memories, I can remember the smell of the room where she made her rain gods and other pottery. It smelled like a mixture of sagebrush and petrichor, the scent of water on earth.

Similarly, when I think of Avanyu or see imagery of this respected spirit (who represents water, lightning, and celestial forces), memories rush back of growing up in my Pueblo. I think of the ways my people are connected to water and the forces of nature—how we hold dances to summon rain, and how, on those occasions, Avanyu is painted on the skirts of the men dancing. I think of how we work together to clear the acequias (irrigation channels) so that the water flows freely, to make way for abundance in our fields and on our farms.

These two pottery pieces bring these memories immediately to mind and connect me very viscerally to them. These are memories that give me strength and are a source of grounding in my work as an organizer and documentary filmmaker for climate justice and Indigenous rights, two issues that I believe are inherently interconnected and interdependent. Furthermore, these memories—of my elders working with clay as we children looked on, of my people dancing to call in rain, of gathering glittering mica from the earth—are among the main reasons why I do what I do in my career. Ultimately, my motive in my work is to protect the cultural ways of life that make up our identity as Pueblo people.

These pieces also bring up questions for me about our relationship not just with our beloved earth, but also with Avanyu and other spirits who are guardians of the land and water. When I hold and am present with each of these pieces, I wonder—when it comes to climate change, drought, and flooding—what lessons are ahead as we face great uncertainty about the seasons and the weather. How long will we be able to continue working with clay? Do our rain gods, who evoke joy, and Avanyu, who urges us to show reverence, have something to teach us during this time? Is the call to action simply one to connect more with our precious clay while we still can?

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Inspired by my brother, Ona

When I first saw this huge dough bowl, broken and missing a large piece, I felt sorry for it somehow, thinking nobody would give it a second glance for this project. I chose it because I realized its true importance. It is in a museum collection for a reason: it is precious, it is gorgeous, it is valuable, it is purposeful, and it has something to teach us, even though it is “broken”.

Immediately, this bowl made me think of my only brother, Ona Roy Bernal.  You see, through a mosquito bite, Ona contracted West Nile virus in 2019 and then developed encephalitis. He was a healthy man before the virus, but then became “broken”.

For nine months, Ona was incapacitated, bedbound, unable to breathe on his own or even talk, but he was of sound mind. Like this “broken” bowl, my brother was still whole, valuable, and precious, with much to teach me and my family. I wanted everyone to know his value and not give up on him, even though he was in a similar state to this pottery bowl.  Before and throughout his illness and all of the awfulness, he was always kind, considerate of others, brave, and purposeful, with the sweetest heart.

This pottery bowl has its imperfections, as do we; who among us is perfect? No one is perfect, just as no pottery is perfect. We are created from the same earth as the clay from which this bowl was made. We are almost the same.

Much like well-made pieces of pottery, we human beings are strong yet so fragile, susceptible to cracks, accidents, and breaks through no fault of anyone. As in the case of Ona, one never knows what life’s course will bring. It is what we do with these “breaks” that makes us who we are. Throughout his illness until his passing, Ona inspired us with his bravery and spiritual strength.

Always remember Ona and this pottery bowl. No matter what we have gone through in our lives, we are all still valuable. Still whole. Still worthy. Still beautiful. Still important. Still wanted. Still precious. Still needed. Still loved. Still functional. Still cherished.

Although this pottery bowl and Ona might both have been viewed as damaged, they are more beautiful for having been “broken.”

Childhood Memories

Childhood memories take us back to a simpler time, when all that mattered was getting up early for Saturday-morning cartoons, sleepovers at friends’ houses, bike rides with my brother, Ona, and looking for potsherds after the rain on a summer afternoon. These are just some of the good memories I have of my childhood. I chose this piece of pottery because, when I look at it, it takes me back in many ways. I guess you could say it speaks to me.

I cannot help but speculate about the person who made this vessel. In a field near our family home, my sister Camille found a potsherd with a triangular pattern identical to that on the piece I chose. It makes me wonder, who was this person? Were they related to me? What struggles did they have?

Coincidentally, this pot is from Arroyo Seco, right in the area where I grew up, near Taos, New Mexico. It evokes not just good memories, but also sorrow because it makes me think of my family: my father, Roy; my brother, Ona; and my paternal grandparents, Louis and Marie Bernal, from Taos Pueblo, all of whom have passed away. I miss them so much.

When you are a child, your innocent young mind believes that things will always stay the same. As I have grown older, I have come to acknowledge that time brings change, and the sad reality of this life is that change is not always for the better. Having learned this lesson, I appreciate my family, my heritage, and where I come from so much more. 

Even though I associate this piece with some sadness, it still reminds me of the happy times of my childhood. At the same time, I look to the future for comfort, especially when I am feeling low. My beliefs, rooted in the Bible (Revelation 21:4), offer consolation that we can look forward to seeing our departed loved ones again here on Earth. I look forward to seeing my dad, brother, and grandparents; to meeting my ancestors and talking with them; to finding out answers to many of my questions. Perhaps one day I will even meet the person who made this piece and tell them how their beautiful pottery stirred up many emotions and memories that touched my heart!

The World is Her Vessel

Jeralyn Lucero is a member of  my extended family. Her parents, along with my grandparents, were relocation participants who were moved to Los Angeles from Taos Pueblo in the 1950s.¹ Our two families spent a lot of time together when she was young. When she was thirteen, Jeralyn’s family moved back to Taos Pueblo, while my family continued to live in Los Angeles. She later married a traditional man from Taos Pueblo and had three children, who are now young adults. She is an amazing artist who uses several media to create beautiful artworks that she sells in her shop on the southern side of the Pueblo. Her micaceous clay work is unique and mostly female forms: Taos Pueblo women with full bodies and expressive faces, often sitting or lounging self-assuredly as if to say, notice me, take in my beauty.

This piece embodies the spirit of Taos Pueblo women—striking, traditional, grounded, outspoken, and a tad irreverent. I was saddened to see it sitting in a collection because I felt that this woman, like Jeralyn’s energetic and industrious spirit, wants to escape the confines of an institution. She is restless and wants to see and do things, to bear witness to all that is happening in her village and the world! The figure reminds me of Jeralyn herself, someone very devoted to her family, traditional life, and successful shop in Taos Pueblo, but if you get her talking, she will regale you with stories of growing up in LA and of how much she loved city life and its adventures.

The detail in this piece, from the designs on the dress to the turquoise accents, brings to mind the meticulousness of Taos women when it comes to the details in their traditional dress and adornments. They like to dress to the nines for ceremony, and their confident attitude demonstrates how much pride they have in where they come from. It is as if they know what they have and are not afraid to show it. Being a Taos woman certainly gives me a healthy dose of confidence, and I see that same sentiment in this woman. Something tells me she and her pot will relish the opportunity to be appreciated by a larger audience and to experience time away from the collection.

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¹ The Indian Relocation Act of 1956 (Public Law 959) encouraged Native Americans to leave their traditional lands and reservations, and to assimilate into the general population by moving to and working in such urban areas as Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Minneapolis.

A Corn Mother’s Journey

Juanita Fragua, from Jemez Pueblo, is a member of my extended family, and is one of several Pueblo potters credited with the Jemez pottery revival or renaissance. Her artistry is an exquisite testament to the evolution of Pueblo pottery as an art form. This piece exudes grace and refinement, much like the Jemez Pueblo women, who take great pride in their femininity, whether demonstrated in their ceremonial attire or simply in their cooking the delicious stews and “Jemez enchiladas” for which they are known. The sheer amount of work involved in producing the pot is something to be commended. Its sensual curves are feminine and inviting. The corn motifs, ripe with pollen, allude to fecundity and regeneration, while the butterfly is an international symbol of radical transformation.

This piece is absolutely sexy! It calls to mind the power of the matriarch, the ever-evolving stages of our lives as mothers and caretakers. It also reminds me of the sassy Jemez women and their easy comfort with their sexuality—something not often spoken about in direct terms, but felt nonetheless.

As for Aunt Juanita, I know that she moved with her husband, Manuel Fragua, to San Francisco in the 1950s, during the federal Indian relocation era, when Native people were recruited to work in urban blue-collar industries. Many Jemez people participated in “relocation,” which was in actuality an assimilation policy under the guise of economic opportunity. Juanita had several children there before eventually returning with her family to Jemez, where she lives to this day, directly across the road from my family’s home. In my view, her work also reflects some of the city aesthetics she absorbed while living in California—clean lines and lots of shine!

My grandparents were also relocation participants in California. I grew up mostly in California, but moved to New Mexico for college. I was in my early twenties when I started actively connecting with my Pueblo roots. Eventually I moved to Jemez and, when the time came to participate in traditional corn dances, Aunt Juanita was always there, offering her gentle guidance. Sometimes she helped me get ready for the dances, and at other times she lent me jewelry or dresses. Her generation’s knowledge of Jemez culture is something I can only imagine. These are the true matriarchs! I am grateful to her for taking the time to guide me as I entered the traditional realm. That was quite some time ago, and I am now guiding my own daughter and goddaughter through traditional participation.

Pindii Among the Clouds

The moment I saw this jar, I smiled. I saw what the painter observed all those years ago. 

As soon as our ancestors utilized the gift of clay to shape vessels for water, cooking, and storage, they began to incorporate elements of the world around them. Their world can be seen in the materials they used, the shapes they formed, and, later, in what they painted on the clay. This jar is a great example of the Pueblo Indian aesthetic. It is an aesthetic not confined to art, since “art” was only a part of making and being. The beauty created in clay is as imperfect as we are, but soars with meaning and purpose. This jar shows proudly its age and the marks of a long life. The scratches and loss of slip affront modern aesthetics, yet the jar’s real beauty remains undiminished. Abstract and representational designs live next to one another, creating multiple layers of meaning. Among ancient patterns of water and life...the turkeys dance.

Pindii¹ have lived with us for many centuries. They are an important part of our history and culture. Their feathers, meat, and bones are used to sustain our bodies and spirit. They inspired the tale of Turkey Girl, a Pueblo Cinderella story in which they tolerate their “irksome captivity.” They are wise and nurturing and, although large, are capable of hurling themselves into the air (their modern domesticated relatives notwithstanding). These magnificent birds, considered ugly by some, are actually creatures of great beauty. They stomp, dance, strut, and sometimes fight, just as we lowly humans do. Although they are aloft on this jar, they keep us grounded. The painter deemed these dancing/fighting/flying pindii worthy of painting, to show that they are a special part of our world and forever should be.

The potters of the past speak to us now and into the future. They give us a glimpse of their world and how they lived in it. They have passed on the knowledge, meaning, and responsibility of creating culture in clay. We must retain this practice because it is more than art; it is an integral part of who we are as Pueblo people. We must create so that our descendants can see who we were, just as we look back to those who made these pots. Just as we are doing now by looking at these ancestral works, future generations will be able to see what was important to us. Through humble elements of the earth, gifts of the Clay Mother, we are connected. We, our ancestors, and our descendants share our culture, the plants and animals we live with, what we sanctify, what we see in the sky and stars, and what makes us smile.

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¹ Tewa for turkey

Pottery as Memory

This olla, a fine example of stone-polished blackware, is not extraordinary or signed. Yet for me it evokes people and places from bygone days.

My journey with clay is unusual because my three siblings and I initially grew up away from Santa Clara, and were not around many other potters and local sources of clay and paint. My first memories of pottery are of my parents making small bowls and figurines in our house in Denver. They would sell most of their work at a place called Orly’s. Over time, we were allowed to work the clay, and made little figures and models such as snakes and canoes. On school field trips to the Denver Museum of Natural History, I would show my teachers and classmates pottery jars made by my grandma.

Frances Mirabal Chavarria, my maternal grandmother, was from Nambé and moved to Santa Clara when she married my grandpa Antonio. She taught all her children and many others how to make pottery. “One day you might need to make a living from it,” she would say, as she talked about how we and clay are both of the earth. For most of her life she made pottery, from jars to salt-and-pepper shakers. 

When I was the inaugural Harvey W. Branigar Jr. intern at SAR’s Indian Arts Research Center, I had the opportunity to work with Daryl Candelaria, a potter from San Felipe and currently the Pueblo’s tribal administrator. As artist coordinator, he would bring in groups of potters to visit the collection and have lunch, usually at Furr’s, a cafeteria popular with Pueblo families. I helped set up a visit from Santa Clara. It was a great day; my grandma and more than a dozen other people visited. Everyone was excited to see the works from our village and beyond. My grandma was especially pleased to see pottery made at Nambé from the time she was born to the present day.

At one point, I asked my grandma if she wanted a notebook to sketch any designs or shapes. She said she did not need one because her notebook was in her head. As we looked at a large polychrome olla, she told me that her family had one like it when she was a girl, but it broke when her younger sister Julia was playing inside it. I think of that story every time I see large Pueblo pots displayed grandiosely, and imagine their earlier lives as part of a family.

This jar reminds me of my grandma and all the other grandmas who have left testaments of their lives and generous spirits. Clay Mother smiled upon them and encourages us to follow their example. My grandma’s favorite underdress, a garment worn under the manta, was a vintage handmade white dress with slightly flared sleeves and a high-necked, gently ruffled collar. I see the collar and high neck in this jar, in the way its rim flares out. I see my grandma in the beauty from the earth.

Veronica C. Cruz

My great-great-aunt Veronica C. Cruz was a potter and tribal member of Ohkay Owingeh, formerly known as San Juan Pueblo. Ohkay Owingeh is located 28 miles (45 km) north of Santa Fe, New Mexico, along the Rio Grande, and is one of the Eight Northern Pueblos (the others being Taos, Picuris, Santa Clara, San Ildefonso, Nambe, Pojoaque, and Tesuque).

Known as Potsuwi’i incised, Veronica’s pottery style is one that was revived from archaeological Tewa pottery in the late 1930s by Regina Cata.¹ Her pot was made from harvested Tewa clay, and the red and micaceous slips were gathered from two different unknown areas. 

As a potter myself, I can relate to the process of creating this pot and the time taken. I imagine Veronica preparing the clay, smelling its damp, sweet, earthy aroma, like the ground after a rain shower. For my own pottery-making, I leave home early in the morning to gather my clays and slips. I wonder who else I might see at the sites where I gather the material. At the same time, I remember those before me who may also have traveled there. I give thanks to the Creator for the material and ask for her guidance in the creation process. 

Veronica’s Potsuwi’i incised pot connects me to my own style of Potsuwi’i incising, which involves using horizontal, diagonal, and vertical lines to create geometric designs. Most Potsuwi’i incising is done on the shoulder of a pot, although sometimes incisions are made on the midsection. This allows the potter to slip and polish above and below the incised design, and the incisions can then be painted with micaceous slip or left untouched. Like Veronica, I tend to do both. 

The final step in creation is the emergence, the “birth” of the pot as it comes through the ring of fire. This is the moment when Veronica would have taken a breath of life inward, welcomed and given thanks to Pin Kwiyo (Clay Woman), and acknowledged all the elements involved. Like all potters, I also feel the warmth she must have felt from a successful firing.  We too are of the elements of creation.  

As I hold and give my breath into the center of Veronica’s pot, I thank her and those before her for preserving Pueblo pottery-making at Ohkay Owingeh. 

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¹ Regina was married to Eulogio Cata, who was Governor of San Juan Pueblo at that time. She organized a group of potters from Ohkay Owingeh consisting of the following: Luteria Atencio, Crucita Cruz, Gregorita Cruz, Tomasita Montoya, Crucita Atencio Talachy, Crucita Trujillo, and Reycita Trujillo. Montoya (1899-1978) was the last surviving potter from the original group.

Gregorita Cruz: Survival and Revival of Traditional Pottery-Making

This vessel was created by my great-grandmother Gregorita Cruz, and was accessioned into the SAR collection in 1940. It is a jar created from clays gathered locally from Ohkay Owingeh, predominately a tan clay paste, with a polished red slip. When polished smooth, the slip, which can be thought of as a paint, turns from a matte red to a glossy darker red. The bumps around the widest part of the jar were a common feature of Ohkay Owingeh pots of the early twentieth century, but are little seen on vessels made today. More often than not, such pots were designed for the burgeoning art market.

Gregorita was one of several women at Ohkay Owingeh who were instrumental in reviving traditional pottery-making at the Pueblo after the practice had dramatically declined and was under threat of disappearing altogether. The arrival of the Santa Fe Railway in the late nineteenth century introduced a range of American manufactured goods—among them cast-iron, steel, and enameled pots and skillets, and porcelain dinnerware—that soon replaced pottery. The work of such potters as Gregorita bridged the gap between traditional Pueblo utilitarian pottery and the fine art market, and, in so doing, ensured the continuation of pottery-making at Ohkay Owingeh. That is what makes this piece special to me. Not only is it one of my great-grandmother’s pots, but also it represents a pivotal time in Pueblo pottery-making, before the modern fine art boom.

As I said, this pot has significance for me because it was created by my great-grandmother. I do not even have a picture of her, but my father remembers her making pottery, including large storage jars. He recalls her wrapping her belt around those large pots when they were still soft in order to give them support as she was building them up, so that they would keep their shape and not collapse.

I have some of Gregorita’s pottery-making tools, including Popsicle sticks and aluminum scrapers cut out of cola cans. Today potters can go to a clay store to buy tools for making pottery, but in her day people had to improvise. They had to make their own tools, and, by so doing, potters such as my great-grandmother were able to create beautiful pots. She also used traditional scrapers made from gourd, collected sandstone for sanding the pots smooth, and saved small stones for polishing. Those tools of hers are among my most prized possessions.

I have made pots using Gregorita’s polishing stones, and I feel a close-lived family connection to her in ways that photographs and other mementos could never provide. My great-grandmother passed away in the early 1960s, long before I was born. Still, to this day when I visit a museum that has old Ohkay Owingeh pottery on display, I keep a lookout just in case I am lucky enough to come across something beautiful that she made.

Leonidas Tapia: Tradition as Art

Created by Leonidas Tapia and accessioned into the SAR collection in 1970, this small bowl represents different Tewa pottery traditions in a single vessel. It was made using clays local to Ohkay Owingeh. Tapia left the wall of the vessel thick intentionally, and, while the clay was still soft and damp, carved and scraped it so as to create a textured surface. She then accentuated the three-dimensional effect by painting and outlining the carved designs. This heavily carved technique was a common Ohkay Owingeh practice, and here combines both polychrome and mica traditions.

“Polychrome” means that the pottery surface was painted with multiple clay colors. Tapia used the same tan clay to build her pot and to create a matte tan-colored slip. A slip is essentially a clay paint that is applied to the surface of the vessel. She also used red clay to create the matte red slip. This is the same red that, when polished, produces the glossy red pottery that is characteristic of Ohkay Owingeh. Tapia used white clay slip to outline carved areas and make them stand out.

Tapia took this common type of Ohkay Owingeh carved pottery a step further by introducing an additional color to the polychrome scheme. The addition of mica slip to parts of the surface creates a golden luster. Historically, the Tewa used micaceous clay to make utilitarian pottery, including cookware. However, by the time Tapia was creating her vessels, micaceous pottery was starting to emerge on the fine art scene as a recognized and accepted Pueblo ceramic art form.

Potters such as Tapia combined traditional clay materials, styles, and techniques in new ways. This bowl is full of contrasts, with its three-dimensional carved “canvas” displaying both polished and unpolished surfaces, and sparkly mica set off by areas of matte slip. This is a beautiful expression of Tewa art, blending tradition with artistic inspiration.

As someone who has made both San Juan red-on-tan and micaceous pottery, I appreciate the effort that went into creating this bowl, for a pot is not just a finished “thing” or a product you buy off a store shelf. It is also a process. From setting out into the landscape to gather materials; digging, then processing and kneading the clays; to forming them into coils; building them up to create the wall of a vessel; scraping and sanding them; and applying and polishing slips, it is a spiritual effort akin to creating new life. You experience anxiety when firing a pot, hoping that all your efforts, your time, your creative ability, all of yourself that you have invested into this clay being, will come to fruition, and that it will survive the firing and from it will be born something of beauty.

Pueblo Pardo Jar

What attracts us to a piece of pottery? What speaks to us? Is it the style, the shape, the painted designs, or is it something ancestral within us? 

I agonized over how to start, where to start, this, the writing part of the project. I had a dream in which I completed the text, only to wake up and realize that I had not written a word. The worst part was that I did not remember anything from the dream, until now.

In my dream, I was walking down the street and passed a candy shop. I decided to enter, but once I was inside, the store became the vaults of different museums I have visited. In these vaults were shelves filled with pottery, row upon row of pots, all displayed neatly, from ancestral to traditional and contemporary. I was the proverbial child in a candy shop, just wowed by the works of art. The talent, imagination, and motivation required to create these works still astonish and inspire me. This store became the doorway, the connection, to the present, past, and future.

For generations, our grandparents, indeed all those who came before us, have made offerings and said prayers as they walked worn paths, guided by previous knowledge, wisdom, and understanding of the clay, ash, and pigments. This knowledge has been passed down from one generation to the next, shared with those who wanted to learn.

Our ancestors learned which clay, ash, and pigments worked best; they made test pieces to ensure the correct consistency, seeing if the beeweed and other pigments would adhere. When firing the vessels, they wondered if the fire was hot enough as they waited for the pieces to be born.

On my third or fourth visit to SAR to make my selection for this project, one piece that I had not seen before spoke to me immediately. My eyes saw it for the first time, just sitting there, even though I had been to SAR on many previous occasions to gather inspiration and ideas. What drew me to this Pueblo Pardo jar was how understated it is.

What spoke to me in particular was the style, shape, and understated designs, as well as the jar’s origins in the Salinas Province area. I wondered what the motivation had been to shape and design the piece in this way.

When I picked up the jar, I felt its spirit, its energy, the ridges of fingertips as they formed the clay coils, attaching each coil to the previous one. As the potter worked and added new coils, they prayed, spoke with the piece, shaping it, giving it form, being guided by its spirit. The piece was waiting to be fired, waiting to be born.

Such is the wisdom and knowledge passed down from past generations to the present and to generations to come.

The Paragon of Arroh-a-och

As a potter and poet, I have been inspired by this immense olla made by Arroh-a-och. Arroh-a-och lived in the village of Paguate, New Mexico, where I reside as well. She was a Laguna Pueblo potter. I was curious to discover more about her and her pottery. The painted designs on the olla are clearly of Zuni Pueblo origin. Why would a Laguna Pueblo potter replicate Zuni designs unless the potter was part Zuni herself? It is probable that Arroh-a-och was of the Laguna Coyote Clan. The Laguna Coyote Clan is said to have come from Zuni Pueblo. This clan may have derived from a group of Zuni immigrants arriving at Laguna, or possibly a few Zuni Coyote Clan sisters married at Laguna. With no written record of their arrivals, this clan lineage is expressed only through Laguna orality. However, in all practical scenarios, I surmise that Arroh-a-och was of Laguna and Zuni Pueblo descent. 

When the collector Kenneth Chapman purchased the jar in 1928 from Locario Chavez, Chapman interviewed Locario and his father, John. Locario stated that the olla had been made for his grandmother. John Chavez, seventy years old at the time, remembered the jar from his childhood and said that he knew the potter. Chapman recorded her name as both Arroh-a-och and Oharoch. This is the only documented information about the jar and the potter.¹

There are no words or phrases that begin with an “oh” sound in the Laguna Keres language. This eliminates the name Oharoch. The closest words I found similar to Arroh-a-och are aruu-sa (rice) and ara-wagu (apricot). Sometimes the “a” sound, as in “father,” is heard as an “o” sound, as in “open,” or as a “u” sound, as in “flu.” Laguna Keres is a tonal language. If Chapman was tone-deaf, he would not have heard the subtlety of such whispered sounds as “sh” or “tra” in Laguna Keres. The spelling of Oharoch could be his misinterpretation of the name U-shraa-tra, meaning “sun.”

In any case, there are several ollas attributed to Arroh-a-och in museums across the country. I use the gender pronouns “she,” “her,” and “hers” when referring to Arroh-a-och. She was a two spirit. This is an alternative gender in various Native American cultures. At Laguna, a transgender female, or k’u-kwi-mu, wore women’s attire and performed tasks traditionally assumed by women, such as grinding corn and making pottery. K’u-kwi-mu is a compound word that translates as “woman-sister-brother,” from k’u (woman), a-kwi (the male term for “sister”), and dyu-mu (the male term for “brother”). In Laguna Keres, different terms are used for kinship relations based on one’s gender. The excellence of her work distinguishes Arroh-a-och as one of the most talented potters at Laguna Pueblo.

I decided to illustrate this masterpiece of Arroh-a-och by writing an ekphrastic poem of imagery and narrative—in other words, to show the action of the potter as she paints on her unfired clay canvas. My poem, “Flowers in the Deer’s House”, is an interpretation of real and imagined scenes that explore and amplify the meaning of design, theme, and creative process by transforming the visual into written and verbal form.

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Flowers in the Deer’s House 

Painted black line encircles damp earth olla,
opening a subtle path to skyward realms,
as cirrus clouds spiral nearby rainbows.

Light and shadow crosshatch distant rains.
Sound of shock waves slice like knives, 
thunder to arouse Tsits-shruwi.

The horned water serpent ribbons 
through winds of red leaves and feathers,
while rainbirds stream into dark caverns. 

Water streaks down a stalactite
as she applies a stroke of black paint
to the slipped white clay surface:

with curves, hooks and pointed beaks,
she bends willow to form a hoop.
A drumstick tied with yucca fiber. 

Sonic voice of water drum ripples,
fas buds of menodora and dalea
bloom on adobe floors and walls.

Outside the house of florescence,
burnished moonlight of ancient pursuit halos
night’s sky, when stellar trail glistens north.

Cosmic starflower guides her journey
to a trio of bucks standing silent,
in the deer’s home at winter solstice—

As she sketches the eyes of the deer,
she whispers a blessing of fortuity
to enhance her man’s chances of game.

From mouth to slender neck to mid-body, 
she paints reddish-brown line to an arrow- 
tipped heart above a belly of bay-ya.

She exhales as she exits the opening
of thoughts and prayers infused on clay:
prosperous hunt, abundant rain, long life.

Unfired masterpiece nestles in her lap.
She lays her yucca brush aside to rest 
and daydreams of her distant relatives—

Her fingers roll the silver pearl necklace
she wears night and day. A gift from her father
when her mother returned to Laguna.

In the days of horse and wagon trails,
a child from the Zuni Coyote Clan.
She treasures designs from her father’s kin.

Into the fired grand olla she pours
cascades of blue from bear-grass baskets.
Storing shelled corn for winter sustenance.

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¹ Dwight P. Lanmon, “Pueblo Man-Woman Potters and the Pottery Made by the Laguna Man-Woman, Arroh-a-och.” American Indian Art Magazine, vol. 31, no. 1, Winter 2005, pp.72-85.

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Rarest Form of Pueblo Pottery

A necessity for every Pueblo home was a large bowl for mixing dough to bake loaves in the outside bread house, or ba-kadrutyu. Imagine the wear these vessels endured as water was poured into them, batter stirred, and dough mixed. Earthenware is more vulnerable to breakage than stoneware and porcelain. This type of earthenware dough bowl would have been expendable during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and would have worn out after a few generations. A bowl was placed aside if it cracked, then ground into temper for additional pottery clay. Or the matriarch of a family could have requested that her dough bowl, as a cherished heirloom, be buried with her when she departed.

The vessel I chose to write about is a rare example, one that symbolizes perseverance. The first time I noticed the dough bowl was in the book Two Hundred Years of Historic Pueblo Pottery by Francis H. Harlow (1991). There, the vessel is identified as a Laguna polychrome dough bowl. Ever since then, I have been fascinated by the simplicity and boldness of its design, but until this project I did not have an opportunity to study the bowl in its entirety.

I have crossed paths with the dough bowl on four occasions. In the early 1990s, I often visited the bowl at a gallery in Santa Fe. It sold, changed owner, and was up for sale at another gallery, where I spotted it again. After it sold, I often wondered where it went. Then, in 2006, I walked into the Denver Public Library, and by chance I found my beloved treasure on display. At that point it was part of the Silverman Museum Collection. Fifteen years later, when I scanned through the Vilcek Foundation’s catalogue, I had no idea the dough bowl had become part of the Vilcek Collection. My eyes widened as I sensed the bowl calling out to me.

This pottery bowl was a delight to examine. As the pottery gravitated toward me and I toward it, I experienced a convergence of clay with the past and the present. It felt as if I had found a long-lost relative residing in New York, and we were reacquainted. I whispered a greeting in my Keres language and asked the spirit of the bowl to tell me more about itself. To the Pueblo people, their pottery vessels have lives as individual beings of creation.

I wrote an anaphoric poem based on the encounters I have had with the dough bowl. The stanzas explore the spirit of natural beauty and tenacity. I have personified the bowl in order to commemorate its longevity, as the pottery has blessed me with its presence and legacy.                             

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Convergence of Clay 

I see you in a pottery book with your maroon cactus petals.
I long to breathe your virtuosity then hold you in my palms.

I see you at Morning Star. Your vines curl in waves of faded beauty.
If I knew where you came from, I would take you there.

I see you in a headdress. Seven red-tipped feathers of sunrise 
and sunset. I adore your resilient design on vintage skin.

I see you at a gallery. Your seasoned interior of vermillion
and beige reveals a footprint from infinite recipe blends.

I see you at the Denver Library, sitting atop a bookshelf.
The elevated stance displays your symmetry like a regal crest.

I see your reflection in a pond as bees caress your honeycomb.
A flight of stairs ascends on your painted cloudblanket motif. 

I see you’re in another book of Pueblo treasures: the portrait
captures a glimpse of your durable longevity.

I don’t see you for over a decade, until I thumb through a file
of photos as your image entices my potter’s eye.

I know I’ll see you when I request your presence in Santa Fe.
Your flight from New York lands before the lockdown.

After a postponed year, I see your chafed mask of antiquity.
My hands embrace your rare and vigorous shape.

I see you don’t have a distinct spirit line. I’ll select a place
to cross your threshold of earthenware permanence.

I see your dough rising for the adobe bread oven. Your generous
tasks of stirring, mixing, and serving food for feast days and dances.

I see your matriarch blend blue corn mush for ma-dzini — piki bread.
Her fingers slide batter from your bowl onto a flat sandstone griddle.

I see her filling your deep bowl with apples from the orchard.
The last harvest you’ll see prior to leaving your birthplace.

I see you were a kitchen heirloom, lonesome for your home.
Amu’u dyuuni, Hitedâ shra-neesh dyáy-ya?
My compassio, pottery. Where have you been? 

Zuni wolaya sa’leh

I chose this piece because of the unique geometric design of the interior. Typical Zuni designs feature deer, rosettes, scrolls, and feather motifs. I feel the potter was inspired by lightning, and sought to replicate the way it streaks across the summer sky, bringing the blessings of rain for our crops. I noticed that the rim incorporates a black-and-white zigzag pattern, which may also represent lightning. The use of black and white in my culture represents the upper world. I have never before seen a stew bowl painted with a geometric lightning design. The red triangles on the rim may represent butterflies.

Note: Several months after selecting this piece, and before he could finish writing about it, Tim Edaakie was diagnosed with cancer; a few months later, he passed away. While his family is famous for its silverwork, Tim was drawn to making pottery, a skill he first learned from Gabriel Paloma at Zuni High School. Tim sought advice and traditional knowledge from other potters, including Randy Nahohai. His passion was to preserve ancient Zuni pottery techniques and designs, and he thoroughly researched each piece he created. He had participated in an archaeological dig in high school, and brought an expansive knowledge of the past to his pottery. By incorporating ground potsherds into his clay, Tim allowed ancient Zuni potters to contribute to every one of his pieces, and thus he connected the past with the present. Even though Tim’s road through life has now ended, his creative spirit continues to thrive through the art and pottery he left us. Perhaps one day another Zuni potter will continue Tim’s legacy by incorporating pieces of his pottery into their vessels. That would make him smile.

 – Craig Haneke and Patricia Crown | Friends of Tim

Nahohai Tribute Pot

I chose the Nahohai Tribute Pot because it honors Randy Nahohai, who was an inspiring potter for my people and me. People looked up to him and his family because, in the 1980s, when there were only five active potters and the Zuni pottery tradition was about to be lost, the Nahohai family revived the tradition. As a tribute to Randy and his work, I felt the need to honor him, because he was a mentor to me when I was just starting out.

When Randy passed in 2016, my former partner and I decided to make a Tribute Pot in collaboration with other Zuni potters. We approached Milford, Randy’s brother, with the idea of gathering Zuni potters to contribute to the piece. Milford was supportive of the idea, and selected the potters whose help he wanted in the pot’s creation. They were Randy’s son Jaycee Nahohai, Bobby Silas, Eileen Yatsattie, Noreen Simplicio, Anderson Peynetsa, and me.

Bobby built the olla using Zuni clay. After Bobby slipped the pot, Jaycee painted Randy’s favorite storm-cloud design on the neck and divided the body into four panels. Then we took the pot to the other potters Milford had chosen. Each was asked to use a favorite design of Randy’s that inspired them. Noreen chose his motif of a deer in its house, Anderson chose the whirlwind storm pattern, and Eileen painted Randy’s parrots onto the pot. I chose his abstract frog design overlaying a prehistoric Zuni design, because Randy and I are both members of the Frog Clan.

Each potter used their own red paint, which is why the red appears to be a different shade in each panel. The natural black paint was made by Bobby and was used by Noreen, Anderson, and me. Jaycee and Eileen used their own natural black paint, which fired a different shade of black.

We originally planned to gift this pot to Milford, but he suggested that the jar go to SAR for its permanent home. Randy, Milford, and their mother, Josephine, had all studied the IARC collection, so bringing the Tribute Pot back to the collection completed the circle. Because this pot is a part of me and the other potters, it is a lasting tribute to Randy, who continues to inspire me through his pottery skills and role as my teacher.

Innovative Transition in Clay

For decades, the criteria for what constituted “traditional Pueblo pottery” were controlled by academics, art dealers and critics, and amateur collectors. Because many Pueblo potters relied on the pottery market, they had little opportunity for expression or expansion of design and form. It seemed as if any challenges to the status quo disrupted what was supposed to be “Southwest Pueblo Pottery.”

I chose this pot because it represents a transition from traditional Pueblo pottery to more contemporary forms in the late 1960s and early ’70s. Works by Popovi Da and, shortly thereafter, Joseph Lonewolf and Tony Da were influential in that shift. Their vessels inspired many emerging Native artists, me included, to develop new techniques in not just pottery and design, but also Native art forms as a whole.

Joseph Lonewolf (Santa Clara) and Tony Da (San Ildefonso) were both advanced in their studies and development of traditional Pueblo pottery-making. Their methods included maintaining important spiritual connections with the material, and the honoring of clay, earth, natural elements, and ancestral influences. At the same time, they were bold enough to explore and create other techniques and styles.

Lonewolf was the son of Camilio Sunflower Tafoya and Agapita Tafoya. He was known for his use of historical methods and his development of sgraffito and bas-relief techniques in clay. Beginning in the early 1970s, Joseph changed the world of Santa Clara pottery by incorporating and further developing sgraffito (which involves lightly etching the surface of the clay) and incised designs (more deeply cut into the clay) in his work.

Tony Da came from a family of innovators. His paternal grandparents, Julian and Maria Martinez, were the first to create black-on-black pottery at a time when polychrome pottery was the mainstay of San Ildefonso. Tony’s father, Popovi Da, began making pottery in 1962 and experimented with many different types, including what is now called sienna ware. In 1967 he added sgraffito elements to his pottery, as well as inlay turquoise—a combination that was a first among the Pueblos potters¹. Tony, along with Joseph Lonewolf, would become known for taking the sgraffito process to another level of artistry and accomplishment.

Pottery by Tony Da, and especially by Joseph Lonewolf, has had a major influence on my own sculptural work. Their style inspired some of my design elements, and their sgraffito is similar to the sgraffito technique that I use in my stone sculpture.

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¹ “The Pottery and Paintings of San Ildefonso Artist Tony Da.” https://tonydapottery.com/ (accessed December 2021). 

Strength from Our Ancestors

Throughout my life, I have been very fortunate to visit such historically important places as Bandelier, Puye Cliffs, Mesa Verde, and Chaco Canyon. I love walking the same paths as those walked by my ancestors, following their footsteps, feeling their presence, seeing pottery, and studying drawings. I introduce myself to my ancestors, tell them of my intentions, leave my offering, and thank the ancient ones for walking with me and showing me their home. I experience a place of gathering for our people, and feel and understand the environment and its elements. In these surroundings, I always feel a sense of renewal and balance. This is reflected in my re-creations of ancestral pottery.

My creativity deepens by my visiting these places and studying early art forms. Embedded in these locations are stories of our emergence into this world, of our livelihood, and of our spiritual journey. Such stories are evident in our traditional arts, early paintings, and rock carvings. Many mugs were found in the Mesa Verde area. These vessels served the community for both utilitarian and ceremonial purposes. When I see our ancestral pottery, the bold painting styles draw me in. The contrasting black-and-white designs are striking and the shapes distinctive. The pieces have an almost contemporary feel. These vessels capture the significance of life and our relationship to the universe.

I often wonder who made and designed this mug. Who held it and cared for it, so it could be seen hundreds of years later? I imagine the taste of water in this mug and how it brought strength to the person drinking from it, helping them in their life’s journey.

With clay, you are bringing to life a feeling that comes from within; it becomes a part of you, and everything you touch and create has a purpose.

The Journey of a Little Clay Ladle

The black-and-white ladle comes from a special place called Mesa Verde. I often think of the person who created this piece: the technique they used to build it, the thought behind the design, the time it took to form the open face and the handle. I study their polishing and painting techniques and imagine how this object was fired. The ladle was made with purpose, out of necessity for an individual or a community. It held water that sustained our livelihood.

We were given gifts of tradition and ties to our universe by our Creator. We are strong, our people are strong. For those who have come and gone before us, our creation of pottery shows our connection to the environment. Our ancient ones gave us a glimpse into their perspective on everyday life. I draw strength when I visit their home; I breathe the same air, walk the same paths, drink water from the same source, see the same sunrise, moon, and stars. I feel their presence surround me. They share their life with me. This is what I feel when I hold the ladle in my hand.

Creating pottery is my livelihood. Our ancestors have passed on their creations in many forms. These forms and designs are incorporated into today’s traditional and contemporary pottery. In my ancestral re-creations, I try to capture the aesthetic beauty and individuality of each piece. I share my work with respect in the hope of preserving a pottery culture that existed hundreds of years ago. My intention is to share our culture with others and to inform people of the importance of protecting our natural and cultural resources so that we can continue to pass them on to our grandchildren.

I title my work Visions from Our Past, and dedicate my pottery to our earliest teachers, the true masters of Pueblo pottery.

I am here for a reason. You sought me out, but it is

        I who found you.

My journey over the years is to show you ... who I am.

I am your family,

your roots, your ties to the universe,

your ties to the community,

your ties to tradition.

Our connection to the plants and animals.

Use me to tell people about me and what I represent.

How I was made,

what I was made of,

when I was made,

why I was made,

the importance of my existence.

Serving water and food to sustain

        our livelihood.

I’ve seen our resilience.

Our times of abundance.

Our times of shortage.

I am strong, I have a spirit.

I am alive, talk to me,

take care of me, protect me,

honor and respect me.

I’ll return to the earth where I came from.

I’ve served my purpose,

now you serve yours ...

and tell people about me.

Creating a Community 

I was very lucky to work on this exhibition as the special projects coordinator for just over a year when the project first began. In the beginning, we hosted several gatherings for all the community contributors. We ordered pizzas and sat around laughing, catching up with old friends, and making new connections. I have met so many wonderful people through this process, and also had the privilege of seeing so many incredible pots.

Since the Vilcek pottery pieces were residing in New York during the selection phase of the project, we relied on high-resolution images of the collection. I received the files and went to a local office-supply store to print them. I sat in my car looking through the photos, and I had to pause when I came to the image of this pot because of its beauty.

For weeks, we had the photos laid out on one of the tables in the SAR vault for community contributors to view. I waited to make my selection until most of the community participants had made their choices. We had several visitors come into the collection and comment on this particular pot. As someone who is not from a Native community in the Southwest, I try to be mindful of how I engage with pottery from this region by always prioritizing community knowledge. So I was eager to hear what any visitors wanted to share about this piece. One individual came in and commented on some of the designs and the meanings behind them. I was so happy to learn more about the pot that I had selected. However, another visitor came into the vault a short time after and shared a different interpretation. I was initially confused and unsure what to write about, but then I realized that the information must not be meant for me to know, and that is okay.

I was so grateful for those interactions, because they solidified my role as a non-Pueblo person who is privileged to work for an institution that stewards Pueblo pottery. This experience was a humbling reminder of how much I do not know, and reminded me what an honor it is to be able to listen to and learn from those who do have ancestral ties to this place. I feel most fulfilled when I am able to facilitate a visit from someone who has a familial connection to our collection, and sometimes I am fortunate enough to speak with someone who will share a story with me about that connection. Through storytelling, this project has created a community, and I am so glad to be a part of it. This pot is a reminder of that process, a reminder of all the beautiful stories that were shared with me along the way, and it is a reminder of our community.

Long Necks 

I was first introduced to William Andrew Pacheco’s pottery when I arrived at the Indian Arts Research Center as an intern in 2018. While I was doing an introductory walk-through of the collections, a larger work of his caught my eye. The pot was covered in what I still affectionately refer to as “long necks.” I remember the overwhelming sense of nostalgia that struck me the moment I set my eyes on that pot. I was instantly transported back to my childhood, when my cousins and I pretended that the rocks in my auntie’s front yard were dinosaur eggs.

Every dinosaur on Pacheco’s pottery is completely unique; they are minimalist, but have a soft and fluid style that conveys a sense of movement. I wanted to see all the figures that inhabited the outside of that pot, so I peeked around the back to get a view of the other side and spotted the smaller piece that I selected to write about for this project. The simpler designs with exaggerated proportions reminded me of so many drawings I created as a dinosaur-loving child. One of my favorite elements is the back set of legs on each of the two “long necks”.

The artist was just twelve years old when he created this pot. When I was around the same age, I completed my first basket. My tribe used to host gatherings for the community in our old bingo hall, and at one particular event there was a woman who sat at her booth and taught community members how to weave. While my cousins ran from booth to booth, I was completely captivated by the idea of creating a basket. I spent the entire day sitting with the woman at the booth, working on my first basket. By the end of the day I had a completed project. It was only about 4 inches (10 cm) in diameter, but I was proud. I forgot about that little basket until a recent visit home, when I noticed that my mom had it on her nightstand. This rudimentarily made basket that I had forgotten about for so many years had become one of my mom’s most cherished creations from my childhood.

This pot reminds me of the individual lives of each of the pieces in this exhibition. It is a reminder that, just like my little basket, every pot has a story and was cherished by someone. The makers and their descendants are still very much connected to these items, and this little dinosaur pot is an important reminder for me to honor those stories and relationships. We rarely see children’s artwork in museum collections, but it is evidence of the ongoing cultural and artistic traditions of our communities. I continue to be connected to my ancestors in so many ways, and my first basket is just one expression of our connection to the past as we move toward the future.

Avanyu: Water Serpent

Initially, I wanted to select work that represents my Pueblo heritage of Kha’p’o Owingeh (Santa Clara Pueblo, or SCP), P’osuwaegeh Owingeh (Pojoaque Pueblo), and Ohkay Owingeh (formerly San Juan Pueblo). I even viewed pots from both Santa Clara and Pojoaque in the SAR collection. As a potter/ceramicist/printmaker/artist and an enrolled tribal member from SCP, however, I ultimately decided to focus solely on SCP pottery.

Having viewed the pottery that other participants chose, I noticed that there were several “classic” and “traditional” Santa Clara pots: black polished water jars and wedding vases, some with a carved bear paw and water designs, all fired using the reduction process. For my own clay work, I make exclusive use of polychrome mineral pigment paints that may or may not change color after the piece undergoes the traditional Pueblo pottery firing process. My maternal grandmother, Petra M. Gutierrez, favored this style of decoration, as did her daughters Minnie Vigil (my godmother), Thelma Talachy, and Lois Gutierrez-De La Cruz. Each inspired me to carry on the polychrome tradition in my own work.

The two pieces I chose are a jar and a vase, both of which feature the water serpent Avanyu. Avanyu is often portrayed on SCP pottery, symbolizing water. Avanyu may represent heavy flooding after a torrential storm and also the gentle, soft flow of a river or stream. Avanyu is often seen on the ceremonial kilts of Pueblo buffalo dancers. Avanyu appears in various forms on pottery, as seen here, but also on rock art, and is even represented on the SCP’s official tribal seal and on its casino chips.

The jar has a highly burnished coating of red iron-oxide paint. Its design is painted in two different mineral pigments, white and red-orange. The two serpents face each other and are separated at the head and the tail by a terraced cloud with lightning emanating from each side, mimicking the lightning-bolt tongue emerging from the mouth of each Avanyu. The serpents’ bodies are painted in matte red-orange iron oxide and outlined in white mineral pigment. The pot was overfired, and various smoke clouds appeared on the vessel, changing the effect of the painted designs.

The vase, a mother–son collaboration between Lela and Luther Gutierrez, is a polychrome vessel painted in mineral pigments. It was awarded the grand prize at the 1963 Santa Fe Indian Market. The neck features a singular Avanyu that is representative of the style created by Evangelio “Van” Gutierrez, Luther’s father and brother of my paternal great-grandmother, Severa Tafoya. On the body of the vessel are interlocking bird motifs that resemble cranes, along with triangular shapes including symbols of mountains, clouds, moisture, and various seasonal changes. The colors painted on the vase range from various shades of red to orange, brown, cream, and green, all outlined in black.

This style of polychrome is extremely influential in my own ceramic work, and inspires me to explore and experiment with different color pigments.

Melon Bowl

As I looked at the list of Santa Clara Pueblo (SCP) work previously chosen for this project, I noticed that melon bowls, a classic SCP shape, were not yet represented. The process of making this unique pottery form is incredibly difficult. As the pot or bowl is formed and shaped using the coil method, the ribs are pushed out from the inside of the vessel, creating the ribbed “melon” effect on both the interior and exterior. My paternal great-grandmother, Severa Tafoya, was fond of creating melon shapes, and passed on this appreciation to her daughter Angela Baca.

In the SAR collection, I located three bowls and one wedding vase with melon-shaped bodies, all of them created by Helen Shupla of SCP. The pots vary in color, from red to natural clay and black, and each was highly polished before undergoing the traditional outdoor firing process. The melon shape is a signature of Helen Shupla’s work

When I was growing up in SCP, Helen and her husband, Kenneth (Hopi), were neighbors. Their grandson and I often played at each other’s houses, and I recall many times going to their home and seeing them constantly working on pottery. I know that my own passion for creativity was inspired by watching the various stages of pottery-making and by witnessing their work ethic, laughter, and love for the clay.

Remember the Past and Carry to the Future

I chose this piece because it is one of just a few pieces from San Felipe Pueblo in the SAR collection. Around the country, there is so little San Felipe pottery in any museum, and I wanted to make sure my community was included in this exhibition. This jar is by Candelaria Montaño, who was a prolific potter. Unlike most potters of her day, her works can be found in several museum collections, including the Heard Museum in Phoenix and Arizona State Museum in Tucson, and in private collections as far away as The Netherlands.

My first memories of clay are of learning from my grandmother how to collect and process it, and then how to make pottery. Making pottery from scratch is not an easy task, and few people learn the entire process. But once I learned, it became a part of me. I feel that this is real pottery-making. Anyone who calls themselves a potter should be familiar with this process.

I served in the United States Navy, and working with clay is therapy for me because it helps keep me calm and focused on my artwork and my life. My relationship with pottery and clay is inherent in my work. Working with different kinds of clay to make pottery helps me appreciate my past and my roots, as has my study of this jar.

A few years ago, I was a participant in the San Felipe Pottery Project, in which several San Felipe potters came together at SAR to raise awareness of our pottery. It is important that our pottery is passed down to future generations, and I am proud that my daughter, Monica Silva Lovato, is now also a potter. Pottery is the link to our past as Pueblo people, even though contemporary pottery pieces have evolved into “art.” We as Pueblo people use pottery as a way of life, for everyday use and for ceremonies. Pottery helps me connect with the people who came before me; they are now gone, but they live on through my own pottery.

Shaking Hands with Ancestors 

I guess you could say this pot chose me. As I visited my ancestors’ creations in the SAR vault, one particular pot, resting among other great stories brought to life through the clay, caught my eye. Although larger and heavier, its form screams of utility much like the pots I live with today. As a Pueblo woman, I know what it means to carry water in similarly shaped vessels on top of your head; you must keep moving, with delicate, swift footsteps, to prevent the loss of water. I remember what it meant to be a child, seeing women with pots on their heads, and anticipating the day I would also be blessed with this journey.

The invitation to make a deeper connection with this pot also rested in the numbers. A huge smile spread across my face when I digested the vessel’s accession number, 869, because these numbers are the prefix to phone numbers in Isleta Pueblo. They are digits I have dialed all my life to reach Che-ee¹ and others in my community. I surrendered to the irony and further welcomed this pot into my own story and wonder.

My connection to the period in which this vessel was crafted is special. Its creation dates to between 1880 and 1920, about 200 years after the Pueblo Revolt, during a time of great change in the world. It could have been formed when my great-grandmother Na-na Nar’beh’seh Pai’ee was a child and first encountered pottery. Years later, Na-na² would create her own pottery amid her life of farming and raising a family. She shared her home with her grandchildren, including my mother, who remembers her making pottery. 

Na-na reveled in the adventures that came with combing the prairie in a horse-drawn wagon for cow chips to fire pots. Afterward, other women from the village would gather to fire their pots alongside her. I can only imagine the conversations that unfolded as the pots strengthened in the flames. I have one of Na-na’s pottery tools that I look at often. I think of her forming clay to provide for her family while quietly celebrating her power and ability to build with materials gifted by Mother Earth. I am a writer and broadcaster, but I relate to how potters build their clay story, forming it bit by bit, pulling in the old to meet the new and smoothing it out as they go.

To see the marks of my ancestor’s fingers across this pot is priceless. The natural change of color across it mimics the familiar horizon of my Pueblo’s western view. The hues also reflect the land I see and walk on today. The fire that made this pot speaks of the plants that guide our seasons and support our lives as Shirr’whip Tai’nin.³ The smell reminds me of home, and the sound that echoes through the pot when you run your own fingers across it reminds me of the delicate chance we are given to keep on building our legacy while living in a good way.

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¹ Isleta Pueblo language for “grandmother”.

² Na-na is a term of respect used for elders in the Isleta Pueblo language, and also means “mother”.

³ The traditional name for the people of Isleta Pueblo.

From Me to You 

This vessel is a doorway through which to connect with all those who came before us and with their ties to the land. It also speaks of the diversity and unity of the peoples of the Southwest, and of the reasons why there are those who continue to fight to keep sacred places sacred. This commonality reminds me of the work I do as a radio presenter, connecting many different nations through the airwaves to find common ground. The designs on this vessel are echoed in what we see today in modern pot creations. It is no surprise, since strong design and essential stories carry through the generations with ease and secure their own survival. This pot was made before there was a Santa Fe Indian Market.

Perhaps the full truth of this dynamic vessel—which is recorded as being created between the years 1050 and 1300, somewhere in the vast territory catalogued as Mogollon—will one day manifest.

I have learned that asking the right questions unlocks the full story. So here goes …

‍

To the maker:

Py’you Kah-que’whem?

Is your blood mine?

Did you think of me when you were forming the clay?

Is water life?

Where else beyond the surface of this vessel do your fingerprints appear on the blueprint of my own life?

Your struggles, my celebrations? My struggles, your celebrations? Your triumph, my evolution? My evolution, your triumph? Your freedom, my culture? My freedom, your culture?

Who was the first to put the divots in their pot? How long did it take before the next potter followed suit? Did some savvy auntie push into the clay to improve the design? Did a rabbit run into it while the clay was still soft, thus birthing the brilliance of a new function?

Who was your biggest artistic influence? Did you ever get to create alongside them? Share a drink of water? Out-laugh them at the hottest part of the day? Squeeze them a little tighter to let them know your gratitude?

Why six swirls? Six migrations? Six directions? Six clans? Six sisters? Six secrets?

When was the best day to be Indigenous?

Red or green? Or Christmas?¹ Eyeballs, tongue, heart or liver?

What was considered the true health of the community?

Was the pottery’s opening the center of your universe? Besides you, who also peered into it?

What type of unity did this creation bring to your heart? To those under your roof? To your community? Your enemies? Your admirers? 

‍

To the vessel:

What all went into the fire that solidified your formation?

Are you the end result of what momma, auntie, or clan father asked for?

Which line was first to stretch over your surface? Which brushstroke felt the best? Which made you the proudest?

What songs were offered to you?

Who was gifted the path to carry you, you ambassador of time and space?

‍

I’m a journalist—final question, I promise! 

To you reading this right now, the viewer, the visitor, the ancestor:

Who were you when you stepped to this pot, and who are you now?

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¹ When you order food in New Mexico, it is common to be asked “Red or green?” — meaning red or green chile. If you want both, the reply is “Christmas.”

P’ah mo,lo,mõ

I have always been a huge fan of the late Anthony Durand, who was from my tribe, Picuris Pueblo. I believe he was our Pueblo’s equivalent of such eminent potters as Maria Martinez and Lucy Lewis.

Picuris pottery is created primarily for robust use; a vessel must be able to hold water, rather than exist simply for decorative purposes. My Picuris grandmother, Lydia Duran Tsosie, taught me that our pottery is made for functional use. We still use it every day for cooking, storage, and other utilitarian purposes. Moreover, Picuris pottery is intentionally made “plain” or with little decoration. In fact, at our Pueblo, when a work of art is beautiful or pretty, we say it is “ugly.” This is meant as a great compliment to the maker.

At our village, we are taught that the micaceous clay we use for pottery is a gift from the earth, and we must respect it and not waste it. Picuris pottery is typically made with very thin walls in comparison to the pottery of other tribes. Because our clay is so durable and strong, our pottery is able to be built this way and still be used for cooking and to hold water.

To me, this vessel not only is a beautiful work of art, but also represents a wonderful individual. I was fortunate to know Anthony Durand. He was a very kind and gentle person, always willing to share his knowledge with others.

One of my favorite memories of Durand is when I bought one of his p’ah mo,lo,ene, or water jars, from him. He was so very happy yet humble. I feel this is the best way to describe him. The shapes, forms, and final slips of his pottery are breathtaking. He will always be celebrated and cherished as one of the best Picuris Pueblo potters.

Mo lo mõ—Ancient Resilience

When I was looking at all the beautiful pottery at SAR, this piece drew my attention. I am just in awe of this mo lo mõ¹, made by my village of Picuris Pueblo. I would look at other pottery, but for some reason this jar kept bringing me back. Finally, I asked it, “Would you like to go on a trip? If you do, then you need to get permission from the staff to go.” I was so happy to hear that this vessel received permission to travel². I knew in my heart that it wanted another adventure to add to its journey. When I look at this elegant pot, I wonder, how was it used? Who made it? How did it survive its long journey? I am curious about the daily life of this piece. I wish I could have a conversation with it, to learn about its survival.

Recently, my sister, who works for the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian, brought some photographs of Picuris pottery back to our village. The pictures were from 1903–1907; like this piece, they made me wonder about life back then. They showed villages and buildings that no longer exist physically but live on in our oral history and stories. It was nice to see physical evidence to back up this history and our tales of long ago.

Just like this handsome jar, the photographs showed how vibrant our community was, as well as how long we have survived and endured the many challenges placed in front of us. Although I can appreciate the delicate beauty of this piece, I can also see its strong resilience. Just like our village, people, and traditions, this mo lo mõ is the perfect embodiment of us. It has much to say, if people just take the time to listen and learn, and not rely only on physical evidence. We have always known our story of creation, survival, and endurance, and we will carry on as best we can.

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¹ Picuris for “pottery”.

² Note from SAR: Conservators examined each pot chosen for the exhibition to ensure that it was physically stable enough to travel

Pin,wel mo lo mõ

The piece I chose is a Pin,wel mo lo mõ¹ that was made around the turn of the twentieth century. When I selected this pot from the SAR collection, I imagined the master potter who made it and what their surroundings might have been like. It made me curious about the similarities and differences between Picuris Pueblo at that time and in the present day.

I am drawn to this vessel because of its previous use as a storage jar, and how it might once have held food that provided nourishment for our community. I am also drawn to it because of the designs made by the artist. As I have been told, the dark spots or ash plumes are intentionally made by the artist during the firing process. The clay and mica used in this pot are from my home of Picuris Pueblo. Our ancestors used a mica “paint” on the lower stories of adobe homes, similar to the mica slip that is sometimes used in the pottery-making process. I value this connection between our micaceous pottery, which Picuris is best known for, and our homes. The adobe houses were once eight or nine stories high, but were destroyed by cannon fire in a Spanish retaliation after the Pueblo Revolt of 1680.

Clay has a particular importance to me. I have always been taught by my family that the land you come from is precious, and that you should show it respect; if you take care of the land, it will provide for you. As I write this, I am living on the East Coast. Living away from the land and community that molded me can be challenging at times, but I know that my return home will help me feel grounded and, in a sense, rebalanced. I have not learned how to make pottery, but I grew up surrounded by master artists, including those in my own family, and I was encouraged to “play” with all sorts of materials; clay was one of them. The feeling of having earth in my hands is truly grounding. Some of my earliest memories are of playing outside and mixing clay for molding figures and mud pies, and making coils for small pots in my family’s studio. As I continue my education and career in the museum field and learn more about the process of making pottery, so my knowledge of and respect for these master Indigenous artists grow.

A Picuris potter created this jar with the intention of storing food to nourish our community. Although the vessel is no longer used for its original purpose, it is still providing sustenance of a different kind through a continuation of teachings about our culture.

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¹ Picuris Pueblo pottery.

A Blessing

When I look at and hold this pot, I am reminded of my Hopi family and the land. I was adopted as a child, and pottery was my first introduction to my culture. In fact, pottery led to other firsts. I received my own pot the first time I visited the home of my mother’s side of the family for the home dance; the pot was a blessing and a gift from the dance. It was the first time I met the other spiders¹ in my family, and the first time my grandfather explained to me the true meaning of home.

When I first held my own pot, I was reminded of my connection to my family. When I first held the pot pictured on these pages, I was taken aback not only by its physical weight, but also by the weight of its cultural significance. The clay is a remnant of its home village, its composition and color specific to that place. The form takes the shape of ancestral pots. The swooping red-and-black painted designs illustrate the way of life of the Tewa/Hopi. The worn rim represents the vessel’s longevity.

To this pot, I say askwali.² You have survived so much to be here today. I am delighted that you get to be closer to home and surrounded by relatives. You will be greatly cared for. I met you when I returned to the Southwest after so many years, and although it was a tough time, you helped me. You brought me strength and resilience. You inspired me to be who I am and who I will continue to be. I think of you often. I am excited for you to see so much more, and for others to meet and learn from you. Be well. Askwali.

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¹ Other members of the Spider Clan.

² Hopi female term for “thank you.”

Not A Fish

You cannot talk about Pueblo pottery without talking about Pueblo people. Pots and jars like this one represent the strength, cultural resilience, and ingenuity of the people and lands from which the vessels come. This pot does not fit the definition of the Euro-American terms “artifact” and “historical object,” so it does not require descriptors based on Eurocentric ideals. This pot is a blessing and a gift. Its every aspect connects it with its home and people: the clay is from the land and was gathered by a relative for the purpose of its creation; the form is an evolution of jar shapes made by its ancestors; the designs are those of its village and neighbors; the colors are derived from natural pigments of the land. 

When I first met this pot, initially through a photograph and later in person, it was labeled with an incorrect description. The jar had previously passed through hands that believed its decoration was of a fish, an “abstract fish” at that. Yet through talks with Acoma relatives and simple research, I found out that it is a thunderbird—a design its ancestors have been depicting and developing for centuries. Not a fish. I state again: Pueblo voices should always be prioritized when one talks about, interprets, and exhibits Pueblo pottery.

An Old Friend

This pot is like an old friend you have not seen in years, but when you meet them again, it is as if you have not missed a day. I first came across this jar at SAR in the early 1980s, when I was attending the Institute of American Indian Arts. Mr. Chuck Dailey, the Museum Studies teacher, took our class to visit the collection, and when we were brought to the pottery, I was naturally drawn to that from my own Pueblo, Tesuque. There were not as many pots as from some of the other Pueblos, and so this section of the pottery collection was very small in comparison. There were some rain gods, a few poster-painted bowls, and other items that I recognized immediately as being made by family members and other contemporary Tesuque potters. In addition, there were other bowls, large water jars, and vases, some polychrome, others with a cream slip and black painted designs.

When I came across this water jar, it resonated with me straightaway. It is a polychrome pot painted with three colors: red on the bottom and cream with black designs on the body and neck. I love the ease and flow of the geometric design, with a cloud on the bottom and top of each square design element. On the neck is a very loosely painted linear design with a little bird in the middle. The designs are freehand and imprecise, unlike some of the pottery from other Pueblos, where precision is important and the design elements exact and calculated. This piece is beautiful in its own right. It is not perfect, and I love it!

Over the years I have made other visits to SAR for college projects and personal research. I am always drawn back to this pot and have used its geometric motif in my own work. I do not know whether I picked this piece or it picked me. To me, this is a true Tesuque-style water jar.

I have been fortunate to have had the opportunity to visit the collection, and I want to encourage more Tesuque Pueblo members to visit and see what our family and community members have made. Maybe that will inspire others to become potters themselves.

Tesque muna

It should go without saying that I, as a member of Tesuque Pueblo, would choose this colorful rain god; rain gods are what Tesuque is known for. There are two main types of rain god created by Tesuque potters: micaceous-slipped figures and poster-painted ones. This one is decorated with poster paint. Rain gods are also called munas, which means “funny makers” or “clowns.” Munas are meant to bring humor into our lives. You cannot help but smile when you take the time to look closely at this piece. It is humorous yet simplistic in nature.

I was drawn to this muna because of its funny smirk and eyes. It makes me very curious about the identity of the artist. The bright paints remind me of my aunt Domingita Abeyta’s work. I have early memories of her working on her rain gods and other pottery. She worked with traditional and micaceous clays, and used both poster paints and micaceous slips. She was a prolific potter, and sold her works under the portal of the Palace of the Governors in Santa Fe and even from her home in Tesuque Pueblo if tourists happened to drop in. I have several munas in my collection made by Aunt Domingita, but I do not have any painted with poster paint.

I would like to think this muna is female. Most rain gods are not gendered, but, given its colors and the fact it is painted with eyelashes, eyebrows, and a necklace with fringed triangular pendants, it seems to be feminine. The use of black to outline the other colors on the face enhances their boldness. The feathers and the red kiva steps on the bowl are common motifs on rain gods and other Tesuque pottery.

There are numerous Tesuque tribal members who currently work in clay, but only a few make rain gods. I started making these funny little figurines several years ago, and I definitely enjoy creating them. This is a dying art, and it must continue as a vital part of our culture and traditions. When I begin making my figures, I pray and look at my aunt’s pieces for inspiration. One day I might make a poster-painted rain god inspired by this one and by Aunt Domingita, and hopefully it will make someone else smile too.

A Tesuque Water Jar’s Journey

As I walked slowly through the storage shelves, I listened. Among the group of us there that day, I recognized clay artists whose works I admire. Familiar faces, some I knew personally, and many I did not. We were mostly quiet as we gravitated toward different shelves. The shelves are full of pottery creations from each Pueblo. The carpet of the long, rectangular room muffled our footsteps. I knew the piece that I chose would be unfamiliar. Not in type. Not in shape. I knew it would be from a Pueblo far from where I grew up.

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Functional. Water. Seeds.

A thick-walled jar formed from natural clay and painted with ground pigments. The red-painted bottom is concave, and the lip is worn. Chips on the rim provide evidence of use. Black designs are painted on the exterior over a cream-colored slip. Such details align with many pottery pieces that I, myself, have handled and catalogued in my museum work. I think of a woman’s hands, fingers wet with clay, as she forms the coils into a familiar round shape. A bulbous body that will hold water. The short neck painted with a wavy line and what look like rounded arrows.

Are these “arrows” meant to mimic a farmer’s row of corn seedlings?

Is the horizontal design painted mid-body a sideways view of what the artist intended as the bursting forth of a seed?

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Foundation. Commonalities. Resources.

I grew up in Isleta Pueblo, and my life is centered in and around Albuquerque. The Pueblo of Tesuque is north of Santa Fe. I chose this Tesuque water jar for its size and weight, and for its representation of variation. The clay and slip are very different on Isleta pottery. Brighter whites with a more orange-tinted red. That is what I am familiar with at home. I wondered what relationship, if any, Isleta had with Tesuque, other than a shared need for resources.

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Patience. Journeys. Relations.

I think about the patience of the potter—gathering, molding, forming, sanding, polishing, painting, firing. The agility of the creative mind. I think about my choice, and how grateful I am to share this Tesuque water jar with a wider audience. I think about this Tesuque water jar—traveling, representing one potter’s creative and practical endeavor, sitting adjacent to its clay relatives.

Reborn

Clay is especially important to me because it is a beautiful gift from Mother Earth. As one of my pottery students once stated after we had hiked for clay and then soaked, ground, and prepared it to be mixed, “This is Indian gold.” Clay, along with the preparation that happens before we create pots, is a true labor of love. This is why I have so much respect for the clay and the people who choose to create with it.

When I first visited the SAR collection years ago, I was drawn to this piece because of its beauty and fragility. I looked at it and imagined the women who once used this vase. I also tried to imagine what was going through the potter’s mind as they carefully created and painted this pot. The curves of the pot and its unique design intrigued me because I had never seen a vessel like this. This pot spoke to me so loudly that I chose to replicate it with my own twist, while remaining true to the original vessel.

I knew that I wanted to re-create the pot after having the opportunity to handle it, study its curves, and sketch the designs. After a week and much thought and prayer, I sat at my kitchen table early one morning and asked our spirits for guidance and strength. Coil after coil, I worked with the clay, carefully building the vase. Halfway through, I received a call from my eldest daughter, saying that her waters had broken and she was in labor with my first grandchild. I wrapped up my pot and explained to the clay that I would return to complete what I had started. That day my beautiful granddaughter Abigail was born.

When I returned home a few days later, I continued to work and finished creating the vase. As I began to paint it, all I could think of was how blessed I was to have a gorgeous granddaughter, and how pleased I was that my new creation was evolving with such ease. When the pot was complete and fired, I sat looking at my beautiful creation in the same way my daughter looked at her baby girl. Then, as I admired my vase, I named her Abigail and gifted her to my granddaughter.

The Happy Deer Pot

My favorite work from the Vilcek Collection is also one of our newest additions: a Zia water jar from around 1890. I think of this pot as the “life on earth” pot. To me, the deer grazing among wildflowers recalls the harmonies of nature, and a life lived in balance with the seasons. Rain is the lifeblood of the desert; when it comes, it quenches the deeply parched earth and sustains the plants, animals, and people living there. After the rain, the desert erupts with plants and flowers, and the happy deer enjoys the bounty. I acknowledge that my observations as a non-Native person are not indicative or representative of those of the Pueblo artists or of their Pueblo’s intentions or beliefs when it came to creating this pot. Of course, members of the Zia community have their own meanings for the subject matter and decisions that went into the creation of this pot—and those are probably very different from my observations as a non-Native.

The Pueblo of Zia is an Indigenous nation with a long history in what are now known as the states of New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and Utah. Today, its people reside in Zia Pueblo in north-central New Mexico.

Afterword: Amplifying Native Voices

This journey, from earliest discussions to the mounting of the exhibition and the publication of the accompanying catalogue, has been a transformative experience—not just for myself, but for the Vilcek Foundation as well. In my twenty-two years with the foundation, first as a member of the board, then as Executive Director and now President, I have sought out unexpected partnerships and collaborations in an effort to expand the bounds of our work and reach as many people as possible with the foundation’s mission: to raise awareness of immigrant contributions in the United States and to foster appreciation of the arts and sciences.

The Vilcek Foundation was established in 2000 by Jan and Marica Vilcek, immigrants from the former Czechoslovakia, and its mission was inspired by their respective careers in biomedical science and art history, as well as by their personal experiences and appreciation for the opportunities offered to them as newcomers to the United States. Each year the foundation awards the Vilcek Prizes to immigrants who have made significant and lasting contributions to American society in biomedical research and the arts and humanities. The foundation also awards Creative Promise Prizes to young immigrants who have already demonstrated exceptional achievements in the US. In 2019 we introduced the Vilcek Prize for Excellence, to recognize immigrants who have had a profound impact on both American society and world culture, or individuals who are dedicated champions of immigrant causes. We continue to broaden our reach with external partnerships and new initiatives, including the Vilcek–Gold Award for Humanism in Healthcare.

The Vilcek Art Collection includes more than 400 objects in four major collecting areas: American modernist art, pre-Columbian art, Native American pottery, and art by immigrant artists. The collection continues to grow and evolve from its beginnings as a reflection of the Vilceks’ personal taste and interests. The first pieces of Pueblo pottery to enter their collection were a result of time spent in Santa Fe in the early 1990s. The pottery collection has grown under my direction as I sought to expand the Pueblos, time periods, and artistic expressions represented.

I see Grounded in Clay: The Spirit of Pueblo Pottery as an extension of the ideas behind the establishment of the Vilcek Foundation. Both immigrants and Native Americans are underserved communities, and as the foundation uplifts the contributions of immigrants to this country, so we can also use our platform to amplify Native voices. Native American communities have historically been taken advantage of and subject to extensive mistreatment, and we hope to play a small part in the shifting of that narrative. As the original inhabitants of this land, Native Americans have always been here. Although often spoken of in the past tense, they are still here, and, today, sovereignty is a major issue in their homelands. With this exhibition, we seek to extend that autonomy to their art forms by having them decide which pieces to display and how those pieces are spoken about, handled, and interpreted. Native American communities are the best and only resource for Native American art. As we seek ways to decolonize our institutions and practices, we take an important first step by listening to the voices of Native Americans, respecting their knowledge, and supporting their decisions.

A complete rethinking of the Euro-American conception of art and exhibitions is long overdue, particularly for Native American art, as these are not our stories to tell. From the beginning, I was tremendously enthusiastic about the innovative process and community collaboration conceived by the Indian Arts Research Center in Santa Fe. I respected the boldness of the project and committed to fully supporting it. It is important to me to amplify voices from Native communities and to share our platform and our collection. Sending these pieces back to the Southwest for exhibition, where they can be reunited with family members and ancestors, has transformed and fundamentally changed the collection. Community collaboration has broadened our understanding and appreciation of these pieces, and shown us proper stewardship protocols.

This exhibition and catalogue spotlight an incredibly wide range of pieces, and reveal that those made by Pueblo people for their own use are just as important as the highly crafted contemporary pieces, particularly those meant for the tourist market. Utility jars, such as the gorgeous Powhogeh storage jar shown on page 274, were made for Pueblo people and kept in their homes. The impressive size and elegant shape of the jar are what initially drew me in, and then the intricately painted designs held my attention. By viewing the spectrum of works in this exhibition, from historical fine pottery to contemporary examples, one can begin to understand how Pueblo people adapted and continue to adapt to the consumer market and consumer taste while still practicing their esteemed tradition of pottery. But I love how this piece represents the Pueblo people and their home life, which ties into family and making food. Pieces like this jar, which clearly shows signs of use, broaden our view of the range and beauty of San Ildefonso pottery.

As a non-Native working with Native art, and as President of a foundation that stewards a collection of Pueblo pottery, it has been imperative for me to learn appropriate terminology, understand public Indigenous knowledge, and ensure a respectful approach. I have been truly fortunate to have had the guidance of several amazing people who were each generous with their time and knowledge. In particular, I am grateful to Brian Vallo, Cultural Advisor (and previously Governor) of Acoma Pueblo, who initiated this partnership in his former role as Director of the Indian Arts Research Center at the School for Advanced Research, and supported it as Governor. Elysia Poon succeeded Brian as IARC Director and fully embraced our partnership, expanding its bounds and managing much of the project, with the incredible assistance of Felicia Garcia (Santa Ynez Band of Chumash Indians/Samala Chumash) and Monyssha Rose Trujillo (Cochiti, Santa Clara, Laguna, Jicarilla, Diné). Elysia, Felicia, and Monyssha conducted extensive outreach and worked closely with more than sixty Native American community members, from twenty-two Pueblo communities in the Southwest, who gave life to the project. I am immensely thankful to them all for sharing their voices, experiences, and knowledge in the catalogue and exhibition. I also thank Joseph “Woody” Aguilar (San Ildefonso) and Nora Naranjo Morse (Kha’p’o Owingeh/Santa Clara) for their incredible contributions. Woody’s essay perfectly contextualizes our endeavor, from his examination of the history of interest in Pueblo culture to the future of collections stewardship, which relies on the assertion of Indigenous intellect. Nora’s “Clay Stories” weave together beautiful histories, including her own, that illuminate the connections of the Jar Boy Clan and illustrate a deeply held reverence for the earth, for, as Nora notes, “we come from the earth; we are the earth.” I am especially grateful to Erin Monique Grant (Colorado River Indian Tribes) for her invaluable input and assistance with my writings for this catalogue, as well as her inimitable contributions to the foundation’s website—an enormous undertaking that contextualizes and significantly enhances our understanding of the Pueblo pottery pieces.

The Vilcek Foundation could not have accomplished this project without the Indian Arts Research Center and the Native community members. In partnership with the School for Advanced Research, the foundation is thrilled to support community knowledge, voices, and perspectives through Grounded in Clay. We hope that the foregrounding of Native voices and Native knowledge brings additional meaning, not just to individual pieces or to the Vilcek Collection, but to the field in general. There is still so much work to be done, but it is my hope that with this exhibition and catalogue we have created a culturally meaningful framework that other art institutions and museums can implement and build upon for future generations.

Ada Suina—Storyteller of Cochiti Pueblo

Stories are a vital resource in the teaching and continuation of tribal life. I would like to introduce you to my auntie, Ada Suina. She is in her nineties and still does her best to create figurines. Auntie Ada grew up in the village of Cochiti (Kotyit), and her life has revolved around her family and all the traditional ceremonies that still take place to this day. She is fluent in her tribal language. I was given the opportunity to ask Auntie Ada a few questions:

JL: Who inspired you to make storytellers? 
AS: My mother-in-law, Ariella Suina, and cousin, Virginia Naranjo. 
JL: How old were you when you started working with clay? 
AS: [It was] 1975. (Ada was born in 1930, so she would have been forty-five when she started.) 
JL: Do you make other figurines? 
AS: I started with little animals like frogs, lizards, and owls. I also made little bowls and pots.
JL: What advice do you have for the younger generations wanting to work with clay? 
AS: Try to get back to the old ways, working with traditional materials.

I completely understand Auntie Ada’s request in response to my last question. When I visit museums, I like to look at the older work made using traditional materials and techniques. Working with clay has almost become a lost art because mainstream society has such a big influence on the younger generations, pressuring them to “get jobs” and learn how to use computers. When I look at the pots, bowls, storytellers, and other figurines of our ancestors, I hope, too, that the traditions of our clay work will always live on through the younger generations.

Organic Repository

This vessel is the embodiment of good craftsmanship among our ancestors. It was created with care, passion, and pride. The patience and effort the artist put into the process, from building to firing the jar, show how important it is to recognize that value should be placed on a well-made item.

Made in the classic style of Pueblo cookware, this pot has a rough, undecorated surface that has been coated black as a result of contact with an open fire, and a smooth interior with cooking rings resulting from use. Pueblo women have different ways to season new cookware before the first use, depending on the type of pot. Over time, a vessel like this one absorbs the fats from the food cooked inside it, and it becomes less porous.

What makes this pot so valuable and beautiful is the generational knowledge it contains. This ancestor spent many days sitting in a Pueblo home. It began its life holding food that sustained the bodies of the family it lived with; it listened to many teachings from mother to daughter, father to son. This pot has witnessed life; it has gathered such an assemblage of stories, songs, and history that it now, with a soft voice, whispers segments of collected information to passersby. When you visit this pot, open your heart and listen with your soul. The ancestors continue to fill us with knowledge.

Matriarchal Directive

I remember hands, slightly smaller than mine. A black-and-white necklace and a woman’s voice. She was scolding me for not getting it right after what seemed like the hundredth time of showing me.

The smell of slip filled the adobe-walled room; its color filled my vision. The polished clay was cool to the touch as I floated the pigment across its surface. 

In her mind, there was no drawing for practice; you simply made the design on the pot. Perfection was not necessary in her time in the way it is in mine.

I spent two years doodling the design from my dream in the margins of my notebooks, not knowing what it was for or when I would use it, but not wanting to forget the gift I had been given. It took me two years and four months until I created the right bowl that demanded I use this design.

When I visited SAR to select my pottery, I did not expect to see “my” design staring up at me from a photograph on the table.¹ I said, “That one, that’s my design.” The picture made my choice for me. I turned the photo over and saw a handwritten annotation: “Attributed to Monica Silva by Robert Tenorio.” Monica Silva, my great-grandmother; that was the moment my dream made sense to me.

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¹ Note from SAR: While pottery from the SAR collection was chosen in person, it was not possible to ship the entire Vilcek pottery collection to SAR for writers to select from, so high-resolution images were initially provided.

Finding My Way

When you touch one part of the design on this beautiful jar created by my grandmother, you touch the whole. For me, this design reflects the way in which we are all interconnected.

It all begins by planting kashéeshį (white corn), and then nurturing, harvesting, and grinding it. We then make the journey to the clay mines and place an offering of cornmeal as a way of asking permission from our Clay Mother before we harvest the clay. It is often forgotten that we merely borrow these elements from Mother Earth, in the same way that we are all only on borrowed time. I feel my grandmother’s presence when I hold this jar that she created years ago. The pottery is still infused with her energy. It was a humbling moment to let the pottery breathe again, as pots are beings and need to breathe as we do. I treasured the opportunity to say, I still see you, Daa’ow,¹ we still see you. It brought me to tears, remembering my grandmother’s hands molding the clay and painting each intricate line. For a moment, my hands lay in hers.

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¹ Keres female term for “grandmother.”

Navi poeh¹ 

Do you feel the light breeze? Do you hear the faint whisper? Come, stand by me, listen carefully and quietly. Close your eyes for a moment and listen, because it is only a faint whisper. This is my story of beauty, happiness, sadness, and everlasting spirits, my poeh, my journey.

My life began with my maker. There were beautiful rituals of throwing cornmeal and praying that my spiritual journey would be filled with memories and life lessons so that perhaps, one day, someone would hear, listen, and learn my story.

I can remember the prayers offered as my clay was gathered from Mother Earth. I can still feel the weight of the rains, hail, and snow. I hear the songs of the wind as she sings, blowing over my earthly womb. My clay spirit quakes as I birth into shape. I learn the language spoken, and songs are sung around me as I am carefully molded, sanded, polished, painted, and fired.

My poeh was filled with happiness the day sacred water was poured into me and I sat next to a child being bathed, presented to the sun, and named. I was kept with this child as they grew, and I learned of dances, six directions, four seasons of life, sacred mountains, colors of the corn, the story of our emergence, of heaven and earth, and the importance of respect for all. I recall the laughter of children, the words of elders, and the stories told to little ones as they sat in front of the fire on a cold night.

My poeh spirit recalls the sadness of a broken heart when a loved one was sent off to the spirit world, a piece of me given to them so that they too could hear their life’s memories as they journeyed on.

Now I sit and rest, but every now and then a breeze will come by, pick up my voice, and carry it. You might feel that breeze, and if you stop for a moment to listen carefully and quietly, you might hear my poeh, my journey.

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¹ Tewa for “my journey” or “my story.”

Ko’o Paa¹

Audio read by Elysia Poon

While browsing through the beautiful pots before me, I hear many tiny, faint voices and songs, as if only whispered. I can smell the earth’s clays as my hands carefully touch and embrace the vessels.

Shapes of mountains, deserts, spirit lakes, and springs can be seen on some pieces, and their stories can be read in others. For many, I wonder what memories are embedded in their clay’s spirit, and it is then that I find myself drawn to a small tan vessel painted with red-and-black designs of clouds, kiva steps, and a thunderbird. My hands lift the pot and my fingers run over the smooth polish. The shape and workmanship are familiar; I know what family gave life to the piece. As I hold the vessel close, I feel a very slight breeze and a connection to the pot. Pulling it closer to my heart, I feel its spiritual presence.

I close my eyes and am taken back to my childhood, when I was about six or seven years old. It is summer, and my friends and I are playing under the Big Tree. We see elders sitting on their front porch, and walk over to them. Their voices are not distinct, but one elder I can see very clearly. She is wearing a dark-blue dress, her hair is tied back, and as she greets us, her smile widens. I smell fresh apples as her presence grows stronger.²  I notice she is working with clay, shaping it into a ball. We call her by name, and as she responds, I am brought back to the present.³

I wonder what part of the vessel was her work: the shaping, the sanding, or the polishing. I question the memory she gave to me at that moment. It was a reminder to remember her and, like her, to find the good in everything and pass it on. She reminded me to be happy with my gifts and always be in good spirits. She came to me for a moment, a moment I now share with you, one that is so precious and beautiful.

Many journeys are embedded in the clay by those who created the vessels. When a pot is shaped, it is given life and carries the memories of its maker’s life stories and songs. If you listen carefully, you may hear one of these stories. It may be for only a moment, and the sounds may be faint and distant, but if you listen closely, you may hear the pots recall a fragment of the many memories they hold.

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¹ Ko’o Paa was a sister of Maria Martinez and was deaf and mute. Ko’o is Tewa for “aunt”, and Paa was her given name. She was also known as Clara Montoya.

² Paa is Tewa for “apple.”

³ Although she could not hear or speak, Ko’o Paa could sense when someone was calling her.

Okuu Sedo 

Looking south from O’gah’poh geh (Santa Fe), we see the back of Okuu Pin—Turtle Mountain—most commonly referred to as the Sandia Mountains. Okuu is resting, thinking, and carrying all life-forms on his back. Pueblo people are inherently connected to land and places. Our creation stories vividly articulate emergence from lakes and mountains. We are of the land. Nothing is separate; everything is connected, meaning that rocks, clouds, animals, and humans are all related. The notion of relations fundamentally defines how Pueblo people experience the world.

One of my earliest memories growing up at Ohkay Owingeh is of being woken by my father at the crack of dawn to get muddied up for the Turtle Dance, Okuu Shadeh. I was too young to comprehend everything that went into such traditions, but it was this gritty black clay mud—naposhu—that coated my body on that cold winter’s day.   

Since the beginning of time, songs and traditions have served as reminders that we come from earth, from clay and all things related. We recognize that humans are just one of the many types of being that continue to practice songs and traditions. Against a backdrop of Pueblo rhythms, our Tewa words and verses for Okuu Shadeh are newly composed each year as an act of renewal. These songs are brought to life by creative composers known as the sawipingeh. Through the use of earth-based instruments such as gourd rattles and turtle shells, Okuu Shadeh continues to be a marker of time by bringing all relations to a centered place.

The Tewa word for “dance”—shadeh—literally means “to be in the act of getting up or waking up.” It is by dancing that one awakens and that participation is meaning. Shadeh honors the interactive role of humans with the natural world. It connects the human place to the movement in the sky, to the other simultaneous worlds below, and to the cardinal directions that embrace mountains, plants, and other animals.

Directions become essential to markers of ancestral sites that are very much alive, not long-forgotten ruins. Our ancestral sites and directions are called upon to join in cultural traditions. Potters who gather clay follow in the same footsteps by giving reverence to our ancestors so that clay can be used in a respectful manner.

Turtles have been around for millions of years, living on land and in both salt water and fresh water. Indigenous peoples around the world recognize the wisdom of these beings, as is documented in ancestral petroglyphs, weavings, and pottery designs.

Although it has an abstract, simple design, this polished black ceramic turtle is a reminder of who we are as Pueblo people, as Indigenous peoples, and of all those who have come before and who continue to provide life. Okuu Sedo, Old Man Turtle, is a visual reminder that grounds us in place.

Community Collaboration and Knowledge

I am forever grateful to the community members involved in this project for the knowledge they have shared during the shaping of this exhibition and catalogue. When Rick Kinsel, President of the Vilcek Foundation, first described the idea for the project, our priority was to ensure that the voices of the Pueblo co-curators were centered in the making of the exhibition. I am honored to have been a part of this groundbreaking collaboration, which expanded my understanding of Pueblo pottery.  These pots are considered to be alive, in fact living relatives of the community members participating in the exhibition, and I think this incredible Zuni pot with deer and heartline designs truly exemplifies that. This pot showcases the classic designs that make Zuni pottery not only unique, but also what it is today as the tradition of pottery-making lives on at Zuni Pueblo.

Non-Native Stewardship

I am incredibly fortunate to have learned so much from the team at the Indian Arts Research Center at SAR and from all the community members during the planning and coordination of this exhibition and catalogue. Planning and coordinating are integral parts of my job as Registrar and Manager of Collections, Exhibitions, and Facilities for the Vilcek Foundation, but for this exhibition my top priority was to show respect for the cultural significance of the works. As a non-Native steward of the Vilcek Collection, I am honored to be involved in this project and to share this beautiful San Ildefonso jar made by the remarkable pottery making team of Crescencio and Anna Martinez.

If a Pot Survives, a People Survive

Before the Organ Mountains east of Las Cruces were so named (a reference to the resemblance of some peaks to the pipes of a pipe organ), they were known as the Sierra de los Mansos. This name denoted their relational, spiritual, and ecological significance to the Manso community. Manso is one of New Mexico’s oldest original cultures and yet is perhaps the most overlooked historical community in the state. The area from what we know as the Mesilla Valley all the way down to present-day Juarez was originally inhabited by our Manso ancestors. Yet, aside from a brief Wikipedia entry and an out-of-print book by Patrick Beckett and Terry Corbett (The Manso Indians, 1992), there is little-to-no awareness of the presence of the Manso. However, if you ask my dad where the Manso tribe went, he will enthusiastically say, “Right here!”

In 1911 construction work began on the Elephant Butte Dam, which led to the destruction and rerouting of the Rio Grande. Before this, Las Cruces was a lush area, with a vibrant ecosystem abundant with wildlife. The river snaked through the valley, creating fertile pockets of marshland where various Manso families established ranches. We refer to the Rio Grande as the Turtle River because it used to be home to countless turtle relatives. What the builders of the dam perhaps did not realize is that, when you cut off the water flow to a river, you also kill the wildlife living in that river. Today it is rare to spot a turtle swimming in the Turtle River. As a result of the dam's construction, many clay sites were lost, and the pottery tradition waned as the city took on a new form.

Through all these changes, Manso people never disappeared. To this day our Piro-Manso-Tiwa tribe thrives in Las Cruces. That is why the symbolic significance of this pot—its ability to carry water implies life—is now just as important as its original purpose. For this exhibition, I consulted experts, including the potters Jerry Dunbar, Albert Alvidrez, and Carol Carabajal, and the current conclusion is that the pot is of Manso heritage with Rarámuri stylistic influence. Although its provenance remained unclear for decades, this pot has living relatives who can claim it, connecting it to Indigenous people residing in southern New Mexico and all the way into Juarez, Mexico.

For a long time, this elegant, carefully shaped pot had nobody to speak on its behalf, nor anyone to speak to. Much like the entire history of the Manso, its history was untold. My opportunity to represent this pot, to speak on behalf of its ancestry, reinforces the fact that Manso have always been present in New Mexico. This pot stands as an equal, telling its story alongside the other beautiful pots from communities across New Mexico.

A Covenant of Salt

to remember in English 
means to return back to the memory.
‍return back
as in: been there before,
now homecoming.

In Spanish, to remember
translates to recordar—record
from re- and cordis
meaning: back 
through the cardiac 
system; restore to the heart.

this means
respire means

(in)the (spirit)third (again)part.

There is a harvest implied in every restoration
that was laid in prayer
in respiration.
To reap from the spirit
what is then revealed to the heart.

I don’t know the Piro words for remember,
restore, or even respire,

But I know the words
pe-n’e
ya-pol-ya-we
so-an-e¹

and that is enough for a homecoming.

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My first Piro ancestor recorded in the Paso del Norte missions was given the surname Salado, a Spanish word meaning “salty”—a less-than-illustrious way of denoting the part played by our ancestors in salt stewardship. In fact, the Salinas Pueblos played an incredibly important cultural, economic, ceremonial, and medicinal role for the entire Southwest. Salt is multidimensionally necessary for life, and the salt harvested by Salado hands has been traded between the Pueblos of New Mexico and Mexico, as well as into the plains, for thousands of years. When our ancestors were separated from the sacred salt beds, so began a centuries-long chronicle of cultural displacement. That is why I am writing about this jar, which I call my little salt friend, as an act of re-membering, re-cording, or perhaps even re-spiring.

In an alkaline crystal form, salt embodies the principle of recordar. It literally passes back through the heart, electrically communicating with the body vital and functional information. Like clay, salt is the result of minerals praying themselves into formation over the course of millennia. Long before any words were spoken on this continent, salt crystals were formed here with information waiting patiently in prayer to pass through spiritually related hearts. When I saw this jar hidden in the collection, I tasted the shock of salt on my tongue. That was a sign to me that it had an important story to tell, one that I would re-cord too, as we come to the convergence of familiar hearts.

The jar’s resonant designs remind me of the crystalline patterns of salt. Moreover, its cuteness seems like a clever testament to its perseverance (salt being an agent of preservation)—the fact that something so small and easily overlooked has survived long enough to quite literally pass back through my heart.

Etymologically, salt implies a type of sal-vation— or perhaps it is that salvation implies a saltiness on the tongue. Salt is a purifier, a preserver, and a neutralizer, along with being an emissary of mineralized prayer. I am not sure if that aspect of sal- was ever spoken to when my ancestors were named Salado, but I do know that there is salvation in the things that make it back to your heart. In that awareness, I offer this as an extension of gratitude to my cute little salt friend. This one is for you so-an-e.

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¹ Pe-n’e is “heart”, ya-pol-ya-we “heaven”, and so-an-e “salt.” In other words, “in heart, in heaven, salt (salvation).”

Memories

When I first saw this storage jar in the book Lucy M. Lewis: American Indian Potter¹, I was impressed by a spread featuring a close-up of the double-headed thunderbird.  It is framed by a rainbow, and its simple elegance drew me in. When I saw the entire pot reproduced on the following page, I was overwhelmed by the design as a whole. Each feature contributes its own beauty and balance. I believe this is when I fell in love with the jar, but it would be many years before I attempted to paint this design. It comprises numerous elements, yet it still has breathing room and does not feel compressed or dense.

The designs are typical of Acoma pottery: there are animals (birds and deer); geometric shapes representing mountains; and plants and clouds (the curvilinear triangles, some split). The double-headed thunderbird, set within an unconventional squared, stepped rainbow, is especially alluring. One’s eye is drawn along the rainbow to the next feature, the deer. The shape of the deer’s antlers reminds me of the deer found in Zuni pottery. Stepped solid-black and hatched bands frame the geometric designs. They may be interpreted as a rainbow (the hatched lines indicate rainfall) and lightning (depicted by the black band). The elongated arches—which envelop “lobes” and a rectangular “eye,” and are edged with scalloped clouds—ground the flow of this design, along with the adjacent black-and-white parallelograms and triangles and stepped hatching. This feature ends with a solid triangle positioned above a rectangular bar, which possibly represent the land and mountains upon which the deer stands. The overall design reflects prayers for rain.

Attempts to scrape off painting mistakes are visible on the pot’s surface —for example, near the rump of the deer in the image on the opposite page. These indicate that the potter painted entirely freehand, rather than relying on a penciled outline. Since most of these older pots were used, such flaws would not have mattered to the potter because only the Creator is perfect. (One may see similar features in my own work!) The pot has yellowed in some areas and has two pine-pitch repairs. All these features only add to its beauty.

Feeling the interior of the jar, where the potter placed her fingers and hands while shaping this piece, connects me not only to her but also to our shared past—a living past that is my present and future. The use of ground sherds from older pots for the clay temper brings that past literally into our present, and when these pots are but pieces of the past, they too will carry on our pottery-making tradition. The creation of pottery with the same clay and methods used by our ancestors is the embodiment of our collective spirit. As my grandmother Lucy Lewis would say, “I mix my clay with me.” Each pot has our spirit in it, each has its own personality, and it is this, I believe, that draws others to it.

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¹ Susan Peterson,  Lucy M. Lewis: American Indian Potter. Tokyo and New York (Kodansha International) 1984. 

Connection

I am attracted to this olla because of its balanced design, which allows the vessel to breathe. Similar jars are present in the SAR collection, and Zuni tribal advisors refer to this design as bats.¹ Three large bats hang down from the rim: the solid-black triangles make up the tails, and the hatched X-shapes are the body and wings. The hatches indicate rain, while the triangles of the tails reference clouds or tail feathers, or both. The diamond and triangle between the outstretched wings provide highly structured detail in the overall design, and simultaneously ground it to the base. They remind me of stalagmites and stalactites, especially the scalloped edges of the diamond, which are reminiscent of dripping water and mineral deposits.

This well-used Zuni jar probably held water. We can tell by the yellowish stain around the chipped rim and by the discoloration of the entire vessel. While the pot does not appear to have any white hard-water deposits, past deposits may have caused the “melt-off” of the rim. The jar has a very shallow concave base that is heavily worn from use. The bulbous midsection and overall form define it as an olla or k’yabokya de’ele (water jar). On account of the worn rim, it is impossible to tell if there was a break or spirit line painted around the top of the pot.

I love these old pots! Feeling the depressions on the inside of the rim, where the potter’s fingers held the neck coils in place to shape and give definition, provides me with a connection to the olla’s maker. It is as if I can feel them using a wooden or gourd shaper on the wet clay to pull up the rim and shape the neck. In one area between the shoulder and the rim, it appears that the potter did not quite smooth one coil into the next, or it may be a patch where the clay was too thin.

I envy this potter their paint and brush. The black paint has a glossy sheen. You see this effect on many pots, especially older ones, but the majority have a matte finish. This potter had good-quality mineral stones, excellent binder, and a knack for mixing in the right proportions. The brush, too, was of a fine make, providing a consistent color along the lines.

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¹ Jim Enote and Octavius Seotewa, “Zuni Collections Reviews,” database notes, December 8-9, 2010, School for Advanced Research, Santa Fe, N. Mex.

Water Jar: A Pueblo of Tesuque Ancestor

On this ancestral water jar, the black designs on the cream slip represent lengthy and strong cultural ties to the vessel’s Tesuque community. The seemingly modest jar dates from around the end of the nineteenth century. The designs were painstakingly painted during a period when time was not defined by monetary value or profitable output.

The maker took care when crafting this pot. Slips of cream and red were applied thinly, before the black designs were added. The pot’s surface was smoothed with a polishing stone plucked from the river, a stone that was itself smoothed by water.

The designs represent many things in their beautiful simplicity. Flowers and other plants bloom across the surface, given life by flowing streams of water and wind. Decorated vessels tell stories, and when they are in use their purpose becomes clear and is understood by those using them. Stories change, and designs are interpreted in multiple ways. The designs are painted to invoke blessings to all who encounter this ancestor. Intentional design does not indicate permanence, and versatility is the mark of Pueblo pottery.

Although the main function of this jar was probably to carry or store water, it is likely that it was also used for cooking and serving. The maker’s intentions for this pot were entirely practical, as testified by the swirling fingerprints inside the jar. Strokes made permanent during firing are an equally important part of this water jar’s story as its painted exterior. These first and final strokes of movement made during the crafting of this vessel give the jar a functional purpose rather than imbue it with the monetary value that might otherwise be placed on it.

Impressions left in jars like this are often overlooked because of the pots’ aesthetically pleasing exteriors. But these flaws and imperfections are what make each vessel individual. Even if it is replicated, a water jar ancestor is as unique as its maker’s fingerprints. The slips and paint cannot be made the same again; the earth has changed from when the first clay was harvested, and the water flows differently from our ancestors’ time. Fire and utility are constants; they can change the function of a jar, but mostly they provide evidence of creation. The base of this Tesuque water jar has the familiar puki mark, which shows how the pot’s life began while also leaving behind an offering in its impression.

Puki: A Pottery Making Base

I chose this puki because of the way it is preserved: mud is still embedded in the base, layers of clay from consistent use are visible, and its surface is hardened from the pressure it bore every time a new vessel began its journey on the puki.

Loosely translated, a puki, in American archaeological terms, is a coiling base. After harvesting and mixing all the clay and paints, and after prayer and preparation, a potter may require the assistance of a puki to build a jar. With a puki of this design, the base of a clay pot is created by molding the starting coils to either side of the tool. This reflects the most popular and practical use of a puki, and is probably how this particular one was employed. Before the introduction of the clay puki, woven yucca baskets were sometimes used for the same purpose, but these are seldom found by archaeologists because the organic material does not preserve well. Between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries, Indigenous communities began to build permanent dwellings in fertile places. A more sedentary lifestyle allowed much heavier and sturdier materials to be used. Clay was abundant, rivers and channels throughout the region provided access to water, and the mountain ranges meant that raw firing materials such as cedar, piñon, and juniper wood were also readily available.

The disk-shaped puki has a shallow curve and is stable sitting “right side up” and “upside down.” Both sides of the puki can be used, although its traditionally identified “bottom” is worn enough to indicate there was probably a dominant surface. The “top” of the puki has a dome-shaped bulb to assist in giving vessels a concave base. The “bottom” has a hollow that assists in creating a round-bottomed vessel. American archaeologists often overlook the practicality of a tool such as the puki. It is a versatile utensil, one that can be used for many other purposes, including for carrying water, as a plate for food, or even for cooking. It can also be used as a paint palette for pottery, or as a mortar for grinding and mixing herbs for medicinal purposes. Once a pot is fully built, the puki can be used to stabilize and dry the vessel. Light in weight, the puki is easily transportable, and was probably used in even more inventive ways. Creation begins with an idea. Pottery is the tangible stage of bringing objects to life. To have a life is to have a purpose. The puki has made itself useful in many ways, and continues to stand the test of time.

Family Lineage

After viewing several amazing ceramic pieces for this project in the SAR collection by members of my Nampeyo family and by those of other talented families of Pueblo artists, I realized that the school has a vast number of works. I decided on a pot created by my great-grandmother Rachel Namingha (Nampeyo). I was fortunate to grow up knowing both my great-grandparents Emerson and Rachel Namingha. The stylized bird design on this pot is one that has been handed down from generation to generation. In our collection, my wife and I have a smaller pot by my aunt Camille Quotskuyva (Nampeyo) with the same design.

These Nampeyo designs have always been an inspiration in my own creative work. I fondly remember spending time at Hopi with my grandparents and great-grandparents when I was a teenager, while taking part in ceremonies. One summer my grandmother Dextra Quotskuyva (Nampeyo) asked me to redo some of the Nampeyo family drawings they had on newsprint because the artworks were showing some wear and fading a bit. I studied the images and asked a lot of questions about each symbol in all the different renderings that were used for reference by my grandmother, aunts, and cousins when they were creating their own ceramics. I spent hours upstairs at Emerson and Rachel’s home, copying these designs on new sheets of paper for their family portfolio.

I feel so fortunate to be a part of a unique artistic lineage and culture, learning these techniques and traditions firsthand. I incorporate these ideas into my own work, not to re-create them, but to draw from them and honor our family. I have used elements of these designs in my interactive stone sculptures in honor of the Nampeyo family, and have dedicated a few sculptures to specific family members.

I have always admired the skill and innovation of my great-great-great-grandmother Nampeyo’s designs, and also all the generations of ceramicists who continue to elaborate on and draw from these works. I hope to carry on this legacy in my own artistic expression and medium.

Saya - Grandmother

When I first encountered this piece, I knew it had to be my grandmother Dextra’s pottery. I remember seeing a much larger version of it on the cover of a book. I was initially drawn to the painted fragments of pottery, which are pieced together like a very complicated collage. Each little painted sherd tells a story through symbolism. It made me think of my great-great-great- grandmother Nampeyo, who assembled fragments of Hopi pottery from the ancient village of Sikyatki to apply to her own pottery designs. 

To me, it seems that my grandmother is pictorially telling that story, but also telling the story of our culture. I have questions about this piece that I would like to ask my grandmother. Where did she get her clay from? What do these fragments represent? Which fragment did she paint first? Did she work in a particular direction?

Alas, my grandmother passed away in 2019. I last saw her the summer before she passed, and she told us a story of the Tewa people that her mother had told her when she was a young girl. I used a recorder to document her storytelling, and I am glad I did. I had planned on making a trip to see her and record some more stories, but I never made it; we forget about the impermanence of people. Storytelling and passing on those stories are so important. We need to take advantage of our relationships with our elders while they are here.

In looking at this piece, I began to think of times spent with my grandmother when I was growing up. I remember a summer when we made pieces of pottery together. I was too young to realize how important that time was—our hands both tending to the clay, and the scent of wet earth. I have a memory of her hands covered in that light coating of dried clay. Now when I see work by my grandmother Dextra, I start to look for clues that may connect to my own artistic practice.

Shawn Tafoya and Grandmother Clay

This piece was made by my pottery teacher, mentor, and friend, Shawn Tafoya. I enrolled in Shawn’s pottery class at the Poeh Cultural Center, Pueblo of Pojoaque, in 2011. I still remember my first day of class and learning to work with clay in the traditional way through observation and imitation. I watched Shawn, a big man at more than 6 feet (1.8 m) tall, take the clay into his hands and gently pound it between his palms back and forth, over and over. The way he handled the clay seemed familiar to me. It reminded me of when I would watch my grandmothers and aunties make fry bread or tortillas. There was an innate merging of the heart and mind that seemed automatic and confident. I perceived a higher intelligence at work, as if Shawn’s hands themselves were listening to the clay and responding to it in a way that allowed it to become what it was always destined to be. Within minutes, Shawn created a perfectly symmetrical little pinch pot. I still have that piece to this day, and it is how I recognized this sculpted figure as Shawn’s work. This figurine is holding a pot that is the exact same dimension as my pinch pot shaped by Shawn’s oversized thumb!

When I asked him about the meaning behind this piece, Shawn replied, “I don’t remember making that!” This figurine is quite an unusual piece for him, considering that he is well known for making large dough bowls with intricate polychrome design work. I imagine that this is one of those pieces for which Shawn simply listened to the clay as it took shape. Perhaps the clay was also listening in on him? With its own intelligence, it may have recognized Shawn’s connection to his mother, aunties, and grandmas, and aspired to the figure of a resilient Pueblo woman, strong and nurturing as she cradles her precious dough bowl, which is used for making bread for her community and family. She, too, is reverberating the rhythm in her hands as she merges heart and mind, gently pounding her dough back and forth, back and forth.

Jerry and His Cats

Jerry is a friend and classmate of mine at the Poeh Cultural Center. I chose to include Jerry’s piece in this exhibition because I watched him make it from scratch. We gathered the clay from the land as a class and mixed its components of ash, clay, and water in the traditional way, with our feet. We divided the clay among classmates and began our assignment, to create a piece inspired by contemporary design.

It was nice to set out together as a group with a common goal and working at one large table. When you are side by side, learning is accelerated. You get to see the experimentation, the mistake-making, and the risk-taking of each person as they work, and you are immediately able to implement this knowledge into your own creations. There was never a class when we did not share a meal together. It felt comfortable and home-like when we were in class, eating, working, laughing, and sharing. In this communal setting, our stories, jokes, and inspirations fuel our effort because everyone participates in collective creation.

With this piece in particular, I remember Jerry’s story about his cat. It would jump up onto his kitchen counter, and had already knocked two of his finished bowls over the edge, making them shatter on the floor. A playful joke emerged in class, and we would tease, “You’d better be careful with those cats, Jerry. Your bowl might crack!” In my mind, it was a risk to put those cat-like mountain-lion figures on the rim of the bowl. They seemed fragile, as though they would dry quicker than the rest of the pot, causing cracks. The drying process takes several weeks, and when I observed that Jerry’s contemporary cat-like ornaments had survived the drying process, I realized how resilient this batch of clay was. It led me to take similar risks with my clay that I would normally not have attempted. This is the advantage of communal learning, a way in which our people have always created pottery, together as a group. We work to assist one another when our teacher is busy, and all pitch in our ideas to help solve problems.

With Admiration and Gratitude

As a non-Native steward of a collection of Native art, I am aware that it is integral to my work to show respect and to care for Pueblo pottery and its cultural significance. I have learned so much, and am grateful to everyone at the Indian Arts Research Center at the School for Advanced Research and to each community member for their contributions to my growth as a curator and as a person. I am truly honored to have played a small part in this revolutionary endeavor. With admiration, I share this remarkable Hopi bowl.

Prioritizing Pueblo Voices

From the outset, this project prioritized Pueblo community members and their voices, and my curatorial voice appropriately took a backseat. The lovingly written narratives by the Native co-curators of this project expand our view and understanding of Pueblo pottery in a way that Eurocentric methods could never achieve. Such collaboration is a rare event in other institutions, but I hope that this model, which validates and prioritizes Native knowledge, will become the standard. 

This gorgeously shaped and beautifully decorated vessel by Marianita Roybal (1843–1910) of San Ildefonso Pueblo is my favorite piece in our care. Roybal was one of the leading potters during the growth of the tourist market, and is the earliest potter identified by name and the creator of the earliest signed vessel from any Pueblo.¹ This black-on-redware lidded jar features decoration that appears to reference clouds and birds, and is marked by “fire clouds,” smoke marks that occur during the pottery-making process. While it is uncommon to find writing on pottery, inscribed on the lid of this piece is “Roybal & Dieguito,” probably a reference to Marianita and her brother.

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¹ In 1881 Roybal created and signed a pitcher for Colonel George G. Green; it is now in the SAR collection (IAF.2011). Jonathan Batkin, “Three Great Potters of San Ildefonso and Their Legacy,” American Indian Art Magazine , vol. 16, no. 4, Autumn 1991, p. 68.

Bee Plant, Butterflies, and Borders

These two storage jars were created nearly a century apart, and the visual dialogue between them is compelling. Striking designs on both jars are painted with hand-harvested then ground and boiled bee plant, a natural pigment that blackens when fired and contrasts with the creamy-white slip. On one jar, rain, clouds, birds, and pollinating insects—specifically butterflies in a state of transformation—reference water and the sky. On the other, a seedling emerging from the red earth is greeted by the light and warmth of the sun as swelling rain clouds hover above. Pictorially and materially, both pots embody growth and the renewal of life—gentle reminders of the beauty and fragility of the natural world on which we humans depend. Broad bands of slip in La Bajada red and soft cream organize the jars compositionally, and echo the stratified earth of the mesas, cliffs, and arroyos of the Rio Grande Valley.

I like to imagine these two jars in someone’s home, resting in the cool shade of a family kitchen that smells of delicious simmering cooking. Their expertly scraped and smoothed voluminous forms hold fresh water or nourishing grains. They are a comforting presence, most likely part of a family’s or community’s daily life.

My own community, the Purépecha, also create hand-coiled pottery with images of water, celestial bodies, and animals. The Purépecha are Pueblo people, a fishing community known for their swirling “butterfly” nets, which they use on Lake Pátzcuaro in the volcanic mountains of Michoacán. Once, when I was visiting my great-grandparents’ pueblo outside Pátzcuaro, I bought a large clay jar painted with rows of fish, raindrops, and mountains. The woman who made the jar wrapped it in layers of a Mexican newspaper, then carefully placed it inside a cardboard box. On the plane heading home, I flew over 2000 miles (3200 km) carrying that clay pot in my arms. High above settler-imposed international borders, I held images of water, sky, and earth.

Precarity in Abundance

Defined more by the spaces between them than by the notes themselves, the music of Pueblo life resonates within these micaceous clay coiled walls. A joyful recognition of Pueblo ethos and precarity held in abundance, the vessel’s voluminous form—swelling at center—invokes balance. The walls, ingrained with the season of storage, speak of the gravity of community, an ecological agreement based on mutual aid. Decorated only by signs of wear and a rare fire cloud, the vessel exists for the purpose of practical use—and will be returned to the earth once its use is finished.

The bountiful weight of the vessel is held precariously on a balanced base, yet its flared rim expresses careful restraint. A story in structure, curved walls serve as an unconscious reminder of the ephemerality of sustenance and the unreliable nature of surplus. The act of placing provisions into the vessel, and then removing them, requires sustained and careful attention in order to avoid waste or overconsumption. A small-scale representation of our Pueblo’s earthen dwellings, this vessel is a means of protection and community coalescence. It is the careful acceptance of outside influence and radical self-embrace. As our buildings evolve according to the needs and uses of the inhabitants, so has this vessel evolved, each meal making a new mark.

In an act of mutual kinship, the vessel is fed—cared for—through its feeding of others, and each stain, scar, or scratch is a memory made tangible through use. The worn ring around the base and the stained areas offer evidence of seasonal shifting and the heavy burden of bounty. Fired light, the vessel’s golden walls are emboldened by its sacred duty to contain. Its broken rim, scuffed surface, and punctures near the base are proof of a life lived in relation to use. A rough-surfaced patch on the base of the interior is probably an attempt to preserve the jar’s function, if not its form.

Like the structures of Taos Pueblo, this vessel is a symbolic gesture of reciprocal care between community and place. It is alive with the history of moving forces bound in time through mutual respect. The jar is a call for continued function until it completes its cycle and returns to its original state. As it weathers back into itself, a moment of growth occurs, made real in its death.

Seasoned

This bowl’s carbon-saturated walls are ingrained with memories of meals prepared within and of words and worlds hovering around the vessel. Its body is dressed with the markings of experiences surrounding it. With a humble gesture of four symbolic nubs, placed at quarterly intervals just below its rim, the bowl challenges the separation of art and tool. An embodiment of both its purpose and its people, this vessel has a resilience matched only by that of the community from which it came.

A middle place, designated by lines stretching from the center of the vessel to the four protrusions, recognizes mutual inheritance between space and place throughout time. The bowl’s physical appearance is a record of relations made tangible by clay, water, and fire. With each firing, the golden walls of this micaceous clay vessel have been blackened with the essence of organic life. Carbon carries thoughts, emotions, and actions around the fire. Inside the bowl, white mineral deposits, facilitated by water, serve as evidence of creation and inheritance from the land—a slow force of spatial communication expressed in geological conflict. With each use of the vessel, water carries a product of erosion back to the coalescent whole.

Their lines demarcating center, the four protrusions are a call to remain in harmony; each nub creates space for a covered hand to cling, protecting both the contents of the bowl and the cook. The vessel’s beauty lies not solely in artistic expression, but also in utility. The manifestation of adornment is a means of information, recollection, and mobilization; it exists outside itself and between forces made tangible to the user through wear—a connection point to our origins, which surround it, and to the physical forces that affect it.

When the value of a vessel became correlated with technical perfection in specified styles, pottery forms moved away from community and yielded to the pressures of a capitalist market. The commodification of pottery as artwork drastically altered the relationship between communities and the clay. Before the separation of technical perfection and utility in micaceous pottery, physical distance between Pueblo communities aided the development of different artistic styles and created the conditions for innovation based on community needs. This vessel speaks of these forces and of a community’s connection to its surroundings through use, rather than its control over the environment.

Heavy with the remembrance of past use, this vessel’s weighted tactility calls outward for contact while reassuring users of its ability. Contemporary cookware and artwork typically degrade with use, but each meal, stain, or scratch adds to the structure of a micaceous pot. The marks on the exterior of the vessel are testimony to its narrative function, which parallels that of its community. Seasoned, the northern Pueblos have been made resilient through experience. The traditions of functional pottery face challenges new in media but not in scope; each decision made real in our environment pushes the community forward into the future better prepared.

For Tim

When I initially chose this piece, it was with the intention of sharing conversations with Tim Edaakie about this extraordinary k’yabokya de’ele. Tim was a remarkable Zuni potter, the 2019 Rollin and Mary Ella King Native Artist Fellow at SAR, and a friend. But then he fell ill, the pandemic began, time and space became jumbled, and, after a prolonged illness, Tim passed away far too young in September 2020. Rather than shift directions entirely, I decided instead to offer a story to this k’yabokya de’ele, a memory of one of her descendants, of Tim, for her to enjoy.

It was a few years back, and I had to be in Zuni on business. Tim had gently chided me the last time he found out that I had traveled to Zuni and had not let him know, so this time I made a point of reaching out. Tim was always incredibly generous with his time and knowledge, and this occasion was no exception. After work, we watched dances together, shared a meal of chili and cheese with his wonderful friends, chatted endlessly, and explored his studio. The next day, before we had to leave, Tim took me and my colleague to some of his favorite spots. He was so enormously proud of his community and of where he was from, it was hard not to be inspired by him and not to find awe in the things he found beautiful. Those moments were precious, and I will always carry them with me.

Preface

A Sense of Place

The School for Advanced Research (SAR) sits on Tewa lands in O’gah’poh geh Owingeh (White Shell Water Place), or Santa Fe, New Mexico. Surrounding our campus are the landscapes of Pueblo, Apache, and Navajo communities, whose people continue to maintain vital connections to this place.
As an institution privileged to steward Indigenous cultural material and committed to uplifting Indigenous voices, we strive to maintain respectful and mutually beneficial relationships with these communities. We not only honor the ancestral stewards of this land but celebrate their past, present, and future.¹

One Century of History in a Nutshell

In 1918, while the United States was fully enmeshed in the implications of Manifest Destiny,² federal assimilationist policies,³ and salvage ethnography,⁴ a global pandemic hit,⁵ devastating communities and entire countries worldwide, including many Pueblo communities in the American Southwest.
Just a few years later, in 1922, a group of Santa Fe creatives were at the home of the writer Elizabeth Shepley Sergeant for a dinner party. In her home resided an old k’yabokya de’ele (water jar) from Zuni Pueblo, which broke during the gathering. Recognizing its beauty and historic value, and fearing that Pueblo pottery would eventually disappear, the group decided to found the Pueblo Pottery Fund. The broken Zuni pot—a beautiful example of Ashiwi polychrome created not so long after the Pueblo Revolt of 1680⁶ and replete with bird and cloud imagery⁷—was restored and became IAF.1, the first piece accessioned into the collection. By 1925 the mission of the Pueblo Pottery Fund had broadened to include other art forms such as textiles, jewelry, carvings, and basketry, and the fund was renamed the Indian Arts Fund (IAF).
For many years without a permanent home, the IAF collection moved from place to place, including private homes and museum basements, hopelessly entangled with the collection of the Laboratory of Anthropology.⁸ Thanks to the collecting tendencies of Kenneth Chapman, who collected for both institutions during their formative years, it took decades to separate the two. In 1978 the Indian Arts Research Center (IARC) was established and a permanent home was built for the collection on the campus of the School for Advanced Research.
It is important to note that the premise of the Pueblo Pottery Fund, although well intentioned, was unquestionably presumptuous and paternalistic. That said, the hope of the founders that the collection would be utilized for study and inspiration was admirable and continues to this day. One century later, the IARC collection, in partnership with the communities it serves, functions as a research resource for Native American community members, artists, and researchers interested in the Indigenous Southwest. Through the IARC’s community-centered programs and its collection, we are able to support the past, present, and future of Native American arts.
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Developing a Process

Each cultural belonging carries within itself hundreds if not thousands of stories, with every point of contact creating a new story. There are more than 12,000 items of Native Southwest art and history in the IARC collection, so one can only imagine how many stories and lives vibrate within the center’s walls. Through this project, our hope was to tease out just a few of these stories.
The catalogue represents over 100 pottery works from the collections of the Indian Arts Research Center and the Vilcek Foundation in New York. The works were chosen by dozens of community curators, representing each of the Pueblo tribes in the Southwest. In addition, a small selection was chosen by staff members from the School for Advanced Research and the Vilcek Foundation, in acknowledgment of the pieces’ collected history. Grounded in Clay: The Spirit of Pueblo Pottery aligns with the tenets of the SAR Guidelines for Collaboration.⁹ The Guidelines call for a more equitable exchange and partnership between communities of origin and the utilization of museum collections. This project used the Guidelines and took them to the next logical step, by acknowledging and embracing the complexities that arise out of community-based work.
For Grounded in Clay, each curator was given the option of selecting either one or two works for the exhibition and catalogue, and then was asked to write about their chosen piece(s). General prompts were offered to assist with the writing process if required, but curators were given leeway to write whatever they wanted about the pieces, in whichever format they wished. Staff offered editing, oral-history recording, and transcription assistance on request, but the content produced was entirely each curator’s own. Each community participant was compensated for their work.
While most exhibits of Pueblo pottery focus on historical timelines and Western-derived concepts of fine art, this project focused on the lesser-known and intangible aspects of pottery that are so intrinsic to the art and enduring cultures of Pueblo people.
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Building Community during a Global Pandemic

When this project began in late 2019, it was with dreams of community gatherings, barbecues in the park, and frequent opportunities to celebrate Pueblo pottery together. Little did we anticipate that just a few months later we would be in the middle of a global pandemic that would last far longer than any of us could imagine.
In March 2020, New Mexico’s governor declared a state of public health emergency and SAR shifted immediately to a work-from-home model. In response to the disproportionately higher rates at which COVID-19 was affecting Native American communities, many Pueblos closed their borders. Gatherings were no longer an option.
It took time for SAR to find its way forward, but planned physical gatherings eventually turned into virtual ones. We gathered online as best we could, not just to allow staff to share updates and receive input about the project, but also, more importantly, to focus on small-scale community-building and support. Attendance was never required, and the goal was to provide space to check in and be there for one another. In our gatherings, it was soothing to hear project participants as they workshopped their drafts and shared memories, humor, and dreams. Sometimes, one participant or another would be working with their clay, hands busy, ears listening attentively as folks chattered on. Children ran across our screens, grandchildren flew by in the airplane arms of saya.¹⁰ Our gatherings served as a balm for frayed nerves, distracted minds, and sorrowful hearts.

Ultimately, Grounded in Clay not only sheds light on the powerful stories and brilliant minds that reside within the communities from which these collected works come, but also highlights the resiliency and strength of these communities. In the wake of a global pandemic, economic worries, and imperfect processes, everyone rose to the challenge and not only succeeded but, in retrospect, thrived under nearly impossible circumstances. This project also serves as an example of how important it is for collecting institutions such as SAR to remain self-critical and to continue pushing to better serve the communities represented in their collections and geographic areas. While it has been successful, this project is not a solution; it is one step in a lengthy, complex journey. We acknowledge the long road ahead and know that it may be a difficult one, but we also look forward to a better and more equitable future.

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¹ School for Advanced Research, “Land Acknowledgment,” https://sarweb.org/about/land-acknowledgment (accessed June 2021).

² The idea prevalent in the mid-nineteenth century that Anglo-Americans had the God-given right to move from the East Coast to the West, regardless of the Indigenous peoples already in those areas. This resulted in numerous forced removals and the creation of the reservation system.

³ Federal policies that sought to assimilate Native Americans into mainstream American culture. This resulted in the creation of, among many other things, boarding schools that suppressed Indigenous languages and cultures.

⁴ The anthropological idea that Indigenous material culture needed to be collected out of those communities in an effort to “save” their cultures, since it was believed that the communities would eventually die out or assimilate Western culture. Many ethnographic museums in the United States were established during this time. The fallacy of this paradigm is that the removal of all material culture from a community does not, in fact, help save a community’s culture; rather, it separates culture from the people to whom it belongs.

⁵ The influenza pandemic of 1918–20, which was caused by the H1N1 virus.

⁶ In 1680 Pueblo communities revolted and removed Spanish colonizers from their lands. The Pueblo scholars Joe Sando and Herman Agoyo called this the “first American Revolution”; see Po’pay: Leader of the First American Revolution, ed. Joe S. Sando and Herman Agoyo, Santa Fe, N. Mex. (Clear Light) 2005.

⁷ Jim Enote and Octavius Seowtewa, “Zuni Collection Reviews,” database notes, December 7–8, 2010, School for Advanced Research, Santa Fe, N. Mex.

⁸ Today known as the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture/Laboratory of Anthropology, Santa Fe.

⁹ See https://www.guidelinesforcollaboration.info (accessed November 2021).

¹⁰ Tewa for “grandmother.”

My Mother’s Home

I was drawn to this piece in particular because it feels like home. My mother, Santanita Kick (maiden name: Avila), is an avid Pueblo pottery collector of sorts. Her home is adorned with exquisite museum-quality pots. From an early age, I admired the carefully acquired pieces she would add to her collection. My mom gravitated to the beautiful Acoma pottery, hence, when I saw Juanita Johnson’s jar in the midst of hundreds of vessels—old, new, and by some of the most acclaimed Pueblo potters—it felt like home. 

The black-and-white design, ever so familiar from my mother’s collection, gave me a sense of comfort.  Acoma pottery was prized and cherished in my grandmother’s and aunties’ homes. We often use Acoma pottery on special occasions in our home in Sandia village.

The symmetrical geometric painting requires great skill, talent, and creativity, and you cannot help but be in awe of the artist Juanita Johnson— a master potter. While the familiar design of this jar brings me comfort, the unusual incurving rim makes it seem edgy. Some people, including me, might speculate that this is a design flaw that ended up working out. The detail in the fine lines, the beauty of the piece when seen from above, the playful edginess—all would conspire to make this my pick 100 years from now too.

Masterful, Magical, Matriarch: Maria Martinez

In my mind, Maria Martinez of San Ildefonso Pueblo is, hands down, the “master Pueblo potter” of our time. Part of me wanted to select a pottery from another gifted artist who did not receive as much attention or as many accolades as Maria.

As I looked through the vessels in the SAR collection, I kept coming back to the Maria Martinez pieces for a few reasons. One, Maria Martinez was the first Pueblo woman I had seen on screen—on a TV screen when I was in the fourth grade in the 1970s. My teacher showed us a documentary on Maria. As a young girl from Sandia Pueblo, I was amazed. I had never before seen a Pueblo woman on television, nor had I seen any Pueblo person’s artwork being discussed, respected, or treasured. While I have always been proud to be from Sandia Pueblo, my pride rocketed after seeing that documentary.

The second reason I was drawn to this piece was because of the etching of Maria and her husband, Julian, on the plate. I had never seen anything like it; it felt like a “selfie,” and it proved to me that Maria was a Renaissance woman who was way before her time.

Finally, the piece was Maria’s signature black-on-black pottery—but it was the etched “selfie” that continued to intrigue. At one point while studying the plate in my white gloves, I became wrapped up in the knowledge that I was holding and touching the work of the great clay genius Maria Martinez. It was a surreal and powerful moment for me.

For My daa’ow¹

I have always admired my grandma’s ability to take on any creative endeavor. When my siblings and I were growing up, she encouraged us to make crafts or baked goodies so we could sell them and earn a little bit of money. Grandma grew up selling pottery with her mother on the side of Route 66, sometimes trading pots for things like comic books or blankets. Selling pottery was a constant in her life, an income on which she knew she could rely, and pottery-making was a skill she wanted to pass on.

As a kid, I naturally wanted to play with clay and paint when Grandma made her pots in the summertime, but I never really made anything. I simply enjoyed the smell and texture of the wet clay in my hands. Eventually, Grandma would send us away from her work table to clean up after she had painted whiskers on our faces. When I was in my early teens, she began letting me fill her designs, which she pre-marked with black paint. She always checked to see if I stayed within the lines, and made me clean up any paint that was not in designated areas. She saw my continued interest in pottery and bought me small greenware pieces to paint. I never sold anything at that age, but it sparked a flame in me. I wanted one day to show Grandma something I had made from scratch, even though I did not know a thing about the pottery-making process.

Finally, in my adult life, I learned how to make pottery. My career in museum work allowed me to organize classes to preserve traditional pottery-making techniques at Acoma. I observed instructors teach more than fifty beginner and experienced Acoma potters the entire pottery-making process. I joined the students in each class with the goal of creating something I would be proud to show Grandma.

The day came when I walked into the house with a small jar I had made and, without saying a word, I handed it to Grandma. I had painted a beautiful, simple design on it, one I had seen on numerous Acoma jars throughout my life—almost the same as the one on the gorgeous Acoma water jar that I have chosen for this exhibition. Anxiously waiting for her approval, I watched Grandma turn my small jar in her hand as she felt the inside and outside. “Daa’ow, you need to push your clay out more,” she said. I thought I might cry, until she smiled widely and finally told me that she liked it.

The more pottery I make, the more stories Grandma shares and the more pottery tools she passes down to me. When she sees me processing clay or painting, she tells me how glad she is that I am carrying on our culture. I always find inspiration in Acoma pottery, both historical and modern. This jar in particular reminds me why I started making pottery and of how Grandma always painted beautifully simple designs. She does not make pottery anymore, so when I get my hands in my clay, I make pots always with her on my mind. I make pottery because of Grandma and to see a smile on her face.

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¹ Keres female term for both “grandmother” and “granddaughter”.

Shaawitya

Shaawitya is Keres for “parrot.” Although parrots are not native to New Mexico, Acoma Pueblo is known for the parrot design. Our potters have been painting parrots on their vessels for a long time as a way of bringing these colorful birds to Acoma. I always love seeing the different variations each potter paints. Some parrots are bold, with big curved beaks, while others are simple designs with flowing feathers; even the type of flower vary. Each design reflects the unique individual or family style of the painter. 

All the design elements here are what you would expect to see on a pot with a parrot design: the parrots are in slips of orange and red, and have big crown feathers; the flowers are also painted in orange and red slips; and on the lower half of the design area there are two bands of geometric motifs, which could be interpreted as older variations of rainbow bands. Today, you will usually see rainbow bands painted in a curved, more commonly recognized bow-like shape, with parrots above and below the rainbow. The parrots are usually perched on part of a plant or flower. All these design elements emphasize the beauty of nature and are connected to water, which Pueblo people are always praying for. This jar is an excellent example of an older parrot design and a beautiful vessel overall.

“Singing Man” mono

While the collection at SAR houses many exciting pieces, I gravitate toward Cochiti figurines. The making of ceramic figures known as monos is an age-old tradition unique to the Pueblo of Cochiti. Monos are appealing not only because of their figurative nature, but also because of their humor—a quality that binds us in our shared human experience. Humor and figurative art remind us of timeless conversations through art and of our interconnectedness as humans.

At first glance, the Cochiti mono I refer to as “Singing Man” is whimsical and light-hearted. But stay with the piece longer and you will see the incredible care and detail invested in this nuanced portrait. This detail gives insight into the beautiful way Cochiti artists lovingly document the people and traditions of their Pueblo.

A classic example of Cochiti design, the mono is hand-built from Native clay and painted with white slip, with details added in vegetal and mineral paints. From top to bottom, we see first the handling of his Southern Rio Grande hairstyle and the humorous rendering of his wispy mustache. We know he is a traditional singer from his open mouth, face paint, and rattle. Notice his pierced ears. His clothing features elements that are distinctly Cochiti in style, including his diamond-patterned vest, a stylized belt of repeating triangles, his decorative pants, and red moccasins. He is dressed to participate in a ceremony, as indicated by his chest emblem of an evergreen branch and a rain cloud, and his sash with a concha design (which, on the back of the figure, holds his fringed cornmeal pouch). He sweetly cradles a companion, perhaps a lamb, its forehead adorned with an evergreen branch. The details and subtle humor make me feel connected to the piece, and I understand that the artist has created a timeless figure, one that represents a rich and vibrant culture rather than a single person.

Cochiti mono figurines are intimate documents of time and place and people, and are laden with contextual clues about the unchanging elements of the traditions and culture of Cochiti Pueblo. Most importantly, monos relate the humanity of Pueblo people, which is often overlooked in art history. The maker of “Singing Man” paid attention to cultural and historical accuracy, but also endowed the mono with subtle humor, so that we can easily relate to him.

Always Learning

I began to have a relationship with pottery when I became involved with a community loan between the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI) and the Poeh Cultural Center. Although I have been Collections Manager at the Poeh for many years, I realized that there was much I did not know, and I became fascinated. I went on several visits to NMAI’s Cultural Resources Center, where its collection is stored, and I began to familiarize myself with the pots. During these sessions, I and other Tewa community members were able to work closely with the pots, handling, feeling, and smelling them. It was there that I noticed some pots had a lip just beneath the rim that looked as if it may have been for a lid. Until then, I had never really associated lids with traditional pottery, but I wanted to know: what happened to the lids?

This is when I found out I was mistaken: decorative lids with handles are a more modern design feature.

I began to stop associating pottery with artwork and to understand that the pots are functional objects for everyday use. I took a new look at pottery being utilitarian and what that really means. Pottery was made specifically for storage purposes. It was more important for it to be functional and simple than to be elaborate and decorative.

The black Ohkay Owingeh jar I chose for this project is a typical representation, in historical terms, of a storage jar. It was made for utilitarian use, to store clothing, blankets, food, and water, among other things. It would have been placed in the corner of a room and covered, not by a decorative lid, but by a piece of cloth or buckskin, fastened with a leather thong, or by planks of wood. The lip would have been used as a handle. The more decorative San Ildefonso jar with a lid, appears more contemporary. This type of lid, with a handle, was not very functional because it could easily be broken and was difficult to replicate.

As I work with pottery, I start to see differences in the way pottery is made. When I see an old pot that has simple, basic designs with lines that are not straight and a less-than-perfect form, it feels inviting, almost human. I can relate to the pot. When I see a more contemporary pot with precise designs and a perfect form, it feels uninviting, as if it should be seen and not touched.

In my relationship with pottery, I can start to see how modern conveniences have changed the way we live. In my family, I see exactly where our more traditional, cultural ways of life shifted and had to adjust to new ways. For me, it is important not to let the more traditional forms and uses of pottery be forgotten. This is our way of life.

The Cochiti mono as Cultural Critique

As the railroad brings white American tourists into contact with previously isolated Rio Grande Pueblo communities, the mono art form is born.¹ These figurines take the form of carnival strongmen, bearded ladies, circus performers, sheriffs, and mental snapshots of other characters from the world outside the village. Even among the works of the eccentric Cochiti polychrome potters, the mono stands out as unique. Its aesthetic and material basis lies in Cochiti polychrome ceramics, but the mono does something that historical pottery does not; it critiques mainstream white American culture with humor and satire.

This particular mono has a beard and an elongated body, and wears a vest with a biomorphic motif, pin-striped britches, and lace-up boots. It is executed in traditional Cochiti polychrome materials—Native clay, white and La Bajada red iron-oxide slips, and bee-plant carbon-black paint—and is pit-fired.

Imagine it is the turn of the last century and you have spent your entire life in the small area that stretches from Santo Domingo Pueblo² to Santa Fe. My father told stories of his youth, when he would travel with his father by covered wagon along the dirt road that scales La Bajada Hill and traverses Las Campanas into Santa Fe. It was a two-day trip with an overnight camp in the Las Campanas area, and in the morning they would brew black coffee and cook fresh tortillas over the campfire. Travel through this area is slow, considered, deliberate. My father, Santiago Romero, will later paint Dunn School–type³ watercolors of these trips that are alive with the languid light, remote space, and glacial sense of time.

The first biplane to be seen in Cochiti lands on the baseball field. The pilot is a friend of Grandpa’s and takes him on a short flight out of the village. And then comes the iron-horse railroad on steel tracks, running through Cochiti and stopping at the Santo Domingo Trading Post. The physical, spiritual, and cultural space of the village, which has been largely intact since the Pueblo Revolt of 1680, has been penetrated by the modern industrial world. 

It is at this time of radical change that the art form of the mono appears. The mono is essentially a Cochiti perspective on the people and culture of the outside world, and Cochiti artists create these figurines to sell to those people alongside traditional polychrome pottery. The monos represent the curiosity of the artists who make them, also their fear, humor, trepidation, and financial need. The train is the conduit for transmission of the figurines as ethnographic curios at trading posts along the railroad tracks. Tourists are used as a canvas onto which a uniquely Indigenous worldview is projected, one that expresses feelings of anxiety about a changing world.

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¹ Mono is Spanish for “monkey.”

² Santa Domingo Pueblo is now known as Kewa.

³ In 1932 Dorothy Dunn established The Studio, a painting program for Native American students, at the Santa Fe Indian School. During her five years there, she taught several students who became well-known artists.

The World Rests on the Shoulder of Grandma’s Pot

I am going back to the time of my childhood, when my dad¹ brings us back to the rez during his summers off from being an art teacher. I think he feels it is important for us to connect with our people, though he left many years ago for a life with our mom in the Bay Area, and never seemed interested in coming back himself. Bah bah² appears indifferent to Dad, although she genuinely loves my brother and me. We are half-white, but this does not seem to matter to her at all.

My grandma lives in a HUD home³ built at the edge of the village in the 1960s: plasterboard walls, battleship-gray linoleum tiles, brown asphalt industrial tiles on the roof, and dead flies stuck to the flypaper strips in the kitchen. Like all Pueblo homes, it is spotlessly clean and immaculately maintained, with the smell of Pine Sol disinfectant and chili wafting through the house. Fresh fry bread is pulled hot from the tiny kitchen, smeared with Snow Cap lard, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and served to the half-breed urban kids visiting from the city.

It is summer, and withered, sun-bleached shrubs are visible outside the dining-room window. In the distance are the Jemez Mountains, where turbulent rainstorms build up over the peaks and with sudden ferocity rage over the village at the foot of the range. Bah bah is old, small, and brown, with silver-gray hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head and thick, black-rimmed Indian Hospital eyeglasses crowning her forehead. Her hands are a beautiful brown, veined, weathered, and filled with energy and intensity. She wears floral-patterned dresses and a drab utility apron.

The entire floor of the living room is covered with pottery. Bah bah is building inventory for the summer sales. She has dug the clay and the temper, kneaded and coiled the clay, laid it out into pot forms and scraped it, slipped it with white paint and La Bajada red oxide, added designs with a yucca brush and bee-plant carbon-black paint, and finally pit-fired it in the yard with cow manure.

The pot forms are deliciously warped and eccentric. They are characterized by appliquéd, low-relief lizards on the pot shoulders, borders with no panels, Pueblo rain clouds, bee-plant leaves, and pit-firing clouds. The modern, tight pottery aesthetic is totally absent from these earlier works. They are pulsing with wild lines and asymmetrical forms closer in ideology to Japanese sumi-e ink painting or 1960s New York Abstract Expressionism. These pots are alive, and they breathe. The signature and price are written on each base with a #2 Ticonderoga lead pencil: $2, $3, $6.

When we leave at the end of the summer, my grandma lets me choose a piece from the floor. I pick a black-bear figurine with comical puffy eyes. She calls him “Bee Stung Bear.” The clouds swirl outside the windows of a HUD house at the base of the Jemez Mountains, while inside, on the gray linoleum tiles, the world rests on the shoulders of Bah bah’s pottery.

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¹ Santiago Holly Romero, a Cochiti Pueblo Dunn School painter from the Santa Fe Indian School movement.

² Keres male term for “grandmother.” Teresita Chavez Romero, a renowned Cochiti Pueblo polychrome revivalist potter.

³ A home built by tribes with federal funding from the US Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD). HUD homes are often built as tract houses.

Santa Clara Wedding Jar

I remember when I was a little boy, around five years old, my two cousins, Walter and Michael, and I would stay with our Santa Clara grandparents during the summer season to help them with chores and to play with our friends. Mainly, we helped with such daily activities as cleaning the yard, chopping wood, and bringing firewood inside for the cooking stove and the bedrooms, along with tending the cows out in the pastures.

However, my fondest memories are of helping my grandmother Reycita Dasheno retrieve red and volcanic tuff clay from local sources to make her pottery. She made pots of different shapes and sizes, including wedding jars. We would watch her mix the clays and then mold and form her pottery pieces. After drying the pieces in the sun for several days, she would sand each one and later polish the pottery and fire it on an open pit with cow manure: it smelled awful!

In the middle of the summer months, on a certain evening, we would listen to the village crier as he stood on one of the rooftops giving out the weekly community news. On occasion, he would announce that a bus full of Anglo visitors was coming to the Pueblo. On the day of the arrival of the bus—one very similar to the old Fred Harvey buses—my two cousins and I would help my grandmother by placing a number of small and large pottery pieces in a big aluminum tub covered with a cotton cloth, and we would walk fast alongside her with the tub in hand. Once in the plaza, we would help position each pot on the cloth on the ground. As we were working, other ladies and children would do the same.

When finished, we would be among six or seven ladies with pottery laid out on the ground. Waiting for the bus to arrive, my two cousins and I would play behind our grandmother, and then we hung onto her dress as we watched the Anglo visitors go from placement to placement to look at the pots. Sometimes my grandmother Reycita would be lucky and sell one or two pieces. After we returned home, she would give each of us five or ten cents, and we would immediately run to the village store to buy soda pop or candy.

This was one of the best times of my young life. Best of all, we learned traditional Pueblo values and respect for our grandparents, and most importantly, they taught us the Tewa language at the same time.

IAF.1456

Dear capitalism, dear patriarchy, dear modern existence, dear Rose,

This, right here, is charged with truth. One that watches in silence, patient with our plunder. Nonjudgmental of our blunder. Because it knows. It knows with a vast confidence that once in a while we may be available to channel; become the look that spans eons, be the chuckle. 

There is a tickle to it. What we thought was doom is birth, and we may not know it yet. Hang on. 

This is either awakening or apocalypse, depending.

There’s a beginning to this end. Foreground recedes, what is background becomes pathway. There are endless dimensions. Perspectives. Overturn what we have understood to find an entirely new way. Is this the way out or the way in? It isn’t a maze, it never was; it was a beautiful journey. 

May we proceed with a careful hand. May our lines be conscious, dedicated, careful, and aware. 

Step and sway. Eat and nourish our bodies. Decide slowly. Allow the spirits to exit, enter, for one of them is you. There is an escape from this, an entry to that. Our spirits know the road. Always a way to freedom. We will do what it takes when the time comes, we will learn to listen for direction. 

This reckoning is going to be joyous. 

Just you wait and see.

IAF.414

In gratitude, please grant another reason to be grateful.

Every story began with a prayer. 

First, there was a request. Then a pause for an answer. Maybe a glint of sunlight flashed from a stone on the nearby hill. Or a bird made shadow. Then she knelt and scraped at the earth with her fingers and a stick, moving the crumbles of dry clay into a fabric, then tied. 

Soak. Hydrate. Little bubbles rise as the crumbs relax in their bath and soften. 

Pull, push, pull, fold, push. Like dough, the clay is getting ready to nourish. Soft as breast against inner arm. 

Maybe she worked in the morning sunrays, the kind that wash the night off. Kids already poking one another and giggling, running heels pad-hard against the bare ground, little smokes of dust tracks. Pressing, padding, she talked to the clay. Sometimes aloud, sometimes only a thought. 

Be strong right here, don’t sag. There you go. See? You’re so pretty. 

She made up a simple song that matched the rhythm—the click rub, click rub, stone against surface, becoming smooth. She licked the stone to wet it, rubbed it on fabric against thigh, the taste entering her nose, becoming rain, returning dust from smoke to earth.    

Heenchu—she pointed through the edges of the blazing and cackling sticks, the fire a small hurricane in an early windless morning. See the hip, the neck, the lip beginning to glow red. The coming of age, the initiation. The smother, the burning saa, a comforting aroma—home, industrious women. The blackest brown possible. A form so intensely home. That neck, that shoulder. That toe stand. That brave shoulder. 

There is now a raw within, a slick without. A crown of balance: above woman, below sky. There is a work, a wait, a carry, a setting. A fullness, a dunk and roll in creek or spring, tinkle of poured seed and soft small hands holding rim, steadying each other. A tip, a crack, a baby wail. 

Now only a chamber to echo voices. Trembly old voices, squeaky young ones. Changing languages, whispers, lovemaking, argument, secrets. The last time two hands touch. A last breath. 

Atop a shelf high to the ceiling, some cash, signed papers. Emptied, and filled again. Tipped and emptied. A long and silent empty. 

To both the answer and the yaw of an aching ask, listen. It is all here. The threshold between stories that began with prayer and those that began with a gambling hope. 

Crumbled, still holding.

Badger Paw 

The oblique 6 am light moves through my bathroom window at Ohkay Owingeh. As I awaken and begin to shower, I see lines of deer antlers bobbing outside the window. Hundreds of dancers, from oldest to youngest, line up and move rhythmically in unison to the pulsing cadence of the drums and singers. Low- bass drumbeats reverberate through the plaza as the dancers—dressed in white and wearing headdresses made of river reeds painted yellow with a green horizontal band—snake their way across the space.

This house has been in my family for hundreds of years. The Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) has renovated the property, which has thick, biomorphic adobe walls with sloping, asymmetrical lines. The walls are so thick that a child has space enough to curl up in the window wells and sunbathe. An old cannonball is embedded in the wall footings. The ceilings are built from traditional wooden beams with thatch filling. The houses are constructed organically, connecting to one another in classic Pueblo block-house designs. The lines of rooms form patterns that describe the plazas, and the plazas form patterns that describe the village.

Ahead of this morning’s Deer Dance, we have cleaned the yards and houses in preparation for the ceremony. Part of my family’s house was demolished by HUD in the renovations, but the footings of the ghost rooms are still visible. I am pulling weeds from the ground in one of these former rooms when I strike the edge of a potsherd. It seems to be a large rim piece, buried in the old floor space. I dig further and breathe fast with anticipation as it becomes clear that an entire pot is hidden in the cool earth. The pot that emerges is a large Tsankawi-type reproduction,¹ maybe 200 years old. It is gray with interlocking painted badger paws. The paws have several meanings, including earth, underworld, shipap,² medicine, burrowing creature, and life.

We remove the pot in pieces and contact our conservator friends to restore it to its near-original form. Then we rebury the vessel in its resting place with cornmeal and prayers. I think it is still waiting there. As I walk through the SAR pottery vault, the badger-paw motif painted on the pot on the shelves reminds me of that day.

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¹ Tsankawi is a historical Pueblo pottery type.

² Place of emergence from the underworld and an earth navel, through which prayers pass.

Saya’s Pot

This pot is by my great-grandmother, Luteria Atencio¹. I was ecstatic to find one of her pieces in the SAR collection. It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when you are able to hold, touch, smell, and breathe in something that was created by a family member who is no longer here but to whom you were very close. The best description I can give is that it is a feeling of home.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of my dad and great-grandmother sitting around the kitchen table, working on pottery. I was sitting on Saya’s² lap and watching my daddy at work. I remember her breaking off little pieces of clay and putting them in my tiny hands. She then placed her hands over mine and patiently rolled the clay into different shapes. At the time, she was in her early eighties and was losing her eyesight. I remember her using her sense of touch to feel the shape and thickness of a pot, rather than relying on her vision. She then handed me a toothpick to scratch designs into the soft clay. When I told this story to my daughter, Jo Povi Romero, she remarked that, when I make pottery, I am often watching TV or talking to people, and that I too use my sense of touch to feel the shape and thickness of my pots. To this day, the smell of the wet clay or of rain hitting the earth reminds me of Saya.

For a time, my family and I were fortunate to live in my father’s childhood home on the plaza in Ohkay Owingeh. When my children were little, they enjoyed going outside and searching around the property for pottery sherds that would reveal themselves after the rain. I love that my children have the same connection to potsherds as had their great-great-grandmother. This connection has permeated each generation.

In the 1930s, Saya, along with seven other Ohkay Owingeh tribal members, took similar potsherds and used them for a tribal revitalization of historical Ohkay Owingeh pottery designs and techniques. They used sherds of Potsuwi’i incised-ware (1450–1500) as their inspiration. The pot I chose has the same Potsuwi’i incised designs that Luteria came to be known for during her lifetime. I look at her pieces, take inspiration from them, and incorporate them— their shapes, designs, textures, materials—into my own contemporary pottery. It is often said that the clay is alive, and you must listen to it; listen to what it wants to become and learn from it. I truly believe this, but I also believe that our ancestors are with us, guiding us while we are working. I hope that my children and in turn their children will look to their relatives on both sides of our family for inspiration when it comes to their artwork.

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¹ Luteria Atencio was a renowned pottery revivalist from Ohkay Owingeh.

² Saya is Tewa for “grandmother.”

Water Jar with Bear Paw

This Santa Clara Pueblo water jar is absolutely stunning. I see perfection when I see this piece, thanks to its shape, high polish, and simplicity. Whoever made this jar definitely had experience, because creating a piece of this size and caliber requires a lot of practice. The shape is extraordinary, and the high sheen is amazing.

It is very difficult to polish a piece such as this because of its size and the use of a river stone for polishing. It takes a lot of patience and time to polish any piece of pottery, and large pieces take much longer. First, you must apply a few coats of red clay slip, and then you polish the piece until you get a high sheen, which can take hours or even a whole day. This jar has the signature bear paw that is commonly associated with Santa Clara Pueblo and is so beautiful.

One of the most difficult steps in creating such a big pot is the firing. The piece’s size makes it a strenuous process: you must find a metal crate or create one for the pot to fit into, then you stack slabs of cedar wood around the crate and light the fire. Once the cedar has burned for a few minutes, you scatter horse manure around and on top of the pile. When the pile is fully covered with manure and there is no sign of smoke escaping, you must wait for a couple of hours before uncovering the vessel. The result is a magnificent, highly polished pot that is black or sometimes gunmetal gray in color.¹ The potter who created this piece must have let out a sigh of relief after uncovering the jar and seeing its beauty. The reason I chose this jar is because I absolutely love its simplicity. It speaks for itself.

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¹ While Pueblo pottery is largely fired outdoors, techniques vary depending on the type of pot and the individual potter. Additional information about firing this type of pottery can be found in Richard L. Spivey, The Legacy of Maria Poveka Martinez, Santa Fe, N. Mex. (Museum of New Mexico Press) 2003.

Jemez Male Storyteller

This piece is a beautiful male storyteller made by my mother, Maxine Toya from Jemez Pueblo. When I watch her create, the techniques she uses always blow my mind. Each part of this stunning piece is perfection. First, my mother hand-coils the storyteller’s body, then she molds the drum before she sculpts each child individually, and finally she attaches the children to the male figure. 

It usually takes my mother anywhere from five to seven days to make a piece like this. After a slow drying process, she carefully sands the storyteller and the children with fine sandpaper to refine their details and prepare them for painting. Starting with the drum, she then stone-polishes the piece with a red clay slip and a petrified river stone. I love watching her when she begins painting a storyteller, because it becomes her canvas and she is so in tune with each detail she paints. 

With each brushstroke, my mother always creates something different, and there have been times when I cannot wait to see what she comes up with. Her painting skills are phenomenal; you can see this by observing the intricate designs on the storyteller’s ribbon shirt. She then paints the drum and children, all with amazing designs. 

When my mother is painting her meticulous fine lines, I am astonished by how easy she makes it look, especially because she paints freehand, meaning that she does not sketch on the clay with a pencil. The reason I chose this piece—besides the fact that the maker is my mom and I am biased—is my mother’s ability to create such wonderful clay sculptures that display her skill and her desire for precision. 

Water is Life

Spirit breathed into being by relatives.
Minds molded from Clay inherited by Creator.
Water gives the soul eternal life.
Fire hardens our bodies until trials in flame outlive our experiences
Air spiraling through the canyons of our ancestors.
Earth broken and washed back into Sea.

I chose this piece because its design is striking. In between sections of solid black paint, this vessel’s “true” surface is found in its vacant spaces. One independent section that will never see other parts of this vessel is defined by a vertical line through the center of a diamond-like design. Lines around pots are often left unclosed in vessels from Pueblos that trace their origins to the Middle Rio Grande region. These lines may signify the continuance of life or the importance of giving a vessel the ability to breathe, or both. This vessel is a physical marker and a reminder of family. It did not ask to be created, but now it is here and must serve a purpose. We offer a piece of ourselves and let it exist in peace. We must be wary of its fragility and, when it speaks, listen in silence. There is no need to seek and ask the “right” questions; answers will be provided. You will learn only what you need to know. Many, if not all, intact Pueblo jars in collections were used to store and serve water until the introduction, forced implementation, and subsequent growth of a colonial marketplace.

Humanity is not well. It is not a friendly time to be alive, but time and knowledge remain the most valuable forms of currency. Living is a selfless act because existence is painful. Our former life cycle has been forever disrupted and replaced by greed in ownership. We secure our destiny through the choices we make, and death is the only promise kept. Our truth stems from our thoughts, our words, our choices. It is our actions that solidify all we can become. Saying things out loud makes them very real, yet we hide our nakedness and paint our faces and tell the world this is who we are. We are evaluated by what can be extracted from us, and our worth is contingent on an exclusive set of arbitrary conditions. We put a price tag on what we are worth, and our flaws transcend immortality. Bits of peeled paint indicate that a price tag was once attached to the surface of this jar, and now it might never know peace.

In this reality, we are all vessels of water. Vessels with the potential for creating life. A gift given to us by Mother Earth. We return to Her after we have lived our best lives and ask that the pieces of ourselves that return, continue to inspire.