RC Gorman

Aurora, Ceremony

Enchanted Mesa, Florencita


Night Stories, Nocturne

Biography #2

"Intensely brilliant colors and an almost mystical use of light bring a special joy to the canvases of Kevin Red Star. Kevin draws from his Crow culture for his subjects -- historical and modern. His exaggeration of the anatomical features and the haunting eyes captivate the viewer. Then the experienced hand finishes the canvas adding a deeper dimension. These are defining characteristics of the work of internationally acclaimed artist Kevin Red Star.

Among the museums holding Kevin Red Star originals in their permanent collections are the Smithsonian Institution; Institute of American Indian Art in Santa Fe; Denver Art Museum; the Heard Museum in Phoenix; the Peirre Cardin Collection in Paris; the Eiteljorg Museum of American Indian and Western Art in Indianapolis; and museums in Belgium; China; Germany; and Japan, and most recently The Whitney Museum of Western Art in Cody, Wyoming.

Kevin was born on the Crow Indian Reservation in Lodge Grass, Montana-- the third oldest in a family of nine. His father had an abiding interest in music and his mother is a skilled craftswoman. In this nurturing environment, Kevin developed early artistic capability.

In 1962, Kevin's formal art education began at the Institute of American Indian Art (IAIA) when he was selected to be among the first 150 students for this experimental Native American art school in Santa Fe. Here Kevin was exposed to various mediums and expressions of art, learning the fundamentals of art from the finest Native American teachers. In 1974, Kevin was asked to return to IAIA to participate in their Artist-in-Residence program. While in Santa Fe, he expanded his art to include stone lithography, serigraphs and etchings.

In 1965, Kevin won a scholarship to the San Francisco Art Institute. As a freshman, he was awarded the Governor's Trophy, and Al and Helen Baker Award from the Scottsdale National Indian Arts Exhibition. Kevin continued studies at Montana State University in Bozeman and Eastern Montana College in Billings.

Kevin Red Star has emerged as the premier Northern Plains fine artist. Notable developments are even more exciting use of color and refined graphic design aspects in his latest work. As an art collector recently commented: He is among the Masters and will, during his life, enjoy his status as such.

The Crow Nation breaking away from the Hidatsa followed the buffalo herds to Yellowstone River Basin and eventually settled in the Bighorn Mountains and along the Tongue, Powder and Yellowstone rivers of Montana. Border for their present day reservation begins about ten miles southeast of Billings. Their name came from the white man's misinterpretation of the Hidatsa language name "Aapsaalooke" which means "children of the large beaked bird"--probably the raven. The Crow Nation is respected for their strong family ties, their artistic abilities, and their commitment to education -- a people of joy who share their culture with their children and others through events like the annual Crow Fair Pow-Wow and rodeo held every summer. From Red Star's heritage comes the subjects for his original oils. He does not consider himself a political painter. However, his ethnic ties are strong and he sees himself as a recorder of his Crow Nation's vanishing culture-- and as an artist working to satisfy his own creative expressions.

Therefore, you will see in Red Star's work the circle, symbolic of many aspects of Plains Indian culture: the camp pow-wow, the directional movement of the pipe during prayer, the design by which to live one's life, and the geometric beadwork and quillwork. The horse and warrior are often subjects for his work. The Native American woman rendered with great respect -- the woman's dress was a statement of her husband's prowess as a hunter of elk, only two teeth from each elk were taken for use as ornamentation on her dress. Red Star terms himself a romanticist. "The costuming of my subjects, for instance, is authentic, although at times exaggerated." When he became serious about his art, he studied and experimented with color and techniques of the Masters until his style evolved. One can always identify "Red Star" but his growth as an artist and person never stops, much to the delight of his collectors and fans. His philosophy parallels Robert Rauschenberg's: "There should be no barriers in art.""

http://www.kevinredstar.com/

Biography #1

"Navajo artist Tony Abeyta has worked in many media to create paintings using sand, layers of oil paints, encaustic wax and collage elements that include earth pigments, bronze and copper as well as gold leafing. However, this summer Abeyta will work with yet another media – charcoal and ink washes – to produce a drawing installation for his new exhibition Underworlderness. Abeyta plans to “abstractly render the Navajo underworld, draw the realm we live in today and draw our relationship to the cosmos.”

The exhibition will also differ from his usual work in that Abeyta will draw and paint directly on the gallery wall to render the large – as large as 10 feet high – work of art. While he is painting, Abeyta’s 17-year-old son Gabriel will document his work on video and then create a short film utilizing reverse time-lapsed footage to reduce as much as four to six hours of painting to three minutes of video. Gabriel Abeyta will also incorporate original music into the video. Once completed, the video will be shown on several monitors in the gallery.

Tony Abeyta has studied painting extensively, attending Santa Fe’s Institute of American Indian Art, Maryland Institute’s College of Art in Baltimore, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (for which he received a Ford Foundation Scholarship) and New York University. Most recently, Abeyta’s work was influenced by his travels to Europe, where he spent considerable time in Florence, Italy. While in Europe, he had the opportunity to see and study paintings by masters including large-scale works such as Pablo Picasso’s “Guernica."

In his early paintings, Abeyta used brilliant colors to depict magical journeys into Diné culture and Native spirituality. By 2002, his palette had changed to more subtle and somber earth tones. His black-and-white charcoal and ink drawings featured in Underworlderness are yet another provocative exploration by this creative artist. In the drawings and the mural, Abeyta will explore themes of plant life – seeds emerging from the ground – and abstractions of animals.""

http://heardeducation.org/abeyta/bio.html

Attack (dialogue poem)

I have sent for you here
Do you know what I intend?

No, I do not

What is it that you intend?

Black Bird, he holds in his hands

A destroyer

The white man left it unattended

It harms

It kills

We need more of the destroyers

To drive out the white man

What do you need of me?

You are to take your horse

Go into the white man's village

And lead an attack

Who will be my aides

In this attack?

Our men, to my left

They will follow you

You will lead

I will act on what you expect of me

I will act with pride

Go, get the destroyers

Without them

We will surely be overpowered

Excerpt #5

"The Indian children would come with half-braids, curiosity endless and essential. The children would come from throwing stones into water, from basketball and basketry, from the arms of their mothers and fathers, from the very beginning. This was the generation of HUD house, of car wreck and cancer, of commodity cheese and beef. These were the children who carried dreams in the back pockets of their blue jeans, pulled them out easily, traded back and forth."

Alexie, Sherman. The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. New York: Grove Press, 1993.
p. 142

Excerpt #4

"The old man shook his head. 'That is the trickery of the witchcraft,' he said. 'They want us to believe all evil resides with shite people. Then we will look no further to see what is really happening. They want us to separate ourselves from white people, to be ignorant and helpless as we watch our own destruction. But white people are only tools that the witchery manipulates; and I tell you, we can deal with white people, with their machines and their beliefs. We can because we invented white people; it was Indian witchery that made white people in the first place.'"

Silko, Leslie Marmon. Ceremony. New York: Penguin Group, 1977.
p. 122

Excerpt #3

"Spider Woman had told Sun Man how to win the storm clouds back from the Gambler so they would be free again to bring rain and snow to the people. He knew what white people thought about the stories. In school the science teacher had explained what superstition was, and then held the science textbook up for the class to see the true source of explanations. He had studied those books, and he had no reasons to believe the stories any more. The science books explained the causes and effects. But old Grandma always used to say, "Back in time immemorial, things were different, the animals could talk to human beings and many magical things still happened." He never lost the feeling he had in his chest when she spoke those words, as she did each time she told them stories; and he still felt it was true, despite all they had taught him in school--that long long ago things had been different, and human being could understand what the animals said, and once the Gambler had trapped the storm clouds on his mountaintop."

Silko, Leslie Marmon. Ceremony. New York: Penguin Group, 1977.
p. 87

Excerpt #2

"Junior Polatkin stole a rifle from the gun rack in Simon's pickup. Junior didn't know anything about caliber, but he knew the rifle was loaded because Simon had told him so. Junior strapped that rifle over his shoulder and climbed up the water tower that had been empty for most of his life. He looked down at his reservation, at the tops of HUD houses and the Trading Post. A crowd gathered below him and circled the base of the tower. He could hear the distant sirens of the Tribal Police cars and was amazed the cops were already on their way.

Junior unshouldered the rifle. He felt the smooth, cool wood of the stock, set the butt of the rifle against the metal grating of the floor, and placed his forehead against the mouth of the barrel...He flipped the safety off, held his thumb against the trigger, and felt the slight tension. Junior squeezed the trigger."

Alexie, Sherman. Reservation Blues. New York: Grove Press, 1995.
p. 247

List of References

Literature:

• Reservation Blues by Sherman Alexie
• Indian Killer by Sherman Alexie
• Ten Little Indians by Sherman Alexie
• The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie
• Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko

Television:

• We Shall Remain

Movies:

• Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
• Apocalypto
• Dances with Wolves
• The New World
• Smoke Signals

Actors:

• Nathan Lee Chasing His Horse (Dances with Wolves, Smiles A Lot)
• Q'Orianka Kilcher (The New World, Pocahontas,)
• Raoul Trujillo (Apocalypto, Zero Wolf; The New World, Tomocomo)
• Rudy Youngblood (Apocalypto, Jaguar Paw)
• Adam Beach (Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, Chester Lake; Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Dr. Charles Eastman (Ohiyesa))

Music:

• Small World by Robert Johnson
• Urban Indian Blues by Robert Johnson
• Big Mom by Robert Johnson
• Falling Down and Falling Apart by Robert Johnson
• My God Has Dark Skin by Robert Johnson
• Indian Boy Love Song by Robert Johnson
• Treaties by Robert Johnson
• Reservation Blues by Robert Johnson

Native American Artists

Dana Tiger
http://www.artnatam.com/dtiger/index.html

Jerome Bushyhead
http://www.artnatam.com/bhead/index.html

Websites/Links

http://www.religioustolerance.org/nataspir.htm

• This website discusses religious tolerance, as the URL states, and describes Native American religious beliefs and practices, as well as European and Canadian treatment of Native Americans. I suggest this website to be read; it is very informative and eye-opening.
• Check out the FAQ
• "The arrival of Europeans marked a major change in Native society. Millions died due to sickness, and programs of slavery and extermination. 1 Europeans and their missionaries looked upon Native Spirituality as worthless superstition inspired by the Christian devil, Satan. Many of the survivors were forcibly converted to Christianity. The U.S. and Canadian governments instituted policies to force Natives onto reservations and to encourage them to become assimilated into the majority culture. 2 During the middle decades of the 20th century, whole generations of children were kidnapped, forcibly confined in residential schools, and abused physically, sexually and emotionally. In Canada, these schools were operated on behalf of the Federal Government by the Roman Catholic, Anglican, United and Presbyterian churches. Both the government and these religious institutions have settled a multi-billion dollar class-action lawsuit. Claims against the Anglican Church were much greater than the Church's current assets. The was a concern for a while that the church might be forced into bankruptcy due to legal costs.
  
  Native spirituality was suppressed by the U.S. and Canadian governments. Spiritual leaders ran the risk of jail sentences of up to 30 years for simply practicing their rituals. This came to an end in the U.S. in 1978 when the Freedom of Religion Act was passed.
  
  Some suicidologists believe that the extremely high suicide rate among Natives is due to the destruction of their religion and culture by the Federal Governments. This suppression is still seen in the prison administrations; Canadian prisons have only recently allowed Native sweat lodge ceremonies; many American prisons routinely deny permission."

http://www.ipsl.org/programs/summer/southdakota.aspx

• Summer Service-Learning Program in the Lakota Nation, South Dakota
• Study Abroad integrated with Volunteer Service

http://www.sacred-texts.com/nam/index.htm

• This website discusses the lack of "authoritative information" on Native American religious/spiritual practices. A list of literary references is included, as well as entire books concerning Native Americans.

http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/view/102102

• Native American Women Are Missing Out On Mammograms
• "...many Native American women are not being given regular diagnostic exams that include mammograms."

http://www.native-languages.org/kids.htm

• Very informative, as well as interesting.
• "The best-known episode in Cherokee history was also the worst: the Trail of Tears, the forced relocation of the Cherokee Indians from their ancestral home in the southeast to Oklahoma. The Cherokee people were an urban, Christian, agricultural, intermarried society who had supported the United States against other tribes. In the end this was all for nothing. Though prominent Americans like Davy Crockett and Daniel Webster spoke against Removal, and though the Supreme Court ruled it unconstitutional, President Andrew Jackson sent in the army. Fifteen to twenty thousand Cherokee Indians (along with Choctaw, Creek, and other tribes) were rounded up and herded to Oklahoma in the winter of 1838-1839. Driven from their homes without being allowed to collect their possessions first, even their shoes, the Cherokees were no better equipped for an 800-mile forced march than people today would be. Between four and eight thousand Cherokee people died of exposure, starvation, disease, and exhaustion along the Trail of Tears. If you understand this, both the extent to which the Cherokees had adopted American standards of civilization before the Removal and the ultimate futility of it, you will go a long way towards understanding the Cherokee mentality and also the attitudes of other Indian peoples towards us. "

http://www.lib.washington.edu/subject/history/tm/native.html#major

• Includes lists of websites which describe the history of Native Americans, as well as references for texts and images.

http://etext.virginia.edu/subjects/Native-American.html

• Lists of electronic texts

http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/toc/modeng/public/AleAmer.html

• Includes various poems concerning Native Americans
• Click on the link "Poem."

http://bancroft.berkeley.edu/Exhibits/nativeamericans/

• Native American images

http://edtech.kennesaw.edu/web/natam.html

• Research/informational sites

http://www.artnatam.com/

• Native American artists' home page

*more to be added soon

Books, courtesy of: religioustolerance.org

• Ward Churchill, "A Little Matter of Genocide: Holocaust and Denial in the Americas, 1492 to the Present," City Lights Books, (1998). Read reviews and/or order this book safely from Amazon.com's online bookstore
• Ward Churchill et. al., "Agents of Repression: the FBI's Secret Wars Against the Black Panther Party and the American Indian Movement." South End Press, (1988). Read reviews and/or order this book
• Vine Deloria, "Red Earth, White Lies: Native Americans and the Myth of Scientific Fact," Fulcrum Pub (1997). Read reviews and/or order this book
• T.D. Dillehay, "Monte Verde: A late Pleistocene settlement in Chile: The archeological context and interpretation," Smithsonian Institution Press, (1997). Read reviews or order this book. This is not an inexpensive book!
• Arlene B. Hirschfelder & Paulette Molin, "The Encyclopedia of Native American Religions: An Introduction," Facts on File, (1992). Read reviews or order this book
• Ake Hultkrantz & Monica Setterwall, "The Religions of the American Indians," University of California Press, (1981). Read reviews or order this book
• Lee Irwin, "Native American Spirituality: A critical reader," University of Nebraska Press, (2000). Read reviews and/or order this book
• Lawrence Sullivan, "Native Religions and Cultures of North America," Continuum International Publishing Group, (2003). Read reviews and/or order this book
• Dennis Tedlock & Barbara Tedlock, "Teachings from the American Earth: Indian Religion and Philosophy," Liveright Publishing Corporation, (1992). Read reviews and/or order this book.

Quotes, courtesy of: religioustolerance.org

"The culture, values and traditions of native people amount to more than crafts and carvings. Their respect for the wisdom of their elders, their concept of family responsibilities extending beyond the nuclear family to embrace a whole village, their respect for the environment, their willingness to share - all of these values persist within their own culture even though they have been under unremitting pressure to abandon them."
-Mr. Justice Thomas Berger, Mackenzie Valley Pipeline Inquiry, (aka the Berger Inquiry), Canada.

"Rather than going to church, I attend a sweat lodge; rather than accepting bread and toast [sic] from the Holy Priest, I smoke a ceremonial pipe to come into Communion with the Great Spirit; and rather than kneeling with my hands placed together in prayer, I let sweet grass be feathered over my entire being for spiritual cleansing and allow the smoke to carry my prayers into the heavens. I am a Mi'kmaq, and this is how we pray."
-Noah Augustine, from his article "Grandfather was a knowing Christian," Toronto Star, Toronto ON Canada, 2000-AUG-09.

"If you take [a copy of] the Christian Bible and put it out in the wind and the rain, soon the paper on which the words are printed will disintegrate and the words will be gone. Our bible IS the wind."
-Anonymous Native American woman

Excerpt #1

"Yeah, you don't believe in the Ghost Dance, do you? Oh, you like its symbolism. You admire its metaphorical beauty, enit? You just love Indians so much. You love Indians so much you think you're excluded from our hatred. Don't you see? If the Ghost Dance had worked, you wouldn't be here. You'd be dust."

"Dr. Faulkner," Mather said. "Please put an end to this ridiculous digression."

But Faulkner, fascinated by Marie now, was silent.

"So maybe this Indian Killer is a product of the Ghost Dance. Maybe ten Indians are Ghost Dancing. Maybe a hundred. It's just a theory. How many Indians would have to dance to create the Indian Killer? A thousand? Ten thousand? Maybe this is how the Ghost Dance works."

"Ms. Polatkin, the Ghost Dance was not about violence or murder. It was about peace and beauty."

"Peace and beauty? You think Indians are worried about peace and beauty? You really think that? You're so full of shit. If Wovoka came back to life, he'd be so pissed off. If the real Pocahontas came back, you think she'd be happy about being a cartoon? If Crazy Horse, or Geronimo, or Sitting Bull came back, they'd see what you white people have done to Indians, and they would start a war. They'd see the homeless Indians staggering around downtown. They'd see the fetal-alcohol-syndrome babies. They'd see the sorry-ass reservations. They'd learn about Indian suicide and infant-mortality rates. They'd listen to some dumb-shit Disney song and feel like hurting somebody. They'd read books by assholes like Wilson, and they would start killing themselves some white people, and then kill some asshole Indians, too.

"Dr Mather, if the Ghost Dance worked, there would be no exceptions. All you white people would disappear. All of you. If those dead Indians came back to life, they wouldn't crawl into a sweathouse with you. They wouldn't smoke the pipe with you. They wouldn't go to the movies and munch popcorn with you. They'd kill you. They'd gut you and eat your heart."



Alexie, Sherman. Indian Killer. New York: Grove Press, 1996.
p. 313-314

Proposal for Interaction with the Community

My concept is one of the more difficult concepts to relate to an activity with which I would interact with my community. My goal is to show how students' education regarding famous Native American figures is inadequate. I wish to use a worksheet, one that would require my peers to recognize and match several famous figures in American history, as well as famous Native American figures, to their corresponding names. I hope to use this research to prove that students know little of Native American figures and may recognize the names of these figures but do not fully understand or realize their importance in American history as well as they may know of figures in United States' history.

Short Story #3

Before turning back to me, he takes the Smoking Stick and, as smoke plumes out of the top, closes his eyes. He holds up his left hand and speaks with clarity and strength, singing the prayers of our forefathers. I grasp my side and look at my hand: crimson liquid is still seeping out of my wound. I look back at the Medicine Man and instantly substantiate my undying trust in his powers.

* * * * *

The sound of hooves pounding on the dry, compact earth and the rumbling of buffalo are the only things that can be heard. I block out all sound and movement other than the hulking animal I spot out of the corner of my eye. I gently guide my horse to the direction I want it to travel and slyly make my way towards my prize. It is nothing short of colossal and surely one of the largest out of the herd, with the capacity of feeding nearly half our community. No matter its size or brute strength, I am going to take it home as a demonstration and confirmation of my manhood.

One inhalation of breath later and I charge at the beast, howling in pride and anticipation. Wind flies past me and I narrow my eyes to see clearly the direction I am moving. The animal, spotting my journey, begins to turn in the opposite direction to avoid being struck by the spear I hold haughtily in my hand. Continuing my strong grasp on my spear, I prepare myself for the strike. I get closer to the animal and visualize the attack in my mind before I act.

Before I can make my assault, the animal abruptly shifts towards the left and I miss my mark. While on my horse, cursing myself, I begin to turn around to face the animal once more.

As I turn, I lose my balance and fall off my horse, which soon after hurries away in fright. I fall to the ground immediately and scream in agonizing pain. I look down towards my chest and find the end of my spear jutting out of my body, a frightening sight. The thick, crimson liquid drips out of the crevices of the wound and I can feel its warmth crawling down my body. The spear is frayed as if it was a rope and slivers of wood pierce me, making miniscule yet painful incisions in my skin. I wince as I try to remove the bloody object but the pain is too unbearable. My brother sees me lying on the ground and rushes over to me. He yells for assistance and, after three other men arrive, I am brought back to the village with the lengthy wooden object obviously protruding through my body.

They lay me by the fire and call for the women. I am being tended to by all the women of the village, and a little girl comes up to my torso and offers me a jug of water. I gulp the precious sustenance and then bite down on the cloth put near my mouth. I begin to yell in agonizing pain, though muffled, and bite down on the cloth with all the strength I have. The spear is being taken out of my chest so that my wounds may be tended to; I see the shards leave the area in small piles. I wait for over an hour until I am able to be moved inside.

The younger women take me inside a home and begin to use needles sterilized by the fired to drag a long section of durable fiber through the wound. After this, the women call for the men to move me yet again: this time, to the home of the Medicine Man.

* * * * *

I inhale sharply as the constant, searing pain increases in strength and intensity. The smoke, dissipating as it rises, obstructs my vision as I try to make out the faces of the others with me. This home is small, but has a comforting atmosphere and relaxes me.

I am anxious as I breathe in the smoky air and I can feel it make its way into my lungs. I cough, and a hand is put over my nose and mouth. I am alarmed at first, considering my airway was abruptly obstructed, but I quickly realize that it is to keep the smoke inside of my body. I will not get any better if I do not receive the remedy.

Placing his right thumb directly in the center of my forehead, the Medicine Man chants a prayer with such a softness that I cannot make out what he is saying. He takes his other hand and dips his fingers inside an intricately designed container, which are then covered in a slick substance that shines from the light of the sun which seems to give it a sense of importance and magnitude. He drags this substance up one arm and across my chest, then down the other. He dips his hand into the container again and then proceeds to create lines under both eyes. The aroma stings my eyes and I begin to blink furiously but the feeling soon subsides.

Still chanting, the Medicine Man places both hands over my eyes and utters the prayers with more feeling and intensity as the woman who is also there places her tiny hands on my chest and gently pushes down in the same rhythm that the Medicine Man is speaking. She, too, begins to say the prayers. One, two. One, two. This ensues for a while and I am unsure as to whether the prayers have an end or will go on forever.

My vision is regained as the Medicine Man's hands are no longer covering my eyes and I notice that a fire is being tended to by the woman now. She gathers ingredients and then places them in a black pot. She grabs a wooden spoon and begins stirring, praying all the while.

The Medicine Man takes some feathers that have been sitting at the edge of the home and meticulously places them on separate parts of my body: my arms, my legs, my chest. He prays again and takes the feathers and places them back in their designated spot.

Before turning back to me, he takes the Smoking Stick and, as smoke plums out of the top, closes his eyes. He holds up his left hand and speaks with clarity and strength, singing the prayers of our forefathers. I grasp my side and look at my hand: crimson liquid is still seeping out of my wound. I look back at the Medicine Man and instantly substantiate my undying trust in his powers.

Short Story #2

It was one o'clock in the afternoon and John was rubbing his chin in contemplation. It was only his third week, but he could feel a change. What he thought he needed was merely an excuse; he didn't need alcohol. He didn't need to waste his life on such absurdities. He thought that maybe, if he worked hard enough, he could go to college and become a lawyer. The Reservation Community Center often displayed lawyer shows; navy suit, red tie, white collared shirt. The aged white men would sit behind large oak desks, arguing with the district attorney. He would need a part-time job, though. All he had was corduroy.

He glided his fingers across the metal bar of the door and felt it quickly steal away the heat that had been building in his hands. His face became hot with anticipation. Could I do this? he thought. Could I really leave this hell-hole and finally be someone, become something more than a statistic or face in the crowd?

His thoughts raced with plans, goals, ambitions. This AA meeting was the most inspirational yet: A former member whose story was full of pain, tribulation and an arduous journey had been clean for over twenty years and became CEO of his company. He now makes well over one-fifty a year and his story made John feel like he, too, could do the same.

As he made his way down the dirt road, he could see a large object jetting out from behind some shrubbery. He walked towards it to get a closer look, and was horrified to see his worst nightmare: His father.

* * * * *

John's first recollection of his father could easily be called the beginning of the end.

Ann Smith was cleaning her tiny home. Neaten this, tidy that, put this and that away. Make this place look nice; make it seem like a regular, ordinary household. Make him happy. Make it work.
She was intently scrubbing the counter, trying to remove the debris left over from John's lunch. John was playing in the living room, unaware of the upcoming events. He rarely paid attention to his parents while he was playing with his toy trucks and airplanes. They were far more interesting.

The door made a loud, undulating noise as it swung open, creating a gust of wind that slightly rustled John's hair. The floorboards creaked as a great weight, applied with great force, was suddenly placed onto the poorly-built floor. The sound of heavy work boots was the only thing that could be heard as David clumsily made his way over to Ann, diligently doing her housework. The odor of liquor was so pungent, so overpowering that John's face wrinkled with disgust, not understanding what the horrid smell suddenly placed inside his home was.

“ANN!” shouted David. The floorboards creaked in a staccato and hasty way. “ANN WHAT DID I TELL YOU?!” he screamed.

“David, stop yelling. You're drunk. You'll scare John. Please, stop,” pleaded Ann, nonchalantly.

“DON'T YOU EVER TALK TO ME IN THAT GODDAMN DISRESPECTFUL TONE!”

“David, how much did you drink?”

“You're a fucking no good, fucking lying, cheating, disrespectful whore...”

“Goddamn it, David. Go to bed. I'm sick and tired of this shit. All you do is drink. All day, every day. I need help, okay? I can't do this by myself while you're off doing God knows what with God knows who.”

“I CAN DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT! Don't fucking disrespect me, I'll show you what that'll get you, bitch. I'll sh--shut up don't you ever talk to me like that!”

“David, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

John could feel the air wisp his hair as the descending hand made its way to the soft, delicate skin of his mother’s face. The harsh and rigid hand, full of brute strength, was cruel and unforgiving. The loud, raucous noise was the only sound that could be heard. The kids playing outside suddenly disappeared. The distant hum of cars from the near-by interstate reduced to nothing, silence. All sound was nonexistent except for the movement of David’s hand.

John saw the shock in his mother's face. He could see her eyes change from anger to despair and disbelief. Her hazel eyes suddenly mutated and became as dark as the black hole that was slowly appearing in the Smith's home. As soon as they set foot into that black hole, they will be sucked into its grip and lost forever. John could not fall into that black hole. It had taken his father and had a grip on his mother, her eyes pleading for him to save her. He could see the helplessness wash across her face as his father used his dominance to control Ann with his over-powering strength. His hands were moving so fast that John could only see his mother helplessly on the floor, his father standing above her, and the movement of his father’s hands and feet as they turned into an unintelligible blur.

John could see the black hole. He could feel it. He would do everything in his power to escape its grip but he could feel the chill of its menacing hands holding him by the ankles. He couldn't see it coming. He had no chance to escape.

* * * * *

As John got older, he understood why the black hole existed. He understood why his father had acted the way he had, and he was finally able to connect the dots.

By the time he reached an age that was acceptable for the Holy Cross Boarding School for Disadvantaged Boys, he began his education. At first, he was gullible: He would take the words of his teachers and hide them in a special place so that he would never forget. He locked them so that they could not escape.

He saw the Old Western shows that were on during the afternoon, and assumed that his forefathers were animalistic, wild men who killed for fun. He did not like this thought, in fact, he was disgusted by it. How could he associate with peoples who acted with such disregard to morality and virtue? And then, by a stroke of fate, the story was told to him. John realized that what the nuns were telling him was not true.

Walking to Holy Cross, he heard the rustling of feet. Thinking he was being followed, he quickly snapped his head around to figure out whom or what was following him. He saw nothing. He continued his journey, and the wind whipped against his ears. Through this wind, he could hear whispers. Voices, whispering stories to him. Could anyone else hear these stories?

The whispers assured him that only he was privy to these stories which were his family’s stories long forgotten. They told him the truth, that the nuns were wrong. They lied to him, in order to change the workings of his mind so that he would believe in their deceit. The voices told the stories of murder, theft, rape, abolishment, removal, death, genocide, broken promises, treaties, small pox, conversion, kidnapping, pain, sadness, hopelessness. They told these stories to John.

With these words, John opened the crevices of his memories and let out every lie the nuns had told him, lies that he so foolishly and gullibly believed. He took those lies and murdered them just as his people had been murdered.

And as he contemplated these thoughts, he realized something: These lies had taken his father. They had told him what he should have been instead of what he was or what he could be, forcing him to remain inside the dark and cavernous hole they built for men like David, men willing to believe in anything told to them by people they were forced to believe to be better than them. These lies, so discrete and transparent, could nest inside the mind of an unsuspecting victim and multiply, and eventually take over their thoughts so they will have nothing left. These men and women would be sucked into the dark hole and never return. His father dragged his helpless mother, who was unable to relinquish herself from his grip, into the black hole.

John eventually lost his father to this black hole. He went out drinking one afternoon while John was in school and never returned. As soon as John became a man, his mother stopped her struggle: She succumbed to the force pulling her by using the handgun David left in his bedside table. Bottom drawer, carefully placed inside the hole roughly cut in the pages of the Holy Bible.

John tried to struggle against the black hole, but he gave up long ago.

* * * * *

John was thirteen when he had his first drink. It was Smirnoff, some fruity flavor. He wanted to say that it was too girly for him, but he realized that he was in no position to be picky; he was far from having the money to buy the good alcohol, so he sucked it up and took a shot.

He rarely went to parties, but always found a way to get drunk. He would find a friend who knew someone who could buy a pack of beer. He’d hide the case under his bed inside the lunch box he bought from his elementary school’s carnival. No one, not even his foster parents, who also lived on the reservation, would bother to look for alcohol inside a Holy Cross lunch box. It was a sin.

Eventually, he was caught drinking. He was at a party with a couple of friends at a bar just outside the reservation. He had a couple beers, but not enough to get drunk. He had gained a high tolerance to alcohol over the years. He began driving his nearly broken-down van the five minutes it took to get back to his home, the one his mother left for him in her will. Two minutes later, he was pulled over.

* * * * *

Anger and rage built inside of John and took control. He made his way over to David and, smelling the Jack Daniels on his breath, began kicking him over and over again. John could not stop, even while his father began making mumbling and unintelligible noises. As soon as he felt content with what he had done, he dragged his father the twenty yards or so back to his home. He pulled David onto the couch then took the unopened beer bottle he had found in his father’s hands and left it on the kitchen table.

Critique #2

This image of a buffalo hunt shows the chaos and violence of it, which would provide the Native American men hunting, as well as their village, with well-needed sustenance. Several men are on horseback, drawing back arrows, hoping to injure one of the large and intimidating creatures. Others are brandishing spears which they plan to strike the animals with. In the bottom left-hand corner, a Native American man is grappling onto a spear which has apparently struck a buffalo. It seems he is trying to manipulate his weapon to coax the animal into collapsing to the ground, considering he already has the animal kneeling down. In the center of the portrait, a man is on horseback as the horse is lifted by the force of a charging buffalo, rendering the horse and man immobilized; however, the man is wielding his spear in order to strike the wild beast. Below this scene, there is a vulnerable man lying on the rough exterior of the earth and holding his back. This man appears to be injured or seriously wounded, an often occurrence during these hunts. This scene is graphic and violent, but depicts the hunt in a respectable manner. The detail of this drawing is stunning; the taut muscles of the horses are flexing and bulging through their smooth coats, showing the immense strain being put upon them. Also seen is the rough and coarse hair of the buffalo, massive and powerful creatures with stubby legs and bulky bodies. The men in the scene are also shown with very muscular bodies, which are needed for strenuous activities such as this portrait depicts. The backdrop of the scene is a mountain range which connects to the hills of the countryside, and countless trees. There are also two columns of smoke drifting towards the sky, giving the observer the conclusion that the smoke is emerging from the men's village abodes.

The entirety of this portrait is in black and white, showing that it was, in fact, drawn as well as the fact that there is immense detail to which no paint brush could depict. The background, as noted before, was an old and majestic mountain range with snow-capped mountain tops which eventually fade into the country side. The smoke seems to make its way up to the blue sky from the edge of the mountain and fills the air with its opaque appearance and smoky aroma. This background helps keep balance in the portrait with the foreground, the scene of the hunt. The chiaroscuro, the sharp, dramatic distinction between light and dark, is prevalent in the creases and shadows of the muscles of man and animal through the Native American men and their horses which is highlighting their strength and power. The contrast of the violence of the hunt and the serenity of nature in the background is astonishing, and it is not surprising that the focal point is not the mountain ranges that are present in the background. The focal point, which also happens to be the emphasis of the portrait, is the man riding horseback brandishing a spear, seemingly trying to attack the buffalo that is charging towards his horse which is being lifted into the air by the force of the wild animal. The varying amounts of shades and value, the amount of light and or dark, as well as the recurrence of strong and weak elements, help create rhythm and movement throughout the piece; the observer is able to imagine this scene taking place as the bulls are charging and defending themselves while the horses are parading around the buffalo, avoiding direct confrontation, while the men are wielding their weapons to attack the wild buffalo. All of these elements create unity and harmony throughout the image, as it incorporates all pieces into the meaning and significance of the portrait in its entirety.

Looking at this image, there are clearly several possible narratives that the observer could create in his or her mind while focusing on the scene. The most obvious narrative is an everyday hunt for food, which is necessary to support life. These men could have left their village in the morning, with the well-wishes of their beloved families and neighbors, hoping to obtain enough meat until the next hunt. Anxiety and pressure could be building inside of each of them, hoping that the universal forces of Mother Nature supply them with the capability of attacking the wild animals. Another possible narrative includes a young man who is on is first hunt, nervous and scared because of the tenacity of the buffalos who refuse to be taken as nourishment and the brute strength needed to succeed in killing one. Another narrative, though not as obvious, is one which depicts the struggle of the man who is lying defenselessly on the earth, mortally wounded and petrified of his looming and impending death. The animation and vibrancy of the portrait makes envisioning these narratives an effortless task.

Short Story #1

Clank, clank. Clank, clank. Little Sister's necklace was alive with the reverberation of wood striking wood as she chased Big Sister. Big Mom let them play in the prairies, and there was no immediate danger. Away, shouts Big Sister. This was a simple game, little girls playing. Grass brushes against Little Sister’s tiny legs. She can hear the wind gently whipping the grass with the slightest of sounds, whipping them through generations and generations, through hundreds of years from the past to the present. Constant, quiet, always there.

Catch me, catch me! Big Sister yells. She begins weaving a pattern into the long stalks of green foliage. Following this path, Little Sister runs to Big Sister. A game. It was only a game.

Her tiny legs could only move so fast, but she ran. Little Sister ran. Suddenly, hidden undergrowth caught her foot, tangling her into the grass. Big Sister hurried over, she had to protect Little Sister. Run, run. A wince of pain made its silent approach from Little Sister’s soul to her mouth, gently leaving her lips with the slightest of sounds.

Shhh Little Sister, Big Sister warned, stay silent or Big Mom will worry. Big Mom can hear everything.

The wind was whipping steadily, humming, with more force than before.

The trees in the distance began rustling. Stomp, stomp. Big Sister was worried. This was not the sound of Big Mom. This was not the sound of Big Dad. This was not the sound of any brother or sister, or aunt or uncle, or anyone of memory. Stomp, stomp. This was a new sound. A looming sound. And the wind grew stronger.

A man of great height, five feet and eleven inches, six feet and two inches, seven feet and five inches, walked out of darkness. His body was distorted as the shadows changed his appearance, and the sun began to lighten the darkness. But only to an extent.

Who goes? shouted the Man. It is a young child, no two! What are they doing out here, without the watchful eye of a parent?

Stomp, stomp. He moved closer to Little Sister, to Big Sister.

Stomp, stomp. Big Sister silently searched for help, turning her head slightly left and right. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the mountains, and fear struck Little Sister.

Where shall I take you, so that you may be reunited with your family? The Man's eyes were dark, and looked like they could hold the sea in their hollowness. His eyes were searching for something to fill that emptiness, quickly passing over the landscape. Big Sister began to quiver. The wind grew stronger still.

Here, said the Man, take my hand. He took the hand of Big Sister, and had he held it any tighter it would have disappeared.

Clank, clank. Wood striking wood as the wind took hold of Little Sister's necklace. As they made their way along the intricate path through the foliage, smoke began to appear above the Man's head. A knot, deep in the pit of Big Sister's stomach, grew larger and with such an intensity that she knew. She knew this man held the Darkness. He could open his mouth wide, wider still, as wide as the river valleys and the Darkness would creep into the tiny crevices of the land. It would weave itself into the land of the earth so that it could never be taken back, so that it would always remain. The wind grew stronger, and louder, and became a persistent noise in the ears of Little Sister and Big Sister. Somehow, Big Sister knew Big Mom could hear it too. Big Sister also knew that the Man was impervious to the noise.

Little Sister saw Big Mom. She ran as fast as her legs would allow, her necklace alive with reverberation. Big Sister ran too. She thought that if she ran the Man would leave, if she ran he would know that this was where she belonged, not where he belonged.

The Man looked upon this scene, mother embracing daughters, as the villagers continued their work. Big Sister looked back at the Man; she could feel his gaze upon them. Big Mom must have felt this too, for she looked upon the stranger as well. Soon enough, the entire village looked upon this stranger. They felt the Darkness.

The wind ceased.

Declaration

Native Americans and Native American art and culture are the concept I have chosen to complete my concept-folio. I have always been interested in learning about past American encounters with Native Americans, as well as the culture of various tribes. Through looking at different forms of art, I would like to be able to see different perceptions of specific Native American public figures, events, and ways of life. For example, paintings or photographs of religious rituals would be something very interesting to look at for the simple fact that it is a way to explore a religion different than my own, broadening my current knowledge. Essentially, I would like to expand my knowledge of Native Americans through looking specifically at works of art of and by Native Americans, using my resources to get background information which I would incorporate into my writings. Many Americans do not know much about Native Americans, and their knowledge is limited to what they learn in history class if they do not further investigate in their free time. Using art as a portal to understanding new ideas and concepts about Native Americans would allow not only me, but others who read my concept-folio a different view on the culture and daily life of a people who they may not know much about or were ill-informed of concerning these topics. Finding art and photography is not necessarily going to be an arduous task, but more difficult than other broader topics. Finding legitimate art by a Native American artist is going to be difficult, as one of my main sources of information is the internet which makes determining the validity of some information somewhat tricky. I am, however, looking forward to begin my search for art and using background information to complete a well-written and well-researched portrayal of Native Americans, trying to stay as true as I can to factual information versus guessing or speculating.

Critique #1

This portrait photograph of Sitting Bull, a Hunkpapa Lakota Sioux holy man who is most notably known for his role in the key victory at the Battle of Little Bighorn, is very distinct and powerful, giving him a very dignified appearance. His head is in the center of the photograph, with every crease, furrow, and wrinkle visible on his face giving him an air of wisdom and experience. His long black hair, reaching past his chest and beyond the frame of the photograph, is intricately braided, showing the traditional Native American ways of wearing one’s hair. He also has a feather placed on the back of his head so that it is pointing directly towards the sky. This feather represents the beliefs of the Native Americans, as feathers were often used in various rituals though each tribe had different beliefs and uses for feathers. Sitting Bull is wearing a light neutral colored buckskin jacket made by hand, with several lengthy necklaces.

The entirety of this photograph is in black and white, composed of different values and shades of gray which creates a very simple and virtuous image. This lack of color forces the observer to look for points of emphasis other than color. The background of this photograph is, most likely, a backdrop which is a smoky mix of light and dark colors. Because this is so subtle and not greatly detailed, Sitting Bull, who is the foreground, stands out. Sharp, dramatic distinction between light and dark in a work of art is defined as chiaroscuro, and this is found on Sitting Bull’s face. The creases and furrows of his aged skin create dark areas when the light is emanating from his right side. The highlights created from this light give emphasis on his strong and powerful expression. This leads to the conclusion that Sitting Bull, himself, is the focal point of the photograph with emphasis and highlighting that directs attention towards his facial expression.

Possible narratives of this photograph are limited, considering it is a portrait. His stern look may indicate that his mental dexterity is being tested, slowly but surely wearing him down. He could have possibly come from a tribal meeting, where discussions concerning the American settlers and the fight to save their ancestral lands may have taken place. Though possible narratives are limited, they are easily seen and imagined simply because of the fact that this is a photograph of Sitting Bull. Many characteristics of his expression and appearance are in such great detail that it is as if he is there in the room; he comes to life as a wise and knowledgeable holy man determined to help his people in the struggle to remain in the old, traditional way of life of the Native Americans.