Tony Abeyta

new mexico artist tony abeytaTony Abeyta

Tony Abeyta calls himself a creature of habit, but when he ticks off the list of what he’s done, where he’s been and what restaurants he frequents, it’s clear that he’s anything but.

It’s a hot summer morning, and Abeyta sits on the patio of Tune Up Café where the wait staff addresses him by first name. He asks for a warm up on his coffee and digs into a rich green salad with beets. Talking between bites, his sentences run into and over themselves, through ellipses and past dashes.

He is a contradiction embodied: bursting with energy as he muses about his art and his life, while simultaneously exuding deep peace. An air of utter relaxation. He is all at once a man at home in himself and his surroundings who is yet ready to rush off to whatever comes next. Perhaps he’ll head back to his studio to paint. Maybe work on his jewelry, something he’s been doing for only two months. Perhaps meet up with friends. Continue reading

Rose Simpson

NM artist Rose B SimpsonRose Simpson

Discussing ideas for her M.F.A. thesis recently, one of Rose Bean Simpson’s mentors at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) listened to her brainstorm possible projects. Then, looking Rose straight in the eye, she told her, “I know you can play artist. But I dare you instead to do the thing that scares you the most.”

“Play” artist? Just Rose’s lineage alone is daunting. Great-granddaughter of famed Santa Clara Pueblo potter Rose Naranjo, with beloved sculptor Roxanne Swentzell as her mom and a handful of othe aunts and cousins also descended from the matriarchal family of artists, this brilliantly gifted 28-year-old shines with originality in any of the vastly diverse mediums she explores—ceramic sculpture, printmaking, drawing, writing, music, dance. There are few (if any) missteps in the short but comet-like career of Rose Simpson. Continue reading

Linda Jo Povi Askan

Santa Claran potter Linda Jo Povi Askan laughs when she remembers her first firing without the supervision of her grandmother. It was just Linda and her uncle out there. They were pretty nervous. “There we were, hovering over the fire, worrying, holding our breath. Would we do this right or would it all break or burn up? And when we took it off the fire and lifted the cover, all our pieces were perfect, every single one! We were so happy we just stood there, admiring them all. And just then a big gust of wind came along and blew a bunch of leaves across them! They were all marked up! We thought, ‘Oh, no!’ But Grandma came out, and she looked at them all, and she said, ‘It’s OK, we’ll just fire them again.’ And we did, and they came out fine.”

Pottery making was the fabric of her family’s life from all the way back to when Linda was very young. “That’s what they’d be doing at our house—and at all our relatives’ houses—so it was everywhere we went, from house to house. When I was a child, I played with broken pieces of clay. And then they started me polishing the broken pottery pieces with stone. As we got a little bigger, all the children helped. We would fire together at my grandparents’ corral.”

The traditional firing technique Linda learned from her grandmother is done outside. There is no kiln, no tracking the time or temperatures. “We do it over an open fire,” she says, “using materials we gather ourselves—cottonwood or pine and dry horse manure. Sometimes a storm blows in, and we have to wait for the clouds to break, then hurry up and fire before they blow back in. We experience firing visually, paying attention to the fire, making sure it’s evenly burning, being aware the whole time. We get our clay down at the river. That’s what Grandma used to do. This is my family heritage,” she explains. “It’s not foolproof, but it’s the way that I learned and I’m comfortable with it.”

Besides pots, her grandmother favored making animals, Linda says. “All kinds of forest animals, and dinosaurs, alligators—always with a touch of whimsy. She made plates, too. She worked for as long as she could. You can trace when she started to become ill from looking at her pieces.”

Linda inherited this passion for making pottery from her grandmother and her own mother. She’s been doing it for over 45 years: black-on-black and red polychrome traditional pots, intertwined figurines, carved wedding vases, storytellers, plates, animals. And hand-coiled miniature nativity sets. “My mother started making those sets. Hers were more the kind with a sheepherder holding a cane, and his sheep, with trees and a camel, a cow or donkey. She inspired me with her work, so I tried it and it just grew from there. For mine, I was looking for something different.”

The style of her nativity sets has evolved over time. Because she’s half-Navajo, Linda’s little Mary and Joseph figures sometimes resemble those Arizona relatives—Joseph, for instance, with a little bun. Mary may have braids or she may wear her long black hair flowing down her back. The family might be wrapped in blankets with traditional Navajo designs. Linda’s baby Jesus is sometimes swaddled to a cradleboard.

And then she experienced something that inspired a radical change to her wise men. “I danced the Santa Clara Pueblo Buffalo Dance. Actually doing it was a very special time for me. I felt the dance. It was very different from watching—more uplifting to your spirit.” Consequently, she began modeling her wise men figures as buffalo, deer and eagle dancers, each wearing his traditional headgear and robe or blanket. “All their faces are different, if you look at them closely. This one’s singing; this one’s playing his drum.” Each wise man exudes his own particular wisdom, a believable authority that’s amazing for a figure the size of your thumb.

Some of the sets are done in black-on-black style; the others are red polychrome. Each figure is elaborately painted, carved, detailed. Some hold intricately carved pots the size of a small button, complete with tiny round opening. “I get the idea for each one, and then I just start working, pinching here and there. The clay starts taking the form and I just go with it. Their heads might be in different positions, or the way this mother is holding her baby—not all do it the same. I see that in the clay.” It’s as if she spends quality time with each one, focusing on them her generous attention, her sense of wonder and delight. As a result, Linda’s nativity figures possess a quiet majesty, a grace, a distinct feeling of the great Southwest, from whence they came. And they also, like her grandmother’s animals, impart a childlike sense of whimsy.

 

“Last night,” she says, “my granddaughter was looking at some little plates I’d made for the sets. Before I knew it, she picked one up and put it in her mouth, real fast.” Linda laughs. “She likes the taste of the clay. We all do. Everyone eats a little of the broken pieces.” The clay itself comes from right there in Santa Clara. “The process of mixing it I learned from my grandmother and am passing onto my daughter and grandchildren. We all go out together and just start walking, to gather what we need. It’s fun; we enjoy being outside as a family, the kids picking up whatever they find along the way to bring home—dried flowers, stones. Cornmeal plays a part in this, too.” She always includes a little ceremony, she says, giving thanks for her life, her children and her healthy family.

“Pottery’s been good to me. I make my sets in miniature, because it’s a size people can afford. I sell them all, but some I have kept a little bit longer than others—I’m guilty of that! I like to set them on my table, turn them, look at them, admire them until it’s time to send them off,” she admits, sounding like a proud mother.

Linda has fond childhood Christmas memories. “My mother liked to cook. We’d push all the tables together in the living room, and she’d invite all the relatives. The whole table would be full of food grown in our fields. My grandfather grew his field every year—blue corn, melons, my parents grew all kinds of vegetables—and we’d harvest fruit from the trees that my mother, my grandma and me canned.

“We had a Christmas tree. My mother was active in the Catholic Church so we’d go with her. And my grandfather, every year, would light those little bonfires, made with pitch wood that would burn brighter in the days leading up to Christmas for the coming of Christ. I’d stand around the fire with him, feeling nice and warm.”

Asked what makes her nativity sets special to people, Linda says she believes they really enjoy something different, the sense of what is sacred in the Native perspective combined with the familiar story of innocence and light that we connect with the nativity scene.

Because Linda digs the clay from her native pueblo land, works it by hand, letting it inform each figure, and fires it outside, her nativity sets carry a powerful, and simple, message. It’s a message of our sacred relationship with the land, the sky, the animals and the elements, passed down through the generations from grandmother to daughter to granddaughter.

 

Linda Jo Povi Askan’s Nativity scenes and other works in clay can be seen at  Andrea Fisher Fine Pottery, located at 100 West San Francisco Street in Santa Fe. 505.986.1234. andreafisherpottery.com.

Story by Gail Snyder

 

 

 

 

Jaque Fragua

 

Jaque Fragua says he doesn’t like to talk about himself, or about anything, really. He likes to listen. That’s how he interacts with the world—listening, and listening some more, and then condensing all he’s heard and painting it somewhere, anywhere, quietly and like a prayer.

Yet Fragua lets his words tumble forth like a flood, as though he’s been holding them back too long and they’ve finally ripped through the dam. He hardly seems out of practice. The 24-year-old speaks quickly but intentionally, touching on the nature of art, self-identity and the history of his people with one broad stroke.

But first, he starts at the beginning. Fragua is from New Mexico, raised on the Jemez Pueblo, which still does and always will serve as his center community. “Growing up there, it was like being transported to another world,” he says. Although Fragua has since traveled, and painted, all over the country and beyond, in cities like Brooklyn, San Francisco, Oaxaca, Vancouver and soon Paris, it’s the pueblo that remains his primary inspiration. He moved to Tucson about a month ago, and he’s lived in Seattle and Denver, but he always returns home for communal ceremonies. “I feel like it’s ‘the reservation,’ and ‘the rest of the world,’” he says.

Fragua’s not even sure how many members of his community know he’s an artist, and a pretty successful one. This may be partially due to the fact that most of Fragua’s work is street art; sometimes it’s commissioned (or as he calls it, “legitimate”), and sometimes it’s not. The latter is always anonymous, and it isn’t something he goes bragging about. Another factor is the way his community thinks about art and work, he says. “You can’t be defined by a career,” Fragua says. “It’s a way of life.” As an example, he points to his parents, both of whom are artists in the Westernized mindset. His mother works with textiles, and his father is a painter, too, but “they don’t know it,” he adds. “In a Western context, it is art. In my understanding, it’s not art; it’s just a part of what I do.”

His parents support his work, though. He remembers his first painting—a watercolor of fish in the ocean, something he’d never seen in person. Red Rocks Community College picked up the piece for a show. “My dad bought it, but he didn’t tell me,” Fragua says, smiling. He was ten.

Despite the success of his first artistic foray, it didn’t occur to Fragua until much later in life that he wanted to be a painter. As a teenager, he was much more interested in dance (usually break-dancing) and music. Fragua’s a virtual one-man band, with experience playing guitar, drums, bass and piano in addition to knowing his way around turntables. He’s been in blues and jazz bands as well as punk, rock and roll, and hip-hop groups. Fragua hates the term “renaissance man,” but that’s probably because he hears it so darn often.

It was after finishing a degree at the Institute of American Indian Arts, in Santa Fe, that he started to focus more on painting. Once he concentrated on it, the medium filled something inside him that had been waiting, vacant, his whole life. “I was lonely until I found art. Until I found spray paint, a paintbrush,” he says. “The thing about art is it stays there.” He acknowledges that music can be recorded, but spurts of improv on a guitar dissipate like vapor. It’s the improv that appeals to him the most. “It’s more spontaneous, paint on a wall,” he says. “It feels like I capture a sound on a wall—the rhythm in a line, the way it bounces, thickens, lightens. When I see that, I feel good, comforted.”

Yet permanency isn’t important to Fragua, who acknowledges that some of his most spur-of-the-moment work is painted over the next morning by graffiti cleanup teams. “It’s not immortality I’m concerned about,” he says. “It’s about living life with intention.”

Fragua doesn’t usually paint what many people think of when they hear the word “graffiti,” which he describes as “scrawls on walls.” He likes to focus on more tribalistic forms, what he refers to as “Native pop art,” patterns that represent protection and beginnings. Water designs and clouds, which represent life, are a big theme in his work. He likes redesigning the rain cycle that can be found in every middle school biology textbook, adding in Native American iconography. “Where are the people in those diagrams?” he asks. Fragua takes it upon himself to fill them in.

While Fragua makes a living off his commissioned work—such as the mural on the El Rey Theater he painted, titled “Contemporary Traditions,” with two other artists—as well as canvas works he sells in galleries, his favorite pieces are painted covertly and on the fly. His favorite pastime is wandering around deserted areas at night, often in the wild, with a couple cans of spray paint in his pocket and the sound of nothing but his thoughts. “No one will see it except for myself and God,” he says. “It’s the private collection.”

These moments are Fragua’s way of communicating with something larger, in terms of both understanding himself and sending a prayer to the creator. “When it’s just me, it feels like it’s untouchable,” he says. “Maybe someone will see it, get to that same space. I find that sacred.”

There are many pieces Fragua intends for people to see, though, and he has a message he wants to communicate through those works. “I like to share my story and other people’s stories, and the stories of my ancestors, my community, my friends, my family,” he says. Sometimes this takes a lighter or more subversive form. Other times the subject matter is more difficult. “I have the courage to be able to speak up, and I have this outlet,” he says. “I want to speak out for others, for victims of abuse. Where I come from, a lot of people are still suffering from it.” Fragua hopes to unlock emotion through his work. “I want to engage people to look at their reflection,” he says. “And I want everyone to be healthy.”

Fragua recognizes that he lives a little on the edge, straddled between the law and his art. “I like to feel invincible,” he says. “Sometimes I am, sometimes I’m not.” He’s talking about the time he went to jail for painting on a building that was then demolished one month later. “My whole understanding of the world is so skewed,” he says. “I got a taste of sovereignty, its own rules and laws. I want to be the same way.”

Still, at the heart of all he does, he says, are simple desires: to express, inspire and exist in a world of his own making. He tries to hang on to an element of his ten-year-old self, painting something he yearned for but had never seen. “I love my innocence,” he says. “It’s why I do what I do. I’m just a guy painting.”

Jaque’s work can be seen at the Firegod Gallery, 1000 Old Church Road in Corrales. 505.252.3300. firegodgallery.com.

 

 

The Gift of Laughter

So-called “Indian humor” isn’t easy to describe. It’s offbeat, often veering suddenly to make a ninety-degree turn, and it gives the reader that great gift of getting to poke fun at themselves and their own foibles. Cartoonist Ricardo Caté, creator of the delete: syndicated comic Without Reservations, describes Indian humor as the result of “us living in a dominant culture, and the funny part is that we so often fall short of fitting in. Sometimes we don’t even get it, and that’s humorous.”

This distinction is not always clear to Anglos, who sometimes misconstrue the comic as making fun of Natives and Native culture. And that’s hilarious to Indians, too–because, that, they get.

Ricardo uses a story from his own life to illustrate Indian humor. “One day, I was supposed to take my grandmother—that’s Lucy M. Garcia—to town for 25 new picture frames. She’d just had her walls re-plastered. So I dropped her off at WalMart and drove back home. After supper, my mom said, ‘Go help her with the frames,’ so I went back over to her house. My grandma said, ‘They’re already up. It’s all done, as you can see. Sit down and eat.’ So I did. I was facing the wall, and I said to her, ‘Grandma, the wall looks very nice. But who are all those white people?’”

He started drawing comics with his friend David in seventh grade. “It was our first year of junior high. Suddenly we had six or seven teachers now instead of just one, and each one had their own personal classroom-management style. We thought it was funny to draw about it, these comics about our experiences in those classes, starring him and me and our teachers.”

He stops to quickly sketch the characters of himself and David from those days: Ricardo, serious, deadpan, wearing glasses and a button down shirt; David with a sort of bowl cut, beady eyes and buck teeth. “We were misfits, academically advanced, and a lot of time, we’d finish ahead of the class. We drew the girls’ gym teacher, who we thought seemed more like a guy; the fun teacher; the dictator; the pristine one; the military-style guy from Texas—you didn’t even want to cough in his class!—the cooks in the cafeteria, awful, mean. And the janitors, especially—one of my best friend’s grandpa. He’d give us words to spell, and if we got them wrong, he’d send us to the back of the line.”

Ricardo remembers his childhood on Santo Domingo Pueblo fondly. His friend David was half–Santo Domingo, half-Sioux from South Dakota and so didn’t speak the language very well; Delete–. was half-German; Jamie half–African American. Add– and neither Aloise nor Jamie were full-blooded Santo Domingo. Everybody else on the pueblo was full-blooded, so their little band stood out. “We didn’t have a lot of resources, but we’d make our own fun. Like daring each other to do crazy things. Kiss a certain girl—I had to do that—say the Pledge of Allegiance in the Texas teacher’s class. David had to ask Althea for her hand in marriage. Other kids would be making turquoise jewelry with their parents. We were weird, but we had each other. Add: And we traded comic books a lot.”

Ricardo’s dad broke his back and ended up having to spend a long time in the hospital. “He was in searing pain. My family became pretty bad off financially. Christmas was not very good. My mom was always crying, and so I started to draw these cartoons about our family. They would lift her spirits. That was the first time I realized that humor has such huge healing powers.”

He read comic books voraciously “and I had a crush on Blondie.” But it wasn’t till he discovered Mad Magazine that humor really changed his own life. “That’s when I discovered that other people had that same sick humor as me! I used to think something was wrong with me.”

In 2001, Ricardo’s dad passed away. “He’d been involved on the pueblo with veterans’ meetings, education and housing committees, meeting with senators in Washington, D.C. for many years, and he’d ask me to make cartoons for certain senators as a gift. ‘This guy likes to hunt,’ he’d tell me. Then I would draw a cartoon about hunting, because he used those cartoons to break the ice with them. He said my ability to make people laugh is a gift.”

Still, Ricardo didn’t really do anything more with his gift until 2004. “I went back to school for my job, and I got involved with the student paper. Everybody else knew each other, and there I was, in my 30s, this new guy sitting in the back of the class. They’d be talking and I’d be back there doodling—cartoons, of course, about college life, mostly. When it came time for the first edition of the year to come out, they suddenly noticed they were short one whole page. Everybody was in a panic, and then I slowly raised my hand. ‘I might have some stuff to fill your paper,’ I told them.”

He didn’t start drawing Native cartoons until a few years later, for The Southern Ute Drum. “I liked doing those more, because I had more to contribute, more to say, and the ideas came easy.” But the way he became the first and only Native cartoonist whose comics appear in the mainstream papers was less straightforward. “I walked into the New Mexican office one day, applying for a journalism job,” he says. “It was already filled, but I had my drawing pad with me, and I asked the editor, Bernadette Garcia, if I could show her my comics. She said, ‘You can’t just walk in here. We buy all our comics through the syndicates,’ and she explained all about what that was. When she finished, I said, ‘Would you at least look?’ At first she got impatient, like, wasn’t I even listening? But once she started leafing through them, she was laughing. She called the sports writer over, and pretty soon eight or 12 people were all standing there laughing at my comics. She said, ‘We’ve got to have this!’”

One recent Without Reservations that Ricardo likes (his own worst critic, he pans more than he actually approves, once they appear in print) shows two panels of the same Native woman in her old pick-up truck, the back loaded with black garbage bags. The only difference is in the top panel she’s frowning, and in the bottom she’s smiling. The caption underneath reads “Trash day, laundry day.”   When Ricardo was diagnosed with diabetes not long ago, he included that in the comic, as well. “I was having all these morbid thoughts when I first found out, thinking, ‘This diabetes monster might kill me!’ Then I thought, ‘Maybe I can draw a whole week’s worth of comics about this, a way of making fun of it, get it out there on the table, like ‘Hi, I have diabetes, this is me, nice to meet you.’”

Sometimes the humor is more pointed, biting even. Delete–(We’re the caretakers, and we’re destroying Mother Earth.) Add–We Natives are the caretakers and we’re watching Mother Earth being destroyed. I don’t want people to dismiss the fact that there was a price for this land. It was paid for with blood. The population of Native Americans in the U.S. is now 0.9 percent—not even 1 percent! This is my voice; this is my way of communicating.”

The characters in the strip are mostly Native, except for one he calls The General. “In 2007, I did a play with the class about Columbus being put on trial by the Taino, the first indigenous people he encountered. He and Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand were all being tried for the murder of millions of indigenous people. I’d read more about Columbus—his wife had passed away, for instance. ‘Look,’ he says in the play, ‘I’m an explorer, this is what I do. If not me, someone else would come along. We’re sorry about the diseases, but I also took some of yours back to Europe, and I have a twelve-year-old boy to raise at home.’ At the end of the play, the foreman of the jury comes out and says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the court, the jury finds the defendants—’ We left it up to the audience.

“I actually have a respect for  Columbus and Custer. Custer was a formidable foe. He  played his role in history. Delete–(; he did a bad thing.) And he represents the dominant culture. Add– I don’t hate them, but I am aware of what they were capable of and what they and oher Europeans did that affected the Natives of this country. That’s why I just call him The General.”

Ricardo’s youngest child, Nicolette, 13, just started last year at the Santa Fe Indian School. Because he’s done a lot of speaking to classes there, whenever students see him, he’s greeted with cries of, ‘Oh, my gosh, it’s Ricardo!’ and Nicolette is proud of him for that. His mother, who sells jewelry under the Palace of the Governors’ portal, comes home telling him which of his comics’ panels were popular with the other vendors.

“People need hope,” he says. “We can’t turn into something we’re not. But in Without Reservations, everything’s on the table.”

Not pushed under the rug. Plus—we’re all laughing!

 Story by Gail Snyder