Faces of the Land

The Navajo Reservation in northeastern Arizona is a land of incredible contrasts. In one direction you might gaze at some of the most barren and uninviting land imaginable and in the opposite direction you will find fertile forest and green carpeted meadows, turn to the left and find flat plateaus, turn to the right and see massive red buttes rising skyward hundreds of feet. The weather, too, is a thing of contrast. The summer sun can be relentless with not a cloud in sight. But within a few hours you may be standing in the midst of a driving rain, with more wind, lightning and thunder than you've ever seen before. And with the coming of winter the high desert plateau may be barren of life-giving moisture, one year, while the following year may bring seven feet of snow in one blizzard alone to punish the land and its people.

Unusual, distinct, unique as it may be for the Navajo, this is their land - 25,000 square miles of it an area equal to the combined size of Connecticut, Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Vermont. But what about the people? What about the 150,000 individuals who make up America's largest single Indian tribe, and whose ancestery goes back into the mists of time before railroads... before pioneers... and even before Spanish explorers? Today, some of them still live 20 or 30 miles from paved road, the closest electrical power may be even farther, water and firewood are precious commodities, and rains and snows can isolate them for weeks. Yet they endure because they are accustomed to living in harmony with the land.

The Navajo and their land appear as one. We find smooth layers of fine red sand as soft as a newborn baby's cheek. We can see where sun and wind have carved even the stoutest sandstone spires, and we can find Navajo faces parched and wrinkled, weathered by time and the forces of wind, rain and sun. There talented artist Ray Swanson of Prescott (see front cover) frequently visits this land and its people. He has some strong feelings about both. “The most exciting, stimulating and challenging paintings I do are portraits of the older Navajo folk. The lines in their faces reflect more than the strength and ruggedness of the land on which they live, it also shows a peace within themselves. They have adapted and become part of this rugged country.

Song of the cradleboard

In the beginning The Great Spirit Scattered stars Along the trail Of the universe. Last evening At moonrise A single star Fell into my Waiting cradleboard. O son of my blood! O child of my bones!

I lay you down On sun-colored clouds Drifting in the east And rainbow ravelings Of falling light. Sleep new born baby As the unopened buds Of the wild cherry sleeps, In the cradle Of unchanging joy. O child of earth! Of son of sky!

There is a singing Round-about-you Tiny bird, O frail thing, O seeker of life! May the white threads Of happiness Be woven Into the weaving Of all your dreams. O flesh of 'the people' O soul of 'changing woman'!

Like startled quail My joy leaps up, It is greater Than the needles Numbered on the pine. I make an offering Of Sweet Smoke And plant squash For this gift Of great joy. O child of my blood! O son of my bones!

In the hushed silence Of unwakened dawn I gather you To my brown bosom. O shining star! O pendant of bone!

Jean Humphrey Chaillie

Thou art my sister

Thou art my sister, because we were born of the same great spirit; conceived from the same mound of earth; slept quietly together in the cradle of unknowing until He in his gentleness set us in the midst of humanity you are my sister, I love you.

You and I are destined to be companions on the highway of life; together or apart, you are my sister, I love you . . . if the color of my skin is different from yours, it mattereth not, only let the beauty of our souls be kindred . . .

I will honor your wisdom and understanding, as you will mine, together we shall seek the seeds of truth in the distant rooms of the Great Spirit; the reflection of inner knowledge shall wear as beauty upon our faces . . . you are my sister, I love you. I will be human and fall down in rough places; but thy hand is near mine, I will reach for it, I shall not be alone. I will embrace you when the rains of sorrow visit you, I will befriend your soul as if it were my own . . . you are my sister, I love you.

If death takes from me the lamp of life, and the veil of eternal sleep falls across my eyes before yours, I will wait for you, I will come to lead you across the bridge of night into the meadows of the Great Spirit . . . you are my sister, I love you.

The young warrior

Where the ancient ones stood I stand, Facing the sacred place Where slowly the sun rises. My grandfather is beside me, He too Watches the daylight God Begin the long journey. When the sun has traveled But twice The thirty-two trails I will go meet the enemy. My mother sits in the hogan Wailing, She heard my death-song On the wind last night.

Jean Humphrey Chaillie

On the trail-of-well-being

On the footsteps of morning The sound of pot drums Trembled through my body Like leaves in a gust of wind. The brave of eighteen summers Rose swiftly from my side To answer the summons Of the ceremonial drums.

Before him sprinkle pollen. Before him sprinkle pollen. Before him sprinkle pollen. On his way to the sweathouse.

Over him has been sung The 'twelve-word' song, And the 'dust token' prepared To place in his moccasin. He was chosen on this day To carry the 'aya'tsi'n At the head of the war party Into the country of the enemy.

Now he is prepared. Now he is prepared. Now he is prepared. To go meet the enemy.

Around my neck I wear His 'farewell bundle' Of pollen mixed with his saliva As a token for his safe return.

Go on the trail-of-well-being. Go on the trail-of-well-being. Go on the trail-of-well-being.

For I wait At the place of 'ten sleeps.'

The old warrior

The old warrior hears drums War drums In the distance they beat Beat, beat. He is wrinkled and old as bark On the trunk of a sycamore long standing. His memory is without clouds He counts Coups of long ago battles with honor. Sadness pierces his heart as braves Painted for battle ride off without him.

Jean Humphrey Chaillie

Faces of the Land continued from page 3

"There is color and contrast in everything from their clothes to their land and their way of life. But the real challenge for me as an artist is capturing the emotions reflected in their faces. It may be the compassion, for example, of an old squaw trying to save the life of an orphan lamb, not only for the lamb's existence, but also for her own, because as a people they are dependent upon their livestock for subsistence."

"Then there are the children. They are so happy, beautiful, energetic and full of life. Their desires are minimal. Modern toys and playthings are unknown to many of them. They have fun with an old tin can and a bent juniper stick, or games invented on the spot with the material provided by Mother Nature. "Why do I try to paint emotions? They're a thing of beauty!"

Tucson photographer Ray Manley, a longtime contributor to Arizona Highways, has been visiting the Navajo Reservation regularly since 1939. He has made more than 100 trips, and is particularly interested in photographing the elderly Navajo. Ray describes one of his first encounters with an old Navajo this way: "His face was leathery and bronzed in the late afternoon light. He impressed me like no one else I had ever seen.

"These stoic faces," he continues "have endured the harsh weather of the northern Arizona reservation: freezing winters, sand storms and scorching summer sun. The wrinkles and leathery skin that are the results of a hard life will never be seen again, when the 'long hairs' are gone. They earned those deep wrinkles by herding sheep day after day. Today their children and grandchildren work in cafes, trading posts, coal mines and post offices. They also teach school, make beautiful jewelry, or serve as drivers and guides at various tourist centers throughout the reservation. These jobs will not create the same type of character reflected in the eyes of a wizened old Navajo. I hope I have been able to photographically preserve some of these timeless images."

Jean Humphrey Chaillie is both a poet and playwright and the winner of numerous national and international awards. Her experience teaching at the Phoenix Indian School led to a fascination with the Indian and with his poetry. "When I first began learning about the Indians, it was like opening a door. It took my breath away. The Navajos are my favorite tribe to write about. They have so many ceremonies and such an illustrious background.

The Indian people I've met have such a beautiful spirit. In caring about each other, they keep the most beautiful parts of their heritage alive. . ."

John Running, a young and energetic photographer from Flagstaff, cherishes his experiences with the Navajo. "Learning about Navajos has taught me a good deal about myself. I have some very good friends among them. They are elegantly independent, and because of this, I respect and appreciate their friendship all the more. It is not given lightly.

"It has been said that my work is sort of a 'document' of the Navajo Tribe. But that's not true. Actually, it is a scrapbook of my Navajo friends."

Jerry Jacka, another of our regular contributors, and a photographer highly respected by Arizona Indians, can become very sensitive, even emotional when talking about the Navajo. In Jerry's words: "Lips need not move for a Navajo face to speak... the twinkle of an eye, a wrinkled brow, a stern glance, a shy grin... tells all.

"A sad face reflects the suffering during the 'long walk' of years gone by.

A happy face hears the bleat of a newborn lamb.

A worried face sees a withering cornfield in a parched sandy draw.

A peaceful face watches the sun set behind a canyon wall. A Navajo face tells of the people... enduring, forceful, reverent.

"A Navajo face is many things...Two brown eyes peering from beneath the sunshade of a cradleboard.

A toothless grin in the back of a pickup truck,

A sweaty brow herding sheep on a sunny day,

A leathery tan framed with turquoise and a flat-brimmed hat,

An approving glance at a rug on a loom,

Dust covered cheeks of a child at play, The mask of a ye'ii dancing by an open fire.

"A Navajo face is a face of the land...

A tiny baby as fresh as a babbling stream,

A young mother as tender as a moonlit night,

A beautiful old woman wrinkled as the dunes of sand, A maiden's long black hair flowing like a waterfall, A handsome man with features as sharp as the tall stone buttes, A shepherd as brown as the canyon wall.

"Nowhere else on the face of the earth is there a face like that of the Navajo. A Navajo face is after all... the face of the earth."

The beauty and dignity of a Navajo father and son. On the left is Curley Mustache, over 100 years old. His son is Hosteen Begay Number Two, according to a Navajo interpreter. Alan Manley

BEITA

It was a small painting, about 11 by 18 inches. The likeness was clearly that of the late John F. Kennedy, but in this environment the painting seemed somewhat out of place.

The environment was the sprawling Navajo Reservation, mostly in Arizona, but including stretches in Utah and New Mexico. The Kennedy painting was in the home of Jim Abeita, a gifted 31-year-old Navajo artist.

"I painted that just to prove I could paint white people, but I don't want to paint Kennedys," he said softly. "I'm Navajo and I want to paint Navajo. I don't do it just for the money, but because I'm one of them."

He pointed to his eyes. "There are certain lines that are always there on the Navajo. I check people to see what makes their face the way it is. My work is with anatomy and oil paint."

Jim began sketching as early as six years of age at a time when he was expected to help herd the family's sheep. "I used to sketch on pads, grocery sacks or anything I could get my hands on. The sheep would go this way, then that way. I was a terrible herder, according to Mom."

With a big grin, Jim says, "It was either herd sheep or paint!"

Teachers very early recognized Jim's talent and after high school graduation he was sent to the American Academy of Art in Chicago, where he studied under the sponsorship of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Then he promptly returned to his home near Crown Point, New Mexico, and began to paint in earnest.

He paints from memory those things which he loves the Navajo and their way of life. But, clearly, his heart and brush are of another era a period of wagons instead of pickup trucks.

"The reservation is changing so fast. Now all you see are cowboy hats. You don't see many of the old styles of clothing that I knew as a boy."

Like his anglo contemporaries, Jim finds the faces of his people interesting, challenging almost magnetic. His joy is seeing a Navajo face come to life on his canvas.

He paints softly and his colors are somewhat subdued. Perhaps "low key" is the best description of Jim's painting and his life. But regardless of his style, Jim's work gives us a sensitive impression of his people in his land.

Tom C. Cooper