A Lady of the Frontier

MARI, MERI 1946 26" X 20"

"just plain old people. I love them, and they love me."

His words couldn't have been more true. Besides adoring DeGrazia's bright unorthodox art, we all loved his stubborn, fiercely independent personality. We followed newspaper accounts of his treasure hunts into the Superstition Mountains and forays into Seri Indian country. We admired him when he burned 100 of his paintings in protest of the inheritance tax. Although he was a rich man, we knew he lived a simple life in a small house with his wife, Marion.

Marion is the reason I'm here at the gallery today. I want to give her a half-finished story I found while cleaning out an old file cabinet. A portrait of DeGrazia at work back in August, 1979, the piece depicts him as vibrant, cantankerous, too full of life to die.

I ask a young man at the gift counter to tell Marion I'm here, and he telephones her. "She'll be here in five minutes," he says.

Settling into a chair in the main room of the gallery, I take the old story from my purse and begin to read: It's hot in the little adobe workshop. The desert morning sun streams through the windows with ruthless intensity. DeGrazia is stripped to the waist, but he's too absorbed in his work to think of turning on the swamp cooler; the thing doesn't work worth a darn in August anyway.

The central workbench holds a jumble of clutter: a box of beeswax chips, a jar of grayish water, a pair of welder's goggles, scattered sculptor's tools, a mouse-trap, a bottle of Chivas Regal, a stack of

PADRE ΚΙΝΟ 1960 26" X 20"

mail, a wooden rosary. The rosary is part of DeGrazia's research on his latest project: a three-foot bronze statue of Kateri Tekawitha (1656-1680) of Auriesville, New York. If the Vatican decides in her favor, Kateri will become the world's first Native American saint: the Lily of the Mohawks.

The wax figure of Kateri is almost ready for casting. DeGrazia is sculpting it for free after persistent efforts by Kateri devotee Marlene McCauley of Phoenix - partly because the idea of an Indian saint intrigues him and partly because he's rich enough to work for whomever he wants. Wealthy admirers beg him to sell them a DeGrazia original. One woman keeps sending blank checks, pleading for a painting at any cost. The artist brushes off these people, but with a deeply religious lady it's different. Although he quit going to Mass long ago, DeGrazia's strict Catholic upbringing has left him with a sincere respect for people who pray. So he's doing Kateri for McCauley and her committee members, who plan to place the statue in Saint Francis Xavier Church in Phoenix. Rising peacefully above the hodgepodge of the studio, Kateri is a deep brown, powerful, earthy figure with long braids, a buckskin dress, and incongruous Navajo moccasins. DeGrazia has deliberately made the texture irregular, like a rough-hewn woodcarving. In contrast, the oval face is waxy smooth and blank as an egg. This morning he's fashioning Kateri's accessories: a rosary, a feather, and a lily. Right now he's crafting the lily's petals in dark petroleum-based wax. His fingers are long

A PORTRAIT

and deft, and his hands appear large at the end of disproportionately long arms. In his shirtless state, he resembles an agile animal as he scurries back and forth between his workbench and Kateri.

DeGrazia is a short man - only five feet, seven inches. Tufts of gray hair decorate his chest; a thick salt-and-pepper beard embellishes his chin; his longish, gray-and-white hair curls gently when he sweats. His cheeks are firm and tanned and completely without wrinkles; a tiny blue tattoo in the shape of his Gallery in the Sun symbol subtly decorates the left cheek. Thick gray eyebrows surmount a long, slightly hooked nose; shiny gold incisors ornament his mouth. DeGrazia's sparkling Nile-green eyes are by far his most striking feature, and at 70 years of age he wears glasses only for the most detailed work. He puts them on now to add delicate veins to the petals of Kateri's lily. Bent in concentration, he jumps when a wom-an in a flowing green and orange blouse and long purple skirt comes bustling into the studio. She carries a large plastic lily, which she plops onto the workbench. "Where'd ya get that?" grunts the artist. "Had to go all over town - finally found it at the Kit Kat."

"How many petals has that thing got?" DeGrazia grabs the lily and counts to six. "Damn! I only got four on mine." He throws the plastic flower down, picks up the wax one, and turns it thoughtfully. "Whaddya think?"

The woman is Marion, a gentle, artistic lady who's been DeGrazia's wife since 1946. Although lines etch her pale face,