Dyeing Art

SPINING A YARN Weaving Wisdom, Nature and Songs From the Soul Into Navajo Rug Art

“I will have you weaving by the time you leave,” predicted Navajo Annie Dan. I was not so naive as to believe her, but I must admit to an elevated pulse rate at the thought of trying to learn the 300-year-old art. And I'd been struck speechless by her work-an intricate, six-color woven display of stylized centipedes, lightning and feathers.

I'd met this industrious woman five years earlier at the wedding of her daughter, Stella Goshow. Beautiful, though somewhat shy, my friend's mother wore magnificent silver and turquoise jewelry on her wrists, neck and fingers.

Stella grew up near Blue Gap, a gas station, store and post office crossroads on the northeast flank of the Navajo Indian Reservation. Like her five siblings, Stella left the reservation to attend school in Mesa, returning to live with her parents, Annie and Tully Dan, during summers. She ducked spinning and weaving lessons in favor of reading. Later Stella met her future husband in college, and she now loves being mom to 2year-old Savinah while she takes a furlough from teaching fifth grade. She lives with her young family in metropolitan Phoenix.

“You're interested in weaving?” Stella asked, sounding surprised when I wondered if her mother would show me the traditional process. “I'll ask,” she said, adding, “I would be interested, too.” Then she chuckled. “But you know that there's no telephone, electricity, running water or inside bathroom up there, don't you?” Whether my curiosity or Stella's new interest inspired her mother to agree to my weeklong stay, I don't know. But, because of her generosity, the Navajo rug we wove together now hangs on my wall, evoking a thousand impressions of vast open spaces without fences, an outdoor toilet with a firstclass view and a tough, spirited woman who rediscovered her passion for traditional wool-spinning and dyeing.

Stella, Savinah and I drove north out of Phoenix for more than five hours, through Flagstaff's pine forests, past Second Mesa and 20 miles northeast on a washboard road, before turning, finally, onto a paved road just west of the Blue Gap store. At the store, we headed north again across more dirt road for several miles.

Annie and Tully Dan's little white house sits atop a high bluff overlooking Polacca Wash. It's surrounded by a grassless yard that's rippled and grooved like a motionless sea, carved by sand in never-ending wind and occasional torrential rains. One windbattered sycamore tree shades the front porch; another, the back of the house. Next to the laundry lines on the left stand brightblue water barrels. Tully hauls all the water for washing, cooking and drinking, including water for the horses, sheep, goats, dogs and cats. An eight-sided, stuccoed hogan sits near the north side of the house.

To the west and south, the view extends more than 30 miles. Perhaps 5 miles away, chalky-white and gray mountains interrupt the eastern horizon. Stella identified the craggy ridges rimming the hidden canyon as the place her mother finds materials to dye the wool. There was not a fenceline or a tree larger than scrub juniper in sight. Down the side of the wash, I saw small white specks sheep and one black dot, the family's herd dog.

We arrived on Sunday, and Tully welcomed me with a handshake and smile. But on Monday morning, as he has for 25 years, he left home to work at the Indian boarding school two hours away in Dennehotso. He would return on Friday. It is the only way to make a living there.

Annie seemed uncomfortable with our arrival. Privately, Stella told me that her mother had been having second thoughts about our agreement. She would have canceled, but she had no phone. A traditional upright loom stood against a wall by the kitchen table; burgundy, green, black and white yarns trailed from a half-finished rug. Annie still wove, but had not spun or dyed her own wool for nearly two years.

In her native language, Stella asked her mother to explain this for me, then translated. "She's been..." Stella searched for the word, "... not enjoying it. Her hands are hurting, and she feels that nobody appreciates all the hard work. The drought has lasted so long, she has to go very far to find the right plants. Most customers want cheap rugs, so it's easier to buy the yarn already dyed, but she has some old wool that she can use to show us the old way."

"Do you still want to do this?" I asked my hostess, trusting that she understood me.

"You are here now," Annie said in hesitating English and motioned for me to follow her to the old hogan where she stores wool in big plastic bags.

Propping open the door allowed for more light than what filtered through two small windows. A full sheepskin lay on the dirt floor in front of a tattered sofa. Annie shared a corner of the sheepskin with me and plucked a handful of raw wool from a bag. "First we card the wool," she said as she picked up two well-worn tools. "These are carders."

A 6-inch handle protruded at a slight angle from each wooden rectangle, about 9 inches by 4 inches, covered with short upright metal teeth. She laid one carder face up on her lap and grasped it with her left hand, thumb up. Then she placed wool across the bottom carder, slapped the other carder on top, teeth down, handle pointing toward her. She pulled the tools, with their teeth against teeth, cleaning and aligning strands until satisfied. She then rolled the wool into smooth fiber cylinders, ready tobe spun together into long skeins of yarn. Annie's hands worked in steady rhythm: pull, pull, scrape; pull, pull, scrape.

After many silent minutes, I asked hesitantly, "May I try?" She nodded toward two very old-looking carders.

"You've had these a long time?"

My teacher shrugged, saying, "I think maybe they come from my mother's sister. A long time ago, she taught me how to weave."

I tried to imitate the correct hand position, but was all thumbs. The wool bunched on one side, and sharp teeth stuck my fingers again and again. Annie pretended not to notice. I tried to copy her rhythm. Pull, pull, scrape; pull, pull.... My jaw dropped in horrified embarrassment at the handle that came off in my hand.

"I am so sorry!" I stammered. A weaver treasures and prizes her tools, often making her own, not loaning them lightly. Imbu-ing them with power and ideas, she passes them to the next generation. In a mere five minutes, I'd broken those gifts.

Annie's hands kept working, but her eyes widened at the sight of the two pieces in my hand. "Mmmmm... you pull too hard," she murmured, and she shook her head and dropped her eyes back to her work.

"I think I'd better just watch," I said. But I did notice the first smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The next morning, Annie sat forward on a sofa and picked up her spindle, a 3-foot-long dowel with a round, flat whorl slipped onto the shaft, about two-thirds of the way down.

"Tully made this for me," she said, leaning the spindle against her right leg, spin-dle tip resting on the floor. She chose a fiber cylinder, inserted the spindle tip into one end and gave a sharp twist. Her right hand scooped and stroked the shaft back and forth across her leg. Her left hand disci-plined the wool fibers, tugging, stretching, feathering them firmly into line. She breathed deeply, leaning into her work. Her fingers knew how thick the warp yarn must be and how to coax forth thinner, smoother weft yarn.

ing the spindle against her right leg, spin-dle tip resting on the floor. She chose a fiber cylinder, inserted the spindle tip into one end and gave a sharp twist. Her right hand scooped and stroked the shaft back and forth across her leg. Her left hand disci-plined the wool fibers, tugging, stretching, feathering them firmly into line. She breathed deeply, leaning into her work. Her fingers knew how thick the warp yarn must be and how to coax forth thinner, smoother weft yarn.

We spun out lives and laughter along separated the old skeins, matted from stor-

age, readying them to dye. Annie showed us

how to hook the big loops around our right

with wool. Our stories entertained us as we

feet and right thumbs and pull apart the aging yarn.

"My mother died when I was very small," she told us. "My father sent me to school in Kansas City, then in Oregon. I worked at an Italian restaurant in Portland. That's where I met Tully. He worked for the railroad. I liked him because he is very nice, not shy, does not drink and is not wild." Savinah played among the wool as we talked. She called Annie “Masán,” which is Navajo for grandmother, and dubbed me “Mimi.” The next day, we looked for natural dyeing materials. Annie searched along the base of alkaline cliffs for “good” white alum. Neither Stella nor I could discern differences between “good” and “bad” alum. “This makes the wool more white,” Annie instructed. “Watch for rattlesnakes,” she warned as we skidded down an embankment to gather yellow rabbitbrush flowers. Mistletoe clumps from juniper trees contribute golden-orange; lichen, sage green. Natural materials create subtle, “dusty” hues. Intense, bright colors are a dead give-away for commercial yarns. “We use whatever is at hand,” Annie told us. Later, I found books filled with possible dyeing agents, including recipes that utilize sand, salt, soda, ashes, crumbled rock, bark, hulls, roots, berries, flowers, leaves, vegetable skins and urine. And the dye pot matters. Rabbitbrush boiled in porcelain makes yellow; in stainless steel, green. Fresh plants give one color, dried leaves another, rotten roots another. Often these secrets are passed down through generations.

hulls, roots, berries, flowers, leaves, vegetable skins and urine. And the dye pot matters. Rabbitbrush boiled in porcelain makes yellow; in stainless steel, green. Fresh plants give one color, dried leaves another, rotten roots another. Often these secrets are passed down through generations.

Back at the house, Annie hummed and stirred the plants into the boiling water. Her step quickened. We gently swished the yarn through the color in a dishpan. She spoke to me quietly, her voice catching. “Thank you for coming. If you had not come, I would never have got out my wool again.” The whole week portended good news and hope. Two weaver friends recommended her work to their rug buyers. Also, a man in a white pickup arrived to announce that the electricity the Dans applied for 10 years ago should be installed “soon.” And it rained. Torrentially. This meant there would be water in the washes for the animals, and perhaps a day or two without water-hauling. The Dans’ flock once totaled hundreds. But drought, falling market prices, arthritis and discouragement have dwindled that number to mere dozens. Wool once fetched 50 cents a pound. Today's market: 10 cents a pound. It rained again late Friday night, then let up, and the clouds cleared. I couldn't sleep, so by flashlight and moonlight, I stumbled the length of two football fields to the very edge of the wash. Sharp, damp winds tugged at my jacket, but I found it difficult not to linger, soaking in the 30-mile panoramic mountain view under a diamond-studded black-velvet sky. When I returned to the house, Annie sat at her loom, rhythmically tapping the work with a wooden fork. “Can't sleep,” she whispered. Some Navajo women say that everything gets woven into the rug, if one is not careful, including stray bits of yarn, dust, intrusions-even angry thoughts. To make a handsome rug, to think clearly, to weave in beauty, the weaver must sing the “Weaver's Song.” Though we discussed it, Annie could not share the song with me because I am Anglo. No matter.

Although what matters is that she heard the whole song again in her own heart; Annie Dan wove in beauty once more. AlH