Ruby's choice

If I were to ask you to define the term “art,” what might you say? Would you include how it makes you feel? Would you speak about the artist or their intentions? Or would you describe it in a way that matches a definition that you might have read? What if this was broadened to include “Native art?” I have thought about this question – “What is Native art?” – scholastically for the past few months and have found different answers between my initial thoughts and my most recent. There are several factors that complicate how I might define this term, most of which are tied to its commodification. Galleries, trading posts and roadside markets provide ways to own “real” Native art for the price that is deemed permissible by the artist, and sometimes more so, by the person buying it.

When my grandmother, Ruby, was younger, her Chinle-style Navajo rugs provided an additional source of income for her family. Admittedly, it was only until last year that I learned about the periods and styles of Navajo weaving, from the early chief’s blankets to more recent styles, like the pictorial. Displayed throughout the homes of her children, they were sources of pride for our family. They showed the type of skill, craftsmanship and creativity that was rooted in her – my mother’s mother. I think we all hoped this same creativity was rooted in us. I always wondered how she priced these rugs, selling to shops and private buyers alike. Whatever they sold for, I felt like they were more valuable than the price tag that was inevitably placed on them. However, her rugs were not hung up on our walls to display any particular weaving style or show our travels. They were simply part of our home life, made not for the desires of a potential buyer but for us.

Navajo weaving developed during a period of intertribal exchange between the Diné and the Pueblo people after being displaced from their homelands by the invading Spanish. The Puebloans wove before the arrival of the Spanish using plant-based textiles, and this skill was shared with Navajo people. But with the introduction of sheep’s wool from the Spanish, Navajo weavers began to make new styles of textiles using this material. This is one of the factors that complicates “Native art” – there can be many sources of cultural exchange and cross over, and when, if ever, does one become more important than the other? Can the Spanish lay claim to creating this style of weaving, because they brought sheep while they invaded the lands of Native people? Is Navajo weaving less “Native,” because Puebloan weaving predates it? I think that Native art, at its core, does not strive for the “authenticity” that these questions seek to prove. The Spanish and Pueblo influence on Navajo weaving is a part of its legacy, but it does not define it.

Instead, I believe what is important is the object’s purpose, its adaptability and how it showcases Native agency. In this light, my grandmother’s rugs become more than mere objects on the walls. She chose their colors, design and size – choices that highlight how, despite the ongoing genocide of Indigenous people and their culture for the last three centuries, she continued to practice her agency while supporting her family. Therein lies the power of Native art. Whether or not she made choices to fit what might sell or what she liked best, these were her decisions to make.

In Diné origin stories, Spider Woman was told by the Holy people that she would be able to map the universe. After discovering her weaving skills, she realized how she would be able to do so. She further developed her weaving skills, assisted by teachings and songs provided by the Holy people. Today’s weavers continue Spider Woman’s legacy. Their art, pieces that show the continued existence of Native people and their decision to bring beauty into the world, is imbued with her history and of the people who came before – and those yet to come.

– Doug Gonzalez