Recently, I took a trip downtown and visited the Artists on Liberty Building. There were two open galleries, one of which was by a former student of the School of the Arts. Her work was alright, though not terribly original or well-done. The other gallery, however was captivating.
Upon first entering the building, a woman walked out of what appeared to be a heavily decorated office, or perhaps a gift shop (I guess it kind of ended up being both). She was a rather rotund African American woman who smiled widely and laughed joyously at almost everything. She explained that the gallery across the street (which, I imagine she had seen me trying to enter), kept strange hours, but that we were more than welcome to look around here.
Her warmth filled the whole place with a sort of joy.
There didn't seem to be anyone in any of the offices or galleries further back into the building, so I figured I'd try hers. Why not? She was a nice lady.
Bright Caribbean colors covered the walls and some light reggae danced in the background. She told us about the featured artists, Gary Campbell, Howard Chen and Albert Harjo. Each of Gary Campbell's work was made to represent a different country of the Caribbean. There was Cuba, Haiti, The Dominican Republic and many many more. She also had postcards of his work. She said there was some confusion about whether one of his paintings was the United States or Cuba because it was of a man playing a saxophone. She figured we all should just enjoy the music. Campbell also had some abstract work that almost seemed to move it was so full of energy. That was interesting. But, as I listened to her, it was exactly the type of artwork I imagined she would collect. She sounded like any old gallery owner talking about their collection.
But then I noticed a different section of art. A group of tiny paintings (not more than a foot in either dimension) hung with each other along the wall. I stepped toward them and the woman's tone changed just slightly. She said it was artwork by Albert Harjo, a Native American man from Oklahoma who started painting in his sixties. There's some more information about him here and here(these are the only websites with any information about him). He paints using tempera and water color. I wasn't allowed to take a photograph of it myself (and as noted prior, my drawing skills are horrific), but I found some more of his work scattered throughout obscure auction websites.
His work that I find to be most beautiful is Unknown Journey.
Anonymously they walk along the cold white ground. They remind me of being a child. When I thought I could reach up into the sky and pick off a little piece of cloud to hold. Back many years ago when I read of Native Americans in children's stories. I loved them. They played with words in such imagination. Dancing through forests of wheat. Loving one another. The stories' illustrations created characters made of maybe only two or three shades of color, with little gradient between. So solid and stern. Yet they grew soft and smooth through the beauty of the writing. I could never forget those stories.
This painting immediately sent me back there. Despite the sun's rigidity, I still imagine the softest light from all of time falling from it. Despite the intense empty space and loneliness of the composition, I couldn't help but smile at the warmth of the souls that I imagined inhabited it.
The wind seems to tug at them as if asking to play. But they can't. They must find where they're going. They're heads seem to sink down into their bodies, perhaps retreating from the cold or in shame for something bad they had done. But the sun seems to sit above them, looking down, as if in forgiveness, asking them to hold their heads high, happiness all around.
I imagine that they are returning home from a long journey, ready to fall softly into the comfort of their beds. Or maybe they're going to a village somewhere in desperate waiting for their arrival. Or maybe they've lost their home and anyone to expect them, and they're simply journeying to find a new place where they can be.
I suppose this gives quite a bit to the painting from my own personal history, but I think good art should do evoke enough of a response to entirely recreate meaning through one's past experience.
It reminds me of Chardin's, House of Cards in that they are both so simply and symmetrically composed, without very much detail in the atmosphere of this very odd little place. This, however is where the similarity of their craft ends. Harjo uses such stark, bright, wonderful blues and oranges and reds and browns in a scene that, without my personal injection of joy, is rather melancholy. But Chardin uses a color scheme rooted in soft, drab browns and greens in a scene that is sourly academic with the slightest undertone of excitement.
Though they differ quite a bit in style, they hold the same odd underlying emotion. Both make me happy. Despite the boy's manlike, stoic demeanor, his eyes have just a glimmer of excitement in them. He wants to see the house of cards stand, but he would also love to see it come crashing down in a mish-mash of suits and numbers. He has that same little spark of interest that the sun has in those journeying people. That same intimate connection with what he looks down at, what he loves.
I love Native American Art because it reminds me so of those little storybooks I used to read. That childhood exuberance that they held. I'll always associate the two, for as long as I live. I find myself too nostalgic to let them go.
