Monthly Archives: October 2011

The Legendary Lloyd Kiva New

Lloyd Kiva New in later years. Photo credit unknown.

I came to know Lloyd Kiva New, the legendary artistic founder of the Institute of American Indian Arts, by way of an introduction to him by Edith Crutcher, his dear friend and associate on the Indian Arts and Crafts Board of the U.S. Department of the Interior.  Edie had read my Booker Series novels in the mid-1990s and felt that I had the cultural sensitivity and ability to author Lloyd’s biography.

 There had been promises to undertake a biography, but as Lloyd reached his mid-eighties and had serious health issues, Edie pressed for my willingness to commit to the project.  She knew my work habits and that I would complete the book if I started.  Despite Edie’s recommendation and my willingness, however, Lloyd would not agree even to speak to me on the phone until he had read my American Indian related novels, and that took the better part of a year.  Finally, we began to talk long distance from Santa Fe, New Mexico to Boone, North Carolina; and in October 1999 Lloyd invited me to visit him to discuss the project.

 Lloyd’s wife Aysen advised me that our first interview could last no more than an hour because of her husband’s frailty, but our intense conversation lasted through an impromptu lunch and into the afternoon.  Our conclusion that day was that Lloyd was both unable and unwilling to go through the anticipated painful process of re-telling and documenting the cultural and political conflicts of his long career.  His endurance for work was down to less than three hours a day, and my presence as a biographer would have compromised the peace and comfort that he had attained under Aysen’s care.

 That visit was made even more memorable by the introduction Lloyd gave me to master glass artist Tony Jojola that resulted in my being in Tony’s Taos hot shop for three days.  Then back in Santa Fe, I joined Lloyd and Aysen at the raising of the first structure on the new IAIA campus, a large log hogan.  There was a lunch served under a big-top tent, and then all of us who participated signed our names to a number of white plastic hardhats to commemorate the event.

 When I returned to North Carolina, I wrote my impression of being with Lloyd in his Santa Fe home.  The piece became the second chapter in the novel that he inspired—Eagle Feathers In Glass.  The novel features characters based on Lloyd and other contemporary American Indian fine artists.  I sent the novel to Lloyd in manuscript, and I was told that it was the last book that he read before his death at 86 in February 2002.

 I subsequently adapted Eagle Feathers In Glass into a classic opera libretto.  Sadly, no publisher has yet agreed to consider the novel, and composers who like the opera libretto need a $100,000 commission to begin to write the music!  Here, then, in tribute to Lloyd, is Chapter Two of Eagle Feathers In Glass.

TWO

He was an old man who had outlived the riches he had generated in middle age but not the esteem of his students who had decorated his spacious adobe house in the hills above the galleries of Santa Fe with their valuable art.  The house was an artist’s abode with a high-ceiling great room with a cathedral wall of glass to beckon the transcendent light.  He now painted haunting faceless Taos women waiting for the return of Pueblo men away at the hunt for elk or fasting deep in the kiva chanting prayers for rain.  Even his large canvas of a single red tulip displaying its intimacy like a George O’Keefe seemed in its petals like shrouded sisters of the Taos women.  The white-haired elder had abandoned his fortune to save an endangered culture, had followed his Cherokee heart to become an Indian art educator, running a game trail that no warrior had run before him.   And now in the twilight of his life, knowing what he knew about the poverty and despair of continuing generations, he wondered if the path he had trod was marked well enough for other Indian artists to follow.

 The venerable, controversial old man had endured the Depression and service in a world war to be the witness of Southwestern Indian artists who had gone from roadside souvenir stands to millionaire status by virtue of their talents.  He himself had defied all the odds that Oklahoma subsistence farming can claim on the last child in a string of ten.  That such a boy could discover his passion for visual arts, let alone acquire a formal university art education in an Indian-blind age, set him apart as an oddity.  That such a person could impose his vision of Indian art education on an unwilling federal bureaucracy is a historic triumph.

His mother had sensed that he was a different child from the older others.  At age five he had found pigments in the ground and mixed them with oil to make the colors adhere to crude bag paper.  At seven, his mother, so strong and beautiful that her face and form would have required an Allan Houser bronze, saved him from sacrifice on the farm and sent him to live with his married sister in a school-rich, oil-boom Tulsa.  He responded to the isolation among whites by prodding himself to academic excellence.  He graduated from high school at the top of his class. 

But where was the energy in his hands to go?  What were the forms for feelings that hung between two languages like the spaces between drumbeats?  He could draw, merge colors, but how do you discover what you can do?  How do you find the truth of your spirit when no one expects you to accomplish anything?  How do you break the skin of the white world of expectations when you are dirt farm poor and an Indian?

Someone must spark the ether of creativity.  Someone must give confidence like candy given to a troubled child, honey into the mouth of self-doubt and fear.  Someone must first tell the artistic soul that it can breathe free, that it can emerge to create, and that what it produces has value.  Someone must say yes when the rest of the known world is saying no.     

 Before Native Americans had learned politics from the Europeans, a chief rose to his responsibility by the will of his community.  He never offered himself as worthy of any office but was rather given title by virtue of his spiritual qualities, intelligence and bravery.  English and Spanish kings might fight for the right of their sons to ascend the hereditary throne, but Indian chiefs are made, not born.

 Lloyd was an Indian chief not by virtue of a war bonnet or eagle-feathered buffalo robe but by the respect shown to him by many tribes.  He was a chief of many nations who walked with the aid of a cane ornamented by a long cylinder of colorful beadwork ending in a tassel.  The walking stick was as powerful a symbol as the silver-headed canes given to the Pueblo governors by a United States president as a sign of their authority.  Lloyd’s authority could not be granted or confirmed because it rose from the hearts of grateful recipients of his love and trust, which was then returned to him as honor and respect.

Lloyd had earned his place of honor as a warrior, but his combat had not been against the soldiers of a land-grabbing greedy government.  The land was gone, and his people were restricted to reservations and land allotments before he came of age.  He could not prevent the loss of the land that had been their home for thousands of years before the Europeans invented discovery, but he could fight to save the Indian soul of creativity that had sustained them over those millenniums.  He could fight to prevent the suffocation of young Indians by a frivolous culture that had no relevance to their ancient traditions.  He could do battle against the forces of disrespect that would erase the Indian spirit from the dominated continent.

 His chosen battlefield was the Indian art school as a place of refuge and creative freedom.  On this field he had won many victories.  Out of this struggle had emerged many brave young people who had matured to become chiefs themselves, demonstrating, encouraging, mentoring yet another generation of brave hearts to express themselves as the first people, as Indians.

The reported status that he was, at 84, retired was a misstatement.  It was true that he held no academic chair, but he was far from being removed from the never-ending battle that his institutions and ideals were subjected to.  He was still a fountain to his people and a firebrand to those who displaced and disrespected them.  He could still write a letter that provoked bureaucratic reaction.  He still led where only the courageous would follow.

 In his long life he had survived two wives and gone into his eighties alone in the sprawling adobe house overlooking Santa Fe.  And then he had fallen in love and became like a young man courting a maiden with a cedar flute and a newly composed song.  She was much younger—a cultured internationalist who sensed his inner beauty and strength—and willingly gave herself to him in love and devotion.  Her own strength and abilities seemed to magnify his, and he began to paint again in a revival of artistic energy.  His spiritual force, as well as his romantic heart, was a presence that the winds of time could not blow away.  He had stood against the wind and not only endured but also found happiness and loving comfort.  For all who knew him, his late marriage seemed like a just reward.

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How I Came to Command Admirals, Generals, and U.S. Senators

Hey, writers.  Sometimes there are personal circumstances so inconceivable that they are too improbable to put into a novel.  Here is one of those stories.

In the late 1960s, I was the protocol specialist for the Norfolk Chamber of Commerce and the World Affairs Council of Greater Hampton Roads.  One of the Chamber’s gala annual dinners was themed to honor the military.  Norfolk and vicinity is home to the greatest concentration of military commands in the world.  The Supreme Allied Command Atlantic (SACLANT) is located on the Norfolk Naval Base, along with its fleet of aircraft carriers and submarines, that is the home base of the U. S. Navy Atlantic Command.  Across the Hampton Roads Harbor is Fort Monroe, headquarters of the Continental Army Command (where there are more high-ranking officers than sergeants) and Langley Air Force Base, an Air Force headquarters that was the original home of NASA.  The Marine Corps is at Little Creek Amphibious Base, where the East coast Navy Seals are based.  The Coast Guard also has its Atlantic headquarters in Norfolk.

Because two U. S. Senators, William Spong of Virginia and Stuart Symington (Missouri), the very first Secretary of the Air Force, were to speak at the event, the top admirals and generals of their respected commands accepted invitations to sit at the head table.  As the protocol specialist, I had to seat them according to rank.  The military officers all wore two or three stars, so their placement was challenging.  Whoever sat closest to the right and left of the two senators who anchored center stage had to be correct.  The decisions came down to knowing the time-in-grade of equally ranked officers.

The event was staged in Norfolk’s largest ballroom hotel that seated about 600 for the service of a formal dinner.  There was a crowded cocktail reception prior to the movement to the ballroom.  At the proper time, I collected the ten members of the head table and removed them to the Green Room where I positioned them in a line according to their order of introduction.  On cue, I would lead them to a curtained area in the wings of the platform where they would be introduced by the master of ceremonies and featured by a follow spotlight all the way to their seats at the head table.

The mood in the Green Room was jovial as I tactfully asked the distinguished men to assume their positions in the introduction line.  I personally knew Senator Spong, and I had encountered a few of the admirals and generals at previous events, but I was a mere 27 years old at the time and only a year out of the Vietnam War-era Army.  As the top brass of their respective military services stood before me in their magnificently decorated dress uniforms, a mad idea possessed me.  It was the opportunity of a lifetime, perhaps one that had never been afforded to someone like me.  I had to take the chance, not thinking that if my actions were taken as offensive, it might cost me my job.

“Gentlemen,” I said with authority to get their attention, “I would like to admit to you that only last year, I was honorably discharged from the United States Army with the rank of Specialist Fourth Class.  I hope that you will understand the great honor and pleasure that it now gives me to say to you, ‘Attention!'”  I spoke the order in my best military voice, and every man in line reacted and came to immediate attention with heels locked, backs straight, and arms at their side.  Aside from the broad smiles and chuckles, the squad line was formed in a military manner.

My next command as their squad leader was, “Right face!”  I swear, every admiral, general, and senator executed the turn precisely.  The stage cue came, and I gave the command to “Forward march” and then called off the cadence, “Your left, your left.  Your left, right, left” until I halted them at the curtained side of the stage.

I admit to having told this story to friends and acquaintances a hundred times, but I bet that it has been told many more times by the admirals, generals, and senators who were drilled like a squad of enlisted men by a lowly specialist fourth class.  I received generous commendation letters from Bill Spong and Senator Symington and later an invitation to dine with the senior officers at SACLANT.  Maybe these officers from the NATO nations were curious to meet an American who would dare to do such a thing.

Thank you, distinguished officers and gentlemen, for giving this enlisted Army veteran the military thrill of a lifetime.  If only the President had been there!

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