Variations of Light and Color

Steve and I were recently sitting on the porch of the trading post enjoying the most incredible evening imaginable. The light of the fall sun was filtering through the golden leaves on the cottonwood trees, and there must have been at least a dozen shades of green emanating from the various plants common to our high desert environment. The cliffs surrounding our small community were glowing in the softness of sunset; there were warm red tints, burnt orange highlights and earthy browns. Canadian geese that winter on the alfalfa field across the way were beginning to gather for the evening, and their soft conversations could be heard as they settled in for the night. It was one of those short lived moments that sticks in your mind and remains there for you to cherish and remember. I have always had a love of watercolor paintings, because it seems to me that they best portray the way my mind remembers scenes such as we had just witnessed. I felt a softness of detail, slightly smudged, yet warm and comfortable, resting easily on my senses.

As we enjoyed the remarkable variations of light and color, we fell into conversation concerning the many lessons we have learned on this theme. The Navajo people seem to have a special, natural ability to understand the subtle nuances of nature many of us overlook. Maybe it is inbred from generations of ancestors witnessing displays of illumination brought on by Mother Earth and her mate, Father Sky. Whatever the reason, the people are constantly trying to educate us to the meaning of what they have woven, hammered or sculpted into their art. The message must be sticking with us because we seem to be more aware of these occurrences. My wife and children can attest to that; it is not uncommon for me to gasp at a spectacular display of natural light and point it out to them. My kids have recently been beating me to the punch by perking up with mock excitement and exclaiming, "Dad, look at those clouds. Aren't they simply gorgeous ?" My reaction to their comments is usually brought to an abbreviated end by an elbow to the ribs from my wife. Being born and raised in Bluff put me in close proximity to a certain Opal Howell.

Opal had a rather colorful vocabulary, which she in turn shared with us. It cost me many a "mouth cleansing". On certain occasions this lexicon of choice phrases returns, which merits a poke in the ribs, and brings memories of a soapy taste to my mouth. Funny how that works.

Anyway, I was telling Steve about an experience I had the other morning. Driving down from Blanding, I witnessed an explosive sunrise that looked as if someone had taken buckets of paint and splashed them across the horizon. There were brilliant reds, yellows and oranges in a pattern only nature can create. Right in the middle of all that color, balanced between earth and sky, was the sun; a huge shimmering orb of gold rising towards the heavens. This scene, in and of itself, was truly inspiring; but there was more. Rounding a curve facing away from the sunrise and to the west, I was presented with a glowing moon set. I couldn't believe it; I had never before seen anything like this. There, sitting next to a pair of up thrust ridges we call the Bear's Ears was a full, luminescent moon. In opposition to the brightness of the sunrise the colors were softer, more pastel. There were soft blues, light purples, and just a touch of red reflected from what was happening on the opposite horizon. The moon was exceptionally bright, and the craters stood out in bluish contrast. I pulled my old Nissan pick up off the highway and glanced from one scene to the other until they both faded from view. The others on the highway that early morning honked and waved, sharing the same excitement I felt for the privilege of witnessing this natural spectacle.

I shared my experience with many of the artists who came into the trading post that day. Some had seen the same occurrence; only in different geographic circumstances. Others related witnessing similar situations. All were happy to discuss the event, and many used the opportunity to explain that these natural phenomena were often the theme of their art. Steve and I have often been accused of being sluggish, slow, handicapped and a variety of other uncharitable things, for our failure to understand the messages of our Navajo educators. We are told that by opening our eyes, minds and hearts, and getting in touch with our surroundings, that we will learn to recognize the message or meaning. Quite often that meaning is hidden in a sunrise, moon set, landscape or other creation of nature. The cultural ties are significant because all of these things are created, directed and presented by the deities guiding and protecting the Navajo people.

Since I firmly believe that there is value in all interpretations of well considered cultural reasoning, I listen closely to what the artists are saying. I feel that we are extremely lucky to be in such close contact with these artistic storytellers. Who is to say that their message is somehow wrong. Greater minds than mine have pondered these questions, and my personal study is fragmented at best. By paying attention to the suggested sights and sounds, we are offered views into a belief system that focuses on natural purity and balance. A rainbow's end racing across the earth, and the scent of sagebrush as you barrel down a back road becomes a view into myth and legend. The stories emerge from the simplicities of life; you need only recognize the meaning.

I recently had the opportunity to visit with a child psychologist concerning the attitude of my children. The poor woman stumbled into the trading post, and I cornered her when she revealed her occupation. I mentioned that my kids seemed to misread what I was relating to them about the art I work with and its meaning. I was also distressed at their lack of concern for the variations of light and color that I persist in pointing out to them. She assured me that they were indeed listening and paying attention; that the message was getting through and that they will appreciate my taking the time to share with them when they grow up. As for the elbow to the ribs, and resulting memory of a soapy taste in my mouth whenever I utter an inappropriate word, she said something about crime equals punishment, equals memory and taste reaction. Memory imprints related to taste would most likely never change. Bummer!

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