Navajo Marketing

"We are never going to be rich, because we are too honest." That is what Jana says when the checkbook is low on funds, which, to be candid, is an ongoing issue. I always disagree, not about getting rich, but about being trustworthy. Over the years, I have heard Barry tell some whoppers, so I think I am on firm ground. In fact, after watching him for decades, I think his stories easily rival anything Duke ever concocted---and Duke was the undisputed master. As for me, whoppers are not in my skill set. I have, however, been known to creatively interpret the circumstances and conveniently forget an important fact.

Some time ago, I realized the primary impediment to our success had nothing to do with honesty; the problem was we were outmatched, not bright enough to effectively cope with the machinations of our local artists. As an example, long ago, we harangued Lorraine Black to make us a really creative weaving. I had even gone so far as to get out the photograph album, point to certain baskets she had previously woven, and say, "See, like this, really inventive, really spectacular and really well done." I left out the really expensive part. There were times when she had brought in baskets so beautiful, they made us cry. That is what I was after, and she was not scratching the itch.

Then, when I had almost given up, she walked in with exactly what I wanted; a basket so stunning, I felt my heart skip a beat. As she put the weaving on the counter and told me her price, my heart stopped altogether. "What!" I exclaimed, thumping my chest to restart the old ticker before darkness overtook me.

"Look," she said, pointing to certain design elements. "This is Jana and the kids in your truck. Can you see there are three children, and they each have red hair. And there you are, standing outside the truck, where you always are, because all you do is work and your family goes everywhere without you." Leaving aside the fact that only two of my kids have red hair, I was impressed with the accuracy of her commentary and the likeness of the truck, wife, and offspring. 

She went on to point out she had also included a representation of Barry's Toyota van with Barry and his family, all inside the vehicle. A good likeness I had to admit. Lastly, she said, "And here is my truck with my kids. Can you see? That’s why I have to ask such a large price." I had to admit she had us over a barrel. What, I wondered, would we do if the weaving found its way to another trading post? I could just hear one of the Foutzes saying, "And look at this basket. It has those clowns from Twin Rocks in it. Isn't it a gas? Can you believe they wouldn't buy it for themselves? What goofs!" While Barry and Priscilla looked the other way pretending not to notice, so they would not have to take responsibility for the huge purchase price, I wrote the check.

If that had been all, I probably would have continued on in blissful ignorance as I polished the glass and swept the porch. But then Julia Deswudt came into the store. Although she was stocked with two weavings, she only showed Barry the lesser-quality rug. After stripping him of a little cash, she promptly went next door to Twin Rocks Cafe, laid the better weaving on the table, and set up a retail operation, soliciting restaurant patrons. When we heard of the assault on our clientele, we rushed over and purchased the second, better rug, all the time wondering why she had not just sold us both weavings. When the dust settled, the answer seemed obvious, Julia was just trying to improve her cash flow by applying the old business adage: "A little competition never hurt anyone."

Then, to top off the week, Elsie Holiday stopped by to chew the fat. As she explained her theory that we had all been witched and that it had taken a special ceremony to remove the curse, I was genuinely impressed. I had been wondering why business took a sudden turn for the worse. She assured me things would now be much better and summed up with, "So, can I borrow a hundred?" What was I going to do, risk losing all that good medicine?

Year after year, I have remained optimistic that we can withstand the financial strain placed on us by all this innate creativity. If not, there's always unemployment benefits.

Robin and the Snake

The world of Navajo ritual belief is complicated, and it has many twists and turns. As in all world cultures, that which is right for one may be wrong for another. There are general guidelines, however, that help one navigate the landscape. It is with great caution that individuals cross the line between common sense and indiscretion. Those who tempt fate are looked upon with a skeptical eye by their peers. For example, the portrayal of snakes in Navajo art can be either positive or negative, depending upon how the snakes are depicted, and many Navajo people fear those who portray this powerful image in a permanent form. Navajo common sense says leave snakes alone. If you agitate their spirits, for any reason, they may cause you great harm.

Since they are associated with thunder, lightning, and an undying spirit, snakes have plenty of power to adversely affect your well-being. In spite of all this, some artists still take chances by creating images of serpents in their art. These individuals may feel they have protected themselves through ceremonies. Some believe they are promoting the positive, protective, side of the creature, and believe its guardian nature is being advanced; others feel they have already faced all the bad things the world has to offer and there is nothing left to lose. Some also believe that by turning the tables on snakes, refusing to acknowledge the negative power, their situation may improve.

A few years back, Robin Willeto was wandering the banks of the San Juan River near Farmington, New Mexico, and stumbled upon a long, slightly twisted branch from a cottonwood tree. What his artist's eye saw in that crooked piece of wood would have made most traditional Navajos walk away. They would have left mumbling prayers and sprinkling corn pollen, trying to get thoughts of snakes and their dangerous powers out of their head. Robin, however, is not your typical Navajo, not in any way, shape, or form. Being the son of famed Navajo carver, Charlie Willeto, and an accomplished carver in his own right, he grabbed the wood and hauled it home. What he had seen in that big stick was a great yellow snake, and he was intent on releasing it. There was no stopping his creative force. Due to the form of the wood, it did not take long to finish the project.

A few weeks later, Robin wheeled up in front of Twin Rocks Trading Post. I just happened to be standing behind the counter looking out the open doors down onto the parking lot. What we saw was an amazing sight. Although Robin generally visited us in a beat-up Chevy van, this time he was driving a subcompact car. Strapped to the top of his small vehicle was the largest, brightest, yellowest, snake I had ever seen. Nine feet in length (about a foot longer than the car, and growing with each telling of this story), eight inches at its widest point, mouth agape with huge fangs and forked tongue sticking out.

Every Navajo within sight had stopped what they were doing and stood staring, as was everyone else. Both doors flew open and out of the car pushed five large Navajo men. They were all dressed in leather coats, Levi’s, and bandannas around their heads. This was typical of Robin; he rarely traveled without his entourage of thirsty buddies. And it was hot out there, at least ninety degrees. I don't think the car had an air conditioner. By the way those guys exited that car, I was sure of it.

They unlashed the snake, and with Robin holding its head, up the stairs they came. Five hoodlums packing a great yellow snake. The excitement the scene caused was interesting to say the least. People were gawking, pointing, and shaking their heads in amazement. We bought the piece as quickly as possible, just to break up the crowd and quiet things down. We asked Robin what response he had gotten traveling across the reservation with the snake on his roof. He said that because of the hot, crowded conditions in the car he hadn't noticed, and he seemed totally unconcerned about the whole thing. We could just imagine the emotions he had conjured up, rolling across the rez in his snake-mobile. Robin was not much of a talker and when the deal was done, we shook hands, he pocketed the cash, and headed out. The crew piled back into the car and spun out of the driveway on their journey home. We all stood there for quite some time chuckling about the incident. Finally, shaking free of the moment, we went back about our business. We have never forgotten that most unusual event and have often thought, "Just what was he thinking?"

Too Close for Comfort

As a result of our many years in the trading post business, Steve and I have developed a few hard and fast rules to live by. One is, when purchasing items from a Native American artist, never show an emotional attachment to the art before you own it, because there is never a hard and fast value on any particular piece of art and it is up to us to make a fair deal for the artist, the customer, and ourselves. The Navajo people are very much in tune with the subtleties of life, and they notice body language and emotional nuances that others easily miss. Value often fluctuates in direct proportion to our level of excitement and interest.

Steve and I strive for a relaxed demeanor and poker faces when dealing with Navajo sellers; otherwise values can quickly be blown out of reasonable proportion. Exclamations of delight are best left out of the equation until ownership has been firmly established. After that. let the festivities begin.

Secondly, do not become too emotionally attached to any particular artist or their work. Such a relationship can cost you in more ways than you can imagine. One such example is why Elsie Holiday asks for Steve, and Steve alone, when she comes into the trading post. My brother is so fond of Elsie’s art that he cannot contain his excitement when she brings in a basket. Consequentially, he is a soft touch for her.

Our usual rule of thumb is to avoid any attempts at being adopted as a family member, especially the "blood brother" option. I know a number of Anglo people who have been adopted into the world of the Navajo in such a manner and are quite pleased with those associations. These adoptees, however, do not come into such close emotional and financial contact with the characters we deal with on a daily basis. We experience firsthand what a commitment these relationships can be, and recognize the amount of time, effort, and emotional stamina it takes to be a "brother."

A few years ago, Lorraine Yazzie Black brought in a beautifully woven basket, which she carefully unwrapped and handed to me for inspection. As the transfer was made from her hand to mine, a good-size sliver of Sumac forced its way into my finger. I set the weaving on the counter and focused on removing the painful intrusion. Although Steve tried to catch my attention, I was intent on relieving my suffering and neglected his warning. As I drew the sticker from my appendage, a tiny drop of blood emerged from the wound and fell onto the basket. Steve's "uh oh," and the meaning behind it, began to work its way across my conscious mind. I looked up into Lorraine’s smiling face and had an inkling of what was coming. Before I could interject, Lorraine cornered me with her statement, "I must have poked myself and spilled my own blood on that basket a dozen times. Because yours has joined mine, we are now brother and sister."

I did my darnedest to talk my way out of the situation by pointing out my many faults. Much to my chagrin, Steve readily agreed with each and every point and reminded me of a few I had missed. He later stated that he was just trying to help me out of the predicament, but the smile behind his eyes made me wonder. Lorraine was having none of it; she knew she had me just where she wanted me and was not letting my neck out of the noose. I fussed and fumed, cleaned the basket thoroughly, and claimed ignorance to her customs and the responsibilities they demanded. Lorraine just shook her head, frowned at me, and said, "We are family. Get used to it!"

Both Steve and I have known Lorraine for at least forty years, and we like her a great deal. We just don't want to be directly related to her! Lorraine’s own family calls her Ma’ai (Coyote), which relates directly to chaos! The woman is a wonderful, outrageous, high-maintenance, out-of-control individual. I have enough people in my life with those very same traits---why would I want another? My stress increased as I noticed Steve nonchalantly moving out of harm's way in an effort to disassociate himself from the occurrence. So much for brotherly intervention.

I began negotiations on the basket, and the relationship. Steve had disappeared completely, so I felt no remorse in sacrificing him. I worked out a deal that provided her with a higher price than she would have normally received for her weaving. The other side of the compromise provided Lorraine with two blood brothers for the price of one. Same parents, same blood! Steve and I would share responsibility for our new sister on the basis of "catch us if you can." When Steve finally returned and discovered the terms of the contract, he complained bitterly but knew that Lorraine would hold him to our agreement. As far as I was concerned, it served him right for leaving the scene of an accident.