Tender Loving Care

Corn is one of the most venerated of plants in the world. Especially, in Native American culture it plays a central role. “Corn, also called Indian corn or maize, is a cereal plant of the grass family (Poaceae) with edible grain. The domesticated crop originated in the Americas and is one of the most widely distributed of the world’s food crops. Corn is used as livestock feed, as human food, as biofuel, and as raw material in industry. In the United States the colorful variegated strains known as Indian corn are traditionally used in autumn harvest decorations.” —britannica.com 

One of my earliest memories is when as a child of two years, my parents would take a drive out of Chicago on Sunday afternoon. I was in the backseat, peering out the window as they drove into farmlands, through corn fields. For a little child, the corn stood immensely tall, in closely knit rows—plant after plant as far as the eye could see. 

About one year ago, during Santa Fe’s Summer Bandstand, (now cancelled) a Native American artist from Taos performed. Robert Mirabal is well known and well liked. He is a grammy award winning performer, though for the last number of years he has mostly stayed close to home on Taos Pueblo. Anyway, I had a small group of high school friends visiting town and after a social gathering with pizza at the Boone Gallery, we walked out onto the plaza to hear music. 

Usually when Robert plays at the end of August, it rains. Last year was no different, with rain coming midway after the concert started. For us Santa Feans, who live in arid high-desert mountains, rain is a good thing anytime. It is as if Robert brings good fortune with him. He talked about his culture and the world and at one point, stepped into the crowd with a big bowl of native corn kernels, giving them away. Amy and I took a palmful.

This spring, we planted a small garden in our front yard, including our blue corn kernels. Blue corn was developed by Hopi Indians of the American southwest. 

Our plants grew, with tender loving care, and Amy and I marveled, watching the tender green stalks shoot upward and make tassels, that pollinated from its neighbors. Soon we had corn “ears”. 

“We must send Robert pictures”, I commented to Amy one day. 

A small cob Amy made into a bird. 

 

Indian Meeting Place Of The Universe

A life size wooden Indian faces my gallery every day. He wears a war bonnet, is dressed in buckskin and holds a tomahawk. Each morning he is dragged out of the shop called Shalako that sells old Native American Indian silver jewelry and adornments. Then he goes back inside at closing time. He stands sentinel at the door and tourists from all over the world have stopped to have their picture taken next to him.

Santa Fe is the meeting place of the universe for Indians this weekend. Indian Market is in progress. Today, a real Indian stood next to the wooden one as I took a picture. He grabbed the ax from the wooden Indian's hand and smiled while I photographed. He is from the Jicarilla Apache Nation in New Mexico, and is here among tribe people from all over the United States, including Alaska, and also some from Canada. 

Tents line every street going out from the plaza. The Indians sell their pottery, jewelry, weavings, artwork and more. Tourists come from all over. They can be seen waiting at the booth of a favorite artist for over an hour before opening time at 8 AM on Saturday morning. 

Throughout the two days, there are continual performances of native music with colorful dancing in traditional costume . . . and a spirit of happiness and excitement pervades everywhere.

My gallery is only 100 feet from the plaza. Often, downtown businesses complain that shoppers are so fixated on the Indian crafts that their businesses go into a sales slump. Last year I had the good fortune to sell a big painting during the market.

I show up with a positive attitude and am thankful for what fate brings . . . and this year some collectors came in and bought art from me; including a portrait that I had just completed. You might call it a “native” portrait. It is of an indigenous woman from South America, wearing her native costume, including a bright red felt hat.

"The Red Hat", oil on linen, 20 x 20 inches
by Steven Boone

You Smell Good

Today, I got in trouble with someone and I had to apologize for overstepping boundaries. I often allow my personality and temperament to flow unconstrained and exuberantly, like a journey on a free-spirited river that is sometimes placid and other times dashing against rocks and swirling in turbulence. For the most part I am along for the ride and call it THE DREAM. In this state I feel boundless and excited, and need to touch the world to unite with it and know where I am. For example, one evening last October, while sharing dinner with my fellow safari travelers in Tanzania, a man from South Africa stared at me from across the table and abruptly asked, “Why did you kiss that Masai woman today?” His direct query took me by surprise. Earlier, our vehicle had broken down on the bumpy dirt route out of the Serengeti, and we were stranded while one of the crew worked to fix the problem. I had gone out of the bus to stretch and met a Masai couple by the side of the road. I immediately felt attracted and so walked over to them. The man sized me up as I stood smiling, and I asked to take their picture. He nodded okay, and I took photos of them together, then each one alone, and finally just of their hands touching together. Afterwards, spontaneously and without thinking, I leaned over and kissed the woman’s cheek. She was highly amused and giggled. “But didn’t you see that the man was holding a club when you kissed his wife?” the South African asked. To be honest, I did not think that any of the interchange could end badly. That is my way. But today THE DREAM took a different twist.
Outside of Santa Fe there is an Indian tribe that controls an outdoor marketplace that is famous and where I have just begun selling my items from world travel. This morning, as I stood talking with my assistant, a young, very chubby, Indian woman who worked at the market came to speak with me. She was wearing nice perfume and in a moment, I was riding in the stream and going with the flow. “You smell good!” I beamed at her as I put my arm around her shoulder and sniffed her hair. A half hour later, I was summoned to the tribal office and severely reprimanded. Feeling a bit humiliated, I apologized profusely, but nonetheless received a warning. I felt like a school kid that had been scolded in the principles office.
For a while afterward, I questioned myself and even incriminated a little. But really, the stream that carries me is big and beautiful and my heart is full, so I imagine that someday again, I will stop in my tracks when I come to a fragrant rose and simply from exuberance, reach out and touch it.