I was fortunate enough to be able to spend a weekend under the instruction of two of the premier western artists in America today. Bruce Greene is an extraordinary painter and sculptor, and Martin Grelle is my "art hero", and has befriended and encouraged me as an artist.
    On the first day, we all went to a creek bed at the back acres of a ranch for plein air oil painting. Martin demonstrated his methods first, and then offered assistance. And wouldn't you know it? I accomplished what may have been my worst painting ever, right in front of my role models. Ugh. But Martin and Bruce were encouraging and helpful.
    On the second day, they offered critique of student art. I had purposely brought two of my weaker paintings for their review because I didn't want to try to impress them, I wanted them to point out where my work wasn't successful. To develop skill as an artist requires a thick skin and a diminishing ego; I had to sit and take it while they demolished my work's errors. The most important things they taught me were about using value contrasts to create depth in landscapes, and to improve my depiction of horse anatomy.
    I brought one of the failed paintings home and redid it, incorporating their instruction. At once, it became a successful painting--in fact, a prominent showcase work in my portfolio. I also bought and studied several veterinarians' textbooks on horses, devoting many weeks' practice. Being willing to humbly accept critique improved my work vastly.
    Martin's last advice was, "just cover miles of canvas. Study the work of artists you admire, and then go paint more miles of canvas."
    Best homework assignment ever!

I am proud to announce that I have been accepted as a member of the Oil Painters of America!

The OPA is an organization that promotes "excellence in representational art" and "advances the cause of traditional, representational fine art by drawing attention to the lasting value of fine drawing, color, composition and the appreciation of light."

We continued south toward the site of Wounded Knee. River watched out the window as we passed clusters of tar-paper shacks and trailers, constituting a "town" on the rez...no stores, no gas stations. I talked with River about the history of the Ghost Dance and its role at Pine Ridge.
In the late 1880's, a Paiute man named Wovoka had a series of visions that started a new religion among the Plains Indians. Wovoka told the people that God had showed him that through hardship would come new life, and that if the people formed a circle--literally, but also symbolically as a community--and prayed together for peace, the turmoil of this world would burn away and the people would live. Wovoka warned them that this "burning away" would hurt very much, but it would establish a departure from our old mistakes to a new way of ministry and interconnection with life.

This new way of understanding became known as the Ghost Dance. The name comes from a misunderstanding by Whites on the frontier, who heard Wovoka talking about setting our old lives aside to die and then seeing new life being born within us. They lacked the understanding that he was talking about transformative struggle, and assumed he was urging some type of cult-like sorcery to whip up a warlike fervor.

    Their peacefulness did not assuage their enemies, though, who saw it as a sign of weakness. This clash of ideas--renewal versus hostility--erupted on December 29, 1890 at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. There, about 300 Ghost Dancers were hewn down by machine gun fire and left for dead, the crosses and birds painted on their garments shining in the snow.

This was the final massacre of the so-called "Indian Wars." The site is now marked by a common trench grave and monument with names engraved on it. To Native people today of every tribe, the site is a shrine; it represents the difficult choice between fighting back and hating your adversaries, or becoming willing to suffer while praying and seeking peace with them, acknowledging them as our brothers and sisters whom we love despite adversity. And although that choice ended in tragedy in 1890, it has inspired thousands of people in the decades since then.
    It represents the truth that despite our human flaws, our adversaries, and the risks we take to love and care for others, there is still worth in continuing to mend wounds, seek good for those who do not seek good for us, and even keep loving...keep loving. The lesson of Wounded Knee is this: Even with the wounds brought upon you by those who condemn what you do, keep loving. Keep seeing them--even your adversaries--as holy people, children of our Creator, and continue the work of tending to the wounds of others even as others might add wounds to you.

This is a hard choice.

Today, Wounded Knee is a windswept field with a very simple monument marking the cemetery. There are no fancy tour buses, no restaurants, no shops, no neon signs--just a meager arch and a stone marker.
    Grasshoppers swarmed away from us as we strode toward the hilltop, and I showed River where the events happened: "That's the ridge where the soldiers were lined up. That's where chief Big Foot's tipi stood. That's where his body was found. Those distant ravines are where people hid. This is the long ditch dug as a mass grave by men paid $2 a body to clean up, days later. That's where the church once stood where the wounded were gathered to die of starvation (nobody nursed them, they just brought them in from the snow--still alive--to perish, while a banner wishing "Merry Christmas" still hung from the pulpit)."

    This was a more solemn time on our trip, obviously, and I hoped it would sink in somewhat to River. But I didn't want him to see it as a place where a brilliant dream had died, or where a prayer for peace failed. I wanted him to see it as a place where prayers for peace mean enough to be worth giving your life for--a place where the brilliance of a dream can succeed because people are ready to seek it to their last breath. It is a place that represents fidelity, perseverance, and courage, not a place of despair and loss.

[Report of an essay written during summer]

I can say this about traveling with River: the Ritalin stays in within arm's reach of the steering wheel at all times.             Today we visited the sacred site of Pipestone, Minnesota. This is the one and only quarry on earth where the red stone used to carve ceremonial pipes can be gathered, and it has been used for about 4000 years. The site is known as a place of peace, and even enemy tribes gathered here to collect pipestone without any animosity. In older times, Indians would symbolically bury weapons beneath the trees to represent their covenant of peace (the Iroquois Confederacy is still represented by a great Tree of Peace, with weapons buried beneath it).

            Ceremonial pipes are misnamed "peace pipes" by Whites, but ought to be called "prayer pipes" instead. The red stone represents the collected blood of all wounded people, which the Creator gathered in his hands to mold into a pipe for demonstration to gathered Indians countless years ago. This is one of the few anthropomorphic depictions of God in any Indian legend, because God is not seen as a person but as a spirit in and through all things. God called the people to council and rebuked them for acts of violence and showed them how the blood we have shed has formed a vein of red stone at this sacred site. The teaching given to the people is that making a covenant to use the pipe as a ceremonial object requires a pledge of nonviolence and special care for wounded people; pipe keepers are known as helpers and healers. While warriors would also keep pipes as part of daily life, it was regarded as a tool only to be used between persons who pledged peace with on another. Once a pipe had been smoked with any other person, both people were entering into an oath to rebuke all animosity between them, past or future.

            River and I walked through the fields to the ancient quarry, a trench-like gash in the earth into which people still gather the stone in the old way: by chiseling it out through slow labor, with no mechanical tools. We left our prayer cloths in the cottonwood trees, took a small shard of the stone, and left.

        I took River to meet Chuck Derby, a traditional full-blood elder who is widely regarded as "the guardian of the pipe." Chuck lives a simple life, but is widely respected as one of the most knowledgeable faithkeepers of sacred pipe lore and history. I presented chuck with a gift of traditional tobacco (called Kinnickinnick) and asked him if I could question him about a few things. He smiled and gestured me to sit down. I told him that River was nervous to meet him, and hoped Chuck would be "a funny man," which made Church and his wife both laugh.
            During our conversation, Chuck taught me the answers to many of my questions. He clarified, for example, that most families will keep two pipes, not just one; one pipe is used for social smoking, and another for ceremonies. The red pipestone can be used for either purpose, and it is not sacrilegious to use a pipestone pipe in casual settings with friends. Furthermore, there is no formal exalted position of "pipe keeper," which is a modern invention to grant sanctified status to persons promoted as spiritual leaders. Any person who has been taught the teachings of the sacred pipe can choose to incorporate that into their spiritual life. A "pipe keeper", then is not meant to designate someone as a spiritual leader, and any ordinary person can choose to be a pipe keeper. A spiritual leader, by contrast, is someone who has learned all the songs, ceremonies, and customs of their people and is recognized as a helper or healer for their people.

            Chuck said that the Ojibway had originally used pipes made of black and white stone, but adopted the red stone from the Sioux and now regard the red pipestone as the more sacred. But the Ojibway did not adopt the Sioux legends about the pipe's origins, and Chuck is unaware of a particular pipe origin story among the Ojibway.

            I asked whether a pipe's consecration (blessing) is bestowed upon the pipe itself, or upon the person who keeps it, and Chuck said "both." I explained that I had come into possession of a very old Ojibway ceremonial pipe, and wanted to care-take it appropriately, and was confused whether the pipe carries its original blessing or whether it should be re-blessed as it comes to me. Chuck suggested that the pipe should be re-blessed, and was pleased to hear that I had chosen to do that, bringing the pipe into the sweat lodge and kept on the west side while the ceremony leader gave a blessing. Chuck said this was sufficient, and was happy to know it had been cleansed. I offered to show him this pipe, and he said "I would be honored!"

            I brought in the cedar case, and Chuck rubbed his hands with cedar to cleanse himself. I opened the case, and Chuck's eyes dazzled! He lifted the heavy black bowl, inlaid with lead designs, and marveled. He told me that the lead inlay was made from molten bullets, and indicated the age of the pipe as mid-1800s. He was thrilled with the coiled sumac wood stem, which still bears traces of ocher paint and brass tacks, and said that the design showed that this was not a cheap commercial pipe or souvenir, but something that bore great power and had been skillfully made by someone with immaculate traditional knowledge. He noticed the carved birds head and nearly jumped back with astonishment: "This is a Midewiwin pipe!"

            The Midewiwin is the ancient community of Ojibway men and women who practice the traditional ceremonies.The Midewiwin lodge so private that their ceremonies are never observed by outsiders. Chuck said that this pipe had been used in very old and very powerful ceremonies, and was nothing like the typical "peace pipes" that most people see; this pipe was of a rare type that Chuck himself has hardly ever seen. He said it was an honor to even touch it!

            He advised me to pack the pipe with sage and to seek a Midewiwin man's help for guidance. I said that I wanted to be very appropriate and not blasphemous with this sacred object, and Chuck said "You are doing everything right. You gave me a gift, you asked me for help, and you are taking good care of this. Make sure it is never put on display, and never sold." I asked Chuck whether Midewiwin people would be upset with my having this pipe, and he said "no, because you are being respectful toward it. They would be upset if this object was being treated carelessly, but they will be pleased to know that something this strong has been cared for and that you want to learn its proper use." I told him that I wanted to be very respectful toward it, and that I was aware that my knowledge was not complete because I am not a Midewiwin man. Chuck said that it was not necessary for me to do so, but that I should at least keep his in my family and pass it down someday.

    To Chuck, pipes are living things. They die in captivity. But they thrive and throb with power in their "natural habitat", which is in a family where it will be used, kept clean, and passed down to future generations. A pipe with a family future is a living pipe. By "kept clean", Chuck did not mean polished and washed, but kept in a traditional manner: packed with sage and cedar, cleansed in a sweat lodge, plugged with medicine, and joined only when used for ceremonies by a proper, trained custodian. Chuck assured me that the pipe had "come home", and that the pipe was meant to continue its lineage with me and my descendents.

    He also took an interest in River, calling him aside and stooping to say to him that River needed to begin to prepare to learn these things too, and should start creating a medicine pipe of his own. Chuck took down a small L-shaped piece of raw pipestone and handed it to River and advised him to begin practicing carving a pipe. This was a stone that Chuck had personally cut from his family quarry.  By comparison, I was 20 when I began learning these things! River told me that he would keep the stone uncut until he had found a pipe-making elder who could teach him how to carve it properly, which was a good thing for him to say.

    This has not kept River from using all of this as an angle for his advantage. At dinner he pleaded, "Today I impressed an elder enough that he gave me a piece of pipestone. Surely that means I deserve a piece of pie for dessert right?"

Nope, not even close. But nice try.

[This is a repost of a previous essay, written during summer]

River and I are taking time to venture on a road trip together, just the two of us, for thousands of miles. I felt it was important for him to see where we came from, to travel up to the Great Lakes area and see Ojibway homelands and people, as well as to have a memorable chance to bond with me, as all fathers and children should (I believe that a father who hasn't taken his child--son or daughter--on a personal adventure has been remiss). We are curently in South Dakota, in Lakota Indian territory. The Lakotas had been foes of the Ojibway in the 1700s, but since then have been amicable, although never allies in a warfare sense (Lakotas are a plains people, and Ojibways are an Algonquin woodlands people. The Lakotas *were* woodlands people, until Ojibways drove them out to the plains in the early 1800s).

As we've driven, River has kept track of the wildlife we see: porcupines, pronghorns, deer, buffalo, hawks, chipmunks (which River is able to coax to climb into his hand to eat), and raccoons. We've been in the Black Hills for two days. In the daytime we drive, hike, fish, and climb, and at night we've found forgotten backroads to sneak into and sleep. We cook over a propane cooking stove, which River thinks is just the coolest thing we've ever done. 

I've emphasized sites with cultural significance rather than tourist appeal. For example, I took River to Fort Robinson in Northwest Nebraska, and we stood on the very site where Oglala chief Crazy Horse was bayonetted to death, and then we walked to the prison house where 150 Cheyennes from Dull Knife's band were imprisoned when they tried to sneak back from Oklahoma to their original homeland. When the band revolted in prison, they were massacred on the spot. River and I sweat with Cheyennes, so he knows men who are descendents of these people, and was able to stand on the ground of their stories.

I also took him to Sylvan Lake in the Black Hills, which is now a popular tourist destination. But I took him on a hike all the way around the lake to the back Northeast side and we climbed a rocky embankment up a mountain to the site where Crazy Horse went on his first vision quest. The site is not marked or identified in any tourist publications, and there is no identification of it as a cultural site; if you don't know what it is, you'd never know it was important. Crazy Horse was taken there by his father, led by a red-tailed hawk, to fast and pray for four days, and there he had his vision that gave him his face paint design and prophecy about his life's work. We took a few stones from the site to keep and give away to tribal elders back home.

The sky turned dark and began to thunder ad rain as we drove through the back roads of the Hills, avoiding the main routes. We stopped to walk and explore in the cold rain. River does enjoy the tourist stops, of course, and thinks the Black Hills have the coolest stores he's ever been to: gem and mineral specialty shops! He gazes at the shelves filled with treasure: fossils, petrified wood, crystals, and tumbled gems. He tries to wrangle the salespersons down to his budget: "I have two dollars and fifty-two cents. What can I get for it?" That's the "River method" of shopping.

He also embarked on a personal quest to find the cheapest vial of Black Hills gold flakes suspended in water that he could. This is a common souvenir trinket, and any bottle of shiny gold flakes is like a drug to River! Yesterday he told me he thought his name should be "River Shiny Raccoon," and I like it.

I also gave River a hawk feather with a beaded stem to wear in his hair, and he couldn't be prouder! He wore that thing everywhere--even Dairy Queen. The stem was beaded by Billy, the Cheyenne man who "works the rocks" for our sweatlodge.

We've explored a few ghost towns, too, and found one with a water pump that still worked (!), so we cooked our dinner at the site of the old jail and ate in the sunshine and breezes. River thinks a can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee cooked over a fire is real old-style frontier living. 

At this moment I'm in a small cabin that has an ancient electrical outlet, so this is the first electricity I've had for four days. We seldom even have a cell phone signal.

We're going to leave camp and go to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in Shannon County, South Dakota (which is the poorest county in America). I'm going to take him to the site of Wounded Knee, where 300 Lakota men, women and children led by Chief Big Foot were massacred on December 29, 1890. The army had surrounded them because they were afraid of the Ghost Dance, an apocalyptic/ millennial prayer dance, and the massacre was the last major atrocity of the Indian Wars (but not the final incident; military massacres of Indians continued until 1918). The bodies are in a mass grave marked only with a marble tower and fence strewn with countless prayer flags and tobacco ties.

Wounded Knee is a reminder that we must be willing to love without fear of consequence, to pray for our adversaries, and to be willing to make any sacrifice to support renewal of life for all harmed and suffering people

Until today, my "art station" has been the weak, cheap drawing table I had in college--a particleboard catastrophe stacked with paint tubes, bottles, boxes, and trash. Palettes had to rest anywhere they could (such as on family room chairs!). Before:

I decided to invest money in my own career equipment, and very nearly chose the Best Shawn's Painting Station--a massive $3500 taboret with integrated easel, cabinets, and drawers. It's nice, but not quite what I wanted. For one thing, the integrated easel meant I'd have to face into the window sunlight for this to fit into my painting area. And it's LONG, and I don't have that much space. I'd rather have a taboret set to my right while I paint at a separate upright easel. While Googling "Taboret with paint storage," the very first result was a bullseye. A Better Taboret - Deluxe Studio Edition.

But the price! It's costly. For that investment, it had better be worth it.

I wrote to the inventor, Casey Childs, who is also a skilled oil painter. After spending weeks contemplating, I realized that A Better Taboret seemed to have every feature I've wanted. It's the one piece of studio furniture I'd forever regret passing up. So I placed my order, which arrived today (they're custom-made, so turnaround is about a month).

First, a note on delivery. It arrived in absolutely perfect condition on a wood palette, surrounded by bubble wrap, a layer of heavy cardboard, another layer of foam padding, and then wrapped in plastic secured with three heavy straps. Wheels are not attached at arrival, so it takes muscle to tip the taboret on its side to attach them. The wheels are VERY heavy-duty, and will last. Two have locking mechanisms to stabilize the taboret.

For the most part, no assembly is required. You can customize details such as the size and positions of paint tube slots in three drawers, but you don't have to fool with any hinges or joints--it arrives pretty much ready to use.

That's when you start to notice the details. I haven't found a single flaw in the whole thing. Every possible detail has been considered, and the taboret is made with precision--nothing seems rushed or corner-cut. The door hinges are top-quality, drawers have a sturdy gliding track, the wood is premium quality, and even the tabletop glass palette is grey-backed--a small touch that only a painter would have remembered (oil painters know that a neutral grey surface helps mix more accurate colors).

Summary: this taboret is worth every penny. It's sturdy, made with expertise, beautiful, made in America, and designed by an artist to meet every conceivable need, and built by a skilled carpenter. You wont find anything comparable in any imported painting station.
Remember, equipment purchases for professional artists can be deducted as business expenses--so if you can budget for one, then don't hesitate. It will be impossible to find any disappointing attribute to this taboret.

Jeez, the things I do to try to be a good daddy. The ways I risk my life and sanity, the things I never thought I would find myself doing…

I found myself at a Monster Truck Jam. Yes, I bought tickets and everything.

I’ll consider myself a cultural anthropologist for a minute, and report just what I experienced. My sons both like spending Saturdays with me, and in Oklahoma City that means a short list of attractions. Cedar, my youngest one, is an enthusiast for all things mechanical: trains, cars, trucks. So I gritted my teeth, held my nose, and logged on to Ticketmaster.

Let me tell you, a monster truck jam is EXACTLY like you would think. It’s not even something you can parody, because it’s exactly like a parody of a Monster Truck Jam! We made our way to our seats just as the show started, with “Let’s Get It Started!” playing on the loudpseakers. Our seats were in Section 221, Row H...You know, right behind the cowboy hats. And right in front of the cowboy hats. Our seats were in-between the, um...well, you know. The cowboy hats.

So they play all this metal music at super-loud volume, with graphics of waving American flags all over the wall screens, and they introduce the trucks, which emerge onto the dirt floor with the kind of roar that would shock a rocket engine technician. Cedar fastened his hands over his ears and never removed them again. It’s what Chuck Yeager would drive, if he wanted a truck shaped like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and needed to compensate for a small penis.

One by one, the trucks come out and rev their engines. They race toward a row of pre-smashed cars (gyp!), then suddenly brake, then slowly bump up over them and gas the engine to reel skyward and land with a dusty “thud!” The weird thing is that each truck is supposed to be a “character” in the four-truck ensemble, and somehow we’re supposed to know, care about, and become loyal to the truck of our choice. Apparently everyone else knows this, because they all have the same hand signals to cheer on, say, “Blue Thunder” or “Bad Habit” or “The GraveDigger.” They all seemed identical to me.

So the trucks do a demonstration lap around the arena, bumping and trampling over cars at the edges of ramps, and making noise. Then they all stop in formation and the rock music stops.

Queue the soft, sentimental country music. Now the announcer walks out in a lone spotlight and tells us it’s time to honor our special guests. Would the police in the audience please stand? Then the fireman? Then the EMTs? And finally, the most important people in the world, our military...would y’all stand up? (paste in the requisite hyper-patriotism speech here, during which I learned that us Oklahoma-types are the “real Americans of this country” So shut it, all you unpatriotic people who don’t live in the Midwest!). Now we march in the flag (extra credit if you can get which country music song plays here), and I suddenly realize that I’m probably the only one in the whole arena who isn’t a Rush Limbaugh Republican. This is the kind of place where Sarah Palin is a goddess. This is the place that launched a dozen episodes of “Squidbillies” (Google it if you don’t know).

Now, see, this is how clueless I am about monster jams. I thought the first couple of “demo laps” around the arena were just mild exhibitions, and that once the event starts all sorts of wild, different new stuff would be happening-- Silly me! As it turns out, we could have left after the first two “demo laps” and still seen everything, because here’s what happens for the next...two...hours:

They have a “Qualifying round”. All four trucks are timed driving laps around the arena, bumping jumps over the same ramps and pre-smashed cars, while the event organizers burn through enough royalty fees for Metallica, AC/DC, various “Nu-rock” bands, “Bad to the Bone”, and more Metallica, to finance their own national stimulus package.

Adhering to the charade that this is somehow a competition, the exact same four trucks—having ALL “qualified” (whoa!)—now enter the contest. And you know what the contest is? Well by golly, it’s DRIVING AROUND THE SAME @#$%^ING ARENA, DOING THE SAME !@#ING THINGS AGAIN!

We’re watching all of this in-between various cowboys and cowgirls coming and going across our row to the bar and snack vendors, returning with plenty of Budweiser and what seems to be nacho chips drenched in what can only be molten earwax. And this brings up a technical question: why is it that a subculture that adores its gigantic belts still hasn’t conquered the feat of keeping pants above butt-crack level, let alone wearing underpants? (this goes for the women, too!).

Two moments of excitement did occur: a plain-clothes cop busted the entire two rows in front of us for buying beers for the teen-age girls (in the denim miniskirts and cowboy boots), resulting in $750 tickets each (how much more hillbilly can you get than “I got busted buying my 14-year old daughter beer at the Monster Truck Jam!“?). And the stunt riding by motocross bikes was amazing—even if there were only three riders and it lasted 5 minutes. Now, back to the same four trucks doing the same things for another hour.

Apparently, the organizers think we have the short-term memory of goldfish, because their idea of “mixing it up” is to have the trucks - (hang on to your cowboy hats) - turn around and GO THE OTHER DIRECTION around the arena! Shazam! The crowd goes NUTS for this!

Through all of it, the masquerade that this is a tournament is never abandoned (see Engels, Freidrich; “False Consciousness“). The incessant strolling vendors hawking “Grave Digger” shirts and “Grave Digger” flying discs and “Grave Digger” cotton candy was in NO WAY a hint that that the winner would be (gasp!) Grave Digger. Autograph session for kids after the show.

Cedar loved the motorcycles, and bounced in his seat and made the “Rock on!” devil’s horn sign with his hands. River sat there as if the whole two hours was as scintillating as a math lecture. His only glimmer of excitement consisted of,

“Ooh, cotton candy!”
“No!”

Excitement squashed.

Oh, and they sell a 2-DVD set! Too bad this was all happening AFTER Valentine’s Day. I never know what to get Tonya.