I am an odd sort. Always was; probably always will be. I get along okay in crowds. When I’m asked to be a speaker or feel lead to do so, it goes well. Otherwise, I talk too much, find things interesting that no one else does and see value in a completely different, sometimes socially unacceptable way.
I’ve accepted myself, but I usually feel out of place and a little disconnected. Louis says all artists probably do. If so, we’re all good at faking it. Perhaps it’s artistic thinking and not egotism that makes us so enthralled with our own ideas and discoveries.
On the recent trip, several of our group decided to take a day long ride into the bottom of Canyon De Chelly. During our time in the canyon, little children would come out and the tour busses would stop to let us peruse the wares the children carried. Some of them were better than others at sales, but they were all wide eyes sweethearts that were being exploited –in my opinion.
I kept that reasoning for much of the ride and cringed as the children ran toward the huge lumbering tires of the vehicles. Others would buy their wares: a “hand made” bracelet, necklace or ruglet. And we’d jostle on our way again until another group of “vendors” was spotted. Sometime after lunch, we stopped by a cliff dwelling that had restrooms, trashcans, and a multitude of vendors. As I walked toward the women’s room, I saw a young boy, somewhere in the age group of the home schooled students I teach. He was sitting beside a display of painted sandstone slabs. I smiled blindly and walked on, yet I knew.
After meeting up with a friend who hiked down the only public trail in the very controlled canyon, I began to make my way back to the truck/bus. As I passed the young boy again, I looked directly into his eyes, knowing I would buy a painted rock. Determined, he spoke “Would you like me to explain the symbols on my rock paintings?”
“Sure” I answered, squatting down to the level where he sat.
Carefully he pointed out each symbol on a nearby rock and explained its significance in relationship to the Navaho culture. I had noticed one particular rock and it was the one I would buy.
“So, explain the difference between a pictograph and a petroglyph,” I said, slipping mindlessly into my teacher mode.
The boy’s face lit up. He reached down to the rock I had mentally chosen. “This is a petroglyph,” he announced. “See it’s painted in layers and then the top layer is scratched away and the symbol is carved into the rock’s surface. These others are pictographs. The paint is only applied to the top layer and it’s not carved.”
“That’s a nice one,” I said smiling into the boys enlivened eyes. “I’ll buy it.”
“It’s my favorite. I did them all, but I like it best.” he announced.
Perhaps I gave him a questioning look, for he smiled broadly. “I’m glad your buying it.”
I gave him the money and he wrapped my rock in newspaper carefully. As I started to leave, a thought occurred to me. “I’m an art teacher and when I get back to Arkansas I will show your rock to my students and tell them about you.”
He gave me a distracted smile as his eyes scanned the milling crowd. Then a look of surprised recognition came to his face. He gave me a big smile “Thanks!” he said with proud excitement and I felt him watch me go.
In my seat, a member of the group saw my newspaper wrapped package. “What did you get?” she asked expectantly.
I loosed the paper carefully and revealed my treasure. “I bought a rock.”
Her wan smile and averted eyes were predictable. Among the jewelry, pottery and weavings, I found a rock. A simple piece of sandstone painted by a young Navaho boy.
There is a new installment in my photo albums from the Southwest: Canyon d Chelly
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