Soft hearted know it all!

I walked into the tiny shop in Taos Pueblo that looked for everything like the dozen I’d already been in.  My husband and I had looked for rings again.  We’d perused the small southwest style ornaments and looked at a few hand woven rugs and blankets.  We’d admired and critiqued several pieces of art: me by my “great academic understanding?!” and my husband by plain old taste and common sense. I’d bought fry bread – yum – and we’d picked it away, savoring each greasy, tasty bite.  It was much like a cross between a funnel cake and a sopapilla.  The woman who sold it to me offered me cinnamon or honey but I wished to shop so took it just as it was.  She did supply me napkins which made the shopping less of a problem to the shopkeepers.

Louis needed to take a run back to the van to get another lens for his camera, so I stayed in the general area he departed.  I ran into friends and looked at their acquired treasures.  Eventually I meandered into the tiny shop.  A fire in the small fireplace warmed the air.  Several customers milled about looking at the shop’s array of pottery, scratch work, and paintings.

A girl who appeared to be in her early 20’s was tending it and I gathered quickly that much of the artwork was her own.  I had walked in on the front end of an argument.  At first she was trying to be kind to the couple who were insisting she should have her works photographed and reproduced.  She tried so hard to explain her point of view.  It went on.  They thought they were being complimentary and after all it was to her benefit.  She could sell the prints more cheaply and retain her originals.  I felt for her.  She had a room full of customers, yet could not say “What a neat idea!” and turn away from these bullish boors.  I thought why must we artists be so blasted honest?  “Come on girl just placate them and get them out of your hair.  You have customers here.”  Of course, I didn’t say that.

She was about to cry.  Her eyes were misty and her voice shaking when I could no longer stand it.  “I don’t have my works copied either,” I offered loudly from across the room. “I know a guy who does that for artists, but I want my pieces to be one of a kind.  It’s almost an issue with me.  I have nothing against other artists doing that, but it’s not for me.  If I repeat a painting, it will be slightly different each time and that gives it a personal value in my mind.”

The couple looked at me as though I’d just relieved myself in the floor.  The girl smiled, lips quivering and turned away for a moment to busy herself, face and eyes shielded from view.  I smiled at the staring couple.  I knew I’d not see them again and they could go away saying “How rude!  How stupid!  We weren’t even talking to that woman,” and it wouldn’t matter at all.  I think the girl understood and wished she could be so cold, so uncaring toward the strangers who were trying to make her forsake her artistic idealism.  They hadn’t left the store yet when she straightened  herself and walked to where I was.  I commented on the work she had done, she explained her process and we busied ourselves talking about technique and materials.  The couple snatched up an inexpensive memento and she put on a victorious smile and took their payment.  Several others came around to listen to our discussion of her work.  The couple walked out.

Business was going well for her as we talked.  Bright eyed, she began to converse with me as though I were a colleague more than a rescuer or customer.  Between customers, I told her about the clay I make up and she talked to me about her own process.  As we talked, a new process began to evolve in our conversation.  I said “I wonder if . . .” she said “What if you . . .” Before I left, my mind was full of a new artform to work on.  We exchanged e-mail addresses and spoke of some long distance collaboration in the future via web.

Some members of the artists group wandered in and I laughed and talked to them.  My husband came in and warmed himself at her fire.  She was busy with other customers and yet the air of affinity continued.  When we did leave, she smiled and said “I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” and I walked away, excited to tell my husband the story of how I “saved” this poor girl by being a soft hearted, hard headed know-it-all.



The Taos Pueblo, if you don't know, is a working community.  While some vendors come in from surrounding areas to work the tourists, many of the shops are attached to dwellings where the keepers live.  For a fee, you can intrude into the lives of these gentle people, though you are asked to be polite and not enter any space uninvited.  While most churches in that area have a museum quality even when in use, the Taos Pueblo reserves its church interior to its own worshippers.  The public is not invited to gaze without worship.  I wasn't offended.  You have to pay a fee to take a camera into the pueblo and are given a strict list of dos and don'ts including no close photos of residents without permission.  I loved the place!  There are tour guides who will lead you and inform you if you have the patience.  Much as we did in Versailles in 2002, we attached our ears to various tour guides for a time and received some very interesting information about the culture.  Pictures are on my albums: Taos Pueblo.  If you can't access it through My Photos, use the link.  Grace, Peace. DW