The Viola Awards celebration is just around the corner and the excitement in the arts community here in Flagstaff and beyond is almost tangible. The nominations are out; I am sure many fingers are crossed. I wish all the nominees much luck and that the eyes of the judging panels are kind, and not as divisive as the Academy Awards. I believe I see one artist of color in the running: My cousin, David Dawangumptewa. I wish him much success. David’s quality and perseverance, along with his love of vision and culture, has earned him the rights to be honored.
We all love being awarded and recognized for achievements in our chosen fields, whether it be science, spelling, athletic prowess, or in my case, fine arts. Awards are validation from our community of peers. Recognition allows and excites us to raise our own bars to another level. I know that it allows the supporting casts to do likewise, as awards and the limelight tend to be fleeting and infrequent.
As the Viola “Beauty Pageant” approaches, I am reminded of all the ribbons and citations of acclamations I have overflowing from a 30-gallon cooler back on the Rez, enough to make several ribbon shirts.
As a kid growing up on the vast Dineh Bikeyah’ (Navajo Country), I secretly wanted to be a winner as I saw that all the boys bigger, faster and cooler than me seemed to be. I saw crisp jeans and greased back black hair and winning smiles. I saw new boots and shiny belt buckles to my worn pants, dusty flannels and Hush Puppies. I saw my unevenly shaved head parenthesized by a pair of prominent ears in the mirror—far from a winner’s circle.
My circle of dusty friends at that age on the hardened grounds of the government schools was as uncool as I was. My social pals were introverts. The “cool” ones in the institutions were always busy impressing one another. They missed out on the lessons of what really is the building block of real “coolness.” In that way, I’m glad I didn’t stand out in that environment. The brutal state of the Bureau of Indian Affairs schools forced me inward to survive. The ability to access the interior corridors safe from the horrors of the time gave me so much I was not able to appreciate until much later. During this time, I did find myself with a bit of attention from my teachers and peers for my drawing and classwork. It was a little uncomfortable at the time.
One of the first memories of any recognition was in high school when the American Automobile Association showered me with gifts and honor for taking first place in a five state competition in a poster contest. Ironically, it occurred when I was on another one of my sabbaticals (suspensions) from school for being a “distraction to the student body,” whatever that meant, and the school asked me to come back so they could gloat. I took some of the prizes and did not give the school the satisfaction. I was too busy riding my pony in my new snakeskin Tony Lama boots, a gift from the Lone Star state. The principal himself picked me up later and talked about boxing—I believe Ali and Frazier—as he drove me back to school.
In the late 1980s, I started entering juried art shows with expectations not exceeding my reality. A Scottsdale Community College show was where I got my first bouquet of ribbons. The night before, dreams of seeing my juried piece being used as a gurney for other works in a cavalier fashion threw me. I read that as an omen of rejection, of doubts in my own work. I was pleasantly surprised when it started raining blue ribbons. It brought to me a deep respect and empathy for fellow artists. I ran the gamut of shows with kids in tow as they were also a prize, unlike any other. I gained the attention and respect of fellow artists as well as detractors early on.
Painting for me was never done with competing in mind. I have to satisfy me first and foremost. I also used my young children’s eyes as a guide, asking for their feedback and when I should step away from a particular work. After years of collecting more prizes and adulations, I decided to step away from that area of trying to prove my worthiness. A young man came up to me before a show at the Heard Museum in Phoenix and asked me, pleaded with me, to give him a chance to win an award. I heard him and I stepped back. He won that year. I felt like I won that year in his celebration. He thanked me. I believe and know that it takes confidence and love of work to share it and to put it out there in the glaring lights of public scrutiny. It helps put one on the art world’s radar. It can either enclose one in a comfort zone of familiarity or raise one’s own bar to bigger, better creations. It can make you a more conscious artist engaged fully in the holy act of visualizing or an insufferable arrogant SOB. I know plenty in both camps.
Today, my prizes come in the guise of seeing a child taking pencil to paper and pouring out the content of their heart. I claim my prize in the form of letters and affirmations from some of the young artist whose dreams were awakened in some subtle way through words, images and gestures I have shared. Today my prize is having been a mentor to those who have gone on to blaze their own paths in the art world and other callings with the sense of that holy composition we named Art. Paint-smeared hands and a big smile on a child’s face is a gift like no other. Yes, it is still the truth, my truth. Art saves lives. No ribbons required.
