Have Mercy!

Ahhh my man, Ben Harper, has done it again. Here is the new group...Dhani Harrison (son of George-and who couldn't love that face), Joseph Arthur, and Benny. It is indeed a Fistful of Mercy.

The Shadowcatcher

"The passing of every old man or woman means the passing of some tradition, some knowledge of sacred rites possessed by no other; consequently the information that is to be gathered, for the benefit of future generations, respecting the mode of life of one of the great races of mankind, must be collected at once or the opportunity will be lost for all time. It is this need that has inspired the present task." Edward Curtis on his North American Indian Project.




This photo started it all. The early 20th century photographer, Edward S. Curtis, has been in and out of my mind for the last few months. It all began when I happened upon this self- portrait of his by accident and as I looked at it, felt an intense familiarity, as if I had possibly studied it as a child, memorizing the details of his expression as only a child's mind can do. Did we indeed have this portrait around when I was young; maybe even a book of his photographs? That would be feasible since photography was my father's profession as well. The portrait interest led to questions, to investigation, to gazing at hundreds of haunting photographs of American Indians. I then discovered that someone I know has an old Curtis print, hidden away, and I now await the next connection whatever it may be. This man's story is not a simple one, and I can only touch the surface of what I have read. His professional life and works are colored with controversy and conflicting opinions. His personal life is fraught with heartbreak, frustration, and loss. His life story is filled with the makings of a good movie. To learn about him and his work is to enter a realm with conflict between the beauty and magic of the images and the controversy of the methods he used to get them. I walk away from every reading feeling as if there is more to his story than has been told. I remain confused as to why he is relatively unknown with most people never recognizing his name.

Edward Curtis was born in Minnesota in 1868, the son of a rural preacher. He would become one of America's first photographers. As a young adolescent, he constructed his own camera with a lens his father brought back from the Civil war. (This part of his story makes me think of my own father who told me he received a Brownie camera for his 5th birthday in 1920 and decided at that moment that he would become a photographer.) At age 19 he moved with his family to Puget Sound in Washington State. His father became ill and died shortly thereafter leaving Edward to became the source of financial support for his mother and two siblings. Even with these heavy responsibilities, he stayed true to his dream and scraped enough money together to buy his first real camera. In 1892, he married his wife, Clara, and opened a successful portrait studio in Seattle. Curtis suffered from a restless spirit, and like many artists, found it difficult to be saddled with the day to day responsibilities of a business and family. He began photographing the local Native Americans who came to Puget Sound to dig for mussels in the tidal flats. One of these portraits was of Princess Angeline, the elderly daughter of Chief Sealth, the Suquamish Indian Chief after whom Seattle is named. In 1899, this mysterious, sepia-toned image was awarded the grand prize at the National Photographic Convention gaining recognition for this young photographer. Shortly thereafter, another career altering event

Photo of Princess Angeline

occurred when Curtis was on one of his many climbs of Mt. Rainer and ran into and provided assistance to a group of lost climbers, one of who happened to be the editor of Field and Stream magazine and famous writer on Plains Indians, Dr. George Bird Grinnell. This chance encounter led to Curtis being selected as the official photographer for the Harriman expedition to Alaska in 1899. Dr. Grinnell then invited Curtis to photograph and live among the Blackfeet and Algonquin Indians with him in Montana. Grinnell taught Curtis the methods required for gathering valid scientific information and he used this knowledge to learn as much as possible about Indian life and lore including religious customs, dance, dress, spirituality, and mythology; many customs which had been off limits to previous outsiders. He felt his complete understanding of these customs to be critical to his success as a photographer. He would later be initiated into the Hopi Dance, perhaps being the only white man to date to experience this ceremony. Word began to pass from tribe to tribe and members would send notice to Curtis that they wanted to be included in his study. On his trip with Grinnell, Curtis witnesses the mysterious and grand event of the Great Sun Dance performed by the Plains Indians. He stands on a bluff, overlooking hundreds of Tepees, and at that moment decides he is determined to dedicate his life to the documentation of the North American Indian. This begins his North American Indian Project which will last the next 30 years.

So beginning in 1901, at age 33, Edward Curtis will spend the next 30 years photographing and documenting Native North American Peoples. He took over 40,000 images of over 80 tribes and made over 10,000 wax cylinder recordings of Indian languages and music. In 1930, The North American Indian Project was finally published in 20 volumes. Now divorced, having been arrested and jailed for nonpayment of alimony and child support, having missed his children's lives, bankrupt, logging over 125 trips by train back and forth across the country, he suffered a complete physical breakdown. Less than 300 copies of the project sold. And there is much more to this story than I have told here.

You will rarely read about Curtis without mention of the controversy surrounding his work today. He began his photographic project during the height of US government efforts to assimilate the Indian population. Most Indians lived in poverty, restricted to reservations with tribal customs being suppressed or even banned. Curtis is criticized for ignoring their current situation and capturing only what is called a white man's version of the American Indian. He showed traditional people in traditional clothing often supplying the props himself and altering photos to remove any reminders of modern life. There is also focus on his personal failures, especially toward his neglected wife who drowned in a rowing accident after their divorce. At age 83, Curtis said if he had picked his own Indian name it would be "the man who never took time to play." He died at age 84, while living with his daughter, and a short obituary mentions he was an Indian historian and photographer. Much of his original work was destroyed or lost.

Photography is art and there is no absolute truth in art. Like life, it is full of deception. And like it or not, sometimes you have to lie in order to tell the truth. The existence of a camera always alters reality. I am sensitive to the concerns raised about his work, but I feel it is a little unfair to call Curtis' work dishonest. The truth lies somewhere between the photo and the mind of the person viewing it. The real dishonesty exists only in the things we choose to ignore or leave unexamined because they offend us in some way. Curtis was in no way a perfect man, but often, when someone creates something special, we expect all aspects of their life to be flawless. Curtis was deeply committed to his project and the people he worked with. A photograph depends on light. there is always a shadow area where light cannot reach, much as the human soul and spirit is not always reached by the eye. Indians call this spirit the Shadow. Curtis somehow went beyond the photograph, beyond the simple image caught by the eye...he was, after all, named by his subjects, who knew him much better than us, as the Shadowcatcher. When I look at his photos, especially his portraits, I am overwhelmed by the truth in them.

Kutenai Duck Hunting

Bears Belly

This photo is a good example of the Orotone process developed by Curtis in 1916. These are glass plate positive photographs with a mysterious luminous quality obtained by printing a reversed image on glass and then backing it with powdered gold and bananna oil.

Red Cloud

Apache Brave

Eagle Catcher - The way his back heel is lifted off the rock, makes him seem to be about to fly away with his eagle. Such a small detail can make such a difference.

Indian Squaw Child

Whiteman Runs Him.

Apache Girl

The Eclipse Dance

Posts Coming...Don't Leave

It Was A Marvelous Night

...for Moondancing Bunnies. An art box I made a couple of years ago with found discarded objects. The happy couple had been hopelessly waiting at the Salvation Army. I held on to this one by accident since it never sold...I think the bunnies wanted to stay and I'm glad they did. I keep them by a window where sometimes the light from the full moon shines in on them.

Father's Day

Cows Are In The Corn Again

A picture I took last year while eating my favorite food.

Yeats, Part II: Here Lies W.B...Or Is It Alfred?

"If I die here, bury me up there on the mountain, Roquebrune, and then after a year or so, after the newspapers have forgotten, plant me in Sligo."




Just before his death in 1939, William Butler Yeats' last wish to his wife, Georgie, was for his first burial to take place near Roquebrune, France, not far from where they were staying. He then wished for his remains to be quietly returned to Ireland for reburial at the base of the mountain, Ben Bulben, in Drumcliffe churchyard at County Sligo. Yeats' beloved Sligo is where he spent his early childhood days and began his love of Irish folklore that so greatly influenced his life and writing. His grandfather was once Rector of the Drumcliffe Church. Yeats expressed his burial wishes in the poem, Under Ben Bulben, writing his own epitaph in the last lines.

Yeats was buried at a discreet and private burial at Roquebrune after his death in a French hotel in 1939. Arrangements were finally made in 1948, nine years later, to move him to Sligo. The family wanted a quiet private ceremony, but the Irish government proudly insisted on a State funeral with honors. As often seems to occur when disturbing graves of famous folks, rumors have since circulated saying the remains which were moved were not actually those of Yeats, but belonged instead to another Irish fellow, Alfred Hollis, who died the same day. After Yeats was interred at Roquebrune, fighting broke out near the graveyard during the war, destroying all burial records and many graves. Yeats' last lover, Edith Shakleton, says that she visited her lover's French burial spot and was told that Yeats, along with many others, were moved to a pauper's graveyard during the fighting and all bones were later dug up and placed in a communal ossuary. The story goes that in 1948, when it came time for Yeats to make his journey to Ben Bulben, Hollis' body, which had never been disturbed, was substitued for Yeats' and placed in the chapel to avoid a scandal. Who knows if this story may be true, or only a ruse for Edith to have the "last hurrah." Yeats was a passionate man whose life was often controlled by the women who waltzed in and out of his heart, so he would not expect it all to end with his death.
I think the only answer we really need may have been given to us by Yeats himself before his death, when he wrote Under Ben Bulben and designated his own epitaph (gravestone below). He was a very mystically inclined man who believed in prophecy, visions, and automatic writing. He loved old Irish Folklore. The Horseman he refers to in the poem is probably from the Irish legend of the Death Coach (Coiste Bodhur), or possibly the headless Dullahan, both with the job of collecting souls for transport from earth. Many people say they are confused by the words on the gravestone, but the poem from which they came makes things clear. Yeats' poem, Under Ben Bulben, instructs the reader to not focus on the man, do not judge his life or death, but turn your eye to the joy, goodness and beauty he has left behind for others instead; the "art" any man can create. So it really matters not if the grave you stop to look at contains W.B. or Alfred, pass on by, horseman, there is no one's soul here to carry away, for through his art, a man's spirit will live forever in the minds of others.

The funeral car with the body, entering Drumcliffe churchyard in County Sligo.
"By the road, an ancient Cross"....from Under Ben Bulben

A large procession of walkers and bagpipers followed the journey of the funeral car.

Yeats' son, Michael, in the middle and Yeats' younger brother to the left join the walkers. I believe the woman on the far right is Yeats' daughter, Anne. I'm not sure who the woman is to Michael's immediate left...maybe wife, Georgie?

Somebody got his daddy's good looks...plus some.

The family around the grave at Sligo.

Beautiful Ben Bulben in County Sligo. The church and grave are at its base.

"Under bare Ben Bulben's head

In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid,

An ancestor was rector there

Long years ago; a church stands near..." from Under Ben Bulben

"Though grave-diggers' toil is long,

Sharp their spades, their muscle strong,

They but thrust their buried men

Back in the human mind again." ...from Under Ben Bulben