NATIVE FRIENDSHIPS

The term “collector” of Indian Art is not one we would ever have chosen to describe ourselves, but if this is the label some artists and galleries have bestowed upon us, so be it. Please don’t confuse us with the Gettys, Mellons, Nashers, Carnegies and others, however. We are simply people who grew to love Indian Art and certainly never set out to become collectors; our financial situation alone would have prevented us from doing so. And yet there is no doubt that over the course of many years we repeatedly saw a work of art we liked enough to buy. There is no pride associated for us with being considered collectors. We are merely immensely proud of what we own, and the pain of having spent so much money we could not afford has long been forgotten. Not a day goes by that we don’t stroll through our living room and caress a sculpture, or stop to admire a pot or storyteller or some other piece of Indian art. And you would never catch my wife without Indian jewelry around her neck, on her fingers, or around her wrist or waist – unless you found her in bed, asleep. One could argue that our home has become an Indian Art Gallery – except that we would never consider selling any of our treasures.

In the process of becoming referred to as collectors, albeit inadvertently, we have become the recipients of a rare gift: Getting to know dozens of Indian artists, from the famous to the still obscure – and often their families – on a personal level. They have opened their doors to us and have let us glimpse into their lives. What we have found is that irrespective of fame or the media in which they work, the artists all have some characteristics in common: humbleness, humility, great dignity, a love for story telling, pride, a desire to become better artists, helpfulness, trustworthiness, and an unmistakable shyness. With each artist we meet and get to know, our admiration for this gifted group of individuals grows. If not always for the work they have fashioned, then for their personality. Their bearing. Their stories of how their latest creation has come about. The dedication to their craft. Their desire to explore new frontiers. Their ability to see a stone, for example, and see in their minds what kind of sculpture it would give up under their hands and tools.

These friendships, as you will see, carry both a price and an implied commitment. This became all too evident long before we ever thought of the word “collector”, and not long after we had bought our first sculpture.

We were still living in Germany in the late 1970’s. Every two years we would come to the USA on a four week vacation in the summer months to be with my family in San Diego. My youngest sister had gotten married and had established a second residence in Phoenix, and we drove from San Diego one day to visit her. Her house in Scottsdale was magnificent. Her yard was landscaped to account for the specific environment. Several towering Saguaros graced her property. Native flowers and shrubs bloomed.

Neither house nor yard, however, captivated us the way a sculpture did my sister had bought in an art gallery in Scottsdale. We had never seen anything like it. Perhaps 24” in diameter and 12” high, made of Utah Alabaster, it integrated several animals as well as the head of an Indian Chief into a single stone. The head of a buffalo could be seen from one side; the Chief with his feather headdress from the other. A soaring eagle and a bear vied for attention. The eagle carried a small lizard in his mouth. The buffalo looked ferocious, ready to stampede.

Every part of the stone was worked out in incredible detail. It was hard to decide where to look first or from which side, and wherever we looked, we discovered something new. The stone was alive, its rich veins and multicolored hues lending depth and movement to its theme. It was complex and stunningly beautiful and I remembered asking myself how anyone could conceive – let alone execute – such an intricate work of art. My fascination with Indian sculptures had been born. I envied my sister for owning such a masterpiece. She told me the artist’s name was Robert Morning Gun.

To me, on vacation from Germany, even the name was somehow exciting. Could there be a name more “Indian” than Morning Gun?  Surely not. I was determined to meet the artist – but how?