by Suzanne Poor
We were in Santa Fe, New Mexico, the last weekend in February for an academic conference where I delivered a paper on Jonathan Swift. I had driven through New Mexico on the old Route 66 when it actually was the southern route across the western half of the country. Santa Fe was one of the cities we whizzed through. But this weekend, decades later, was an eye opener. We flew to Albuquerque then drove north to the city of just under 60,000 people across rolling mesas dotted here and there with one-story pueblos made of mud and straw and arroyos to catch the meltdown from winter. But on this weekend it was dry, although it tried to snow one morning. The sky was big; the mountains flecked with white. Georgia O’Keeffe country, it’s also the home of at least 12 Indian tribes, 11 Pueblo. Most live on reservations where they strive to preserve their culture and customs, producing artists and crafts people of the highest calibre.

Santa Fe, an art capital
Considered one of the finest art capitals of the world, downtown Santa Fe is shop upon shop upon shop filled with Native American pottery, trading blankets, jewelry, Kachina dolls, tchotchkes — more than anyone would need or want. The so-called trading posts beckon with “Sale” signs; the galleries (there are over 250 of them altogether) are compelling. The restaurants, just as ubiquitous as the shops, beckon with tantalizingly delicious cuisine of all cultures and countries. So much so that it was rumored at the end of the conference that the 85 attendees had spent a quarter of a million dollars on gifts, art and food.

Make no mistake, the collections are exquisite, the restaurants charming. The museums (at least ten) exhibit the rarest pieces magnificently. The churches and cathedrals, many with the southwest Mexican motif, are quiet and filled with their own brands of religious art.

Everything is marketed brilliantly. Santa Fe, which means holy faith, is the oldest capital in the country as well as the oldest European city west of the Mississippi River. A 1958 law mandates the preservation of historic buildings using the distinctive Spanish-Pueblo style of architecture. There’s no resisting. Until one looks at the prices. The mark-up is astronomical. We know because several years ago at another conference in Arizona we wended our way to Montezuma Pueblo and a local reservation where large, authentic earth-colored clay pots made by “residents” were selling for $120 each. The same pottery in all those magnificent shops in Santa Fe was ticketed at $700 to $1,000. Most, as was our earlier purchase, were signed, many by well-known artisans.

There are always exceptions
There’s one exception. Along the facade of the oldest building in town, the Palace of the Governors, where genuine antique Indian wood sculptures of eagles and spirits can be viewed and purchased, people from various local tribes and reservations sell their wares — pottery, jewelry, dolls, moccasins, turquoise of all shapes and sizes — at market prices. After all, it is a tourist mecca. But what struck us was the incredible increase in price and the awareness that most of it was not ending up in the pockets of the artisans — the Native Americans. At one of the shops along the famed Old Santa Fe Trail, the proprietor was offering 70% off all merchandise. A $975 colorful pot was reduced to $292.50 (shipping included). And still we suspected that most of that money would never find its way to the potter.

Historically, the Spanish, the U.S. Army, the Mexicans all attempted successfully at one time or another to conquer the natives. The Pueblos resisted at first, but eventually they had to surrender. All schoolchildren know the stories of the slaughter of most of the Indian tribes. And how all the remaining peoples were moved to the reservations. There are movements today to make amends for the vicious genocide of centuries past, but as some say — too little, too late.

Huddled along the wall wrapped in trading blankets
It was cold the day we strolled along the market’s long line; many of the mini-proprietors were wrapped in real trading blankets for warmth.They all spoke impeccable English as they humbly hawked their handmade wares. Some were willing to bargain. And some were willing to be photographed. When asked how business was, one woman replied, “It’s like any other business. You have good days and you have bad days.” But there are not many Native Americans in the profusion of shops; all their days are good.

All the literature about Santa Fe praises its art and intriguing magnetism in slick full-color brochures, magazines and flyers. The carnage is glossed over, giving way to tourist garble: “Although Santa Fe has had a history of conquest and frontier violence, the town has also been the region’s seat of culture and civilization. Its museums and shops . . . .”

There’s no question about the beauty and serenity of the land; there’s no questioning the profusion of magnificent art or the uniqueness of the architecture. What’s distressing is that most of the Native Americans who supply the shops never see much of that quarter of a million dollars — a prime example of how marketing spawns exploitation.