“OKLAHOMA, 1970-1988”

by Jill Farr

I cry out for order and find it only in art. - Helen Hayes

My first exposure to art was in the living room of my grandparents’ tiny house: a large, heavily framed, textured canvas that hung over their couch and depicted a nineteenthcentury street scene.

I loved that picture. I probably spent hours of my life kneeling on the couch, gazing up at it. It disappeared at some point—a casualty of one of my grandmother’s redecorating flurries— but it was there for my childhood. Its dark tones were like a John Atkinson Grimshaw townscape, one with men and women walking in the lamp-lit night beside a horse-drawn carriage.

It was a great statement piece. A picture the size of a toboggan would be attention-arresting on its own, but the lack of glass and the thick, rough surface, meant to evoke the gravitas of oil paint, really set it apart.

There weren’t fancy pseudo-paintings in any of the other living rooms in our little southeast Oklahoma City neighborhood, which was a run-down area where the biggest local businesses are, to this day, strip clubs and motels. It was even a little ostentatious for my grandmother, who was a big fan of intricate, imitation Victorian tchotchkes, the kind you have to use Q-Tips to clean. But what captivated me most was the question my grandfather would occasionally ask me about it.

“Can you see him?” he would ask me quietly, as I sat staring. “Can you see the Indian behind that tree?” (I could substitute “Native American” here, to be politically correct, but I think we all know that a guy born in Depression-era Oklahoma did not use that term.)

Each time I looked, my grandfather explained that the Indian behind the tree was just about to jump out and surprise the folks who were so nonchalantly parading around on land that had once belonged to him and his ancestors before him. There were times when I thought I could see him.

That was my first realization that pictures could contain more than what can be easily discerned at first glance, that they could be built upon unseen things and have stories under the surface. It was also an awakening to the fact that early American art always has two sides—at least.

When I sat down with artist Yatika Starr Fields, one of the things I wanted to know was how it feels, as an Indigenous person, to see these types of 19th century American paintings.

“I appreciate the imagery created by artists like George Catlin and others. It’s like a time machine back to a place in history. Now, what’s in those paintings is a mirage of the past, a nostalgic keepsake.” Yatika was quick to add that he can only speak for himself, not for every Native person.

“Today you see portraits of the chiefs—they’re everywhere now and part of the fabric of America. We needed work like Catlin’s to be able to have that.”

“Every discussion you have about Native art, and Native histories, it’s going to be different, depending who you talk to. As Indigenous people we’re one, yes, but we’re so many different tribes—and different families and clans and people and experiences within those tribes, each with different trauma.”

Like me, Yatika grew up in Oklahoma. But whereas my grandfather’s commentary about our nation’s—and specifically our state’s—treatment of Indigenous people came to me via banter about our living room art, Yatika got a more pointed education from his father, Tom Fields.

“My dad was part of the Alcatraz takeover back in the day. Actually, the UCLA takeover before.”

I brought up something that has haunted me in recent years. When I was a kid in the 70s, (cough), we would “celebrate” the Land Run by dressing as pioneers, bringing our wagons to school, and staking out claims on the school playground. Yatika just shrugs when I ask if his school did it too.

“They did, but…I didn’t go to school that day.”

Because Tom Fields wasn’t having it. He didn’t accept 1889 reenactments as a fun way to commemorate history.

My grandfather was similar to Yatika’s dad in that he was also an out-of-the-box guardian and teacher, but different in that I can’t remember many conversations when he gave me direct instruction about values. I simply watched how he lived and picked up on the ideology couched in his teasing and irreverent humor.

There wasn’t a visible Native American in the painting above our couch. But my grandfather’s encouragement to look for one made me realize that every piece of American art has Indigenous people in the background. Whether you can see them or not.

JILL FARR is a journalist and author. Originally from Oklahoma, she now lives in Portland, Oregon. “Oklahoma, 1970-1988” is an excerpt from her forthcoming book, A Barbarian Basking in Beauty: How I Found Love In Art. To get on the waiting list for a copy, visit jillfarr.com or email her at jilldfarr@gmail.com.

YATIKA STARR FIELDS is an artist with an emphasis on studio painting. A member of the Osage, Cherokee, and Mvskoke Nations, he currently lives and works in Tulsa, where he is from, as a fellow with the Tulsa Artist Fellowship. His artistic endeavors have taken him around the world. You can learn more about his art at yatikafields.com.