The arrowmaker

Thought Woman, originally uploaded by bbmowery.

This painting feels so old to me. Ancient. Although I made it in May 2004, I cannot remember a time when it wasn't. The woman is nearly life-sized, so she has become a friend with a knowing smile. An indigenous Mona Lisa who sprang from my head fully formed. There has not been a part of my life without her--the Thought-Woman has always been watching over my shoulder. The title comes from Leslie Marmon Silko's collection of essays Yellow Woman and A Beauty of the Spirit. I have always been drawn to storytellers, so I come by my love of Native American literature honestly. Silko writes of the Thought-Woman, the Grandmother-Spider, who weaves the world into existence. I love this story. Thought-Woman is the creator. She is telling the story of the beginning, and as she speaks her words become life. And her words are life. Consider the story of the arrowmaker:

If an arrow is well made, it will have tooth marks upon it. That is how you know. The Kiowas made fine arrows and straightened them in their teeth. Then they drew them to the bow to see if they were straight. Once there was a man and his wife. They were alone at night in their tipi. By the light of the fire the man was making arrows. After a while he caught sight of something. There was a small opening in the tipi where two hides were sewn together. Someone was there on the outside, looking in. The man went on with his work, but he said to his wife: “Someone is standing outside. Do not be afraid. Let us talk easily, as of ordinary things.” He took up an arrow and straightened it in his teeth; then, as it was right for him to do, he drew it to the bow and took aim, first in this direction and then in that. And all the while he was talking, as if to his wife. But this is how he spoke: “I know that you are there on the outside, for I can feel your eyes upon me. If you are a Kiowa, you will understand what I am saying, and you will speak your name.” But there was no answer, and the man went on in the same way, pointing the arrow all around. At last his aim fell upon the place where his enemy stood, and he let go of the string. The arrow went straight to the enemy’s heart.

(The story of the arrowmaker can be found originally in The Way to Rainy Mountain by N. Scott Momaday and later discussed in his collection of essays The Man Made of Words.)

Momaday finds something new everytime he reads the story of the arrowmaker. It is a well that never runs dry. Each time I read the story, it comes into being. My stomach flip flops because I, the reader, feel sure it is an enemy outside, but the arrowmaker does not know yet. So I worry for him. But he remains steady when confronted with real danger. Groping calmly in the darkness, he feels the shape of world around him. He creates certainty by speaking. And he grants himself an advantage over his enemy. All with the power of words. I love this story, too. Perhaps I will paint him next, this man made of words.