Contact us at: whispernthunder1@gmail.comI AM
~ Orannhawk
Editor's Note: Orannhawk is a member of the
Whisper n Thunder Board of Directors.
Pictured here are three
of the five paintings that she has done for my family.
If you would like to explore possibilities with
Orannhawk and her various art forms,
you can reach her by email at:
RainCrow817@gmail.com .
When I was a kid, it was common for adults to ask,
“what do you want to be when you grow up?" My
answer was always the same. “I will be who I am,
and I will do what I do now, but I will be taller.”
I created my first drawings in the dirt with various sticks. When chalk was available, I decorated the porch and steps at my Papaw’s house next door. Grocery store paper bags quickly transformed into art, with nothing more than crayons and pencils. My dad was a mechanic and service manager for the local Chevrolet dealership in town, and they frequently displayed large promotional posters of new cars, tools, and other automotive related images. For a while, the office staff discarded the old posters, until my dad mentioned that I loved to draw. Printed on heavy card stock, I felt like a real artist covering the backs with my drawings.
I was also very prone to enhancing my skin with drawings, often, influenced by my temperament. Little ink doodles that washed off easily were a precursory sign of the tattoos now embellishing my skin, and the ones yet to come. However, there was an occasion when my sibling pushed too many of my buttons, and I declared my intentions towards said sibling by carefully painting multiple red lines across my cheeks and nose. My Papaw’s eyes were twinkling, my dad shook his head, grabbed a longneck bottle of beer, and walked outside with Papaw, where I could hear them laughing. My mother did not laugh. The bottle of Merthiolate disappeared. Just as well, considering the danger of using the stuff. Nonetheless, my point was clearly made.
I remember my dad sitting at the kitchen table
with me when I was working on a drawing of
wildlife for a project in elementary school. I
wanted to add a javelina to the scene, and
despite seeing them when we were hunting, I
was struggling with drawing it. He sat and
patiently drew rough sketches on paper,
guiding me and talking about the bone and
muscle structure. This led to continuous
lessons when we hunted, as well as simply
watching the movements of my dogs, the
horses, and the various pets I had over the
years. This remains my approach now, to see and understand what lies beneath the surface.
My desire to paint, to go beyond just drawing or coloring, intensified every year. My obsession with Crayola crayons is ever present, and I’m grateful for the gifts of new boxes, pacifying the wild child inside who is hell bent on having all the colors.
When I was barely thirteen, I went shopping with my mother. We ended up at a Tandy Leather store. At that time, they carried a limited selection of art supplies, including acrylic paints. When I saw the display of paint and brushes, it was like I stepped straight into nirvana. My mother selected a few brushes, and a starter set of acrylic paints. I swear my heart rate went up, just staring at the tubes of paint. It was a small set, containing tubes of white, black, red, blue, and yellow. On the way home, she made it abundantly clear that she bought them for herself, and nirvana faded and disappeared. She relented finally, stating I could try them out after she had completed some project she wanted to try, if there was any paint left.
That box sat on the countertop in the workroom for weeks, unused. I was a bit dramatic then, but it felt like my soul was screaming out in pain and it was overwhelming. It was breaking me, and I spent a lot of time in the horse pen with Buddy, our little stallion, knowing no one would come in there with him. Buddy had zero tolerance for anyone other than me, my dad or Papaw.
I gave into temptation one day when she was at work, carefully opening each tube, squeezing out tiny amounts of each color, mixing them, painting. PAINTING. I was painting and every tiny fragment of me was vibrating with joy. I painted every day, possessed. And I used every bit of the paint, cutting the ends of the tubes open with my knife and scraping out the last creamy bits of color. Was she mad? A little at first, until she saw what I had created, and then she bought me more paint.
My dad was instrumental in getting my
art shown. At the time, he was exhibiting
his welded sculptures in an art gallery in
the La Villita Historic Village on the River
Walk in San Antonio, Texas. He shared
with them that I was an artist, and they
encouraged him to bring a painting to
show them. My dad had saved a
beautiful wood door from an old house
before it was torn down. He was able to
remove the center panel of the door,
featuring a beautiful, beveled edge. The
wood was in perfect condition, smooth
and easy to paint on. I painted what was familiar to me, cactus, mesquites and wildlife, including a javelina. I still remember his excitement when the gallery called him to tell us that it sold. My first painting sold a few days before my fourteenth birthday. I sat in the horse pen with Buddy again and cried, this time with joy.
It was difficult at times to sell my work because my dad didn’t want to let go of my work. One of his friends gifted me with a large, beautifully polished slice of petrified palm wood. I painted a whitetail doe standing in a sendero, surrounded by mesquites, her head turned as if she was waiting on the buck following her. {A sendero is the Spanish word meaning a break or path, often naturally created in the landscape; and on occasion, by intention of the landowner.} I placed the completed painting on a table in the living room, ready for my dad to take it to the gallery in San Antonio. The next day, it remained on the table, along with a check made out in my name. He proudly hung the painting in the den, and it remained there until both my parents went to the stars. I have it now, a reminder of his admiration and support for my work. It was common then for the banks to return checks stamped as paid. When his bank statement arrived he gave me the check. I framed it, and it hangs in my studio. I know my dad would be proud to know my work is in homes in various locations across the United States, in the UK, and even in Iceland.
I am self-taught. About sixteen years ago, I saw
photographs of carved and painted gourds.
Papaw grew gourds when I was a little girl, so
the idea of carving and painting on them
enthralled me. I ordered a large box of gourds
from out of state, then a Dremel, with an
assortment of burrs and bits. I sat and held each
gourd, waiting to hear it ‘speak’ to me, and show
me what it was meant to be. When one hummed,
I took it outside, put a mask on, and drilled pilot
holes, then cut through the top. These gourds
grew in good sandy soil, producing thick walls of
at least an inch or more. The dried seeds
scooped out, I attached a ball grinder to my
drill and cleaned the interior until it was smooth. Following what I saw when I held the gourd, I drew out a basic design. I had no clue what I was doing, but I started carefully removing the top skin of the dried gourd with the Dremel, working around the images I had drawn out. I
worked from instinct alone, adding the details of the crows, dried corn, and prickly pear. My body was vibrating as much as the Dremel in my hand. I washed the dust off with water, let it dry and then painted the carved design. The second gourd was much larger, but it also sang to me, so I went with it, carving, then painting it, and embellishing the design with hammered pennies and a quarter, horsehair, leather, and painted buckskin. I’ve since added a Micro-carver to my tools, allowing me more detailed and precise cuts on other surfaces like antler, glass, bone, and of course gourds.
I shared a booth at Powwow that year and began
setting my work on the table. I had barely set the
gourds down before the one I called Crow Corn
Medicine, caught someone’s eye. My first attempt
at carving a gourd sold before we were officially
open. The second gourd, with a carved bone
breastplate sold later to a private collector in
Louisiana. Crows have been talking to me since
childhood, guiding me in my art and written words.
Crows talk and I listen.
My dad often told people that I painted on anything
that didn’t move away from my brushes. One year,
he made a very unexpected request, and the next day I prepped and painted a picture on the door of his brand-new pick-up truck. I’ve painted on cars and trucks, a motorcycle tank, murals in severalbusinesses, on residential doors, apparel, from head to toe; on wood, rock, leather, and buckskin and even on a few people. When I lived in Santa Fe, I had a side job of repair-painting damaged areas on faux finished walls. The faux finishes often look like stone, or leather, or other materials. I would sit at the wall, listen to it, and in my way, hear the colors. I had the owners take a quick photo of the dings. With my painting completed, they were unable to find the blemishes, even with their photos in hand. It was fun to do, but not anything that I wanted to do long term.
In 2007, I had the opportunity to participate in an interactive exhibit in California titled ‘Touchable Stories.’ The concept of the exhibit was very intriguing to me, and I packed up and moved to be a part of the event. My assigned room was the Native Room, and the focus was on the stories and the voices of the Indigenous people of California. I joined the director of the exhibit to interview numerous people, and I created my entire art installation based on their stories. It was unlike anything I had ever undertaken, but I had seen what I needed to do. When people entered the room I created, they entered to Indigenous music I chose, and with each part of the exhibit I sculpted, painted, and created, they would hear the recorded narration from the people we interviewed. The first man we interviewed was Norman DeOcampo, a Miwok Indian, also known as Wounded Knee. He was a spiritual leader, a man of great esteem, a man dedicated to protecting the Sacred Sites in the Bay Area and working to preserve tribal sovereignty. He went beyond the initial interview for the exhibit, and later I sat on his back patio
with him and Dennis Banks (Ojibwe and AIM Co-founder, Dennis was also the man who gave Uncle the name Wounded Knee). I got a crash course update on all things in NDN country, particularly the destruction of the Bay Area shell mounds. Not long after this, he gifted me with a name, and informed me I was to call him Uncle, or Uncle Wounded. Within days, I met Lehman Brightman, (Sioux and Creek) a retired college professor, well known activist and friend to both Uncle Wounded and Dennis. Among his many accomplishments, Lee also founded the first Native American studies in the United States, while teaching at UC Berkeley. He was also the founder of United Native Americans (U.N.A.).
I participated in rallies and protests with Uncle and Lee, drank coffee in both of their homes and went to Alcatraz with Lee and several others. I was deeply honored to know them, learn from them and work with them over the years, creating fliers, and writing documents, after returning home once the Touchable Stories exhibit ended. It changed how I approach my work, and how I view myself as an Indigenous woman. I had many conversations with Trudy Brightman, Lee’s wife, and shipped huge boxes of homemade cookies to them regularly. Trudy loved to call me and speak primarily in Lakota, before laughing and translating what she said. It touched my heart to hear her call me niece and at her request I called her Auntie. I gifted her with a small portrait one year, and she was delighted. She was a beautiful person, and proud to be a Sicangu Lakota woman. She often sent me shirts and different things she thought I would enjoy. After she passed, I received gifts their oldest son chose for me, along with personal things she had set aside for me. Her photograph continues to hang in my living room, reminding me of our connection.
Each one shared personal stories and anecdotes with me, stories I hold close to my heart. Each one stayed in touch, often calling me just to see what I was doing, and when I was heading back. Each one touched my life, becoming a part of my extended family.
As an artist, the people who inspire us also influence how we create. They became a part of my tapestry, adding to the threads that enrich the work that chose me. Years ago, my son sat in a highchair pulled next to my drafting table, coloring while I painted. As he grew up, the impact of his words, his encouragement as well as his critiques, continue to inspire me, in ways that only one’s offspring can bring.
I’ve come a long way since that first sale at thirteen. My techniques with painting, carving, and sculpting have developed instinctually. I use Golden Heavy Body acrylic paints and Gamvar varnish. Years ago, I developed a habit of marking the new tubes of paint with both the price and the date of purchase. It saves time going through invoices and more importantly, how long particular colors last for me. I clean the inside of the caps and threads every time I open a tube. I have at least ten tubes of viable paint purchased in 2015, because I spent that extra minute to ensure a clean tight seal.
I prefer to create art on surfaces that are natural, like the gourds, wood, rocks, and hides. However, painting on old found objects opened a new source of interest. My literal fingerprints continue to be a part of each painting and sculpture, and more often than not, sealed beneath the paint and varnish is a drop of my blood. I feel the colors, as if they were bleeding from within my soul onto the surfaces that chose me.
My creative process remains the same. I let the stones, the gourds, or the wood panels choose me, and I sit with them, often holding the object in my lap, until I ‘see’ the images. With larger surfaces like murals, I sit and place my hands on the surface, and I wait. It is a part of who I am, to wait until that moment of consent. Yes, the surfaces are inanimate, but each one holds a specific energy, even if the surface is manufactured. If I don’t feel that consent or connection, it’s simply not the right surface for the painting to be on. With commissioned art, like an animal portrait, I will sit and hold the photograph of the animal, in a way of respectfully asking permission to proceed.
I paint in thin washes, often tapping the wet paint with my fingers to create textures, layering color over color. Logically it doesn’t always make sense, but I trust my intuition to build light and depth or create mood and mystery in a painting by using the least likely color choices. I often smile when I am painting whiskers on an animal, knowing they appear as bright as titanium white, and I never uncapped the tube.
When I am painting animals, wild or domestic, I tune into each one, touching their energy, noting each tiny hair and the light in their eyes. They sing to me. I stop when the Crows tell me ‘Its done.’ I don’t use a conventional palette, instead, I use plastic lids from frozen whipped topping containers, donated from friends and family. They’re small, easy to store, and dry acrylic paint peels right off. I save small glass jars to hold paint water. Pimento jars are my favorite, mainly because I love pimentos. Worn out clothes, towels, and the like, end up as paint rags, although I do have a habit of wiping the brushes on my shirts. My favorite brushes are miniatures, with short handles for easy detailing. My absolute favorite is a 20/0 spotter, which looks more like a few eye lashes held in the ferrules. Worn out brushes have their own jar, because even they bring a new texture, something a new brush can’t produce.
Occasionally I lean into a portrait or two, a landscape here and there, but animals and spirit paintings are my favorite subjects. Spirit paintings come forth during deep conversations with a client, and the Old Ones show me the images I commit to the painting. Art, for me, in any form, is spiritual, a way of honoring the past, the present and the future. It is holding my space for joy.
The words I spoke as a child,
“I will be who I am, and I will do what I do now, but I will be taller” have changed.
I am who I am, I do what I love to do, and I am a little taller, but not by much.