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Authors: Timothy Egan
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should never look his mother-in-law in the
face or talk to her directly. He was invited into a sweat lodge. He stripped naked
and sat as the water poured out of him, until he nearly passed out, delirious and
hallucinating, “until I heard far-away music where there could be no music,” as he
wrote to a friend back home. But he remained Edward S. Curtis of Seattle, the portrait
photographer. He would not try to fake or play at being an Indian.
Curtis found these people very “likeable,” and among the most courteous he had met,
of any race. At the same time, Chief White Calf warmed to him. A trust was developing,
but it took a great deal of time, much of it spent in silence. His questions often
went unanswered. “To ask the Piegan . . . any direct question bearing on the subject
of religion yields scant light,” said Curtis. “It is necessary to learn rather from
the everyday life of the people.” When the stories came, even in dribs and drabs,
the breakthrough was thrilling to Curtis—like learning to swim after hours of flailing
in water. See how easy: just let yourself float.
After several days, the chief informed Curtis that he would be allowed to do portraits
of those tribal members who agreed, for a negotiated price. Curtis could shoot the
encampment, the lodges, the gathering of wood for fires, the horses taking a long
drink in the afternoon, everything but the Sun Dance itself. He was allowed to witness
it, but this ritual could never be stolen by an outsider’s camera. It is the highest
of religious ceremonies, the annual fulfillment of a pledge to the sun. People would
sweat in the lodge, burn sweet grass incense, offer dried buffalo tongues to the sun,
sing and dance. He was allowed, somewhat to his surprise, to record the songs, using
the “magic machine,” as the Indians called his wax cylinder.
The formal Sun Dance lasted five days. “Wild, terrifying, elaborately mystifying,”
Curtis said. “I was intensely affected.” He coaxed a handsome young man to pose inside
a tent, with a full peacock sprout of erect hair, bedecked in necklaces and shells,
cloaked in a light rawhide coat of symmetrical designs.
A Piegan Dandy,
Curtis labeled the picture. One dandy taking a picture of another dandy—there was
a projection of an artist feeling the full surge of his growing talent. The portrait
was eventually processed as an albumen print, in which paper was coated in an emulsion
of whipped egg white and salt, then dipped in silver nitrate before a negative was
exposed onto it—the rarest kind of finish for Curtis. He set up his 14-by-17 on a
tripod close to the village for ground-level pictures of natives collecting logs for
the ceremony. As he worked, Curtis spotted Small Leggins in one part of the circle,
riding his horse at a quick clip, coming right at him. The closer he got, the faster
he rode, charging directly at Curtis. He intended to trample Curtis and smash his
camera. At the last second, White Calf appeared, steering Small Leggins away. The
chief “saved my life,” Curtis said.
The photographer got his picture as well: a wide view in early evening, the tipis
in the circle echoing the triangular tops of the summits in the background. This he
called
Piegan Encampment.
The finished product was a photogravure, from a process in which the image was chemically
etched onto the surface of a copper printing plate—a laborious method used by Curtis
for most of his Indian pictures. (For his best work, he rarely printed an actual photograph
in the traditional way.) And eventually, he even got Small Leggins to hold still long
enough on his horse for Curtis to immortalize him. Another picture from that July
was taken at the water’s edge, where the Two Medicine River, shrunk by the summer
sun, snaked through the grass of the plains. This was a trio of men on horseback,
one riding an Appaloosa, looking away to the
face or talk to her directly. He was invited into a sweat lodge. He stripped naked
and sat as the water poured out of him, until he nearly passed out, delirious and
hallucinating, “until I heard far-away music where there could be no music,” as he
wrote to a friend back home. But he remained Edward S. Curtis of Seattle, the portrait
photographer. He would not try to fake or play at being an Indian.
Curtis found these people very “likeable,” and among the most courteous he had met,
of any race. At the same time, Chief White Calf warmed to him. A trust was developing,
but it took a great deal of time, much of it spent in silence. His questions often
went unanswered. “To ask the Piegan . . . any direct question bearing on the subject
of religion yields scant light,” said Curtis. “It is necessary to learn rather from
the everyday life of the people.” When the stories came, even in dribs and drabs,
the breakthrough was thrilling to Curtis—like learning to swim after hours of flailing
in water. See how easy: just let yourself float.
After several days, the chief informed Curtis that he would be allowed to do portraits
of those tribal members who agreed, for a negotiated price. Curtis could shoot the
encampment, the lodges, the gathering of wood for fires, the horses taking a long
drink in the afternoon, everything but the Sun Dance itself. He was allowed to witness
it, but this ritual could never be stolen by an outsider’s camera. It is the highest
of religious ceremonies, the annual fulfillment of a pledge to the sun. People would
sweat in the lodge, burn sweet grass incense, offer dried buffalo tongues to the sun,
sing and dance. He was allowed, somewhat to his surprise, to record the songs, using
the “magic machine,” as the Indians called his wax cylinder.
The formal Sun Dance lasted five days. “Wild, terrifying, elaborately mystifying,”
Curtis said. “I was intensely affected.” He coaxed a handsome young man to pose inside
a tent, with a full peacock sprout of erect hair, bedecked in necklaces and shells,
cloaked in a light rawhide coat of symmetrical designs.
A Piegan Dandy,
Curtis labeled the picture. One dandy taking a picture of another dandy—there was
a projection of an artist feeling the full surge of his growing talent. The portrait
was eventually processed as an albumen print, in which paper was coated in an emulsion
of whipped egg white and salt, then dipped in silver nitrate before a negative was
exposed onto it—the rarest kind of finish for Curtis. He set up his 14-by-17 on a
tripod close to the village for ground-level pictures of natives collecting logs for
the ceremony. As he worked, Curtis spotted Small Leggins in one part of the circle,
riding his horse at a quick clip, coming right at him. The closer he got, the faster
he rode, charging directly at Curtis. He intended to trample Curtis and smash his
camera. At the last second, White Calf appeared, steering Small Leggins away. The
chief “saved my life,” Curtis said.
The photographer got his picture as well: a wide view in early evening, the tipis
in the circle echoing the triangular tops of the summits in the background. This he
called
Piegan Encampment.
The finished product was a photogravure, from a process in which the image was chemically
etched onto the surface of a copper printing plate—a laborious method used by Curtis
for most of his Indian pictures. (For his best work, he rarely printed an actual photograph
in the traditional way.) And eventually, he even got Small Leggins to hold still long
enough on his horse for Curtis to immortalize him. Another picture from that July
was taken at the water’s edge, where the Two Medicine River, shrunk by the summer
sun, snaked through the grass of the plains. This was a trio of men on horseback,
one riding an Appaloosa, looking away to the
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