'A New Mexican Rebecca': Imaging Pueblo Women1


As commodities, women are thus two things at once: utilitarian objects and bearers of value.

–Luce Irigary

Colonial power has always included a double colonization of the female gender and expressed itself especially through this double conquest.

–Susanne Kappeler

This essay is a pastiche of images, quotations, and reflections–the shards of more than a decade of studying ceramics and culture. It's a re-visionary meditation on the imaging of Pueblo women, resulting from my leaving the Southwest and my work with Pueblo women and potteries in 1987 and returning to it after a year in the Ivy League. When I picked up a travel book, the Insight Guide (figure 1), in Flagstaff in the fall of 1988, I realized that the contemporary Pueblo woman posed and encircled to sell the Southwest was but the latest chapter in a long story of the domestication and aestheticization of the Other–a narrative of more than a century of oppression, appropriation, and commodification–and I knew I had to write about it. The images of olla maidens came flooding back, an endless parade of Pueblo women with pots on their heads, like the Zuni procession at Gallup Ceremonial in recent decades: an etching of Santo Domingo women that accompanied the Emory Report of 1848 (figure 2); a Zuni woman photographed by Hillers c. 1880 (figure 3); a San Juan "mudwoman" (figure 4) captured by Carter Hanison c. 1910.
I recall the frustrations of those years of research–how invisible, buried historic figurative ceramics were and are in catalogues and collections of Pueblo pottery; how ubiquitous the classic ollas or tinajas or water jars. I listen to Nora Naranjo-Morse's "mudwoman" poems and laugh with her Pearlene (figure 5)–a 1987 ceramic self-portrait that disrupts this traditional Anglo narrative of use and beauty. Pearlene is "the antithesis of the characteristics of Pueblo women that anthropologists love to point out"–characteristics embodied in countless "mudwoman' images (see figure 4).
More than a century ago, as well as today, domestic scenes of Pueblo women and potteries, such as those published in Cushing's My Adventures in Zuni (1882) (figure 6), have eclipsed images such as that of "Indian Pottery" (figure 7), taken by Ben Wittick between 1878 and 1881, of pottery for sale in Jake Gold's Santa Fe shop. Marketed as "primitive idols," such figurative ceramics were and are frequently described as "eccentrics" and "grotesques" and dismissed as "tourist trash." One cannot help but ask if there is a system of power that authorizes certain Pueblo cultural representations while blocking, prohibiting, and invalidating others (Owens 1983: 59). What about these very "relations of power whereby one portion of humanity can select, value, and collect the pure products of others" (Clifford 1988: 213)? What about the way that Anglo-American anthropologists, as well as artists, have been imagining, describing, romanticizing, and fetishizing the Pueblo Southwest for over a century?2 To cite but one example, more than fifty years ago in her foreword to First Penthouse Dwellers of America (1938: v-vi), anthropologist Ruth Underhill introduced the "Indian Americans of the Pueblos" as follows:
Through the streets of cities in the American Southwest, walk certain brilliantly colored figures, swathed in blankets and with bright headbands over long black hair cut across the forehead like that of a medieval page. They pass quietly through the modern throng, bearing bundles of rugs on their back or dangling strings of silver and turquoise. Or they sit beneath a roadside shelter of boughs, the pottery of their ancient craft before the days of the potter's wheel, spread out before them. These are the Pueblo Indians ... the peaceful Hopi ... the gentle Zuni ... the Keres ... the Tanoans.
A few years later, these olla maidens appeared on the cover of her 1944 Pueblo Crafts (figure 8). And this prompts me to ask why the study of pottery has generated more literature than any other aspect of Southwest culture? Why was Nampeyo the symbol of Hopi cultre in the minds of white Americans (figure 9), and why did María Martinez (see figure 19) become the single most famous Native American artist?
Imaged again and again in a variety of media and contexts–most recently a 1990 Santa Fe T-shirt (figure 10), these southwestern objects of desire, these mudwomen carrying, shaping containers of "symbolic capital" raise ambiguous and disturbing questions about the aesthetic appropriation of non-Western others–issues of race, gender, and power.3 What does it mean not only that the Other is frequently represented as female–the feminization that Said discusses in Orientalism–but that women and the things they make are both symbols and sources of cultural identity, survival, and social continuity and also mediators between cultures and vehicles of exchange and change? For centuries, pottery has been the primary Pueblo trade item and pottery is women's work. Not surprisingly, pottery making has played a key role over the past century in the transition from an agrarian to a cash economy–a process that began with the Smithsonian Institution's first collecting expedition to the southwestern Pueblos in 1879 and was accelerated by the coming of the railroad in the 1880s and Fred Harvey's/Santa Fe Railroad's marketing campaigns in the early decades of this century. Women sold potteries and demonstrated pottery making to railroad passengers, and images of women with pots were sold on Santa Fe Railroad postcards and playing cards (figure 11), as well as decorating booklets, brochures, and calendars.
"Ancient Indian pottery," a New York Tribune reporter wrote in 1882, "has been sought after through the past few years with great zeal. The custom of the average tourist, in seizing upon everything in the way of pottery that bears the semblance of age has made such a demand for 'prehistoric' wares that the ingenious mind of the native has led him to devise means of gratifying the aesthetic longings of his cultured brother. The method is simple. The Indian just manufactures it in proportion to the wants of the trade."4
This raises what I see as a key question, a paradoxical, problematic, and politically charged situation: what happens when indigenous Pueblo signifiers of stability–women and potteries-become valued items of exchange, cultural brokers, and agents of change precisely because they embody a synchronic essentialism for postindustrial Anglo consumers? Why has a traditionally dressed woman shaping or carrying an olla, a water jar, become the classic metonymic misrepresentation of the Pueblo, and why has Anglo America invested so much in this image for more than a century?
In The Conquest of America Todorov suggests part of the answer. If, he argues, "instead of regarding the other simply as an object, he [she] were considered as a subject capable of producing objects which one might then possess (figure 12), the chain would be extended by a link–the intermediary subject–and thereby multiply to infinity the number of objects ultimately possessed. This transformation, however, necessitates that the intermediary subject be maintained in precisely this role of subject-producer-of-objects and kept from becoming like ourselves" (1984: 175-76). Examples of such image maintenance abound. As early as 1540, Castañeda, the chronicler of the Coronado expedition, reported that Pueblo women made "jars of extraordinary labor and workmanship, which were worth seeing" (quoted in Foote and Schackel 1986: 21). Olla maidens are featured prominently in the sketches of the pueblos included in the 1848 Emory Report (see figure 2). In her essays of 1880s New Mexico subsequently reprinted as The Land of the Pueblos (1891), Susan Wallace described both Pueblo and Hispanic women carrying jugs of water as "maidens of Palestine." In the same decade, William Henry Jackson, "the Father of the Picture Postcard," photographed "Water Carriers" at San Juan for stereoscope viewing (figure 13). And in 1890 anthropologist John G. Owens wrote a letter describing a scene at Zuni Pueblo: "Just before dark, the squaws all go to the spring to get an olla of water. I went over this evening to see them. It reminded me of the pictures of Palestine. . . . It certainly is a classic sight."5
Edward Curtis's imaging of Southwestern Native Americans in the early decades of this century also features olla maidens. In 1903 he, too, captured a "classic sight" at the river at Zuni (figure 14) and, in 1904, several "Water Girls" returning from the spring at Acoma (figure 15). Within the past decade, the same Acoma spring has served as the backdrop for a contemporary postcard image posed and photographed by Lee Marmon (figure 16). This would appear to be the same woman featured on the cover of the Insight Guide (see figure 1). In addition to countless verbal and visual images, the most effective form of image maintenance and literal re-presentation of the Pueblo woman as "subject-producer-of-objects" in the past century have been the native crafts demonstrations that became commonplace and increasingly popular at World's Fairs, at Fred Harvey/Santa Fe Railroad tourist stops, such as Hopi House at the Grand Canyon, at museums, and at national parks.
While it was once true that "among all the pueblos the one type of pottery which universally prevails is the tinaja or water jar" (Austin 1934: 1), it is also true that "the non-Western woman [and the day vessel that she shapes and carries] is the vehicle for misplaced Western nostalgia" (Ong 1988: 85). Countless statements and images such as the preceding attest not only that the author is speaking for and representing her, but that she is valued because she is, if only in his imaginary projections, outside history, outside industrial capitalism. For many decades now, Pueblo women have rarely worn mantas on an everyday basis or walked around with pots on their heads unless they were paid to do so. This is aesthetic primitivism and this is a form of colonial domination–a gaze which fixes and objectifies, which masters.6 Both Bhabha and Ong have pointed out that "colonial discourse produces the colonized as a fixed reality which is at once an 'other' and yet entirely knowable and visible" (Bhabha 1983: 23); that "by and large, non-Western women are taken as an unproblematic universal category" (Ong 1988: 82). In "the language of occupation," women are "receptacles and products of desire" (Minh-ha 1987: 8); repeatedly, "a female colored body serves as a site of attraction and symbolic appropriation" (Clifford 1988: 5). Or, as Susanne Kappeler points out, "in the structure of representation, the two subjects are the author and the spectator/reader, the white man and his guests. The woman is the object of exchange" (1986: 51).
For example, in the 1920s a marketable romantic image of Zuni women at the spring was sold as a Frashers Fotos postcard (figure 17), in contrast to the more probable and realistic scene described by anthropologist Li An-Che in 1937:
Fetching water from the well or cisterns, is, as of old, a good opportunity for arranging a liaison. The difference lies only in the fact that water vessels of pottery were once on the heads of the maidens and now water buckets are in their hands. (1937: 73)

I probably don't need to tell you that I have not found a single image of a Pueblo woman with a water bucket, although it is a subject of discussion in Ema Fergusson's essay on the Pueblos in Our Southwest (1940: 298), and an occasion for nostalgic aestheticism on her part as well:
A Taos girl, asked what she wanted for a wedding present, answered: 'A bucket.'

Nothing has more captivated painters and photographers than the Pueblo woman fetching water in a painted jar on her head. Grace of line and beauty of color; and a symbol, too, of a primitive life away from the world's hurlyburly. For the woman dipping a tinaja into Pueblo Creek is taking water that comes sparkling from the sacred Blue Lake. Yet the Taos bride wanted a bucket with a handle for greater ease in doing the work she had to do. I wondered if she could use her bright tin pail without losing something important that went with the hand-made jar–a sense of god-given water from a sacred place. She will surely lose the god and with him much hocus-pocus and superstitious fear. But can she, while taking on new ways and new concepts, keep the old reverence for life-giving natural things, the ability to use them without abuse, to share them without degrading herself or another? For this is what the ancient pueblo life had; this is what modem life threatens; this is the problem that faces every young Pueblo Indian.
In the 1920s, Odd Halseth of the School of American Research in Santa Fe encouraged pottery revivals of this "lost art" at Zia and Jemez pueblos, and patronizingly described the aesthetic and financial successes that resulted from his overcoming the resistance of traditional religious leaders in El Palacio. "But," he hastened to add (1926: 149), "of more worth than money is the creative pride which again is coming into the lives of the Jemez people. Women with figures erect and with jars of their own making gracefully balanced on their heads once more wend their way to the springs, and the sight of some sister who stiff struggles, stoop-shouldered, with the burden of a tin water bucket in each hand brings smiles of realization to their faces." "Maids of Palestine" don't carry tin buckets, and whether at Taos, Jemez, or Zuni, said buckets are clearly an impediment to the "artistic mystification" of ethnicity (Rodríguez 1989: 93).
I have already implicated Edward Said's Orientalism in my argument because I think that the Southwest is America's Orient. Like the Orient, the Southwest is an idea that has "a history and a tradition of thought, imagery, and vocabulary that have given it reality and presence in and for" the rest of America (Said 1979: 5). And, as both visual and verbal images amply attest, this tradition is explicitly figured in the trope of orientalism. "How strangely parallel,' Cushing thought at Zuni in 1879 as he sat watching the women coming from and going to the well, "have been the lines of development in this curious civilization of an American desert, with those of Eastern nations and deserts?" (1882: 197). Such statements reveal not only orientalism but what de Certeau (1980: 42) described as the "eroticism of the origin." Repeatedly, "travellers passing the Pueblo villages of the Southwest in the eighties were invited to recall the villages of ancient Egypt and Nubia, Ninevah and Babylon, rather than to study the remains of American aboriginal life; the people were 'like the descendents of Rebecca of Bible fame'" (Pomeroy 1957: 39). Contrary to what Pomeroy implies, however, such orientalizing was not simply a phenomenon of the 1880s. In 1896, Philip Embury Harroun won a $10 prize from Eastman Kodak for a photo of a San Juan Pueblo woman entitled "A New Mexican Rebecca" (figure 18).In 1920 Harriet Monroe compared Pueblo dances to Homeric rites and Egyptian ceremonies (quoted in Weigle and Fiore 1982: 17). In luring Santa Fe Railroad travelers on "Indian Detours," Ema Fergusson asserted that the Southwest offered "exotic spectacles which can be equaled in few Oriental lands" (quoted Thomas 1978: 196). And, recalling a San Geronimo's Day from her childhood, Cleofas Jaramillo described the scene at Taos Pueblo as follows (1955: 18):
In the pueblo houses, Indian women bearing great water jars on their heads climbed steep ladders with grace and poise, and glided softly into their neatly whitewashed rooms. Indian men, resembling oriental Arabs and Egyptians, shrouded in white cotton mantles, stood on the high roofs–white sentinels against the blue vault of heaven. Their call was strikingly oriental.
Can one doubt that this is less a description of Pueblo life than of the viewer's desire "to fix the Other in a stable and stabilizing identity" (Owens 1983: 75)? In this romantic dichotomizing and essentializing discourse that modern industrial America began producing about the Southwest in the late nineteenth century the image of an olla maiden is a primary and privileged signifier–one in which considerable material investment has been made and continues to be made. There is no doubt about it–the nostalgic aestheticism of the 1880s has persisted at great profit for more than a century. Not insignificantly, this authorized image of the "civilized," domestic, and feminized Pueblo was popularized at the very moment when "wild" nomadic Apaches were stiff killing white people and eluding General Crook in the same Southwestern spaces. Late-nineteenth-century authors such as Susan Wallace repeatedly juxtapose the "peace-loving," "pastoral," "maidens of Palestine" with the savage, bloodthirsty "Bedouin."
At the same time, the arts-and-crafts movement was fostering antiquarianism and producing such statements as the following concerning the revitalization of pottery making among the women of Cincinnati: "Handling dear old mother earth does not leave much time for hysteria."7 For an America that saw premodern craftsmanship as an antidote for modern ills; a technological America desirous of elegant articles of common use with, in Charles Eliot Norton's words, "something of human life in them," what better than the "timeless, authentic beauty" of a Pueblo pot (quoted in Lears 1981: 66). And who better than a primitive woman who, as Evans-Pritchard has assured us, 'does not desire things to be other than they are" (1965: 45). An Indian mother shaping Mother Earth and gracefully carrying her burdens was and is, indeed, something of a bourgeois dream of an alternative redemptive life, as well as an imagistic transformation of an unmanageable native into a manageable one. As Marta Weigle (1989: 121) has suggested, both the collecting of Pueblo potteries and the repeated imaging of Pueblo women as "civilized" artisans making, using, or selling their wares, to tourists signify the transformation and domestication of the "savage" nearly naked male warrior of the first Santa Fe Railroad publications. Modern power, Foucault (1977) argues, replaces violence and force with the "gentler" constraint of uninterrupted visibility, "the gaze."
This simultaneous glorification both of the exotic and of the cult of domesticity in the imaging of Native American women was a common rhetorical strategy, particularly in the writings of women. What began perhaps in Margaret Fuller's Summer on the Lakes, published in 1844, achieved something of an apotheosis a century later in Alice Marriott's Maria, published in 1948. In the intervening century countless studies of the primitive woman artisan, from Otis Mason's Woman's Share in Primitive Culture (1894) to Ruth Bunzel's The Pueblo Potter (1929), not only emphasize the picturesqueness of the everyday, but reinforce the cult of domesticity by allying women's arts with the utilitarian, and the secular and men's with the ritual and the sacred.8 Ruth Underhill is not alone in erroneously asserting that "every woman made, her own" pots (1944: 71). Archaeologists also expressed a domestic, utilitarian, and anti-commercial bias regarding Pueblo ceramics, for prior to Anna Shepard's studies in the 1930s, the mistaken view was widely held that each household produced its own pottery (Cordell 1986). Marriott's portrayal of Maria and Julian Martinez as a husband and wife pottery-making team makes the domestication of the Pueblo complete (figure 19).
Woman as maker and user of pottery with man as helpmate combines not only exotic and domestic but aesthetic and utilitarian stereotypes into one desirable image of heterosexual romance. This domestication of the exotic and presentation of the Pueblo as "a peaceful, home-loving people," is evident even in children's picture books such as the Kellogg's Indian of the Southwest published in 1936. After several scenes of Pueblo homes and lifestyle, they introduce a photograph of an olla maiden with the following text:
Indian women often carry jars on their heads for long distances, or up and down ladders, without touching them with their hands. When the Pueblo Indian mother needs water to use in her home, she takes a large jar to the well or river, fills it with water, then fitting the little hollow in the.bottom of the jar onto her head, she carries it home.
In addition, the book contains three images of pottery making: a firing scene, a mother teaching her 'little daughter' how to make pottery, and María and Julian Martinez painting and, polishing pottery "in front of the fireplace in their home" (Kellogg and Kellogg 1936). In adult picture books such as Laura Gilpin's The Pueblos: A Camera Chronicle (1941), the Pueblo are similarly presented as peaceful, civilized, domestic, and artistic-they have an inherent sense of beauty" (124). Here, too, the preponderance of images are of women and of women and pots. The much photographed Acoma waterhole is the frontispiece; there also is an image of an Acoma water carrier, and we are told that "here the Indian women come at evening when the sun casts its late colorfull rays, and the fortunate visitors may see a procession of graceful women with beautiful waterfilled ollas (ol-yas) balanced on their heads winding up the trail from the cistern to their homes" (114). Precisely as they were imaged by Curtis thirty-five years earlier (see figure 15).
This "relegation of the tribal or primitive to either a vanishing past or an ahistorical, conceptual present (Clifford 1988: 201) influences not only the Western valuation, but the production and consumption of ethnic art, and that, in turn, profoundly affects gender relations within tribal communities with regard to the reproduction of culture for sale. Scholars as well as popularizers have been consistent in their refusal to see Pueblo women in their "psychological social, and colonial complexity" (Carr 1988: 150). Natives, especially female artisan natives were, as Sylvia Rodríguez has pointed out (1989: 93), co-opted into "scripted ethnic stereotypes, not merely as part of the inevitable choreography of denial that characterized face- to-face interracial relations in contemporary America, but with increasing psychosocial investment in the fiction it perpetuated."
"They learned to market, as well as elaborate, their own ethnicity"; they reproduced "ancient pottery" and turned culture into commodity (see figure 11); in the process they assumed powers and prerogatives that were once their husbands'.9 The olla maiden stereotype has had profound economic and political, as well as aesthetic consequences, which need to be acknowledged and investigated. Consequences which demonstrate the degree to which "the imagination at the frontier constitutes a fantasized construction of self and other–one in which colonist and Indian synergetically interact to create a totally imagined reality. This reality is no less real for all its construction and has a life and destructive force all of its own" (Kapferer 1988: 83).
Although there are a few images of Laguna women meeting (such as figure 11) or of Tesuque potters shaping "raingods" or "lucky bucks" for the tourists in, for example, a 193Os souvenir folder of "American Indian Life," such commercial scenes are clearly not the preferred images, the "fantasized construction" of Pueblo Indians and their pots. "Tourist art" is disparaged, history is airbrushed out, and "authenticity" is mutually fabricated.10 A romantic pastoral informed by a domestic use-and-beauty bias, exemplified in a 1935 Parkhurst photograph taken at Laguna Pueblo, was and is the privileged, the marketable "reality" (figure 20). Clearly, Ruth Benedict did not invent the stereotype of the peaceful, poetic, feminine Pueblo. She simply gave it the name "Apollonian." To the extent that potteries are seen at all as containers of cultural value as well as art objects to decorate Anglo lives, they are described as reiterating, affirming this world view. The idea that conflict as well as clay may be shaped in Pueblo ceramics is virtually absent from the literature. Nor is this view specific to the Pueblo, for it is widely assumed that primitive and folk art is tradition-bound and conflict-free.11
As a consequence of Anglo taste and modern reproductive technology, we cannot escape this mythic and synchronic vision of the Pueblo woman and her pottery. In addition to such frequently reproduced vintage scenes as I have included in this essay, images of olla maidens by contemporary Indian as well as Anglo artists such as Gorman, Peña, and Redbird or Stefan, Rochester, and Schenck are now available everywhere as postcards, notecards, advertisements, T-shirts, posters, etc. An arrangement of bronze olla maidens is the sculpture at the New Mexico State Capitol Building in Santa Fe, and this in turn is sold as a postcard and used to promote tourism (figure 21). Whether Anglo or Indian, these artists have very different ideas about mudwomen than Nora Naranjo-Morse does. Fictions that sell. Most people don't want Pearlene with all her ambiguity of dependency and rupture (see figure 5), for "man dreams of an Other not only to possess her but also to be ratified by her" (deBeauvoir 1974: 170). They want those shiny black Santa Clara pots that look like "ancient" potteries are supposed to, and they want their women carrying them. A vision of authenticity, of timeless, useful, and subjugated beauty.
In fin-de-siecle remarks that an "immense amount of romance is wasted on the old mud houses" and "tiresome pottery fragments," Susan Wallace (1891: 13), might well be describing present-day Santa Fe. The current fetishization of the Pueblo in general and of mud houses and mudwomen and mud jars in particular exemplifies Judith Williamson's assertion (1986: 110-12) that
the need of our society both to engulf Others and to exploit 'otherness' is not only a structural and ideological phenomenon; it has been at the root of the very development of capitalism, founded as it is on imperialist relations.... Economically, we need the Other, even as politically we seek to eliminate it.... Capitalism feeds on different value systems and takes control of them, while nourishing their symbolic difference from itself ... different systems of production ... which are suppressed by capitalism are then incorporated into its imagery and ideological values: as 'otherness,' old-fashioned, charming, exotic, natural, primitive, universal.
When "mudwoman encounters the world of money and business" she cannot but confront the nostalgic aestheticism, synchronic essentialism, feminization, and utilitarian biases that have shaped the Anglo valuation and imaging of Pueblo potteries and Pueblo women. Among other things, Pearlene is likely to discover that "tradition remains the sacred weapon oppressors repeatedly hold up whenever the need to maintain their privileges, hence to impose the form of the old on the content of the new, arises" (Minh-ha 1989: 106); that women are "the very ground of representation, both object and support of a desire which, intimately bound up with power and creativity, is the moving force of culture and history" (deLauretis 1984: 13), and that "commodities, women, are a mirror of value of and for men" (Irigaray 1985: 177), men who, with their technologies of representation and reproduction, define and control the Other through total aestheticization and uninterrupted visibility.


  1. Significant portions of this essay were originally written for presentation at a conference on gender and material culture at Winterthur Museum in October 1989. That essay, "Mudwomen and Whitemen: A Meditation on Pueblo Potteries and the Politics of Representation," is forthcoming in Kenneth Ames and Katharine Martinez, eds. The Material Culture of Gender/The Gender of material Culture (New York: W.W. Norton, 1991). Now as then, I am indebted to Kit Hinsley, who has inspired, sustained, and contributed to this re-visioning, and to Jay Cox, for invaluable library and computer assistance.
  2. See Bennett (1946: 364) for discussion of the tendency in anthropology to privilege "the organic wholeness of preliterate life in contrast to the heterogeneity and diffusiveness of modern civilization." In Southwestern ethnology in particular he argues, "these tendencies may often assume a special form conditioned by the pervading sense of mystery and glamour of the country itself."
  3. For development of the idea of "symbolic capital," see Bourdieu (1977).
  4. This clipping was inserted on an unnumbered page following p. 32 in James Stevenson's "Scrapbook A" Laboratory of Anthropology Library, Santa Fe, NM.
  5. Letter from John G. Owens to Deborah Stratton, July 20, 1890, John G. Owens Papers, Peabody Museum Archives, Harvard University. My thanks to Kit Hinsley, who is editing this correspondence and called it to my attention.
  6. For further discussion of "aesthetic primitivism" in the representation of Native American women, see Carr (1985; 1998). For discussion of the matter concerning native women generally see Minh-na (1987; 1989).
  7. This statement appeared in an anonymous article, "Cincinnati Art Pottery," in Harper's Weekly No. 1202 (January 10, 1880): 342. Again, my thanks to Kit Hinsley for providing this material.
  8. A more recent example of separating Native American secular, utilitarian arts from scared, ritual ones along gender lines is the essay by Cohodas and DeMott (1985).
  9. For further discussion of the effects of the commodification of ethnicity and of pottery revivals in particular on Pueblo gender arrangements and community organization, see Wade (1986) and Babcock (1988).
  10. For discussion of the production of authenticity by removing objects from their current historical situation, see Clifford (1988: 228). Minh-ha (1989: 89ff.) similarly discusses "planned authenticity" as a "product of hegemony" which "constitutes an efficacious means of silencing the cry of racial oppression." Rodriguez (1989: 83) makes the same point regarding the Indian paintings of the Taos painters.
  11. Only two essays have dealt with the relationship between conflict and ceramics, between politics and potteries, and those quite recently: Wade (1986) and Babcock (1988).


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