7i9a2708 7i9a2711 7i9a27157i9a2725I’m home for a couple days and I’ve been rounding up loose ends in the studio.  I have five of these necklaces made and I plan to list them in my shop tomorrow morning at 10AM, MST.

Built of: solid sterling jackrabbit vertebra,nugget-y turquoise and an opera length chain (which is adjustable).

It’s a beaut!



7i9a2118 7i9a2126 7i9a2129 7i9a2130 7i9a2137 7i9a2149These early autumn days when the sky sits upon the earth like a bluebird on the back of a buckskin horse.



The Same

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In a fit of inspiration this morning, though I had about one hundred other things I needed to be doing, I went back to this batch of pictures I made at a pow wow this summer and re-worked them into slightly sepia toned black and white shots with heavy grain and muddy contrast — an obvious nod to the incredible work of Ed Curtis.

I posted one of these images in color on my Instagram account, weeks ago, and was attacked for it by what I assume was an angry, native american woman.  She accused me of appropriation via photography which is perfectly absurd.  At least, I think that’s what she was accusing me of, her comment was ridiculous and muddled with rage.  Admittedly, I resented it.  Her words were a slap in the face of what I felt and still feel is honest photography work that serves its subject in a beautiful way.  I am in the business of illumination.  I am not a new age, urban white girl playing at Indian — this is not the root of any of my work.  I didn’t bother responding to her comment.  I couldn’t come up with a response that voiced my indignation in a gracious way.

 The truth is this, I photograph pow wows because it feels like a tiny, tender way for me to offer up some kind of restitution…to capture the gritty heart of native culture here in the West with wide open eyes and to feel a sense of healing with regards to the wounds and fractures I feel in my own heart.  I am one more human who comes from a brilliant family tree that is full of brokenness, beauty, secrets, violence, romance and ruin.  When I see the dancers dance, when I photograph them, I feel what it means to be broken and smashed and to still rise up on fragments of wings.  I know what it is to seek freedom, to break a curse, to fail to rise, and to try to rise again.

We are the same.  I grow weary of constant cultural polarization in society.  There is no way to measure suffering or the crisis of the human heart.  There is no teaspoon that can quantify the oscillating swirl of darkness and light that is in every single human being on the face of this planet — past, present and future.  One of us might be missing a leg, another plagued by the physical memory of rape, and yet another haunted by the injustice and mass murder of the “Battle” at Wounded Knee.

We are all the same.  We are broken and healing.  I might be white with flaxen hair, you might be brown with raven tresses, but we are fundamentally the same.

And so I will photograph you and find the light and beauty in you because finding the light and beauty in you reveals for us all what is possible for humanity, what is possible for me, what is possible for all individual souls.  

Dancer, move with joy, uplift us, raise us from our sorrows.  



7i9a19937i9a1997 7i9a2003 7i9a2015In Idaho, summer begins with the yellow of the balsam root and ends with the yellow of the sunflowers.  I’ve always liked that about this state.

New Mexico Uplanders

It just occurred to me this afternoon that I never put together a photo essay of our New Mexico hunting trip from last February.  Some of you will know that the upland season ends on February 1st here in Idaho.  We decided to extend our season by two full weeks by heading down to New Mexico for scaled quail, bobwhite quail and Mearn’s quail.  We truck camped on BLM land or Forest Service land — woke up early, went to sleep early, slept in the bed of the truck with the dogs, ate out of the cooler and fresh from the field, schlepped through sand dunes, crept the truck over hard country to watch the stars over Texas and we harvested a lot of birds.  I really found my shooting rhythm and the dogs were bone thin, tired and in utter rapture.

It’s brutal, vicious hunting down there.  The vegetation is prickly and serrated — cutting and poking at you with every step you take.  The sunlight is harsh, even in the heart of February, so harsh that it seems to come from every direction.  We’re used to ankle breaking basalt lava flows, brutal and frozen gale force winds and near vertical hiking here in Idaho.  It was interesting to test our mettle in a new place, in a new way.

Rob and I were reminiscing about this trip last week and talking about our plans to head down again this winter to scout out more territory for ourselves and to simply enjoy the company of each other.

We hunt for food, but hunting also gives me such a strong sense of family.  We’re together out there — just him, me and our dogs.  A unit.  Working together (kinda like a wolf pack would) to bring home dinner.  The wolves got it right.

Without further adieu:

New Mexico

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