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Joe’s wood frame house was a couple of blocks this side of Taos Pueblo, there on the left, and out back was a large stack of pine poles that were sorted, the 14 footers here, and the 16 footers over there, and on. No one took more pride in his work than Joe did, except when it came to his paintings. That’s right, his paintings! That Indian had a system that must have been right out of a big curriculum somewhere. Before he’d talk to me I had to thumb through his repertoire of watercolors and purchase at least a couple or three. He always knew when I had enough. And I’d swear that he never learned what a frame was for, not counting those on his kitchen wall. The good news was that his prices topped out at about 35 bucks, and my favorites were around 15. The search for just the right subject and composition for my collection took about ten minutes, and let me say it straight away, for some of those beauties I needed two hankies. Whew! Anyway, after a couple of visits we became close friends and my favorites moved into the 25 dollar range. I figured that if I could ever become as easy to please as Joe was, then I could make anything work. Years later I gave my portfolio of about twenty of his masterpieces to the Museum of Fine Arts in Santa Fe where the cute little curator loved them. I’m sure that Joe had no artistic illusions. For him it was a living; for me it was a tax deduction, and for the museum it was the mother lode. It sure is fun making people happy. What I said before, or should have said, was that Joe lived a very simple life, and his smile was always there although some of his words came searching for me with some difficulty. No matter; his laughter had no accent, and I learned so much from him. On my second visit I became the world’s leading authority on how to not eat his wife’s elk chili. But I don’t want to talk about that. In the beginning Joe was shy and not forthcoming at all. In town he’d probably sit in the back of the bus if there’d been one. Finally I learned that if I said something to him that I knew was wrong, his eyes would widen and he’d go on and on about things that just delighted the fool out of me. I took copious notes so he frequently paused, waiting for me to catch up. He was so funny with that. Joe did have this one crisis in his life though, which happened when he was about six. Couse saw him wearing a brand new set of fringed buckskins; shirt, pants, belt, beaded moccasins, the works. This was too good to pass by so little Sunhawk was soon enticed to pose. The kid was placed in a chair on a small platform in the middle of Couse’s studio. The artist backed away and started laying out the painting, checking relative size by closing one eye and extending his fist, thumb up, toward the model. As he was vertically and horizontally “sizing,” the kid panicked, and with arms flailing wildly, fled the studio and raced down Kit Carson Road to his father’s meat market. And all the while, Couse, who moved at wobbled speed, ran behind with a handkerchief, holding a tip in each hand as he tried to “lasso” the boy. When he found his father, Sunhawk shouted, “Daddy, daddy, Mr. Cow (they called him that) is dividing me up. He’s going to eat me.” Well, it took a while, but finally the boy was calmed. Couse wrapped a sash around his waist and lead him back to the studio, where he was tied to the chair. Years later Joe told me, with a no-teeth grin, “and I posed for the next fifty years.” The last time I saw my great friend he was very sick. His slow words told me that he had many grateful memories of Cow and Sharp and the others. It was a melancholy moment that still resonates deep within me, like a lost heartbeat. |
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