Touching Stone​​​ Gallery

December 26, 1992 A.D.  Kuro-e drove past a road crew picking up thousands of paper bags and candle stubs, left-over farolitos lining both sides of the long road during Christmas. The road led towards an imposing mesa surrounded by sheer cliffs. On top was the Acoma Pueblo - People of the White Rock - also known as the Sky City. Kuro-e stopped at the visitor’s center to join several others to visit the pueblo.

​

A shuttle van took the group to the top of the mesa via a steep dirt road. A young guide with a round face named Jay met them and started the tour with a reminder, “Remember people live here, please respect the residents’ privacy.” Jay led the group past blocks of connected adobe houses, recounting the pueblo history as if reading from a textbook. The group stopped in front of a rectangular house with no door or windows, an white wooden double-ladder leaning against the roof. Jay explained, “This building is a ceremonial kiva, accessed from the rooftop. Some of you may have seen underground kivas in other pueblos. The ground here is too hard to dig, so our kivas were built above ground.” Kuro-e noticed a hole in the wall behind the ladder and asked about it. Jay looked a little surprised, he paused for a moment before answering, “In our traditions, women do not enter the kiva, that hole is for communicating with the men inside.” The tour ended at a cemetery surrounded by a low earthen wall in front of a tall and massive church with a commanding panoramic view of the surrounding country.

​

Many Native people had gathered outside the church, women wrapped in wool blankets, elderly men sitting around a bonfire, aroma of juniper smokes filled the air. They seemed to be waiting for something. Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of the church swung open. People started streaming into the church. Kuro-e followed. The interior was empty except for two rows of folding chairs lining the perimeter of the room. Elders found their chairs and sat down, facing the center. Kuro-e squeezed behind some chairs and stood with others against the walls. As more people were streaming in, some waved across the room to relatives and friends, young children played on the floor in the center. Kuro-e struck up a conversation with a grey-haired woman from Germany next to her. Neither of them knew what was going to happen. Looking around, she noted that the altar was decorated with old Christian religious paintings, but the walls were painted with Native symbols of corn plants and rain clouds. After standing for a long while, she started to feel cold and folded her arms tight against her chest.

​

That was when she heard the faint ethereal rhythmic jingles that seemed to come from nowhere. The crowd suddenly fell silent. The jingling grew louder and closer, now joined by rhythmic drumbeats and chanting. All of a sudden, the room echoed with deafening drumbeats - boom, boom, boom – as the singers marched through the entrance chanting. Two columns of dancers streamed in, men in ceremonial clothing - white leather skirts with blue and turquoise motifs, decked out with peacock and eagle feathers, pink and orange chrysanthemums. Some donned fox skins in white, grey, or brown. They were followed by women in beautiful white dress with colorful trims and motifs, silver bells tied to their arms and ankles jingling with the dance tempo. The dancers moved in unison, arms swaying, feet stamping with the drumbeats, circling the room one way then the other. The atmosphere was electrifying, the audience mesmerized. The dance went on for a long time. A shaft of afternoon sunlight broke through a high window and shone on the face of a seated elder Native woman wrapped in a colorful scrawl, who appeared to be in a trance. Kuro-e closed her eyes, transported to a time long ago, a time before the church was built, before Columbus ever set sail for the New World.

​

The drumming and dancing abruptly stopped. That brought Kuro-e back to the present. The dancers filed out of the church in silence, their expression stoic. The audience remained quiet and respectful, no one moved or applauded, the only sound being the jingling from the dancers' silver bells, fading away. This was not a show. This was a ceremony, an affirmation that despite centuries of outside meddling and suppression, their ancient culture had endured.