The Story of Dragonfly
I have often explored how life shapes art, reflecting on how our lived experiences provide the seeds for new work, often in the most diminutive and uncanny ways. My unlikely award-winning piece, Dragonfly, is a direct result of this—a creation born from my time in tribal leadership in 2025.
When 2026 began, I was immediately thrust back into the world of clay. I sighed with relief at first, realizing my former appointment would no longer require my urgent attention. Yet, as I settled back into the studio, I realized my creative consciousness was still occupied by the weight of my past service. I kept reflecting on the nature of leadership at that level: we are truly seen as symbolic figures by our people. We represent hope, communicate news, mediate, and solve problems. How one manages those responsibilities depends largely on their own personal traits, abilities, and heart.
To lead is to carry the lineage of all those who served before us. Their wisdom, insight, and spirit of leadership are physically held within the canes of power we possess during our service. They represent the highest expectations to behold; I took that weight with the utmost respect and conducted myself accordingly, not realizing how deeply it had settled into my hands until I began to work again creatively.
In early February, as I sat at my dining room table forming slabs of clay with my hands, the elements came together with a natural, symmetrical urgency. Though figurines are not a regular part of my repertoire, this felt right. As the core took shape, I added layers of complexity—black designs in a complementary style, polygonal faces, and carved engravings. I squinted and realized how much this piece looked almost angelic in nature, standing at attention with multiple wings, patiently waiting.
When the firing was complete, I held the piece with both hands and stared—and he stared right back at me. Not in a sense of making eye contact, but in the totality of the symbolic shape itself. It looked like my work, yet it felt like it belonged to someone else. I couldn't call him Governor—that felt too contrived—but then I remembered a moment from the fall of 2025.
I had been walking in my yard, likely taking the trash out, when I saw a flash of metal in the sunlight. Dusty and tarnished, I gasped when I picked it up: a piece of Pueblo-made jewelry in the shape of a dragonfly. In the Cochiti Keres language, the word for dragonfly is ta-po’p. But ta-po’p carries a dual meaning: it is also our word for Governor. In that moment in the dirt, I hadn't realized I was holding the name of a masterpiece yet to be born.
The End.
