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Alfred Smith is an artist. He is such an artist that a merchant gladly traded his work of making expensive western hand made hats for one of Alfred's paintings.
Now if you knew Alfred you would know he is a quiet spoken man, who seems to enjoy more than anything, just listening. On occasion if he is asked a question he quietly thinks his answer through before answering. In his youth he was employed at Oklahoma University and this is where he, too, graduated.
Cheryl Smith, his wife is a great promoter and acts as his agent. She is a bubbly, vivacious, and is extremely, what we of our age would call, "turned out." In other words you never see her without knowing she spent a goodly amount of time on her dress. Cheryl worked at Alcatraz as a guide, worked at Berkley University in California, and worked as a librarian where she had children who loved her pet goose, for whom she had fashioned a diaper
Cheryl loves people, period. She easily drifts in and out of the Native American culture whether that be a large summer gathering, (I've been scolded for using the word, "pow-wow,"
but I sure I will again), whether it be a gathering, a family feast for someone she knows who passed, a guarded Ha-Lawn-
Skha (a kind of secret society for Native men, but is attended by women who provide food), a memorial dinner, and on and on.
Once when I sang with my harpsicord she joined in by whistling in the most clever way. This is the way she is, and
believe me in this ultra-conservative area Cheryl is often a subject for raised eye brows.
Nevertheless, she lightens my day with her knowledge of this or that rare subject, and brings me books of the most fabulous secrets like the one with pictures of writings on rocks in America of the Phoenician sailors and their boats.
At one of my booksignings she gladly modeled one of Mother's hand made Cherokee Dresses. That picture graces my museum wall.
A couple of years ago I gave her a painting I titled, "Old Teapots Never Die." It was of an old, black, iron tea pot filled with a bright arrangement of Zinnias.
Imagine my surprise last week, when I was down with the pain in my leg, imagine my surprise to see the beautiful cards she had made up with that painting on the fronts. The title on the back, "Old Teapots Never Die," was just what I needed to
lift my spirits.
This is just the way of Cheryl Smith. They were at Market in New Mexico with Alfred's painting last week-end. I wished them great sucess. And whether or not Alfred sold, I know Cheryl was drifting about the area, looking, visiting, picking up brochures and, she will bring all that back with her. If they sell cards with my black, iron teapot on them, what better way is there to advertise my work? Old Teapots really never do, die.
Now if you knew Alfred you would know he is a quiet spoken man, who seems to enjoy more than anything, just listening. On occasion if he is asked a question he quietly thinks his answer through before answering. In his youth he was employed at Oklahoma University and this is where he, too, graduated.
Cheryl Smith, his wife is a great promoter and acts as his agent. She is a bubbly, vivacious, and is extremely, what we of our age would call, "turned out." In other words you never see her without knowing she spent a goodly amount of time on her dress. Cheryl worked at Alcatraz as a guide, worked at Berkley University in California, and worked as a librarian where she had children who loved her pet goose, for whom she had fashioned a diaper
Cheryl loves people, period. She easily drifts in and out of the Native American culture whether that be a large summer gathering, (I've been scolded for using the word, "pow-wow,"
but I sure I will again), whether it be a gathering, a family feast for someone she knows who passed, a guarded Ha-Lawn-
Skha (a kind of secret society for Native men, but is attended by women who provide food), a memorial dinner, and on and on.
Once when I sang with my harpsicord she joined in by whistling in the most clever way. This is the way she is, and
believe me in this ultra-conservative area Cheryl is often a subject for raised eye brows.
Nevertheless, she lightens my day with her knowledge of this or that rare subject, and brings me books of the most fabulous secrets like the one with pictures of writings on rocks in America of the Phoenician sailors and their boats.
At one of my booksignings she gladly modeled one of Mother's hand made Cherokee Dresses. That picture graces my museum wall.
A couple of years ago I gave her a painting I titled, "Old Teapots Never Die." It was of an old, black, iron tea pot filled with a bright arrangement of Zinnias.
Imagine my surprise last week, when I was down with the pain in my leg, imagine my surprise to see the beautiful cards she had made up with that painting on the fronts. The title on the back, "Old Teapots Never Die," was just what I needed to
lift my spirits.
This is just the way of Cheryl Smith. They were at Market in New Mexico with Alfred's painting last week-end. I wished them great sucess. And whether or not Alfred sold, I know Cheryl was drifting about the area, looking, visiting, picking up brochures and, she will bring all that back with her. If they sell cards with my black, iron teapot on them, what better way is there to advertise my work? Old Teapots really never do, die.
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