people. This may seem a small thing, but one very frequently finds that the possession of a different material brings in a change in the whole character of the work done with it. Such Indian paintings as I have seen in the new and more complex medium are indeed different from any of the old designs, but they have lost none of the old quality of genuineness. The decadent work done for commercial purposes which I mentioned previously is rather uncommon, and is found in only the few places where the pressure of the white man has finally caused routine performance and a desire for quantity, in place of that satisfaction of instinct which is the secret of Indian life and art.
What noble designs instinct produced on the pottery of the Hopi! As one goes over a collection of several thougand specimens, one is impressed by their really infinite variety. Here are two pictures of the Sun-God, the feathers used in the dance to represent his beard (the rays of the sun) being disposed in almost exactly the same position, the same drawing of the face and the same colours being used, as tradition has dictated. But if the two images were produced by the same artist, they were produced at two different moments of time, and that great faculty the Indian has-of following his mood has given to the two works a shade of difference, one from the other, so that both are living things. Old Nampeyo, blind to-day in her Hopi village, has handed on her art to her daughter and to other pupils, and their work may be placed beside that of their ancestors—not because it is exactly like the ancient pieces, but because it keeps up their tradition of life. A little habituation permits us to enter, to a surprising extent, into the significance of the Indian designs. We appreciate the humour which so many observers have noted as a characteristic of this people, we understand the quality of fear certain works are meant to inspire, or we follow the homage to the elements, which is one of the most constant themes of their simple and beautiful pantheism.
With such a basis for his art, with a certainty that every one of his people will understand his work (where is the white artist who can say the same?) it is not strange that what the Indian has in mind he says with naturalness and eloquence. There is no appearance of hesitation, or of correcting. The strokes of his brush are quick and sure; they move in rhythms like those of the dancers or those eagles whose flight the dance symbolizes. Or those figures painted on
