Scalp Dance by Spokane Indians

Before leaving Spokane Falls, Patil Kane dropped down to the nearby village
of Kettle Falls to paint his now-famous “Scalp Dance by Spokane Indians” in
oils on canvas. Its central figure, a woman who had lost her husband to the
Blackfeet, whirled around afire swashing and kicking in revenge a Blackfoot
scalp on a stick. Behind her, eight painted women danced and chanted, as did
the rest of the tribe to the beat of drums.
—FROM THE SPOKANE INDIANS: CHILDREN OF THE SUN
BY ROBERT H. RUBY AND JOHN A. BROWN

Always trying to steal a little bit of soul, you know? Whether it be poetry
or oils on canvas. They call themselves artists but they are really
archaeologists.
Really, that’s all any kind of art is.
And who am I. you ask? I’m the woman in the painting. I’m the
one dancing with the Blackfoot scalp on a stick. But I must tell you
the truth. I never had a husband. The artist, Paul Kane, painted me
from memory. He saw me at Fort Spokane, even touched his hand to
my face as if I were some caged and tame animal in a zoo.
“I need to memorize that curve,” he said.
In fact, I have never shared tipi and blanket with any man. When
Paul Kane touched me I struck him down and only the hurried negotiations
of a passing missionary saved me from Kane’s anger. But far
from that, I am also a healer, a woman who reserves her touch for
larger things.
Paul Kane was nothing except an artist.
But you must remember Kane was also an observant man. He
watched many Spokanes put themselves to death. He thought it was
because of gambling losses. But no, it was because of all the loss that
the Spokane Indians were forced to endure.
Like the loss of soul i felt when I found myself in that painting
years later. Ever since Paul Kane had touched me that day, I had felt
something missing: a tooth, a fingernail, a layer of skin.
You must also understand that we treated Paul Kane well even as
he conspired to steal. Some sat still for his portraits and didn’t smile
because Kane insisted they remain stoic. That was his greatest mistake.
Our smiles were everything; our laughter created portraits in the
air, more colorful and exact than any in Kane’s work.
I have seen all his paintings and Kane never let us smile. When
you see me now in that painting, dancing with the scalp, you must realize
that I didn’t have a husband, that I never danced without a smile,
that I never sat still for Kane.
That is the truth. All of it.