A dozen or so years later another explorer witnessed the same spectacle. Writes Captain George Dixon: "[These] figures . . . might be taken for a species of hieroglyphics: fishes and other animals, heads of men and various whimsical designs, are mingled in order to compose a subject . . . yet they are not deficient in a sort of elegance and perfection.”
Neither Cook nor Dixon sought to interpret their strange sightings; they seem to have been satisfied with their mere discovery. Today's traveler, when confronted by similar, although much younger specimen of the native American legacy, also remains content with the simple experience of seeing them—of being in their presence, as if being transported into the past and experiencing rather than trying to explain their purpose. Most often this is a good solution in totem contemplation, for to interpret totem poles is more than to understand primitive art; it is to attempt to comprehend an entire culture trodden down by the advances of modern age.
In the case of the American Indian culture, as in all cultures devoid of written tradition, to transpose antiquated expressions of art into modern terms without an existing standard of interpretation, is an overwhelming task. In most cases, oral traditions have long since hushed, and where some remnants still echo, there are but few left to vocalize them. Thus it seems that our lot is to try to appreciate rather than to understand these "monstrous figures." Fortunately, modern anthropology has uncovered various aspects of the history and lifestyle of the early Americans, which will aid in intelligent appreciation of their art forms.
The creators of the totem poles inhabited a lush, rugged and spectacular string of land on the Pacific Ocean. It was profusely forested with evergreens, complemented by silver streams of clear mountain water and countless rocky promontories. The inhabitants were hunters and gatherers, who harvested their livelihood from the land and the water—fish, mammals, fowls, and vegetation. Their daily and ceremonial needs were further satisfied by ingenious application of trees, grass, roots, leaves, brush, animal pelts and furs, bones, shells and stones. Skilled in woodcarving and other crafts, they built everything with their own hands, and provided shelter, transportation, communications, and everyday- and war-wares for their people. Their villages were situated near waterways in sheltered coves and bays, and their homes were large beam and post houses, where they lived in simple family communes.
Social and ceremonial structures were, however, well-defined and elaborate. The rank and file in a village was inseparably linked to the family's lineage, history, possessions and rights. The head of a household was a chief, and the highest ranking chief of all the households was chief of the village.
The early Indians' life was tied up with nature, and their respect for and understanding of the interconnectedness of all living things gave way to belief in spirits and the supernatural. All life forms had their own spirit; thus showing reverence toward the spirits ensured their good pleasure and its continuance. Oral traditions told stories of good spirits and bad spirits, as well as of the influence that certain life forms had on human behavior, skills and everyday endeavors.
During the long, dark winter, the villagers stayed close to their homes where fires burned in the central pits, casting shadows and heat into the hall. While nature slumbered under a heavy blanket of snow outside, inside families gathered for special ceremonies, dancing, singing, chanting and feasting. Family identities were reaffirmed and past histories were retold and re-enacted in costumed plays and dances. Sense of identity was further strengthened by carved crests and legends on totem poles. As the winter gave way to warm spring and the dances and ceremonies ended, the family cohesiveness was still accentuated by the mere presence of totem poles, which showed the visitor who lived in the house and what his rank was.
Important events in the life of a family—such as birth, marriage, death, acquisition of land or property—were announced in a lavish ceremony called "potlatch," where the highlight was the raising of a new totem pole. The word potlatch means "to give" in the dialect of Nuu-chah-nulth, and giving was truly the essence of such an event, for it meant organizing a grand feast to which chiefs and their families near and far were invited.
The preparations were long and tedious—and very costly, thus only the wealthy could undertake such an affair. Often rival chiefs would try to outdo each other, not only by the amount and quality of the feast itself, but by the display of wealth in the form of crests, masks, stories, songs, heirlooms and other properties. The ownership of natural resources was also important, for the owner of fishing streams, hunting grounds, cedar forests, clam beaches and so on, could eloquently boast his assets in song and dance.
The potlatches, where hundreds of guests gathered, could last for days or for weeks, depending on the chief's resources. Quite often the resources were tested, for it was not enough to feed and entertain the guests, but appropriate gifts were to be given to each guest as well, fitting for his rank and status. At the end of the potlatch, surplus food was distributed among the guests for the homeward journey and the rest of the villagers back home.
Appropriately, a lavish potlatch would provide prestige and social stature to its giver, and stories of them would live long among the guests. But historically, the most significant reminders of the elaborate social custom of potlatching are the totem poles which were ceremoniously erected on each occasion. Thus the trade of totem carver was well-respected and held mysterious importance.
Totem poles were carved from red cedar. It took an experienced person to choose a tree that was straight, with beautiful grain and few knots. It was also important to find a faultless tree near a waterway for ease of transportation. Before cutting the tree, the faller ritually invoked the spirit of the tree, asking it to fall in the right direction and to stay whole.
For a carver, a chief would commission a well-known artist, possibly from another village. He told the carver what he wanted on the pole—crests and other figures, which all represented either personal strengths, family traits or fables—and the order in which they should appear, but the design and representation were left in the artist's skilled hands. There is evidence that often the carver took vast artistic liberties by putting into the designs hidden meanings and visual puns of his own. Thus the meaning of a totem pole was completely personalized, and to try to interpret the carvings would require consulting both the owner and the carver. Recorded information like this falls in the category of oral transmission, which can provide only hesitant and cursory information; most of the meanings have died along with the people who specified them in word and execution.
Once the tree was horizontal, the carver and his apprentices stripped off the bark and adzed the sappy wood. The carver then outlined the designs on the log with charcoal, and commenced chiseling and carving to give form to the figures. Any protruding elements, such as outstretched wings, open fins or large beaks, were carved separately and then joined with pegs or by mortise and tenon. The carving was always done in protected areas, hidden from the view of the village until the auspicious raising was to take place.
If the poles were to be painted, the choice of colors and areas depended on local traditions. Pigments were derived from minerals which were ground into powder and bound with glutinous fish eggs. With European contacts, commercial paints became available, and the color palette was broadened considerably.
For the casual contemplation of these mysterious remnants of a grand culture several guidelines can be given. First consideration is that there were several types of poles, all erected for different reasons and for different effects, whether freestanding or architectural.
There were house posts, which supported the main beams of a house; house frontal poles stood against the front of a house and literally contained the doorway in some whimsical way; memorial poles were freestanding and were erected in honor of a chief who had died, usually commissioned by his successor; mortuary poles normally contained the remains of the dead in grave boxes that were incorporated in their design in some manner; grave markers were self-explanatory indicators where people were buried; and welcome figures, usually in the form of a man, were raised on the beaches and coasts to welcome visitors arriving by canoes.
A pole should be "read" from the top down. The topmost figure—be it an eagle, a thunderbird or a raven—usually identifies the owner through his crest. Although the old adage purports that "the top man on the totem pole" is the most important, it is actually the largest figure that carries the most importance. Generally it is situated at the base of the pole, thus occupying the most prominent position in the totem story. Smaller figures are less important, some of them just filling empty spaces, such as the area on the chest, ears or between legs. All creatures' presence has some meaning, although long gone with the past generations.
Three other general considerations will add more pleasure to totem contemplation: differences between cultural styles, the skill of the carvers and recognizing life forms. Even a casual observer readily sees that there must have been some traditions and rules within which the carver worked. These apply to various degrees of stylizing and abstraction of life forms, their placement on the pole and the depth of carving.
The most superficial—but certainly not the least artistic—carving appears in the totem poles for the Haida region, which encompasses Queen Charlotte Islands and nearby parts of Alaska. Here the design is essentially two-dimensional, in low relief, seemingly wrapping around the tree trunk like a picture. Few projections or recesses are found: the beaks and wings of birds and the snouts of animals appear flat, turning downward into the pole.
The Tsimshian on the mainland around Rupert, by contrast, worked with rules that called for more pronounced sculptural features: the birds' beaks are projected, humans have outreached arms, and carving is generally cut deep into the wood.
The Kwagiutl-speaking people of northern Vancouver Island and adjacent mainland endowed their totem poles with the most degree of form and natural shape. Birds' wings flare out and their beaks jut prominently forward. The degree of sculpting is particularly evident in human-like faces.
Other aspects for stylistic consideration include posture and proportion. In Haida and Tsimshian traditions, figures—whether human, animal or bird—have knees and elbows almost touching, while the Kwagiutl people show more natural postures. The size of the head in proportion to the rest of the body is another distinctive feature. The Kwagiutl poles have more natural proportions, while in the Haida pole, the human head is the size of the rest of the body, and in the Tsimshian style, the head is half the size of the body.
Another feature that is readily discerned is the arrangement of major figures on the pole, particularly their horizontal separation. The most marked differences are between the Haida and the Tsimshian poles. The latter have a definite break between the layers of figures, while on the former, the figures are entwined in such a manner as to make it difficult to assign the proper limbs and body parts to the figures.
The tallest known totem pole from the 19th century is more than 24 meters tall and is displayed in the Royal Ontario Museum. Most poles, however, ranged between three and 18 meters. The estimated life span of a totem pole is less than 100 years; the coastal climate imposes conditions on untreated wood which will cause it to decay within 50 to 60 years. Thus the poles that called for Cook's and Dixon's exultations are long gone. And though poles may live indefinitely once brought inside, it is much more satisfying to observe them by a river, on a promontory or by a log house.
While much of the ceremonial significance of totem poles of today has faded, their beauty and intrigue live on. Thanks to the revived interest in the 1950’s to reach back into a dying nation’s legacy, the new generation’s curiosity into faded memories of ceremonies, songs, dances, legends and tribal crests was awakened, and old skills were resurrected. The nearly extinct art of pole-carving was most notably carried on by Mungo Martin who was commissioned to replicate old and decaying Kwakiutl poles—a far-sighted act by the University of British Columbia’s Museum of Anthropology. Mungo Martin was the impetus for the rising generation of carvers whose works can be seen in non-traditional venues—museums, schools, and corporate and government buildings. This rekindled interest in totem poles is burning brightly, signaling a new era for the native arts of the American Indians.
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This page was created on March 15, 1998
Most recent revision: March 2, 2007