“Capturing Heritage: The Extraordinary Lens of Dugan Aguilar, California’s Celebrated Native American Photographer”

As a Native American photographer, the late Dugan Aguilar cherished nothing more than depicting Native American faces. “I perceive beauty in individuals,” he famously remarked.

For Aguilar, who dedicated over 40 years to capturing images of Native Americans in his home region of California, it was particularly vital for those he represented to feel like collaborators.

This spirit of generosity shines through in his numerous breathtaking black-and-white portraits featured in “Born of the Bear Dance: Dugan Aguilar’s Photographs of Native California.” The retrospective, presently on display at the Oakland Museum of California, runs until June 22.

The exhibit highlights how Aguilar’s collaborative method carries considerable cultural significance, especially considering the extensive and painful history of Native Americans being exploited through white photographers’ lenses. Aguilar, who passed away in 2018 at the age of 71, never considered himself as “taking” photographs, as noted in the exhibit; instead, he felt he was “receiving” a gift from those who partook in his imagery.

In one remarkable instance, his approach was pivotal in creating some of the standout portraits in the exhibition. In 1995, he encountered a technical dilemma while covering the Big Time Celebration at Chaw’se, also known as Indian Grinding Rock Historic Park, near Jackson in the Sierra foothills. He wished to capture a series of portraits of women and men in front of the roundhouse, with most of the seven donning ceremonial garb embellished with elaborate traditional beading and feathers.

However, Aguilar found himself on his last roll of film. In a pre-digital era, this meant that nearly every shot had to be flawless, a challenge that many professional photographers would deem quite daunting.

The signage for the exhibit shares Aguilar’s account of how he navigated the situation: He approached the seven, including a woman with her infant, and informed them of an upcoming exhibition at UC Davis, one of the institutions where he studied photography after returning from Vietnam.

“If you all are willing to assist me, I would like to see if I can capture an image or two for the show,’” he expressed. “What amazed me is that from one roll of film, every photograph was exceptional. I’m content if I can acquire one image from a roll.”

Drew Johnson, the curator of photography and visual culture at the Oakland museum, is in awe of the artistry present in the nearly three-decade-old images, stating that Aguilar couldn’t have produced them unless each individual felt completely at ease with him.

In each image, the subject gazes directly into his camera, exuding a sense of tranquility, pride, and self-assurance. In “Sarah Keller, Chaw’se Roundhouse,” a young woman wearing a fur headpiece and beads partly obscuring her eyes stands with her chin elevated and a smile gracing her lips, as if she and Aguilar are sharing a moment of acknowledgment and happiness.

Dustin Aguilar, Dugan’s son, concurred that his father possessed an extraordinary knack for making anyone feel relaxed – “almost instantly.” He appreciates how the photographs are imbued with his father’s “soft energy.” Aguilar remarked that each photograph embodies a “spirit or feeling,” and he preferred his images to convey a sense of “calm and tranquility.”

The images from the Chaw’se festivities represent only a fraction of the Oakland museum exhibition, which is sourced from an expansive collection of 25,000 negatives, prints, and transparencies captured by Aguilar from 1982 until his passing.

When Aguilar’s family bequeathed his archive to the Oakland museum in 2022, their contribution became “one of the most significant photographic acquisitions by the museum in many years,” Johnson remarked.

The photographs chronicle a diverse range of contemporary Native American experiences across California from a Native American perspective. They depict individuals and families engaging in ceremonies, expressing their pride in basket weaving and other crafts, interacting with their natural surroundings, or simply going about their daily lives.

“It seems as though the Indigenous peoples of California are invisible in the minds of many, and I aim to rectify that perception,” the exhibit references Aguilar having stated.

In several respects, Aguilar occupied a leading role in a burgeoning movement among Native American visual artists, writers, and filmmakers, who are creating avenues to narrate their own stories. Since the 19th century, white scholars, documentarians, and Hollywood filmmakers predominantly portrayed images of real or fictional Native Americans in a manner that represented them as exotic others or subjects to be studied, feared, or pitied within some “tragic, antiquated narrative,” Johnson elaborated.

Aguilar’s heritage granted him exclusive insights. Born in Susanville, to the east of Mount Lassen, Aguilar belonged to Mountain Maidu, Pit River, and Walker River lineages. He was raised attending Native American rites, such as the yearly Bear Dance, a spring ceremony symbolizing renewal that inspired the title of this exhibition.

However, Aguilar also bore the burden of Native Americans’ history in the U.S., shouldering “the collective traumas of genocide and cultural erasure,” his cousin Chag Lowry penned in the Smithsonian’s American Indian Magazine. Among various challenges, Aguilar’s parents endured Indian boarding schools, a system employed by federal and state authorities to forcibly displace, exterminate, or culturally assimilate Native peoples during the 19th and 20th centuries.

His additional anguish stemmed from his Vietnam service, which left him with lifelong ramifications of PTSD and exposure to Agent Orange, according to his family. In the later years of his life, he battled Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s diseases.

Before contemplating a career as a photographer, Aguilar adhered to a family legacy. His father and uncles were highly decorated servicemen from World War II and the Korean War. Yet, Aguilar’s conflict was in Vietnam, and Dustin Aguilar believes his father enlisted in the Marines in 1968, anticipating a draft regardless.

Though Aguilar took pride in his connections with fellow veterans, he seldom recounted his wartime encounters. Dustin Aguilar theorizes that his father dealt with his trauma by striving to maintain a calm façade. Lowry believes he found solace through his photography.

After obtaining a degree in industrial technology and design from CSU Fresno, Aguilar uncovered his aptitude for photography while enrolled in a class at the University of Nevada, Reno, taught by a former assistant of renowned California landscape artist Ansel Adams.

Similar to many artists, Aguilar needed a day job; he worked in the graphics department at the Sacramento Bee. While raising a family with his spouse, Liz, in Elk Grove, he took pride in being an involved father.

Yet, whenever he could, Aguilar pursued what became his life’s mission—chronicling the present-day experiences of his fellow Native Californians—a vibrant subject, given that the state includes the traditional territories of over 100 distinct tribes.

Dustin Aguilar shared that family vacations frequently entailed road excursions to locations where his father could photograph. Aguilar became a recognizable figure at Native American gatherings throughout the state. He captured images of Maidu, Yurok, and Karuk ceremonies, as well as the annual Indian veterans’ reunion from Susanville, his hometown. Occasionally, he was the sole photographer allowed into sacred areas. Furthermore, he served as the official photographer for the California Indian Basketweavers Association, discussing a spiritual connection between the patience required for basket weaving and his work in the darkroom, bringing an image to life from film.

Some of his visual works depict Native individuals straddling their traditional practices while immersing in contemporary American culture. In “Cousin Fred, Truckee,” a youthful, leather-clad Native man rides a motorcycle as a modern-day warrior, hair flowing behind him. In another photograph, a female member of the Robinson Rancheria Band of Pomo Indians stands before skyscrapers along the Sacramento River, donning ceremonial attire.

As Aguilar developed his photographs, he also prepared large, matted versions that he offered to those he captured on film, including participants from the 1995 Chaw’se celebration. This act adhered to traditional Indigenous practices of mutual respect and reciprocity.

“I’m privileged to have earned the trust of the Indian community,” he stated. “Each day, I gain insights into my culture and my people. It’s a blessing.”

Originally Published: January 20, 2025 at 4:25 PM PST