House of Stefani

Celilo Falls was located on the mid-Columbia River, about twelve miles east of The Dalles, Oregon.

It was not a single picturesque waterfall in the way we might imagine one today. Celilo was part of an approximately nine-mile stretch of rapids, falls, channels, rocks, and fishing places along the Columbia.

At the falls, the river narrowed dramatically. In places, the Columbia was forced through a passage as narrow as forty feet. Over roughly half a mile, the river dropped more than eighty feet.

The result was extraordinary.

Before the studio, before the awards, before anyone knew his name, there was a young man learning to see. There is a photograph of Richard Stefani taken in January 1956. He is twenty-two years old, soon to turn twenty-three. He is sitting beneath a Union Pacific Railroad calendar, turned toward someone outside the frame. He is laughing.

There is nothing particularly historic about the moment. And that may be precisely why the photograph matters.

For millennia, the falls and the surrounding stretch of the Columbia were an important Indigenous fishery and gathering place. People traveled there to fish, trade, gather, and maintain relationships that extended across a vast region. The geography of the river created extraordinarily productive fishing sites, and generations of knowledge were embedded in how people worked within its powerful current.

In Richard's photographs, that history isn't abstract.

People often ask how to begin collecting art. They expect practical advice. What should I buy? Which artists are a good investment? How do I know if something is authentic? Those are worthwhile questions. But they are not the first questions.

"Snow does not erase the world. It reveals what was always essential." There is a curious thing that happens after a snowfall.The world becomes quieter. Not only because snow absorbs sound, though it does. It is quieter because our attention changes. We walk more slowly. We notice footprints. We hear our own breathing.