Like Thomas, Naataanii learned to handle wool and weave as a child. She later returned to her ancestral land at Bis dah ʼazką́ (“Table Mesa”), south of “Shiprock,” where she built a practice around raising Navajo-Churro sheep, preparing and dyeing wool, spinning yarn, and weaving. In 2006, Naataanii and her mother, Sarah Naataanii, had their work included in a Diné-run rug auction at the Pagosa Fiber Festival in “Colorado.” Organized by Diné be’ iiná, the auction sought to reduce traders’ control over sales and give Diné weavers more say in how their work was priced and sold.

This auction, though separate from the one at “Crownpoint,” grew from the same effort to give weavers greater control over their work. In an interview with the National Endowment for the Arts, Naataanii said, “I’m in partnership with this work, and so I have to respect that.” Naataanii has often spoken about moving beyond regional patterns shaped for outside markets and creating textiles that respond to her own artistic ideas and Diné life. Some of her work returns to functional forms such as blankets, ponchos, and shawls; others address subjects such as the changing construction of the hogan or Diné home and the Navajo Code Talkers, the Diné service members who transmitted military messages using a code based on their language during World War II.

But the evolution of Diné weaving also raises a larger question: Who decides what the tradition looks like, and who profits from it?

According to the Arizona State Museum, 19th-century Diné weavers adapted designs from Mexican sarapes, rectangular woven blankets or garments that included serrated diamonds and vertical zigzags. The influence of traders is also seen in the Two Grey Hills textile style, named after a trading post in northwestern “New Mexico.” In the early 20th century, traders there encouraged Diné weavers to use undyed, hand-spun wool in black, white, gray, brown, and tan. These colors became a hallmark of the regional style.

Retailers have also appropriated Diné culture by using the Navajo name to market products without the Nation’s permission. In 2012, the Navajo Nation sued Urban Outfitters over products marketed under names including “Navajo.” The Nation argued, among other claims, that the branding falsely suggested an Indigenous origin. The parties settled in 2016 on confidential terms and announced plans to collaborate on authentic Indigenous jewelry. It is unclear whether the collection was ever produced.

In Anishinaabe communities across the “Great Lakes” region of present-day “Canada,” reclamation includes restoring access to porcupine quillwork. Anishinaabe artists such as Amber Waboose and Dillon Bickell are teaching and documenting a practice whose intergenerational transmission has been disrupted.

Ojibwe artist Amber Waboose (Batchewana First Nation) teaches Anishinaabe porcupine quillwork through workshops that begin with the material itself: how quills are gathered, washed, sorted, and dyed; and how they are worked into small pieces. Waboose’s teaching policy is explicit: First Nations, Inuit, and Métis participants are the priority because, as said on the workshop site, the purpose is cultural revitalization, reclamation, and reconnecting Indigenous people with an art form that has become difficult to access. Her choice sets the terms of access: who receives knowledge first, how much is taught, and what remains beyond an introductory workshop. “My priority is to revive quillwork in Indigenous communities,” Waboose writes on her workshop page.

For Dillon Bickell (Chippewas of Rama First Nation), an Anishinaabe quill worker, the break in transmission was personal. His grandmother, Lila Ingersoll, practiced quillwork, but died when his mother was young. Bickell never met her. He first tried the practice himself in a community crafting circle in 2021. “I find it almost meditative and healing working with those materials, thinking of my grandma, and just pushing the art form,” he said in an interview with The Villager early this year.

Brickell has described quillwork in Rama as a practice that once moved through families and knowledge keepers, while resources for learning it today can be difficult to find. Now he wants to document the learnings and teach others so future generations have what he did not. Bickell uses inherited quillwork techniques to create new images. Alongside floral and animal imagery, he makes quillwork depicting Grogu from The Mandalorian, Black Panther, and Mario. The materials and techniques remain connected to Anishinaabe practice while the imagery moves unapologetically into the present.

This is how the usual argument over authenticity begins to fall apart. Non-Indigenous buyers often expect Indigenous art to be immediately recognizable as traditional. That expectation can reward repetition while treating innovation as dilution. That control extends to the value of the work itself.

At “Crownpoint,” some of those answers appear on a small tag attached to each rug — a price the maker helps determine. According to a 2025 report from New Mexico Magazine, weavers receive 85% of the final sale price and are paid on the night of the auction. The association uses the fees it collects to cover the event and support community programs, including food distribution and assistance for elders.

The “Crownpoint” auction and the work of Waboose and Bickell show how reclamation can respond to different community needs. At “Crownpoint,” Diné weavers retain more control over the sale and value of their work. For Waboose and Bickell, reclamation means deciding how quillwork knowledge is shared and helping future generations access teachings that have nearly disappeared.

Colonial extraction has often separated Indigenous culture from Indigenous control. Reclamation returns that control to the people whose knowledge and labor sustain these practices. The survival of the art matters, and so does the right to decide how it is made, taught, and valued.