Ode to The Western, then and now

I’ve often wondered if my childhood fascination with Westerns led to my eventual move to Colorado. Some unconscious imprinting of Western landscapes made me far more inclined to look west rather than east for a possible new home. The answer, which is no doubt more complex, will probably stay lodged in my unconscious. Last week, when I went to see the newest exhibit at The Denver Art Museum (DAM)—"The Western: An Epic in Art and Film"—I didn’t discover an answer, but came up with more questions. The central ones: What cultural and aesthetic ideas shaped my generation as we grow up, and how do movies and TV shows reflect the times during which they’re made?

I enjoyed the exhibit, especially as my friend and film buff, Gayle Novak, joined me for it. She’s an excellent film historian, starting in childhood, having grown up with a movie theater just down the street and no in-home TV to distract her. My experience was opposite—no nearby theater, but a TV set in the living room from my earliest days. Gene Autry, the singing cowboy, got a TV show in the 50s and I was a devoted fan. Writing this, I detoured to youtube, and sure enough, this clip turned up, accompanied by photos from another favorite, Little House on the Prairie.

Along with the Gene Autry Show, I loved The Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Show, The Lone Ranger, Broken Arrow, The Range Rider, Wagon Train and others, none of which are in this exhibit, though I remembered them all as I went through the museum.  All together, they offered me a kind of time travel, set a half century or more earlier, in a very different environment from the one I had in Hammond, Indiana. Of course they reflected 1950s-era mythologies of the Old West and family life. They must have shaped my early understanding of gender roles—with men doing the exciting stuff and women left back at the ranch. Unconsciously I absorbed the idea that the population was essentially white. There were “noble Indians” and “dangerous Indians” in those early days, a mythology masking the taking of the West from Native Americans.

As Gayle and I walked through the exhibit, it was the video clips the drew most of our attention, especially the films of the late John Ford.  In childhood, while I sat in front of the TV, Gayle was in the movie theater, watching his films. There’s a retrospective of Ford’s films in the DAM exhibit. A well-deserved one, both for the magnitude of his work (5 decades, 100 films), but also for his artistry. As the museum program notes, “Ford was inspired by the landscapes, characters, and dramas of nineteenth-century painters. In part by studying classic western American artists, Ford developed an artistry that elevated him to what he termed a “picture maker.’”

At the beginning of the exhibit, 19th century paintings were the focus, and Gayle was quite familiar with that genre as well. Our attention was drawn to George Catlin’s 1832 painting of Four Bears, Second Chief in Full Dress. Catlin claimed to be the first white man to paint Plains Indians. We might guess there are fewer cultural stereotypes in his work than what we see in the work of later generations, yet he was also viewing “the other”, the “exotic” ceremonial dress of Native chiefs. He painted hundreds of portraits, many of which are now in The Smithsonian.

C.M. Russell, a prolific late 19th century painter, is also represented in the exhibit, and a museum guard, noting Gayle's knowledgeable comments to me, advised us not to miss the colors in his painting in the next room. Yes, wonderful color, and it clearly shows the hazards of travel in the Old West, though I found myself idly wondering how they got so many people in one stagecoach. 

As we continued through the exhibit, I remembered how TV eventually gave me access to Ford's work after networks got the rights to broadcast classic films in the mid-50s. The titles blur in memory; no doubt I followed along with the stories, only dimly aware of who the director was and the cinematic genius he revealed in his work. Yet, last week as I watched the clips selected for this exhibit, I saw what a breath-taking scene composer Ford was. In particular, scenes from The Searchers (1956), considered one of the greatest Westerns of all time, and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) show this artistry.  I wondered if back in the day, my unconscious also picked up a sense of good picture composition as I watched them. If so, thank you, John Ford. The beginning of this clip from The Searchers illustrates his genius with composition.

Two great morality Westerns with lonely, courageous heroes— High Noon (1952) and Shane (1953), are given their due. This theater marquis for High Noon reminded me of those pre-digital days when we watched everything on a big screen, in relative silence, with hundreds of others.  Gayle and I watched video clips, along with one of Giant (1956), which featured the iconic James Dean just before his tragic early death. This film, based on a novel by Edna Ferber, deals with racism and the politics of wealth and oil in Texas. A foreshadowing of the 1960s, waiting in the wing. 

Ford’s last Western, Cheyenne Autumn (1964) was his elegy to Native Americans. It was a Hollywood version of an actual event, The Northern Cheyenne Exodus of 1878-9, in which the Cheyenne, forcibly removed south, attempted to return. I missed this one at the theater, 1964 being the year I graduated from high school and got ready to enter college. During the 60s, the Western genre turned to new interpretations of history. I saw Little Big Man (1970) with college friends and applauded the elevation of Native Americans and critique of the U.S. Cavalry. The Vietnam war was raging, and anti-military critiques found a very receptive audience. 

That same year, 1970, a book gave me my first understanding of the massive injustice done to Native Americans by White settlers—Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. By the late 60s, the American Indian Movement was organized to redress these continuing injustices. One of the founders was the late Russell Means, and you can see Andy Warhol’s famed politicized portrait of him in this exhibit. The magazine covers below ("Return of the Red Man" and "A Choice of Heroes") acknowledge the cultural changes going on with revisionist history and a reframing of heroism. 

The counterculture Easy Rider (1969) used the same landscapes as earlier Westerns, but replacing cowboys with drug-dealing bikers traveling cross country, finding a mix of tradition, communes, free love and lots of violence. I remember seeing this film then, as a young woman who had never traveled cross country, indulged in free love or tried marijuana, probably with the same sense of wonder and puzzlement I felt as a Midwestern child looking at The Old West. The Easy Rider bike, shown in front of a video clip, is enshrined in the exhibit.

The exhibit continues with a tribute to the genre of “spaghetti Westerns”, typified by The Good, The Bad and the Ugly (1966), directed by Sergio Leone and starring Clint Eastwood as “Blondie”, the bounty hunter. Leone was noted for his use of violence, tension and stylistic gun fights, and though the genre was disparaged then, this film has stood the test of time it seems. Somewhat stunned by the scale, Gayle and I stood in a circular space, surrounded by large video screens, each with a tough gunslinger, positioned in a Mexican standoff, ready to draw and shoot. Seeing Eastwood, I remembered his award-winning Unforgiven (1992), which he directed and dedicated to Leone. It was probably the first “anti-Western” I saw, one which challenged all of the old myths of heroism and justice, replacing them with a scathing critique of violence and human cruelty.

The exhibit ends with a display of various sometimes-puzzling postmodern works, including a tipi furnished with Victorian furniture and featuring a satirical western skit on video. Perhaps some examples from the sci fi and fantasy genre (Star Wars and The Hunger Games, for example) would have been a better way to finish.  Those films are places where young people today find cultural representations of all the old themes—justice, morality, freedom and their evil dystopian twins—human folly and cruelty--in the context of the early 21st century.

Meow Wolf: a Disneyland of the weird and fascinating

I had one of the most amazing art experiences of my life in Santa Fe this week--an experience that had nothing to do with some of the iconic images of Santa Fe: Native American pottery, silverware, turquoise, pastel adobe walls, Georgia O'Keeffe's flowers and landscapes. It happened at the newest art installation in that city, intriguingly named Meow Wolf, which opened last month in a former bowling alley. Not quite sure what to expect--having only the recommendation of a friend of a friend who insisted it's a DO NOT MISS experience--I arrived with Berta and Jackie, prepared to enter an "interactive" magical world. Two hours later, somewhat dazed and filled with appreciative wonder, we left The House of Eternal Return, the first permanent exhibit in this space, created during the past  two years by a cooperative of 135 artists and story makers.

The bright lobby, which includes large spaces for making art, didn't quite prepare us for our trip through--well, other dimensions of time and space. Entering the exhibit, we were presented with the front of a very ordinary Victorian-style house. Entering the circa-1970s interior, we could see signs that something extraordinary happened to the fictional family that lived here. There are clues to the family's interests and special powers in each of the rooms, but we didn't linger there. Instead we discovered that we could enter other dimensions in a number of ways: walking through the refrigerator or a back door or an upstairs passage, or as I did, by crawling through the fireplace.

Inside were two floors of interwoven lights, sets, spaces to explore, things to touch. Soon after entering, I walked through this neon-lit dinosaur skeleton. On the floor were drumsticks. Why not pick them up, strike them somewhere and try to get a sound?

It didn't take long before we were in an undersea enchanted forest, looking up, around the through.

Exiting, I found this inviting small space.

There are no plaques explaining anything or crediting individual artists. The art is the experience, and you are invited to create it, and the others visiting that day become part of that too.

Above are my companions, Roberta and Jackie. Below is what attracted Roberta's notice. Our gaze could go anywhere, up, down, to the side. So different from traditional museum experiences.

Touching was allowed and moving things around. Kid visitors caught on to this quickly.

My favorite space was an octagon-shaped, rigid-board tent. Crawl inside onto the artificial grass floor and look and listen. You'll see intermittently-glowing eyes or insect shapes along with a tape of night sounds. There were other soundscapes: red beams of light that could be played like a harp.

Sometimes, like artists often want you to do, you see familiar things from different angles and out of context. Note these wheels and axle.

Passing into one of the many nooks and crannies, I peered through a window and saw this bird vision.

For more on the future of Meow Wolf and the originators' for this space, take a look at this article by Annalee Newitz in ars technica.

Just a day before my friends and I had visited the wonderful Museum for International Folk Art in Santa Fe. The exhibits were mainly a labor of delight by the Girard family, who collected scenes and figures from around the world. We stared, fascinated at the displays behind glass and read the history of each piece. A place for this art too, with all of its detail, creativity and beauty. Yet, somehow it's Meow Wolf that haunts me today, a couple of days after our visit. It's the folk art of the present, Jackie mused, and I agree. Perhaps the future too.

Toys weRen't Us

One thing about entering early old age is the realization that your childhood was a very long time ago—well over half a century. Like most memories, it eventually fades into a series of moments, snapshots of times connected to salient emotions, usually happening in summer. I was a lucky kid, with many happy mental snapshots to muse over now. I grew up in the 50’s, in Hammond, Indiana, a satellite city of Chicago. My parents moved there when I was 5. They bought a small house with a front and back yard, and in an era of free-range parenting as the norm, I spent most of the summer outdoors. My sister, Joanie, was almost 6 years younger, so I remember hanging out mostly with other little girls my age who lived across the street from me.

When I heard that the History Colorado Center in Denver was holding a Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit this year, I wasn’t sure it would be all that relevant. What I remember more than toys were activities. During my first 10 years of life, I jumped rope, rode my bike, roller skated, played hop scotch, splashed in an inflatable kids’ pool, spent hours searching for 4-leaf clover or watching grasshoppers on the fence, took our dog Ginger for walks, twirled my hula hoop, or poured sand in the sandbox. On hot summer days, my mom would turn the sprinkler on and Eileen and I would run through it. Here we are, with me trying to make a funny face that turned into a grimace, yet I was having just as much fun as my friend. When I was older I played badminton in Cheryl’s backyard across the street, regrettably the only sport I practiced.

I did have some toys, however. When I was very young, I had this baby doll. 

Other dolls came later, though I don’t remember being that obsessed with them, except during a paper-doll phase. For the most part, I enjoyed being a little tomboy.

Of course, you could say my hula hoop and jump rope were toys. Both of these icons are now in the National Toy Hall of Fame. In addition, I had Tinker Toys, jacks, pick-up sticks, marbles, and a yoyo, plus various games such as playing cards, Chinese checkers, Cootie, and Mr. Potatohead. So yes, I had reason to go to the History Colorado exhibit last month to see what childhood memories might be teased out. The exhibit is divided into decades. As I walked in, I re-entered the 50s and was entranced. For my readers who also grew up in the 50s, take a look at these images:

Cootie—still selling into the early 21st century(!)—is a roll and move tabletop game, where chance not skill rules. In 2003 it was added to the Toy Industry Association’s Century of Toys list—a list of the “100 most memorable and creative toys” of the 20th century.

Paper dolls were offered in McCall’s magazine each month, and many other cut-out books followed.

The hula hoop, a product of the late 50s, is definitely a crossover—from century to century, from child to adult. Wikipedia has a fascinating account of the postmodern revival of this toy with ancient roots. In this photo, I was more like the girl in the center, swiveling my hips inside just one hoop.

Special mention goes to this one: Mr. Potato Head. Special because it was the first toy marketed directly to children through TV ads; that was in 1952. Though the admen were rank amateurs compared to their counterparts today, it worked. Millions were sold (at 98 cents each) in the first year. I had one of the early versions, which required me to get a real potato from my mom. Later the kit came with a plastic body and parts conforming to toy safety regulations of the early 60s.

Were yesterday’s toys better or equal to the toys of today, produced in far more colors, with  far more sophisticated bells and whistles? It’s tempting to say yes. A friend who teaches pre-schoolers says classic toys were good for kids because they were simple; they only did one thing. We were required to manipulate them ourselves, using our imagination. That seems true enough, as the list of award-winners in the National Toy Hall of Fame confirm the value of many. Criteria for induction include icon status, longevity, discovery, and innovation.” Some of my favorites among the inductees: marbles, Monopoly, the Duncan yoyo, Tinker Toys, Etch a Sketch, jump rope, Mr. Potato Head, the jigsaw puzzle, Checkers, the cardboard box, and playing cards.

However, looking back, we can see that the 50s were not toy paradise—at least not for everyone. As the History Colorado exhibit points out, there was no concept of “culturally sensitive” toys. Cowboy and Indian games were prevalent—with all of the stereotypes reflected in the Westerns shown on TV. (I confess I loved many of those shows, especially the singing cowboy, Gene Autry, as well as Roy Rogers and Dale Evans.) 

I like to think my stereotypes of Native Americans were at least positive ones. After a Wisconsin family vacation when I was 10, I became fascinated with moccasins, deerskin dresses, and the long black hair on an Indian doll my parents bought me. 

Only one black-skinned doll was marketed during this era. In 1949 Florida businesswoman Sara Lee Creech wanted to make a doll that promoted positive images of African-Americans among children of all races. She had watched a group of black kids playing with white dolls and thought they should have other choices. Her efforts drew praise from many, including author Zora Neale Hurston and former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.  Unfortunately, the doll did not sell well and there was also a problem with the materials used. But for a time (until 1953), parents could order one from the Sears catalog for $6.95. In those days, no one talked about gender stereotyping either. Fortunately, my doll stage pre-dated hyper-feminine Barbie, and my literary heroine—the intrepid sleuth Nancy Drew—never dressed as a princess. 

Today parents have thousands of choices in Toys R Us or other retail shops—with higher price tags, of course—but also with far more sophisticated materials and technology. Not to mention electronics. (Anyone remember the first electronic toy? Yes, “Simon” in 1978!) Are kids today engaged in more complex ways than we were? Do they have more fun? Do they feel more frustrated because their parents  can’t afford the toys they see advertised? Do they tend to be more or less active? Are they totally spoiled because there are fewer kids and more doting relatives? Do they see accurate representations of gender or ethnicity in the toys they receive? I’d love to hear your opinions, no matter how partial.

I make no judgment about the toys of the 21st century, as I haven’t shopped for toys in a long while. Such a profusion of choices would probably make me dizzy if I entered a store. For assessments of value, we might just have to wait for the test of time—the Toy of Fame inductees of the future.

If you’re in or near Denver, try to catch the Toys of the 50s, 60s and 70s exhibit before it closes October 4.