We the People

A lot of the issues, artists and news that have been covered on the blog this past spring and summer have now been collected in an exhibition at the Minnesota Museum of American Art. Called “We The People”, the exhibition investigates just what constitutes the American nation, and who are being excluded, at this point in history. It’s not just about the Native American experience but it is a big part of it. Among the Native American subjects that are tackled are Standing Rock, cultural appropriation and social consciousness in general.

Marlena Myles Dakota 38 + 2 Prayer Horse
Marlena Myles Dakota 38 + 2 Prayer Horse

Any believable approach to contemporary identity has to include the digital realm. Some of the work included in the exhibition seem to directly concern art’s relation to social media. For those thirsting for information, there is a lot to be found on the internet. But the tempo on social media is dizzying fast and one thing, or hashtag, is quickly replaced by another. Can art interface with this rapidity or is it doomed to always be one step behind? The exhibition offers two answers from two different art works. Marlena Myles’ “Dakota 38 + 2 Prayer Horse” is technically and aesthetically a very pleasing piece of work. But thematically it seems to arrive too late. Myles has taken the controversy of Sam Durant’s planned sculpture “Scaffold” at Minneapolis Sculpture Park as her subject. But as the conflict has already been elegantly resolved the painting has turned sadly obsolete and irrelevant.

Cannupa Hanska "The Weapon is Sharing (This Machine Kills Fascists)" from http://www.cannupahanska.com
Cannupa Hanska ”The Weapon is Sharing (This Machine Kills Fascists)” from http://www.cannupahanska.com

Cannupa Hanska has another approach. He was a notable presence at the protests at Standing Rock and his “The Weapon Is Sharing (This Machine Kills Fascists)” (2017) follows up on those protests. Like Myles’ painting this is thus a highly topical work but it manages to transcend the specific to make a comment on the nature of digital documentation in general. Hanska has recreated cellphones out of clay and printed photographs from the protests at Standing Rock onto them. He thereby gives them permanence beyond the momentary and ephemeral. At the same time, the mimicking of historical artefacts will infiltrate the archives with a narrative of resistance and protest. Cannupa Hanska’s eloquent explanation is worth quoting:

These objects mirror the decayed aesthetic of the artifact to inspire institutions who collect our sacred objects to embed this narrative into their basements and cabinets, letting these pieces join our relatives, so that our ancestors may know what we as Indigenous peoples are currently experiencing. Much as we update our statuses on social media for the current world know our stories, these objects utilize a visual language from our contemporary communication, translating into a literal form of talking to our ancestors. Confined in museums and private collections, the ancestors of all nations are close to each other, communicating and creating alliance in dark caverns, as a pooling of medicines which is reflected in our contemporary gatherings such as at Standing Rock. This work aims to let them know how we are hearing them, and we are connecting.

The exhibition is curated by four people with different backgrounds, and besides a strong Native presence the curators weigh heavily on LGBTQ themes, and issues of African American identities.

It seems like an important exhibition and I wish I could visit but it’s a little off the beaten path for me.

The exhibition runs August 17 – October 29, 2017.

 

 

Different times.

Buffy Sainte Marie said of her experience working on Sesame Street that it was ”Wonderful all around. I was on for over five years (until Reagan cut the budget for the arts). We took Big Bird to Taos Pueblo, did multicultural programming in my backyard in Hawaii, and lots in New York. They never stereotyped me, always listened to my script ideas, and stayed truly child-centered. I was breastfeeding my baby in 1976 and suggested we do a segment on it, and we did and it was perfect. (We) also did sibling rivalry, and I taught the Count to count in Cree. As a songwriter who really believes in the power of the three-minute song to change the world for short-attention-span audiences, ”Sesame Street” was right up my alley, and I’m grateful for every minute of it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=65AdU7w-Hg4&t=33s

Sometimes good intentions are not enough: the case of the well-meaning white artist

It’s been a turbulent spring and summer in the art world. As art does, it has stirred up some strong feelings in places. Add questions of race to the mix and you get something close to an uproar. There have been protest directly in galleries. There have been questions as to who has the right to represent what (which translates into: does a white person have the right to represent the experiences of other races?) Personally, I think this kind of ruckus is ultimately for the good. People and cultures that do not normally enter into dialogue have met. Maybe I’m wrong, but in some cases it seems that the parties have actually listened to each other and tried to reach some kind of agreement.

Speaking as an art lover, I consider myself an unfailing patron of the arts and its right to express whatever it wishes. If someone wants to paint swastikas on cats I say fine. My excuse is that art is complex and I can look at those swastikas and even like them without suspecting that I’ve become a Nazi. Thing is, those who protest certain art are probably also art lovers. And if some group of people takes offence, suddenly art is not so complex. Real hurt has been caused, and it can’t be theorized away.

The controversy that went the furthest this summer was the one that surrounded a sculpture by Sam Durant that was set to become a permanent part of Walker Art Center’s sculpture garden. Titled “Scaffold,” it was a representation of seven gallows used in historic U.S. government executions, including those of abolitionist John Brown in 1859, four anarchists in Chicago’s 1886 Haymarket affair, and, in 1862, 38 Dakota men in Mankato, Minn. — the largest mass execution in U.S. history.
When I first heard about Native Americans protesting the erection of “Scaffold” at the Walker Centre I was a little puzzled. Surely, I thought, they must understand that this is not a monument to genocide but a statement about historical oppression by a socially and politically minded artist. I carried this sentiment around with me for about a month or so before finally having time to sit down and get some knowledge on the matter. It was an interview with Sam Durant that made me change my mind. He explains how “Scaffold” was born out of an experienced need for the USA to own up to its past; to not sweep it under the rug but to live with it and learn from it. As an artistic gesture, that’s about as politically responsible as they come. So, how could it be that it was received so wrong? The problem, of course, was that Durant trusted that intentions would be enough. Intention, especially when good and politically commendable, is a trap of ego-centricity that makes it hard to anticipate the reactions of surrounding society. This made Durant unable to foresee what eventually happened:

“So the Dakota people basically saw something that looked like a monument to their massacre. Mankato is burned into their consciousness. It’s not abstract. As one person said to me, “That’s a killing machine.” Then it turns out that the garden is located on [historic] Dakota land. So you couldn’t have a better test case of white ignorance in one place.”

 

Often artist will cling to their intentions like lifejackets through the stormy waters of protests. “I actually meant well so it must be right”. My granddaughter offers the same excuse when accidentally harming her little sister. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to”, she repeats like a mantra of exculpation. Fair enough, but the offended party is still hurt. I think Sam Durant’s behaviour and code of conduct has been exemplary throughout his whole ordeal and can serve as guideline for artists in similar situations. He realised that good intentions are not enough. Instead of using his good intentions as a fortress to shield him from reprisals, which I suspect many in his position would have done, and he sat down with the parties that had objections against his artwork to see what could be done.
After listening to them he decided that their real hurt overshadowed theoretical artistic importance. Giacometti famously said that given the choice on whether to save a Rembrandt or a cat from a fire, he would save the cat. Durant has also proven to be an artist that self-denyingly chooses life above his art. And as the ultimate sacrifice, Durant signed over all the rights to the work to the Dakota tribe which then had a ceremonial burning of it.

Post-structuralist art theory teaches that intention means nothing. Meaning ultimately lies with the receiving party. Caught in a racial jam, most artists will choose to ignore that lesson. Not Durant. He was willing to right his wrongs when he found that intentions could not be eternalized into general consensus.

I write this not as a deterrence for artist to step out of the boundaries of their racially defined experience. On the contrary, I think artists should not be afraid to speak on experiences that are not theirs. At least part of the artist’s task is to imagine other realities, so why not those of other races.
I think we need more well-intentioned failures. As evidenced by the Durant case, that’s when dialogue can happen. But if you are going to fail, please acknowledge it. Otherwise you might end up defending something others consider racist and suddenly your good intentions have turned unintentionally detrimental.

How Star Wars has inspired Native American art.

Yesterday marked the 40th anniversary of the Star Wars franchise. What better way to celebrate than to show some examples of how Star Wars has appealed to Native artists.
Besides a notable similarity between traditional Hopi hairstyles and how Princess Leia wears her hair, as illustrated by Nicholas Galanin, Star Wars has little direct relevance to Native culturRyanSinger the new ambassadors, 2015e. But of course Native peoples watch movies too. And the classic tale of good triumphing over evil seem to hold something different for everyone to identify with.

Navajo artist Ryan Singer, represented by Kiva Gallery, relies heavily on pop culture in his painting so it’s a small surprise that he has devoted a series of recent paintings to Star Wars. Singer explained the attraction in a radio interview:

“as I got older I started to, kind of like fusing pop-culture imagery with the Navajo culture. Somehow that Star Wars just, kind of like, manifested in there. And, I always thought of Tatooine as the desert that was close to Tuba City where I grew up, and the Sand People nomadic people real similar to how the Navajos were. So, there were all these similarities I saw in the movies. There really is, like sort of, two different worlds, you know, as far as culture. I try to bring them together and mix them up.”

The imaginary movie posters of Jeffrey Veregge has been featured on the blog before. Veregge depicts familiar Star Wars motifs and characters in the artistic style inherited from his Port Gamble S’Klallam Tribe.

 

Shes_Got_it_where_it_countsJVDark-Father

 

A few years back, Andy Everson did a series of Star Wars – themed paintings that had a political twist. In Everson’s hands, Star Wars battle of light and dark was referenced in order to address political concerns amongst his own tribe.

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o-STAR-WARS-NATIVE-STYLE-facebook

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steven Paul Judd specializes in “impossible” encounters of pop-cultural icons with Native American history. His photoshopped juxtapositions are often strikingly
funny but also remarkable for demonstrating a missed encounter and the exclusion of Native culture from mainstream pop culture.

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Excluded or not, the above artists have all taken something they like and made it their own, even though the original content has no explicit relation to their culture whatsoever. I don’t want to read to much into this, but in a way I find the interest in Star Wars encouraging. It demonstrates a DIY approach to inclusion. Looking at these images I feel  – If I may allow myself to partake in Star Wars geekiness and reference the revised subtitle of the very first Star Wars movie –  A New Hope that Native culture may take a bigger slice of pop culture one day.

Teaching Jimmy Nelson a lesson on the importance of listening

Currently, Jimmy Nelson’s photographic project “Before They Pass Away” is touring the world. As the somewhat dramatic title indicates, the theme is extinction, and the subjects of this supposed extinction are indigenous cultures. From Inuit tribes in Northern Siberia to Argentinian Gauchos in the South, Nelson has travelled the widths and lengths of the globe to unearth cultures almost entirely disconnected from modern society.

The project has been both celebrated and criticized. Visually speaking, the photographs are without a doubt impressive. When the exhibition visited Fotografiska Museet in Stockholm last year, I was myself immediately seduced by the gigantic glossy tableaus. So big are they that they let you immerse yourself in widespread landscapes as well as the slightest ornamental detail on the items of clothing. Visual seduction aside, however, something starts to chafe when getting deeper into the information and statements accompanying the project. This is far from an objective anthropological exposé. Nelson makes no qualms about it. In the statement accompanying the exhibition, Nelson’s photographs are said to be entirely subjective. They do not seek to capture the truth. The figures are obviously posed, romanticized and beautified. In Nelson’s words they are made up to be “icons” rather than real, everyday people. Okay, one thinks, so are the photos to be read as some sort of postmodernist interrogation of the notion of truth? It would be one thing if it was, but Nelson’s influences lean more toward Edward S. Curtis than Jean-Francois Lyotard, so in fact it’s quite the opposite. In other places he even considers himself a “collector of truth”. The question inevitably poses itself – how can one be both the representative of truth and yet highly subjective? No doubt there seems to be some confusion about Nelson’s conceptual pediments. Many have been understandably offended by Nelson’s reckless wielding of his flimsy version of truth and the project has suffered severe critique from Survival International (http://www.survivalinternational.org/news/10244) as well as representatives of the very cultures he photographs ( http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2014/oct/29/jimmy-nelson-indigenous-people-survival-international). What they have objected to is how Nelson presents these cultures as threatened by modern life when they show no signs of disappearing, but also the idealized manner in which they appear in the photos.

As a Swedish gallery dealing in Native American art, I can relate to Nelson’s position. I am by necessity an outsider to the culture I am interested in. I want the objects that are exhibited in my gallery to be beautiful, but I also want them to say something about the cultural background from which they originate. Not always does this fit into my what my expectations tell me. One way of making the job easier is through personal contact with the artists. All of the art in Kiva Gallery are chosen on the basis of a personal relationship with the artists. I have visited them in their homes. I have talked to them. I’ve been in awe. I’ve disagreed. I’ve been wide-eyed and I’ve been disappointed. I’ve been human to them and they have been human to me. I have listened to their stories and as a result I’ve sometimes had to revise my preconceptions. It doesn’t really seem like Nelson has listened to the stories of the people he portrays. If he had he would know that the Dani people of West Papua don’t like to be called the “most dreaded head-hunting tribe of Papua” (http://www.survivalinternational.org/news/10628).
Not once in my encounters with Native Americans have I heard talk of the culture dying out. And If Nelson had listened I doubt that he would have heard it. My point is that marginalized people should be allowed to be in charge of their own narrative.th

The problem is that Nelson tries to be both an artist and an anthropologist. Considering the scarcity of documentation around the cultures Nelson targets, the artist and the anthropologist are far from comfortable bedfellows. As an artist, Nelson is free to do whatever he feels like with his subjects. But an anthropologist doesn’t have – or shouldn’t have – that freedom. An artistically distorted image needs an anthropologically “true” image as a counterweight, otherwise there is no way to recognize the distortion. But if no other images exist, Nelson’s image becomes the primary point of reference and thereby artificiality easily becomes the “true” image. This becomes an issue considering that Nelson merits himself on capturing cultures that are infamously hard to access, which is to say that documentation is very scarce. Nelson has to make a choice: either the images are to be considered as a purely subjective expression of an artist’s vision or objective anthropological documentation. Having it both ways leaves Nelson open to the charge of misrepresentation and falsification.

Of course, Nelson means well – he wants the world to see how beautiful the people he meets are. Nothing wrong with that. The problem is that such a shallow approach is simply not enough to live up to his grander ethnographic ambitions. In his TED talk, Nelson gives a taste of just how shallow his vision th-1of truth really is. In a slideshow of his photographs, Nelson includes an image of a group of Samburu Warriors, shot from the back. The figures, Nelson claims, are often mistaken for women. He then shows the frontal view – tadaa, they’re men! The point of this little demonstration is to encourage us to “look closer, for things are not always what they seem”. If Nelson’s vision of the truth is as superficial as that it goes without saying that his claims of the photos as an “important ethnographic record” should be disqualified. Elissa Washuta has faulted Nelson’s preoccupation with visual cues of identity and notes that, “Personal strongholds of identity are often invisible.“ (http://www.salon.com/2013/11/24/americas_w
rongheaded_obsession_with_vanishing_indigenous_peoples/
). Which is to say that Nelson would do well to focus on factors other than mere superficial appearance. This might be much to ask of a photographer. But what if Nelson instead of dressing his subjects up to look as exotic and obsolete as possible had asked them to be photographed with something that was important to them. Maybe someone had wanted to be portrayed with their iPhone playing – I don’t know – Candy Crush. All of a sudden a more complex picture comes to light, one that is not compatible with generalizing and dramatic claims about dying cultures. Sadly, Nelson doesn’t allow for such mixtures of tradition and progress. His narrative is already in place, and it is one where his photographs stands as the last heroic record of vanished cultures.

There is a glaring absence of Native North American cultures from Nelson’s project. The exclusion was consciously made by Nelson on grounds that North American tribes haven’t retained their heritage. Not only is this a deeply insulting claim but it also bears witness to how limited and antiquated Nelson’s ethnographic guidelines are. It goes to show that Nelson’s conclusion is already in place even before he has started his photographic documentation. As a result, Nelson has put himself in the unflattering and eminently colonialist position of judging was is and is not to be considered as authentic to a culture. Similar judgments of authenticity often guided the practice of Nelson’s hero Edward S. Curtis. Just like Nelson, Curtis would dress up his subjects and pose them for the camera. But sometimes an unwelcome reality would still intrude. Curtis would then have to alter photographs after being shot to fit his view of how things should be (http://www.salon.com/2013/11/24/americas_wrongheaded_obsession_with_vanishing_indigenous_peoples/ ). In a portrait of Little Plume and his son Yellow Kidney, for instance, Curtis retouched the picture to remove an alarm clock that he deemed incompatible with the preconceived simple ways of the Native. It’s a paradoxical and self-defeating way of documentation. On the one hand the presumed likeness of photography is utilised to bring us closer to cultures most have very little knowledge about. But on the other hand subjective judgments of what is and what is not part of the culture brings us farther away from the present realities of these cultures.

If Nelson had listened more he would have realised that change does not necessarily equal death. A lot of the cultures he portrays have changed from what they were a hundred years ago. That does not mean they are about to disappear.
Native Americans today watch TV, they listen to Beyoncé or Taylor Swift, they skateboard. This does not mean that they “havent retained their heritage”. They also hold traditional ceremonies, pow-wows and sweat lodges. This diversity has not led to cultural death. On the contrary Natives are quite proud of their culture which today includes both traditional and modern elements.
And if Nelson would have allowed his subjects to speak louder than his camera I doubt they would have spoken of death.

Chris Pappan

CP_applesauceIt is with great delight that Kiva Gallery finds the face of Chris Pappan adorning the cover of the latest issue of Native Peoples Magazine. Pappan is one of the Gallery’s favourite artists and we are proud to have several of his works in our collection. A truly accomplished draftsman, Pappan brings a modern sensibility to the tradition of ledger art. He would rather be called “big city Indian” (he lives in Chicago) than Native American and this progressive stance shines through in his art.

Like many other contemporary artists – for instance Douglas Miles, Ryan Singer and Frank Buffalo Hyde – Pappan’s art engages with what I would call second-order representations. They are, in other words, not primarily trying to convey a “truth” about Native culture but are rather concerned with representations of representations – of movie stars and actors, and how Native culture has been represented by people outside of it. Needless to say, when representation of a culture lies in the hands of people who know nothing about it, the result is often skewed and misguided. Nevertheless, these images have entered the collective consciousness of popular culture, and the task many contemporary Native artists have taken upon themselves is to point to the fallacies of these images.

If we are to believe Michelle H. Raheja, this is far from an easy task. Raheja suggests in her book ”Reservation Reelism” that when the Bildhegemonic culture work its hardest to deny and suppress Native Americans, any evidence of their existence becomes cause for celebration. Hence for a Native American audience starved on images of their culture, the fact of visibility has sometimes overridden concerns about the hurtfulness of distorted representations. This could explain why many Native Americans of the older generation have taken even obviously negative representations and characters such as Tonto to heart. Simply put, it was all they had.

Pappan often relies on stereotypical imagery of Natives. Far from enabling a facile identification with these images, however, Pappan employs aesthetic strategies that make them slip from the viewer’s grasp. Pappan’s drawings often include distortions that disturb the proper reception of them. As Chris Pappan explains: “My images are distorted to reflect the distorted image of Indians in contemporary culture and the way Indians themselves are distorted by images.” When looking at a Pappan drawing, therefore, one gets the feeling that, according to the laws of perspective, it does not cohere. It’s as if a single figure is being viewed from different spatial positions simultaneously.

Bild 19There is art-historical precedence to this technique. Ever since the laws of perspective became an artistic institution, artists have liked to play around with them. The art of turning perspective on its head almost became a genre of painting unto itself and it became known as “anamorphosis”. Leonardo Da Vinci was a avid practitioner. Historically, anamorphic distortion in painting has been used to simultaneously present and disguise a content that some might regard as controversial. It was a way to sneak burlesque and sexual imagery as well as political commentary past a possibly censorious establishment. This was made possible by the way an anamorphic picture has to be viewed from a specific angle to make sense. From a frontal position, an anamorphic picture appears an incomprehensible mess. But viewed from a particular perspective, the content of the image clearly appears.

This historical background to anamorphosis serves Pappan’s purposes of subverting stereotypes well. It’s as if Pappan uses the device of distortion to suggest that beneath stereotypical imagery lies another reality. One that is only attainable by changing ones perspective and outlook on the world.

There is a poetry of instability and elusiveness to Pappan’s images. While rooted in past and possibly damaging representations, his art also suggest that these are not the final word. The image of the Native American is open to revision, and changing it is what a new generation of Native artists have set out to do.

 

Chris Pappan and his art can been seen at SWAIA – Santa Fe Indian Market August 18-24.

 

Feathers in fashion

 

imagesTraditional Native American headdresses have been popping up in all kinds of inappropriate places as of late. Last year alone saw a scantily clad model sporting a war bonnet at Victoria Secret’s annual runway extravaganza, a distasteful No Doubt video, a flat out racist release party for clothing label Paul Frank themed around powwows that involved play-acted scalpings, tomahawks and feathered dress-up, to mention but a selection of cases that went beyond the norms of cultural respect. These events sparked uproars on blogs and in other media, resulting in apologies from all the offending parties. The fashion industry, however, seems to have missed out on the larger lesson as traditional Indian attributes continue to hold appeal for fashion designers less discerning on questions of cultural integrity. One particular blatant example that seems to have passed the radar of most commentators is the Japanese label Neighborhood. The lookbook for its spring/summer 2013 collection features white models wearing prominent feathered headdresses along with other Native American references.

One reason that this case has escaped the attention of sites such as Native Appropriations, Beyond Buckskin and other blogs that are usually hyper-alert to questions of this matter could be that the label is not widely distributed outside of Japan. Yet Neighborhood is not completely unavailable on western shores. It is sold in hip online stores such as Mr Porter and Tres Bien shop. On top of this, and due to the use of exclusively western-looking white models, the campaign is arguably addressed to a western clientele which makes it fair to say that there is a certain ”hipster headdress” tendency at work here.

neighborhood-2013-spring-summer-lookbook-1Now, Neighborhood belongs to a niche of Japanese designer labels  – Kapital and Real McCoy are some others – that are obsessed  with Americana and the historical garments of America’s past. In these labels quests for authenticity, historical accuracy matters down to the smallest stitch. Such sartorial reverence does of course not grant them a free pass to play fast and loose with loaded spiritual symbols of other cultures. It does, however, suggest that at least some thought has gone into the creative process. But just what kind of thought are we dealing with? Chasing after intent is of course often a dead end in these matters as most cultural appropriators will attest to their well-meaning. So let’s proceed from what we have – the photos. They are undeniably beautiful and in comparison to the other photos in the lookbook the Indian themed ones seem to convey a different mood. The model turns down his head in what appears to be solemn introspection. This is a welcome departure from the reigning visual tropes involving Native headdress – the sexy Indian and the proud warrior. Were these art photos they might be interpreted as propositions of the white man’s guilt or at the very least as showing signs of humility. But these are not images of art. Even supposing that the premises were of critical nature, the message is betrayed by the specific context, the purpose of which is to market clothes. What clothes, one might ask considering that there is little evidence of the label’s actual designs to be seen in these photos, presuming of course that the headdress is not part of the collection. A closer look on one of the photos will however reveal something just below the model’s unclothed torso that actually is part of the collection. It is the Thunderbird belt, a beaded belt inspired by traditional Native American craftmanship. The point of the headdress is in other words to reinforce the impression of Indian authenticity. Exactly how a white person serves this purpose is unclear, and extremely problematic.

I myself am a white person of Swedish origin. As a collector of Native American art I have a deep love for the aesthetics and traditions of cultures I am not born into. It is my hope that my passion can be practiced without infringing upon the meaning and symbolic significance that Native cultures ascribe to their objects. I understand that certain objects are sacred and require reverence and understanding at a level beyond mere aesthetic appreciation. One such item is the ceremonial headdress.

images-1As Jennifer Weston (Hunkpapa Lakota, Standing Rock Sioux) explains on the blog Jezebel: ”While ceremonies varied among the diverse plains tribes who produced these headdresses, most involved specific prayers and actions, often relating to EACH single feather. Honor songs and ceremonies, for men and women warriors, come from our languages and represent ancient spiritual practices deeply tied to tribal homelands and their biodiversity.”

To therefore use headdress as shorthand for Native American authenticity is not only reductive and stereotypical but deeply disrespectful to the traditions they are trying to pay hommage to. Sure, the photos look cool and all. But just as you can’t use crosses and other religious symbols without being expected to supply an explanation as to their spiritual significance, it shouldn’t be conceivable to engage with headdress in a manner that stops at mere superficial admiration. That’s how easy appreciation can turn to affront. If only Neighborhood would apply as much care and respect to symbolic matters as they do to the construction of their clothes such self-undermining blunders of appropriation could be avoided.

 

 

 

The Exiles

 

 

 I’ve quickly realized that I want this blog to be not just a document of the Gallery’s activities, but somewhat of a posterboard for scattered thoughts on cultural artifacts related to Native culture and americana in general. Let me therefore draw some deserved attention to an unusually stark and uncompromising depiction of American Indians – Kent Mackenzie’s film ”The Exiles”. Like the fate of many Native Americans themselves, the film has suffered from cultural invisibility for many years. I first came across clips of it in Thom Andersen’s essay film ”Los Angeles Plays Itself” and was struck by the rawness of the images. As was many others. The film has since been restored and released on DVD.

”The Exiles” begins with a sequence of Edward Curtis’s photographs of traditional Indians set to tribal drumming and chanting. But this is no return to times past. We are soon landed in 1960s Los Angeles among a group of Native Americans who have exiled from the reservation only to find themselves in an urban limbo of sorts, passing their unemployed time by drinking, fighting, flirting, and gambling. The film follows the group throughout twelve hours of their lives, beginning at nightfall and ending as a new dawn rises. It will be a night of thunderbird-guzzling, drunken joy, drunken resignation, romantic missteps, drunk driving, air-piano playing, bar-brawling, but also of retying old collective bonds as the night is ended on the hilltops above Los Angeles where Natives young and old come together to sing traditional Indian songs.

Not a documentary in the strictest sense of the term, the individuals of the film nevertheless more or less play themselves. The visual footage is complemented by a voice-over consisting of authentic interviews of the ”actors” voicing their real-life attitudes and concerns. This device supplies the apparently carefree antics with an undertow of complexity. The effect of the voice-over is particularly striking when coupled to Yvonne’s beautifully stoic face.

 Yvonne is the most judicious of the bunch. Being pregnant, she goes to the movies while the others go out drinking, dreaming of a brighter future where husband Homer will change his reckless ways and become a responsible father for his child. If not, she’s sure she’ll manage on her own. Somehow.

In ”Los Angeles Plays Itself”, ”The Exiles” was celebrated for its respectful treatment of the city of Los Angeles. Indeed, the attention to detail makes the city come alive, taking in ambient sounds and the rundown charm and maze-like layout of the now vanished neighborhood Bunker Hill, which has been the setting for many a Film Noir. Historically, Bunker Hill was for long disconnected from the rest of Los Angeles due to its elevated placement. Later, the two areas were connected by a long tunnel through the hill. This historic background provides some opportune fodder for symbolism. The tunnel figures prominently in the film. It thereby underscores the transitional in-betweenness suggested by Homer, of being transplanted from one culturally segregated, but cohesive, community into an urban diaspora.

For some, the film is problematic for seemingly contributing to the stereotype of the drunken Indian. I think this is to miss the point. ”The Exiles” is primarily a poem of the night – of its lures and pitfalls, sure, but also of it as medium for a class of people without means to exercise a bit of freedom, however destructive this freedom may be. The darkness of night belongs to them because they are invisible even during the day. As such, ”The Exiles” stands next to Bruce Springsteen’s ”Night” as a melancholy paean to the liberations of night.

As the sun rises and the twelve hours draw to a close, the group of friends – exhausted – stagger home. The last words before the film fades is ”tonight we’ll do it all again.” Springsteen sang: ”you run sad and free until all you can see is the night.”