 "Photo: Marti Eisenbrandt/The Observer")
Cowboys and Indians. The Redwood Forest. Hippies. Hollywood. Manifest Destiny. Yellowstone National Park. The Grand Canyon. Las Vegas. Amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties.
Such are some thoughts that spring to mind when one imagines the American West. The diversity of these responses is proof that the West is almost as complicated as it is vast. It has become a mythological place that has, in many ways, defined the spirit of this country throughout its history. Photography is a tradition only slightly younger than the United States itself—dating back to, roughly, the 1820s. It comes as no surprise, then, that the medium has played an important role in defining the West, physically, emotionally and spiritually for many Americans.
At the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), an expansive exhibition, titled Into the Sunset: Photography’s Image of the American West, assembles over 120 black-and-white and color photographs, with no single style, from as far back as the 1850s to the present. From the earliest photographs of the “sublime landscapes” of locations like the Rocky Mountains and southwestern deserts to images of contemporary inhabitants, Into the Sunset paints a vivid and complex portrait of this American “promised land.”
The Marlboro Man welcomes museum patrons as the subject of the first photograph in the exhibition. Richard Prince’s reappropriation of one of the cigarette company’s advertisements is arresting, and serves as a highly effective springboard into the show. On its surface, the photograph—an image of a cowboy performing a trick with a lasso—embodies the romantic, virile spirit that we’ve come to associate with the West. Yet the deception that Prince engages in by manipulating a pre-existing photo hints at the deeper and sometimes more sinister secrets of the region that aren’t entirely obvious. After all, the Marlboro Man himself is simply a corporate fantasy, only vaguely real. (Reality is, in fact, much more grim, as three of the men who posed as the Marlboro Man have died of lung cancer.)
As the viewer passes through the several rooms of the galleries, a thematic narrative emerges that echoes the concerns Prince raises in but one image. The curator of Into the Sunset, Eva Respini, the associate curator for MoMA’s department of photography, deserves a great deal of credit for not only chucking the traditional chronological retrospective standard of museum exhibits, but also for making many inspired and titillating sequences of images.
One such exciting sequence happens in the first gallery (if one makes a clockwise circuit of the show), which focuses on the rich landscapes of the West that have enthralled photographers since the 19th century. Hanging next to a majestic, highly descriptive and straight-forward 1945 Ansel Adams landcape of snow-topped Mount Williamson in the Sierra Nevada, hangs a photo, titled “U.S. 97, South of Klamath Falls, Oregon, July 21, 1973,” by Stephen Shore of a billboard—depicting a striking mountain landscape—set against a horizon of actual mountains. The playfulness and irony of the pairing of images underscores the duplicity inherent in the American understanding of the West. It is a place both genuine and dreamed. It’s also a powerful commentary on photography as a medium, which can capture both the real and the constructed—and can make one seem as the other. Along with these two images, there are several more memorable landscapes on view. One example is a breathtaking shot of Native American ruins in a desert canyon in New Mexico by Timothy O’Sullivan, dating back to 1871.
Several more series play out in a similar fashion throughout the rest of the show. In the second room, a veritable rogues gallery, characters of every sort and time period are immortalized. Young Hollywood party-goers, Native American chiefs, Asian-American immigrants and real-life bandits (the real Butch Cassidy) are assembled side-by-side. This image of the West suggests that, like America at large, it cannot be defined by a single social group. If anything, it’s implied that all these different characters are more alike than different. One pairing in particular achieves this well. Next to a photograph by William Gedrey, titled “San Fransisco” (1966-67), of a boy in a jean jacket with long hair and beads around his neck, is “Moki Girls” (1879) by John K. Hillers, which depicts two Native American girls with long hair and wrapped in striped blankets. Although these subjects are separated by almost a full century, one cannot help but think “the more things change, the more they stay the same” upon seeing the youths’ faces side by side.
In another interesting pairing in this portrait gallery, a buff, blonde young man sits before the Ocean Sands hotel in Henry Wessel’s “Southern California” (1985); below him, Joel Sternfeld’s “Member of the Christ Family Religious Sect, Hidalgo County, TX” (1983) shows a man dressed as Jesus standing in a hole in the middle of a field of crops. Both subjects are positioned in similar stances, visible only from the waist up with their arms crossed over their chests. Both images are composed with only one individual surrounded by a uniform environment (a hotel façade and a field, respectively). Both images are center-weighted and seem eerily timeless. No doubt Respini means to tease and question our conceptions of heroes and saviors and cultural standards.
Such commentary continues throughout the other rooms of the show. The different themes become increasingly clear as the show progresses. There’s a large room that contains a “housing wall,” a “gas stations wall,” a “people-at-home wall,” a “(rail)roads wall” and a “cowboys wall.” Often, the ideas the artists present often dwell beneath the surface. On the “(rail)roads wall,” three images of roads and railroads stand out. Chronologically, the first is a shot called “Granite Canyon, from the water tank” (1869), by Andrew Russell, which shows a wide shot of a railroad fading into the distance. Two men are present in the image; however, their forms are so small that they could easily be mistaken for rocks. Nearby is a photo of a dusky road by Dorothea Lange, “The Road West, New Mexico” (1938). Finally, a digitally-collaged color image creates a modern road fading into the distance, complete with road signs, litter, etc. This fascinating sequence shows a progression of perspective—literally and metaphorically. The earliest photo was likely meant to be mostly documentary. Lange’s is documentary as well, but is also a move into an exploration of shape and abstraction; the digital image further distills the elements of a traditional photograph, while still working with a very traditional subject matter.
The last two galleries of the exhibit are perhaps the most compelling, as the viewer sees a bleaker image of the West. One room focuses on the human impact on the natural environment. From early photos of oil wells to contemporary images of land development, it’s clear that there is concern with man’s destructive tendencies.
The final gallery is undoubtedly the most memorable. The title “The Illusive/Elusive West” would convey the theme of this room perfectly. People searching for success—chasing that ever-elusive American dream—occupy the photographs in this gallery. A print of Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother” hangs, diminished, next to a two-foot-tall, crisp portrait of an out-of-work, weathered card dealer from Reno, by Richard Avedon; Philip-Lorca Dicorcia’s portraits of street walkers hang nearby Diane Arbus’ portrait of a topless dancer.
Such images illustrate a quote by one of the photographers, Katy Grannan, whose “Nicole, Crissy Field Parking Lot (1)” (2006) is included in this final room. In a plaque accompanying her photograph, Grannan writes, “Many of us are still looking for whatever it is we believe the West offers—reinvention, escape. We believe it will be easier here; it will be different.”
This ever-elusive illusion of the American promised land is captured perfectly in the final image of the final room of the show. An untitled photograph from 1967 by William Gedney captures a young man sprawled out on a mattress on his floor, an arm flung across his face. Behind him, we see the source of his frustration, or his dreams: posters of movie stars, captured eternally in photographs—Marlon Brando and Marilyn Monroe, haunting, taunting him.
IF YOU GO
Into the Sunset: Photography’s Image of the American West
When: Mon., Wed., Thurs., Sat., Sun.: 10:30 a.m.-5:30 p.m., Fri. 10:30 a.m.-8 p.m.
Where: Museum of Modern Art
Price: $12 with student ID, free on Fridays, 4-8 p.m.
More Info: (212) 708-9400
www.moma.org
Into the Sunset: Photography’s Image of the American West runs through June 8.
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