Cowboys, Migrants, and Signs at MoMA’s Into the Sunset exhibition

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Chevron, Stephen Shore

Into the Sunset: Photography’s Image of the American West, on at MoMA through June 8, has been called an ‘unprecedented look at more than a century of changing myths and cultural attitudes about the American West, with over 120 photographs, from 1850 to the present, by photographers including Robert Frank, Dorothea Lange, Cindy Sherman, and Stephen Shore.’ At least, this is how MoMA describes it. The statement is more or less true, but it disguises the insidious fact that the exhibition is (as you might have wondered from the photographers listed) rather an odd agglomeration of images.

Untitled Film Still #43, Cindy Sherman

The curators wished to use the simultaneous exploration of the West and the development of photography to make a point. I find that it offers little illumination other than photographs have been taken of the West. The exhibition is organized thematically. After attending a lecture at MoMA yesterday, I can now inform you that that the exhibition is meant to take you through different facets of the mythic West such as landscape (unspoiled potential), people (seeking destiny, identified by trade such as cowboy or Indian, individuals), transportation (railroad, Manifest Destiny, highways signage). If anything, the exhibition suggests the plethora of ‘West’s we Americans cherish: rugged plains being settled and immigrants, cowboys and Indians, Yosemite natural park and Hollywood. There was an undertone of falsity and disillusionment with these ideals, especially in the latter part of the exhibition.

The exhibition might not suggest a unified concept of photography in the West and it might not impress upon you the development of photography itself, but it does prove to be an evocative experience. From Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath in Dorthea Lange’s photos to Jack Kerouac’s On the Road Again in the highway and signage images of the 1950s and 60s, I was reminded of the lone individual going mobile to follow his manifest destiny under the enormous setting sun. However, like that last sentence, the exhibition never gelled into more than a pastiche of cliches.


That Intellectual Kind of Beauty

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Beauty is instantly recognizable. What is a little more difficult is to pin down exactly what beauty is. Even is you missed the debate regarding Theodore Dalrymple’s Beauty and the Best, you still have a chance to get into the latest aesthetic theories by checking out the prolific writer and philosopher Roger Scruton in a book entitled, properly, Beauty.

Beauty as Scruton means it is of a specifically mental rather than visceral nature. Along with Sebastian Smee of The Guardian, I rather think Scruton does an injustice when he relegates beauty to an act of rational contemplation. Like every other book on beauty, it deals with whether we can make value judgements about art, i.e. can something be better or more beautiful, than another. He also considers whether art can be moral, rather an old-fashioned question but then so is the question of beauty.
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What kills me about books like this is they tackle a huge and general subject, and then meander bombastically about for 100 pages. Dalrymple’s article made his argument precisely, even without him repositing Kant.
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The best primer for any discussion of beauty, as far as I’m concerned, remains Umberto Eco’s On Beauty, which, with it’s thickly illustrated pages, is a thing of beauty itself. Scruton either ripped off Eco’s jacket cover, or Renaissance woman remain the ideal of beauty…

Can you spot a forgery?

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Most people can’t, probably because art forgers can be damnably clever and bold. I’ve been reading The Forger’s Spell by Edward Dolnick, a book full of intrigue and intriguing personalities, over part of my vacation.

In addition to tales of Hitler and his second-in-command Hermann Goering’s race to collect a Vermeer while ravaging Europe, Dolnick includes the fascinating story of Abraham Kuffner. Kuffner was a painter in the early 19th C. who realized the importance of using old materials when creating a fake as well as maintaining a impressive provenance. In 1799, the city of Nuremberg graciously (foolishly…) agreed to lend him it’s prized Albrecht Durer self portrait for the artist to copy.

Kuffner did more than copy the work. This painting was done on a wood panel an inch thick, and the back of it was spangled with seals and marks of past owners. Kuffner simply sawed it into two halves; one half contains Durer’s self-portrait and the other half the seals. He produces his copy onto the original wood panel, and sends his fake back to the city on the original board it came. Nobody noticed the difference, and Kuffner had his very own Durer.

Nuremberg did eventually find out that it’s famous Durer was simultaneously on display in Munich–6 years later Kuffner had sold the real Durer.

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