Pinboard #6: Victoria’s Secret

During a November 2012 fashion show, Victoria’s Secret sent model Karlie Kloss down the runway wearing a leopard-print bikini, a wealth of turquoise jewelry, and a replica of a Native American headdress. In an image from the runway show (left), a reedy white woman with light brown hair and blue eyes strikes a pose. Her stance is strong, although she is half-naked and perched atop several inches of suede-fringed platform heels. Along with the heels, she wears cheetah-print bikini underwear; a belt of turquoise, silver, and more suede fringe; a suede bra; and hefty turquoise necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Atop her head is a voluminous feathered headdress made of red, black, and white feathers. Her left hand rests on her cocked hip, elbow thrust out to the side. Her half-smile suggests amusement and charm.

The headdress worn by Kloss was a replica of a war bonnet, an object of great magical and spiritual significance for Plains Indian men. The men of these tribes historically wore the bonnet into battle and now wear it for ceremonial purposes. Victoria’s Secret’s use of the war bonnet provoked ire for several reasons, primarily because it was treated as an object with no history or purpose beyond its decorative function. War bonnets are not merely dress items; each feather has significance, and the right to wear the bonnet must be earned through service to the community. Native American war bonnets are frequently used to denote “generic Indian” by sports fans, musicians, trick-or-treaters, and retailers, with no regard for their specific origins and uses.

After pictures from the runway were released to the media prior to a planned broadcast of the event, Native American activists, feminist blogs, lawyers, and journalists immediately and forcefully criticized the lingerie retailer (and, in some cases, the model).

Victoria’s Secret edited the outfit out of the televised lineup and issued a (non) apology for “offend[ing] individuals.”  Critics of the outfit charged racism, cultural appropriation, commercialization of a sacred object, and the “hypersexualization of Native American women.” [1]

Yet, it is a strange sexualization. This image – unlike the “Prairie Pinups” investigated by Aleta M. Ringlero – is not titillating. [2] It carries no hint of the dangerously foreign, no thrill of the forbidden. The erotic appeal of Kloss’ costume is nulled by its cheap parody. The headdress, when worn with animal print panties, recalls any “savage,” not a specific sexual desire. Sported by a white woman with a coy smile, it devolves into something merely cartoonish  – something safe.

[1] Ruth Hopkins, “Victoria’s Secret is Asking to be Boycotted,” Indian Country Today Media Network

[2] See Aleta M. Ringlero, “Prairie Pinups: Reconsidering Historic Portraits of American Indian Women,” in Only Skin Deep: Changing Visions of the American Self, ed. Coco Fusco and Brian Wallis, (New York, NY: Harry N. Abrams, 2003)

 

Pinboard #5: Andrej Pejic & Erika Linder

In the black and white photograph on the right, model Erika Linder poses against a white backdrop. She wears loose-fitting jeans, open at the waist, which slip from her hips to reveal the band of briefs beneath the pants. The outline of a star is tattooed on her muscular stomach. Her arms are held in front of her chest and her hands grip a t-shirt; this pose conceals a seemingly sunken chest. Her face, devoid of makeup, grimaces. Her short hair is in disarray. In the color image below, male model Andrej Pejic wears a black wrap dress, long blond bedhead, and subtle, feminine makeup. The dress has slipped off of the left shoulder, and a bra strap is visible. Text lines next to Pejic’s silhouette convey that the image was produced for a Dutch lingerie advertisement, selling a bra that claims to add two cup sizes.

Are these images intended to be humorous? Perhaps – but only those in the know.  Linder, a woman, frequently works as a male model. Pejic, a man, frequently works as a female model. Linder is not a drag king, and Pejic is not a drag queen; neither model caricatures, exaggerates, or lampoons gender norms. Instead, each model conceals himself or herself within the costume of the familiar. Each model works the parameters of gender to his or her professional advantage. Linder and Pejic conform exactly to current standards of masculine and feminine beauty. They simply don’t conform the beauty standard expected of their respective sexes.

Erika Linder and Andre Pejic force us to reconsider how we recognize and react to male and female bodies. I suggest that we looked at these bodies as sexed (if not gendered), and ask why we recognize Linder as “male” in the image on the left (when she is recognizably “female” in other images) and Pejic as “female” in the image on the right (when he is recognizably “male” in other images). Which elements of Pejic’s wardrobe and makeup tell us that he should be read as she? Which aspects of Linder’s outfit and physiognomy categorize her as male? Further, do we consider these distinctions useful and expedient? Are they visually or erotically attractive? Which norms are disrupted by these images? Finally, and perhaps most importantly, are norms disrupted at all if no further explanation is attached to the images?

Pinboard Entry #5: Post-Race Covergirl

Ann Coulter Mugged Book Cover 2012

On her book cover, Republican commentator Ann Coulter appears to lean on the black band at the bottom of the book, which serves as her nameplate and also establishes her status as a bestselling author. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders and chest, which are exposed by her tight, sleeveless dress. Her gold cross catches the light, and she gives the camera a tight smile. By all accounts, this is a glamor shot which would seem more appropriate for a memoir or a book about personal hygiene than one on race.

Mugged, which is Coulter’s eighth book to date, revises history by arguing that liberals have not historically been the champions of racial equality in the United States. The book was released in late September, and Coulter’s subsequent promotional television appearances clearly establish that she intended for it to have an outcome on the election. In addition to arguing that President Obama’s election in 2008 was more a consequence of white liberal guilt than a milestone in American political history, she attempts to show that Obama lost support among African Americans during his first administration. Coulter’s book is  an stunning example of what Bill Maher calls the “Republican Bubble”—an alternative universe where “facts” need have no basis in reality—and many public figures, including Maher and Whoopi Goldberg, have called her out on this.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, this book can be judged by its cover, which betrays the  insincerity of Coulter’s inquiry into race in the United States. The juxtapositioning of her title, “Mugged” in bold black typeface, which conjures images of urban violence, over her blond, blue-eyed head shot is a deliberate attempt to claim that white people are the victims—of decades of “racial demagoguery,” as her subtitle bears out. By casting her discussion of race in America in her own dyed, dieted and cross-bearing image, Coulter is targeting her audience: white conservatives who may be sympathetic to her spurious argument that racial inequality exists only in the imagination and discourse of liberal America.

Chapter Entry: The Misrecognition of Migrant Mother

Dorothea Lange
Migrant Mother
1936
source: Library of Congress

In “Passing Likeness: Dorothea Lange’s ‘Migrant Mother’ and the Paradox of Iconicity,” Sally Stein sifts through the legacy of a familiar image with a history of misrecognition. Migrant Mother, which Stein asserts is the “most widely reproduced photograph in the entire history of photographic image-making” is a portrait of Florence Thompson that Lange took at a labor camp in Nipomo, California in 1936 [1]. Since its conception, the photograph has been criticized from various points of view, and Stein spends the beginning of her essay recording these reactions, from the outrage of Lange’s boss at the Farm Security Administration (FSA), Roy Stryker, when he learned that Lange had retouched the “documentary” image, to cultural historian Wendy Kozol’s critique of the image as “a quintessential example of the FSA traffic in conservative stereotypes” [2].  Stein’s real interest lay in how Thompson gained iconic status as a white “New Deal Madonna” despite her Cherokee heritage and unmarried status, information that began to circulate as part of the photograph’s history only half a century after it was taken. The paradox of iconicity thus seems to be that Thompson was not the iconic white matriarch that she was initially taken to be; she is instead an icon of the Euro-American tendency to misrecognize Native Americans as both heirs and foils to their own racial identity.

Early in her essay, Stein demonstrates how the image was misrecognized as a symbol of conservative family values. The photograph shows Thompson flanked by two young children as she cradles a sleeping infant. The older children turn away from the camera, using Thompson’s body as a shield, while the baby dozes near her breast. Thompson’s body is thus a source of protection and sustenance, even as her worried eyes betray concern. Stein paraphrases Kozol’s argument that such images of mothers and children “chiefly served to reassure the public in the Great Depression that the most fundamental social unit—the nuclear family—was beleaguered but still strong” [3]. In reality, however, Thompson’s social unit was fractured: Thompson’s first husband died of tuberculosis in 1931, and the infant in the picture is the son of Jim Hill, from whom she would separate in the 1940s.

The perception that Lange’s subject was married and that all of her children had the same father is an example of how photographs invite assumptions that may belie the actual circumstances of the people they depict—a disconnect that is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to photography’s false transparency. For spectators bring a wealth of culturally embedded assumptions to bear on the photographs they view, imbuing them with meaning that is external to the image. For instance, in this photograph, there is no patriarch, so why would a spectator assume that Thompson is supported by a stable marriage? That assumption comes not only from what a spectator may want to believe—she might feel better looking at this worried woman and her soiled children if she believes there is a man off screen who is supporting them—it also comes from the context of the photograph, which was indeed a government-endorsed image. Migrant Mother is part of a body of images taken by photographers who were dispatched by the FSA to “make a dent in the world” [4]. Their portraits of struggling Americans elicited a wide range of emotions—empathy, admiration and pride among them. FSA photographs may have been relevatory of American poverty and struggle, but they were also a screen on which spectators could project their own desires, namely about the perseverance of fellow Americans in the wake of catastrophe.

FSA photographs like Migrant Mother invited spectators to see what they both wanted and expected to see. This is not only how a widow with children out of wedlock became a “New Deal Madonna,” it is also how her Native American ancestry was mistaken for European ancestry. Stein shows how the FSA did not favor ethnic diversity by including a passage in which Roy Stryker, the aforementioned head of the FSA, explicitly discourages photographer Arthur Rothstein from photographing Native Americans: He writes,“You know I just don’t get too excited about Indians. I know it is their country and we took it away from them—to hell with it!”  [5].  For me, this is the most interesting part of the story, because it reveals how certain populations were denied visibility in the portrait of Americanness that was articulated through the visual culture of this period. Scholars like Erika Doss have pointed out how the Index of American Design, a visual encyclopedia of American folk and decorative arts that was another federally-funded Depression era initiative, largely depicted the work of Anglo Americans, including only token pieces done by Native Americans, African Americans, Southern European Americans and others who didn’t pass a certain benchmark of whiteness [6].

In her recent book, The History of White People, Nell Painter demonstrates how the category of whiteness has been in flux throughout United States history, expanding and contracting at various historical moments to include peoples of different ethnic backgrounds [7]. The Depression era was a moment when the Anglo Saxon paradigm of whiteness was reasserted in a variety of ways, especially through the veneration of folk art in English (Shaker) and German (Pennsylvania Dutch) traditions. Stein uses the words of Edmund Wilson, a literary critic and social journalist, as a testament to the privileging of Anglo heritage, despite its dilution through racial mixing, in this period: “the pure type of that English race which, assimilated on the frontier to the Indians’ hatchet profile and high cheekbones, inbred in Boston and Virginia, still haunts our American imagination as the norm from which our people have departed, the ideal towards which it ought to tend” [8].

Wilson’s words, particularly his phrasing “haunts our American imagination” reveal how Anglo Americanness has always been more of a fantasy than a reality, and that is certainly the case with Migrant Mother. After the photojournalist Bill Ganzel tracked Thompson down in 1979, the truth about Thompson’s Cherokee heritage was finally acknowledged. Whether Lange failed to be vigilant in recording the personal details of her subject or whether she willfully elided them due to her boss’s open disdain for photographs of Native Americans, the end result is the same: For decades, Thompson has been misrecognized as an ideal Euro American woman, attaining an iconicity that cannot be undone easily. Stein points out, for instance, that a recent book on race in 20th-century America continued the misrecognition of Thompson, reprinting Migrant Mother with a caption that identifies her as a “Nordic” woman and claims, “Her suffering could be thought to represent the nation in ways the distress of a black, Hispanic, Italian, or Jewish woman never could” [9]. The enduring perception that Thompson was a white woman is an example of the persistence of myth. According to Roland Barthes, “It does not matter if one is later allowed to see through the myth, its action is assumed to be stronger than the rational explanations which may later belie it” [10].

Perhaps the widespread misrecognition of Thompson is too entrenched to be undone, but Stein’s essay demonstrates how this image is wrapped up in another kind of iconicity—as a representation of  how Euro-Americans have a history of appropriating Native Americans likenesses when imaging their own identities. Artists like Edward S. Curtis pictured Native Americans as a “vanishing race,” an approach that was not only primitivizing but also added gravitas to the definition of Americanness, in the sense that it created an evolutionary depth to the American people, despite the coevalness of native and non-Native Americans. Migrant Mother was taken about a century after President Jackson used the rhetoric of the progression of civilization in a speech to Congress in which he justified the violent means of Indian Removal as  “the extinction of one generation to make room for another” [11].

If the FSA photographs are read as a kind of yearbook of Depression-era Americans, then on the surface Native Americans appear to be as extinct as Jackson intended they would be. The irony is that Migrant Mother, the photograph which has earned the superlative of “Most American Woman” by virtue of its unrivaled circulation, actually pictures a Native American woman passing as a Euro-American woman. The inclusion of Migrant Mother in Only Skin Deep is crucial, because this image and its history of misrecognition demonstrate how racial categories are constructed through subjective perception and projection. Thompson’s skin color was light enough and her motherly obligations were prevalent enough for generations of spectators to project a fantasy of white motherhood onto her, but in reality, her misrecognition and mythologization as a white Madonna reflects more truths about what those spectators wanted to see than truths about what was actually there.

Endnotes:

1. pg. 345, Stein, Sally. “Passing Likeness: Dorothea Lange’s ‘Migrant Mother’ and the Paradox of Iconicity.” In Only Skin Deep: Changing Visions of the American Self, edited by Coco Fusco and Brian Wallis. New York, N.Y.: Harry N. Abrams, 2003.

2. & 3. pg. 346, Stein.

4. See Mora, Gilles, and Beverly W. Brannan, eds. FSA: The American Vision. New York, N.Y.: Harry N. Abrams, 2006.

5. pg. 352 Stein

6. See Doss, Erika. “American Folk Art’s ‘Distinctive Character:’ The Index of American Design and New Deal Notions of Cultural Nationalism.” In Drawing on America’s Past: Folk Art, Modernism, and the Index of American Design, edited by Virginia Tuttle Clayton. Chapel Hill, N.C.: The University of North Carolina Press, 2003.

7. See Painter, Nell Irvin. The History of White People. New York, N.Y.: W. W. Norton & Company, 2010.

8. & 9. pg. 354, Stein

10. pg. 130, Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. New York, N.Y.: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1972.

11. pg. 79, Truettner, William H. The Natural Man Observed: A Study of Catlin’s Indian Gallery. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1979.

Quoted in William H. Truettner, The Natural Man Observed: A Study of Catlin’s Indian Gallery (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1979), p. 79.

Pinboard Entry #7: Desiring the Other

Kent Monkman
Icon for a New Empire
2007

In the interior of this artist’s studio, strange things are afoot. The sculptor has laid down his chisel, for the Native American on horseback he is sculpting has come alive. Outfitted in fringed hide pants and beaded moccasins, the artist stands on his tip toes and plunges his body into the embrace of his subject, who is in living color only from the waist up. Above them a mutant cupid aims his arrow. The lovers are framed by Indian artifacts such as arrows, feathers, a fringed hide shirt and a mask as well as a small scale model of the life-size sculpture that is underway.

This is one of contemporary artist Kent Monkman’s critiques of representations of Native Americans in Western art. An artist of Cree ancestry who is widely exhibited in Canada, Monkman revisits famous images of native North American peoples and landscapes, altering their details to explicitly reveal layers of desire and violence that were previously only implied. In this piece, Monkman is not only playing off of the long tradition of studio scenes that are fraught with unconsummated (at least pictorially) ententes between artists and their models in Western art history (like this and this), he is also referencing a specific work from the American canon: James Earle Fraser’s End of the Trail. A sculptor trained in Chicago but born and raised in South Dakota, Fraser began sculpting Native American subjects after the 1893 World’s Colombian exhibition, where he encountered a plethora of Native American imagery.

Monkman’s painting is a critique of white artists like Fraser, who from the second quarter of the mid-19th century onward became increasingly interested in depicting Native Americans in photography, painting and sculpture. Monkman interprets the desire that fueled that process very literally by casting the artist and subject as lovers. While sexuality may have played a role, the attraction to Native American subjects had many other dimensions as well, from the imperialist (see the naturalist expedition art of Titan Ramsay Peale) to the opportunistic (see the Indian Gallery of George Catlin) to the primitivist (see the Amerika series by Marsden Hartley).

Pinboard Entry #6: Black History Painting

Kerry James Marshall
Portrait of John Punch (Angry Black Man 1646)
source: artslant.com

In this disarming three-quarter portrait, the hulking figure of John Punch seemingly sways to the left against a black background. He is clad in a bulky tunic with an upright white collar that offsets the intense blackness of his face. His arms are pulled behind his back, indicating that he is not a free man, yet he confronts the viewer with a stare emanating from narrowed eyes. An errant lock of hair pulls to the far left of the frame. A red band runs across the top of the painting—the sole injection of bright color in this dark picture.

Punch is regarded as the first African to spend his life in servitude in the United States. The date included in the title of the painting, 1646, represents the year that he was sentenced to a lifetime of slavery by a State court. Punch is one of several historical black figures that the contemporary artist Kerry James Marshall  has memorialized as part of a larger effort to break up the supremacy of white figures on the walls of art museums. For Marshall, the fact that museums are dominated by portraits, history paintings and genre scenes picturing white people is evidence that painting is hardly a finished, outmoded media.

In addition to his critique of the over-representation of white subjects, Marshall uses paintings like this to highlight other ways that the revered styles and schools of the Western art canon have privileged whiteness  For instance, Marshall takes on Malevich’s white on white Suprematist Painting, proving that black paint has just as much potential for finely hewn gradations. In the Punch portrait, black skin is distinct from black hair which is distinct from a black background. Marshall’s body of work not only infuses the canon of Western art with a much needed constituency of blackness, it also challenges the assumption that whiteness is the norm rather than another racial category.

Glenn Ligon, Self Portrait

Glenn Ligon, self portrait exaggerating my black features / self-portrait exaggerating my white features, 1998, silkscreen on canvas

 

Glenn Ligon is a New York based Conceptual artist.  He has been active since the late 1980s.  Ligon works across media, from sculpture to digital art.  His work examines the intricacies of racial, sexual and gender identity, as well as the social experience of those identities.  His work is highly citational. His first independent showing featured an untitled piece with the text “How it Feels to be Colored Me”, from Zora Neale Hurston.  His Self Portrait  piece featured in this post is in direct conversation/cites Adrian Piper’s own Self Portrait.  However, unlike Piper’s piece, Ligon chose to not exaggerate actual features and instead attempted to create identical photographs.

Glenn Ligon’s Self Portrait, 1998, is a diptych of two seemingly identical portraits of himself.  He is dressed in a button up light colored shirt, collar open, denim jeans, a belt, and a pair of tennis shoes. His arms relaxed at his side though his hands are cupped.  He looks directly at the camera, head slightly tilted to the right, with a neutral expression on his face.  The image is in black and white.  The caption on the left panel reads “Self-portrait exaggerating my black features” in contrast to the right panel’s “Self-portrait exaggerating my white features”.  He stands against a light colored background that meets a darker colored floor.  I start this out by saying that the images are seemingly identical because when I first saw them, I did read the black features image as darker than the white features image.  When I realized the images were supposed to be identical I found myself confused.  Perhaps I was haunted by Ligon’s words, in one of his untitled pieces, “I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background”.  In the version of this Diptych that I most often encounter (above), the flash on the panel exaggerating black features is brighter, so bright in fact, that it washes out the shirt he is wearing.

The intended meaning of this diptych seems to be to place the viewer in their own head. This seems to be a critique of Piper’s piece that creates an imagined visual difference.  Ligon asks us to contemplate what marks a body as having black features instead of white.  Additionally, the piece seems to be calling attention to the mixedness inherit to the American version of the black body.  The black body in America is the relationship between blackness and whiteness. The black  body that defines both, in as much as whiteness is defined against the black body, but also embodies both, as it is a body that contains both.  Going back to one of Ligon’s other citations, Zora Neale Hurston’s “How it Feels to be Colored Me”, she states “I am colored but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother’s side was not an Indian chief” [1].  It’s a little thing that marks the silliness of defining blackness in a US context even amongst black people.

One of the unintended messages that exists in this photograph for me goes back to that initial reaction to the photos, the place where I was asking, “why does the black features image appear darker?”.  The brightness of the light, and the shadows created by the variation in use of the flash speaks to Sekula’s shadow archive:

“We can speak then of a generalized, inclusive archive, a shadow archive that encompasses an entire social terrain while positioning individuals within that terrain.4″ This archive contains subordinate, territorialized archives: archives whose semantic interdependence is normally obscured by the “coherence” and “mutual exclusivity” of the social groups registered within each” [2].

By marking the two photographs with a textual racial signifier, Ligon places the viewer in a performative space where they are playing with their own view of race with his body as the stage.  He is taking away the obscureness the we normally associate with reading whiteness and bringing it front and center.  I cannot help but wonder how many people were taken aback upon viewing these two version of the photograph and seeing the darkness in the black image like I did, and, instead of looking past the features on his face, the place where we are compelled to look, simply walked away, not realizing the beautiful shadow play on his shirt, a shadow that highlights whiteness and blackness inasmuch as the photos are in black and white.  We are reading the image being about race, when it is a photograph,  a thing created by light.  The features of the light are heightened when displayed in black and white, where all differentiation in color exists on a gradient line between the two.

1. Hurston, Zora Neale. “How it feels to be colored me.” (1928): 152-55.
2. Sekula, Allan. “The body and the archive.” October 39 (1986): 3-64.

Only Skin Deep: Part III

Imitation of Life (1959)

We started our discussion of the third section of Only Skin Deep with Lauri Firstenberg’s text, Autonomy and the Archive in America, which deals with the discourse of images from historical archives and the contemporary artists’ response to this archival system. This particular text provided a framework for looking at the other essays in this section, whose focuses deal more with specific cases and artists.

Firstenberg begins her essay with the idea that the photograph served as an unmediated and objective recording process and Barthes’ myth of photographic verity.  This idea is in line with Jennifer Gonzalez’s opening statement in the essay Morphologies, in which she writes that photography has always been allied with the “truth effect.”

Through the image of Glenn Ligon’s Self-Portrait Exaggerating my black Features/Self-Portrait Exaggerating my White Features (1998) juxtaposed with a photograph of a South Australian Man according to Thomas Huxley’s instructions (1870), we discussed the archive and critical responses to the archival form by contemporary artists. This led to commentaries on photography’s role in the production of racialized subjects (or “others”) and as defining whiteness as non-raced/the standard.

We looked at examples of passing for a certain race embedded in contemporary depictions of blackface, as seen on the television series Mad Men which is set during the Civil Rights Movement, as well as in the film Imitation of Life (1959). These ideas also resonated with Sally Stein’s essay on Dorothea Lange’s Migrant Mother.

In Caroline Vercoe’s essay on Postcards from the South Pacific, she brings up Baudelaire’s claim that photography is more an agent of forgetting than remembering. This notion can be connected not only to GI’s image souvenirs from the South Pacific, but also Toyo Miyatake’s photographs of Manzanar for the yearbook, Our World (1943-1944) in which the reality of an unjust incarceration is both masked and revealed through the work of the photographer.

For a wonderful clip from Imitation of Life (notice the role of the mirror in this scene) click link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjXoof4oLYI

 

Pinboard #4: Richard Prince

Richard Prince’s Unitled (Cowboy)  is an iconic photograph that refers to an iconic advertisement that refers to an iconic American role. The image is a palimpsest of meaning, and seems to acquire additional layers of resonance with every passing year.

Richard Prince, Untitled (Cowboy), chromagenic print, 1989

 

 

 

Prince (b. 1949) is an American painter and photographer. He is usually referred to as an “appropriation artist,” because his most famous works are rephotographed photographs, some of which are physically or digitally altered. Most of his early material, such as the Marlboro advertisement used in Unitled (Cowboy) came from magazines, newspapers, printed advertisements, billboards, and television. Prince is attracted to suspicious narratives in widely circulate images; of his work, he has said, “I seem to go after images that I don’t quite believe. And, I try to re-present them even more unbelievably.” [1]

Untitled (Cowboy) is taken from the Cowboys series, arguably Prince’s most famous works. In the far right of the frame, a cowboy seated astride a galloping horse seems to race off the very edge of the image. The rest of the image is filled with blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Each image in the Cowboys series was taken from a Marlboro cigarette ad, a campaign known for its celebration of traditional American masculinity. Marlboro’s ads seemed to depict authentic scenes of masculine action replete with wide open spaces, blue skies, tumbleweeds, lassos, and ten-gallon hats.

Prince’s rephotographs call the authenticity of these scenes into question; because Prince’s image isn’t “real,” the viewer is asked to reconsider what makes any photograph “real.” In this case, was the Marlboro ad, which appeared to document a cowboy at work, really emblematic of a type? Or staged with models? And if this “authentic” American experience could be staged, was it truly “authentic” at all?

[1] Marvin Heiferman, “Richard Prince”, “BOMB Magazine”, Summer 1988.

This image is from the book I mentioned a few weeks ago : COLORS OF CONFINEMENT: RARE KODACHROME PHOTOGRAPHS OF JAPANESE AMERICAN INCARCERATION IN WORLD WAR II

In addition to being relevant to this week’s readings I thought people might be interested in knowing that the images are currently on display at
Duke’s Center for Documentary Studies.  To learn more check out :

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/08/21/japanese-internment-camps-photos_n_1811070.html#slide=1394144

http://calendar.duke.edu/events/show?fq=id%3ACAL-8a08708a-37a831e2-0138-de8efdfb-0000432cdemobedework%40mysite.edu