In Our Hands - Native American Photography

The exhibit currently on view at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, "In Our Hands: Native Photography, 1890 to Now," offers a hodgepodge of themes and styles, as we might expect, considering the span of time involved. Biting ironic collages about westward expansion hang next to staged ceremonial tableau, arrays of abstract religious symbols, and black-and-white photos of family groups. Some of the pieces might be referred to as ethnographic, while others draw their appeal from the spectacular colors available to any modern photographer. The result is a wonderful show, needling a white viewer like me to think a little more deeply about how Indians see the world while also confirming the notion that the aspects of indigenous cultures that I find most appealing are often the ones that native artists also value highly about themselves.  

It almost goes without saying that the artwork on display is often better than the accompanying interpretive texts, which too often traverse the familiar ground of exclusion, marginalization, and misunderstanding between cultures, without illuminating it much. Many of the images are simply "cool" to look at, and hardly need interpretation. For example, the start of a race, which interested the photographer because, as he admits in the text, he'd never seen anything like it before.

In another fascinating photo we see chunks of whale blubber spread across the ice, and are informed in the text where the whale came from and why it has been ceremonially butchered.

One image from the 1950s (if I remember correctly) is a portrait of an Indian sitting near a pueblo wearing high-top tennis shoes. According to the text, there was a time when many viewers were more interested in analyzing why the man was wearing those shoes than in appreciating the striking character of the photo. Not today.   

One large piece, maybe 3 by 6 feet, that I found appealing carries this note by Will Wilson, which I have edited slightly due to typological limitations:

Diné photographer Dakota Mace's chemigrams blend the language of Diné symbology with the elements of silver-based photography. These unique prints, made by manipulating light-sensitive photographic paper and chemicals, stand as remarkable unions of symbolic language and material interaction. As Mace observes, central symbols—Spider Woman, Mountain, Whirling Log, and  the concept of four—are ever-present yet ever-shifting within the land. Each print, inspired by traditional narratives, designs, and symbols, echoes the unique yet interconnected essence of Diné philosophy. Mace's innovative approach embodies simplicity and elegance, harnessing form and concept to evoke  the Diné concept of balance and harmony.

Some photos are appealing due to the colors, regardless of the artist's intent in taking them. For example, this vivid overhead scene of seal butchery was taken by a drone.

Another image was staged to make some sort of statement about the exploitation of Native women. I couldn't quite follow the logic of the text, but I thought it looked "cool."

Some of the images offer a fascinating glimpse into bygone customs and lifeways, in the manner of Edward S. Curtiss.

Others, though obviously staged,  are hauntingly evocative.

And others still, whatever their intended message, reminded me of the good-natured humanity that often shines through between people, regardless of ethnicity, grievance, or misunderstanding.

You may argue that I would have gotten more from the show by reading the text more carefully. Maybe so. But it strikes me that the "intentional fallacy" is sound: it's a mistake to lean too heavily on an artist's analysis of what he or she has done. Better to take in what's right in front of you first.

The exit from the show leads out into the Native American rooms of the MIA's permanent collection, which is also fine. But in light of the unusual and varied images we'd just come face to face with, it seemed not only familiar and conventional, but also strangely stale.

Our final stop was Quang, that ever-popular Vietnamese restaurant a few blocks away. I ordered the Hu Tieu Bo Kho. Not quite the lamb and hominy stew we'd been served in the two-room adobe home of a local family at San Ildefonso Pueblo years ago, after witnessing an Easter deer dance together. But it was close enough.

New Book Out

The Roman poet Horace once advanced the theory that an author ought to wait nine years before publishing a book. He referred to this maturation process as "building soil." At least, that's how I remember the remark. I made an attempt to double-check the quotation online and came up with a link to P.M. Agricultural Sources in Horace, North Dakota.

All the same, Horace's point is well-taken, though a little extreme. Nine years is a long time for anyone but a locust, or a geologist. Yet every so often I take a look at something I wrote a few years ago and am surprised at how cogent it is. I also notice, more than occasionally,  a few unnecessary adjectives and frivolous asides. "This would not be bad, if someone cleaned it up a bit," I say to myself.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that a new collection of essays appeared on the market recently bearing my name. My intention, when putting it together, was to gather a few pieces together that were perhaps on the more serious side, as a complement to the breeziness of my previous collection, Cabin in the City.

The title I came up with was "A Metaphysical Bent." Confident that such a collection would appeal to few readers, my plan was to upload the files to a print-on-demand site, so that the book would become available on Amazon, in case anyone happened to be interested. I might give away a few copies myself. Christmas is right around the corner!

Ernst Cassirer

Hilary advised me to change the title. She also read through the manuscript and suggested that I remove a few pieces. For example, she questioned whether anyone would get excited about an essay called "The Conceptual Sympathy of Ernst Cassirer." Good point. She also found the essay about my struggles with ilio-tibial span syndrome (sore hip) a bit self-referential, not to mention BORING.

"Why don't you add a few fun essays?" she said. "Travel? Music? Food?" She also suggested that I move the last, and longest, essay in the book, "Metaphysics for Beginners," to the front. I found that encouraging.

The revised and much improved collection now carries the following description on the back:

Fresh from the backyard ruminations of Cabin in the City, essayist John Toren here turns his attention to all manner of earthly and cosmic speculation. Driven by the belief that philosophic thought should be clear, accurate, and emotionally gratifying, he takes up such questions as whether the universe will continue to expand forever, what it means to be “moved,” and why it is that a common cold can significantly undercut our mood, and hence our view of life. Dipping into the Western canon, he takes Blaise Pascal to task for some of the views he advances in his Pensées on both probability and faith, and makes a valiant attempt to come to grips with Dante’s Divine Comedy, before becoming waylaid by the challenge of choosing among the many competing translations. Lydia Davis’s “flash fiction,” Glenn Gould’s search for the perfect piano, the history of agriculture in the Mediterranean basin, and Swedish entomologist Fredrik Sjöberg’s unusual perspective on the natural world—these are just a few of the subjects under review in this curious and delightful collection.

A perfect stocking-stuffer? A light-weight companion for a North Woods getaway? 

You can pick up a copy here.