The Rockwell Museum continues to go from strength to strength. “Art of the American West” often conjures up traditional scenes of cowboys and Indians, or perhaps of breathtaking (unpeopled) vistas. In recent years the Rockwell has been energetically bringing us both, but has paired them with Native art, and with contemporary art of western North America.
Last week we looked at the spectacular sculpture exhibit by Abraham Anghik Ruben, self-described as “a contemporary artist who happens to be Inuvialuit.” Paired with that show is “Illustration and Imagination: W.H.D. Koerner’s Western Paintings” – a stunning show by a master from the golden age of illustration.
Like N.C. Wyeth and Maxfield Parrish, Koerner was a student of the great Howard Pyle. We have an affection for this crowd, because when our sons were in elementary school we repeatedly made a 60-mile drive to the Brandywine River Museum, where so much of their art is on view. I once encountered Andrew Wyeth as we were both walking across the courtyard. He could see that I recognized him, and he looked awfully worried, but I just gave him a smile and a nod. He smiled and nodded back, with an look of inexpressible relief. How many of YOU can say that you made Andrew Wyeth’s day? Especially by NOT speaking to him.
Eighty years ago, when radio and “talkies” were brand new and television was scarcely a dream, America was awash with weekly and monthly magazines. They were voracious for words… hundreds of articles, short stories, and novel serializations hit the stands every week. And the stands were so crowded that they could short-circuit the viewer’s eyes. To leap out from the crowd, and coax that dime from the customer’s pocket, editors needed artwork – stunning, eye-catching artwork – and they needed it every week.
As much as the artwork itself, this fact staggered me as I looked at Koerner’s work. Canvas after canvas bore complete oil paintings, probably 36 inches by 30 or so. And these were created for magazines destined only to spend a week in the reader’s hands before being dropped into the tinder bin as next week’s issue arrived.
It’s incredibly profligate art, and could easily have been hack work. But Mr. Koerner’s grandson explained to me how the artist would spend two days reading the story to be illustrated, furiously making notes and sketches betimes. He wanted to capture not just the details of the story, but the details of the setting, and the EMOTIONS of the characters.
We can actually see this process for a 1928 piece, “Tomahawk and Rifle,” from the Rockwell’s permanent collection. This illustrates a confrontation in a palisaded frontier fort, between a Native man and a buckskin-clad mountain man, each armed as described. The family has lent the preliminary sketches.
In the first sketch, the two men are just about on top of each other. The frontiersman is on the left, his rifle slanted downward as the Indian brandishes the tomahawk overhead. For sketch two, the frontiersman holds the same pose, but the tomahawk is now held low. The protagonists are distanced by a pair of intermediate figures – behind the line of the confrontation, but effectively shouldering the two men a little farther apart.
The third sketch lays out what is largely the finished product. The figures are reversed, with the frontiersman now on the right. The native man again brandishes his weapon, but the characters are separated by the entire length of the rifle.
And it’s a l-o-n-g Kentucky/Pennsylvania rifle, as the final painting shows. There are now four intermediate figures. The rifle is perfectly level, which would have been just about impossible physically with that one-handed grip, but it makes great illustration. In fact, the rifle’s arrangement, seemingly stable but inherently UNstable, highlights the tension of the scene. The placement of secondary figures – mountain men on one side, Indians on the other – also contribute to the tension, as does the contrast between the shadowed world within the palisade and the bright sunlit vista through the gate. You can see the final painting on the museum’s web site.
Anyhow – in Koerner’s typical pattern that all would have been created in one week, and rushed to the publisher still wet – ALONG WITH several smaller vignettes and illustrations.
Many of these pieces have not left the family’s walls since the publishers returned them, seven or eight decades ago. One shows a Lone Ranger-like vigilante horseman, with black mask, black shirt, white bandana, and drawn revolver. “Coming Home” is a lovely quiet play of shadow, with one welcoming source of light. “Fremont at Monterey,” on the other hand, has light applied with a fire hose. John C. Fremont, then in the process of stealing California, rides like a general, a President, a king, or even a demigod, dominating the painting, the other characters, and even the blue sky and the ships in the bay. His long gauntlets and his tilted hat set off his epauletted cavalry blouse, and he’s self-consciously an empire builder. Koerner family members were tickled to learn that we have a Town of Fremont, named for the man who was one of America’s leading heroes in his day.
Fremont was a historic figure, but he was also a myth. Koerner’s outstanding illustrations reflect the myths as American told them a hundred years ago. The juxtaposition of this work with the Anghik sculptures captures some of the best of our old uncritical view of the west, while reminding us of its unreality, and opening us to the truth of the west in a new century. I keep saying this about Rockwell special exhibits, but I don’t mind saying it again – go see these two shows.