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Pueblo Cosmopolitanism
Modernism and Tribal Ceremonial Dance
Geneva M. Gano
context. Though “a comparison [of Pueblo dance] with our more artifi-
cial art is almost impossible,” she conceded, she insisted that
the Eagle dance, performed by the San Ildefonso or the Tesuque
Pueblo, has all the delicacy and finesse of Pavlova’s “Death of the
Swan”; and that any of the Pueblo dances however difficult in spirit,
compare favorably with the massed effects of the Russian Ballet. If
the new-comer expects to find in these Pueblo dances something
“savage” and unformed and chaotic, he will soon recognize his mis-
take. They are as highly formalized as the Japanese Noh. (Hender-
son 110)
In addition to exotic, rigorous Russian and Japanese dance forms, she de-
scribes the dances in San Felipe as having a wide spiritual significance:
they are “the Pueblo counterpart to [the festival of] Shiva” (111). Her es-
say, published in 1923 in Theatre Arts Magazine, is clearly written for an
audience of cosmopolitan “moderns” who would be familiar with the
Hindu deity, Pavlova, and Japanese theater. Further, she claims, this art
synthesizes artistic and religious impulses behind both Greek drama
and the modern sculpture art of Auguste Rodin (114). After a visit to the
Pueblos in the 1920s, Ted Shawn, “father of modern dance,” similarly ar-
gued that “the Pueblo Indians have dances whose choreographic form is
equal to anything the Russians have ever done, costumed with an under-
standing of color as great as that of Bakst” (18). Shawn and Henderson’s
broad, transcultural comparisons typified the modernists’ celebration of
Native American dancing and identified Pueblo dance traditions in par-
ticular as occupying a significant place within an international, modern-
ist, inter-arts canon.
By way of strategic comparisons and well-chosen contexts, then, those
modernists who saw Native American dance as a particularly flexible,
living, and modern art form aligned it with a supranationalist cosmo-
politanism, an artistic and broadly political ethos uncircumscribed by
nationalist ideologies. This was sometimes a tricky business, since what
Hartley described as “the living esthetic splendors” of Indian dance
were being actively suppressed and outlawed during this period by the
U.S. government: government Indian agents and a number of progres-
sive reformers believed that these dances hindered the Americanization
policies of the Office of Indian Affairs (28). As historian Tisa Wenger has
shown, Indian dance in particular was singled out specifically by reform-
ers and U.S. government officials as emblematic of a backward heathen-
ism that prevented Native Americans from full assimilation. In an effort
to counter this, local authorities actively suppressed Native ritual dance
traditions in the Southwest and across the United States. For some en-
thusiasts of Native American dance, including Hartley, an effective de-
fense of Pueblo dance within this urgent, political context seemed to
hinge on whether or not it might be able to be claimed as an “Ameri-
can” inheritance or as a source of nationalist pride. In this particularly
heated moment, thoroughly cosmopolitan modernists such as Hartley
(who had recently returned to America from a sojourn amongst an inter-
national coterie of modern artists in prewar Berlin) and Lawrence (who
consistently described his exile from England as an anti-nationalist act)
found themselves stressing—quite ham-handedly at times—the quintes-
sentially “American” nature of the dances and their value as a national
asset.
One of the earliest essays published on Native American dance, Hart-
ley’s 1920 essay “Red Man Ceremonials: An American Plea for American
Esthetics,” registers a tension between the necessity to defend Pueblo
dance upon the grounds it was being attacked—its Americanism—while
also pleading for an expanded, supranationalist, modern vision for art.
As the essay’s title indicates, Hartley hammers hard on the “American”
theme. Admonishing his readers, he declares: “You will travel over many
continents to find a more beautifully synthesized artistry than our red-
man offers. In times of peace we go about the world seeking every spe-
cies of life foreign to ourselves for our own esthetic or intellectual diver-
sion, but we neglect on our very doorstep the perhaps most remarkable
realization of beauty that can be found anywhere” (16). Anticipating
Tom Outland, the Anglo-American hero of Willa Cather’s 1925 novel
The Professor’s House, who thinks of the Pueblo peoples as his own kin
and their art as his rightful inheritances, Hartley utilizes the rhetoric
of Americanism to lay claim to “the redman as a gift” in possessive, na-
tionalist terms (16). “As Americans we should accept the one American
genius we possess, with genuine alacrity,” he writes. “We have upon our
own soil something to show the world as our own, while it lives” (28). At
the same time, Hartley argues that appreciation and acclaim, rather than
understand what the nation’s arts and the age demanded: Lawrence’s
“futurist rage” for the “Noble Savage” was meaningless, Lippmann main-
tained, in the face of the anti-cosmopolitan, anti-arts, anti-intellectual
cultural crisis that faced modern Americans in the years following World
War I (70).
Within a fortnight of his arrival in the United States two years later,
Lawrence had made his way to New Mexico and attended his first Indian
dance at the Jicarilla Apache Reservation. Mabel Dodge Sterne, his host-
ess, was insistent that he attend as many dances as possible, as quickly as
possible, so that he would apprehend the beauty of Pueblo Indian cul-
ture and be compelled, quickly, to speak out to “save” it. Already inclined
to see the suppression of Native American culture as a cultural, if not po-
litical, mistake, Lawrence agreed to help her defeat the proposed Bursum
Bill, which was widely understood to be designed to divest the Pueblo
peoples of tribal landholdings and their sovereign rights to cultural and
spiritual self-determination. Within months, the New York Times pub-
lished Lawrence’s piece about these dances, which deplored the federal
government’s “great desire to turn [the Pueblo peoples] into white men”
(“Certain Americans”). This was the first of many essays Lawrence wrote
about Native American dance while he lived in the region.
Though this particular essay was directed most urgently at the legal
and political policies affecting Native Americans in the region, Lawrence
was also concerned about the deleterious effects of mass tourism in the
region on Indian life and culture. Along with other artists, archaeologists,
and anthropologists who were working out of the Museum of New Mex-
ico in Santa Fe, he believed that pernicious outside influences—namely
the invasive tourist market for “inauthentic” and cheaply made souvenirs
and trinkets—would ultimately and inevitably degrade the Native Amer-
icans’ unique aesthetic culture. As a signature component of the tour-
ism industry that grew up around Santa Fe, the dances attracted many
casual sightseers who were eager to see them on their “Indian Detours”
(Dilworth). While the modernists wanted to promote and facilitate the
appreciation of Indian dances as one way to end their suppression by the
state, they were conflicted about the potential success of their efforts: if
the dances became too popular, the arts colonists’ exclusive domains of
expertise and appreciation of the dances—constituting components of
belonging within the community—could be infiltrated or corrupted by
the uninitiated, gross bourgeoisie. It was important, then, for these self-
appointed authorities to distinguish themselves from the masses as supe-
rior, sensitive interpreters of Indian dance and culture.
Frequently, this took the form of satire. John Sloan, an extremely
well-established and respected New York artist who moved to Santa
Fe in 1919, was an ardent interpreter, defender, and promoter of Indian
dance and art; his 1927 etching, “Indian Detour,” ridicules the busloads
of smartly dressed tourists who irreligiously ignore the ceremonial corn
dance taking place in the middle of the plaza, and instead smoke ciga-
rettes, gossip, sleep, dance, and buy trinkets. The dance, supposedly the
reason for the tourists’ visit to the Pueblo, is easy to miss: the tourists
far outnumber the Native Americans depicted, and their tour buses
surround and dwarf the main event to the point of obscuring it. Sloan’s
cartoon visually expresses the disdain the modernists felt for those who
they believed misunderstood or simply did not properly appreciate In-
dian dance. Lawrence also lampooned tourists in his writing, aiming his
vicious wit at clueless girls with bobbed hair (the same tourists targeted
by Sloan) who clearly wanted “entertainment” rather than understand-
ing. At the same time, Lawrence was deeply suspicious of the arts colo-
nists, including Mabel Dodge Luhan, who imagined themselves to be
the sophisticated interpreters and righteous saviors of Native American
culture: these, too, felt the prick of his pen. As one of the most prolific
writers on Native American dance—he attended many and wrote about
them extensively while he lived in the Santa Fe and Taos area and his
essays were published in a variety of newspapers, magazines, and books
in the United States and abroad—Lawrence consistently argued that cul-
tural outsiders such as himself would never truly be able to understand
Indian dance, even though he left open the possibility that one could
respect and perhaps, partially and incompletely, appreciate them. Even
in his most serious, sustained essays such as “The Hopi Snake Dance,”
Lawrence’s attacks on the white audience frequently threatened to over-
whelm his fundamental goal of offering his readers genuine, though nec-
essarily limited, insight into the broader social, political, spiritual, and
aesthetic contexts for Native American dance.
As artists and culture workers, the arts colonists believed that they
had both a vested interest and an expertise in culture, which from their
perspective justified a variety of responses to “protect” tribal cultures
Figure 8.1. John Sloan, “Indian Detour,” 1927. Courtesy of The Cleveland Museum of
Art, Gift of Mrs. Malcolm L. McBride 1951.50 © The Cleveland Museum of Art. ©
Delaware Art Museum/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
from tourists. This “protection” extended far beyond the ridicule offered
by Sloan and Lawrence. Some of the colonists conspired with Edgar Lee
Hewett, director of the Museum of New Mexico, to prevent the sale of
goods made for the tourist trade while financially rewarding those Na-
tive Americans who met the Anglo-Americans’ standards for what they
deemed to be “authentic,” “uncorrupted” art. They actively promoted
and championed these artists, bringing into their modernist networks
of exhibitions, sales, and patronage a select few individuals they identi-
fied as “masters” of the arts, particularly those who had excelled in the
Western art form of easel painting and whose subject matter focused on
ceremonial dance (Brody; Rushing).
The first generation of Native American easel painters who produced
these paintings very consciously plugged into this established modernist
network. Almost from the very moment of their initial production—ea-
sel painting was not a traditional art form in the Pueblos, but arrived in
the late teens with the artists—the paintings were produced at the urg-
ings of Anglo-American art enthusiasts and circulated for sale within the
international modern arts marketplace (Brody 64–65). The first exhibi-
tion of modern American Indian paintings, which was held at the Mu-
seum of New Mexico in 1919, established a small group of young Na-
tive Americans, including Velino Shije Herrera (Zia), Otis Polelonema
(Hopi), and Fred Kabotie (Hopi), as well as a few who quickly became
included in this group, such as Awa Tsireh (San Ildefonso) and Tonita
Peña (San Ildefonso), as the great artists of their generation. Mabel
Dodge Sterne, who had patronized an impressive roster of modern art-
ists in Europe and the United States, acquired the entire exhibition and
immediately sent it to New York to be included in the Society of Inde-
pendent Artists exhibition, where major newspapers and little magazines
alike called attention to the works. Even though the dances themselves
did not travel from New Mexico, paintings of Native American dance
ceremonies by these artists were exhibited in national and international
exhibits alongside those by celebrated Anglo-American cosmopolitan
modernists including Marsden Hartley, George Bellows, and Andrew
Dasburg. These Native American artists were also plugged into a sophis-
ticated patronage system alongside them, though the financial support
they received from collectors and patrons was not equitable (Brody;
Mullin). Their paintings of dance were discussed in major magazines and
newspapers by well-known art critics, including Walter Pach, and col-
lected by modern art enthusiasts around the world. This selected group
of artists attended parties and soirees in Manhattan; spoke and taught
regionally, nationally, and internationally as experts in their fields; and
achieved a level of celebrity that has continued to reverberate in muse-
ums, histories, and arts practices over the years: their subject matter and
stylistic innovations continue to be singled out for recognition.1 Though
these painters were thoroughly engaged with this network of cosmopoli-
tan modernism, they were not always recognized as full participants but
commonly performed dual roles as janitors or maids, entertainers, and
models and assistants to white artists.2
Properly appreciating and valuing Native American dance—and all
that it stood for—was frequently expressed by the modernist art commu-
nity through the appreciation and ownership of paintings about dance
by these Pueblo artists. Easel paintings, with their distinctive blend of
Figure 8.2. Awa Tsireh, “Corn Dance,” ca. 1919. Photograph by Addison Doty. Courtesy
of the School for Advanced Research, cat. no. IAF.P11.
Fe colonist and arts patron Amelia Elizabeth White, modern art enthu-
siasts could purchase works on paper by celebrated Pueblo artists of the
highest quality, appealing to a certain class of people: not what White re-
ferred to as the “the trashy stuff that is sold as ‘Indian Art’ along the Santa
Fe road” (White to Mabel Dodge Luhan, 1922; quoted in Mullin 174).
Such comments point to the fact that the Anglo arts colonists had a
strong hand in determining what and who to bring into their modern-
ist networks and communities. Almost all of the Native American art-
ists whose works were included in the 1919 exhibition had attended the
Santa Fe Indian School as part of the assimilation policies that required
Native Americans to send their children to boarding schools; they were
all identified by Anglo arts enthusiasts as “talented” and then given time,
materials, and studio space to develop their art under their patrons’ care-
ful guidance. The “guidance” that they offered usually meant shielding
the “boys” (as they were collectively referred to for years after they had
left school to work and paint) from outside influences in the effort to
preserve what the patrons believed was their native, uncultivated genius.
Paintings that seemed to be authentic expressions of culture—defined
by the Anglo patrons as formally distinctive and ideally detailing a spiri-
tual dance ceremony—were purchased and praised, and those paintings
that seemed derivative or somehow corrupted by Anglo or European tra-
ditions were shunned. Native American painters who worked with and
within the little arts colony at Santa Fe had unique opportunities to par-
ticipate in the transnational modernist movement, but the terms upon
which their participation was established and encouraged were circum-
scribed ones.
Considering the importance of Native American ceremonial dance
within the modernist imagination, both at Santa Fe and beyond, requires
that we revise our understanding of who and what constituted the ex-
pression of modernism in the early twentieth century. Once seen almost
exclusively as passive objects of the primitivist imaginary, Native Ameri-
can artists and dancers may be resituated as active and engaged par-
ticipants within an actually existing cosmopolitan modernist network.
We can also see that attending to localized articulations of modernism,
such as those centered at Santa Fe and Taos, substantially shifts our un-
derstanding of aesthetic, social, and political impulses that undergird
Notes
1. This particular group of Native American artists has been discussed widely,
but basic biographical information about their lives is difficult to come by. My work
has been informed by Brody, Kabotie and Belknap, Scott, and Sloan and La Farge.
2. Hewett employed young Native American “boys” as day laborers when exca-
vating archaeological sites and as janitors at the Museum of New Mexico even as
he encouraged them to draw and paint with a portion of their paid time, which was
paid hourly (Hewett kept the paintings). This was common elsewhere, as Kabo-
tie recalls, where the Native American painters were employed primarily in menial
work but also asked to produce paintings for a primarily white tourist audience.
3. See Sweet and Rushing; see also Seymour for a discussion on how dance is
understood within a traditional Pueblo worldview.
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