Art favorites: Plate with black on black feather design

I was first introduced to Maria Martinez at the Swope Art Museum in Terra Haute, Indiana. Her pottery is quite striking. So I was delighted when I stumbled across a work of hers at the re-opening of the Design Gallery at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

Plate with black on black feather design
Maria Martinez
Native American (1887-1980)
Indianapolis Museum of Art


James Dean’s gravesite

I headed north of Fairmount to Park Cemetery to see where James Dean was laid to rest.

I was told to take the second entrance into the cemetery, not the first. But as I discovered, there were many more turnoffs than what was on the map. I should have taken a much later turnoff. As it was, I parked and wandered around the cemetery, trying to get my bearings and figuring out where I was in relation to the map in hand.

Finally I spotted signs directing me to the gravesite at the top of the hill. (Hill is relative.) At what I could only presume was the top of the hill, I looked around and pleasantly found myself staring at his tombstone directly by the side of the gravel road.

It is rather small and nondescript, but he clearly has lots of visitors. Real and plastic flowers adorned the gravesite. Fresh cigarettes were scattered around as if offerings to the late star. Coins were placed on the top and edges of the tombstone, and I found myself adding to the collection.

Other Deans surround his gravesite. To the south of him are his uncle and aunt (Ortense and Marcus Winslow) who raised him. To the north of him are his father and what I presume was his step-mother. (His mother was buried in Marion, Indiana. She died when he was 9 years old, after which he moved from California back to Indiana to live with his aunt and uncle.)

I stood there listening to the birds, but was quickly joined by a guy riding up on a motorcycle. (He wasn’t interested in acknowledging the presence of a fellow pilgrim.) I thought of Nicky Bazooka and Dean’s own love of motorcycles. As I drove away from the cemetery, I noticed that others had joined the lone motorcyclist.

I drove up the rode to see the Winslow Farm where Dean was raised by his aunt and uncle.

The guy at the James Dean Gallery who gave me my handy map of James Dean sites mentioned that I could park by the barn and take photos of the house. The house and farm are currently owned by a cousin of Dean’s (Marcus…remember that letter that Dean wrote to his younger cousin about which subjects he drew?). The guy at the gallery casually mentioned that they don’t mind people stopping on the property but they do not want visitors ringing doorbells and bothering them. (I read somewhere of Bob Dylan showing up one early morning in the 1960s to ring their doorbell uninvited. Apparently, the famous play by different rules. I didn’t read anything about the resident’s reaction to this unexpected visitor.)

I decided that driving on to the farm property felt a bit weird so I didn’t stop. (BTW, the house and barn looked very well maintained…clean and crisp in white paint.)

On my way out of town I passed scores of motorcyclists headed towards Fairmount. I thought of the motorcyclists at his gravesite when I left, and then I wondered, were the fifty or so motorcyclists on their way to visit James Dean’s gravesite or was that just a coincidence?

The photography of Brett Weston

I looked at the information about the new Brett Weston exhibit at the art museum. (Full disclosure: I knew nothing about Brett Weston before I went to the exhibit.) The information showed a black and white photo of a rocky beach. Huh. Like a photo I would take in northern California.

As I walked into the exhibit, two photos greeted me. I looked closely at the captions and squealed silently with delight. (Yes, squealed silently. You can do that. Kind of like when I mentally jump from foot to foot with excitement.)

One photo was the photo on the museum website. It was at Carmel Beach. I knew it! Northern California. He did photography in my old stomping grounds. The type of photo that I would take too.

The other photo was of trees in the mist. Knowing full well what they were, I double-checked the caption. Monterey. Yup. Monterey cypresses.

I sighed as I looked at his other photos. He shot at Point Lobos too. One of my favorite places.

Weston (1911-1993) used a medium format camera and created gelatin silver photographs. He was a modernist. I blinked at this word. Modernist. (I am used to thinking of modernist as a label when discussing design, not photography.) In the words of an informational plaque, “Weston understood that all black and white images are inherently an abstraction of reality.” OK. Modernist. Got it. He focused on shapes and textures, which black and white photography is well suited for. As a modernist, he explored abstraction.

Weston himself inherited a photographic legacy. His father, Edward (1886-1958), was considered the father of straight photography. And what is straight photography you might ask? (I didn’t know either.) Per the exhibit information: “This style [straight photography] relies on a simplified technique and dedication to sharp focus, rich tones, high details, and Modernism’s interest in underlying shapes.” Of course, black and white photography is the perfect medium for rich tones and high details.

Alas, the exhibit is small—perhaps 30 photos. Only a handful are Brett Weston’s. The others in the exhibit are from contemporaries of his, many of whom I didn’t know: Harry Callahan, Aaron Siskind, Charles E. Barnes, Manuel Alvarez Bravo, Minor White, and Berenice Abbott.

No photography exhibit of black and white photographs would be complete without Ansel Adams. The exhibit includes two Adams photographs: Half Dome and Jeffrey Pine Sentinel. (Side note: The Jeffrey Pine Sentinel is no longer quite so photogenic. I hiked to it about a dozen years ago. It had clearly aged a bit since Adams’ day and is now more of a gnarled, weatherworn tree trunk than a tree.)

Weston didn’t just photograph California trees or beaches. He was into abstract forms, whether a natural formation or an architectural edifice. I was excited to learn about him but a bit put out about his lack of environmental concern. Unlike Adams, Weston didn’t engage in broader, environmental issues. My new idol had clay feet.

Wandering Fairmount in search of James Dean

With map in hand courtesy of the guy at the James Dean Gallery, I left the Fairmount Historical Museum to continue my wanderings of Fairmount. With added direction from the folks at the Fairmount Historical Museum, I marched on, intent on seeing the James Dean Memorial Park, the Playacres Park, and the remnants of the high school. (I was momentarily stopped short by an interurban way station in the backyard of the museum.)

The James Dean Memorial Park is really a corner of a block on Main Street, next to a gas station. In the center of the park stands a memorial consisting of a plaque and a bust of James Dean sculpted by Kenneth Kendall. The plaque on the monument is weatherworn, and I found it impossible to read. Unfortunately, I have not found a legible copy of it online.

The bust came out of an encounter between Dean and Kendall. Dean approached Kendall in 1955 to create a bust of him, like Kendall did for Marlon Brando. After Dean’s untimely death on September 30 of that year, Kendall started on the bust. In addition to the bust at the park, versions exist at the Griffith Observatory in LA and in the Fairmount Historical Museum. (Why the Griffith Observatory? It was the backdrop in many scenes of Rebel Without a Cause, one of Dean’s movies.)

Off to the Playacres Park, not for the park but for the picture of Dean on the water tower by the park, which the guy at the gallery mentioned to me. The park itself was a pleasant recreational area with lots of trees, benches, and a junior ball game in session. The water tower sports not only an image of Dean, but on the other side of the town’s name, an image of Garfield (the cartoon creation of Jim Davis). Veni, vidi, but no vici. (I came, I saw, but no I conquered.) Time to move on.

I wandered back north through the residential areas rather than down Main Street to find the high school. Or rather the rubble that was the high school. After closing its doors in 1986, the school was left to quite literally fall apart. Walls and parts of the roof collapsed over the years and then in 2016 it was demolished. Huge piles of the demolished building remain with a bulldozer nearby, as if the school was demolished just last week. (Life in small towns moves slowly, but seriously this is a little too slow.)

Next up in my James Dean pilgrimage: his final resting place.

Interurban way station

I love those moments when I stumble across an interesting find that I wasn’t expecting.

As I left the Fairmount Historical Museum and started walking down the road, something made me take a more careful look to my right. In the back yard of the museum, near the sidewalk was an odd concrete structure. A hexagonal roofed structure maybe three feet across.

I moved closer to read the plaque on the side. It was a way station. A passenger waiting station for the interurban.

How fun! Interurban rail lines used to populate Indiana towns. With the growing popularity of the car, the interurbans disappeared. (The South Shore, which runs from South Bend to downtown Chicago is the sole remaining interurban in Indiana.)

But here was a remnant of this former mode of transportation. The structure was small. Even given the smaller size of Americans during that time, it couldn’t have held more than a few people who were comfortable being quite, um, friendly.

I began to wonder about the location of the station and where the interurban ran. Next to the way station stands a street light. On the other side is a bench and a stone trough with a hand water pump, suggesting a rest stop for horses as well as people.

In hindsight, I wish I snapped a photo. (How often do you see an interurban waiting station?!). Thankfully, I found photos of it here.