the stories that we tell; the stories that tell us
Even knowing that I have an assumed audience out there, I'm still having problems forcing myself to sit down and write. But thanks to some of your excellent responses (thanks Darse and Julie), I've been spurred to further action.
The point that Darse makes about film is very valid, and of course I will have to deal with it on some level. As a matter of fact, film--Western films--are a primary example of the ways in which the myths of a landscape have a way of returning to define the definer. The cattle industry in the Great Plains and beyond was an organic response to the landscape. Before 1880 (or so), it was barely possible--if at all--to make a go of farming on the arid plains. Technology had not caught up with the demands of the land, and so the natural lack of water and timber prevented the western advancement of the agrarian frontier beyond the 100th meridian. But there was a hell of a lot of open space, and much of it was covered with the grasses that made the immense herds of buffalo possible. And it doesn't take a lot of imagination to look at a buffalo and think of domestic cattle. And there you go. A man takes to a horse to cover as much ground as possible and to herd the cattle of the open range. Branding became the way to mark ownership of cows in a land where fences were impossible. The lariat--how else to do you catch a runaway cow? The hat, the neckerchief, the six-shooter (ever try and fire a breech-loading rifle from horseback?). They all developed out of necessity, as determined by the environment.
But then along comes The Cowboy. Those in the East and elsewhere hear-tell of these men, working open land on horseback and tending cattle in a way almost completely alien to their stock-farm imaginations. There are few institutions or laws or definitions, because there are few settlements. They seem a completely new breed of exotics--and so close to home! And so the sheen of romance attaches to the lifestyle, and the perception of the West by outsiders becomes tinted with expectations and definitions. Cowboy=West. West=Cowboy. And that's the way it is.
Trace the development of the dime novel, and later of Western films, and you see how the West came to be defined, in all its romantic discourse and dramatic convention. And so the power of imagination takes hold, and the West becomes THAT place, the Wild West. But what of the real cattlemen and their progeny? What have they to do with this image, this definition? And what happens when, with the advent of barbed wire and windmills and other methods of "taming the land" (and you are absoluteley right, Darse...this is gendered in many ways), the so-called Cattle Kingdom is deposed, the "cowboy" no more?
From a way of making due according to the demands of the environment--of making a place in space by adapting to the land--the Cowboy Myth takes off and gains such imaginitive power that it comes to stand in as one version--one vision--of the West. And those who live in this space must contend. On this front, no longer is it an issue of being defined by the landsape, nor of trying to define that landscape for yourself, but rather of being defined by an outside discourse. And if you don't match that image...what then?
The point that Darse makes about film is very valid, and of course I will have to deal with it on some level. As a matter of fact, film--Western films--are a primary example of the ways in which the myths of a landscape have a way of returning to define the definer. The cattle industry in the Great Plains and beyond was an organic response to the landscape. Before 1880 (or so), it was barely possible--if at all--to make a go of farming on the arid plains. Technology had not caught up with the demands of the land, and so the natural lack of water and timber prevented the western advancement of the agrarian frontier beyond the 100th meridian. But there was a hell of a lot of open space, and much of it was covered with the grasses that made the immense herds of buffalo possible. And it doesn't take a lot of imagination to look at a buffalo and think of domestic cattle. And there you go. A man takes to a horse to cover as much ground as possible and to herd the cattle of the open range. Branding became the way to mark ownership of cows in a land where fences were impossible. The lariat--how else to do you catch a runaway cow? The hat, the neckerchief, the six-shooter (ever try and fire a breech-loading rifle from horseback?). They all developed out of necessity, as determined by the environment.
But then along comes The Cowboy. Those in the East and elsewhere hear-tell of these men, working open land on horseback and tending cattle in a way almost completely alien to their stock-farm imaginations. There are few institutions or laws or definitions, because there are few settlements. They seem a completely new breed of exotics--and so close to home! And so the sheen of romance attaches to the lifestyle, and the perception of the West by outsiders becomes tinted with expectations and definitions. Cowboy=West. West=Cowboy. And that's the way it is.
Trace the development of the dime novel, and later of Western films, and you see how the West came to be defined, in all its romantic discourse and dramatic convention. And so the power of imagination takes hold, and the West becomes THAT place, the Wild West. But what of the real cattlemen and their progeny? What have they to do with this image, this definition? And what happens when, with the advent of barbed wire and windmills and other methods of "taming the land" (and you are absoluteley right, Darse...this is gendered in many ways), the so-called Cattle Kingdom is deposed, the "cowboy" no more?
From a way of making due according to the demands of the environment--of making a place in space by adapting to the land--the Cowboy Myth takes off and gains such imaginitive power that it comes to stand in as one version--one vision--of the West. And those who live in this space must contend. On this front, no longer is it an issue of being defined by the landsape, nor of trying to define that landscape for yourself, but rather of being defined by an outside discourse. And if you don't match that image...what then?
posted by TRM at 10:32 AM
3 Comments:
Tony, I don't remember if I've mentioned this book before, but I think it would be really useful to you: Daniel J. Boorstin's "The Americans: The Democratic Experience." There are quite a few chapters about settling in the West and an interesting section on branding of cattle--evidently, it was a huge thing and they even had competitions to see how quickly cowboys could "read" a brand. I don't know if anyone has written on that but it would be really interesting . . .
From James Fentriss and Chris Wickham's "Social Memory":
Images can be transmitted socially only if they are conventionalized and simplified: conventionalized, because the image has to be meaningful for an entire group; simplified, because in order to be generally meaningful and capable of transmission, the complexity of the image must be reduced as far as possible. (48)
A good explanation for why the images associated with a landscape (i.e. the cowboy image you're discussing here) are so archetypal (and you'll excuse the Jung). What fascinates me is how quickly the "real" cowboy became a parody of himself. I'm certain that Buffalo Bill has something to do with this, particularly in Europe. (Sometimes I think it's the European image of America that has really made America what it is: We've had to become what the European "center of culture" believed us to be--rugged individualists, open landscapes, etc. Sure, much of that is true to American character but it's a chicken-and-egg question.) Now I'm just babbling.
That's a very interesting idea about how an image works. I'll have to go look it up since I hate to comment on it out of context. How exactly do they define "simplified"? I can think of a lot of images that I would say are transmitted socially but that are definitely not simple. But again, that is a really fascinating idea.
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