Hazy American Gothic

Iowa :: Image – Sanya Vitale

American Gothic – Grant Wood – 1930 :: Image – Chicago Art Institute

Melancholy and Anxiety

I was on a road trip a few years ago that took me west through the entire width of Iowa. I discovered Iowa’s divided into two horizontal stripes in every direction, the bottom half is green, and the top half is blue, with occasional dark shapes and textures interrupting the horizon like cattle, trees, and farm building silhouettes. Two-track dirt roads intersected with the narrow county highway that passed through the small town I was in. It included a two-pump gas station, one unleaded, one diesel, a small store where I bought a green and yellow t-shirt that said ‘kiss a corn grower today’, a garage structure servicing large trucks and farm machinery, like combines, tractors and chemical sprayers, a huge pile of irrigation equipment that was slowly disappearing into tall prairie grass, and a blacksmith shop. I could hear a sledgehammer banging iron and saw an orange glow with occasional sparks near a prominently placed limp, American flag on a twenty-foot pole. Much of the ground surrounding these places was packed dirt, stained with oil, gasoline, and other industrial fluids. After refueling, I took one of the two-track roads out into a field with all my windows open.

I stopped, got out and was surrounded by late summer corn way over my head. It was unsettling, a little like the anxiety I feel when I get lost in a maze and think I’ll never find my way out, or when I can’t locate the car immediately in a multilevel parking ramp because I forgot where I parked it. I imagined Iris Dement singing Our Town, or Leaning on the Everlasting Arm because the melancholy and anxiety were thick. I thought about home and family, but they weren’t anywhere near me, so I abruptly drove away from the discomfort and began thinking about the painting American Gothic.

My knowledge of Grant Wood’s painting American Gothic was incorrect from the start. I never bothered to learn the full story behind the painting. My American Art history professor must have spoken about it, but I don’t remember what he said, and I’ve made huge assumptions about what I thought the painting depicted. I assumed Wood somehow discovered this married couple on their farm one day while out exploring and asked them if he could sketch them. They probably would’ve looked just like this when he asked them too. They agreed to pose for him, but he’d have to come back later. So, he showed up to sketch them at the specified time but had to wait. He sat on the front porch until the two of them were finished with their afternoon bible study at the kitchen table. It was hot, humid, and quiet except for the cicadas and the mumbling he could hear through the screen door.

None of that happened though. It isn’t a portrait of a husband and wife at all, it depicts a father and daughter. Wood did come across this house randomly with a fellow artist and felt moved to draw it. Then later asked his family dentist and his daughter to pose for him. They weren’t even in the same room, they were sketched separately. That’s how he constructed the painting. He wasn't documenting an existing situation. He assembled seperate elements and merged them to shape this open-ended story about fictional people in Iowa.

Regardless of Grant Woods intent, or my assumptions, the painting makes me uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because the father’s pitchfork automatically implies poking, or stabbing. It makes me think of ‘children of the corn’ and these two look like they could be involved somehow, controlling them without words, just coded eye movements, sending out the ‘corn’ herds to track down trespassers if they stray into their fields. Someone might have pulled over, gotten out to stretch their legs and entered the rows of corn one hot afternoon during late summer, thinking they were far enough away from the farmhouse that they wouldn’t be noticed, but they miscalculated how easy it is to see movement in the distance on most Iowa farms. Then the children would be summoned, they’d congregate quickly and rush from the barn into the fields almost like a single organism, and quickly locate and isolate the intruders without even making their presence known. They’d stop abruptly like roadrunners, quietly encircle their prey, and emerge in slow motion, blinking simultaneously and silent.

Songs :: Our Town and Leaning on the Everlasting Arm by Iris DeMent, and Revelator by Gillian Welch

© C. Davidson

Tomah(awk)

Tomah Train Station :: Photographer Unknown

Apple Picking :: 1967

When the train approached the station thirty-seven years ago I was excited. I was at most of the stops we made crossing the country because I’d never been to any of those places. We were in Wisconsin and I missed the conductor’s announcement, but I saw the station sign next to the tracks a half mile out and it said Tomah. I thought the sign was wrong even though I only saw it through part of a moving train window. I assumed it was supposed to read Tomahawk, with the ‘awk’ letters missing. My grandmother, Florence Scott, grew up in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, and I wanted it to be Tomahawk. I even started an ink drawing about it the next day titled Tomah while we where in Ohio en route to Rhode Island. Eight years later I drove by the Interstate 94 exit sign to Tomah on my way to Chicago from Minneapolis. I’d been mistaken for years. If laptops, Wi-Fi and Google had existed while I was on the train in 1983, I might have discovered my assumption was wrong, but those things didn’t exist then.

Whenever I imagine her hometown and her childhood with her sisters Georgia and Belle, it’s mostly fiction. I don’t remember most of her history there, but I know what Wisconsin feels like because we live near it and spend time there. I know what a small town with a lake nearby feels like too because I’ve lived in similar towns and watched TV shows like The Walton’s and the opening to the Andy Griffith Show when I was a kid. Maybe she had experiences like that. My parents told me that she was strong, direct, and didn’t suffer fools. I remember her hospitality and grace, like when she made me poached eggs for breakfast, how she managed family during holiday dinners and Easter egg hunts, and when my cousin and I picked apples from her tree on Saturday and were rewarded with root beer floats from A&W. I remember other moments too, but never how my grandmother felt, or how her childhood and teen years shaped her.

She visited me in a dream when I was an adult and long after she died. She wore a distinctive blue and white floral-patterned dress that I remembered from my childhood. When I told my mom about the dream, she remembered that dress too. My grandmother and I were in a small dimly lit room. We looked at each other and after a minute, she walked over and gently touched my arm. I can still feel her hand and and remember how the hazy light warmed and brightened slightly when she told me “everything is going to be alright.”

Songs :: Tell Me All the Things You Do and The Way I Feel by Fleetwood Mac, White Lily by Laurie Anderson and Here by David Byrne

© C. Davidson