Half a century ago, in a Kerouac-style journey across prairies and fruited plains, Robert Frank photographed the inhabitants of the recently confirmed most powerful country in the world. Last Tuesday, the Metropolitan Museum of Art kicked off its celebration of the 50th anniversary of the photographs’ release, titled “The Americans,” with the opening of the commemorative exhibit Looking In: Robert Frank’s “The Americans.”
It is has been long observed that fashion anticipates future social trends (clearly in “The Americans” this is true given the sweeping social upheaval to take place in the 1960s), and therefore it is important to seek out those that reject the conventions of fashion in order to follow where society will lead us next. Frank’s masterpiece reminds us that those who use clothing as politics may be the ones who change the way we look at ourselves as a society, not just the way we look at clothes.
As a Swiss immigrant, Frank was an unlikely surgeon to dissect the psyche of this apple pie-eating populace. In fact, Frank’s intention to find what makes “Americans” so damn American was ignored by the press, who lambasted the collection of grainy and blurred photographs as a lonely, joyless, and pessimistic portrayal of the working-class. What the press failed to appreciate is that “The Americans” rejected the expectations of the time:to capture portraits of the perfectly poised 1950s. Critics wouldn’t acknowledge the racial, religious, and sexual tensions brewing in the seemingly placid and confident postwar nation.
Frank arrived in the States having left behind a successful career as a high-end fashion photographer in Paris. He left the industry to escape the rigid dynamics of shooting fashion, but still retained his belief in the power of dress as a social statement.
Frank is drawn to individuals with a spirited sense of style who wear their politics and preach them. Frank captures those confined by the dress that society has thrust upon them. By juxtaposing figures with foreign, overbearing surroundings, Frank presents the clothing as a revolt to the status quo or as a sad surrender.
Take the photo of Old Slinger, with dusty boots, a belt-buckle the size of a flattened spittoon and a ten gallon hat that could shade half of Dallas. Leaning against a trashcan, he nonchalantly lights a rolled one, exuding raw masculinity. He’s out of place in the Big City, though he is confident—shown in both his dress and demeanor—all of which heightens his Wild West moxie and allow his indifference to urban sprawl to shine through. A picture of a black man and a woman on the back of a motorcycle in heavy, studded denim expresses the strength and solidarity of the emerging Civil Rights movement. On the other hand, a woebegone teenage girl—dreaming of being elsewhere while at work—stuffed into an elevator operator’s coat captures the unrest of a generation on the verge of the sixties counterculture.
Dozens more pictures like these illustrate that fashion can serve as another gun in the arsenal to battle conventions of society. The anniversary of Frank’s collection proves that even decades ago, clothing was still the strongest way to market your politics when your mouth is shut.
Open your mouth and email Keenan at ktimko@georgetownvoice.com
