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Fritz Scholder traveled two paths between 1967 and 1980, the period in which he depicted the majority of his Native American subjects. First (and most familiar), the artist delved into the fraught politics of tourism in the American Southwest following his appointment as a paint- ing instructor at the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA) in Santa Fe in 1964. What better pursuit for a burgeoning artist in the era of Pop than the big business of picturing Indians? Yet Scholder pointedly took up the subject in resistance to what he called a horde of “ugly tourists” trampling the region in search of a romantic Indian cliché.1 Second (and comparatively little known) is the artist’s frequent travel abroad at the height of Cold War cultural diplomacy. He encountered the work of Francis Bacon in London, began his Vampir series in Transylvania, created the lithograph Indian in Paris in 1976, painted images of pyramids in Egypt, won the International Prize in Lithography from Intergrafik ‘80 in Berlin, and lectured widely on Native American art [fig. 18].

This essay is the first to explore the relationship between Scholder’s Indian series and the cultural politics of travel. How did the artist’s approach to native subjects interweave touristic lessons from his Santa Fe tenure with his own regular journeys abroad? In both cases, Scholder joined up with a flow of world travelers who have for centuries recorded their impressions of new places and peoples using brush or pen. At the same time, he politicized a modernist tradition in which “symbols and metaphors of travel are used in ways that obscure key differences of power between nationalities, classes, races, and genders.”2 The artist made such differences newly visible wherever he and his works went, trading the leisure of tourism for his own, id- iosyncratic brand of diplomacy. This was especially evident in 1972, when Scholder toured through Europe with the exhibition Two American Painters: Fritz Scholder and T. C. Cannon under the auspices of the United States Information Agency. Although Scholder distanced himself from the American Indian Movement in the same period, the far-flung travels of artist and work helped to position indigenous politics in the middle of the Cold War international arena, lending them additional significance in the context of global art history today.

41

J E S S I C A L . H O R T O N

painter, traveler, diplomat

Sioux Burial at Mouse River (detail)

Scholder’s bit of Pop irony talks back to the region’s longstanding ethnographic entertain- ment complex, which he viewed with antipathy throughout his Santa Fe tenure. During the industrial boom of the late nineteenth century, antimodernist pilgrims sought spiritual solace in red-rock mesas and cultural authenticity from Native American communities. The Santa Fe Railway and the Fred Harvey Company joined forces to organize regional attractions, build cushy hotels, and publish alluring guidebooks, marketing the Southwest as a premier travel destination.6 Pueblos and Navajos responded to the curious stares and ready pocketbooks of outsiders with a mixture of outright resistance and strategic cooperation. They variously prohibited photography at ceremonies, sold pottery and textiles to the crowds, sat before the lens and easel, and circulated their own wry representations [fig. 21].7

Although the Fred Harvey Company closed up shop soon after Scholder’s appointment at IAIA in 1964, the ranks of international visitors were replenished by the camera-toting contingent of the era’s counterculture.8 Native Americans, too, were among those experiencing the region for the first time. Paul Chaat Smith has written of Yuchi-Muscogee Creek photographer Richard Ray Whitman’s arrival in the 1960s: “[He] journeyed to Santa Fe to realize the intoxicating vision promised in the glossy pages of a weekly magazine. He found instead a cold, soulless place where commerce meant the same thing as art, culture was often a pose, and cynicism came as naturally as breathing.”9 Similarly, recognition of the colonial dynamics at play in the Southwest fueled Scholder’s conviction that images of Native Americans were caught in a romantic trap: “Upon my arrival in Santa Fe in 1964, I vowed that I would not paint the Indian. The non-Indian had painted the subject as a noble savage and the Indian painter had been caught in a tourist-pleasing cliché.”10 Yet the notion that Scholder could remain outside this politic—one in which his students, fellow teachers, and nearby indigenous communities were deeply embroiled—proved untenable. Scholder entered the fray three years later, wielding strawberry ice-cream cones and soda pop as weapons against the crowd.

S A N TA F E , T O U R I S M , A N D P O P

In 1972, Fritz Scholder wrote a short poem to accompany Super Indian No. 2:

He tried to ignore the hoard [sic]

of ugly tourists as he left the others. In the

old days there were few white

watchers along with the old professional

Indian lovers. Now it had turned

into a carnival. He stepped up to the

red, white, and blue concession

stand and ordered an ice cream cone

—a double-dip strawberry.3

“He” is a buffalo dancer, perhaps from one of the pueblos near Santa Fe, apparently worn out from physical exertion, heat, and crowds. His enormous brown frame slumps, right arm draped across bent knee. Instead of a picturesque dance rattle, the preferred prop of tourists’ photos, he grips an incongruous pink ice-cream cone. Tourists love native dances, cold treats, and the reprieve of an air-conditioned hotel. But the brochures promise a spectacle of pure difference, implying that ice cream should remain outside the frame. In the visual culture of Southwest tourism, this most American of desserts, associated with childhood and middle-class leisure, does not belong in the fist of a swarthy Indian partaking in dances that the Superintendent of Pueblo Day Schools called “so bestial as to prohibit their description” in 1915.4 It is as if one of Edward Curtis’s Tesuque Buffalo Dancers (1925) snuck out of the photograph, selected a flavor from Wayne Thiebaud’s Four Ice Cream Cones (1964), and plopped down on Scholder’s canvas with a sigh of relief to take a lick [figs. 19 and 20].5

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FIG 20 Wayne Thiebaud Four Ice Cream Cones, 1964 Oil on canvas Collection of Phoenix Art Museum, AZ

FIG 21 Gerald Nailor Untitled (Tourists), 1937 Gouache on paper Museum of Indian Arts and Culture, NM

FIG 18 Fritz Scholder Indian in Paris, 1976 Lithograph National Museum of the American Indian, Washington, DC

FIG 19 Edward S. Curtis Tesuque Buffalo Dancers, 1925 Photogravure Denver Art Museum

as if she had never existed.”16 In Scholder’s work, the study is directed less at the creation of Hollywood stardom than the truth-telling presumptions of ethnographic photography. As the authority of black and white cedes to the glamour of blue and orange in Hopi Dancers, the fantasy of cultural access shades into pure Indian simulation.17

While Scholder cast the “dazzling light of New Mexico” on the colonial politics of Southwest travel, he also explored a more subtle range of alternatives.18 In Indian in Taos Pueblo (1970), the yellow of desert earth and tan of adobe walls, ubiquitous in the landscape paintings of modernists who congregated in northern New Mexico, are mobilized in an unusual composition (see plate 18). Planes of color, dark shadows, and indeterminate shapes, which seem plucked from Richard Diebenkorn’s Untitled (Albuquerque) (1951), guard, rather than showcase, the cloaked native subject at center [fig. 24]. Working with local students at IAIA, Scholder must have been aware of Pueblo communities’ efforts to protect ceremonial knowledge from intru- sive outsiders. Here he puts the abstract landscape to work, deflecting viewers from private indigenous lives. We glimpse only enough to alert us of all that we don’t and shouldn’t know about subjects who resist the treatment of their plaza as a stage.

I N T E R N AT I O N A L T R A V E L A N D T H E O C C U LT

Scholder’s time in Santa Fe was punctuated by his own forays abroad. Only two years after beginning the Indian series, he resigned from IAIA and spent the next six months traveling through Europe and North Africa. Reflecting on the decision years later, Scholder found that the bright dream of the art school was doomed to bureaucratic mismanagement and factionalism by the federal Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA). He further observed, “we were still all buying into this strange kind of ethnic romanticism . . . this localized art patronage of the Southwest, that was deadly, and that more than anything a person today living in this country who happens to be an Indian has to in some way transcend.”19 Evidently Scholder used his travels to drive

Soon, critics across the country hailed Scholder as the forerunner of a “New Indian Art Movement” centered on IAIA.11 Faculty and students sought to distance their work from the ceremonial dances and buffalo hunts that native artists painted for sale beginning in the 1910s.12 They sculpted contemporary political messages to a soundtrack of Bob Dylan while Allen Ginsberg and Vincent Price dropped by to read poetry.13 Scholder quickly developed his signature strategy of short-circuiting otherwise picturesque scenes of natives with modern props. It is perfected in Indians with Umbrellas (1971), among his first lithographs created at the Tamarind Institute in Albuquerque (see plate 36). A field of green and yellow hatching meets a mustard sky filled with cloud forms, suggestive of the Great Plains. Men on horse- back congregate as a row of swift dark strokes on the horizon, like the ominous war parties of Hollywood westerns. Instead of ubiquitous feather bonnets, these “braves” sport jaunty hats and carry red and white umbrellas redolent of picnics, amusement parks, and long days spent tanning at the beach. Although Scholder imagined he was the first to create such a scene, nineteenth-century drawings by the Lakota artist Red Hawk and others also feature parasols on the Plains, adding a layer of historical realism to Scholder’s seemingly fantastical image [fig. 22].14 Thus adorned, the warriors seem ready to lift off and join Mary Poppins in the sky. At this moment, thanks to Scholder’s growing fame and his newfound interest in printmaking, his Indians did become buoyant, multiplying and circulating alongside the tourist brochures they teased. Two different versions of Hopi Dancers (1974), portraying one of American an- thropology’s most-pictured subjects, share the iterative iconicity of Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Diptych (1962; fig. 23).15 Warhol’s juxtaposition of the saturated colors of a magazine spread and the gray scale of newsprint, a binary repeated across the whole of the series, lays bare the logic of reproduction that dissolves real faces into media abstractions. According to art historian Jonathan Flatley, “the work of art is conceived of not in relation to a ‘real person’ but in relation to the process of reproducibility itself . . . the ‘person’ disappears from the process

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FIG 22 Cetanluta (Red Hawk) Meets his Squaw, ledger drawing of a courting scene, about 1885 Ink and crayon on paper Milwaukee Public Museum, WI

FIG 23 Andy Warhol Marilyn Diptych, 1962 Acrylic on canvas Tate Modern, London

FIG 24 Richard Diebenkorn Untitled (Albuquerque), 1951 Oil on canvas Private collection

lines of the Parthenon, shrouded vampires to proud Adonises, and the meaty distortions by Francis Bacon to Mona Lisa’s famed half-smile.

One of Scholder’s recurring approaches to native subjects is the pictorial equivalent of mummification. Although the artist never discussed his Indian series explicitly in such terms, he wanted to be an Egyptologist as a child, studied sarcophagi in the British Museum, trav- eled to Egypt several times, and, on a more intimate scale, kept an Egyptian mummy in his personal collection, which he repeatedly drew and painted.22 Scholder similarly wraps and bundles his Indian figures, creating self-enclosed forms that inhabit a disturbing borderline between subject and object. In Dog and Dead Warrior (1971; plate 23), the figure is stiffened in a horrible pose of death, leg crooked, neck thrown back. The body is swaddled in white paint flecked with red and blue, a thin wisp of bandagelike material flowing from his neck. The identity and hint of narrative suggested by the parenthetical “Warrior” are, like the dog that mourns or menaces him at top, stopped in their tracks, frozen out of time. To more dig- nified ends, the blanketed man in profile in Indian with Feather (1970; plate 34), also from the series Indians Forever, echoes the eternal monumentality of Egyptian sarcophagi. Sioux Burial at Mouse River (1979; plate 42), a lithograph created the same year as Scholder’s The Sarcophagus, hints at cultural affinities between bundled burial practices separated by cen- turies and half a globe [figs. 25 and 26].

Scholder’s investigation of the precarious, often violent border zone between life and death may be what drew him to the work of Bacon in the Tate Modern in London at the end of his 1969 trip. Before Scholder sought to strip the romance from his Indian subjects, Bacon, a professed atheist, pursued a similar course to reinterpret Christian crucifixion iconography.23 Instead of heroic suffering and salvation, Bacon saw butchered meat, declaring bluntly, “well, of course, we are meat, we are potential carcasses.”24 It is likely that a work such as Lying Figure No. 2 (1959) influenced Scholder’s rendering of a ditch of tangled flesh and bone in

this point home, communicating to friends and patrons that his practice belonged beyond the borders of the American Southwest, in the world at large.

He called his trip in 1969 “a grand gesture by taking a grand tour of Europe. I had never been to Europe,” he added, chuckling, “and I knew that this would make everybody mad.”20 The “grand tour” was a centuries-old tradition by which privileged young Europeans became intimately acquainted with the great works of human civilization, rendering them in miniature in their sketchbooks. Scholder joined up with this lineage apparently without irony. Increasingly skeptical of the value of art school education, he advised young native artists to travel instead.21 And for the rest of his life he insisted on every artist’s freedom to depict Egyptian pyramids, Indians with umbrellas, and any subject that compels the imagination. Rather than a discrete category of his oeuvre, I consider that Scholder’s ventures abroad generated a translocal context and content for his Indian series.

Many of Scholder’s indigenous subjects could be described as unhomely, in that they con- front us with the limits of all that is familiar, safe, reassuring. While incongruity is a primary strategy of works like Super Indian No. 2, indeterminacy is the effect of portraits such as Mad Indian (1968; plate 16), created the same year Scholder completed his first major trip abroad. “Mad,” implying either angry or insane, is indicated by the clawlike hand curled in the air and the deep frown on the subject’s face. Beyond these affective signals, body and space are a collage of unresolved parts: two halves of a shirt that don’t match, a bulbous purple forearm resting on an unidentifiable, creaturely form, “background” shapes that seem to come alive and wrap around the figure, and negative space under his left armpit that, when apprehended through a quick glance, suddenly protrudes like a foot clothed in white. The portrait disturbs the clear lines of sight so prized by tourists, withholding knowledge and refusing to be domesticated. It is precisely monstrous, morbid, excessive, or occult subjects that Scholder catalogued with special attention during his travels. He preferred the sealed pyramids of Egypt to the open

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FIG 27 Fritz Scholder Massacre in America: Wounded Knee, 1972 Oil on canvas Promised Gift from Vicki and Kent Logan to the Collection of the Denver Art Museum [PLATE 21]

FIG 28 Francis Bacon Lying Figure, 1959 Oil on canvas Private collection

FIG 25 Fritz Scholder Sioux Burial at Mouse River, 1979 Lithograph Denver Art Museum [PLATE 42]

FIG 26 Fritz Scholder The Sarcophagus (State I), 1979 Four-color lithograph Tamarind Institute, NM

Andrew Denson has explored, USIA depictions of Native Americans acknowledged oppres- sion in the past but focused on “recounting a modern history of justice and government-led improvement”—an advertisement, in effect, for the success of American democracy.31 As the apostle of a “Red man” renaissance, Scholder’s innovative practice was evidence of the nation’s benevolent multiculturalism and tolerance for critique. Importantly, his USIA tour coincided with peak events of AIM, including activists’ takeover of the BIA offices in Washington, D.C., in 1972, known as the Trail of Broken Treaties, and their occupation of Wounded Knee in 1973.32 Despite sharing the activists’ critique of the BIA, historic massacres, and other legacies of colonialism, Scholder insisted, “I don’t dig Red Power and I don’t identify with protest Indian art.”33 The USIA may well have intended the tour to function as a diplomatic foil, directing international media away from disruptive sovereignty struggles back home.

Yet Scholder performed his own characteristic acts of resistance abroad. Though he admits to being “naïve” upon arrival in Bucharest, any idealism he felt about the tour ahead was instantly shattered. He encountered a picture of himself with students at IAIA reproduced in a beautiful color publication titled America, sitting on the coffee table of an ambassador’s palatial home.

“And I realized that this was propaganda.”34 He tells of bailing on remaining engagements in the city and convincing his guide to take him to Transylvania—a detour that would later result in Self-Portrait as Vampire and other dark pictures that pointedly reaffirmed his outsider status [fig. 29]. Afterward, the artist sent a litany of complaints to organizers in Washington, D.C., about all aspects of the tour: “Our stay in Romania was a disaster—no planning by the USIA. In Yugoslavia I find that the exhibit will not be in Belgrade, but in a Southern region which is the most provincial . . . I question the value of having the show in Turkey at all.”35 Despite official reports that Scholder was a “definite program asset,” his outspoken critique may explain why several showings in Turkey and a proposed extension of the exhibition never came to pass.36

Massacre in America: Wounded Knee (1972; figs. 27 and 28). While Bacon’s single figure re- tains a semblance of human identity, Scholder’s bodies are a heap of dismembered hooves, ribs, and steaks. He envisions the infamous massacre of Lakota men, women, and children by the U.S. Cavalry in 1890 as so many animal parts in a slaughterhouse. Scholder inaugurated this international aesthetic dialogue on canvas one year before American Indian Movement (AIM) activists occupied the site in South Dakota, indicating his will to move domestic Indian struggles beyond the U.S. national borders that proved so catastrophic to indigenous survival.

Similar concerns motivated Scholder’s collecting practice. He brought pieces of the world back to the Southwest, filling a new home he purchased in Scottsdale, Arizona, in 1972 with objects amassed from his travels. They included a Roman miniature vase for collecting tears, voodoo objects such as a double-horned goat and a two-headed calf, a taxidermy bison head, and countless vintage postcards.25 Scholder explained, “[It’s] not like most houses in that it’s more of a museum of many objects.”26 He curated his living quarters in a non-categorical manner recalling the global mélange found in seventeenth-century European cabinets of curiosity. He especially prized objects charged with magic and power as reminders that “we know so little.”27 More than exotic souvenirs, his collections extended the unhomely spaces of his canvases and prints while supplying props for further painting. They helped Scholder

“transcend” the dangerously complacent Southwest visual culture by resituating his Indian subjects in a vast, unknowable, and often disturbing world.28

C U LT U R A L D I P L O M A C Y A N D T H E C O L D W A R

Scholder’s travels unfolded against a backdrop of volatile international relations during the Cold War. In 1972, the connection was made explicit when the artist was invited to lecture about contemporary native art alongside the traveling exhibition Two American Painters. The event placed key works from his Indian series, including seven from the present exhibition, as well as paintings by his former student at IAIA, the Kiowa painter T. C. Cannon, at the center of American cultural diplomacy efforts in Romania, Germany, England, Yugoslavia, and Turkey. Scholder’s tour emerged from a partnership between the Smithsonian Institution and the United States Information Agency (USIA); the former organized shows of the brightest American talents, while the latter coordinated their travel to strategic venues abroad. The official goal of this arrangement was to disseminate American values of democracy and freedom around the globe, especially in countries deemed vulnerable to Communist influence. Considering that Scholder was among the most critical artists of his generation when it came to representing Native Americans, how did his work and words dovetail with this international mission?

Certainly, traveling under the auspices of the USIA meant that Scholder was framed by a narrative not of his making. For example, Scholder often stated publicly that he had little contact with indigenous peoples prior to his tenure in the Southwest and did not lay claim to native identity despite his one-quarter Luiseño ancestry.29 Yet Brigid Lay declared on a radio broadcast for Voice of America in 1972 that “Fritz Scholder is one of the many who cherish their Indian heritage and look forward to a genuine renaissance of the Red man.”30 As historian

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FIG 29 Fritz Scholder Self Portrait as a Vampire, 1972 Acrylic on canvas Collection of the Estate of Fritz Scholder

The beast was heavy with political symbolism during the Cold War. In Romanian-born playwright Eugène Ionesco’s popular work Rhinocéros (1959), the inhabitants of a provincial French town transformed into rhinoceroses in what most critics interpreted as a dramatization of the spread of fascism and communism.40 Carrying on the theme, Russia’s premier Cold War military tank, the T-64, was widely known by the nickname “Rhino.” Scholder gives the creature a conspicuous twist. He placed the letters “BIA,” a reference to the federal agency notorious for breaking treaties and mismanaging indigenous relations, in the top-left corner of the painting, hinting at an equation of African mammal, American bureaucracy, and Soviet power. Indian and Rhinoceros thus visually refuses Piliuta’s confident message of international goodwill. Clutching the unused pipe, the native man retains his independence from diplomatic theater of all kinds.

Between 1967 and 1981, Scholder simultaneously turned his back on touristic simulations of the American Southwest and the ideological baggage of Cold War internationalism as legitimate frameworks for picturing American Indians. Yet the larger-than-life figure in Indian and Rhinoceros also looks out at viewers holding the peace pipe, as if open to a new kind of relationship, a truce yet to be determined. By resituating Pueblo dancers, Plains warriors, and other native subjects within the idiosyncratic itinerary of his own “grand tour,” Scholder retained optimism that they might address, and thereby affect, the world at large. Perhaps this is diplomacy after all, Scholder-style.

When Scholder was not making trouble in person, his artwork carried the torch. Some of his most overtly disruptive images were left out of Two American Painters—depictions of Indian massacres, for example, painted in 1972, which eerily foreshadow the Wounded Knee takeover the following February (see plates 21 and 22). At the same time, a work such as Dog and Dead Warrior, which did travel, was hardly a picture of benign multiculturalism [fig. 30]. With its garish, skull-like grin, hollow eyes, and clear references to the alcoholism plaguing American Indian populations, Indian with Beer Can (1969) also seems as clear a condemnation of colonialism as any AIM manifesto. Some Romanian viewers seemed to catch the negative drift, for the visitor’s book included, among warm sentiments, comments such as, “The American embassy which supervises the ways by which the USA is made known, should detect what is useful and what isn’t . . . [T]he impression upon the youth is unfavorable.”37 Noting Scholder’s distorted bodies, another critic who reviewed the exhibition at the American Embassy in London concluded that Francis Bacon and other European painters had exerted greater influence on the artist than the Americans listed in the catalog. He wondered, “Could the persistent and very pleasant references to British painting be a subtle expression of dissent, a discreet disavowal of the art that has put white America in the forefront of the international movement?”38

Disavowal is overt, not discreet, in Indian and Rhinoceros (1968), one of Scholder’s most memorable paintings in this exhibition [fig. 31]. At the opening in Bucharest, internationally recognized Romanian painter Constantin Piliuta stood before the massive canvas, remarking on art’s possibilities for “strengthening the friendship between our two peoples”—that is, Americans and Romanians.39 A robed native man clutching a peace pipe looms over the head of the U.S. ambassador who stands listening. A powerful tool of indigenous diplomacy, the mutual smoking of the peace pipe sealed pacts between indigenous nations and Europeans from the earliest moments of contact. But here, trust appears broken; the figure stands with his back to the rear end of an enormous rhinoceros.

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FIG 30 Photograph of the opening of Two American Painters at the American Library in Bucharest, Romania, 1972. American ambassador Leonard C. Meeker is seen at center in front of the Scholder paintings Super Indian No. 1 (left), and Dog and Dead Indian (right). The center painting, which appears to be of a Hopi maiden, does not match anything in the catalog list and remains unidentified. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Washington, DC.

FIG 31 Photograph of the opening of Two American Painters at the American Library in Bucharest, Romania, 1972. Painter Constantin Piliuta (left) and Robert K. Geis (right), director of the American Library, stand before Indian and Rhinoceros. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Washington, DC.

I consider Indian and Rhinoceros as a ledger drawing with volume. Then again, he’s a colorist.

Look at that beautiful color he used on that animal.

—Gregory Kondos

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Notes 1 Fritz Scholder, Scholder/Indians (Flagstaff: Northland Press, 1972), p. 14. 2 Caren Kaplan, Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement (Durham: Duke University Press Books, 1996), inside cover. 3 Scholder, Scholder/Indians, p. 14. 4 Around this time, the Superintendent of Pueblo Day Schools, P. T. Lonergan, and others submitted reports calling for federal censorship of Pueblo dances to the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Washington, D.C., later compiled into the notorious “Secret Dance File” currently held at the National Anthropological Archives of the Smithsonian Institution, MS 7070. Quoted in Margaret D. Jacobs, Engendered Encounters: Feminism and Pueblo Cultures, 1879–1934 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999), p. 109. 5 Scholder took a course with Wayne Thiebaud, a key artist in West Coast figuration, while he was enrolled in Sacramento Junior College from 1957 to 1959 and cites him as a key influence. See Lowery Stokes Sims, “Scholder’s Figuration: Art and Culture in American Art,” in Lowery Stokes Sims et al., eds., Fritz Scholder: Indian/Not Indian (Washington, D.C., and New York: National Museum of the American Indian, Smithsonian Institution, and Prestel Verlag, 2008), p. 79. 6 Leah Dilworth, Imagining Indians in the Southwest: Persistent Visions of a Primitive Past (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1996), pp. 16–17. 7 See Michelle McGeough, Through Their Eyes: Indian Painting in Santa Fe, 1918–1945 (Santa Fe: Wheelwright Museum of the American Indian, 2009). 8 Kathleen L. Howard and Diana F. Pardue, Inventing the Southwest: The Fred Harvey Company and Native American Art (Flagstaff: Northland Publishing, 1996), p. 133. 9 Paul Chaat Smith, Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2009), p. 36. 10 Scholder, Scholder/Indians, p. 22. 11 Brigid Lay, “An American Indian Painter,” Voice of America, April 17, 1972. Transcript in the Smithsonian Institution Archives, National Collection of Fine Arts (U.S.) Department of Twentieth Century Painting and Sculpture, Records, 1965–75, 000315, box 14. 12 See J. J. Brody, Indian Painters and White Patrons (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1971).

13 Winona Garmhausen, oral interview with Fritz Scholder, July 1975, p. 15. Garmhausen Papers, box 4, folder 7, IAIA Archives. 14 Paul Karlstrom, oral history interview with Fritz Scholder, March 3–30, 1995. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution. 15 Scholder created Hopi Dancers at the Tamarind Institute in 1974 and donated fifty prints of an edition of 150 to the Denver Art Museum to be sold at a benefit event for the Native Arts Department. Smithsonian Institution Archives, National Collection of Fine Arts (U.S.) Department of Twentieth Century Painting and Sculpture, Records, 1965–75, 000315, box 14. 16 Jonathan Flatley, “Warhol Gives Good Face: Publicity and the Politics of Prosopopoeia,” in Jennifer Doyle, Jonathan Flatley, and José Esteban Muñoz, eds., Pop Out: Queer Warhol (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996), p. 109. 17 Anishinaabe author Gerald Vizenor borrows French theorist Jean Baudrillard’s notion of the simulacrum to describe dominant conceptions of Indians that circulate without a referent. See Vizenor, Manifest Manners: Postindian Warriors of Survivance (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999). 18 Mark Lavatelli, “Diebenkorn’s Albuquerque Years,” in Gerald Norland et al., Richard Diebenkorn in New Mexico (Santa Fe: Museum of New Mexico Press, 2007), p. 29. 19 Karlstrom, 1995. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid. 22 Ibid. 23 Margarita Cappock, “The Motif of Meat and Flesh,” in Francis Bacon and the Tradition of Art (Vienna: Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, 2003), p. 134. 24 David Sylvester, Interviews with Francis Bacon (New York: Thames and Hudson, 1999), p. 46. 25 Ibid. 26 Paul Karlstrom, oral history interview with Fritz Scholder, December 7, 2000. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution. 27 Karlstrom, 1995. 28 Ibid. 29 See Paul Chaat Smith, “Monster Love,” in Fritz Scholder: Indian/Not Indian, pp. 25–35. 30 Lay, “An American Indian Painter.”

31 Andrew Denson, “Native Americans in Cold War Public Diplomacy: Indian Politics, American History, and the U.S. Information Agency,” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 36, no. 2 (2012), p. 4. 32 See Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior, Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee (New York: The New Press, 1997). 33 Quoted in Maggie Wilson, “Young Indians ‘Dig’ Fritz Scholder’s Art,” Arizona Republic, March 8, 1971. 34 Karlstrom, 1995. 35 Fritz Scholder, letter to Richard Joyce, USIA, Washington, D.C., October 26, 1972. Smithsonian Institution Archives (SIA) 000315, box 14 . 36 Report, American Embassy in Bucharest to USIA, Washington, D.C., November 3, 1972. SIA 000315, box 14. 37 Ibid. 38 Robert Melville, “Warpaint,” New Statesman, January 26, 1973. SIA 000315, box 14. 39 “Scholder-Cannon Exhibit,” USIA report materials from American Embassy in Bucharest, December 12, 1972. SIA 000315, box 14. 40 David Caute, The Dancer Defects: The Struggle for Cultural Supremacy during the Cold War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 339–40.