Fig. 1 Paul Manship. Indian Hunter wzth Dog, 1927. Bronze. Cwhran Park, SI.

Paul Minnesota, Photo of the

Minnesota Historical Society.
 SCOTTFiTzqERdd ANd A MONUMENT
Echo TkE JAZZ A ~ E
TiMorky 1. CARVEY
In the spring of 1927 a fountain was installed in a
small triangular park among the fashionable homes
lining St. Paul’s wealthy Summit Avenue. Situated before
a stone pavilion erected a few years earlier, the fountain
consisted o f a large tiled pool containing bronze sculpture
by Paul Manship, a St. Paul native who had gone on to a
highly succ.essful career. in New York and abroad. Water
flowed into the fountain from the upturned beaks of four
geese positioned around the circumference of the circular
pool, but the most important feature of the work was a
large ccntral group entitled Indian Hunter with Dog.’
‘Thonias (hchran, responsible for commissioning this
sculpturc for what had been the family park immediately
across from the family home, explained that the Indian,
dog and geese were intended to commemorate his father,
Thomas (i>chran, Sr., by standing as symbols of the
Minnesota found by the elder Cochran upon his arrival in
the statc i n the late 1860s.*At the same time, the youthful
exuberance of Manship’s brave was intended to recall the
importaric e of the park as beloved playground,
comriic.niorating the generations of children who “spent
countlrss Iiappy childhood hours over their games, or in
companionship with their fellows” on this triangle of
1and.j Yet Indian Hunter with Dog carries more than mere
family or local meaning; the sleek young brave gliding
along with his faithful companion not only met
Ctxhran’s requirements for commemoration of father and
local c-hildien,but stood along the Avenue as a rich “Jazz
Age” irnagr,.
It has long been common among students of
Amei i c m ( ulture to regard art and literature as telling
rcdet tions of different American beliefs and ideals.
Ikspite difficulties posed by the often ideosyncratic
characters o f the artists and writers responsible for
producing them, individual works have time and again
been 1tmkt.d upon as exceptional in their capacity to
illuminate some essential quality of the broader American
experience. Due to the unique nature of public sculpture,
careful study of works like Manship’s fountain group can
be an especially rewarding enterprise. Conceived as part of
a longstantling tradition of sculpture and yet created to
function in a specific contemporary context, such work is
capablc o f yielding telling insight intoperiodattitudes. At
the same tinic, the fact that these objects are site-specific
suggests a further dimenison of interpretation. Not only
may wc l o o k to the temporal context when seeking an
understanding of public sculpture, but to the physical
context as well. In the case of the Cochran Park sculpture,
both time and place contribute to its meaning for the Jazz
Age, linking it to the chronicler most closely identified
with that age: F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Of course, a fountain group erected in the twenties to
celebrate youthful pleasures is quite easilyassociated with
the writer who did so much to promote the cult of youth
which emerged during that decade. However, making
such a connection all the more direct is the fact that the
park lies at the heart of what is commonly known as
“Fitrgerald’s St. Paul.”‘ While never financially secure
enough to purchase a home of their own,the Fitzgerald
family had remained in the Summit area throughout their
years in St. Paul, renting smaller houses, duplexes and
apartments on the periphery of the fashionable tore of
residences clustered around the park on the bluff at the east
end of the Avenue. The young Fitrgerald’s companions
came from some of the wealthiest families in the
neighborhood; his childhood haunts included their third
floor ballrooms and stately pillared porticoes; and one of
his most commonly frequented playgrounds was the
triangle of vacant land then owned by the Ctxhrans. Nor
was Fitzgerald’s contact with the neighborhood limited
to his cnildliood. On return visits from Newnian and
Princeton d u r i n g school vacations he renewed
acquaintance with the wealthy community along the
bluff, gaining additional awareness o f its customs and
mores as he matured. After the War he returned again for
briefer but equally important periods: initially seeking
haven under his parents’ roofas he made final revisions on
his first novel, and later as a national cekbrity after the
enormous success of This Side oj Paradise ( 1920)while he
and Zelda awaited the birth of their first child. Although it
proved his final period of residence in the city, the latter
stay of 1921-22 also did much to help solidify popular
association between the writer and the Summit Avenue
neighborhood. The handsome, wealthy young Fitzgerald
couple may have been difficult for some to cope with, but
to all outward appearances they seemed ideally suited to
the environment of stately residences, expensive motor
cars, fashionable clothing and busy so( ial schedules.
Appropriately, their last address before departing for good
in August, 1922, was at the heart of this neighborhood in
the elegant new Commodore Hotel-diagonally across
the street from that triangular parcel o f land Emily
4 JOURNAL
Cochran donated to the city for use as Cochran Park the
following year?
Yet the Summit Avenue community continued to be
important for Fitzgerald beyond those years of direct
physical contact, for his is not only the writingof one who
experienced that social milieu, but writing in which that
experience is exploited as subject. If the Avenue itself is
never actually mentioned by name, we still sense time and
again through his writing the impress of Fitzgerald’s early
lengthy relationship with the affluent residents of the
neighborhood. His fictional situations and characters
raise vivid pictures of the environment as well as the
manners, beliefs and hopes of those who resided in it.
Later events and impressions naturally over-layer the early
sources in stories and novels obviously set well outside the
city or the Midwest, but it is apparent that life in this small
neighborhood served as a crucial base experience against
which much else was measured and understood.6
Ultimately, Fitzgerald must be regarded not only among
those commemorated by the fountain sculpture later
erected there, but perhaps as the one who drew most from
the “countless happy childhood hours” spent in and
around this park.
Despite such a direct connection, however, the depth
of the relationship between Manship’s fountain sculpture
and Fitzgerald’s accounts of the period and society in
which Indian HunLer with Dog appeared is somewhat
unexpected given the author’s characteritation of his age.
In his major retrospective essay, “Echoes of the Jatz Age”
(1931). Fitzgerald emphasized that one of the hallmarks of
the period he observed was its independence from the past.
With a poetic brevity he ticked off changes in morals,
manners and beliefs which set the decade and its youth
apart from their elders and what had gone before. He
explained that the attitudes arising from the period’s
“state of nervous stimulation” were ignored by “people
over fifty,” that the stories of youthful practices and ideas
were not believed by the “generation who reached
maturity between 1875 and 1895,” and that “even the
intervening generations were incredulous” when
informed of the new world facing them in the wake of the
War.7 Fitzgerald was not alone in his assessment of this
change. Looking back from virtually the same point in the
early thirties writers as diverse as Frederick Lewis Allen,
Stuart Chase, Malcolm Cowley and Mark Sullivan were
among many who expressed similar opinions regarding
the remarkable transformations which became apparent
through the decade. Whether such change was due to the
experience of the War itself, attributable to internal social,
economic and political upheavals, or perhaps emerging
from the “long process of deracination” felt by his
generation, however, it is clear that Fittgerald believed
himself and his contemporaries somehow cut off from the
past.8
By contrast, Manship’s Indian Hunter with Dog was
in many ways very firmly rooted in the past. Cochran, for
Of AMERiCAN CUlTURE
example, was of exactly the generation Fitzgerald claimed
utterly unable to understand or deal with the new
developments of the twenties. Born in St. Paul in 1871, he
had attended Phillips Andover Academy in the late 1880s
and Yale in theearly 1890s, presumably maturing with the
experience? Passing his fiftieth birthday just as the Jazz
Age began, he gave every indication of holding firm to
past values in the face of the decade’s changes, eventually
turning much of his atteniton and personal fortune to the
preservation of institutions which had long ‘served as
protectors of such values. Secondary education was one of
his primary interests, and Phillips Andover benefitted
greatly from his support. After two decades of generous
donations to the Academy’s Alumni Fund his
involvement at Andover became even greater with his
election as Trustee in 1923;during the following decade he
acted as advisor and fund-raiser, and by the time of his
death in 1936 his personal donations to the institution
were reported to total over ten million dollars.1° The
school’s headmaster, Claude M. Fuess, explained that
while part of the benefactor’s support had stemmed from
romantic memories of happy years at the Academy, the
practical Cochran also saw “the importance of early
impressions on youth from fourteen to eighteen” and
sought to promote “an American school [based] on
American principles” which could stand as an example
“for the improvement of secondary education in the
country at large.”Ll
Cochran’s interest in education was undoubtedly
genuine, based in part upon his own experience as a
teacher in St. Paul in the late 1890s prior to entering a
more lucrative career in investments. Yet his desire to
impress “American principles” upon the youth of the
1920s was based as well upon his hope of instilling in the
young proper values drawn from the past. Cochran’s old
friend and House of Morgan business associate Thomas
W. Lamont identified the principles in question when he
described the benefactor himself as having possessed
virtues “precisely in line with the old copy-book
precepts.. .of industry, integrity, courage [and]
kindliness.”12 Moreover, L a m o n t also-almost
inadvertently-established the reason Cochran and others
felt those values in need of special support during the post-
War period when he spoke of the two decades between
1914 and Cochran’s death as “what I shall always call the
war years.”l5 Initiated by the outbreak of hostilities in
Europe, the period was one during which many of
Cochran’s generation felt their beliefs constantly
embattled as new attitudes and values emerged to
challenge them. Under these circumstances, the fountain
group commissioned to commemorate his father and
childhood memories referred to what was for Cochran
surely an attractive past vanished with the changes
Fitzgerald and others were describing.
Manship also possessed certain clear ties to that
vanished past. Having grown up in the Summit Avenue
A MONUMENT
TO Echo ThE JAZZ AGE 5

f

neighborhood himself, he was just as much one of those
commemorated by the fountain group as were Cochran
and Fitzgerald. Born in 1885, however, the sculptor was
more closely associated with the former in Fitzgerald’s
scheme, coming from the “intervening generations” the
writer described as hardly more able to relate to the new
character of the decade than their elders. In his sculpture,
both style and imagery further established the artist’s
connection with the past. Strongly influenced by three
years of work and study under scholarship at the American
Academy in Rome between 1909 and 1912, he emerged in
the following years with a consciously archaized style and
an oueure consisting largely of mythological subjects.
Indeed, so marked was Manship’s inclination toward the
art of the ancients that even in an otherwise very favorable
analysis of his sculpture in 1917, A. E. Gallatin remarked
that “one cannot but wish that Mr. Manship, having
perfected himself in the techniques of his art, and learned
its traditions, would not strive to produce works even more
creative and original and rather more modern in
feeling.””
Yet despite such criticism, Manship persisted in his
practice of drawing from the past out of conviction that
the majority of modern artists were misguided in their
attempts to establish modernity by striving always for the
unique. Convinced that any truly viable modern art must
necessarily draw upon what has gone before, he became
especially vocal in advising young artists to obtain a firm
grounding in the technical and aesthetic traditions of the
past. Devising an analogy between art and modern
science, Manship explained that just as the scientist
profits by building upon the work of predecessors in the
field to reach “the heights of the pyramid of accumulated
knowledge,” so too should the contemporary artist build
upon “the great art of preceding periods.”15 In this way
artists and scientists would again become equals in
society, following parallel courses and ultimately
allowing the former group to escape the difficulties of the
modern artist who “has been left far behind, retiring to his
garret to listen to his inner voice and depict hisdreams.”l6
If the past Manship sought to restore was perhaps more
distant than that clung to by k h r a n in the post-War
period, artist and patron were nonetheless of like mind in
their respective suspicions of excesses in modern society.
And those viewing theCoc.hran Park fountain in 1927
would have found even more obvious links to the past in
the very subject and style of this particular work. As
centerpiece and dominant feature of the fountain, the
American Indian Manship depicted with bow, arrows,
loincloth, moccasins and feathered headdress represents a
nearly mythical type drawn from the nation’s history.
Cochran enjoyed recalling stories his father told of serving
on the Minnesota State Militia in defense against possible
Indian “uprisings” in the 1870s, but half a century later
Indian Hunter with Dog could call to mind only an ideal
image of the earlier, simple existence of a people long
jOURNA\ Of AMERiCAN CUlTURE
since transformed by modern American society.I7 In fact,
in Manship’s ouevre the Indian was often presented as an
American counterpart to the Greek satyr or centaur, as
early as 1917 actually grouped with mythological figures
to establish parallels between Greek and American
traditions.18 Although the Cochran Park fountain
displays n o ancient imagery, the style of the work suggests
a similar parallel. Exhibiting a pronounced frontality,
massive but blocky musculature, archaic mask-like facial
features and a hint of stiffness throughout, the central
figure in this piece is strongly reminiscent of a Greek
kouros, here costumed and-still leading with his left
foot-off at a run.
Yet personal and professional inclinations of patron
and sculptor notwithstanding, Indian Hunter w i t h Dog
also exhibits several strong bonds to the Jazz Age
Fitzgerald described. Manship’s fountain group may have
originated with a commission calling for a n essentially
commemorative work and involved a subject and style
drawn from the past, but parallels between the monument
and Fitzgerald’s 1931 summary of the age make the
sculpture undeniably of its time-and in so doing
ultimately overshadow all apparent distance between
artist and writer.
When Fitzgerald pointed to the culturally distanced
older generations in his description of the twenties, hedid
so in an effort to create a foil against which to present the
ascendance of youth. “The Twenties,” as Mark Sullivan
noted, “reversing age-old customs, Biblical precept and
familiar adage, was a period in which, in many respects,
youth was the model, age the imitator.”1gIn such aperiod
it was altogether fitting that the Cochran Park fountain
group be erected in part to commemorate the
neighborhood’s children. By elevating the memory of
youthful pleasures and pastimes it reflected the cult of
youth so often identified with the decade. Just as the
kouroi from which Manship drew his archaized style
represented a youthful ideal to the ancient Greeks, so too
did the trim waist, broad shoulders, erect posture and
athletic pose of his Indian offer such an ideal in the youth-
conscious age of the 1920s. Indeed, compared with an
obvious prototype like John Quincy Adams Ward’s
famous Indian Hunter erected in New York’s Central Park
in 1869, Manship’s brave displays a pronounced youthful
energy. While Ward’s figure stalks his prey intently from a
crouched position, the Indian in Cochran‘Park gallops
along exuberantly at full tilt.
But if this implies youthful vigor, it also suggests
youthful abandon-an issue central to the popular image
of Jazz Age youth put forth by Fitzgerald and others. On
the one hand, young people of the decade stood for a
glowing, stable past in the memories of many who, like
h h r a n , felt a nostalgia for that simpler age. At the same
time, however, youth could epitomize irresponsibility in
the present, promising dangerous uncertainties for the
future, and many of the older generations felt threatened
A MONUMENT
TO Echo ThE JAZZ A ~ E 7
8 JOURNA~ Of AMERiCAN CdTURE

s
2
m
A MONUMENT
TO Echo ThE JAZZ AGE
by the youthful excesses they began to perceive. Robert
and Helen Lynd, for example, found many instances of
the young of “Middletown” abandoning their parents’
lifestyles and values for new ones their elders found
bewildering. Drawn from the home by a far wilder
assortment of institutional and social activities, made
more mobile through the increasing availability of the
automobile, introduced to new attitudes through various
forms of popular entertainment, and their options for
such entertainment greatly increased as prosperity made
more money available to them, American youths rapidly
became a serious dilemma for their parents.Z0
Most symbolic of youthful excesses were the new
sexual freedoms they claimed. The Lynds found nine out
of every ten high school students in their study to have
participated in the fashionable “petting parties” of the
period.21 Middletown parents placed much of the blame
for this shocking relaxation of morals on the new
aggressiveness and immodest ways of young women, but
young men were equally culpable in this regard. Paula
Pass has recently pointed out that while women asserted
their freedom with bobbed hair, shorter skirts, fewer layers
of clothing and much greater use of make-up, young men
gave equal attention to grooming aids, “choicy”
perfumes, clothing styles adopted in imitation of movie
idols, and the development of a studied sophistication
embodied in the well-rehearsed “line” of talk they
addressed to the opposite s e ~ . ~Although
2 contemporary
studies agreed that none of this actually promoted any
startling rise in the frequency of premarital intercourse
among youth, it was nonetheless a strong indicator of
newly emerging attitudes and values.z3 “Flappers” and
“Drug Store Cowboys” came to assume high visibility in
the popular imagination, and rumors of “parking”
corsets in powder rooms, “cuddling” and “petting” at
parties had even penetrated the consciousness of
respectable babbitts oblivous to so much else in their
surroundings.
Furthermore, as George F. Babbitt’s ponderous
descent into the nether-worldof Tanis Judique’s “Bunch”
suggests, the exampleof the young rapidly blossomed into
a permissiveness that extended to other generations as
~ e I l . 2According
~ to Sullivan, it was Fitzgerald who fired
the “opening gun in the pro-youth, pro-freedom, and
anti-Puritan campaign” with publication of This Side of
Paradise at the opening of the decade, shocking an older
public with sudden heightened awarenss of the ideas and
practices of their Yet as Fitzgerald recalled, in a
very short time all around him were “going hedonistic”
after the example of youth peaked in 1922:
‘Ilie wquel was like a children’s party taken over by the
elders, leaving the children pur~ledand rather neglected and
rather taken aback. By 1923 their elders, tired of watcliing the
carnival with ill-concealed envy, had discovered that young
liquor will take the place of youth blood, and with a whoop the
orgy began. ’I’iie younger generation was starred no longer.26
9
Whether indicative of what Malcolm Cowley identified as
a broader desire to elude the uncomfortable vicissitudes of
modern society by escaping to a more “primitive” state of
existence symbolized by the growing cult of youth, or very
simply reflecting a nostalgia for a personal past, an older
generaiton began their imitation.27
At a time of growing fascination with youth-inspired
freedoms, the exuberance and apparent age of Manship’s
central fountain figure made it an appropriate image. Yet
the very identity of the Indian in this work also suggests a
strong parallel between the figure and the popular
opinion of youth as beings at once simple and innocent
while at the same time wild and passionate. In his study of
White perception of the American Indian, Robert F.
Berkhofer, Jr., proposed that such a “dual image” has
dominated Whites’ understanding of the Indian for the
past four centuries.28 On one side, the Indian has long
been thought to embody the purity and noblility of
natural man uncorrupted by contact with higher
civilization. This tradition of the “noble savage” has
historically attributeda wide range of laudable traits to the
original inhabitants of the New World, but all such traits
ultimately stemmed from what was perceived as the
Indian’s childlike innocence. Jean-Jaques Rousseau and
others of the eighteenth century did much to popularize
this view, using the Indian as model of an admirable
earlier state of social development and calling him “the
veritable youth of the world”; later observers like Mrs.
Frances Milton Trollope found even the appearance of the
I n d i a n reflective of “ a g e n t l e a n d n a i v e
.
simplicity. .which is inexpressibly engaging.”29
The second side of the “dual image” identified by
Berkhofer is by no means as favorable. Proponents of the
“bad side” of the Indian held that the race was flawed by
strong tendencies toward indolence, improvidence,
uncontrollable passion and other vic-es. Once again,
however, because these traits were believed to render the
Indian helpless in the faceof advancing White society, this
side of the image was also frequently articulated by means
of paralleling the vulnerability of Indians with that of
children. In a classic example, Hroace Greeley established
a remarkable equation between children and Indians
when writing on “Indians as Degenerates” after an
excursion across the country in 1859:
A i y band of schoolboys, from ten to f i f t c m ycara of age, are quite
as capable of ruling their appetites. devising and upholding a
public policy, constituting aiid conduc ting a stateor(oiiiiiiuiiity,
as an average Iiidiaii tribe. And, uiileas tliey h a l l be u-eated aa a
truly Christian coiiiinunity would treat a bandof oiplian cliildren
providentially tlirown on its hands, tlie ahrigiiies of tliis country
will be practically extinct witliin tlie next fifty years.’O
While the basic identity of Manship’s fountain figure
could spark association between the sculpture and such
strongly contrasting perceptions of the American Indian,
the specific appearance of this brave even more fully
10 JOURNAL Of AMERiCAN CUhJRE

Fig. 5 John Quincy A d a m Ward. Indian H u n f e r , 1869. Bronieon granite base. Cxntral Park, New York. Photocourte3y of the
New York City Department o f Park\ and Recreation.
A MONUMENT
TO Echo ThE JAZZ AGE
reinforced a “dual image.” When unveiled in the twenties,
Indian Hunter w i t h Dog was actually the extension of an
established tradition of nineteenth and early twentieth
century sculpture depicting the noble savage; certain
Ariierican sculptors like Hermon Atkins MacNeil and
Cyrus E. Dallin had in fact built entire careers around the
subject of the Indian as symbol of a dignified beauty and
nobility vanishing before the spread of White civilization
in the later nineteenth century.31By virtue of age, activity
and accessories, the Indian Manship produced may be
found to suggest a similar interpretation. As a young brave
dashing forward in pursuit of his prey, unselfconsciously
clad in the most scanty of costumes, accompanied by hi:
faithful dog and carrying exceedingly rudimentary
weapons, he reflects an image of the innocent, untroubled
life of the Indian in the Northland prior to the
encroachment of European civilization. Yet this same
child of nature could evoke as well an opposite response
corresponding niore fully to the bad sideof the Indian. All
but nude, his brief loincloth flapping u p behind him to
expose even more flesh as he runs, this natural youth was
also somewhat iliimodest. At a time when women had
only recently begun rolling the stockings of their bathing
outfits below the knew and tank tops were still standard
attire for men at most mixed bathing beaches, the public
nakedness of this youth’s well developed torso and
muscular limbs coupled with the titillating glimpse of
buttocks offered a strong sense of virile sexuality.32
Moreover, as he rushes headlong through the park with
arrows dangerously extended before him there exists a
suggestioli of the improvident lack of control Greeley and
others took as evidence of the Indian’s childlike
deficiciiciea. Ultimately, then, the dichotomous image of
the American Indian suggested by Manship’s fountain
figure corresponds directly with the divided popular
opinion rtgarding Amex-icn youth of the twenties, linking
the work closely with one of the major concerns Fitzgerald
identified.
Another issue frequently raised by chroniclers of the
Jar1 Age iiivolved the extent to which the period seemed a
lingering reflection of the War years: ushered in by
violence, iiiariy believed the twenties uniquely colored by
shades of violent behavior at once repulsive and
compelling. In Fitzgerald’s account, the true beginning of
the era came in the spring of 1919when “police rode down
demobilired country boys” during May Day riots; his 1920
short story, “May Day,” actually merges these riots with
the lavish dissipations of a night-long round of J a n Age
partying which is in turn contrasted with the growing
personal despair and eventual suicide of one of the
characters.” By later in the decade Fitzgerald was accutely
aware that while he and many of his contemporaries had
escaped to widely individual retreats through the period,
several m o w of his friends had somehow been lost into the
“dark niaw of violence,” succumbing to both public and
private foims of brutality.34 Describing this “second
11
phase” or “middle age” of the decade, hcs placed violence
on a par with sex-at one point abluptly splicing
recollections of necking parties with nicmories of the
infamous Leopold and Loeb murder in Chicago when
identifying major public issues of the time.35 I n his
estimation even the close of the period was marked by a
“spectacular death” rather than a quiet fading.36Whether
this was the death Stuart Chase found marked by a
“memorial wreath of ticker tape” at the c lose of trading on
Black Tuesday, or the double suicide 01 Harry Crosby and
Mrs. Josephine Bigelow described by Malt-olmCowley as
a concurrent “symbol of change,” many found in the
conclusion of the Jazr Age a manifold vi01enc.e.~~
Here too Manship’s Cochran Park Indian serves as a
resonant image. A major component of thc. bad image of
the American Indian had historically involved what
Whites perceived as an inbred cruelty and bxutality.
Berkhofer traces this from the writings of Columbus,
Vespucci and other early explorers whoae accounts of
native cannibalism, self-mutilatic,m and war-like ways
caused great sensation among Euxopean readers.38
Continued for centuries through an iiici tmingly wide
range of subsequent descriptive literature, these and
comparably appalling forms of alleged IIidiaii behavior
were eventually codified by writers of aeveiiteexitli and
eighteenth century “captivity narratives,” ~ n a d ecentral to
various forms of nineteenth century wilderness adventure
fiction, and finally formed the bask l o r such popular
entertainments as dinie novels, wild ‘west shows and
movies in the later nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries.39 Clearly not depicted as if engaged in any
specific act of brutality, the Indian hunter Manship
created could still quite easily recall t o the viewer the
savagery so long a part of this traditional “bad image” of
the Indian.
Furthermore, the Cbchran Park figutc did carry a
visual suggestion of impending viol~*ncc-espec ial I y
apparent when compared with Ward’s far more realistic
Indian Hunter in New York. bfanship’a work is in many
respects remarkably similar to that creattd by Ward some
six decades earlier: both statues involvt youthful braves
clad in the simplest of gal-merits; each tat ries a short bow
ready in their left hand; and cvtn thr dogs faitlifully
stationed at their right sides are alikci with thick manes and
tails and shorter, sleeker M y fur. Yet ttirre are equal
apparent differences. Ward had taketi gwat care to
produce a highly natural figure in the o i iginal study he
did in 1864; feeling it important that he 1~:axn IIiOTeof the
appearance and ways of Indians as he prepared for the
work, he even made a special trip through tht Dakotas and
into the Northwest, sketching extensivl:l) in different
Indian villages along the ~ a y . 4 The
~ resulting figure is
believable not only in physical features and accessories,
but in depiction of the hunter’s behavior. Crouchingas he
moves stealthily along with right liand tcsuaining his
dog, Ward’s Indian I f u n t e r appeals as if toncentrating
12
with unblinking intensity upon an unidentified quairy.
In fact, both Indian and dog so convincin y strain ahead
and to the right that the resulting tension is
communicated to the viewer, suggesting the presence of
unknown game out of sight in the direction of their gaze.
Manship’s Indian and dog also gaze intently, but not
at imaginary game: both man and beast in this later work
stare directly at the arrows thrust before them.“ This is by
no means a natural pose; it is only with considerable
awkwardness that the arrows are extended in such a
manner in the first place, and then even the Indian’s
delicate fingertip grasp seems unnatural, calling still
more attention to these sharply pointed missiles.
Compared with Ward’s statue where arrow and bow are
simple accessories tucked close to the body until needed,
the arrows Manship’s Indian extends dramatically
forward serve as featured components of the work.
Although certainly a necessary part of any archer’s
equipment, the wicked broadheads affixed to the feathered
shafts held by Manship’s hunter take on a far more
menacing character when thus made the focus of all
attention. Considered in combination with the Indian’s
stern, mask-like features and the bared fangs of his
lunging dog, the extended arrows cause the Cochran Park
sculpture to assume a more threatening appearance than
the Indian Hunter Ward placed in Central Park.
Indian Hunter with Dog also stands out in this
respect within Manship’s oueure. The sculptor had
produced certain generally comparable pieces during the
pre-War period, but never did these early works exhibit a
comparable emphasis upon the violence of the subject.
Immediately suggesting comparison with the fountain
group in Cochran Park is a pair of works depicting
another Indian hunter and his quarry, produced
originally in 1914. The Indian Hunter of this earlier pair
is shown kneeling, bow raised in his left hand while his
right has pulled back after releasing the arrow; his quarry,
a Pronghorn Antelope, rears up on delicate back legs, the
feathered shaft plunged into its side.‘2 Yet even as it
represents the culmination of the hunt, violence appears
far less an issue in this sculpture. With the Indian Hunter
of this pair Manship achieved a natural quality more akin
to that of Ward’s statue than his own later fountain figure.
The 1914 Indian was given a pose and anatomical detail
conveying a far more believable image of the hunter in
nature, his body responding to the effort of launching an
arrow toward the game upon which he remains intent.
Nor does the fact that this is the moment of death for the
Pronghorn Antelope bring a heightened sense of violence
to the pair. This animal displays nothing of the terror
evident in the dying hares of Antoine-Louis Barye’s
famous nineteenth century bronzes portraying feline
hunters with prey. Although rearing back with head
uptilted, there is little evidence of either fear or pain in
Manship’s graceful animal-and it is only upon closer
examination that we even locate the arrow, depicted in
JOURNAL Of AMERiCAN CUlTURE
very low relief across its flank.
Also close to Indian Hunter with Dog are two 1917
Manship works, a Boy Hunter and a David-each
depicting youthful hunters with faithful canine
companions. The former is a marble relief portraying a
young man of indeterminate identity standing calmly
beside his seated hound; hand affectionately on the dog’s
head, bow slung over his shoulder and arrows all neatly
tucked into their quiver, this young hunter is presented as
a contemplative rather than active figure.43David was
developed from a series of studies begun as early as 1914
and eventually resolved in a large bronze cast for the
Loretto, Pennsylvania, estate of steel magnate Charles
Schwab ( a l t h o u g h subsequently o b t a i n e d by
Northwestern U n i v e r ~ i t y . )In
~ ~this work the bow and
arrows were replaced by a biblical sling (no longer extant),
but its straps were allowed to hang limply at the figure’s
waist, the device serving more as an attribute than an
active weapon. Moreover, like the 1917 Boy Hunter, the
calm of this young hero also suggests contemplation, a
mood echoed nicely by the dog lying peacefully at his
master’s feet with paws folded.
The Cochran Park sculpture stands out within this
group of comparable works, then, carrying a far stronger
suggestion of impending violence. If this was due in large
part to the artist’s desire to convey a sense of youthful
exuberance in this free-spirited brave dashing through
nature in pursuit of hiss prey, such a vivid impression of
broadheads and bared fangs could make the pair in Indian
Hunter with Dog succeed as well in striking a responsive
chord in the imaginations of Jazz Age viewers who, like
Fitzgerald, were already so sensitive to the violence of their
decade.
For Fitzgerald, however, the spectacle of the age was
considerably brightened by the third major characteristic
he identified: a highly self-conscious interest in glittering
stylishness. Bound inextricably with his account of
necking parties and the Leopold-Loeb murder were
memories of “John Held Cl0thes.”~5Held was a cartoonist
rather than a fashion designer, but his well known
caricatures of the younger generation did much to
popularize a flashy elegance in the clothing style of the
twenties. Sullivan found in Held’s black-tied “shieks” and
short-skirted “shebas” Jazz Age equivalents of the Gibson
Girl and Gibson Man made so popular by Charles Dana
Gibson in the 1 8 9 0 ~ . *Yet
~ Fitzgerald’s mention of Held
was intended to recall more than mere caricatures of a
clothing style. By his mention of- “Held Clothes”
Fitzgerald actually referred to the tremendous surge of
American interest in new clothing fashions after the War.
Movies, new merchandising practices and an increased
freedom from restrictive social pressures had brought
American youth into the clothing market in ever larger
numbers in the 1920s, and as in so much else their
influence in this matter rapidly spread to the older
generations. Eventually clothes-consciousness became so
A MONUMENT
TO Echo ThE JAZZ AGE
14 JOURNA~Of AMERiCAN C d T U R E

Fig. 7 Paul Manship. Dauid, 1917. Broflre. Spcial Collections Department, Northwestern Ilniversity Library, Evanston.
Illinois. Photo courtesy of the Northwestern University Library.
A MONUMENT
TO Echo ThE JAZZ A ~ E
widespread in this country that it propelled American
consuniers to the fore, the success of fashion
merchandising in the United States bringing a markedly
American flavor to the broader international fashion
market. As Eliratxth and Stuart Ewen have suggested, the
culmination of this trend was a veritable “tyranny of
fashion” wherein “the new world demanded the
‘Americariiration’ of the self.”‘7
Equally important, however, was the issue of style in
other consumer goods industries. For a population
coming more and more to believeclaims that the “citizen’s
first importance to his country is no longer that of citizen
but that of consumer,” changing style was cited as ample
r(hason for discarding old products in favor of new.‘*
Columbia economist Paul H. Nystrom, one of the leading
merchandising experts of the period, explained that
standardization of production had resulted in a reasonably
wtw level of quality in the merchandise of reputable
manufacturers after the War, and this had in turn led
c-onsuniris to look to the appearance of an item as a
primary ciiteriori in product selection. Well aware of the
growth of such interests, Nystrom continued,
manufacturers rapidly came to the realization that
“merc.handise styling, that is, designing so as to secure the
approval and acceptance of prospective customers, has
therefore become one of the most necessary as well as one
ol the most difficult phases of modern rnanufarture.”‘g In
rcsponsc t o this new concern, between 1922 and 1927 one
consunier goods industry after another bowed to the
pressure o f public demand and the employment of new
“stylists” skyrocketed.50 By late 1927 even Henry Ford,
long ;I stubbor-n holdout against such change, had ceased
production of his beloved old black Model T in favor of a
nitdish iirw Model A in colors like Niagara Blue, Dawn
GI-ay and Arabian Sand.51
Manship was a vocal critic of this side of American
cultuic. 111 a 192.5 essay o n the value of study at the
Atwric ari k a d e m y in Rome he expressed the traditional
c-ornplaint of American artists that the high degree of
mec-IiariiLation and commercialization in this country
rendered tlic American environment hostile to the arts.52
Indeed, much o f his time in the teens and early twenties
was spent in what he felt to be the lesscommercializedand
therelorc more hospitable cities of Europe. When he
returned to a permanent New York residence again in the
l a t c ~twenties, he soon began railing against the “machine
age” cven more vehemently, charging that modern
(ommcrcial society had not only lost all appreciation for
the rolc ol tlie arts, but actually subverted the very process
o f tlie artist:
15
The sculptors greatest fear underlying such criticism was
that art would lose its place in modern culture. A firm
believer in the traditional primacy of art as meaningful
cultural expression, Manship grieved over the possibility
that the arts might becomeemasculated in themodern era,
passing from a central position “into the realm of luxury”
where they would have meaning for few.54
Ironically, it was precisely the luxurious character of
Manship’s work which proved its greatest appeal-and
made Indian Hunter with Dog an especially attractive
work for Cochran Park. The sculptor’s mastery of
technique, penchant for finely crafted surface and
attraction to “the decorative valueof h e ” had raised early
and frequent praise for the jewel-like detail, decorative
patterning, elegantly smooth finish and brilliant
patination he achieved from the time of his return from
R0me.~5One early critic noted’that by the mid-teens mere
mention of the Manship name brought to mind “the idea
of finesse and perfection.”56 It was little wonder that so
much of his larger work found its way into the private
gardens of the wealthy, that he was chosen as sculptor for
the J. Pierpont Morgan Memorial (1915-20), or that his
most notable early portraits were of such subjects as John
D. Rockefeller (1918) and John Barryniore (1918).
However strong his desire to avoid production of art
commodities for the elite, it was the very tasteful, luxury-
item appeal of his exquisitely rendered sculpture which
stood out from the beginning of his career, providing
greatest attraction among collectors and public alike.57
Moreover, for all his criticism of modern art and
society, Manship’s sculptural style was as self-consciously
contemporary as it was traditional. Even as hecondemned
the impact of technology on the arts arid drew upon the
stylistic traditions of antiquity, he firmly believed that the
artist was unalterably a product of “his age and its
spiritual and material influences,” and must therefore
attempt to accept arid accommodate such influences.58
Beginning early in his career Manship devised a manner of
modeling and composition often resulting in works so
simplified and smooth-surfaced as to suggest to some
critics parallels with the sculpture of Constantin
Brancusi, an artist whose essentialized sculptural forms
were at times mistaken for industrial products.59 If such
confusion would never arise in the case of Manship’s
Indian Hunter with Dog, the work did exhibit a strongly
stylized, streamlined appearance reminsiscent of much
f a s h i o n a b l e c o n t e m p o r a r y commercial design.
Musculature is evident in both Indian and dog, for
example, but appears only faintly with individual muscles
blended together beneath a silken smoothness apparent in
the bronze even after several decades of weathering. Details
of facial features, hair and dog’s fur are distinguishable,
yet these t o o have been reduced to the most simple of
forms, and in the case of hair and fur regularized to the
point where the resulting patterning seems as even as the
surfaces surrounding it. Finally, when viewed from the
16
side the composition of horizontal lines in feathers, hair,
extended limbs and arrows also contributes to the
sleekness of the figure and the impression of rapid
foreward movement. Appearing at the opening of what
some have termed the “streamlined decade” in
commercial design, Manship’s Indian Hunter with Dog
exhibited the gentle merging of forms, elimination of
extraneous detail, and emphasis upon horizontality and
the suggestion of foreward movement, all identified as
central to the new design style emerging from the Jazz
Age.60 His was a self-consciously elegant and even
somewhat mannered combination of streamlining and
archaizing, but this very self-consciousness and
mannerism made the work all the more appropriate an
image in an era when the issue of style and stylishness was
rising in the public imagination as never before.
Yet entirely apart from the specifics of its style, this
blend of tradition and modernity in Indian Hunter with
Dog establishes an even more fundamental link between
Manship and Fitzgerald. “Echoes of the Jazz Age,”
although describing a distinctly modern period, also
involved the past as a meaningful component. Naturally
this is in part due to khe retrospective focus of the essay;
summarizing events of the previous decade from his
vantage point in late 1931, Fitzgerald perceived different
stages by which the period aged, the games of his
generation gradually slipping into the past as they were
eclipsed by the emergence of younger players and new
rules. Far more telling, however, was a brief passage
Fitzgerald inserted near the end of his essay, temporarily
interrupting the downward spiral he described:
111 the spring of ‘27. something bright and alien flashed
across the sky. A young Minnesotan who seemed to have had
nothing to do with his generation did a heroic thing. and for a
moment people set down their glasses in country clubs and
speakeasies and thought their old best dreams. Maybe there was a
way out by flying, maybe our restless blood could find frontiers in
the illinlitable air. But by that time we were all pretty well
committed; and the Jan Age continued; we would all have one
Charles Lindberg’s historic flight served well as a contrast
to the dissipations of Fitzgerald’s age. As introduced
among recollections of less lofty pursuits, the passage not
only afforded an opportunity to pose hedonism against
heroism, but to do so with a strong visual image of bright
youth soaring high above Jazz Age speakeasies where even
the most jaded were given cause for pause before
continuing along their sodden ways.
Also implicit in this brief passage, however, is a
recognition of the extent to which Fitzgerald’s Jazz Age
was bound firmly to the past. The heroic Minnesotan
seemed alien to Fitzgerald, his flight placing the aviator
somehow outside the generation. This was due in part to
the striking contrast betwen the writer’s admitted personal
inertia and the popular image of brave Lindbergh
JOURNAL Of AMERiCAN CULTURE
piloting his light plane alone over perilous seas to
tumultuous welcome by a public eager to seize him as a
hero for the modern era. Yet by turning Fitzgerald’s
thoughts to “old best dreams” the flight forced not only an
awareness of the perpetual elusiveness of those onetime
dreams, but a sudden understanding that such dreams
were ultimately outmoded in light of modern
possibilities. By contrast, the younger aviator had pursued
dreams of a distinctly modern sort; beyond the personal
bravery of the young man, after all, what had excited the
public about Lindbergh’s new flight record was that such
bravery had surfaced in connection with modern
technology-suggesting new opportunities for romantic
heroism and legendary accomplishment. While the
“maybes” Fitzgerald raised as he pondered the meaning of
Lindbergh’s feat refer to such new possibilities, his rueful
conclusion was that for him those possibilities were not
open. As he “flashed across the sky” in the spring of 1927,
Lindbergh symbolized the dawning of a future Fitzgerald
even then felt unable to participate in for the simple
reason that the Jazz Age and its most famous chronicler
were not as free from the past as other events might
suggest .
In fact, for one known as spokesman for the modern
generation during the twenties, his work relied a great deal
upon crucial connections with the past. Even This Sideof
Paradise, despite its shocking revelations regarding the
new attitudes and values of youth, was still within a well
established tradition of social fiction in American
literature; Fitzgerald infused his work with modernity by
rejecting the genteel values of such predecessors as Edith
Wharton and Booth Tarkington, but he retained his place
within their tradition.62 More important, however, the
past also enters his fiction as a critical force shaping the
characters and events he portrays. In many of his short
stories past circumstances lead directly to unavoidable
conflict like that facing young John T. Unger at the
Braddock Shangri-la in “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz”
(1922); elsewhere more subtle tradition maintains an
equally strong control over characters like Sally Carrol
Happer who found it impossible to exchange her
Southern life and values for those of Yankee Harry
Bellamy in “The Ice Palace” (1920). Perhaps Fitzgerald’s
most striking use of the past was in The Great Gatsby
(1925). where it constitutes a force dominating the entire
novel, serving as both motivation and motif-guiding Jay
Gatsby’s actions and eventually emerging as the
character’s single unattainable goal. Emerging variously
as a specific temporal context providing background for
events described, a complex heritage coloring
understanding and attitudes of characters, or a golden
time now lost, the past held a profoundly important place
in Fitzgerald’s writing.
Thus even in this least likely respect did Manship’s
concerns parallel those of Fitzgerald. In ‘‘Echoes of [he
J a n Age” Past and present meet dramatically in the
A MONUMENT
TO Echo ThE JAZZ AC~E
narrative, conjoind in the tension of conflict between
what might have been and what came to be; in Indian
Hunter with Dog the two are merged by means of the
sculptor's mediation between tradition and modernity in
both style and subject. Each artist ultimately found the
comforting strength of a stable past not only usable but
vitally compelling in a present marked by complexity and
change; although obviously turning it to different
purposes in their respective work, Manship and Fitzgerald
both looked to some aspect of the past as possessing
qualities missing in the twenties when modern society
seemed to have lost all equilibrium. Nor were these two
alone, for many found disequilibirum one of the most
telling features of the decade. In the final volume of Our
Tames, for example, Mark Sullivan posed the problem of
the twenties in terms of the unfortunate plight of Atlas
who, by about 1920, found his load developing "an
alarming susceptibility to going off-balance, a tendency to
sudden starts and plunges and tremor~.''~s If uncertainty
and anxiety resulting from this lackof stability gave rise-
as Sullivan and others suggested-to a desire for the
"normalcy" of the past, it also contributed to the response
of both writer and sculptor. Fitzgerald in his poignant
juxtapositioning and Manship with his subtle mediation
both drew an appealing past into the disquieting present.
However curious it may seem, then, Manship's
sculpture for tiny Cochran Park offers an image reflecting
many of the same concerns Fitzgerald found central to the
twenties, while at the same time posing a connection
between present and past to make the work the more
compelling. In fact, although Manship commented very
sparingly on his own work during his lifetime, he was
apparently aware of the fact that his sculpture matched its
time very well. In the early fifties the sculptor could take
pride in a successful career of several decades, and at one
point remarked to a family member that his achievements
resulted largely from being "the right man at the right
time."64 In the narrowest sense-as an estimate of his
career-such a statement was overly modest; Manship's
efforts through the preceding half century had ranked him
among the leading American sculptors of the period. Yet
the simple statement contained an important kernel of
truth insofar as it implied his appreciation of historical
context and awareness of the crucial relationship between
an artist and his time. In the case of his work for Cochran
Park, the match proved exceptional: Manship's Zndiun
Hunter with Dog is a vividly meaningful sculpture,
capable of standing as a rich visual document of
Fitzgerald's Jazz Age.
l'l'lie origiiial broiire Indian tfuiifer aiiffr Dog uilfoituilale~y 110
longer occupies its original luatioii iii Gxliraii Park. After vaildals broke
p o i tioiis ol the Iiidiaii's ariows away iii the iiiid-sixties, city olficials
decided to ieiiiove it to a more secure luatioii adjacent t u the Coiiarvatory
in (;OIINJPark wlicrc it would be safe from fut~lierdaitiagc. Keceiitly,
17
Iiowrver, a fiberglass copy inade from a iiiold rakcii lroin tlicoiigiiial was
plactvloii tlieiiiitialriteiiiCocliraii Pail e"h1aiisIiip Sculptuie Ketuiiis
to Cochraii Park," S f . Puul Duwrifowrier, 12 (31 August IY83). p. 10; and
"Statue Replica Displaycd," S f . Puul Disputth, IS .Scpteiiilx*iIY83, x c . C,
p. I.
~l'lioiiias Ckliraii, "'l'hoinas Cocliian ( J i .)." i i i Ilisfory arid
Gerieology uj fhe Coihruri F U N I Ioj ~ YC i r k ~ u d b r i g l rarid
f N e w York, coiirp.
by Jaiiia 11. Calleiider ( N e w York: Privately Piiiited, lY32),p. 173. In this
alld WVeral OlllCI ;LLCOUIlLs the sC11101 'I'hollla~f i K ~ l I d 1 1W l l O I l l O V < d f l O I l 1
New York to St. Paul iir I869 is irhred to .is I'lioinas O d i r a i i , Jr.. to
dirtiiiguirli Iiiiii Iroiii ail older uiicle by the saiiiz iiaiiie.
JIbid.A plaque i i i tlirrtoiiepavilioiiadjaceiitt~~tliefouiiwiii~aii~es iii
its inscriptioil the iiote that "l'lie atea coinpiisiiig h i s park was for tiioic
thaii 40 ycars uwd as a playgrouiid by the (Iiildrcii o f this riciglilwrliwd."
'Pauicia h i i e , "F. Scott Fitrgcrald's St. Paul: A Wiitcr's Use o f
Matciial," Afiririesufn tfi.>fory, .I5 (Wiiitcr, lY76). pp. 111- 18. l,.iiist
Suiideeii icferr to "F. kott FitLgerald's Suiiiiiiit .\vziiue" as well in S f .
Paul's Ilisforii Suininif Aueiiue (St. Paul: Living t lirtoric aI hluxuiir.
Macalcrter College, IY78). p. Y I .
5For iiifoiiiiatioir on Fitrgeiald'r s p c ific rcridziiccs and iiivolvziiicnt
i i i the Suiiiiiiit Aveiiue iieighborliood, we liarre, "I:. .Scott Fiugeiald'b St.
Paul," passiiii.; aiid J o l i i i J. Koblas, F. ScoffFifrgeruld i r i hf iwico.\fa: l l i ~
Homes arid I l u u r i t s (St. Paul: hliiiiiesota 11istoru.iI Sic iety Press, 1978).
passiiii.
bBriaii \Vay points out that the iiovclist's "fuiidainciital iiotioiisalxiut
wealth. clarsaiid iiioiality" were based largely ~ J i i c x ~ i i c i i ~ c s d c i i v c d I i o i i i
the tiiiie he s p i r t iii this iirigliborliod as a youtli." Scc Way, F. Sooff
Rf:yeruld urid f k e Art oj Social Fiction (New York. St. Llaitiii's Pies\,
lY8U). p. I .
'F. Scott Fitrgerald, " E c l i u r of tlie J a i l Age." in The (:ruck-1 ' p , zd.
Edinuiid CVilsoii (New York: New IXrectioiir, I9 l i ) , 1). 16.
"h'lalcoliii Cowlcy, Exile's Krfurri: A Lifrrary O d y u e y oj flie 1'JZUs
(1951; rpt. New Yorh: Pciiguiii Book\, 1978), p. 27.
""'~Iioiiias C i x Iiraii, Fiiiaiic ier, is Derld,"Nrw l'urk Y'iiiies, : 1 0 0 c r d x . i
1936, p. 23. (01s. 1-2. llirlesr otlierwiw iiidicatrd, basic biogiaphical
iiifoiiiiatiori on 'l'lioiiias Cwliiair is taler1 h o i i i tlirs ~ ( c ~ u i i t .
l""Culiiaii Gifts L a g e to Pliillips ,\iidovci." "dew York Time$, I
N o v e ~ i i k r1936, 11, p. 10, col. 6 .
liClaudc hl. Fucss, Thoirius CoLliruri (Aiidorci, h l a s w Iiuwts:
Piivately Piiiited, lY37), 11. pag. [p. 61.
'rl'hoiiias W. L a i i i o i i t , "Foieword." iii Fue\,, Tliottias Coc Aruii, 11.
P%. IP. 31.
'Jlbid.
"A. E. <;allatiii,Paul itlurisliip: A Crititul o J a y or1 1115 .Si u l p u r e urid
aii fiorioyruphy (Nzw Yolk: J o l i r i IAIK C o i ~ ~ p a1917), ~ i ~ . p. 7.
"Paul I\lallbllip, " k U ~ ~ J l U r ~i\ddIC>s ," k'fOle 27th , \ l l l l U a ~
Coiivciitioii of the Aiileiicaii Fedeiatiem of tlir Aits, Waaliiiigtoii, D.C., I I
May 1936. 'l'ypescript, hlaiisliip P a p i s, Anliives of ,\iiici icaii ,\I t. Keel
NY5Y-13, Fraiiier 156-67, p. 6.
'blbid. 'l'liis iiiterert i i i liiidiiig ail appiopiiatc h i s iii tradrtioii was
typical in i\iiieiicaii sculpture 01 h i s p e i i d Foi a luitlier discusrioii we
the author's "Lev 0. h w r i e : Classicisill aiid i\i1ic11ca11C:ulture, IYIY-
1951." Diss., Lliiiveisity of Miiiiicsota, 1980. pp. 21-FJ. 61-64
t 7 f i r h r a 1 1 iecalkd his fatliei'r vivid d c s ~ i i p t i ~o~fi iseiviiig will1 the
Swte Militia, aiid iii particular a liuiiio~ouscvciit the cldcr C k h i a i i
,:Ieiicd to a s tlic "I 1uchlck.iry Wai" o f the eaily 1870s wlieii thz Militia
s x i i t oii rl poiiitlrss excuision u p tlie h l i i i i i e b u ~River by appaieiitIy
us iepoits of ail liidiaii upiisuig. Sce C h l i i a i i , "I'hoiiias C k l i r a i i
(JI.)." p. 172.
i"Maiisliip pioduccd lour iiioiiuiiieiital lead \ascs dc(oratcd i i i low
ielicf lor tlie Lorctto, Peiiiisylvaiiia, rslilte of C l i ~ Ies i .%liwab (XY alw
above. p. 17 a i d iiote -1 i). i\uloiig the iinageiy lie ziirployzd o i l tlrir quai tet
of vases wereaii iiiiagcofS;lgitta~ius.a~atyi,aiidair Kndiait Iiuiitci (aiiyiiig
dead gaiiie. Sc.e Edwiri hlurtlia, l'uul Afuiidiip (New Yolk: I'lie hlaciiiillaii
Co.. 1957). p. 59.
%la1 k Sullrvaii, Our Time$ (New YorL: (:l~aiIzs S( 1 ibirei'r Soils,
1935). VI, p. 385-86.
'OIIcleii M. arid Kolreit S.L.ytid, hfiddletowri: A Study 111 ilirteriiuti
Culfure (New York: Ilarcouit, Biacc k World, h . ,1Y2Y), pp. I3'L-.l6.
"Ibid., pp. 138-40.
22Paula S. Pars, The Dairinrd atid the Beuufijul:'lriieriouii Y o u f / ii r i
fhe IYZUs (New York: Oxford Iliiivcirity l'iess, 1Y77), pp. 279.8%
2tlbid., pi). 2W!-67.
*'hltliougli clearly uiirasy iii tlic pieseiue of Ilia wii's sciisuous young
 18
gii Ifririid, Eunice L.ittlefield, and upset b y what lie felt weie ex~essesat his
soii'r Seiiioi (:lasr I'arty, Balhitt nonetlieless kcaiiic iiivolvcd in siiiiilar
irvcli) wit11 M s . Judiquc and Iiri fiieiidr law in tlie iiovel. See Siiiclair
L r w i s , Bu66111 (Nrw Yorh: Haicouit Biacc Jovaiiovic 11, I922), pp. 183-87,
2ti7-71.
'5Sulli\,aii, O u r Times, \'I, p. 386. Aiidrcw 'l'uiiibull, oiie of
Fitrgciald'a iiiajoi I)iogiaplieis, notes that the writer "was not tlic first
ap~hesiiiaii f o i insurgent youth-that l i o n o r I x h i g c d to Kandolpli
Bourne oi possibl) Edna Milla) -but with tlie talriitsofan a( toi wedded to
thoae 01 a11 author, lie diaiiiatirrd a p i n t o f view that was second nature t o
Iiiiii." See 'l'uiiil)ull, Scull Filzgerald (New Yolk: CllatIcs Sc ~ibiier'sSons,
19U). p. 109. Iiowcvci, Sullivan explains h a t i t was Fitrgeiald's TliisSide
u j I'uradise tIi,it opciicd the wa) foi a host 01 popular iiiiitatora like Cyril
1 lumc, Joliii IIcriiian, Aaioii Marc Stciii, Percy Marks, Ii:itheiinc Biusli
aiid Willi,iiii M( Nally. Sullrvan, O u r Times,\'I, 1). 388.
ZbFitrgcrald, "E(hoes o f the Jarr Age," p. 15.
"Cowlry, E v i l e ' ~ffeturri, pp. 236-37.
?XKolnii 1 . Beihliolc.i, Jr., The Wh i l e Man's ftidian: Images u j llie
,111irricuii Indzaii jrum ColuiriDu~lo l l i r f'resenl (New Y o l k : Allied A.
Knopl, l978), 1'. 28.
'YKouaseau and ' l ' i ( ~ I l ~ quotedpc in IIugli 1Ionoui, The N e w Gulden
Luiid: kxroprari Iuiug(,s uj America / r u m (lie UiscouerieJ to f h e f'reAen1
7 ' i ~ t (New
i~ Y o i h : I'aiitlicoii Booha, 1975), pp. 120, 219.
"'Quotrd i i i Fiaiik Bcigoii aiid /xesc I'apariiholas, Looking Fur Mlrsf:
Tlir S(wr( li fur llir ilmeiruri il'esl i n I l r l u r y , Mylli, and Liferalure (New
Y o i h : I'hc N r w A i i i c i i ~ a i iL i h a i ) , Iiic ., 1978), pp. 12- 13.
"Foi a l ) i o x l aiiivr) o f l \ ~ n < ican
, ~ public rculptuic repicsciitiiig tlie
Liidirlti, ace Maiioii F,.(;iidlc), c o r i i p . , Atnericui Indiuti Statues (Chicago:
' l ' o w c l ~ o \ v lI'lc\a.
l 19titi).
"S(,(. (:111iatiiia1'1oln11,Swzniwear in C'ogue Since 1910 (New York:
Al~lx.~illc Pien, l98l), pp. 16-29.
J ' I ~ ~ t / g ~ ~ t"E<II(w\
.tld, of tlie J ~ / ,\ge."
L 1). 13.
"1bld., 1'. 20.
~"ll)id.,1'. 21. Natliaii lxopold,JI., stid Kicliard 1.cx.l~ were pri~iiiisiiig
)oiiiig iiien l i o i i i w~e.ilrliy Chicago fninilics w h o coiilc\scd t o hidiiappiiig
aiid i i i i i i d c i i i i g foui teen-~ear-oldBobby I'iaiiha in tlic spring of 1921.
(1 icg.iidiiig tlicii motive for the atioi ity they adiiiitird to
lia\iiig (loiic i t f o i tlir "tliiill of it." Foi an c ~ ( ( o 01 ~ ~evcmt\
u ~tlic
g ta( ular Chicago tiial wlii( h rr~ultcdin eveiituul
s u i ~ ~ ) u ~ i dt li i~r i ape(
sriitrii~csof Iilc iiiipiisoiiiiieiit fm the pair, see Sullivan. 1'1, pp. ti23-28.
h(x\ o f ihr Jar6 Age," p. 13.
"4tu,ii L (;li~ise,.I N e w I ) c d (Nrw Y c ~ i h :Ilie M~i~iiiiIl.iii Coiiipaiiy,
IYY?)),p. 107; Ci)wlcy, Exile'.\ f f e t u r n , 1'. 288.
hliolci,
'xB1.~ Tlrr While Afari.5 fndiun, pp. 7-10.
'YFot itiloiiiiatioii o i i tlieeiiieigeii~coftlieliidiaii in poi'ulai litciatuic'
and c111r1 t,iiiiiii(mt, see Kogei 1.. NiC liols, "'l'lieliidiaii iii the Diiiie Novel,"
Journal oj A m r r u a n Culture, 5 (Suiiiiiier, 1982)),p1~.19-55; Joliri Burke,
Bicjjulo 11111: The NoDlr.\t Wliifrskin (New Yo&: C;. 1'. I'uuiaiii's S m s ,
1973), pp. I 3 i - t i 1 , Iti5-66; and Gcorgc N. F e n h and Williaiii K. Eversou,
Tlir il'rskrn: From Silenls 10 llie Sevenlies, rev. ed. (1962; i p t . New York:
( ; i ~ ) s \ t n ~ i tI'ublislieia,
i I973), pp. 37-.10.
W'ayiic Ciaveii, Sculpture I J I America (New Yoik: 'I'lio~naa Y.
( ~ i o w ~ <~:lol ~ t ~ p a ~IYti8), i y , pp. 2.17-18.
~ ~ h 1 a i i ~ lwaa i i p quite coiiccriied almut Iiaving tlicse ai rows replaced
:iltei vaiidalr toie tliciii away iii tlic inid-sixties. .ke corirspoiidciicc I i o i i i
Paul R l ~ i i s l i i l t~o Ben Storry, Januaiy-Febiuai y, IY(j5, Paul Manship
Papas, Ar~liivc\Maiiua iipta Divisioii, Miiiiirsota Iliatoiical .SM irty, St.
I'aul, Miiiiicmu, 101 (lie i~u11mo"es of this dixussioii, I will continue to
1e1c.i t o tlic oiigiiial atate of die xuIptuie, with aiiows i i i place.
'Wiigiiially siiiall i i i $(ale wlicii fiist cicatcd iii I91 1, this pair waa
c n l a ~ g e din 1917 lo1 t h e p ~ i v a t e g a ~ d ctl1e~stal~of1Ie~I~.111'IatiofC;Ic1i
~~at
(:ov(., New Y o i h . Src Mii~tlia,Paul Afanalrip, pp. 152, 159.
1'101 aii i l l u s t i h m , \ec I'aul V i t i y , Paul Alutixhip, Sculpleur
Amrruuin (Paris: Editions de la (;a/ettc deb Beaux-i\Its. 1927), plair 13.
Viuy iiotra tliat this woih was done f o i one Mrs. Willard Suaight.
llhliri tlia, Paul Manship, 1'. 159. V i t i y illuattawd diiee othci-and
cqu,iII) staid-studies ol this aaiiicsul~jcctdatiiiglroiii1915, 1917and 1919.
See V i t i y , f'uul itfanship, .S< ulpteur Amrricain, plate 1.5.
"l.'iugcrald', iriiiai hable coiiibiiiatioii 01 tlirsr isburs I uns as follows:
"'l'lic Jar/ Age had Iiad a wild y o u t h and a lieady Iiiiddle age. 'l'lictr
was tlic pliasc o f the net king paities, (lie Lc~pold-Lwl)iiiuidcr (I
~ ~ I I I ~ I I I I ) C I the tiiiir iiis wile waa airerted oii the Qiieeiiskrougli BI idge 0 1 1
the suspicion of being the "Bob-haired Bandit") and the John Held
~;lothrr."
JOURNAL Of AMERiCAN CUlTURE
"EchcK5 o f the J a ~ Age:' r p. 21.
4bSullivaii, Our Times, \'I, pp. 388-89.See also Geoffrey PcrIcu,
America i ~ tlie i Twe,ilie.\:A I f i J l o r y (New Yorh: Siiiioii a i d Scliuster. I982),
pp. 151-52.
4'Elirabetli and Stuart Ewen, Clian?iebojI)eszre:iCfassIt,iageJ and the
Sliapirig u j American Consciuusnes (New York: McGiaw-IIill Book
Colllpany, I982), p. 215.
~ ~ arid K o k r t S . Lyiid, Middlelown, 1'. 88.
4 n I I e l eM.
''l'aul 11. Nystioin, Fashion Merchandi.wig (New YcJIL:'l'lie Koiiald
Press Coiiipany, 1932). p. ,11.
'>"Ibid.,p. 63. For a further discussion of h e role o f the i i i e i ~liaiidisiiig
stylist iii tlic twenties, see Jeffrey L. Meikle, Twenlielh Cenlury Limifrd:
Industrid Desigri rn America, I Y 2 5 - I Y 3 Y (Philadelphia: 'l'einpleUiiiversity
Press, I979), p. 17.
51Sec Charles Merr, And Tlreii C a m e Ford (Garden City, N.J.:
Doubleddy, l)o1an k co.,Inc., IY29). pp. 295-303.
'2Paul Mariship, "'l'lie Sculptor at the Aiiicrican Acadeiiiy iii Koiiic,"
A r f Lr Arcliueolugy, I9 (February, lY25), p. 89.
'"Paul Manship, "'l'he American Academy in Kc~iiie,a Ci~niiiiuiiityo f
Artist\: I'lic Sculptoi ," L(,gioti of IIonor Afagazitir (January, l939), p. 283.
For an outline of Mansliip's activities and rcsideiices during this pel icd, see
Mullha, Paul h f a n d i i p , p. 20.
"Paul Mansliip, " k u ~ p l u l ~ .Addrear " k ' h e thc 27th Anliual
(;oiivrntion o f tlic Aiiierican Federation of the Arts, p. 11.
55Mansliipquoted in Murtlia, f'uul iCfan.s/iip, p. 20.
56Mai tin Biriibauiii, Sculpture by Paul Manship, exli. cat. (New Yorh:
Bei lin Pliotographic Cimpany, 1916). p. 10.
571ii a major 1971 exliibitioii of Art Deco dcsigii at the Miiineap)lis
Institute C J Arts, ~ guest curator Bevis IIilliei included a a i i i a ~Mansliip
~
acull~turcentitled Europa and [lie Bull (1926) in the inidst of such
lurui ioua objcc ts as Eiiiilc-Jacques Kuliliiianii fuiiiituieaiid silvei services
by Jcun I'uiloicat. Ser Iiilliei, i l r f Ikcu, exli. ( a t . (Miiiiiwplis: 'l'hc
MiiiliYap~hsIiistitutc o f Atis, 197I), pp. W - U , 72-76. 92,
'"Paul Manship, "Credo," iii Paul Mansliip, (New York: I$', W.
N O I I ~ IhkI Co~npaiiy,h c . , 1917). p. 5
5yBiriibauin,Sculpture by Paul Manship, p. 10. A lcgeiidaiy figure iii
tlic history ol tweiitictli century u-ulpturc, Biaricusi is Ix.st knowii for
abstrac ted works like those constituting his Bird in Space serics (IKguii in
1923 followiiig two earlier seriea of works entitled MainsfruA and Golden
Birds), where tlie irnage was so coiiipletcly ieduced to a foriiial esseii(e tliat
die subject LKcaine virtually uiirecognirablr to iiiaiiy viewers. 'The niost
telling example of the resulting probleiii occurred in Maicli, 1927, wlicn
twenty-six of Brancusi's pieces were shipped f r o i n Fiaiice to an exhibition
in New York. Upon iiispection oiieof tlieBird i n Space works was refused
the duty-free entrance due a work of art wlieii U S . <;ustoinsoffi~ialsweie
unable to Ix.licve the object was not wiiir w r t 01 industrial coiii~mne~it.
'l'hat the officials involved could i i o t find anytliing pal ticularly artistic
al)out the woik was o n l y paitially due to their persoiral narrow-
iniiidediiers; ili fact tlir sleiider sliaft o f pJllished yellow broiire they werc
iiifoiiiied was sculpture did appar ratlici 11iorc like it klonged iii an
iidu\trial coiitext tliaii aii art gallery-erpccially at the very h i e w~heii
iiiduatrial aiid coiiiiiicrcial designers were k g i n n i n g to iiiticduce
iii(reaaiiigly stieaiiiliiied I w k s in new productr. If i i o t at all ainusing to
Biuiiiiiici Gallciy rcprcsciitatives w h o werrinforiiiedof a$1,000dutyowrd
0 1 1 tlir piece, the Custoiiir ruliiig is in r r t i o r p ~ " t xmicwlrat iiiore
uiiderrtaiidable whcii consideicd ilia hoadei coiitc*xt.Foi inorcon tlicBird
i t ) S p u r series, see Ailieiia '1'. Spear, Brancusi's Birds, Monographs 011
Arc Iiaeology arid the Fine h a , No. 21 (New York: New Yolk liiiiveisity
P r w h i 'l'lic Collc~ge;\it Asaw iation ol Anierica, l%9), p s s i n i ,
6"l)oiialdJ . Bush places die kgiiiniiig o f this "strca~~iliiieddrcade" in
1927, and identifies "absorption" and "reductivisni" as the two central
iaauea of the eiiiergiiig style. Bush, The Sfrcamlined f)ec ade (New York:
Gcorgc Biarillci, 1975), pp. 1-2.
Iicx*sof tlrr J a n Age," p. 20.
h'Way identilies Fitrgmdd's (onncc tion with this tiaditioii o f thr
social novel iiiost (oiiiplrtely. Sce Way, F. S c o f l Fifzgerald and tlie A r f o j
Social Fiction, pp. 22-48.
h3Sullivan,O u r T i m a , VI, p. 3.
h'l'aul K. Matiship quoted in Frederick I). Lrach, Paul I f o w a r d
Afati.\liip: A I Ll?ilimulc, l'iew, cxli. cat. (St. Paul: Miniieso~aMuseuiii 01 Art,
1972), p. 2.