Sex
Vamps and villains
Pulp art does not reach the "nice" areas of our brain. It is spicy and violent and aims for the gut, the groin and our deepest fantasies.
“Pulp Art: Vamps, Villains, and Victors from the Robert Lesser Collection,” at the Brooklyn Museum of Art through Aug. 31, fairly sings with what Nabokov called the exhilaration of Philistine vulgarity.
It’s not seeing these works of eminently disreputable beauty in a bona fide art museum that’s thrilling (like watching the Marx Brothers demolish “Il Trovatore” in “A Night at the Opera”) but the works themselves. The show is a trove of oil paintings that adorned the covers of pulp detective and western and sci-fi magazines — illustrations that have bled into our subconscious through reproductions and imitations, representing one of our most fragile pop-culture artifacts.
It’s estimated that less than 1 percent of all the paintings done in the heyday of the pulps have survived. Robert Lesser, the collector from whose collection the Brooklyn exhibit has been culled, owns about 750. There are other collectors, but the stories of the paintings that didn’t survive are sad ones. A fire at the Bronx warehouse of Popular Publications destroyed that company’s collection. More telling is what happened when, in 1961, Condé Nast acquired the pulp publisher Street & Smith. Cramped for space in its new digs, the publisher contacted artists about reclaiming their work. Most said no. An auction failed to attract any bids. Condé Nast employees turned down the chance to take the paintings home for free. Finally, Street & Smith’s enormous trove, maybe the largest collection of pulp art in existence, was literally hauled to the curb.
In his book “Pulp Art,” Lesser answers the question “Why?” For the purposes of this piece, the reasons Lesser provides are an implicit answer to the question of what pulp art has to do with sex. “Pulp art,” Lesser writes, “is, to many, offensive art … Your spouse and other family members would balk at hanging it in the house: the neighbors might see it and it’s not nice.” (In fact, Lesser told me at the exhibit that he met the daughter of a pulp artist who has saved her father’s canvasses in her attic. When he asked her why she didn’t display them, she told Lesser the ladies from her church would disapprove.) “Landscapes, seascapes, a bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a dog or a cat or a horse, an emotionless canvas of abstract colored shapes, and Norman Rockwell’s ‘Saturday Evening Post’ paintings are nice.”
I’d argue that Rockwell is a more complicated case than Lesser implies — especially his later work of a little black girl being escorted to school with the graffito “Nigger” clearly visible on the wall behind her, or the painting inspired by the Freedom Summer murders of Goodman, Schwerner, and Chaney — but I take his point in terms of Rockwell’s reputation.
That simple but undeniable explanation of why so much pulp art was junked, and the fact that even many of the artists were embarrassed by this work, is the same explanation people would give for not hanging a piece of erotic art in their house, or for even admitting to an interest in the erotic. Like porn and erotica, pulp art does not reach the “nice” areas of our brain. It aims for the gut and the groin, awakening our unacknowledged fantasies, creating the immediate need to possess the object in view, to devour the secrets it promises, assuring us that this visual tease only hints at what’s inside. In that way, the covers of pulp magazines functioned as the box covers of porno tapes and DVDs do now (which is why porn producers spend so much time and money on the box cover).
Parents, ministers and the clergy may have characterized pulp as the equivalent of a dark stranger crooking his finger and luring you into a path of vice, but the visual and visceral impact of the covers really did operate like an unsavory come-hither. It’s not hard to imagine respectable people surreptitiously buying pulp magazines at the newsstands in the same way that people buy skin mags today.
There is, of course, a line that the pulp magazines would not cross and that, in the ’50s, EC comics, with their covers of dismembered limbs and cannibalism, would (in the same way that a Varga girl shows a lot less than an explicit centerfold). But the appeal here is still the lure of the forbidden. This exhibit is necessary. Noir and westerns and detective fiction have all been accorded the respect of being taken seriously. Pulp art has not. The Brooklyn Museum exhibit of selections from Lesser’s collection feels like a step on the road to giving these artists their due.
It’s inevitable that the paintings will still strike some people as distasteful, or that their exhibition at a serious museum will be seen as a further eroding of the boundaries between high and low art. But one of the functions of museums should be to give the public a glimpse into its own culture. Apart from that, there is the sheer fact that these paintings are ravishingly beautiful. To respond to them, you have to have a taste for the unsubtle, you have to be willing to be seduced by the brightness of color and the dramatic impact of the nasty scenarios they represent.
I don’t want to put pulp art on a par with the masters. But purely in terms of subject matter, and leaving questions of technique aside, the reasons not to make the comparison become trickier. There is no good reason why anyone should recoil from Norman Saunders’ canvas (for “Ten Story Detective”) of a woman being kidnapped at gunpoint while a newsreel photographer swings his camera at the thugs’ heads, yet blithely accept “The Rape of the Sabine Women” or the pain and suffering that is rendered with an undeniable sexual arousal in the work of Caravaggio. You could argue that our refusal to “see” or even acknowledge the violence in certified great art represents more of a coarsening of the senses that pulp art has been responsible for. (One of the strongest parts of Camille Paglia’s “Sexual Personae” was her argument that we have denied the sheer violence and pornography of great art — particularly her reading of Donatello’s “David” as a chickenhawk hustler, which seems obvious just by looking at it.)
Lesser has preserved and presented these canvasses in a way that makes the colors pop out. They are often accompanied by a copy of the magazine on which the illustration appeared, allowing us to see a faded print against the vibrant original, and displayed against colored satin that corresponds to the primary colors of the painting. Color itself might be the subject of H. Winfield Scott’s “The Oklahoma Kid” (1938) in which the cowboy hero’s face is obscured under the brim of his ten-gallon hat and the emphasis is on his canary yellow shirt and read neckerchief. Of course on a real cowboy, or even in a John Ford movie, this would look more Village People than Dodge City. Here it speaks to the pulp artists’ preoccupation with fantasy — and with aesthetics — rather than verisimilitude.
Some, like Rafael de Soto’s “The Bookie and the Blonde” (1940), look like a deliberate subversion of the Americana of Rockwell and commercial illustration. A cop eats his lunch at a roadside counter, framed in a box of sunlight, while out of his view a thug with a pair of handcuffs dangling from his wrist holds a gun on the waitress, forcing her to pour poison into the coffee she’s about to serve the policeman. There’s no getting around the fact that women in peril were one of the pulp’s biggest selling points, and that often the women have had their clothes ripped to reveal the lingerie underneath. In H.J. Ward’s “Two Hands to Choke” (1934), a redhead in shredded clothes digs her nails into the face of the brute trying to subdue her.
In the 1938 “Black Pool for Hell Maidens” — you know it’s good just from that title — a women is chained in the foreground while an evil-looking dwarf advances on her, and in the background another lovely is lowered into a vat of some boiling liquid. Some of the pulp readership was bound to get off on these images of women in distress. But I’d argue that the real appeal for the largely male pulp audience came from the next frame they conjured up in their heads — the one where the rescued female offers up the charms we’ve glimpsed to her gallant rescuer. That was the role that the pulp readers wanted to imagine themselves in, and it seems even more obvious in the paintings where no women are present, where just one lone, usually good-looking hero moves in to finish off the usually brutish (or even deformed) villain. De Soto’s “Revolt of the Underworld” (1942), an illustration for “The Spider,” shows the eponymous hero swinging down on a rope to crash his feet into the throat of a nearly skeletal baddie. A spider web fans out on the wall behind the Spider and the shadow of a wolf, its jaws bared as if moving in for the kill, is also visible.
The fantasy covers are not usually so explicitly violent, but they represent some of the wildest flights of pulp art imagination — not just the futuristic “Metropolis” architecture and the robots and flying saucers, but the figures. In Virgil Finlay’s “Burn, Witch, Burn!” (1942) a naked women, her body spangled in stars, rises above a scene of villagers who appear to be thrashing a burning field. Behind her, the face of a green demon floats in the sky. The realistic figures here are literally dwarfed by the comely apparition, and no matter what the story it was meant to illustrate holds, you can’t imagine cheering for them over this floating goddess. One of my favorites, “Creep Shadow,” also by Finlay and also from 1942, shows a nude Jean Harlow-like blonde reclining on the backs of some frog-like sea creatures bearing her up to the crest of a wave. It’s art nouveau gone gaga, a mix of sexual enticement and the delicacy of the lines forming the pattern of the waves.
For sheer visual impact and pleasure, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an exhibit as much as this one. The paintings may have no depth; they are made to yield up their pleasure at once. But it would be foolish to underestimate how deeply they reach into our brains and our libidos. They inspire a lustful greed in the viewer, a sheer appetite for adventure and flesh that’s bracing precisely because it’s the opposite of politeness and refinement and taste. Pulp art was an open secret, a brazen display of the appetites we didn’t acknowledge there on the newsstands every month. They were also among the most vibrant and colorful and exciting works of American commercial illustration. They should be celebrated for that, and the Brooklyn Museum of Art exhibit should be appreciated for shunning the hypocrisy that has long characterized the way they are regarded. Our spiciest, most violent fantasies are up on the walls for all to see. It’s as if long-buried American desires are finally declaring themselves and saying, “Look how beautiful.”
Charles Taylor is a columnist for the Newark Star-Ledger. More Charles Taylor.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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