social, artistic and political commentary i

Western Michigan University 1

Social, Artistic and Political Commentary I.

Richard A. Gershon, Ph.D.Freedom of Expression, Com. 3070

Western Michigan University

2Western Michigan University

This is the first in a series of presentations that looks at the American experience through the artistic lens of various kinds of artists, writers, musicians, sculptors and filmmakers. Freedom of Expression in the artistic sense…


Bob DylanBob Dylan's influence on popular music is incalculable. As a songwriter, he pioneered several different schools of pop songwriting, from confessional singer/songwriter to stream-of-conscious narratives.

Blowing in the WindMr. Tambourine ManLike a Rolling StoneThe Times Are A-ChangingHurricane

As a vocalist, he broke down the notions that in order to perform, a singer had to have a conventionally good voice, thereby redefining the role of vocalist in popular music. For a figure of such substantial influence, Dylan came from humble beginnings. Born in Duluth, MN, Bob Dylan (b. Robert Allen Zimmerman, May 24, 1941) was raised in Hibbing, MN, from the age of six.


Come gather 'round peopleWherever you roamAnd admit that the watersAround you have grownAnd accept it that soonYou'll be drenched to the bone.If your time to youIs worth savin'Then you better start swimmin'Or you'll sink like a stoneFor the times they are a-changin'.

Come writers and criticsWho prophesize with your penAnd keep your eyes wideThe chance won't come againAnd don't speak too soonFor the wheel's still in spinAnd there's no tellin' whoThat it's namin'For the loser nowWill be later to winFor the times they are a-changin'.

Come senators, congressmenPlease heed the callDon't stand in the doorwayDon't block up the hallFor he that gets hurtWill be he who has stalledThere's a battle outsideAnd it is ragin'.It'll soon shake your windowsAnd rattle your wallsFor the times they are a-changin'.

Come mothers and fathersThroughout the landAnd don't criticizeWhat you can't understandYour sons and your daughtersAre beyond your commandYour old road isRapidly agin'.Please get out of the new oneIf you can't lend your handFor the times they are a-changin'.

The Times They Are a-Changin'.


The line it is drawnThe curse it is cast

The slow one nowWill later be fast

As the present nowWill later be past

The order isRapidly fadin'.

And the first one nowWill later be last

For the times they are a-changin'.

Bob Dylan


Pistol shots ring out in the barroom nightEnter Patty Valentine from the upper hall.She sees the bartender in a pool of blood,

Cries out, "My God, they killed them all!"Here comes the story of the Hurricane,The man the authorities came to blame

For somethin' that he never done.Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been

The champion of the world.

Three bodies lyin' there does Patty seeAnd another man named Bello, movin' around mysteriously.

"I didn't do it," he says, and he throws up his hands"I was only robbin' the register, I hope you understand.

I saw them leavin'," he says, and he stops"One of us had better call up the cops."

And so Patty calls the copsAnd they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashin'

In the hot New Jersey night.

Meanwhile, far away in another part of townRubin Carter and a couple of friends are drivin' around.

Number one contender for the middleweight crownHad no idea what kinda shit was about to go down

When a cop pulled him over to the side of the roadJust like the time before and the time before that.

In Paterson that's just the way things go.If you're black you might as well not show up on the street

'Less you wanna draw the heat.

Hurricane


Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the cops.Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowlin' around

He said, "I saw two men runnin' out, they looked like middleweightsThey jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates."

And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head.Cop said, "Wait a minute, boys, this one's not dead"

So they took him to the infirmaryAnd though this man could hardly see

They told him that he could identify the guilty men.

Four in the mornin' and they haul Rubin in,Take him to the hospital and they bring him upstairs.The wounded man looks up through his one dyin' eye

Says, "Wha'd you bring him in here for? He ain't the guy!"Yes, here's the story of the Hurricane,The man the authorities came to blame


The champion of the world.Four months later, the ghettos are in flame,

Rubin's in South America, fightin' for his nameWhile Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game

And the cops are puttin' the screws to him, lookin' for somebody to blame. "Remember that murder that happened in a bar?""Remember you said you saw the getaway car?""You think you'd like to play ball with the law?"

"Think it might-a been that fighter that you saw runnin' that night?""Don't forget that you are white."

Hurricane


Arthur Dexter Bradley said, "I'm really not sure."Cops said, "A poor boy like you could use a break

We got you for the motel job and we're talkin' to your friend BelloNow you don't wanta have to go back to jail, be a nice fellow.

You'll be doin' society a favor.That sonofabitch is brave and gettin' braver.

We want to put his ass in stirWe want to pin this triple murder on him

He ain't no Gentleman Jim."

Rubin could take a man out with just one punchBut he never did like to talk about it all that much.

It's my work, he'd say, and I do it for payAnd when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way

Up to some paradiseWhere the trout streams flow and the air is nice

And ride a horse along a trail.But then they took him to the jailhouse

Where they try to turn a man into a mouse.

All of Rubin's cards were marked in advanceThe trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance.

The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slumsTo the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum

And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger.No one doubted that he pulled the trigger.

And though they could not produce the gun,The D.A. said he was the one who did the deed

And the all-white jury agreed.

Hurricane


Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the cops.Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowlin' around

He said, "I saw two men runnin' out, they looked like middleweightsThey jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates."

And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head.Cop said, "Wait a minute, boys, this one's not dead"

So they took him to the infirmaryAnd though this man could hardly see

They told him that he could identify the guilty men.

Four in the mornin' and they haul Rubin in,Take him to the hospital and they bring him upstairs.The wounded man looks up through his one dyin' eye

Says, "Wha'd you bring him in here for? He ain't the guy!"Yes, here's the story of the Hurricane,The man the authorities came to blame


The champion of the world.Four months later, the ghettos are in flame,

Rubin's in South America, fightin' for his nameWhile Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game

And the cops are puttin' the screws to him, lookin' for somebody to blame. "Remember that murder that happened in a bar?""Remember you said you saw the getaway car?""You think you'd like to play ball with the law?"

"Think it might-a been that fighter that you saw runnin' that night?""Don't forget that you are white."

Hurricane


Rubin Carter was falsely tried.The crime was murder "one," guess who testified?

Bello and Bradley and they both baldly liedAnd the newspapers, they all went along for the ride.

How can the life of such a manBe in the palm of some fool's hand?

To see him obviously framedCouldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land

Where justice is a game.

Now all the criminals in their coats and their tiesAre free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise

While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cellAn innocent man in a living hell.

That's the story of the Hurricane,But it won't be over till they clear his name

And give him back the time he's done.Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been

The champion of the world.

Hurricane


Gordon LightfootGordon Lightfoot was born in 1938 in Orillia, Ontario. Lightfoot moved to Los Angeles during the 50s where he studied at Hollywood's Westlake College of Music. Lightfoot then returned to Canada and began performing in Toronto's Yorkville coffeehouses. His work was championed by several acts, notably Ian & Sylvia and Peter, Paul & Mary. Both recorded Early Morning Rain, which has since become a standard.If You Could Read My Mind was Lightfoot's breakthrough song on the U.S. music charts. Other major ballads include the Canadian Railroad Trilogy, Don Quixote and the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Lightfoot’s music is deeply embedded into the music culture and history of Canada. He has received Canada’s prestigious Juno Award sixteen times before being inducted into the country's Hall of Fame. Lightfoot is a story teller and balladeer. A number of his songs speak of life on the road, including the simple freedoms, joys and disappointments.

Early Morning RainAlberta BoundDon Quixote10 Degrees and Getting ColderSteel Rail BluesCarefree Highway


Don QuixoteGordon Lightfoot

Through the woodland, through the valleyComes a horseman wild and freeTilting at the windmills passing

Who can the brave young horseman beHe is wild but he is mellow; he is strong but he is weak

He is cruel but he is gentleHe is wise but he is meek

Reaching for his saddlebagHe takes a battered book into his hand

Standing like a prophet boldHe shouts across the ocean to the shore

Till he can shout no moreI have come o’er moor and mountain

Like the hawk upon the wingI was once a shining knight

Who was the guardian of a kingI have searched the whole world over

Looking for a place to sleepI have seen the strong survive

And I have seen the lean grown weak


See the children of the earthWho wake to find the table bare

See the gentry in the countryRiding off to take the air

Reaching for his saddlebagHe takes a rusty sword into his hand

Then striking up a knightly poseHe shouts across the ocean to the shore

Till he can shout no moreSee the jailor with his key

Who locks away all trace of sinSee the judge upon the bench

Who tries the case as best he canSee the wise and wicked ones

Who feed upon life’s sacred fireSee the soldier with his gun

Who must be dead to be admiredSee the man who tips the needleSee the man who buys and sells


See the man who puts the collarOn the ones who dare not tellSee the drunkard in the tavern

Stemming gold to make ends meetSee the youth in ghetto black

Condemned to life upon the streetReaching for his saddlebag

He takes a tarnished cross into his handThen standing like a preacher now

He shouts across the ocean to the shoreThen in a blaze of tangled hooves

He gallops off across the dusty plainIn vain to search againWhere no one will hear

Through the woodland, through the valleyComes a horseman wild and freeTilting at the windmills passing

Who can the brave young horseman beHe is wild but he is mellowHe is strong but he is weakHe is cruel but he is gentleHe is wise but he is meek


Carefree HighwayGordon Lightfoot

Picking up the pieces of my sweet shattered dreamI wonder how the old folks are tonight

Her name was Ann and I'll be damned if I recall her faceShe left me not knowing what to do

Carefree highway, let me slip away on youCarefree highway, you seen better days

The morning after blues from my head down to my shoesCarefree highway, let me slip away

Slip away on youTurning back the pages to the times I love best

I wonder if she'll ever do the sameNow the thing that I call living' is just being' satisfied

With knowing I got no one left to blameCarefree highway, got to see you my old flame

Carefree highway, you seen better daysThe morning after blues from my head down to my shoes

Carefree highway, let me slip awaySlip away on you


Searching through the fragments of my dream-shattered sleep

I wonder if the years have closed her mindI guess it must be wanderlust or trying to get

free - from the good old faithful feeling we once knew

Carefree highway, let me slip away on youCarefree highway, you seen better days

The morning after blues from my head down to my shoes

Carefree highway, let me slip awaySlip away on you

Let me slip away on youCarefree highway, got to see you my old flame

Carefree highway, you seen better daysThe morning after blues from my head down

to my shoesCarefree highway, let me slip away

Slip away on you


Norman Rockwell

The pictures of Norman Rockwell (1894-1978) were recognized and appreciated by millions of Americans.The cover of The Saturday Evening Post was his showcase for over forty years, giving him an audience larger than that of any other artist in history. Over the years he depicted a unique collection of Americana, a series of vignettes of remarkable warmth and humor. In addition, he painted a great number of pictures for story illustrations, advertising campaigns, posters, calendars, and books.


"Without thinking too much about it in specific terms, I was showing the America I knew and observed to others who might not have noticed. My fundamental purpose is to interpret the typical American. I am a story teller.” … “Common places never become tiresome. It is we who become tired when we cease to be curious and appreciative."

Norman Rockwell


Norman Rockwell's Four Freedoms series was first published in The Saturday Evening Post in 1943 during the height of World War II. The Post published the paintings as a series after the U.S. government declined it... Seeing the huge success of The Post articles, the U.S. government changed its mind about Rockwell's creations.Soon afterward, the Office of War Information later issued the series as posters as an incentive for War bond purchasers. Many of these posters are still sold today. Homecoming Marine


FreedomFromWant


FreedomFromFear


FreedomOf

Worship


Freedomof

Speech


Sabra Frield was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma and grew up in the New York metropolitan Area. She earned her BA degree at Middlebury College in Vermont where she majored in art.She also holds a MA in Teaching from Wesleyan University where she studied printmaking with Russell T. Limbach. She taught high school art for seven years in both public and private schools.Sabra Field has lived in Vermont since 1969. She is best known for her illustrated covers for Vermont Life magazine and has been the subject of nearly 50 one-person exhibitions since 1960.Sabra is married to Spencer Field who serves as her business manager.


Sabra Frield grew up in the New York metropolitan Area. She earned her B.A. degree at Middlebury College in Vermont where she majored in art. She also holds a M.A. in Teaching from Wesleyan University Sabra Field has lived in Vermont since 1969. She is best known for her illustrated covers for Vermont Life magazine and has been the subject of nearly 50 one-person exhibitions since 1960. She is a landscape artist that uses rich color and combines that with a kind of impressionist feel. She also does other kinds of landscapes that includes the small towns of Tuscany in Italy as well as New York City.Sabra is married to Spencer Field who serves as her business manager.


Tuscany, Italy


As a young painter, Stephen Holland could not afford to hire live models. The images he found in various magazines became his subjects. As a child, he was handicapped and had to watch his family and friends play sports. The steel brace he wore on his leg prevented him from attending neighborhood schools. But handicaps often heighten one's other sensitivities. This proved true for Stephen Holland.Holland’s abilities took shape while attending a special high school which devoted half of each day to art studies. He later attended the Art Students League and later Pratt Institute in New York City. Today, Holland is recognized by Sports Illustrated and other publications as one America’s premiere sports artists.


R.C. Gorman (born 1931) is one of the leading Native American artist in the US. Gorman grew up on a Navajo reservation in Chinle, Arizona. His father, Carl Gorman, was a noted Navajo painter and teacher who later became a code talker during WW II.Gorman has been described as "the Picasso of American Indian art" by the New York Times. His paintings are primarily of Native American women and characterized by fluid forms and vibrant colors. He is also an avid lover of cuisine, authoring four cookbooks.Gorman attended Northern Arizona University and University of the Americas in Mexico City.

I have been fortunate to live and work in the beautiful Taos Valley, an environment rich in artistry and tradition. The spirit of Taos has encouraged and inspired me, and my focus as an artist matured here. I’m truly grateful to my friends, drinking buddies, family, patrons, and my loyal staff—all of whom have made my way of life here possible.

R.C. Gorman

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