Cowboys and Bling

When I think of Dallas, I think of big hair, galleria shopping malls, and McMansions. Ft. Worth never, ever crossed my consciousness. It was always just the place next door to Dallas. They were cities that had grown together - same place.  And since I grew up around places like Fargo-Moorhead and Minneapolis-St. Paul, both cities divided only by a river, I thought of DFW the same way. Just one place, no unique identity beyond the neighborhoods of either or both. I was wrong.

It may be argued that Dallas is the more sophisticated sibling; glitzy, full of itself, a bit ostentatious.  Ft. Worth is sort of a big brother, unapologetically Western. If Ft. Worth is the rodeo cowboy, Dallas is the rhinestone cowboy. There are other city founder who would agree with that assessment, as well, especially those who founded Ft. Worth.

When I got to my friends' place in Mansfield, I admit I was ready to just hang out - visit, eat, pet the dogs, get some laundry done. But as usual, there's just too much to see and do, so we found our way out and about to the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. I know, I know; only in Texas.

The reason I even knew of the Hall's existence was because of a trip to Ashland, Oregon for the Ashland Shakespeare Festival in 1997, five years before the current location of the Hall opened its doors. We had just seen "A Midsummer Night's Dream," and were window shopping. I glanced in the window of a gallery, and saw this image:

It's a piece called "Legends" by Donna Howell Sickles. I didn't buy it, but I did buy a coffee table-sized book of her work. My sister, who has been involved with the art world forever, of course knew who this artist was. And then took a job with American Women Artists, of whom Donna Howell Sickles is a member. Then DHS was inducted into the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. And there it is.

The museum is dedicated to real cowgirls of course, the nearly indestructible women who raised the babies and laundered the clothes and cooked the meals and helped wrangle the cattle. It is also a place that pays tribute to those women who embody the spirit of the cowgirl - independent, strong, creative. Sandra Day O'Connor is in the Hall. She grew up on a ranch in Arizona.

The Hall itself is impressive, although the cost of admission was a bit steep - $10 per adult. I tried to explain that no one that I know considers me an adult, but Maxine at the front desk wasn't buying what I was selling. I paid my money and consoled myself with the discount I would receive at other area museums when I presented the ticket.

After an unremarkable lunch at Z's, housed at the art center down the block, we walked over to the Amon Carter Museum. I knew that the Amon Carter was a treasure house of American artwork, but had no idea who the heck Amon Carter was, or if it was two people, or what. Carter's story is the quintessential American success story: He was born in a one-room cabin, worked his way up, and ended up collecting enough art to found a museum. Carter was an advocate for Ft. Worth from the beginning of the 20th century, encouraged the Ft. Worth Star to acquired the Ft. Worth Telegram and became advertising manager of that newspaper. In fact, he considered archrival Dallas as "east Texas" and claimed that Ft. Worth is where the West begins. He might be right about that, although Kansas City has been dubbed the eastern-most Western city.  Carter wanted to fund a museum because of his own poverty as a child and lack of exposure to art and culture. It's a beautiful collection, full of American western masterworks such as this classic Frederic Remington painting, "A Dash for the Timber."

 Enough for now. Next, our day in Dallas and the injustice of de-installing art.