Collection: Gregg Deal

One of the biggest parts of American Nationalism is the myth and romance of its history. The existence of Indigenous peoples in and around these stories are misrepresented at best, and completely invisible at worst. Nevertheless, the “Indian” exists throughout both body and spirit. The result of this has inundated American so-called culture with our likeness, rooted in fantasy, misunderstanding and romanticism. The romantic aspect being paramount in carrying with it the storylines that uphold the very power structures that now seek to eliminate the autonomy of women, queer folks, black and brown folks, and even to a certain extent, poor whites. In the lie, we have lost the truth, convoluting our existence with blankets of disease given to us by the very people who wish to exploit our lives, our labor, our culture, our language, our stories, our very existence. The bits of Americana here stand as a beacon of romantic mediocrity, reminding us how much we don’t know, what we have forgotten but how important it is to never forget. The headdress, the maiden, the hatchet, the cowboy. Trite reminders of what they think we are, what they wish we could be, dismissive of how much more the original inhabitants of this land are. Images strewn about amidst language, textile patterns and the drip and of paint and abstraction, standing as a stark reminder in visual form of the confusion and difficulty of our place, while simultaneously grasping on to the desperate hilarity of its existence.