Think of Superman and Wonder Woman.
These are American products, national symbols of our projected virtue. Truth, justice and the American way. He was born in the Depression, she just before the attack on Pearl Harbor. American myths, a brand of spangled American gods, characters so ubiquitous as to seem ordinary and perhaps beneath serious consideration. Superman and Wonder Woman are mom and pop, savior symbols who do good and banish evil. They might seem even less interesting than the costumed crusaders they inspired.
Boy Scout-ish Superman especially seems a bit banal and square, the ultimate overdog. (Wonder Woman we'll get to later.) Maybe you find the psychological darkness of Batman, the third member of DC Comics' flagship trinity, more compelling. Maybe you prefer the method-actor angst of Spider-Man or other members of the Marvel Comics Universe. Fair enough.
So maybe you adjust expectations for the Crystal Bridges' exhibition "Men of Steel, Women of Wonder."
This is one thing about superheroes — they are easily impersonated. In Kaur's 2013 photograph Wonder Woman, paired with Christopher, the superhero impersonator bears only a vague resemblance to her presumptive model, the Lynda Carter incarnation of the character, but she still registers as the DC Amazon. If Superman can recede into Everyman anonymity by putting on a pair of glasses, why can't we be special by tying a blanket around our neck as a cape?
"Superhero impersonators ... go out and this is their job," Alejo Benedetti, Crystal Bridges assistant curator and the exhibition's creator, says as he guides a group of journalists through the exhibit. "Don't we all have those same types of experiences when we dress up for Halloween or we go to the gym? These are some of the ways these characters exist within our daily world."
In other words, when does a costume become an identity?
Superman was born in the Depression and "Men of Steel, Women of Wonder" astutely locates the character's roots in the political and economic tribulations of the times, offering a few examples of New Deal-era works of working-class men and women laboring heroically, such as Tyrone Comfort's dynamic Gold Is Where You Find It (1934) and James Edward Allen's 1932 etching The Skyman, which depicts a muscled iron worker hovering over a city skyline.
Superman first appeared in the pages and on the cover of Action Comics No. 1 which, in keeping with the conventions of comic books, bore a cover date of June even though it was actually published on April 18, 1938. (The exhibit features a rare copy of this issue, along with Sensation Comics No. 1, which marked Wonder Woman's debut. Though that title is dated January 1942, it actually hit the newsstands in October 1941, before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.) But Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, classmates at Cleveland's Glenville High who became Superman's spiritual fathers, had been refining the character for years. Siegel's short story "The Reign of the Superman," illustrated by Shuster, was published in the January 1933 issue of Science Fiction: The Advance Guard of Future Civilization, a fanzine printed on the school's mimeograph machine.
The original Superman doesn't bear much resemblance to the familiar superhero — he is a villain picked out of a bread line by a scientist who promises him a "real meal and a new suit" in exchange for testing an experimental potion that gives him the power not only to read the thoughts of others but to control them with his mind. He kills the scientist and uses his new powers for evil until they wear off and he finds himself back in the bread line.
As the story ends, the former Superman is pondering what might have been had he "worked for the good of humanity."
That dark Superman never took off. So Siegel and Shuster went back to the drawing board and created an icon, one that borrowed a bit from Doc Savage (the "Man of Bronze") and Philip Wylie's Hugo Danner and Edgar Rice Burroughs' John Carter, the Confederate officer who gained superpowers when he was transported to Mars. They gave him a costume with a cape and an S on his chest. They gave him a blue-black spit curl. They made him a refugee from a blown-apart planet with powers that were impressive though not quite unlimited.
At first, the reinvented Superman had the proportional strength of an ant — he could lift hundreds of times his own weight. He could vault a 20-story building or leap an eighth of a mile. (Planet-pulverizing power and flying came later.) His first story handled his origin myth in just three comic panels. Siegel and Shuster famously sold their rights to what was to become the most famous fictional character ever created for $130.
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Superman is easy enough to deconstruct — he clearly seems a product of adolescent male wishfulness. He can't be hurt by earthly plights; he's strong, aloof and pure. He flies faster than light. He retreats to his Fortress of Solitude. His seemingly superfluous alter ego exists to demonstrate that within any apparent weakling a god may lurk. (So watch who you bully.)
His invulnerability posed a problem for the Silver Age writers who had to invent dozens of varieties of Kryptonite, each with its own specific and limited effect on our hero to hold our interest. (Superman has "died" at least 15 times in various comics; the first time was in 1966 when he was assassinated via Kryptonite radio waves. He was revived by a Superman android that, programmed to behave like Superman, sacrificed itself.)
Wonder Woman is a kinkier, more complicated creature.
"Wonder Woman was from the start a character founded in scholarship," her creator, Harvard-educated psychologist William Moulton Marston, wrote in a press release announcing her arrival.
"The only hope for civilization is the greater freedom, development and equality of women.''
Marston, an expert on truth and deception who developed the systolic blood pressure test (which he used as a kind of rudimentary lie detector), may have been a good candidate for the most interesting man in the world, according to the research of his biographer Jill Lepore.
Marston led a highly unconventional home life, having married editor Sadie Elizabeth Holloway in 1915 before taking a second "wife" — his student, Olive Byrne, niece of birth control advocate Margaret Sanger — in the 1920s. The arrangement had Holloway essentially supporting the family because Marston had trouble holding a job until 1933, when he was hired by pioneering comics publisher Max Gaines to help him respond to calls for comics bans. ("Ten million copies of these sex-horror serials are sold every month," thundered the Chicago Daily News in 1940.)
Marston's association with Gaines led directly to his pitching the character, which Lepore has convincingly demonstrated was based on Marston's relationships with his various lovers and his fondness for bondage scenarios:
"Not a comic book in which Wonder Woman appeared, and hardly a page, lacked a scene of bondage," Lepore writes in The Secret History of Wonder Woman.
Wonder Woman draws a large part of her power from her sexuality, and so it's not just New Deal depictions of women doing their bit in the factories that show up in the Crystal Bridges exhibit — Norman Rockwell's iconic 1943 painting Rosie the Riveter is a given — but pinup artist Earl Moran's early 1930s pastel Golden Hours, which was once used as the cover of a large box of chocolates, and Gil "the Norman Rockwell of Cheesecake" Elvgren's Jill Needs Jack (1950).
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While there's plenty of fun to be had with "Men of Steel, Women of Wonder," the deeper you go into the galleries, the darker the interrogations of the characters become. It is a remarkably executed, graceful monochrome hymn suffused with love.
In an essay in the exhibit's innovative five-volume catalog, has an amusing (and insightful) discussion on underwear and the should-have-been (but wasn't) obvious connection of Superman's costume to the tights worn by circus strongmen. Books might — and no doubt have — been written about the ways artists of different ethnicities have responded to the reflexive whiteness of these characters (even though it is often observed that Superman is an illegal alien and Wonder Woman hails from an island in the Mediterranean). Why do they fight for America?
Well, perhaps because America needed them. As the Laurie Anderson song "O Superman" (the video is also part of the exhibit) goes, "O Superman ... O Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad."
Surely she intended that line to be an allusion to Philip Larkin's "This Be the Verse"? Certainly she understood the ways a hero could become a master. We get the heroes we deserve, and sometimes we find them in unlikely places. Sometimes even inside ourselves.