The baggage we bring with us is considerable. American popular culture has long been globalised. For much of my time here, America felt like a giant movie set. And sometimes, it felt like being in the middle of a television sitcom. It is so easy and so tempting to describe and report on an America of gun madness, violence, junk-food fed obesity, scary religious fundamentalism, sickly sentimental patriotism and swaggeringly stupid politicians such as the President, George Bush.
The same was true of the other arts as well. In novels like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925), paintings like Edward Hopper’s Early Sunday Morning (1930, Whitney Museum of American Art), buildings like Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater (1935), plays like Thornton Wilder’s Our Town (1938), ballets like Martha Graham’s Appalachian Spring (1944, music by Aaron Copland), and films like John Ford’s The Searchers (1956), one encounters a brand of modernism that is at all times effortlessly and unostentatiously American.


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