In the early 1800s, around the time Andrew Jackson was running for president and the first generation born and raised in an independent United States was beginning to wonder whether or not the same Enlightenment ideals which had transformed their political expectations might be applied to improve society as well, a young man named Sam Patch became the nation’s first celebrity daredevil. His “act” was fairly straightforward – he chose some very high places and then jumped from them into the water below.
It was by all accounts quite impressive, especially after he acquired a pet bear who joined him (albeit unwillingly) in these leaps.
Clearly entertainment options were a bit limited in those days, but that wasn’t the only reason Patch became such a well-known figure even among those who never saw him jump. While it’s difficult to fully understand two centuries later, Patch’s jumps acted in some ways as symbolic opposition to what we’d today call “wealth inequality” – the rapidly swelling gap between those who seemingly owned and controlled everything and those who endlessly struggled without making noticeable progress. They were exciting on a purely visceral level, of course, but whether his audience was always consciously aware of it or not, watching Patch leap was an assertion of social, economic, and political values as well.
Patch had grown up jumping from various bridges and buildings into local rivers along with other working class boys his age, but over time proved himself willing to go higher and bigger than any of his peers. His “breakthrough” jump in terms of public awareness came in 1827 when local nabob Timothy Crane was preparing to unveil a new bridge he’d built over the Great Falls in Paterson, New Jersey (which just happened to steer pedestrians conveniently straight towards Crane’s new upscale tavern). Crowds were gathered and local media had their pens poised and ready for the ceremony when Patch suddenly appeared on a high ledge over the same river. As eyes turned towards this unexpected figure 75 feet above, he jumped.
Patch entered the water feet first, and after a few dramatic moments reappeared swimming to shore. The crowd went wild and Crane’s capitalistic endeavors were suddenly irrelevant to the community, local media, and posterity. It’s worth noting that none of this dramatically impacted his net worth or his ongoing role as a leader in the community – he simply felt violated and marginalized by the reduced adoration and appreciation of the rest of society. For Crane, it probably felt like actual suffering.
Over the next several years, Patch repeated the feat in increasingly dramatic variations, and eventually developed something of a catchphrase. “Some things can be done as well as others” became an expression used across the nation – usually by the working classes. It’s not particularly inspirational two centuries later, but that’s how it often is with art. And what Sam Patch did, oddly enough, was art.
Personally, Patch was a bit of a mess – the bear thing, while not as horrifying in the 1830s as it would be today, was still pretty weird. There were rumors near the end of his life that Patch was drinking heavily, and may have been drunk during the jump which finally killed him. He never leveraged his notoriety into financial success, which we might generously interpret as a function of artistic integrity, but probably had more to do with the fact that he simply couldn’t figure out how.
But what Patch did mattered. It had value, not only because of what it meant to him and what he said about it, but because of what his audiences brought to the experience. They were essential participants in every moment of drama – the anticipation, the conversations, the exhilaration, and the interpretation. He may have been the one in the proverbial spotlight, but they were the ones determining what it all meant. Patch’s jumps made people think, feel, and talk. That made them art.
Annie Kopchovsky rode a bicycle. While this may not seem particularly impressive in and of itself, she rode it around the entire globe (sort of), beginning in Massachusetts and finishing up there again less than fifteen months later. Most importantly, she did this in the 1890s, when the bicycle was still a crazy new invention and certainly not something respectable women were expected to enjoy. The scandalous outfits required to ride properly (you could sometimes see ankles!) were bad enough, but rumor had it that the vibrations from imperfect roads might impact the rider’s health, or even send her into a state of excessive arousal.
Or at least, those were some of the most common excuses offered for why women shouldn’t ride. In reality, the bicycle and women’s rights became inextricably linked largely because these innovative machines offered a degree of freedom and independence never before possible for American women. They were as much a symbol of social change as they were personal recreation, and women who chose to ride were asserting a controversial claim over their own bodies and actions whether they consciously intended to or not. The simple act of pedaling up and down the block was a provocation, a proclamation, and an essential part of a larger conversation.
Traditionalists felt provoked and marginalized in much the same way poor Timothy Crane had a few generations before. In this case, however, it wasn’t their personal status on the line so much as the morality and stability of society as a whole. They weren’t entirely wrong – American women were rewriting social and political norms with every ride, and would continue to do so for several decades.
As an individual, Kopchovsky proved a bit more savvy than Patch. She spun her journey into a full-blown commercial endeavor as well as a media spectacle. Her last name was soon replaced by “Londonderry” – a mineral water company who sponsored her most famous ride. She embellished (or fabricated) numerous details about her experiences around the globe and gave lectures and interviews at every stop to keep her name in the news and provide a little income for herself along the way. She eagerly availed herself of ferry rides or other forms of available transportation as long as she rode at least a little everywhere she went, which was just as well – riding around the globe is hard work, and she’d never been on a bicycle until a few days before her trip began.
What Kopchovsky did was thus an artistic as much as an athletic event. Her impact had little to do with mileage or maps and everything to do with the interpretations and reactions of everyone else. Whether shocked, inspired, or horrified, Kopchovsky’s bicycle ride made people think and feel and talk. That makes it art.
Erich Weisz would become far better known than either Patch or Kopchovsky, but it would be by his stage name, Harry Houdini. He’s historically categorized as a master magician, and rightly so, but most of what we remember about him involves his ability to escape from various forms of bondage – handcuffs, manacles, jail cells, trunks, tanks of water, straightjackets, and the like. Most of why we remember this is because Weisz was more than a master escapologist – he was a relentless self-promoter.
Harry Houdini was one of those characters so committed to his role that he ended up inhabiting and playing it his entire adult life. Even those closest to him – including his wife, Bess – were part of the ongoing show which never quite stopped. Audiences responded with something deeper than appreciation or admiration; it was often almost visceral how they connected to Houdini’s desperate psychopathology and his apparent ability to escape from almost any yoke.
Houdini was popular everywhere, but he was most intensely sought out and revered in nations or communities where people truly understood oppression – bondage, whether literal or figurative. He was most idolized by those who dealt firsthand with abusive authority, whose circumstances felt very much out of their control, and whose lives tended to be both brutish and brief.
Houdini not only performed miracles, he defied those representing the legal system to stop him and regularly raged against enemies both real and perceived. He remained perpetually defiant, convincing both himself and everyone who’d listen that he and he alone could be trusted, followed, and admired. His performances had value not only because of what they meant to him (and it was always personal to him), but because of how his audience perceived him and the degree to which they participated in every emotion and every moment.
Houdini wasn’t just doing magic; he was perpetually raging against the machine. He was a fit, feisty messiah who couldn’t stomach the least bit of criticism from anyone, but who personified a sort of proletariat revolt by proxy for thousands who couldn’t do it for themselves. His larger than life performances and demagogic personality made people think, and feel, and talk. It was more than magic – it was art.
There’s certainly a lesson in all of these stories about the power of artistic expression, even when that description is stretched to include some very non-traditional forms. Art matters, whatever its form, intent, or even quality. We need not follow popular forms to express something important, nor must we meet some artificial set of “standards” before making the attempt. It’s impossible to know ahead of time what will matter, or resonate, or inspire, and what will simply fade away over time.
I respectfully suggest, however, that there’s a second lesson as well – one we should have learned long ago, but which seems to once again be facing opposition from demagogues and wanna-bes.
Flawed people can do important things. Dysfunctional individuals can make positive contributions to their communities and the times in which they live. History is rarely the story of “good guys” and “bad guys.” The good stuff usually involves those who struggle to do good in spite of themselves and those who give in to their darker natures for reasons most of us can understand, if not approve of – power, a sense of destiny, desperation for approval, or good old fashioned hurt and rage. Of course we should tell the truth about Patch, Kopchovsky, and Houdini, to whatever extent it can be discerned and in whatever situations it might matter, but the unpleasant details in no way detract from their impact and importance. We can celebrate things they DID without deifying who they WERE. That’s true of everyone from Thomas Jefferson to MLK to Rudy Guliani.
Nations, too, can do great things while simultaneously committing unspeakable acts – and far more easily than individuals. Learning from history requires embracing and trying to understand ALL of it. None of the great religious teach that “you shall obfuscate the truth, and enough gaslighting shall set you free.” No relationship thrives on deception and the refusal to ever consider that perhaps you were wrong. And there are absolutely NO published studies suggesting that the best way to make young people more patriotic is to more vigorously bullsh*t them.
I’ve taught teenagers for over 25 years, and believe me, they understand the concept that people they love and admire can seriously mess up and may have alarming blind spots about certain issues. Most have also learned that even people they don’t like can occasionally surprise them with kindness, competence, or creativity. It’s really not that difficult of a concept. We’re all imperfect, and a nation of-the-by-the-for-the-people will most likely be something of a mess as well.
We’ve done some amazing things. Trying to whitewash our own history isn’t one of them.