Public (E-Journal, York University)

Watney, Simon

English

The Homosexual Body: Resources and a Note on Theory

O'Neill, John

AIDS as a Globalizing Panic

Brossard, Nicole

Maitre de Flemalle (1410-1440), L'annonciation (detail).
CORPS D'ENERGIE
RITUELS D'ECRITURE
NICOLE BROSSARD
TRANSLATION BY ALlCE PARKER
In this talk I would like to make space for questions regarding different rituals, different
approaches, different postures that we take in language in order to exist, fulfil our need to ex-
press, communicate, or to challenge language itself; hoping that by playing with it, language
will reveal unknown dimensions of reality. I have been writing for more than twenty years. I
have written poetry, novels, texts, essays. Today, I am still fascinated by the act of writing, the
processes, the trouble, the pain and the joy that we go through in order to pur into words what
we feel, what we recall vaguely but which insists on being recalled, what we envision whether
it be full-length images or enigmatic flashes running through our brains like a storm of truth.
Those who are familiar with my work know that one of the most recurrent words in my
writing is the word body. This word is usually accompanied by the words writing and text. The
expression Le cortex exuberant illustrates the reason for this. For me the body is a metaphor for
energy, intensity, desire, pleasure, memory and awareness. In fact, it is my way of saying that
what interests me in the body is the circulation of energy and the way the body provides
through our senses a network of associations out of which we create our mental environment,
out of which we imagine far beyond what we in fact see, feel, smell, hear or taste. It is through
this network of associations that we claim new sensations, that we dream backwards, in accel-
erated or in slow motion, that we zoom in on sexual fantasies, that we discover unexpected
angles of thought.
I have always said that writing is energy taking shape in language. Sexual, libidinal, men-
tal and spirirual energies are always setting for us the irresistible need to declare things, to
make new propositions, to look for solutions which can unknot social patterns of violence and
death, to explore unknown territories of the mind, to search for one's identity, to fill the gap
between real and unreal. In other words, energy is the motivation, the impulse, to write; just
as desire motivates or impels renewed energy to write. Energy has to go out, has to come in.
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The body is its channel. But the body claims to be more than a channel: it thinks strategies to
regularize the flow of energy. The body alone cannot process all energy, it needs language to
process energy into social meaning. Amongst the uses that we make of language, there is a
privileged one which is called "creative writing': It is in this sense that I say writing is shaping
figures and meanings within the merry-go-round of energy that traverses us. Filtered by lang-
uage, this energy finds a rhythm, becomes a voice, transforms itself into images and
metaphors. Energy too weak keeps you silent, energy too intense makes noise instead of mean-
ing, even though silence and noise can eventually be interpreted as an historical momentum.
Sexual, libidinal, mental and spiritual energies provided with a motive and/or an object of
desire engage us in a creative dimension. When those energies synchronize they offer a very
privileged moment to a writer, that most of the time we call "inspiration': Those energies can
work alone or in couples. Sexual energy produces a lot of images and scenes. Libidinal energy
creates projects and goals to achieve. Mental energy provides the sharpness for abstraction.
Spiritual energy links us to a global environment. However, these energies can also stagnate
or drive you crazy if they don't meet their object of desire or organize in such a way that they
can at least dream or figure out their object of desire.
Here I would like to make a distinction between the motive and the object of desire. The
motive, no matter the situation, is like an eternal return in the work of a creator. The motive
is roots, flesh and skin. It is incontournable. It is inscribed within us as a first and ultimate
memory. It is carnal knowledge. All good writers have a strong motive. The motive is most of
the time hidden in the core of a work, hidden yet recurrent as a theme. It seems to me that a
motive (a good reason and a pattern) is a personal existential question which makes one end-
lessly repeat: Why or how come? It is a three-dimensional question consequent to a syner-
getic moment, this moment being either traumatic or ecstatic. But with the synergetic
moment gone, we are left with a three-dimensional question, a question to which we can
only respond with a two-dimensional answer, henceforth a partial one which obliges us to re-
peat the question and to try another answer. We answer in two dimensions because we think
in a chronological way, one word at a time, one word after the other while the body experi-
ences life in a synchronic way. Writing, we have to make choices, to separate things, naming
is separation. Dreams are three-dimensional but we forget about them or cannot understand
them. Metaphors help us to answer our question:
meanmg ---- Image
sensation
As for the object of desire, it is probably always the same one mediated by the different peo-
ple with whom we fall in love, by books we cannot recover from, by situations to which we
respond passionately. To me, a good writer, or a good painter, always repeats the same
motive, the same question, the same statement in all her or his production. Think of
Kandinsky, Rothko, Betty Goodwin. A great creator is always driven by a motive as a fairly
good creator has to rely on the object of desire. If the object isn't there, then nothinKhappens
but sweat.
It is well known that people give and take energy to and from one another; that blame,
insult and humiliation take away energy; that praise, love and respect multiply energy. The
principle is very simple but when applied to men and women and the way they are position-
ed with regard to language and common patriarchal values, we cannot avoid questioning
the cultural field of language which provides us with energy or deprives us of it. What I
call the cultural field of language is made of male sexual and psychic energies transformed
through centuries of written fiction into a standard for imagination, a frame of references,
patterns of analysis, networks of meaning, rhetoric of body and soul. Digging in that field
can be for a creative woman a mental health hazard. So given that situation, I would like to
talk about different rituals that somehow have to be performed by a woman in order to exist
in language.
Writing is a wager of presence in the semantic, imaginary and symbolic space. It prepares
the advent of sense, and renders compatible the dreams and utopias that are grafted to our
desires, giving them baroque forms, tragic or smiling forms. But above all writing produces a
signifying presence in the body of the language, a language, let us say, that does not easily
welcome the desiring lucidity of the woman subject. For language does not know anything
about women, or we should say rather that it only knows the clamorous lies that generations
of misogynous, sexist phallocrats have repeated to it. In fact, we know that patriarchallan-
guage discredits, marginalizes, constitutes the feminine as inferior, when it takes us into
account; but most of the time, language makes women nonexistent, obliging us to perform
rituals ofpresence which exhaust the most vulnerable, while electrifying the most audacious
among us. Thus to write I am a woman is full of consequences. The work on re/presentation
and appearances draws us into a trajectory which goes from fear to desire, from aphasia to
memory, from fragmentation to integrity, from humiliation to dignity, from alienation to
consciousness, from auto-censure to transgression. This work on appearance, this putting into
form of the singular and plural emotions that traverse us like a sequence of truth is essentially
ritualistic. These rituals together form a trajectory, like the momentum of energy.
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By ritual I mean a whole series of gestures or postures performed for the purpose of ob-
taining a result. I would say that a ritual is always programmed, but of course, when we
write, we forget the interior programming, and dare to use a word that astonishes us, for, in
writing, we always have a certain lead on our thoughts. In fact, I am using the metaphor of
ritual to describe what seems recurrent to me in the psychological and linguistic gestures
that are ours when, as women, feminists or lesbians, we have to confront censure, anger, but
also that joyous enthusiasm that overcomes us when we manage to identify the inner certi-
tudes that inhabit us.
Let us say that there are two major categories of ritual: ritual with a mask that applies to
the story, the novella, the novel and the essay, to all writing in prose; and ritual without a
mask that particularly concerns poetry. But in one category like the other, there are different
practices of ritual: ritual with trembling, ritual with shock, ritual with sliding and ritual
with breath. These are the rituals I want to talk about because they transform our relation-
ship to writing and to reality.
RITU AL WITH TREMBLING
Here it is the whole body that concentrates intensely in order to remember childhood and to
untie the knots that have formed in its throat. The body hears a voice, an incessant voice that
murmurs a few words in a familiar manner. The voice is like a sonorous calendar installed in a
landscape or a decor, sometimes a big kitchen, sometimes a bedroom, sometimes a path, a city
or a garden. The woman who writes, who wants to write, hears the voice, sees the inner land-
scape, knows the hour and the place of the event where something in her life began, stopped;
but all this for the moment remains still unspeakable. Then the image comes back, insists,
strikes the temple hard, crosses the body like a bolt oflighrning. Then the body begins to
tremble, the voice trembles, the image itself doubles, is transformed, becomes unrecogniz-
able, while like an inversion in the heart of the emotion, the inner voice becomes suddenly
comprehensible.
Once the ritual has begun to take shape you cannot stop it, you cannot retreat. From
then on the words flow. Certain words agglomerate in little descriptive and narrative islets,
others stretch out endlessly into long sentences, others remain suspended, uncertain, at the
horizon of thought. But all this time, the body trembles, will tremble one more hour, the
whole night, sometimes for whole years so the words will continue to flow as if their appear-
ance depended on the trembling. She who desired nothing, who did not dare to desire, has
now submitted totally to the great urgency to give a sense to the voice that grows in her.
This is what I call the ritual with trembling, a ritual that permits us at once to exorcise
fear, to make the first stories burst forth, and to make the body and thought available for new
emotions.
RITU AL WITH SHOCK
The necessity of this ritual comes only with the consciousness that words are made of a com-
plex texture, of a succession of semantic layers under which we sleep, suffocate or cry. But the
necessity of the ritual with shock is especially linked to a discomfort, a profound dissatisfac-
tion, a revolt against the monolithic patriarchal sense which seems to shatter fervour, aspira-
tions, memory and women's identity. In your head words crash into each other: the word,
woman, is thrown against Man, the word insanity against reason, the word passivity against
violence, the word intuition against logic. Ritual with shock translates a conflict of values,
repeatedly bumping into the binary, antagonistic and hierarchical structure of misogyny and
patriarchal sense.
When a woman invests a word with all her anger, energy, determination, imagination,
this word crashes violently into the same word, the one invested with masculine experience.
The shock that follows has the effect of making the word burst: certain words lose a letter,
others see their letters reform in a different order. Thus image becomes magic: white, light;
gain, pain; reason, season; ease, sea; mild, wild; require is transformed into desire. Other words are
so shattered they are no longer recognizable. Thus the word regard can change into vision,
woman into lesbian, love into identity.
Ritual with shock is the most violent and risky of the rituals, for the risk is great that
one could wound oneself. In fact ritual with shock engenders necessarily a work of decon-
struction. It momentarily fragments sense, and it is particularly this stage that is risky
because then one could believe that nothing but our energy makes sense any longer. In fact,
this is the case until words again sketch signifiers into which we can invest a signified.
RITU AL WITH SLIDING
We know that the life of a language is infinitely greater in what it connotes than in what it
denotes. The life of a language is made of semantic and metaphoric circuits that are deployed
around words and that give them either a negative or positive meaning. In fact, each word
produces an odour, a perfume, a tempo. Each word has an aura. Further, we can say that all
work of representation develops around this aura, that an imaginative and cognitive approach
is worked out in the area of the aura.
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Ritual with sliding is a ritual that demands great concentration, for its function is to dis-
place slightly but sufficiently the semantic aura of words in such a way that they produce an
unforeseeable resonance without alteration in the signifier. In general, this ritual is only prac-
ticed by those who have lived through the ritual with shock, because the knowledge acquired
in confrontation is indispensable for that henceforth required by concentration. If you were to
project this ritual visually, you would have to imagine rare gestures, unedited poses, an
alarming intensity that transforms the tenses of verbs; you would have to imagine the body in
the most fascinating of slow motions. It is a ritual that demands a great sense of equilibrium,
for it presumes that numerous forces working simultaneously converge. These forces can be
named: desire, sensation, emotion, idea, knowledge, consciousness, memory. The energy
charge they contain can be called tension, concentration, or attention. This ritual consists
particularly in concentrating sufficiently long on words (their sonority, their orthography,
their usual sense, their potential polysemy, their etymology) in order to seize all the nuances
and potentiality, to do this until the forces that work in us stage a scene that is absolutely un-
predictable. For the function of the ritual with sliding is not to produce sense but to produce
an effect. The effect is such that it conducts sense well beyond the signified. Then all the
words can become the never ending theater of a series of apparitions where she who writes
displaces imperceptibly but radically the order of the world.
It often happens that a woman in love with another woman has recourse to this ritual.
And when we witness the transformation of the aura of words. I think here of words like
sleep, skin, vertigo, desire, memory, ete.
RITU AL WITH BREATH
I would say that this ritual is the most closely related to poetry. Its most certain effect is to
multiply energy by modulating it to the rhythm most appropriate to thought in the body. In
this ritual the entire voice works very hard to find its just tonality. Nothing is more difficult
than to find the right tone. In fact, it is rare that our voice is perfectly attuned. Most of the
time we speak too high or too low, too fast or too slow, masking what we are really dealing
with in our mind. Ritual with breath has as its goal to adjust the voice, to distance parasiti-
cal sounds, to accord our mental and psychological time to cosmic time.
There is music that we carry within us, music made of silences and harmony, privileged
moments that only come upon us when our availability is total. The ritual with breath is
practiced in solitude with the sound of our respiration as its only companion. It is ritual in
which our humility is at its greatest, and, paradoxically, our passion ultimate.
To summarize, we could say that the ritual with trembling lets us exist, that the ritual
with shock liberates linguistic space to dream and to be, that the ritual with sliding textures
reality with a new sense, and that ritual with breath gives us a (sonorous) field of vision.
Trembling, shocks, sliding, breathing. When you write you know for sure that you can-
not leave the body aside (even though you can stay awake for long hours, forget to eat, forget
the cold or the heat). Moreover, I would say that the body is working twice as hard when you
follow your thoughts. The body does not like to be the battlefield of contradictions you go
through, it might not like the showers of images you impose on it. It can resist the scenes
you describe. Or it can be so excited by what you envision that it makes you lose your con-
centration. Yes, the body responds: you shiver, you cry, your sex gets wet, you feel dizzy, your
stomach is upset, you feel strong, suddenly you are exhausted, suddenly you want to cele-
brate. Why? After all it is just words. What is this thing which makes us without respite
before the inner necessity that incites us to exorcise the nightmares, to trace our dreams and
utopias, to put colour and sense into the most unexpected angles of desire, to weave into the
language links so strong and yet tenuous that sometimes we no longer dare stir for fear and
for joy. But we know that words are not just words. They are like little devices spread
throughout our body and we don't know how and why they suddenly start to blow our mind,
or when they will trigger in us pain or pleasure.
In conclusion, I would like to say that a good part of my life has gone into writing and it
probably will continue to be so. Voyage without end, writing is what always comes back to
seek me out in order to distance death and stupidity, fear and violence. Writing never lets me
forget that if life has a meaning, somewhere it is in what we invent with our lives, with the
aura of several words which, within us, form sequences of truth. I have always thought that
the word beauty is related to the word desire. There are words, which, like the body, are irre-
ducible: To write I am a woman is full of consequences.
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Corps D'energie: Rituels D'ecriture

oai:public.journals.yorku.ca:article/2976

PREFACE
Saint Jerome [on the cover}, is depicted in the painstaking translation of Scripture from
Greek to Latin - language moves from sacred to secular ... and back again. Reading as an
unattended pleasure is discretely undermined in this image by the figure of a sinistral mes-
senger from the outside world. Peering in through an open window, to the left ofJerome,
is the presence that denies that closed universe of scholastic solitude. This presence, in the
political lexicon, will be the name for whatever undoes the whole.
The urgency of staging the body through the local and oral, against a chastely encyclope-
dic rendering of the body, perseveres. The wide range of topics addressed by artists, theorists
and critics in this issue of Public (which originates in a series of lectures and discussions on
the body that took place in Toronto last year) serves as a valuable contribution to critical
thinking on the body, the resonance of a series of conversations that will circulate not as gos-
sip, but as gaps marked by the text in between. In this sense this book is a body.
From Simon Wamey's politicization of AIDS and its discourses to Nicole Brossard's insis-
tent use of the body as metaphor for writing, the body in question is plural. The various
representational histories (the body in space), psychoanalytic paradigms (the body in pieces)
and social technologies (the body in bits) that are scrutinized, mitigate the pre-defined
typologies that have made of our bodies one unitary coherence: a secret to be penetrated.
The strength and uniqueness of these essays lies not only in the diversity of the positions
they represent but also in the manner they seek to redefine the body in terms other than the
natural. The common link between them, and the pivotal concern for this issue of Public, is
the body as always already caught up in conflicting fields of meaning.
5


Preface

136
CONTRIBUTORS
Lang Baker is a doctoral candidate in Social and Political Thought at York University. His recent publica-
tions concern the place of Nietzsche in continental philosophy and contempory critical thought.
Nicole Brossard is a founding editor of La Barre du]our, La Nouvelle Barre du]our and Les Tetes de Pioche.
She has published fifteen books of poetry, including Surfaces ofSense (989) translated and published by
Coach House Press.
Charles Levin is the translater ofJean Baudrillard's For a Critique ofthe Political Economy of the Sign; his
writings on postmodernism and psychoanalysis have appeared in Communication, Canadian]ournalofPolitical
and Social Theory and After Postmodernism: Essays on Value and Cultttre (New York: Se. Martin's, 1987). He is a
praccicing psychoanalysist in Montreal.
Philip Monk, curator of contemporaty Canadian art at the Art Gallery of Ontario, has written extensively
on visual art practices in Canada. A collection of his past writings entitled Struggles with the Image has recent-
ly been published.
John O'Neill is Professor of Sociology at York University, Adjunct Professor in the Centre for Comparative
Literature at the University of Toronto and University Distinguished Visiting Professor at Ohio State
University. His books include Five Bodies, Sociology as a Skin Trade and Making Sense Together; he is the editor
of Essaying Montaigne: A Study of the Renaissance Institution of Writing and Reading and On Critical Theory.
Abigail Solomon-Godeau is a frequent contributor to Afterimage, October and The Print Collector; she teaches
photographic history and criticism at the International Center of Photography in New York City.
Tom Taylor is a photographer and member of Public Access.
Lola Lemire Tostevin is the author of several books of poetry including Color of Her Speech, Gyno-Text,
Double Standards, and mOSt recently 'sophie (Toronto: Coach House Press, 1988).
Simon Watney is the author of Policing Desire: Pornography, AIDS and the Media (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1987). He is an editor of Taking Liberties: AIDS and Cultural Politics (London: Serpent's Tail,
1989) and is a contributing writer to AID:S Individual, Cultural and Policy Dimensions (Lewes: Falmer Press,
1990). His writings have appeared in many journals including October and he has written extensively for
Screen. He is Professor of Art History at the London Polytechnic Institute, England.


Contributors

Solomon-Godeau, Abigail

Misogynist Masquerade

Lemire Tostevin, Lola

Reading After the (Writing) Fact

Taylor, Tom

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HOW TO READ CHARACTERt
TOM TAYLOR
t From A New Illustrated Hand-Book of
Phrenology for Students and Examiners;
with a Descriptive Chart.
Samuel Wells, Fowler & Wells Co.,
Publishers, New York, 1894.
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This faculty imparts the desire and ability to know objects as mere existences, without
regard to their modes of action or the purpose to which they may be subservient. It prompts
to observation, and is a great element in a genius for those sciences which consist in a know-
ledge of specific existences, such as natural history.
For the artist, this organ is of great importance. It enables him to give body and substance
to the conceptions of his other faculties, and confers on him a capacity for attending to great
detail. In the pictures of an artist in whose head Individuality is deficient, there is an
abstracness of conception and a vagueness of expression that greatly distract from their
effect.
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€?O Individuality
LARGE
fig. ]2] John Stuart Mill t
SMALL
fig. ]22 Princess Alice :j:
t John Stuart Mill was a distinguished member of the English Parliament, a political economist, author of
A System ofLogic, Principles ofPolitical Economy, and On Liberty.
:\: Princess Alice, daughter of Queen Victoria, was known for her feebleness of mind and her lack of obser-
vation.
The organ of Spirituality is situated immediately above Ideality, in the lateral parts of the
anterior region of the top-head. A large and active Spirituality gives a singularly elevated ex-
pression of countenance. Spirituality, occupys the highest place in the brain, for it is through
these organs, as through windows opening toward heaven, the soul gets glimpses of things
lying above and beyond its present narrow environments.
Perverted Spirituality leads to superstition, fear of ghosts, credulity, and excessive love
of the wonderful. There are many disposed to believe in dreams, sorcery, amulets, magic,
astrology, in the mystic influence of spirts and angles, in the power of the devil, in second-
sight, and in miracles and incomprehensible representations of all sorts.
&?G Spirituality
LARGE
fig. 6 Rev. F.W. Robertson t
SMALL
fig. 7 Antoine Probst :j:
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t Rev. F.W. Robertson, a Roman Carholic Bishop of Charleston, S.c., holds a high position in his church.
He is noted for his singularly refind tastes, fervent piety, impressive eloquence, and spiritual-mindedness.
:j: Antoine Probst, a brutal murderer, confessed that he killed seven persons - The Deering Family. He was
executed in Philadelphia in 1866.
The function of the Intellect is to analyse, compare, and to classify the facts collected, and to
philosophise, contrive, invent, and orginate ideas.
~ Intellectual
LARGE
fig· 20 Immanuel Kant t
SMALL
fig. 21 A Negro*
t Immanuel Kant, German philosopher.
* A Negro.
&?Q Adhesiveness
This organ gives the instinctive tendency to attachment and delight in the return of affection.
It causes one to seek company, love society, and indulge friendly feelings. Those in whom it is
strong feel involuntary impluse to embrace and cling to any object which is capable of experi-
encing fondness. In boys, it frequently displays itself in attachment to dogs, rabbits, birds,
horses, and sheep.
fig· 33 Mille. N. t
SMALL
fig. 34 Icaas T. Hecker*
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t Mille. N., a young Parisienne, was so tenderly attached to a lady of her own age, that neither marriage
nor the solicitations of her mother could induce her to leave her. Her friend died at a time when such an
event was least expected, but Mille. N. did not immediately exhibit any marked signs of grief, so that
her friends deemed her resigned to the loss of her companion. A day or two elapsed after the burial when
she was found in her chamber quite dead, having committed suicide. A letter disclosed the state of her
mind previous to the fatal act, the substance of which was that she could not survive the loss of her
friend. In scanning the conformation of the back-head of Mille. N., it must be at once seen how very
large the region of the social sentiments appears. Mark the great distance from the ear backward.
:j: Father Hacker is a Roman Catholic priest of New York, of German and English stock, noted for learning,
talent, energy, and strength of character and independence, but did not go much go into society or make
strong attachments.
&?O Secretiveness
LARGE SMALL
Persons who have large Secretiveness, manifest its natural language in various ways - button-
ing up the coat to the chin, wearing a high cravat; or, if a woman, a dress fitted high up on
the neck. Those who possess little Secretiveness wear their clothes more losse and open. This
propensity, when predominantly active, produces a closed, sly look admirably exemplified in
our likeness of Constance Emily Kent, the Murderess; the eyes roll from side to side; the
voice is low; the shoulders are drawn up toward the ears, and the footstep is soft and gliding.
fig. 71 AIgernon Charles Swinburne :j:fig. 70 Constance Emily Kent t
t Constance Emily Kent was an English murderess, who showed a great deal of cunning.
:j: Algernon Charles Swinburne was a young English poet of unboubted genius, whose head is something
like that of Edgar Allen Poe. His verse expressed a grear deal of veneration, vivideness of conception, and
intensity of emotion, and love of the beautiful in nature and art.
~ The Social Faculty
The Social Faculties, having to do with natural things, and being closely related to the physi-
cal system, are placed nearest to the body, with which their connection is intimate through
the spinal marrow and its ramifying nerves. This organ has for its collective function the
manifestation of these affections which connect us with country and home, and attach us to
relations, conjugal companions, family, and friends.
LARGE
fig. 16 Rev. ]oseph Smith t
SMALL
fig. 17 Black Hawk*
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t ]oseph Smith was the American religous leader and founder of The Church ofJesus Chrisr of-the-Latter-
Day-Sainrs.
* Black Hawk (Ma-ka-tae-mish-kia-kaik) was the leader of rhe Fox and the Sauk Indians in rhe Indian
Wars of 1832.
The faculty of Locality gives one the ability to form conceptions of place and to find delight
in scenery, memory of the location of places and objects and love of travel.
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LARGE
fig· 139 Captain James Cook t
SMALL
fig. 140 New Holland Woman*
t Captain James Cook, English navel officer and explorer; explored Australia, New Zealand, Antarctica,
ete.
* The people of New Holland were known to travel little, preferring to remain in the local of their birth.
Mirthfulness shows itself on the face in a graceful turning upward of the corners of the
mouth. The function of Mirthfulness is to enjoy sport and gaity, and appreciate the witty, the
ludicrous, the droll, the comical, the incongrous, and the eccentric; and we take pleasure in
saying that it is one of the distinguishing characteristics of man.
~ Mirthfulness
LARGE
fig. 118 Artemus Ward t
SMALL
fig. 119 Kanosh, Sioux Indian Chief*
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t Mr. Charles F. Browne, better known as "Artemus Ward'; was one of the most noted American
humorists. Mirthfulness is seen to be very well developed. The contrast between his head and that of the
Indian Chief is very striking.
* Kanosh, Sioux Indian Chief, leader of rhe Sioux Indians from 1816 to 1888.


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