Artistic Surprises

Last weekend I took my mother to the Berkshires for her birthday. One of our planned-for visits was the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Massachusetts.

My mom has always been a fan of his paintings. Most people are, I suppose, and for good reason - they are easy to enjoy. They are old-timey and nostalgic, perfect little slices of Americana. Come Christmas, our house fairly drowns in Norman Rockwell paraphernalia - books, statues, ornaments. I like them. I approve.

But as we wandered through the museum, which is beautiful and simple, a small white house set atop some rolling hills deep in the mountains, this particular painting caught my eye.

It's called Southern Justice (Murder in Mississippi). He painted it in 1965, during the height of the Civil Rights Movement. It honors three civil rights workers who, as retribution for their work helping African Americans register to vote, were kidnapped by members of the Ku Klux Klan, driven to a secluded area, beaten, and executed at close range.

Three real men. The shadows of the killers to the right, holding their rifles. The last man standing, looking towards his death, is what I kept coming back to. The set of his shoulders, the defiance in his eyes as he holds his dying friend in his arms. The dark monotony of the colors, the heaviness of everything, all that stark light. The brushstrokes at the top are severe, almost angry. The texture of the painting was so thick, I had to fight myself from reaching out to touch it.

I kept leaving to explore other rooms in the museum, but drifted back to this painting again and again. I couldn't stop looking at it. I'm not sure I've ever reacted so viscerally to a painting before. Something about the blend of hopelessness and strength absolutely arrested me. The light in his face.

Turns out Norman Rockwell was a photographer first. He'd hire models, or more often than not, use his own family and friends as subjects. He'd decide upon a pose and a setting, take photos until it was exactly right, and then use the photos for reference while he painted. The man still standing, in the photo that became the painting, was actually one of his sons.

He painted a lot during the Civil Rights Movement, in fact. Many difficult subjects, a lot of bold and very liberal work. I kept finding myself drawn towards those paintings, the bleak, complicated ones, rather than the nostalgic stuff he is normally known for.

Prior to this I pictured Norman Rockwell - if I thought about him at all - as a sweet old man in a sweater vest. A blend of Mr. Rogers and Jimmy Stuart, maybe. I see something totally different now. And I find it a wonder that he is remembered for his (admittedly lovely) paintings of children and puppies and young couples in love, when he also was capable of creating something as chilling and dark as this.

In summary: museums are for learning!