Art captures the emotion of history.
I was born in 1969, to parents that still believed in the Camelot years of John F. Kennedy's presidency. When they bought their stereo hi-fi in 1978, complete with AM/FM, turntable, 8-track and cassette, the first thing they listened to were the speeches of JFK on vinyl. They made us listen to it as well, but being 8 at the time, I didn't understand what I was listening to.
As the years went on and I learned about the presidency, I still didn't understand why the assasination, as tragic as it was, still held such an emotional grip on not only my pre-boomer parents, but so many people who, as they say, could tell me where they were when they found out.
Then I viewed "Warhol in a Series" at the Grand Rapids Art Museum, including an extensive series Warhol did on the assasination of JFK. The piece that compelled me the most was a series on Jackie, smiling in the motorcade moments before the shooting, silk screened in off-putting, dark, unsettling colors.
Suddenly, I got it.
The piece that captured an ominous feeling, an almost fairy-tale like premonition that something evil will soon change the whole story. I felt horror looking at Jackie's smiling face, knowing there was no way to change what was about to happen, no way to turn back the clock, no way to warn her.
There's only two times I've ever felt that sense of personal horror over a world event: the horrific lovliness of the Challenger's plumes of smoke, and the mockery of how perfectly beautiful the weather was September 11 2001.
Art, in this case, was not merely looking at something pretty. It was a history lesson on loss for a nation.
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