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| THE ART OF WAR | |
 October 29, 1998  | |
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CLARENCE PAGE: Vietnam taunts my generation like an old rock and roll song, one you haven't thought about in years. Then suddenly you hear a familiar phrase, a rhythm, and it call comes back - every word. (music in background) Fort Dix, New Jersey, 1970, that's me, a rare photo, there among other young faces, kids on our way to war. "Gimme Shelter" was a popular song at the time, just a kiss away, just a shot away. I never saw the war up close. Those who did find the war coming back to them in places like this, a quiet street just south of downtown Chicago, Mayor Daley, the city, and a small volunteer army of Vietnam veterans all pitched in to convert this old warehouse into the Vietnam Veterans Art Museum. Step inside, or look inside the pages of this book -- "Vietnam: Reflexes and Reflections--" and find yourself in a different world - a long-ago and faraway world of Saigon and Kai San, of choppers and rice paddies, of Tu Do Street, Highway 1, and a forest three canopies thick. Vietnam lit a fire in the minds of those who saw it up close. When they no longer could hold their fire, this happened. Memories became art. Ghosts from the past found their way onto paper - canvas and heavy metal - then, in many cases, into closets. Randy Evans called his creations "Closet Art." It was for his eyes only-never intended to be displayed until his fellow veterans coaxed it out into the open. Joseph Fornelli also had to be coaxed. He painted this miniature, titled, "Going Home Early," in the jungle with C-ration coffee on paper. He was a helicopter crew chief in 'Nam. He became a wildlife artist in suburban Chicago. But his Vietnam art also had to be coaxed into the open when concerned veterans and friends urged him and other vets to exhibit. That was almost 20 years ago. For years, the exhibition traveled, gypsy-like, gathering crowds, and attracting more art out of more closets. Memories created in private were now about to be shared. Richard Yohnka's big pastel portraits sway with the agony of war. His dense and brooding view of war has deep roots. A New York Time's critic compared him to Francisco De Goya's depiction of the Napoleonic Wars. When giants fight, these pictures say, others must suffer. An emotional suffering is captured by this work by the late Cleveland Wright. It is called "We Regret to Inform You." It recreates a cold, wrenching moment of loss for the family left behind by a soldier who won't be coming home. Sharing this space are weapons and other souvenirs, tokens of remembrance. Souvenir is an old French word. It means to recall. The memories depicted the walls echo off the enduring reality of the artifacts that separate them. Some viewers are troubled that there is not more grandeur or military glory here. Dark themes dominate. But here and there a glimmer of unblemished beauty catches the eye. These gently-flowing water colors defy the chaos around them. A closer look reveals they come from a soldier from the other side, the Communist side. They were found in the pocket of a dead Communist soldier. They give us a window into his side of the world and remind us of how much our worlds have in common. War Correspondent Michael Herr once said that all the wrong people remember Vietnam; that those who have forgotten it need to remember, and those who remember it need to forget. That irony forms a subtext to this exhibition. It is a disturbing theme, but this art is meant to disturb. Young people sometimes come here to find out more about their fathers' war. We, their fathers, come here to find something more about ourselves. We, like our country, grew up a little too quickly, and yet, at times not quickly enough. In the contours of these images we hope to find some answer that makes sense of that which we left behind, and that which never left us. (music in background - "Gimme Shelter") I'm Clarence Page. |
