SFMoMA pt. 1: Contemporary favorites

 

San Francisco, CA

The trip to SFMoMA started early.

I dragged my mom with me, though she wasn't enthusiastic about it in the days leading up to the trip. She was in good spirits when we departed, though, her spirits buoyed by the promise of free dinner (I would pay, that is. No free food here.) At 8 AM, we left for the Bay Area on 4oz of coffee and empty stomachs. We stopped to eat halfway there and then were led by Google to the nearest parking surrounding the museum. 

At first glance, the museum seemed smaller than I expected. I was expecting a sprawling space that took up an entire block, but the red exterior was still stunning nonetheless. The building is the home of a museum of modern art, and as such, it's a modern building. The museum's website states that the building debuted in 1995 and was designed by Mario Botta. The five-story building's natural light utilized on several floors was inspired by the architect Louis I. Kahn, and in 2009, the building added a glass pavilion to overlook San Francisco's skyline. I believe this is where the cafe was located, which was quite gorgeous.

There was more I wanted to go into, which I will save for the following post. This post will focus on contemporary favorites of mine at the museum.

Note: obligatory photo of me at the SFMoMA.:

grief has no gills, Diedrick Brackens, 2020. Cotton and acrylic yarn.

In recent lectures we have been discussing art and the collective memory. One focus was on collective grief as we learned about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial by Maya Lin, as well as Atrabiliarios by Doris Salcedo. The memorial was a clear depiction of collective grief with the way the black granite reflected the viewer's image back to them. Salcedo's work was less interactive, and not outright a statement on collective grief, but I'm referencing it for the following two works I saw at the SFMoMA. Salcedo's work was born of atrocities committed and symbolized the scars left behind by a violent period of Colombian history. The idea that art can be made to reflect not just collective grief or personal loss, but perhaps even the generational trauma that accompanies the two, is what I was reminded of when I saw grief has no gills by Diedrick Brackens.

The information accompanying this tapestry comments that it memorializes the incident of violence against three black teenagers in Mexia, Texas. On Juneteenth of 1981, these three teenagers were arrested, forced onto a boat by police, and then drowned in police custody when the boat capsized. The incident garnered national attention, with people asking how the three (black) teenagers drowned when all three police officers (two white, one black) survived? The tragedy occurred over forty years ago, yet its relevance persists; police brutality remains a serious problem, with little progress being made to curb it, especially when police brutality affects BIPOC the most.

The most recent death to trigger nationwide protests was the death of Tyre Nichols on Jan 7, 2023. While this death was at the hands of black police officers, I would like to include a quote by The Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation: "Although the media has spent a great amount of time drawing attention to the fact that the police officers are black as if that is important, let us be clear: all police represent the interest of capitalism and impel state-sanctioned violence. Anyone who works within a system that perpetuates state-sanctioned violence is complicit in upholding white supremacy."

Police brutality is a systemic issue wrapped with a satiny racist bow. Now, back to the art.

 In the grief with no gills tapestry, the red yarn represents the water of the lake now bloodied by death. The black figure is has a severed leg, further bringing attention to the violence at the root of this systemic issue. Even the materials have meaning; cotton has been used because of its historical association with slavery. However, cotton has been used for art in this instance and can represent new beginnings and change. But even with change, the trauma lingers, and the racism that black Americans face is a part of the legacy of slavery. 

Hide Tide, Heavy Armor, Calida Rawles, 2021. Acrylic paint on canvas.

Hide Tide, Heavy Armor is a stunning hyperrealistic painting of a black man surrounded by a large body of water. Rawles describes this painting as a "visual elegy" for victims of anti-black violence sanctioned by the state. The water around the nameless young man is intended to look both chaotic and protective, but the movement of the water has meaning. The waves on the upper half of the painting create a map of cities and states with violent state-sanctioned anti-black histories. I must say, I struggle to see a map due to what is likely a lack of imagination and an attention to detail equal to a hyper squirrel, but I have no doubt in the artist's execution. Perhaps that was intentional, not just from the technical demands of a hyper-realistic painting, but because when violence is so ingrained in your society, these tragic things can blend into the background of those who are ignorant, willfully or otherwise, appearing to be a natural facet of the modern world.

Spoon, Pratchaya Phinthong, 2019. Lead and tin.

Another favorite that took my breath away was this metalworking piece. Spoon by Pratchaya Phinthong seems unassuming at first glance. After all, there is no structure or color; it is simply a melted-down pile of metal. It triggers curiosity; what is this strange item that looks like detritus doing in an art museum? I immediately walked over to the info plaque, and my heart sank at what I read.

Spoon is made from lead and tin from undetonated bombs. What bombs, you might ask? Bombs left behind in what is known as the "Secret War," which took place in Laos and is formally known as the Laotian Civil War. As a proxy war between Cold War superpowers, its nature was similar to the Vietnam and Cambodia wars, and it was involved directly with Vietnam. However, the CIA's involvement was not acknowledged by the USA until 1997, twenty-two years later. 

Between 1964 and 1972 the United States dropped 262 million cluster bombs on Laos. It is estimated that some 80 million remain undetonated, threatening local populations. Called unexploded ordnances (UXO) these bombs continue to maim and kill people. Some of the land containing known UXOs are blocked off, with local population prevented from using it. Casualties are still frequent, particularly amongst children and adolescents who may enter the restricted areas for a myriad of reasons including the fetching of lost livestock and metal retrieval, which is a lucrative business. UXOs are a known factor that contributes to the country's poverty issue and directly stifles the growth of Laos' agricultural industry (as large chunks of restricted land cannot be used to farm). 

Phinthong used spoons made from these bombs to create his work, tracing their origins to the village of Ban Napia, where families recover the undetonated bombs to harvest the metal. This melted puddle of lead might seem innocuous, but it is a comment on a violent history and American imperialism. Again, I am reminded of how many unjust things do not seem like much when you're ignorant of important issues and history.

Lastly, I would like to make a special mention of featuring an artwork from the previous lectures that I never thought I would see in person! Apparently, it was a new addition to the SFMoMA's collection. The one, the only: The Death of American Spirituality by David Wojnarowicz, 1987! I had no idea this painting was at the museum, so when I saw it there was significant strain on my eyes with how wide they grew.