6o Years On

by Gregg Chadwick

Raising the Red Flag Over the Reichstag, Berlin May 2, 1945
photo by Yevgeny Khaldei

Today near the site of the former Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp world leaders gathered to remember the camp's liberation in 1945 by the Red Army. President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia spoke proudly of the Soviet soldiers who gave themselves to free Auschwitz: "They switched off the ovens, they saved Krakow," Vladimir Putin said of the Soviet soldiers. But Putin also said there was still much to be ashamed of in the current situation."We unfortunately still see signs of anti-Semitism in our country."

I am reminded of the great Russian war photographer Yevgeny Khaldei. I had the honor of meeting him almost ten years ago when the end of the cold war seemed to mark an era of future peace, Yevgeny's body was starting to fail but his mind was sharp and his descriptions of the struggle against the Nazis were vivid. As a war photographer,Yevgeny adhered to the ideological confines of his superiors. It can be argued that despite the circumstances he managed to remain a true artist. "Some people think that we could do nothing at all unless we were told to do it", Yevgeny said," but the war gave one the freedom to make one's own decisions. We knew our superiors would not publish all our photographs, but we still made the pictures."

A heroic life is made up of extraordinary moments lived in the context of daily existence. Despite the horrors of Nazism and the war as well as the deprivations he suffered for being Jewish, Yevgeny was still able to see the beauty and courage hidden within the details of his experiences and offer us hope for the future. Yevgeny said," I have always tried to make photographs that will be interesting to look at today, tomorrow and the day after tomorrow."

The recent string of anti-Semitic attacks across Europe , the widely publicized photograph of Prince Harry, third in line to the British throne, wearing a Nazi uniform at a costume party earlier this month and a walkout by far-right German legislators during a minute's silence for Nazi victims on Friday, have raised concerns that the horrors of the Holocaust are being forgotten. It is my call as an artist not to forget, but instead to create art in the spirit of Yevgeny Khaldei that marks the moments of our time.

also see:art for a change: the art of liberated auschwitz

Game 6 -Red Sox, Death & the Critic

White Noise
60"x60" oil on linen 2002

Don DeLillo's first film, "Game 6", is being screened at Sundance tonight. For those in Park City this evening find your way to a ticket. DeLillo is the masterful novelist whose work includes Underworld, Mao II, The Body Artist and White Noise (which inspired my painting of the same title). The film sounds intriguing and like much of DeLillo's work the screenplay is darkly humorous.
Michael Keaton stars as a playwright and lifelong Red Sox fan who skips out on his new play's opening night, October 25, 1986, to catch Game 6 of the World Series. While a merciless, gun toting critic, played by Robert Downey Jr. views the play in disguise, Michael Keaton watches in horror as his beloved Red Sox fall to the Mets. In the original draft, discussed in an interview with Don DeLillo by Jennifer Altman in the Los Angeles Times, the playwright and the critic eventually engage in an artist's gunfight (doesn't Chris Burden come to mind?). The only victim - the critic's cat. Bowing to pressure DeLillo rescued the cat in re-writes. Don DeLillo decribes his work as the "mixing of ordinary life with an occasional cosmic meditation."

Directed by Michael Hoffman

Michael Keaton in Don DeLillo's Game 6

reading neruda

Gregg Chadwick

ciudad de la memoria

38"x38" oil on linen 2005

Private Collection, Beverly Hills

At times a work of art from years before still speaks directly to the present moment. I was reading Neruda today miles away from the coronation in D.C. This mix of Neruda's words and my most recent painting, "Ciudad de la Memoria", seemed to spark something new and important while at the same time bringing light to America's dark shadows.


"La United Fruit Co."

Cuando sonó la trompeta, estuvo
todo preparado en la tierra
y Jehová repartió el mundo
a Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda,
Ford Motors, y otras entidades:
la Compañía Frutera Inc.
se reservó lo más jugoso,
la costa central de mi tierra,
la dulce cintura de América.
Bautizó de nuevo sus tierras
como "'Repúblicas Bananas",
y sobre los muertos dormidos,
sobre los héroes inquietos
que conquistaron la grandeza,
la libertad y las banderas,
estableció la ópera bufa:
enajenó los albedríos,
regaló coronas de César,
desenvainó la envidia, atrajo
la dictadura de las moscas,
moscas Trujillo, moscas Tachos,
moscas Carias, moscas Martínez,
moscas Ubico, moscas húmedas
de sangre humilde y mermelada,
moscas borrachas que zumban
sobre las tumbas populares,
moscas de circo, sabias moscas
entendidas en tiranía.

Entre las moscas sanguinarias
la Frutera desembarca,
arrasando el café y las frutas
en sus barcos que deslizaron
como bandejas el tesoro
de nuestras tierras sumergidas.

Mientras tanto, por los abismos
azucarados de los puertos,
caían indios sepultados
en el vapor de la mañana:
un cuerpo rueda, una cosa
sin nombre, un número caído
un racimo de fruta muerta
derramada en el pudridero.

- Pablo Neruda

"The United Fruit Co."

When the trumpet sounded, everything
on earth was prepared
and Jehovah distributed the world
to Coca Cola Inc., Anaconda,
Ford Motors and other entities:
The Fruit Company Inc.
reserved the juiciest for itself,
the central coast of my land,
the sweet waist of America.
It re-baptized the lands
"Banana Republics"
and on the sleeping dead,
on the restless heroes
who'd conquered greatness,
liberty and flags,
it founded a comic opera:
it alienated free wills,
gave crowns of Caesar as gifts,
unsheathed jealousy, attracted
the dictatorship of the flies,
Trujillo flies, Tachos flies,
Carias flies, Martinez flies,
Ubico flies, flies soppy
with humble blood and marmelade,
drunken flies that buzz
around common graves,
circus flies, learned flies
adept at tyranny.

The Company disembarks
among the blood-thirsty flies,
brim-filling their boats that slide
with the coffee and fruit treasure
of our submerged lands like trays.

Meanwhile, along the sugared up
abysms of the ports,
indians fall over, buried
in the morning mist:
a body rolls, a thing
without a name, a fallen number,
a bunch of dead fruit
spills into the pile of rot.

-Translated by Jack Hirschman from The Essential Neruda