"H. C. Westermann". (Exhibition notes).

at the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Washington, D.C. February 14-May 12, 2002

About eight years ago, I had a memorable and somewhat apprehensive conversation with a close friend, a painter. At the time, his wife was expecting their first child and the topic of discussion was parenthood. I asked if he had considered how the responsibilities of being a father might alter the diligent schedule he kept at the studio. He replied that this was a concern, but that his plan was basically to take the child to the studio with him. When I pointed out that young children are rarely content to sit and entertain themselves for hours on end, my friend answered that this problem was taken care of. All that was needed to keep a child occupied, I was told, was a playpen, a sack full of feathers, and a bucket of molasses. When I asked which child-care expert recommended this unconventional brand of behavioral enrichment, he replied: H. C. Westermann.

At the time of this conversation, the artist H. C. Westermann (1922-1981) was known to me primarily as a midwestern eccentric--a homespun absurdist whose sculpture occupied an edgy, if admired, niche in the annals of post-war American art. Knowing this much, I realized that the babysitting story fit the spirit of the man, though I doubted its veracity. Since then, I have learned that the above-mentioned regimen was, in fact, how Westermann occupied his own son. (For what it's worth, my friend did eventually take his son to the studio--minus the molasses and feathers.) Since then, I've had the opportunity to see more of Westermann's work. As a consequence, my curiosity about his art has turned to respect and my respect to enthusiasm.

An exhibition that was crucial to my appreciation of Westermann's art--and, I gather, for others as well--was held a few years back at Lennon, Weinberg, Inc. Dedicated exclusively to the "Death Ship" a recurring motif in Westermann's oeuvre, this show of sculptures, drawings, and prints was adamantly personal. A marine who served in the Pacific during the Second World War, Westermann witnessed a kamikaze mission on the ship USS Franklin, an attack that resulted in the death of 900 men. His Death Ship sculptures were, clearly, a means of coming to terms with this horrific event. Yet one doesn't have to hang on the particulars of biography in order to register their awful dignity. It's plain to anyone with the eyes to see it. Inelegant, simple, and almost terrifyingly mute, the Death Ships are, once confronted, not easily shaken. They quickly put to rest my image of Westermann as a cornpone crank.

H. C. Westermann, the retrospective of his work currently on view at the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, offers a splendid, if often bumpy, opportunity to acquaint oneself with this singular figure. Some twenty-one years after his death, Westermann's art is as raucous and contradictory as ever. It also looks more significant than one would have imagined. Does this mean that Westermann, having long been consigned to the margins of post-war American art, deserves a place at the table? The answer is, if I may answer in a Westermannian fashion, hell no. What better position is there than the periphery to hurl broadsides at the establishment?

Which isn't to say that the establishment hasn't received those broadsides gladly. Indeed, Westermann's work can be found in important collections, both private and public, throughout the nation, and his admirers include Robert Storr, the curator of painting and sculpture at the Museum of Modern Art and a contributing essayist to the exhibition catalogue, and the scene's reigning perpetual adolescent, Bruce Nauman. Still, one should reiterate that Westermann's art, while genuinely idiosyncratic, is not merely so. It can be profoundly moving and is always profoundly American. Westermann is part of that headstrong continuum--one that includes Thomas Eakins, John Marin, and Edward Hopper, to name just a few--that regards individuality as both a birthright and an imperative.

Of course, no artist exists in a vacuum. Westermann's sophistication as an artist is never in doubt. The precedents to the art, while ...