ART REVIEW Observing war: A memorial to lives lost By Bruce Adams Views of Ben Perrone’s War Ongoing Project installation include the hanging bags, the video section, and Perrone. Images courtesy of the artist. In 1981 an undergraduate Yale art and architecture student named Maya Lin forever altered the nature of war monuments with her revolutionary design for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. Prior to Lin, wars were typically commemorated with marble or bronze allegorical statuary perched heroically atop towering monolithic forms. These monuments paid tribute to romanticized notions of war, removed from the realities of combat. Maya Lin’s radical reboot consisted of a black stone wall sunk into the ground, which made war personal through the unprecedented inclusion of 58,261 fallen soldiers’ names etched into the stone’s face. The effect packed an emotional wallop that has since been widely imitated. But protests at the time over the starkness of the structure shook the sponsor’s confidence in the power of modernist simplicity. A figurative component of three solders was tacked on—thankfully, at a distance from the wall—whose purpose was to more clearly spell out the monument’s message. Flash forward to Ben Perrone’s Vietnam memorial installation, War Ongoing Project, on view at the Burchfield-Penney Art Center through September 5. The main focus of the monumental work—the part visitors first confront upon entering the darkened gallery—consists of 10,000 small black paper bags vertically suspended from ceiling to floor by nylon lines. Arranged in a cubic grid pattern, the bags form a massive geometric structure occupying a large portion of the voluminous space. The effect is especially impressive when viewed from the opposite side against the backdrop of the warmly lit entrance. To get to the other side, viewers must sidle through the hanging bags, an unsettling prospect for gallery-goers conditioned not to touch the art. While I was there, several reluctant viewers balked at the idea and left without entering. Almost lost amidst the abundant wall text is a vital piece of information about a critical component of the work, an unseen element that contributes immeasurably to its impact—each bag contains the name of an American soldier killed in the Vietnam War. With this, the work plumbs new depths of metaphoric and emotional nuance. The rows of bags now suggest headstones at Arlington Cemetery, or evoke images of body bags. In any case, they are a palpable expression of tragic waste. We know each bag holds the unique identity of a once-living individual, but what we see are indistinguishable containers—visual representations of impassive nightly news statistics. Perrone’s use of concealed names has precisely the opposite effect as Maya Lin’s etched ones. Lin’s monument is about loss, yes, but also about remembrance; Perrone zeroes in on the anonymity of war, and the detachment felt by those of us not directly impacted. Perrone wants to mitigate that detachment and engage us with his own deep concern for those affected by war, including those who return home. This is where he slips into a similar trap as with Maya Lin’s monument. Perrone seems unsatisfied with the axiom, “less is more.” Rather than let the audience experience his elegantly powerful installation on its own terms, he layers on didactic and atmospheric embellishments, some of which work better than others. Original recorded cello music by Hugh Levick, for instance, is fittingly haunting and melancholic. On its own, it would make a compelling accompaniment to Perrone’s bag structure. But there are another 5,000 bags (containing names?) piled against the far wall, a superfluous counterpoint to the formality of the geometrically arranged bags. On the wall above is projected a scrolling list of names, presumably a roster of those lost in the war, undermining the impact of the concealed names in the suspended bags. On both side walls there are identical projected video montages of morphing ethereal images incongruously interspersed with still pictures of wounded Civil War solders. The video is a collaborative contribution by Jeffrey Proctor that would succeed as a stand-alone work, but here it distracts from Perrone’s central installation. However, a version of the video projected onto the wall of suspended bags is visually stunning. The gently swaying cool blue shapes cause the evenly spaced black bags to glisten in the darkness. Perrone isn’t done yet. There are audio snippets of poignant interviews with Vietnam vets that unnecessarily hammer the point home. In a final flourish of gratuitous sentimentality, the artist includes two empty wheelchairs, one tipped on its side. Perrone apparently wants this to be the complete antiwar experience, but despite his commendable sincerity, it’s a bit of overkill. You have to admire Perrone’s ambition and compassion for a topic that historically has been as tricky to maneuver as a mine field. Overall, War Ongoing Project provides a moving experience that rises above its tendency to overreach. Though the exhibition has a limited run, it will be followed by the premiere of a related work by Perrone that was recently purchased by the Burchfield-Penney. Illusion/Delusion is a sculpture comprised of small bags arranged to suggest the prow of a ship emerging from the wall. This time the bags contain the names of soldiers killed in the Iraq War. If it is as compelling as the best parts of War Ongoing Project, it should be well worth a visit. Bruce Adams is an artist, educator, and writer. SUBSCRIBE NOW Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top