David Wojnarowicz: History Keeps Me Awake at Night

Breslin Kiehl

DAVID WOJNAROWICZ DAVID WOJNAROWICZ History Keeps Me Awake at Night

DAVID WOJNAROWICZ

DAVID WOJNAROWICZ History Keeps Me Awake at Night

David Breslin and David Kiehl With contributions by Julie Ault, Gregg Bordowitz, Cynthia Carr, Marvin J. Taylor, and Hanya Yanagihara

Whitney Museum of American Art, New York Distributed by Yale University Press, New Haven and London

Contents

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Foreword Adam D. Weinberg

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Acknowledgments

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Introduction David Breslin and David Kiehl

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Chaos Reason and Delight David Breslin

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Multiple Selves, Singular Self Gregg Bordowitz

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Some Sort of Grace: David Wojnarowicz’s Vision Marvin J. T aylor

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The Burning House Hanya Yanagihara

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Notes Toward a Frame of Reference Julie Ault

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Plates Essays by David Kiehl

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Biographical Dateline David W ojnarowicz Cynthia Carr

310 323 337 363 377

Artwork Text Transcriptions Selected Exhibition History Selected Bibliography Exhibition Checklist Index

Introduction David Breslin and David Kiehl

Since the last retrospective dedicated to the work and life of David Wojnarowicz, in 1999, much has changed. The United States elected Barack Obama, its first black president.

Protease inhibitors continue effectively to treat and prolong the lives of those with HIV/AIDS. In addition, a new generation of preexposure prophylaxis (PrEP) medications has made it possible to reduce the risk of HIV infection.

On June 26, 2015, the United States Supreme Court ruled in Obergefell v. Hodges that the Constitution guarantees all Americans the right to marry whomever they love. Nonetheless, the optimism that attends a new century has certainly been placed in check.

In the years that it has taken to prepare this Wojnarowicz retrospective, early in the twenty-first century, the United States has witnessed the deaths of many unarmed black children, young adults, and men at the hands of the police. The current administration is working to construct a wall between the United States and Mexico. A travel ban has been put into place that focuses on Muslim-majority nations. Deportations of undocumented immigrants have risen dramatically. Laws have been enacted to police bathrooms so that their use is limited to biologically assigned genders. The financial crises of the first decade of the century have focused concern on wage and employment stagnation and the rise of a one percent. Equally, new understandings of environmental degredation and the effects of global warming have engendered contentious debates.

Rehearsing this century’s checkered history is a way to insist on the timeliness—and timelessness—of the art of David Wojnarowicz. Too frequently, his work is treated as a footnote to a desperate period of American history, that of the AIDS crisis and culture wars, or an act of reportage from the front lines of those battles.

Too rarely—in a situation this exhibition and catalogue hope to redress—is Wojnarowicz’s art

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seen as participating in an extensive cultural project that explores American myths, their perpetuation, their ramifications and violence, and how those myths stand when faced down

by American histories. This is a cultural and aesthetic project that connects him to contemporaries like Kathy Acker, Gregg Bordowitz, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Jenny Holzer, Barbara Kruger, and Zoe Leonard, and also to historical figures such as William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Leon Golub, Philip Guston, Nancy Spero, and Walt Whitman. This shared endeavor responds to Bertolt Brecht’s famous admonition, “Don’t start with the good old days, but with the bad new ones,” with bewilderment that there were ever good ones.

From the late 1970s until his death in 1992, Wojnarowicz produced a body of work that was as conceptually rigorous as it was stylistically diverse. David W ojnarowicz: History Keeps Me Awake at Night examines not only the plurality of forms, media, and devices the artist used in his practice but grounds the work in the political, social, and artistic scenes that made up New York City in the 1980s and early 1990s.

Born in New Jersey in 1954, Wojnarowicz had a notoriously difficult childhood and adolescence that included physical abuse and, later, sex work. He received no formal training in art after he graduated from Manhattan’s High School of Music and Art, and his life was punctured with poverty. Friendships and collaborations with a range of artists, filmmakers, and musicians including Mike Bidlo, Peter Hujar, Richard Kern, Greer Lankton, Ben Neill, Kiki Smith, and Tommy Turner attuned Wojnarowicz to the possibilities of being promiscuous with media and a whatever-means-necessary approach to marrying cultural, aesthetic, and political issues.

Wojnarowicz was a poet before he was a visual artist, traveling in the mid- to late 1970s across the United States and in Europe. During his “mature” period, which commenced with

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his now-canonical series Rimbaud in New York (1978–79), wherein he photographed friends wearing a mask of the nineteenth-century French poet’s face and posing throughout Manhattan and Brooklyn, Wojnarowicz remained a writer and musician even as he became an artist well known in the East Village art scene. He produced collages, paintings, photographs, films, and installations and exhibited at galleries like Civilian Warfare, Gracie Mansion, and P.P.O.W. W hen the AIDS crisis began decimating the downtown Manhattan that had been his home for over a decade, Wojnarowicz became an activist and advocate for people with AIDS and First Amendment rights while remaining a writer and artist.

The exhibition looks to the various strands of Wojnarowicz’s life and practice but always situates them in their lived and tangled complexity.

The writers gathered in this catalogue— these include Julie Ault, Gregg Bordowitz, Cynthia Carr, Marvin Taylor, and Hanya Yanagihara, in addition to the two of us—were given the daunting task of reckoning with Wojnarowicz’s heterogeneous production. That each responded inventively to Wojnarowicz and his work suggests the generative power of his practice; that is, each responded as if given permission—if not demanded—to create.

And while not explicitly invited to do so, each writer nevertheless looked at the artist holistically. There has been a tendency in the scant scholarship on Wojnarowicz to isolate facets of the practice—Wojnarowicz the activist, Wojnarowicz the queer artist, Wojnarowicz the painter, Wojnarowicz the person with AIDS, Wojnarowicz the photographer, Wojnarowicz the writer, and so on. While potentially enabling in the way that a honed specificity can afford, that approach can also perpetuate certain familiar narratives and do disservice to the purposeful diversity of his production.

But Wojnarowicz’s work, in these writers’ care, maintains a crystalline structure, where facets

are seen and distinguished but never without attention to the integrity of the whole.

In addition to a propensity to periodize Wojnarowicz’s work, isolating it from past and current cultural practice and history, there has been a tendency to denigrate it. Perhaps this occurs precisely because of its heterogeneous nature and its refusal of a signature style. Perhaps the work is rejected because some aspects of it, particularly in the early paintings, are awkward in execution despite the prodigious compositional skills they evidence. Perhaps the sign of the unstudied—the untaught, the self-taught—is not appreciated or understood (or seen as déclassé) in a contemporary artistic culture that increasingly places value on the professionalization of the artist.

Perhaps this form of making, which involves practicing and inventing in public, is anathema to a wider culture that has lost patience, period, but that has also lost it with practices that court failure or don’t presume to immediately fall in step with any consensus. We don’t have an exact answer.

But allow us to propose another reason for the work’s sometime denigration that doesn’t depend on arguments about skill or talent, subject matter or style. Wojnarowicz’s work is ultimately an ethical practice. That is, the work participates in the philosophical tradition of inquiring about, systematizing, and defending concepts of right and wrong conduct. As such, the practice is one that asks that most naive and yet most pressing question: “How should we live?” It is an avoided question; it is easier to mock the person who asks it, particularly if he insists on maintaining the plurality of the “we” in the question posed, in calling all of “us” to task. The most enduring American myth is that of the individual, of boundless sovereignty.

Yet Wojnarowicz’s work, with its complexities reflecting a passionate interior world as well as a contentious outer one, ruptures this myth. It is as if no “I” but “we” were the makers of this

work. Perhaps this is why he chose Rimbaud— he of the infamous line “I is someone else”—as his early stand-in. So then, how should we live?

This ethical question, mundane yet ultimate, courses through Wojnarowicz’s work and will never stop being relevant until every last one of us is gone.

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David Wojnarowicz in an unfinished film, Adirondacks, New York, July 1989. Photograph by Marion Scemama

Chaos Reason and Delight David Breslin

There is an iconic black-and-white photograph of David Wojnarowicz that haunts me—and this exhibition. It was taken in late May 1991 while Wojnarowicz and his friend Marion Scemama roamed the American Southwest in what would be the last of his many road trips.

The emptiest parts of the world—Death Valley in particular—beckoned him, and this photograph was taken at Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. As Cynthia Carr describes it in her magisterial biography, Fire in the Belly:

He had been there before and knew exactly where he wanted to stage this. “We’re going to dig a hole,” he told her, “and I’m going to lie down.” They began digging without saying a word, a hole for his upper body and a bit for the legs. They used their hands. The dirt was loose and dry. He lay down and closed his eyes. Marion put dirt around his face till it was halfway up his cheeks and then stood over him, photographing his half-buried face first with his camera and then with hers.1 In the photograph, Untitled (Face in Dirt) (1991[printed 1993]; plate 142), the dirt that consumes Wojnarowicz isn’t smoothly pulverized but sits on him like rubble. The stark white of his pronounced front teeth glows from the ground as if irradiated. The caverns of his nostrils suggest the darkness and depth of what lies below. As much as I would like to read this photograph as staging Wojnarowicz’s peace with the pronouncement in the Book of Genesis—“For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return”—I can’t. As tempting as it is to see this photograph positioning Wojnarowicz within the immensity of geological time, it would do disservice to an artist acutely sensate to the present even when concerning himself with the longue durée—or even the timeless.

Alive or dead, Wojnarowicz is buried in the fallout of a disaster. It is a photograph that performs the physical, political, and social violence

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of AIDS. It is a photograph that preemptively memorializes and mourns his future death some two years later on July 22, 1992.

In starting with this photograph, I begin at the end.2 This is, of course, a phenomenon common to retrospection. And the specter— and foregrounding—of the end is even more pronounced when the death of the artist can somehow be described as early or untimely.

When assessing the work and practice of Wojnarowicz and other artists of his generation who died from AIDS-related diseases or complications, there is a tendency—almost a compulsion—to start with death. There is nothing inherently wrong with this factual recourse. It’s instructive, not to mention empowering, to push against the mildly dismissive language of an “untimely death” and instead work directly from the raw material of a life lived. But the ghost of a pernicious past enters the scene when death and AIDS are seen as inextricable, inseparable, coterminous.

Not only does this forget those AIDS activists who created language that rhetorically unhinged AIDS from death3 and those activists and scientists who fought for and created the drug treatments that have prolonged the lives of many, it also telescopes the complexity and heterogeneity of a life and body of work to a single—albeit radically central—dimension.

All becomes shrouded in the long shadow of the predetermined.

So what is lost when we begin with death?4 The answer is almost naive in its simplicity.

We lose the contours—the specificity—of the life, passions, commitments, and work of the subject we embark on examining. The photograph from Chaco Canyon haunts—as do Wojnarowicz’s most iconic images; think of the falling buffaloes (Untitled, 1988–89; plate 125)or the self-portrait with lips sewn ( FIG. 3 ) —specifically because of its conceptual clarity. But there is some danger in an image that is too self-sufficient. It triggers our

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familiar recourse to the masterpiece. When the retrospective can be nested in one image, we’ve traded complexity for synecdoche. But the most dangerous fallout is a teleological issue. If all roads lead to this, what is the point of surveying the rest? Can’t we just skip over, elide, that life? Wojnarowicz’s work concerns itself with the mechanisms, politics, and manipulations of power that make some lives visible and others not. The will to make bodies present—the compulsion to create a clearing for representations not commonly or ever seen—was a concern exacerbated by the AIDS crisis but with clear and obvious precedent in his practice. So let me begin again, at the beginning of Wojnarowicz’s practice, by mapping some of the representations and figures that populated his work. Instead of some simplistic insistence on chronology, I’d ask that you see this essay as an itinerary for a road trip where diversions are the rule and not the exception.

I

I don’t know why the holes are so disquieting. Instead of pupils, the eyes in the mask that Wojnarowicz used for his series Arthur Rimbaud in New York (plate 1) are blanks, portals. The functionality of these cuts is obvious: the wearer of a mask still needs to see in order to act in the world, though wearing a mask perhaps questions if any action is ever really straightforward or transparent. In the summer of 1979, just back from a stay in Paris with his sister, the twenty-year-old Wojnarowicz photographed three of his friends roaming the city wearing the face of the French poet Arthur Rimbaud (1978–79; plates 2–14).5 The choice of

Rimbaud—who was born one hundred years, almost to the month, before Wojnarowicz—is as telling as it is purposefully opaque.

Rimbaud insisted on the derangement of the senses, a confusion of categories; he, like Wojnarowicz, was the forsaken son of a sailor father; he made his queerness a subject of his work and knowingly acknowledged his status as an outsider (“Je est un autre”—“I is an other”— is perhaps his most famous formulation); he abandoned poetry; he died young, at age thirtyseven.6 While Wojnarowicz obviously summons the Rimbaud of Illuminations and A Season in Hell, I wonder if the more consequential conjuring trick for Wojnarowicz was in selecting a poet who famously had stopped writing poetry.

There are accidents and aligning of biography here as well. As Cynthia Carr notes in this catalogue, Wojnarowicz purposefully excluded any mention of his significant four-year immersion in writing poetry, and the associated social circles, that preceded his shift to the visual arts in 1979.7 For Rimbaud, the end of writing commenced a life of travel and work abroad, in Indonesia, Cyprus, Yemen, and Ethiopia.

Though there is scant naturalism in Rimbaud’s poetry, the writing hums with the senses. When he chose not to implement language in the service of emulating or modeling experience, it wasn’t because his senses had expired. By refusing language and adopting what Susan Sontag would describe as an “aesthetics of silence,” was there an attempt to let experience—without communication, without translation, without symbolism—suffice?

In this embrace of relative silence, is Rimbaud suggesting the inadequacy of language itself?

It’s hard not to think of these possibilities when holding Wojnarowicz’s Rimbaud mask in one’s hands.8 The mask is both a veil and a barrier to the world. It mutely proposes that each of us, whether we wear a mask or not, is confined to a state of apartness. And when we do interact, our means of interaction are

variously mediated. (Language, of course, is a means of redressing this separation, even if it frequently accentuates the condition.) But the conceptual economy and brilliance of the mask is its suggestion that separation and mediation can be addressed only through the experience of the encounter. The face-to-face meeting with another is the occasion that precedes every other form of exchange or communication.

Throughout his visual and written oeuvre, Wojnarowicz valorized sexuality, particularly sex between men and the sociality produced through the anonymous sex of cruising. The year 1979 marked his discovery of the abandoned and deteriorating piers from Christopher to Fourteenth Streets along the Hudson River that had been coopted by gay men—and later by artists, including Wojnarowicz, as a semiautonomous creative zone. Wojnarowicz’s beautiful essay “Losing the Form in Darkness” (1983) never directly addresses its melancholy, but the text’s languorous evocations of sexual encounters with a community of strangers on the piers are haunted by a reader knowing that cruising changed drastically after AIDS and that the piers were torn down in the mid-1980s.9 Wojnarowicz recognized that the liberatory potential—equally sexual, social, and political—of cruising was its means of producing communities that didn’t adhere to any that already had been constituted (from the couple to the family to the congressional district).10 Perhaps more fundamentally, the act of cruising stripped the armature of society down to the immediacy of the encounter with another.

But if we continue with the ideal and see it as a direct reckoning with another, this framework begins to approach a form of ethics that Emmanuel Levinas would theorize after World War II through the concept of “the face.”

He described the face and the approach to it as “the most basic mode of responsibility.”

Levinas continued: “My ethical relation of love for the other stems from the fact that

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the self cannot survive by itself alone, cannot find meaning within its own being-in-the-world. . . . To expose myself to the vulnerability of the face is to put my ontological right to existence into question.”11 In making this claim, Levinas proposes an extreme form of empathy. It goes beyond the Christian golden rule—“You shall love your neighbor as yourself”—and instead suggests that care for the neighbor, the other, comes before the self. As crucially, I only can develop a sense of my place in the world after an encounter with how precarious—how vulnerable—the existence of the other is. Wearing the Rimbaud mask—and photographing friends wearing it throughout the city—makes visible a condition that is as common as it is ignored.

Wojnarowicz forces his viewer to consider the full weight of the thought, action, and responsibility that the encounter demands.

He will return incessantly to scenes and emblems of encounter. Populating his visual world with his own image in addition to masks, heads, bodies, and animals—all stand-ins for the other—is his way of addressing the precariousness of life and the ethical burden the other places on each of us. Both before and after the advent of AIDS, the themes of encounter and precarity—and the admixture of sexuality and ethics—are Wojnarowicz’s great and enduring subjects. These will be addressed throughout the rest of this essay. Perhaps I’m so disquieted by the mask’s eyeholes because their blanks register how difficult it is to see the other without seeing through him.

II

The back of the Rimbaud mask is infinitely more expressive than the front (plate 1, verso).

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It is only when we look at it that we can see that the eyeholes were made by burning.

We can imagine the cigarette—something Wojnarowicz seemed never to be without— placed on the paper and searing the holes, smoke and heat staining the periphery into a raccoon-eyed nimbus. The yellow around the eyes and the absent nose is the residue of those—Brian Butterick, John Hall, Jean-Pierre Delage, perhaps others—who wore the mask, the oils in their skin commingling in a shared impression, a palimpsest of sweat and New York City summer heat. And then there is that slightly downturned sliver for a mouth that is without function. With no opening, it lets nothing in or out.

I belabor the back of the mask, which is never seen in any of the Rimbaud photographs, to clarify the concept of “the face.” It would be misleading if I led one to believe that this was somehow about physiognomy and not the richness of possible encounters with the other.

Levinas himself stressed this when he clarified that “the face is not exclusively a human face.”12 He takes recourse in another back— and series of backs—to clarify this claim. He describes a scene from Vasily Grossman’s 1959 novel Life and Fate where families of political detainees are waiting in line for news. Levinas summarizes:

A line is formed at the counter, a line where one can see only the backs of others. A woman awaits her turn: (she) had never thought that the human back could be so expressive, and could convey states of mind in such a penetrating way. Persons approaching the counter had a particular way of craning their neck and their back, their raised shoulders with shoulder blades like springs, which seemed to cry, sob, and scream.13 Perhaps what is most telling about this encounter with this other—and why it is so

FIG. 1 — David Wojnarowicz, WOJO NEA #1, c. 1990. Video. Courtesy the Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University

instructive to distinguish the concept of “the face” from our normal association—is that the back doesn’t have recourse to language.

Though the back seems to have the capacity “to cry, sob, and scream,” these are physical, guttural reactions that precede language or are clean breaks from it.

Wojnarowicz, as we know, would return to writing throughout his life and career. And he could write powerfully about language’s capacities. In an essay that developed from talks he gave in 1990, the year of his retrospective at Illinois State University and his lawsuit against

the American Family Association for decontextualizing his collage Untitled (Genet after Brassaï) (1979; plate 16) and his Sex Series (1989; plates 106–13) in mailings, he wrote: “Words can strip the power from a memory or an event. Words can cut the ropes of an experience. Breaking silence about an experience can break the chains of the code of silence.

Describing the once indescribable can dismantle the power of taboo.”14 But he also could write as compellingly on language as a trap, as part of a “preinvented existence” and the illusion that we are part of a “one-tribe nation.”

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Plates

Essays by David Kiehl

Rimbaud As an aspiring writer in the 1970s, David Wojnarowicz discovered and immersed himself in the work of William Burroughs, Jean Genet, and Arthur Rimbaud, among others. He felt a very close affinity to Rimbaud in particular, whose life story seemed to parallel his own. Returning to New York in 1979 after an extended stay with his sister in Paris, Wojnarowicz decided to visualize Rimbaud’s autobiographical writings in terms of his own biography in the American metropolis. With access to copying equipment, he enlarged the cover image of the New Directions paperback edition of Rimbaud’s Illuminations to create a life-size mask of the poet. Using a camera borrowed from the artist Dirk Rowntree, Wojnarowicz staged photographs of several friends—Brian Butterick, Jean-Pierre Delage, and John Hall—wearing the mask in places important to his own story: the subway, Times Square and the x-rated theaters around Forty-Second Street, Coney Island, all-night diners, the Hudson River piers, and the loading docks in the Meatpacking District. Several of these enigmatic images appeared in alternative publications at the time, and the odd photograph from the series may have been included in one of the many Lower East Side gallery shows in which Wojnarowicz appeared. But the full import of this series in Wojnarowicz’s oeuvre was only recognized in 1990, when he made exhibition prints from a selection of the negatives and included them in his exhibition In the Garden at P.P.O.W. gallery. The Rimbaud works are, in effect, the illustrations for an autobiography that was perhaps contemplated but never brought to fruition as a stand-alone publication.

1

Rimbaud mask, c. 1978 Photocopy mounted on cardstock, with rubber bands 11 5⁄8 × 8 7⁄8 in. (29.5 × 22.5 cm) Courtesy the Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University

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Untitled (Burning House), 1982 Spray paint on paper 24 × 17 7⁄8 in. (60.8 × 45.4 cm) Whitney Museum of American Art, New York; purchase, with funds from the Print Committee 2010.87.1

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Untitled (Camouflaged Plane with Red Dancer), 1982 Spray paint on paper 24 × 17 7⁄8 in. (60.8 × 45.4 cm) Whitney Museum of American Art, New York; purchase, with funds from the Print Committee 2010.87.2 139

Metamorphosis For his 1984 exhibition at Civilian Warfare gallery, Wojnarowicz brought a new dimension to his work in the show’s centerpiece: a set of shelves holding twentythree painted and collaged plaster heads collectively titled Metamorphosis (plates 48–58). The thuggish monster/alien/mutant head, with its distinctive lozenge eyes and socketlike holes for irises, had been a recent addition to his image vocabulary, appearing in his stencils and collaged posters; here, it takes threedimensional form. Wojnarowicz made the casts in his kitchen from a latex mold (FIG. 1); his friend Marion Scemama photographed him there, surrounded by the casts, in an image that was used as the show’s poster (page 306, upper left). Each takes on a different psychological character depending on the color of paint, the application of collaged papers, the addition of gags or bandages, and other modifications. The heads appear more emotionally fraught as they progress through twenty-three plaster casts. Why twenty-three?

It is the number of chromosome pairs in human DNA. In Wojnarowicz’s work, the monster/alien head became one of the vehicles signifying the artist’s thoughts about the forces of the preinvented world— the man-made schema that disrupt and destroy the natural order. Variations on the head are included in a number of his paintings, sometimes including a torso.

In A Painting to Replace the British Monument in Buenos Aires (plate 37), created in the Argentine capital for a 1984 show there, a head and torso completely covered with a camouflage pattern emerges out of a large smoky cloud, looming above flaming racehorses on a found street poster. In 1986’s A Worker (plate 84), which appeared in his exhibition that year at Galerie Anna Friebe in Cologne, the head with torso lurks ominously behind a grill form above a factory—the implied threat posed by industrialization to nature, the latter signified by a man carrying a deer on his shoulders, an image that conjures early Christian images of Christ similarly carrying a lamb. In a related usage, Wojnarowicz’s 1987 work The Death of American Spirituality (plate 87) shows the alien head emerging from the fiery slag heap of a factory.

FIG. 1 — Mold used to make Metamorphosis works, 1984.

Latex, 10 × 7 ½ × 10 ½ in. (25.4 × 19.1 × 26.7 cm). Courtesy the Fales Library and Special Collections, New York University

› 48

Untitled, from the Metamorphosis series, 1984 Collaged paper and acrylic on plaster 9 ½ x 9 ½ x 9 ½ in. (24.1 x 24.1 x 24.1 cm) Collection of Beth Rudin DeWoody

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66

Peter Hujar Dreaming /Yukio Mishima: Saint Sebastian, 1982 Acrylic and spray paint on Masonite 48 × 48 in. (121.9 × 121.9 cm) Collection of Matthijs Erdman

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67

Hujar Dreaming, 1982 Spray paint and collaged paper on paper 32 Ă— 40 in. (81.3 Ă— 101.6 cm) Collection of Brooke Garber Neidich and Daniel Neidich

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PETER HUJAR

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David Wojnarowicz (Village Voice “Heartsick: Fear and Loving in the Gay Community”), 1983 Gelatin silver print Sheet: 10 7⁄8 × 13 5⁄8 in. (27.6 × 34.6 cm) Image: 9 7⁄8 × 10 in. (25.1 × 25.4 cm) Collection of Philip E. and Shelley Fox Aarons

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PETER HUJAR

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David Wojnarowicz in Dianne B. Fashion Shoot II, 1983 Gelatin silver print Sheet: 14 × 11 in. (35.6 × 27.9 cm) Image: 9 ¾ × 6 7⁄8 in. (24.8 × 17.5 cm) Collection of Brooke Garber Neidich and Daniel Neidich 189

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Untitled, 1988–89 Gelatin silver print 16 × 20 in. (40.6 × 50.8 cm) Collection of Steve Johnson and Walter Sudol, courtesy Second Ward Foundation

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