By Bob Campbell There are topics I’m afraid to touch as a writer. I’ve suspected this for some time, but only recently admitted it to myself. The topics run the gamut of being emotionally tough, potentially embarrassing, unconventional, nontraditional or may project signs of a devious mind, at least to some people whose opinions and respect I value. So, reasoning my character might be at stake if I dare entertain them, I wrap those topics, those thoughts, in a security blanket of silence leaving my public identity intact. No worries about addressing any nettlesome questions, like: How will this change me? What might this reveal about me? If I can’t hack this, then what becomes of me? Actually, “afraid” may be both the wrong word and part of speech. Behavior that’s characterized not as an adjective but a verb. For my action, such as it is, where these fraught topics are concerned, is to “avoid” them. In doing so, the sometimes-messy business of introspection is dodged, like maybe that bullet with my name on it. This strife – personal, internal, sometimes stifling my creativity and fruition as a writer – was laid bare for me by Bless US (ink and acrylic on paper, Brian Spolans) and Tug (black clay, Craig Hinshaw), two works in Buckham Gallery’s November 5 – December 3, 2022 exhibition, aptly titled STRIFE. Bless US stars a neighborhood enclave with a distinctly working-class feel, which, in the unquestioned and lazy parlance of the mainstream media, means a wholesome community of salt-of-the-earth white folk. The wood-framed houses bleed – ooze, perhaps? – red and discolored white cloth from the first- and second-floor windows. White clapboard siding is juxtaposed with the homes’ darkly shaded right-sides, which then take on the quaint appearance of rustic cabins whose walls are made of stacked logs. Roof shingles resemble walls of brick. Machine gun turrets sited as second-floor lookouts from elevated positions might be mistaken at first glance for TV satellite dishes, and may, in fact, have been used for that purpose once upon a time. Additionally, an assortment of artillery and missiles protrude through some of the rooftops in a manner after the NRA’s own heart. The private, gated domiciles are further safeguarded by sandbags in the driveways and barbed wire strung along sidewalks. The street’s black asphalt pavement is cracked throughout. Overhead, an ominous black sky has descended upon this working-class neighborhood. Flapping in the imaginary wind is an overabundance of Old Glory – American flags that dot the landscape, outnumbering the houses pictured, as some residences fly more than one. A display of patriotism run amok, or polarization? Are they one in the same? Out my way in northwest Oakland County, there is a house with a half-dozen or so, good-sized U.S. flags draped on individual poles along a country road. It’s a wall of flags. I wondered: Do more flags make one more American, or less? Does a single one or, perhaps, none at all? Farther north along the same road and across the county line into southeastern Genesee where landscape turns more suburban, I then spot an American flag flown beside a McDonald’s flag outside the restaurant bearing the same name. Seeing the iconic red flag emblazoned with those golden arches flying high-above the restaurant compound helps alert weary travelers from a distance that a hot meal, with fries and a drink, is available right here and now at McDonald Land. And don’t you deserve a break today? Of course, you do. Right? Does the presence of American flags, today, serve up a similar message for weary citizens? Maybe the nonverbal communique is meant to make it abundantly clear about who belongs – I mean, really belongs – and who is merely a visitor, subject to the rules, whims and wishes of the host. So, relax, and take comfort in knowing that you’re safe. You’re among Americans. The real ones, that is. Consider this: I have an American flag hanging on an inside wall of my garage. It’s there, in part, to honor my father’s service in World War II. Still, my son, as well as several nieces, have questioned its real purpose. They have accused me of attempting to placate my white neighbors by appearing to be non-threatening by way of the Stars and Stripes. That’s because, in their minds, the American flag had been hijacked by those who seek to undo America by whitewashing its history and true identity. (After all, why else would you see the venerable Old Glory flown alongside a flag for “the former guy”?) If that’s true, then not unlike the way I’ve protected myself with a blanket of silence by avoiding certain topics, does the citizenry believe wrapping itself in the American flag provides protection from the “dark skies” descending upon US? After all, doing so means no more discomforting questions, like: How will this change US? What might this reveal about US? And what then will become of US? Yes, they can all be avoided. Whether such private displays of the American flag, as captured in Bless US, is a sign of patriotism, run amok, or insignia of our polarization is in eye of the beholder. A symbol not of our unity but of our public strife, at least for some. Hence, the Tug, a black clay sculpture of a short, thick and taut rope gripped by four hands – two each on opposite ends – displayed immediately left of Bless US. The intensity of the tussle is apparent in those dual-clenched fists, and the side-by-side placement of the two works struck me as very deliberate. As the two works from war-themed collection reflected, the struggle is real.
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AuthorBob Campbell, an essayist and novelist, likes his bourbon neat. His debut novel, Motown Man, was published by Urban Farmhouse Press in November 2020. Archives
February 2023
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