Rockwell’s America

Tucked away in the rambling pleasantries of the Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Reagan Library are some eyebrow-raising quirks, almost like naughty afterthoughts to the rest of the show. They are cover paintings for April Fool’s issues of the Saturday Evening Post, Rockwell’s main artistic venue for decades.

Non sequiturs abound in these giddily surreal images. In one, a fish ascends the stairs while an elderly woman, playing chess with no pieces, clutches a monkey wrench.

In another, a man with skis rests against a tree, fishing for a lobster in a plum can, in an image with Rockwell’s signature turned upside-down. Dream logic is at work here, recalling the irrational delights of paintings by Magritte and Donald Roller Wilson.

Is this the Norman Rockwell we know and might love? Rest assured--these normality-straining visions are the exceptions, and hardly any kind of norm for Rockwell. He mainly concocted single images telling little stories that resonated with the general populace. That, in the end, was his gift.

Norman Rockwell is one of the most complicated--even, in his own way, controversial--characters in the ranks of American art. Critics and other intellectual observers tend to dismiss him as a populist, a facile illustrator who basked in Americana but failed to notice that the 20th century was going on. So where does the truth lie: Was he a great American artist or a king of kitsch, an artist beloved by those who dislike art? Or both?

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His name stands for a set of values, some of which are set forth in a video presentation by Ronald Reagan, running in a mantra-like loop in the outer gallery. Rockwellian values, according to Reagan, include a respect for “love of God and country, hard work, and family.”

Even Rockwell’s signature, with its clear, exclamatory block letters, looks more like a logo than an artist’s imprint, slapped on the paintings like a brand name. In the Rockwellian world, it’s impossible to separate the art from the artist, because the artist exemplifies certain ideals, and they aren’t ideals associated with the art world as it has progressed through this turbulent, exploratory century.

One Post cover depicts an art museum with stuffy European paintings and a workman walking through, holding a frame, appearing as a kind of accidental piece of art himself. That sort of sneering fear of modern art is also an implicit part of the Rockwell code. Abstraction and elitism were verboten.

Although a healthy sampling of Post covers, and some of the original paintings, are on view, the centerpieces of this exhibition are his presidential portraits.

Most prominently displayed, of course, is his portrait of Reagan, entitled “What About Ronald Reagan?” and done for Look in 1968. Reagan, then on the way to California’s governorship, is seen in four poses. There he is, alternately jovial, pensive, idealistically gazing skyward and, in the center, a vision of stalwart earnestness. Will the real Reagan please stand up?

Something about the intended dignity of this series has faded in retrospect. After Watergate, Contragate and Monicagate, our relationship to the very concept of the presidency as a hallowed position has changed radically.

It’s hard, for instance, to view the double portrait of Nixon--a 1968 piece dubbed, ominously, “The Puzzling Case of Richard Nixon”--without an ironic snigger, given that he appears literally two-faced.

We also see a multiple image of JFK, the most handsome of the lot, and a fetching single portrait of Jackie Kennedy, looking at once elegant and aloof.

There are figures from the political footnotes that young visitors will strain to recognize--Barry Goldwater and Hubert Humphrey. And suddenly, bursts of impressive painterly skills emerge, such as one of the images in the composite portrait of LBJ, reminding us that Rockwell had strong talents, beyond the limitations of his illustrator’s mentality.

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Also in the room are paintings, later gracing the “gallery” of Post covers, that address the political process from a grass-roots, everyperson perspective. The election booth line of “Election Day” conveys a whimsical, staged slice of Rockwell’s America; and “Elect Casey,” from 1958, finds a candidate in despair after losing by a landslide, his stunned expression the polar opposite of the grinning vote-for-me gumption of the face in his campaign poster.

On the back wall hang vaguely nationalistic ensemble portraits with an air of propaganda. “Spirit of America” is a multiracial tapestry, like a labor union advertisement, and “Apollo and Beyond” depicts the men and women of the space race, going boldly forth, exploring space for America’s sake.

What about the puzzling case of Norman Rockwell? This exhibition breaks no new ground, but will probably affirm the faith of believers and confirm the suspicions of skeptics.

He was a handy illustrator with a comic-book artist’s gift for creating narrative with a singular image. He had a clearheaded portraitist’s eye. And we sense that he also had potential to break loose into something grander, but was limited by his great reputation.

That’s America for you.

“Norman Rockwell Paints the Presidents and the America They Governed,” through May 9 at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library, 40 Presidential Drive in Simi Valley. Gallery hours: Monday-Sunday, 10 a.m.-5 p.m. Tickets are $4 for general admission, $2 for students and seniors; (800) 410-8354.

Josef Woodard, who writes about art and music, can be reached by e-mail at joeinfo@aol.com.

Norman Rockwell is one of the most complicated--even, in his own way, controversial--characters in the ranks of American art.