Unbearable Darkness of Being Rockwell

Art critics have never been kind to Norman Rockwell. They’ve dismissed him as uncomplicated, bland and cornball.

However, the recent discovery of a cache of Rockwell journals, sketches and paintings inside an enormous box of clip-on bow ties challenges this widely accepted view and reveals a man who was far more complex than a mere cornball artist. Far more complex, indeed.

The Rockwell that emerges is that of an artist grappling with his own raging contradictions. A man torn between sentimentality and dark compulsions. A man caught between his wholesome illustrations by day and his experimentation--before it was fashionable to do so--with religious icons and animal dung by night.

“I specifically said elephant dung!” Rockwell thundered in one of his 15 heretofore secret journals. “Those idiots brought me rhino dung! Rhino dung on a 15th century icon? That misses the whole point! Come on! . . . Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll just paint another Boy Scout.”

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Initially, the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Mass., balked at releasing the new find for fear of sullying the artist’s good name and destroying the curator’s fancy-pants lifestyle. But in the end, two of the four freedoms Rockwell deified in the Saturday Evening Post triumphed--speech and worship--and the materials were quietly distributed within prominent art circles.

“I was deliciously shocked by his depravity,” said Geraldo Von Fricke, a leading art dealer who purchased one of the new Rockwell’s: “A Self-Portrait: Me, Myself and My Full Frontal Nudity.”

Other critics were equally stunned by this new side to the American master. They were especially surprised by the artist’s almost obsessive exploration of deviance--startling not only because of the repressive postwar era in which he lived, but also because of his day job.

Significantly, the never-before-seen oil paintings, charcoal sketches and drawings bear out that for every public work of “sweetness and light” Rockwell also created a darker and secret companion. The most dramatic example of these shadow pieces focuses on the Boy Scouts. The titles are “The Black and Blue Boy Scout,” “Boy Scout With His Hair on Fire” and “Grizzly Bear, Hungry No More.”

In addition to children in uniform, another prominent Rockwell motif is anvils--something notably absent from his most popular works. He boldly explored what he termed “the poor, misunderstood anvil” and tried to portray the blacksmith’s “one true friend” in a sensitive yet forceful and vibrant light. He hoped the riveting series would catapult him into the pantheon of great artists, and failing that, make him a fortune in knickknack sales.

But it was not to be. In his diaries, Rockwell fretted that the American public was too “stupid and blockheaded to understand the enigmatic anvil. Next to it, I’m worthless.” The artist eventually succumbed to these feelings of self-doubt and self-loathing--before it was fashionable to do so--and canceled an exhibition of the series.

Today we can marvel at his smorgasbord of anvil pieces. His works featured: “Dropping an Anvil on Picasso’s Shiny Bald Head” and “Dropping an Anvil on Van Gogh’s Good Ear.” But it’s his “Dropping an Anvil on the Thanksgiving Day Turkey” that will no doubt spur a timeless debate rivaling that over the source of the Mona Lisa’s smile and how someone called “A-Rod” ended up with a $252-million contract.

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“The anvil is clearly life--and death--and it is Rockwell and all humanity simultaneously--or is it?” said one critic known for his insight and fondness for plastic sofa covers. “The beguiling realism, and yet its subdued and highly nuanced Postmodern abstract themes . . . uh, what was I saying?

“Oh yes,” he continued. “I think that Rockwell is telling us that whatever is on the business end of the anvil is something he doesn’t like.”

Rockwell’s diaries confirm that he indeed was the possessor of an extraordinary level of anger, rage and hate, but not necessarily in that order. This powder keg of emotions took its toll and eventually caused a split in the artist’s personality around the age of 24. In deference to this person within a person, Rockwell faithfully maintained a separate journal for his alter-ego whom he lovingly referred to as “Rocky.”

Rocky’s thoughts are quite revealing and help provide a deeper understanding into the volcanic passions fueling Rockwell’s productive “Anvil Period.” Unlike many artists who blame all their troubles on their parents, Rocky’s fury was apparently not rooted in his childhood. Rather, it was being abducted by aliens--long before it was fashionable to do so--that made Rocky so permanently ill-tempered.

Rocky’s continued foul moods later brought on a psychotic break that further splintered his personality into three more parts. There was Jake, a circus clown who laughed on the outside but cried on the inside. There was Timmy, a 9-year-old boy from the 15th century who wanted to sail around the world. And there was Heidi, a seductive blond who didn’t say a whole lot.

“I think I’m in love with Heidi,” said Von Fricke, who has also applied for weekend custody of Timmy, should he ever reappear.

Rockwell’s new diaries and works all raise an urgent and pivotal question: Just who was Norman Rockwell? Was he a tortured artist who was shrewd enough to repress his dark side to achieve commercial success? Or was he a simple illustrator who looked nice in a bow tie?

We may never know.