On this date in 1970, one of the more resonant images in modern American history hit the front pages. Taken on May 4 by John Filo, a photojournalism student, it depicted a 14-year old runaway named Mary Ann Vecchio with her arms outstretched; crying over the dead body of Kent State student Jeffrey Miller.
Kent State students had been protesting since May 1 in response to the My Lai massacre, the draft and Nixon’s recent announcement that American troops had invaded Cambodia. Each day had seen some sort of confrontation: vandalism, looting, arson, tear gassing and finally, on May 4, the appearance of the National Guard.
There isn’t a definitive rationale for the events of that day, but one could attribute it to a combination of the heightened emotions of the previous three days, inflammatory statements by Ohio Governor James Rhodes, Guardsmen not properly trained in riot control, and rock throwing by the students.
During an attempt to disperse protesters, 77 Guardsmen, with bayonets at the end of their M-1 rifles, bottled themselves into a football practice field; fenced on three sides. After a few minutes of confusion, they withdrew up Blanket Hill.
While most of the students thought the confrontation was over, a few remained to taunt and throw rocks at the Guardsmen. As soon as the Guard reached the hilltop, 28 Guardsmen turned and fired 61 shots. Four students were killed, nine wounded.
When we look at an image, we look within a larger context of experience and cultural training. Filo’s image was one of the most powerful to come out of the Vietnam era, and this is most likely due to its innate familiarity. It hit home because people knew this image — they knew it really, really well.
Pietà, meaning “pity,” is the depiction of the Virgin Mary as she laments over the body of the recently-crucified Christ. Most people may think of Michelangelo’s in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, but it’s actually a standard motif found throughout art history.
In The Sexuality of Christ in Renaissance Art and in Modern Oblivion, Leo Steinberg suggested that the reason one often sees Christ’s penis in images of him as an infant — while the crucified Christ is always covered up — is that the penis represents the Word of God made flesh. Once Christ ceases to be flesh, the representation of that flesh disappears — often resulting in amazing waves of flying fabric over his privates.
The reason I bring this up is upon looking at John Filo’s image, I’m struck by its iconographic correspondence with more classical Pietàs. We have the arms outstreatched in an early prayer gesture often found in Giotto and the traditional triangle composition of our Mary over Jefffry Miller. And we also have a denial of the flesh in how Miller’s body is turned over, face down.
America already knew this picture. No interpretation needed.
Art historian Moshe Barasch suggests that the two onlookers at the right of Giotto’s painting are holding their hands in a gesture of awe or incapacity. In this light, the bystanders in the Kent State image take on the role of silent commentators.
Revisiting this image, on this day, during another war, within a government-sanctioned bubble, brings a bitter taste to my mouth. The greek word “kenosis,” which means “emptiness,” signifies Christ’s self-emptying in Christian theology: sacrificing the divine to become man, sacrificing the human to return to the divine. From Giotto to Filo, one can get a sense of the Void when contemplating the Pietà. It’s horror and loss, bitterness and pain.
Kenosis in literary theory is the interpretation of a text while free of personal interest and prejudices; taking the text at face value. While a good goal in theory, it’s close to impossible in practice — even more so in our current media state.
Since March of 2003, the US military has enforced a regulation forbiding “taking or distributing images of caskets or body tubes containing the remains of soldiers who died overseas.” In October of that year, you may remember a minor controversy over images of flag-draped coffins containing recent Iraqi war dead landing at Dover Air Force Base. Only after a Freedom of Information Act request filed by Russ Kick, were they released.
Personally, I felt nothing when I saw the pictures. The symbolism of salutes and honor guards rang hollow and the flags over the coffins were more mask than rite. And it’s not because I need my pain delivered obviously — Maya Lin’s Vietnam Memorial does the trick elegantly and abstractly.
Maybe it’s the sanitized, pre-packaged, choreographed air about them. Maybe it’s because as a New Yorker in post 9-11 shock, I got a belly full of honor guards accompanying even the smallest bit of goo on its way to the morgue. Maybe it’s because there aren’t any rituals yet for the particular brew of anger and fear running through us.
Although our government tries its damnedest, other kinds of horror slip out occasionally into the public’s purview: Abu Gharib, for example. But even this has been run through the irony filter and rendered almost meaningless.
How I wish for simpler times.
Mark,
A nice job of weaving the threads of public grieving but I wonder whether the resulting tapestry obscures even as it narrates:
How much of the resonance of the Kent State photo is from the art tradition of the Pietà and how much is the direct, human reality (seemingly) depicted? Do we need a iconographic precedent in order to have empathy? Certainly there are similar images in the art and life of non-Christian/non-Western cultures. Isn’t the death of a child such a common (yet almost unthinkable) tragedy that we might see the resonance of Pietàs as part of that rather than as an emotional model? (Or am I misreading your intent of the comparison?)
The Kent State photo and the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial are, like most powerful symbols, more of a projection screen than a clear image: I know that the reason I cry like a baby as I walk between the black stone walls is very different from the reasons of those crying around me.
The photo’s power now seems to be the tragedy of a violent death and the mourning of it. (As is so common, the violent death of a male and the mourning by the female left behind.) At the time, however, assumptions colored our reactions to the image. The assumption was of personal and probably deep political involvement on the part of Ms. Vecchio, intensifying the reaction of many and justifying her situation for others.
It seemed less a universal human image and more a charged political image. Anger rather than pity dominated for many of us.
On May.05.2006 at 08:51 AM