Betsy Ross, the sewing heroine of our childhoods, is no longer credited as the creator of the American flag. Historians insist the maker of the flag remains unknown. Disappointing, I know, especially since the American flag, if judged in purely artistic terms, is such a winning object. It has enormous “wall power,” to borrow a selling phrase that art dealers like to use. It is bright and instantly legible even as a tiny pin worn on a candidate’s lapel.
On the other hand, the flag is not a perfect design. It looks a little busy. Compared with the French flag, with its three equal bands of color, or the similarly serene Italian flag, the American flag is unbalanced and visually congested, with 13 stripes signaling the original colonies and 50 five-pointed stars squeezed into the upper left. In giving equal representation to each state, it misses the opportunity to promote the dream of a united democracy, of shared understandings.
Such vexillological thoughts sprang to mind as I made my way through “Flags,” a timely and often arresting group show at the Paula Cooper Gallery in Chelsea. It brings together about 90 flag-themed works that span eight decades and extend up to the ticking present. There are paintings, drawings, sculptures, photographs, a collage, a video and at least one work done in the non-art medium of deep frying: Kiyan Williams, the Brooklyn-based sculptor seen at the recent Whitney Biennial is exhibiting a nylon flag that they dipped in egg batter, cooked to a crisp and stretched inside a steel frame.
And no, in case your inner chef is wondering, it is not illegal to fry a flag. In 1989, the U.S. Supreme Court decided in Texas v. Johnson that even the burning of a flag is symbolic speech protected by the First Amendment.
But why burn a flag when there are so many more interesting things to do with one? The point is made in Cooper’s fetching storefront window, which contains a Sol LeWitt, a 13-foot-high wall drawing of a Tide-white star gleaming against a blue ground. It provides a festive and benevolent backdrop for Hans Haacke’s familiar “Collateral,” a rusted supermarket cart overflowing with pro-war, flag-emblazoned buttons that seeks to make a point about the commodification of patriotism.
